Khoja Obigarm

In the 1970’s the Soviet communist state decided to reward its cotton-picking comrades with a spa visit to straighten their backs in the healing waters at Khoja.

This concrete complex reassuringly sits on a rock fault that spouts out nitric siliceous therms and sulphuric radon gaseous steam, which can heal all ailments and prepare you for another arduous year in the fields. The claims are that a French architect is responsible for the 1000 room sanatorium hidden in a remote valley 2000m above sea level. I fear the French probably disowned him. The monstrosity that ‘seamlessly fits into the surrounding landscape’ is the closest the Tajiks ever came to Butlins, the main difference being that people fight to sample these mountain waters and at Butlins people just fight.

Working on that prevention is better than cure we wound our way up the snow lined track to this James Bond style retreat. The main resort, half painted in garish yellow, frowned upon our intrusion, whilst the private resort begrudging bestowed us with a tour and tinged sheets. In a mouldy changing room wearing inappropriate underwear we wrapped in linen, and skated across the floor in borrowed pool shoes to the bath. Thankfully, the pool of eternal youth was shrouded in enough steam to hide all the flaky skin, and sizzled like a cauldron upon entry. I dipped in, and then jumped out before all my hair bleached and decided to enter the steam room to recover. However, this proved too acidic for my tender lungs, no health warnings here, in fact you are actively encouraged to breath in this toxic gas for up to twelve minutes and repeat the process several times to ensure all your lung tissue is contaminated. In an attempt to recover from the ordeal I hung out of the window and peered at the snow-capped mountains, whilst inadvertently venting the room to the disgust of the other guests.

The remainder of the day was spent in a lethargic daze pondering the undeterminable cause for my lacklustre state of health; pleasure or poison.

Opening Doors and Name Dropping

To provide you with an insight into insular ex-pat communities, bonded by circumstance and the subsequent trials and tribulations of life in Tajikistan let me drop in a few observations.

So, Lord Waverly was sent/ requested/ or found himself on the wrong plane to Tajikistan on a fact finding reconnaissance mission for the other cognac drinking peers. So that he would not feel home sick, representatives of the UKs three non-descript political parties tagged along to make sure that all the special reserves were sucked dry.

As one of forty British citizens in the country, the volunteers were invited to a formal ‘drink and nibbles’ or now known as ‘snort and scoff’. Ambassador Trevor, kindly hosted the occasion and the dignitary’s chorkelled and slap backs with other dignitaries, ambassadors, socialites and me. Before I could finish the gin bottle and clear the soufflé, the obligatory speeches started with the usual dryness of a Bristol Sherry. These were concluded by Lord Waverly in what should be described as aristocratic scruffy attire. In his plum voice he thanked all involved and their grandma’s, he then proceeded to raise a toast to our host country, albeit with an empty glass, in fact with no glass at all, the guest of honor help divert an international incident and reluctantly proffered his orange juice.

Unfortunately, peerages were only available at Woolworths, however, the rumour is that the next release comes free with a magazine subscription to Horse and Hound; 5.99 for the first copy and several hectares of hunting land for the remaining editions.

Other observations that are hard to place in context are seeing the American Ambassador do Cheerleader style splits on the Indian Ambassadors lawn, who in turn can be found sauntering around the tennis courts of a Saturday morning. The French Ambassador uses a silver cane for arduous hikes in the mountains, whilst the Japanese Concierge’s wife is pleasantly attentive at parties.

To finish with we were, after a little cajouling, attendees at the 237th US Marine Ball, over 180 guests came to celebrate with the 7 Marines in the country. After an exercise drill involving four marines, a cake and a sharp implement, the evening descended in ‘a bit of do’; some danced and wiggled to Tajik music whilst other observed from a suitable distance, and some left before there significant others became soo plastered that they might jepordised their careers. By all accounts only one of the hotel rooms was used.