Last night was sitting on quilts laid out round a feast of yoghurt, shurbo, bread and fruit, apricots and figs from the garden. The meal was laid beside a waterfall, whose steady sparkling flow provided the soundtrack to our meal as well as sporadically splashing us with the clear springwater that Justin and I have begun to trust drinking.
We are sitting on a hill side sharply falling, below the host’s houses where three families live, to the fast flowing river Panj below, which can just be heard behind the roar of the waterfall and the reunited family’s laughter. Two car loads full drove to Darvaz from Dushanbe today, a twelve hours drive. The Panj river flows into the Amu Darya or Oxus river and makes up its headwaters.
The hillside is green and fertile with plane trees, silver birches and gnarled apple trees. They provide shelter and protect us from the sun.
Across the river is Afghanistan. So close – the river is scarcely 150 metres wide at this point. So close that the village of Narghav on the other side of the river can be clearly seen with its simple mudbrick houses, whose colours blend in to the mountain behind. Donkeys can be made out, slowly carrying their loads up the dirt tracks which connect this village to the rest of the country. There are no roads and no electricity pylons. Life does not seem to have changed much when seen from this distance from that which was lead in the nineteenth century.
You can also see people, going about their daily lives, washing clothes in the river, rocking a baby and the effect seems down the wrong end of a telescope, far away but so close.
The difference is stark in the development of Afghani Badakshan compared to their relations across the border. Many Tajiks, especially those who could not bear to have the practice of their faith curtailed by infidels, fled there after the Soviet invasion. The children of these refugees were invaded again half a century later south of the Oxus.
It is hard to escape the conclusion however that whatever else the Soviets did or didn’t do, they bought roads, literacy, light and schools to this population, which would otherwise, perhaps, be more like Afghanistan today if Tajikistan had not become part of the soviet empire.
Many families are related and once these two villages separated by the river, were seen as one. The relations keep in touch with Tajik mobile phones, and meet in the Tajik bazaar where Afghans may cross the river to buy and sell there, but not leave the bazaar area to enter the rest of Tajikistan. The Tajik police see to that.
It is a truly magical spot here, one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. Last night we saw the full moon rising behind the Afghan mountains and I felt at peace.
Today we crossed the road below the house which is the main road between Dushanbe and the Chinese border, and went to see the Durobak mazar of Khoja Fathulloh which we had covered in our film. The mazar keeper is F’s relation, who sat with us last night, in what looked to be the same tupe [hat] that he wore in the film.
There is a new entrance here, which has been built since the film was shot. This takes worshippers down a long flight of steps to the mazar. The mazar itself is on many levels on the banks of the Panj, it is shaded by century old chinar or plane trees which are forbidden to be cut down. So that even if they fall the wood may not be removed and they are left there. There is a sacred spring just inside the entrance which Justin and I decided contained the sweetest, most delicious water we had ever drunk. From the spring the water flowed across a large area which has been enclosed with large white stones, other white stones spell words and dates, I could make out 2005-2015 but the words are hard to read, even for F.
The largest chinar trees are down by the water, and these are massive affairs. The biggest one has a crack so that people may climb in. many pilgrims come to this place and meditate inside the tree, which could easily hold four of us sitting there. I could easily imagine spending some time there alone just being inside a tree.
After the mazar we walked along the road which followed the curves of the river between the high mountains either side, a few cars speeding along, making the most of a bit of tarmac on the flat to give it full throttle. Also said hello to a couple of western cyclists with all their kit, struggling along.
We walked to the presidents Darvaz dacha set in the most amazing landscape at the intersection of two rivers, along the side of the clear blue- green waters with bridges and follies, kitsch in the extreme but lifted by the fantastic, literally like a fantasy, nature there.
And now, having woken from a sleep beside the waterfall returned for the laptop and sitting here.
Wednesday, 3 August 2011
Sunday, 19 June 2011
Sacred Places film
I got back to Dushanbe and was thrown into working on making a film on Tajkistan’s sacred places. This anthropological project was one of the results of four years of research by the Anthropological Centre under Professor Muhammadali Muzaffar. The project was funded by the Christensen Fund USA and was thus something that we had to complete before their planned visit in exactly five days time.
So, F sent me the English text for the introduction which I then edited. Most of it was taken from the English version of the Professor’s books on Sacred Places. But some he translated himself, his English is excellent – so I was just there to put it into native speakers speech and to transform a body of information gleaned from various sources into a continuous text which flowed and would sound right on film.
Then there was footage from two groups of mazars: from Badakhshan and from Sogd, which Farid watched and tried to discover which mazar was being discussed. Sometimes not an easy, or an impossible task. Professor had met with the mazar keepers or mutawwali and listened to their stories about the myths and legends which surrounded their mazar. He had also talked to visitors there, about the purpose of their visit.
The Badakshan mazars were in the high places, centred on springs, trees and sacred stones, those in Sogd were more often the graves of famous people set in city graveyards.
There was a lot to do.
As F watched the films in the evening I sat next to him, not watching the footage but copying out the information from the books, editing the English as he discovered that they were talking about one mazar or another. Mazar of Khoja Abdullohi Balogardon, Mazar of Khoja Ayyubi Ansori, Mazar of Khoja Shakkar Husayn and Mazar of Zaynalobiddin. They were names to conjure with.
The stories were fabulous, talking of men coming out of the river bearing gold and water brought through the rocks of the mountain to gardens, of kings killing their baby sons for looking on the faces of his harem and children disappearing into the mountain but leaving their handprints behind.
And I copied them out of the book, understanding that these were not fables but truth to the mazar keepers as well as F and the Professor.
Each night I slept at the Professor’s house in their visitor’s room, where we had eaten the Eid feast on my first visit.
In the daytimes we went to the radio station, passport in hand to give into the security on the door. Through once grand corridors – worn and torn like most things in Tajikistan. But like many things on the eve of the 20 years celebration being repaired. Remont is everwhere.
Up on the first floor F was working with a young guy who could use the film making program, who went by the great name of Mohammadamin Mohammadaminov (which was difficult to fit into the credits!). He was a sound engineer by trade who was hoping to get into film work.
He worked in an office with two other guys, all of whom seemed to spend their time turning their speakers as loud as possible to do whatever work they were doing, or games they were playing, so that the joint cacophony of sound was annoying in the extreme. I couldn’t write there and in the times where I wasn’t recording, looked for a quieter place to work, in a random person’s office or studio, they must have thought who is this woman!
And my recording, I went down to one of the studios on the ground floor and there, the other side of a soundproof door with glass between me and the engineer and two large mikes in front of me, I recorded the text that I had written the night before, changing tenses modifying words spinning it into a story. And I read it like a story as well. F wanted it slow and so that’s what I tried to do, even if at times it was hard to take the tone of my voice seriously – I sounded like I was reading from the bible. But it was serious, and it was about the sacred. So a certain timbre seemed appropriate, or just laughable depending on your point of view. I leave to people to judge - once its on youtube!
During the recording the most difficult thing was the names, to say them naturally and correctly! Especially those with many syllables. Here I did my best.
After the recording I sat with the sound engineer and J as he deleted my pauses and tried to remedy where I had tripped up or garbled a word or a name. I got better at just repeating the offending phrase, so that less time was wasted trying to cut just that part out of the file. Not an easy task when the sound engineer does not speak English!
And then that file was saved on Mohammadamin’s computer and they took it and meshed it with the visuals to create the film.
I never thought that we would get it done in the time we did. F and I worked all the hours of the day. I felt that somehow I was giving birth to something, so being looked after by the professor and his family with care as I worked hard.
The next day, as I was once again at F's house, collecting my bags, I had lived like a hobo for the last two weeks, with contact lens fluid in one place, cleanish clothes in another and my laptop in the third. It was only my laptop that I was sure where it was! Going with me everywhere like my daemon.
We drank a couple of beers as he had promised in the dark period between days two and three, when it seemed as if we would never finish on time, and watched the film. There were a few points that I would have changed, mostly with what I had done. But in general I was really pleased, as were F and J.
And now it is finished. For a day I hardly knew what to do with myself! I had spent the last five days doing that and the last five days before that with N , so that at no point was I either on my own or able to do my own work.
The last couple of days have been staying with J , who as I write is singing a sweet sad song as she gets ready for us to go to the Professor’s house for lunch.
So, F sent me the English text for the introduction which I then edited. Most of it was taken from the English version of the Professor’s books on Sacred Places. But some he translated himself, his English is excellent – so I was just there to put it into native speakers speech and to transform a body of information gleaned from various sources into a continuous text which flowed and would sound right on film.
Then there was footage from two groups of mazars: from Badakhshan and from Sogd, which Farid watched and tried to discover which mazar was being discussed. Sometimes not an easy, or an impossible task. Professor had met with the mazar keepers or mutawwali and listened to their stories about the myths and legends which surrounded their mazar. He had also talked to visitors there, about the purpose of their visit.
The Badakshan mazars were in the high places, centred on springs, trees and sacred stones, those in Sogd were more often the graves of famous people set in city graveyards.
There was a lot to do.
As F watched the films in the evening I sat next to him, not watching the footage but copying out the information from the books, editing the English as he discovered that they were talking about one mazar or another. Mazar of Khoja Abdullohi Balogardon, Mazar of Khoja Ayyubi Ansori, Mazar of Khoja Shakkar Husayn and Mazar of Zaynalobiddin. They were names to conjure with.
The stories were fabulous, talking of men coming out of the river bearing gold and water brought through the rocks of the mountain to gardens, of kings killing their baby sons for looking on the faces of his harem and children disappearing into the mountain but leaving their handprints behind.
And I copied them out of the book, understanding that these were not fables but truth to the mazar keepers as well as F and the Professor.
Each night I slept at the Professor’s house in their visitor’s room, where we had eaten the Eid feast on my first visit.
In the daytimes we went to the radio station, passport in hand to give into the security on the door. Through once grand corridors – worn and torn like most things in Tajikistan. But like many things on the eve of the 20 years celebration being repaired. Remont is everwhere.
Up on the first floor F was working with a young guy who could use the film making program, who went by the great name of Mohammadamin Mohammadaminov (which was difficult to fit into the credits!). He was a sound engineer by trade who was hoping to get into film work.
He worked in an office with two other guys, all of whom seemed to spend their time turning their speakers as loud as possible to do whatever work they were doing, or games they were playing, so that the joint cacophony of sound was annoying in the extreme. I couldn’t write there and in the times where I wasn’t recording, looked for a quieter place to work, in a random person’s office or studio, they must have thought who is this woman!
And my recording, I went down to one of the studios on the ground floor and there, the other side of a soundproof door with glass between me and the engineer and two large mikes in front of me, I recorded the text that I had written the night before, changing tenses modifying words spinning it into a story. And I read it like a story as well. F wanted it slow and so that’s what I tried to do, even if at times it was hard to take the tone of my voice seriously – I sounded like I was reading from the bible. But it was serious, and it was about the sacred. So a certain timbre seemed appropriate, or just laughable depending on your point of view. I leave to people to judge - once its on youtube!
During the recording the most difficult thing was the names, to say them naturally and correctly! Especially those with many syllables. Here I did my best.
After the recording I sat with the sound engineer and J as he deleted my pauses and tried to remedy where I had tripped up or garbled a word or a name. I got better at just repeating the offending phrase, so that less time was wasted trying to cut just that part out of the file. Not an easy task when the sound engineer does not speak English!
And then that file was saved on Mohammadamin’s computer and they took it and meshed it with the visuals to create the film.
I never thought that we would get it done in the time we did. F and I worked all the hours of the day. I felt that somehow I was giving birth to something, so being looked after by the professor and his family with care as I worked hard.
The next day, as I was once again at F's house, collecting my bags, I had lived like a hobo for the last two weeks, with contact lens fluid in one place, cleanish clothes in another and my laptop in the third. It was only my laptop that I was sure where it was! Going with me everywhere like my daemon.
We drank a couple of beers as he had promised in the dark period between days two and three, when it seemed as if we would never finish on time, and watched the film. There were a few points that I would have changed, mostly with what I had done. But in general I was really pleased, as were F and J.
And now it is finished. For a day I hardly knew what to do with myself! I had spent the last five days doing that and the last five days before that with N , so that at no point was I either on my own or able to do my own work.
The last couple of days have been staying with J , who as I write is singing a sweet sad song as she gets ready for us to go to the Professor’s house for lunch.
Takhte Sangin
After the real work, the writing of notes and the taking of photos there was some time left in the day down in southern Tajikistan and we decided to find the Graeco-Bactrian site of Takhte Sangin which I knew was somewhere on the Amu Darya – which is today the border with Afghanistan. We found the site on my antiquities map, but it was no where near a road. Doubling back on ourselves we crossed the bridge at Shartuz and went down the left hand fork.
Just when we were about to give up hope – and not for the last time, we saw a sign Takhte Sangin signposted towards the cliffs of the Teshik-Tash range as I found out, through dusty fields where no one seemed to be working we snaked our way higher along the bumpy road, south towards the river. We hoped that our letters from the Academy of Sciences would be allow us access to what was surely a military zone. Suddenly we came to the top of the rise between the rocky cliffs and there was the river the Amu Darya of old, and behind Afghanistan hazy in the early evening light. We were quite alone as we took in the scene- wild and remote the river shining in the late sun. Borders are always areas of possibilities, of crossing, another culture and life brushing up against the one you’re in. But the border with Afghanistan speaks of dangers and drug smuggling, P and U were joking about selling N and me at the market across the border.
The road forked and forked again, signs forgotten and as I scanned articles to try and discover a more precise location we found out it was between the Teshik-Tash range and the river – just where we thought. We went down one ‘road’ thankful for the 4x4 until it disappeared in the dust and the same seemed to happen with the next, we knew it was inaccessible hard to reach, defensible at the time on the caravan route guarding the river to the other side of the Oxus from our side Transoxiana, the land which was named by the civilisations to the south. We drove around the cliff face on a treacherous road cut into the rock, unpaved and twisting round, so that we had to almost drive off one side before we swung in, hugging the cliff face, I was glad that P had told me that U was the best driver in TJ – I knew that he drove UN people so just sat back and enjoyed the ride.
We thought we must be on the right road now, but then the road again petered out and was split into mini crevasses and massive rocks. We sat and watched the tame roller birds, not knowing people as we discussed where next. Again we turned back. We could see the towers of the military posts on the border in the background.
We returned almost to where we saw the sign, P and N both assuring me that we would get there, if not today then they were not going to give up. Me too, appetite to find this site had been well and truly whetted. Then turning down another road, there was a boy riding a donkey who pointed us in the direction of a responsible adult – a farmer sweating from the fields, in wellingtons and a broad face from the steppes. He agreed to come with us and show us the way, we said we would only be half an hour, and back we went along the snaking cliff road – again down by the river with the sun lower and the hour later this time. We continued along the rock strewn road. Until two soldiers spotted us, well they could see us all along and beckoned us over, with whistles. We later found out they might have shot us if we hadn’t complied. And then the waiting game started as we explained and reexplained what we wanted and why we had come here, turned tail and returned, to a series of young soldiers posted here in this remote but key location for their military service. We waited for an officer to show our letters to. And waited as the sun got lower. Finally we drove to the camp, what we should have done at first, P reminded us he had said all along, obviously we hadn’t listened or he hadn’t persuaded us with any kind of loud argument!
And there we waited, until we thought that we would just have to go home anyway as it was getting dark when the final higher ranking officer came out, tall and older. N managed to persuade him that if we took one of his men with us to make sure we did nothing stupid could we go?
Mailash!
And then I knew that we would get there. So now we had two hitchhikers along for the ride, a farmer and the soldier, or as we later learnt a worker in uniform, and again we bumped along the road with the river on our right, and a barbed wire fence dotted with signs saying beware of the mines – the pictures left little to the imagination. One of the soldiers was kneeling down machine gun in hand, pointing at an unknown target, not in our direction, but still it was a scene that I had only ever seen on TV before.
And then suddenly in the shadow of a watchtower – we could take photos one way, but not towards the river – suddenly there were columns and ashlar masonry walls, such as have never seen in the Central Asian mud brick architecture.
I imagined the Temple of the Oxus – a fire temple built to a river god, covering the bases as it were, and the site full of gold. Some now in the British Museum and other parts scattered to the winds of the world.
The site is large and as my info said, largely inaccessible between the mountains and the river – on the narrow stretch of valley between the two. It was a Graeco-Bactrian site so founded in the 3rd Century BCE. This temple controlled the river crossing on the ancient caravan routes and information highways between Iran, India, China, Afghanistan and Transoxiana the area we now call Tajikistan and Uzbekistan.
Archaeologists speak of an ancient citadel with palace buildings around a spacious square, paved with large bricks. Takhte Sangin – the name means stone platform, and certainly the stone surprises here, eyes which have been used to clay brick. The temple of the Oxus was built in the 3rd century BCE. It was here that offerings were placed over centuries. Gold, ivory and more gold.
The ‘soldier’ told us that we could take photographs towards the site, but not in the other direction towards the river where a watchpost towered over the ruins.
He pointed out some steps going down in the direction of the river, saying that a few Turkish people had tried to dig under the river(!) I was skeptical about this, would take more than a few people, Turkish or otherwise to dig under that mighty river. What was more likely it was people trying to dig under the mine fields, but why they would do this just under a watch tower seems a bit odd. However with the walls and trenches of the dig, there was better cover here than elsewhere on that dusty river plain.
My friends returned again a few weeks later and noticed that some of the stones had been moved, whether by the army or someone protected by them? Makes me angry that people just think they can do this…
We later discovered that we weren’t meant to be there in this sensitive border area, especially the couple of foreigners. A couple of days prior had been an incident – read a drug smuggling operation so the border area was meant to be well and truly closed.
For anyone else who wants to visit - apparently the way to do it apparently, or that is what we were told, is to inform the military base at Shartuz that you are coming and then they will inform this base. However when my friends did that a few weeks later - there was still a rigmarole to get in. Seems the easiest way to do it is just p-p-pick up a soldier.
We left with the feeling driving back hugging the cliff face on that treacherous road in the dark feeling we truly had an adventure…. Touching a piece of the past rarely seen, especially by foreigners.
Just when we were about to give up hope – and not for the last time, we saw a sign Takhte Sangin signposted towards the cliffs of the Teshik-Tash range as I found out, through dusty fields where no one seemed to be working we snaked our way higher along the bumpy road, south towards the river. We hoped that our letters from the Academy of Sciences would be allow us access to what was surely a military zone. Suddenly we came to the top of the rise between the rocky cliffs and there was the river the Amu Darya of old, and behind Afghanistan hazy in the early evening light. We were quite alone as we took in the scene- wild and remote the river shining in the late sun. Borders are always areas of possibilities, of crossing, another culture and life brushing up against the one you’re in. But the border with Afghanistan speaks of dangers and drug smuggling, P and U were joking about selling N and me at the market across the border.
The road forked and forked again, signs forgotten and as I scanned articles to try and discover a more precise location we found out it was between the Teshik-Tash range and the river – just where we thought. We went down one ‘road’ thankful for the 4x4 until it disappeared in the dust and the same seemed to happen with the next, we knew it was inaccessible hard to reach, defensible at the time on the caravan route guarding the river to the other side of the Oxus from our side Transoxiana, the land which was named by the civilisations to the south. We drove around the cliff face on a treacherous road cut into the rock, unpaved and twisting round, so that we had to almost drive off one side before we swung in, hugging the cliff face, I was glad that P had told me that U was the best driver in TJ – I knew that he drove UN people so just sat back and enjoyed the ride.
We thought we must be on the right road now, but then the road again petered out and was split into mini crevasses and massive rocks. We sat and watched the tame roller birds, not knowing people as we discussed where next. Again we turned back. We could see the towers of the military posts on the border in the background.
We returned almost to where we saw the sign, P and N both assuring me that we would get there, if not today then they were not going to give up. Me too, appetite to find this site had been well and truly whetted. Then turning down another road, there was a boy riding a donkey who pointed us in the direction of a responsible adult – a farmer sweating from the fields, in wellingtons and a broad face from the steppes. He agreed to come with us and show us the way, we said we would only be half an hour, and back we went along the snaking cliff road – again down by the river with the sun lower and the hour later this time. We continued along the rock strewn road. Until two soldiers spotted us, well they could see us all along and beckoned us over, with whistles. We later found out they might have shot us if we hadn’t complied. And then the waiting game started as we explained and reexplained what we wanted and why we had come here, turned tail and returned, to a series of young soldiers posted here in this remote but key location for their military service. We waited for an officer to show our letters to. And waited as the sun got lower. Finally we drove to the camp, what we should have done at first, P reminded us he had said all along, obviously we hadn’t listened or he hadn’t persuaded us with any kind of loud argument!
And there we waited, until we thought that we would just have to go home anyway as it was getting dark when the final higher ranking officer came out, tall and older. N managed to persuade him that if we took one of his men with us to make sure we did nothing stupid could we go?
Mailash!
And then I knew that we would get there. So now we had two hitchhikers along for the ride, a farmer and the soldier, or as we later learnt a worker in uniform, and again we bumped along the road with the river on our right, and a barbed wire fence dotted with signs saying beware of the mines – the pictures left little to the imagination. One of the soldiers was kneeling down machine gun in hand, pointing at an unknown target, not in our direction, but still it was a scene that I had only ever seen on TV before.
And then suddenly in the shadow of a watchtower – we could take photos one way, but not towards the river – suddenly there were columns and ashlar masonry walls, such as have never seen in the Central Asian mud brick architecture.
I imagined the Temple of the Oxus – a fire temple built to a river god, covering the bases as it were, and the site full of gold. Some now in the British Museum and other parts scattered to the winds of the world.
The site is large and as my info said, largely inaccessible between the mountains and the river – on the narrow stretch of valley between the two. It was a Graeco-Bactrian site so founded in the 3rd Century BCE. This temple controlled the river crossing on the ancient caravan routes and information highways between Iran, India, China, Afghanistan and Transoxiana the area we now call Tajikistan and Uzbekistan.
Archaeologists speak of an ancient citadel with palace buildings around a spacious square, paved with large bricks. Takhte Sangin – the name means stone platform, and certainly the stone surprises here, eyes which have been used to clay brick. The temple of the Oxus was built in the 3rd century BCE. It was here that offerings were placed over centuries. Gold, ivory and more gold.
The ‘soldier’ told us that we could take photographs towards the site, but not in the other direction towards the river where a watchpost towered over the ruins.
He pointed out some steps going down in the direction of the river, saying that a few Turkish people had tried to dig under the river(!) I was skeptical about this, would take more than a few people, Turkish or otherwise to dig under that mighty river. What was more likely it was people trying to dig under the mine fields, but why they would do this just under a watch tower seems a bit odd. However with the walls and trenches of the dig, there was better cover here than elsewhere on that dusty river plain.
My friends returned again a few weeks later and noticed that some of the stones had been moved, whether by the army or someone protected by them? Makes me angry that people just think they can do this…
We later discovered that we weren’t meant to be there in this sensitive border area, especially the couple of foreigners. A couple of days prior had been an incident – read a drug smuggling operation so the border area was meant to be well and truly closed.
For anyone else who wants to visit - apparently the way to do it apparently, or that is what we were told, is to inform the military base at Shartuz that you are coming and then they will inform this base. However when my friends did that a few weeks later - there was still a rigmarole to get in. Seems the easiest way to do it is just p-p-pick up a soldier.
We left with the feeling driving back hugging the cliff face on that treacherous road in the dark feeling we truly had an adventure…. Touching a piece of the past rarely seen, especially by foreigners.
Tuesday, 3 May 2011
Galasitora
Seeing whole hosts of stars in the city garden feels like a gift. I learnt one of my favourite words so far in Tajik the other day, while sitting chatting with the mother in the dusk. Galasitora , which means constellations of stars.Sitora is linked linguistically to our word star – evidence of a common language between European languages and Persian thousands of years ago.
Do feel at ease in this house, and the garden and the space is a big part of that. Space and peace to do my work. Watch the flowers grow, and the strawberries form into pale green shapes that will soon be red. Their delicate flowers glistening round the plants lined in the well watered earth. It feels like the simple life, and then in 10 minutes you are on the main street, catching a cab in 30 seconds and riding in a share cab for 26pence down the tree lined main drag with pastel coloured buildings mainly dating from the 1920s, with rich and tumbledown stucco work placed somewhat haphazardly either side.
I remember first getting into bed, on my first night here, on a pile of traditional Tajik quilts, or kurpacha , and feeling so comfortable and at peace, somehow. Feeling good about where I was. I just go and look at the flowers grow, browny orange wall flowers, roses that are not yet out, another orange flower which I have forgotten the name of. When I read these travel books. Minaret of Djam, the Short walk in the Hindu Kush, the authors know all the names of the flora and fauna. Was this just the age, this is what they knew, or did they take detailed notes about what they saw so then they could ask people back home. Of course now we would just check the internet. Must even be a site where you can upload photos of birds for example and someone will tell you what it is.
It is funny how people don’t read here; people do not sit on benches, newspaper in hand turning the pages finding out what is going on elsewhere in the world. They do not reach in their pockets for a paperback while commuting to Circ, or the west of the city. They sit. They might chat, but often you see people sitting just sitting at the side of the road.
At home, and this seems to be pretty universal, in many of the families I have stayed with, the TV is on from morning to night, a friend and a window on the world. From cartoons, to badly Russian dubbed films, to ubiquitous Russian, Tajik, Persian and American dance music. Most surprisingly I even saw How clean is your house, dubbed into Persian! I leanrt that Iran is the dubbing capital of the world, even in front of France! They also have a show similar to our Come Dine with me all with Iranians living in London,and speaking Persian!
However, you cannot fault the little kindnesses that the guest receives in the Tajik house, the shoes lifted down from the rack as you go by so you can put your feet directly in them. Rinsing my clothes, both of us , me and S going hech gap ne, no problem. She won, and carried on washing them saying ‘you are my sister’. I feel looked after here. The beaming smile of N which lights up her face when she sees me, even though we can’t really chat. I smile back.
Saw Z the other day. It was late as I left my and I was surprised to see a picheni or biscuit cottage industry going on in the main room. N was icing one type of picheni, while S and Z were rolling pastry and cutting out others.
So I sat down with them, and while S talked on the phone to her boyfriend on the handsfree, her hands were busy rolling and shaping, pinching and placing. I was impressed at how she made dough by eye, adding flour, butter and eggs, rolling it into fine sheets which then were cut into squares, a slice of caramelised apple placed in each and then folded over and covered with icing and chocolate shavings. All this activity was in aid of the tui the next day, the wedding of their uncle’s daughter. I am sure that as S talked to her fiancée rolling the pastry, she thought of her own wedding.
Z was well and busy, she wanted me to come and talk to the students, which of course I agreed to. She also said that we would work out a time for me to meet her father and ask him some questions – I am thinking he would know who I could talk to about getting in to see the Museum under the statue.
I finally left them at 1am, I heard next day that they were up for another hour. Z had to give an 8am lecture the next day, bless her.
Do feel at ease in this house, and the garden and the space is a big part of that. Space and peace to do my work. Watch the flowers grow, and the strawberries form into pale green shapes that will soon be red. Their delicate flowers glistening round the plants lined in the well watered earth. It feels like the simple life, and then in 10 minutes you are on the main street, catching a cab in 30 seconds and riding in a share cab for 26pence down the tree lined main drag with pastel coloured buildings mainly dating from the 1920s, with rich and tumbledown stucco work placed somewhat haphazardly either side.
I remember first getting into bed, on my first night here, on a pile of traditional Tajik quilts, or kurpacha , and feeling so comfortable and at peace, somehow. Feeling good about where I was. I just go and look at the flowers grow, browny orange wall flowers, roses that are not yet out, another orange flower which I have forgotten the name of. When I read these travel books. Minaret of Djam, the Short walk in the Hindu Kush, the authors know all the names of the flora and fauna. Was this just the age, this is what they knew, or did they take detailed notes about what they saw so then they could ask people back home. Of course now we would just check the internet. Must even be a site where you can upload photos of birds for example and someone will tell you what it is.
It is funny how people don’t read here; people do not sit on benches, newspaper in hand turning the pages finding out what is going on elsewhere in the world. They do not reach in their pockets for a paperback while commuting to Circ, or the west of the city. They sit. They might chat, but often you see people sitting just sitting at the side of the road.
At home, and this seems to be pretty universal, in many of the families I have stayed with, the TV is on from morning to night, a friend and a window on the world. From cartoons, to badly Russian dubbed films, to ubiquitous Russian, Tajik, Persian and American dance music. Most surprisingly I even saw How clean is your house, dubbed into Persian! I leanrt that Iran is the dubbing capital of the world, even in front of France! They also have a show similar to our Come Dine with me all with Iranians living in London,and speaking Persian!
However, you cannot fault the little kindnesses that the guest receives in the Tajik house, the shoes lifted down from the rack as you go by so you can put your feet directly in them. Rinsing my clothes, both of us , me and S going hech gap ne, no problem. She won, and carried on washing them saying ‘you are my sister’. I feel looked after here. The beaming smile of N which lights up her face when she sees me, even though we can’t really chat. I smile back.
Saw Z the other day. It was late as I left my and I was surprised to see a picheni or biscuit cottage industry going on in the main room. N was icing one type of picheni, while S and Z were rolling pastry and cutting out others.
So I sat down with them, and while S talked on the phone to her boyfriend on the handsfree, her hands were busy rolling and shaping, pinching and placing. I was impressed at how she made dough by eye, adding flour, butter and eggs, rolling it into fine sheets which then were cut into squares, a slice of caramelised apple placed in each and then folded over and covered with icing and chocolate shavings. All this activity was in aid of the tui the next day, the wedding of their uncle’s daughter. I am sure that as S talked to her fiancée rolling the pastry, she thought of her own wedding.
Z was well and busy, she wanted me to come and talk to the students, which of course I agreed to. She also said that we would work out a time for me to meet her father and ask him some questions – I am thinking he would know who I could talk to about getting in to see the Museum under the statue.
I finally left them at 1am, I heard next day that they were up for another hour. Z had to give an 8am lecture the next day, bless her.
Bags, bags, bags
One person I did know at the Wedding party was Johan, who is J’s friend from South Africa. I went to his workshop a couple of days before. He was a lawyer once, who decided however he was sick of making money and wanted to do some good in the world. So he is here in Tajikistan running a workshop making leather bags. He realised that people were throwing the sheep and goat skins to their dogs to eat, rather than doing anything more useful with them. Equally there is so little small scale industry here, the people are not yet used to thinking about shifting for themselves so used to working on the collective farm or kolkhoz.
In the countryside, either they think about working the land, or if that cannot support them, the only other option they seem to find is going to Russia. This obviously splits up families, and often causes divorce, or the husband returns with HIV and gives it to his wife. Now around 12 families are supported by this workshop, which as he says is a drop in the Amu Darya, however it means at least 12 families won’t be split up.
Johan has trialled various tanning techniques using all natural ingredients, one of the best emulsifiers is found in fresh brains! However none of these being forthcoming, he has found alternatives such as cotton oil.
These skins all get sent to the workshop in Dushanbe from around the country, he pays between 30 and 40 somoni for each skin. Here they get made into bags, slippers etc. We went round the workshop with J, her friend, N, F the Professor’s son and J’s boss Mr Tamavadeh. He was lovely and unpretentious and we had a joke about Iranian taarof. He was from Iran!
So we sat in Johan’s flat, eating biltong and drinking tea, having a conversation which veered between Persian and English, with only F being able to understand both, and to a lesser extent J and then Johan – who speaks some Persian. I bought a bag to carry round my extra stuff in when I have my laptop.
http://www.tajiktrading.com/index.html
In the countryside, either they think about working the land, or if that cannot support them, the only other option they seem to find is going to Russia. This obviously splits up families, and often causes divorce, or the husband returns with HIV and gives it to his wife. Now around 12 families are supported by this workshop, which as he says is a drop in the Amu Darya, however it means at least 12 families won’t be split up.
Johan has trialled various tanning techniques using all natural ingredients, one of the best emulsifiers is found in fresh brains! However none of these being forthcoming, he has found alternatives such as cotton oil.
These skins all get sent to the workshop in Dushanbe from around the country, he pays between 30 and 40 somoni for each skin. Here they get made into bags, slippers etc. We went round the workshop with J, her friend, N, F the Professor’s son and J’s boss Mr Tamavadeh. He was lovely and unpretentious and we had a joke about Iranian taarof. He was from Iran!
So we sat in Johan’s flat, eating biltong and drinking tea, having a conversation which veered between Persian and English, with only F being able to understand both, and to a lesser extent J and then Johan – who speaks some Persian. I bought a bag to carry round my extra stuff in when I have my laptop.
http://www.tajiktrading.com/index.html
Visit to the sacred spring or mazar
On Monday we went to Romit, with J and the Professor, I had such a good afternoon out, slightly feeling like I was winging school, sitting in a nice car eating icecream when should have been working! We drove out past Vaksh, in the direction of Kulob and the Pamirs. Along Aini street, past J’s old flat, along a dusty section of unsurfaced road, without markings where the cars raced rally style as they jostled for position. Another wacky races moment. The road had been like that for eight months.
However we soon left the city behind and at Vaksh, which is a major city in Tajikistan, took a left and started climbing, first along a plain with the mountains in the background, and then along the banks of a river, passing ever more simple villages, with farmers herding goats and sheep, past holiday homes for the Academy of Sciences, the railway workers the police, all left over from Soviet times and still used today of course. The Professor drove slowly and it was a joy to be outside the city, with friends.
We drove as far as Romit, where there is a national park on one side of the road, we three and our picnic of bread and yoghurt drink hopped over the gate on the other side and climbed through the old Soviet garden with sweet smelling white lilac, where we came to the mazar or Sufi sacred spring, where there was a tree next to it hung with cloths of people who had visited the mazar. The spring was there beside it, sparkling down the rocks, looking out over the valley with the river at the bottom. Someone had tapped the spring higher up, and there was a water pipe running high over our heads to a place in the valley.
On our way home we stopped at what looked like a gutter, which apparently was fresh spring water, the Professor and J drank their glasses of water with gusto, I was slightly more cautious but drank it down anyway, trusting it would be alright. It was and I am fine, having no worse than the usual which seems to come and go just as quickly as my body accustoms itself to new diet (!) and bacteria.
The next day we saw the Professor’s garden and his den, the library on the top floor reached by a precarious set of metal steps, into the roof space. It was a magical place, and one I could dream of having one day, full of books and pictures on esoteric subjects. After showing us books of tankas of Tibeten health, of philosophy and yoga, he gave me a book on Aryan anthropology, one of his. I will have to get it translated.
After a quick breakfast, TV on of course, a host of Iranian singers accompanying J wherever she goes, of cream, non and walnuts as well as two fried eggs (well maybe it wasn’t that quick) we set off. The Professor kindly dropping me home in time for my Tajik lesson.
However we soon left the city behind and at Vaksh, which is a major city in Tajikistan, took a left and started climbing, first along a plain with the mountains in the background, and then along the banks of a river, passing ever more simple villages, with farmers herding goats and sheep, past holiday homes for the Academy of Sciences, the railway workers the police, all left over from Soviet times and still used today of course. The Professor drove slowly and it was a joy to be outside the city, with friends.
We drove as far as Romit, where there is a national park on one side of the road, we three and our picnic of bread and yoghurt drink hopped over the gate on the other side and climbed through the old Soviet garden with sweet smelling white lilac, where we came to the mazar or Sufi sacred spring, where there was a tree next to it hung with cloths of people who had visited the mazar. The spring was there beside it, sparkling down the rocks, looking out over the valley with the river at the bottom. Someone had tapped the spring higher up, and there was a water pipe running high over our heads to a place in the valley.
On our way home we stopped at what looked like a gutter, which apparently was fresh spring water, the Professor and J drank their glasses of water with gusto, I was slightly more cautious but drank it down anyway, trusting it would be alright. It was and I am fine, having no worse than the usual which seems to come and go just as quickly as my body accustoms itself to new diet (!) and bacteria.
The next day we saw the Professor’s garden and his den, the library on the top floor reached by a precarious set of metal steps, into the roof space. It was a magical place, and one I could dream of having one day, full of books and pictures on esoteric subjects. After showing us books of tankas of Tibeten health, of philosophy and yoga, he gave me a book on Aryan anthropology, one of his. I will have to get it translated.
After a quick breakfast, TV on of course, a host of Iranian singers accompanying J wherever she goes, of cream, non and walnuts as well as two fried eggs (well maybe it wasn’t that quick) we set off. The Professor kindly dropping me home in time for my Tajik lesson.
Being spoilt by the Ambassador...
Went to the Ambassador’s residence (even a crest on the wall, thought it would be all a lot more subtle!) for the Royal Wedding Party on Friday, knowing practically no one. As I got there, suddenly felt awful had brought no gift – thought it would be smarter than in reality it was. Thought everyone would be very much in their glad rags! But no – a few dresses smattering the crowd (for the ladies), but also some more everyday attire. I suppose that the kind of people who come and work in Tajikistan are mostly working for aid agencies. Nobody comes here to get rich! Strange to be surrounded by expats, and so many Brits!
The wedding was being watched on big screens, with union jack bunting aplenty decorating the garden where it was held. I made sure that I had to mingle during the sermon.
Most of the most interesting conversations I had that day were with Tajiks, however, with Mukhibullo, the British Ambassador’s political advisor who I had met at SwordeTeppaand Shurat who works for DFID, who I might interview. He knew quite a lot about the Samanid period, which he said he had learnt at school during the Soviet times. He spoke about IsmoilSomoni cancelling the people’s taxes to maintain the upkeep of the city wall of Bukhara, saying “I am the wall of Bukhara”, I had to interject that, just to show I knew what he was talking about!
Also spoke with the French ambassador, who goes by the quite fabulous name of Henry Zipper de Fabiani. He came up to me saying you’re a historian, let’s talk! He was very well informed and we chatted for a while about archaeological sites and museums in Tajikistan and Uzbekistan.
As I left I could have kicked myself, I had talked to two ambassadors, and not once had managed to fit in the immortal line, “Ambassador, you are spoiling us”!
At my local Morning Star café on Sunday was next to a group of English people who had met at the party the day before. We started chatting. They were interesting, lived in Istaravshan, teaching English and learning Tajik. They are planning to be there for the next four years! Wow, having been to that town, that is pretty hard going. But at least there are a few of them.
They were talking about people using fire to cleanse during an illness as well as not having a broom standing in the house. It is interesting how many of the Tajiks they were talking to thought these were Islamic customs. And they even said that you can find mention of them in the Qur’an. They are much more likely to be pre-Islamic Zoroastrian beliefs which are still being used and believed in almost 2000 years later.
The wedding was being watched on big screens, with union jack bunting aplenty decorating the garden where it was held. I made sure that I had to mingle during the sermon.
Most of the most interesting conversations I had that day were with Tajiks, however, with Mukhibullo, the British Ambassador’s political advisor who I had met at SwordeTeppaand Shurat who works for DFID, who I might interview. He knew quite a lot about the Samanid period, which he said he had learnt at school during the Soviet times. He spoke about IsmoilSomoni cancelling the people’s taxes to maintain the upkeep of the city wall of Bukhara, saying “I am the wall of Bukhara”, I had to interject that, just to show I knew what he was talking about!
Also spoke with the French ambassador, who goes by the quite fabulous name of Henry Zipper de Fabiani. He came up to me saying you’re a historian, let’s talk! He was very well informed and we chatted for a while about archaeological sites and museums in Tajikistan and Uzbekistan.
As I left I could have kicked myself, I had talked to two ambassadors, and not once had managed to fit in the immortal line, “Ambassador, you are spoiling us”!
At my local Morning Star café on Sunday was next to a group of English people who had met at the party the day before. We started chatting. They were interesting, lived in Istaravshan, teaching English and learning Tajik. They are planning to be there for the next four years! Wow, having been to that town, that is pretty hard going. But at least there are a few of them.
They were talking about people using fire to cleanse during an illness as well as not having a broom standing in the house. It is interesting how many of the Tajiks they were talking to thought these were Islamic customs. And they even said that you can find mention of them in the Qur’an. They are much more likely to be pre-Islamic Zoroastrian beliefs which are still being used and believed in almost 2000 years later.
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