Back in the smoke

8 November 2010

Felt, a little, just a little, like coming home, returning to Dushanbe – I got a lift with Paul, Umed, N and Joe who were coming to the city to see the Zoo. It felt relaxing travelling with them, knowing that you would be taken to where you wanted to go, that you could communicate with them and maybe even have a laugh! First though before anything else, was lunch which was a mountain of pizza and mixed grill eaten at Merve Restaurant. I just had a pizza and my favourite Ayran – some of the others, who will remain nameless, had my size pizza for starter, and a huge mixed grill for main. Eating this amount of food is a military operation, but it was not taken too seriously!

Last night was dancing round the living room to Lady Gaga with a one year old having drunk (me not her) two shots of Arak with her grandfather! He raised a glass to people everywhere being the same, wherever they came from. The little Amina loves dancing and cries my name when she sees me, dragging me to sit down next to her. Watching her move her little body, spinning like a dervish, made the whole family laugh.

We were talking about Christmas, in English unfortunately, N relaxed her strict rules for once that we only speak Tajik because we were both into the conversation, and it was crystal clear to us both that I would never be able to follow in Tajik. It  was interesting that in Soviet times, they celebrated New Year on 31^t  December/ 1^st January with a tree and presents for the children. Basically tacking on the traditional Christmas celebrations to a secular day of fun. The pagan celebration comes full circle. However since independence the government no longer celebrates this day, no more Christmas trees in schools. Noruz is the main holiday instead. For N it is too late to change her traditions like that, although it might work for her younger countrymen and women. She misses the end of New Year.

The family lives as is normal in Tajikistan with three generations together, the parents with the youngest, or only son and his wife and children. The father (or grandfather, rather) is a bit of a joker and we laugh together, even though we can’t understand eachother, maybe even because we can’t understand eachother. He is a kindly grandfather who sits feeding his grandchildren (the girl of one and her older brother who is three), dandling them on his knee. He helps in the kitchen more than I have seen many men here. The mother is a silent ghost, with a sweet smile, who just seems to follow round her children, sorting them out with their many ups and downs.

What is not so normal is the house where they live, a beautiful house in the centre, (not an apartment) in a desirable location behind the Ped (or Pedagogical) Institute. The father is in construction, and has obviously done well. N, his wife works for the American Council as Academic Coordinator. She often has American students studying Persian staying in this room. The house is a traditional one, round a courtyard, with beautiful wooden doors and beams. So my room is in a separate building from the rest. Great when I want to play my music loud, not so great when I want to go to the toilet in the middle of the night and have to skip past the dog.

Yes the dog, Filia, whose name belies his guard dog build and his capacity for semi-violent play, not to mention his sex. His mouth fits comfortably (for him, rather than me) round my arm. And when he jumps up, his paws are almost on my shoulders. I am not scared of big dogs, but him… at least until he got used to me, I was not over keen. I had to learn the word for sit pretty quickly, as I realised that “down” was not going to work, as he had never been taught English (!). Now I just say “Beshin” or sit! However it is better not to catch his eye at all. Definitely no playing. At least though, he seems to be good with the kids.

I will be staying here until the end, being a “Centre Girl” as H called me, thinking I won’t go visiting to anyone out of the centre any more. I was staying with H who used to work for the Institute, also on the website, for a few days before here. She is about to give birth any moment, and I am so thinking about her and wishing her all the best.

It has been a busy couple of weeks, meeting academics and art professionals, trying to gather as much information to work on in the next few weeks before I come back out here. I also visited the Ismaili Centre which is the most wonderful building, they do tours on Sundays open to anyone, and I strongly recommend anyone who comes to Dushanbe to go there. It has been so beautifully thought out, such a meaningful mix of ancient forms and modern functions, a really exciting building. It has just dawned on me I have four days left in Dushanbe!

I also visited Hissar fort, an easy day (or half day) trip from the capital, with a group of economics students and their lecturer, looking at the tourism provisions in this important historical site. These as we all agreed left much to be desired, so I was able to give both a tourist and museum professional take on how these could be improved, so I was brought in to speak to the students the next day, and even am taking part in some kind of university challenge event, between three universities in Dushanbe, on Saturday on the same subject. I am just waiting to be thoroughly confounded by Mr Paxman himself!

 This week of course was Eid, which was highly amusing first meeting up with G and going round with her and her youngest sister to various classmates’ homes. The younger sister, who was a sweet twelve year old, everyone we visited assumed she was my daughter, rather than G’s sister, and indeed in colouring we were much more similar – and perhaps even in looks. Eid is hilarious, as you move around the city visiting friends, and so the whole city is on the move, dressed up and carrying sweets in the case of the children. In the evening I met with my Iranian friend J and with her and her friend went to the Professor’s home in Circ, near where I used to live. The spread was amazing, I have never seen such a tablecloth of food laid out. Nuts, sweets, fruit as well as plates of chicken, onion and chips. There I met a lovely German woman who spoke great Tajik. The others decided, laughing, we shouldn’t have been put together as we were chatting too intently!

Last week, I went to a nightclub again with J and her friends. J loves dancing too, so that was really fun. Dancing the night away on cups of tea! The dancing was great, the guys looking like they were taking part in an ancient ritual, having slaughtered a sheep! The clubs here are in some ways pretty good, in that you sit down have some food, see a variety of acts, from belly dancing (hmm) to traditional music, fused with dance beats and dance. The stage of this one was shaped like the prow of a ship and various ladies in various little costumes draped themselves over the wheel. The name of the place was Nine Bar, which I didn’t really see how that fitted!

Today I have just taken part in a tourism round table event at the Ped Institute. I thought it was going to be a group of students, but in fact they were listening, mostly, and it was mostly heads of various tourism organisations. I suddenly became an expert on museums and heritage! Hmm!

Roast chicken with all the trimmings

2/11/10

A few days ago the father had suggested that I cook a traditional British meal for them, which sounded like a good idea, if only to give the mother one meal off cooking. I couldn’t think of anything more traditional, most likely to be enjoyed, and comparatively easy to buy (or so I thought) as roast chicken with all the trimmings. In my house, this always includes bread sauce, as many vegetables as possible and gravy.

And so the mother and I went to the market which is a short taxi ride away. Everyone here travels by taxi as it is the only way to get around the city. There is no public transport. But the fares are only 1-2 somoni and it seems to work fairly well, especially since the influx of second hand western cars which means there are many more taxis plying their trade.

When I remarked on the fact that she was wearing her  thick gold chain, she replied  “I am with you so my heart is strong”.  Bless her!
Yesterday we were talking about wearing jewellery.  She was saying that she usually just wears it for celebrations,  as people can sometimes rob you for your jewellery. 

The chicken is not sold often here, I think more people eat beef. But am glad I didn’t attempt roast beef as that is a tricky one to get right. We found one frozen chicken, which I thought had come from Iran as there was Persian writing on it mentioning halal etc. It was only when I got it home and looked at the packaging properly, I realised it came from Brazil. Now that is one overtraveled bird! Oh well. We found carrots and potatoes which was not worried about. I thought we might find leeks, called piroz – but these turned out to be spring onions. We also bought beetroot, maybe not your traditional roast fare, but I love roast beetroot so why not! Also cauliflower was bought as well. The bazaar is full of people with their few vegetables and herbs laid out, each one with the weighing scales. We hop in and out of the crowd. It is nice to see the mother in the outside world, rather than just in the flat. She tells me that she usually goes to the market in the morning as the food is fresher.

Getting home we start cooking, I realise we only have one hob and the oven is plugged in on the floor. Because it is almost cooking time for everyone in these flats, the oven doesn’t get very hot. It will work better later on, when there is less competition for power. M tells me what an important part of a new bride’s identity it is to be able to cook well for her husband, his family and their guests, as otherwise she will literally be laughed and gossiped about. She says that when she was first married she didn’t know how to cook, and that it was only by practising and asking the neighbours, that she learnt how. She told me everytime she cooked plov or osh, the pilau rice with carrots and meat that is the national dish of Tajikistan, she got a headache, as she was so worried how it would turn out!

Now she was taking notes at my cooking, which I wanted to ask her, to say, wait see if you like it, before you write it all down!

The father and older brother come home, and the little girl is saying she is hungry eating bread. It is almost ready. Just the gravy to make, I start laughing, when I realise that due to the beetroot, I will be serving pink gravy tonight! The meat is served, and I tell the father about the British custom being that the father of the household carves the meat. This he does and the food is laid out. I was interested to see whether the family would like the bread sauce, (I wondered if this was the first time this had been served in KT)! But I was pleased when I tasted it that the meal tasted just as it should. If they didn’t like it, then they just didn’t like roast dinner, it was not that I hadn’t done the dish justice.

They all seemed to enjoy it, and of the mountains of vegetables that I thought much too much, most were polished off. When they thanked me, I said it was a small token of my appreciation of their hospitality, and they seemed to be pleased.

Family life

31/10/10

It is interesting staying with a family and seeing life unfolding in a way that you could almost never imagine to be part of when you are back in your own life in the UK or watching some film on TV.

I got asked yesterday “Have you ever spoken to a black man?” by S the older son from the father’s first marriage. He had wide eyes when I explained  that I have black friends and live in a very black area. It is hard for them to comprehend maybe that Britain and America, especially in the big cities, are not filled with white people and that are a multicultural and multilingual mix of people.

His other comment made me smile, apparently according to him, in New York they will comment if you wear the same thing twice two days in a row. I didn’t know how to answer, but said that yes, usually for work you would change your clothes every day.

It is Sunday, and cleaning day today, M, the little girl is sweeping the kitchen floor, we have been watching Scooby Doo cartoon in Russian. I haven’t seen Z yet. Her mother is also busying around, we agree that a woman’s work is never done, and there is always something to do in the home. It isn’t possible to come home from work and relax.

The youngest boy is meant to stay with his family and living near by, the daughter in law is meant to cook for her parents in law, which is how they will judge her value, by the deliciousness of her dishes. However the husband, according to his wife, wants Z to move away, possibly to seek better opportunities in the West, and she is sad that her young son might not live near them but sees that it might be better. She has a great desire to travel and increase her knowledge herself, and asks me about the places I have been to. “What is Geneva like, are there poor people in Africa?”.

The girls marry early as they cannot have a boyfriend without marrying them, otherwise they will be poorly looked on by the family of the prospective husband.

The little girl goes to a different school, as I understand it a less academic one, than the boy. This gives her more time to do her art. The mother would love her to go to Germany to study to be a doctor, but the father believes she is more an artist than a doctor.

A woman told me about her mother who was not allowed to go to school – she was stopped from doing it by her father as she was a girl. She described her grandfather as being like men in Afghanistan. Because they lived in the village it was easy enough for him to do this even during Soviet times. The teacher came to get her a few times, but in the end the grandfather, who was known for his temper, won. If they had lived in the city it would have been more difficult for him to get his way.

Women in Tajikistan are expected to leave work when they get married, similar to the UK 60 years ago. Most women are happy to do this. Nizora thinks in Dushanbe maybe 60% do but here in KT over 80% do.

Tajik Halloween

31/10/10

Well I didn’t think when I got to KT that my involvement in the preparations for the party would involve designing the menu and cooking, as per my instruction, for between one and two hundred people!

I think I have only ever cooked for 20 at a push before!

This realisation dawned on me on the actual day that Paul hadn’t been joking and that if I didn’t do it, I don’t know who would! So on the menu was pumpkin soup, of course, pasta salad, green salad, chicken skewers, corn on the cob, bread sweets and biscuits.

So after a pumpkin carving workshop in the morning, also led by yours truly, so that we had enough flesh for the soup, we went to the market with about 10 helpers to carry all the bags. There were many things on the menu that I was never going to find in a Tajik market; tins of tuna, green beans I thought I might – olives I knew might be difficult. I didn’t know that corn on the cob would be, as you see it boiled everywhere, but apparently people don’t cook it on a bbq.

So, some of the dishes had to be drastically redesigned while running around the massive bazaar – up and down stairs weaving in and out of other shoppers. Tuna pasta salad turned into an aubergine dish with pasta – which ended up being rather good, and went down fast.

Kilos and kilos of onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, apples for apple bobbing which never happened, parsley, dill and cumin, spring onions and radishes, tins of tomatoes, balloons, glittery hairspray and one red lipstick, shrek drink (!) peppers, chicken legs (not perfect for skewering, until Paul took an axe to them) mayonnaise, carrots, potatoes, pasta, oil, aubergine, 200 paper cups and plates, skewers, lettuce, eggs for the pasta which were turned into egg mayonnaise instead and buns for another game  - limbo donut, that sadly also never got played in all the excitement.

For those of you who don’t know it this is best done with jam donuts which are hung on a string, which party people have to limbo under while taking a bite of said donut. ‘Blood’ dripping down the face!

Oh well, the Tajiks will have to wait for another year, before their introduction to such fun!

A couple of guys followed me and Nizora  around, carrying most of the shopping.  Nizora was haggling and I was handing out the money and checking the item off the list while marking down how much we had spent.

When we got back it was straight to the kitchen while Nizora rustled up an army of helpers. I was soon directing operations, setting people to peeling, chopping and mixing. The kitchen had two hobs and a mound of dirty dishes there, the rest didn’t look too clean either, so it was a big clean before we could start…. The lady who normally cooks there, dishing out plates of greasy chips, was not the best help.

But in four hours or so it was done! The girls were great, squatting on the floor chopping the vegetables, there were about ten to fifteen of us at it, setting out sweets and biscuits on trays. The division of work is clear. No way would any of the boys been seen in the kitchen. They were all hanging around the sound system, messing up the levels once Joe had coaxed both the speakers and the PA system to work.

The barbeque area that Paul and Joe had built this week looked fab, with two large grills either side of a massive cauldron, just the size for the pumpkin soup (which turned into vegetable soup, as there was not as much pumpkin as we hoped). Unfortunately for Tajik tastes, I had not tipped half a litre of oil into it, so they were not so keen. They like their grease, do the Tajiks! But the other food was really popular and once the judges had done their business judging the best of the other food which was brought in, then the hoards of zombies, ghosts and ghouls, as well as  a couple of mummies, count Dracula, a witch and a wizard descended like raiders from the mountains on the rest. There was not much left, which all the cooks took as a complement!

Sadly I missed the burning of the alien Guy Fawkes – as this event has now been subsumed into Halloween in KT. Did see someone leaping the fire (not allowed, obviously) to disappear into the crowd. We might have had another Guy!  I also missed, the young hooligans, so-called by Paul, and he’s maybe not wrong, chucking all our pumpkins done by us and the kids into the fountain. Nizora was upset as well but felt slightly better when I said that the same thing might easily have happened at a party with young people in Britain, if there were 150 of them. It was probably the exciting thing happening in the city that night (that year, Paul added to my comment), and although the guards were not meant to let in anyone not connected with the Centre, in the dark, it was hard for them to keep tabs.

The party was hilariously surreal, from the choice of music, ranging from Celine Dion (please) to Meatloaf via Tajik rap and strange dance tracks to seeing young people aged from about 12 to 20 or so dancing together in a range of costumes. The boys had gone to town more than the girls, but that might have been something to do with many of them involved in the cooking until late. Z and M from the family I am staying with were both there. I had the sweetest dance with the little girl, M who was just beaming away hands moving up and down in the air.

Zombies, Skeletor and Count Dracula loomed out of the night, I had just managed to swap my filthy cooking and pumpkin making clothes for a witch costume with poison ivy. Green plastic leaves which I had lovingly painted earlier in black and purple as part of my costume. Worn with dark eyes and the red lipstick from the bazaar.

After all the kids went home, Joe and I decided it was time to break open the bottle of red wine from the kitchen upstairs. We thought we deserved it!

This is the one after dark party that Sword Teppe does each year, for some of the kids it is their first experience of Halloween.  But all of them seemed to get into the spirit rather well!

Kurgan Teppa

27/10/10

Now in one of the main cities in the south of Tajikistan, Kurgan Teppa, or KT as it is known amongst friends. The streets are wide and dusty, fewer trees here. The city is near the Vakhsh river which is wide and powerful at this point, bringing meltwater down from the Pamirs.

I took a shared taxi to get here, and it was a painless journey, apart from being squeezed between a rather large lady and a sleeping man in the middle of the back seat, who had both managed to get in at the same time in a kind of pincer movement, which ensured I got middle place! The landscape is wild and rocky, there are no trees giving shade to the donkeys and herds of goats we passed. These were the only things moving in the landscape apart from a stray cow who looked as if it had lost its way, but was munching contentedly, however, on the few strands of grass.

Our driver was good and drove fast but well, talking in Russian to a smartly dressed, elderly woman with hair curled upon itself in a chignon. A journey of 89 km was only 15 somoni or £2. An hour later we were pulling up. I even got taken right to the door. Better than a bus!

It was good to see Paul again; he was out back directing cement mixing operations for the new patio taking place behind the Sword Teppa centre. I also met Joe, another English guy, who had stayed after this summer’s Roof of the World Rally from London, but is soon returning home. The centre works as a hub for English teaching and indeed is the only English organisation which carries out this role in Tajikistan. So the British Ambassador visits here; he is informal “Please call me Trevor.” When Paul demurred, stating lessening of respect for the office and such like, the response was “I order you to call me Trevor!” We wondered if the response had come down from on high to seem less removed from the commoners!

They are wondering whether the Ambassador might come to the Halloween party, but as he has to be back within Embassy walls by dark, it is unlikely. All the talk now is about the upcoming Halloween party, and much of today has been spent planning it. It has been merged with Guy Fawkes, and we now have an excellent Guy with rubber gloves and baggy trousers and all.

Sworde Teppa is also a centre for studying the environment and research into malaria and other diseases. This is Paul’s side of the work. He works together with the Natural History Museum, which is how I know him, through my moth curator friend, Geoff, who works at the NHM. Last week the Centre was organising a series of climate change events for school children, next week it is a similar thing with university students, however this week seems to be all about Halloween!

The centre is looking for another British national to run their English teaching programme. I also met a lovely lady N, who works with the centre too. It was interesting to hear their take on things, as Paul has worked in Tajikistan for 11 years or so, he is a wealth of information about the ‘charity scene’ in the country.

N then kindly took me to the family I will be staying with for the next week. When I arrived the mother M laid out an amazing spread; trays of sweets and cakes and then after we arrived kept bringing out other dishes such as plates of chips and sausage and freshly crushed walnuts. We sat drinking black tea, chatting. Their flat is comfortable family home for parents and two children, a smiling girl M of 12 and a boy Z of 15.

The father is a bank manager so for Tajiks is fairly affluent, as he also has a shop in the market too. He brings down men’s shirts from Dushanbe and he and the salesman both add a couple of somoni on each; and this does good business.

By chance, this family and N are all Ismailis, they were so happy when I told them that I worked at the Institute of Ismaili Studies in London. The father asked me whether I had met His Highness, I was sorry to disappoint and answer in the negative.

However he had met many of the IIS governors and staff members during their various lectures and presentations here. The family is devote, and the father is warm and open and speaks well about his religious beliefs, telling me that God wants many different flowers in the garden, religions of many different forms and hues.

The father likes the peace of the countryside and the simplicity and straightforwardness of country people from the villages. But he urges his sons to study in US and try and improve their English.  One, Z wants to be president! – “How should I get there” he asks me?!

The daughter is 12 and good at art, and the father hopes she might study design, architecture or painting. She shyly showed me her paintings and they are good, both the colours that she uses and the forms. She was either painting from her imagination or copying from books

How revered the Aga Khan is here, he came into conversation a lot and interesting that he spoke about the importance of the Samanids to the Tajiks.

Changing of the seasons

24 October 2010

It is getting noticeably colder. Perhaps more towards what is usual in Dushanbe for this time of year. In the flat the winter clothes are coming out of the voluminous cupboard, which houses most of the three women’s and one young boys’ possessions. This means more to me, somehow, than the putting on of jumpers and jackets as we do in the west – at least for the women. Many women, while they love wearing their traditional dresses in the summer, and are a riot of colour, pattern and pizazz, in winter it is warmer to wear western dress.

So G went to the Kurvon market today, and bought a dark grey polar neck and paler grey cardigan and sheer tights – which she is now wearing with a knee length skirt with oversize buttons and stilettos. My idea that women’s clothes here expressed their different ideas, whether traditional or modern, was wrong. If it is true that Tajik women have been able to escape the massive politicisation of what they wear that goes on elsewhere, then I am glad. Though I know that Rahmon has tried to ban hijabs in the past, however women here still wear them, and apparently their numbers are growing. I even saw a young woman in a hijab and a knee length skirt and tights today!

As a counterpart to what is going on surrounding Islamic women, whether in France, Turkey or Iran, I was shocked and fascinated that a local council  in Italy, Castellammare di Stabia might try and ban miniskirts as well as football games and sunbathing by the beach! Especially as the party agitating for this calls itself the People of Freedom Party! As a subversion to the events in France, see this link on two Muslim women wearing niqabs and miniskirts, sashaying around Paris, waving at police.

It is interesting to think that a visitor here in summer could (if they thought as I did) have a completely different idea of women than someone visiting in the winter. 

Sunday was a quiet day, but even today a cleaning and a scrubbing takes place by the other women in the flat. I have been holed up in my room, picking at grapes and pistachios, learning my Persian. I have decided that even though it is different from Tajik in words, where Tajik has taken on Russian words and Persian retained an Arabic vocabulary, that if you can speak Persian well (ha ha) you will be able to communicate in Tajikistan as well.

Meetings and greetings

22/10/10

It has been a busy few days juggling attending a conference where I understand nothing but there are academics I want to meet, meeting new friends and having impromptu Persian lessons and being introduced to other scholars.

Have been trying to work through the intricacies of Iranian taarof and balance peoples’ needs, both stated and unmentioned, from different directions and cultures. Which is all normal life, I suppose, and part of staying put somewhere for a while!  

So on Wednesday, I had plans, people to see places to try and find (!) but when I checked my email they all changed as the President of the Institute of Sciences, Professor Ilolov, was happy to meet with me. I had to hurry, wearing the wrong clothes and arrive as soon as possible. S had fixed it for me!

He met me in the boardroom near his office and he was really helpful, said that he would speak to the Director of the National Museum who works with him so that I can go and research the collections, which is fantastic. I have also learnt from him and one of his colleagues at the Institute of Sciences, a Professor of Anthropology more about what the Samanids mean to the scholars. It is important to them not just that the empire stretched far and wide, ruled by a strong dynasty, or that it was just the resurgence of Persian culture and language  but that it was a time of great intellectual prowess, with the best minds of the age such as Ibn Sina, Biruni, al-Ghazali. These scholars are still highly rated today.

People are more polite here on the bus, certainly they will get up for older people, the infirm, people carrying bags etc. (rather worryingly that also includes me, as a woman, or a foreigner – or maybe just old!). More disturbing however is the number of children working on the buses taking money for the rides, during the school day. I do not know how many children don’t attend school on a regular basis here.  There are no tickets here, just as there used to be no receipts,  meaning the opportunities for corruption were and still are rather large.

I have just returned from J’s comfortable home, where I ended up staying last night. Where I am living is not on the main road, and the thought of trying to explain to a taxi driver the snaking path through the tower blocks did not really appeal. Even with my map drawn by G – look out for the nine storeyed tower block.

J is an Iranian woman living here in Tajikistan doing research on the Shahnahme, which I am reading at the moment. The book is the Persian book of kings, which tells the story of creation until the beginning of the Arab invasions. It is full of heroes, dragons and evil divs or devils. It is one of the great works of Persian literature, claimed by Iranians and Tajiks alike. The book can be compared to the great Homeric epics or to the Hindu Ramayana. It is full of deeds of derring do, battles and feasting, clever women and beautiful men built like cypress trees. Great way to end my day, reading from it.

We spoke about so many things, J is a lovely, open and fascinating woman, who feels close to all cultures, thoughtful and good fun too. She gave me a Persian lesson, and has promised more in the future.

She cooked a delicious lunch of Gorme Sabzi – chicken and spinach with rice and beans, which does sound rather Caribbean, now I write it, but the flavour is completely different, subtle and saffron scented. Very Iranian dish. An Iranian could serve you a feast fit for a queen in their own palace and still complain about their poor cooking and the desert that is their home!

The Professor came round for lunch and I managed to ask him some questions. Interesting hearing about the differences between now and the Soviet era.  He was kind and spoke good English, even though he enjoyed having someone else translate for him. There were continuous exhortations to learn Persian, and then he could really have a proper discussion with me.

Later we watched a Robin Hood cartoon that I remembered from my childhood, with fox as Robin, Prince John (PJ) is the thumb sucking lion and his evil snake henchman. It brought back old memories. Now it is watched by Iranian and Tajik children on a Persian satellite channel. Strange!

Staying in an Iranian house is fraught with taarof dangers! Don’t whatever you do, complement anything too profusely, it  might be offered to you. Do not, like I did, enter such house with holes in the toes of your socks  (shoes obviously come off at the door), you are likely to be given some new ones!  It was safe to praise the wallpaper – which I did, in the kitchen, as it can’t be removed. J kept on saying “I know your customs are different Katherine, but you are in the East now, and this is how we do it here”!

My dress is nearing completion at the tailors, S who is making it for me is a sweet faced nineteen year old studying fashion design who wants to go to USA and continue her studies. The place rang with “Hello Katherine” and offers to come for lunch. Such a wonderful, welcoming female atmosphere.

Later I got back to the smell of baking bread, made in the traditional Tajik way with pinched edges and patterned with imprinted circles on top. The loaves are usually circular and a hand span thick. G told me to try the bread baked in tandoors on the street, which is delicious. Her mother can bake it like that but she doesn’t have the knack, as it means stretching your arm into a boiling oven, without blistering it.

 It is full moon tonight, I saw it looking over the family groups on flashing rollerskates as they circled the Circus, or Circa as it is known. Many Soviet cities seem to have their permanent circus building, I think it is still in use, on an irregular basis as its original function.

Cyrillic letters are funny, the word can start quite 'normally' T – A – X – for example, and then as it continues you realise you are at sea, that this is not the tax office. The sounds are not what  you expect and there is no dry land of the Roman script to cling to.  At least with Persian script you know that it is totally different and there are going to be no clues offered, but no false friends either, to those who know the Roman one. People strangely seem to be impressed with my Persian writing, which is good (that they are, not that the writing is), if only in comparison with my awful speech.

City water wheel

19/10/10

Today I woke up to one of Dushanbe’s scourges, no water in the taps. The rows of bottles in the bathroom with pale shades of water in, stored for a rainy day (as it were) made more sense now. Even tonight when I came home, there was still no water. I knew before I even got in the door as there were women collecting water in large canisters from the stream by the block, next to the small market.

Every day I cross the stream on a concrete bridge to get to SaadiShirozistreet. I look right and see the simple wooden water wheel turning, but I did not think I would see people collecting water there, even though I know that the Dushanbe water supply is notorious. It has been known to come out of the taps browny-yellow, carry typhoid or probably both. G washed her hair tonight; to do so water must be collected and heated, if not quite over a fire, but with the electric element. She has a presentation tomorrow on the economy of Iran.

I managed to find the office I was hunting for yesterday. Well I say found, only with the help of F who kindly came to get me, where I was hanging out, outside the Chinese Embassy, which is in a very grand position on Rudaki Street. I think it is one of the only, if not the only country to have been granted this honour by Tajikistan.I was glad to see that it was not me that couldn’t read maps, it’s just that they were both somewhat skewed!

F has found me another family to stay with which is great, I am learning so much more about life here, obviously, than I would if I stayed in a hotel, besides it being lovely to have people to chat to about our days. Why am I here on my own, F asked? I answered that if I was with a friend, I would spend all my time talking to them, in a little bubble of Englishness, whereas now I have to get out there and meet Tajiks!

We went for lunch in a government canteen with another woman, H, from her office. She was a history teacher in Badakhshan and spoke about how during the Soviet period they taught predominantly Soviet history, though Tajik and world history did get some kind of look in. During that period they only had one book on Tajik history, called “The Tajiks” By Bobojon Ghafurov, who is so revered as a Tajik historian, who has told them their history, that he has an avenue called after him in the west of the city. She now works in women’s rights and female empowerment projects, I was pleased and somewhat surprised to learn that the President Rahmon is a big supporter of such projects. The canteen was very grand, and the food, though simple was good. H spoke about how she used to visit this canteen when she was a student, and that this area was her stamping ground as her student accommodation was not far away from here.

After independence H made sure that she read all the history books that were becoming newly available. The curriculum changed, and Tajik history took a place centre stage in history lessons. She was really interesting to talk to and suggested many people I should talk to around the city.

Saying goodbye to F, she saw a friend of hers, K, coming up the street. She called herself an Orientalist, and was hoping to come to the Institute of Ismaili Studies next year on the STEP programme. She kindly suggested that she accompany me to the nearby SadriddinAini Museum. He was a writer who spanned the end of the Emirate and the Soviet invasion. This orphan boy from a village between Bukhara and Samarqand, who went to the madrassa in Bukhara and ended up sitting in the desk I saw as the first President of the Tajik Academy of Sciences. They have a photograph of his one storey white walled house in the village.

K translated what the guide told us about his life and the objects in the museum. I have read his autobiographical book about growing up in the village and going to school in Bukhara, which is full of humanity, the tenuousness and corruption of things under the Emirate. He has a statue in front of the Bekhzod Museum and I travel down the adjoining road named after him every day. There was another room that the guide couldn’t show us, as up until recently Kamollidin Aini, the big man’s son, has personally showed visitors around. However since his death in August 2010, no one has been able to find the key. The room has remained locked.
K agreed that if I needed a translator on visits to the Academy she would be happy to do it on her return from Khujend. Great.

From the Aini Museum I went to a screening of an Afghan piece of movement theatre at the Bactria Centre. It was so moving, ten people with minimal props apart from their bodies and their voices. Telling the story of the wars and violence against women that go round and round there.It especially m There were unexpected French subtitles which was good. The director was with us, tall and willowy she was on stage being thanked in headscarf and manteaux. Here in a short skirt showing slim legs, just across the border. For a while during the performance one of the actors’ headscarves had slipped down, and I wondered if that wasn’t problematic at a performance in Kabul? I wanted to ask her, but am sure she is bored of speaking about what women wear or can’t wear and wanted to talk about their performances. An Iranian woman, J, of whom, more later, was also very surprised at this.

And for those of you who have asked for photographic evidence - next time I promise!

Botanical Gardens and at the Maierkovsky theatre

18/10/10

Another unseasonably warm day in Dushanbe saw me seeking some contacts which I had been told to visit by colleagues at the IIS. Having the street address is no guarantee of finding a place in Dushanbe however, even when you can find the street on not one but two maps. Having searched for over 40 minutes for it, and just as I was giving up, I came across an entrance which was also not on either of my two maps. Intrigued, I ventured in, running the gauntlet of the policemen and other young men hanging out.

It was the main entrance to a park, the Botanical Gardens as I worked out. I was struck by the kitschness of it, and the way it combined into a fantastic pastiche the Islamic and ancient Iranian pre-Islamic styles, evoking a multifaceted past; underlined by the medallions of ancient kings which lined the walls. An Islamic dome topped this grand entrance covered with a weaving geometric interlacing snaking its way round the curved surface in blues, whites and golds. Beneath the dome are reliefs in plaster of standard bearers and archers known from Achaemenid Persepolis in south-west Iran. Although their empire never truly stretched up this far into Transoxiania, the Tajik state seems to have appropriated this design and past history as its own.

The figures are surrounded by a border of golden rosettes. This is an even more ancient symbol, used by ancient Sumer during the Uruk period in the 4th millennium BCE. It has been reused and reworked throughout the centuries, where it often is taken to mean fertility. The rosette is also seen over and over again on Samanid pottery thousands of years after it was first seen.

Also interesting are the rulers which have been elevated to mark this monument. Jamshid is in there, Darius, Kourosh Kabir, Vakshounvard, Ismoil Somoni, Anoushiramen Adel, Spitamen, Timour Malik, Sherak, Dewashtich, Moghana and Vaase.

It is noteworthy that Timur Malik, better known to the Western world as Tamurlaine is in there, as he is a king which today is strongly associated with the neighbouring, and not too friendly, Uzbek nation.

Karoush Kabir in turn is better known to us as the 6th century BCE ruler Cyrus the Great,who was famous for his ideas about human rights as well as his treatment of the Jews. The Cyrus cylinder is in the British Museum, but was promised to Iran on loan. This hasn't happened yet, as they said that they have found two more fragments in a drawer, connected to the cylinder that they need to research first. One can only hope that the cylinder does make it to Iran eventually.

Spitamenes was a Sogdian warlord, who lead an uprising of Bactria and Sogdia against Alexander the Great. His daughter Apamea married Alexander's general Seleucius who eventually went on to found a dynasty of his own. Spitamen has also given his name to a first division Tajik football team!

Dewastwich was the last king of Sogdia before the Arab invasion. So in these reliefs Ismoil Somoni keeps company both with his spiritual kingly forefathers and rulers who came after him.

An upper frieze is supported by columns with double griffin headed protomes or capitals, which are also famously found in Persepolis.

It would be very interesting to find out who designed and commissioned this entrance and when it was built, certainly since independence. However the Botanical Gardens must be much older, and must date to at least the mid 20th century, judging from the maturity of the trees. It is really beautiful, and no wonder it is beloved of newly wedsas a location to have their photos taken, I even saw a couple today, on a Monday afternoon.

It is a wonderful, relaxing and peaceful place to wander, reminding me almost of an English park with bandstands and benches in amongst the carefully tended wildness. I will certainly be back.

Later that day I went to the Maierkovsky theatre to the opening night of a week of EU cultural events in Dushanbe hosted by the Swiss Development Cooperation and the Bactria Centre among others. The Minister of Culture was there, as was the French Ambassador. That made the security more understandable, as our bags were checked and the men were scanned. It was interesting seeing the kind of people who made it out to the theatre on a Dushanbe Monday night (the city’s name of course, means Monday, being called after a Monday market, which is what the town was known for before the Russians made it into a capital of their new Autonomous Republic).

After all the introductions and on-stage back slapping, the performance was unusual. The language was Russian, however there were English and French subtitles, hard to see from where I was sitting. There was one woman on stage railing at the world. The pace seemed unchanging, and there did not seem to be any flow, continuity or conclusion to the piece or resolution to her state of mind. Intermittently she spun around, whooping and laughing or crying out. The piece ended with a man playing a tabla and singing a heartfelt melody. Although I did not know what to expect, I certainly still don’t know what to make of it. I don’t think I was the only one, as a fair few people left throughout the performance. The piece was called White Blood.

So finally back home, Dushanbe is quiet at night. I only got home at 8.30 however the streets were noticeably more empty and transport harder to find. Later I tell G about my failure to find the office I was looking for, and she says no wonder, it is completely in the back streets behind the medical centre and very easy to miss.

Kurbon Sunday market

17/10/10

Today G and I went to the market with J and her sister, getting there by 9am. Sunday in Dushanbe seems no different from any other day in the city, business as usual. People have to work as G says. We get a mashrutka there, even with G complaining about waiting for transport, it is usually much faster to get moving than in London.

We met the others at the entrance to the market and I quickly realised that this was not just any old market trip, but to buy J’s trousseau as it were for her forthcoming wedding. I knew that she was involved in one, but not that it was hers!

The market was huge, with guys wheeling carts up and down filled with wares, out of whose way the shoppers had to spring. Underfoot is uneven, not easy when you can’t see the ground for people. There is usually a big gully in the middle of the path – with or without water, but usually with some rubbish there. However in general the market was fairly clean. It sold a myriad of things, from fabric to sellotape, saucepans to pens.

While J said she just had to buy some shampoo even that was fraught with decision and smelling and discussion of the price. We spent over half an hour just deciding what should go in a basket of toiletries, both for him and for her. Nivea was a favoured brand, and think it might have been the real thing, in amongst the Collate and Apeafresh – each with the branding design of their better known brothers. There were perfumes from Paris which were made in Guangjou – Marquise and Cobra, there was Blue Laby [sic!] with a picture of Paris Hilton, there were perfumes which would convey power and riches on their owner, or so the names promised: Millionaire, King, Queen, Warrior, as well as nail varnish called Golden Rose, and an aftershave called Do it!.

In all we bought nivea cream, safety pins, a mirror, nail varnish, bras, knickers, combs, ribbon, basket, shampoo, foundation, saucepans, two pillows, four serving plates, twenty saucers, two large metal trays, selllotape, eyelash curlers, toothbrushes, toothpaste, clothes pegs, lip gloss, deodorant, eye pencils and socks.

J told me about how her husband-to-be, a Pamiri boy of course, was kind and good and that’s why she chose him.

I also managed to fit in buying some material to take to the tailors tomorrow, green with pink roses. So let's see how my traditional dress turns out.

Qishloq wedding

16/10/10

Qishloq in Tajik (and Russian too, I presume) is a ‘village’ and this is where we went to a small village called Turveq, just outside Dushanbe. We went by car with her classmates, with four girls eventually squished into the back, all in their finest glad rags (I do not include me in the glad rags status, but I did my best)! We stopped for a while waiting for what I knew not, until a convoy of cars caught up with us to arrive in the village together.

I was introduced to many of her classmates, of which it seems that G. has some of the best English. Even though we couldn’t communicate except on the most basic of levels, I still garnered a few invitations to people’s homes – bless them! All the boys were wearing the normal college attire, that is a suit. I couldn’t believe that they were forced to wear this to college every day. Girls seem to be able to get away with a bit more and could wear what they wanted. Funny to compare these suited and booted young men to UK students expressing their identity and just dressing how they like.

We arrived at the wedding which was in a house in the village with a band playing outside and people crowding around. We picked our way, G’s friends taking my arm, the others in the highest of heels, across the yard and were quickly ushered into a small room with a feast laid out on the floor and sat cross legged on the ground. All her classmates and me fitted snugly into this long and narrow room - just the size for 15-20 people round a cloth the width of a table.

We ate with our fingers mostly tearing off parts of enormous chapatti – which is also what they call it, and using it to pick meat and gravy from the stew. The gravy was fatty and delicious, for Tajiks, with herbs swimming in the grease. The lamb was tender and served with tasty onions. We also had another similar soup, fruit, sweets, sambusa (which is similar to what we know as a samosa, but with a more doughy outer covering), and Fanta and grape juice to drink.

There was much laughter and M, who is G’s best friend, and also from the Pamirs, introduced me to “my future husband!” indicating a brown haired smiling boy sitting next to her.

After the food was the dancing, which was great fun, the motion is in the arms and hands which twirl around each other, as dancers circle one another. It seems men and women are able to dance together. Sometimes one person is in the centre and the others surround them, clapping.

Unfortunately for those in heels the ground was uneven and difficult to dance. I was glad of my flip flops. This put a slight dampener on the two women whom I knew loved dancing. We stayed to watch the groom’s hair being cut by his father to much applause, while wedding guest filled the inner pockets of his suit with money. He was seated on an armchair placed on a carpet, which somehow, outside, looked like a throne.

On the way home we were stopped by the police, I was slightly nervous as I had no identity papers on me at all, not even a copy of my passport. He wanted a fine as we were travelling with four in the back of the car. But somehow the combination of the driver and a couple of pretty girls persuaded the policeman, and convinced him that we should be allowed to go on our way. We weren’t going much further anyway.

“Dushanbe I love you!” called out M, dressed in a sparkling yellow outfit, “this is my city.”

Later, this evening, I was looking at G’s photos of her family, it is interesting how many of them were taken in front of the Somoni statue. When asked about it, she couldn’t really explain why, it just seemed like a good place to go, a worthy backdrop for the family photo. There was also one photo taken in front of the Ibn Sina statue, but many more with Ismoil towering in the background.

It was also interesting seeing G in lots of western clothes as I have only seen her wearing traditional dress. However this is, I think, just in the summer, when it is so much cooler to wear a loose long dress and trousers. In winter she is in knee length skirts, boots and leather jackets.

Talk of weddings and at the tailors

16/10/10
I have been here a week, one which has been rich with new experiences.
At the moment my hand is tingling from the latest: putting my hand in a bucket of warming water, being heated by an element so I can wash my hair. Not sure after the first time, I did it again, dipped my hand in to check the water temperature and got a weak electric shock!

Yesterday I was at the Bactria Centre and planning to meet with Antoine Buisson, who is interested in the Samanids as well as being Director of Educational Programmes there. The Bactria Centre is run by the French charity ACTED, and a cultural centre for visual art – both ancient heritage and contemporary practice as well as music and teaching of English. I also saw that in their new building on the same road as the National Museum, they had Tai Chi teaching. I chatted to Antoine for a few moments and he kindly agreed to meet with me. He also told me about an international conference taking place next week in Persian literature which I hope to attend in Dushanbe, along with other cultural events which would be interesting for me to see, and if possible meet people. So that has rather altered my plans. It makes sense I think to stay in Dushanbe for another week, as there are still some more people I want to meet with, before heading south. Having spoken to Paul in KT he is very relaxed about when I arrive, which is great.

As I walked around the city with G she was telling me about her dream wedding, which would be in Dushanbe, in a restaurant, where she and her groom would arrive in a limousine. She wants to wear white, rather than red for the traditional Pamiri bride. I also think she will find it hard not to dance! Her parents wouldn’t mind her getting married in Dushanbe; in fact her father is happy for her to travel abroad for a couple of years before getting married. I would imagine that travelling as an unmarried woman is still unusual here. However her parents would find it hard to (read couldn’t) tolerate G marrying someone who is not a Pamiri Ismaili, ‘a boy from the Pamirs.’

Just then, we saw a wedding with a limo drawing up and laughing, well dressed guests milling around. “That’s what I want!” said G.
She would like to join her friends in USA who are learning English during the day and working in restaurants etc at night. She would love to do it, and is not afraid of how hard she will have to work, craving to be busy, and in a place where other people are busy too.

Downstairs the man is crying out buy my wares, selling them from apartment block to apartment block, picking his way amidst the playing children.
This flat has two main rooms, a kitchen and a small sunlit dining area, at the moment with no table, but where I am sitting, my laptop doing what it does best. There is no fridge, no oven and only one hob which is connected to the socket by two dangerous looking wires, which the little boy likes playing with: “Nakheyr” “No!”. He can be very sweet like all two year olds, calling “Apash, bir bir” Older sister [me], come and play… However he can also be a right tearaway in a two year old way, calling out “kissi nani” over and over again which sweet though that might sound in English, in Tajik is very rude!

We met MF and his friend quickly to say happy birthday, they were sitting in a beautiful park with benches and flower beds surrounding foutains. MF was quite happy to put his bag on a neighbouring bench, occupied by another guy, as there was no room for it on ours, and, as I presume he didn’t want to put it on the ground! Something which would be unheard of in London.

After meeting her friends, I accompanied G to visit the tailors to pick up her new outfit for the wedding. A traditional dress, similar to a salwar kameez, but with a longer (and often looser top, so that it works like a dress). The fabric was a black velveteen with pink roses and pink flower beading round the neck. There was some debate as to whether there should have been more beaded flowers around the short cap sleaves, but the seamstress said, and I agreed that it just would have been too itchy, especially while dancing.

The tailors was funny experience, a room full of women each at a sewing machine and one at the ancient looking iron, all asking me where I was from and what I thought about Tajikistan. I decided, like in India to have an outfit made at the tailors. So we will go tomorrow and chose some fabric at the market.

We had photos together, I had just asked them if they would mind me taking a photo of the tailor’s shop dripping with fabric cuts and beads, they answered smiling. And then there was a merry dance of my photo being taken with various seamstresses. One of them was my age with a 17 year old daughter who looked like her and was off to college to study medicine. She was keen to practice her English and kept asking me where I was born and how many people lived in London. She could hardly believe that there were as many people living in that city as in the whole of her country c.7million. Funny to think I could have a child of school leaving age.

Plastic Pamiris

15/10/10
Last few days spent in daily routines, both creating my own and taking part of the other one in the flat. The days are filled with studying and in the evening F, G’s sister and S, her uncle’s wife gather around the TV. A black and white telly flickering in a sepia house, patterned in reds and browns. We eat an evening meal and G and I sit and chat over tea. Their tea is smooth and drunk with sugar. Shirchoi I am not so keen on, being a salty milk tea with spoonfuls of butter in (like in Tibet – I was reminded of going to see the Dalai Lama preaching in Darjeeling in northern India, and trying to keep down the kindly given butter tea, which is better with sugar). Shirchoi is often eaten/drunk with bread dipped in. Cheap and filling, but not to my taste.

I am living on Saadi Shirozi Avenue and now have a key to the flat. I have learnt how to weave in and out of the tower blocks to find my way home and which buses to get into the centre. I walked there on my first day. A fume-filled walk along an ugly dual carriage way, and across a dusty bridge over the River Dushanbe. The sights are not worth seeing; I won’t be doing that again. There are many buses, however and also mashrutkas – minivans which zip around the traffic.

Happily G has asked me to stay another week when I return from Kurgan Tepe, the large town/ city in the south where I am going on Monday. Having spoken to Paul there are a few people who would be happy to have me to stay, which is great. I said that I didn’t mind about hot water, it is not as if I have that here. That is one bonus about the warm weather (usually there are lots, but my clothes are unsuitable, a rooky mistake), that cold showers are actually pleasant.

Saadi, who the street is named after, is a famous poet from Shiraz – hence the Shirozi appellation. I visited his tomb when I was in Shiraz, in southern Iran. His most famous works are Bustan, the Orchard, and Golistan the Rose Garden. Many of the new street names are called after classical Persian-language poets and writers, Hafez Shirozi, Firdowsi and Ibn Sina as well as more modern ones, Alisher Navoi and Aini.

I visited the two major museums in Dushanbe with Samanid material, the Bekhzod Museum and the National Archaeological Museum of Dushanbe. Inside the Bekhzod Museum was an exhibition of Qur’anic calligraphy, celebrating the first ECO calligraphy festival, organised I guess by the cultural institute of the same name. The lettering ranged from traditional to modern takes on classical styles. Fine miniature floral and vegetal arabesques snaking around the letters, picked out in golds and greens.

I was pleased from a research point of view to see one room upstairs in the Bekhzod which contained a fascinating wooden mihrab devoted to the Samanids. The wooden mihrab from Iskodar is huge and has a number of pre-Islamic motifs including swastikas, trilobed plants which I was fascinated to learn might link to the drinking of the sacred drink of haoma. Most prominent is a painted red medallion in the centre of the mihrab, surrounded by geometrical and flowering patterns. It is hard to escape the conclusion that the people who created or commissioned this still had in mind that praying to the sun, which brings light heat and all good things, was still the most natural thing to do. And this in spite of the Arabic inscription in kufic lettering telling us without doubt that they were Muslims. The museum interpretation underlines the importance of the mihrab:

“What historical significance does the Iskodar mihrab carry? First of all it serves as a historical fact of the great Tajik culture and allows us to observe the continuation of pre-islamic traditions. In spite of the Arabic legislative limitations in fine arts, the master of the Iskodar Mihrab successfully expressed the pre-Islamic world view of the Tajiks. The mihrab also proves that the time of the Samanids were indeed the cultural revival of the Tajik nation”

There was a school group here of four and five year olds being led round by their teacher and told about their past. I took photos, but wished I could have understood what they were saying. However I was pleased that I could show that school children were being taken to museums, and that some teachers at least deemed them important part of their education.



On the walls is a map showing the extent of the Samanid Empire which vastly overshadows the current borders of Tajikistan, taking in much of northern Afghanistan round Balkh as well as stretching across Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan to the Caspian Sea in the north and down to Reyy and the Mashhad area of Iran in the south. The current national boarders are also shown for comparison. This together with the model of the Samanid Mausoleum, in Bukhara currently in the neighbouring country of Uzbekistan (and will stay that way). This is the dynastic tomb possibly built by the Samanid dynasty’s founder, Ismoil Somoni.

I met S. for lunch, sister of someone at the Institute. She is PA to the President of the Academy of Sciences. She was lovely and told me sadly about how in Tajikistan the rich were getting richer and the poor poorer, and that is was hard to buy enough to eat on an average wage. There is growing inflation which means even food grown here in the country is becoming increasingly expensive. She is involved in researching the funding of scientific projects in comparison to other CIS countries and elsewhere in an attempt to improve science funding. There is an important astrophysicist research centre in the Pamirs and the Academy of Sciences is just about to host an international conference in protest of its prospective closure. They hope that by showing a gallery of international scientists concerned about its loss, will give them the leverage to keep it open.

After lunch, in a Southern Fried Chicken place, my first in years, ( however as she was so kindly inviting me, I was not going to be choosy!) she accompanied me to the National Museum. It was interesting discussing Tajikistan’s early history with her.

I had a gratifying conversation in Tajik buying a bag, when the shop assistant couldn’t believe that I had been in Tajikistan only a few days as my Tajik was so good! Ha ha, I explained I had been learning Farsi. However that may be, managed to negotiate a discount fairly easily.
I returned home on the bus, meeting a lovely Professor of biochemistry on the bus, she was keen to practice her English. She had not really had any chance since spending a semester at an American University over ten years ago.

When I got back, G had cooked another delicious dinner - lentils and vegetables. She did not start learning to cook until her two elder sisters left home as before that, they were the ones doing all the cooking. Rather reluctantly, she was the one who did the washing up. The Tajik way is to put fresh herbs such as dill and parsley and sometimes spring onions on top of stews, which is very similar to Iranian cooking. Dinner was served with a salad of cucumber and tomatoes with a sprinkling of salt, a great antidote to a burger! We eat with our hands when we can, it is good to feel the food in your fingers.

G was telling me how in Ishkoshim where she lives, they speak Tajik rather than one of the many Pamiri languages such as Shugnoni. They think that people who do speak those languages look down on them as not being true Pamiris, plastic Pamiris as it were. She was laughing but seemed rather sad that people should be prejudiced in this way.

Although all these languages are related to Persian, they are actually quite different linguistically, the Pamiri languages being from the East Iranian language group and Tajik from the West Iranian group, more similar to the language spoken in the south west Iranian Fars historically (from where the word farsi comes from, the Iranian word for their language).
The reverse is that Tajik speakers from Dushanbe also look down on those from the Pamirs who can’t speak proper Tajik. Although they learn their lessons in the medium of this language, out of school they are quick to throw it off, with their school bags and return to their native tongue.

There are so many languages and cultures in the Pamirs because of the high mountains, it is difficult even today to travel around, and that in summer. In winter people can be marooned in their mountain valley until the snows pass. I am reminded of Switzerland with its culture of various cantons and the three different languages spoken in a comparatively small area. G agreed with me that it would have been very different if they had lived on a plain or plateau, where it is easier for one culture to travel , or be imposed, across a larger area. The other thing to remember of course is that the Pamirs are where dissenters have escaped to throughout history, whether it is the Ismailis during the medieval period or the Basmachi movement in the early 20th century, resisting Soviet imperialism.

Ishkoshim is the most southerly part of Tajikistan. Just across the Panj River or Darya Panj is Afghanistan. There is a weekly market where the Afghans come across the river to buy and sell. Although according to Western social scientists the two populations on either side of the river were similar culturally, but through the differing socio-economic conditions of the last hundred and fifty years or so, have developed differently; G feels little in common with the Afghans, even the Tajik speaking ones. I am not sure where the Afghan Ismailis are found, whether this is also in Northern Afghanistan, in Badakhshan?

Tomorrow I am off to a wedding, one of G’s college mates. Lots of dancing which should be great fun! Time to do my yearly ironing lark.

The Red Tent

Invited round to G’s relation, a woman who trained as a lawyer and now works registering rural students at the University in Dushanbe and a few of her young female relatives, daughters and cousins and nieces. We were eight women, sitting around.

She lives round the corner from G and we went round there with her sister, her relation and the little boy. The flat was larger than this student flat but just as simply (to Western taste) furnished. No pictures on the walls or items cluttering anywhere at all. Not even any furniture in the main living room apart from the TV. You felt the steppe had entered this apartment block. Blowing through. A rich red carpet was covering the floor and an even more luxurious one on the wall. Partly mirrored walls reflected back this red room. There were no sofas but charpoys to sit on instead, I was placed next to the mother and given a cushion for my back. Similar too are Iranian homes, with emphasis on carpets rather than other items of furniture.

We sat, drinking tea and eating bread and sweets, me picking up the odd word of the quick fire Tajik conversation. I started talking to B. who had good English and was a history graduate, she spoke of her interest in comparative religion, Islam, Christianity, Buddhism. She was also interested in sacred spaces in Tajikistan, I was interested to discover the strips of fabric tied on trees only happens in Kulob, southern Tajikistan, not in Badakhshan where she is from.

She also spoke about Bukhara and Samarqand, although she has read so much about them, as a Tajik it is hard for her to get a visa to Uzbekistan. Many Tajiks have not visited the ancient cities that they consider their heritage.

We paid this visit, not just to sit and chat but to watch G’s sister’s wedding video; the ceremony had taken place only a month before in the Pamirs, in Istkashim. It was fascinating to see the dancing, which was particular to weddings in that region. The wedding is celebrated over two days, one for the bride’s family and the groom’s family to gather separately with their friends. On the second day the party comes together and where the marriage ceremony or n___ takes place with the religious leader. We see the bride dressed in red, but sitting demurely at the side of the hall, while her relatives and younger sisters dance and whoop, she is often on camera, talking to a friend sitting with her. On the second day she is properly dressed up, also in red a symbol of good luck and the colour for brides. Her hair is plaited in the traditional way and many bracelets and necklaces are pinned on her as well as sweet-smelling brooches. She is then veiled and remains this way for the rest of the proceedings, with head bowed low. Her husband to be is called the Shahma – the ‘king’ he wears a red hat and sits with his bride during the dancing.

The emphasis here is on tradition, even by the young.

Earlier we had visited the OVIR office to register my stay in Tajikistan. I knew that as a tourist, I didn’t have to register any more if I was staying under 30 days, however as I was not I wanted to check. The checking took rather a long time, even with a really helpful friend of G’s calling people. He is an international relations student, and you can tell that he will go far, he has the self-assurance to at any rate! We waited at this nondescript door with a crowd of people trying to get in, apparently to extend their visas. The steps are so that there is no barrier, which made for an interesting situation, when people were pushing past, up or down. The form was apparently, to give your name to somebody with a list, who eventually would call it out. It didn’t seem very clear to me!

Once we were finally through we got to another room where there were more people milling around trying to get the attention of the officials behind the glass. The ‘no mobile’ sign was useless; everyone seemed to be on their mobile, probably trying to expedite things one way or another. After a bit M, G’s friend returned (he had left me in a melee of people, not really knowing what this was all for, and what would happen, when or if I got to the front of the ‘queue’). We found out that I didn’t need any OVIR now, but needed to return to the OVIR office, which this wasn’t apparently, 30 days after I entered the country.

So after all that, it was fine.

Dushanbe calling

11/10/10

Arrived in Dushanbe in the middle of the night on a plane flown by Siberian Air full of young men, who had, I imagined, been working in St Petersburg or the surroundings and who were sending remittances home to their families in Tajikistan. There were few women on the flight, and no families.

I imagined flying over Russia and into Central Asia there would be vast expanses of steppe and open space, however the way we flew or the times I looked out the window, between sleep and waking, the man next to me’s head dropping near my shoulder, there always seemed to be settlements blossoming in the night strung on looping roads.

St Petersburg where I transited had rooms for smoking called ‘smoke and go’, moving between one terminal and another was an adventure as we, me and this young man going to Tashkent, followed the border guards through locked doors, which they opened, past queues of people, me dragging my blasted wheelie bin. I was grateful as it would have taken me ages to find where to go.

And so, when I arrived at 3.30am, the promised lift was not there, J who I had been in touch with, a friend of colleague at the Institute of Ismaili Studies in London. It was a bad moment, but I later found out they had good reason. I made the best of it and got a taxi to take me to the hotel where I had first stayed in Dushanbe, the Vakht Hotel on one of the main squares. It must have been lovely once however that was many years ago. However I woke up the guard and managed to get a room. The lumpy bed and next day’s dribbling shower were minor. It was great just to lie down and lock a door.

Next day however rang J, and it all worked out, they met me that afternoon. So I had time in the morning to wander around Dushanbe seeing what had changed from last time. Most noticeable, to me, was the enormous building behind the Somoni statue dwarfing it and spoiling the backdrop which was once to gardens. However I suppose that such is the importance of the site, it was not going to stay green for long. Like the graves snuggling up to the Samanid Mausoleum, buildings also would want to draw near to these objects of power.

J is a journalist at one of the daily papers, young and attractive, dressed in western clothes, tight green jeans and green eyeshadow.

So now I am staying with G. and her sister as well as another woman and a two year old boy G’s nephew. He is just off to Moscow to join his mother and father – who has been in Badakhshan (the mountainous Pamir region of eastern Tajikistan). G is lovely and welcoming and speaks good English. She is an economics student at the University here. My clean and simple room is perfect and looks out to sun covered Soviet style tower blocks surrounded by playgrounds where children dash round on toy cars.

Last night went out to a restaurant with J and G and a couple of their friends. Not just a restaurant, Sim Sim though, it is more of a entertainment venue with acts ranging from Tajik singing, to acting out scenes of the Steppe to dancing. One couple was fantastic, moving together in a fusion of western and eastern styles, sometimes with a thin black gauze that they wrapped themselves, and each other in.

But the other side of the evening was one of their friends, who was fascinated by the Samanid period and tales of the Shahnahme by Firdowsi that he told me so much, unfortunately, for me this was all in Tajik, and while I could understand the odd word, G had to translate. But it was fascinating to be out with someone, and I don’t believe this was unusual who could quote poetry from the classical poets, Hafez, Sa’adi, Khayyam and of course Tajikistan’s national poet, Rudaki, who has given his name to the main street in Dushanbe.

I am just about to go out and sort out my OVIR, my registration in Tajikistan, which needs to be done today. The weather though, is great. For some reason, even at this point expecting it to be freezing, it is actually Summer time in Britain warm, whatever that means. People in T shirts which is a bonus! Need to get on with some language learning now. Am also planning to go and see some contacts I have at the Bactria Centre and the Swiss Development Cooperation this week. Another place on the agenda is the University of Central Asia campus, which is also connected to the Aga Khan.

His Highness himself is one of only two pictures (or indeed anything approaching ornamentation in the flat I am staying in), such is his importance to Ismailis everywhere. The other picture is a small vase of flowers.

The countdown begins

Gathering materials, knowledge and contacts for my PhD fieldwork trip to Dushanbe, Tajikistan and St Petersburg this Autumn, which feels like an up hill process. But I have decided that you can be over prepared and going with the flow sometimes works well! However my language learning is somewhat sparse, not forgetting of course that I have been learning Persian with Arabic script and Tajik, while almost the same language is written in the Russian Cyrillic alphabet. 

Using my contacts at the Institute of Ismaili Studies in London, whose website  I have been managing for the past year. There are many Ismailis in Tajikistan - mostly in the Badakhshan area in the Pamirs. The Tajik Ismailis represent one of the largest minorities of Tajiks anywhere. However have still not quite managed to sort out a guest family to stay with (but it is amazing what you can do in two weeks).

Also planning to visit my contact Paul who works for Sworde Teppa charity in Kurgan Tepe in the south of the country. I will be able to help out with the English teaching there in return for a few Tajik lessons. It will be great to get to know the students as well. 

And so, why am I going? Why Tajikistan? I am researching the Samanid period from the 9th and 10th centuries CE in Central Asia - specifically Uzbekistan and Tajikistan. The Samanids were one of the first Persian speaking dynasties to wield power after the Arab invasion of Transoxiana and Khorasan in the 7th century. Central Asia has been described as the centre of the mandala, then it was a heterogenous place whose inhabitants followed Zoroastrianism (or their own version of it, very different from the Zoroastrianism in Iran proper), Buddhism in the East, and Nestorian Christianity and Mannichaeism being minority religions.

Today the area, once almost forgotten by the West, difficult to access, is making geopolitical headlines again. It is a place between the Islamic, ex-Soviet and Chinese worlds where tea is green and drunk in bowls, when vodka is not being drunk. I am interested in identity and material culture and how the latter portrays the former and has the potential to change the mindsets of the user. 

This is true whether during the medieval times or today. Today the Tajiks, along with other nations in Central Asia are trying to formulate their identity having been left in the vacuum brought about by the collapse of the Soviet empire.

Central Asia is fascinating to me, with names to conjure with: Bukhara and Samarqand. 

The almond-groves of Samarkand,

Bokhara, where red lilies blow,

And Oxus, by whose yellow sand


The grave white-turbaned merchants go:

Ave Imperatrix by Oscar Wilde

Unfortunately (for the Tajiks) that these cities, even though they have or used to have a majority speaking Tajik population have been within Uzbek borders since the Soviet invasion in the 1920s. Bukhara is especially interesting to me as the capital of the Samanid empire and the location of the most spectacular buildings, I would argue in Central Asia; the Samanid Mausoleum, or dynastic tomb. How they used this building to project their dynastic power, and how the present population of Bukharans view it, is one of my research questions.

Title for the PhD thesis is Samanid material culture and identity formation in post-Soviet Tajikistan. 

So on this blog you will find musings (academic and otherwise) and travel stories from Central Asia and the wider Islamic world.