Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Ice Cream and the Invisible Man

Two constants of Dushanbe life in the summer are heat and dust. Despite cloudless skies and practically non-existent humidity, the dust is such that a permanent haze fills the air, the mouth and the lungs, dust from the dirt kicked up and sprayed about by machines, dogs, cows, goats, people, and from the belching of the cement factory at the north end of the city, coating the nearby world in a fine bitter powder.

About the dust I could do nothing; but I resolved to ameliorate the heat - and improve my prospects at an impending business meeting - by the simple expedience of a haircut. Simple, I thought; forgetting, of course, that simplicity is a complicated thing.

There is a barber shop about a half-mile from my office, a short and not unpleasant walk past the bazaar, sambusa stands, teahouses and beer gardens. It is literally a hole in the wall, a tiny room built into the front of a supermarket, its one chair attended by a single barber who has the great fortune to be rail-thin so as to fit between the back of his barber chair and the wall. As one might expect when one purposes to get a haircut at lunchtime, I arrived to find the one chair occupied and recently so, presaging a long wait outside (no room to wait inside!) in the hot sun and dust. Not being one to permit myself such suffering, or for that matter to go too long without indulging my murmuring stomach, I determined to cross the street to the rather large beer garden fronting the Soviet-style opera house. I quickly found a table that allowed an unobstructed view of the barber shop so that I could gauge my predecessor's progress on the tonsorial throne and prepare myself to seize the same at first opportunity. Well, he sat, and I sat, he at least attended to; thrice the waitress passed me by without so much as a nod and after a long interval of absence returned to my vicinity for the sole purpose of waiting a table just then occupied by three young men, directly next to mine, then flitted away on taking their order oblivious to my pleading eyes and now-growling stomach.

Well, says I, so much for my putative shashlik and Baltika 3. Having no intention of remaining where I evidently could not be seen or heard by persons only inches away from me, and having noted that the activity in the barber chair had moved along a bit, I crossed the street back to my strategic position in front of the barber shop, ready to take my honored place the moment it became vacant.

Of course, a ragged old woman chose exactly that moment to plead her life's woeful story to me (not that I understood a word of what she said, mind you; she could just as well have been calling me unflattering names and commenting on my ancestry; but I chose to believe something less to my disadvantage) and thus beg a mere Somoni (29 cents US). At least to the point of that sum, I am not without generosity, and besides, her begging was annoying, so of course I gave her a couple of Somonis to send her own her way, she calling down the blessings of every attending deity on me. Well, I suppose no deity was in fact attending at that moment, for as I turned from this momentary distraction, just at that very instant, of course, out slips the one customer and in snivels another, two feet and half a second in front of me.

At that event of course I should have been deterred from further commerce in this part of the city, but being the fool I am, in a burst of unjustified optimism I wagered that this sniveller, having rather short hair to begin with, would occupy only a very brief portion of the barber's workday, and thus allow me to achieve the purpose of my venture after only a momentary delay. My stomach now threatening a riot, I ducked into the supermarket and liberated an ice cream cone from the freezer, separated from its enjoyment only by the checkout lines.

There were two checkout lines, conveniently; that to the left looked rather longer than the one to the right, so being naive, I got in the shorter line. Smart people, they were, those who weren't in this line; for no observable reason whatsoever, both the checker and shoppers moved as if they were encased in strawberry Jell-O, dawdling despite the rapid (no air conditioning, of course) melting of the creamy object of my alimentary desire. In the fullness of time the person ahead of me gathered up her provisions and moved off to clog some other line elsewhere, and I turned to hand my single purchase to the clerk to scan, when the female person (surely no lady) behind me pushed her groceries forward on the conveyor, past me and into the scanning hands of the clerk, who smiled innocently at me as she rang up my tormentor's goods and left me dripping sweetness onto my hands and anger out of my eyes.

I could not, of course, remain in that line without engaging in, if not homicide, at least mayhem; and a glance to the left informed me that the other line now contained but one customer, so I bolted over behind the other shopper, who was to my great joy having her last item scanned. Naturally, my joy was misplaced, for this woman was utterly ignorant of the fact that it would be necessary for her to exchange money for her purchases, as she had none whatsoever with her and bade the checker wait while she sauntered over to an ATM to procure some cash. How much time this took I measured not in minutes but in centiliters of frozen stuff eloping from its appointed post at the top of my cone and assuming new quarters on my shirt and shoes. But how my heart leapt! upon the return of the now cash-suffused shopper, who by some miracle managed to complete her purchase and move on perpetrate her remaining daily allowance of imbecilities. Seeing my opportunity, I glanced back to prevent those behind me from repeating the perfidy done me in the other line, and quickly presented my ice cream cone to ... no one. As I should have at this point expected, the clerk had simply abandoned her post and gone off to do something else that suggested no improvement to my prospects of ever enjoying frozen ice cream. How long I stood there, too dispirited to do more than watch the drip, drip, drip of my melting lunch, I did not note, but presently a new checker appeared, glanced at me with a combination of amusement and fear, and deigned finally to take my money, freeing me to tear off the wrapper, fly outside, and stuff what little was left into my waiting mouth.

And then back to the barber shop, where to my incredulity the barber was finishing with the head of his customer, eager no doubt to begin the considerable adventure of attending to my ragged locks. Or so I thought. Imagine, dear reader, my upheaval upon watching the customer rise from the barber chair, remove the draping from his person, and ... stick his head in the sink for a shampoo and rinse! Another half hour of waiting at least! And this with spotted clothing and sticky hands from my mostly-liquid lunch! No, that was too much to bear, I could wait no longer, I had a meeting in only twenty minutes at my office, a fifteen-minute walk away. I would have to attend that meeting haircutless, a self-conscious sheepdog, hot, hungry and sticky.

Of course, in the meantime, the meeting had been canceled.

Thursday, August 16, 2007

Camping in the Fan Mountains

Jet lag causes one to do strange things. Instead of spending a quiet weekend getting some much-needed rest after a 33-hour sleepless journey back to Dushanbe from the US, I allowed myself to be persuaded to don a heavy pack and climb up into the Fan Mountains for an overnight. And this, with a group of committed birders who find no peak too high, no crag too rough to scale in pursuit of the rara avis. Well, anyway, I survived despite the cold and lack of oxygen and found the most wonderful camping spot I've ever seen (at a mere 3,300 meters - 11,200 feet altitude!). A few pix (click on the image to enlarge):


On the drive in (about an hour over a dirt-and-rubble road) we came upon this train of donkeys hauling hay. It's the haying season now up in the mountains, with winter obviously not to far off up here.










About halfway up (400 meter/1350' ascent) the path from where we parked the cars we encountered a herd of goats directly in our way and who would not under any circumstances make room for us. Can't blame them; it was a lovely spot for sunning oneself under the hot Tajik sun. The goatherder scowled at us for presuming that the goats might actually make way for us. In the event, we made a wide detour along the slopes of the ridge.



Our alpine campground at 3,300 meters. A clear brook bounded it on two sides and small rises on the other two. The daytime temperatures here got to perhaps 20C (68F) but at night it went below freezing. (In Dushanbe, only a few miles south, the daytime high was around 40C [104F] and nighttime low about 18C [64F]. Of course I was wholly unprepared for the nighttime cold and spent the night shivering. My tent is the one to the extreme left. But the ground was soft with no backbreaking rocks, and the nighttime sky - incredible! One of the birders brought a telescope and we saw three of the moons of Jupiter quite clearly. We heard dogs or wolves howling at night and something prowled around the campsite in the dark. I don't want to know what it was!


Ascent to a pass between peaks at about 3,800 meters (13,000 feet).








A random glacier. One supposes that it is never summer up here...I want to return before, say, October for some true winter camping, if it's not snowbound.
One of my coworkers came up here the following weekend to see the Perseids. It must have been quite a show!

Thursday, April 19, 2007

Women & Children First

One who wants to get to know Tajikistan is well served to take a Tajik Air flight between Dushanbe and Khujand. It's a short flight, about 45 minutes in reasonable weather, a scenic hop over high mountains of stunning beauty, almost close enough below (!) to touch, and bubbling with air pockets providing the passenger with the opportunity to gain some unexpected thrills and lose the remains of lunch. The small jet - a YAK-40 - holds somewhere around 50 people, although it was designed for far fewer and seats have been added where convenient things like emergency aisles used to be. The seats themselves were clearly designed to be sat upon by 84-year-old Japanese grandmothers or other people the approximate width of vaulting poles, and not by the Tajiks, who are not to be confused with small people. Carryon regulations, of course, are very strict, given the tight space: I have yet to see anyone bring aboard a backhoe or a head of cattle, for example. Short of that, though, one gets the impression that one has wandered into the midst of some massive smuggling ring, as passengers stuff themselves in along with numerous shopping bags full of indiscernable goods; suitcases of wildly varying age and condition and size; boxes; crates; gigantic handbags and briefcases large enough to house the entire home office of, say, Microsoft. Finding an aisle seat (and depriving oneself of the ability to meditate on the beauty of the mountains and thereby to ignore the searing pain of one's seatmate's elbow grinding into one's ribs) permits the passenger a closer inspection of the passing baggage as it is slammed, bumped, grazed, shoved and ground into one's face and other upper regions. Taking the window seat, of course, allows one truly to enjoy the design of this marvellous aeronautical achievement, whose creators obviously realized that window-seat passengers would be overjoyed to have the curvature of the floor require that passenger to insert said passenger's knee into his or her nostril for the entire flight.

Appropriately, one enters the YAK-40 through what would be, were it a living creature, its anus, up a rough ramp wide enough only for one person at a time, which is to the good, as upon entering the plane one finds oneself squeezed between an attendant (who has nothing else to do but stand in the way) and the overflowing stowed luggage racks in an aisle no wider than a human foot. One looks in desperation for the opportunity to sit down and perhaps take another breath and there, up ahead, it is, an empty seat to sqeeze into, just past the potted plant and just below the birdcage shoved into the overhead compartment and just behind the screaming baby, there it is, a seat, in the aisle. And, of course, directly next to the evilly-grinning winner of the Largest Man In Tajikistan contest.

However, civility is preserved. As one attempts to climb up into the nether regions of the plane, one is politely informed by the flight attendant that women and children must board first. Pity them: they spend more time in the plane.

Sunday, April 1, 2007

SUNSHINE

For nine days in a row - one entire workweek and the better part of two weekends - the rains have fallen on Dushanbe, not the soft and cleansing rain of Ireland, or the angry but thrilling downpours of the tropics, but a persistent, nagging, everpresent hard drizzle, driving heads under umbrellas, turning the streets to slippery mud, and dripping, dripping, dripping in a debilitating water torture. For nine days in a row, dirty wet clothes stayed dirty and wet for lack of clean hot water in which to wash them, and for lack of electricity to heat the water. Four days ago, the demigods of thermal comfort determined that the interests of someone would be best served by turning off what little heat my apartment building had, and, of course, the weather immediately turned cold. With no electricity, of course, space heaters won't work, so one does what one must: shiver.

But today, with the suddenness of the houselights after a sad drama, sunshine replaced the rain. Umbrellas went back to their hiding places and people appeared on the streets like some dark precipitate in a warmed jar of liquid. Nearby, four little girls, two in jeans, two in rainbow Tajik dresses, played by the curb, taking weeds recently pulled by some city worker or other from the planting strip and carefully replanting them, one by one, along the edge of the curb, drowning their roots with cupsful of water drawn from the storm drain, laughing and giggling at the sight of their accomplishments. The boys in the back yard resumed their endless soccer game, the booms of foot against ball and ball against concrete echoing through the neighborhood. Women bundling against the cold wind unrelieved by the strange new warm sun went about their errands. Young men took their places once more in their designated spots on corners and in doorways, cradled in the camaraderie that only unemployed young men can share. It is day again after a seemingly endless night, and one dares to call life good.

It will rain again tomorrow, they say, that this sunshine is only a cameo. No matter. Sunshine taken for granted, like a stranger growing accustomed to a far land, is bittersweet.

Friday, March 23, 2007

NAVRUZ MUBARAK!

(Blessed New Year!). Navruz (alt.: Norouz;it literally means "New Day") is an ancient Persian celebration of the new year starting with the first day of spring. This joyous holiday, which has been observed for something like 15,000 years, is celebrated in all Persian and Turkic areas of Asia, including of course Tajikistan. We were fortunate to be able to travel out of Dushanbe into the countryside of Khatlon Province to observe some traditional Tajik Navuz activities:

In Kulob, the main celebration took place at the local athletic stadium. Leading up the entranceway to the stadium was a veritable midway of exhibitions, one from each village in the area, of local costumes, cooking and crafts. Here is an about-to-be bride having her hair carefully combed by, evidently, her mother.





Madonna and Child. She took a break from exhibiting to hold her son, which I thought was the best image of all.









All of the school children in the district took part in a costumed show on the athletic field. Here, the white tarp on the stage, which represents snow in the mountains, covers schoolgirls dressed in blue robes, representing the spring snowmelt. Below the stage, the circle of boys with the radiating arms of girls represent the cycle of the seasons.



The tarp is removed as the "snow" melts, and the rain dances over the fields, sprouting the tulips the girls hold in their hands.








These little girls giggled so hard at the sight of a Westerner, I just had to take their picture. When I showed the photo to them and their father, they were all fascinated and delighted! I'm going to get a print of this photo to them.






A long ride back over the mountains, treated to scenery like this. This is an incredibly beautiful country!








Wednesday, March 14, 2007

SAINT PATRICK AND SOUR CREAM

Herein, a jumble of different things that, had I the time (I works for free and I earns my money!), I would flesh out into different diary entries. Or not.

--Here in the far, far east of Ireland, the High Holy Day will be celebrated in fine (foin) fashion with a BYO party at someone's house or other Saturday night. Fortunately, and obviously in anticipation of just such an event, I brought plenty of green clothes.

--The restaurants here all have really good and often exotic soups, which I want to eat to excess, except that they insist on dropping a dollop of sour cream into each bowlful. Now, I hate sour cream, call me picky, but I have no clue how to ask them not to put sour cream in the soup, in either Tajik or Russian. Although I know the Russian word for sour cream: smetana. Yes, just like the composer. I wonder if he put sour cream in his soup...

--And this Saturday, the entire known world will celebrate (in between swigs of green beer) the glorious wedding of JAMES EMMETT MOYLAN and LESLIE ERIN GALLAGHER in the Dushanbe suburb of Washington, DC. Drinks aloft, we bid ye slainte!

--A few photos of a Saturday morning (still early) in Central Park, Dushanbe:












"Discoclub
Billiard-Club
Karaoke-Bar"








Keep on truckin'!










A bit of a baptism, after our regular Saturday expat run/walk.

Friday, March 9, 2007

TRAFFIC & WEATHER, TOGETHER

Molecules of gas move in what is called Brownian motion. The movement of any given molecule is random; there is no way to predict where it will go. Nevertheless, the movement of a given quantity of gas is entirely predictable, always flowing from higher pressure to lower. This is the traffic pattern of Dushanbe. While traffic as a whole flows in predictable directions, e.g., in the suggested direction of travel, the movement of any particular vehicle is entirely random and unpredictable: it will slow to a crawl to navigate bumps; it will make U-turns without warning in heavy traffic; it will swerve to avoid potholes but not to avoid pedestrians; it will weave and jockey, travel in the oncoming lane or stop in the middle of the street for no apparent (and possibly no existing) reason. Yet, eventually, the passenger in such a vehicle will arrive at her predetermined destination.

This is the rainy season in this part of the world. It makes weather forecasting easy. For example, as I sit at my desk and look out over the rooftops, I can accurately predict the weather: if I cannot see the mountains, it is raining. If I can see the mountains, it is going to rain!

Tuesday, March 6, 2007

DUSHANBE PRICES

Unsurprisingly, things are relatively cheap here, and on any given day the major (?) supermarket here, Orima, does have a decent variety of goodies available. Without difficulty I was able to find fresh parsley, garlic, lettuce and tomatoes and come up with a decent salad and linguine with white clam sauce last weekend. Even a droll tuna sandwich becomes interesting: canned tuna from Spain, fresh bread from Tajikistan, mayonnaise from Moscow, tomatoes from Iran, and beer (mmmm, beer!) from Siberia, served on a plate from China followed by a cup of tea from India.

Examples of what things cost here:

1/2 liter bottle of (good!) beer - 87 cents
250cl extra-virgin olive oil from Spain - $3.20
loaf of Tajik bread - 19 cents
can of shelled mussels from Russia, 185g net - $2.77
spring water, 5-liter bottle - 87 cents
eggs - $1.75/dozen (although they're sold individually)
apricot nectar, 1 liter - $1.02
Barilla rigatoni, 500g - $1.71
non-Barilla linguine, 500g - 71 cents
"President" gruyere cheese, 140g - $1.42
Frozen pizza from Russia (it's quite good!), 260g - $1.29
Canned tuna from Spain in olive oil, 500g - $2.00
Buitoni pasta sauce, 400g - $4.13
Can of pitted black olives, 250g - 78 cents
Large stainless-steel pasta pot w/ glass lid - $11.60
75cl bottle of Moldovan cabernet (pretty good) - $4.06
1.5-liter bottle of Jack Daniels - $63.50 (no, I haven't bought any, not at that price!)
Cab ride, one mile - $1.16
Trolley fare - 12 cents
2-bedroom modern apartment, w/cable TV and all utilities incl. tax - $850/month
Memories of my family and friends - priceless!

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

A FEW MORE PICTURES (BORED YET?)

My apartment: TV room, or whatever. Note the piano. Sadly, it's badly out of tune.








Bathroom (Duh!). Note the blue plastic trash can. It's filled with fresh (?!) water in case, that is, whenever, the city water stops flowing.





Bedroom closets








Bedroom. Note the zebra-skin spread. And the radiator, which is rarely hot.









No Comment. OK, Comment: It means "snow" in Tajik.







My office.








View from my office window, when it's not raining.

Monday, February 26, 2007

CENTRAL PARK

His statue still stands in the park that once bore his name, this Lenin, the setting sun at his back, keeping watch with arm outretched - is he calling the people to follow him, or is he reaching out for the least bit of attention paid?

At his feet (does he see huddled masses seeking his teaching, or Lilliputians with ropes and pins?) the people run walk sit chat play laugh consider the future, children play at soccer hopscotch tag-you're-it and games long forgotten by ours, solemn men drink tea solemnly and in the deepest solemnity design the lives of women children lesser men, quiet women stand behind their folding tables offering soda cellphones kebab toys candy shashlik things from China, young mothers on park benches cradle infants, and everywhere people walk, stroll, amid the smells of tea tobacco grilling meats and too much perfume, the sounds of laughing children on the merry-go-round the tilt-a-whirl the ferris wheel a costly treat at a few cents a ride, headscarves and blue jeans, rainbow dresses and nike tee shirts, smiles and not-smiles, a secret shy glance at the passing foreigner, a weed in a rose garden, a guest but who sent the invitation?

Backlit by the sunset facing the coming dark watching the crowds collect their children coats picnics books he wonders: is it yet my time to leave?

Friday, February 23, 2007

MY DUSHANBE DIGS

A few photos of my apartment. It's in a crummy-looking building that is on the outside a monument to Soviet drabness and on the inside a fine example of Tajik artistry. I'll have some outside photos later, along with some pix of my office and the area in general, so I can bore all you good readers later.

Enclosed parlor, off living room, with south-facing view.










Living room, from entry hall









Kitchen, from entry hall










Another view of living room, from entry hall








Kitchen, from breakfast "nook"










Entry hall from doorway, looking toward bath and den. Kitchen is to the right, living room to the left.






Living room from parlor. Bedroom is toward back left.









Somewhere in the bowels of my camera are photos of the bedroom and bathroom, which randomly decided not to transfer to my laptop. I'll try again tomorrow. I didn't take closeups, being an idiot, but there is original artwork on all the living room walls, done by Tajik artists of international repute; the carpets are Uzbek, Tajik and Afghan; and slip covers are Greek silk. Now, if it only had reasonable heat!

Thursday, February 22, 2007

SOME PICTURES FROM ISTANBUL AND DUSHANBE

The Blue Mosque, top, and Hagia Sofia, bottom.


While the Hagia Sofia was first a church, then a mosque, now a national museum, the Blue Mosque is still a working house of worship. Its recorded calls to prayer are quite loud and if you stay nearby they will definitely awaken you at daybreak!


A typical nighttime street scene in Sultanahmet, the old city (sorry about its being on its side, I forgot to edit it before posting, dummie that I am):











The Cisterns, a really neat place. There's an underground cafe there as well:











OK, this was a lousy job of posting pictures! The uploading process takes forever, and I'm trying to do this amidst work stuff (annoying how that gets in the way!), and even though the image above is portrait-style in my photo program, it still comes out landscape here! I'll try more tomorrow.

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

DUSHANBE DELIGHTS

Having been in Tajikistan now for ten days, I'm finally getting around to posting something about the country I'll be in for a good while. Sorry, but between work, socializing (as often as I can!) and moving into an apartment, I haven't had much time for blogging.

I arrived in the dark of early morning (6am) on a Tajikistan Airlines flight from Istanbul, and, contrary to general opinion of the airline, I had an enjoyable flight with very little confusion. Well, OK, they did change the boarding gate in Istanbul at the last minute, without any warning (at least not in a language I know!), and I almost wound up going to Egypt, but otherwise an uneventful 4-hour flight to Dushanbe. When we landed, however, we wound up standing on the runway in the rain (this is the rainy season, of course) without any idea where to go, as all the buildings were dark. Eventually someone signaled us to follow her to a building where the lights were just being turned on, and where we had to show passports, go through metal detectors (why? we're LEAVING the airport!) and fill out immigration forms. After that I was lucky enough to be met by a driver from the guest house I'd be staying at, who was able to direct me to the baggage claim area, which, of course, was in a different building, requiring another march through the rain. But the bags came quickly, nothing missing, nothing damaged.

The driver, who of course spoke no English (almost no one here does), took me to my temporary lodging, a beautiful and modern guest house (5 rooms?) set way back from the street in its own locked compound. Having been without sleep for eons I tried to get a nap but between Doris, the cat, who decided to camp out on my bed, and the excitement of being in a strange land, there was no chance of my sleeping. Fortunately our Country Director, bless her heart (no, Barbara, I'm NOT sucking up!), had left me a cell phone and a note to call her when I woke up. We met for tea and I got a quick tour of downtown Dushanbe, still, of course, in the rain.

Dushanbe is a true study in contrasts. The old Soviet infrastructure - both physical and cultural - seems to have deteriorated badly but is being replaced, gradually I think, by a new Tajik culture. For example, while most people speak Russian and business is conducted in that language, people on the street speak in Tajik (a Persian language, which I've heard referred to as "hillbilly Farsi"), and most signs, while in the Cyrillic alphabet, are in the Tajik language. I have to sound out the word, slowly, first, and then try to figure which language it's in!

There are no street signs here, and it seems that most people really don't know the names of the streets, with the exception of the major ones (Rudaki, Aini, Tursun-Zade and Ismoil Somoni). One asks and gets directions with reference to important buildings, monuments, etc.

This is the rainy season. It rains more than half the time now, generally lightly, and occasionally there's some wet snow. I understand this will be the case until April, when, reportedly, the weather will turn warm and dry. One hopes!

Food is really cheap here, and there are several very good restaurants. Generally an entree costs in the range of 10 somonis - aboutUS$3. Even at the fanciest restaurant in town - La Grande Dame, owned by the owner of the guest house (Marion, an Australian woman) - an entree with salad, bread and wine will run only about$10 at most. So far, I've had lunch or dinner at Tajik, continental, middle-eastern, Armenian, Indian, and Chinese restaurants, and haven't had a bad meal yet.

There is no bourbon whiskey (or any kind of American whiskey) to be found in Dushanbe. I'm on withdrawal from Old Fashioneds. I plan to bathe in them when I get back!

Bad things: the streets are full of potholes big enough to be tourist attractions. My apartment could double as a wine cellar; it's a constant 55 degrees there (but I have a space heater in the bedroom to keep me alive at night); the availability of utilities is random; a couple of days ago I had to electricity in the morning; yesterday I had hot water but no cold water (!) and, to make up for it, this morning I had cold water but no hot. I have a combo electric & gas stove, which is good, as one of those is guaranteed to be out at any given time. There are evidently no traffic rules at all, and crossing the street is an adventure worthy of the skills of Lewis and Clark. And the mud! Everywhere there is mud. One quickly learns not to wear good shoes or light-colored pants. There are, sadly, crowds of unemployed young and middle-aged men hanging around the streets all day - while Tajikistan is making progress, it's still a very poor country.

Good things: it is beautiful. Dushanbe is in a small bowl-shaped valley surrounded by high snow-covered mountains, which, on the odd day when it's not raining, I can see from my office window. There are trees everywhere, lining the streets, and an abundance of parks which, when the mud subsides, evidently will have grass. The city is safe, I've walked just about everywhere downtown at night without the slightest feeling of any threat. The people seem gracious and welcoming to foreigners. Speaking of contrasts: the pre-teen boy, dressed in Wal-Mart rejects, leaning up against a rusted-out, useless, Soviet-era dial pay phone, chatting on a cell phone; the old lady, dressed in traditional Tajik garb - long, flowery, multicolored dress and headscarf - listening to her iPod; apartment buildings looking from the outside like emigrees from the South Bronx, but beautiful and modern on the inside.

I went on my first shopping expedition Saturday morning, when I made the inconvenient discovery that the apartment came without a supply of toilet paper. Fortunately, there are supermarkets here, where most things are available on any given day, although any particular item but not be available the next day! But things are cheap; bottled water (a necessity!) costs about 17 cents a liter, for example, and a liter of orange juice is less than $1. Here one quickly realizes that numerous trips to the store are necessary as, without a car and having to walk about a mile to the store, you don't buy more than you can carry home.

Naturally, we have satellite TV at my apartment, about 500 channels, about 2 of them worth watching (the rest are bad Italian and Arabic stations showing bad movies and bad game shows). We do get BBC World and CNN International and, at odd times, C-SPAN, and on radio we get NPR for some reason.

Travelling north one day to the city of Khujand, I got to see the remains of a fortress built by Alexander the Great. Evidently that was one of the limits of his empire. I wonder if he got tired of power outages??

O, and the Chinese food here is delicious, and is nothing like that at home. General Tsao has yet to make an appearance in Dushanbe!

I'm beginning to feel the stirrings of an impresssion that had this country avoided Soviet rule for most of the 20th century, it would now be an exotic paradise. Just thinking of the opportunities for ski resorts here...!

Monday, February 19, 2007

ISTANBUL: MOSQUITO MEN

Reportedly mosquitos are attracted to carbon dioxide and find their victims through our respiration. In the same vein (pun intended) the plethora of touts, salesman, con artists and generally scary people are attracted to tourists by - what? our evident foreign appearance perhaps? Anyway, you can't walk fifteen feet in old Istanbul (Sultanahmet)without someone trying to pull you into his restaurant or store, or trying to sell you a carpet, or offering to be your guide, or scamming you in some fashion or other. This must succeed, I suppose, or they wouldn't be doing it; apparently most people are too polite to tell them to buzz off, or ignore them completely despite their most adamant pleas for attention. One idiot simply decided to follow us, for over a mile; when we'd stop, he'd stop; when he passed us, he'd turn around for time to time to see where we were and just loiter until we started to catch up. Finally, being sick of him, we went up to him and confronted him. While he claimed to speak no English, Eileen's threatening to call the police (same word in Turkish) and my threatening to break his neck, seemed to work.

Istanbul was, otherwise, wonderful. We stayed at the Hotel Ibrahim Pasha in Sultanahmet, a really lovely small hotel (about fifteen rooms) done in traditional Turkish style, and with a terrific location for seeing the sights of Sultanahmet (Blue Mosque, Hagia Sofia, Topkapi Palace, Grand Bazaar and Spice Bazaar) ancient cisterns, etc.). A typical day starts with waking up to the amplified calls of the muzzeizins at dawn (I suppose this could become tedious, but for the few days we were there, it was, well, romantic)and then enjoying a really delicious Turkish breakfast, free, at the hotel. They also have a very comfortable lounge with leather sofas and a warm and comforting fireplace. The staff fall all over themselves to be of as much help in anything as they can be.

Having used two days to tour Sultanahmet, and tiring of the touts and hawkers, we spent the next couple of days on the opposite shore of the Golden Horn. Because the main, or modern, part of the city is on the top of a steep hill (overlooking the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus) we forewent (is that a word?) walking and took a cab (the driver didn't even cheat us!) to Taksim Square (yes, of course: a taxi to Taksim)and walked down the main shopping street - it's about a mile long, very wide, and closed to vehicle traffic except deliveries and the old streetcar that runs along its middle) It's bounded by modern stores and restaurants and seems to be the place where Istanbulus themselves hang out, quite croweded both day and night. The southern terminus of the street is Tunel Square, where one can catch an underground funicular to the Golden Horn shore for only about$.30 US. We did this and then took the ferry across the Bosphorus so Eileen and I could be in Asia for the first time! The public transit in Istanbul is great, clean, modern and cheap, and easy to figure out (e.g., buy a token at a booth, put it in the turnstile, and board! No complicated fare cards or "driver has no change" problems here!

I have lots of pictures to post but they're on my private laptop which I'll need to bring to the office (I'm in Dushanbe as I type this) so I can upload some to this blog!

I LOVE LUFTHANSA!

Eileen and I flew from Newark to Istanbul for a few days of being together before being apart for four months. My reservations were made for me by ABA on United Airlines, so we reserved the same flight for Eileen. US airlines, of course, provide the most miserable service they can possibly design, and nickle-and-dime passengers like the innkeeper in Les Mis, so we were thrilled to find that the flight was actually operated by Lufthansa. Against all common sense, I brought my (well, actually, my daughter Patricia's) banjo along, adding yet one more to what was already the limit of free baggage for the airlines; but Lufthansa took it without charging me a single cent! (Most airlines would have charged $85!) - although when we got to Istanbul, I noticed that they had put a small break in the banjo case; not enough to complain about, though. Aboard the flight, whereas US airlines generally charge $4 or more for a tiny bottle of wine, Lufthansa flight attendants kept walking up and down the aisles with a bottle of red in one hand and a bottle of white in the other and kept filling our cups! To understate, it was a very happy flight!

However: and it's not Lufthansa's fault, but Frankfurt airport was the pits. We had to "deplane" (I hate that word) on the runway and job aboard a very overcrowed bus to take us to the terminal, where (for no reason I can figure out, since we never left a "secure" area) we had to go through security inspection again in order to go to the gate for our flight to Istanbul. Then, again, we had to jump aboard a crowded (and this time smelly) bus to take us to our plane. We felt most unwelcome there. Then again, we felt unwelcome in Newark, too...

Wednesday, January 31, 2007