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.

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.

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!

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.

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!

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!

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.