Central Asia’s Dark Side; Racism, Division, and Economic Lunacy

I view – and have viewed – elements of the Soviet Union with a significantly different lens to the one that I was provided with at university for some time now. Given the current instability and inequality in their (and indeed our) economies it’s easy to see why Tajiks in particular speak fondly of a time with jobs for all, affordable housing, and cheap energy. The lack of an established national identity –in contrast to Eastern Europe – and complete absence of civil society meant that the nations of Central Asia were in many regards easy to assimilate into the Soviet Union, especially after the brutal and destructive campaigns of collectivisation carried out in Kazakhstan.

However, it would be utterly reprehensible to suggest that a system which provides jobs, energy, housing, and transport for its population, can then imprison those who disagree with it, restrict basic rights, and squander vast amounts of GDP on. Furthermore, given the opportunity I could never have lived in the USSR. I would suffocate under its uniformity, clamour for the books I was not allowed to read, dream of the countries I would never see, and be forced to hold my political tongue. However, the Soviet Union was not simply the ‘Evil Empire’ as Ronald Reagan once so famously claimed and to view it as such is to insult one’s intelligence and frankly the simplicity of argument personified. The Soviet experience would have varied much depending on where you were from, but I’d happily wager and defend the notion that in Central Asia (on which this blog focuses) the USSR did more for the needy than Reagan’s administration did in the US. The Polish, German, Czech, Baltic, Ukrainian, and Hungarian experiences were far, far worse, not to mention those of the Russians themselves, but for Central Asia the Soviet Union was a true double-edged sword.

The Good Old Days?

The terrible reality is that the positive aspects of Soviet social policy (free education including university, universal health care and literacy, free housing, gender equality and cheap energy) largely disappeared overnight leaving only a series of painful and dangerous trends. My visit to Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan exposed me to these almost instantly.

The Kyrgyz Model; Ethnic nationalism subdued

 ‘Under the Soviet Union we were 15 nations, but we were one’. So runs a common rant in Central Asia, normally said with a slight watering of the eyes in-between numerous shots of vodka; the cause of the tears is most likely a subtle combination of nostalgia and high spirits. Either this professed socialist-based unity was not as strong as believed or the ethnic divisions between the Central Asians are more formidable still.

While Osh in southern Kyrgyzstan looks like many a Soviet-built city in many regards it still retains a very different, vibrant character. Low level houses are more common place than the high-rises of other cities, and the centre has a bustling bazar (market). However, these low level houses are emptying, and the bazar losing its buzz; their Uzbek inhabitants and traders have to a large degree been frightened away by the intense ethnic riots of 2010.

There are many theories of how these brutal events (estimates put the number killed as high as 500 by Amnesty initially but later at 470) unfolded but one thing is clear; the Kyrgyz Government itself was heavily involved (as laid out by independent the Kyrgyzstan Inquiry Commission  into events) in if not orchestrating, then at least strongly encouraging the violence through the provision of men, arms, vehicles (even rumoured to include armour link), alcohol, and drugs. Of the many arguments and accounts I heard the strongest rationale for why a government would attack its own people runs something like this…Uzbeks as the traditional business owners in Osh had seen their influence diluted in percentage terms by Soviet policy that first placed Osh in the newly created Kyrgyzstan instead of Uzbekistan, and later by the settlement of ethnic Kyrgyz in the city along with a plethora of other groups. Members of the Kyrgyz ruling elite had long since had their eye on the substantial business interests of the Uzbek population and inspiring a race riot aimed at driving this now heavily minority group away was a simple task with clear benefits. That they underestimated what they would unleash seems probable, as does the notion that they were unconcerned when they realised this.

Osh; The Dark Side Personified

Even by the time I visited in the summer the market still looked freshly destroyed. Much of it has been left to rot and the worst is seen in the areas outside the centre that were once heavily populated by Uzbeks. Some of the houses in the Cheryomushkee and furkat areas still carry a shameful ‘UZ’ for Uzbek daubed in blue paint and sport a pile of rubble outside, itself often covered somewhat pathetically by a UNHCR (United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees) tarpaulin.

 Even amongst the sights that fill your head and heart with despair in Central Asia, Osh was a step up so to speak. But I remain unsurprised that this could have happened. I have long been exposed to the racial musings of people in Central Asia, which come often from well-educated and otherwise liberal-minded individuals. Back in 2008 this included jokes about Obama speaking monkey, but much more common place are comments and downright racist slurs against their neighbours. In this no group is worse than another, and spectacularly I’ve even heard comments about how Uzbeks/Tajiks/Kyrgyz/Kazakhs (I don’t hear as many jibes about Turkmens as it goes) are dogs or the fleas on dogs, directly after rousing and emotional calls for racial equality based on the terrible and often violent experiences of Central Asians at the hands of Russians.

Even in the face of such persecution I still winced at hearing Kyrgyz described as dogs by ethnic Uzbeks in Osh, and wanted to throttle the Kyrgyz taxi drivers who told me how the Kazakhs were really just gypsies (the irony of nomad-nomad discrimination seemingly lost on these ‘men’). It’s all so predictable, all so normal for Central Asia, and the good old Soviets managed to take the traditional family and ethic differences and make them into national identities. Never will you find a region with less cooperation despite having such a homogenous population that shares religion, cultures, cuisine, dress, music, languages, appearance, and histories that are so strikingly similar.

The Kazakh model; Economic Lunacy

After the depression of Osh I sunned myself (well maybe not too well) on the shores of Issyk Kul, wandered through walnut forests in Arslanbob, and stuffed my face full of laghman in Bishkek. In sum, it was great but there is something about visiting an area so clearly scarred by the effects of ethnic violence and mutual distrust and racial prejudice that sticks in the mind. So off I set to Kazakhstan, land of um, Borat. I’ve mentioned it before but it really bears no resemblance to the picture drawn by Mr. Borat, other than perhaps the prevalence of prostitution and deep-seated political hatred of ‘assholes Uzbekistan’. Indeed after the low costs of travelling in Afghanistan, Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan was a bit of a shock to the wallet.

I met up with another former Mazar resident in Almaty (pleasure as always Honza!) for beers and shisha (as you do) and started exploring the ritzy, ego-driven, almost Orwellian sights of the country. Almaty itself is a predictably Soviet Central Asian city with wide avenues, plenty of trees, but with far more miniskirt sporting blondes than I was used to from Dushanbe, but not Portsmouth. I did the usual tour and then settled into the baths for a few hours complete with three saunas and a large ornate plunge pool area. There was also the highly unusual experience of having to cup myself while a large Kazakh man in a small hat beat me with birch leaves; from the stinging sensation experienced in other areas I was happy with my choice to follow the local example in cupping. Good for the pores they say…

Lord Norman Foster’s Finest…umm Pyramid?

But then there was Astana. There have been few examples in history where one man or a small group of men has had the power to move the capital without so much as a ‘lads, we’re moving the bloody capital’. Nursultan Nazarbayev has been the de facto dictator of Kazakhstan since independence in 1991. Ok, so he’s not as terrible as some bad lads out there but just try being a journalist in Kazakhstan, or even just an opposition politician (not that there really is a clear opposition). Such is Nazarbayev’s power and unrestricted access to the country’s considerable natural resources that not only was he able to move the capital but was able to fill it with some of the world’s wackier structures; so strange are these that this has prompted some similarly strange people to speculate that Nazarbayev is a member of the Free Masons/New World Order).

Staircase To Kazakh Heaven in The Pyramid

Only in Ashgabat (the intensely strange and sinister capital of Turkmenistan) had I felt so strongly that a city had been developed primarily for the entertainment of one man. I can think of few other explanations for the Bayterek, a huge tower with what I assumed was a Christmas tree bauble; a cultish pyramid on the edge of the city that changes colour at night; the Khan Shatyr tent structure that keeps warm even in the -30 winters of the steppe but is filled with pure tack, including a monorail that runs past plastic aliens; and of course the presidential palace built White House style at the end of a two mile promenade littered with fountains, lights, and of course tack with the Khan Shatyr tent at the other end.

The utter lack of political alternatives, civil society groups, and experience of democratic processes under the Soviet Union allowed one man and his closest cronies swallow up much of the countries resources wholesale, dominate the corridors of power, and dictate policies on almost childish whims. Astana has been developed in the middle of the steppe, remains half-empty, and was ultimately created to reduce the influence of the Russian population in Almaty (the former capital). While this has occurred with much of the country still lacking efficient infrastructure, faced with systemic poverty, and with no democratic recourse is particularly frustrating.

Christmas! Every Day of The Year in Astana!

For men who grew powerful in the Soviet Union such a concentration of power and resources is as natural as acting independently from their citizens. True, market reform has been more forthcoming and things are easier for the average person than in other places but that’s not enough when it could be so much better.

And so to Iran…

Well, there you have it. Sorry it took me a few months to get round to this but then you were never really concerned were you? Nah, didn’t think so. Only one exciting adventure left to regale you with but then what could be more exciting than Iran? You certainly don’t want me to blog about my time in the UK since I’ve been back…watch this space.

Central Asian Travel; You’ve Gotta Want It.

A good mate from home and I were once discussed her travel options as she weighed up the choice between South American and Central Asia. I love both areas but had to be honest with her that Central Asia is a place that you have to work at; visas on arrival, beaches, integrated transport systems will not be waiting for you with open arms and what’s more you might have to deal with Stalin into the bargain.

Good Morning Lenin!

Sometimes – normally when I’m awake in some flea pit hotel seemingly designed by Trotsky at 2am – I wonder why I love this region, why I keep coming back here, and why I can’t always at first put my finger on why I do when pushed. But I do and think that those of you reading this with Central Asian experiences (photos to be posted from UK due to *cough* technical difficulties, more of which anon) of your own might know what I’m trying – badly – to get at here. Arriving in Khujand, northern Taijikistan, I went to the Leninabad Hotel (Khujand’s former Soviet name, although many seem not to have been informed). I had been told it was lovely. But this I realised was ‘lovely’ in an interesting way; like that girl your mate wanted you to go out with as she had ‘a lovely personality’. I’m pretty sure I could hear it creaking as I went in and was told I’d have to pay a higher foreigner rate as the KGB would check the records. I responded that the KGB had ceased to exist with the fall of the USSR and similarly I would not pay a higher rate for a hotel from the same era. Spasiba but I’ll head elsewhere. I eventually settled for a place with a firm but charming babushka (literally grandmother but just older Russian woman) who had at first greeted me by rolling her eyes when I spoke Tajik to her; but upon speaking Russian I may as well have been her firstborn.

The irony of scoffing at the legacy of the USSR in one place is that a large part of my reasoning of heading to Khujand was to track down a man whom I had once met embalmed in Moscow; Lenin…that is V.I. Lenin, Donny, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. There had until its recent removal been a particularly large – ok so the largest in Central Asia – statue of Lenin glaring down over the main road in the city. I had heard it was still there somewhere, lurking, ready just in case the USSR was reformed one day…well, maybe not. So myself and Jemima (an Aussie living in Iran…that old chestnut) trotted off along the river looking for our man. Five minutes in we could see his little bald head shimmering in the distance but he never seemed to get any closer. After walking through thorns and contemplating climbing over or crawling under a concrete wall into a factory (never a good idea in this part of the world by the way…) we realised we had been a little too literal in our understanding of ‘by the river’.

Good Morning Lenin

We found him though. Poor lad had been left out in the sun in an abandoned looking ‘park’ cap in hand (which is how he’ll need to come back to get the CCCP going again methinks) leaving his bald head dangerously exposed. Point is that you’ll find the most unusual things become of great importance to you in Central Asia and I would have climbed over that wall to get to him. I’ve just come to expect travelling here to be anything but straightforward anyway.

The Soviet Legacy; Stalin’s wobbly hand, frosty embassy women and nada registrastiya!

Where you truly find the Soviet Union alive and kicking is in the overwhelming, futile, hopeless, ubiquitous bureaucracy. Hats off to G.W. Bush for topping even the Soviets with the Department of Homeland Security but trust me when I say these Ruskies really loved their rules and regulations. This fervour was picked up by the new ‘republics’ in Central Asia following the dissolution of the USSR. My last memorable travel encounter with it had been in the Tajik Wakhan while walking through a small – and I do mean small – town with two gringo mates. ‘Alloi, alloi, dvai!’ came a desperate shout from a man in very large police hat. ‘Nada registratsia!’ (you need to register) we were told and followed him to the former KGB office shrugging our shoulders. He then proceeded to wipe the dust off the mighty registration book in a moment of cartoon hilarity before taking our details. As with many of the rules and systems from the Soviet era they are followed to the letter but they have long since ceased to work and I would be surprised if people knew why they use these procedures…but they will keep enforcing them for sure.

Having lived in Tajikistan I was aware of this sad reality and knew it would undoubtedly cause me to lose time and hair at some point but the Kazakh visa process was impressive nonetheless. First off…Borat is not rooted in reality and Kazakhstan is a modern, advancing country albeit with drastic differences in the quality of life in the main cities and the countryside. Borat simply demonstrates the ignorance of the British and American citizens he meets, and the guys at the Kazakh embassy in Dushanbe need no help in looking ignorant; they are perfectly capable of doing this unaided. I like. I hope you like.

I went on the Friday to fill in forms and was informed by a very, very frosty ‘lady’ that my visa would be ready on Monday. Come Monday I’m told the system is down and to come back at 11am. Then I hot foot it to the bank, pay the $30, and am back by 11:30. I sit politely waiting for the ‘lady’ to just paste the visa into my passport – simple process I hear you say. So imagine my surprise when 12:30pm rolls around and she promptly just closes the office. ‘Come back on Wednesday’ she tells me….After much discussion she agrees to come in tomorrow to help me out. How gracious. The next day I’m informed by the consul that I will not be given a visa as I asked the ‘lady’ to come into work. ‘But she told me to come here’ I reply to which there is a flurry of arm waiving and what I think were swear words from the ‘lady’ behind the glass. I have to beg for a visa from these people and all of a sudden it’s me who’s the bad guy. After being quizzed over my work in Afghanistan twice, I emerge with visa in hand wondering why I want to visit Kazakhstan. But then I look at the visa a few times and think of all the Soviet apartment blocks, great bazars, mountains, gold teeth (see below) and shots of vodka and it all comes flooding back.

Sound investments in Khujand, Tajikistan

The delays and difficulties above are pretty regular to be fair but my run in with Stalin’s drawing skills was to top the Boratian visa process. Starting in 1917 the Soviets began redefining the borders of the region splitting first the area as a whole and then ethnic groups within this. At first a little known – killing a shed load of people gets you into the history books it seems – Georgian called Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin headed this up. The Soviets fervently believed in the primacy of national identity in forming the basis of a country and wanted to check the advance of any national identity which might dent their power base. They also believed in a divide and rule policy in areas with competing ethnicities. Nowhere was this more evident than in the Fergana Valley where borders were not only drawn to place significant populations of one ethnicity in the newly created country of another (e.g. the Tajik cities of Samarkand and Bukhara were placed and remain in Uzbekistan), but also went as far as to create enclaves in the Valley inside the new republics.

This caused only minor problems during the USSR but now that these states are independent and extremely wary of each other it is a logistical nightmare to travel between some areas. However, I didn’t want to backtrack and so decided to negotiate one Uzbek and one Tajik enclave in Kyrgyzstan (still with me?) on the road between Batken and Osh. I thought I had struck gold when two shirtless but sober – which isn’t always a given – Kyrgyz lads offered to give me a lift to Osh from Batken for free avoiding the enclaves. This was much better than the $130 demanded by the taxi drivers. An hour after setting off we broke down and four hours later I was right back in Batken where I had started. I did have some apricots though courtesy of a hospitable farmer. Plan B was to take a bus to Chon Kara (you’ve heard of it I suppose) and then hitch the rest of the way on back roads through what turned out to be the most forgotten industrial towns in the former Soviet Union, which is no mean feat in itself.

It was fine to be fair but it was slow going as I got dropped up the road in stages. However, the last car I took on the home stretch to Kyzyl Kia was the most uncomfortable hour of my life since I had appendicitis. It was driven by a 20 year old lout and his three delinquent mates. The three delinquents (Beery, Vodkaey, and Winey) were steaming of course and insisted on repeating the following questions; Did I want a beer? Which beer did I want? Would I give them $100 for the drive? Would I take them to England? Did I want to visit a brothel with them in Kyzyl Kia? Didn’t I realise how good the girls there were? Didn’t I like girls? Would I take them to a brothel in England? Did I want a beer…you get the point. It was mind-numbing. But I got to Kyzyl Kia eventually and as I squatted in the lightless bathroom for my cold bucket shower I was content. The journey for the locals from Batken to Osh takes 3 hours. It had taken me 8 to get half way but I did see some wonderful abandoned factories.

Oh, and no we didn’t go to the brothel. I got them to drop me off by a large wedding hall and had an ice cream instead.

Kyrgyz on horseback; time to get running ladies

The crazy rides and Soviet leftovers are definitely more of a hindrance than a help and severely restrict tourist development in the area, but they are also a bloody good laugh at times. There are few other places where you’ll have the tourist scene to yourself quite so much for one. I’ve lost count of the number of places I’ve been in this area that would be have been swarming with tour guides or littered with the discarded beer cans of the British in other places. In addition to this if like this Red Shah you’ve just turned up from Afghanistan you will delight in washing down all of Stalin’s nonsense with a draft beer that may or may not give you cholera but will only cost $0.40, which is much cooler than Fifty Cent kids, and that is a scientific fact.

Expansion of the Kyrgyz love of wrestling

That said I wasn’t fully prepared for the experiences at the foot of Pik Lenin (another whopping great mountain) where I set off with a gaggle of other Central Asian-loving gringos for a Kyrgyz horse festival. Being nomads the Kyrgyz are prone to using their horses for most things as it goes and having met their relatives in the Wakhan the faces weren’t new but their idea of fun was, um, distinct. For food it was pretty much the same; milk products, dried milk products, hardened milk products, milk and…oh, milk with dodgy meat. You could wash it all down with cheap, cheap, cheap vodka though which is a definite plus.

The setting was amazing. Luckily too I was able to feel safe after being offered security by three fairly rotund vodka laced fellows in the dark beside a yurt. By the way there is something about being offered security in Russian which is deeply unsettling. Just think Red October or Red Heat, which if you haven’t seen it you must watch it and remind yourself that this man was elected Governator of California. Skipping the dinner of dodgy meat with milk in favour of vodka I settled down with my fellow gringos in the yurt for the night.

Ensuite with security optional

There were some pretty standard wrestling matches and traditional instruments on display, as well as horse racing (chabysh) and wrestling on horseback (udarysh) topped off with a lovely rendition of the Kyrgyz anthem which seemingly is the world’s longest…drone is the word that springs to mind. Anyway, the highlight was the game of Kyz-kumay in which a woman on horseback with a head start has to avoid being kissed by a pursuing male. If he catches her; bravo young man, but if he doesn’t then it’s her turn to pursue the disgraced nomad while attempting to whip him. To me it seems similar to the problem of bride stealing (Borat wrapping Pamela Anderson in a marriage sack was scarily close on this one) which is a problem even in the capital Bishkek. It is as it sounds and can often result from spurned offers and a lack of cash for the wedding but if you can imagine being stolen to be wed then you can guess how terrifying that could be. Perhaps Kyz-kumay should really be viewed as a sort of social masturbation…I digress.

Kyrgyz version of The Dating Game

So ask yourself the following. Have you ever seen a massive Lenin? Have you ever had to dodge a map drawn by Stalin? Ever seen a man chase a woman on horseback to kiss her? Ever been asked to take three teenagers to your favourite brothel in England? Ever been told the KGB will want to see your passport? If you answered no to any of the following Air Baltic fly to Bishkek and many other Central Asian destinations from as little as 150 Euro one-way. Visa on arrival in Bishkek airport is actually possible, which just makes me seem like a whinging muppet. No change there then you say.

Coming next; Stalin’s ethnic games turn ugly in Osh, sexy time with Borat, and cognac in Armenia.

The Afghan Wakhan; Yurts, Yaks, Wakhis, Kyrgyz and Me

There are culture shocks and there are culture shocks, and right now I’m at the eye of the storm so to speak. Normally I get this just by heading to Tajikistan from Afghanistan – that there are woman is a source of constant amazement for example – and so the experience of sipping a cappuccino on poncey seating whilst I’m serenaded by some Morcheeba-inspired, ‘chill’  nonsense is all a little too much to take in. Wasn’t I just up the side of a mountain pass in Afghanistan?

Yak Attack

Sarhad-e Broghil; It all started with a stowaway horse or two

Really this trip (some Facebook photos here) was two years in the making and is (for now) the culmination of my time in Afghanistan. I managed to get to Herat and Bamiyan in recent months and had – without sounding conceited – seen more of the country than most. But the Wakhan was still there. This finger-shaped colonial legacy and home of much Great Game intrigue kept popping into my mind. So I did what any self-respecting Brit would do; I posted a note on a travel forum seeking similarly daft gringos to share some of the considerable costs of getting into the corridor and Pamirs. Eventually a surprisingly large group of six eventually headed off in high spirits to sample what is to be fair a pretty remote area; the last ‘town’ on the ‘road’ is eleven hours from Ishkashim (hardly the epicentre of the world itself) and the only phone in town is in the Police commander’s office…but more on that later.

The first sign that this would not be your normal jaunt to Skegness for a ride on the dodgems came in Khandud, itself a small town of little significance on the way to Sarhad. However, it is home to a man who I can only surmise was the love child of Basil Faulty and Stalin. ‘We should know who these foreigners are’ he said wagging an indigent finger around the room to no one in particular. ‘We need to know where they come from and where they’ve been’. This you might think would be pretty easy to discover by referring to our passports, but this man was not the brightest light on the tree. ‘They should have to write down where they are going because – he still hasn’t realised that myself and Teo could understand all of this – they could be here to play with our women’…Our woman, Audrey, was already asleep by this point.

Wakhi Man

Sarhad is picturesque and much work has been done in the area to promote tourism, establishing guesthouses and agreeing prices for animals, guides and the like. Great I thought; this will be easy. But this is Afghanistan and nothing is ever easy. I should have known this really after two years but we often tell ourselves what we want to hear.

That said I wasn’t expecting that we would get an hour out of town on the first morning to have to deal with stowaways. ‘But, Rory’ started Alex ‘why are there four horses’. I wasn’t sure but Afghanistan is meant to be a place I understand…’oh, they probably don’t want to walk themselves’ I said with ginger authority until I realised these horses were loaded and were being led by two particularly shifty looking blokes. …long story short the Wakhis had decided to bring extra men and horses in the hope that we wouldn’t notice for the first day and then would just decide to bring them with us anyway. I’ve seen some scams in my time but this was impressive. After an hour in which we had been threatened with the police and accused of having no human decency (ok, maybe I don’t but what’s it to you eh?), our new found mates made their way back to Sarhad. It might have been a pretty beautiful route but up and down over a 4,200 metre pass is tough enough without being labelled indecent in my books.

The Kyrgyz; Traders, Hosts, and more Special K than the Klingons

I’m not a big trekker either in terms of learning Klingon or dragging myself up some godforsaken slope. I just like the view at the end and the people you can meet. This for me is where the Kyrgyz came in.  Fleeing Central Asia after the Russian Revolution they wound up living in the Wakhan of Afghanistan, which itself had been created to separate the British Raj in India and the by then defunct Tsarist Empire. History is not without a sense of irony it seems as a land which was once designed to divide two empires became the perfect place to maintain their independence. They are a historical marvel in many ways and lead a life that all but vanished under the Soviets in their Kyrgyz homeland.

By the third night we had reached the ethnic group I had essentially come so far to see. ‘This yurt will cost you $25 each’ I was informed our heinous host Murud without as much as a ‘salam aleikum’. Given the fact the yurt was the property of the Central Asia Institute (the organisation Greg Mortenson founded in his book ‘Three Cups of Tea and the school at Bozai is functioning despite reports) it wasn’t his to rent, and we weren’t going to pay that much.

It was not a great first welcome but then we reached Ulch Jilga and all was forgotten in a moment. Botuboy welcomed us into the GUEST room and told us we were GUESTS before telling a Kyrgyz man who looked a lot like Malcom X (get your conspiracy theories ready kids) to get some tea for the GUESTS. You see why this place was great, right? We spent the next day and a half listening to Botuboy talk about their way of life, about how people first came here, about what keeps them here, about the winters, about the Soviets bringing them food in the 1950s. It was exactly why I had come, and everything else just faded away. As the light faded we hung out with Botuboy, some of the crazier kids you’ll ever meet and a charismatic old man and watched the Kyrgyz herd their animals close to the yurts for the night. The yaks it turns out are essentially forced through into staying close to their young who are tied to a rope; their instinct won’t let them abandon the calves…cruel but clever!

Herding for the night at Uch Jilga

Due to the hardships many Kyrgyz left the Pamirs several decades ago in search of a better life in Turkey. Many have since never returned and like many immigrants now are essentially Turkish with some not even speaking their native Kyrgyz language. To this day the Turkish government runs a yearly lottery where a lucky dozen or so are first driven to Ishkashim to collect their taskira (Afghan ID card), then to Kabul to collect passports, and finally visas before making their way to Turkey. We had heard that two such emigrants had returned after thirty-four years to visit their homeland. Sadly I feel it was a little overwhelming for the lady we found in Seki to have myself and Teo (great photos soon to be posted here) asking questions in Farsi that were then translated into Kyrgyz for her. We found it fascinating and maybe with more time we could have delved more, but it still begged the question; would more Kyrgyz leave to Turkey or elsewhere if they could?

‘Of course not’ asserted Botuboy. ‘They’d have to start again with nothing. They would have no land, no animals, and no knowledge of the new area’. We asked if he would even worry of this happening one day with other areas of Afghanistan. Again the same answer but with the additional truth that their area is far more secure than the rest of the country.

Seki Village

The following day myself and Teo split from the group and headed towards China stopping at small villages with only a handful of yurts along the way. Shir chai (literally milk tea) was served immediately along with yak cheese and qaimok, a sort of creamy yogurt left to stand for a day or so until it hardens in areas. In return we were asked for our advice on medical issues (mainly headaches for which we prescribed…water) and fixing everything from shortwave radios to VCRs to phones; which were ubiquitous despite there being no phone signal. Upon making it to Mukur (and after Teo falling in the river *sniggers*) we found out there would be Buzkhasi (see my previous post). I’ve seen my fair share of Buzkhasi but in front of yurts and with a bit of snow fall was a new one.

On the way we had arranged with Umir Bek to head the five days by horse back to Sarhad. There was a festival on the 17^th halfway back down the corridor and we weren’t sure we’d make it in time. No problem said our man as he promised to arrange three horses. When we made it back he was like a different person for reasons we couldn’t put our finger on. The following chain of realities that revealed themselves took eight hours and went something like this; he had two horses and wanted more for a third; he didn’t want to go over the pass the first day; he had never been on the route; he didn’t know anyone on the way; he wouldn’t go the next day; we would have to walk over the pass with fading light and the rest of the way back. And for the cherry on top he kept accusing me of being American. He claimed this was the source of all our problems. I hope you don’t feel I’m being negative but there was something strange and confusing about a man who pretended to walk away leaving us with his two horses only to hide behind the next slope.

Back to the Wakhi; Roughing it and hitching a ride in the Mullah Mobile

We tried and failed to make it to the next town and slept out in what were thankfully very warm sleeping bags (Thanks Leon). The next morning we made it down the additional thirty minutes to the next Wakhi settlement. As we rested in the yurt we were asked for that medicine tourists have that fizzes in water and cures ALL illnesses (like I wouldn’t  be a billionaire doing this trek in a helicopter instead of a dirty shirt if I knew of this). ‘Ah’ exclaimed our host as he sipped the water to which I had added an effervescent vitamin C tablet (Leon again), ‘that’s not it’. Next in this strange place were the Pashtun merchants one of whom mused ‘I might be a Talib but I’m not sure. I mean I like some of their ideas but for now I’m happy selling phones’. I’m sure we’ve all wondered this on those long Monday mornings at the office.

We wanted to carry on but there is only so long you can live on Snickers. We had to rest and eat. ‘There is a town before the next pass (4,900 metres i.e. a bitch)’. There wasn’t and just to put this in perspective it’s like not being sure if that whopping great mountain pass is before or after Clapham South Tube. It was a beautiful pass but with little food and no guide I had my concerns as we tried to catch the rest of the group. We again failed to make it to a settlement by about 30 minutes and slept out again. That night I dreamt of Argentine steak.

Heading to the Kyrgyz

But the next morning we did at least catch up with Audrey, Steve, Jakub and the Wakhis. I have to admit I took the easy option and spent the next six hours on horseback, but was happy to be with someone who knew the way and who we had history. We might have had problems at the start with prices and covert horses but they were good guys and took care of us. I also liked being called tarjuman seb (Mr. translator) and raizjan (dear boss) instead of American and loved being asked if I knew two Englishmen called Mark and Peter or if I knew when they would be coming back.

As we made our way back to Sarhad to catch our jeep back to Goz Khan for the festival I could think of little more than washing in the famed hot springs in Sarhad. It had been three weeks since my last hot shower and despite how refreshing the glacial water of the area could be I was ready for a change. Funded by the Norwegian Foreign Ministry my disappointment at being met by an empty pool surrounded by faecal matter (I didn’t investigate from who or what it had come) was palpable. My excitement at being met by a bowl of rice, one of beans, and one of yogurt was similarly vocal.

There was of course one last hurdle to be overcome. Our jeeps had not arrived. We would have to walk for three additional days unless we could find a phone or car and would miss the festival. So off we went to the Police commander. The Great Dictator in this man was clear from the start and he seemed to thrive – as many a small town personality does – on our need of help. We essentially had to ask his permission to request the use of a private vehicle. Cue the mullah.

‘Well’ he started ‘I heard that some foreigners just paid $1, 000 from Sarhad’. I knew this to be true and cursed them as he spoke. ‘Dear brother’ we are not rich travellers I said showing him the hole in the arm of my shirt. ‘Yes, but your skin is very white’ he replied in what I had to give him was a great response…We eventually agreed a price for the nicest dump truck you’ve seen and sitting in the back on bags of rice is actually preferable than being cramped in the front. So everyone piled into the back of the Mullah Mobile and off we went. The festival had been cancelled due to security and so we just drove back to Ishakashim over the next day and a half.

Exhale.

Shir Chai Time

Tourism; the Wakhan’s great hope?

Well, that was some rant I’m sure you’ll agree but it really was a rollercoaster two weeks. The number of plans, changes, routes, problems, amazing conversations, and great people was pretty impressive. It was an amazing experience that won’t be forgotten in a hurry but clearly not one without its challenges and downsides. But still, isn’t this what I’ve come to love about Afghanistan and Central Asia? The more you put in, the more you can get out. If you’re willing to face mountain passes, guides who abandon you to sleep rough, terrible advice, worse food, ever-changing agreements, no communications,  pensive Taliban and twenty-six bars of Snickers then you can get a two week trek you won’t forget…I’d do it all again, just maybe not tomorrow!

Coming soon…your favourite Red Shah hits Central Asia. Lenin and Stalin’s map drawing skills await.

Afghanistan; land of turning points, crucial years, and decisive moments…but where are we?

I couldn’t figure out what had made me feel compelled to write once more on this most prolific of blogs. Was it the realisation and shame I hadn’t written anything for so long? Was it the constant inspiration of this fascinating country? Was it the desire to consider new events? Or was it simply that I was in Pul-e Khumri; the land that time forgot (but without the dinosaurs and, therefore, infinitely duller)? I had to lean towards the latter as I tried to type loudly to drown out the sound of three competing mullahs screaming – at me it seemed – through the early evening sky, and forget the dangerous effect the pint of oil I had just consumed with dinner would no doubt have on my poor stomach. I would have called someone to discuss these sentiments, but the phone network is turned off at 6pm sharp; seemingly the only service to which you can set your watch.

Pul-e Khumri is probably the, hmmm, least inspiring place I’ve seen here. It lacks the activities that make other cities enjoyable, but is on the other hand too small to have rural charm. It is dusty and dirty, the roads terrible, sanitation practically non-existent, the water suspect at best, and Terry Talib sits around 5km from the city and wields considerable beardy influence in the surrounding districts. It is, in sum, a hole. But then, isn’t this a bit of a problem, especially so since many of the same issues exist throughout the country, and often are more pronounced? Wouldn’t it be great if circumstances arose that allowed the international community to provide sustained development funds to alleviate some of these basic problems? It would be good if this could be over the course of, let’s say nine or ten years. But then…what have we been doing?

Burqa and destruction; the all too familiar and cliché news shot in Pul-e Khumri

It’s now over eighteen months since I first moved to Afghanistan, and seemingly almost as long since I put grubby pen to Microsoft paper for this long-suffering blog ‘o mine. As anyone who is anyone will tell you this is the crucial year for Afghanistan, a turning point of epic proportions, the end game scenario, D-Day, and during which time everything hangs in the balance. It is within this year – while it just happens the world is actually paying attention – which Afghanistan will either become a land of milk and honey, or sink into an abyss full of cataclysmic suffering and hell beasts. Well, that’s the impression I got from the BBC’s analysis at least, and I’m pretty sure they were saying the same thing last year as well. The problem with all of these turning points is that it’s difficult, as one Mazar friend once put it, to stop yourself from feeling you’re just spinning around, and figure out which way to move.

Afghanistan; a Bangladesh in the wings?

There are people in this world of ours better than I at blogging. Now I know you’re probably shaking your heads and saying ‘for shame, Roryjan, this is a blog of the highest quality that keeps us entertained weekly’, and for this I thank you but you must lay off the stimulants. Take Maxy Waxy (caution: real name may differ) who blogs here on a regular basis on topics relating to his Bangladesh experiences almost as much as his new love of wedding films. From speaking with him and others with knowledge of the country it seems as though development there has become institutionalised after decades of continued international assistance in which time things remain as bad as ever. Working for NGOs has become more a status symbol amongst middle-class Bangladeshis, than a way to improve the country’s lot and where huge swathes of infrastructure are managed by single organisations parallel to the government. For expats you can grab a higher standard of living than you could afford at home, attend a country club, and best of all…you’re not going to be held accountable if you do not hit your targets.

Mazar’s state-of-the-art sewage system

Increasingly I am wondering if we aren’t reaching a similar state of affairs here. Now of course the security situation in the country ensures that it’s not a place that many expats would settle, or that the current political system is even guaranteed to survive. However, in terms of dollar bills invested should not more have been achieved to date? Much is often made, for example, of the role of Provincial Reconstruction Teams – units attached to each country’s military in their area of engagement – in encouraging development and providing funds. So why then when you approach Mazar airport, where the German Military cast their watchful eye, do you have to swerve around pot holes, although this is very entertaining. I can’t help feeling that if roads were paved and sanitation fixed systematically district-by-district that this ‘hearts and minds’ business would be a good bit easier. Given that the Germans can’t path the road to their own house – albeit a temporary one – I don’t hold high hopes that this will happen.

Too many Cooks?

Indeed, this is not to say we angelic NGOs are not without blame. There are now approximately 1,20304,4 40340 registered NGOs in Afghanistan. OK, so this number may be exaggerated and poorly written but trust me, there are a lot. If you meet someone whose organisational acronym is new to you, just nod politely and add them to the list. So, what’s the effect of this? Imagine you’ve just purchased a rather decrepit house in need of more than a lick of paint. You’d probably welcome some assistance in the renovation but would no doubt be surprised if you came back on a sunny afternoon to find twenty different sub-contractors busying themselves with the work, but blissfully unaware they’re all working on the same property. Sometimes it works out dandy, but other times you’re running the distinct danger of living in a house that has two stories on one side, and three on the other but no stairs. The water will run at first, and then break, and the electricity – if it works – will probably take years off your life every time you flick a switch. At the end of the day the various painters, electricians, and bonsai consultants will pat themselves on the back and head off for a pink gin never to be seen again.

Darulaman Palace, Kabul; how not to build a house

The Afghan Government undoubtedly has a hard time tracking all of these organisations and would much rather the funds came through them. Now, this isn’t purely for philanthropic reasons as often there is a nice cut to be had too, but as it stands they are ‘not in the picture’ (as Afghans say) on many occasions as work goes on around them, and at great cost. Of course cooperation with the government is not without its frustrations either. In a recent meeting I think a district minister learnt more from the Iranian cooking show that was on the TV during our meeting than our request for government assistance in an impoverished community. He certainly paid more attention to the rice being prepared, but perhaps what I was saying was just bloody dull, an option I am sure you’ll agree is very likely.

There’s more security, oh, and the wedding halls too!

I apologise if I make it sound worse than perhaps it is as truth be told there is a lot of very good work that goes on all around the country, and under particularly tough circumstances. Additionally my mood is becoming ever worse as we approach the “royal” wedding. The fact it occupies news columns, is seen as deserving of attention, and that I have to field questions on it from inquisitive foreign mates is nothing short of an outrage. What does this have to do with this blog? Nothing, they just fill me with rage that’s all.

Talking of weddings though, the number of wedding halls was one of the indicators of progress identified by a random shop owner I spoke to Mazar recently. For those of you not familiar with these particular inventions they are in a word, hideous. Tacky, poorly constructed, colossal structures designed to house hundreds, sometimes thousands of wedding revellers they are an example of might have happened had Walt Disney become some sort of crazed dictator. However, for this man it was the first thing he said when I asked if he felt things were better since the ‘waqt-e Amrika’ (time of America). Not roads, not health, not water but glittering wedding halls big enough to fit the royals and all their inbreed buddies. Another friend – and long-time resident – noted that all of Afghanistan’s various eras have gained a certain nostalgic popularity given time. The Communists gave jobs, the Taliban security, and the Americans…money. Should not more have been achieved? Shouldn’t there be clearer examples of progress than the wedding halls?

Now I’ve written before – and believe – that things here have improved in many ways, even just in the time I’ve been here. Indeed, many of the conceptual changes here will be almost impossible to undo (the experience of voting, girls going to school). But recently there has been a growing concern; that this improvement doesn’t have enough to do with the work of NGOs, that you’re not held accountable to what you say you will achieve, and that you ultimately represent bad value for money. Often the country itself is the problem so the argument goes. That capacity is low, security diminishing, and the culture restrictive. All true without a doubt, but that shouldn’t mean you can miss targets by such a range and not be held accountable for it. But it’s seemingly a world where you can do this, and while I’m not saying good work isn’t done, that lives are not improved and even saved, it should be much, much better.

I just wish I knew how it could be done…

Measuring Change; the little things also count for a lot…

Argh….after another extended period of complete silence and inactivity on the blog front I’ve finally managed to get my vagabond self into gear to direct the conversation on Afghanistan in a slightly more random direction. As you’ve all had the misfortune to share a conversation with me, you will no doubt have thought more than once, “I’m really not sure where this ginger fool is going with this one”…well, you’ll have to bear with me just one more time.

It’s a theme that has been in my head for months really but I’ve never found the way to express it in a succinct way; again this will come as no surprise to anyone. The source is the wealth of cringe worthy, sensationalist, misleading, and downright fictitious journalism that abounds surrounding the subject of Afghanistan. There are some journalists, though not nearly enough, that come to see the country and that much to their credit form an opinion based on their experiences. However, the general route of a journalist here goes something like this;

Day one – arrive with intention of acquiring a ‘fixer’ (basically someone who speaks Dari) who can arrange an “embed” with the Taliban but realise that this is not possible.

Day two – whilst relaxing in a popular Kabul restaurant I decide that the country I have not seen is doomed, with marauding Taliban ready to jump out from behind the nearest donkey to wreak havoc on a daily basis. This is backed up with photographic evidence of a man in a turban.

Day three– Two options; stay in the five-star Serena hotel for the next week whilst waxing lyrical to my trusting readers, or head to another relatively calm area like Mazar or Bamiyan

Day four– Following option two, head to Mazar only to be shocked to find a stable city with people working hard to improve their daily lot. Reject this as a façade and state how it is clearly on the brink of oblivion with a Taliban army ready to swoop (see day three).

Day five– return to a secluded restaurant in Kabul to write story of doom and despair at every corner in Afghanistan/how the military would be doing better were the writer in charge/how foreigners working in Afghanistan should never attend restaurants (yes, the same where the article was written) and instead spend their spare time running a kennel for injured puppies.

It’s important to note that Afghanistan is a country facing a multitude of problems but I cannot express to you how frustrating it is to read daily the tripe trotted out by the media masquerading as cutting edge journalism. For example, one writer with a feature in Foreign Policy – a magazine of considerable status in the field of international relations – described how during her stay in Mazar there had been an illegal check point at the roundabout ‘down the road’ from her. This sounds serious, and indeed illegal check points have increased in recent years and represent a real and immediate risk to the security of average Afghans. However, ‘down the road’ in this case was actually Char Bolak, a district some 35km from Mazar…Now were this happening in Southampton, some 35km from my home, I would be rightly concerned but I would not tell you it was outside my front door so you would buy my paper…

Is it so hard to say what was printed recently in the BBC, and say that yes, Afghanistan faces serious problems, no it is not ‘normal’, no, it’s not a completely safe country, but nor is it doomed or overrun with lunatic terrorists or run by politicians who are corrupt to a man? Afghans don’t all think so, but then most journalists don’t speak a word of Dari and can’t ask for themselves. They also don’t have security clearance to travel freely and so write from the sanctuary of secure locations in Kabul what they know will sell; namely war, death, and despair. Indeed, many of the photos from the BBC article are down one road close to our house in Kabul, an area much safer than others.

The Kabul I see

What’s wrong with presenting balanced views other than it doesn’t sell as many papers. What is there to be gained by presenting Afghanistan as a wholly hopeless endeavour? What’s wrong with the idea that there have been some precious small steps made in the country since 2001 despite all the challenges that remain? For many, those small steps make all the difference…

Body building; everyone has the right to be like Arnie…

Ok, so you find it a bit weird, I find it a bit weird. But were we to start banning things that are a little odd we would soon be rounding up people who enjoy Michael Bolton for crimes against humanity. Now before you start musing that this isn’t such a bad idea, remember that maybe one day you will wake up with a newfound love and appreciation of Mr. Bolton and his bizarre mullet. If a bunch of lads, or girls for that matter, want to get together to rub bronze lotion onto themselves whilst ‘sculpting’ their bodies to ‘perfection’, that’s their choice and I have no problem with it. After all, who knows where it might lead, maybe even all the way to being governor of California. Good for them I say.

The Taliban had no problem with it as long as you trained fully clothed and did not expose your flesh during competitions. Now, call me unimaginative but I would imagine that being fully clothed would make it somewhat harder to judge the definition, aesthetics etc of the competitors’ bodies. Congratulations to the Taliban for once again demonstrating themselves to be the finest minds this side of the 12^th century!

There has been nothing short of an explosion of interest and participation in body building in Afghanistan since 2001. Something which the terrifying billboards posted all over Mazar and other cities can testify to. I’m far from being a morning person on my best days and so the sight of the owner of Shukran’s Gym’s head photoshopped onto a bodybuilder’s body and slapped onto a 10 foot billboard every morning fills me with fear and confusion. This is how I start my day. Yes, I could look the other way but it’s like sporting injuries; you can’t help but look even if it stabs at your pupils. But look at little Shukran’s face. He’s delighted with both himself and his new found status atop of the billboard from which he grins down manically at Mazar’s passing traffic.

Arnie Alert

Imagine that bodybuilding is the one thing you really enjoy in life – I know but just work with me here – and all of a sudden you were unable to do so. Let’s imagine that a reactionary government takes power in the UK and decrees that all curry must be eaten with chop sticks, all films with the word ‘day’ are banned, no visible emotions are allowed at sporting events, and no photos are allowed of people other than for passports. Now think of the thing you like doing most in life – keep it clean people – and add it to the list of banned activities. Wouldn’t it feel amazing to be able to start again even if you faced other innumerable problems? The second two examples I gave actually were banned, along with every basic right you and I can think of.

Self portraits; those real and imagined

The Taliban banned all photography other than for passport photos. Just like that. Of course, passport photos were only needed for men given that women could be represented just by their thumb print. That meant no wedding pictures, no pictures of your children, no pictures of birthdays, or massive nights out on the beer. Oh, massive nights out on the beer were also banned, and they don’t seem to have bounced back much either.

Striking a pose of sorts

Anyone who has been to Afghanistan will know that the pure presence of a camera on the street will invite shouts of ‘take my picture’. I honestly believe I could gather 1,000 portrait photos in a day in Afghanistan given the love that Afghans have of having their picture taken. They don’t ever expect to see the printed photo but always say ‘thank you’ just for you taking the time to snap them…Again, it must be great when you consider that you couldn’t do this before. But the joy doesn’t stop with the act of taking a photo; just as crucial is the pose you adopt. Think Derek Zoolander but Afghan. As with Shukran’s gym photo developing shops here are full of doctored images where families are cut in front of the Taj Mahal, random American streets, or scenic lakes. And who can blame them? After all, what a world it would have been before without photos like the one of this dashing fellow below…

Photo Shop Afghan Style

I do not for a second claim that Afghanistan is not a country facing innumerable challenges, and which may still go down yet another dangerous road in the near future. But for now Afghans are getting on things and making the most of a pretty bad situation. There have been some small steps made since 2001 and though they seem insignificant these small things can make all the difference. I’ve talked about two of the more trivial ones as these day-to-day activities can often resonate more strongly. Think again about the small things you really enjoy in life without even realising how much; flying kits, playing music, a night at the cinema, new books, a day watching football. It all depends on the person. Then perhaps we can try and understand what it must be like to lose that, and what it must be to have it back once more. It might be rough here but I don’t see Afghans complaining nearly as much as journalists do.

Nowruz – Persian New Year and a Rendezvous with a Headless Calf

Given that Nowruz – Persian New Year, which directly translated comes out as New (Now) Day (Roz) – actually falls on the 21^st of March, and since we are now comfortably strolling through April, it would appear that I am far from the trendsetter with his finger firmly on the pulse of the blogging world but let’s all just try and see past that shall we…

Nowruz has many variations throughout Iran, Afghanistan, Tajikistan, and a host of other nations where it is observed, but is essentially no different from any other celebration in that it is a chance for family and friends to pass some time together, put on their new clothes, and gorge themselves on food to within an inch of their lives. Add an elderly family member snoozing in a chair after several particularly large brandies, a sulking teenager, and a badly burnt turkey sat sullenly amongst a few bottles of Jacob’s Creek and you have the beginnings of a script for some god awful sitcom Christmas special. Moving away from that then…

As with everything in Afghanistan you can only ever hope to scratch the surface and no doubt my first Afghan Nowruz was anything but the full experience (there is a lot of fire jumping involved in Iran for example), but for me three elements came shining through as defining parts of my weekend; Buzkhasi, Afghan’s social nature, and the distinct lack of women…

Buzkahsi – Rugpolo played with a headless calf

Bloody hell, where to start on this one? Ok, picture the key concepts of rugby, polo, wrestling, and any film you’ve seen set in Medieval England; except Disney’s animated version of Robin Hood, which while of undoubted excellence is not in keeping with the image I am trying to conjure up here. Now, add a headless calf for a “ball”. Yes, a headless calf. Oh, you’ve never played a sport with a headless calf before, well, you need to get out more then, don’t you? Now add a flat surface on which this bizarre game is going to take place and between 50 and 200 seasoned horsemen. For the crowd you need two social groups; your average Afghan who sits or stands around the field of play, and often in the middle of it, and the dignitaries who gather in the stand to judge the winners and hand out prizes.

“Game on” as they say…

The focus of the game as with all logical (this term is used loosely here) sports is of course the ball. As mentioned the ball is, in fact, a calf (buz actually means goat but calves are commonly used, and I’m buggered if I can tell the difference once the head has been cut off). The calf is lovingly beheaded the day before and then filled with stones, and soaked in water to harden it in preparation for its big day out. Buzkhasi is really a series of smaller rounds each one carrying often significant cash or material prizes for the winner. Each round starts with the calf being unceremoniously dumped onto the ground in the middle of the waiting chapandosan (Buzkhasi players), who try to scoop up the carcass and haul it either away from the melee surrounding them or to a circle marked with white chalk, thus scoring a ‘goal’. Then the process is repeated a few times. I think it’s worth labouring the point that this is a dead animal and weighs a bloody ton.

The chaos which ensues in the middle of this is clear for all to see as the chapandosan attempt to shove, bustle, and whip their way to the calf and then steal away from the pack of horses and men encircling them. As exciting as the opening stages of the games can be at first they quickly lose appeal; imagine a scrum in rugby formed of horses and you will have an idea of just how hard it is to actually see what is going on in the midst of all this chaos. When a breakaway is made, however, then things heat up a little. Now if I’m honest I’m not too fussed about who gets the prizes, let’s be honest it’s not up there with the World Cup now is it. However, there is something I like about a sport that suddenly and without warning veers off from the main pack towards the spectators gathered not in plush seating bur rather on the pitch itself. Often a pack of galloping horses will drive a path through the crowd. Imagine having to run for your very existence from a sporting ground in the UK as the players charge towards you on horseback; some of you might even think that this would make polo much more interesting as hat-wearing, champagne-quaffing spectators run for their lives. I’d pay to watch that little hootenanny.

What I particularly like about buzkhasi is the lack of warnings for spectators. At home you can’t step out your front door without being bombarded with warnings and rules deemed to be in your best interest, with our society too concerned that in doing something downright daft you might then sue for some sort of moronic compensation. Here, however, if you want to stand in the way of a 200-strong pack of horses, feel free to fill your boots, mate. Just don’t moan if you get trampled to death by a few of them…

Busy streets

Mazar is generally a pretty bustling place. It has traditionally been spared the very worst of the destabilising violence so prevalent in other areas of the country and people, well, have just been going about their business. That said it is never busier than at Nowruz. Tens of thousands come to Mazar from all over the country and even from abroad for the weekend of celebrations.

The whole city was basically just out milling around hanging out at the mosque – although that is a fairly standard exercise – and watching a host of live sports including wrestling, buzkhasi, and animal fights. All in all it’s fun, Afghans love a chat, there’s lots of commotion, street sellers, music, and impromptu football games. Indeed, I bagged a goal in one such game myself by cleverly robbing a 14-year old who had dwelled on the ball in possession before rounding the keeper. Moylan 1-0 Afghanistan. Next stop Cape Town.

One thing I didn’t see was camel or dog fights. Truthfully I had no desire to see a dog fight but camels held a certain draw. From what I’ve been told it can be summarised in the following way…It’s not really a fight. After all, what would a camel fight with? What happens is that they wrap necks and grapple a bit until one gets the upper hand. At this point the weaker decides the game is up and makes a run for it and so the fight becomes a race. This race will continue for a while unless they decide it’s time to stop for a bile-spitting contest with the crowd as a bull’s eye. I thought it would have been worth a watch.

Afghans dancing…but still not a woman in sight

For all the fun it is in the streets that you first sign of the unbalanced nature of Afghan society. It’s easy for me to walk around, socialise, and soak things up a little because I am a man (or at least something with red hair resembling one). For female friends of mine it proves a little tougher. You often hear that women rule the roost indoors but the streets firmly belong to men with fairly predictable results.

Let’s face it; we men are fairly childish creatures in the vast majority of situations, and this is only heightened when we gather in strength. Sadly, Afghans are no exception and in such numbers quickly succumbed to a lot of staring, comments, and no doubt worse. Of course all nations in groups are far from perfect. Take the English for example. Once famed for their industrious nature and Victorian manners, we are now better known for the industrious nature in which we see off eight pints and proceed to throw plastic chairs around picturesque main squares in European cities after another defeat on penalties for the football team. Similar is the German’s inability not to rush down to the pool at 6am to grab the best sun-loungers. Basically, no nation in a large group tends to endear itself to anyone else unfortunate to be close by.

That said it’s hard to pass off as harmless the way women are often viewed here. It’s ok to make women feel uncomfortable as they should be covered. Few women even make it to the street for such large events so they stand out, and should really be at home. On top of this, foreign women are viewed as promiscuous and fair game for inappropriate behaviour.

Nowruz ended with a party for which staff from most of the provinces we work in came for especially. The whole house was decked out, tons of kebabs laid on, and a band hired to play traditional tunes for the very, very traditional Afghan dancing show. The routine is the same every time and I get the feeling it’s actually the same song being played, just with a few notes changed each time. Either way it’s pretty fun as you are forced to leave reservations behind by being dragged up to dance in the middle with others sat on the floor around you clapping. All this without the usual Dutch courage that inspires so many of us back home.  Everyone had a great time dancing, chatting, eating, and a few drinking, but would it really have been so bad had wives, girlfriends, and sisters also come too? I don’t think society would have come apart at the seams that night, far from it.

It really was a great day, and a very enjoyable evening but you can never escape the fact that, without the presence of female expats, it would have been one large “egg salad” as the Argentines say. It might be ok were it the end of the story, but it’s really the tip of the iceberg in defining how hard life here for women must truly be. At pretty much every turn they are treated as second best. They are always the first to be denied education, access to health services, jobs, the right to socialise with whom they please, and many face the unenviable ‘choice’ of whether or not to cover their bodies completely when in public. Women come second despite the impassioned claims that Afghan society, Islam etc (indeed, I do not see it as an Islamic issue at all) guarantee their rights, and that there is a greater level of respect for women here than in the West.

However, it is hard to believe this when the female literacy rate is amongst the lowest in the world at around 18%, and the maternal mortality rate amongst the highest at 1,600 per 100,000 live births (often women are denied access to medical services even when they are available on ‘dignity’ grounds. Not theirs of course…and to put that in context the rate in the UK is 4 per 100,000). For me it’s no coincidence, especially given that the literacy and mortality rates are more favourable for men. Obviously maternal mortality rates do not apply for men, but there are many accounts of women being denied access to service that would save their lives…by men. There are times when I feel I should give it more time, take it in a little more before coming to my conclusion. But consider how you would feel if your mother, sister, daughter, friend or just a passerby was unlikely to be able to write her name, felt compelled to cover herself completely (see above) because men would otherwise treat her with less respect, and could only face worse chances in labour were she from Sierra Leone.

Under no circumstances do I feel there is a ‘right’ or ‘correct’ way, and admit I am in risky territory with this entry but I feel it deserves some attention. Indeed, the very notion of women’s rights in Afghanistan has inspired entire books let alone blog posts, but really my intention is just to describe how it fitted into my Nowruz experience, or rather how it didn’t. There is, of course, every reason to believe things will change. I recently met a man (I won’t mention through whom or who he was…) who brought his fiancée, sister, and her friend to our house for tea. Partly due to linguistic problems, and partly due to culture, he did most of the talking and answered for his fiancée, even when he actually gave answers that contradicted those she gave in Dari. It was only after the dust had settled on Nowruz that I realised what a different kind of relationship I had witnessed. He was still very much the alpha male but at least they were in the same room as us, drank tea with us, and talked a little. I like to think that she gives him hell at home whenever she wants! It won’t change quickly but the more women that at least are taught to read and write I guarantee you it will change.

Afghan Traits; the good, the bad, and…um…those relating to repeated greetings?

Well, I’ve never tried this blogging malarkey before and so I’m quietly confident it will be a resolute failure of a calibre similar to any film – and I do mean any – staring Ben Affleck. Others might justifiably wonder what I’ve been doing for 8 months, and why suddenly I feel the need to share my most trivial thoughts with people who may well have forgotten that I exist. Well, you’re right to wonder. I wonder. Microsoft Word certainly wonders and lets me know this in no uncertain terms with a barrage of green, red, and strangely opaque lines that are probably no more than a figment of my imagination, and actually just represent my fear of sharing something I’ve written. I digress, already. Not a good start.

Anyway, it’s an attempt to share observations and stories about Afghanistan; it does after all make the news occasionally and rarely features in the ‘and finally’ section; this more often reserved for a story about a panda that plays chess. I thought it made sense to start with the Afghans themselves, although I under no circumstances would claim to be an expert, far from it, of course. The desire to write about Afghan traits is two fold. First, to offer a somewhat light-hearted alternative view to the idea that Afghanistan is a divided nation based solely on tribal ties and incapable of operating together. It might well be, but there are certainly reasons to think they have more in common than many believe. The second impetus came from a friend who asked me ‘what was the most interesting cultural observation I had to offer’. The sad truth was that, although I had no doubt made countless observations every day, I had none to offer straight away. It really is a chance for me to sit down and mull it over…How lucky you are that I decided to share this drivel with you.

The Good; Ah go on, will ye have a cup of tea?

When was the last time that your local shopkeeper, who doesn’t know you from Adam, offered you a cup of tea and plate of rice? When was the last time the guy who sells mandarins on the corner forced you to drink tea and called over his 10 year-old who has been attending English lessons so you could meet him and be asked ‘mister, what is your name’ repeatedly? When was the last time a barber refused to take payment for cutting your hair on the grounds that ‘you are a guest’ in his country and stroked your face in a far too familiar fashion when asking if you wanted a cutthroat shave to compliment your new hair cut…Ok, so the last of these was a terrifying experience on so many levels, but you get the point.

To be frank even if I speak to anyone for less than a minute I am surprised if I am not offered tea, and if we speak for longer than a minute with no tea in sight I feel as if something sacred has been violated. Never mind the fact that I barely know some of my neighbours in the UK and have certainly never offered a stranger entry to my house because ‘they are a guest’ and furnished them with endless cups of tea. In fact, as schoolchildren we used to deliberately misdirect motorists asking for directions…seemed funny at the time, but then so was tying your scarf to your head like Rambo….

The basic point is this. Afghans are bloody nice people. Some of the nicest I’ve ever met. What’s more this sense of hospitality and with it the offering of tea is ingrained. Ok, so I can’t comment on its prevalence in Helmand, but can you? Right, so I’ll carry on ranting then…Afghans are the first to tell you how different they all are but there are ties that bind. Take a guy from Herat, another from Mazar-e Sharif, and another from Kabul and the chances are they will dress in a similar – if not identical – fashion, share very similar cultural beliefs, practice the same branch of Islam, share at least two common languages, and most importantly, will try and drown you in tea given the first opportunity.

The Bad; who has right of way again?

Afghans can’t drive. I tried to wrap this up in any number of ways to make it a little more palatable but they can’t. Sorry guys. Well, they do understand the mechanics of how a car moves forwards, backwards, in an erratic fashion etc but the notion of how to drive appears to be a step too far. The news will tell you that you are most at risk in Afghanistan when near military vehicles, government buildings, or certain high-profile areas. This is, in fact, not true. You are most at risk in a car or purely by being near anyone driving one; this is all too true for pedestrians and particularly so for cyclists who should beware cars cutting them off, reversing into them, never mind the constant honking and revving of engines.

Not being a nation of skilled Sunday Drivers doesn’t exactly distinguish them from other countries though. For example, the people of the Federated States of Micronesia are shocking motorists. Ok, so I can’t prove this but then nor can you…Anyway, the wider implications of this first really popped into my head about 3 weeks ago. I was coming back from work when Aga Mamat, who was driving, suddenly wound down his window to tell the fellow next to us “to go forth from this place and fornicate with himself”. I was confused. This is a mild mannered man who spends most of his time humming and whistling. I wasn’t sure what had got him so riled up. “Well”, he tells me “it was my right of way”. I was confused, I hadn’t noticed there was a system, or a right of anything once you step into a car. I looked left, looked right and still couldn’t find this system of which he spoke with such passion. The truth is it was more Aga Mumat’s right to get somewhere faster than his neighbour than had been violated.

The thing is for a nation that is so very respectful in person they can be truly disrespectful behind the wheel. Given half the chance they will cut you off, up, down, and all without blinking. A modicum of respect is maintained for women trying to cross the road by slowing down for them on one side, if only to invite them to run a veritable gauntlet of weaving cars, carts laden with fruit, and cyclists desperately trying to hang onto their lives. That most do this in a burqa that completely covers their head and body and greatly restricts their vision, especially of the peripheral kind, only further evens the playing field.

The point of all this is that when provided with what seems like the easiest option they will take it. It won’t matter if it inconveniences someone else, or even if it ends up making their journey longer, which it inevitably does. Many jams you see are caused by the guy behind you getting bored with waiting and swinging out to one side, so blocking the traffic on the other side from having even a chance of moving. I cringe as our drivers almost kill cyclists daily but they simply swerve to avoid the approaching Corolla and go about their day. In London, such driving would be met with a barrage of curse words and a lecture…just before the righteous cyclist jumps a red light. Here, nothing. Not a word.

It seems if you can take the easy route you should, especially if have the power to, and especially if no one will say anything to stop you…

Repeated Greetings: How many ways do you know how to say ‘hello’?

A colleague of mine answered the phone at dinner the other night. Now my Dari is still a little rudimentary but I understood this one perfectly. The sum of the conversation was this; he was in Mazar-e Sharif, not Kabul and would return the call tomorrow. Pretty straightforward conversation I hear you say; oh, how young you are! Now what you need to understand is that no Afghan conversation is brief as it must be preceded and concluded by certain formalities which inevitably extend even the most basic of chats into a fairly lengthy exchange.

Lesson one: All conversations must be preceded by something approaching the following;

Asalam malekum – Peace be upon you

Walekum asalum – And peace be upon you

Che hel dared? – How are you?

Shoma khub hastid? – Are you good?

Jan-e jur – Is your body good? (not like that kiddies)

Sahat-e Shoma khub? – Is your health good?

Haire Hairat? – is your/your family’s honour intact?

This will be spoken by both participants pretty much at the same time rendering the answers unheard but the idea of it is important. Along with offering you tea you feel Afghans truly want to know how you are and have developed this impressive list of questions to show you this! At first you don’t know what to do. We don’t really have these questions in English; or rather they would feel out of place if we used them. The trick is this; just dive in, learn the questions and repeat them to your heart’s content, and as fast as your language skills will carry you. It speeds your route through security checks, means your bags don’t get searched, and gets you extra fruit at the market.

Lesson two: All conversations must be ended thus;

Tashekor – Thank you

Zindigi bashid – Live long

Salamat bashid – Be healthy

Khoda hafez – See you later/God bless you

Lesson three: Breath deeply.

Those of you who have experienced this will know exactly what I am talking about. There are times in which I really don’t know what to say as someone asks me repeatedly how I am feeling, how my body is, whether my honour is intact etc. However, it’s certainly a new cultural experience once you have witnessed it and just one of the many elements that makes Afghanistan so fascinating.

Well, I hope reading this hasn’t made you sleepy or suicidal…I’m not sure if any of you have seen Dara o Briain’s (you know the one? Bald, funny, Irish)  stand-up where he discusses stereotypes and how we are very sure of ourselves when making jokes about the Americans, Germans, British, French etc, but that when we are outside of these more famous nations we are a little lost.

Well, now you can say ‘Afghans? Afghans, yeah, you mean the friendly, tea-drinking lads who can’t drive for toffee but say hello ten times? What about them?