Apologies for the break – I was busy finishing a piece of writing and didn’t have any spare time to continue the Pamir roadtrip story.

Where were we? We were still on Day 2, having just arrived into Khorog, and were exploring the gardens at the Serena, while Dan napped off his stomach bug. We can cover the remainder of that day plus Day 3 (In Khorog) here.

By about 5 in evening Dan forced himself out of bed to show us a bit of the town, and we went to have a bite to eat and a pleasant time relaxing on the tapchans at the Chorbogh teahouse (operated by the group of Aga Khan organizations, just like the Serena – the AK development network seems to kind of run the Pamirs, or at least Khorog). The teahouse is situated just on the banks of the river Gunt, in a corner of the Khorog city park, with a raised platform hanging out over the river and the icy blue-green water rushing by below.

The town itself feels quaint and small, although it also has the bustling feel of a regional hub, and the center of town right next to the bazaar housed a constant crowd of travelers and touts and small-time sellers and minibuses and SUVs – the marketplace for anyone wanting to depart the Pamir region for west-central Tajikistan and not aiming to pay for one of the very limited airplane seats out of town (meaning almost any ordinary traveler).


Khorog is a border post, founded in the 1890s by the Russian military as the boundaries between British-controlled Afghanistan and Russian-controlled Central Asia were firmed up, so in a sense, although the town is picturesque, it isn’t surprising that it also has a hint of the rough and ready menace of a border station. And maybe because our visit coincided with a holiday weekend, including Tajikistan’s independence day, for which there was a large public celebration in the city park, there was also at times an ever so slightly trashy feel – drunks hanging around on the edges of the park, groups of men ranging around after the late afternoon breakup of the local football match, and literally lots of remaining litter lying around in the park after the main heaps of trash had been carted away on the actual holiday. So Khorog was a pleasant break during our travels but certainly not home to us, as tourists and visitors.

We had a peaceful stay at the Serena, got rested up, and refroze the ice packs from our cooler. Continued to meet up with random travelers you’d never imagine would bother to make their way to Tajikistan, although I suppose that for them that’s the point: the Pamirs in a real sense are the end of the world, following in Marco Polo's footsteps, that kind of thing. On our first evening we’d already met up with a group of San Diego based travelers in Kalai Khumb who were making their way from Osh in Kyrgyzstan (I was surprised, given the relatively recent violence there) to Dushanbe, by way of Khorog. They claimed they’d visited (or would soon have visited?) every country in the world. “There’s a group of us,” their ringleader noted, by way of explanation. Who knew? In Khorog we crossed paths at the Serena with a French family traveling in a 2-car caravan. They had driven overland all the way from Europe and aimed after an exploration of the Pamirs to end up in Tashkent, where their university-aged son had a reservation to fly out in a few weeks’ time.

We also spent a thoroughly enjoyable morning in the Khorog Botanical Garden, perched up on a hill above the Shakhdarya river, on the southeast edge of the narrow town. (Khorog is situated in a narrow gorge, where the Gunt runs westward and intersects with the northward flowing – at this stage – Oxus. It basically has room for one main east-west street on the north side of the Gunt and a few secondary ones parallel to it.) Not much more to report on here except a slow meander through the semi-wild gardens and admiring (and taking snapshots of) the flowers, groves, and the imposing and tacky new mansion the president of Tajikistan has built for himself at the edge of the grounds. (The Serena, where he used to stay, apparently is no longer good enough. But thinking about that made us realize, kind of ickily: ‘wait, if we splurged to stay in the deluxe suite at the Serena, probably we’re sleeping in the same bed where Rahmon has slept!?’)

The brief R&R was good for our peace of mind, and Dan began to feel better. After a phone consultation with our Dushanbe medical provider, he decided to get his hands on some metronidazole, on the suspicion that he’d gotten giardia. We had a moment’s doubt about whether we could find it in Khorog, but then we realized that the prevalence of stomach bugs in this part of the world meant that actually this was probably the easiest medicine to get your hands on in a local drugstore. And we were right. He started to improve after 1 or 2 doses of the meds.

On the negative side, Monday morning we got a phone call from Dushanbe, alerting us that, in addition to the recent 25-man jailbreak and reported suicide-bombing at government buildings in Khujand, there were now reports of a bomb (or a fight? in Tajikistan rumor is king) in a local Dushanbe nightclub on Saturday night. That was slightly unsettling news, although the rational mind would tell you that in the remote eastern Pamirs you’re about as safe from unrest and political violence as you can be in Tajikistan.

Another negative that was nagging at both Dan’s and my mind, as we prepared to set out on our eastern loop through some of the most remote and unprovisioned territory in the country, stemmed from the unfortunate fact that the X-Terra’s “Service Engine Soon” light had lit up just as we pulled into Khorog, and it hadn’t yet gone off. Although the message was ominously vague, after consulting the owner’s manual, we’d established with pretty good confidence that in fact it was primarily a warning about the emissions system. Bad gas from a brief refueling stop in Kulob, perhaps? We weren’t sure, but we convinced ourselves that it probably didn’t mean we were in danger of breaking down. We hoped.

After our second morning enjoying a hearty breakfast in the Serena dining room, overlooking the sunny garden and riverbank, we gassed up again at the much more trustworthy-looking main gas station in Khorog (hoping the possibly bad Kulob fuel might get diluted?), and set out southward on the road toward Ishkashim.

Bumping to Kalai Khumb, Limping into Khorog

Well, I took a short break in real time to visit Norway, and let me tell you: visiting one of the most remote parts of the world (the Pamirs), followed by one of the most progressive parts of the world (you guess), followed by your return to the sort of semi-deprived point on the map that you now call home can give you situational and psychological whiplash. It is good to be home, but also sad to leave behind those little comforts (and friends), your fondness for which (and whom) was brought back to you in vivid color during your weekend away.

But back to our trip to the mountains, still occurring in narrative time:

Day 1 into Day 2 (Kalai-Khumb to Khorog. 240 km, ca. 9:00 am - ca. 4:00 pm, approx. 7 hours)

Midday into our first leg of the journey, we passed through Kulob and picnicked on the other side, still feeling excited for the road ahead.* At that point, another kind of bad road began: we left the slippery, fine sable-hued dust of the construction zones in the Khatlon hills and headed for the red dried mud, steeper inclines, slightly more hair-raising switchbacks, and, I can say in retrospect, medium-grade bumpy road that led between about Shurobod and Zigar. We also crossed successfully (that outcome was actually more in doubt than anyone expected setting out on our journey) the requisite iffy bridge that I think any journey in Tajikistan worth its salt must include.


Once we crossed into Darvoz proper at Zigar (recall the map), the road again included surprisingly well-paved patches. Here the Iranians, Turks, and Chinese are dividing up the road and improving it, although apparently on their own individual schedules and with their own idiosyncratic materials, methods, and plans.

We pulled into Kalai Khumb nearing dinner time and fairly quickly located our guesthouse. Since I was the passenger, it fell to me to go in and determine whether our attempt to make a reservation had really worked. It became clearer later on that it actually hadn’t, but we still got a room. The main problem when we first arrived was that my head, my neck, my shoulders – really, my whole body just felt like it had undergone some kind of human jackhammer experiment gone awry, and I was tired to boot. The synapses in my brain seemed literally to have been jostled and split, so I kind of had trouble expressing myself to the guy and explaining that we needed a room for 3 people but that it ought to be somewhere on his “reservation list.” Part of the problem was I really wasn't sure at first what language to speak, Russian or Tajik, so a bad mixture with words forgotten in each came stuttering out of my mouth. In any case, we quickly sorted it out and were shown to a double on the first floor of the small guesthouse building.

We had been unsure in any case whether we even wanted to stay in this place, since the advance report last year had steered Dan away due to bedbugs. (Dan and colleagues spent the night at the recommended Kalai Khumb alternative, only for Dan to wake up scratching his entire inflamed midsection due to – you guessed it – bedbugs. But because of that experience, we figured, we might as well try the original place.)

The guesthouse was actually very enjoyable in a Spartan kind of way, a pleasant surprise. OK, it didn’t quite merit the term “bed and breakfast,” which for Westerners is too loaded with charm and quaintness to do justice to hardly any lodging experience in Tajikistan, but the rooms were fine, the mattresses and bed linens clean, and the walls had no signs of bug squishage, which we’d been told was one way to detect a bedbug infestation. Dinner was a welcome and hearty portion of both pasta and rice with a saucy chicken and tomato kind of thing to pour over it. Large pot of green tea, a platter of dried nuts and raisins: the whole 9 yards (well, maybe 7, but in provincial Tajikistan that's a long way!). Our host even offered Dan a cold beer to start out, although it was the less savory Baltika #9 instead of a 7 or even a 3. But hardly a discomfort. We were quite happy to have a peaceful meal on the balcony overlooking the small, rough garden, and to watch the basin of the mountains rising out in front of us as they darkened into dusk.

Night unfortunately brought little sleep – Anya was hopped up, and it was hot and stuffy in the room. But we still anticipated that we’d get moving in the morning and everything would get back on track.

That was until the wee hours of morning, when at least for Dan himself that hope started to go south as he got extremely nauseous. I found out only as we rose and got ready for breakfast (which he was unable to eat) that his stomach was presenting some serious problems.

So we started out on the road to Khorog with a bit of trepidation. A few sickness stops into the ride that feeling really had not abated, although this leg of the journey was at least not terribly long. I drove a portion of the way, when Dan felt so terrible he didn’t want to drive anymore (he insisted it was at least a distraction from the stomach pain until it got very acute). But as we neared the last few kilometers before the hotel, on the outskirts of Khorog, with Dan back in the driver’s seat, we heard a wail from the backseat and turned to see projectile vomiting inside the car from passenger #2! Trepidation took a turn toward dread with that one.

It was actually just motion sickness with Anya, instead of anything she ate, but we really only determined that later on. And even that fact didn’t exactly lessen our feeling of foreboding, since for Dan car sickness is actually a pretty serious and consistent problem. The notion that the kid might be barfing all the way through days two through eight of our journey didn’t lighten our mood.

We stopped for a short clean up along the side of the road, with the requisite wide-eyed Tajik kid staring at us the entire time, and headed the final half hour or so to the 4-star Serena Inn. (Dan very wisely planned our itinerary with variation, between splurging on the very comfortable Serena and staying at places more lacking in the mod cons before and after.)

Once checked in, we had a quick but serious bath for everyone, sick and healthy. Dan headed for bed, and Anya had a quick snack (very enthusiastically eating the very same thing she’d upchucked all over the car – homemade granola – lending more evidence that she was not seriously ill, thankfully). Then Anya and I went out to explore the Serena’s very extensive and quite beautiful terraced riverside garden, while Dan slept through his fever.


Next report: our fearless leader rallies from the sickbed to show us the fine city of Khorog on our first evening in town.

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* Side note on the security happenings that forced us to travel the southern route: a very good overview of what is happening in Tajikistan following the jailbreak and other events, and their larger significance, can be found at Stratfor.

Summer Camping Trip

Photos from our goodbye camping trip with 2 families that will leave us soon -- one for a few months and the other permanently -- are here.

Sadik Graduation: A Bit of Cultural Context

I posted a video clip and some photos today from Anya's preschool year-end pageant. There were a whole lot of dance numbers and a wonderful spread of food, with the landlord's plov as the centerpiece. The evening was a lot of fun, not least for us personally because of how Anya showed to what extent she has come out of her reserved shell in the last several months, capping this year in preschool with a dance "solo."

I guess I feel the need to explain a bit, though. There was one number that made us feel a bit uncomfortable for the way race played a role, and although I loved Anya's own Eastern dance number, it occurs to me that it's possible someone unfamiliar with the cultural context might wonder what was happening with her short routine.

First, race. The kids did a group routine to the tune of "Chunga-Changa," a song from the Soviet-era cartoon "Katerok (Little Boat)." You can see the original 1970 animated version here. When we saw Anya come out together with her classmate O. to dance in costume amid their peers, we were a little surprised that the one child with an African parent was cast in a piece with that name, in outfits made to look like classically imagined "native dress."

The song is a little paean to a simple life of plenty on the desert isle to which the Little Boat in the cartoon gets blown off-course in a storm: the lyrics celebrate the "miraculous island's" blue skies, year-round summer climate, and the diet of coconuts and bananas that one apparently adopts once one is grounded there. On that level, one can probably read the song and the cartoon scenes as a simple daydream about escaping the life of shortages and difficulty in the Soviet Union. The trouble for a person born in the post-Civil Rights United States comes in where the somewhat stylized figures of black children enter (which is almost immediately), complete with curly heads of hair and what look like grass skirts. To me this looks like the product of a centuries-long distance from African and Afro-Caribbean colonialism, and the twentieth-century relationship of the Soviet state to the Third World and Africa and the Caribbean, with a dash of Russian old-school Romantically informed views about the immutable and inherent qualities of race (and, for that matter, gender).

Obviously, cultural relativism in this situation could be seen as no different from agreement and support. I'm still honestly not sure what to think of the way the teachers staged this piece, but I guess for now I think it's best to assume that this is primarily about a fondly remembered Soviet-era cultural artifact and that the bit was being staged with all the best intentions, and basically to leave it at that. (After all, so much of what the kids in our sadik do, especially at their pageants, comes from exactly the same nostalgic place: witness fondness for the Soviet incarnation of the Ded Moroz-Baba Yaga story that people in the post-Soviet world are truly loathe to part with.)

(I should mention too that this dance number at the preschool was preceded by an intro about how delightfully international our particular group of kids is, and more generally praising in broad strokes the multitude of difference kinds of people and nations in the world, complete with each kid waving the flag of his or her parents home country. Never mind that that becomes complicated with so many of our preschool's families in dual national households: the point was just to do one of those simple celebrations of the "thousand flowers" blooming together, to praise the "friendship of the peoples." More Soviet-era concepts re-imagined in the post-Soviet (re-)developing world, where expat NGO and diplomatic families and some locals can afford to pay for a better quality private day-care/preschool than what is offered officially on the local market.)

True, after seeing the dance number, there may be a place for commenting to the teachers about the role they chose for O. (I will note that O.'s European mother didn't seem to mind a bit that her son was cast in the piece, although she could have simply been keeping her reaction inside. When I talked to some of our fellow parents about it later, we all agreed that she and her family have to be used to the very different views about race that people hold in the former Soviet Union. Whether that makes it OK is a different question, but I wouldn't be surprised if in fact she wasn't phased by it.) But are our own American views and cultural associations with race so perfect that we can go around lecturing to Tajiks or Russians about their assumptions?

It might also be appropriate for us to engage our kids in conversation about race after the performance, but I tend to think that 3 and a half is young to have a talk about these things. I think my view is that here, as in other aspects of our social relations, it's probably better just to model tolerance and openness to our kids, rather than to have overt discussions about how the world works (and ought to work), to show by doing rather than to instruct by talking. (Part of that I hope is the way we interact with O., and I do think that part of the reason it took me a split second to notice the weirdness of the casting in the dance number precisely because I don't notice O.'s race. It's only because of the dance number that I'm even thinking about his skin color, really.)

Incidentally, if you want to know more about how race is discussed in Russia and in the former Soviet Union's cultural sphere, this Russian-language article on Wikipedia is actually quite insightfully written. There are a few spots where I start to wonder what the author's own biases are, but for the most part I think it explains really well the differences I've noticed in over 20 years of direct contact with Homo sovieticus and visiting his (and her) habitat.

OK, with all of that as prelude, just take a look at the photos and videos for yourself. I will try to explain my position on 3-year-olds doing something that resembles belly dancing next time, but in the meantime I'll just say that I look at the whole belly dancing thing as an art form, and one whose moves and shiny costumes truly fascinate kids. I'm really glad that Anya, whose dancing always has an Eastern flair to it, probably because she's spent these formative years in Central Asia, did this particular dance for her little year-end solo.

Around (Part of the) World in the Past 80 Days

A non-chronological rundown from A to Z of what I’ve neglected to report since I last wrote:

A – Archives, in both Russia and Tajikistan. I have been surprised in the last six weeks to learn just how much bureaucracy and apparently arbitrary and informal adjustments to bureaucratic rules really do differ between TJ and RU. I’m sorry I have to be reminded, but I do often forget that it is wrong to lump these two together into a single category. If you want to be wowed, I suggest you work for several months just trying to get registered and allowed to see documents in the sad national archive of a regressing Central Asian nation, and then go overnight to the beautiful oasis of the main reading room at GARF (State Archive of the Russian Federation), with its computerized index system and terminals at each reader station. But be careful not to faint from shock.


B – Buzkashi. The art of dragging around a goat carcass and fighting over it from your position atop a galloping horse. See photo essay.


C – Cheeses. Twelve of them, packed in multiple plastic bags, ziplocs, and stuffed together with a gift freezer pack in Paris into suitcase #3, only to emerge upon arrival in Tajikistan still cool and smelling wonderful. Now awaiting experimental freezing.


D – Disease. Luckily for Anya, only “angina” which, I guess contrary to our use of the word in English (from the Latin for choking or congestion) in reference to chest constriction and heart disease, in French refers to something like tonsillitis or strep throat. It was the sickest she’s actually been her whole life, but she was still a trooper. And our visit to the French pediatrician in Tonnere, France, renewed our already high respect for socialized medicine – bring on that Obamacare, thank you very much!


E – Embroidery. To my great disappointment, I must admit, the needlework has stalled out! But for a good reason: renewed research inspiration and necessity (much-procrastinated research trip to Moscow) made me turn away from the embroidery kind of right at the point where I was going the strongest on it, unfortunately. But I am really glad to feel the new boost in creativity and production, and the work is fun. Whether to keep up with the crafts in this current phase of Dushanbe life is my next decision…


F – France. Mmmmm, 2 weeks binging in the heartland of duck confit, terrine and paté, fromages hard and soft (especially soft and runny Epoisses and Chablis, my favorite of our discoveries), red wine (Burgundy, to be exact), and escargots (Anya to Dan: “dai mne eshche ulitku! [give me another snail!]”). Throw a few raw oysters – and whelks and winkles – on top and you pretty much have our vacation in a nut (or snail) shell.


G – Grandparents. Had a great time with 2 of them in the French countryside – Anya for 2 days longer than we did, and apparently all 3 of them had a blast.


H – Hotels, good and bad. FYI, in Autun, it's probably wise to splurge on the Hotel les Ursulines up in the old town, with the beautiful enclosed garden, despite the nondescript rooms. The incompetent front desk manager at the Hotel St. Louis et de la Poste downtown (together with the single, yet surely not solitary, cockroach we spied) made that one a bust. And the experience kind of ruined the whole next 24 hours, to be honest.


I – Insects. Fleas to be precise, which are the most bothersome ones that have visited us (and apparently left, during our vacation) over the last few months. But with the onset of spring the aphids on the fruit trees in our yard have also come out of hibernation. We are trying to spray with soap and water, but is it possible that Central Asian aphids are immune to this approach?


J – Jeans. In addition to the fact that the fashion right now is very clearly to tuck these into your tall, but flat-heeled, boots, I gleaned many other fashion tid-bits during my many hours walking from archive to archive, and people watching, in Moscow.


K – Kyrgyzstan. In truth, this doesn’t really deserve to be on this list, since ironically (and probably luckily) we could hardly feel further from the unrest and changes there. That is not to say that it might not spill over – you definitely never know. But so far it really seems not to have one iota of an influence here in Tajikistan, and in a practical way for us that is a good thing. In the larger picture I am not so sure that it is in the best interests of Tajikistan’s citizenry to be so complacent, but I am not complaining right now. The “revolution” – or maybe “coup” – occurred while I was in Moscow, and actually I probably knew more about it learning about it from that location than from home in Dushanbe, since while I was there I had the time and the inclination to watch the news quite diligently (and even discuss all of the very interesting, mainly tragic or disturbing, current events, from Kyrgyzstan to Katyn to the Moscow metro, with my landlady). It kind of felt like I was at the center of a much more connected universe while I was in Moscow, while here in Dushanbe everything typically seems very insular, very isolated from what is happening in the outside world. In any case, I include this mention here mainly since so many people have asked us about events in the neighboring ‘stan.


L – Lady drivers. It seems I’m one of them again. More precisely, for some reason when spring arrives in Tajikistan, not only do the local men do a typical double-take for women walking and perhaps wearing something pretty (a revealing mid-calf kurta, or what have you), apparently they also have a habit of looking twice and even staring when they see a woman behind the wheel. Come to think of it, women and kids will crane their necks to check it out, too. It’s just that shocking a sight to see.


M – Moscow! What a big, bewildering city it really is – I had a great time, and although after two and a half weeks there I was ready to get back to the slow pace of life in Dushanbe (and my peeps), the hustle and bustle was pretty fun to experience. It was my first time really living in the city (and right downtown, in a great location, steps away from Kievskaya metro station) and exploring it myself – the town I know best is Petersburg, and Nizhnii Novgorod I suppose is a close second. (Sorry, Vladivostok, I guess you take bronze.) I think I might not even mind spending some extended time in Moscow in the future (although maybe I’d get sticker shock if we really were to live there for a stint, not just visit short term).


N – Navruz. After a week of sun and warmth leading up to the biggest Central Asian holiday of the year, with people getting positively punch-drunk on the weather, it was a big dud. Rainy and cold. Certainly not inspiring for anyone to wear their new kurta, especially if it is still far from being completed…


O – Other scholars/academics. This spring has brought a lot more contact with researchers here in this part of the world, surprisingly many of them here in Dushanbe. It started with the German grad student, studying Soviet history, whom I met by sheer luck near the end of her 5 year stint here in Dushanbe. (5 years because she is also a spouse and mother raising her small kids here; she wasn’t spending the entire time doing full-time dissertation work.) Then it gathered steam with the grad students I met in Moscow, and now, partly because it is summer (those US based academics are smart: avoid Tajikistan in the winter. What a good idea!), there are 3 grad students here in town whom I know. I also met an inspiring independent scholar from Canada and I hope soon to formally meet the German scholar who was working at the desk next to me at the archives today. It’s gotten to the point that I am seriously planning to have an academic dinner party soon, before some of these folks cycle out of here and the population dwindles again.


P – Potty Progress. Hooray! Big girl undies (thin, no soaker panel) + possibly an unusual time-out from preschool teachers in response to her last real accident = I guess a month or more of dryness and a nearly perfect (I’d say ‘spotless’ but that wasn’t actually our problem…) record with trips to the toilet.


Q – “Quiet time.” This was how I explained to Anya what the side chapels in the several French cathedrals we visited were for. She started wanting to go in them with me to catch some together.


R – Rain. Unfortunately we departed from rainy spring weather in Tajikistan (where it is at least warm) only to be met by rain and half-century record low temperatures hovering at or under 10C in France. And now we've returned to TJ, where the rains are just an annoyance in Dushanbe but have left over a thousand people homeless and camped out in the stadium in the southern city of Kulob. Anya and I tried to make a small contribution to help Monday when we brought 4 bags of things of hers and mine that are either no longer worn or have been outgrown to donate for local efforts to assist in Tajikistan’s south.


S – Spring! and the arrival of the “Season”: the season for produce in Tajikistan, that is. When even the neighborhood bazaar has strawberries (sad and soggy though they may be) for sale, you know the highwater mark of fruit and veg season is just around the corner. Sure, you’re still advised to make the trip to Green Bazaar for really good quality and selection, but the season has arrived, for sho’.


T – Train travel. And the miracle of catching our Frankfurt-Paris train, for which we had planned a layover of 3 hours. Ultimately we had to run for it in the 45-minute interval that Somon Air's delayed arrival afforded us. (Anya to Lisa the night before the return trip, in Paris: “Will we have to run for the train again? I didn’t like that.”)


U – Umbrella. Anya was pleased as punch to be given a Winnie-the-Pooh children’s (hey, they probably make them in adult sizes, so I might need to specify) umbrella, after a shopping spree in the hypermarché outside Autun. (Shopping therapy after our bad experience at the hotel? It’s possible.) It made the trip home just fine packed in a suitcase and still hasn’t broken. Surely better quality construction than the 9-somoni jobbie I bought her at the bazaar in Khujand in the winter.


V – Vaccines. The polio outbreak in Tajikistan has given me reason to renew my earlier interest in polio vaccines, both injected/inactivated and oral/live, albeit from a very different perspective. Anya got her first round of the OPV booster series today. The situation is truly serious, but for kids who have received good quality vaccines so far and are up to date like Anya there should not be an extreme risk. With that firmly in mind, I actually think it might do us a lot of good if more academics had to deal with their topics of heated abstract discussion in direct and concrete relationship to their own or their kids' lives. But I guess that probably isn't a widely applicable or appropriate thing to wish for. The experiences is actually very enlightening and provides fascinating insight.


W – Water, dirty. Spring rains (well, any rains, really) bring “brown baths,” as Anya has called them since her first ever dip in the tub here in Dushanbe, a year and a half ago. The water from the tap used to be brown all the time, but shortly after we moved in the city did some improvements (yes, it happens), and the quality on a typical day improved. But we are reminded right now of how extremely cloudy and dingy that water can get. At least it serves as a good reminder that it wouldn’t be wise to drink out of the tap!


X – Хозяйка. Or khoziaika. That is, “landlady.” I had a really good one in Moscow for the 2 weeks I rented a room in her apartment – it was a surprisingly nice arrangement for me, working for many hours during the day and into the evening at the archives, and coming home to have a bit of dinner or tea in the kitchen with Inna Zinovievna.


Y – Yoga! So glad that Dushanbe has seen a renaissance (or I guess simply naissance?) of it in the last 6 months. I am happy to say I’m back to 2 times practicing per week (when not on vacation – but I did go to 2 overpriced yoga sessions in Moscow!).


Z – From Anya Z. (Vladivostok friend) through the mid-alphabet, mid-Europe Meilak, to Berkeley’s own Z-spot, visited with lots of friends we hadn’t seen in years during the past few months’ travels. It's a good thing to do, since living over here, even in this internet-, Facebook-friendly age, means we still aren't able to keep in contact as often as we'd like with people we care about. Sometimes the isolation here just makes us sluggish and complacent in that frame of mind, and the months stretch on and the messages (and blog posts) don't get written. So it was really good to reconnect with so many friends (and family) over these past 80 days.

Historic Khujand

We took a trip to the north of Tajikistan for the first part of last week, to the city of Khujand. Dan and his colleague were going for work, and it seemed like a good (who knows, maybe already the last?) chance to tag along under such circumstances (hotel room paid for, ground transportation already planned and covered, etc.) and see something new.

So Anya and I got up early on Monday morning and went to the domestic terminal with the guys, sat in the chilly waiting hall, let ourselves be bussed out to the plane -- a frighteningly ancient (1970s vintage?) prop plane, an An-24 I guess. But the flight took only 50 minutes, so we didn't have too long to sit there and wonder how it was that this plane was flying so successfully.

The trip as a whole was a lot of fun, but it does make me marvel at the difference between traveling with a pre-schooler and either traveling alone or with someone older than about 8. It's just funny how slow you move, how much less you do each day (especially when a handful of prime hours are spent inside for napping!), but also what a different perspective you get on everything you see and experience on a trip where your main companion is 3.

As we've done in other provincial cities in the former Soviet Union, we stayed in the hotel's luxury suite -- not exactly the Four Seasons, but not too shabby nonetheless. Two rooms, one of which had a crazy contemporary sofa set with accessory pillows -- 1 round, 1 star-shaped -- that entertained Anya half of the time we were there. About a 100-degree curve of plate glass windows in the corner of the room, covered with curtains that entertained Anya for the other half of the time we were there. A jacuzzi tub that leaked and didn't have the water pressure to fill it in our lifetime. (Similar to another provincial hotel experience in Khabarovsk, Russia.) No honor bar, but a plates of dried apricots and a plate of pistachios left in the fridge (undoubtedly by another guest, but who's to say, really?). A big screen plasma TV that got Russian music videos and BBC World. What more could you really want?

The first day was cloudy but no precipitation. We checked in after our midmorning arrival and headed in our separate directions: Dan and colleague to work meetings, Anya and I to explore the town. Hotel Vatan was located really centrally, just a 5 minute walk to Khujandi Theater and the Sugd regional history museum. We used the clear weather to explore outside, since we'd heard the next 2 days would bring rain and/or snow. We forced ourselves to stop after a snack of several "healthy cookies" and get outside, walking past the theater and north along the "alley" park leading up to the Syr Darya river. Stopped at a park bench to have a mandarin orange and pick up some leaves. Strolled up to the river while singing several verses of "Old MacDonald Had a Farm."

Turned to admire the defunct Leninobod hotel building and what is billed as the largest Lenin statue in Central Asia (from afar). Turned along the river and up Lenin Boulevard to look for a cafe for lunch. Found a cafe in the Youth Palace (Dvorets molodezhi or Qasri javonon) where we had noodle soup, a breaded cutlet, and green tea. Got along famously with the friendly waitress, who addressed us in Russian but with the funny addition of a markedly northern Tajik question suffix tacked onto her sentences. This was also the lunch where Anya learned to love green tea out of Central Asian piyola teacups (the ones that are just like little bowls, without handles).

Then headed back to the hotel for a little bit of play and a nap!

And essentially that is where the sightseeing ends on any particular day, since Anya generally sleeps from 2-4:30, and by that time the sun is going down already. We went out for dinner with a friend from Dushanbe who was also in town and, as they say in the Madeline book, "that's all there is, there isn't any more."

On Day 2 we were planning to go with Dan and colleague an hour's drive away to the nearby city of Istaravshan, another city with over two thousand years of history behind it and reportedly a really interesting place to see, but since it was raining and we move so slow (and it wasn't clear how we'd get back midday for the nap), we decided to take it easy and remain in Khujand proper.

The highlight of the day was the regional history museum. This is a prime example of what I mean by the amazingly different perspective you get when your traveling companion is a 3-year-old. Anya's favorite part was the section where the floor was made of plexiglass and in the 3 or 4 inch space beneath it was basically a model of an archeological dig: sand and shards of pottery, pieces of wooden beams, gold coins, metal vessels and old shoes, etc. We spent a long time there trying to guess what the various artifacts were. So much time that I couldn't drag her away to look at anything else and finally got bored of it myself. So with some difficulty I bundled us out the door and across the square to another cafe for some homemade pelmeni (tushbera in Tajik; basically meat-filled dumplings), more green tea, and the very tasty Khujandi kulcha (small round flatbread bread loaves made with a touch more oil than regular Tajik naan).

Day 3 it did snow -- wet and sloppy. After much cajoling I talked Anya into going out of the hotel for a shopping trip to find the teapot that she claimed Bear needed to have for a birthday present. We stopped in all the toy stores between Hotel Vatan and the main market square of the city, admiring all the fun things on offer.

It seemed to me like there was more mid-level consumer-oriented commerce in Khujand, and these stores were a good example. I guess we don't spend a lot of time seeking this stuff out in Dushanbe, when we're not on vacation, but it still seems to me like in Dushanbe you either have bazaar-based commerce and items that are pretty cheaply made and sold, or you have super-fancy storefronts where you wonder who on earth really shops there. In Khujand I saw a lot more middle-of-the-road shops (and even well made commercial signs all over the place, very consumer-oriented) that seemed to hold things that people really want and can afford to buy.

We had a lot of fun looking at a flock of birds in the bazaar square and then tramped around the inside of the bazaar for a bit, me trying to surreptitiously buy a small collection of trinkets to serve as the small gifts in a makeshift Advent calendar once we got home. Along the way we finally found the child's umbrella that Anya has actually been suggesting that we buy her for over a month now -- the first thing she has so specifically asked for in her life -- and the plastic tea set for Bear. Then we hopped in a taxi and made it back to one of the more famous restaurants in town (Zaituna) in time to share Khujandi rice plov (raisins and dried currants seemed to me to be the difference in the north) and more green tea with Dan and his colleague.

A nap and some packing later and we were on the road to the airport. By the time we got through check-in it was driving snow outside, and I was somewhat concerned about the flight, despite the fact that we could see from the airport waiting hall that we would be flying in a newer and more substantial Boeing this time. But I guess they make this flight several times a day and often in snow, so it actually turned out very smoothly, thanks to Tajik Air's pilot. Made it back home to Dushanbe in time for a book and bedtime!

Tursunzoda Torn Up

One of the downsides of getting back and forth to sadik during the week these days is the fact that one of the important north-south arteries in the older section of town is all torn up for some thus-far not-totally-comprehensible construction project.

(Actually, the irony here is that, not only did they block traffic along that artery, Tursunzoda Street, for a good part of July, only to open it now to slow, partially hindered movement, they also now in August decided to major work on the real main north-south artery in this section of town, Rudaki Avenue. It's city planning at its best, here in Dushanbe.)

The thing about driving up and down Tursunzoda that depresses me, though, is not that for a good portion traffic slows to a sometimes one-lane trickle over gravel and dirt and around large construction vehicles. (It doesn't look so bad for instance in the first picture here, but on a weekday morning right now traffic has to pick its way slowly through a lot of debris and activity.) What really bothers me is the treeless moonscape they have created where a slightly lazy, tree-lined secondary street once extended.

This at right is what the street used to look like, and in its northern stretches, nearer to our house, (so far) still looks like.

But in the section closer to the center of town they have uprooted the huge old trees that lined the road, apparently in order to refurbish the gutters and, some are saying but who really knows, to widen the actual roadway.

This below is actually not Tursunzoda itself but a smaller street, one of the only ones that ran all the way through to join the two parallel north-south avenues of this part of town, and therefore was actually a very useful street until they completely blocked traffic on it, too. It was also a nicely shaded street before, one that led part of the way to sadik and was pleasant to walk on to run an errand in that neighborhood.

This summer in Dushanbe has really taught me the value of trees in a place like this, even beyond all the more fundamental reasons that any rational person knows they are important and shouldn't just be chopped down without good reason. In a place that typically sees 40 to (luckily not this summer) 45 degrees C (105-115F) yet is quite dry, and where average homes are rarely equipped with air conditioners, shade is an extremely important factor. More generally, of course, one of the charming aesthetic aspects of Dushanbe (and it's not like it's dripping with those, although it is much better in that regard than Vladivostok) is its tree-lined avenues.

I don't know who made the decision to destroy so many old trees, and I doubt he's got an effective plan to replace them with equivalents. I just feel so sorry for the people who live in these neighborhoods, whose houses and walks to the bus stop or corner store are all of a sudden depleted of the shade that surely made them bearable -- maybe even pleasant -- in summer.

Of course, then whoever is overseeing the construction project apparently just lets the trees and root structures sit in the street, and neighborhood people then pillage the wood for their own purposes or to sell. One speculation about the tree part of the project that I've heard several times is that the wood was just worth more out of the ground than in the form of a tree. But by that measure, and by typical Central Asian logic, someone much higher up on the food-chain than Dilshod-on-the-street ought to be making the profit off of the trees. And maybe they are -- maybe the bulk of the trees destroyed were taken away to build fancy dachas or to floor new mansions, and we just see the bits and pieces left to the neighborhood to hack up and use or sell.

First Road Trip of August 09

Somehow we don't seem to have taken nearly any pictures nor gone on any drives over the course of July. I'm not sure how that happened, since summer is the time in Dushanbe when people tend to escape the heat of the city for the cool of the river valleys outside of town. I guess we can chalk it up to an extremely full social calendar here in the city, from the weekend of July 4th all the way down to last weekend, as the US ambassador to Tajikistan prepared for the end of her posting here.

This weekend we took our first drive out to the east of Dushanbe (or at least Anya and I did -- Dan had been a few times, to visit the dam at Nurek and to see Gharm, in Rasht Valley). We went in neither of those directions, though, instead going up the smallest road that spokes off from the little hub that is Vahdat (aka Kofarnihon), a town due east of Dushanbe (that is being somewhat kind, I hope you realize): we took the northern spur into Romit Valley (that's Romit like "raw meat," although if you're following along at home with Google Maps, apparently it's "Ramit").


It was very pretty and very different from the Varzob river valley that runs directly north of Dushanbe and through which we have driven already too many times to count. (Road construction work on various tunnels and road surfaces makes that trip a little tiresome.) It was also quite different from the valley that runs north of Shahrinav, out west of Dushanbe, although it's possible our experience of that terrain was unique because it was springtime and a very wet one at that.


Romit in summer had brown hills, but a wide rushing river the color of jade or celadon. The further up we went (and according to the GPS we turned around to head home right here, at 38.90 x 69.28), the wetter the landscape got -- actually kind of surprising given how dry it is for the most part where we live.

In the valley that runs due north of Romit village, the roadway was lined at almost every turn with carefully constructed rock walls and fences woven out of spindly branches, evidently delimiting orchards and garden plots and grazing land. Some of the road wound under full tree cover where the ground was wet and the walls were covered with moss. (Moss!)


The unpaved roadway up the valley was surprisingly smooth, given our experience elsewhere in Tajikistan so far. Someone had clearly been through with a grader or something since the end of the spring, when all the rainfall we saw here would have covered the route in rockfall and mud. But there were still sizeable stretches of our trip where we were bump-bump-bumping along, which you realize only near the end of your journey is actually quite exhausting. I think maybe if there was a clear destination we were headed to, I'd endure that jostling a little better. (I think of the poor souls on that 22 hour car ride I have heard about between Dushanbe and Khorog, and I wonder if actually I'd be pulling my hair out even with the anticipation of seeing the Pamirs.)

But our usual road trip M.O. is just to head out merely for the sake of exploring, and more often than not Dan's interest in what lies beyond that next rocky outcropping is greater than mine, although he -- by mutual agreement -- invariably holds the steering wheel. Maybe the next time we hit some terrain cooler than Dushanbe, I'll push for less driving time and more footpath exploring (or picnicking), to break up the journey a bit more.

The News á la Tajik

Smooth Sailing á la Tajik















Tajikistan's minister of railroads is apparently the occupant of the brand new, almost finished mansion that occupies the corner of our small street and the main road. For some reason it offends his professional and ministerial sensibilities if the mode of transport beyond his house up to the next corner is unpaved and in poor repair, so they undertook a fix-up session that lasted a few weeks.

Of course, now our road tends to be even less navigable by car than before, because everyone, especially youths on bikes, wants to play and congregate on nice smooth macadam (see photo).

(Also, see one of the only speed bumps ("lezhashchii politseiskii" in Russian, or "lying [as in reclining; not what you probably are thinking] policeman," as I learned in Vlad mere weeks ago) in town, in the foreground of the photo.)

High Finance á la Tajik

We leave Friday morning on our road trip to the Silk Route cities of Bukhara and Samarkand, historically somewhat Tajik, yet presently located in the state of Uzbekistan. In preparation, in part just to have some money for the road, and in part because it is supposed to be hard to change money there, I set out in search of Uzbek som today.

At last count, I hit 7 exchange booths in 2 different neighborhoods of town over the course of the afternoon, returning to one of them as recommended toward the end of their workday, only to come up som-less. If it's actually harder to buy som in Uzbekistan than this, then I guess we really have something to worry about!

At one exchange booth I was offered 14,000 som with a shrug -- since I didn't have the exchange rate at my mental fingertips, I had to make some calculations to realize that this amounted to less than $10. The money-changers clustered around TsUM (who usually constitute the heart of currency exchange in Dushanbe, with the best rates in town) suggested I go to the downtown booth located next door to the Central Post Office, where they explained currencies from all around town get pooled. This was where the clerk encouraged me to return today just before 5, but where they'd still come up with peanuts in som. The afternoon guy's early-evening replacements suggested that by tomorrow at the same time they might have rounded up some som totaling closer to the $100 I'd hoped to collect. We'll see.

Here's hoping that our passage is smoother than the search for som -- that the Anzob tunnel, sometimes referred to wryly as the "tunnel of death," is open, mostly dry, and as safe as it can be. Our route will take us north through the Varzob valley, over or through the mountains at Anzob, and then through Panjakent to the Uzbek border, where we hope our diplomatic plates will let us get through without too much hassle. Then onward to Samarqand, as it is properly spelled to express that gutteral "k" -ish sound in Tajik. Two nights there, and westward to Bukhara, and after 2 nights, back home.

We'll report on the trip once we've returned (hopefully) on Tuesday night!

From Russia With Puppets

This past Tuesday we made a return to the Dushanbe puppet theater, together with all of our friends from sadik.


There was a troupe from Russia in town, and that was all I knew setting out. It turned out to be the actors from the Kemerovo Provincial Puppet Theater named for Arkadii Gaidar, who had come on a springtime tour to Dushanbe.

The last time we went, I complained about the lack of puppets, but this time the puppets and the staging were great -- very clever and interesting. The production was "Bear Cub Rim-Tim-Ti," the story of a boy/bearcub home alone with his dad while his mom is away on a trip. The kid is lonely and his dad is loving but a bit aloof and doesn't quite get what his little boy needs or is capable of. When Rim-Tim-Ti convinces his dad he's a big enough boy to go to the market and get the last egg to complete his dad's recipe for a "five-egg omelet," he meets a puppy. He wants to bring the puppy home, but dad will have none of it. Whatever Rim-Tim-Ti finds lovable in his "pyosik" (pup), the dad can't see -- all he thinks is this is a dirty "sobaka" (dog), and he refuses to let him in the house.


When Pyosik thwarts a fox/robber (who was surprisingly charming -- I thoroughly enjoyed the interlude where he is introduced and sings about how he's a "khooligan" to a crazy combination of a Russian bard's outcast song set to the tune and rhythm of a tango), and returns Dad's stolen pants, the father relents and lets Rim-Tim-Ti keep his friend.

Whether she is just a bit older, or the story was more engaging, or because we were seated right in the front row (or a combination of all three), Anya actually sat in pretty much rapt attention the entire hour-long performance.

The actors were all visible behind and above their puppets -- it was the kind of production where they make no effort to hide (you can kind of see what I mean in the large picture above, with the woman in the yellow hat manipulating Rim-Tim-Ti). The funny thing was, the actress bringing Pyosik to life looked really familiar to me, and I couldn't stop trying to figure out where I'd seen her before. All I could think is this was some famous actress (puppeteer?) from Russia, when finally in the last few minutes of the play I realized where I'd seen her: she had played Mashenka to Baba-Yaga in the New Year's production! (B.Y. made an appearance in "Rim-Tim-Ti," too, playing the brash & busty chicken/market-egg-saleswoman who sells Rim the 5th egg.) Once I realized that, I was starting to wonder whether this was truly the visiting troupe we'd been promised, but our sadik teachers reassured me that it was indeed the visiting company with a few local actors added into the mix.

Piknichok in the Hills

After some off-road exploration on the third or fourth dry day in a row, Dan boasted of the beautiful views and firm traction on the dirt paths out east of the city -- basically in the same direction I'd walked last week, but a lot further.

Today, after an afternoon and night of rain, we returned, only slip and slide our way over the terrain. There were only a few moments where my jaw was tightly clenched in order to stave off rolling down the hill. A big improvement over some of our off-road adventures in Primorskii Krai.

And it was indeed very beautiful:



When it started to rain again, we figured we ought to get moving or we might get mired in the hills, never to come down again. We escaped in time to help a 2-wheel-drive car out of the mud (thus christening our tow-rope), see both a sunshower and what I think was hail as we headed north on Omar Khayyam St., and pull into our courtyard just as the warm afternoon sun was returning in earnest.

Head For the Hills

I had a good writing day, and the weather outside was gorgeous, after a very, very rainy day yesterday. My treat to myself was to take a walk.

I headed east on Timur Malik and liked the look of the hills off in the distance, just over the crest:



And as it happens, that is exactly where I went.

I continued east past the students milling around at the Ag Institute, wide neckties and all. (Apparently another empty rule about form over substance in Tajikistan is that the men at institutions of higher education are required to wear ties. Some would say they ought to actually learn things and be encouraged to think critically before they're forced to do a Windsor knot each morning, but who am I to judge?)

Skirted south through the sorry little park in front of (our local) statue of Rudaki. Noticed a billboard that had a notice about what seemed to be repairs in the sorry little broken down park, and a photo mockup of better looking fountains in the park. Noticed the date was 21 April. Got interested. Then noticed it was 2007. Got a little disappointed.

Then I headed east again, on Karamova and decided, why not make my ascent close to home? I started my little climb just west of Tursunzoda. I passed the requisite group of kids who yelled stuff in English at me. Today it was "oh! let's go!" At least that's a little more creative than "hello!" Then I passed the requisite adolescent boys who greeted me in Russian. Then I got a young woman peeking out over a roof, who asked, strangely, whether I had a pen.

I continued a short way and the paved road ended, and a dirt path doglegged north and kept going upward. I rose up up up above the neighborhoods below me and got some beautiful views of the green foothills and the snowy mountains:


Then the Tajik woman who'd wanted the pen appeared again, and we had a friendly conversation in Russian. I continued on and two kids on bikes were hanging out enjoying the view. Had a short conversation in Tajik with the friendlier one, who, after of course asking me how old I was (another requisite question), said the Tajik equivalent of "dang, you're old!" (My main clue was 'pir.') Then I think he was trying to recommend some more good places to enjoy the view (I kept hearing 'tamosho'), but my Tajik was ebbing and I decided to leave while the time was right to have more walking time to myself. All in all, a very enjoyable afternoon treat!

A Day in the Garden

Poppy In the Breeze
Originally uploaded by lkwalker71

After an unexpectedly vodka-soaked evening spent guesting with our nanny's family, an unexpectedly beautiful Saturday spent on hobbies and relaxing in the yard.

The Day In Pictures

Yesterday: The view out the window at the Morningstar Cafe, during a rare workday lunch (and on a rare warm, sunny April day) with Dan.


Today: Anya and I take a break on the way to sadik to admire the "guest" in our yard, whose origins we haven't yet guessed. Must have something to do with either a lot of digging or a painful toss over our high compound walls.

The Many Faces of Anya's New Year's 2009

I finally uploaded a selection of pics from the embassy holiday kiddie bash.

As you can see from the images, we went from inquisitive to happy and engaged, to interrupted and bratty, to bored, to interested in our own visage, all in the space of about an hour and a half. I guess that is what being two years old is all about.

Beautiful, Clear Sunday Morning

The view out our window, onto the snowy, cold mountains to the west of us, at about 9:30 this morning.

Apparently the reading at the Dushanbe airport is currently 25F. I swear the reading in our unheated bathroom has to be 40F, although surely that is not realistic.