A Park is a Park is a Park … Or is it?

Picture A:  For the purposes of this post, I am withholding captions until the end.  A key is posted at the bottom of the post.

 

Growing up, my idea of what a garden looked like was fairly narrow.  There were really only two possibilities.  One genre was expressed in the form of my father’s and grandfather’s vegetable gardens, which were rows of edible potential – the list of acceptable vegetables was quite narrow now that I think of it.  Think of an illustration from Beatrix Potter’s  Peter Rabbit.  Cucumbers, cabbages, zucchini, beans were all common.  The thought of rhubarb, carrots, or melon while acceptably within the confines of a typical garden, were also extravagant.  Quite exotic and exciting. 
 

 

Picture B

The other genre was well displayed in my mother’s flower beds.  These were spaces on the edge of a lawn which were edge-to-edge color during certain seasons, and a strange array of greens and leaves during others.  The population of these flower gardens was far more diverse than the vegetable gardens.  Each year my mother would go to gardening centers, farms and other odd places to bring home something brightly colored with an appropriate seasonal match to what was already living in her garden space.  Inevitably she would have a mix of perfectly matching flowers and whatever was on sale that week.  In some cases whatever she had discovered in conversation or neighborly visits to other flower gardeners.  Thus the small gardens would be so choked full of plants and flowers that the weeds barely stood a chance.  At least, this is how it all seemed through the eyes of a 10 year old growing up in a place with an extremely limited growing season.  The mere thought that there are places in the world where you could plant corn more than once during a single season would have blown my mind!

 

Picture C

 

 

As I grew, and traveled more I learned that these definitions of “garden” were clearly not the only options.  In high school I visited Versailles and was excited to see vast French gardens, only to be horribly disappointed because … it's all dirt!  The idea that gardens, public or otherwise, would leave huge sections of their land exposed as a choice and a contrast to highlight the careful shaping of planted bushes and tress was both shocking and ugly to my undeveloped eye.  I still prefer a more filled garden to a sparse decoration of shapes and design, but there is beauty to be had in either setting. 

 

 

Picture D

 

 

On occasion though it still strikes me just how similar some gardens can be.  On a bright sunny day recently I sat in Boston’s Public Garden only to be struck by how similar that place was to Hyde Park in London.  The more I thought about it, the more it also reminded me of the small park in my home town, which despite the extraordinary differences in public funding, had similar ambience and a striking feeling of home. 

 

 

Picture E

Throughout this post I’ve sprinkled a picture or two of gardens, parks, and a few other locations that elicit a similar feel.  Although some of these places are so remarkably different that it would be like comparing apples and orangutans, they are also so similar that a jet-lagged traveler may, for a moment, forget where she is. 

Picture F

 

 

Picture G

Picture H

 

 

 

 

A:  Public Garden, Boston, USA; B:  Hyde Park, London, England; C:  Safari Walk, Nairobi, Kenya; D:  Central Square, Taboshar, Tajikistan; E:  The Road to Kara-Sakal, Tajikistan; F:  Hyde Park, London, England; G:  Khujand, Tajikistan; H:  Lincoln Park, Chicago, USA

 

And Then The Rains Came

Written:  7/25/12

No doubt many of you have not heard, and those of you who have, by the time you’re reading this, you’ve probably already started to worry about other things, but early yesterday morning the Tajik government launched a major offensive into its autonomous region.  This area of the country, which international news agencies are quick to point out, borders one of the more lawless regions of Afghanistan, and here in Tajikistan it stands alone, largely governing itself and for the most part minding its own business.  … except of course when it doesn’t.  In an attempt to avoid too much politics and dragging on for paragraphs with an analysis of this side or that, I’ll leave you to do a quick google search.  Suffice it to say that it looks a lot like war, and no matter which side you’re on there are losses.

This morning when I left my apartment, okay, to be fair … this afternoon when I left my apartment and walked to work the streets were somber.  These are not normally the streets of carnival, and I do not expect cartwheels and cheers, but on most days there will be smiles, stares, and bubbling conversations.  More importantly, there will be conversations.  This afternoon though, pedestrians are rare, and conversations are few. 

At work, talking with colleagues, the subject is entirely avoided.   When asked how I slept, I admit that I didn’t sleep well because I kept waking up worried, checking the news for updates, but more importantly checking my email and facebook.  I am not really worried for my safety.  In reality I am in no more danger than I was the day before, which is to say almost none at all.  I am worried that my family will worry.  That I will sleep through an email or a panicked facebook message which will spiral out of control while I slumber.  My colleague shakes his head and mutters how sad it is, and how my parents would worry so much if they knew what was happening here – obviously worrying about his own children.  If he were a cartoon character there would be a storm cloud over his head.

The day moves on, and no one talks. 

Hours later I find myself in the office alone.  It’s been this way for about an hour now … another rarity.  It is then that I start to hear it.  Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.  For the first time since I arrived the weather is doing something other than shining sun.  I opened the window and in came a cool breeze, a cloud burst, and a smile erupts on my face.  Then the winds come.  I thought it best to close the window and was glad I did.  The skies opened up and instantly the sidewalks became rivers.  Sheets of rain fell and more than once I heard glass shattering as the winds rearranged the furniture. 

Another colleague, who doesn’t speak much English, poked his head in the room with a big smile on his face.  “Ok?”  I laughed, “yeah, okay!” 

20 minutes after the rains had stopped the street was still a raging river, and a doctor I work with offered me a ride.  Passing downed power-lines and coursing through streets with inches of water on them we laughed as the water flew from the car’s tires.  People on the street were also laughing, and most didn’t even seem to mind the inevitability of the waves of water kicked up by passing cars. 

While the situation in the south isn’t gone, and the fear will return along with the dread from those who have already lived through one civil war, for now we are cleansed.  If only for a moment, we have remembered how to laugh, children are playing and old women run happily through puddles in the streets.

Asian Fusion

It’s 10pm and still VERY VERY VERY hot.  Yesterday at this time it was 30 degrees.  Today, was forcasted to be 38 during the day, 2 degrees hotter than yesterday, and tonight I’m certain it is hotter than 30.  Sitting here with the window open (there’s a shade, but air can move through), in shorts and a tank top, directly in front of a fan on high, I am still - if ever so slightly - sweating.  And yet, I don’t wish I had your air conditioning.  I DO wish it were cooler.  I do wish I could comfortably consider the idea of Capri yoga pants without being disgusted by the knowledge of how hot and sticky that would be …. But I do not long for dry frigid air and long sleeves in summer.

Not to mention, when it’s this hot all I want to eat is soup and watermelon.  Today I even skipped lunch because it was just too hot.   Since I haven’t made it to Frisbee this entire time (a.  It’s hot.  b. Frisbee is a 6 mile round trip walk in addition to, well, Frisbee.  c. Frisbee happens on the first and usually only day that I get to be alone for the whole of the day … guess Frisbee will just have to wait for Boston.), and I’ve only managed to do some yoga once, perhaps a change in diet is warranted.  Good thing because a change of diet is entirely unavoidable.

My cooking is not, nor is it ever likely to be described as “asian” of the central or any other sort of asian.  However, being that I am here, and local food is almost always cheaper than imported foods why not incorporate a few delicacies into my diet.  The following is an account of some of the foods that I have concocted or stumbled upon along the way.

Dried kiwi:  It’s sort of like dried mango, only it’s kiwi and has an odd aroma of fish.  I do wonder if that’s perhaps because of the situation in which it was dried, but also try not to think about that situation in any form whatsoever. 

Walnut cookies:  I don’t know who makes them, or where they come from, but they make me so happy.  We had these in Turkmenistan too, and it didn’t seem like they came from that place either.  Deceiving as the name may be, they do not seem to have any walnut in them.  They are merely shortbread type cookies with some sort of dulce du lece type filling, that when sandwiched look an aweful lot like walnuts.  I should also note that this name is not even close to being official and most people wouldn’t know what I was talking about when I say “walnut cookie”. 

Bisella:  Aka duo crème, aka crème duo, aka that nutella cream with the vanilla swirled in, or as shown Benuta Duo.  Not sure how it made it here.  So unbelievably happy it did.

Cream of Goat soup:  Is about as bad as it sounds like it would be.  I made this delicious lentil, bean and goat stew from some left over roast animal, but I had a few cartons of heavy, heavy, so heavy as to be sour cream consistency without the sour part, heavy cream that I needed to use.  I figured cream of chicken soup was good, cream of beef wasn’t unheard of, creamy lentil is also good.  Why not?!  Because it’s terrible.  That’s why not. 

Watermelon:  You know that part of the watermelon right in the middle where it’s bright, bright red and super sweet?  Now imagine the whole watermelon tasting like that.  Everything, right to the rind, expect maybe for the middle part which is a little more flavorful.   

Tea:  I drink so much tea here.  Green tea, Black tea, and not yet black powder tea … but maybe soon.

Pears:  I ate a pear here the other day that tasted like you would expect pear syrup to taste.  It was the flavor that candy manufacturers based pear flavoring on, if they’d actually based it on a real fruit.  It was delicious … unfortunately by the time we’d eaten through ¾ of the pear, the ants agreed with us, and the last ¼ was no longer appetizing.

Montu:  Kind of like Monti … only as big as your hand.  Steamed dumplings of ground meat and onion.  They’re as pretty as they are delicious.

Laghman:  Also known as soup.  It’s like Turkmen soup on a bed of noodles.  No?  Okay, how about … it’s soup with chunks of meat, half of a potato (no need to chop it up), a carrot (also whole), and tasty broth, but rather than putting it in an empty bowl, we’ll pour it into a bowl that happens to already be half full of homemade noodles.  And just to keep you guessing – maybe we’ll add a dollop of sour cream.

And I think my favorite dish here:  Shakarob!  It seems that most cultures have recipes to deal with left over bread/baked goods that just go stale too quickly.  The Austrians have Sacher Torte, smearing jam between two layers of cake to make sure that even if it would have gone bad, maybe it will just absorb the extra jam and taste fine a few days longer.  The French have bread pudding.  Oh bread pudding.  Right now there are two people who are tied for first place when it comes to bread pudding.  Michael and my Dad.  I do admit that my father is at a bit of a disadvantage, however.  I haven’t had my Dad’s bread pudding in years, so the memory isn’t very fresh in my head … whereas Michael made it just a few months ago.  Don’t worry though, being fair minded as I am, I will most certainly allow my father  the opportunity to best Michael with his culinary magic.  Tie breakers will be determined at a later date.

… I have allowed myself to be distracted:  Always a danger when writing a post about food.  So yes.  Austria:  Sacher Torte.  France (England?):  Bread Pudding.  Moving on to the savory responses to stale bread Turkmenistan has Dograma.  Dograma is what happens when culinary school goes very poorly.  I was not a fan.  In order to make dograma you wait for bread to go stale … Luckily, depending on the bread, you might not have to wait more than a minute or two.  Then you shred this bread into small, stuffing sized pieces.  (ooohhh Stuffing!  Another answer to stale bread.  Yummy!)  These pieces of stale bread are topped with a piece or two of meat and then broth is poured over the whole thing.  Salt liberally.  The bread is about as bland and soggy as you would imagine.  The good news is, it fills the belly and is relatively safe to eat without threat of broken tooth or intestinal distress.

Finally, there is Tajikistan’s response:  Shakarob!  I wish I could write that out with the same enthusiasm and enunciation as I have in my head, but no phonetics will do this word justice.  It is pronounced something like Shah-ka-ROBE, but whenever I say it it’s almost like a battle-cry or something that a child would excitedly cry before doing something particularly brave.  Anywho, much like dograma, the bread is shredded only this time it’s spread out on a wide flat-ish serving bowl.  It’s then topped with tomato, cucumber, onion and whatever herbs are in season.  I had it once with mint and dill and I HIGHLY recommend that.  Then the whole thing is doused with a thin yogurt mixed with linseed oil.  It’s delicious. 

Perhaps this also should have been divided into several posts, but I couldn’t find a place to pause.  Rather than actually wrapping this up, let me leave you with a question:  Does anyone know where one would get linseed oil (the non-poisonous, edible kind) in the US?  I know more than one of you frequents whole foods – is this something they would have?

The Things We Call Ourselves

The people fighting against the Tajik government in southern Tajikistan have been given many labels: Guerrillas, rebels, warlords, organized crime gangs.

 My favorite is: the former opposition. It seems to me that if they're still shooting at you, they're probably CURRENT opposition.

I'm just sayin ...

This is what happens when East Germans are relaocated to Central Asian valleys.

Inner Turmoil

Written:  14 July 2012

This morning over a Werther’s Original, some fruit, stale bread and stale-strange instant coffee, I cried.  Tears streaming down my face, I ran to get my laptop and purge some of what had been boiling under the surface.  Outward emotion does not come easily to me – aside from passionate discourse and obvious argumentativeness – but since I began this journey into the world I have found the core of my emotion. 

This morning it is pain, suffering and the insurmountability of the harm that we, as a human race, cause.  


A pile, so high that it might be mistaken for a natural mountain, of uranium mining waste.  Standing atop the mass, taking measurements; it was exhilarating, and anxiety producing to realize that I was standing on a substance emitting between 0.140 and 0.240 microroentgen per hour.  This number alone didn’t mean much to me either until I was told that 0.020 is about the normal level. 

Courtesy of OSCE and http://nuclear-news.net/information/wastes/

Children play on this mound.  When it rains the water washes away vast sections and carries the radioactivity like silt into the neighboring town.  Children are sick.  People die, and I cry with such great heaves and sobs that I can no longer type, because I think the words “and for what?”  Mutually assured destruction. 

My father and I discussed this one in great length before I left.  Mutually assured destruction, assuring that destruction could be rendered and is therefore completely unnecessary.  That seems like such a harmless and peaceful means of waging war.  Whoever thought of such a thing must be so unimaginably proud of the fruits of his labor.  But what of the fallout?  Millions unable to feed themselves due to the “necessary” cost of that armament.  Whole populations exposed for generations to the toxicity required for the manufacture of war.  Perhaps it is not wholesale slaughter, but is slow and silent death really any better than quick and heroic sacrifices paraded through war? 

I do not mean to in any way make a case for future policy or hot war vs. cold war.  They are both deplorable manifestations of a very dark evil that lives and sometimes thrives within the human psyche.  I wish only to mourn the affects of such a hideous side of us that we often pretend does not exist. 

I will admit that I am at times fixated upon or fascinated with the worst of our actions.  In undergrad I studied conservative politics of Central Europe, mostly focusing on WWII, visiting concentration camps and I wrote my thesis on xenophobia in right wing politics, with a particular focus on a politician named Jorg Haider, then quite popular in Austria.  It was both interesting, marginally comical, and appalling that someone with the same populist appeal as Hitler, stemming from the same region, with similar outspoken xenophobia could gain such traction. 

In 2007, after having lived in Turkmenistan for about 9 months, I took a vacation and ended up in Phnom Penh, Cambodia.  My friend Emily and I went to S-21 and the killing fields.  A piece of history.  Although S-21 was no more graphic than Dachau or Mauthausen, I was different.  I was so overwhelmed by the reality of what had happened in that school and what human beings had done to one another – and in fact continue to do to one another – that I had to leave.  I had to stand outside and practice breathing as though I had forgotten how, and focus desperately trying not to be sick.  A bullet is more valuable than a life.  It is acceptable to bludgeon another human being to death with a tire iron, in order to preserve a little gun powder and metal.  I forced myself to make it to the end.  I will never recover from that experience and others like it, but perhaps that is a necessary evil.  The stories of hate, torture and destruction are no longer just ghost stories and tales of the Brothers Grimm.  They are real, and to be guarded against at all costs. 

That is why, although I am afraid, although it breaks my heart and makes me want to never leave my apartment, I venture out into the world.  Perhaps I cannot stop the next genocide, but maybe I can be a voice raised to rally against it. Perhaps I can be the one to open my doors to Anne Franke, or help a lost child across a boarder.  Perhaps I cannot cleanup an abandoned mine, but I can draw some attention to that pile of poison decimating a town that human beings call home.

* For those who are concerned, I have researched this article thoroughly.  There are not any facts herein that could not otherwise be learned via a simple search of the internet.  I have and continue to protect information that is considered to be confidential and/or classified.

A few of my resources:

http://www.wise-uranium.org/udasi.html#TJ

http://news.tj/en/news/taboshar-residents-fence-tailing-dump
http://journals2005.pasteur.ac.ir/Science2005/307(5707).pdf
http://www.rferl.org/content/Tajikistans_Former_Soviet_Nuclear_Sites_Pose_Threat_To_Nearby_Villages/1604737.html
http://journals2005.pasteur.ac.ir/Science2005/307(5707).pdf

Wait Wait ...

So I wouldn’t say that I’m someone who listens to NPR.  On a really long car ride I will tune-in to the occasional NPR/talk radio channel as the music becomes monotonous and I just need something to change it up.  Periodically, through these instances I get to listen to shows like Click and Clack’s Car Talk, or Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me, and I do thoroughly enjoy them.  In fact, once I’ve found that they’re on, I will often scan through the public radio channels trying to find the beginning of the show so that I can listen in entirety.  As much as I enjoy it, I am not someone who, sitting around on a Saturday morning, is likely to turn on the radio in the hopes of hearing a particular show.

Except for today.  It’s more than the show, it’s more than hearing English.  There is something very comforting about hearing what would be on the radio at home. 

Not being someone who requires music all the time, indeed I think I need more quiet/silent time than most, when I left for Turkmenistan I didn’t think it was important to bring any music with me.  I will never make that mistake again.  After about 10 months, my mom spent over $50 in shipping and god knows how many hours copying CDs to send to me with a little portable CD player and headphones.  My Birthday present in June.  The first CD that I listened to was either Nora Jones or Sarah Mclachlan.  I was so overcome that I laydown on the floor listening while tears streamed down my face.  It’s the first time I remember ever crying tears of joy and I felt ridiculous.  What was a very hard tenure, in a strange and wonderful country was suddenly a lot more bearable.  Another year was possible, and brought to you by the Carpenters and whatever other CDs my step-father happened to have that my mom could copy for me.

I know now how important these things are, and have never been in a situation with that little contact with the outside world since.  So when I downloaded two episodes (?) of Wait Wait this morning, there were no tears.  I was not overcome, however I am still extremely grateful to have access to a little piece of home. 

So thank you Claire!  Your enthusiasm for the show, a bit of a suggestion, led to a little enjoyment here in Tajikistan.

A completely unrelated moment of zen: I did a search using Google's handy little keyword finder app to see if I could do a better job drawing in new people to the site. The final suggestion for my blog "writing a will" both highly sought after and with low competition. I couldn't stop laughing. How morbidly appropriate.

A Chinese Construction Site - and other oddities

So we’ve covered the 60% of the trip with good roads, the 5km of the “tunnel of death” as another blogger dubbed it, now there is still one more mountain range to cross.  If you’re interested in seeing the actual route the road’s labeled M34 on this map.

View Larger Map

I tried to re-route the gmap directions onto that road, but google apparently doesn’t think that it’s an acceptable way to travel and won’t give directions.

(Hint: If you want to be able to manipulate the map, click on the link "View Larger Map" in blue under this picture) 

Anywho, as I was getting to the point where I was so nervous from speeding around hairpin turns at 60 km/hr (it feels faster than I’m sure it converts) that I was giggling uncontrollably and my eyes had started to water enough that  I had a tear running down my face, we were mercifully stuck behind a very large truck.  This was not unusual.  The unusual thing was that we weren’t trying to pass on a road barely wide enough for two cars with extremely limited visibility. In no time we had crossed onto a dirt road.  In fact, the road looked less like a road and more like an abandoned construction site from an old mafia movie.  As we crawled further and further up the mountain, we hit several forks in the “road” at which we weren’t certain which route was the road and which part was the construction entrance.  While I was initially skeptical of our policy of “well, we’ll just follow the big truck” since we were in a construction site after all, it seemed to work out.  We were carried through a chinese work site and camp where I’m told they are building another tunnel.  This one is supposed to be much better than the Iranian tunnel, and judging by the avalanche shelters which the Chinese built along the earlier section of the road, I tend to believe them. 

The downside of this construction (my private upside) was that the road was really quite rough.  We climbed several mountains on glorified dirt paths.  This is perhaps not fair.  They were well enough engineered that a steady stream of trucks and cars passed along it all day long without much issue.  Russian dirt roads perhaps? …

After more than an hour  of climbing, possibly even two,  my colleagues triumphantly announced that we had crested the top of the range and would begin our decent!  To celebrate we stopped at a slightly wider section of the road to take a picture or two and breathe before beginning the harrowing decent back down.  Mistake?  Maybe.  I personally think it was our saving grace:

Here is a picture of the head doctor in our group pouring water directly into the radiator.  I don’t know if you had this class is driver’s education, but we were very clearly instructed to NEVER EVER remove the radiator cap when the engine is hot.  Well, despite lots of advice and three other people pleading with him not to do it, our brave Dr. Professor gingerly removed the radiator cap.  Luckily, no one was injured (that time).  The car did spout out some angry looking black smoke when we poured water in, but the engine did not crack.  It was a success!  After much trying and 4.5 liters of water, the car was finally cool enough to start again, and down the road we went.  Ever grateful to be on a dirt road which required a more leisurely pace. 

This is from our return trip.  At the top of the mountain, before we began our decent, we were apparently not the only car with road damage.  Some of those stopped are merely taking a break, but several cars were being worked on, or smoking, or both.  All in all we had the muffler welded twice, the entire undercarriage disassembled and reassembled, the petrol pump replaced, and we were told that the thermostat for the car was completely blown.  I was told that it was much more economical to drive, but with the cost of all those repairs, food, petrol, and liquid gas, maybe a $150 plane ticket would have been worth it.

Iran 1, China 0 … which is perhaps why China is ahead

When last we left the trip from Dushanbe to Khujand, the roads were smooth and travel was fast – whether it should have been or not.  Much to my relief, not all of the roads here are perfectly paved and dangled over a 13,000ft cliff.  Some of them were poorly marked, tunneled underground (whether they should be or not), filled with water or kicking up clouds of dust, and fun as hell. 

We start this tale with a little political history … or at least my opinion of a few points.  Say what you will about the Russians and soviet times, but they had a few engineers who knew what they were doing.  The things they built last … like a turn of the century, hand-made hydropower dam, fully abandoned for 20 years and functioning perfectly.  That kind of lasts.  Although not always the most aesthetically pleasing architecture in the world (says this western girl), it has true sticking power.  This would seem to be because of a very real understanding of both technical function, and the limits inherent therein. 

When the Russians were in control here in Tajikistan they decided not to build a 5 km tunnel through the mountains to make travel between Dushanbe and Khujand a little easier.  True, it may have been because it wasn’t as necessary.  The republics were united, so crossing the border from Tajikistan and going through either Kazakhstan or Uzbekistan in order to arrive in a city that is in Tajikistan, was perhaps not as big of a problem.  Additionally, lacking well built roads kept people where they were, made people easier to track, and since politically dis-favorable people were sent this far south in the union, it would make sense that public infrastructure to improve travel times from one area to another down here might not have been high on the USSR’s “to do” list.  That said, they did fight a war down here and moving troops quickly toward Afghanistan may have had its advantage at one time or another.  So that is the situation surrounding Russia’s failure to build/dig the tunnel.  Ohhhh, and because when they surveyed the same sight, they found that there was too much water to safely build such a tunnel without it crumbling and falling to pieces, or collapsing altogether. 

Apologies, the tunnel was too bumpy for a good picture

Well lucky for current-day travelers, the Iranian government has no such qualms.  Thanks to a joint effort between Iran and Tajikistan the Anzob Tunnel was built in 2006.  I am told that it greatly reduces the time it takes to go from Dushanbe to the north.  I believe them.  I am also impressed to see the canals that they have built to channel the water away from the road and through outside passageways.  Did I say canals?  Yes, I guess that’s the word … but it doesn’t quite have the magnitude that perhaps it should.  These are pathways for TORRENTS of water, and unfortunately they are not enough. 

The water has done some serious damage.  To be fair though, it has been 6 years.  You should expect that in 6 years there would be wear and tear on any infrastructure.  Nothing a few small repairs can’t fix … oh right, I’m also told that the Chinese have offered to fix the tunnel, and indeed have replaced the southern entrance entirely. The Iranian government has refused the offer though.  Apparently somehow they were able to get control over future repairs and construction on the tunnel .  So instead of being a vital part of the “new silk road” – Iran’s dream for increasing commerce between its own country and all of the countries formerly along the old silk road – the tunnel has become something of a hazard and  an amusing point of tourism.  Okay, so there aren’t busloads of westerners lining up to go through the thing (thank god, cause it could put a real strain on the tunnel), but it was particularly amusing for this one traveler.  In some places the water was at least 12-18 inches, and the “ventilation system" consisted of 2 industrial size fans which took up the entire southbound lane.

Much of the tunnel only has a single lane of travel open, requiring one direction or the other to wait their turn before leapfrogging one obstacle or another, and in some places, even in our SUV, the holes and ditches are so great that we didn’t have enough clearance.  There was serious concern when we left the tunnel that we had damaged some part of the undercarriage.  Luckily, someone had the forethought to build a little pull off with a toilet (for men only) and space to check your car before traveling on. 

Oh, and maybe you noticed,  the first half of it is completely unlit.  I find this tunnel so amusing!

The Way the Warm Wind Blows

Any one of those words on its own sound quite pleasant, but together it is oppressive, and surprisingly so. 

Sitting in a warm office, it’s quiet and the lights are off.  Peacefully the two occupants slowly click away at their keyboards, happy and productive.  Then it happens.  It isn’t violent.  It isn’t even shocking.  It’s just a wind so warm as to be disconcerting.  Breezes, the movements of air, are supposed to be refreshing.  A change of directionality can feel like a sigh of relief on even the hottest day.  So when the breeze blows and you’re caught in the channel of a wind that is warmer than ambient air, when there is no heater to act as source or even something like an air conditioner that is creating some great contrast:  The movement is offensive.  It. Is. Hot.

Happy and Healthful Ramadan Everyone

The Road from Dushanbe

First and foremost:  Thanks for reading!!  When I sign on, I can see how many people have checked the posts and there’s even a map so I can see where people are signing on from.  There have been readers from the United States, the UK, Kenya, France, Romania, Iran, Russia, Turkey, Germany, Latvia, Australia, Belgium, Spain, Ireland, and South Korea (If I’m missed anyone, sorry, perhaps your internet is being rerouted through another country).  I hope you like what you’re reading, comment often, and continue to tune in.  Thanks for checking this out, and feel free to let me know if you have questions or if there’s something I can investigate for you.

On to the post!

There have been times when I have struggled to find something to write about.  It’s not that there aren’t things that you might find interesting, it’s just that I find it difficult to be passionate about things that I see everyday or that inherently make sense to me.  Many of these things only inherently make sense because I’ve been here or somewhere comparable, but none the less it’s hard to find a topic that I can force to be compelling enough. 

This is not one of those times.  I spent the day traveling from Dushanbe to Khujand.  What was quoted as a 5-6, probably 5, hour car ride turned into a 300km, 9 hour epic journey.  There are so many things that I want to write.  The difficulty is more likely to be that I will have trouble narrowing it down.  In an effort to get all my thoughts down and convey what I think you will find most interesting I’ve decided to break this up into sections.  The result with be that I will just keep writing without posting.  I’ve actually learned a new feature on this blog-o-vel which could come in handy.  I can apparently write posts, publish them, but schedule them for some time in the future.  This benefits you because it means that I will not try to put 4 posts worth of information in a single post.  It also means that I can include more pictures like this one:

I am particularly amused by the contrast of a "Stop/Control" sign in the middle of the wild.

Perhaps the best part is that even while I’m on a plane or away from internet, or perhaps even after I’ve returned from this trip, you will continue to receive new posts.  All of this is of course only beneficial to you if you actually like what you’re reading, but since you’re here and you’re reading, I’m going to go ahead and take that leap of faith.  Big of me, eh?

Transportation:

***There once was a girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead.  When she was good, she was very very good.  When she was bad, she was horrid!!***

Perhaps we will begin with the very very good, and later move on to the horrid.

The roads of Tajikistan, from my experience, are much like the girl in the nursery rhyme.  For the most part they are remarkably well cared for and many are quite new.  The main road from Dushanbe to Khujand is a toll road and it seems that these fees/tariffs/taxes, as they are interchangeably referred, are actually put to good use.  This, however, can be a bit of a problem.  While the road is in good condition and relatively free of livestock, it still climbs through a 4,000 meter elevation mountain range.  The condition of the road is so good that there doesn’t seem to be any reason to slow down … until you’re already on top of a hairpin turn, with oncoming traffic, about to barrel off the side of a cliff. 

This was a wreck that had clearly been there for a long time.  This not only made me more scared, but also highlighted the point that if you do go off the side of the road, unless you make it very clear that you’re still in the car and need assistance, there’s no real guarantee that anyone’s coming to help you.

Side note:  On our return trip, we did see an accident.  A tractor trailer truck carrying liquid gas was unsuccessful in navigating one of the turns.  The truck rolled down the hill, past the next road, further down the hill and across the subsequent road to land on the shoulder/river bank.  Thank god it was a single car accident and none of the gas ignited.  I should also note that the accident was pretty recent and the police were there in force.  To their credit they were investigating almost immediately. 

I would say that Americans in general are a bit squeamish when it comes to road safety.  We like everything to be clean, without debris, at slow speeds, with no distractions.  Likewise, everyone travelling in a row, with extra wide lanes and a wide shoulder is appreciated.  This does, of course, set us up to be horrified by driving conditions in most other parts of the world.

When the trip began, I rather prided myself on my calm composed demeanor despite the high speeds and lack of attention to what was technically “on the road” and what was maybe not quite as much within its boundaries.   Afterall, I have been on roads where you travel at 60+ miles per hour despite potholes and herds of sheep.  I have even had the opportunity of being borderline kidnapped and raced up and down the Amalfi coast in Italy on roads that had similar cliffs that fell straight into the water by an old man who most probably was not sober.  This should be a piece of cake. 

However, I think this is the first time I’ve been in a situation like this and I’ve screamed.  I screamed more than once.  In my defense, the two other Tajik men in the car with us also became upset and were quite adamant that the driver should perhaps slow down and be careful or at least I assumed that's what it meant as we approached each turn they began to chant "стой!  стой! стой! стой!".  On more than once occassion we were going so fast the car slid sideways around the curve, wheels screaching.  In my experience, when the locals – the ones who are supposed to be accustomed to the way things are here – when they are also making comments like, “I’m still young.  There are so many things I want to do and see in my life, perhaps we should get there alive” then I think it is reasonable to be outwardly concerned.  And this is why perhaps nice smooth roads are not always the best situation.

** This post was written and is being published after both the outbound and return trip.  I will not make the same trip, or have anymore long drives with the same driver.**

The White Ninja rides again!!!

Seriously, do I need to write anything more than that?!  Happy Friday the 13th!

Ice Cream Trucks and Bread Sellers

There is something comforting and wholesome about a child's excitement for the song of an ice cream truck.  Even as an adult without children in tow, the song will bring a smile to my face.  In addition to the joy of a memory, such deliveries mark the passage of time.  Growing up the sound of our postman dropping mail in the mailslot meant it was 10am; the ice cream truck's song was 3pm.  In my neighborhood in Dushanbe there is a boy who sells bread door to door each morning.  Here, it is 7am when the bread seller goes by. 

In a world where I'm never quite certain of what time it is and which timezone my brain is currently in, I take the same comfort from a young boy chanting something nearly unintelligible (although perhaps perfectly understandable to someone who knows what he's saying) as he walks through the neighborhood.  I only assume he's selling bread based on the size and shape of the neatly wrapped parcel he draws behind himself in something vaguely resembling a wagon.  Truth be told, he could just as easily be selling cheese or heroin.  I assume it's not the latter based on the lack of enthusiasm or disdain of the rest of the neighborhood - but I digress.

For someone who wakes up at 4am and does not physically report to work until 9, 10, or even 11am, this little soldier of time dutifully chanting his way through the neighborhood announces the morning and ushers in society's start to the day.  He is the foreshadowing of social interaction to come; the warning that it is time to focus less on productivity and more on preparing to face the world. 

This of course is not everyone's interpretation of his cries.  While to me his voice signifies the waking of the world in a near Disney, bird singing, Cinderella-esque fashion, for my colleague it is less of a call to fellowship and more like the incessant buzz of an alarm clock after a very short night.  This child both loved and hated interrupts peaceful morning slumber to nag those in earshot reminding them of their daily duties.

Such a lofty and impactful profession this little boy holds, all while imagining he is only a seller of bread (heroin). 

Today I learned:

... that while I am not skilled at speaking Russian, like a small child, I can absorb most of what is intended - so long as we're talking about food or the whereabouts of colleagues.

... that a white crystallized block on which I can read the word "iodine" kept in the kitchen cupboard is close enough to salt that I'll trust it in my soup.

... that black dust in the same cabinet as the aforementioned white crystal is acceptably pepper and therefore trusted and consumed - as opposed to the tin in the same cupboard next to the tea labeled "special gun powder".  This will not be consumed.

... The feeling of "I did it all by myself" never really gets old.  In fact leaving the supermarket, having successfully purchased dinner without having to ask for help, my heart was beating out of my chest as though I had just peered off the edge of a cliff.

... that it isn't always good to have a dog befriend you and follow you home*.  Especially when home is on the other side of a very busy highway. 

... that the upload speeds for my internet are not such that google voice is a very good option for talking but it's a GREAT option for laughing until my face hurts.  While I can hear you more clearly than I could on a cell phone, I am apparently rendered mute.

*no animals were harmed in the making of this post. 

The facade's facade

There are so many places in the world with distinct architectural styles.  When presented with a picture of a city, just by analyzing the structures that humans create upon the earth one can pin point the city's location and sometimes even the year in which certain structures were created. 

I had a conversation with a friend this summer that probably would not be very popular with many of my friends and fellow travelers.  It seems that in any new place a traveler may go he is compelled by some force or another to tour the architecture.  In our cases those forces are almost never internal.  An overly excited local resident, fellow travel companion or tour guide attempting to do her due diligence will impress upon us the importance of noticing this curve or that buttress as though it were the defining characteristic of any society worth noticing.  Quite frankly ... I just don't find it that interesting.  Yes, I do like seeing the shape of a city and noticing the nuances of style and I do find the structures we create to be both impressive and interesting.  I do not find spending hours analyzing these structures and their timing to be as fantastic as it is often made out to be.

All that said, I have recently found an technique that caught my attention and I thought was worth sharing.  Please be warned that this post risks becoming overly intellectual and perhaps a little confusing.  Below is an example of the decorative work, but I assure you the picture does not fully express the revelation that I had:

Notice the trim around the door frame, and the crown moulding.  While this may seem like ordinary house-finishing-touch type stuff, that is where the magic comes from.  It was explained to me yesterday as "Poliplast".  This roughly translates to: Styrofoam.  That's right.  The crown moulding here is Styrofoam.  And not just here in my apartment ... but also decorating the government office windows and teller desks.  In order to add to the magic, it isn't universal.  While this stuff is carved and decorating in many locations all over Tajikistan, it is frequently interchanged with real wood.  With every finished edge of man made structure, one never knows just what medium one will find.

Another fine example of the Styrofoam moulding in my apartment:

I hope you have enjoyed this discovery nearly as much as I have (although I highly doubt it).  Please also know that I am giggling at the fact that you actually made it this far into this ridiculously silly post.  Some people will read anything!

Love, love, love.
The Writer.

And so it begins ... again!

Have you ever wished you could travel around the world?  Perhaps it's the people that I tend to meet and hang around with, or maybe it's an underlying human curiosity, but I've talked to so many people that have expressed a desire to be a travel writer, or just be paid to travel around the world.  It occurred to me the other day, that I'm essentially getting to do just that.  Granted, I'm not being paid to write this blog (yet - I'm open to sponsorships if you are an editor or know one that you'd like to connect me with), however I am being paid a nominal sum of money periodically to hop about the globe.  This time part of my job is also to convey a modicum of cultural understanding for the place in which I find myself.  I've thought many times that if I could be anything in the world, with no restrictions, I'd be an explorer.  Somewhere along the lines of Sir Ernest Shackleton or Dora.  In a management class I took last year (we love you Mark Haas!), the instructor used a recruitment ad attributed to Sir Shackleton in order to demonstrate leadership.  The advertisement read: 

MEN WANTED:  For hazardous journey.  Small wages, bitter cold, long months of complete darkness, constant danger, safe return doubtful.  Honour and recognition in case of success.

My first thought was - I would TOTALLY consider that offer if posed.  Okay, to be a little more realistic, if someone where to give me that exact offer right now, I might ask for clarification of "return doubtful" .... why is it doubtful?  Are you lacking confidence in leadership?  Are we likely to be killed by someone?  Or might we simply die from the elements?  I'll take my chances with the last one.  I'll need more information about the first two.  Alas, there seem to be a derth of such opportunities available.  Our curious human nature has mapped out so much of the world already.  Additionally, my ability to take advantage of them goes down with every added loan dollar I accept.  I do continue to promise to do my best to accept any such opportunity that is ... reasonable?  :)

So here we go again.  Filled with a sense of anticipiation and trepidation (love that word!), I set out upon an unsuspecting world.  Perhaps that's a bit over used and even over blown, but certainly an unsuspecting Central Asian nation is true enough.  Tomorrow night I will leave these states that are united for the Republic of Tajikistan. 

This region is not completely unknown to me, and perhaps even for that reason I'm a little uncertain of my decision to go.  I have fond memories and great stories from my year living in Turkmenistan.  There is a place in Turkmenistan where I think of and a warm sensation of home washes over me.  The mental image of faces from that place bring a tear to my eye.  There is a woman whom I call mom, and another who I feel closer to than I ever could imagine even feeling for a sister.  These are people I hoped I was never required to lay my life down for, mostly because I might have, had it been required.  And yet, I know that some of those memories have sweetened with age, and some are only so sweet because of the contrast of adversity in which they were set.  Do I love this place of Central Asia? or am I merely proud of my ability to overcome it?  There is one thing that I am certain of:  I truly loved the people that I met and the hope that they were able to cultivate.  I am excited for the opportunity to go back and more fully understand my relationship with a hard and unforgiving region of the world.  I am not excited to find out just how strong I was able to make my immune system or where it's weaknesses may lie.  No worries though.  I go armed with pink bismuth, ciprofloxacin, and the knowledge that while some vodka is an acceptable anticeptic for small lacerations, it will not kill what dwells within the water.

So here I go, penetrating "deeper and deeper into the heart of darkness" ... with the hope of discovering all the light that has been previously overlooked.

In the event that you would like more general information on Tajikistan, I have included a few links on the left hand side of the page for your reference.  I would also recommend looking up Tajikistan in the World Factbook, but for linkage and perception reasons I will refrain from connecting my site to theirs.  If you have specific questions please feel free to comment here or email me directly and I will try to answer those questions in upcoming posts.  I have downloaded the app required for this site and will work on getting my phone unlocked today so I can use it outside of the US.  With any stroke of luck, this blog will continue to developed throughout my trip.  In the event that all internet fails and I am not actually able to access this thing while I'm there. I will write anyway and post things periodically upon my return.  How fun.  It'll be like living through it twice!

Thank you everyone for your continued interest in my travels, or at the very least allowing your computer to log on periodically, thereby convincing me that it's not just a mental health exercise to get these thoughts out into the world.

Much love and happiness,
Rachel

 

“My task, which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word, to make you hear, to make you feel--it is, before all, to make you see.”
― Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim