The Perfume of Love

Eating abroad can be one of the greatest pleasures of travel, and global foods (be it pasta and pizza or a chicken tikka masala) enrich our daily diets. For those of us whose linguistic skills leave a little to be desired, however, ordering something you actually want to eat in a foreign restaurant can be somewhat of a challenge, especially at the end of a long day.

 On the many occasions when an English menu is not forthcoming, you have two options: point at a dish that happens to be passing by on its way to someone else's table or, as we were once reduced to in an empty restaurant in Xinjiang, risking the "eeny meeny miny mo" approach, keeping our fingers crossed that what arrives on your plate is neither dog nor lizard.

In Khorog, Tajikistan we were quite pleasantly surprised to be handed a bilingual menu although, as it would soon be apparent, the English made even less sense than the Russian. We felt cautiously optimistic about the identity of "Thai Meet", but the "Perfume of Love" and "Surprise Vaqt" kept us guessing even once they had arrived on the table. There was nothing discernibly Thai about the meat, though meat it certainly was. With the other dishes we may as well have been playing the guessing game "Animal, Vegetable, Mineral".

Unfortunately for Tom, he was to discover the "surprise" in the early hours of the following morning and it was to stay with him for several days. When in reach of a flushing toilet, sofa and daytime tv, food poisoning is unpleasant but sort of bearable. Trying to keep a bung in both ends whilst driving through the wilderness of the poorest country in Central Asia is quite another entirely.

On the road again...

After six days waiting for the Afghan embassy staff to return to work after their various holidays, and a further seven hours sat sweating in their airless, smelly waiting room, we have finally been able to collect our $100 Afghan road pass and set out on the drive south to Afghanistan. Rarely has the prospect of a long, uncomfortable car journey been so eagerly awaited.

There are two ways to reach Khorog from Dushanbe. The shorter northern road (my previous route) is closed in winter and has a surface that largely seems to be made from hardcore that has fallen erratically from the back of a dumper truck. The southern route is longer by distance but has a similar journey time as a number of Turkish road crews have begun to tarmac key stretches, allowing drivers to increase their speed beyond a fast walking pace.

Not desiring to shake the Land Rover to pieces so early in the trip and, in my case, keen for new vistas, we drove south to Kulyob, a fair-sized town by Tajik standards Kulyob itself is nothing to write home about and the Soviet concrete is unusually depressing, but the Baltica beer was cold, the shashlik (kebabs) freshly cooked,and it was a convenient place to break the journey.

We rose early the following morning and were driving shortly after six. The driving was physically and mentally exhausting - roughly levelled avalanches do not make a pleasurable road surface and, for reasons best known to itself, the car had lost all acceleration. One wrong turn required a painful two hour detour as we picked our way through ploughed fields and the occasional mud hut village. Mongrel dogs snapped at our wheels and we trudged on in what we hoped was the right direction.

The scenery alongside the road is stark, dramatic if not actually beautiful. Mostly it hugs the river path through deep, deep gorges so steep that you must crane your neck (or look through the sunroof) if you want to see the sky. Afghanistan is almost within touching distance across the waters of the Panj (historically the Oxus) but the rocks, fast rapids and occasional Tajik border patrol ensure it remains, at least for the time being, out of reach.

It was not until nightfall that we drove in to Khorog,but even through the gloom it appeared green than the valleys before. Korog itself is a bustling trading post at the foot of the Pamir Highway, and a pedestrian suspension bridge allows people to cross back and forth to Afghaistan with their wares. A handful of guesthouses, restaurants and well laden bicycle panniers attest to the gemtle stream of forign tourists passing through the town, many of whom stop, as we did, to sleep and exchange information at the popular (if rather basic) Pamir Lodge.

The Pamir Lodge was established to fund the running of a small Sufi madrassa (Islamic school) - an unusual sight in a formerly Soviet state. As we prepared for bed, the sounds of a traditional music concert wafted from the madrassa and across the courtyard. Though not exactly to my taste, it proved the perfect lullaby.  

Alexander's Lake

Iskanderkul (Tajik for Alexander's Lake) is three hours west of Dushanbe off the road to Uzbekistan. It is a clear, turquoise gem nestled in the heart of the Fan Mountains.

Though a few determined Lada drivers do chance the road, a 4x4 would definitely be my recommended means of transport. The track to the lake is steep, the gravel is loose amd several sections of road have already plunged to obliteration in the fast-flowing river below. A glance over the edge is best taken with caution and a quick prayer to the Almighty.

Unless you are fortunate enough to be a guest of the President at his dacha (country home), your accommodation options are limited to a slightly tatty Soviet holiday camp comprised of up-market garden sheds, or camping. We opted for the latter and located a serene spot on the far side of the lake where a few mosquitos and the occasional wading bird were to be our only companions. A thicket of trees provided brush wood for a glorious bonfire,and a previous camper had thoughtfully left a pile of kindling.

We spent two nights and a day by the lakeside - there was no rush to return to Dushanbe as the Afghan embassy was closed on an interminable holiday. I wrote, dozed and learned a new card game (which I promptly forgot as usual), Bill sketched in watercolours, and Katherine and Tom braved the chilly lake water for a very brief swim.

As well as an accomplished painter, Bill also knows a thing or two about birds. He drew our attention to a rather elegant black winged stilt,who cooled his long orange legs in the shallow waters by our camp and ducked down to retrieve an occasional tasty morsel.

The Bowels of Hell

I drove once before through the Aznob tunnel and, though I blogged about it then, I still feel the shere horror of the experience makes it worthy of another mention.
Albeit without the flames licking up around your ankles, the Aznob tunnel is the 3km mouth of hell. Semi built by the Iranians, the tunnel has been open for several years but it is still a very long way from completion. One narrow tunnel carries traffic in both directions and is also used to remove rubble generated by boring the second tunnel hat will ultimately run in parallel. Those piles of rubble extracted but not yet taken away are simply left as unlit obstacls in the obstacle course that is the carriageway.
The surface of the road is unmade and huge stretches are flooded with water,masking the po holes beneath. We crept along at a limp, still thunking against the rock more often than I'd like. We narrowly avoided the unmarked drill rig another heavy plant that appeared suddenly in the gloom, and held our collective breath each time a homicidal vehicle lurched from the darkness to swerve or overtake.
 Two thirds of the way through the tunnel we realised why completion is taking so long. Indeed, since my previous visit over a year ao it scarcely seemed to have advanced at all. The construction crew has no equipment - at least not any that is fit for the job. We passes half a dozen men digging with shovels; a second team was breaking up rocks with pick axes.
The icing on the cake, however, was the small. group of men attempting to chane one of thetunnel's ew but desperately needed lightbulbs. In the absence of a step ladder they had parked a Chinese-made digger across the road,completely blocking the traffic. We switched off the engine so as to reduce the risk of carbon monoxide poisoning and watched transfixed as the used the digger's bucket to lift two men the 10ft or so to the ceiling, enabling them to reach the bare wires.
Tajikistan is not a wealthy country - it is thepoorest of the Central Asian states - but the Aznob tunnel is still no less a national disgrace and a danger to all who drive through it or work inside it. The technology required to complete the job properly is not complicated and, as Chinese road crews across the region have shown, when properly organied this kind of project can be completed safely, cost-effectively and to a high standard. There is absoluely no excuse for this mess.   

Dushanbe Walking Tour

Amongst Central Asia's modern capitals, Dushanbe is unfairly maligned. The city may be relatively small and entirely lacking in nightlife but it is surprisingly more attractive than its larger, louder brethren.
The centre of Dushanbe is easily walkable: wide, straight boulevards cross the city in a slightly wonky grid formation, and the pavements are mostly well-maintained and clean. Subways assist pedestrians in crossing the larger inter-sections and, although few of the streets are sign posted, most of them seem to lead back to Rudaki (the main drag) sooner or later.

We started our walk behind the Hyatt hotel on Ismoili Somoni. Built on the lakeside, the hotel has commanding views over much of the city, and this largely compensates for the characterless interior.
Being Eid, the lakeside was crammed with local holidaymakers. Small boys stripped to the waist swam and splashed in the slightly sun-warmed water whilst their parents and sisters stood chatting, eating ice cream and riding on the elderly, slightly precarious-looking ferris wheel.

Hugging the lake shore, then following the path through the park enables you to keep back from the road for a considerable stretch. You then emerge on the pavement shortly before the junction with Hafiz Sherozi. We crossed the dual carriageway and continued another few minutes east, stopping outside a striking stone building.

The building's facade was covered with life-sized statues of Tajik poets and other cultural heroes. The building itself dates from the Soviet period but the men whose lives and works it commemorate span the last millennium. Few of the names would be recognisable to foreigner but this monument does show the high esteem in which the Tajik people hold their literary figures.

Ismoili Somoni joins Rudaki, Dushanbe's transport artery, outside an attractive neo classical buiding belonging to the President. The fountain are particularly cheery, and there is a notable chaikhana (traditional tea house) a few doors to the left.

We turned right long Rudaki, passing the Central Department Store (TsUM) and various small shops on the way. Whilst the men were predominantly in western dress, albeit with the occasional embroidered flat cap, almost all of the women had chosen the local equivalent of salwar kamiz: a long, loose tunic with baggy trousers in a matching fabric. Those who also wore a headscarf had it tight around their scalp and knotted at the nape of their neck. When the older women smiled they tended to flash a run of golden teeth - the legacy of Soviet dentistry.

Continuing along Rudaki, we reached the Central Park. This is a large, well laid out space that was  riot of colour even in the late summer. The grass was mostly green (thanks to a comprehensive irrigation system) and a collection of fountains and sculptures provided added visual stimuli.

The two largest statues in th park are part of elaborate monuments to Ismoili Somoni and to the poet Rudaki. Rudaki stands tall benath a colourful mosaic archway, his glory relected in the water pool below. Somoni, whom one can infer from the golden crownabove his head must have been an historic Tajik king, has his own archway. Somoni's arch is entirely gilded and far the most ostentatious of the two.

Leaving the park by the Somoni monument, we continued along a now tree-lined Rudaki, which runs at a slight angle from its previous course. The mostly administrative buildings here are low rise and classical in design,which makes a pleasant change from the Soviet concrete that dominates the centre of so may Central Asian cities. It seems the buildings have been recently painted, many in bright colours, and this adds to their charm.

Rudaki opens out into a large inter-section with Ayni and, at its centre, a square and fountains celebrating another Tajik poet: Ayni. Although there is a statue to Ayni here, we were more interested by those to its left: a 20th century war memorial and a sculpture with several slightly strange human figures, one of whom appears to be rolling on his back.

West of the square is Ayni Ave. and a brisk five-minute walk brought us to the Victory Monument - a tribute to those who fought for the USSR during the Great Patriotic War (WW2). As well as a large arch there is also an original tank, restored and repainted, which makes an ideal climbing frame for those so inclined.
The road north of the monument curves back round to Central Park, meeting the lawns close to the gold domed building of the Presidential administration. If you're going to take photos, do so discretely else an overly zealous policeman jump out and ruin your fun.

The last stop on our micro sightseeing tour was to stand beneath the vast Tajik flag that is visible from most of the city. Quite the largest flag I have ever seen,it somehow manages to float majestically even when there is no breeze. It is a proud national  image for a small but well-formed capital.