Latest
Winter return to Dushanbe
Philadelphia – Washington, DC – Frankfurt – Dushanbe. 24 hours of travel start to finish, which sounds like a long time, but after many of these trips it all feels amazingly routine. The only thing that threatened to add a little excitement was when by bag disappeared into the vast baggage sorting system of Frankfurt Airport. For some reason my bag was sent on the belt less traveled and did not make an appearance on Belt #12. I was thinking to myself about the incompetence of the baggage folks in Washington as I reported the lost bag. Lufthansa was as helpful as they could be even though the bag was not showing up in their system (how good is the “system” really?). We spent a few minutes on speculating which route (Moscow, Istanbul, Dubai?) would get the bag to Dushanbe faster. After a friend was recently turned back from Moscow for no apparent reason, I was urging him not to use that route. Anything can happen in Moscow.
Finally everything that could be done was done. I headed off towards the air train when the clerk came running after me: “Mr. Horton, I think I found your bag! It should be right here in one of these carts…”, but it wasn’t. Mr. Fletcher’s was, but no trace of mine. He raced back to his computer and then off to the sorting area, and a few minutes later he led the wayward suitcase towards me triumphantly. I told him that he saved a whole lot of hassle getting that bag to me in Garm.
In Dushanbe I was met by the Mercy Corps driver that often picks me up from international trips. Always good to see a familiar face…he was in the scrum of taxi drivers and yelled” taxi, taxi” at me along with them. As we rolled through the wet, deserted streets of Dushanbe, he asked about my family and the weather in the US and told me all about goings on in Dushanbe. At times like that, it feels as much like “coming home” as it does arriving in the US.
Cows and creativity
Life in the countryside, Take One
8:01 am Staff member: Sir, I need to take a vacation day today. (concern in voice) Me: What happened? Staff member: I have four cows, and last night none of them came home. I have to go up the mountain to find them.
Life in the countryside, Take Two
Driving down a muddy rural road in the rain, we approach a 50-year old truck coming the other way. It is loaded down with firewood. Standing on either side of the cab are two men holding onto the side mirrors. As we come closer, we notice that the one next to the driver is manually moving the windshield wiper back and forth so the driver can see. Despite the cold and rain, he is doing it with a big smile on his face. All of us are laughing as we drive by and wave.
The heat breaks
It’s that rare time of the year when the temperature is just right in the Rasht Valley. After months without rain, a storm broke the heat and cleared out much of the dust a few days ago. A fine haze of Afghan (and Tajik) dust had hung in the air since I returned. A still- warm wind blows through the parched landscape. Despite the brief rain, it is still unusually dry here. The grasses which will keep the livestock alive through the winter have been cut, and what remains is all shades of yellow and brown.
Today our youth intern and I walked for a few hours through this brown landscape. We passed gaggles of children playing by the roadside, without a care in the world, and a very old man on a donkey slowly making his way up the hill. We had a brief conversation with him as we moved past, but his Tajik was difficult to understand. We encountered a few shepherd boys near the remains of a massive concrete warehouse that must have been used for vehicles and crops when all of this land was a Soviet Sovkhoz. Nearby were two strange pieces of land that loomed 10 meters above the landscape, eroded on all sides by wind and water. Later we passed a few adult men looking almost delirious as they slowly trudged uphill, clearly feeling the effects of 28 days of Ramadan fasting. In the evening, the prayer call of the muezzin can be heard clearly from our “tapchan”, mixing with the sounds of children and the occasional car. Summer lingers on even as autumn is in the air.
Summer journey westward
The trip starts the way these trips always start, with a very slow beginning at the Dushanbe airport. For some reason check-in tends to be a slow and painful process, with lines that have nowhere to go, filled with slightly confused travelers that are already sleep deprived, since they must turn up at the airport at 3 am. This particular morning was clearly going to be more excruciating than normal when I heard those fateful words “the system is down.” This is bad news at any airport, and in Dushanbe it slowed things to a crawl. It took over an hour for the check-in clerk in front of me to process four parties, including myself. At that rate, it is miraculous our plane ever left.
Two other sub-plots were going on in Dushanbe airport. Being summer, there are many travelers engaged in the “classic” bicycle trek through the Pamir Mountains of eastern Tajikistan. Several groups of these were on their way out of Tajikistan with their bikes. Although this is as predictable as the summer heat, airport staff seemed remarkably unprepared. While some were told to take their bikes through one unmarked door, I saw another woman told to take her bike behind the counters and lay it on the luggage belt – this of course was a bad idea as the bike was too wide for the luggage belt and she had to stand there feeling like an idiot until a friend helped her get the bike down. The other bit of theatre that usually happens is when the customs men (they are mostly men) want to “see” your money – it gives literal meaning to the phrase “show me the money”. Although it is a ridiculous request, I went along to see what would happen… In the end he saw my small collection of Tajik somoni and US dollars and decided that I probably hadn’t robbed the central bank on my way out.
The sun was up by the time we boarded at 5:30 am, and five hours later we landed in hot and humid Riga, which was crowded with travelers coming and going, but at least is quick to get around and the staff are all friendly and helpful. Even the airport food is good by airport standards. I said goodbye to friends who had traveled with me from Dushanbe, and boarded the flight to Paris, where the weather was cold, gray and wet.
Charles de Gaulle airport is a big place. The 1970s architecture of beehive shaped buildings filled with people-moving, overlapping escalators is charming but the sheer size of the place was a bit disorienting after the living room size airport where I had started. An inexplicable lack of signs forced me to ask directions several times, but eventually I found the train to my terminal.
The other sub plot in all international travel these stays is of course the security rituals. They vary quite a bit from country to country. In Dushanbe they are perfunctory and usually very little happens. At least I don’t get a hassle about bringing my water on the plane. In Riga they were very serious – my wallet and passport got a special scan and many people were getting patted down. In Paris we had the old liquids dilemma – you can’t take the water with you but we won’t confiscate your Nalgene water bottle. Which means you drink all of it on the spot or find another solution – in this case the inspector produced another bottle to pour the water into. I half-intentionally forget to get rid of my water before security because the whole process is so annoying, but it is certainly very good for the water sellers at the departure gates and on the flights.
I am always fascinated by the waves of people washing through a large airport like Charles de Gaulle. People from a hundred different countries, and thousands of different stories. If you have the time to observe, you glimpse the sheer diversity of international travelers in 2011. An ever-shifting and moving United Nations.
Onward across the Atlantic to Atlanta, Georgia, I sat near a French family headed for a tour of the U.S. Starting in New Orleans they would eventually make their way to Boston via Washington and New York. I am always fascinated but what travelers to the U.S. choose to see, what will form their impression of America. And how the reality is different from their impression when they arrive…
Finally, the last leg to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I felt Philadelphia even before I arrived as I sat next to a baseball coach from Swarthmore College who had been traveling around the south recruiting potential students for his team. Soon we had landed but I knew my bag would not be there. It was taking a tour of Paris, so I filed my claim and made a check of the belt just in case. While I was there waiting for my sister to arrive, I noticed a group of People to People Ambassadors who were also returning from Europe. They had that glow I had seen many times before on young travelers returning from a big trip – excited by their experience and happy to be home.
Above Mirtob between the rain
I am sitting on the 2nd floor of my office with views across the valley as a massive thunderstorm moves in. A strong wind bends trees over and lightning flashes all around. The black edge of the clouds moves slowly eastward over Garm, bringing an early darkness. Heavy raindrops start pelting the windows.
The day started with rain and ended with rain, but in between a colleague and I managed to get in a hike to the hills above Mirtob Village about 50 km east of Garm. It is one of the many valleys that branch off from the main Suhrob River. An assortment of goats, sheep and cows were scattered over the green hills with a small clutch of children keeping an eye on them. Higher up, a reddish brown marmot bounced from rock to rock and whistled in warning to his fellow marmots. Above an eagle was gliding on the rising currents of air. On the way up we passed through a wet field where three different springs bubble up from the ground and flow clear and cold down towards the village. Higher still, we find a rainbow of blooming wildflowers, many in the shape of tall bottles. On the hilltop, we came across a large pile of rocks that was made many years ago by soldiers in training and has since been remodeled by a local bear.
We lounged on the hilltop with our very generous host and guide, taking in the views across the valley to snow covered mountains in the distance. Then we descended, through the goats, cows and sheep, past the curious childen, and through a shady forest of mulberry trees which were loaded with ripe fruit. Finally we passed the homestead of our guide’s brother, met his youngest child and were invited in for tea, which we had to decline since we knew we had another meal waiting for us at the guide’s house. A beautiful afternoon in a very peaceful mountain valley.
Spring snow wrestling
Facing off in the snow
Spring is “Gushti” (wrestling) season in Tajikistan. This weekend I was invited to a big gushti match in Tojikobod District, site of many great buzkashi matches this past winter. After a bit of rain overnight, the morning was damp and cold, with low clouds hovering along the sides of the Rasht Valley. Although the calendar says spring and our staff have been dismantling the coal stoves in the office, I threw on a bunch of layers. That proved to be a good idea, as we encountered light snow as we drove higher in the valley. Our vehicle was full of drivers and guards who also wanted to see the gushti, many of the same staff who had been always ready for a day of buzkashi.
Finally reaching the village of Shirichashma, we found a large crowd already gathered outside the local school. Thick mats were arranged in a large square in the middle, and the matches were underway. Two matches were happening simultaneously, while other wrestlers sat at the edge of the mat. I only had a minute to take in the scene before I was grabbed by the hand and led through the crowd to an open area next to the judges table. It turns out my guide used to volunteer for Mercy Corps and today he was in charge of all the prizes for the winning wrestlers, an important job.
Apparently he remembered the many photos I had taken during buzkashi, and he wanted me to have a good spot for the festivities. Seated in what passed for the press box, I was in an ideal position to take some photos. I also was well taken care of, alternately being offered “choi” (tea) or RC Cola. The wrestling is Greco-Roman syle, with both wrestlers standing and a win only awarded for throwing your opponent fully onto his back, called a “khalo”. The crowd would go crazy if there was a khalo, or they thought there was one. The referees were reserved with the khalos, only calling one when it was a clear flip onto the back.
Going for a "khalo"
The wrestlers ranged from about 14 to 25 years in age, and varied quite a bit in size. It was clear some were well-known “champions”, including one of the referees who judged for more than an hour before taking the mat himself and quickly getting a khalo. The hometown favorites from Tojikobod competed against wrestlers from the neighboring districts of Jirgatol and Rasht and even a few wrestlers from Dushanbe. Although a few decisions were disputed, most wrestlers accepted the decisions and there was a good level of sportsmanship. Only one match resulted in injury, when a wrestler was flipped fully over his opponent and in the process dislocated his shoulder.
As the matches continued, the snow increased but there was never any sign that the matches would be stopped. Typical April weather in this part of the country. One of the prize carpets was rolled out to provide a dry surface, and wrestling continued. My host kept bringing tea, then a blanket, then an umbrella. I was a bit amazed that the wrestling continued. Finally after more than 3 hours we were all wet ready to get warm. We headed for the home of Amirjon, the prize giver, and settled down to Tajik “girdecha” (traditional hearth-baked bread), yogurt, honey, and “shorba” (meat, potato and carrot soup). All agreed the gushti was “zur” (great), and we headed for home a happy bunch.
Snow in the mountains
After two weeks in southern Tajikistan and Dushanbe, it was time to get back to Garm, my base in the mountains of the Rasht Valley. The winter has been unusual for its lack of snow, but this weekend we are starting to make up for it. Been snowing since yesterday, with more than 20 inches (50 cm) on the ground in Garm. Even an hour outside of Dushanbe in the high plateau it was a winter snowscape of ghostly white trees and more snow falling. As we drove east, we could tell this was a long-awaited snow because there were decorated snowmen in two different places – not so common here.
Here at our Garm residence, it’s been like moving into a house for the first time – I am taking over the “warm” half of the house from my colleague who left for the US. Although for some reason I am still sitting here with a hat on inside (our coal “pechka” must be low – time to call the guard).
Being a Sunday, we are on our own to make dinner. I had come back with Russian pasta (yes, it’s edible) and one of those jars of mixed vegetables (tomatoes, onions, garlic, etc) that are common in the former Soviet Union. As always in winter, the challenge was to spend as little time as possible in the outdoor kitchen. This objective was not helped by the fact that the incredibly low quality Chinese matches would light for 2 secs then go out. I had assumed that the match was a technology humans had mastered a long, long time ago – but my experience here shows that is just not true. After the second flameout I had to adjust my technique and light the gas right away – finally dinner was in progress. Yes, I was wearing my fur hat and could see my breath in the close-to-freezing air, but we would eat!
Mountain art
Tavildara Valley is a place of loops and swirls. One mountain has elaborate, multi-colored curves covering its top third. Another appears to be bending in the wind. Below left, fractured slabs of rock rise hundreds of meters in the air from the surface of the Inghob River, bending gracefully as they rise. On my first trip, my attention was drawn to one of these peaks where snow had lodged in ever expanding circular patterns, giving it the appearance of a giant rose. Now, in warmer weather, the extent of the geologic artistry is clearer. The combination of glaciers grinding away and wind and water on the rock has created a gallery of mountain art.
An Afghani
Friday afternoon – Driving north from the town of Shaartuz, a wall of dust follows us, one of the “Afghani” storms that periodically roll across the border this time of year. It paints the entire sky in the same hue, a hard-to-describe color somewhere between yellow and orange. The sun vanishes, and the mountains on either side of the road are dark forms below the curtain of dust. Reaching Dushanbe, I look back and to the southwest the sun is setting in a hazy mixture of city dust, pollution and the remnants of the “Afghani”. It is a shimmering orange ball that hovers just above the trolley wires and apartment blocks.
