A Sashay to Sogdiana, Part 1

I had been looking forward to our trip to Tajikistan for quite some time. As the date of our departure approached, my salivary glands became saturated with anticipation. The reason? Persian food

Fesenjun, the magnum opus of Iran, Photo Taken from Wikipedia

Though Kyrgyz food is by no means 'bad', an American visiting Kyrgyzstan will likely grow tired of his culinary options, ever seeking more novelty. And so it was in my case. Therefore, I fancifully imagined that Tajikistan, with a totally different cultural substrate from Kyrgyzstan, would be a refreshing break from the usual.





To my disappointment, my inquiries as to where I could find specific Persian dishes I knew from America were met with confused looks from our Tajik guides. I found that, despite the Tajik objections to the contrary, the cuisine did not diverge from that to which I had grown accustomed in Bishkek. I mention this to caution a would-be traveler to Central Asia to value even subtle variety in his diet.


Arriving in Dushanbe in the wee hours of the morning, still naive to the absence of fesenjun in Tajikistan, we embarked just a few hours later on a walking tour across the city, with our guides, Amin and Ruslan, showing us the city's most prominent attractions.

New Astronomy Museum across the reflecting pool

New Astronomy Museum

World's Tallest Flagpole

Though the sky is overcast, the downtown is still dramatically beautiful, indicating a significant investment in the aesthetics of the capital. Amin eagerly points out to us what he claims to be the world's tallest flagpole, as the grandiose flag waves over an unpeopled square complete with a reflecting pool. Across the pool lies a building which Richard, another student via the Bard program, deems to resemble a bottle cap. The structure is, however, meant to be reminiscent of a telescope as it is intended to be the country's new museum of astronomy.

Ministry of Foreign Relations

Walking towards our next destination, Amin points out his second workplace, the Ministry of Foreign Relations. The building, though architecturally beautiful, is simple and not visibly guarded, an oddity for a student familiar with Washington, DC.

Monument to Rudaki

Eventually, we come to Rudaki Park, which is astoundingly lush and even tropical-looking. In its center is a whimsical monument to the blind Persian poet, Rudaki. Rudaki lived roughly one thousand years ago, at a time when there was no significant cultural division between Tajiks and Persians. Despite having been born in what is now Tajikistan and having been appropriated by modern Tajiks, he is nevertheless considered a forefather of Persian literature.  The name Rudaki is ubiquitous in Tajikistan, just as Manas is inescapable in Kyrgyzstan.

The monument to Ismail Samani

 

 

Emerging from the park, are met by the stone embodiment of Ismail Samani, who is regarded as the founder of the Tajik nation. His immediate ancestors would have been the employers of Rudaki and Samani (or Somoni) is just as ubiquitous, even lending his name to the country's currency.










Later that very same day, we embark on another journey, this one to a landscape I can genuinely describe as 'exotic'. Outside of National Geographic, I had never such high mountains and wild terrain. Our destination was the village of Sar-e-Tag, near the lake Iskander Kul .

Along a narrow dirt road flanked by cliffs, Ruslan drove us safely to our desination

As we soared higher in elevation along the northward road from Dushanbe, the air became palpably crisper. The extreme remoteness of Sar-e-Tag blew our minds; we imagined for ourselves the immense difficulty the people of the village must endure to bring in consumer products or how they established any income at all.

'The Store of Wisdom', one of only two stores in Sar-e-Tag

Tajikistan is the poorest nation in the CIS, as it was also the least developed of the Soviet Socialist Republics. This is be no means visible in Dushanbe, which is, arguable, a more beautiful city than Bishkek; however, the countryside betrays these facts.

After spending the night in a miniscule hostel tucked away between sheep pens, a small cohort decided to explore the village under the morning fog. Despite the winter weather, the views of the mountains around us are still picturesque. It does not take more than ten minutes to walk from one end of the village to the other at a leisurely pace.

Eventually, we come to the small village school outside of which the children are playing, indicating that is evidently a break period. Out of curiosity, we ask if we may peak inside, but instead are invited warmly to the teachers' lounge. There we make some polite, but nevertheless interesting, small talk.

Continuing our exploration of Sar-e-Tag, we meet a number of characters along the way. The cries of children yelling at us repetitively occasionally ring out from their mobs. Livestock, particularly cows and donkeys, walk through the alleyways, drinking from muddy puddles here and there. In the distance we see a group of boys leading a donkey which appears to be carrying water. We had noticed, and managed only with some difficulty, the lack of running water in our hostel. This is my first expose to a community without indoor plumbing and though the residents of Sar-e-Tag may not see anything exceptional in it, I for one can barely fathom the immense inconvenience 'fetching water' would introduce into my life.

Eventually, we leave Sar-e-Tag to see more of the country. Nevertheless, our short stay was both interesting and charming.












A few miles outside of Sar-e-Tag, near Iskander Kul, Amin and Ruslan take us on a hike over very rocky terrain to an unnamed but beautiful waterfall. Above the cascade hangs an aged cage made of metal rods. Directly beneath our, dozens of meters below, the water rushes. 

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Enjoying the natural beauty around us, we rest over the waterfall for while before continuing onwards.

Bishkek's Peculiar Cleanliness

Waking earlier than usual one fall morning, I decided to make my way down to the American University of Central Asia ahead of schedule.




The air was crisp and cold and the mountains to the south had a golden luster under the rising sun.


Nearing the university, a multitude of older women in reflective vests appeared.





























Nearly everday, particularly in the mornings, the street sweepers are at work clearing the streets, alleys, and sidewalks with broad brooms. The entire phenomenon is, to the American eye, unfamiliar and the brooms used seem unusual, sometime rudimentary. The streetsweeping women radiate outwards from a parked truck labelled 'Tazalyk', Kyrgyz for 'cleanliness'.

Though the city may be senisitive to hygiene, individual busniness owners may not be so proactive.