Apart from “Borat” and the occasional bout of ethnic violence, Central Asia rarely makes the headlines. Sacha Baron Cohen’s character does however provide a number of insights into the turbulent politics between the 5 “Stans” (“To the world, I love you! Apart from Uzbekistan. Assholes.”). Central Asia’s intricate patchwork of rivalries and competing nationalisms, as well as its links with the Silk Road, were the main reasons I decided to visit. In particular I am fascinated by the Pamiri people of Tajikistan, a peripheral ethnic group in a peripheral state. Over my 2 weeks in Central Asia in early November, I spent 5 days in Tajikistan including 3 in the Gorno-Badakhshan Autonomous Region (GBAO, the home of the Pamiris). My trip took me from Almaty in Kazakhstan, through Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan, to Samarkand in Uzbekistan.
Borat neglects to mention Central Asia’s immense geopolitical importance. Central Asia has always been a battleground between superpowers. In the 19th century, the British and Russian Empires jostled for influence. Now, with the USA, China, India, Russia and Turkey all involved, the names have changed, but the tug-of-war continues.
As the business capital of Central Asia, Almaty in no way provides an accurate picture of the region. I landed, blurry-eyed, at 4.30am in the morning on Sunday the 1st November, and was struck by the crisp, clear Russian on everyone’s lips. My fellow passengers clarified that since most of them had spent their formative years in the Soviet Union, Russian was their first language. Even more surprisingly, out of the 30 or so young karate champions (all ethnic Kazakhs from Oral/Uralsk) at my hostel in downtown Almaty, less than half knew a word of Kazakh. President Nursultan Nazarbayev has made efforts to promote the national language, but in business-friendly, forward-looking Kazakhstan, Russian is considered more useful.
Before the advent of Islam in the 10th century AD, Central Asia was predominantly populated by speakers of Iranian languages, such as the Bactrians and Parthians. From the 5th century onwards, migration brought Turkic peoples from the north-east. Linguistically, this resulted in a situation today where the majority of Central Asians speak a Turkic language, e.g. Uzbek, Kazakh, Kyrgyz and Turkmen, and a large minority (mostly in Tajikistan and Uzbekistan) speak Tajik/Dari/Persian and several other Iranian languages. However, after 150 years of Russian dominance, much of the population also speaks Russian, and the main unifying factor of Central Asia, which separates it from Mongolia and Afghanistan (both sometimes included in definitions of Central Asia), is its “Russianness”. 7 million Russians (and 500 000 Ukrainians) still live in the region, forming a little over 10% of the population (down from 25% before the fall of the Soviet Union). Russian is the regional lingua franca, especially in business.
Kazakhstan is undoubtedly the region’s economic powerhouse. The state’s huge reserves of natural resources have contributed to a sharp rise in GDP in the last 20 years, resulting in a 2014 GDP per capita (PPP) of $24,000, just below Russia’s ($24,500), and higher than Bulgaria, Romania, Croatia, Latvia, all members of the EU. Apart from Turkmenistan, the other “Stans” are 5 to 10 times poorer, with Tajik GDP per capita a lowly $2,400. Though it cannot match the futuristic ultra-modern buildings of Astana, Almaty is still Kazakhstan’s commercial hub. As expected in a petrodollar economy, Land Cruisers are the transport of choice. Flashy jewellery and Western brands abound, and headscarves are completely absent. In the words of Gulnaz, whom I met in Almaty, “headscarves are a recent, Arab-inspired fashion”. When she travelled to Egypt, the locals were shocked to see her, a bikini-clad Muslim girl, acting with such “depravity”.
It is easy to see why Kazakhs feel more at home in Moscow than in neighbouring countries. In terms of perceived distance, to most Kazakhs, nearby Afghanistan might as well be on the moon. And while the Slavic population of the other “Stans” has steadily decreased, the same has not happened in Almaty, where almost a third of the population is ethnic Russian or Ukrainian. Including Vladimir, an ethnic Ukrainian tourist from Tashkent, sat to my right in the Boulangerie Paul, at the top of Shymbulak ski resort. Quite apart from the novelty of having a chocolate éclair at 2,200m in a luxurious French boulangerie, it was fascinating to hear Vladimir extol the benefits of a Kazakh passport over the much less useful Uzbek variety. Contacts (and vkontankte) exchanged, I headed back down the cablecar, into the blizzard, past Medeu (at 1691m, apparently the highest skating rink in the world) and made my way to Dostyk Plaza shopping centre for some sushi and frozen yogurt.
After a nocturnal supper with the army of hyperactive Kazakh karate champions and their slightly mad Ukrainian cook, I headed off to Bishkek, the capital of neighbouring Kyrgyzstan. Like Almaty, Bishkek is grid-shaped, with several leafy parks and an unremarkable mix of Soviet and post-Soviet monuments. The mountains provide a pleasant backdrop: Kyrgyzstan’s strength is its outstanding natural beauty. People come here to rock-climb, hike, and enjoy the view.
Having been stumped in my attempts to buy a Kyrgyz national football shirt, I did however chance upon a sumptuous restaurant called Navat, serving the legendary Central Asian dish Beşbarmaq (which means “five fingers”). After confirming with Aybek the waiter that I was not eating freshly chopped hand, I wolfed down this dish of noodles, boiled lamb and mutton broth (shorpo). Before leaving I took the chance to acquire a lovely camel-shaped tea pot cover: my contribution to the Kyrgyz handicrafts industry.
Drawing boundaries anywhere is a dangerous game, but my Air Bishkek flight down from the Kyrgyz capital to its second city, Osh, seems retrospectively to have been the time when Central Asia really began. The cabin staff arrived approximately 10 minutes before take-off, one of them in a t-shirt and jeans, and the passengers consisted mainly of elderly men in traditional kalpaks (a sort of elevated cap strangely reminiscent of the Bolivians and their bowler hats) and Kyrgyz women wearing a substantial percentage of their wealth in the form of gold teeth.
I was welcomed at Osh airport by the indefatigable Umida, who over tea and naan briefed me on all aspects of religion, language and ethnicity. The Kazakhs, she said, are “honest, straight-talking and fair, like the Russians”. So too the northern Kyrgyz, whereas the southern Kyrgyz, now politically dominant in historically-Uzbek Osh, are “sneakier” (Umida is Uzbek). Interestingly she claimed that the Uzbeks, despite speaking a Turkic language, are much more conservative and Iranian-looking than the Kazakhs and Kyrgyz, and have a lot more in common with the Tajiks than with their northern neighbours.
One man claimed by both Kyrgyz and Uzbeks is Babur, the first Mughal emperor of India (early 16th century), who was from the Fergana valley. A shrine to Babur, the Dom Babura can be found at the top of Suleiman mountain, and on reaching the shrine I was stunned to find even more echoes of my Swiss-Indian heritage in the shape of a family of bike fanatics from Zürich who were setting up an eco-tourist agency in Osh. Rushing down the hill to meet my taxi driver, I bade goodbye to Umida before heading off to the Uzbek border. Snowy conditions on the Pamir Highway (which climbs to 4,655m at the Ak-Baital Pass) had forced me to change my plans and head to Tajikistan via Tashkent, by taxi.
Uzbekistan leaves no one indifferent. On arrival at the border post I was somewhat baffled when the official asked me to locate all the pornography on my laptop. I was later informed that Uzbek president Islam Karimov has made watching pornography, as well as the wearing of beards, a capital offence. Once outside, after some spirited negotiation with dozens of yelling taxi drivers, I secured the services of a jovial but rather ursine Uzbek with a soft spot for 1980s British rock. Several hours, a mountain blizzard and much thigh-slapping later, I arrived in Tashkent, my vocabulary enriched with a variety of rare Russian obscenities, some choice Uzbek insults and the complete lyrics to Status Quo’s In the Army Now. I was also weighed down by several kilogrammes of seriously devalued Uzbek som.
Early the next morning I had my first taste of Uzbek plov, the local rendition of pulao rice, at the aptly named Tsentr Plova (“Plov centre”), and made for the notoriously tense and heavily mined Tajik-Uzbek border in the company of two gypsies fluent in Uzbek, Tajik and Romani. A discussion of comparative Indo-Iranian linguistics ensued, tragically cut short by another frenzied search for pornography and drugs with the Uzbek customs official. I was warmly greeted on the other side by a young Tajik soldier, who cradled my passport for a few seconds before quizzing me on the relative merits of British, Russian and Uzbek girls.
Seven days into my trip, Khujand, the site of Alexandria Eschate (“Alexandria the Farthest”), Alexander the Great’s most northerly base in Central Asia, was my home for the night. Having allowed myself the luxury of a private room, I collapsed onto the sofa, turned on the TV and enjoyed the delights of Milad Gholami, Sami Beigi, Gheysar and a host of other Iranian popstars.
The next morning, I visited the monument to Ismail Somoni as well as the partly renovated 10th century fortress, before heading to Dushanbe across the Zarafshan (“sprayer of gold”) range, whose highest point is almost 5,500m high. Stopping along the road to buy dried fruits, it was impossible not to be struck by the European features of the highlanders, or by the sour taste of the qurut (dried salty cheese balls) offered by two elderly ladies. On my arrival in Dushanbe I met two fellow travellers who had taken the same route separately: Californians who had quit their jobs for the road trip of a lifetime from Reading in England to Ulaanbaatar. Over fresh pomegranate and tea, we planned to join forces and hitch a taxi south to Khorugh, capital of the Pamirs and the inspiration for my journey.
The Pamiris are a linguistic and religious minority: predominantly Ismaili Shia in Sunni Tajikistan, with their own distinct Indo-Iranian language. Religiously, Central Asia as a whole has undergone significant change. Buddhism and Zoroastrianism were the major faiths before the arrival of Islam. Now the region is Muslim (mostly Sunni), though noteworthy for the high proportion of non-denominational Muslims (who consider themselves neither Sunni, nor Shia, but simply Muslim). At 74% in Kazakhstan they constitute the highest proportion in the world: Kyrgyzstan comes third with 64%, Uzbekistan 8th with 54%. Not so in Tajikistan.
Geographically concentrated in the mountainous southeast of the country (Pamir means “the roof of the world” in Persian), and separated from their kin in Afghanistan by the Panj river, the Pamiris have long been disadvantaged and marginalised by the majority Tajik population. They were on the losing side in the civil war which raged between 1992 and 1997, I was told by my driver Davlat as he raced down the narrow dirt tracks in our Land Cruiser. As Afghanistan came into view across the Panj, small mud houses, women wearing colourful veils and motorbikes racing along the narrow paths could be seen. On both sides the mountains rose sharply, and as night fell we finally paused for dinner. After 12 hours of what can only be described as off-piste driving, the joys of meat soup, fried eggs and a hard, stationary chair are not to be sniffed at.
As we arrived in the early hours of the morning we were greeted by the staff at the Pamir Lodge and shown to our rooms. The next day, my tour of Khorugh revealed a lively small town, nestled in a steep valley surrounded by mountains. The locals do not dress conservatively: the women wore no veils and openly exchanged kisses in the streets. Unusually for such a small town (population: 30 000), there are two universities, one of them funded by the Aga Khan Development Network. Through the staff I managed to talk to the elderly Dr Shaikh, formerly the Aga Khan’s representative in GBAO who arrived in 1991 and now splits his time between Khorugh and Birmingham. The doctor comes from a family of Pakistani Ismailis, who were converted from Hinduism by the present Aga Khan’s grandfather. “It was his proudest moment,” according to Dr Shaikh. Dr Shaikh helped build the Jamatkhana (Ismaili prayer house) in Khorugh and the adjoining Pamir Lodge, originally meant for Ismaili travellers, but now mostly used by backpackers. Khorugh is the starting point for drives down to the scenic Wakhan Valley – the narrow strip of north-eastern Afghan territory which was in 1893 fixed as the buffer zone between British India and the Russian Empire, in one of the final chapters of the Great Game.
“Minorities cannot afford to be prejudiced,” I was told by a local Pamiri in central Khorugh. He motioned towards a man delivering sand for construction works. “This man’s brother was a leader of the uprising [against the Tajik military] in summer 2012. When the Aga Khan told the Pamiris to lay down their arms, this man urged his brother to keep a shotgun hidden. His brother didn’t listen and gave everything up. When the Tajiks found out, they came and shot him dead.” The military operation in 2012, though allegedly aimed at 4 “commanders” of local criminal groups, soon took on an ethnic dimension. 25 Pamiris and a few dozen Tajik soldiers were killed, further alienating locals.
On the Tajik side, prejudice is rife. When Dr Shaikh arrived in the early 90s, and was looking for a Pamiri wife for one of his sons, Tajik friends told him “no you can’t. They are not real Muslims.” One of his sons is now married to the sister of his Pamiri caretaker. The South Asian community of Khorugh, however, crosses all boundaries. Dr Shaikh is from Pakistan, and in central Khorugh, I found a forgotten outpost of my homeland. The Delhi Darbar restaurant, run by Hindus from Lucknow, served a succulent lamb curry and tadka dal.
My journey from Khorugh to Samarkand threw up a few surprises. After a vodka-fuelled discussion of contemporary Islam with a Tajik Special Forces soldier to my left, I fell asleep in the Land Cruiser, woke a few hours later and stumbled into my hostel, only to be greeted by an insomniac Canadian traveller, John, whose knowledge of the Wakhan Corridor was matched by his stories of life in the 1980s Bombay underworld. Sleepless and inebriated, I spent the next twelve hours making my way to Samarkand in Uzbekistan by shared taxi. On reaching my hotel, I took a well-earned nap.
Located on the Park Lane of Samarkand, the hotel I stayed at looks onto the Registan Ensemble, the magnificent public square framed by three madrasahs, which formed the heart of Timurid Samarkand. As I savoured the local mile-feuille and tea with the owner Shah Jahan, I reflected that the beauty of the city is matched by the good manners of its inhabitants. Further adding to my excitement, I discovered that approximately 80% of the locals, including my hosts, were native Tajik-speakers.
Of all the places I visited in Central Asia, Samarkand stands out in terms of architectural brilliance. Apart from the stunning Shirdor, Ulugbek and Tilla Kari Medreses, all located on Registan Square, the Shah-i-Zinda (“living king”) necropolis is a triumph of Timurid architecture, with turquoise and blue styles arranged in intricate linear and geometric patterns, and a strong focus on axial symmetry. I barely had time to visit the Bibi Khanum mosque and taste the difference between Samarkand and Tashkent plov before I was accosted by Akbar, Shah Jahan’s nephew, invited to the family restaurant, and treated to a selection of manti dumplings and some strong nasvay (tobacco snuff). Head spinning, I then met Shah Jahan’s wife, a Tajik from Dushanbe. It was fascinating to hear their comparison of Tajikistan and Uzbekistan, with Shah Jahan expressing his pride in Samarkand and the secular nature of President Karimov’s Uzbekistan. “Extremist Islam is unwelcome here,” he said, as I prepared my suitcases for the flight to Moscow. “Terrorists are not tolerated.”
Samarkand was eye-opening in terms of language politics. Its majority Tajik population also speak Uzbek fluently, are completely integrated, and are proud to be Uzbek. In fact, before the Russian conquest, the area which now constitutes Tajikistan and Uzbekistan consisted of several emirates, most notably the Emirate of Bukhara, which used both Persian and Uzbek as official languages. Tajiks and Uzbeks lived side by side, and were often physically indistinguishable. Against this historical backdrop, the republics of Central Asia are a relatively recent creation, with their roots in the Soviet partitioning along ethnic lines of the Central Asian Socialist Republics, in 1924 and 1929.
As in the much-publicized case of Crimea, these borders took on added importance with the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991. In areas such as the Fergana valley, border tensions persist to this day. Time and time again during my trip to Central Asia, the ease with which I travelled across boundaries was in stark contrast with the constant difficulties encountered by Uzbeks, Tajiks and Kyrgyz as they attempted to visit family members stuck on the wrong side of artificial borders. Considering the shared heritage of the “Stans”, this is a tragedy. As Central Asia continues to be fought over by outside forces, its wealth concentrated in the hands of small elites and its society threatened by sectarianism, examples such as the Tajiks of Samarkand and the Russians of Almaty serve as a reminder of another, often unfashionable alternative, which Borat might not have approved of: peaceful coexistence.
Many thanks to Mr Peter Foy, McKinsey & Company and St Peter’s College for their generous grant, without which my trip to Central Asia would not have been possible.
In the interests of security, the names of the people I met in Central Asia have been changed.
Sacha Datt Mehta 