One Giant Steppe

Feeding the Beast

2009-02-26T03:00:00.000-08:00

I point you to this blog by a friend of mine, who spent a day at Manas Airbase in Kyrgyzstan.
The Kyrygz authorities have given the Americans 6 months to vacate. The US is now considering its options as Manas is the key logistical hub for operations in Afghanistan, and the only American base in Central Asia.
There are some who think there's still time for the US to bargain with the Kyrgyz over the lease, or at least try to work out an agreement with Russia. Most observers think the Russians are behind the decision. They don't want the Americans in their former backyard, although they back the transit of non-lethal goods through the region. It's a kind of payback for the proxy conflict America orchestrated against the Soviet Union during its own Afghan war in the 1980s.

Tashkent

2009-02-13T11:08:00.000-08:00

Little time to say much about my first trip to Uzbekistan. But I will tell you what I saw. Chorsu Bazaar. Mutual curiosity as locals viewed a stranger and he watched them back. Warm fresh bread, spices, lemons, pomegranates and a great many policemen. One dragged a frightened young boy away. Tension as a crowd gathered, and voices were raised, market women flapping about like flustered crows powerless to stop the abduction. "It's illegal for children to work in the market," one onlooker said. That's one way to deal with the problem.

Activity monitored. It's the same at Khast Imom, the state-sanctioned religious centre. At the base of a magnificent minaret a police hut. But Tashkent is a pleasant city, wide streets and calm. A little subdued perhaps. And while it's my temptation to write about the negatives, I did meet good people, creative people. Those who are determined to make a difference.

Welcome to Uzbekistan

2009-02-13T04:34:00.000-08:00

Uzbekistan's consular office is on a side-street near Almaty's main park. The embassy is a large yellow house set back from the road behind a high brick wall. The consulate is it's smaller annexe. Before you can enter, you must stand under a roofed terrace that juts across the pavement. Moody security men emerge from a guardroom from time to time to direct the luckiest individuals to a side-gate, through which they enter the compound down a breeze-block walled pathway.

At 2pm one Friday afternoon, around forty people were gathered outside waiting to have their visas processed, Uzbeks who needed 'exit visas' renewed, Tajiks and Afghans looking for transit visas that would enable them to cross Uzbekistan on their travels home. I wanted a tourist visa.

By 6pm the temperature had fallen to -6 and there was still a sizeable, increasingly angry crowd. A lucky few of us were upgraded to a bench inside the heated guardroom.

It was a plain room with yellowing walls. Next to the bench were two tatty chairs, their broken backs repaired with sellotape and wire. The guards sat at two mismatched desks pushed together. On one of the desks was a computer and monitor displaying high-resolution close-circuit tv.

The computer was locked inside a metal box.

Quite how we managed to be the last people admitted had something to do with my guardian's unwavering determination, and her inexhaustible supply of contacts in the right places. But after waiting for six hours, we were taken inside. Every other dejected applicant had been told to come back the following Monday.

This room was different. It was partitioned in the middle from floor to ceiling by a counter with blacked out windows. Yellow walls and a table with scissors and glue for fixing your passport photos. How thoughtful of them.

I got my visa in the end. I am grateful to the nervous young civil servant with a paunch. He'd just started his job apparently, so things were taking longer than usual to process.

And I wondered: Can you tell what kind of people run a country by the lamentable condition of their consular services? Or by their transparent disregard for citizens and foreigners alike before they have even arrived?

On a warmer note:
Did you know? Uzbek lemons are orange, and they're wonderful.

Winter in Tajikistan

2009-02-13T03:28:00.000-08:00

In my previous post I promised to write about the miserable conditions afflicting ordinary people in Tajikistan.

I filmed a report in November that looked at the possibility of another winter in which frequent powercuts would cripple the country. The authorities promised 'no cuts' for residents in Dushanbe. But earlier this week, power rationing in the Tajik capital was sure enough imposed - just eleven hours of electricity per day. And if you think that's bad some regions of the country have no power at all. Much of the reason behind the cuts are to do with poor infrastructure and a reliance on giant hydro-electric projects which the Tajiks can't afford, and which won't solve all their problems.

A mountainous country, Tajikistan benefits from having hydro-electric power resources. But they have been forced to over-rely due to bad relations with their neighbours. Uzbekistan stopped transporting Turkmen electricity to Tajikistan in December over a pay dispute. And the end result? Tajiks shiver.

Further down the line, Uzbek farmers will suffer because they won't have any water to grow their crops this summer. Why? Becuase the Tajiks are draining their reservoirs, vital sources of regional water supplies, in their efforts to keep warm.

Retro FM

2008-12-05T09:52:00.000-08:00

Driving along Almaty's avenues (yes I'm one of those road hogs now) it gives me great pleasure to tune in to Retro FM 91.7, where all the old Russian classics get played. I love the Jingle 'RetroFM!!!' and strangely I feel nostalgia for all these old pop songs I never heard before. It's clearly hard-wired. and my favourite hit is by a woman called Natasha Korolyeva. It's called Malinkaya Strana which means little country.

Natasha bears a passing comparison to Paula Abdul and she married a strip-dancer called Tarzan. The whole experience oozes kitsch, and well, I owe her for helping me learn a little extra Russian. Thank you Natasha, you little minx.

Malink-aya Strana, Malink-aya Strana, Kto minye razkachat Kto pakajat, Gde Ana Gde Ana, Tam Gde Sigda Visna. Little country little country, who can tell me, who can show me where she is where she is? There where always it is spring.

I promise to write about Tajikistan next time. It's a little country, but it's certainly not spring there.

Krishna Conscience

2008-11-05T06:32:00.000-08:00

On a pleasant few acres of farmland outside Almaty, Hare Krishna devotees are counting down their final few weeks. When their temple is destroyed they will have nothing left. They still graze their sacred cows and bulls, and a few vegetables still grow in the allotments they have cultivated, but garbage once more litters the banks of a lake they shared with the villagers because no one bothers to collect it anymore. Very soon they will abandon their farm altogether.

The Kazakh Religious Organisation Society for Krishna Consciousness lost their rights of ownership following legal battles with the local government that lasted for five years. Over that period, the diggers came and destroyed many of the private homes in the village owned by Krishnaites (once without warning, in mid-winter), and they will come a final time to raze the makeshift farmhouse temple.

The Krishnas cannot prove it but allege that someone with great power and influence is forcing the local authorities to bring questionable lawsuit after questionable lawsuit at great expense, as the real estate is prime location. Their plight has received plenty of coverage by local and international media, but the airtime and column inches haven't saved the farm.

I learned that other minority religions in Kazakhstan are also finding themselves in trouble with the authorities. Meanwhile a new draft law will force all religious organisations to undergo a complex system of registration before they can practice. The penalties for not doing so will be high. Human rights observers think this is all to do with a paranoid government seeking to prevent religious groups entering politics, or keeping unconventional faiths that don't fit in with the ideal Kazakhstan image at heel (ie. anyone that isn't Russian Orthodox or Moderate Islamic).

So this is either a case of discrimination laced with corruption or a local government's legitimate pursuit against an organisation that has flouted the law of the land. But since the end of Communism, quite a few years ago now, the law surrounding private property remains fuzzy and full of loopholes. One can't help asking why the local authorities won't give the Hare Krishnas the benefit of the doubt.

Up in Astana, the extraordinary Foster-designed pyramid, the Palace of Peace and Harmony, is supposed to be a place of worship for all religions. President Nazarbeyev wants Kazakhstan to be a host for peace and dialogue between faiths, and his country will rightly or wrongly be chairing the rights and security watchdog the OSCE in 2010.

They may be vegetarians and look funny but surely it wouldn't do any harm for the Kazakh government to start by being nice to the Hare Krishnas if it's really serious about being a crucible of interfaith dialogue?

Side note:
The Krishna bulls have a last laugh with a nosy journalist:

Auto-theft Fuckup

2008-10-27T12:00:00.000-07:00

I have to mention the break-in of BBC's Toyota 4wd the other day. One rainy evening leaving the office we approached the car. I took out the key and went to open the driver's door only to discover someone had smashed the rear side window. Oh dear we've had our shopping nicked (we'd left bags in the back). But no. I opened the front door and discovered a body slumped across the steering wheel. The criminal-looking skinhead meekly roused himself from a boozed slumber only after the police arrived. His defence: "It was cold and wet so I took shelter. The car had already been broken into". Curiously enough, documents had been taken from the glove compartment but alleged miscreant wasn't carrying them. The police ordered a statement to be made back at the station. I wasn't there, but I understand they weren't very nice. They extort bribes in the form of meaningless fines and rarely do their job properly. But that is another story.

The loneliness of the Almaty runner

2008-10-27T11:59:00.000-07:00

I am alone. There are no runners in Almaty. There are no routes yet plotted on Mapmyrun.com. Tonight I braved the gloom and cold and struck out in my Asics. I endured the park bench teenage titters, the odd smirk, the stares and even a drunk who blurted something at me as I jogged past, something Russian and incomprehensible to my untrained ear. “Why run when you can drink?” he seemed to be saying.

Money, Knowledge, Power

2008-10-27T11:08:00.000-07:00

The KIOGE summit (Kazakhstan International Oil and Gas Exhibition) was never going to interest me. I am used to switching channels when the business news comes on, or kicking aside the financial supplements with a lazy yawn. Ignorant baffoon. But at KIOGE I was fascinated by the ultimate power that flexed beneath well-cut cloth. The oil men and women, the petro-powerful, had gathered at the Intercontinental. A vast chandeliered convention hall housed the delegates, a stage of executives at its head. In the antechamber a scale model of an oil rig, stress-relief squeezies shaped like oil drums, and smokers casually flicking their cigarettes on to the carpets. Inside droned the insect-like translator’s voice via the infrared headsets, and the monotone Russian-speaking CEOs at the lecterns. It was a visual pageant for one who wasn’t paying any close attention to what was really being said. And so frighteningly out of my personal experience was I that with my back to the wall, I felt like one of the little boys transfixed at the Witches Convention in Roald Dahl’s classic.

Note: for those not in the know, Kazakhstan is sitting on enormous reserves of oil and gas and minerals. It’s been screwed by the global financial crisis like everyone else, except it happened a bit sooner here, and at the moment the analysts are saying the good Captain Nazarbayev and his midshipmen are steering a safe course through the storm. Further business entries to come inevitably at some point soon but I promise I will write them with un-click-away-able flair and wit

Over in the Hyatt that evening, the British, American and Canadian embassies had combined to host a soiree for the great and the good, plus a new clueless journalist in town. At the centre of the convention room was a buffet, a wonder to behold – a Technicolour display of fruit and giant bowls of chocolate mousse lumps that looked like poo (which explained why nobody touched those). At the front the ambassadors addressed the guests. But everybody was too busy scoffing. We wondered forward and introduced ourselves to the amiable British Ambassador, followed by some chaps from British Gas, who did the usual clichéd ‘Journalist eh? Ha. Not safe to talk while you’re around!’ If they only knew. I still managed to get a brief lesson on the energy sector before wondering off to chat to some Americans from the US embassy about the latest Obama-McCain debate. One of them told me he’d played golf with President Nazarbayev. Naturally the president had won the round; no one had been keeping any real tally.

Signed, Sealed, Delivered

Two weeks later, back at the Hyatt, I’m still trying to get a handle on the money, the lunacy of mass expenditure. From the bar I am watching the pleasing motion of three great glass elevators rocketing up and down. And just to squeeze out one more Dahl literary analogy, over in a corner is a Willy Wonka-style cascading chocolate fountain. I sneak over now and then for a surreptitious marshmallow dip. We are waiting to go to Seal’s private gig.

Miss M had been chatting to him in the same bar the night before and he and his team had invited her along to the show. I had practically frog-marched her back to the lobby that evening, insisting that this was an opportunity not to be missed. Hey, he might even be happy for me to come along too. There he was in a secluded corner surrounded by his small entourage of techies and a couple of musicians. Mr Seal was magnanimous. He extended the invitation. It was on.

We got talking to his entertainer extraordinaire and talented Geordie guitarist, a pro whose musical roots go back five generations. He used to work for Madona, but by all accounts Seal was an infinitely more agreeable boss.

Some gems: The divorce? ‘Been going on for years now.’ Mr Richie? ‘He and I never hit it off from day one, after he punched me underwater at a pool party'.

Then there was the Like a Virgn incident, in which the song's writer had been introduced to singer: “I’ve always wanted to meet you,” said the nice man. “Well now you’ve met me,” had come the Ice Emperess’ retort, before pivoting away.

We piled into a tinted-windowed minibus and headed to the ballroom venue. Tough-guy security guards ushered us in and gave us the thousand yard stare. From the green room, I twitched the curtain and peeked out. It was a suit and ball-gown affair. Lots of ceiling to floor fabrics, table bouquets, and professional film crews. We never really found out whose 50th birthday party it was. Seal turned up in a separate vehicle just before going on stage. He was ably attended by his boys, which curiously included a bespoke tube of lube which he then proceeded to rub onto his arms face. Well it was probably just moisturiser Heidi insists he applies (stage lights are hot). Seal sang with his usual passionate husk. Killer, Crazy, Kiss From A Rose. The suits and ball-gowns got their music’s worth even if most of them stayed seated.

And the cost for an hour of Seal? Unfortunately I couldn’t get an accurate lowdown. Crew members variously said somewhere between 250,000 and a million or so dollars. One technician said that ‘corpros’ (presumably corporate//professional gigs) were the bread and butter of the big stars in semi-retirement. The Sultan of Brunei had allegedly signed a cheque for five million to have Celene Dione play at his party, and he gave her a diamond encrusted Rolex as a gift.

Seal and co flew out that night. I was later delivered from the Hyatt by a Kazakh investment banker in a chauffeur-driven Range Rover. We dropped his mate off first. I provocatively commented on the bumpy driveway that led to his home. Beyond the security guard and the gates was a White House of dynastic proportions. I still need to find out who his family is.

Back at the flat, I got out of the car drunk and happy, still clutching an unopened bottle of 1998 Veuve Cliquot, successfully filched from the Seal Gig. Thanks everyone.

Let's start with the motorcar

2008-10-13T11:33:00.000-07:00

The first week began with an earthquake and ended with a rout at Wembley, and a failed car theft. In between, we have met energy moguls, ambassadors, and martial arts champions. No time for boredom.

The land of Kazakhstan allegedly consists of vast open steppe, nomads, yurts. There's much, much more of course, including eagles, antelope, mountains, forests and lakes, gold – black, and yellow - but for now I'm billeted in the former capital, establishing a base, contacts, a permanent home internet connection and a rudimentary command of Russian before I can explore the great outdoors. That's where one must begin.

Almaty and the motorcar

Imagine an autumnal Germanic town but the municipal authorities haven't done much spring cleaning for a while. (Eg. wobbly drain covers and cracked pavements, but the roads are well kept.) Or San Francisco's sloping streets but tree-lined, with Steve McQueen stuck in a tailback. In Paul Brummell’s recently published Bradt Guide, the jovial UK ambassador to Kazakhstan describes Almaty's traffic as its least attractive feature. He's right. And it’s unfortunately a feature one must encounter every day.

Almaty's main avenues run vertical and horizontal. They are wide with two lanes of traffic on either side (or four lanes on one-way streets) and during the working week, the cars and SUVs are the undisputed champions of the city smog. The snow-capped mountains lie tantalisingly close, but they soon disappear behind the haze. In London we are tired of the car. We despise it, or take it for granted. Here one gets the impression people are happy to sit in their 4x4s and go nowhere, because they have made it somewhere. They're so keen they'll even buy a right-hand drive Japanese model because they can't wait for the left-hand drive to become available. It's a reflection of the new wealth that fuels this city's rapid development. People drive with speed and aggression, but there's little opportunity to cover much ground by day. One hears the guzzling roars of multi-litre engines, but they're short-lived, and end with hard braking, or accidents. At the top of the pyramid, luxury hotels and boutiques cater the urban elite. I wondered into a showroom where a French crystal chandelier could be yours for a cool 40,000 Euros.

People as described by someone who doesn’t yet know anyone

An exotic mix of Central and East Asian, Slavic and Saxon. Everyone seems to be getting along just fine, unless you're from Uzbekistan. No one has been overtly friendly. That’s fine, I’m from London. If there were some Africans, Arabs and South Americans thrown into the mix then this city could even be compared to London. But on the face of it it is disappointingly ordinary and occidental. And yet there's a sense that something unexpected, truly shocking and altogether oriental is lying just around the corner, ready to slap you out of any false sense of European security.

Butterflies

2008-09-24T02:36:00.000-07:00

My name is Robin, and I am about to go and live in Kazakhstan. I have butterflies. Not the pretty fluttering kind, but the otherwise indescribable sensation in the pit of my stomach. I get the feeling every time I look at my watch and contemplate how little time I have left to get everything done. We have around 240 hours left in the UK, to pack our belongings, clean the flat and hand over to the tenants, sell the car, the bike and the spare bed, notify the utilities and the milkman etc, finish a few story proposals, buy camera and computer equipment, and warm clothing, and say farewell to friends and family. Next time I post I will be in Almaty. Goodbye London.