We finally arrive Khorog after a minor fender bender at a police post (3 hours—-Tajik Time is rather abstract I discover….and the town is beautifully situated…where two rivers (one unpronounceable) meet at a sort of Pittsburgh Golden Triangle to form the Pyan. The town is VERY green with a few pretty houses…a largish bazaar…the headquarters of the Aga Khan good cause group (and he is utterly revered…these Ismailis have no mosques as such, the women are totally liberated…no head scarves….and the priest is a normal citizen a bit like someone normal to us as a Presbyterian preacher or a reformed Rabbi). Nothing would do but we head to Amahl’ house where her gregarious, English speaking a rather vodka loving husband (he looks like John Garfield of eld) has set a lunch of lamb pilaf, beautiful new tomatoes, yoghurt and kefir, delicious bread, honey…..and finally to the Serena Inn where we lodge. We see Khorog…not much to see specifically but one lovely botanical garden in the hills.

The Pamiris, the high mountain people, are a breed apart from most ordinary Tajikis. They are often very tall, have the superb posture of mountain people, adore gardens and trees and with the help of his highness they have prevailed upon the world to send specimens of trees which can thrive at 6000 feet. Oddly the winters are not unbearably cold so that even some of our southern trees thrive here; cottonwoods and even hickories. NOW finally we reach the Serena Inn…it is a long slung rather lodge-like hotel of 8 rooms which would grace someplace liked Jasper or Jackson. My room is absurdly opulent of course. The local travel agent, a TERRIFIC guy named SHARGAF and his buddy, Amahl’s husband who is KORAM arrive with two bottles of chilled Tajik vodka. So we sit in my highness’ room and get merrily stewed and work our way through dinner which is secondary in the priorities for sure.

ALL plans are made. This morning Aysegul obtains an Afghan visa for a $40 bribe. Koram invites his buddy, the senior Tajik customs inspector, along…and we roar up the GUND River 125 KMS to Ishkashi. We have a some rather happily spirited moments with the Tajik inspectors at the international bridge which we cross to enter the Afghan customs post where Koram spreads out chocolates, deviled eggs, dried fruit and a sweet bread…along with two huge bottles of vodka bought for the occasion. The Afghan guards, proceed to drink the forbidden nectar of Tajikistan and get truly roaring drunk.

In walks an Englishman named Andrew who is the good-works manager for the Afghan Aga Khan group. He invited us to his office where I am now. He outlines a lovely drive a few km up the WAKHAN corridor (also spelt WAKAN and VAKAN) into unbelievably rough, beautiful country which reminds me of the Big Hole in Montana. The Afghan villages ARE poorer though they DO all have schools in this region and the women are not wearing the Burkha…these Afghanis are mostly Tajiks and since the USSR dissolved are discovering family roots across the border. The stores are rather sparsely supplied but people look healthy, even robust and meet our glances with a direct and proud demeanor. It is wrenching to me to see essentially the same people living vastly different lives on two sides of a river no wider than the White at Calico Rock; and having been so horribly manipulated by foreign powers. I guess these lovely Tajiks have suffered since the day of the Great Game between the Russian Empire and the British Empire when the Wakhan Corridor was established so that the two bellicose nations would not have a common border. The map is even more absurd than the Oklahoma Panhandle……and before I return to Tajikistan later today I hope to have calmed my thoughts of imperialism at least a little.

Travel is glorious. The plane to Dushanbe is cancelled for tomorrow…the aternate road through the higher Pamirs has been closed by rockslides….and if the damned highway were not so bumpy I could read WAR AND PEACE….14-16 hours…..yeeeek. Travel is glorious.

Istanbul May 8th 08….65 degrees cloudless…feeling much like San Francisco though better! Aysegul and I left a 2:30am call at the Hotel Tajikistan and of course this type A personality wakes up every 30 minutes and looks at the trusty LL Bean clock….what happens next is KEYSTONE COPS but when it is happening to me it is not remotely funny. Our wonderful driver Svengali (neat name-eh) was there…we got stopped on the way to Dushanbe Airport only once by cops for no reason. They earn STRAF which is a nifty word to know and means all over Central Asia a dirty bribe. Police in Dushanbe make USD80 per month and it makes them all a little rapacious though the usual STRAF is about 2 Somalis which is 76 cents. We arrive at the airport which has exceeded my former WORST [that was Moroni in the Comoros] and what follows is rather boggling. The check in with TK is ok…though oh-so slow. This is after security check #1. Then it is to security check #2, where an enormously bovine Russian-looking woman takes a little time from chewing what must be the largest wad of gum between Tashkent and the Wakhan Corridor. Though the gum could have been a large bale of alfalfa come to think about it. She has never seen nor apparently heard of a pacemaker and I get lovingly patted down. Aysegul stands aghast. I am determined not to give him STRAF…we have a 10 minute standoff with a huge line building….he says that I will not be allowed to board the flight because there is something missing from my visa documentation…I stand my ground though Aysgul says my face was crimson….finally the guy gets the picture.

Now we are in the departure terminal. There is one active gate and the only two international flights of the day are scheduled within 10 minutes out of the gate. The other flight is Air Ghastly going to Yekaterinburg – that is how they spell the Russian town where the Tsar and family were murdered. One can tell the TK passengers, generally a well groomed lot smelling of bottled and sprayed essences….the ruffians (a hundred of them] bound for Yekateriburg all smell like exceedingly tired cheese—that peculiarly Russian smell which reminded me instantly of the Moscow Metro. Of course the passengers are totally confused….a gang fight almost develops…but it is all sorted out. It is now 510AM and my mind is like a lava lamp….we board…utter serenity. The attendants are lovely. I am so glad I have a window seat for the Aral Sea view again. Turkmenistan looks about as inviting as E New Mexico from the air. Then we flew over the Caspian and Baku and Tiblisi and good old Ararat looming up to the far south… over Batumi. It is a radiant clear day as dawn follows our progress over the Black Sea. We had a perfectly lovely breakfast too served in 2 courses; muesli, a fresh fruit compote, lovely yoghurt and then the main course, a lovely Turkish börek (flaky cheese filled pastry) with eggs…coffee to shame Starbucks. We arrive at Istanbul’s Yeşilköy airport on a radiant morning. The driver EYTOO who drove us in Eastern Turkey is there. I’m wafted to the simple, utterly pleasant Richmond.

Istanbul seems SOOOOO welcoming and after Central Asia so WITH IT and European. Zegna has their main shop across from the hotel. Also a branch of the wonderful Viennese coffee house-pastry shop Diglas.

Eyüp, Ayşegül, Eyüps sıster, Amre and I had dınner at a Meyhane very close off the İstıklal, my favorıte walking street ın the cıty. A MEYHANE sort of translates into a neighborhood dive and thıs one on an impossibly lovable little lane ıs called AMALI. the place ıs narrow and crammed wıth old photos and other art…the clientele is exceedingly local (a favorite of author Orhan Pamuk) but it is decidedly REAL and the lace hasn’t a cute bone.

May 15, 2008

The terrible earthquake in Szechuan province could be a billion miles away; It takes more than that from the good burghers of Hong Kong to stop their frenzied dance with materialism.

Yesterday I took a lazy harbor cruise to see the 100s of big projects which didn ‘t exist the last time I was here more than 10 years ago. I have always loved the Peninsula Hotel but have only tolerated Hong Kong: with the exception of its rapturously beautiful setting and some A+ architecture, the city offers less for the mind than, say, a city such as Indianapolis which is less than a tenth as big.

What HK has is shopping and the glitz of the world. GRAF (or is it Graff?) here in the Peninsula which is now the world’s premiere diamond merchant has a 14 carat solitaire ring and a necklace (I had the courage to price it) for is USD $11.7 million in its windows

HK shows some better taste than Dubai (perhaps it is a bit more Palm Beach than Dallas) but SOOOO much good taste begins to cloy and then to irritate! Most locals live in egg carton apartments reaching often 40 stories in 20 identical building units (Orwell is reaffirmed) and they are definitely not in the local society magazines. Still, I get the feeling that most would like to be. That most moms would like for their sons to be tycoons driving a Ferrari rather than philosophers planting gardens. Maybe HK is the world.

The manager of the Peninsula is a Viennese guy called Svoboda (probably from the Favoritenstrasse district where most residents trace back to Bohemia) and he has a fabulously light hand. The bar has Josef Hoffman-knock off bar chairs. The new tower actually blends well and one can have breakfast at the pool on the 8th floor with an unobstructed view of the harbor…or take a helicopter from the 30th over to Macao for the tables. Still the soul of this hotel is the original 7 floors. My Porcelain Pagoda Suite is where the governor general of the Crown Colony surrendered to the Japanese generals in 1941. The hotel continued to operate through the war with Swiss management. The Swiss continued managing the hotel until very recent times which must account for the CHESA Restaurant, a Zurich-cuisine place all done up with cuckoo clocks on the 1st floor. Fondue in HK’s humidity is about as appropriate as an Eskimo pie in Iqualuit. A few other lighter touches now under the Viennese management: a Demel’s like pastry each evening by the bed instead of some rock hard Lindt chocolate as an example. Last night was a little Dobos Torte.

It is rather easy to be beguiled by Hong Kong when you’re in the mood to be stroked. It is perhaps far easier though to be repelled. There is an earthquake with perhaps 20,000 dead not THAT far away (less than a Little Rock-Denver distance) but nothing could stop Chanel’s sponsored CAMELIA (or was it MAGNOLIA?) Ball last night for the
Prada clad ladies whose grandmothers had bound feet. When is enough enough? My wallet thins.