I knew from the very start that Central Asia was going to be different. My hotel’s restaurant in Alma Ata was fitted out like the inside of a giant yurt where the recommended speciality of the house was “Six Types of Horse Meat”.  

My 1996 marketing research visit to Kazakhstan was to lead to close ties with the region, although I wasn’t to know this at the time. But my familiarity with equine meat was constant throughout. Locals were often aware of westerners’ reluctance to eat horse flesh, almost always justifying its consumption by adding that “It puts lead in your pencil”, demonstrating this with an unmistakable gesture, just in case I didn’t get the drift of their argument.  

As the guest of honour at a subsequent village meal in Uzbekistan I was once called upon to eat a sheep’s eye, so this introduction to unfamiliar fare was only a starter, so to speak. I did, however, draw the line at the VIP’s honour of witnessing the animal’s slaughter, a decision accepted by my hosts with a shrug of the shoulders and a disdainful look.

I still find the actions leading to my two years’ sojourn in Central Asia barely credible. I received an out-of-the-blue invitation from the editor of a Danish textiles publication to research and report on his industry in Russian-speaking countries. He had seen my advert in an industry magazine. 

 

At that time my hometown, Huddersfield, had a twin-town arrangement with Kustanai in northern Kazakhstan. I had already visited Kustanai, so it made sense to start with Huddersfield Council. I rang the twinning representative there and, within days, was provided with an industry contact based in the then Kazakh capital Alma Ata (Almaty). One week later I was on the flight eastwards, having picked up visas in London en route.

To increase my fee-earning possibilities, I had already decided to expand my research on this trip to include neighbouring Uzbekistan. Fortunately, my given Kazakh contact had a friend based in Tashkent who was also able to provide great assistance.

In retrospect I completed this exercise with totally inadequate preparation. Central Asia simply isn’t a place where you knock on the door of a business and ask for information. The two pieces I wrote were mainly based on official Russian-language industry documents, copies of which my Kazakh and Uzbek contacts had somehow obtained. Consequently, by the time I submitted the articles, I had already decided to put this journey down to experience and move on to greener pastures.

A couple of months later I received a fax from the Danish editor, asking if he could give my details out to interested parties. I assumed that this was a standard request and gave him the go-ahead by return. Two days following, early one Saturday morning, I received a telephone call from a Danish trader in Tashkent who had read my articles. He was looking for a project director to work for his company. After forty minutes’ conversation – having never met me – he offered me the job, based in Tashkent. One hour afterwards my lucrative one-year contract came inching through by fax. Such unlikely plots just don’t happen in reality.

I was able to meet my new boss before starting. He was to fly back to Copenhagen via London. He booked a room for my wife and me at Heathrow and met us there. Poul Jahn, an entrepreneur knighted under the Danish system, was an unforgettable character. Already in his mid-sixties, he was possibly the hardest working, somewhat eccentric, person I have ever met. For example, he would insist that all four directors meet in his large flat-cum-office early every morning. We would often arrive to the smell of cooking bacon – Danish of course – which Poul had prepared for our breakfasts, irrespective of whether we had already eaten. He was also known to bake pastries for his forty-strong workforce from time to time. How he found the energy to do all this, I don’t know.

I worked for Poul for a year, before moving across the landing in his building to open the representative office of a new investment fund from the City of London. It was satisfying to be the boss of this enterprise, but I did miss the pleasure of working as part of Poul’s team. However, from time to time on arrival in the morning he would still stop me on the stairs with the question “Would you like some breakfast?”. Even now I cannot see Danish bacon packs on supermarket shelves without being reminded how Jahn International A/S used to arrange their import to cater expressly for our small Tashkent expatriate community.

Like every new place encountered in life, Central Asia has its idiosyncrasies. Discovering these is one of the main pleasures of travel. I am now able to list the pointers I would give to a first-time traveller to the area. That is, information which I am sure would have been of great use to me at the outset of my stay. But then again, I would have missed the fun of being educated in their ways by these inherently cordial hosts. 

A simple fact to remember. It’s considered bad luck to do so. If you don’t comply, you’re likely to be gently pushed back or pulled forward out of position to ensure that you don’t do the deed. Some may pull their hands away and step backwards. It’s not a sign of bad manners, quite the opposite. Once inside, the welcoming can commence in earnest.

Again, it’s deemed bad luck to walk past someone coming up or down stairs. As a generality, precedence is given to those coming down, probably as they will complete their descent quicker than your ascent. However, priority is given naturally to the older generation and – a trait I found slightly embarrassing – to visitors. As the only foreigner living in a block of flats on the third floor, my smooth path up and down would be guaranteed should my neighbours be on the stairs. I tried to play the polite Englishman as much as possible, but their resolve was constantly stronger.

One of the first impressions gained on entry to traditional Central Asian homes is that the region’s fine quality hand-knotted rugs adorn the walls, not the floors. It was explained to me that their original function was to act as draught excluders in wooden buildings and their attendant value prohibited use in areas where they could be walked on. In their place ‘runners’ (long, narrow woven carpets, normally red with patterned edges) were used as floor coverings in high traffic areas such as hallways.

One feature immediately noticeable is the number of locals – both male and female – who have gold teeth. When I commented on this, a colleague explained the dual function of this tradition. Adornment, of course, was one factor but there was an even deeper reason. Muslims are traditionally buried as quickly as possible after death. The gold in their teeth was there to pay for the event. Gruesome, but apparently true.

Those with experience of Russian-influenced areas will point out that the above customs are not limited to Central Asia. I have to agree to some extent but I found that, whereas these practices were followed fully in the ‘-stans’, they were applied increasingly less so in the motherland.

For a long period after the breakup of the Soviet Union the practice of dealing separately with foreign flyers on journeys within its former geographical boundaries continued. This meant that, after booking in, you were separated from the hoi polloi and directed to the special Intourist waiting area. When your flight was ready, you were called out by destination for boarding. As several flights were being serviced at the same time, foreign passengers for various destinations were loaded into the waiting coach. On arrival at the aircraft parked out on the pan, your name was called out and you were then handed over to the flight attendants by the Intourist guides. 

This was the scheme that had been in force for years yet it still had a propensity to go wrong. I remember that on one occasion I was the only passenger left on the coach when we ran out of aircraft to board. The escorts just smiled, apologised, and took me back to the terminal. But later the mismanagement went even further. Flying from Moscow Vnukovo to Tashkent, I was directed to my seat on the aircraft – the last one in the back row, as usual – when I heard the stewardess start her address “Welcome on board this flight to Novosibirsk”. I started to rise, when the announcement suddenly stopped and an attendant came running down the aisle. “Where are you going?” she asked. “Tashkent” I answered. By now the interest of my would-be fellow passengers had been raised. To cries of “Stay on board! You’ll love Novosibirsk”, I was quickly escorted from the flight. When I eventually boarded the correct aircraft my host crew were in hysterics. Apparently, the Japanese passenger loaded in my place did not speak Russian or English and had been repeatedly shouting out “Novosibirsk!” until the situation was resolved. And I was treated to the best of service in a premier seat on the four-hour flight down to Tashkent.

• The pilot is the first one off the aircraft

One advantage of my location in Tashkent was that I could make literally flying visits to the major cities in Uzbekistan, such as Samarkand, Namangan and Andizhan; there and back within a day. An early morning flight out, with a late evening return on one of the fleet of Uzbek Air An-24 turboprop aircraft.

It was a standing joke amongst my colleagues on my return from a trip to ask if we’d done a stint of crop-spraying along the way. Although ageing, with dodgy seats and intermittently functioning seatbelts, these aircraft were being flown by experienced ex-military pilots who would get you there safely in all weather conditions. I was never an anxious passenger on these flights. Indeed, on one occasion I was put in the jump seat on an overbooked aircraft where I spent the journey home smoking and chatting with the pilot and engineer in the cockpit. Just one benefit of being a frequent flyer in Central Asia.

The routine for disembarking the aircraft was unusual. Having reached our parking spot, the passengers remained in their seats whilst the engines were turned off and the propellers stopped rotating. A few minutes’ wait and the cockpit door opened. The pilot and engineer would then emerge and walk down to the exit at the rear. Only then would passengers be allowed to disembark, but strictly in order from the front row backwards. Those with seats nearest the exit would therefore be the last to get off. But no-one ever complained or tried to jump the queue. As the aircraft parking spots were adjacent to a large gate in the airport fence, passengers then simply walked out onto the street with no further controls.

One regional custom, admittedly encountered regularly only in Samarkand, is that of marking departures with a water salute. As you climb into your vehicle at the start of a long journey, your host takes a bottle of water and splashes the contents out on the ground in front of you. This gesture is to wish you a safe onwards journey.  

I tried to find out the origin of this ritual without any real success. It appears that a similar practice happens sporadically in Turkey and Iran, but how and why it transferred to this area of Central Asia is unknown. Samarkand is on the ancient Silk Road from China to Europe; perhaps a clue lies there. Irrespective, it is charming to be on the receiving end of this tradition.

If there is one trait which all the former Soviet Union republics retained after independence, it was a rigid adherence to red tape. Central Asia offers no exceptions to this judgement. However, if and when you come across intractable insistence on the interpretation of some trifling matter when dealing with local officialdom, I find that it pays to remember the saying “Bureaucracy is the defence of cowards”. The individuals concerned are probably reluctant to use their discretion, lest the matter comes back to haunt them.  

If in a deadlock situation, I found the answer was to remain polite and request that the issue be escalated to a higher management level. This often resolved the matter, as the minor official concerned was thus relieved of any decision-making. Sometimes he or she would simply sigh at this point and hand back the completed document. However, if you select this course of action, you must also be prepared to sit outside in a corridor for an hour or so until a senior management representative deigns to deal with you. This happened on a few occasions, but the required result was eventually received once I had demonstrated my determination not to pay a bribe, an action which would have settled the problem in minutes.

Another way to deal with bureaucracy is to use your contacts. When I worked for Poul Jahn I carried a copy of a letter signed by the Uzbek President Islam Karimov, requesting that every support be given to Jahn International A/S. The letter had been issued in response to a large gift of Lego toys which Poul had arranged for a children’s charity run by Gulnara Karimova, the President’s daughter. Used judiciously, this copy overcame several potential flashpoints.

There was one occasion, however, when I was caught ‘banged to rights’. My wife and sister came out on holiday and I took them down to Samarkand for the day. When checking in for the return flight, the airport official noticed that their visas were only valid for Tashkent and therefore they should not have travelled to Samarkand. Unfortunately, he was right. As a last resort, I called up my fellow director Shukhrat in our Taskkent office and asked for his help. He then talked to the official in the Uzbek language. A couple of minutes later my phone was handed back to me and we were all allowed to board the aircraft.

The following day I asked Shukhrat what he had said. He informed me that he had said something along the lines of “What kind of professional are you? Don’t you know that visa rules were changed earlier this year to give foreign guests permission to visit the whole of our country?” “Is that right?” I asked. “Total rubbish” he replied “but the officer didn’t know who I was and was reluctant to contradict my confident pronouncements. That’s the way you deal with petty officials in Uzbekistan.”

During one of my research projects, I dealt face to face with a lower ranking minister. According to official figures, he received a salary of around $500 per month. Yet he drove a top of the range new black Mercedes car. You don’t need to be an Einstein to spot the imbalance. Like many government officials, his main income came from the companies in which he was a major shareholder; companies which received governmental contracts issued direct by his office. He was candid enough to admit this to me. This, in itself, revealed to me how ineffective were the professed measures to combat national corruption. It was endemic, an unfortunate daily fact of life.

Following Poul’s example, I always strove to play things by the straight and narrow, rejecting any proposed unlawful arrangements in deal making. This approach brought difficulties with potential partners for whom “What’s in it for me personally?” was a primary consideration. However, it was soon realised that we were not interested in doing anything untoward in business. Our reputation as ‘straight’ dealers was established, a trait generally to our benefit. Those who dealt with us learned that we were men of our word, whereas those interested in dishonest additions simply left us alone.  

From time to time, our offices and books were subject to snap checks by Tax Office inspectors. We invariably passed the examinations, much to the chagrin of these bureaucrats who themselves were also not averse to a settling kickback.

Probably the place where corruption was most openly encountered was on the highways. Reportedly the traffic police were so keen to gain this employment that they in turn paid to be granted the positions. They would stop drivers on the road by pointing at them with a hand-held lollipop-shaped red marker board. Once stopped, it was your word against theirs regarding some noted ‘traffic transgression’. The result was habitually a fine, the proceeds of which went straight into the officers’ pockets.

The better the condition of a car, the more likely it was to be stopped. (Other than black shiny ones, which were probably government or mafia vehicles, and therefore better left alone). For a period, it was decreed that foreign-owned cars must have special number plates. For this reason, our otherwise unremarkable older Mercedes sported green numbers. After our driver had been stopped and ‘fined’ three times in a two-week period, we decided to transfer its registration to a local employee. Thereafter, again with standard local plates, the regularity of being pointed at with a red lollipop decreased to zero for our once more inconspicuous mode of transport.

Late one evening, on the walk back to my flat, I was stopped by a couple of local policemen. They demanded to see my identification. I showed them my business card, but they wanted to see my passport. I explained to them that I never carried this, preferring to keep it locked up in the safe in my flat until needed for travel. It was obvious that I was in the wrong, as carrying official identification was a standard demand for all citizens. They offered a ‘fine’ for my offence. I thought “If this is a price I must pay to ensure the security of my passport, then so be it”. I wasn’t, however, going to submit that easily. They had already shown their colours by insisting that the fine was paid in Dollars, not in the usual Uzbek Soums. I would pay, I said, but only if I received an official receipt, marked in Dollars. As expected, this threw them off track. They then proceeded to state that, in the spirit of international friendship, they would now let me off the penalty, with a warning that I must carry my passport at all times in future. They both shook hands with me, saluted, and let me go on my way. I was elated that once more I had avoided paying out a bribe.

Tashkent was the epicentre of an earthquake on 26 April 1966. Officially between 15 and 200 inhabitants perished, although I was reliably informed by a local that the Soviet Union hid the true figures for loss of life, which may have been in the thousands. With over 300,000 made homeless, the city was rebuilt with earthquake-resistant structures by volunteer groups from all the Soviet republics.

The area surrounding the city is still prone to the effects of earthquakes, although of late these have centred on Afghanistan to the south. I was unlucky enough to suffer two such ‘quakes in my time in Central Asia; one happening during the night and the second in mid-afternoon.

I recall being woken up at around four in the morning by a most peculiar sensation. The best way I can describe this is that it was as if I was sleeping on a waterbed which was being gently rocked to and fro. I got up on unsteady legs and made my way out to the balcony. I saw that others in neighbouring blocks had also switched on their lights and, like me, were looking out. What we all expected to see, I don’t know. The motion lasted around two minutes, after which I went back to bed. My work colleagues confirmed the next morning that what I had endured was indeed an earthquake.  

Six months later we were working in the office around two in the afternoon when an obvious, stronger earthquake struck. I remember being particularly captivated by how far the chandelier light fittings were swinging backwards and forwards. I immediately sought the guidance of a survivor of the ’66 earthquake, my colleague Shukhrat. “What do we do?” I asked. “Go outside!” he advised. We quickly abandoned the office and gathered in the courtyard downstairs. Then Shukhrat and Raisa Ivanovna – our housekeeper and fellow survivor of the 1966 tremors – were seen in deep conversation. “Go back inside; the buildings have steel structures” they eventually advised. By now the worst of the shaking was over, so we did as they bid. But I couldn’t help thinking “If locals experienced in these things cannot decide what to do for the best, how are we to know how to react?”. Either follow the crowd or do what I did: return quickly to the relative safety of UK.

Although again this comment is not limited to Central Asia, or indeed to any country in particular, I came across this experience more regularly here, as I was increasingly the person expected to translate in social situations. I was the go-to representative to accompany visitors in out-of-town locations, as well as entertaining them in free time. This invariably included dinners with local contacts. Often only when first seated at the table was it apparent that there was just one person who could converse freely with both sides - me.

The phrase “The interpreter never eats” is sadly true. For every conversation there are two sides to convey. Whereas one party can carry on eating whilst the other is talking, the man (or woman) in the middle gets no respite to partake of the provided fare.

If there is one thing worse than not being able to eat, it is the habit of visitors insisting on telling jokes and demanding that you translate them. English humour is not easily understood by others, particularly when much of it involves a play on words which is totally untranslatable. You can try to let the jokers know that an anecdote does not work in a foreign language, but they will demand that you go ahead anyway, particularly if they are already on their third or fourth vodka.

I recall once that I was asked to translate a joke about a man going to the doctor with a cricket ball stuck between the cheeks of his backside. If you know this gag, it’s funny to an English ear, but simply does not translate on many levels. I substituted a favourite about the weather in my hometown Huddersfield: “If you can see Castle Hill, it’s going to rain. If you can’t see it, it’s already raining”. That did the trick and my visitor was none the wiser.

Although I had ongoing contact with Uzbek customers up to 2012, I never returned to their country after the millennium. Things have obviously changed in the meantime, including a dedicated drive to eliminate corruption following the death of President Karimov in 2016. His daughter Gulnara Karimova was tried for fraud and money laundering in 2017, suffering house arrest and then imprisonment since 2019. Moreover, it was pleasing to hear from a friend how much he had enjoyed a visit to the country last year. He remarked how warm and friendly his hosts were. At least that endearing characteristic hasn’t diminished. 

As for Kazakhstan, my latter-day activities in the country were confined to the area around Atyrau on the Caspian Sea. The city has the Istanbul characteristic of linking Asia to Europe. It is possible to walk across a short bridge spanning the continents, remembering of course to take the obligatory photos at both ends of the structure. In all other aspects, Atyrau is a typical oil town and, in all honesty, once you’ve seen one oil town you’ve seen them all.

Finally, I am now able to admit openly that I do not like the Uzbek national dish “plov”. I never really grasped the appeal of this lamb and rice combination, although I was proffered enough in two years to last a lifetime. I was on no occasion rude enough to refuse a portion, although I always turned down the offer of extra helpings.  

As concerns “samsy” – the Uzbek equivalent of samosas – however, I just couldn’t get my fill. Shukhrat’s wife was aware of this, regularly cooking me a personal supply. This gesture neatly sums up my memories of the area and its people.