Walking backwards in the footsteps of Marco Polo

By Tom Wheeler, Ankara, Turkey

Meintjeskop Ditaba NoIII/2000

              

Tribute

This contribution is at the request of Hanneke Eilers and is a tribute to the wonderful job she has done as Editorial Assistant of Meintjeskop Ditaba for the past 4 years.

The adventurers

It was time again for the intrepid Ankarans to set out to tend their pastures on the steppes of Central Asia. This time it was the turn of Shoes Mtilwa to try the delights of horse meat out of date aircraft and yet another unintelligible set of languages. Also for the latter day lady -  adventurer, Dr Donna Louise Wyckoff- Wheeler, who is game to travel on camels, Soviet era aircraft or clapped out Volga cars, as long as she can get around the world on the 40th  parallel. No pith helmets though.

The other innovation was to try to visit three Central Asian republics in a row, rather than tackling them one at a time. With our characteristic unbounded optimism we had to believe that the air-services were better and the planes safer than in the early 90s.

Kyrgyzstan

We decided to go to the furthest point first - Bishkek, capital of Kyrgyzstan, camel spitting distance from the border of the Xin Jiang province of north-west China and work backwards. The big surprise was to find our Turkish Airlines plane was carrying a group of adventure trekkers with distinctly South African accents.

Knowing that to stay in Bishkek would not give us a true flavour of the country we asked to visit Osh, the 3000 years old city on the Silk Road in the south of the country and Lake Issyk Kul. Not trusting the Foreign Ministry to lay on these more offbeat trips, I asked for help from a private travel agency in Bishkek.

Arriving bleary- eyed at Manas airport on Saturday morning 26 August (3 hour time difference), we found two travel agencies vying for our business and our dollars. The Ministry-approved one said it could get us to Osh that morning, while, according to them, my favourite did not have the ability to pull the necessary strings.

What choice was there? There was no problem a fist full of dollars would not solve. Having got rid of one travel agency we sat back in the vast gloomy room filled with assorted parcel-toting travelers, which passed for a VIP saloon. Our guide was to be a young Russian hustler with an eerie likeness to Putin. We watched with beady eyes under our bushy eyebrows the to-ing and fro-ing and speculated on whose arms were being twisted, whose palms were being greased and which passengers were being bumped off the ancient Antanov 40 prop job to get us to and from Osh the same day.The requirements for travel in Central Asia are to keep calm, expect nothing and anything and jump when you are told that the plane is ready.

Suddenly we were told to rush for the tiny plane standing on the apron outside. After along flight beside the snow-lapped mountains south of Bishkek, the plane suddenly turned left into a narrow cleft in the Kyrgyz Alatau range of the mountain. Soon we were flying below the level of the peaks as we crossed over to the south-western part of the country.

Interesting as the visit was politically, Osh will be a hard destination to sell to tourists in spite of its age. It has little more to offer than any other dull Central Asian agricultural city. Romance has to be dollied up.

Lake Issyk Kul was different. It lies at 1600m above sea level, yet never freezes. We did not get further along than 20 per cent of its 600-km coastline. We  ended up in Bosteri a small resort town, which just coincidentally was the hometown of our Foreign Ministry desk officer escort. His parents were delighted to see their young diplomat son and his lovely new lawyer bride in such “important" company in hometown.

His father pressed us to sample the local delicacy, kumys, fermented more's milk. After a few sips of this substitute for turpentine we declared ourselves sudden converts to abstinence as behoves good Moslems. (BOZO, a thick fizzy drink made from boiled fermented millet tried on the streets of Bishkek, was both more familiar and more acceptable .)

Memorable parts of the Issyk Kul trip were visiting a brand new and grand Islamic style tomb built in advance in case of need by a local mafia boss and protection racketeer, and being photographed with a real live eagle on my arm above my head, a protesting camel behind us and the snow-covered lien Shan range ( yes, you got it ) across the lake as a backdrop.

Thirty miles out of Bishkek is the Ala-Archa Canyon, which looks for all the world like a movie set in the Rockies. Wonderful for a cool stroll after the daytime heat of Bishkek.  

As the Kyrgyz were keen to hustle us out of town so they could concentrate on the much more profitable visit by the Aga Khan, we will pass over the rest of the visit.

Shoes Mtilwa and Mrs Donna Wyckroft-Wheeler at the Ala Archa Canyon near Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan.

  

Uzbekistan

For a change our Uzbekistan Airlines flight to Tashkent arrived in daylight. But our Honorary Consul, Michael Timcke, was not letting us idle about. After a quick snack lunch of a club sandwich and glass of orange juice for four (Intercontinental price USD 112-RBOO - caveat emptor) we met the Deputy Mayor of Tashkent in the new Mayoral building which would have made Pretoria Metro Mayor Joyce Ngele green with envy. The Old Raadsaal was never like that even when it was new.

The main reason for our visit was to attend the 9th independence celebrations of the Uzbekistan Republic.

But before that we grabbed the initiative  to be the first country to lay a wreath under full glare of the media at the new monument to the citizens of Uzbekistan who gave their lives in the struggle for freedom from the Soviet Yoke. Very appropriate we thought.

The festivities were a spectacularly beautiful series of folk dance and other cultural tableaux. Even more dramatic were the extreme security measures. Hundreds of trip-trucks and even trams were parked ose to tail around Independence Square to prevent penetration of potential car bombers or any others who might be a threat to the safety of the invited guests.

As usual, Michael had done his stuff and we had our Turkmenistan Airlines tickets clutched in our twitching sleepless.fists after having dragged our heavy suitcases up the stairs of the heavily barricaded Tashkent airport for a 4 am departure.

What we did not know, is that we were due for a (scheduled) deviation north-west to Almaty in Kazakhstan before journeying back over Tashkent to Ashkabad, city of love. Central Asia was never strong on transparency, even onairline schedules. Still, been there, done that now, too.

Turkmenistan

Ashkabad has changed its face even in the two years since Johan May and I were there. Gone is the old Ashkobod. which was described in the 1996 Lonely Planet guide to Central Asia as  ” Ashkabad is not the end of the world, but you feel it surely can't be more than a short bus ride away.”

Most noticeable is the 70-m tripod called the Arch of Neutrality near the new gold domed Presidential Palace. It is topped by a gilded statue of the Great Man himself turning to face the sun and with something behind him that looks like angel's wings. Again our objective was to see something besides the capital. The second city, Mary is a major farming centre, yes on the edge of the desert, but Soviet planners conveniently laid on a canal across the desert from the Amu-Darya (Oxus) to feed the cotton fields.

Besides the largest herds of camels we’d ever seen, the city is famous for its ancient predecessor, Merv, which dates from 600 BC and was once one of Asia's greatest cities. Alexander the Great founded a city  called Margina here.

There were four other cities, not on top of each other like Troy, but on vast adjoining sites. Fable has it that Merv was the inspiration for Scheherazade's Thousand and One Nights. Difficult to

imagine today, after the Mongol hordes went through it.

My 1956-vintage German Special course at Stellenbosch University came in mighty handy, as it was the only way to communicate with our self-taught Turkman host at the Soviet era guesthouse. A few "ich"s and "jawohrs” made Afrikaans indistinguishable from German, to him anyway.

At dinner we were faced with a groaning board of a Turkmen feast horsemeat and all. After a while we pleaded for mercy. No more courses, no more courses, please pIease ... !

The Caspian Sea: Emirate

Back to the other side of the country to the Caspian Sea city of Turkmenbashy, shown on older maps as Krasnovodsk. It is so dry and arid that it makes Laingsberg look like a tropical paradise.

 The reason for its existence is that the Russians sailed down the Volga and into the Caspian in 1717 and launched their campaign to conquer the last remaining part of Central Asia, the Emirale of Khiva, from here.

They also built the cutest little Moorish style railway station at the starting point of the Trans Caspian Railway which links up all the local former Soviet Republics.

The town has received little attention since the Soviets built a culture palace in the centre in the 1940s. Sad, we could not view the auditorium, because the lights did not work. In a ship modelling studio next door town boys made replicas of traditional fishing skiffs while the pride of the now defunct Soviet navy are in glass cases, to bring a tear to the eye of the naval captain lost in this remote backwater with his memories of former glory.

The town's main business is oil refining and maybe one day it will be the jumping off point for the Trans Caspian gas pipeline which will make the country rich.

We stayed 10 km away in a barren fishing village/seaside resort  called Awaza. Unlike Sumgayiat on the other side of the Caspian in Azerbaijan, reputedly the most polluted place on earth, the water at Awaza was clean, even if the beach was hardly inspiring.

Still it was good enough for another of Donna's series of pictures with her feet in the .Indian Ocean, the Atlantic Ocean, the Mediterranean, the Aegean, the Black Sea, the Caspian, Lake Issyk Kul ... No picture in the Aral Sea, but we are working on that. Since they diverted all the water out of the Amu Darya and the Syr Darya to plant cotton in Mary and elsewhere, the Aral  Sea has all but dried up. Now the former sea bottom is a poisonous chemical dust bowl and you need a helicopter to get to the water. Come to think of it,, we'll skip that one

Life on the Other Side

At this stage I am prepared do a critique a Central Asian airlines and give a briefing on the protocol. You carry your own luggage abroadand stack it at the rear- so travel light. On arrival, stay seated until the captain and crew have walked down the aisle, the length of the plane (a 40 seater isn't very big) and have left by the back door. For catering Turkmenistan Airlines is best. In addition to free glasses of mineral water you can buy Mars bars, chips and boxes of fruit juice from a trolley. The safety announcements on Kyrgyzstan Airlines are best but it does not help much because they are in Kyrgyz and Russian.

The fun has gone out of changing money in Uzbekistan, because the black market rate has been pretty much eliminated. But as the largest note is 200 som. worth about 30 US cents, paying a USD 1000 hotel bill can be quite an experience. Here is a toast to the American Express card.

But in Turkmenistan when you ask to change a few US dollars into manat the hotel porter disappears out the front and fifteen minutes later returns in a Merc with 1.5 million manats in 200 and 500 manat notes for your 50 dollars. That means a saving on the hotel bill of nearly 70 per cent.

 Epilogue

I have great respect for Marco Polo. He did all this on foot and on the back of a camel.

We thought we were having a hard time cooped up in a jet propelled Yak for 45 minutes at a time.

Lunch time, Thursday 7 September: back in the big smog, Ankara, after a trip to the lands beyond belief. If you don't think this is real, there is an official report too, written by Shoes. So it's impartial.

Good luck, Hanneke. Come and see us when you get get bored with Holland!

Mission Accomplished ... Beyond the Tien Shan

Footnote to "More tales from the Silk Road ...

Tall Tales from Beyond the Tien Shan"

By Tom Wheeler, Ankara, Turkey

Meintjeskop Ditaba 1/2000

In the last issue of 1999 we had an article "More dispatches from the Silk Road", with the promise

to publish the follow-up story in the next edition, so here it is:

The 29th October is Republic Day in Turkey and as no festivities were planned in the aftermath of the earthquake, it seemed an ideal time for a long weekend away. But no. The Tajikistan Embassy sent a Note saying that President Emomali Rahmonov would receive my credentials in Dushanbe at 9 a.m. on that day. 

Rather easier said than done. How does one get from Ankara to Dushanbe?

Via Sherametova and Domodedova airports in Moscow - a major problem to get between the two

airports and a vast detour, north then south, as we discovered earlier; or from the as until then unheard of airport at Chorlu outside Istanbul direct to Dushanbe on Tajikistan Airlines-  seemed just too simple.

We would probably have to share the plane with vast piles of textiles and other goods masquerading as carry-on luggage - the famous suitcase trade; or the last option: five hours by Turkish Airlines to Tashkent, three hours by car with the redoubtable and ever trustworthy Michael Iirncke at the wheel, to Khojand in northem Tajikistan. Then over the 4000m TIen Shan ranges by a domestic Tajikistan Airlines craft. The more familiar won out in the end.

The bureaucracy at the border faded away in the face of careful preparation and a few well-placed snarls from Michael.

But our hearts did sink when we saw the size of the tiny Yak 40 jet that was going to take us on the last leg south to Dushanbe. After some zigzagging and circling to gain enough height in the valley at Chkalovsk, a former closed nuclear city, now a gold refinery and site of the airport, we crossed the formidable double range cut in two by the Zerefshan river, without even any turbulence, in 50 minutes.

The once civil war-wracked city of Dushanbe seemed serene, well-planned and beautiful as we drove down the main boulevard, no longer named Leninski Prospect, but after the national poet, RudakL to the Presidential Dacha. This is in the grounds of the Presidential Residence and we were invited to wander in the gardens and enjoy the superb forest of pines and other trees planted many years ago. Pretty relaxed for a country still in the midst of a peace process.

Our preconceptions were given a further knock by the efficiency with which our programme was arranged: Meetings with the Foreign Minister, Prime Minister and Speaker of Parliament and calls on

the Indian and Turkish Ambassadors. The latter invited us to lunch at a restaurant in the Opera House where we were served trout caught that morning in the local river - there is no fish market.

What is it with Tom Wheeler and the Central Asian girls ........ ?

His colleagues are Nowetu Luti (second from the right) and Michael Timcke (right).

   

The former invited me to celebrate my birthday in the international dining club he has created in an unused building in the Chancery grounds. Other dinner guests included two of the local South African resident - goldmine personnel. We missed the last of the South African wine by a week, so we drank Chilean white and French Bordeaux. We were frozen in our seats when 'Nkosi Sikelela iAfrika' came over the sound system. Our host had decided to entertain us and the other diners with his collection of Soweto String Quartet CDs. (He served in Kinshasa and is a devotee of all forms of African music.)

After the simple but dignified ceremonies on Friday at the Presidential Palace, the Turkish Ambassador invited me to join him at his national day lunch for the local heads of mission. Met them all in one swoop, while Nowetu Luti and Michael lunched with the South African community in a fancy new Austrian restaurant across Rudaki  from the Dacha. 

In next to no time we all had official accreditation cards. Michael has also acquired a new title "Official Adviser to the South African Ambassador to Tajikistan" and has an Identity card to prove it.

Suddenly the airline tickets got cheaper too. Our arrival at the VIP departure lounge was not without incident. The clerk with a Soviet-style attitude said that I could stay, but Nowetu and Michael would have to go elsewhere to check in. Michael gave her to understand she could get lost in Uzbek or Tajik or Russian or something. It worked.

Then she mellowed and asked the Chief of Protocol how the South African Ambassador could be white. Soon I was Papa Afrika, Nowetu Mama Afrika and Michael Big Brother from big brother next door - Uzbekistan - and big he is compared to a Tajik, even if his beard makes him look like an Islamic fundamentalist.

The journey in a prop-driven Antanov 24 was uneventful if hair- raising, as the mountain crossing was in daylight this time. We could see what we had skimmed across in the dead of night.

 

Lost in the mountains of Tajikistan are Somi

Nkonyeni, Torn Wheeler, Nowelu Luti and

Felicity Timcke, wife of Tashkent Honorary

Consul Michael Timcke.

   

The charming young protocol officer in Khojand, Mr Sharipov, had arranged a high-speed chase back to the Uzbek border under police escort. With his help we had the fastest border crossing in living memory, even though the two states are practically at war with each other. The whole feel was like a movie scene of a border crossing out in the back of beyond, except it was real, out in the back of beyond.

An hour and half later, in spite of farm tractors and heavy trucks without lights we were safely back in Tashkent, only to avoid by a hair breadth being wiped out in a high-speed collision at the intersection of two major city boulevards.

Somehow the exotic idea of a journey to Tajikistan, just short of Shangrila, has disappeared. Been-there-done-that. Next time we will go straight from Chorlu, and take a chance on the baggage.

MEDIA STATEMENT ON FIRST SA AMBASSADOR TO PRESENT CREDENTIALS IN TAJIKISTAN

The first South African Ambassador to be accredited to the Central Asian Republic of Tajikistan has presented his credentials to President Emomali Rahmonov in the capital, Dushanbe.

The Ambassador to Turkey based in Ankara, Mr Tom Wheeler. is now also South Africa's non-resident Ambassador to the Republic of Tajikistan.. 

Tajikistan. which borders China. Afghanistan. Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan. is a country with mountains exceeded in height only by the Himalayas of Nepal and covering 93% of the country. 

Literary Find.

               The Editorial staff of  "Newsletter", browsing through the departmental archives, recently came across a hitherto unpublished fragment  which indicates that at some time in his career, Lewis Carroll was among those who failed to appreciate the advantages of a long spell at Head Office.   The verses run as follows:

The diplomats were all abroad,

               Working with all their might.

At Meintjies Kop, the staff at home

               Were nipping belts in tight,

And wondering how they could survive,

               With not a move in sight.

The Chief Clerk and the Secretary

               Surveyed the scene first-hand.

They wept like anything to see

               This sad Pretoria band.

“If this could only all be changed, “

               They said, "it would be grand”.

“If all my clerks in Section Staff

               Worked at it half a year,

Do you suppose,” the Chief Clerk said,

               "That they could get it clear?"

"I doubt it", said the Secretary,

               And shed a bitter tear.

"0, Staff Clerk, come and talk with me,"

               The Chief Clerk did beseech,

"And see if you can make a plan

               To change the post of each,

Especially those too far away,

               And get them back in reach".

"The time has come”, the Chief Clerk said,

               “To talk of things like Rome;

Of Ottawa and Washington,

               Of Rio and Stockholm;

Of who shall go from here to there

               And who shall now come home”.

"But wait a bit!” cried those abroad,

               "Before you have your chat.

We simply cannot leave behind

               Allowances so fat".

"No hurry.'" said the Secretary,

               "We're all aware of that".

  “ 

“The List of names," the Chief Clerk said,

               "Is what we need the most.

Paper and typewriter besides,

               Red tape, of pins a host.

Department  if you're ready now,

 “But not post us!” again they cried,

               Turning a little blue.

“After such glamour, that would be

               A dismal thing to do!”

“The time is ripe the Chief Clerk said

               “To change your point of view.”

To stay where it is nice”.

The Secretary said nothing but

               “Those pleadings cut no ice.

I hope Chief' Clerk, you’ll not be dumb,

               And heed outside advice.”

“It seems a shame,” the Chief Clerk said,

               “To play them such a trick,

After they’ve had such lovely posts

               In which they’d hoped to stick”.

The Secretary said nothing but:

               “Get on and post them quick !”

“I weep for you,” the Chief Clerk said,

               “I deeply sympathise.

Of all the posts you might have got,

               Leopoldville’s the prize” -

(Holding the wad of posting slips

               Before his streaming eyes).

“O Chief Clerk ,” said the Secretary,

               “We’ve had a pleasant run.

Shall we just see who else to send?”

               But answer came there none.

And this was scarcely odd, because

               They’d posted every one!

(John Mills, John Selfe, Derek De Villiers - 1955?)

Sights, sounds and tastes from South Africa

Deon Volschenk

Deon Volschenk, Istanbul, Turkey

In order to promote South Africa as a tourist destination, the Consulate-General in Istanbul, together with the generous assistance of the Hyatt Regency Hotel, South African Airways and Lufthansa, hosted a "South Africa Week", from 8 to 13 October 1996, in the Agora Restaurant at the Hyatt Regency Hotel in this city.

During the "Week" the Consulate-General attempted to introduce to the Turkish public the sights, sounds and tastes of South Africa.

To produce a "taste" of South Africa, exotic South African foodstuffs were imported, including delicacies such as crocodile tail, venison, snoek, bJtong and ostrich meat (the putu unfortunately got lost en route to Istanbul). South African wines were also very much in evidence, with the Consulate-General donating 55 cases of wine for the occasion. To prepare the food in the typical South African way, two chefs were brought in from Pretoria to produce South African cuisine fit for a Pasha.

The "sounds" of South Africa were produced by a South African jazz band, ''T,rusini'', under the able leadership of Darius Brubeck (son of the famous American jazz pianist, Dave Brubeck) which was brought in from Durban especially for this occasion. The sounds that they produced were African jazz with distinct "township" flavour.

Regarding the "sights" of South Africa, we had to admit that here we had serious problems. It was pointed out that some wise man once observed that a picture is worth a thousand words. We put up many pictures and posters of South African scenery, as well as a stuffed lion, two buffalo, two kudus and some other stuffed animal trophies lent to us by a local hunter, which obviously was still not sufficient to give potential Turkish tourists a clear picture of South Africa. It was also pointed out that if one picture is worth a thousand words, it follows that reality must be worth at least a thousand pictures, but we didn't have thousands of pictures. It was then pointed out that the only way in which it would be possible for a Turk to experience the true "sights" of South Africa would be for him or her to visit the country personally. We said that we hoped that our Turkish friends would do so and that if they went to the Hyatt for a South African meal, they would be inspired to do so.

  

The salutation of the occasion was:Mdizakubona njengba isikathhi sigijima emZantsi

Africa!

(Zulu for "see you soon in South Africa")

 M.., ••••••• JIM             JJ

Beitoni ... by ... Gideon Sahibgi

(known to us as Deon Volschenk ... ), Islamabad

I was very touched to read in a recent SRA that colleagues appear to have a burning interest in the Official Residence in Islamabad (I wonder why)? However, I regret that I am unfortunately not able to oblige. Why not? you might exclaim in disappointed unison - I hasten to explain: Like in the dark and dingy dives of the demi-monde, where (I understand) it is sometimes whispered, brassily, that "a house is not necessarily a home, lover boy!" so too, in the course of refined diplomatic exchanges, it is sometimes, rather snidely, remarked that a "house is not necessarily an Official Residence, cellency".

"In what then, do you live?" you might ask: To reply, "in an 'Ampskrot'" might sound ungrateful and could alarm the Admin. Desk that has thus far, very kindly,been approving large sums for an Official Residence in Islamabad. I have, therefore, after giving the subject much thought, coined what I believe to be a descriptive name for the house that my wife and I currently occupy.

Colleagues will know where Benoni is and they might also know that "Benoni" is a Hebrew name that means "son of my sorrow." Doing a bit of word juggling, and in the process possibly corrupting the Hebrew language, I have come up with the name  "Beitoni" - "House of my sorrow" - for what will eventually become the Official Residence.

Why "Beitoni" you would most probably want to know? (I don't mind all these questions) I hasten to explain again: After looking at more than 80 houses, we found a brand new one, in the last phases of construction, that would make a splendid Official Residence. A contract was signed on 9 February 1994. 'That was when our problems began.

I repeat that it is a splendid house, but being new to the country there were many things that we had to learn about when dealing with local landlords, suppliers and workmen, the most important and frustrating of which was learning about the local perception of time.

Colleagues will all be aware of the Spanish word "manana" and what it means. Others will also be aware of the Latin American version of the word, which means about a week or so later. The Arabists. in the Department will know the Arabic word "Bukhra" which also means "tomorrow", but without the sense of urgency implied by the Latin American maiiana. The Pakistan version of maiiana has even less urgency than "bukhra!" In Urdu the word for maiiana is "kal", but it is also the word that is used for yesterday: Tunewise, the Urdu speakers inPakistan clearly do not know whether they are coming or have gone, and this shortcoming is very evident in the deadlines that they keep or the promises that they make. Local workmen often tend to invoke the help of the Almighty when making promises - "tomorrow Inshallah", which means "tomorrow, God be willing". The phrase on rare occasions does mean "tomorrow", but more often than not it means "you have no option but to wait until we get around to it", and here I have found no definable limit.

Needless to say Beitoni was not ready by 1 March 1994, and I will not bore readers with what transpired between myself, the landlady and her, workmen between then and 6 May 1994, the date on which we eventually, after dire threats of withholding rent, claiming damages, speaking to the Prime Minister etc, moved in. Suffice it to say that the latter date marked the beginning of the next phase of our trials and tribulations.

An inquisitive neighbour told me that Beitoni had taken more than two years to complete and this was very evident when the workmen tried to clean two years of accumulated grime and neglect from the white marble floors. We contracted, at the landlady's cost, a "specialist" firm of cleaners to fIX up the floor. 

The latter came in and poured gallons of swimming pool acid over the floors. I need not explain what happens when acid is poured onto marble. The result was a brown mess that the "specialists" could not restore. Another firm was called in, with similar results. A month later a third firm was able, with the help of an apparatus that sprayed marble sludge around the house as effectively as the muckspreaders that British farmers use to spread manure over their fields, to restore the floors into pristine condition. While the floor restoration was going on, it rained and, of course, we discovered, to our dismay, that Beitoni's roof leaked. This brought another firm of specialists into the picture.

In order to seal the roof these specialists poured gallons of tar onto it and then left it for a few weeks "to dry". It did not rain again, but Pakistan then experienced its honest spell of summer in recorded history. The black tar-covered roof turned Beitoni into an efficient solar heated oven that cooled down to no less than 40° C at night. This problem was solved a few weeks later when the experts finished the job with tons of polypropylene sheets, sand, cement and red tiles. The only problem with this solution for our solar heating problem was that the sand, cement etc. also blocked a few drains and when the monsoon arrived, which it did with a vengeance, we had a splendid waterfall, somewhat reminiscent of Victoria or Niagara, in the kitchen and a flood of brown sludge in the study

.

Fortunately marble floors don't warp and hallway carpets dry out very well in the sun. But painted walls do not appreciate wetness and we await another team of specialists to fix the peeling walls.

Before Mr Jan Botha faints at the thought of who is paying for all this work, I hasten to set his mind at rest - the landlady is paying! I have withheld sufficient funds from the advance rent payment to cover these expenses. A sage once remarked that you get clever 100 early and wise 100 late; we have now grown wise to local conditions, having paid our school fees in frustration and inconvenience.

Needless to say that, apart from the inauguration reception which was held on the-ground in front of an empty Beitoni, we have thus far not been able to do any entertaining, official or otherwise, at the house,but that is not solely the house's fault There have also been some glitches in other places: It has taken five months to get the furniture both approved by Head Office and manufactured by Messrs. Decent Furniture. The last pieces of furniture should be ready in a week or two. In addition to this there has also been a glitch or two in Pretoria when the household equipment was air freighted to Islamabad. We received nine flower vases, big enough to cook putu for 200 people, if they could be used for thispurpose, but no cooking pots, tea cups or teaspoons. Most of the Royal Doulton has arrived now and we await with bated breath the arrival of the official silver.

The lack of space and the fear of boring my readers do not allow me to go into greater detail on our many experiences in getting established (and here one should bear in mind that we have also had to establish a Chancery with similar frustrating ordeals), but suffice it to say that we are approaching the end of the tunnel and we should soon be able to proclaim rapturously from the (waterproof) rooftop that we have an Official Residence - Inshallah ... ! 

W •• rUal •••••• "f, .IuI' ,,..,"4 •••• ail 11III,1, • II,." ., 41,. ,. " i,," • "'''",N.", ., "t.,.IIt,... AIIf""f •• ''''

411it""4 .,llt lit, H',.,." fill,., ••••• , U .""';II,.ItJ, fill "" •• , it ., ..,";Ilel.'.

Islamabad: The Arrival

Marius Conradie, Islamabad.

 Meintjeskop Courier, Volume II 1994

(Or on bow we set foot in a strange land, were frightened by the children and finally greatly pleased).Thus it transpired, gentle reader that, as preordained by capricious &1e - ably assisted by the Deparmental placement committee. The Conradie clan arrived in the City of Islamabad in a flush of excitement. As subscribers to the DIY Medical Journal will know this is a stale of emotional agitation, the manifestations of which are easily confused with the symptoms of heat stroke.

On the airport bus I had occasion to give my eldest of four years a brief but intensive lecture on the finer points of intercultural tolerance and acceptance. My obvious knowledge of the subject and the manner in which I conveyed it to my darling daughter so impressed a number of our fellow passengers that they actually wanted to get off the bus, presumably to go and tell their friends. My intercession was quite successful in preventing Celeste from making any further silly remarks about a kind old lady wearing an ornate metal burka (veil). 'Dadda, hoekom bet daardie tannie 'n mombakkies aan?"

At the airport we were met by the Acting High Commissioner, Mr Deon Volschenk. Wearing a suitable expression of welcome, sympathy and near dehydration he offered kind words of greeting and encouragement, reciting a brief list of foodstuffs and liquids that could be consumed in Pakistan without risking life and health. We were also pleased to learn that the high temperatures in Islamabad (45 degrees C) were really quite exceptional and that the chances were better than ever that the monsoon rains would arrive before the city ran completely out of water.

Still smarting from my earlier display of intellectual and muscular superiority Celeste observed closely as her old man did his charming best to impress the new Head of Mission right from the beginning. Her counterattack was as vicious as it was unexpected. Finding an enthusiastic and more than able ally in her younger sister they promptly wiped all my admonishments about being on their best behaviour and curtsying when meeting the Head of Mission from their innocent little minds and transformed into a horrifying synthesis of Damien, Dennis the Menace and Attie (the little Hun).

Somewhat less than convincingly Mr Volschenk murmured something about please don't worry, they are just tired, while he chainlit a fresh cigarette with only the slightest of tremors and stared vacantly across the arrivals hall.

After an interminable wait we collected our 13 pieces of luggage, excluding the obligatory two medicine bags, and made our exit with more haste than grace.

Having seen our luggage safely secured on top of the hotel's courtesy bus and my family settled comfortably -  if not quietly - inside, I actually had the decency to hesitate before accepting Mr Volschenk's invitation to accompany him in the official car. Escape was not to be.

At the last moment Carole, my spouse, to use the Department's unflattering terminology, bundled Celeste into my arms. My quizzically raised eyebrow was instantly deflated when junior informed me with a touch of pride: "Dadda, ek voel naar" . Roughly translated: Boy are you in trouble.

Mumbling fervent prayers I joined Mr Volschenk and with the three of us in the backseat we set out for the hotel. Eager to learn about this foreign land, its people and culture I listened attentively as he imparted pointers to be kept in mind by the newcomer. His train of thought and my composure were rudely dislocated when a small voice piped up: "Dadda, ek gaan siek word". (This is it Pops, what are you going to do now).

Flushing scarlet with embarrassment and any number of unparently feelings I dashed out of the car the moment the driver brought it to a semi-standstill at Mr Volschenk's quiet yet urgent insistence. Of course, as any parent will know, after a few breaths of fresh air and the satisfaction of seeing her father age visibly my little angel was as right as rain.

Upon re-entering the car I did my best to appear suitably apprecia1ive of the Head of Mission's honest concern and understanding. However, being a convinced pessimist, one terrible thought kept reverberating through my mind: If things start out in this way, how on earth is it going to end.

Well, after a month I am happy to inform that things are going very well indeed, splendidly in fact. Our highest, deepest concealed expectations have been surpassed.  Islamabad is a very pleasant, quiet, almost restful city. The throng of humanity and traffic that I expected is striking in its absence.

With its wide, tree-lined streets, interestingly styled houses. expansive green areas (I will have to learn to live with that) and impressive government buildings - all backdropped by the Margalla Hills, precursors to the mighty Himalayas - Islamabad is quite an attractive city. In many ways it reminds one of Pretoria, with the added advantage that no-one has ever heard of a kicking flyhalf.

Through this peaceful atmosphere the call of the mouzzan, enjoining the faithful to prayer, floats with a strangely soothing melody.

The people are friendly, hospitable and entrepreneurially innovative. It is very true that Islamabad is not Pakistan. It is definitely not Rawalpindi - that I have seen, and from what I have heard it is not Karachi or Lahore either. Rather, Islamabad is an island in the harsh ocean that is Pakisitan.

But. gentle reader, let me not ramble thus. More about the sights and delights of Pakistan on another occasion. Suffice it to say that we are quite willing to live and work here for at least four ears. Celeste agrees, too.

   

Marius has a valid poit regarding the word "spouse - to use the Department's unflattering

terminology". Please isn't there a better word? Ed.

Junketing on a junk

Asian regional planning conference - Singapore, March 1994

The TEC Sub-council on Foreign Affairs, Heads of Mission and officials from Head Office before the Junket on a Junk. Back Row: Roel Goris (Bangkok), Michael Farr (Hong Kong), Johan Viljoen (Taipei), Tom Wheeler (HD OW) , Deon Volschenk (Islamabad), Aziz Pahad (Sub-council, now Deputy Minister), Les Labuschagne (Beijing), Henri Raubenheimer (Kuala Lumpur), Rafique Gangat (Karachi), Pierre Dietrichsen (DIRG). Front Row: Barry MooIman (New Delhi), Dawie du Plessis (Singapore), Osman Ganie (Sub-council),Mandla Mamela (Managing Secretary of the Sub-council), Alex van Zyl (Seoul), Naude Steyn (Canberra), Godfrey Hetisani (Sub-council), Marietjie du Plessis (Minute Secretary of the Sub-council), Princess Stella Sicgau (Sub-council, now Minister of Public Enterprises and the time of writing Acting Minister of Foreign Affairs), PJ Botha (Singapore), Errol de Montille (DASO), Christo Prins (Tokyo), Leon Wessels (Sub-council, now Vice Chair of the Constituent Assembly).Absent: Mr Albert van Niekerk (OADO) who was taken ill in Singapore and Mr John Barratt(Sub-council) who could not undertake the visit).

Tom Wheeler

News from the dark side. 

Stung by charges of junketing by South Africa's traditional leadership, the Department's new-look political mentors, the Sub-council on Foreign Affairs, decided there was nothing to be lost by accepting PJ Botha's invitation to sail round Singapore harbour on a junk.

After all it was no different to what they had had to put up with since they first encountered the Foreign Affairs hordes in December.

The political waters remained calm, but as the tropical ones became choppy several wondered whether they did not have something to lose after all.

It was by some stroke of genius that a karaoke had been laid on and soon hi thereto undiscovered talent among members of the Sub-council and heads of mission began to corne to the fore.

The competition between members of the Sub-council for one of the Departmental, of course was fierce. Leon Wessels proved to be a master of the political patter song with punch lines on Eric Louw, Diefenbaker, Carpio and other historic figures (which brought tears to the eyes of the Departmental geriatrics).

The Department's own royalty, the Princess Stella, was not to be outdone and gave stirring renditions of the Xhosa click song and several familiar Makeba melodies. She must have amended the words a little, because at one stage she threatened to send a tape of one of them to Chief Kolonyama, the Sub-council's chief tormentor.

Nothing would induce her and Mandla Memela, the managing secretary, to toyi toyi in accompaniment of their music.

The stars of the evening proved to be Roel Goris (Bangkok) and PJ (our host) ably supported by Rae Labuschagne (Beijing) with their renditions of sentimental ballads, but Aziz Pahad did splendidly with a suitably apt issued version of "Born Free". Ossie Ganie celebrated the return of the rains to Natal with  "Raindrops are falling on my head".

But there was stunned silence when Leon Wessels suggested in song that there was nothing that could frighten mice like us - except the DG, Jan Botha and hold it, a new government! The best was yet to come. As the junk pulled back towards the quay, a self-selected glee clubs consisting of Godfrey Hetisani (playing an imaginary piano, as even with the wizardry of Singapore, PJ was not able to conjure up a real one for him, Chris Streeter, Aziz Pahad, Stella, Pierre Dietrichsen, Rae, PJ, Roel, Ossie Ganie, Torn Wheeler and one or two more set about nation-building in earnest with ringing renditions of Sarie Marais, Suikerbossie (in spite of its gender unacceptability), Alabama and most poignant of all, Marching to Pretoria.

When some of the politicos learnt that their exploits were to be recorded for posterity in the Courier here were wails of anguish as they realised that perhaps after all they could not be marching to Pretoria, if all this levity were to become known too soon. After five regional planning meetings heavy with all the wisdom that the upper echelons of Foreign Affairs could dazzle them with, this was what the Sub-council needed to make them accept that there will be life after the TEC, after all.

Moscow - a rough guide to city living

Steve McQueen, Moscow

After having been here a little over seven months now, I think it could be said that Moscow is more different than any other city. We arrived in Moscow almost two years after the really hard work had been done to establish South African representation here.

Those pioneers could no doubt write chapters on the challenges they faced to set up an office in Russia. We couldn't pretend to have experienced the hardships and difficulties of those early days, suffice it to say that the Moscow as we have experienced it, is considerably different now and provides far more goods and services than two years ago.

Having made that disclaimer then, the following is a strictly personal view of life in Moscow as we have experienced it.

A visitor to Moscow could be baffled by this city where not only the old and new architecture exist side by side, but also where attitudes to the immense changes which have taken place are every bit as negative as they are positive.

It is a mistake to believe that the political changes of the last two years have been unchallenged or that the opposition to them is too insignificant to warrant attention. The contrary is true. On Lubyanka Square, outside the headquarters of the former KGB, is a podium upon which once stood a statue of Felix Drezhinsky, the founder of the Cheka which later became the KGB. This podium is all that emains of the statue which was toppled after the failed 1991 coup in Moscow. The Moscow Times recently carried a photograph of attempts by the Moscow Government to remove the podium in its entirety. These attempts were frustrated by a lack of labour and equipment and the local English press suggested that, like the vestiges of Drezhinsky, Russia's past was resisting the changes and was more difficult to remove than previously thought.

Remembering this sometimes helps to understand life in Moscow and perhaps puts a little perspective on the city of Moscow today, where past and present live side by side and where very often the only way to understand the present is to look at the past.

Leaving the political issues aside, a visitor to Moscow will find that there are factors here which make an impact on your life every minute of the day, and your attitude toward them can determine how quickly you adjust to life in Moscow. We were once told to take one day at a time, but honestly, in Moscow sometimes all the days attack you at once.

In no particular order then, the following are a few of the factors with which a visitor to Moscow will in all probability have to contend:

The Weather:

Weather-wise Moscow can be frustrating. The summers, although short, can be hot and humid. We look forward to this time of the year because drivers can at least then see the potholes which need to be avoided. For about seven to eight months the snow is our constant companion. Temperatures range between minus ten and minus twenty five degrees. Temperatures are a constant discussion topic, although personally I am not yet convinced that minus ten is any better than minus fifteen degrees. Anything below zero is cold. From there on, it's all just a matter of degree. Believe it or not, the city functions perfectly normally, the snow notwithstanding. If you allow it, the darkness and the cold can lead to what has been called cabin fever. Many hours are spent indoors and the necessity for indoor activities takes on a new meaning during the winter.

A dual economy:

The official Russian rouble currency now trades at more than one thousand to the dollar. The dollar exists side by side with the rouble. In fact the first question you would ask in a Russian establishment, is whether the form of payment is rouble or dollar?

While there is seemingly great poverty here, there are those who have taken the opportunity provided by the collapse of communism, and have taken on all forms of trading in a bid to enter the free market.

The existence of an economic mafia is openly acknowledged. You can buy anything here, from ancient and priceless icons, to marmoset monkeys from Africa. On one visit to an animal market I was asked if I perhaps wanted to buy a crocodile. I never doubted for a minute that if I agreed, one would be brought to me from a nearby stall.

A leading question for any self-respecting capitalist, must be, what is available in MOSCOW? Many hard currency ((ie US Dollar and D. Mark) shops have sprung up in Moscow, and although these provide  almost anything the heart desires, the prices are high. A dozen apples, a loaf of bread, a few slices of ham and a litre of milk can cost around $50.00 (R150-00). The hard currency shops like the Finnish owned Stockman's, the Irish House, the German owned Colognia and the Italian Style Foodland are but a few of the shops where almost anything is available, from clothing, (Mink coats, and every designer label you can imagine, 

Hugo Boss, Yves St Laurent, Polo etc) to sausages from Austria, beer from Germany, ready-made microwave dinners from the USA, chicken from Israel, Dutch cheeses and chocolates, and salmon from Norway. The international variety of goods in these stores could easily make some stores in South Africa pale into insignificance. Expensive yes, but then again, a visit to these stores gives the lie to the old perception that Moscow today is barren of Western style food. It has been said that these hard currency stores deliberately inflate their prices in order to cash in on the presence of the significantly large foreign community in Moscow.

If on the other hand you want to venture into the Russian shops, you'll probably find a little more than you at first expected. The secret is of course to know which one to go to for which product. The stock in many of these shops is limited and it would be a foolish shopper who believes that that which was on the shelves yesterday will be there the day after. It is advisable to take along a local Muscovite, who can interpret and possibly even help with the price haggling. Things can be slow here. First you pick out the item, then you point out this item to the cashier to whom you pay the roubles. She will give you a receipt which you then take to the counter, point out the item once again and present the cash receipt slip and then you get the object concerned.

If you have time and patience, the Russian shops will surprise you.

Commuting:

Like any city of almost twelve million people, the roads leave a lot to be desired. Your chief activity behind the wheel is to swerve constantly as you try to avoid the potholes, some of which are literally big enough to bury a small car. The traffic is bad, more so in the su mmers when those who have stored their vehicles throughout the long winters, retrieve them from their places of hibernation, under bridges, in parking lots etc. and head for the streets. Foreigners here face a choice of vehicles. Either a Russian-made vehicle, or an imported type. For those who elect the former, you can choose a Niva, a Zhuguli or a Volga. These vehicles abound and while owning one allows for a cheaper repair bill, they do have a baffling propensity to break down at the worst ossible moment. I have personally witnessed several Zhugulis (very similar to the old Fiat's) lose their front wheel entirely, not because of a flat tyre, but simply because the wheel has just snapped off its axle. Why, I really don't know. Suffice it is to say that these wheelless cars are an everyday sight.

For those who choose an imported car there are the problems of a delay in spare parts, but more importantly, the inflated costs of repairs can be a factor which could persuade you to stick with local vehicles.

Closely tied to the problems of road commuting, is of course the ever present traffic officer, or gaiee, as they are called here. The gaiee are everywhere and while their job is an onerous one, from surviving the short and humid summers to the long, dark and painfully cold winters, the gaiee is ever present at his post. These gaiee are the butt of many jokes and often ridicule. They are said to be among the only state officials who can turn traffic control into an openly lucrative business.

When dealing with the gaiee, most of whom do not speak any English, the correct and preferred  attitude is one of contrition. To try and challenge these officials can lead to all manners of unpleasantness, gaiee are authorized to stop anyone for any reason. So, for example, if you have a western car, your chances of being pulled off by the local gaiee are pretty good. You may have done nothing at all, your car may be able to pass the most stringent of road tests, but still, when the gaiee points a little black and white striped stick at you, you'd better stop.

A very good Russian word to learn, is "skolka" - how much! This is good to remember when a particularly tough gaiee is about to threaten you with several hours of traffic instruction at a local night school. Skolka can solve all of that. Suddenly, the icy atmosphere warms to a sense of brotherhood, and as you reach into your wallet, he is all smiles.

Bribery you say? Never!! This is a perfectly acceptable form of paying a "spot fine" . Perhaps the plight of the gaiee is best explained by the anecdote of the Russian gaiee who went to his boss to ask for a raise because he was in need of extra money to fund his daughter's wedding. His boss replied sadly, "look, I can't help you with a pay rise, but look behind that door, you'll find a no-parking sign. Take that for the next weeks, it's worth hundreds!!"

The metro system is excellent. Some would say the best in the world. If it's speed and efficiency you're after, Moscow metro fits the bill. In peak hours one train every 48 seconds will convey you with speed to any destination within its 200 km range. While perhaps not being as comfortable nor as clean as those of Washington DC for example, the metro more than makes up for this by the fact that a great many of the underground stations are museum pieces. The incredible art and architecture of many of these stations would probably be equal to any masterpiece the West has to offer.

Health Matters:

At time of writing, there is an outbreak of diphtheria in Moscow. This news sent foreigners hurrying

to get their shots. The American Medical Centre (AMC) (one of a very few Western medical clinics) inoculated 5000 concerned foreigners over one week-end. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, we too made our way to the AMC. A very cheerful British expatriate nurse told us that the serum would last for ten years. Feeling now strengthened by this news, we are apparently able to mix with all kinds of diphtheria and suffer no consequences.

It is advisable to have diphtheria shots if you are planning a trip to Moscow and if you are planning an extended stay, membership is wise. Membership fees are high, about $800.00 per family, but then again it is comforting to know that the AMC is well equipped to handle most emergencies and will even evacuate you if the need arises.

Moscow remains an interesting city, filled with challenges like any other. Quite literally, the city is changing every day. While to some the changes are too fast, there are those who think that the changes cannot come fast enough. A visitor to Moscow will experience the distinct differences between the old and the new and perhaps be struck by the fact that the former museum of Soviet economic achievements now also houses a showroom of American off-road vehicles.

Meintjeskop Courier Volume 3 1993