Tajikistan’s official currency is the Somoni, which is equal to 100 Dirhams. Notes come in 100 Somoni, 50 Somoni, 20 Somoni, 10 Somoni, 5 Somoni, 1 Somoni, 50 Dirhams, 20 Dirhams, and 5 Dirhams.

They also have coins which, I am told, are being phased in (they are already in circulation and have been for some time, but are supposed to increase) as 20 and 5 Dirham notes are being phased out. Anyway, that’s what we heard at the internet cafe from the lady who refused to take 20 Dirham notes in change. Coins come in 50 Dirhams, 25 Dirhams (???), 20 Dirhams, 10 Dirhams, and 5 Dirhams. I have seen a 1 Dirham coin once, I think, but I’m not sure.

I personally prefer the coins, since the marshrutkas and trolleys (electric buses) cost 40 Dirhams and buses cost 30 Dirhams, so most Dirhams are in constant, fevered circulation and fall apart pretty quickly. Usually while in my posession, though possibly this is because I let them float around in the bottom of my purse until nearly disintegrated, when I suddenly try to pull them out from underneath something to pay for my marshrutka ride. So I’m all for the change.

But the putting of 20-Dirham coins into circulation and removal of 20-Dirham notes from circulation has had a significant effect on my (and thousands’ of others) daily lives, because it seems that they are taking the notes out of circulation more quickly than they are putting the coins in. Maybe it just seems this way, but I feel there is a serious lack of change in the city.

Keeping in mind that the most common notes under 1 Somoni are the 20 Dirhams (the cheaper local ice-cream cone also costs 20 Dirhams, by the way), most things are priced so as to ensure that change is available. Unfortunately, lately, whenever buying things that require 20 Dirhams in change, or worse, 40 Dirhams, I have been reimbursed with bags of tea or small pieces of candy at an “equivalent” value. Though, obviously, since I don’t eat stale Turkish mints or drink black tea and since I cannot use these as currency on marshrutki, I don’t really feel the market value very relevant to my personal situation. And it’s not only me.

Lately, instead of giving 60 Dirhams in change for the 40 Dirham ride on transport, some marshrutka conductors have started giving 50 Dirham notes, without any explanation. If someone protests, the conductor will say, “Okay, you can wait for change, but we don’t have any. 50 Dirhams or nothing, what can I do?” I have never seen a single person on the marshrutka offer to make change, probably because there is nobody who can do it. Everyone hoards his or her 20 Dirham notes so as not to be cheated in a similar way. Likewise, if you pay with a 50 Dirham note, you are not likely to get 10 Dirhams back unless you ask.

And then of course there are those bizarre 20 Dirham notes. I’m not sure if they are on their way in or on their way out, but if you should pay 45 Dirhams for a ride on public transport, you can forget about getting the 5 Dirhams back as change. Most of us assume that either the conductor (usually a very poor person) will keep the money if he manages to keep any extra, or that he will be forced to give out 25 Dirhams instead of 20 to someone who needs change. The latter is much more likely, and anyway, the conductor is not likely to save up more than one Somoni per day. Only the poorest people insist on the 5 Dirhams change back, therefore.

Yesterday, in an interesting turn of events, I saw a woman pay 30 Dirhams for the marshrutka. The conductor said, “What is this? It’s 40 Dirhams for the ride.” She replied, “Yesterday you gave me 50 Dirhams in change for a one-Somoni note, and so today, take your own medicine.” I wonder if the 20-Dirham coins will come into circulation before this becomes a city-wide phenomenon.

Right now, I’m living with my in-laws in their apartment far from the center of Dushanbe. I have learned some very interesting things about Tajik solidarity groups in urban areas during my time here.

Generally, solidarity groups in Muslim cultures are organized around the mosque, or masjed. Every 20 to 25 families, which in a rural area would compose about one block of houses in a village, has its own mosque. Then each village would have one large “Friday” mosque, which is the central mosque. This is the case in rural Tajikistan as well, and even in Uzbekistan, although there the government has bureaucratized the institution. In Tajikistan, this area is coterminous with the mahallah in most cases.

The regular mosque group is often (in rural areas) composed of mainly relatives, by marriage and blood. This is only part of a larger solidarity group, the qawm, which is very important to most Persians. Qawm is kind of like tribe, but among Tajiks is much more regional than related to blood.

Now, in rural areas, all of these things- mosque, qawm, family, and tribe, overlap. In urban areas, they often do not.

My brother in law attends a mosque with what appears to be at least 100 other families (my estimation is based on watching people going in and out- if there are two entrances, though I don’t think there are- forget it). His own extended family lives in a neighbourhood that is a 25-minute car ride, or one-hour ride on public transport, away. His qawm (which incidentally, does not transfer to his wife- she maintains ties with her own family for solidarity and support) does not overlap with his mosque, but consists of people belonging to his tiny ethnic minority group from Zafarobod, the Dushanbe contingent of which mainly live in the same neighbourhood (mahallah) as his parents.

Likewise, his mosque does not overlap with his neighbourhood. Although the mosque is localized- I’m not sure exactly which apartment blocks it serves but I believe there are about four or five- his neighbourhood, which would normally be coterminous with his mosque- apparently consists of his pod’yezd.

Pod’yezd is a Russian word which means, roughly, entrance. Each apartment building has a certain number of entrances, which lead to the apartments. In most five-storey apartment buildings, there are ten apartments per pod’yezd, which (due to the size of the apartments) corresponds to the number of families.

Now, normally in Tajik culture, if you have a wedding or circumcision or a wake or something, you would invite everyone from the mahallah, or your regular mosque. In rural areas, this tradition holds. I’ve been to a number of weddings where the whole mosque, plus remaining extended family, are there. It comes to about a hundred families.

In urban areas, however, people only have small apartments and usually cannot have the wedding on the street. You can’t just disturb traffic, in the first place, and in the second place, eventually you all have to go inside. Finally, it’s really expensive to live in the city, and expensive to host all of those people. So when you have guests you just invite the people from your pod’yezd. You can invite more, but it’s considered neighbourly to invite at least the eight or twelve families with whom you share an entrance. You would invite them all whenever you have a party, and whoever comes, comes.

Some people don’t go, though most do, because after all, most women are poor housewives, and never get the chance to out to restaurants. This is their big chance to get cleaned up and put on some makeup with a purpose, and sit without the kids and relax.

This is unlike a rural environment, where you would have more of a social obligation to go, not least because you are almost certainly related to the person inviting you in some way. If you don’t go, I believe that the normal retribution is to gossip incessantly about you, accusing you of being sick, an adulteress, or of giving people the evil eye or God knows what else.

Now, the reason I got very interested in the pod’yezd is that, as I wrote recently, I am soon moving into a nine-storey apartment building, each floor of each pod’yezd of which has four apartments. That means 36 apartments in my pod’yezd. This was somewhat worrying, because although our apartment is relatively large for a Soviet apartment, it is still only 65 square meters or so. And I’ll want to invite them all on some pretext or other pretty soon, to get on good terms, just in case I ever need to borrow a cup of flour in the future or something.

Fortunately, on discussing the subject with my sister-in-law, I learned that in a nine-storey apartment, I am only obligated to invite my four floor-mates, and not the entire pod’yezd. So apparently, the pod’yezd is a kind of fluid concept. You have to invite your closest neighbours, is the idea, but since these people don’t overlap with any solidarity group, there is nothing very obligatory in it.

So in fact I have saved myself trouble by moving into a nine-storey building. I only have to invite my three other floor-mates and that’s it. What a relief.

1) People who dress up like hajjis (a hajji is someone who has been to Mecca on the hajj, or pilgrimage) before going out begging, and on a related note, women who wear the hijab especially for begging.

Why do I hate this? If they are not hajjis, it’s a disgusting abuse of religion. On the one hand I would like to believe this is the case. But I’m afraid that some people are also sincere, and want to show passers-by, “Look, I’m a good person, I am a hajji, give me money.” As if that’s what God wants you to do: go on a pilgrimage, spend all your money that way, and then spend the rest of your life begging to make up for it. I specifically do not give to the ones who dress up like this, or who say prayers for money. In the first place they get a lot from the other suckers and in the second place, listen, I’ll pay for your food, or even your drugs, not your white freaking turban so you can get your extra credits from God. How many people work their whole lives to support their families and never go on hajj, though they would like to???

2) The fact that you cannot buy anything made for women that does not have sparklies attached to it (sequins, beads, glitter, whatever).

Actual conversation I had in a boutique today:

“Do you have something that goes with these pants? Something light and simple?”
“What about this?”
“Mmmm… that’s a bit bright. Do you have something without sparklies?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Oh…”

3) No mustard on hot dogs.

Instead, you get pickled carrot salad, mayonnaise, and ketchup. I actually eat these anyway, which if proof that some people can adapt to anything.

The first one was what was really bugging me, though. We were on a marshrutka and some old guy dressed up like a mullah comes up to the bus and says this loud prayer for our safety. What is paradoxical about this is that many Muslims (especially in Tajikistan) technically believe that if you are bad, bad things happen to you on this earth. (How they reconcile this with America’s wealth and the Muslim world’s extreme poverty is beyond me but anyway.)

So many people say, “Oh, she’s begging, she must have done something wrong.” This is only slightly different from the Western justification for not giving to beggars (”They’ll just spend it on alcohol/drugs anyway…” / “Get a job!” etc.).

But if the mullah, or a hajji, is begging, then suddenly- what? He must be good because he’s wearing a turban? How can a mullah or hajji possibly become a beggar? And if these “good” people can become beggars, then surely other good people can become beggars? Am I missing something?

I don’t think there’s anything equivalent to this in the West… is there?

Oh yeah, and now that I think of it, one more:

4) Telephone manners.

When we were in Russia, we were taught proper telephone manners. I’m not sure if this just never got to Tajikistan or if Persians have a totally different idea of the telephone, but telephone manners here are horrible.

A typical telephone conversation I have:

“Allo?”
“JAMSHED KANI?” Can I get Jamshed?
(They always shout, because they believe you cannot hear them otherwise.)
“Salom aleykum. Jamshed nadorem, shumo ishtiboh karded.” Hello. There’s no Jamshed here, you’ve got the wrong number.
Click.

Phone rings again in 30 seconds.
“Allo, zdravstvuyte.” Hello.
(I switch to Russian so that the conversation will go on my terms and not be limited by my horrible Persian.)
“JAMSHED KANI?”
“Nyet, zdes’ nyet nikakovo Jamsheda. Vy nye tuda popali.” No, there is no Jamshed here. You have the wrong number.
Click.

Phone rings again in 30 seconds.
“Allo, zdravstvuyte.”
“JAMSHED KANI?”
(In Russian) “Do you speak Russian?”
“Da.”
“Listen mister, you keep calling me here, but you have got the wrong number. You never even said hello! Check the number and don’t call this number again.”

Same person rings my phone every five minutes for the next six hours. Generally, I don’t answer.

Another common telephone conversation:
Ring.
“Allo, salom aleykum.” Hello.
“Ki ay?” Who’s this?
“SALOM ALEYKUM.” HELLO.
“IN KI AY?” Who is this?
“SHUMO SALOM ALEYKUM NA GUYED???”COULD YOU SAY HELLO?

I don’t answer my in-laws’ phone like that, but God knows I’d like to.