Tragicomic Tones in Turkmenistan

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Banishment from the country takes effect with the publishing of these words.

Assuming otherwise is foolishness in Turkmenistan, the most repressive and two-sided country of the scores I've visited seeking jazz in the most remote and unusual places on Earth.

Brilliantly lit marble monuments and unerringly smiling faces camouflage a serpent's nest that strikes instantly with any hint of my being a journalist. It's officially treason, punishable by life in prison, to write negative impressions about the world's most hostile nation toward the press except for North Korea.

Still, musically there's intrigue here. And it's a place that, uh, knows how to listen even if people frequently talk very quietly.

Coming here may seem like questionable judgment, but for a person who's favorite novel is George Orwell's "1984" the lure was irresistible. The post-Soviet dictatorship of President Saparmurat Niyazov, who cast himself as the prophet-like Turkmenbashi ("father of the Turkmen"), is a 15-year span of decrees and excesses seen as the pinnacle of political tragicomedy, the fiefdom of a deranged man trying to bring Las Vegas or the Land Of Oz to the parched Central Asian desert.

"It is not known whether Niyazov has read Orwell but the Ministry of Fairness is certainly very like a structure described in detail by the English writer," the Russian newspaper Nezavisimaya Gazeta wrote in 2003. The same year another Russian newspaper, Moskovskiy Komsomolets, wrote "George Orwell can hardly have suspected that the country of the all-seeing Big Brother he invented which, in his story, was somewhere in Central Europe, is actually in the heart of the Orient—it is Turkmenistan."

A contest or fiction writer would be unlikely to surpass his eccentricities: Renaming the month of January after himself, bread after his mother, the year 2003 after his father. Prohibiting ballet, opera, car radios, lip-syncing and most public playing of recorded music. Requiring doctors to pledge allegiance to him instead of the Hippocratic Oath and banning the diagnosis of many communicable diseases. Closing libraries outside the capital of Ashgabat on the assumption rural dwellers are illiterate (or, as he told a foreign leader, the illiterate are easier to rule). Forbidding television news anchors from wearing makeup because he said he couldn't tell men from women when they did (they also begin broadcasts with a pledge that his/her tongue will shrivel if he/she slanders the country, flag, or president). Banning beards, possibly because he couldn't grow one. Demanding people give up "unsanitary" gold fillings and chew on bones instead, as he saw dogs doing as a child (today's population wouldn't know—he banned dogs from the capital because he didn't like their smell).

The impacts are equally bizarre. An economy of scale where an hour of Internet cafe access (in one of only two places, under police watch) costs the same as three one-way plane tickets (although residents may wait futilely for days for them due to a massively flawed ticketing system). Fountains gushing non-stop around vast buildings and monuments that are mostly deserted, while families in stifling desert heat go without power and wait hours for a trickle of water to fill a bucket. Facilities such as a ski resort on the arid foothills of the Iranian border, a massive amusement park in the center of Ashgabat and stunning mosques either mostly or completely empty, while schools and hospitals wither without basic equipment and staff.

The oddities could consume the length of this article many times over. But for my trip the goals were:

1) Assess the music scene in a country with so many restrictions on modern performance, but supposedly a reverence for it's cultural history.

2) See if, following the unexpected death of Turkmenbashi from heart failure last year, there are signs of future progress. Some music restrictions have seemingly been relaxed as the country attempts to lure wealthy tourists. Even this effort is hesitant, though, as there's concerns about monitoring more people and that a larger pool of travelers means more potential sources for negative comments to the outside world.

It's not like this was a fool's errand from a jazz perspective. The country of 5 million people shares much of its cultural heritage with Turkey, which has a strong and identifiable presence, and the scene in adjacent countries like Azerbaijan is surprisingly vibrant. Instrumentals with heavy doses of improvisation are among the most popular forms of traditional music. The day before my arrival a pianist at a jazz bar in Uzbekistan said he was a native of Ashgabat and, in his extremely limited English, gave the impression there were players to be found.

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