14. Nowruz

We are back in Ashgabat, and we happen to be there, not entirely coincidentally, at Nowruz, the Iranian celebration of New Year. Which is not only celebrated in Iran, but also in neighbouring Turkmenistan.

A little outside town is a huge exhibition ground, where the official celebrations are being held. This is not a thing for the public, so much is clear. There is a very rigid invitation schedule, which includes the politicians, the Corps Diplomatic, and some further important people, carefully selected not to overwhelm the site. And the small group of tourists from our tourist agency, which obviously has the right connections to be invited – on our own we wouldn’t have managed this, I think.

On the other hand there are hundreds, if not thousands of people who have been mobilised to perform, for the select list of invitees. We are a little early, and not important enough to line up behind the ministers and ambassadors, but we are allowed in, through the back entrance. From where we wander around, admiring the many groups preparing for their performance. All dressed up in traditional outfit, albeit that individual groups do respect a certain colour code. Fabulous, and everybody being so proud of their cultural heritage, they don’t object to photographs, on the contrary. Some get ready for cooking, behind large caldrons, but not just one, lots of them aligned. Others ride their horses, spin their wool or tune their instruments. And then there is the security: an incredible amount of men in black suits, white shirts and black ties, armed with walkie-talkies, earbuds, and invisibly perhaps with a lot more. Incidentally, the traffic wardens, the many drivers we met outside, but also the local politicians look exactly the same, to me at least, except for the walkie-talkies and earbuds.

I work my way up to the other end of the grounds, where the speeches have just finished: good timing. The stream of invitees, headed by a group of old-looking men with beards and in blue tunics, and accompanied by their wives in colourful, but traditional outfit, start to move slowly along the path, which officials – security men – make sure is vacated by everybody who doesn’t belong to the invitees, which includes me, in my recreational cloths rather than suit and tie. Those men heading the parade are, apparently, the wise old men who congregate in a kind of elders’ parliament, advising the government, or the president, on matters of cultural importance.

As soon as the ‘procession’ appears, a group of singers and dancers initiate their act, all to the greater glory of Turkmenistan, so much is clear. Their performances are fabulous, spirited and committed, they do seem to have real fun doing this. Never mind that the important people occasionally skip one of the groups that are ready, which leaves the group in question in disarray, disappointed, as they have been waiting for hours, and practicing for many more. One group is acting out a traditional wedding, I think, another is singing folk songs and dancing tribal patterns. Artists are painting rural scenes, and traditional groups. Other women are presenting food, lots of food, to the passing community of important people. Which, by now, includes me; I have firmly embedded myself amongst the diplomats, and nobody seems to care that I am dressed in a polo shirt rather than a suit.

We are not even halfway, but, with great regret, I detach myself again, and join our group; we have to move on, we have further program to complete. But I could have spent the rest of the day among the Nowruz celebrations, so colourful, and so much fun. Even if there was no general public to speak of, the whole show just orchestrated for a narrow Turkmen elite.