Step by Step

by Simon Reeve

  We sat in a café in a square in Dushanbe waiting for food to arrive when I spotted an elderly woman begging from table to table. She was the spitting image of my beloved grandma, who had died just over a year before. I felt the colour drain from my face. The resemblance was uncanny. Noor saw my gaze.

  ‘She isn’t a Tajik,’ he said, thinking he was reading my mind. ‘She’s an ethnic Russian. A lot of them got stuck here after the collapse of the Soviet Union. They still have their homes but they effectively lost their Russian citizenship, and their pensions became worthless due to hyper-inflation.’

  It was a complete collapse for a society that had previously made a virtue of caring for the weakest. The woman was shuffling around, but she looked at me as she approached our table. I felt uncomfortable, terrible, like a voyeur. But it was as if I was watching the ghost of my grandma.

  ‘There is nothing you can do, Simon,’ said Noor sadly. ‘There are so many like her, impoverished to the point where they are reduced to begging in the streets.’

  I didn’t know what to do. When she got to our table I emptied my pockets and tried to give her my money respectfully. It seemed inadequate. One of the hardest aspects of my journeys is that I turn up in a struggling part of the world and find awful suffering among people who have nothing. They are almost always delighted to share their life with us but there is very little we can do for them as individuals. The BBC isn’t a charity. We are not allowed to spend licence-fee payers’ money on worthy causes abroad. Yes, of course we dip into our own pockets, and our money goes a lot further abroad when given directly to somebody in need. But it is always a sticking plaster.

  We left Dushanbe and drove south, guided by Noor and with a Mr Bean fan behind the wheel who told us in broken English his name was Jackie Chan. We met a twenty-two-year-old ex-Etonian called Wills who runs his Canadian father’s gold mine, one of the tiny number of Westerners trying to make money in what was effectively a laid-back Wild West. Then, on a dusty, potholed highway which served as a main road across the country, we spotted one of the beezneez elite driving with bodyguards in a brand-new, top-of-the-range white Jaguar. He was a former teacher who had become the president of one of the sports federations in the country, and was a commander in the Ministry of the Interior. I met him later and he said he was hoping Jaguar would put a compartment in the car door which could hold a Kalashnikov. In Tajikistan this is all completely normal.

  Noor and Jackie Chan took us up into the Pamir mountains, which dominate the country. More than half of Tajikistan is over 3,000 metres (9,842 feet) above sea level and the Pamirs were completely breathtaking, hundreds of peaks like an army of spears stretched into the distance until the planet seemed to curve. We climbed steep tracks and filmed young herders leading donkeys, goats and sheep to high pasture, travelling deep into an area where people told us they had never seen foreigners before. To the north the Pamirs joined the Tian Shan mountains along the Alay Valley of Kyrgyzstan. To the south they bordered the Hindu Kush mountains along Afghanistan’s Wakhan Corridor, which in turn connected to the Himalayas. It felt like we were off the map, and on the roof of the world.

  As if drugs and militants were not enough for the Central Asian states to worry about, there are also legitimate concerns about a potential environmental catastrophe. In 1911 an earthquake created a colossal dam 10,000 feet up in the remote Pamir mountains of Tajikistan, behind which now sits Lake Sarez, 50 miles long, a mile wide, and more than 1,000 feet deep. United Nations experts have said they believe an earthquake of around 7.5 on the Richter scale could dislodge the dam, and engineers from the US Marine Corps have predicted the resulting flood could be the greatest in human history. It would pass through several countries and threaten the lives and livelihoods of roughly 5 million people. Perhaps it will take a tragedy of this magnitude before the rest of the world discovers this forgotten region of the globe.

  The Pamirs are stunning, but their inaccessibility makes it exceptionally hard to drain the lake to prevent a disaster. Even just patrolling the mountains is nigh impossible. Bandits and smugglers have operated in the Pamirs for centuries. Noor looked at the peaks and stroked his thick moustache thoughtfully.

  ‘You know this terrain is just like the mountains in Afghanistan,’ he said. Noor had fought in the Soviet Red Army in Afghanistan against the Western-backed Mujaheddin and men like Osama bin Laden.

  ‘You could go over there with a small team,’ he said, gesturing across the narrow, rocky valley as we chucked snowballs at each other, ‘and nobody could see you. You could just watch, wait, and then start shooting.’

  The Tajiks worry about drugs and militants coming from Afghanistan, so we headed south towards the border, through the spectacular landscape, to see how well it was guarded.

  The border region was the real badlands. Militants, drug smugglers and the Taliban were active in the area. So first we had to stop at an army base to meet a Tajik secret police colonel who would guide us, and an armed detachment of border guards. However, there was a problem. The van that was supposed to carry our armed escort was the only one they had along a long stretch of the border, but it was ancient, and lacked a wheel and crucial parts. Young conscripts and a weary mechanic scurried around to fix it, to the embarrassment of all.

  The soldiers eventually got their solitary van started and we headed towards the border, finally arriving at a tiny base with barracks that looked more like huts. The few dozen guards were a ragged group of conscript Tajiks. They made a sorry sight, living in appalling conditions, surviving on bits of bread, old potatoes and soup, and wearing ancient, threadbare Soviet uniforms. The soldiers, average age nineteen, were being paid roughly £3 a month to protect one of the most dangerous borders in the world, across which smugglers were passing kilos of heroin destined for the West. The lure of corruption was obvious.

  The Colonel from the Tajik secret police strutted closer to the edge of the decrepit army base on the Afghan border and gestured for me to follow. As we shielded our eyes from the sweltering sun, he jabbed a stubby finger across the river dividing Tajikistan from northern Afghanistan, picking out fields of opium poppies and a Taliban training centre clearly visible just a few hundred metres away. It was just two years after 9/11, and across the border the so-called war on terror was raging.

  ‘It is not us who creates these problems,’ he said angrily. ‘But we are the ones forced to deal with the drug smugglers and terrorists. Why doesn’t the West do more to help us defeat them?’

  It was a question I was asked several times during my journey through the Stans, and one I found hard to answer. Although we spend billions hunting for heroin in the West, when I was there Tajikistan had been given just $9 million by the international community to stem the flow of drugs from Afghanistan. Even with those limited resources the Tajiks had seized heroin worth an astonishing $1.4 billion.

  Around 90 per cent of heroin in Europe comes from Afghanistan, and much of that is smuggled through the north of the country via Tajikistan and Turkmenistan to Russia and the West. Because we know little about the Stans, we care little about their problems. Yet even just because of the heroin trade, and the misery and crime it causes, Central Asia is critically important to Europe. For a start, why not provide more support to the Tajiks to detect and capture heroin closer to its source?

  Despite empty cupboards, the border guards arranged a minor feast for us with a tin of pilchards. We had been told to leave the border region before dark and quietly because of militants and armed Taliban sympathisers. But as the sun set and we sat around talking a prized bottle emerged. I call this vodka terrorism. It had become a common type of attack in Central Asia, involving an extreme and overwhelming display of alcoholic hospitality to a weary traveller.

  Attacks could occur at any time of day, from any direction. Just as Brits would offer a cup of tea, so people in the former Soviet Union would reach into a pocket or a cupboard and produce a bottle of lethal rocket fuel. One time a BBC team and I w
ent to film at a primary school. The school head produced vodka and insisted we drink. It was 8.30 in the morning, and the rest of the day is a complete blur. I don’t mind a drink, but I am a complete lightweight, and when a bottle was opened it had to be emptied. And their vodka was strong enough to French-polish my insides.

  Lacking the alcohol tolerance of a Siberian miner, I had devised numerous strategies that I now employed with the Tajik Colonel. I used subterfuge. As bowls (bowls!) were being refilled for the umpteenth time, I put mine under the table and tipped it out over a rug. The next round I emptied into a tissue. Another went into my neighbour’s glass. He looked like he could handle it. The next two toasts were given standing, so I had to swallow. I was completely hammered, slurring into the camera.

  If pre-warned perhaps I could have used the tactic of a former KGB officer I once knew. He claimed he would swallow handfuls of lard before boozy meetings with crucial contacts, because the fat would line his stomach, prevent absorption of alcohol, and keep him sharp and focused. This is still not to be recommended. Without lard, over time I became more professional about my refusal to drink. Generally, I just lie. Claiming my religion or ancestors forbid drinking, or over-eating – another possible method for a hospitality attack – has been remarkably successful. People usually nod sagely and indicate they understand. When attackers in the former Soviet Union now tell me that in their culture an opened bottle cannot be left until fully drunk, I nod and tell them with a straight face that in my culture the bottle must be left half-full so I can take it to greet new friends. I say it with conviction and pride, and it really does work.

  However, back then on the Tajik border I was a relative amateur. I had run out of places to tip the bowls of vodka. Then I had a brilliant wheeze. I started tipping it into my boots.

  It was after midnight and pitch-black when we finally left the base. The Tajik Colonel had told us that even in daytime we needed to be discreet while travelling in the area and as quiet as possible. But he was the one who produced the vodka. Taliban positions were just to the south. I was competely drunk and we drove back along the border with the lights on in our van, all the windows open, with Noor and I singing football songs. Goodness knows what the Talibs thought.

  I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to carry on to the east of Tajikistan, to Turkmenistan, to a thousand more sights and places in Central Asia. I was completely addicted to the journey, and I loved working and travelling with the team. They had put up with difficult locations, often appalling accommodation, truculent officials and long days with humour and forbearance. Will, Dimitri, Shahida and all our guides and fixers were exceptional, and the finest travel companions imaginable. We had shared an experience, a quest, and a sense of common purpose. It had been a completely epic adventure. Was this what making TV was like? I was a convert.

  For me, it was a time of transformation. I had already travelled the world for fun, love and work. But I had rarely strayed from the beaten track. My trips had been holidays. There were laughs, and they gifted me memories. But they didn’t change me. Yet on that first television adventure, to forgotten corners of Central Asia, were sights and experiences that made my head swim and sing.

  Until that trip I was relatively happy with the often lonely life of an author. I had written more than half a dozen books. But then TV came knocking at my door. From the start the idea was to blend travel with issues. To go on an adventure, a real adventure, but also to learn about the places I was visiting. From the first day of the first trip, I realised travelling with your eyes open, and looking for the dark, as well as the light, is a guaranteed way of having an experience that lingers in your soul.

  Before I started Meet the Stans I told the BBC it would be a one-off. I had a series of books I wanted to write. My author slippers were calling. We flew home after finishing filming on the Tajik border and I was on a high for weeks. My mind was full of the experiences, the images, the smells, the food and the incredible characters I’d met. I was desperate for more. I wrote to the BBC, said I’d loved the experience, and asked if I could change my mind about never doing it again. I suggested a few more ideas. Every trip since then has been extraordinary, every moment a privilege. Travel has gifted me some of the greatest memories of my life.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Hostile Environments

  Meet the Stans was an awakening for me. Of all the experiences I’d had in my life, it was among the most profound and intensely memorable. An adventure somewhere remote and uneasy where the joy of discovery had been mixed with real issues – it was an experience and a challenge, and I had to explain those countries both to myself and the viewers.

  Back in London after finishing filming I felt more alive than ever before. I was happier, more confident. My friends could see that something had changed. So could my family. Will and Ryshard started putting the shows together and I saw different cuts or versions and sent them endless editing notes and unhelpful comments. Eventually we all agreed on the content of the programmes and I started writing scripts for the commentary that were far too long, far too complicated, and would have involved talking over people on screen. Karen, the boss, gave me a brilliant piece of advice: ‘Just write to the pictures,’ she said. Simple. Obvious. But very helpful.

  I don’t write the best scripts, by a long stretch, but I try to fill them with information. Directors and editors have pulled their hair out with me in the years since as I cram another fact or statistic and another line of commentary into documentaries that are already packed. ‘Can’t we keep a bit of space there?’ they plead. ‘Can’t we let the pictures breathe?’ We discuss, debate and argue. There are small battles, but no wars. Sometimes I lose, sometimes they lose. Eventually a script and a programme emerges, usually with final changes made on the spot while I am recording the voiceover. It certainly keeps all of us on our toes.

  Meet the Stans aired in 2003 on BBC Four and then on BBC Two in a late-night slot and the response was fantastic. Viewers said lovely things about the shows, the BBC were delighted with them, and even the newspapers were generous with praise. The Guardian said the shows were ‘a thrilling postcard from the edge’, the Observer said it was ‘a spectacular journey’. More importantly, Roly Keating, who was the head of BBC Two, said the programmes were electrifying. ‘Everyone seems pleased!’ said Will in an email. ‘They might even let us make some more!’

  After Meet the Stans the BBC and others put me back on the TV presenting a series of programmes. I investigated the Kennedy, Disney and Bacardi clans, the causes of the Iraq War, and the death of Roberto Calvi, dubbed ‘God’s Banker’ because of his close links to the Vatican, who was found hanging under Blackfriars Bridge in London. I even went on a long and eye-opening journey around Saudi Arabia for a TV programme, travelling from the cities of Riyadh and Jeddah down to the troubled border with Yemen and on into the isolation of the Empty Quarter desert.

  It was a strange and often bizarre country to visit. I met scores of Saudis, from the most senior princes to desert Bedouin, from Osama bin Laden’s former best friend and extremist supporters of al Qaeda to a brave human rights worker and trendy young women. On the streets the fiery bearded Mutawa’een, religious police from the Committee for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice, were enforcing their vision of morality. But an army of youngsters was desperate for change and freedom. Driving along a busy public highway on the outskirts of Riyadh one morning I found hundreds of teenagers and young men crowded by the pavement on the other side of the road watching a high-speed skidding competition.

  My Saudi driver had to swerve to prevent one car, driven by a boy aged about fourteen, from crashing into our van. He turned to me, apologetic and slightly embarrassed. ‘Boys,’ he said, with a casual shrug of explanation. ‘They need to let off steam.’

  There were still few outlets for youthful rebellion in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. I was amazed to see youngsters, many weaned on foreign TV shows, scribbling their name and mobile nu
mbers on pieces of paper and then throwing them at someone they fancied when the religious police weren’t looking.

  We travelled into the remote interior of the Empty Quarter desert and stayed in a Bedouin desert camp. The heat was astonishing. At one point it registered more than 50 degrees Centigrade (more than 120 Fahrenheit), but it was an exceptionally dry heat, and somehow tolerable if you drank litres of water during the day. In the evening a flustered female member of our team came back in a hurry from a chat with local women in their tent and started rooting through her belongings for a pricey gift. Turned out she had idly told one of the Bedouin women her solitary solid-gold ring was beautiful, and the woman had immediately slipped it off and gifted it to her. I suspect the return gift of an iPod didn’t quite cut it in her nomadic community.

  I was in the Empty Quarter for just a few days with no phone reception. But meanwhile my brother James was in an inaccessible area of Afghanistan, also out of range and out of contact. Our poor mum was obviously worried sick. James was working on a personal project he had devised, photographing activities that were previously banned by the Taliban, including weather forecasting, bird keeping, kite flying and the education and employment of women. When he had first told me he wanted to go to Afghanistan I tried to dissuade him. Initially he wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to do there. I thought it would cost him a fortune and he would never get out of a secure compound. Fortunately he didn’t listen to a word I said. He took photographs that were breathtakingly beautiful, captured the sense of a changing country, and was recognised by or won multiple awards, including the Observer Hodge Award, the National Portrait Gallery Portrait Prize, and separately, the Professional Travel Photographer of the Year award.

  While he was in Afghanistan working on the project and finding a mobile phone signal, I was re-establishing contact with home from Saudi, where I was on a journey that took me to the heart of power. I became one of the few Westerners ever to attend a Majlis, an audience with royalty, held under huge crystal chandeliers in a luxurious hall the size of a small football pitch, where Crown Prince Abdullah, the leader of Saudi Arabia in place of his ailing brother King Fahd, would hear the polite complaints and appeals of his male subjects. Unfortunately for me, the Crown Prince was late, I had been drinking several pints of ultra-strong Saudi coffee, and by the time he appeared I was shaking with the effects of caffeine. As I moved through a crowd of tribal leaders to speak to the Crown Prince, I felt like I was drugged. I could see a couple of his guards watching me with alarm, their fingers moving for their triggers.