Dancing in the New Year

I stride into the club in my brand new heels, complete with leopard print bow and diamantes. My sheer stockings sparkle under the neon lights.

I have several layers to offload a the cloakroom, though it is spring in Dushanbe, the weather has turned visciously cold and the rain has persisted throughout the day and into the night. Finally, my outfit is revealed- little more than a light grey t-shirt with a large floral pattern on one side and more diamantes, held together at the back by a pannel of horizontal threads.

Inside the club are round tables, set with candles. Green and white ballons are strung up around the dance floor, where there are two scantily clad podium dancers gyrating in irredescant blue. The shirtless Russian DJ wears a colourful headdress and a chest full of body paint. He pumps out crowd pleasers that send the revellers into a frenzy on the dance floor, their arms are up high, the women flick their long hair invitingly. Although they are not wearing the white shirts and waistcoats of the waitresses, they too are working, wearing uniforms of their own.

Tight pants that hug hips and thighs, tops that reveal every curve, skirts and shorts that divulge almost too much. These women weave in amongst the men, foreigners from Iran, Turkmenistan, Afghanistan, Russia as well as locals. They allow themselves to be grabbed and fondled without giving any one man too much attention. Their bodies are engaged in the game of seduction, their mascara rimmed eyes remain vague.

We wonder where the nice Tajik girls go to party, concluding that it certainly isn’t here. Each one of these women has a price- a few drinks in exchange for company on the dancefloor, maybe 100 somoni for some private attention elsewhere. Several figures have been offered to the men when I leave them unattended, but I guess we’ll never know all the costs involved. Some of these women make quick cash by bothering those not interested long enough to siphon a few notes as a bribe to leave them alone.

We position ourselves around a table and a waitress arrives to take our order. She eyes me suspiciously- I am hoping that she might mistake me for a Russian prostitute, but in spite of my efforts to blend in, something still screams ‘foreigner’. This time I’m sure it’s not the clothes (my cargo pants left crumpled on the hotel room floor). Perhaps it is my wide eyed curiosity at the scene before me, perhaps I look like I’m enjoying myself too much.

We settle for shots of local Vodka, whilst those on neighboring tables us cut to the chase and order whole bottles. Around us a phenomenal ammount of the stuff is being consumed, yet there are none of the tell tale signs of overindulgence- no one stumbles or slurs or raises their fists. The clear liquid is smooth and delicately flavoured, will set you back only a few Somoni and if you remain faithfull to it all evening, will not bother you with a hangover when the sun rises.

I submerge myself with the sounds on the dance floor. I get a few glares from the working girls, and a few stares from the men fervantly shaking their booty to the beat.

‘Nor Rus Mo Barak!!’

Announces the Dj, in Tajik. ‘Happy New Year!’.

The crowd writhes joyfully, and in that moment it seems we could be anywhere- surrounded by young anonymous bodies pulsating with the beats played live on a shiny red drumkit, centre stage complimenting the DJs wicked sounds.

Up in the mountains, the snow is beginning to melt, the smell of new beginnings as fresh as the scent from the multitude of cherry blossoms that unfold in the valley.