Dushanbe Days: Thank God for O-level history and Russian nostalgia

It takes nerves of steel just to have a drink in the bar of the Hotel Tajikistan. This establishment, in the heart of its eponymous country's capital, Dushanbe, is a is a byword for awfulness among the handful of Western travellers unfortunate enough to have to stay here - a typical Soviet-era monolith, with the usual scanty and inedible food, surly service, dysfunctional telephones and televisions and life-threatening lifts.

What gives the place its special flavour, however - and in the bar most of all - are the officers of the 201 Russian peace-keeping division. Russia still commands about 20,000 troops along the southern border with Afghanistan, and when not on border duty these officers reside on the hotel's top two floors. Their tours of duty can last for years: many are half-crazed with boredom.

At that time I hadn't heard the story of the drunken major who hired a prostitute and then, enraged by his vodka-induced impotence, emasculated himself with a pistol shot. But the peace deal that will put an end to Tajikistan's five-year civil war is still unsigned, which means Dushanbe is still subject to a self-imposed curfew. The evenings can be long. One night, attracted by the sound of Russian drinking songs from down the hall, I went to investigate.

Inside, the singing turned out to be from an old tape recorder running at maximum volume. Adjusting my eyes to the almost total absence of light, I negotiated my way around three young men who were swaying dangerously in the middle of the floor and asked the barman for a beer. He shook his head: "Niet beer. Only vodka".

He slapped a dirty tumbler on the bar top and sloshed vodka into it from a bottle marked Cossack. There were no pub measures here. I took a sip - it was lukewarm and smelled not unlike cleaning fluid - and retreated to a dark corner table that was sticky with dirt.

The three dancing men followed my movements closely: the only two other customers in the bar got up from their table by the door and left. The incomprehensible drinking song blared on, jangly and abrasive. Then one of the dancers sat down opposite and stared at me for a long time. He didn't speak. From time to time he swigged from a bottle of Cossack, throwing it back like it was nothing at all. I offered him a cigarette: he took it with a cruel smile, crushed it, and sprinkled it on the floor. I smiled on, struggling as nonchalantly as possible. This puzzled him: he hadn't spotted me measuring the distance to the exit. "Why," he said at last, "are you so relaxed?"

It happened to be Remembrance Day in Dushanbe: earlier there had been a parade in honour of the fallen of the Second World War. They still take such things seriously in the former Soviet Union. Many of the bystanders were in tears as the veterans shuffled by, stooped beneath the weight of medals on shrunken chests. And so I gave the only possible answer to his question: that I was English, and that since he was a Russian I knew I was among friends.

The soldier was not impressed. "You're a foreigner," he said, spitting on the floor. "All foreigners are filth. All this is your fault."

What's my fault?"

He waved angrily around the room, but he meant everything - the dinginess or the bar, the dreariness of his life in the army, perhaps even the collapse of the Soviet Union itself. It crossed my mind that he, too, was a foreigner in Tajikistan, but it was hardly the moment to point that out. He could not have been more than 24. And then his friends came to join us, collapsing heavily into the seats and blocking all chance of escape. "We were allies 50 years ago," I said carefully. "Your country and my country defeated Hitler together."

He swore and brought his face to within an inch of mine. "You have no idea how we suffered," he hissed. "No idea at all."

"That's not true," I countered. "Everyone in my country knows what happened at Stalingrad. Russian resistance there turned the tide of the war. It was heroic. My country - no, wait, the entire world is indebted. For ever."

At this the other two roared with approval. The first soldier looked put out, muttering that he still reckoned all foreigners were filth. Then I understood; he was from Volgograd, the former Stalingrad. I'd said exactly the right thing. His friends slapped my shoulder and forced one filthy vodka after another on me, finally insisting that I join them in a mad spinning dance among the tables and chairs. The barman looked on, bored and oblivious: and for the first time in my life I thanked God for O-level history.