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For this latest entry I decided to respond to some of the comments that I've had on the blog. The replies here are from my last blog entry, though I'll address other comments on previous posts on the radio programme, The Strand.

This first one comes from onceone:

Hello: thank you for sharing your thoughts and the selections from your book. It is hard to know just what one will do under stressful situations. To make an honest inner judgement, I compare the situation that arose (with a disagreement about the use of a common hallway) with one of my neighbours who persecuted me in ways that no law enforcement could find. Just now we get along by ignoring each other. However in the past there were times that I fervently wished he absolutely didn't exist. Would I have actually done anything violent if no law enforcement? I could not in my most angry fantasy/visualisations harm him physically. Partly because I was not brought up in such an environment and also partly because I could image the consequences on all sorts of levels. However, I certainly imagined that a tree fell on him or that he had some other fatal accident.

This seems in stark contrast to the heros of forgiveness of our times like Nelson Mandela or Aung San Su Kyi. Here is my thought for the day: the wiser a person is, the further he can see the ripples of the consequences of his actions.

I do agree that very often we avoid making an honest inner judgement, accepting instead the mainstream course of action - be it hyped up nationalism or highly sprung xenophobia, or anything else. Unfortunately sometimes that median bearing directs us towards raw zoological instincts, which are, as I said, inferior even to those of the crows.

I regret many things, which I've done in my life, carried away by presumptions, traditions, common sense. In your words I sense a note of repentance which I also feel, which offers hope, and which also differs us from crows.

This next comment comes from Endada:

Throughout history, the man with the biggest stick always wins. There is always someone designing a bigger stick. Our moral behaviour is constructed and is not inbuilt, as Kant argues.

If I disagree with you, it paradoxically means that you are right (as each of us in turn comes with a bigger stick of argumentation). If I agree with you, I'll be feeling like a man who lashes himself to that bigger stick. So should I give up, multiplying the paradoxality of the situation, or may I come at it from a different angle?

I am a bit sceptical of renewability - reusability of human experience. My experience shows that one should fall upon oneself and break one's head, rather than learn from numerous failures. Once I wrote that 'life means creating a new chaos out of an old one' and I would say that that is still my yard-stick :-)

Meanwhile, jenhall noted:

Thank you for your post Mr Ismailov. I enjoyed reading it very much. I have travelled in Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan so your post has a deep resonance for me. In 2001 I travelled the Silk Road from Japan to Italy. My route went through China, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Azerbaijan, Georgia, Turkey and Greece. Many of the countries I went through were plagued with some kind of unrest - Nagorno-Karabakh, South Ossetia, etc but there was also political disquiet on a more day-to-day level in the cities and towns. In fact we wanted to cross the border at Osh but they closed it while we were there and we had to fly from Bishkek to Tashkent. Of course during this ten month trip I experienced difficulties, some racism and threats (mainly from police!). But I also experienced kindness that went beyond the bounds of what I myself felt I would have offered if the circumstances had been reversed (it caused me great shame when I realised this). I stayed with families in Son-kul, Kochkor, Naryn, Tashkent, Bukhara, Mary, Sheki, Kutaisi... all along the Silk Road people invited me into their homes and lives. I attended weddings and birthdays (even a farewell party for an Azeri lad going off to fight). People were extraordinarily generous and I feel privileged to have had such cultural experiences. I have since travelled to many other countries where people have suffered political and economic repression.

I grew up in Australia and I know that I am extremely lucky to have been born in a country that, throughout my lifetime, has not seen war or fighting on Australian soil. That is not to say that there is no racism here - unfortunately there is. But if life happens in words as you say, then surely words can heal and they can reduce the ignorance and misunderstanding that is the root of hatred and violence. Words are the most dangerous weapon humans have, but they are also the most powerful. As a writer, I'm constantly aware of that. I believe that if I can share my experiences and make people at least question their beliefs and prejudices then it will help. Is this a naive interpretation of Kant - that if you give individuals the knowledge they will act rationally and therefore morally? All I can go on is my experience based on my travels - that basically, people are good.

In response, I say:

There is a certain delusion in this reality,
the beloved does not pine for the one who is pining.
If you are nostalgic for the earth, there is no homeland for you
and so on... the rest is clear.

But in the bottom of my heart
like the sun on the well water
there is a reflection: either a reflex, or a remarkable sight,
or a stain, or an unending pain
that glimmers. I throw down a bucket
to catch it, and finally
word after word I drag in
the feeling like something slippery and heavy.
O for this pain to end
completely. It's as though the eyewater
flows like an irrigation ditch from my pupil.

It's all clear:
that is a word, and this is pain.
But if this is so, then 'pain' also is a word.

saram15 wrote:

There are those who would say that both the barbaric behaviour that causes us such anguish, and our seeing it as evil, are the result of our dualistic view of the world. That in reality there is no "moral" and "immoral", "good" and "evil". And that same dualistic view causes us to see everything in terms of "us" and "them". It's not so easy to really live, think and act according to that non-dualistic world view, but to the extent that each of us can adopt it in some measure, we can view events in a more objective and compassionate way. Regarding your analogy with the crows -- it does often seem that most animals are more "civilised" than humans, doesn't it?

Perhaps the problem of "us" and "them" arises initially from our inborn fear of what is "different". What happens to that fear as we mature depends in part on our environment. How do our families, neighbors, friends speak of and behave toward "them", and how do "they" behave toward "us". I was born into a white protestant family in the vicinity of Washington, D.C. As a small child I may have seen a black person now and then, but I lived in an essentially segregated world. One day when I was maybe 4 years old, we drove through an African-American community, and I remember how very frightened I was to be completely surrounded by "them" -- people who looked so different from me! Happily, the message from my family as I grew up was one of equality among the races.

"Us" and "them" can crop up in so many situations - religion, social standing, bosses vs workers, disabled people vs non-disabled, male vs female, powerful vs weak. Whenever intolerance and/or exploitation by one group of another comes into the picture, we are liable to react in anger and possibly with violence. Sometimes these "differences" are entirely artificial -- for example in football! When we attend a game we know in advance that one side is going to win and the other lose. Supporters of both sides come full of happiness and anticipation, sharing their love of the game. So how on earth can warfare erupt from a football match?! I know, it may all begin from a few rabble-rousers, but still, why do so many of us instinctively identify them as fans of the other side, rather than simply as rabble-rousers? So much depends on our education and present social milieu.

And then there are those precious gems, people who have grown up in an environment of blind hatred towards some "them" or other, who look inward and contemplate, and understand by themselves that there is no "us" and "them", and then have the courage to speak out and act on that understanding. Most of us need some help and support in order to reach this understanding, so (returning to the quote at top), while fear of law enforcement may be necessary to stop some people from killing others, we can all do a lot to nurture tolerance and non-violence in our fellow humans.

I've enjoyed your posts from Africa and liked the excerpts from your book. Please keep writing to us with your wonderful descriptions and tough questions.

On the subject of the fluidity of 'us' and 'them'. Many years ago I had a colleague. Once she told me a story, which I will remember til the end of my life.

She was born in Khorezm province. To put that in context, let's say she is a down-to-earth woman from Yorkshire.

When she turned 18 her mum said to her: 'Why you don't get married a nice Khorezmian boy ('a nice Yorkshire lad'). My friend replied: 'No, I would like to study in Tashkent ('London'). And she went to a university in the capital.

When she came home for vacations, her mum would say: 'OK, why don't you get married to an Uzbek chap?' She would reply: 'No, mum, I'm planning to go to Moscow (New York), to do my PhD'. So she did.

When she used come back home from Moscow, her mum would start up her seductive talk again: 'My dear, why you don't get married to a Muslim man, be he Tatar, Chechen...' But my friend, who is a very decent person and an extremely nice character, would say: 'No, mum, I've got an offer to work in London'. So she came to London.

When she used to go back to Khorezm, her mum would say: 'OK, my dearest daughter, you are the only child we have, so now we are old and would like to see our grandchildren. Why you don't get married to any good man?'

My friend wouldn't say anything to that. But recently she got married to an Englishman, who has converted to Islam and immediately after the marriage she has started to teach him Uzbek, but not the literary version of the language, but with a colloquial Khorezmian accent...

What a wonderful circle...

As a biologist by education I know that there are no pure races or ethnicities. Yet even now my compatriots are killing each other in southern Kyrgyzstan as I discussed in my last post, finding justification in skin colour or eye shape.

My grandfather Obid-kori Mirzaraimov (shot dead in a Stalinian prison) was Kyrgyz by his father and Uzbek by his mother. He married my granny Oyimcha, an Uzbek girl of 16 years old, when he himself was 43, after spending 23 years studying Islamic theology in Bukhara. His life story - which I tried to describe in my book "The Railway" - is a testimony of the fluidity of those concepts, which are put in the basis of recent clashes clashes in Osh and Jalalabad. Here is an excerpt:

"Obid-Kori began his life with his precious and only Oyimcha, but he knew no peace inside him. He was tormented by the thought that Oyimcha - this highborn descendant of the Prophet - was only his because of the power of money. He was tormented by his awareness that every one of her countless relatives looked down on him; however well educated, however pious, however anything whatsoever he might be, he still remained 'only a Kirghiz'.

"Therefore he began teaching only Uzbek boys - the brothers of girls who had been sent to Oyimcha. But the simple Kirghiz - unsuspecting men from the mountain who came down every week to the Sunday bazaar - went on bowing to him out of respect for his late father Mirzarayim-Bey and did not notice that he was trying to avoid them, while the smug Uzbeks, full of themselves and their self-centered valley-dwelling ways, did not take the trouble to notice how much he wanted to be one of them."

In 1936 the Kyrgyz Soviet Socialist republic was created and Naukat, where my grandfather and Oyimcha lived, became part of it.

"Obid-Kori was now the only literate Uzbek left in the village. Some had gone to Kashgar, some had been sent to the North, some had met their end in the mountains and nobody, nobody had returned. And it was not long before there were no other Uzbeks left in the village at all.

"Obid-Kori's nephew Shir-Gazi - who was married to the Kirghiz Noroon, daughter of Togolok the sheep-shearer - was the only literate Kirghiz in the village and so, after indigenization, he was appointed First Secretary of the Village Soviet. Togolok's family, who supplied the soviets with wool from Alay sheep, naturally spoiled Shir-Gazi, but he was still further spoiled by his power as First Secretary. The moment he became First Secretary, he had reclassified the entire population of Naukat as Kirghiz, imposed traditional tribal tribute in addition to the various Soviet taxes and even attempted to secure a fatwah from his uncle with regard to payment of this tribute. Obid-Kori, however, sent his nephew packing as briskly as if he were the devil himself - and for this reason Obid-Kori never got to be classified as Kirghiz. And so it happened that all of Naukat turned Kirghiz, but Obid-Kori remained inveterately Uzbek."

On the 12 June, 1938 at the height of Stalinian repressions, my grandfather Obid-kori was arrested and put in jail in Osh. In "The Railway" I describe it like this:

"Nothing had been forgotten. Obid-Kori was reminded that he had studied in a hotbed of opium for the people, and that he had participated in the Kokand bourgeois-nationalist congress, and that he had gone on believing in his illusory Allah during the epoch of militant materialism. He was also accused of treason towards the Motherland and betrayal of the Kirghiz people. And who, you may ask, charged him with all this under anti-Soviet article 58? Kukash-Snubnose, whom Obid-Kori had himself taught to read and write. This green-eyed young Uzbek - now a Kirghiz and an officer in the NKVD - was interrogating Obid-Kori every other day in the main jail."

And these were his last thoughts, which resonate with what is happening today:

"Yes, life turned out this way and what other way could it turn? Words can turn out other ways, words can be rewritten and retold, rehashed and rephrased, relayed and re-lied, words can be the tools of a green-eyed Judgment-Day-dog like Kukash-Snubnose - but life is one, and life is from Allah. And what do we know of it? It cannot be sensed or weighed between words any more than sunbeams can be sensed between leaves, between leaves. And only the leaves' shadow catches these little patches of light, surrounds, frames, defines, confines, arrests.

"Life happens in words. One person says or thinks of another: 'they did right' or 'they did wrong.' But what is this 'right' or 'wrong' outside of words? Or if words are turned upside down, turned head over heels? If, instead of leaves casting a shadow imposed by the light, the shadow gives birth to the leaves and light is the leaves' product?"

If you have read this and my previous post, you may guess which question torments me: is there anything else in human nature except of fear of law enforcement (police, rubber bullets, tear gas) which stops people killing each other under the flags of different skin or eye shape? Are great philosophers like Kant - who spoke about inbuilt moral imperatives in our nature - wrong? Are even crows - who don't peck eyes of other crows - more developed than us? Tell me what you think.

I would rather carry on writing about the World Cup, but the tragic events happening in southern Kyrgyzstan, where I am myself from and where my father and many relatives still live, is overshadowing all my thoughts, aching inside of me. Along with my colleagues - over the last few days - I have been reporting, analysing what has happened in Osh, Jalal-Abad, in the Kyrgyz part of the Ferghana Valley. Here is some background that I wrote for the ´óÏó´«Ã½ World Service in my capacity as Head of the Central Asian Service:

"Uzbeks and Kyrgyzs have lived together in the Ferghana Valley for centuries. In my own family I have both Kyrgyz and Uzbek relatives. Both peoples speak mutually understandable Turkic languages and share the same religion, Islam.

"Historically there was also an economic reason for their coexistence: the Kyrgyz, who were mostly nomadic, were cattle-breeders, while the settled Uzbeks grew crops and dominated local trade. During Soviet times this traditional way of life was disrupted and the Ferghana Valley was divided between the three newly-created states of Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan, with large pockets of minority population in each of these countries. So more than 800,000 Uzbeks live in Southern Kyrgyzstan and more than 200,000 Kyrgyzs live in the Uzbek part of the Ferghana Valley. The Ferghana Valley is one of the most densely populated parts of the former Soviet Union with great pressure on land, water and jobs.

"After the collapse of the Soviet Union, the city of Osh - where the latest inter-ethnic clashes between Kyrgyzs and Uzbeks started - has also become a major centre for drug trafficking from Afghanistan, as well as for the flow of goods from Western China. That has created a fertile ground for organised crime and wide corruption. It's widely believed that Uzbeks were largely running this trade with the patronage of predominantly Kyrgyz officials. The April uprising which brought down President Bakiev broke this system. That's created a power vacuum, and both political and criminal structures are seeking to exploit existing ethnic tensions for their own purposes. That's not the entire explanation for the current turmoil, but it's a significant undercurrent, feeding the violence that has killed so many innocent citizens."

It's all true: as true as the facts of horrific, savage atrocities which have claimed the lives of hundreds and made dozens of thousands flee their burnt and ruined homes, as true as the fact that some brave Kyrgyz and Uzbeks have sheltered each other, as true as the fact that in these kinds of tragic events there are no winners, everyone loses. Yes, it's all true.

One sickening thought chases me these days: is all our so-called 'civilisation' as thin as the shirt and tie we wear, and under the skin hides a beast - be it a mobbing youth or agitated intellectual - which knows in his ravaging wildness only 'us' and 'them'?

This question is not just to my Central Asian compatriots, but also to football fans and to those who wage the war in the name of terror and those who retaliate with the same.

If skipping through your emails you notice a title: "D Ismailov, forward this to your dad. This is important" marked from Nigeria, what would you think first? D Ismailov is my son and naturally I worried that he was involved in some dodgy affair. But when I read the message, slowly and surely I understood why it came via my son's name. My website states that it was created and maintained by D Ismailov, and there's a "Contact" button on the page which forwards messages to my email address. That was the explanation of the headmaster-type appeal to my son. Here's the email itself:

Good day, Mr Ismailov,

Hope all is well and you are in good stead? And you are enjoying your trip in Nigeria. I should have thought about meeting you earlier than yesterday but I hope we do meet in the future. I heard your interview some weeks ago on the Strand and Newshour when you talked about your new role as an in-house writer. I do write a lot and I hope we do meet in the future.

Last year, I composed a poem on the World Cup on the African continent. Attached to this mail is the poem. I have composed over 270 poems and I intend to publish them in the future that is soon.

Happy reading,
Dolapo Aina,
Lagos, Nigeria.

Here's a fragment from the poem:

Teams' formations, players' simulations, kicks and feigned injuries,
Suspense fills the arena for self-induced penalties,
Opinions differ, one more scene for the video clips of controversies.
The time ticks, the atmosphere is tense,
The action packed game is intense,
The overhead kick brings out no silence
The final whistle ushers in screams, tears, joy and cheers,
Africa would celebrate for many more years,
For the VUVUZELAS would continue to ring in our ears.

Now we are off to Lagos before flying later in the day back to London, and I'll try to meet Dolapo for a cup of tea. Even if I don't find him, this story is a natural end to my trip to West Africa, since I came here to talk about football, and to connect with our listeners, readers, viewers... and now our friends.

Nigeria is a country of abundance in everything. In population - one can easily see - it's the most populous country of Africa by the sheer size and density of crowds in the market places. In number of cars - the traffic jams we experienced in Lagos and Ibadan lasted hours. In households - the shanty suburbs of those two cities seem to be endless. Even in the tropical torrential rain: such intensity we hadn't seen anywhere else in West Africa.

There are smaller signs of that abundance. For instance the number of check points - immigration, police, drug, health and later environmental - that stop and check your different social faculties when you first cross the border of this country. Or the number of churches, working in southern Nigeria: Baptist, Evangelical, Pentecostal, Catholic, Presbyterian, Mormon - you name it. And the signs on the highway directing towards them are really appealing: "Our Lady Seat of Wisdom Church", "A Happy Day Church", "Lucky Start Church". A local friend of mine showing me those signs, said "Here there are more churches than schools".

God was generous towards Nigeria, giving it abundance in oil too. But many here say it became a curse for Nigeria, which dilapidated the rest of the country's industry and agriculture. Though the oil makes Nigeria the wealthiest country in West Africa (GDP per head is nearly twice as high as in Ghana), the abundance of poor and unhealthy people (life expectancy here is the lowest - around 46 years) shows that the wealth is concentrated in the hands of the few superabundantly rich.

One of them, who has ostriches and peacocks in his backyard, as well as a mobile telephone mast, hosted us for a cocktail party. He admitted that the level of corruption and the level of problems Nigeria faces, is also abundantly high.

If you ask me which sign of Nigeria I'm taking with me as a token from this country, on the road between Lagos and Ibadan I saw several petrol stations called 'Adeyemi and Sons'. This is my sign for Nigeria so far. Sons will inherit all the blessings and all the curses of Nigeria's abundant oil boom.

PS Are they up to that challenge? Maybe I'm going to discover it at Ibadan university, which is the first and best according to its motto, where I'm going now for the discussion about the future of Nigeria.

The town Ouidah for voodoo adepts must be like Jerusalem for the followers of Abrahamic religions. Voodoo as an African religion has many meanings in translation - from "spirit" to a "mystery". I don't know whether the word "voodoo" has anything in common with the Islamic word "wudu", which is used for "an ablution" or ritual purification, but they sound nearly the same. And I haven't been to Jerusalem, but my experience of holy cities like Bukhara says that followers of many different religions can find the site of pilgrimage under the same roof. The same is true of Ouidah - an old and characteristic town with a touch of quietness and with the presence of many religions. Here's the magnificent cathedral, here's the impressive mosque, here's the Temple of pythons, here's the Temple of Voodoo.

I've never seen a live ritual of Voodoo, but similarities, let say with some types of Shamanism, or even with an Islamic loud Zikr - or a Sufi exaltation, are striking.

But like with many so called "authentic" phenomena all over the world, tourism turns it into an exotic attraction with a touch of commerce. And like in Samarkand, where for an extra 10-20 dollars at the Mausoleum of Amir Temur the guardians would show you the "real" tomb of the conqueror (which is a layer deeper than the official one), so some of the performers of the Voodoo ceremony were negotiating with us to provide a "real" special show. For an extra payment...

Venice of Africa

The fishing village of Ganvier situated on the Nokoue lake is like the Venice of Africa. Imagine 80 thousand people living literally in the lake. Houses are built on the water; small courtyards, made mostly for children, are artificially made.

The legend says that people of Benin escaping slavery came to the lake with their Voodoo master. With the help of his magic he turned into a bird and flew to see the lake. When he saw small islands far from the shore he built several nests and then turned himself into a crocodile, so his people could walk along his long body to those nests. So was the beginning of that African Venice.

People still live their traditional lives of fishermen and fisherwomen with traditional customs. For instance according to one of them when a young man marries a girl, as a dowry he should present her with a canoe. But it's a Trojan gift, because while the bride owns the boat, she must also row it, whereas the men are just fishing. But even this traditional life is touched by the same corrosion: as soon as our boat approached any house, kids jumped into water shouting 'Yevo, yevo! Bic, bic' - which means 'White man, white man, give some change!'

Seeing it some of us suggested opening a water polo club here, so skilful are the children in swimming and making all kind of signs at the same time, However football is the big sport, even here on the lake. When we asked one of the Voodoo priests to predict who is going to win the World Cup, he announced that it'll be an African team, but provided that the Sacrifice is given.

Who knows, maybe Drogba is that Big Sacrifice?

I met Garba Maxime at the border between Ghana and Togo, where he makes his living. Because he speaks both French and English, as well as several local languages (he graduated from the Ghanaian Institute of Languages), he helps people to fill in immigration forms and sort out formalities. So he is lucky, he earns some 5000 CFA (roughly 10 dollars) a day to feed his family of four people.

That is his daytime job. In the nights he's writing his second novel, which is called "Nabukku or African Justice". The novel tells the story of a family ruined by the local custom of going to an idol, when something is stolen from you. The oracle's words are misinterpreted by people and the consequences are tragic.

His first novel "Rejected", which exists only in manuscript, in Garba's accurate scribbles, is also discussing the issues of traditional African life and modernity, and reassesses those old traditions. It's a story of village life - with violence and corruption, shame and stigmatising.

I met Garba once again in the evening, in the bar of our hotel Ibis, before he headed off to his home at the outskirts of Lome. I asked him to read some poems and they are here. But all of a sudden he wrote a poem for us and here's it in English translation:

Scattered here and there,
in this luxurious place, where they are,
some eat, others drink.
Cradled by a fresh breeze,
peaceful is this night and here am I
with them...

I leave to you to interpret the poem, but I felt very sad that night. I'll write about Togo in comparison with other neighbouring countries, but I felt somehow that I've arrived in modern Uzbekistan.

Next morning I went deliberately after a success story. Adekanmi Olufade is a football star - he captains the Togolese national team and plays in Belgium for the AA Gent club. Three years ago he opened a Regional Academy of football in Lome and it runs as a business venture. Olufade coaches the local young talent, and along with technique and tactics of football they also learn all the subtleties of European and international soccer. The best four of his apprentices have already made their way to the clubs like Anderlecht, Charlesroi and Kasim-Pasa. The Regional Academy earns money both by selling the young players and also partly from the players themselves furthering development of the Academy and its facilities.

Olufade has got all necessary accessories of the football megastar - an impressive mansion, a luxurious four wheel drive car and even a beautiful Belgian WAG, but yet his biggest passion is football and - with no reference to oracles - he predicts that this time we'll see an African team in the final of the World Cup... Even if it doesn't happen this time, he is working towards it.

Some countries are easy to grasp. You come and see - this is a police state, every step you take, every move you make is watched; that is a war-torn and struggling place, orphans, the disabled and widows tell you the country's story straight away.

I know - it's a simplification, but some countries are difficult to simplify, let alone to grasp. I think Ghana is one of them. On the one hand in all the Ghanaian cities we have been to the first thing you see is schoolkids wearing all kinds of uniforms. After some time you start to realise - that brown one is most common and must be of the state schools, these blue ones are always next to the church schools, and so on.

The school uniform gives you a hint why Accra's streets are clean and neat, Accra itself could have been placed anywhere in the world - in Central Asia, in the Far or Middle East. You see steady traffic - which is a sign of ubiquitous discipline - nobody rushes through - even the sellers of goods are making lines between the slow moving cars.

There's a certain order in seemingly chaotic street shops or kiosks when you approach big cities - almost all of the kiosks are given female Biblical names - from Eva to Ruth, through Esther and Mary, so you can buy some cutlery at Judith and washing powder at Margaret. You can see the sign of a random hotel called 'Messiah' with the accompanying promise: 'A glimpse of heaven'. Or a missionary slogan 'Jesus - just one touch'. And it's not just about Christian signs, there are posters of Muslim company 'Labbayka' - 'I'm here for you', there's a Hindu Temple of Africa and I'm sure - of others. So the feeling is that you are certainly in a religious, multi-faith and seemingly tolerant place.

Those two latter epithets - "multi" and "tolerant" came up in all discussions we had, be it in Takoradi - the new oil Eldorado of Ghana - about the future of oil for this country and whether oil is blessing or curse for the nation. Or at the Cape Coast University where we were discussing the history of slavery, linking this place to America. Every student proudly told the story of President Obama's recent visit here (for five Ghanaian cedi local drivers will even take you to see the hotel where he stayed). Heated discussion between engineers and surgeons on the one side and government ministers on the other also took place in Accra, and this time it was about electricity cuts in the country. A local gynaecologist spoke up in front of a minister about a horrible operation when the light went off while he was operating on a patient. Luckily someone had a torch so he could finish the job.

We went with our local guides to see with the so-called "Job 600" - a parliament building which was started by the first Ghanaian President Kwame Nkrumo nearly 50 years ago. However due to whatever reason, it has never been finished. Apparently the latest argument against it is that MPs should have their offices in their constituencies. Apart from giving me a wonderful title (not worse than "Catch-22" as if 599 jobs were fulfilled and just that one...) it reminded me of my hometown, the Central Asian city of Tashkent, which is full of hollow buildings with only facades built and the rest left for better times.

But out of this mosaic I will draw open discussions about the oil, about the education, about the blackouts, even about the notorious "Job 600", and if you ask me, I would rather live in this country, which is impossible to grasp in one go, because that complexity is the sign of a country in the making.

Obviously it's better to live in a free and prosperous country, but if the choice is between a relatively stable police state and free, but chaotic country, which one would you prefer?

The single most common advertising billboard along all our roads so far is the billboard of mobile telephony. A mother talks to her daughter, a father talks to his son, both of them talk to each other, even on their own as if talking to themselves. But the most popular is the one when a young and athletic HIM sends a romantic message to young and exquisite HER.

There's even a kids version of it: a cheeky 10 years old schoolboy keeps his iphone in his hand and whispers to the ear of an innocent schoolgirl: 'Let's stay in touch!'

And the reality is not far from what you see in the adverts. In Drogba's village Niapaiho, which is in about 300 km from Abidjan, Drogba's father Albert speaks to his son, who is now in London. In the middle of the rainforest we see a telephone mast, and from another village in the woods we easily call a taxi, which comes from Abidjan. In the Ghanaian town of Takoradi I see schoolkids sending SMS messages as they pour out onto the streets the minute school is over.

Indeed, my own mobile phone was working without fail. And I was amazed that free broadband connections allowed us to regularly send videos, pictures, and this blog. However, seeing so many shanty towns, talking to many desperately poor people (one farmer said to me in an Ivorian village: "I have tired of my machete! Please help with some tractors...") I am far from thinking that the recipe for solving all problems in the West Africa is found in telephony or the Internet.

But at the same time a timber merchant from Ghana said something encouraging to me: "You know that the rainforest is connected both underneath and over the ground as one organism. So are we African people".

Then I easily understood why on the border between the Ivory Coast and Ghana a boy, whose name was John and who wore a T-shirt with the name of the English football star Wayne Rooney on it, while telling me about the intricacies of border trade - didn't ask who, what or where from I was, but asked my telephone number and writing it down, said: "Let's keep in touch!" - and added: "I'll message you".

On the way back from Drogba's village to Abidjan we stopped at a small location to stretch our legs and I took the chance to take some pictures of the local people. A young lady was washing her linen and I asked her permission to take her picture. She eagerly agreed and I started my photo session. Everything was going smoothly, but all of a sudden a shouting voice came behind my shoulders. I looked around, it was an angry policeman. "Why you are messing around? Why you are taking pictures of this woman?" he shouted furiously. I murmured something in explanation, saying that it was done with her consent, but the rage of the local policeman was spiralling. "Do you know what I can do?" I noticed that my Indian colleague tried to interfere, but the enraged policeman was unstoppable. He suddenly seized Rajesh's camera and cursing us, retired to his nearby office.

Our local colleagues spent another half an hour negotiating with him for the release of the seized camera, while we were hotly discussing the situation of free speech and the rights of the journalists all over the world. Ultimately our negotiating team came back with a safe camera and with a piece of news that the lady I was taking pictures of happened to be the policeman's wife. Now that explains everything.

Sometimes jealousy is stronger than the law.

A night in Abidjan

The other night we went out for the night in Abidjan. I must admit that after we came to that area by bus, my colleagues went inside the 'Abidjan' bar, but the music was too loud for me and I decided to stay outside, taking pictures. My local colleagues were worried about my safety - I look like an utter stranger - and when some beautiful young girls started to approach me one by one, I decided to retire to the hotel. One of my local colleagues who came out of the bar to check on me said that it was not safe to travel on my own. But I need to file a piece to London, so I asked him to stop a taxi, write down its number plate as a precaution, and explain to the driver where I should be despatched. "D'accord?- D'accord!"

I speak French and I have travelled quite a lot on my own in different hostile places, so it shouldn't be a problem I promised my colleague and sat on the back seat. "So Novotel, yeah?" But the driver trembled, uttered something incomprehensible and rushed me into the black night of Abidjani suburbs.

I don't know Abidjan at all and in the dark night I hadn't a clue where he was hurtling me away to. I reattempted in my gentility, but the young driver convulsed to my every word, which naturally made me more and more nervous. The more nervous I became the squeakier my voice, the more furiously fast the driver zigzagged along the curvy and obscure roads of Abidjan. Where he will end my reckless journey? I should have listened to my local colleagues - thought I frantically.

No, ultimately he drove me to the Novotel and when I asked in great relief: "Combien?' - 'How much?" He answered in bad English: "Too fausant". Then "I no speak French. I Nigeria - village".

Then I realised, that poor man was scared to death of me - a foreign-looking potential gangster, coming from a vice place to another one, speaking a strange French language, while sitting right behind him, behind his thin neck...

And suddenly both of us laughed at each other in common relief.

My African journey continues. When you go to Ivory Coast - everything you come across tells you about the best African football player Didier Drogba. The sheer biological vitality of the rainforest, while you drive to his village, hints at where the strength of Drogba comes from. The abundance of all kinds of cars and lorries tell you the story of Ivorian dynamism. At one of the checkpoints I noticed a driver begging an official standing on his knees and theatrically grabbing his head with his hands and, rather than being disturbed by it, I remember cheeky dives of Didier with appeals to a referee.

All along the road to the village of his family (called Niapraiho) kids - those who are not selling packed water to passing-by drivers - are playing football. I see plantations of coconuts, rice, rubber: hard work tells me how difficult is the way to success.

In Drogba's village

Finally we are in the village where the elderly and the young are gathered in the house of the village-chief, wearing on his shoulders the whitest towel as a sign of his high position and of respect. I've seen Drogba several times with a white towel around his shoulders and I now understand why. We are introduced to his father, Albert, and I ask him: 'If not a football player, who would Didier have become?' - 'A doctor' - says his father without any hesitation. 'His charity organisation is building a hospital in Abidjan' - he says. 'As for our village, he built a water distribution system here'.

Every boy in the village wants to become like their idol, Didier Drogba, but what about girls of the village? 'I would like to marry' - answers a girl of 10 years of age, and adds: 'A football player like Didier'.She doesn't know the word WAG, but she gets the concept.

Clay houses

We go see some traditional houses of the village - the ones which Didier must remember from his childhood. They call them 'papeau' here and their walls are made of the wood-grid filled in with clay. We in Uzbekistan have the same kind of houses, which are called 'sinch', but I suddenly remember English Tudor style mansions, which are built in the same manner. I think the technique is called 'wattle and daub' and somehow I imagine that Drogba must live in one of those mansions. But it gives me another metaphor about the unity of human race: though we could be made of different clay and wood, the way we are turned into a wall is the same.

Anna here posting for Hamid...

For the first time in my life, I am travelling to Africa, to the 'factory of African football', which has produced some amazing players, notably Drogba, Adebayor, Essien and Kalou. My entry today is obviously about football.

Instead of an epigraph

There are times in life, when you are full of your past and sitting in front of the computer unable to utter a single word - so great is that moment. And then your mind cheats, capturing something in the periphery as an astronomical black hole, it gradually sucking in particle after particle, seemingly something peripheral, something unnecessary, as if a midfielder keeping himself busy somewhere in the middle of the pitch, or even on the flank lazily juggles the ball from foot to foot, and then casually kicks it to the rival side, so that the ball rolls off of the pitch, and again the slow motion of passing, and fans are already beginning to tire, bored and whistle, and the ball instead of moving forward, rolls back to one of the forgotten defenders, and he passes it to his goalkeeper, who once again throws the ball to the flank.

So forget time, so time is wasted, and again as the sea in eternal and wearisome inevitability of catching up with wave after wave - until one of them which is the same at first glance, like all previous ones, all of a sudden does not adjust to the phase of the previous rollback and suddenly in front of your eyes as if the fur of the cat you were playing with stands on end and attacks your hand without a hint of playacting, like a song grabs you choking heart's blood - rewards you with present, that you so long avoided...

(Hamid Ismailov 'Ton Hvan')

Better than Pele

Sometimes I think that my writership is a sublimation of my failure as a football player.

Starting in 1962 (from the age of eight), I was deeply enthralled in football. Not just listening to friends' stories about Pele and Garrincha (playing that summer in Chile, in the World Cup), but also starting to attend 'Pahtakor' Football Club matches in Tashkent. The latter was as a ritual; we would come with my uncle, who was three years older than I was, from our suburbs to Old City of Tashkent. Very often, the road that was 7-8 km long, used to be blocked for the last 3-4 km and we'd have walked all the way to 'Pahtakor' stadium in a crowd of football fans, setting aside all the differences.

There was something mesmeric in that crowd; united by one passion, talking about one theme, supporting one team in the world - Tashkent's 'Pahtakor'. And 'Pahtakor' was paying back. If in the first season in 1960 it was the 14th in the all-Union table, in the 1961 it took the 10th place and in 1962 advanced to the 6th. So in 1963, our crowd was expecting (or rather projecting) the silver medals for second place. 'Pahtakor' lived up to those expectations in an odd way. It finished the season second... but from the bottom! Though even then it succeeded to beat Uruguay's 'Nacional' - one of the strongest clubs in the world - 2:1 in a friendly. I still remember that match.

There and then I decided for myself that I would play in the World Cup of 1970 in Mexico, when I turned 16. I had planned it so carefully, knowing that in the Brazilian squad of 1958 there was Edson Arantes do Nassimento - or simply Pele - who was the same age. So what would stop me doing the same... Alas, it's another story...

Uzbeks have a superstition, that if you wish something while sneezing, it will come true. So ever since then when I sneeze I automatically say to myself: 'I'll play better than Pele!'

Instead of an epilogue

If you have scored just one goal in your life, then you know the feeling of vast emptiness, to which your heart flies behind the ball; the leg is not yet bent after the kick, yet the muscles are playing a symphony along with the nerves, poised far towards a single point in the goal, and that point is either seen by the corner of your eye, or caught at random, yet the goalkeeper tries to get a handful of the past, to grasp at least the tail of it, but the ball has already done what was required of it in this world, on this earth, on this field, on this pitch.

And this feeling is not out of adult life, when the ball flutters in the net, there is a certain artificiality in it, as of a fish in the net of a fisherman, struggling in the air - and waterless convulsions, no, it's from childhood, from that football with the two schoolbags indicating two posts of the goal, between which the ball flies nowhere, launched by all your body, and especially legs that keep you on the ground: O Lord, lead us by the straight path as you lead those whom you reward with their pylons, whom you are not angry with and who have not gone astray...

Do you also consider football as one of the greatest inventions of mankind? Or it's something 'vulgar, of a low pop-culture' as one of my acquaintances said? Let's exchange views.