A few days ago I took my first hair-raising ride in a Lada.  I had just meant to catch a marshrutka or shared taxi to go to a restaurant with some friends, but when the first one to stop was a black old-fashioned Lada, I couldn’t help but hop right in and smile as we began to weave our way through Rudaki avenue at 80 to 100 kilometers per hour.  Given that I’ve cracked at least two jokes at the expense of this automobile, I figured it only reasonable that I write a post all about them.

For those of you who don’t know, namely people in the United States where they were never exported, Lada is an old Soviet brand of automobile.  The classic model is one of the best-selling automobiles of all time, with 20 million of the original designed produced from its inception in the 1960’s or 70’s until production ceased last year (other models are still produced).  They look a little like a small BMW 2002 and are basic, extremely rugged and reliable cars designed to be affordable to ordinary Soviet citizens.  To that end, their durability has allowed many to exceed 300,000 miles, even in places where they operate regularly in harsh cold and on rough roads.  If you’ve ever been anywhere in the former Eastern Bloc, you’ve probably seen one.

I’ve become fascinated with them here since they serve in all sorts of capacities.  Some four-door ones are shared taxis, while other two-doored ones run people to and from work.  It’s also quite entertaining that, rather than the yacht-sized Crown Vickys in the US, the police here drive little Ladas around town, their large hats not clearing the distance between their heads and the ceiling.  In short, you can’t help but secretly love them.  They are to the former Eastern Bloc what the Deux Chevaux is to France and the Beetle is to Germany.

Meanwhile, on Rudaki, we wove between cars to the sounds of what appeared to be Tajikistan’s take on modern Merengue, followed by a bout of Googoosh.  I absolutely love the radio here, and I love nothing better than when our shared taxi has Tajik disco music blasting for us all to hear.  The Lada turned out to be something of a private car for me, as we didn’t pick up any other passengers during the five or so minutes it took to zip the couple miles from my host family at the north of the city all the way down to the restaurant south of the city center.  I paid my three Somonis to the driver and had to be shown where to find the door handle, before emerging onto the street and watching what may have just become my new dream car drive away.