The third instalment of my adventure through Central Asia. It is near 2000 words and available to all subscribers. The fourth and final piece will be available to paid subscribers only.
The guest house in Kalai-Khumb is raised above a rushing torrent of water, an icy blue tributary that is fresh from descending the mountains. It feeds the Pyanj, the river which separates Tajikistan from Afghanistan, and forms part of the 1300 km border.
In 1895, when Tsarist Russia met with Imperial Britain, they decided on a border solution that ignored local populations, separating them by geographical convenience: you stay on that side of the river, we’ll stay on this side. Accelerate through the next century - past some large wars, through some Cold Wars, beyond the turbulence of independence - and Tajikistan has a new neighbour: the Taliban. Their white flags inscribed with Arabic slogans are visible on the other side of the riverbanks, and the water that divides the two countries has a newfound convenience.
It is along a 250 km stretch of this river that Bruno and I take a lift to avoid the road that is under heavy reconstruction. Our ten hour journey is in constant view of Afghanistan. It is one hundred metres away at its furthest and barely fifteen at its closest. For the most part there is nothing to see but a narrow, gravel road at the bottom of a steep slope - but this is Afghanistan. It is impossible to disconnect what I am seeing from my memories and beliefs. It is more than an empty landscape, the country is two decades of media narrative: nation-state building, a lack of an exit plan, and Sadam Hussein hiding beneath a manhole. It is the eleven letters beneath my breakfast, printed across the daily newspaper; it is footage of young soldiers on patrol in Helmand province; and it is the modern exposé of meaningless and unsuccessful foreign policy. Whilst I’ve met people on this journey who have, I am not brave enough to visit Afghanistan, to understand the people, and to reconsider what I know. It is only from the comfort of Tajikistan that I am able to look across and see groups of women and children, clustered beneath verdant trees, sitting outside homes without electricity, or witness the men driving their motorbikes, kicking up dust with outdated Kalashnikov rifles strapped to their backs. This is the limit of my exploration for now.
I play the role of ‘driver’s mate’ in the car, opening bottles of Fanta and unplugging the electrical cigarette lighter. Our driver appreciates that without a single word of shared language there is a universal understanding of wants and needs during such a drive. The car windows are constantly being adjusted for the amount of dust outside them. When the windows are down it is intensely hot in the vehicle and the thirty seven degree heat is magnified by the glass. My entire body begins to sweat and it is almost unbearable as the driver blows plumes of smoke in every direction. The car playlist is dominated by Russian love ballads and instrumental melodies accompanied by cries of Arabic. We arrive in Khorog just as the playlist loops for the fourth time and I can see in the rear-view mirror that Bruno is no longer smiling.
Khorog is the capital of the Gorno-Badakhshan Region, where the Pamir Mountains sit, and the last opportunity to organise a few things before tackling more severe remoteness. I replace the batteries in my GPS tracker, re-activate my sim card that has been blocked, and buy some dried fruit that will survive the heat ahead. The city is charming. The green spaces are shaded and peaceful, whilst a youthful energy flows from the university.
Bruno and I spend an afternoon in discussion, analysing our two route options. Bruno is surprisingly emotive for a Swiss maths teacher in his forties. The time versus distance calculations suggest we should head directly to the asphalt section of the Pamir Plateau, but the romantic vision is nestled in the unknown challenge of the Wakhan Valley, a largely unpaved section that continues along the Afghan border. By the evening we’ve made our decision.
I am in high spirits as we leave Khorog and set off into the Wakhan. It was always my intention to find some company for the upcoming section of remoteness, and thirty-six hours in Bruno’s company has been effortless. He is a gentle personality, constantly engaged in his surroundings, always talking to locals and practising the Russian that he has been learning for the past six years. I am also inspired by the role of cycling in his own personal journey. He tells me how he made a number of bikepacking trips in his twenties, but soon developed an unreliable relationship with alcohol and other bad habits too. Now the days of weighing 120 kilograms are behind him, he’s thirty kilograms lighter and six years sober. There is a lot of life experience in his energetic smile.
The target for our first day together is a small border village called Ishkashim, which is 100 km from Khorog. Bruno tells me that the Swiss Foreign Office advises against all travel to Ishkashim due to its proximity to Afghanistan. But it remains popular with cycle tourists due to the cross-border market that takes place on Saturdays, where Tajiks and Afghans benefit from trading goods in a heavily securitised area of international no-man’s land. It is a genuine disappointment that we’ll be passing through on a Tuesday and miss the opportunity to experience it.
After a full day of cycling, it is about ten kilometres before Ishkashim that the valley widens and suddenly there is another tier to this dramatic scene. Looking east the Hindu Kush is visible, revealing jagged lines of snow that stretch across the mountains of Pakistan and Afghanistan. Up the road, the village is set amongst luscious green fields of crops that profit from the streams that branch off the river.
Via one of his Russian teachers in Switzerland, Bruno has organised a homestay here. When we reach Ishkashim we are welcomed towards the family home, invited in and recommended to rest, as trays of food are prepared for us. There are plates of dried fruit, a jug of homemade peach juice to share, and a large wooden bowl of chicken kebab, which has been seasoned with layers of dill and is unexpectedly delicious. The room is an exchange of Russian and German, but very little English, so I drift into a hazy state of relaxation, absorbed by the soft cushions on the floor.
During the night we sleep outside under thick blankets, and in the morning we wake to the sun rising up from behind the mountains, creating a pink glow through the valley. The air is fresh and the steam from my coffee condenses under my eyelids. All I say to my hosts is “ray”, meaning “paradise” in Russian.
On our second day of cycling together, Bruno and I settle into the rhythm that has developed so naturally. We both enjoy the solitude of riding alone, keeping a distance, and allowing our individual thoughts to remain uninterrupted. It is tough to make progress, with the road often broken, forcing us to push our bikes and walk under the baking sun - but the beauty is overwhelming and we don’t have to look very hard for an excuse to stop, drifting back towards one another to comment on the scenery, or share a snack. And I have begun to notice how my brain is adapting to the changed levels of stimulation. When I stop, I really do stop. There is almost no distraction - no traffic that keeps me in a heightened state of awareness, or phone reception to swallow me into an online vortex, or even the familiar branding of modern marketing that intends to constantly remind me what I don’t have - instead, there is a sense of calm, an understanding that this is the very moment and these are the days which I have looked forward to for so long.
After just two days of riding I feel the cumulative fatigue that I would usually expect to feel in five or six days. It is a challenge to ride with such little sustenance - my appetite cannot keep up with the rate at which energy seems to be evaporating. It is not for a lack of effort - I am ploughing through endless discs of homemade bread, dipped into a jar of Nutella, along with handfuls of almonds and raisins - but even once it has disappeared, my stomach groans. I cannot consider another wedge of dry biscuits and fantasies of something fresh do not help. I know it’s not coming for over another week.
After forty kilometres we reach a small village called Langar. It is the last option to re-supply for the next stretch, which could mean carrying everything required for three days of riding . I make a suggestion to Bruno that we make use of the one available spot that is offering a cooked meal. As we wait for our soup and tea, Bruno studies the profile of the climb out of the village, and I try to sleep on the cushioned eating area. Neither of us are outwardly showing the enthusiasm required for what’s ahead, and when I sit up, Bruno is quick to point out the sign advertising a local taxi, and it is soon confirmed that the teenage boy lounging in the front seat of a 4x4 is available for lifts to the top of the Khargush pass. I state my budget is $30 and Bruno says his is $40. When the teenage boy confirms it is $80, Bruno kindly offers to raise his stake to $50.
We later learn, when we hear of other cyclist’s experiences, the decision to take a lift ultimately saves three days of pushing our bikes through sand and rubble, in an area where there is no food and only a couple of water sources. Even driving the car is difficult enough - we stop a number of times to cool the engine, and pour water from a 30L barrel onto the radiator under the bonnet. The five hour drive allows us to take in the views: camels on the Afghan side, rows of six-thousand metre peaks, and then one particularly large military checkpoint. There is a small complication here because the young(er) boy who is accompanying the driver doesn’t have his passport. Bruno and I have successfully met the criteria, providing scanned copies of our passports, and in doing so, avoided the possibility of a $20 fee, an unnecessary bribe that is reported to be increasingly thrown upon tourists since this route re-opened in August 2023.
Our lift ends on the other side, at an altitude of 4,300m. When we are unloaded and the car disappears, the silence is immense. Bruno is emotional, he begins to cry and then apologises, telling me how much it means to him to be here. And I agree. This is another world, so disconnected from reality that it is difficult to remember how I arrived here. I’m in the middle of nowhere, in the mountains of Tajikistan, crying in the company of a Swiss man I met five days ago. We take one last look at Afghanistan and turn to begin our descent, chasing the sunset, searching for a place to camp.
I have published all my routes on Komoot here: https://www.komoot.com/collection/2984940/-pamir-adventure-2024
And you may find this interesting for some further reading:
https://centralasiaprogram.org/taliban-border-regime-neighboring-tajikistan/
Part 4 is to follow…
I cycled the Wakhan this season, too. Pity you took a lift across the section east of Langar, because it wasn’t particularly difficult – the sandy parts amount to only about five kilometers. In fact, that was by far my favourite stretch. It offered the first real solitude in Central Asia for months. No cars driving by, no crotch goblins running after the bike and shouting.
I had no photocopies at the Khargush checkpoint, but the bribe at the checkpoint is pretty easy to avoid if you simply aren’t in a rush and explain to the ridiculous 18-year-old conscripts that you know their game and you know how to contact their superior (he’s at the base in Langar). Frankly, it’s a tax for not knowing Russian or Tajik.