Eight days. Two countries. Five cities.
Last week, I departed on my long-awaited trip along the
Pamir Highway, travelling via various means from my home for the last eight
months, through the mountains in the Pamirs, passing over the “roof of the
world”, before entering our northern neighbor Kyrgyzstan and crossing through
that own country’s Tian Shan mountains, through the city of Osh, before taking
the final stretch of road to the capital of Bishkek. I expected it to be a week
I’d never forget.
I don’t think I realized quite how crazy it’d be…
Due to the sheer extensiveness of this story (and…other
factors), I’ll be breaking this into three posts, each detailing a different
place: Tajikistan/Badakhshan, the border, and Kyrgyzstan. Given I’m a sucker
for chronological order, we’ll be starting at the beginning…
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On the morning of the 13th, I went to a hidden
away parking lot near the airport, and sought out a mashrutka. My
destination: Khorugh, the capital of the autonomous Gorno-Badakhshan province,
the first stop on my route to Bishkek. After a few minutes of negotiation, I
found a van headed east, and was all ready…to sit and wait. For four hours. You
see, one of the gents who was going to Khorugh had lost his personal ID, and
since entry into Badakhshan is heavily regulated, we couldn’t go until he found
it. So we sat, and we sat, and we sat, but eventually everything sorted itself
out and we were off!
After an hour or two of driving, I’d become fairly well
acquainted with the guy sharing the backseat with me, Edik, and his wife; but
I’d realized one tiny, and slightly disturbing fact…we were going the wrong
way. Badakhshan, and by extension Khorugh, are located in the east of the
country. As we passed Nurak, Kulob, and Muminobod, it became clear we were
driving south, and thus taking an incredibly roundabout way into Khorugh. And
for a journey that can take up to two days, “roundabout” isn’t
necessarily a good thing.
By the time we finally entered Badakhshan proper, I was
already planning on how exactly I was going to take the mashrutka and
everyone in it down with me as we plunged into the raging river separating
Tajikistan from its equally lovely neighbor, Afghanistan. But there were some
positives. The mountains that the route weaved through were absolutely
stunning, and verdant hills were made even lovelier by a paved road. And at
night…by the time the sun was finally down, the number of stars in the sky were
beyond counting. It was simply amazing.
Rolling in at about 2 AM, after nearly 16 hours on
the road, I rapidly realized there was a problem. My plan had been to stay with
the family of a friend for the 2-3 days I was expecting to stay in Khourgh.
Only problem was that, several hours prior, the contact number I’d been given
had “stopped being in service”, meaning I was, effectively, without a place to
stay. Shit was probably one of the nicer things I was having going
through my head. But remember how I said I was getting chummy with that guy
Edik? Well, as he and his wife made quite clear, there was no way they were
going to let their new friend sleep on the street his first night in Khorugh.
So yeah, felt like a bit of a dick for wanting to drive them into the river a
few hours before…
When the morning came, I was off. How to describe
Khorugh…now this part is tough. On one hand, the people of Khorugh proved to be
a marvelous bunch. As opposed to the titular Tajik nationality, Khorugh is
primarily populated with ethnic Pamiris, a group of closely related Eastern
Iranian peoples who, among other things, have their own (radically different)
language(s) and their own sect of Islam. Oh, and they really don’t like being
talked to in Tajiki, that was a lesson I learned a little late. Now,
contrasting this, the “city” of Khorugh is nothing but a glorified village.
After walking through the entire town within the course of 90 minutes, and
realizing to my horror it was just as expensive as Dushanbe, I did the only
reasonable thing I could think of: I walked through the garbage dump at the
edge of town and into the surrounding hills, armed with only a bottle of water
and my Farsi translation of Romulus der Grosse. Those several hours I spent alone with my
thoughts, watching the town following the river below, were easily some of the
nicest in my trip.
However, that night I returned to the “city” and, after
resettling in the Pamir Lodge, which is actually awesome and worth checking out
if you’re ever in the region, making friends with Steffan, the Dutchman who’d
ridden a damn motorcycle from Amsterdam to Khorugh, and meeting the Josh
Kucera (internationally renowned post-Soviet security policy scholar) in an
Indian restaurant doing interviews for an upcoming article, it was time for a
decision.
For you see, it was May 15. Meaning it was my birthday, and
I had a choice to make. Did I want to find something to do in the nearby Wakhan
Valley, or did I want to press onwards to my next destination, Murghab? After
learning that a taxi to the Wakhan was about $100 (and proceeding to
learn that Pamiris really don’t like it when you curse them out in Tajiki),
Murghab it was!
My trip to Murghab was certainly different than my trip to
Khorugh, mainly due to the fact that Murghab (and eastern Badakhshan as a
whole) is radically different than the western half. For it’s in the eastern
half of the province that the so-called “roof of the world” is located. And let
me just say, the vast moonscape-like plains, snow capped mountains, and
pristine alpine lakes we passed were…I guess awe-inspiring is a good
word. The other major difference with this part of the country is the ethnic
makeup. In the west, they’re Pamiri, which at least looks Tajik. In the east,
they’re Kyrgyz, and if you’re unfamiliar with the difference, spend a few
minutes on Google Images, you’ll be in for a treat.
Now I got to have three experiences with the Pamiri Kyrgyz,
all of which are worth mentioning:
First was in the tiny (and I do mean tiny) village of
Alichar. Located in quite literally the middle-of-freakin’-nowhere, when we
pulled into the village, I had no idea what was going on. I was the only
non-Kyrgyz in the van, and therefore the only one who, in the last six hours,
had only been able to figure out that joq meant ‘no’. So I was confused,
out-of-breath (more on that next), and was equally surprised when the older guy
sitting next to me (honestly, I’m half tempted to call him ‘Kyrgyz Merlin’
based on how he looked, but what he did next would make feel like a complete
shithead if I did that) gestures for me to go into one of the houses. Now, I
won’t mince words, the Kyrgyz in the Pamirs have a tough life. There’s jackshit
of practical use up there, if there’s a problem, it’s a several hour drive
anywhere helpful, and it was below freezing in the middle of May. So
what happened in this house? The family of the aforementioned older Kyrgyz guy
had made us dinner. Not gonna lie, literally don’t have the words to express
the gratitude I felt for so many things at that moment. Might not have been a
birthday cake, but it was a damn fine meal regardless. Also, they offered to
find me a “proper, Kyrgyz wife”. So
there’s that…
(Off topic, but really thinking I should start telling
people I’m married.)
Anyways, second was that night. As we pulled into Murghab at
about 10 PM, it was pitch black and below freezing. And, once again, I had
nowhere to stay. Adding insult to injury, the fact I was now 3500 meters
(~11,000 feet) above sea level meant that even a light stroll would leave me
winded, and I was left with the conclusion that I was probably pretty screwed.
Then, I met my salvation: Shorat. This guy, who knew Tajiki well enough that
we’d been conversing much of the ride, said he would not only invite me into
his home, but would arrange transportation for me to Osh the next day. Not bad,
especially for guy who (as I’ll later describe) I’m pretty sure was a
drug-trafficker.
The morning of the 16th, after learning that
Murghab, unlike the rest of Tajikistan, runs on Kyrgyz time (i.e. UTC +6, not
+5), Shorat, the driver, and I set off for Osh. We continued on our way until we
reached Karakol. Now Karakol is three things:
1.
A military checkpoint
2.
A village that serves as a
way station for truckers and hitchhikers
3.
An alpine crater lake that
was, like most of the year, frozen when we got to it
And it was here at Karakol, apparently picking up two people
who I would learn were bound for Bishkek (including the “child from hell”…), an
old woman came up to the jeep and started knocking on the window. After a short
conversation in the melodious Kyrgyz language, Shorat told me the woman wanted
me to come with her. Already weary about secret marriage proposals, I was
hesitant, but I went. What I found was a small bowl of fresh-made yak yogurt
and naan, and an old Kyrgyz babushka frantically encouraging me to eat. No idea
what she was saying to me as I eating away, but it was a/another damn fine
meal, and more hospitality than I’d been expecting.
Through the mountain passes we drove, 5000 meters above sea
level, through wind-slept plateaus and snow-covered hills. As we approached the
border though, I had no idea how “interesting” the guards at Kyzyl-Art were
going to make my trip…
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