In through the tunnel of death and out
along the roof of the world. Tajikistan smacked us in the face on
the very first day. Literally, the air smacked us as we entered what
is lovingly nicknamed the tunnel of death. It has been given that
name as several workers died due to asphyxiation during its
construction (yet to be completed), and upon entering, it became very
apparent how easily that could happen. An unpaved, pot-hole ridden 5
kilometer long tunnel with no vents or light.
Winding up and down mountain passages
we arrived in Dushanbe the capital. Dushanbe actually translates to
“Monday” as it was founded as a market place that took place only
on Mondays. I enjoyed telling people that we would be in “Monday”
on Monday, though others seemed to be less impressed with my joke.
Staying with our former Safety and
Security Officer from Peace Corps Moldova and his former PCV wife, we
were spoiled with having not only a personal tour guide, but also a
personal translator – which without his help (Multumesc Alex!!) I
doubt very much we would have achieved our travel goals. Two of the
many highlights while staying in the capital was enjoying a night of
belly dancing and traditional music (in which a song was dedicated to
our table, apparently our enthusiasm was noticed...) as well as
actually touching the world's tallest flag. I will attest, it is
indeed large. In all actuality, probably the greatest capital city
activity was when Alex set about to create the most authentic
Moldovan BBQ (aka “Shashlyk” for all those in the know) possible
while in Tajikistan. Bazaar after bazaar after bazaar were scavenged
for the appropriate charcoal, meat and ever important wine. Even
though our chef donned a traditional Tajik hat, I had all but been
transported back to Moldova – complete with the post gorge nap.
Moldovan BBQing in a Tajik hat
World's tallest flag
Part of our stay in the capital was to
obtain the required permit to travel into the Pamir mountains and
after many “official” phone calls and suspicious looks we were
granted the permits. And so we began what is apparently one of the
world's greatest road trips. Dubbed the “roof of the world” and
traveling by requisite 4-wheel drive vehicles we set off, ready to
conquer the first leg, a 16 hour journey into the heart of the
Pamirs, Khorog.
A bit too quickly it became apparent
our journey was going to take longer than expected... roads having to
be cleared from rock slides, a break down, three meals, two flat
tires and a power nap later we arrived – 26 hours later to be
exact. Not only did the roads prove to be hard on our bodies, but so
did the food or water or maybe the air? As both of us fell victim,
becoming very, very ill. It is expected when traveling to far off
lands the possibility of getting sick, but what you don't expect is
that your bathroom will be equally as far away. Outside, around back
of a large building and up half a mountain, in the dark. I'll leave
the details to your imagination. Food poisoning in Tajikistan is not
so fun.
Our first excursion once we had
recovered, was to a remote village set deep in a narrow valley,
surrounded by glacier ridden mountain peaks. Traveling along a dirt
road we were let out along a river where a thick metal cable hung
precariously from one side to the other. The driver must have
noticed the looks we gave to one another as he got out and yelled to
the man who had just pulled himself across the wide river. It was
explained to us that a few years back a rock-slide had taken out the
only bridge connecting one side of the river to other for SEVERAL
kilometers. The villagers had set up two thick cables, the original
was a few wooden boards dangling high above the river, that you sit
on and pull yourself across – inch by inch. The newer cable had a
small wooden compartment with a crank on the inside. Working on a
pulley system, this newer contraption required much less physical
exertion and you were able to carry more across at once. Both cables
were required however, as when one waits on one side of the river,
the other must wait for travelers on the other bank.
Once we had safely crossed, the man
that helped crank us over informed us that he too was hiking the 7
kilometers to...the only village in the entire valley. So off we
went, our newly formed threesome, walking a trail clung to the
mountainsides, pounded into existence by generations of footsteps,
and the only connection to the greater world. Up and down and up a
whole lot more, stopping to drink straight from the river that formed
the shoestring valley, we entered the village of Jisev. It consisted
of 6 mud-brick houses, clinging to the sliver of farmable land,
strung along the river bank. Collapsing into our new hiking-friend's
house, he offered his home for us to stay in for the night and we
gladly accepted. The next day we set about hiking to the end of the
valley, passing a few more lakes along the way and dominating more
than our fair share of homemade cattle guards. After another night
sleeping in a very traditional
Pamiri house, we hiked back out of the valley and made our way back
to town and eventually to our next excursion, another town a bit
further south, Ishkashim.
Our little village. The house on the far left is where we stayed.
Sitting a stones
throw away across the river from Afghanistan in tiny Ishkashim, we
watched people going about their daily routines. Smoke billowed from
chimneys, donkey driven carts overwhelmed by heaps of hay, and
children walking the seemingly endless footpaths skirting high and
low the tall mountains that isolated them from the rest of
Afghanistan. While down there, we hired a local to drive us along the
Wakkhan valley, famous as being Marco Polo's trail, a popular Silk
Road thoroughfare, and the connecting valley between Afghanistan,
Pakistan and Tajikistan bordered in by the Hindu Kush mountain range.
Making stops at several historical sites along the way we soon
discovered that our haggling skills only played a small role in what
seemed to be a “too good to be true” price for the driver.
Crumbling forts and Buddha stands were not our only stops, but we
also stopped to help our driver sell the cartons upon cartons of
“liquid tea whitener” and cigarettes that were overflowing the
trunk and backseat. At each village store and villager we passed he
flung open the door yelling out “Cigarettes! Tea whitener!” and
upon many occasions, would hop out to make the sale. Spirits were
high by the end of the day as our driver had sold all of his products
and we had seen most of what we had hoped (missing only one stop due
to the most intense goat-sheep traffic jam ever witnessed). Our
driver was so jubilant that he made one last stop to buy beers for
the whole car (himself included). So off we road into the sunset,
booze cruising along the Afghan border.
Silk Road fort with Hindu Kush in the background....and McNabb climbing down (she's the black dot in the middle)
Taking in Afghanistan, beer in hand....
Our friendship was
solidified with this man the next morning when he saw us waiting
outside the gates of the bazaar. We were scoping the place out, as
it was a cross-border market. The military checkpoints on both the
Afghan and Tajik side open once a week giving way for a large (and
abrupt) bazaar to take place in no-man's land between the two
countries. Our friend spotted us, waving us over and leading us past
the armed guards into the heart of the bazaar where he was selling –
wait for it - cigarettes and liquid tea whitener. It became very
apparent the subconscious affect media has, as we both felt a
baseless unease due to the traditional Afghan dress. Thank you news,
although one man's look did imply “infidel!” as I tried to buy
some dried dates. Everyone else we dealt with though, fantastic.
We may have looked out of place, but Arabic Fanta brought us right back in. Easily the best purchase of the day.
After the bazaar,
we bussed it back north to Khorog for the last time. As with any
journey over 30 minutes, it was not to go uninterrupted. Apparently
everyone knows everyone in this part of the world – even if the
nearest town is 4 hours away. So we were forced to stop so two
people from our mini-bus could shake hands with two others that
happened to be in the road. Cordials were exchanged and a few
minutes passed until our fellow travels stated that the whole
mini-bus had been invited to eat. Grudgingly, we got out of the
oversized van and readied ourselves for village-cafe boiled hot dogs
or some other of the sort. Surprisingly we were led into a house,
where laid out in true Pamiri style were plates and plates of Plov
and salads. Happily we sat criss-cross-apple-sauce on the raised
floor as is tradition and enjoyed our delicious meal. As it turns
out, we had been invited in to an anniversary party where we were not
only fed delicous food, were fed shots of vodka as well. After
exhausting our two Russian jokes, a fellow party-goer came by with
his video camera. Big mistake by giving our “we are sitting on the
floor but can still shimmy” dance, because before we knew it, we
had been swept away into the adjoining room. Immediately the dance
floor cleared as our male counterparts began traditional Tajik
dancing circles around us. By the end of the song we were both more
than happy to escape the over 40 onlookers that had crammed
themselves into the small room, however some did enjoy our attempt at
traditional Tajik dancing as they threw candy at us in sign of
approval. The female host really took a shine to us after this and
commanded her husband to bring us more bottles of vodka. We toasted
to her anniversary, to Tajikistan, and everything else we could think
of before slipping out, back to our van and eventually back to town.
It took us two more
full days to make it across the border, traversing the over 3,600
meter high plateau and winding our way back down into Kyrgyzstan.
One passenger was forced to smooth over the crossing experience by
giving the guards, stationed out of a yurt, some cigarettes. At the
entry point for Kyrgyzstan we were detained for well over an hour.
One guard, in particularly high spirits, stated he would like to
bride-nap me because I looked like Jodie Foster. I would like to
take this time to point out that I in no way resemble Jodie Foster,
and - while I'm not sure I should - will take it as a compliment.
The guard himself seemed innocent enough, though bride-napping does
still occur in the region, so we all laughed it off, especially after
he informed us an average of 3 cars pass that border everyday, making
it very clear that they had little in terms of entertainment.
Looking around, trembling in the cold, with offers to be bride-napped
it felt as though we had indeed made it to the exact opposite side of
the world.
Crossing the border. Guards in a yurt. Awesome.
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