True Pamir Hospitality
7 AugUp at 5am, we continue down the pass. This time the brakes hold out well, and I’m beginning to feel a bit more confidence in them.
The road gets very bad. We have to cross dry riverbeds, some with collapsed bridges, and others with no bridges at all. The river beds are made of large round rocks, and it’s a rough, slow ride. A lot of water must come down these rivers in the winter, as they are very wide. In some villages the creek and the road seem combined, and you drive up through the water which is cascading down the street on your way through town. The road reaches the Afghan border, and we follow it for the rest of the day. The condition of the road is bad, and our progress is slow. Then we reach the Turkish roadworks. They are doing massive amounts of work, and we arrive just after they appear to have used explosives to detonate part of the cliff face. The problem for our car, is they haven’t kept much of a thoroughfare through to worksite. We repeatedly need to use low range 4x4 to pull ourselves up the steep inclines, and once something drags quite badly on one of the peaks. The rocks are pointy and sharp, but somehow we don’t get a flat. Finally we reach Zigar, and the good road starts.
Is this a road or a drain?
A dry creek bed.
Stephen surveys a dodgy bridge.
Apparently there are landmines to stop Afghan smugglers:
On the left is Afghanistan, we’re in Tajikistan. We refrain from throwing rocks.
The roadworks. There is a road there somewhere. We think the dust is due to them blowing part of the cliff up with explosives, just prior to our arrival:
Stephen takes a shower under a waterfall.
The flow of this river is something else. Look at these rapids:
The Afghan walking path. We travel 300 miles along the border, and the path remains unbroken, although you’d be a mad man to walk on it in some places.
A green Afghan village:
An old tank has come to grief. We’ve seen a few like this:
One of many beautiful waterfalls.
Wreckage of a truck which strayed from the road:
As the Lonely Planet says, it’s surreal. It is fully signposted like one of your best roads in England, and is smooth as silk, but there is no one to drive on it, and we see maybe two cars is 60km. At this point we combine with the North road, at a town called Khalikohm. Stephen continues with the driving, as we continue along the Afghan border. It is really interesting, as there is a raging torrent of a river between the two countries. On our side is a rather abysmal road, but on there side there is just a little donkey track. At some points it is propped up with sticks, or intricately made from mud bricks. In some places it zigs and zags itself up the cliff face. There are some lovely Afghan villages, with green crops, and trees, and also a lot of abandoned villages. There is reference to one village in the Lonely Planet that was completely obliterated by a mudslide. For most of the day we are close enough to throw a rock into Afghanistan, although we resist the temptation. On the Tajik side there is the occasional watch tower, and troops here and there (that look about 14) patrolling the rivers edge. You’d be a brave man to try and smuggle something across this water though, and you’d want to start about a km further upstream than your destination. The river water is also a grey brown, and it looks to come from the silty sandy clay we see here and there. We pass one UN sign about trying to resurrect the water supply for a town. It seems strange to be next to a raging river and have nothing to drink. For the most part though, we cross regular streams bringing cold, crystal clear water down from the last of the melting snowcaps. We pass one man who trying to sell beer, chilled in one of the streams. He wants the equivalent of $10US for a bottle though, and we give it a miss.
At about 2pm the car coughs, splutters and then stops. It seems to be low fuel pressure, although we still have a 1/3 of a tank. I’d changed the fuel filter in Dushanbe, as a preventative measure, so I start by putting the old one back on. It still won’t start. I put 5L of fuel in. The fuel pump won’t suck the fuel from the tank. Has the fuel pump had enough? I fill the carburetor up with fuel (the engine is really hot, and this is difficult). The engine fires, I cross my fingers, and it keeps running. The pump must really struggle to primer itself when dry. There are two possible problems. The fuel filter has blocked, or the fuel pickup has moved in the tank, and we can no longer suck the last 15L out. The latter will be a real problem, as it cuts 15L off our range, and we need every litre we can get.
We continue on this road, trying to make Khorog. We go pretty close, eventually stopping as the light fades 30km out. We are a little nervous about camping so close to the Afghan border, more due to being disturbed by military patrols than the border itself, although this is more paranoia than anything else. So we stop in a village and ask if we can pitch our tents in someone’s front yard. It is that time of night when everyone is streaming home with their cattle, so there is no shortage of people to ask. We stop, and are approached by some girls, about 12 years old. They are keen to test out their English, and can’t stop giggling. First they tell us to continue to Khorog, then they tell us to follow them to their house. The problem is, the phrases they say sound like they are straight from a text book - ‘Come to my home’, and we’re not sure whether they mean what they say. What would my parents think if I brought some smelly tourists home when I was 12.
Another man walks past, he is about 22. He tells us to follow him to his house, so Stephen walks with him. I try and follow in the car, but I can’t escape these enthusiastic girls. Eventually the man walks back and rescues me, and I drive him the 100m to his house. They have made a gap in the fence and we drive up beside their home. It is dark now, and they find a torch and lead us into their house.
It is immediately obvious that this is a traditional Pamir house (or huneuni chid). It has a central room, with 5 pillars. There are raised sides around a central pit (traditionally 4, but in this one just 3). Illumination comes through a skylight in the roof, which consists of concentric squares. According to the Lonely Planet, the squares represent the elements of fire, earth, air and water and the 5 pillars represent the 5 pillars of Islam (and the five main prophets). There is one pillar called the Hassan pillar, and it consists of two pillars joined together. Tourists shouldn’t sit next to this one as it is reserved for the village religious leader. Thankfully we are directed where to sit, and a massive bowl of pasta is quickly presented. I am now confused, having asked for a place to pitch the tent, we are now inside someone’s house. The man from the street is not their, but there is another lad, about the same age. He is wearing is soccer clothes, as he has just been playing at the local field. Unfortunately I’ve forgotten his name, but he becomes our host, and he does a great job. Stephen, myself and our host dig into this one bowl of pasta with three spoons. They bring out a bowl of incredibly crisp and fresh challots and coriander. I haven’t had fresh vegetables for ages, and I can’t stop eating them. The pasta is quite salty and flavoursome, and has two different meats in it. Perhaps some lamb and something else. Our host gives instructions to a lovely smiling lady, who I presume is his mother, and she keeps bringing various foods out. Some lovely fresh baked bread to go with the pasta. After that she brings out a bowl of berries, which have been slightly stewed in sugar. We eat these using a teaspoon (which we all share), and then the chai (tea) arrives. The man from the street returns and we all chat. They have some English, so the conversation is possible, but is slow moving. Our Tajik is non-existent, but it wouldn’t help, as they speak primarily Pamir here! What hope do we have of learning and words when we change languages every 3 days. I let Stephen do most of the talking, and he does well. He once refers to our host as Tajik, and he is quickly corrected. Everytime I finish my bowl of tea, it is refilled, and I copy my host by putting about 5 berries in each bowl for flavour. Eventually the meal is finished. I am proud as I have used only my right hand to eat. Stephen struggles as he is left handed!
There are two smaller boys around while we eat, but they are careful not to interrupt the meal, and remain quiet. There is also a tiny little kitten, who I think is called ‘Pish’, unless they were telling it to Pish...no, it wasn’t that.
It seems the man from the street and our host are studying at Khorog University together. The man from the street is studying history, and hopes to be a teacher and a Policeman at the end of his 5 year degree. They catch a minivan to Khorog, but at the moment it is summer holidays, and they can relax.
I think in the winter the flat area around the central pit is used for sleeping, but in the summer, there are outside sleeping areas. Some of the family sleep inside. We sleep outside, on a large flat area next to the house, Stephen, myself and our host. Part of the area is covered by a thatch awning. Some of the house roof is made from iron, some from thatch style material. My spot is under the stars. We are given a thick duvet, and I go to sleep without it. Sometime during the night the temperature plummets, we are at 6000ft after all, and I am cozy in the duvet. It’s the best nights sleep I’ve had in a long time.
We are struggling to transmit our location at the moment, due to the mountains on either side of us.
