26th July
Tajikistan :
Murgarb to Langar, now that’s a blast.
Someone told me a joke years ago that has stuck with me. I do no why but anyway it goes like this:
There were two black camels walking down the West Bank of the Nile and one turned to the other and said ‘it’s not even Tuesday’!
Well, one never got it cos it’s not that kinda joke but to make matters worse I’m told Dushanbe is translated literally into Monday and it’s not even Monday, it now Thursday. How confusing is that. And that’s where we are.
Well I have to back up a bit to explain our journey that got us here, let alone not on a Monday.
I left you stranded in Murbag some time ago. Not deliberately but because we headed into the Pamirs, the Wakham corridor and beyond.
Murbag is a bit like a tv scene depicting a war torn life in the Middle East. Fuel was served from a 44g drum into plastic bottles than they were decantered into the tank. It works. The bazaar was a series of containers creating a laneway of random sellers with products spewing out on to the rough river gravel streets. Still paradise in various forms can only be endured for so long. Time to head out and down.
A 320 km journey taking us on slim mountain dirt track that eventually caught up with a river that grew in its endless journey. The colour changed to dark grey as it’s speed, volume and carrying capacity increased as did the depth of the valley. No longer satisfied with that, it hurled forward converting a valley into a gorge of enormous proportions while our path wove back and forth growing in altitude as to escape the torrent way below.
Cutting back into the mountains white frothing crystal clear bubbling ice melting streams would present them selves to our journey before disappearing underneath the road to join up with the mother load. This journey continued for hours whilst we hesitated to take snaps of the advancing snow covered peaks, the drop offs and vistas to arrive, fuckeed at a home stay Behrus in Langar, the beginning of the Wakhan corriodor.
Cold beer, seated toilet and maybe a hot shower. Sleep came early but not before some random Brits (Shophie) and crew had a passing beer. But time to rest and restore those tender spots lying face down came early. Plan a short trip tomorrow...... well?
There were two black camels walking down the West Bank of the Nile and one turned to the other and said ‘it’s not even Tuesday’!
Well, one never got it cos it’s not that kinda joke but to make matters worse I’m told Dushanbe is translated literally into Monday and it’s not even Monday, it now Thursday. How confusing is that. And that’s where we are.
Well I have to back up a bit to explain our journey that got us here, let alone not on a Monday.
I left you stranded in Murbag some time ago. Not deliberately but because we headed into the Pamirs, the Wakham corridor and beyond.
Murbag is a bit like a tv scene depicting a war torn life in the Middle East. Fuel was served from a 44g drum into plastic bottles than they were decantered into the tank. It works. The bazaar was a series of containers creating a laneway of random sellers with products spewing out on to the rough river gravel streets. Still paradise in various forms can only be endured for so long. Time to head out and down.
A 320 km journey taking us on slim mountain dirt track that eventually caught up with a river that grew in its endless journey. The colour changed to dark grey as it’s speed, volume and carrying capacity increased as did the depth of the valley. No longer satisfied with that, it hurled forward converting a valley into a gorge of enormous proportions while our path wove back and forth growing in altitude as to escape the torrent way below.
Cutting back into the mountains white frothing crystal clear bubbling ice melting streams would present them selves to our journey before disappearing underneath the road to join up with the mother load. This journey continued for hours whilst we hesitated to take snaps of the advancing snow covered peaks, the drop offs and vistas to arrive, fuckeed at a home stay Behrus in Langar, the beginning of the Wakhan corriodor.
Cold beer, seated toilet and maybe a hot shower. Sleep came early but not before some random Brits (Shophie) and crew had a passing beer. But time to rest and restore those tender spots lying face down came early. Plan a short trip tomorrow...... well?
Anyway I have been sharing that segment and haven’t got to the Monday trip on Tuesday to Dushambe or B.B. Fatima’s hot springs or Khorog so there’s more to come.
29th July
Langar to Khorog on to Dushanbe.
Langar is an oasis at the top end of the Wakhan corridor. It is where the Wakhan and Pamir rivers join and eventually turn to the mighty silt laden Panji.
The first we followed. These rivers share a border with Afghanistan but that doesn’t seem to concern anyone. Perhaps the mighty river or the 7000m mountains are the deterent to the Taliban but the corridor seems content as life goes on as it has forever. Along this strip there are small hamlets of green. Farmers cut hay by hand carting this on donkeys along old tree lined streets where stone or mud brick houses are bordered by such walls. Water is abundant with trenches delivering this clear flowing elixir in abundance to towns, animals or to crops .
People seem happy as life should be. Children play, men and women working in fields, chatting in tree lined streets getting on with daily activities. Donkeys carrying firewood or sheaved hay strapped to their backs happy to toil.
Women are well dressed often with brightly colored pant suits with the trousers above ankles and a long shirts to their knees. Then there’s the others in jeans and T-shirt’s, or some with heavy eyebrows almost joined and then the Muslim style. These choices are more ones own as it appears.
Most people wave, even toddlers but the young boys have become brazen and want to high 5 running tauntingly on the road. Sometimes I shake my finger at them, other times I need to be focused to miss them. They mean well.
So to get a better view of this some 70km+ corridor we zigzagged up some 450m on a goat track passing an ancient stone fortress to B.B. Fatima’s hot spring so named after Mohammed’s daughter. Again choosing a simple hotel ($15) some 200m from the hot spring before giving unloading and giving the bathes a go. Theses were devided into male and female sections. Our male side was pretty nondescript but the females, so I’m told, had the water pouring out of the rock face at some 50C+. Just soaking up the views, beer and dinner we enjoyed having the place to ourselves until a tour group of some 15 bikes arrived late at night. Interesting but at a whirlwind pace.
We pushed on to Khorog a lovely small city hedged inbetween two mountain ranges and containing the rushing Panji complete with a bustling market and hesitating for a few days.
The next day turned out to be one of grandest rides of the trip todate. Scenic overload. We continued along the Panji river with it growing in strength. A side trip down the Bartang river gave us another picture snapping frenzy of another tight mountainous valley. The down side was it added 2 hours on to a long day. But for the rest of the day, some 7 more hours we travelled down such an inspiring valley ever witnessed. Road conditions keep the bike down to a modest 30kms but often that’s too fast resulting in bangs and whoops and cussing. From Lenore!
This river on its journey times spread out and slowed only hesitantly but most times seem hell bent in ripping into the rock walls with unknown ferocity.
Kali Khumb was the destination of the night and it took a saddle sore dead beat ride to get there. One globe was blown making visibility and the ability to stay on track whilst skirting the constant potholed road a challenge.
Short lived rest and recovery time was insufficient before we continuing along the M41 over the Saghirdasht pass at 3252m. Here on the pass remnant war torn buildings together with landmine signs kept us on path. Amy was riding with us at this stage and stopped to talk to some Norwegian aid Workers on task. We asked her what they said and her response was nothing, they didn’t really want us around. A little later she pipes up oh yea they mentioned an 18yo was killed last year by a land mine! Better late than never.
Visibility was limited for photo opportunity and as later we were in the midst of a gigantic dust storm whipping sand off the river beds, off the mountains and creating hazzareds all around.
This road continued to fall apart and got worse after we stopped for lunch in the freshly painted village of Tavildara adorned with bunting and billboards of la president. Further on work on a controversial $2 bullion dam created an interesting vista.
Langar is an oasis at the top end of the Wakhan corridor. It is where the Wakhan and Pamir rivers join and eventually turn to the mighty silt laden Panji.
The first we followed. These rivers share a border with Afghanistan but that doesn’t seem to concern anyone. Perhaps the mighty river or the 7000m mountains are the deterent to the Taliban but the corridor seems content as life goes on as it has forever. Along this strip there are small hamlets of green. Farmers cut hay by hand carting this on donkeys along old tree lined streets where stone or mud brick houses are bordered by such walls. Water is abundant with trenches delivering this clear flowing elixir in abundance to towns, animals or to crops .
People seem happy as life should be. Children play, men and women working in fields, chatting in tree lined streets getting on with daily activities. Donkeys carrying firewood or sheaved hay strapped to their backs happy to toil.
Women are well dressed often with brightly colored pant suits with the trousers above ankles and a long shirts to their knees. Then there’s the others in jeans and T-shirt’s, or some with heavy eyebrows almost joined and then the Muslim style. These choices are more ones own as it appears.
Most people wave, even toddlers but the young boys have become brazen and want to high 5 running tauntingly on the road. Sometimes I shake my finger at them, other times I need to be focused to miss them. They mean well.
So to get a better view of this some 70km+ corridor we zigzagged up some 450m on a goat track passing an ancient stone fortress to B.B. Fatima’s hot spring so named after Mohammed’s daughter. Again choosing a simple hotel ($15) some 200m from the hot spring before giving unloading and giving the bathes a go. Theses were devided into male and female sections. Our male side was pretty nondescript but the females, so I’m told, had the water pouring out of the rock face at some 50C+. Just soaking up the views, beer and dinner we enjoyed having the place to ourselves until a tour group of some 15 bikes arrived late at night. Interesting but at a whirlwind pace.
We pushed on to Khorog a lovely small city hedged inbetween two mountain ranges and containing the rushing Panji complete with a bustling market and hesitating for a few days.
The next day turned out to be one of grandest rides of the trip todate. Scenic overload. We continued along the Panji river with it growing in strength. A side trip down the Bartang river gave us another picture snapping frenzy of another tight mountainous valley. The down side was it added 2 hours on to a long day. But for the rest of the day, some 7 more hours we travelled down such an inspiring valley ever witnessed. Road conditions keep the bike down to a modest 30kms but often that’s too fast resulting in bangs and whoops and cussing. From Lenore!
This river on its journey times spread out and slowed only hesitantly but most times seem hell bent in ripping into the rock walls with unknown ferocity.
Kali Khumb was the destination of the night and it took a saddle sore dead beat ride to get there. One globe was blown making visibility and the ability to stay on track whilst skirting the constant potholed road a challenge.
Short lived rest and recovery time was insufficient before we continuing along the M41 over the Saghirdasht pass at 3252m. Here on the pass remnant war torn buildings together with landmine signs kept us on path. Amy was riding with us at this stage and stopped to talk to some Norwegian aid Workers on task. We asked her what they said and her response was nothing, they didn’t really want us around. A little later she pipes up oh yea they mentioned an 18yo was killed last year by a land mine! Better late than never.
Visibility was limited for photo opportunity and as later we were in the midst of a gigantic dust storm whipping sand off the river beds, off the mountains and creating hazzareds all around.
This road continued to fall apart and got worse after we stopped for lunch in the freshly painted village of Tavildara adorned with bunting and billboards of la president. Further on work on a controversial $2 bullion dam created an interesting vista.
Well we have gravitated to Tjakistans capital Dushanbe to chase a Uzbek visa and to add another dimention to our adventure. We expect it on Monday. Their new evisa system doesn’t work so a rest in the wide tree lined streets is welcomed.
The time we have spent here has been amazing. This country geographiclally has to be seen. It’s rugged beauty with stark mountains defying nature standing tall whilst the silt laden rivers are constantly in a rush to get on with their destiny hurl themselves ever forward gorging onto banks in a rush to go somewhere. They are full of grey silt ever collected along the way, foaming and gushing as they leap over boulders brought down seasons before.
Though most ex Soviet run countries are now in the hands of dictators we have always felt safe and never threatened. Sure there are road check points but even this is met with friendly police just doing their job.
Tjak, gotta be a favourite.
Though most ex Soviet run countries are now in the hands of dictators we have always felt safe and never threatened. Sure there are road check points but even this is met with friendly police just doing their job.
Tjak, gotta be a favourite.
30th July
We did this border check point with less anxiety but for the cost of $40. We were not offended with their system but enjoyed the interaction with the guards as they knowingly fleeced us. I admire Barni’s stance.
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