If it’s unexpected, it can be a nerve-racking experience at the best of times. If you’re standing in the middle of the Wakhan Valley, on the edge of Afghanistan’s Badakhshan province, with Taliban rebels fighting less than 20 kilometres from your isolated location, it’s nothing short of terrifying.
And there I was, searching for cover on a dusty and exposed Wakhan road. Precipitous mountains intruded overhead while the Panj River raged its angry torrent below. Melon-sized rocks tumbled down the cliffs towards our group, shaken loose from the guttural explosion.
My three fellow travellers and I stared at our driver Mohammed, waiting for instructions to flee. He simply laughed.
NATO troops pictured in Badakhshan. Picture: NATO Training Mission
“Construction,” he said. “The Afghans are building a road.”
This is Central Asia’s most astonishing frontier. Considered the Holy Grail for cycle tourists, and a not-to-be-missed region for adventure travellers. A place of superlatives and mystery, with mountains that rise like jagged knives.
Wakhan, Afghanistan. Picture: SunriseOdyssey
It’s the world’s second highest international road, reaching dizzying heights of 4655 metres above sea level. A known heroin smuggling route, yet home to some of the most welcoming people imaginable. This is Tajikistan’s Pamir Highway.
Our desire to traverse this stretch of road had led us to the Kyrgyzstan city of Osh, a common launching point for adventures down the Pamir Highway. My fiance Alesha and I teamed up with two enthusiastic backpackers to explore the legendary mountain route, and our spirits were high.
The modest Osh Guesthouse helped organise the hire of a Mitsubishi Pajero and driver, and soon affable Mohammed had us exiting the city on a sunlit Saturday morning, destined for seven days of intrigue and scenic splendours.
Landscapes change quickly in this part of the world, and within minutes craggy fields can morph into steep alpine gorges. Russian trailers are left abandoned in unusual places: on the edge of rivers, scattered in grasslands, or a part of someone’s house.
They are a stark reminder of the decades of Soviet control that plagued Central Asia. Somehow the strange litter complements the striking backdrop.
Our schedule was more or less open, but our route was determined. We would follow the Pamir Highway until we reached Afghanistan and its infamous Wakhan Corridor. The journey would then continue along the border, climaxing at the picturesque town of Khorog.
This curious stretch of narrow land is a remnant of the Great Game, a political battle that took place in the 19th century between British and Russian forces. The corridor divides what were once the two former empires.
Today its mystique attracts those who wish to gaze upon the mountains that separate Pakistan and Tajikistan: The Hindu Kush, or “Killer of Hindus”, towering above the Afghan landscape.
The Pamir Highway twisted towards the small border town of Sary Moghul, near the base of Peak Lenin’s 7143m tall summit.
We had barely parked the car before being recruited by a group of young boys to join their haphazard football match on a patch of dirt surrounded by earthen homes.
Despite tourist numbers in this part of the world growing every year, it was still a novelty for the children to run circles around an unfit foreigner. These local exchanges would become commonplace over the next week as we moved into the neighbouring country.
Children playing around. Picture: Jarryd Salem
A 25km stretch of ‘no-man’s land’ separates Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan, and it is the second highest international border crossing in the world.
The remoteness comes with a price — corruption is rife. Our passage was made easy by the lubricating of countless official’s pockets. Mohammed left us in the car to take care of all the “fees”.
When we had finally entered Tajikistan we asked him how much in bribes he had to pay. “Too much,” was his grim reply. In true Central Asian style, it would not be our last run-in with officials.
In the lakeside village of Karakul we checked into Sadat Homestay and set our eyes on a decrepit prison. The shell of a Russian tank stood guard and we found a hole in the fence to sneak through to photograph the grounds.
Suddenly a soldier came charging towards us, with one hand on his pistol. We stopped in our tracks and apologised, as he explained that we were now trespassing in an active military base. Luckily he had chosen to use his voice instead of his gun to warn us of our mistake.
The military presence is high in Tajikistan, and particularly along the Pamir Highway. Special permits are required to travel through the Gorno-Badakhshan Autonomous Oblast (GBAO) region, and roadblocks are common.
When the security situation is stable, the GBAO region can still close due to adverse weather conditions. In July a tremendous landslide had closed a large portion of the Pamir Highway. Sections of it were still blocked off when we had arrived, two months later.
Even with the bureaucratic hurdles to jump through, intrepid travellers flow through Tajikistan during the summer. The majority of foreigners you meet on the Pamir Highway are cyclists. Most have pedalled from either Europe or China, eager to tackle one of the hardest roads in the world to ride.
We met one young man who had ridden his Suzuki dirt bike from his hometown of Brisbane, and was 15 months into a solo motorbike journey around the world. Perhaps more than most places, Tajikistan attracts true adventurers.
Our journey continued along the Pamir Highway, with days occupied by hiking in mountainous glory and visiting glistening lakes. Nights were spent on the floors of mud brick homes. Tajik families would welcome us into their cozy homestays and provide simple yet delicious meals. They would sip green tea with us and join in with our card games.
When we weren’t exploring the lakes and views in the surrounding villages, we would sit for hours to learn about the customs and local culture, using Mohammed as a translator. The women would tend to the many chores around the house while the men would spend their days in the fields, caring for the livestock that are their main source of income.
Even with the technological marvels of the 21st century beginning to hit rural Tajikistan, their way of life is one that has been unchanged for millennia. Donkeys tow carts full of firewood, freshwater is bucketed out from deep wells and kids run around herding yaks and goats.
The kilometres would tick over with glaciers spilling down the valleys towards the Panj River. The road conditions deteriorated into a quagmire of potholes, ruts and entire sections were washed away from heavy rainfalls. The Pamir Mountains encroached on all sides, with the Hindu Kush standing guard over Afghanistan’s troubled terrain.
When the unsettled nation first comes into view, a real sense of curiosity takes over. The Afghan farmers are close enough to talk to over the river, and gleefully shout out “hello” as foreigners pass.
The previous night’s reports are that the Taliban have moved closer to Ishkashim, where the closest international border crossing is. Its famous Saturday market has closed due to this threat, and security remains uncertain. I sadly wonder how this will affect the simple farmers smiling at us from across the river.
Still we pushed on, visiting megalithic petroglyphs and ancient religious relics hidden in the mountains as we went. Climbing the hairpins towards Yamchun we explored the 2200-year-old ruins of a sprawling fortress.
The views it offers throughout the valley are superb, and the Wakhan Corridor is peppered with these primal strongholds. A sad reminder that fighting in this region has gone on for countless generations.
The moments of worry and despair are rare though when travelling through Tajikistan. At the natural hot springs of Babi Fatima, males entered one room and females another. We stripped all of our clothes and soaked in the mystical waters, which claimed to improve fertility.
The local men in my cave-like bath started a conversation with me, asking how I was enjoying Tajikistan. No amount of positive words could accurately convey my experiences so far. They were pleased, and reminded me that I was “always welcome in Tajikistan”.
A sentiment I had already felt along the Pamir Highway.
Kids still ran from their houses to cheer as we closed in Khorog. Men riding donkeys would stop our car to say hello and women held out their babies for us to play with. Every time we paused for photos or to stretch our legs we would be invited into a Pamiri home for green tea and snacks.
Their kind hospitality knew no limits, and above all it was these interactions that won our hearts more than the breathtaking scenery.
We finished our journey in the Pamir Lodge, sipping on a Russian beer and excitedly chatting with other travellers about the splendours of the region. Our minds were already racing with plans to return to the area one day, hoping to visit the many families who had welcomed us into their homes along the way.
We asked Mohammed when he thought the Afghans would finish their own road construction, a sign of progress and hopefully stability. Its completion would create an opportunity for the Afghans to continue trade and capitalise on what may become the next Pamir Highway, hopefully attracting more adventurous tourists and injecting new income into their economy. Mohammed idly stared at the Hindu Kush. “Maybe in the future. Maybe.”
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