September 9, 2010
It has been interesting to stay in guesthouses and get to see how real families live. The families have given us their very best and we are most appreciative. Our beds have been mattresses on a carpet and a quilt or blanket. I am very grateful for the suggestion from Alain Loyer for the suggestion of a bug net, and to Tasha Pairaudeau for the silk sleeping bag liners from Vietnam. We have been using these when it is obvious that washed linens are out of the question, which is almost every night. I will summarize by saying that the guide and driver most likely think that I'm some sort of a clean freak by my use of hand sanitizer and for my preference for peeing in the bush over the use of a "toilet". Briefly, while the President of Tajikistan like the President of Kyrgestan faces the 3 major hurdles of alcoholism, corruption and regional tribalism, when our guide asked me what I thought could be done to increase tourisim, very thoughtfully, I suggested that these 3 priorities: toilets, toilets, toilets. Currently, despite the modern architecture in cities, the girls wearing beautiful shoes and carrying the lastest bags, and the ubiquity of the cell phone and internet access, the toilets remain holes in the ground with urine and fecal-soaked wooden planks to place your feet upon. Sometimes, I just don't have the courage to face the stench and the slippery situation, so I beg for a roadside stop and hop into the bush or squat behind the Prado and think of the Queen (or stare into the face of a passing cow). I was thinking of the chemical toilets at the backcountry huts in Canada and was thinking that introducing the toilet value could be a great idea for Central Asia.
The Pamirs are known locally as Bam-i-Dunya (roof of the World) and once up in the valleys, it is easy to feel a little closer to heaven. The word "pamir" means "rolling pasture land" in ancient Persian. Tajik, Pamiri, Afghani, and Farsi are closely linked languages and like the borders, the people are closely related. That said, during the 1991 civil war in Tajikistan, when people tried to flee across the river into Afghanistan, they were shot. Bitter memories.
The road from Kalaikum to Khorog follows the Pyanj river, across from which rise the steep Pamir mountains on the Afghan side. Mostly, the mountains rise steeply up from the river valley, but in every stream trickling down to the river there is a settlement. We felt a bit like voyeurs looking across the river, in places only about 30M, into the often glass-less windows of the homes of Afghan villagers. A track parallels the Tajik road on the Afghan side of the river, but the track often petersout into the river or into a rock slide. We saw people walking and working in the fields and donkey trains, but only 3 motorized vehicles (a minivan, a small car, and a motorcycle) on the Afghan road. The Afghan villages and the people were dressed much like the Tajiks, but there was little sign of electricity. The splashes of green pastures and crops, the orchards and the landscape held our attention and interest. I kept wondering what the Afghans think about all of the traffic on the Tajik side of the river and wondered whether they call across to each other. There are 3 heavily guarded connecting briges and workers do have permits to go back and forth. Near Khorog there is a weekly market where Afghans and Tajiks can meet, talk and trade.
We arrived in Khorog on Sept. 9 to join a very festive mood and celebrations in the beautiful tree-lined park near our hotel, the Delhi Durbar. It was Independence Day and the end of Ramadan and it seemed the whole of Khorog turned out in their best national dress. A real party: a band played, politicians spoke, people walked along with their kids eating ice cream. Khorog is beautifully situated in a mountain valley along the Gunt River and about 100 years ago, a Russian with geat vision for the future, planted a botanical garden high up on a slope overlooking the city. There is evidence of every NGO that you can think of working here, with the Aga Khan Foundation taking the lead. We met a nice guy from Nepal working on a micro hydro project in Afganistan. Maybe in a few years, electricity will light up the lives in this part of the world. Despite the lack of electricity, the Nepali guy told me that everyone was aware of Pastor Jones in Florida who planned to burn the Koran. That little gesture has sparked even more animosity against Christians and the West. Little provocation is necessary to create the chaos that occurred in Kashmir last week.
I could live in Khorog and can see that like the mountain towns in Kyrgestan, there are very pretty villages in Tajikistan that could welcome the world. The Wakhan Valley, shared with Afghanistan is superly remote with stunning side valleys revealing stunning views of the 7000M peaks of the Hindu Kush (Killer of Hindus) marking the border with Pakistan. The Buddhist Monk, Hsuang Xang passed this way around 627 and Marco Polo tavelled through the valley in 1274. We passed through about 20 military checkpoints and our driver skillfully handled each one. We had heard stories about cars and goods being checked, luggage opened and delays, delays, delays, but we only had to present our passports and Hatam ingratiated himself with each guard. There was an exchange about the moans and groans of life, but thankfully, no bribes were requested.
We visited the remains of 12th fortresses and had long broad views up the valleys and into the Hindu Kush. We stopped at the Bibi Fatima Hot Springs and in particular, the calcite formations reminded me of Pamukkale in Turkey. Bibi Fatima is a bit "Dizney", is segregated between the sexes, but is supposed to imbue fertility upon all. Given that that is a bit late for me, we opted to hike up the cliff-side into the high pastures above the springs. Hatam and Vlad went for a bath.
The highlight while travelling on the still bumpy road was a stay in Yamg and a visit to the house museum of the Sufi mystic, astronmer and musician Mubarak Kadam Wakhani (1843-1903). We stayed at the home of his grandson, Aydar Malikmadov who has a very beautiful, typical Pamiri house, a friendly family, and a clean outhouse. The food that we were offered here was the best on the trip: plov (rice or noodles fried with vegs and meats, home made jams, and dried fruits from his own trees. Aydar took dinner with us and spoke Russian and a little English and Stefan did his best with fractured Russian. Down the road a little way, we stopped at Vrang to visit the Buddhist Stuppas and ruins of the hermit caves. The caves are pretty obvious, but you need alot of imagination in the "Ruined ruins". Then further down the vally we stoped at Langar walk up a steep hillside, through a Muslim cemetary and up the cliffside to see some of the 6,000 petroglyphs. Some have been badly vandalized, but many are lovely. One can easily recognize the forms of ibex, sheep, hunters and horses and remember the early Sythian gold impressions taken from these petroglyphs.
We have met a few other travellers: a French ethnographer working in Uzbekistan, a couple of nutcases cycling along the dusty, gravel-pitted road, and we picked up 2 hitchhikers at the military check post at Khargush on our way to Murgab-the guy from Omsk and the girl from Minsk. They met 3 weeks ago in Dushanbe and are travelling as "brother and sister". They hoped for very gullible hosts to believe that they had a common father: the guy was handsome, slim, fair but with jet black hair and eyes; the girl was slavic looking and blond. He said he was a photographer now living in Moscow and she was supposedly a Mandarin, Russian, Spanish translator in Minsk. They got stuck off the beaten track and we gave them a lift to the Pamir Highway where it was more likely that they could flag down a Chinese transport truck. I didn't envy their situation and hope that they make it.
From Khargush we descended onto the Pamir highway for a short way, noting a few salt lakes and desert. Posted just at the junction where we dropped the hitchhikers, was a big sign United Nations Fishing Project. No sign of Fish in this dusty dirty place. We drove on to Bulunkul, a place that truly seemed to be the very end of the world. I've never ever seen a dustier, poorer, desolated place. I have absolutely NO IDEA what keeps people there, but there are archaeological sites near by a lake and the area was long ago a major trade route between the eastern and western Pamirs. Maybe it is a part of the drug trade route, but there was no fish nor food to be had in the settlement and so we pressed onto Murgab. Bulunkul reminded me a little of small, Inuit settlements in Canada's North.
We travelled along the Pamir Highway to the town of Murgab, population 6500 souls, at 3576 M, like Khorg, a former Tsarist garrison. The only charm about the place is the sight of the 7546 M Chinese peak of Mt Muztagh Ata. To give you some idea of bleakness, electricity alternates daily, and people somehow survive in the dark, with lights that flicker, or have only 1 candle power. Again, we stayed with a kind family, and when getting up to pee in the night, stared up at a starry milky way, with unrecognizabel constellations, and mountain sillouettes. The next day we followed the power poles along the Pamir Highway, the poles the only relief breaking the solitary landscape of flat pastures, between rolling hills and steep mountain peaks. Shaggy sheep, sleek goats, fat cattle and yaks, and wide eyed donkeys were our only company. Huge transport trucks from China were the only traffic that we met. You will be assured to know that maybe the UN project did find success. Our guide remembered a little house selling fried fish. The man patching the side wall told us that he catches fish in a nearby stream while he walks with his herd of sheep and goats. His pretty wife in a red, sequined house-coat with matching scarf, cleans and fries the fish. The fish were fresh and with fresh warm bread, a welcomed change from the usual lunch of lagman (noodle soup of course, at this altitude laced with iodine).
Sept. 15, 16.
We are back in Dushanbe. We have had the luxeries offered by this old, faded Russian hotel: a sort of hot shower but big rooms to spread out our stuff and to get ready for the next adventuresome week of hiking in the Fan Mountains. It was 3 degrees and snowing a couple of days ago as we drove the Pamir Highway, and was 30+ degrees yesterday when we arrived in Dushanbe. Today it is about 25 degrees, overcast and rainy, but this city with the broad streets and tall trees is quite lovely. Success, we have had a long chat with the woman who sits at a desk with a TV set on our floor and have finally managed to get another towel and a piece of soap. Some of you will recognize the discipline of the great Russian empire and the terror that the "floor ladies" in a hotel can still wield.
Fortunately, both of us are holding up well. We've both had a few stomach problems, but luckily, nothing major. Love to all, Corine and Stefan
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