Category: Travel

Dear Readers,

Please accept my apologies this should come before the Pamir trek entry. For some reason the program failed to save this one when I wrote it up a couple of days ago so here it is:

From Ishkashim to Langar the track continues to wind westwards. To our right our constant companion te Panj River separates us from the rugged mountains of th Afghan Wakhan corridor. Breaks in the foothills yield views of the 7000metre snow clad peaks of the Hindu Kush, tantalising and tempting trekking country.

Hindu Kush

At Kargush the dirt track veers left and we start the slow ascent up to the 4200metre Kargush Pass. To our right the Pamir river, a tributary of the Panj now separates us from Afghanistan. The mountains have changed and are now the heavily eroded ribbed and corrugated Pamirs. We have turned our back on the Hindu Kush.

Kargush Pass

The river now seems in parts to be more like a fast flowing creek that it would be easy to wade across and make the illegal border crossing. We see herds of whimsical Bactrian camels and finally we leave the Pamir river to tackle the steep switchback dusty climb to the pass. As we climb the rugged hills give way to gentler striated rounded mounds with colourful bands of yellow, red and brown soils. We have levelled off onto the 4000metre altiplano, so reminiscent of Tibet. Apart from the yurts here even the scruffy little villages look the same.

The landscape is dotted with salt pans and salt lakes varying in colour from turquoise to deep navy blue. We drink from sulpherous mineral water springs and sit down to watch the show provided by a cheerful little geyser.

Bulunkul Lake

Yamchen fort

Thermal pool

It is the variety of experiences along the Pamir Highway that impresses. The two nation journey from Dushanbe in Tajikistan to Osh in Kyrgyzstan has taken us along the mountainous border with Afghanistan with exquisite views of the Hindu Kush. There are ancient fortresses, caravanserais, glacial rivers and lakes through to hot springs and geysers. When we do ascend up to the Pamirs proper we experience a bleak, haunting but beautiful “moonscape” of sculpted rugged hills and snow capped mountains on the 4000metre altiplano.

The people also change with each variation in scenic tableau from Tajiks to Afghans to nomadic Kyrgyz with their whimsical peaked white felt hats. We have spent the night in a massive Kyrgyz yurt in the tiny hamlet of Keng Shiber at 4200metres above sea level.

Today’s 5 hour walk begins with a hearty cooked breakfast served on the yurt floor seated on magnificent deep red patterned traditional hand woven carpets and mats. A 10km rugged jeep ride takes us to the trail head for our walk up the Belainik valley to the high pass at 5000 metres.

We started at the terminal moraine of what must have been a massive glacier during the last ice age. The scalloped grassy U shaped valley is 1 km wide here and the snow covered mountainous walls rise 600 metres on each side. Yaks graze freely around a large yurt.

There is no path here, these are yak pastures in the warmer months and this is not on any well worn tourist track. At first we pick our way through rocky, grassy slopes pockmarked with marmot burrows. We hear the distinctive chirps of these shy furry little rodents but fail to see one.

More taxing on the feet is the transit through the frozen bog where we have to hop onto tussocky mounds which are islands in a large frozen pond. The occasional loud snap of frozen ice cracking warns us we have landed close to the edge.

Finally we pick our way up the rocky scree of the lateral moraine of the glacier, the tiny remnant of which we spy up high on the left hand side of the valley. The altitude is really taking its toll now and it is slow baby steps up punctuated with forced sucking in of the oxygen depleted air. Head down, concentrating the arrival at the top comes as a pleasant surprise. We are literally blown away by the biting icy wind roaring off the snowy slopes, and, more importantly, the panorama of snow capped mountains and the deep blue Zorkol lake beneath us figuratively blows us away.

Exhilarated we turn back to partake of the picnic lunch at the trailhead and a well earned rest in our yurt.

The approach to Khorog, the capitol of the Pamiri region of Tajikistan sees the Panj river valley broaden as the river meanders lazily sinuous on the valley floor. It is a stark contrast to the frenetic white water action downstream. Green patches with affluent looking little villages dot the landscape on both sides of the river. Even the corresponding track on the Afghan side has graduated from goat track to one that would at least support a single vehicle.

Khorog itself is a thriving little town straddling the Gunt River, a tributary of the Panj. We spend a pleasant half day wandering through its attractions including the world’s second highest botanical gardens, parks and museum.

Leaving that afternoon, the third day of our trip we drive to the tiny village of Ishkashim, the easternmost intertional entry point into Afghanistan. As we drive we come face to face with magnificent 7000 metre snow capped peaks of the Hindu Kush in Afghanistan. We finally feel we are on our way!

The Pamir Highway winds 900km from the Tajik capitol, Dushanbe to Osh in the northern neighbouring country of Kyrgyzstan. In the process it skirts the sensitive border with Afghanistan before spending most of its length at 4000 metres through the rugged and remote Pamir Mountains. Some sources actually suggest that the highway really starts in the Afghan city of Mazar-e-Sharif and goes through Termez in Uzbekistan then to Dushanbe. With what I have already done I have that covered.

The highway sees little traffic and has a minimum of habitation along the way so for this section of my adventure I have booked a jeep, driver and guide through Pamir Guides a company I have found on line. It is a leap of faith as there are no reviews of any of the companies offering Pamiri tours. I am relieved to meet with my guide who is the owner of the company Saidali and the driver Ismail who both turn out to be excellent!

After 3 weeks solo travel I am to be joined by Anthony who flies in just before midnight. I am waiting in the tin shed that passes for the arrival hall in Dushanbe International Airport. The flight is late and I have an anxious 1 hour wait until he finally emerges. Officially as he had an LOI he was entitled to a visa on arrival at the airport. Unofficially the relevant consular official is only there consistently for Turkish Airline flights and spasmodically for any others. Sure enough he wasn’t there and it took the intervention of an arriving Canadian Tajik to rouse him and have the applications processed.

The road south of Dushanbe is amazingly good for central Asia and our little jeep cruises for the first 3 hours. We stop at the little archaeological site at Hulbuk with excavations revealing a bronze age palace and artefacts. Not long after this the road degenerates into a rough 4WD track. The countryside becomes increasingly mountainous and when we reach the Panj River which is the border with Afghanistan the narrow track now hugs the Tajik mountainside precariously over the grey fast flowing murky glacial river. Our eyes are drawn continuously to the “forbidden” Afghan side for glimpses of life and activity in this dangerous and blighted country. For the next 2 days the rugged Panj gorge is our constant companion.

I awoke today to an unfamiliar sight, rain! A steady drizzle and grey sky that I last saw over 3 weeks ago in an antipodean little town called Melbourne. I cursed inwardlay as I have paid a hefty $200 US for a day trip to Alexander Lake (Iskander Kul).

92% of Tajikistan is mountain and the northern Fan Mountains are not on the itinerary for my adventure up the Pamir Hwy hence the effort to get here now that I have a day spare here. It is a 3 hour drive from the capitol Dushanbe and the mountains intrude some 20km out. We drive by the palatial president’s holiday house and the road narrows and there are more frequent concrete tunnels to protect the road from avalanche and snow. Some 2 hours out we reach what our driver euphemistically calls “bad tunnel” an 18 minute drive through a pitch black hole that seems to lead into the very core of the planet. The road surface is grossly pitted and corrugated so the only way through is to drive in a sinuous serpentine fashion playing chicken with the oncoming traffic. This is not an adventure for the claustrophobic. Some of the craters are veritable lakes and I wonder at the sense of having a nice white Mercedes as our vehicle rather than a 4 WD.

Iskander Falls

Snake Lake

This thought becomes even more sensible as after the tunnel the road descends down vertiginous hairpin bends before turning int a narrow dirty potholed dirt track. Somehow are car negotiates all of this with a minimum of fuss and we are at the stunning turqoise blue lake. We have time to walk down to the waterfall and up to snake lake before our trip home through the “bad tunnel”.

In a couple of hours I pick up Anthony for our 11 day tour up the Pamir Hwy to Osh in Kyrgyzstan. This trip is in a 4 WD and involves high altitude trekking, homestays and yurt stays. I would be surprised if there is any internet at all along the way so this may be a bit of a hiatus. Stay tuned, I will be back in about 2 weeks from Kazakhstan. (Home of Borat!)

Well, the Uzbek border officials certainly didn’t disappoint! The drive from Samarkand to the border is down as 5-6 hours. For some reason it took us 8 hours and it was 5:30 pm by the time we arrived at the border. The sun was low in the sky and the border closes at 6pm. I hasten in and complete my declaration form quickly having had some practise already. I know that the Uzbeks are dynamite on the currency declaration and I have my US dollars addded up to perfection and am ready to go. I hit a snag. My last entry into Uzbekistan was my day trip from Afghanistan. I only took $200 across and back. I am leaving the country with $1700 how is this possible? I explain it over and again through an attractive female customs officer who speaks some English. There is lots of head shaking and grimacing as they wave me to one side and take my passport away. More questions and I explain that I did declare over $2000 USD on my first entry so they go off somewhere to download a copy. Amazingly they do eventually find one and after a cursory search I am allowed through an hour later.

It is now after 6pm and as I walk through no mans land past the trucks stranded there I wonder if I will have to sleep out on the ground. At least I have my sleeping bag but no food or water it will be a long night. The door is still open on the Tajik side but it looks deserted inside. I wander through until I find an occupied office. The nice Tajik man happily hands me the forms to fill out and I am through immigration and customs in 5 minutes! Next hassle is what is at the other side. I am mentally prepared for having to hitch as the nearest town is 12 km away. My luck is still in for there is one car left and after some taxi negiotiating argy bargy I am on my way in the darkness for the last 66 km of my journey to the capitol of Tajikistan, Dushanbe. This journey is supposed to take 45 minutes. It takes us over 2 hours along road that is more dirty corrugated, construction zone potholes than main road. I am oh so grateful to arrive late at night at my guest house.

Dushanbe is actually quite a pleasant leafy, green capitol. The main avenue, Rudaki Street stretches for kilometres with well established elm trees lining the way providing ample shade from the late summer heat. There is nothing historic here and up until a few years ago nothing of modern significance to see either. This has changed with the changes to the Bag i Rudaki parkland that is a magnificent green oasis literally gushing with kilometres of fountains and as its backdrop the new Presidential Palace which cost more to construct than the annual national health budget of this nation of 7 million. A pleasant day is had seeing as much as possible of this pleasant green central Asian city.

Gardens

Presidential palace

I arrive at Samarkand to find it barricaded up with security officers closing down the inner city for the visit to the classic monuments here by the Chinese President and the Uzbek President. The resourceful Iranian businessman who is my companion for the day speaks the language and somehow we get a cab to take us up the bck routes to his hotel. The Iranian also negotiates a price for me aand suddenly the 4 star room is a steal at $55 rather than the normal rate of $100! I head off in the late afternoon and get most of the way into town by cab and walk the last kilometre along lovely green shaded boulevards which ar a balm to my eyes that have had almost 3 weeks of desert and shades of yellow.

Samarkand is Uzbekistan’s most glorious city! With a history that stretches back to 5 BC it became yet another key post on the silk road. In a familair plot it was obliterated by Genghis Khan in the 13th century before becoming the capitol of Timur’s empire in 1370. At its zenith this empire stretched from Kazakhstan in the north to China in the east and down to Delhi, Iran and all of Turkey to the Bosperus. His capitol became a centre of learning and culture in the Middle East. Ultimately it declined as the neighbouring Bukhara became more powerful.

The monuments here are on a truly grand scale and the centrepiece is the 3 massive blue tiled, mosaiced medressas set around a large square called the Registan. Early morning and I beat the tour groups and the ticket office and have the best of the light. I am surprised to find that all is open and by the time someone badgers me to pay I have already seen all I want to. At my next venue, the Bib Khanym mosque I utilise a trick that worked here at a mausoleum yesterday. I wander in amongst the middle of a large tour group and again I don’t have to pay. It is not something I will make a habit of but it was the challenge to see if I could get away with it. I did!

Gur e Amir mausoleum

Gur e Amir Mausoleum

This place is the closes to the capitol Tashkent and I have seen as many tour groups here as I have for the last 2 weeks but it is still easy enough to wander around between groups and get good pictures. Despite the tour groups the locals are truly friendly. Last night at dinner at a local restaurant I find I am being eyed off by a corpulent elderly Uzbek lady dresssed up to the nines. Finally she speaks up loadly and says “You tourist?” When I nodded she roars “I love tourists, I love you!” much to my embarrassment. Today walking near the Registan I am set upon by 8 teenage girls who all want to be photographed with me. It was a good five minutes before this celebrity managed to extricate himself from the poses and phone photos with the girls.

Registan

Ulugbek medressa

This is my last day in Uzbekistan. I am not looking forward to tomorrow’s border crossing into Tajikistan. The Uzbeks at my last departure point were particularly officious and intrusive and there was a big language barrier. No matter I wil prevail and tomorrow it is from the capitol, Dushanbe.

The holiest central Asian city in the Muslim world, Bukhara’s history in so many ways parallels that of Khiva. A thriving oasis in the desert and a key city on the famous Silk road it was destroyed in the 13th century by, you guessed it, Genghis Khan. Rebuilt it became one of the three main city states that ultimately served as an almost unconquerable buffer between the Russians in the north and the English in India in the south. This jostling that occurred over almost 3 centuries came to be known as “The Great Game” and cost countless thousands of lives both of the local people and Russians and British. In the end Bukhara was the penultimate khanate to succumb to the Russians.

 Medressa

The earliest buildings here date from the 9th century and this is a city where the restoration work has been sensitively managed leaving the tourist with a more authentic appreciation of the history. This is less “theme park” and more original. As a holy city it was a centre of learning in the muslim world and there are no fewer than 100 medressas (Islamic schools) here, many beautifully ornate. This is a beautiful ancient city that rewards wandering through the bazaars and alleyways.

Bazaar with mosque domes and minaret in background

 Kalon mosque

The architectural gem here is the Kalon mosque. Built in the 16th centuries its bright blue tiled domes are exquisite. Out front is the Kalon minaret which, built in 1127 was the tallest building in central Asia. 47 metres tall it was at that time the tallest building in central Asia and when Genghis saw it he was so dumbfounded that he ordered that it be spared.

For me, though, having studied the Great Game, the highlight here was the Khan’ s palace, known as the Ark and the prison there known as the Zindon. The rulers of medieval Bukhara were every bit as brutal as at Khiva. The ruler with the worst reputation was Nasrullah Khan. There is a portrait of him in the museum here and as I gaze into his large cruel eyes the Uzbek lady watching the room says “Butcher”. To ascend to the throne he had to kill no fewer than 28 members of his own family who were either ahead of him in lineage or who may have taken issue with his rule. Known even to his own people as “The Butcher” he was expert at playing Russian off against British. In 1838 a British envoy, soldier Charles Stoddart rode into Bukhara. Nasrulla arrested him for not dismounting his horse in the city and failing to bring gifts for him. He put him into jail in a 6.5 metre deep well. The only way in or out was by a 6 metre long rope and the prison guards refreshed what was know as the “bug pit” daily with scorpions, bugs and rats. A year later the British sent Arthur Connolly to negotiate his rescue and he joined Stoddart in the bug pit. Four years after Stoddart’s arrest the two were brought out to the courtyard outside the ark. They dug their own graves before being beheaded. While the graves are unmarked all of the rest of the history is here, visible and palpable. Despite the appearance of multiple European tour groups for the first time in my travels I am able to connect with the history of this beautiful and unique place.

Bug pit

Prison

Registan, in front of the Ark, where Connolly and Stoddart were beheaded.

Strolling over the friendship bridge in no man’s land between Uzbekistan and Afghanistan I reflect back to the Russian invasion in the 1980s. They built this almost 1 km long bridge over the Amu Darya River in 1985. How many Russian tanks rumbled across this bridge? How many US tanks rumbled across from Uzbekistan to liberate Mazar e Sharif from the Taliban in 2001? I gaze across to Afghanistan and the bizarre US army spy blimp that floats across the border village of Hairattan.

I have with me on the long hot walk a Kazakh of Afghan extraction who I met on my long wait at the Uzbek border controls. He speaks a little English but he does speak Uzbek and, bonus, Afghan. He cruises through the border formalities before me but waits in the heat on the other side and he is the key to the smooth running of my time in Afghanistan.

The bridge is in good whitewashed nick until we cross the red line painted halfway along marking our passage into Afghanistan. Beyond this the paintwork has been unkempt and rust is breaking through. Nonetheless I am feeling mildly euphoric to actually be here as the anxieties and apprehensions leading up to this day have disappeared. The two Afghan flags at the end of the bridge are small and fraying in contrarst to the race of sparkling new Uzbek flags behind me.

Veering right off the bridge I am stratled by the sight of two American soldiers, bullet proof vests carrying machine guns. I can,t resist to say hi and ask where they are from. In a broad southern drawl one repies “I’m from Texas” It is pleasant to hear a western voice. He continues with a hint of sarcasm says “Now you enjoy your touring through Afghanistan!” I retort that I will be back and out of here this very afternoon after I have taken a few pictures and he breaks out a broad grin. I then pick my way through three parked US tanks, engines running manned with soldiers stationed with machine guns at the ready on the top.

By comparison with the Uzbek side customs takes only 10 minutes and my minder, Bashir, finds an Afghan official who speaks perfect English. I promise I will see him later this afternoon. We jump into a Taxi and Bashir does the rest.

It is a 45 minute drive from the border to Mazar e Sharif through desert. Mountains loom on the southern horizon. We pass by a US military base and I am intrigued to see the same anti suicide bomb protections on the outside that I have seen in recent Hollywood movies. The little villages along the way are few and far between but look much the same as any subcontinental road stops. The women in burkhas evoke images of dark blue ghosts.

Mazar itself is a surprise. It is Afghanistan,s 4th largest city and there is lots of sprawl and traffic. In the centre we reach my destination the shrine of Hazrat Ali and my new friend Bashir leaves me but not before paying for the taxi ride himself in a typical show of Afghan hospitality. Not only that he sets me up with the driver for the rest of my day. The driver follows me around the shrine as my “minder” and drives me the long 45 minutes back all for $20 US. It is such a godsend I do not haggle and accept immediately.

The shrine of Hazrat Ali marks the burial place of the son in law of the prophet Mohammed. The present construction dates back to the 15 th century and it is absolutely sublime! The mosque is huge and clad in stunning blue mosaics. The surrounds are all brilliant white marble and the effect is dazzling. I am so glad that I pushed through all the negative vibe and came here. The photographs promise to be absolutely stunning albeit the harsh midday sunlight will not fully do it justice.  I take time to sit on the white tile ground and take pictures of the people parade passing by. Men, women and children all captured with ease. In fact the kids went out of their way to pose for me and asking some of the bearded older men they nodded and posed for me. I was refused entry into the mosque but not because I was a foreigner, the attendant asked me if I was Muslim. Tempted to lie, I don’t think I could have effectively convinced them if I was to have to perform any prayers or devotions inside.

I bought lunch for myself and my driver and we sat down to a bowl of chips, bread and some sort of vegetarian pakoras seated at an impromptu table in the shade. A beer would have gone down very nicely in the heat. Couldn’t find one so an apple juice sufficed. As I sat and relaxed I reflected on how surreal this was. The people were lovely and friendly. Unsurprisingly I was the only foreigner there.

Back at Afghan customs, my English speaking friend wanted to see my photos before stamping my passport perfunctorily. Even the Uzbek side was quick this time and as I exited the Uzbek side a local bus pulled up as if at my bidding and it is back to Termiz.

Sitting here now and looking at my people pix I cannot but wonder. All foreign troops will be out next year. If, as many analysts and Afghan history suggests the country descends into tribal violence again how many of these people will still be alive in a year or two? For the happy kids playing andd posing for my camera today the future is truly clouded.

Khiva is a name that evokes images of desert sands, camels and caravanserais. A vital stop on the legendary silk road it has the same cachet as other forbidden cities such as Lhasa, Kashgar, Zanzibar and Timbuktu.

In the 16th and 17th centuries it became the centre of the Khorezm empire and ruled by successive Khans it achieved notoriety as the centre of the central Asian slave trade. Turkomen nomads would ambush caravans, stealing their contents and selling the traders to Khivans. The cruelty and treachery of its Khan was legendary and executions for trivial offences were the norm. Torture was commonplace as were novel approaches to killing such as being thrown off the tops of minarets, being placed in a bag filled with feral cats. How’s this for size, throw a baby up in the air for it to land on a sword and be cut in half!

A Russian force was sent in 1717 responding to the Khan’s request for Russian help to control marauding local tribes. By the time a Russian force of 400 arrived the Khan had changed his mind. Nonetheless he welcomed them and put them up for the night. They were massacred while asleep and the Russian leader, Count Bekovitch had his head sent to the neighbouring emir of Bukhara. His body was put on display in the Khiva marketplace. Ultimately Khiva was the last of the central Asian khanates to surrender to the Russians in1873.

Modern Khiva reflects extensive reconstruction since that time. It is all a bit reminiscent of a Hollywood set for Sinbad or Arabian nights.  While there are no truly ancient buildings here it is nonetheless atmospheric and very worthy of a stopover to wander the winding alleyways within the crenellated city walls.