Dushanbe to Khorog

The rumour mill seemed to suggest that the route from Dushanbe to Khorog, the town att the start of the Pamir Highway, would be a simple and straightforward journey. This is proof the rumour is not always the best source of information, although in this part of the world, it is usually the only thing to go by.

As usual, I left Dushanbe late on the 22nd August, after the last minute errands I wanted to do before leaving town. I met a rather friendly 23 year old girl who helped me buy rehydration salts (of all things) in a pharmacy. I tried to explain to her that they were for my supplies "just in case" but she didn't understand. She was very keen to take my phone number to practice her English, which I thought was rather odd since she is married with a child. She never rang!

The first day was well paved, and I found a teahouse that allowed me to sleep as well as have supper and breakfast for less than $3. This had been the first day of Ramadan, and people tutted "ramadan, ramadan" as I sipped an ice tea in the street. Ramadan unfortunately means that a lot, but not all, of the teahouses I rely on for sustinence are closed.

The following evening I saw a cowboy riding with no saddle, herding his large flock of horses down the road. A few moments later, I ran into some friendly Irish Mongol Ralliers, and we decided to camp together by the river. They had had an interesting trip, having already been to Syria, Iraq and Iran in their car. One of them was a bicycle mechanic and he kindly gave my bike a once over and tightened a few screws. He also gave me some useful bike tools and a pair of long finger gloves.

They cooked me a great supper of pasta and sardines- just what I needed as I really couldn't be bothered to cook. After I left them the following day, there was the amusing sight of both of them pushing the car down the hill that led to the rickety bridge, and jumping in just in time to turn the ignition.

The road by this stage had been awful for a long time, with no tarmac, but stones, boulders, and potholes in spades. The most irritating thing about such an awful road, in combination with hilly terrain is that you go up the hills slowly, and then instead of whooshing down the other side, you go down at the same speed you went up. This reduced my daily kilometer total to less than 50km, when I usually like to count on 100 to 120.

The following day at about lunchtime I stopped in a teahouse that was obviously closed, but desperate for something to eat, I went round the back and hunted for someone who could perhaps help me. They told me they were closed, but gave me an enormous loaf of flat "non" bread and four big tomatoes for which they would accept no payment.

I followed the rotten road down into a valley where there was the wildest ford I have ever seen. The cars, minibuses, tankers, lorries and -well- bibycles were forced to cross a proper flowing river and go straight up a very steep hill of mud and stones on the other side. After letting out a sigh and a groan, and having given a little banter to the assembled children, I took off my shoes and socks, tied them together in a bow so they would sit on my bike frame, and walked my bike through the fast flowing freezing water. A lorry had broken down in the shallowest part of the river which was very irritating. Passengers in minibuses were forced to get out and push on the other side, and I was treated to the amusing sight of a dozen people trying to push an oil tanker uphill.

That evening I was a little caught out by the fact that it now gets dark at about 7.30pm, and I arrived in a village just as darkness was falling. Children shreaked with excitement from seemingly every house gate- highly irritating as I was trying to keep a low profile. Two children started to follow me, and out of irritation I slammed on my brakes and asked them where they were going. I then felt a little guilty as one of them then said he knew where I could stay. After a long and confusing circle of the residential area, where women ignored me when I tried to strike up conversation ("Izvinitye pajalsta...")I was led to the police station. I asked in my best Russian if they knew where I could sleep in my tent, and the old officer made a call on his mobile. With the gesture of a host in a private house, I was then invited into the police station where I was given tea, soup, bread, plov (the national dish) and watermelon. One of the policemen then took me back to his home where I was given a bed for the night. So much for the reports of corrupt and nasty soviet police!

I found an open teahouse the following morning where I received a delicious goulash and the old guy played the usual game of putting things in front of me that I had not ordered. This time, I was delighted to receive a large bowl of honey, and a "non" bread. I met a Pamiri man in the teahouse who is a driver in Dushanbe, and who lamented the demise of the USSR. "USSR was good country- people had to worry about nothing. If you needed clothes, you had clothes. Now, we have to buy things from China, and they brake immediately." There are an extraordinary amount of people here who wear tops with USSR or CCCP emblazoned on the back, and the statue of Lenin still holds pride of place in many towns.

I felt very tired later that day, and a call from Jam Pot raised my spirits. It was great to hear about what my friends have been up to over the last few months. Very sorry to hear that Patrick has had a bad fall from his horse, but hope he is on tip top form despite.

That evening, I made my way up towards the khaburahot pass, and camped by a mountain stream in a place that could have been created just for me, out of sight from the road. The stars that evening were extremely special. I broke my fast the following morning with honey, bread, and lapsang souchong, and headed further up the mountain. En route to the pass, I met many workers who were harvesting, all armed with scythes. The weather was hot, but the water from the mountain springs was cold. I would have to put in a further 22km of pure uphill to reach the pass (having done about 5km the previous evening) The first 18 km of this seemed easy; I was strong and the road seemed to disappear behind me with surprising ease. I spotted what I thought was the pass in the distance, however when I reached this, and there was another valley to cycle round (and then another, and then another) my strength was not what it had been.

At the top, the snow lay on the dark mountainside in smooth spots, like the markings of a killer whale. The guards at the top were not a barrel of laughs and "joked" that a photo next to the 3252m sign would cost $100.

Just as I was thinking how lucky I had been not to get a puncture, I felt the now familiar sensation of my back wheel becoming more bouncy, and realised I had a flat. With low energy, I found the most idyllic place to rest, with green grass next to a mountain stream, and I drank my emergency can of red bull. I was pretty tired. As the rubber glue was drying, I made myself some rice pudding. Another puncture was then found, and in turn was mended.

Ten minutes after I had set off again, the rear tyre was again flat, and the patch had leaked. It was on the inside, and did not have the tyre wall to lean against- making it particularly prone to leak. I peeled off the patch and applied another one.

Five minutes after having set off again, I felt what I thought was another flat and, spitting blood, I removed my panniers and inspected the inner tube. Nothing. I put it back on and reloaded the bike. By this stage, light was a precious commodity.

The decent from the mountain to the river at the bottom was spectacular, with soaring cliff faces rather than distant views. A police registration checkpoint infuriated me by wasting my time for five minutes, writing down the details of my passport. "TAJIKISTAN VERY GOOD"

I made it that evening to Kalaikhum, the first Pamiri town, although I didn't realise it at the time. There was a pleasant homestay, with a nice supper, although the children didn't bother even aiming for the loo hole, and went in the corner of the room. I was later informed that, out of the 5 Pamiri languages, (people in the Pamirs are Pamiri rather than Tajik), Kalaikhum has its own language. Lenin still stands proud in the centre of town.

The following morning, I reached the panj river, the frontier between Tajikistan and Afghanistan. The road would follow this river for the next three days en route to Khorog. In places the river was so narrow that you could hear Afghan ladies as they washed their clothes, and Afghan donkeys echoed out along the valley. On a couple of occasions, I heard some cheers, and when I looked up I realised it was a load of friendly Afghans who were waving.

Afghan villages had flat rooved mud brick houses, and astonishingly most had satellite dishes. I never saw a vehicle of any descripton on the Afghan side of the river, save a load of donkeys and one bicycle. It was entrancing to watch Afghans go about their daily lives on the other side of the river- carrying their shopping, driving their cattle, smacking their donkeys with sticks. In many places, Afghan children would swim in the river, in sheltered parts where the flow of the river was diverted.

All of this took place to a backdrop of snowcapped peaks on either side. The quality of the road in the valley was comparitively very good, which meant I could enjoy the views without having to worry too much about the road.

On my first night in the Panj valley, I was thwarted by a closed teahouse, but I was invited by Alexi, who runs a business selling fuel from a tanker on the side of the road to spend the night on his rickety spring bed next to his tanker. He prefers to sleep inside the cabin. He only has one leg due to a car crash a year ago, and hobbles about on old fashioned crutches. In Europe he would have been given a prosthetic leg. He studied Business at University, and makes a good living selling petrol. He is 27, but looks 37- most people in this part of the world look well older than their years. Interestingly, his brother serves for the Russian, rather than the Tajik, military.

I was woken by early morning customers, and the smell of diesel being poured into a bucket- the method used for each customer.

Another puncture that afternoon, and another audience who very kindly provided some dried mulberries as I fixed my innertube. I asked in a village where I could pitch my tent, and was immediately invited in, and given tea and supper. The whole extended family came round, including a niece who studies English at the University og Khorog. She was amazed that I don't have blue eyes- "Doesn't everyone in England have blue eyes?" They told me not to use my tent, and gave me a bed inside the house. They all get up at 6am to eat (Ramadan) and pray- and I felt rather lazy lying in until 6.30. I was given a milky noodle pudding for breakfast and ordered to stir in some butter. It wasn't bad, although I usually avoid such things like the plague. They took some fruit down off the apricot tree for me to snack on. I was sent on my way with a large bag of dried mulberries.

I was beckoned over by an old guy less than an hour after setting off, and plied with more apricots, the sweetest I have ever tasted. At midday, as I was getting something out of a pannier, I was approached by a Pamiri girl, and invited into the home for tea. There was a spread of biscuits, watermelon and butter mixed with sugar. Just as I was about to leave, a massive plate of plov made with noodles, and a salad arrived which I was ordered to eat. She spoke good English, but none of the rest of the family did. She is about to start an accountancy course at the University of Dushanbe. The garden was dripping with fruit, and all hands were on deck peeling them, presumably to make preserves.

It was breathtaking to have received so much kindness in one day from so many different people.

I arrived at Khorog just as darkness fell, and had an awful time trying to find Pamir Lodge, the place I am staying at. It was full of cyclists, including Tom and Blaise- so it was good to speak some English with English speakers for once!

I have felt a little tired and under the weather in Khorog, so have decided to stay here for a few days to recharge my batteries before heading to the Pamir Highway. Khorog is framed by spectacular mountain views, but the most exciting thing is a restaurant which serves western dishes in western style! Central Asia has a choice of about 6 different dishes in total, so it is good to have a crispy chicken burger for once!

I will hopefully be heading for the Pamir Highway tomorrow, and then it will be about a week until I get to the Kyrgyz border...and another 2 or 3 days to the Chinese border! All reports state that the Chinese have pulled the plug on the internet and international calls in Xinjiang province where I will be for the first few weeks, but watch this space!