After a month in the hot flat deserts of Uzbekistan, crossing the border into the Panjikent region of Tajikistan felt magical. Ahead of us lay a perfect asphalt road winding up a mountain valley with the snow-capped peaks of the Fann Mountains in the distance. This was the place that I had been dreaming of cycling through. On top of that, the aggressive “where are you from” demands in Uzbekistan turned into friendly waves and “welcome to Tajikistan” from the local people. This was in no way indicative of how our next month in Tajikistan would go, but it gave a very positive first impression.
One of the first things we noticed were giant posters of some dude in a fancy suit everywhere. It turns out this dude is the president, Rahmon. More accurately described as a dictator, Rahmon has been on the throne for as long as I’ve been alive and the majority of people in the Western half of the country absolutely adore him. His face is on all public buildings and even inside of people’s houses. He has recently started a massive campaign to make tourists feel welcome in the country, and has requested that all locals say “welcome to Tajikistan” whenever they see a foreigner. The success of this campaign, combined with a landscape that isn’t a 107 F flat desert, makes the Panjikent region very pleasant to travel in.
Excited about the prospect of cooler temperatures and natural bodies of water, our first stop was the Seven Lakes Valley. We left the bikes in the storage room of a small shop and hitchhiked up the valley, first in a regular car, then in an all terrain bus full of gold mine workers, and finally in the bed of a truck with a 15+ person family. The family took us to their home, up a gravel track above the sixth lake. Each lake was a different shade of blue backed by steep 4000-5000 meter peaks, making for a bumpy but beautiful drive. They fed us and insisted that we sleep in their home, but finally we convinced them that everyone would be more comfortable if we slept in our tent in the yard, as there were already at least 8 kids to fit in the two room house. What hospitality!
The village consisted of about 30 small dirt homes built into the side of a steep mountain. They had a tiny school for the ridiculous number of kids (each family has a minimum of 5 kids), and would bring staples like flour, potatoes, and cabbage up from the lower villages once a month or so. There are no jobs or money in the town, and all money to buy food or other necessary items comes from relatives working in the nearby gold mine, in bigger cities, or in Russia. Sheep and cows grazed on the hillside, providing what would be a large supplement to the food imported from down below. The number one priority in this culture is having a large family, so us foreigners were very strange indeed for being 26 and not having a single kid.
My spirits were much higher after this necessary break from cycling and hot temperatures, and we hit the road to the next town where we had found a couchsurfing host. Everything about the experience was typical of Central Asian hospitality – a bit awkward but very generous. Our host was an 18 year old who didn’t speak English very well and his enourmous family including brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and grandparents who all lived together. They had a big house with a courtyard in the middle and all rooms connected through the courtyard, typical of this region. We were immediately brought a tray of tea and candies, cold hard bread with delicious homemade jam, and the food did not stop coming. Soup, plov, more candies and tea, they treated us like royalty. For a while, the grandpa who spoke Russian came in and talked my ear off about Tajik politics (i.e., how great the president is), working in Russia, and how great it is to be a muslim. He insisted that we need to have children immediately (we told him that Detti and I are married, as we tell everyone).
The following day, we decided to cycle the next 200 km separately to the capital, Dushanbe, as we had spent nearly 24/7 together for 2 months. It’s difficult to split up with someone that you’ve been traveling with for so long, even for a short time, but it’s incredibly important to spend some time alone or else you’ll inevitably drive each other crazy. Two months was way too long; I think it’s necessary to spend some alone time every day, but we hadn’t. I pushed the pedals harder, competing with myself to go faster up each next hill, greatly enjoying the freedom to ride at my own speed on such a beautiful road.
That evening I reached Sarvoda, a small village at the beginning of a rough gravel road going deeper into the mountains. I asked a random guy on the street where I could safely store my bike for a night while I went on a hike, and he offered to put it in his garage. He seemed trustworthy enough, gave me a big bag of vegetables from his garden for the hike, and I accepted his offer to drive me up to the last village, half an hour up the horribly bumpy road for $10. This is 5 times more than what locals pay for the 10 km drive, but I guess I should expect that. From there, I still had 20 km to walk up the dirt track to Alaudin Lake, a beautiful emerald colored alpine lake. It was getting dark and I had given Detti the tent when we split, so I spread out my sleeping mat under the stars.
The next morning I woke up as the sun rose and started walking, hoping that a car would pass me on their way up to the lake. Finally, 14 km in, I heard the sound of a motor. The small SUV already had 2 people in the front, 5 in the back seat, and 2 in the trunk, but they still managed to fit me on the center console between the driver and passenger. We drove the last 6 km together, with my neck craned against the ceiling and holding on for my life over each bump. In the car was a group of local teenagers going to the mountains for a 7 day hike with hand-me-down equipment from the 1950s. Some spoke English and some spoke Russian, making for an interesting ride.
At Alaudin Lake, I met a group of Russian mountaineers and hiked with them for several kilometers above the lake in order to get a more full view. They were starting a 14-day expedition to some of the highest peaks in the region and nearly convinced me to come with them. If only I had crampons for my sandals.
I started walking back down, hoping to get back to my bike that evening. This time I was slightly luckier, a car stopped after only 12 km! They took me most of the way to my bike, leaving only 2 km left to walk. 36 km on foot that day, what was intended to be a “rest day” from the bike. I picked up my bike, and, starving, went to the first restaurant in sight. Old chicken drumsticks reheated in the microwave and yesterday’s pastries filled with 25% onions, 25% sheep meat, and 50% sheep fat. Yum. Worth the $1.20, not worth the following diarrhea. I cycled out of the town and spread my sleeping mat behind a rock as far as I could get from the highway in the super narrow canyon.
The next morning I woke up to find one of my front panniers empty. Where a few days ago had been an iPod, bluetooth speaker, shirt, and some spare bike parts, there was now nothing. I considered going back to the house where I had left my bike, or to the police, but I had no way of knowing where the things were taken. It could have happened outside the restaurant, or in the random guy’s garage, or anywhere that I had left my bike for a short break along the road until that point. On the bright side, less weight to carry uphill.
The road ahead began to ascend, mildly at first but quickly turned into steep switchbacks working their way up to the “tunnel of death”. The 5.5 km long Anzob Tunnel, at 2700 meters elevation, received this nickname due to its car-eating potholes in pitch darkness with such a dense smog of car exhaust that even headlights don’t help. Luckily, the tunnel was repaved a few years ago, so the potholes are a thing of the past and dim lights have been installed. When I finally reached the tunnel, a quick look at the cloud of exhaust fumes billowing from the unventilated entrances confirmed what others had told me that hitchhiking is the better option. A soldier standing guard near the tunnel (why is there a soldier here?) flagged down a dump truck for me and they tossed my bicycle on top of the load of coal.
On the downhill side, I was delighted to whiz past several of the cars who neglected to pick me up, descending the first 10 km in a frenzy of adrenaline. For lunch, I was invited for delicious pasta plov by a friendly family who runs a small meteorological station, and then continued the amazingly beautiful 70 km descent to Dushanbe. Here, I was greeted with a headwind so strong that I had to shift down to first gear even while riding downhill. For a while I considered hitchhiking, but eventually the wind let up enough to enjoy the ride. Closer to Dushanbe began a series of weekend resorts with outdoor swimming pools which were all filled with groups of teenage boys. They would whistle and yell as I rode by, trying to get me to come swim with them, but I had my sights set on the city.
Half an hour later I pedaled up the driveway of Green House Hostel. Covered head to toe in coal that had spread from the dump truck to my handlebars to everything that I touched, I was greeted by another round of 40+ C temperatures and a hoard of cyclists. This would be my home for the next 6 nights while I reunited with Detti, battled an especially gnarly round of diarrhea, and stocked up for the upcoming Pamir Highway. The most exciting thing about Dushanbe: there is a grocery store that sells maple syrup!! This was the culinary highlight of my entire Central Asian experience.
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