It took a while with a new report. But a lot has happened. Meanwhile, I am in Kyrgyzstan in Osh and try to bring my intestinal flora back under control.
But before I start to tell about experiences in Tajikistan, more encounters or funny things from other travelers in Uzbekistan.
In Samarkand there was an elderly Korean who traveled slowly and writes a blog about Central Asia in Korean for other travelers because there is not much information about this area in their language.
Then there was a younger Korean, who somehow got into a wedding party. Two girls were running around with him throughout the afternoon. When one of them said, she wanted to marrym hi, he got scared, simulated a phone call and disappeared in the crowd.
Greg, from France, is on the road for a few months with his motorcycle. To cross the Uzbek desert, he bought a metal jerrycan. He mounted it unprofessional on the motorcycle. The jerrycan got scared and the gas started to burn. He drove that way for a while, until he was made aware of it.
Greg’s experience is spreading across the Overlander community. Days later, when I meet other motorcyclists in Kyrgyzstan, they too knew his story.
05.07
I am finally allowed to enter Tajikistan. When leaving, there is a moment of shock. When I had to return to Uzbekistan days before, the border guards did not give me any customs papers for the motorcycle.
These were required at the exit. Luckily, the officials found me in the computer system and I’m allowed to leave.
Some days ago somebody asked me if I will drive through “the tunnel” on my way to Dushanbe. I had no idea what he was talking about.
About 80km north of Dushanbe is the Anzob Tunnel, the Tunnel of Death. It is a big, black hole in the mountain. Exhaust clouds escape the entrance. When I approached, I thought: What? Do I have to go in there?
The tunnel is 5 km long. There is no ventilation, lighting is sparse. When you see a vehicle approaching, you only see two faint points of light. I was glad when I saw the light at the end of the tunnel. Cyclists are not allowed to go through. Usually locals or truck drivers pick them up. There is still a few boneheads, looking for some thrill.
At noon I arrive at Dushanbe and immediately go to the responsible office to apply for the GBAO permit. As I mentioned in the last post, I forgot this when I applied for my visa. Everything is super easy. They fill out a form, you pay 20 SOM (2 EUR instead of 20 EUR if you apply directly with the visa) at the bank and the next day I can pick up the permit.
Here in Dushanbe I finally want to change my rear tire. I try for a couple of minutes myself. Then I mount the tire again. An Englishman, traveling with his wife with a SUV, puts air in my tire. I start to drive around, looking for a tire repair shop.
I find a small place somewhere. I show the good man that I want to change the tire. He looks at my motorcycle and shakes his head: No.
I let him know that I’m will take off the wheel from the motorcycle and he just needs to change the tire. He agrees.
Damn it! I left my tools in the hostel. The guy is even worse equipped than me. He has: one adjustable wrench, a mounting iron, a hammer, a half-broken set of Allen keys.
In the middle of the sidewalk I unmount the rear wheel. There are a few onlookers right away. After a short time the tire was changed and I can start again. The service was 4 EUR. For that price I am not doing it myself.
I stayed at the Greenhouse Hostel. A true meeting place for a wide variety of travelers, car, motorcycle, bicycle, backpacker.
In the evening I spend a long time with the older English couple and a young Swiss couple. The English have been touring the EU a lot, but have never dared to leave it. Now retired, they have taken their courage together, drove off and are now enthusiastic world travelers.
They are super nice people and talk all the time, the two Swiss and I have only occasionally the opportunity to say a few words.
06.07
On the way to the city center, to walk around there a little bit, I pick up the GBAO permit. In the afternoon I’m chatting with an old South African guy. He can not afford to travel to Europe or expensive countries. Even Tajikistan is high priced for him. He was traveling a lot in India and also had stories to tell from Ethiopia and Eritrea. I learn a bit about how the state and its corruption in South Africa works.
He laughs, when I tell him about the “Ibiza scandal” in Austria, that politicians have resigned and the federal government has been dismissed. That’s peanuts for him.
We observe the events in the hostel, of arriving guests, of cyclists and motorcyclists working on their vehicles.
Slowly a few people join us, the two Swiss from the previous day, Andrin and his girlfriend, whose name I have forgotten, an Israeli, a Spaniard and a few more. We chat far after midnight.
07.07
I start heading towards the Wakhan Corridor and Pamir Mountains.
Kalaikhum is my goal of the day. There is a north route with about 250km, which should be more adventurous – and as it turns out later, it is. And a south route with about 330km, which is mainly paved and in good condition. I choose the North Route. Of course I do. 🙂
The first 100km are in very good condition, I move on fast, then the gravel road begins. The road leads through steep rugged terrain through the mountains. For the first 20km I need an hour.
After that it is a little better. It’s only 50km to Kalaikhum when a landslide blocks the road. That’s annoying. Right behind me is a SUV. We examine the situation. There is no doubt, he has to turn around. I take a closer look at the situation. The landslide is shallow, partly I see where the locals have lead their animals. It is possible to get over there. I take the luggage and boxes from the motorcycle and carry everything to the other side. After that I go over the landslide step by step with the motorcycle. It was not too bad. In the last few centimeters there was a wet part, as I suspected. The “wet part” turned out to be a deep mud channel.
With the front tire I can go over it, with the rear tire, I dig myself in. Crap! Almost done, and now that, the whole motorcycle dirty. I pull the bike over and pull it on firm ground. Then I go to the river and fetch water to wash away the coarsest dirt.
The bike is packed again, I drive 100m and get a shock. No bridge over the river. I think: Was it all for nothing? To I have to turn around now, and do everything again?
River crossings are always a thing with the motorcycle. How stong does the river flow? How deep is he? Is the track smooth or are there obstacles, in form of large stones in it, which increase the risk of falling.
A local is by the river with his donkey. He looks at me, does not speak a word. I asked him showing with my hands: How deep is the river? He: About a hand’s breadth. I do not trust him. I take a branch and check the depth about 1/2 meter from the shore. In fact, only 15-20cm.
I start driving. As soon as I’m in the water and have overcome the first 1/2 meters, it is much deeper and my boots are running full with water. I stop on a gravel bank in the middle of the river and turn around. The guy looks at me. I just shake my head in his direction.
Since my boots are already full of water, I wade through the second part, which is no less deep. But there are no obstacles. So I go through. On the other side, I take off my boots and pour out the water.
And the guy, standing there, just looking at me.
In Kalaikhum at the hostel I meet a Canadian who was in Afghanistan for a few days, he is traveling with a cheap Chinese rented motorbike and a there is also Czech motorcyclist. We chat about our experiences.
08.07
Chorog. The road there goes along the Afghan border. The two countries are separated by a large river. The road is a disaster, but the worst part is still ahead of me.
In Chorog I enter a Minimarked to buy food and water. An old lady, and I assume that those two children are her grand son and grand daughter, not older then 15-17 years, are in the shop.
Where do you come from? It can’t get in their mind, that I traveled from Austria to Tajikistan by motorbike. Are you married? I say: No. The eyes of the old lady begin to brighten up. She talks with her granddaughter. I do not understand a word, but I know what they are saying.
When I leave the shop, the old woman calls after me: I love you.
On the street, I meet two other motorcyclists who look like they are looking for accommodation. I stop and tell them where I am staying. When I come back from shopping, the two are there too.
With three other Englishmen, wishing to hike in Afghanistan for two weeks, I then play cards till night.
09.07
I do not feel so well. Probably I ate or drunk something wrong. I already spent a lot of time on the toilet during night.
I move on to Langar. From other travelers, I’m warned that the last 150km of the Wakhan Corridor is Hell. I do not even know if you can talk about a street. On the way to Langar, I am at least did already 50km .
I’m still not well. I have diarrhea and some fever. I arrive in the early afternoon and lie down right away.
10.7
To Murghab.
Another 100km through hell. Corrugated parts, potholes, bumps, sandy spots. At a deep sandy spot the motorcycle started to skid, I bang against stones, the clutch lever is bent, the windshield broken, also the indicator glass and the right mirror is bent. Well, not so bad. Just broken plastic. The indicator is still working. I fix everything as far as possible and move on.
The worst thing I notice when I arrive in Murghab and examine the bike again more closely. I lost my duct tape out there. The most important thing on this trip. 🙂
Today I reached altitudes over 4300 meters. Murghab lies at an altitude of about 3600m. I can hardly breath walking up the difference of 20m from the market to the hostel.
Here, the Pamir is a very rough area. There are not many villages and they are far apart. In between, one sees, from time to time far away from any civilization, small homesteads that are inhabited by shepherds.
As hard as the ride is. The scenic view is uniquely beautiful.
In Murghab the cold wind blows the sand through the streets.
At the hostel, 6 people are waiting to leave the village. They want to go to Kyrgyzstan. But the collective taxis, which are large off-road SUVs, don’t go further then Muhrgab.
I chat with them a little and then lie down again. They are super touching and ask how I am, if I need anything, if they can help me.
11.07
In the morning, the 6 can find a solution, they were able to find a taxi that brings them across the border.
I too start to leave Tajikistan. On the last kilometers, the road is really bumpy again.
I think: Why are you doing this to me Tajikistan? That I for sure will not forget you?
It was exhausting challenging days.
I cross the mountains to Kyrgyzstan and it’s like landing in paradise. But more about that, next time.