Tajikistan Pt 8

Bjorn on the M41 The Pamir Highway ... He's lovin it!

And on into the GBAO ... This is the Pamirs

One result of finding out the shock-absorber was dodgy, was that we'd made the decision to forego riding the Wakhan corridor, a gorge that cut it's way south following a river that acts as frontier to Afghanistan until rejoining the Pamir highway something like 120 Kms later. I was in two minds then, and remain so to this day about this decision. I was glad to miss the more difficult riding conditions, but at the same time saddened to miss out on what we were told was one of the highlights of the Pamirs. There was spectacular scenery as well as hot springs and we never got to see either. But what we did have was lots of rough roads. It seemed to go on forever and my memory now is a blur. Literally a blur ... as the terrain tested both our bikes and bodies as it pummeled us relentlessly with us scarcely able to reach 10 or 20 Kms per hour on some short stretches. There was little else out there apart from rocks. Lots and lots of rocks ... and mountains ... and hills ... and on occasions white tips of snow topped peaks to remind us how high we were. We had more high-passes to cross, but because we were already over 2000 metres were partially acclimatised. We sure didn't go flying over the top though, as the road conditions were typically bad on the upper stretches.

Because of the ferocity of the weather up there, the road or what remained of it had little resemblance to anything that had ever seen tarmac during its construction. Parts of it were one big pot-hole with loose rocks strewn about. It wasn't pretty, nor was it spectacular. If you could ride on the moon, my guess is that bits would look just like this. There was some evidence of habitation in the form of the odd dilapidated building. There were even a few people living up there, I guessed who's task it was to try and keep these passes clear of either landslide debris or maybe snow-clearing when feasible. But there was nothing cheering up there. It was a place for tough people, with tough minds. I'm glad to had the chance to see what it's like, but have no real wish to go this way again. I find that spending time in places like this that have such a powerful feeling of desolation, can soul sap the soul ...

This is the Pamirs. Me getting in on the action ...

The first nights camping was a very cold one. The ride from Khorag to the first high-pass started out late (after 2.30pm), so we ended up at 4000 metres in darkness. With what I felt was fast becoming a dangerous situation it triggered another sense of humour loss as I wanted to stop, and soon. I'd reasoned that it was madness to continue any further in the darkness on such poor roads. From that, once we'd dropped around 500 metres things levelled out and according to the map there should have been a small lake on our left. We could just about make it out when we'd topped the last high-pass and begun making our way back down. But it was fully dark now and the only things to be seen were in the somewhat feeble illumination our headlights. In following a promising looking track away from the road we found a likely looking spot, but before we pitched out tents Bjorn went further off down the track for a foray in the hope of finding something better. I waited before unpacking my kit, but he was gone for some time. I was getting concerned, so headed off into the darkness to look for him. By the time I found him he'd just picked himself and his bike up after he'd taken a fall on some loose gravel. Ironically he was now enjoying his own momentary sense of humour loss.

But as with me back up on the high-pass he soon came back down to earth again. We both picked our way slowly back to the first spot in the shelter of some dunes and proceeded to pitch our tents. I was shivering and remember raiding my clothes-bag for more layers. With the chill of the evening fast turning into full-on cold of the night, it was obvious my 'zero' rated sleeping bag was going to be tested tonight. We prepared a meal of bread, sausage, ripe cheese, tom's mayo & chilli paste, then crawled into our tents and sleeping bags for warmth. Sleep soon came in the cold and the darkness, but did come-to sometime later to the patter of rain on the outside of the tent. I had a few bleak moments of feeling a long way from home and recollect some dark memories of hoping the choice of an eBay purchased tent was a lucky pick, before drifting back to sleep again. I'd taken no chances and worn socks into the sleeping bag, along with long thermal underwear. I was cold during the night, but had mostly slept well. Perhaps more importantly the tent did it's job of keeping the wind and rain out, because if it hadn't, that night could have then been a throughly miserable experience ...

There's snow on them 'thar mountains. And not so far away neither ...

The morning came steely-grey, with rain bearing clouds nestling amongst the not so distant peaks. One rather ominous cloud seemed to be slowly heading in our direction across the lake. It appeared to touchdown on the lake itself. And as the sun slowly came up behind us it highlighted one of the closer peaks. This peak showed white with snow and appeared to be little more than a couple of hundred metres higher than our camp site. No wonder we were cold! We we're not far from the snow-line ... A cold night, but a hot brekkie of fried bread, tom's onions & chilli paste! Oh ... and don't forget ... a nice hot cuppa tea!

A quick tidy round and some time for photographs! Bjorn had wandered further afield in search of good shots, and I contented myself to staying closer to our campsite. The one time I did venture a little further in the hope of getting something of interest in the foreground for a shot of the lake, I spied a dog near to our campsite. In walking over a nearby rise could see what looked like a small dwelling a kilometre or so further along the lake. That explained the lonely figure I'd seen walking alongside the lake some 10 minutes before hand, and was also an explanation for the presence of the dog. I'd taken the trouble to put most of the stuff away, so wasn't too worried that he would scavenge our food. But even though I'd wrapped the bread in two plastic bags and put it up on the saddle of my bike, that thieving beast had still gotten in and snaffled most of what remained. I sure didn't fancy what was left with dog slobber all over it, so it got ditched for the birds to eat it. Come to think of it, there were no birds up there. Not enough for them to eat normally I guessed ... Ah well, maybe the dog would be back later to finish it.

Not a particularly good shot but illustrates the point. That little dark blob is the Dog-thief!

And here I come to that over-long and boring anecdote as mentioned in the Dushanbe chapter about the dodgy Chinese oil! With the early morning cold of the mountains this oil had gone to treacle in the sump, so that when we hit the starter button the engine would barely turn over. I imagined something close to molasses churning away inside the struggling motor. I took my thumb off of the button after a few moments of listening to the pathetic groaning sound of the starter-motor struggling to move the piston up and down. It was being held back by a thick gluey mess of black sludge that passed as engine oil. The sad whine told me there was now way the bike was going to auto-start! Which is where the thought occurred, that it was a good thing we didn't manage to find our way down to the lakeside the night before, because those little hillocks nearby were going to come in very useful right at that moment. A couple of minutes heaving and grunting and my bike was at the top of the nearest hillock. Scooting off, snicked it into 2^nd gear and jumped down hard onto the seat at the same moment of 'dropping' the clutch. The rear wheel skidded for a second after which the engine started turning over. Another moment and the satisfying put-put of the exhaust note told me the engine had started. Phew! I was relieved, as I didn't think the RAC or AA would turn out to the middle of the Pamirs. “Yes, certainly sir. Can I take your membership number? .... Your where??? Where the bloody hell's that? One moment sir and I'll get back to you. (5-minute pause). If you'd like to give us a landmark close by, one of our unit's will be with you in about 6 months from now!” (click).

Our campsite after a cold night. Not long now and we'd find the bike's wouldn't start ...

Another few minutes of effort that had my lungs gasping for air in helping to push Bjorn's bike up the same rise, and he managed a bump start too. He left his Dakar idling away by the side of mine and while not particularly fond of the internal combustion engine or traffic noise in general, it was a pleasing sound in the silence of that forbidding place. We packed our kit with the rain-cloud that I watched earlier still threatening as it wrapped itself about the nearest peak, but were soon back on the road again. I'd chosen to keep my extra layers on till the clouds dissipated and sun climbed higher. Onwards along the M41 (I kid you not!), the Pamir highway was now leading us towards Murghab, and the last proper civilisation before Kyrgyzstan ...

Garfield. He's lovin' it!