Tajikistan Pt 9

Yakkety Yak ...

The riding in the Pamirs was tough, but in amongst the difficulties of negotiating our way through that rough terrain were some genuine highlights. In riding ahead of Bjorn who kept pulling over not unnaturally (being a photographer) for frequent photo-stops, I met up with a group of Italian bikers. They had stopped off at a yurt for food and drink and it was kind of fun to exchange notes on who they were and what their story was. It turns out they'd taken the relatively soft option and had flown into the region with their bikes, were touring around some of the better bits, then heading off out by plane at the end of their trip. I will make mention of one of their number, so as not to risk belittling their non-purist method of touring. Salvatore Pizzo http://nuke.adventurer.it/ was an 'Adventurer' who'd done many long-distance trips that had been filmed, including the daunting task of riding around Borneo of all places. Now, I thought it was solid jungle, but evidently there are (difficult) bush-tracks interlaced throughout the forests. The incongruity of that conversation was soon lost directly they left, in a cloud of smoke from their enormous 8-wheel drive support vehicle. I watched them go for something like 10 minutes or more. Their dust-trailing across the plateau for many kilometres as they headed towards Khorag, a days ride back the way I'd come. In watching their progress the silence settled back over this sparse land and I looked about the scene now devoid of motorbikes, wagons and the chatter of people. All that could be seen was this one yurt, a ramshackle hut nearby and a herd of yaks and goats in the distance.

This is Lalbekov Azitchan. He was a delightful Kyrgyz' who's hospitality allowed me to discover what yak tastes like. We're showing off the skull of one the famed Argali or Marco Polo mountain goats

The guy who's yurt it was, was a Kyrgyz' as evidenced by the distinctive Kyrgyz' hat he was wearing. He was a quiet introvert man. Until that is, he'd had a few vodka's after which he became much more talkative.

Me having a larf with Lalbekov ...

In waiting for Bjorn to catch up I'd taken up the offer and the opportunity of going into his Yurt to try some food items I'd not the chance of tasting before. Briefly it was yak everything! Yak yoghurt, yak cream, yak butter and of course, not forgetting yak meat itself. All served with some local and beautifully fresh bread. And have gotta say that even though it had a certain 'tang', and was pretty rich, I liked it a lot. In being given a pot of locally sourced honey with it too, it was kind of like a Pamir version of the Devonshire cream tea. Most things are there for the asking in the UK, but try asking for clotted yak-cream in Honiton high-street!

Onwards into the Pamirs ...

Mini Yak's - Big landscape ...

In getting to that particular spot I had ridden across an enormous valley up a rise and onto what appeared to be a vast plateau surrounded by mountains. After working my way up the rise I remember encountering two things. One was a particularly testing patch of rough track. The other was what looked like an old Suzuki GS from the late 70's. In passing was sure I'd seen that the rider was wearing plastic bags for gloves. Dismissing this as my imagination or first stages of altitude sickness struggled past the pot-holes and rocks and rode on to the yurt.

After eating my yak biased lunch I went back outside to watch for Bjorn. As I peered into the distance I managed to spot a small dust-trail that was slowly working it's way towards me from the far horizon. Over the course of a few minutes the dust trail got nearer and was finally close enough for me judge it was way too fast to be a local motorcycle. It therefore had to be Bjorn doing his best to catch up with me. When I thought he was close enough I started waving frantically to make sure he didn't go hurtling by. As I watched he turned off the road and followed the track down towards the yurt to pull up alongside of me. In turning off the engine, the first thing he said was “Did you see that Suzuki GS1000 with two Iranians on it?”

“What, the one with the rider wearing plastic bags as gloves?” I replied.

It turns out that I hadn't been seeing things and these intrepid Iranians had ridden all the way across Central Asia, got to China and been refused entry (as we now know is almost impossible to blag entry into), and were now riding all the way back. Bjorn had stopped to ava'chat and got the low-down. And have gotta say, that I do wished that I had stopped to meet them myself, as they must've been a couple of real adventuresome guys. For one their bike is illegal in Iran as far as I know and therefore they can't ride it in their home country (there is a maximum size for bike engines in Iran of something like 125cc, so their 1000cc was way over the legal-limit). And it got better! Where we had purpose built panniers and racks and some good riding kit. They had almost nothing. Evidently their luggage was contained in one back-pack as worn by the pillion passenger. And of course plastic bags that served as gloves, gives you some idea of how prepared they were for the Pamirs. In a word ... Not! Maybe one day there will a book and film, as a kind of Central Asian equivalent of the 'Motorcycle Diaries' that recorded Che Guevara's journey's down through South America as a young man. Who knows ... Maybe Bjorn met the future leader of Iran? Whatever, I hope whoever he is, that his destiny is a little less iconic, more politically effective and just as importantly perhaps enjoys a longer life than Che.

It would have been so easy to dismiss this kind old Kyrgyz' who opened his home to us, gave us food and showed us around his meagre dwelling as being illiterate or uneducated. But it turned out that Lalbekov Azitchan was a teacher. He spoke Russian, Kyrgyz' & Uzbek' and went to some lengths to tell us he was a published poet too, proudly showing us an article in a local paper illustrated by Dhali'esque sketches. Again was to make a mistake in offering him money in the belief that part of his hospitality was economically driven. But he point blank refused to take anything from us. I ingested another small portion of humble pie, taking with me a valuable lesson from this teacher who lived a simple life with his family in an isolated community in one of the poorest regions, of a country itself sadly short on resources.

One of the Chinese trucks that plied the Tajik' roads ...

We saddled up and rode on as I felt the time was ticking away. With altitudes up to 4000 metres in the high passes, on this stretch of the M41 we weren't far enough below that to get any real benefit from the seasonal warmth of lower-levels. I'd put on my waterproof jacket to minimise heat loss from the chill-winds that gusted up there. Mid-afternoon and it was already starting to get cold, so the switch on my heated handlebar grips was flicked to 'on' in an effort to maintain some feeling in my fingers.

Lowering clouds, impending darkness. The Pamirs region is an unforgiving place. This bit of road was better than most and allowed us to fast-track our way on to Murghab ...

It would soon get much colder, so was concerned to get to our next destination before the sun dropped much further towards the mountain tops that surrounded us. I found this to be an ominous time of the day because once the long shadows appeared then darkness would soon follow.

A typical scene in the Pamirs. The road disappears into the mountains ... Sun, cold air, clouds and rocks ... This is harsh land, and is no place for wimps!