Tajikistan Pt 10

The road leading out of Murghab. A road that takes us further into a world of short cold days and lots and lots of rock ...

Murghab.

Arriving at Murghab we get a surprisingly good welcome from the staging post guard. He's a really friendly sort who's more interested in us than the bikes, which makes a refreshing change. It is with some relief that I ride past the barrier, as it tells me I'm going to have a relatively warm night, safe from the wilds of the open shelterless landscape and unpredictable mountain weather.

Moody light over the marshes, as we ride into Murghab.

After passing the check-point and before riding into the town, we stopped for a photo-shoot and paused to take in the local scenery. The road forms an arc around a low lying marshy area, the drier parts of which are grazing for live-stock. With the sun creeping towards the horizon of craggy mountaintops its low angle lit up the land bathing it in high contrast brightness. Without the wind-chill from riding it was providing some meagre warmth too. Raising my camera to compose my first shot can hear the buzz of a mozzy, and detect a small flying thing homing in on my face. Cheeky git! Most other places I've been, they try the old 'sneak-attack' on the neck or behind the legs. This one was going for a full frontal assault. A wave of the open-hand and closed on the proximity of the annoying insect. Gottim! A quick post-mortem, to establish that it is in fact Anopholes or close-relative. And yup, right size, colour and number of legs and wings. Although I needed a bit of imagination due to it's somewhat splattered disposition. A timely reminder that nature has a way of mesmerising with the beauty of its landscape, to bait you as prey for it's many pesky inhabitants.

Not put off, go on to take a few record shots, one of which is .... 'this un!

Murgab we'd been warned doesn't have much in the way of 'towny' things, so therefore kept an open-mind for what to expect. We weren't disappointed, as indeed it appeared to be little more than a gathering of a few hundred dwellings, made from whatever materials came to hand. The one sealed road was that which we'd come in on and within a Kilometre or so could clearly see leading it's way out of town and back into the shattered landscape once more. The roads and alleys in between the houses were dirt and gravel. Looking down from the high part of town we saw the remnants of a market, with a few stall-holders in the process of packing up and taking their unsold wares away.

I took a panorama of Murgaab that showed the town nestling in a plateau surrounded by mountains. But to give a flavour, these two shots show it looking first in one direction ...

After the usual routine of riding about looking for a land-mark on a town map (in this case the tourist office), we were unable to locate it in amongst the jumble of ramshackle buildings that comprised the main town. There was no 'centre' as such. We stopped to ask a 'local' who looked like he might be able to help, and in asking where the Eco-Tourist office was located lovely chap that he was promptly jumped into his car and drove, with us following to deliver us right outside of the door. The Eco-Tourist office turned out to be a purpose built yurt made of rock and mortar and appeared to be the very last building in town.

Then the other ...

One of the first impressions of Murghab was of the number of dogs roaming around. Some of which gave a cursory bark in our direction, as we followed the Eco-tourist offices 4wd vehicle back into the town and to the Home-Stay that was to be our accommodation. After a few problems with dogs running out to attack us as we went through some of the local villages over recent days, Bjorn was keen to try out a device called a 'Dog-Dazer' that I'd brought along with me. Now what you might ask, is a Dog-Dazer when it's at home? Well, a Dog-Dazer is a pretty neat little device made in The States, that emits a high-frequency noise that dogs evidently find disturbing. It works I believe on the same principal as the so-called silent dog-whistle, in that it gets their attention. Standing outside the home-stay, we 'whistled-in' a couple of nearby mutt's who started coming towards us one of which gave out a slightly menacing growl. Before either of them got too close Bjorn hit the button. There was no sound to be heard, but In both cases they immediately changed direction and walked the other way. Bjorn was delighted with the apparent effectiveness of this little 'gun'. And to some extent so was I, as it was one of those things I bought early on while planning this trip after hearing about the big nasty dogs in Eastern Turkey, as kept by shepherds to guard their flocks. Rumour has it, that some less than friendly locals actually trained their dogs to attack anyone who wasn't from those parts. These reports were confirmed by a lady travel writer who'd cycled this region a couple of times and had problems with these intimidating canines. Her solution was to take one of these devices with her for a return trip, and found it worked a treat by keeping the nastiest of beasties at bay. As I was intending to go through the same area myself, visualised myself wandering one of the local villages and getting set-upon. The vision went something like Clint Eastwood in 'A Fistful of Dollars'. Cue 'Good, bad and Ugly music. Ooh eeh oohey ooh, wah, wah, wah ....Whipping out my Dog-Dazer from it's holster, a quick zappo! To continue on my way unmolested and with the seat of my pants still intact.

Me sat outside the home-stay. Note I'm sat in the sun and that I'm wearing a long-sleeved top.

Of course many things in life don't work out as you think. And this was just one of many, that had proven that much of my fantasizing on what the trip would be like, was frankly way wrong! So apart from this one try-out, the Dog-Dazer was to date a redundant waste of time, money and space. At a suitable juncture in time, it will be left along the wayside, giving me storage space for more important things such as ... bottles of Kyrgyz' vodka!

Murghab'ians (sic) ...
Their town was rather ramshackle in places and their environment harsh, but overall they seemed to be pretty happy people to me ...

'Michael' I do so like this photograph. This guy reminded me of Michael in the film Ryan's Daughter. Y'know the one ... as played by John Mills and who Trevor Howard as the local priest, told off for tearing the claw off of a lobster while it was still alive. "Michael! Dat's one of God's creatures!" Anyway, while I was taking a picture of the kids sat on my bike he came up and insisted that I take his picture too ...

The Eco-tourist organisation for this part of the Pamirs (META) seemed to have a good thing going, by arranging tours as well as Home and Yurt-Stays. It was not really cheap in terms of good value for money if compared against the general cost of living in Tajikistan, though having made that comment it sure wasn't prohibitively expensive at something like $9 (US) each per night. This was one of the poorest regions of Tajikistan, in itself a country short on resource and wealth, so it would take a real 'Meanie' to begrudge the locals the chance of earning a few bucks from us relatively rich Western Touro's ...

I liked these two kids as they were pretty respectful, up against so many others we met. I liked them so much I let 'em sit on my bike (normally I 'savage' anyone who tries sitting on it uninvited).

Gulnamo our hostess had a young family, and as such would have her work cut-out to have enough money for the necessities in life almost anywhere in the world. Her Hubbie was she told us working away in Moscow, though other sources of income were not obvious. She worked hard on our behalf, in serving adequate meals in her sun-warmed conservatory. The *toilet while basic was as clean as it could be managed, but the bathroom was the real highlight of this home-stay.

Stepping into this modestly designed ablutions space you'd encounter a couple of concrete steps that created a raised area for sitting and washing, with two containers for water storage contained therein. The cold water was in an appropriately coloured blue plastic water-butt and was stood in one corner, but it was the hot-water that gave the bath-house it's real character. A large oblong tray full of steaming water could be seen sat on top of an oven full of hot-stones. The stones had been heated by a fire-box underneath, that was fed with fuel from a small latched door on the outside. In first entering the bathroom, chill mountain air would be replaced by a pleasant sensation of humid warmth. A quick splash of water onto the stones ... and the room was suddenly transformed into a suana of heat. How delightful!

* 'See Toilets and other Matters' (http://toiletsandothermatters.blogspot.com/)

Our room was spartan, but bedding clean and plenty of it. We needed it all too as it was cold at night even in high summer. It didn't take too long before we were speculating what it could be like here in the depths of mid-winter. And were told 30/40 below was not uncommon. Ouch!!! That sort of cold hurts! Kills even ... And these were not well constructed energy efficient dwellings with central heating. Their fuel source was yak dung and what looked like dried-out ground hugging shrubs. Again, a reminder that these were tough resilient people who lived up here. No room for wimps who call out the doctor or take to their beds whinging each time they get a bit of sniffle. As if I needed a further reminder Gulnamo went on to tell me her eldest daughter had a 'problem' which sounded like epilepsy. Past treatments meant she had a 2 day journey to Khorag to consult a doctor. As well as the fact the medication was expensive, difficult to obtain and being of either Russian or Chinese origin not always very effective. The National Health of the UK and Medicare system of Australia may have their faults, but both are infinitely better than this ...

A couple of mountain-toughened youngsters who live in Murghab ...

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!