Sixty One Degrees
An occassional journal of an Asia-overland adventure
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Khojand, Tajikistan
I thought I might catch the train from Khojand across the border to Uzbekistan. Think again. The trains are one of many victims of the break-up of the Soviet Union. Once the train lines just crossed provincial borders, now they cross international ones. That's just too difficult so they've mostly stopped.
All around the Fergana Valley, my current location, the borders are crazily knotted. Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, and Tajikistan all come together here. As I take a car to the Uzbek border the road briefly crosses into Kyrgyzstan, before returning to Tajikistan again. Within each country are bizarre enclaves of another. Islands cut off from their homeland. Complete cities have been placed in the wrong country. Osh, in Kyrgyzstan, is predominantly Uzbek, and Samarkand and Bukhara, jewels in Uzbekistan's crown, more properly belong to Tajikistan.
(If you look on the map of Kyrgyzstan you'll see two empty spots near Batken that look like lakes. They're actually enclaves of Tajikistan and Uzbekistan.)
There effectively were no borders until Stalin's time. Then they started creating new regions and drew the lines for reasons of political control, rather than ethnic cohesion. But at least in Soviet times people were reasonably free to cross the borders. Now, with extensive mutual distrust amongst the new countries, freedom of movement has been severely curtailed. Uzbekistan suspects Tajikistan of hiding separatists. Uzbek border guards recently killed two people in Kazakstan who they suspected of smuggling. Tajikistan is known as one of the world's major drug smuggling arteries. And Turkmenistan doesn't want to talk to anyone.
New roads and railway lines are frantically being built to skirt the borders of neighbouring countries but for many people the difficulties they now face in moving around the region are enough for them to harken back wishfully for the days of communism, when at least they were one country. The simple practicalities of day-to-day living outweigh any considerations of nationalism.
Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan
For countries with an average weekly income of about US$20 one is struck by the number of near new Mercedes on the road. How can they afford such cars? I wondered.
The answer is simple: in Kyrgyzstan they're stolen, a new vehicle can be had for $5000 or as little as $1000 for something a little older. And in Tajikistan they're paid for by the handsome profits of drug-trafficking from Afghanistan.
Now why didn't I think of that?
Pamir Tales - Part 2
Sary Tash, Kyrgyzstan
It's eight o'clock in the morning and I'm standing on a road in Sary Tash. Sary Tash has four roads, one to Osh, one to a corner of Kyrgyzstan called Daurat-Korgon, one to China, and one to Tajikistan.
Four roads and no cars.
I saw a truck heading along the China road about half-an-hour ago.
That was interesting.
By nine o'clock I've gathered a small group around me. We watch a cow demolish a herders tent across the road.
At nine thirty a truck miraculously heads down the road. Could it be? Is it possible? "Tajikistan?", I hopefully call out. Yes, they reply. Unbelievable. "Skolka?", I ask. How much? About $12 to Murghab, the first major town over the border. I'm not awash with choices so I happily jump in, squeezing myself and my backpack in with the two guys in the cab.
It's still morning and I'm on my way.
We stop at the Kyrgyz border post, 30km from town. We're still a long way from the real border but it's all mountain after here. As we leave we're joined by a bus (there is a bus from Osh!) and a couple of other trucks who must have been here overnight. We begin the long, steep climb up to the 4282m Kyzyl-Art pass.
The truck moves, at times, incredibly slowly. I swear I could walk faster. But I don't really mind as I'm enjoying the sensational scenery all around. A huge range of high mountains, topped by Pik Kommunizma. At 7495m it was the highest mountain in the former Soviet Union.
As we approach the top of the pass I'm glad of the presence of the bus. We simply can't make it up some of the steep grades and a cable is rigged up to allow the bus to pull us up the last kilometre or so. Finally we reach the top and the Tajik border post. The border guard requests a spurious 10 tajik soms (about $3) as a "fee". Normally I'd resist such bribes but looking around at his surroundings, a couple of tin sheds in the freezing cold, at least half-a-day from anything, I don't begrudge him some fringe benefits. As I return to the truck and the long wait for all formalities to be completed it begins to snow. I huddle by the side in my $4 Kyrgyz jacket and munch on a Snickers bar bought in Osh. I wonder for how long the guards are posted here.
Finally at 4pm we can go and we start the long climb down to Tajikistan. We grab some dinner at a small cafe then continue south, following the Tajik-Chinese border, at times no more than a few metres away. I find myself feeling a strange attraction for China. With so much unknown ahead of me the familiarity beckons.
We drive on in to the night, the desert landscape receding in the darkness. Every now and then we stop for a while to let the engine cool down or the driver grab a few moments sleep. The night is clear but there are not so many stars. Nothing like a southern hemisphere night.
Eventually at 1am we reach Murghab, population 4000. It's taken fifteen hours to cover the 210km from Sary Tash. The driver's offsider directs us to his house and we are warmly received by his family with bread, tea, and water melon. Exhausted we collapse in to bed, the whole family sharing the same big room. I'm asleep in an instant.
Pamir Tales - Part 1
Osh, Kyrgyzstan
My quest to travel the Pamir Highway in Tajikistan, 728km at heights mostly above 4000m, has begun. Issues include no transport, no permit and not much information. Should be interesting.
I start my quest near the virtually disused Osh railway station. Trucks from the Aga Khan foundation, shipping in vital supplies to the remote region, leave from here. I found a few friendly drivers but no-one was leaving anytime soon. Just as I was heading out I was approached by an older guy. He'd be leaving in a couple of days if I liked. Best offer so far. I agreed to meet up late the next day to confirm.
I did a bit of travelling around to some nearby sites and then returned late the next day to check with my potential lift. Alas, his hoped for shipment had not come through so he wouldn't be going. He was very sorry.
With no other options, everybody denies the existance of any buses or share taxis, the only thing left was to take a share taxi to Sary Tash, 200km from Osh and the last settlement before the Tajik border. From there maybe I could catch a lift.
On the Saturday morning I got in to the front seat of a small Russian jeep that was about to leave. I turned around to greet my fellow passengers and was confronted by five ladies in bright traditional clothes, covered in glitter, and at least eight kids. They were hard to count as they kept moving.
Heading up one of the passes the little jeep conks out. Fuel trouble. Unperturbed the driver gets out and siphons some petrol from the tank into a five litre plastic bottle. He then puts this in the engine compartment and connects the line from the fuel pump to the bottle. A bit of priming of the fuel pump to get some petrol up to the carburettor and we're off.
Of course now, every bump we hit I'm thinking about an open bottle of petrol sitting in a hot engine compartment, ready to spill at any moment. I'm wishing I was in the back with the kids. Instead I just put on my sunglasses, to protect me from the imminent blast.
Late in the day we finally made it to Sary Tash. Upon approaching the town all my misgivings about undertaking this trip were dismissed. The amazing Pamir Alay range rose high in the south forming a seemingly impenetrable wall of rock and snow, thousands of metres high.
My companions took another road to the west and I was left in the small town, to find a place to stay and contemplate how I would get over that mountain range tomorrow.
Karakol, Kyrgyzstan
Forget terrorism. Forget street crime. Forget the water. By far the most dangerous thing you can do when travelling is get in to a vehicle to travel from one town to another. Unfortunately, I do more of that than anything else.
The trip from Karakol to Bishkek, along the shores of Lake Issyk-kul, was particularly memorable. No seat-belts in the car (of course). The driver keeping at a fixed 120 km/hr regardless of towns, villages, or other traffic. And best of all, every time we passed a cemetary he would make the Muslim gesture for blessing, taking both hands off the wheel and passing them slowly over his face. The irony that in doing this we may soon be joining the folks in the cemetary was, unfortunately, lost.
Song-Köl, Kyrgyzstan
I was heading up to Song-Köl, a high altitude jailoo where Kyrgyz herders take their flocks in summer. A beautiful lake surrounded by green valleys and dotted with shephard's yurts. And I was travelling by horse. It's the only way.
My adventure started in the small village of Kysart, at the home of Tolgart. It was mid-afternoon and threatening rain. "It will be better tomorrow", Tolgart confidently predicted. Nothing for it but to wait. At least they had a sauna next to the stables. Birch branch thrashing optional.
The next morning preparations are being made for the ride. "Are you an experienced rider?", Tolgart asks by consulting his phrase book. "A little", I reply, feeling that the truth, "I've never ridden in my life", might not go down so well.
Re-assured about my skills Tolgart shows me to the horses, one large and one small. That's a relief, I think. Then Tolgart proceeds to mount the small one, leaving the big one to me! Uh oh.
As we start out though, all seems well. Left and right, start and stop all seem to work. What more do you need? This horse-riding lark is a cinch. The only challenge is grass. Lightning (as I named my horse in memory of Flash, my camel in Morocco) likes to stop every five metres and eat some. I like Lightning to keep moving. A battle of wills ensues. Ultimately I decide to be magnanimous and let Lightning eat whenever he feels like it.
The lake of Song-Köl is ringed by mountains, and we're currently outside them. We walk for an hour or so along a valley heading towards a pass. On the way we stop in at a friend of Tolgart's yurt for some bread and kumys (fermented mares milk) and a bit of a chat. A routine that would become very familiar over the next couple of days.
A little further down the valley and we find the pass. A long climb up in to the mountains, ultimately reaching high enough to have snow drifts beside the trail. Upon reaching the summit we dismount to, I think, enjoy the sumptious views. Tolgart has other ideas and breaks out a small bottle of vodka to celebrate the occasion. My pitiful excuses go unacknowledged and I end up downing a couple of shots, accompanied by much grimacing.
From there it was a long but gentle downhill run to the lake shore. A beautiful scene with the lush green meadow beneath us and the snow-capped mountains ringing the far shore. Tolgart thought this also worthy of toasting and, despite more protests from yours truly, another couple of shots were downed, finishing the bottle.
From here it was a short ride along the lake shore then up a valley to the family with whom we'd be staying the night. After eight hours of riding Lightning seemed to know that we were almost at the end. This gave him an unexpected burst of energy and before I knew it he was galloping at full pace up the valley. With my skills, honed as they were by half a bottle of vodka, it was all I could do to hold on for dear life. Nevertheless, we arrived safe and sound at the yurt of Bartokan and his family, our hosts for the night.
The next day Tolgart and I said our goodbyes and headed out for the return journey, via some different valleys. We were just visiting another family a little further around the lake when Bartokan came riding up. A hasty conference with Tolgart and the next thing I know they're racing off to go fishing, leaving me in the yurt to eat bread and drink kumys. Well, there are worse places in the world to be abandoned.
Two hours later, the entire history section of the Lonely Planet having been read, they return with a bag full of fish. They decided to toast their success with some... yes! Vodka! My pathetic excuses are once again summarily dismissed as several shots are downed. I learned a trick from Bartokan though, not to completely drink each shot, only about half. Strangely I seem to get away with this.
Success toasted we arise and mount our horses. Bartokan continues to ride with us and we've also picked up the guy who owns the boat they used for fishing. Before long, as we ride up the valley, another couple of guys join us. Well, this is cause for celebration. We stop at another convenient yurt and out comes the... you guessed it, vodka! I really hold back this time because if I drink much more I'll fall out of the saddle. Thankfully the pressure is not too great and I get away with just a couple of small shots. Finally we arise, everyone else heads back down the valley and it's back to just Tolgart and I heading up.
Tolgart must have run out of vodka because we cross the top of the pass without incident. He is in fine voice though and belts out a few traditional Kyrgyz songs. He insists that I respond with something from Australia. Waltzing Matilda of course. Tolgart enhances the chorus with a few woops and yells of his own. Another Kyrgyz song requires another from Australia. Not knowing all the words of Click Go the Shears or The Pub with No Beer I instead resort to a couple of Cold Chisel numbers. I'm sure the local shephards really appreciated my Bow River.
On the way down we manage to find a couple more yurts to visit. One must have been having some sort of celebration because there was the most amazing spread of sweets and pastries over the entire floor. On each occasion the kumys flowed freely and I was not allowed to leave without a generous serving of bread and cream.
Finally, as the light began to fade, we worked our way back along the valley leading to Kysart, arriving a little after dark. An excellent couple of days.
Kochkor, Kyrgyzstan
Kyrgyzstan is a poor country. Unable to afford Playstations children are forced outside to play football or jacks. Most homes only have black-and-white TV.
Sounds remarkably like my childhood. Except I had to wear flares.
Tash Rabat, Kyrgyzstan
My travelling companions over the Torugart Pass, Paul and Jo, today head on for Bishkek then their current home in Tashkent. I, however, am heading back down the Torugart road to see the 15th century caravanserai of Tash Rabat. A sort of Middle-Ages hostel for traders.
Despite protestations from various taxi drivers I managed to catch the local bus for At-Bashy. Along the way I was befriended by a couple of girls who spoke very little English. Despite my Kyrgyz being limited to "salam" and "rakhmat" they managed to offer me a small sweet from a packet they were happily devouring. I popped the creamy ball into my mouth and immediately my eyes started watering as the sour taste hit. How is it? they asked. I gave what I thought was a smile as I choked it down, it may have been a grimace.
I arrived at At-Bashy with an address but no idea how to get there. A couple of vague directions later and I head off down a dirt road. A car rolls by with a few people in it and offers a lift. I shrug it off in my travel-hardened fashion. Eventually I find the house I'm looking for, with the same car in the driveway and the driver standing at the door ready to greet me. Why didn't you come with us, he asks. I have no answer I can give with my above-mentioned command of Kyrgyz.
It's now late in the day but we decide to head straight for Tash Rabat, about a further one-and-a-half hours drive. The guy's teenage son and daughter come along for the ride. Of course I'd already been along the road to the Torugart Pass but I wasn't prepared for the gorgeous valley that we turned down to reach the caravanserai. Incredibly lush pastures, green hills, swift streams, and nomad's yurts combined to make a delightful picture.
After 15km we reached the caravanserai. A lonely stone building standing in the valley. The local caretaker came across to unlock the door and I headed in to explore. Built like a small castle, with thick stone walls, it must have been a chill place to stay when the weather turned cold. Apparently the only example in Central Asia, and maybe even outside of the Middle-East, I didn't see any in China, Tash Rabat is wonderfully evocative of the Silk Road life.
Kashgar, Xinjiang Province, China
The Torugart Pass is one of the world's most notorious borders. The Lonely Planet for Central Asia devotes three pages to a detailed analysis of this one crossing. It's officially a second-class border, which means no foreigners. In practice, if you line your cards up right, you can get across.
The cheapest option, catching the bus with the locals from Kashgar to Bishkek, was immediately knocked on the head. All reports, and the nice lady from China Travel, said that you'd be kicked off at Chinese immigration.
Plan 2 was to hook up with some other travellers and share a car. Apparently a permitted way to cross. Go figure. I was lucky enough to find a couple travelling on the same day I wanted and so the arrangements were made. The trick is to take one car in China, then have a another car waiting at the isolated border post in Kyrgyzstan. Without this second car you again are not permitted near the border.
So, after catching the famous Kashgar Sunday market the day before I'm ready to head out of China and on to Central Asia. I meet Paul and Jo, my companions for the day, and by 8:30 we're off and heading down a dirt road for the distant border.
The first checkpoint arrives after about half-an-hour but takes just a few minutes as the guard checks our passport and a mysterious piece of paper that our driver keeps waving at any official looking person. An hour further down the barren road we reach the point where the Torugart and Irkeshtam roads diverge, and Chinese immigration control sits. Everybody out of the car with all the luggage.
The border post is remarkably quiet. Apart from a couple of truck drivers we're the only ones there. We drag our bags across to the x-ray machine and put them on top of a huge pile of sacks. Then it's off to the first office to have the passports checked. A lady inside scrutinises our passports in great detail before finally deciding that they pass muster, pencils something into a log, then ushers us on to the next check. Now it's a guy with a computer who runs through the same routine before also deciding that we're okay. At this point I run my backpack through the scanner but casually slide my daypack along the floor so it doesn't get x-rayed. I don't entirely trust those "film safe" declarations.
Finally we're ushered in to yet another room where now two guys are working in tandem to flush out any irregularities in our paperwork. However nothing is remiss and they soon pull out the exit stamp with a flourish and we're on our way.
We're still 110km from the border at this point and we start to climb up to the pass, the stark desert landscape rolling by on both sides. The only signs of life are the overladen scrap metal trucks heading for China. They seem to be slowly dismantling all of Kyrgyzstan.
10km from the border we pass a lonely outpost with a couple of decaying buildings and a handful of guards. Our driver waves the magic piece of paper and we're ushered through.
The final stretch now and before we know it we're at the top. A lone Chinese guard stands on one side of the small gate. No-one stands on the other. He must have offended someone greatly to get this posting. Our car stops and we see the Kyrgyz car waiting on the other side. With smiles and thanks to our driver we cross the border. I ask the guard if I can take a picture of the scenery. He shakes his head. Wouldn't want the secret of his wooden hut and the thirty feet of low fence to get out.
Now it's another 10km down to the Kyrgyz border control. We reach a double barbed wire fence that looks straight out of Stalag 13. The guards are friendly enough though and in fifteen minutes we're on our way.
The scenery has changed dramatically. In China it was all red desert. Now it's lush green pastures and snow-capped mountains. Still very few people though. Just a few nomads and some distant yurts.
It takes another three hours to reach Naryn, the first significant town on the Kyrgyz side. I don't mind though as the scenery is tremendous. The driver says that he knows a nice place we can stay. His place as it turns out! Well, a flat upstairs actually. It looks very comfortable though so we happily accept and settle in to a nice cup of tea.
Specific details for other travellers
There are a couple of places in Kashgar where you can line up vehicles or hook up with other travellers. The well-known John's Information Cafe inside the Seman Hotel, and the Caravan Cafe just outside the Chini Bagh. Caravan Cafe can also line up transport if you're heading from Kyrgyzstan.
You can't change RMB in Kyrgyzstan but there was a guy hanging around at Chinese immigration that gave a reasonable rate of 5:1 for Kyrgyz som. Don't bank on it though.
If you somehow talk your way to the top (unlikely) without onward transport don't expect to pick up a share taxi at the border. The only car there on this trip was our car. In fact, the only car on the road almost all the way to Naryn was our car. It's a lonely road. There are a few trucks carrying scrap metal but they're all heading to China.
In Naryn you can organise a homestay through the Tourist Information Office. They're on the main street, towards the Bishkek end, on the north side and about 500m before the bridge. It's about 300 or 400 som for B&B. We stayed at our drivers house.
If you're not planning to go back, try for a detour to Tash Rabat. 15km off the Torugart-Naryn road up a very pretty valley. In fact, you could even stay overnight there in a yurt which would be cool but you might have trouble getting out unless your driver stays also (which he'd probably do quite cheaply).
Oh, and you probably know this but you don't have to register with OVIR in Kyrgyzstan any more if your stay is less than a month (maybe even three months).
P.S. Happy Birthday Anita!