Free Hugs

Have you ever heard of Tajikistan?

Do you think you could find it on a world map?

Go on, have a look, I’ll wait…….

Did you find it? Right between China, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan and………..Afghanistan *Gasp*?

Don’t worry mum and dad, I’m sure I’ll be ok. 

One of the poorest and most least visited Central Asian countries, Tajikistan has had its fair share of turmoil. Only 20 years ago this beautiful little country began to recover from a civil war caused by a nasty breakup from the Soviet Union and grappling for independence. Slowly finding its feet, unsavoury incidents are far and few between. Beginning the journey on the eastern rim of the Fergana Valley to the north. Basically the only flat land in Tajikistan, its been at least a couple of years since any tourists here have been reported missing. 

Another day, another border crossing. With the sun now beating down I moved south and closer towards the equator, leaving the brisk northern winter behind. Evidence of Tajikistan’s economic struggle was pretty clear when I got to the border, the checkpoint and passport control nothing more than a shipping container with a small office. There were several soldiers hanging around, none too interested in sorting out my entry. Finally my details were written in a ledger book and my passport stamped. 

I needed to find my legs again. All I could do is hope (the basis of my entire trip) that whatever parasite had set up shop in my system was long dead, drowned in vodka, never to return. 

A buzz from penetrating the Tajik border and a flat road which lay before me, winding along through open farm land, and a strength I had once known was back on side.

The plan was, as always, vague and simple, turn the pedals and let the universe decide my fate.

The town of Isfara was a short 10km ride from the checkpoint. One of the most ancient towns in Central Asia on the northern branch of the silk road showed nothing of its centuries old history. Many a Mercedes clogged up the main strip around the local bazar and grand government buildings, all with huge posters of Tajikistan’s supreme leader (usually doing manual labour in his crisp blue suit) lined the road through town. 

Within three hours I was already on the receiving end of the legendary Tajik hospitality. Everyone waves as I pass, lunch was paid for by a couple of strangers (who also helped me decipher the menu) and a black Mercedes with three young fellas onboard had stopped me twice to make sure there was nothing they could possibly do to help me out in anyway possible. It was beginning to feel like the extreme friendliness of Indonesia all over again, just without the “hello mister’s”.

Isfara became a speck in the distance as the road veered towards the Tajikistan capital Dushanbe, 400km to the south. 

Out into the desert landscape I went, vast nothingness along a bumpy tar road, wide and deep cracks bouncing my bike along till I could stand it no more and found my feet on the road pushing along the rocky shoulder. It was interesting to see as a backdrop to such a desolate landscape, snow capped mountains in the misty distance. 

I had set and surpassed my daily goal before the early afternoon, a minuscule 25km to get the ball rolling. I moved the goalposts and sought another challenging 30km to Konibodom where I knew there was a bed and shower for my first night in Tajikistan. It was a restart I had dreamed of after a lonely month in Kyrgyzstan.

What was to become a somewhat uninspiring road through the Fergana Valley was not without its challenges. A long straight road via particularly fertile farm lands, the heat was building and the road would transition from smooth to less than smooth without warning. When the road was smooth the wind was in my face, when the road became rough and rutted, the wind would turn to my tail. Murphy’s law constantly making a mockery of my efforts, as it always has.

The local people of Tajikistan are incredibly friendly. Cars continuously stopping to say hello, almost taking me to the point of frustration. Although its difficult to stay mad at someone who just wants to shake your hand, something they do with meaning and gusto. Hands come together with a loud slap, something I feel is important with the humble handshake. If your going to do it, you have to mean it. Handshakes also can quickly become a hug. When was the last time you pulled over in your car just to hug a stranger on the side of the road?

3 days and 200km down on the way to Dushanbe, I ended up in Istaravshan. I’d pushed hard in the heat and exhausted myself in yet another induction to life on the road. The Alay mountain range and the Fan Mountains stood before me. A forced day off before the inevitable climbing ahead was a must. Travelling to a place like Istaravshan you have to be prepared for a little attention. This can often be an exercise in patience when you’re the only tourist in town, and even without the bike at hand it is nigh on impossible to blend in. 

Im sure the road out of town was still from a time when asphalt was in the experimental stages of road surfacing. I endured the short stretch of road resembling the surface of the moon before returning to the main highway and beginning a short climb into the rolling green steppe. 

Stopping for lunch would signal an anti climax to a short day when the wind howled and rain pounded the muddy ground. A consolation prize to another lost 24 hours due to unsavoury weather, the small restaurant (and the only one for miles) was also offering accommodation. Although my Russian was improving quickly, a day of conversation was as tiring as a day on the bike. There was no magic english speaking angel to appear and help this day, instead we reverted to either hand signals (which didn’t seem to be understood on either end) or just a confused Australian sitting, listening, and drinking endless pots of tea. 

2 nights in a hotel, 6 meals, 3 beers, and a shitload of tea later I left with a bill totalling $16 AUD. My new friends, unable to communicate in any real capacity, had also gifted me a Tajik name “Karim”. A name which would prove to be a valuable asset.

Cloud covered snow capped peaks moved ever closer. A rolling road ascended gently towards the first pass which, thanks to the neighbouring Chinese obsession with infrastructure, had been cut drastically short with the help of the Shahriston Tunnel. 

The day was getting on and the nearest town of Ayni still 30km away. I could only be sure that on the other side of the 6km long tunnel, the road would descend.

Cars and trucks lined up at the entrance to the pair of tunnels. The police letting only one side go at a time, I had the sinking feeling I would be forced to jump in a truck for the ride through. Confidently I stood at the entrance and began to assemble my lights on the bike. Several motorists and the two young police came over to see what was happening. I refused all offers of a lift through and switched on my lights, the police waving me through before the rest of the traffic was to follow. 

A slight upward slope in the tunnel made for tough going. The trucks soon bared down on me while I tried to pedal as fast as I could. Flying through the tunnel at great speed, truck after truck, overtaking each other at will and filling the tunnel with diesel smoke and dust. I resisted stopping to put on a mask fearing it would just increase time in the now heavily polluted path through the mountain. Maybe not the finest decision I have ever made, I watched the heavy dust in the beam of my headlight and tried to keep focus ahead. No music as a gauge of time, the light at the end of the tunnel seemed to never appear. I tried not to breath and exerted myself to the eventual exit where I was able to once again breath deep.

The police on the other end were quite keen for me sit in their diminutive booth and share some tea. Daylight was running out and I could see the road disappear into a near horizon, it was going down. I politely refused the tea and began the evening plunge.

Cut into the side of the steep mountainside, a road steered me directly into the eyes of the Fan Mountains. Grasping the brake lever hard, my hand cramped quickly as still I travelled down the side of the mountain with great speed. Blind to bumps and dips in the road launching my bike off the ground, or bashing it into large potholes, I had to keep my eyes on the road and off the spectacular scenery around me. Green mountainsides, snowy peaks and red rock, glowing out of the monstrous shadows cast from the dwindling daylight. My favourite part of the day, and immediate satisfaction.  

The clouds parted allowing a full sun to brighten the coming gorge. A fast flowing brown river cut the mountain range in two to form a deep gorge. Sheer cliffs perpetually crumbling onto the narrow road suspended over the moving water. Clefts in the gorge manifest to dramatic earth structures. Rocks jutting high into the sky in every direction, layered in various earthy colours. Backdrops of impressive green mountains dwarfed by an eternity of snow laden summits. With a road even a BMX can traverse, this is a cyclists heaven on earth.  

I rested in the town of Zefarson at the base of the next pass. Contemplating continuing to begin the final confronting climb before Dushanbe, a stiff wind carried a dust storm into the town. I turned to move my eyes from the impending dust cloud. Not only had I managed to find a cool drink in the mountains, at a most perfect time the dust storm arrived, I was also sitting at the entrance to the local hotel. In the face of adversity, during the gamble of cycle travel, I had found a safe place. 

Ominous clouds loomed over the rugged mountains. Climbing a final pass along side mountain folk villages. Small mud brick structures built very much into the ground in a most hobbit style, chimneys poking up through their grass covered roofs. The sun shone for a short while, just long enough for me to tackle the steepest sections of road. The clouds then reverted back to their place in the sky, right overhead, this time fostering a quick hail storm followed by a light rain. Just enough to wet my socks, but not enough to slow me down. 

Large amounts of snow on the roadside had avalanched from the adjoining slopes. Reaching the Anzob Tunnel (a notoriously dangerous tunnel known for flooding), one side of the duel tunnels completely blocked by snow. I first watched to make sure that traffic was travelling in both directions. It looked as if there was only just enough room for one vehicle each way. I waved on a handful of trucks which had stopped to offer me a lift. And in I went. 

The tunnel was sloping in just the right direction for me to effortlessly pedal like a mad man down the narrow tube. Trucks and cars having to sit behind me at times, waiting for a safe place to overtake. Not once did I get an angry horn, only patience and arms waving from open windows. A wet road in the tunnel was keeping the dust down, and I could hear the rushing of water beneath the road in the newly built drainage duct. The light came fast and I had survived what could have been one of the most dangerous 5km stretches of industrious dark road in Tajikistan. 

The grim grey sky and damp atmosphere was not enough to retract the astonishing views. Without doubt Tajikistan is showing off some of the most beautiful scenery I have ever seen. And down into the vast green gorge I went. 

A most serious down hill would take me all the way to Dushanbe for the next 90km. The wet road did nothing to help my braking ability. I couldn’t squeeze the lever any harder if I tried and ended up having to wedge a stone in between the lever and the perch as the only way to keep the brake on without causing extreme pain to my hand. As a back up, jamming my wet shoe onto the back wheel did absolutely nothing. There was no back up, only to keep an eye on somewhere to bail if disaster would strike. 

I hadn’t made the descent in one go and had a final nights sleep on a bench in a small road side eatery. The resto was open air and sat just metres by the raging Varzob river. I had ridden past the darkness and woken up to the sounds of birds and the rampant brown river, a torrent from the impending change of season.

It couldn’t have been a more pleasant day to reach the final 50km to the Tajik capital. Every corner I expected a climb, even a flat, it wasn’t to be. The closer Dushanbe came I noticed a definite change in living conditions. Small hobbit houses were left high in the mountains, large brick homes and fancy hotels filled the affluent Varzob Gorge all the way into the city. 

Clean streets and large tree lined avenues took me from one end of the city to the next. Once named ‘Stalinabad’ during Soviet rule, until the early 20th century Dushanbe was nothing more than a small village. 

Having to now spend more than my fair share of time in the city to attempt the Bermuda Triangle of visas (Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan and Iran), I found a hostel, peeled off the socks I had been sweating in for the last 10 days and enjoyed a cold beer in the warm sun. Nothing could possibly go wrong……….