Prison, Pistachios and Afghanistan

Dear Mum and Dad,

I know you are both busy with your lives so I’ll save you some time. The first paragraph of this blog is pretty boring, and I’d be almost positive that you’d be asleep after the first couple of sentences. Might I suggest scrolling down and beginning after the next photo. Love you both.

Sincerely,

Your only son.

Oh shit, where am I? I wasn’t in the safety of my bed in the hostel I had just checked into. I certainly wasn’t in my tent out on the side of the road. What the hell are those bars for? Fuck! I’m in jail.

My heart didn’t just sink, it had exploded in a panic. Before I even patted down my pockets to check to see if their contents were still there, I knew they were empty. I jumped up and grabbed the steel bars of the door I was locked behind. “Hey! Hey!” I yelled out into the corridor to anyone that would hear my distress. I swore as loud as I could. 

I had foolishly been carrying all the cash I had in the world, enough for the next three months. A zip up pocket on my cargo pants had seemed like the safest hiding place. I was wrong. 

When a police officer finally appeared he seemed unfazed by my distressed attitude. I was removed from the cell and taken to a small office where my belongings lay out on a table. Even my watch had been removed. The cash was probably the least of my worries, I was more concerned about my camera and the thousands of irreplaceable photos I had taken across the previous months and countries I had visited. 

My camera was there on the table, along with my wallet and phone. A small plastic bag, once holding a small fortune, was now empty. I banged my fist on the table and shouted at the police. I had no doubt it was those around me who had helped themselves. Tajikistan police have a notorious reputation for corruption. They remained steadfast and unemotional at my attitude. Surely an outburst like this in my home country would result in a sly beating of sorts. Guilt was keeping them sedate.

I was put back into the cell to calm down, not once was I handled with force or told to shut up. It was hard to relax. All I could do was sit and wait, still with no idea how I ended up in this situation. One minute I was having a cold beer in a local nightspot, the odd vodka being shared among new friends. The next minute……..

I tried to tell myself that someone must have spiked my drink. They must have. I didn’t want to accept my own poor decision making had brought me here. A more likely reality. At the tender age of 34, I remain my own worst enemy. 

I was finally allowed to leave with my belongings in a small black plastic bag. I signed whatever document had been put in front of me with a big X, snatched back my passport out of the sergeants hand and made for the bright day outside. 

My head was a mess, it ached from whatever super powerful hangover had been thrust upon me. When I reached the street outside I still had no idea exactly where I was. I had been in Dushanbe for less than 24 hours and was completely lost. I wandered back and forth looking for any recognisable landmark. I found an ATM and drew the last drops of my empty bank account, found a taxi and made my way back to the relative safety of the hostel. 

      

This was it, finally a spectacular failure to end my journey. No stolen bike, no broken leg from a speeding Lada. I was robbed, a result of my own peril. 

I declined to let this experience make me say “Fuck Tajikistan”. I fell in love with this place on the first day, the mountains, the people, everything except corruption and greed, fashion one of the most pleasant travelling experiences you could ask for. I wasn’t even too agitated at the ones who stole from me either, it’s not hard to remind myself that this is a large portion of their yearly wage. I could’t blame them for taking the carrot dangling in front of them. I could always return home and recoup any loss far quicker than they could ever imagine. An unfair gap in our existence, something I learned long ago once leaving Australia’s golden shores.

I just wanted to call my mum. I mean, who else are you supposed to call? Mothers day probably wasn’t the most ideal time to have such a conversation. “Mum, I have to come home. It’s over”. She listened, and listened well. I made sure as to keep it together, fighting a lump in my throat. “No” she replied “sleep on it, ill transfer you some money”. She knew I was on the edge of a part of the world I had talked about the most since before I had even planned a route, Iran. And it was only around the corner. “Go to Iran” she said. And just like that, before I even had a chance to sleep on it, my mother had brought calm to the situation. 

I immediately felt better and as motivated as ever. The final message came after the phone call, “Don’t let the bastards win”. Thanks mum.

I managed to leave the past in the past and get on with it. It being finding a way to reach my goal. If nothing else, I now had a story to tell. 

The first of the trio of difficult visas to acquire was Iran. I had already pre arranged a visa authorisation number through an Iranian travel company online. All I had to do now was to visit the embassy, answer a few questions about myself over a cup of tea, fill out a form and pay a fee.

Anyone travelling overland will tell you that having to organise visas is by far the most inhibiting portion of the travel. Even with all the required documents a visa can be refused at anytime, and without reason.

The next day I waited patiently outside the embassy to hopefully receive my visa. It was a long patient wait, trying to prepare myself for any refusal. When the consulate official finally handed me my passport, I flicked through the pages, hoping to find a new page filled. And there it was. Christmas had come early, so much joy and relief can be brought by something as simple as a sticker in a passport. 

Number two was Uzbekistan. I had all the documents prepared before I even reached the embassy. But here there was a rush to reach the door. Men and women were yelling at the guards, and trying to push their way to the door, and each other out of the way. I was in no way exempt to this behaviour and after an hour of waiting and going backwards, I decided to come back the next day. This time, early.

Two and a half hours before the Uzbekistan embassy was to open there were already people standing in front of the door. I positioned myself in a way to start a line, some people even stood behind me. I had no problem letting a few older folk in front of me to stand in the shade. This seemed to work in my favour, when the guard appeared 15 minutes before the consulate was due to open, all those pushing to stand at the entrance to the door were told to basically ‘piss off’. My new friends wishing to make a line then pushed me to the front, the guard giving me the number one with his finger. I was first in line.

Documents handed over and a fee paid, I was told to wait outside. They were calling names, and people who were behind me called inside to collect their passports. “Kangaroo, kangaroo”. Hahaha, it was my turn. Another successful visa application. 

The third, final and most difficult of Central Asian visas to land is Turkmenistan. Living under one of the worlds weirdest dictators, only about 20% of visas seem to be granted. And only for a measly 5 days to allow transit. I wasn’t holding my breath. The embassy finally opened after several days. Now 10 days I would have to wait for an answer. 

There was no point in hanging around for another 10 days stewing over possible contingency plans to cross to Iran. I had seen on the map there were pistachio trees along the Afghanistan border to the south. A 500km loop was possible and for the first time I would go for a ride to nowhere and back again. Now it didn’t matter if I succeeded or failed. I would ride, and this time, just for the hell of it.

From the get go I harboured positive vibes, leaving the city behind, following the highway to the east. The first multilane road in months steered me towards Vahdat just 15km from the city centre before once narrowing and turning south towards Afghanistan. 

2 days of climbing, and ascending crisp green hills, the road remained smooth. Nights hidden from the road, camped in ditches behind whatever cover I could find. Shrieks in the night from shepherds attending to their flock, echoing from high in the surrounding mountains was unnerving at best. Still I was never too shaken by the unsettling noise bouncing around in the dark of night. I trusted the Tajik people would keep me safe. 

Sheep and cattle were often mustered along the road. None seem to really care, motorists simply get on the horn and push their way through. And those with their lively hood taking up the road were always encouraging for a photo or two. The road flattened for a day and the landscape become increasingly dry on the move south. The heat was become more intense as the days went on, a dryness I had left behind in Australia long ago. 

A section of small rolling hills ultimately brought me to a cross road just 30km from the Afghanistan border. Taxi drivers filled the small intersection town and took little time to descend upon my location. A group gathered around and watched me eat a hot dog and repack my bike with water. I was feeling that there are not too many tourists stopping here, let alone on bicycles. 

For 9 months I had now been out of Australia and away from anything familiar. I stood and ate my hot dog amidst all the stares, realising that after all this time the unfamiliar had become the norm.

Only a few hundred metres from the intersection I was stopped at quite a serious looking military checkpoint. I was asked to reveal my documents and handed my passport over much to the confusion of the young guards sitting in the booth. My passport was handed over to the boss who also looked puzzled. A man in plain clothes walked past and didn’t appear to thrilled I was trying to pass. He made his feelings known to the sergeant while I kindly told him “It’s got nothing to do with you mate”, and waved him away with the back of my hand. 

The sergeant then made a cross with his arms at me. I knew what this meant. I tried to jokingly ask them all to close their eyes and count to ten, when they open their eyes I would have disappeared. My best pantomime was understood and I felt like I was making a little progress when several phone calls were made to see if there was anyway I could pass. The result “Niet tourist”. Bugger.

I could see on the map there was another road that could take me around the checkpoint. It involved backtracking and taking another route, losing a day in the process. I didn’t really want to cycle for 3 days only to have to turn around and head back to Dushanbe. After all, the pistachio trees were only 50 more kilometres down the road. 

I showed the younger soldiers my proposed route. They nodded and made a large arc with their arms. When the sergeant saw one of them doing this, he quickly shook his hands in a feeble attempt to prevent me knowing another way. It was too late, and I left announcing my plans “I’ll go around then, see ya’s later”. When I returned to my bike I found 3 loaves of bread hanging from a plastic bag on my handle bar, a consolation gift to see me on my way.              

Back past the crowd who had intently watched me eat my lunch not 30 minutes earlier I continued past and waved at their stunned faces. I was left with a sense that real adventure was at hand and grinned while pedalling along the bumpy road. The usual stress of my skinny legs battling such friction was no where to be found. 

Stopped by traffic police just a short distance along the road I thought it was all over before it even started. The officer asked where I was going? I pulled out my map thinking ‘should I be lying about this? Has he just received a call to intercept my insolence?’. No time to think I stuck with the truth, he nodded with a smile when I fingered my proposed route on the map before spotting the whip sticking out of my bag. I pulled it out and gave it a crack, the cop flinched when I wound it up for another go. The officer too had a turn and cracked the whip without fail before being distracted by a speeding driver. I took my chance to leg it, packed my whip and scurried off up the road. 

Soon I was off the main road and heading down a narrow path into the midst of a salt mountain. Rock and trees, with slivers of salt peering through the cracks. The road became an obstacle course of potholes, with the map now showing the road as the thinnest of lines, It would surely get worse before it gets better. 

The path climbed into the hills while the sun went down. I needed to find a place to camp and fast. A ‘2001, A Space Odyssey’ style monolith stood on a hill off the road. If there was ever a sign to camp, this was it. Rarely had I had an opportunity to camp so far away from an actual road. Not a car could be heard, just me and the birds, and a weird concrete structure. It’s possible this was one of the most peaceful camps I have had to date.

Woken by the sun and the sound of a heard of sheep and cattle approaching. A small boy soon stood in front of my tent. The youngest shepherd I had ever seen stood there and talked, and talked, and talked some more. The only information I could get out of him is that he was 4 years old and more than happy to pose for a photo. I packed up my tent while he continued to talk, his father soon appeared to get him to come along and carry on with work. 

The road narrowed even more as it passed through another village. The asphalt slowly transitioning to rocks and dirt, and power lines usually following the road were thinning out. 

I had never been so happy to be pushing my bike through deep river rock, my front wheel unable to hold its own line, skidding sideways through the pebbles. It’s the sort of place I always thought I would end up, it just took 12,000km of tar to get here.

I followed a narrow stream along a dry rocky gorge, salt from the mountain making its way through the rock and into the small creek. The rest of the day was spent pushing and heaving through sand and rock. Past small farming villages, occasionally being stopped for a chat and asking what the hell I was doing here. 

The road split into, what I though was two, both taking me back to the road I had been blocked from travelling the previous day. The southern road hugged the Afghan border so I was forced to take the longer northern route. With no road signs to direct me, and the offline map on my phone unwilling to play nice, I was forced to stop a passing car and ask for directions. Thinking I was lost I asked “Farkor” (the town I was headed to) and simply pointed further down the rocky road I was already on. 

The map on my phone came to play the game, I wasn’t even close to the north road I had hoped to find. Instead somewhere in the middle, the small blue arrow pointing in the right direction, albeit in a lost no mans land. I was indeed lost, and loving it.

At last I could see the end of the road, cars whizzing past in a perpendicular direction. Getting lost had unknowingly taken me on quite the short cut, just 10km from Farkor. Plenty of daylight left I had a quick rest before heading on to town.

Riding into town came with calls, whistles and waves from nearly everyone I passed in the street. I don’t mind people calling out” hello” and having a wave, but after a hard day in the sun there is nothing more frustrating than attempts to get my attention by whistling at me like a dog. All I needed was a quick feed before I would head off and camp down the road. 

I found a restaurant and sat down. An unusual time of day to eat I was the only one inside. For three or four seconds that is. Every bloke within smelling distance of my arrival had soon found me out and came to sit with me at the table. Each one wanting to shake my hand and ask me a million questions while I was trying to eat. I had to stop, sit back, and tell everyone to relax. The loudest of the group understanding and telling everyone to get out.

Two police soon came to join in the fun, or ruin it. A pair of lanky officers, both with neatly trimmed moustaches, sternly charged to my table in the restaurant. “Documents!” Not particularly in the mood to be bothered I answered “hang on mate, let me finish and I’ll come so you can take my picture” and kept eating. “Passport”, still he did not look very happy. I handed my passport for inspection. 

From what I understand I was told to finish my meal and then follow him to the police station. He would wait for me outside. 

My appetite was ruined by this. The thought of a stranger who had just come and wandered off with my passport didn’t sit well. I paid for my meal. The ladies in the restaurant looked quite concerned for me, “Arrest?” one said. I shrugged my shoulders. Before I left I quickly took all my cash and shoved it into my shoes, the ladies giving approval with this. 

Outside the lanky police were standing there in a crowd. All were stood peering into my passport, they had all the gear and no idea.

I grabbed my bike and followed him to the station. When a young man gave a “hello, where are you from?”, in excellent english, I asked “come with me”. Quickly explaining the situation and requesting he follow and help me translate. That afternoon, Abdul was my angel.

A dozen police stood outside the police building. Mr unhappy lanky moustache cop tried to get me to follow him inside, and bring my bike. “It’s ok mate, I’ll just hang out here”, still unsure as to what was actually happening I waited outside, explaining to the other police my intentions and showing where I was going on the map. Also showing a photo one of their own just up the road who wanted a turn of my bike. 

With the help of Abdul I found out quickly I had snuck into an area of the country that required a permit. A permit I didn’t have. Immediately I realised why the army had stopped me passing, and why lanky moustache cop was so unhappy. I had wandered into a sensitive area of Tajikistan, this close to the Afghanistan border has come under some trouble in the past. Kanduz in Afghanistan was very close, a region most certainly under recent taliban control. This must make the underprepared and peaceful Tajik side most definitely nervous, especially with bearded tourists. In fact beards are even illegal in Tajikistan for under 45’s. Would you ever believe that in a state with a 98 percent muslim population, they were not even allowed to wear a beard? I often wonder what we actually know about the world. 

My arresting officer returned with my passport. This time there was something wrong with his face. He looked far less menacing and his teeth were showing, I think it’s called a smile. 

I didn’t want to waste any more time in Farkor in case the local police were to change their minds. Peeling the paper money off the bottom of my socks before it dissolved in a pool of sweat, soon I was back out on the flat, chasing the evening sun.

Id been set upon by snarling dogs before, but never two at a time. A sort of dance around in circles trying to keep my bike between me and the pair of barking beasts. Before I could even pick up a rock, a pair of heroes appeared. Would you believe me if I told you my heroes were a pair of cows. Its true. The bovine legends appeared out of nowhere and saved me from a rabid attack. I still can’t believe it.

Finding a good spot in busy farm land is never that easy, especially doing it with some degree of stealth. Carrying on into the twilight, somehow, a magical spot always appears.

Into the night I could hear the farmers still on their way home. The same at first light in the opposite direction. 17 hours of sunlight, heaving away in a field just to put food on the table. Respect goes out to the Tajik people toiling away for their meagre existence. I can’t imagine getting further away from home. 

The wild pistachio tree were just around the corner. A 30km corner anyway. The rough black tar road vanished again, green pastures became dry rocky plains and I climbed slowly towards a brown rolling mountain range. 

I stopped for lunch at the base of a set of 18 switchbacks overlooking the Panj River and over into Afghanistan. Into the hottest part of the day I went, climbing the steep winding road. The summit was always in sight as I clambered closer to the top. Sure the road descended on the other side, but again it climbed over and over again. Descents taken with the brake on full, ponderously and scrupulous over the goat track of a road. 

There they were, scattered all over the sides of the mountains. Wild pistachio trees as far as the eyes could see. An excellent hideaway from the burning sun was about all they were good for this day. After every effort and risk I could take to reach this spot, not a pistachio was ready for me to eat. An irony I enjoyed with a sense of fulfilment. In a way, I hadn’t come all this way just to eat a nut off a tree, but to find something different, go somewhere, anywhere, nowhere, and return to tell the tale.

I battled the remainder of the day, cycling in the shit. A car would pass every hour or so, each one stopping to offer me a drink of some sort. Each crest had to be crossed, each corner had to be checked, you never know whats on the other side. Satisfaction doesn’t come without a little hard work, the road culminated with a final drop and back onto the dusty tar towards the town of Panj. 

Through numerous grubby herds moving along the road, I squeezed my way past sheep, goats and cows towards a decent meal and a cold drink. 

Stopping to check the map way taking me in the right direction, a local villager, in fact the teacher, asked if I was ok. He explained Panj was 8km along the river following the road. We chatted for a while as others gathered, mostly children, and then the local police officer. I imagined the plain clothes gentleman was some sort of self appointed village police. A short man, he stood over his own bicycle next to me, dripping sweat from his forehead, his eyes as white as could be, wide open with a huge grin on his face. He looked like a child at Christmas who though he was getting nothing and had received the world. 

A tractor passed taking our attention for a moment. “Do you have tractors in Australia?” asked the teacher, followed by the police guy adding “in the willages” (not a spelling mistake). “Ummm, yeah. In the willages”. 

I offered my email to the teacher, he looked confused. No email? 

Here on the Afghan border in southern Tajikistan, interacting with a few beautiful souls, I was having a revelation. I thought I had been to places far away, an honest realisation…..I hadn’t.

I moved closer to Panj, now at great speed back on a real road. When I reached the centre the first one to spot me was…. Yep, you guessed it…. Police. By now I knew the drill, I followed and had my passport ready. “You look like the boss” I said to the cleanest looking one with the most stars on his shoulder, and the only one sitting down. This was quick and painless, two minutes “you can go”. 

Where can I get some shashlik? Hungry for meat I wandered in the direction they pointed me, quickly joined by a pair walking in the same direction. 

Narzalib and Jahonjir (can you tell I wrote their names down?) sat with me, ordered and when the meal was over, they even paid. 

Narzalib could speak a little english and explained the trouble Panj has with the people using it as a hub to escape to Afghanistan (that’s right, to). The restaurant we ate in was no more than 200m from Afghanistan, but you would never know just sitting there. I found it quite an honour when I was told that they might only see a handful of foreigners a year, mostly hitchhikers, and only during the summer months.  

I was offered a roof for the night and a place to have a shower. At least I think that’s what was going on. They led me to the local hotel and we went inside. ‘Sweet’ I thought, after a few days camping I could do with a bed and a shower. Unbeknownst to me I was only there for the shower, the owner giving me a bar of soap, a towel and some shampoo and showed me to a shower at the end of the hall. When I went to leave after using the hotels facilities for free, the owner seemed more thankful than I was. Owing to the fact I hadn’t showered for 5 days surely. 

A space on the floor in an apartment block was a luxury I had missed the past 5 days. I slept like a baby in the cool room, next to a window enjoying a light breeze on my face. A simple pleasure.

An early start so everyone could head off to work I hit the road running and made it to another checkpoint 30km from town. This time it wasn’t the military, just the corrupt police. I found a seat on a bench with the officers while my passport was again scrutinised. I ate some melon and joked around and laughed with them all, one eye watching the boss sat at a desk. Each car was stopped and the driver would get out and come and hand over their ID. Inside was of course a small bribe, slyly taken out and pocketed before the driver could leave. I must have happened over 20 times in the 15 minutes I sat there. Not wishing to overstay my welcome I quickly said my goodbyes, took a melon off their hands and continued on. 

As close as I would ever be to Afghanistan the road was just metres away from the barbed wire fence. The Panj river on the other side, and watchtowers scattered along the horizon. Knowing not to get too close, especially beyond a most foreboding sign, a land mine warning. This had become quite the ominous assignment filled with overtones of extreme personal danger. 

The road curved away from and back towards the fence. But never too far away. The wind was picking up and I slowed to a crawl. My internal thermometer was creeping over the 40 degree mark, the dryness , and only access to hot water, not helping my cause. 

I napped under a tree for a couple of hours, the only shade for miles. A car pulled up and offered me a lift. A little dehydrated and stinging for an ice-cream I asked if they could take me just to the next town, Dusti, about 15km down the road. What the hell, I had already lost a day dodging the army and now surely I needed a day off tomorrow in Dusti. Just killing time waiting for a visa to move on, I could justify cheating…. This time.

With no english between us I wondered if I was actually been taken to the next town. Especially when 20 minutes passed and we hadn’t stopped. Was this guy taking me to Dushanbe? We seemed to sort of communicate, notably when he said the word “Peeva” (beer in Russian). I knew we were going to get along just fine. In the end he took me all the way to his home in Kurgonteppa just 100km south from Dushanbe. 

I spent the evening with Sulam and his family. We ate and drank and they really made me feel like part of the family.

He lived with his mother and father, 2 brothers and one sister. Each of the boys also with their wives, each with two children. It was a full house and they treated me like a king. The family were more than happy to talk about the political situation in their country, something I know little about, and not enough to express thoughts about in this blog. Sulam’s father showed me wounds where he had been shot during the civil war, he told me of the hatred between brothers and sisters during this time. I found these things difficult to imagine. 

In 6 short days I had found adventure up to the eyeballs. A little tired and hungover from days in the sun and my evening in Kurgonteppa, Sulam helped me find a taxi the final 100km to Dushanbe. Local knowledge resulting in a 100km taxi ride for the grand total of $3.50 AUD. Pittance in our known worlds, of course I gave a tip.

Back to my lodging at the Green House Hostel in Dushanbe. I had already spent a couple of weeks there during my time in Tajikistan. Walking through the gate I felt right at home. 

One last piece of my Central Asian puzzle to go, a Turkmenistan visa. Fingers crossed……….