Tajikistan: a land of pure adventure

Time continues to march on relentlessly and so I find myself in familiar lands recollecting about a distant land I was in only two months ago. It was the 26th July that saw me enter Tajikistan. The ride to Dushanbe was an absolute pleasure. Gone were the deserts and high temperatures. Now I was met by mountains, rivers, valleys, trees and crops of all sorts. From time to time I’d catch a glance from a field worker and if so, a smile and a wave would quickly ensue. The thought of such back breaking work they were performing in the absence of modern motorised farm equipment made me feel quite comfortable astride the KTM. Earlier I’d attempted a short cut across the border, but was to find out the border was closed to foreigners and so I doubled back to the main one only really costing myself an hour. Ironically, I would later pass by that exact same border but from the other side. Of course, borders are rarely simple. Getting into Tajikistan was no different. For some reason I was bouncing around buildings not knowing what I was doing. Everyone seemed to point me in a direction that was a stop past whatever it was I was supposed to do. Back and forth I went and eventually I had acquired the right ticks in boxes and the right stamps in documents to be on my way.

I arrived in Dushanbe greeted by a beaming Rik! I was like the white knight come to rescue him with a new (well… second hand actually) shock absorber. Like me before him, he had that stranded feeling as the other guys pressed on to new and exciting locations. He had become the resident “local” at the Dushanbe hostel as travellers came and went. Nevertheless, he had enjoyed meeting everyone and he even managed to help out a female motorcyclist with some of my contacts in Iran who would help her with spare parts when she got there. He’d also had time to plan and so it was I eagerly looked at what he had in store for us in the coming weeks.

Our first night involved a slide show from a fellow traveller at the local bike repair shop. He had taken a sidecar to South America a few years back and had some great stories to tell… mostly of him breaking down. A few other moto travellers joined in and with some beers and pizza it made for a nice gathering. There was nothing special about being a moto adventurer in these parts. I was one of many and instead of a feeling being “special”, it was very much a feeling of fraternity. Of course, people I would meet knew other people I’d met and vice versa. The unique thing about the Silk Road is that it truly is well worn path and it’s inevitable that those that go before would run into those we would yet meet.

The next day was all action. Rik’s shock was getting replaced and thanks to a leftover at the hostel, I was getting a nice new bit of rubber on my back wheel.

Note:  With all the overlanders passing through, the hostel we stayed in was a veritable dumping ground for unwanted parts, clothing, gear and food. Rik had noticed a nice tyre sitting unwanted for many days and swiped it on my behalf.

We finally were ready to go and it wasn’t a moment too soon. Time passes slowly in these parts even without the frustration of waiting for parts. Sam and Lukas were now well ahead and Bento somewhere in between, so it felt like we’d been missing out on a lot of action. Our plan was to head south toward the Afghan border and the famed Wakhan corridor. Our stop was a small town called Tavildara. Rik had already made it this far on his previous jaunt with the boys only to break down not too far beyond. He found the same hotel (with the word hotel being used rather liberally) and soon we were being treated to a home cooked meal to go with our beers from the shop. The ride had been enjoyable and I was starting to get a taste of what Tajikistan had to offer: cliff sides, wild rivers, lots of dirt tracks and plenty of smiling locals. It was here we heard what could only be described as utterly tragic news. Not more than 150kms away, six cyclists had been mowed down in a vehicle by would be terrorists in an unprovoked and from all accounts, uncharacteristic attack. Four of them died. Two from the US and two form the Netherlands. It sent a shock wave through the travel community and more so through Tajikistan itself. The locals were horrified at what had happened in their own country and felt ashamed for what had happened. The Silk Road really is small world and in the coming days we met several people who knew those who had been killed. When I was made aware of their Instagram account, I decided to have a look and learn more about these people who were clearly caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, a one in a million scenario. They were happy, adventurous people being touched by those they had met along the way and no doubt touching many hearts themselves. And then suddenly, no more. A story that stops dead in its tracks quite literally. The fragility of life really hits home. For us, it didn’t seem like something to be afraid of. It was most certainly a once off event and whilst it felt close in some respects, it never really felt that close. We later learned the culprits were caught and then killed in the ensuing gun battle with police.

The next day we pushed on to Khorog, our jumping point for doing the Bartang Valley ride. Rik had done some research and the Bartang Valley was the jewel of the crown. A three day ride through remote and beautiful countryside. It had it all: river crossings, cliff edge riding, picturesque farming towns in the valley, wide open dry plains and fantastic mountains. We prepped up for our outing whilst staying in the comfortable and very relaxed hostel chatting with other intrepid travellers. I found the local mechanic who managed to weld my navigation tower back together. By now, the rugged roads were taking their toll on my bike and I definitely had a growing sense of caution about things that might still go wrong. Unfortunately, our trip was delayed a couple of days when I copped both food poisoning and the usual stomach trouble from the food in these parts at the same time. It made for a sleepless night with multiple trips to the toilet finally culminating in a literally gut wrenching vomit at 5am that left me completely shattered. You could say I was well and truly tired and dehydrated by this stage. I proceeded to sleep all day and all night and we stayed an even further day just to make sure I’d be in fighting shape for the Bartang.

Being the casual and relaxed guys we are, Rik and I never got up too early. I’d say an accurate description was that we were the afternoon shift of adventure riders. And sure enough, we didn’t get going for the Bartang Valley until 2:30pm. So it was no surprise that we rolled into a village at 9pm after having ridden around the edge of a mountain not knowing exactly how far we had to go and how on earth we were meant to get off this ledge with no roads in sight! The day had been extraordinary though and we felt like we’d reached the place of pure adventure. With no phone reception along the whole journey and very basic amenities in the village we stayed in, I’d finally felt the true disconnection from the outside world I’d been craving and a peaceful connection with where I was and what I was doing. Our next day got even better. We were finally taking on some river crossings. Whilst, not much to look at, they were strong and reasonably deep (higher than our knees in fact). This made for an interesting crossing. A tall and heavy bike is not an ideal vehicle to be moving across a fast moving body of water, but there was no shying away because this was precisely the adventure I’d been craving my whole journey. The usual gung-ho thoughts crossed my mind and there was a strong temptation to launch myself like Evil Knievel, but the usual risk mitigation instincts eventually kick in and you are left with the sobering reality of being in a remote place, with no phone connection and a vehicle that is more like a thoroughbred than a mule and so you do your best get the job done safely and modestly.

Rik thought better of the crossing and took his much lower bike (with what we discovered to be a dubious new shock absorber) across the rocks down to the main river where he hoped the wider spread of our river would be more easily navigated. As it turns out, the river wasn’t the problem, but the bog was. We spent 10 minutes getting his bike out and were greeted by two mad Russians crossing in the other direction. Despite their insistence of not needing help it was a good thing we were there as the first guy dumped his bike in the river itself and the second (who literally did launch his bike) crashed it on the opposing bank! It made for some mid trip entertainment and before long we were off again. Another crossing was in store, but it proved to be easier and before long we were at altitude riding around the mountain tops. Rik’s bike was a heavy breather so he was pretty nervous about the thin air. With the removal of his air filter, he managed to get enough oxygen for the bike to make the mountain passes.

Upon reaching some open flats, I pulled over to let Rik get ahead and then I unleashed. Pushing the bike hard to enjoy the thrill of speed. It wasn’t until I actually slowed down a bit (and turned off the camera I’m sad to say) that I heard a loud “hisssss” and immediately feared a radiator leak. Two seconds later I realised it was in fact my front tyre and just as I needed all my stability to slow it down I hit a patch of sand and proceeded to crash heavily. I was lucky not to have gotten hurt, but years of falling off dirt bikes has probably put me in good stead and set about changing the tyre. My very first. Not on this trip. Actually, ever! Things were proceeding smoothly until I recalled my pump was broken and Rik was ahead of me. I figured he’d be back soon and so I didn’t worry too much until 30 minutes passed. Then 60 minutes. By now I started to wonder if he too had been beset by trouble. A breakdown? A crash? I started to go into mitigation mode and thought “Damn, I don’t even have a bloody tent!” the last one having fallen off the bike somewhere in Uzbekistan. I scanned the landscape. Wide, open, windy as the Nordic Sea and not a skerrick of shelter. I did have my blue tarp and sleeping bag though and with enough water for an overnighter I started to contemplate the idea of being beaten to death by the wind all night and maybe getting some help or a passer by the next day.

Fortunately, none of this would eventuate. After 90 minutes Rik turned up and I was more than pleased to see him. He had been riding along for some time before realising I wasn’t catching up and thought I was doing the usual “stop for a photo”. He then ran into three cyclists (two of whom were Aussies) and had a chat. A rather long chat it would seem. One was suffering from a bit of altitude sickness and unfortunately, Rik’s medication was back at the hostel where we’d dumped some gear to pick up after our loop. The Aussie was most amused when Rik told him my name was Shane “ha ha, classic Aussie name” and Maloney “oh that sounds Aussie too!!”. Nevertheless, with Rik finally back and some expertise onto the job we had my bike going in no time. We passed the trio of cyclists again and had a quick chat before making our way to what would be our home for the night – an amazing yurt in the middle of absolutely nowhere! We were greeted by the lady’s son, Mustapha and a few of their animals, but we couldn’t be happier. Another long day, but a picture perfect ending. Mountains either side of us, clear, crisp streams flowing past and our very own yurt with it’s own wood fire heater inside! We slept like absolute kings.

Our final day in the Bartang was quite brief. We only had 30kms before we hit the highway. The landscape changed yet again! No more mountains or valleys, just wide open plains and tracks that seemed like spaghetti. Before long we reached the highway, stopped to give each other a fist pump and a big smile and rode on to Murgab. The ride wasn’t all roses though. With only 20kms off dirt (the rest some form of bitumen or other) I managed to get my second flat tyre. I was devastated. But as it all unfolded, something strange happened. I actually appreciated it. Gone were my fears of tyre changes. Now I was starting to feel more confident about this horrible task. We managed to pull up at a local’s house and enjoyed some coffee and assistance. We learned (again from some really bad Russian on my part) that he drove the snow plow that cleared the highway mountain crossing in Winter. It really is amazing the people you meet. Given we had some tyre repairing to do as well (the spare was also damaged), it took a bit longer, but time doesn’t seem to matter in these parts. We soon got to Murgab and had our rest. The highlight was buying warm beers and taking them down to the river to chill them whilst watching the local women wash their clothes and rugs whilst the children harassed and chased the goats. Every now and then someone would drive their car into the river and wash it, but overall it was a pretty relaxed atmosphere with the occasion being equally social and productive for those engaged.

We made it back to Khorog and this time Rik would be the one to succumb to unpleasant stomach experiences. Again we extended our stay with me making by now a routine visit to the mechanic. The welding hadn’t lasted and the job was needed to be done again. Rik too was getting some welding done and we enjoyed our time at the hostel in between. Several travellers rolled through whom we’d met before and there was no shortage of new people to meet as well. We even had a couple of movie nights, connecting our laptops to the big tv in the upstairs dining hall no one seemed to visit.

We were now close to the end of our time in Tajikistan. Our route would take us south first along the Wakhan Valley (bordering Afghanistan) before heading north to Kyrgyzstan. We had contemplated a jaunt through Afghanistan due to the many wonderful stories we’d heard, but we decided against when we agreed our only motivation was to say “we’ve been to Afghanistan”. The Wakhan Valley provided the same views except for being on the opposite side of the river and whilst we’d heard about this wonderful location beyond the ride, the time and money to get there simply didn’t justify it. Instead we enjoyed our Wajkhan ride safe in the knowledge we’d done something much better (the Bartang). I encountered yet another flat tyre, but by now it seemed the norm and not the exception. We did what needed to be done and found a home stay further along the road. The next day arrived and by then we had reached paved roads. It was a nice change from some of the more rugged sections we’d done. The bike was certainly starting to feel it and with little more than two weeks remaining on my incredible adventure, I was conscious of making sure both the bike and I made it to our final destination. Our final night was in a small village by Karakul Lake. Yet again we relished staying in yurt. It seemed to be quite the fitting finale to our time in Tajikistan.

Note: In case you were wondering, that video inserted above is the one we made for the Bartang Valley ride. It’ll give you a real sense of what it was like. Hope you enjoy. We sure enjoyed making it. Additional link to video here.