Long ago I lost count of the number of times I’ve been cycling riverside. Usually it’s something I enjoy immensely as it generally means having a calm, beautiful ride without the need of ever worrying about navigation.
As my newfound companions and I began our ride along the Panj river, the feeling was different from that typical river ride. It was beautiful for sure. But the serenity that the rivers usually bring me was lacking. Partly because the incredible force of the fast moving Panj is creating a completely deafening roar, as if to remind anyone close to it not to come too close.
That was not the thing though. There was this unmistakeable pinch of adrenaline in the air, but the river was not the source of it. What was on the other side of it was.
Afghanistan was.
Panj is not only a river – it’s the border between Tajikistan and Aghanistan. And it’s weird, isn’t it? How what media chooses to feed us is affecting us all the way down to the core – regardless of whether we like it or not. I mean, we were cycling in the middle of nothing. 100 meters away, we could see another patch of nothing. Where we were, we felt completely safe. But the mere thought of setting foot on the other side of the water made our hearts beat faster.
Afghanistan.
Boo..!
Those villages we passed have absolutely nothing to do with the Talibans or what’s going on in the country. Nothing to with the portrait that we’ve constantly have had painted in our consciouses, at least for as long as I’ve had a mind to shape. You know it – but still you can’t help yourself. (Completely made up) danger was in the air. And anything we could see happening on the other side of the water was more intriguing for us than anything that could possibly happen on ours.
This is embarrassing, but we even used binoculars (yes, Karin & Fritz are carrying everything) to get the closest look possible on what was going on in this frightening, closed off world.
‘Look. I think that donkey is… eating! And the woman over there! She is carrying… a child!’
Mindblowing stuff, huh?
Never before have I felt so close and yet so far away from something. At times the river is no narrow, the other side is just a stone’s throw away. Still there were light years between us.
At times people on the other side saw us, and they always greeted us by friendly waving to us across the water. Shouting was no use, the Panj would drown the sound before it even made it halfway. We waved back in silence, endlessly curious as to what were the stories they would never tell us.
After days of riding south along the border, we were getting close to Khorugh, the one major pit stop before the ‘real mountains’ begin. We had been going pretty steadily on around 2000 meters, and soon we would be heading up passes more than doubling that altitude.
Gorno-Badakhshan, where we were now cycling, is an autonomous region that requires a special permit to enter. Every now and then you’re passing military checkpoints were you need to proove your right to be in the area.
Tajikistan has the reputation of being horribly corrupt to a far greater extent than any other country in Central Asia. I know cyclists who are bringing everything from cigarettes to handwritten negotiation letters to help them get through the country without loosing to much money in bribes. Having heard all these stories, we were always a little bit on edge as we were passing these control points. Just waiting for some officer to find an excuse to get us in trouble.
So far we’d been lucky though. The only real interaction we’d had with the always so stern men in uniforms were they giving us stuff. A bag of apples. A piece of bread. Water.
Where were the bad guys?
We passed the last checkpoint before Khourgh late afternoon the day before we’d actually reach the city. We quickly had our passports and permits checked, and were ready for one last hour of cycling before calling it a day.
But we weren’t really allowed to leave. One of the officials who spoke some English were very insistant on us letting him show us where to set camp for the night. Now had I been cycling alone, agreeing to this would be completely out of question, but as we were now three, the situation was another.
He showed us down a small road and into a closed off meadow. Just next to their office, but in a place that would never be seen by anyone on the road. Somewhat dodgy, sure. But noone could deny the fact that the spot was absolutely incredible, and I think if anyone of us had a bad gut feeling, it was ignored completely in favor for the great evening we would definitely get there.
Quickly our tents were pitched, and an epic evening including everything from bathing to a delicious camp dinner followed.
Now, whoever is claiming they could say no to this is lying
As the sun set, we crawled into our tents and all fell alseep without a worry in the world.
But of course, it didn’t last long.
–
It was just around midnight when I abruptly was woken up by the bright, blinding ray of a flashlight shining straight into my tent.
‘Hello!? Mister? Hello??? Miss? Sorry!! Mister! Hello??!’
I knew this voice. And though my body still thought it was sleeping, my mind had already had more than time enough to figure out just what was about to go down.
This was it then? The time for us to have our first experience with greedy and corrupt Tajik authorities who would go to any length to rip us off of our cash. Just barely awake I reached for my head torch while trying to remember the advice someone in Dushanbe gave me on how to handle situations like this.
‘HELLOO?! Sorry! Mister!!’
Still unsuccessful to locate my torch, I could hear the zipper of Karin & Fritz’s tent being opened.
‘What?!’
‘…Oh! Hello. Karin, come here!’
The first so firm tone in Fritz’s voice had immediately been exchanged to a soft, almost apologizing one.
I gave up on finding my light and got out to see what was going on.
I stumbled out barefoot in the grass, and saw Fritz standing by his tent …with a big plate in his hands? The officer guy was already on his way, and just gave me a quick smile before disappearing into the darkness towards the road and his office. I’m sure they didn’t, but with my zombie state of mind things were going way too quick for me to catch what was going on.
Fritz smiled his big smile at me.
‘Hey Fredrika. Grab your fork. We have to eat.’
…And that’s it. The most dramatic story I have involving the assumed so ruthless and corrupt control point guards in the Pamirs. A story that started off with us being shown to one of the best camp sites imaginable. And ended with us being woken up in the middle of the night – only to be served perfectly cooked rabbit.
The next morning our friend came just to check if we were alright
In the twisted minds of most of us this post could, or even should, have been super dramatic. Overflowing with Afghan talibans and corrupt Tajik officials. Right? That sure would have been something. It’s absolutely true that serious stuff is going on in these regions, it would just be ignorant to deny any of that. But those articles you’re reading is so far from painting the whole picture. Of course they’re not. I mean, how could they?
Intellectually we all know this, but I think it can be a good thing to remind ourselves about it sometimes.
Kids playing football on the street are not news. Neither is a father riding his donkey home after a long day of working at the potato fields. Women greeting strangers by giving them a whole bag of newly picked tomatoes. Smiles. Everyday life. None of it will ever make it’s way to the western news feeds.
The world we read about is not the one I’m visiting here. In fact it’s the absolute opposite. So with the risk of being disappointing, this really is as thrilling as it gets.
Some people friendly waiving across a river. And a man offering his food to three foreign strangers.
…
We really underestimate the world sometimes.
Fredrika