kaleb's blog: Dilshod's quince

In Dushanbe we stayed with an American missionary couple who import their coffee beans in five pound bags. Fresh cookie dough for movies, fresh pancakes for breakfast. The emails signed bless ya. We enjoyed being thoroughly spoilt - thanks again and Happy Easter, Eric and Tiffany. We left last Thursday having found our Dutchman and collected our permits to visit the Gorno-Badakhshan province. The internet claims an 80% mountain coverage for Tajikistan, locals say 90%. I don't know how many dimensions the surface area is being measured in but it more or less translates to a big climb every day. I'm swiftly adept at hanging onto trucks, but its only fun for a breather. Companions are a barometer in all sorts of ways and I see my energy polarising lately, I have very strong days or totally feeble ones. A month sociably off the wagon after two in Iran feels a likely explanation.

I had an Easter birthday climbing hills and steaming down them into suntrap valleys and vodka villages. We camped in mountains just above the Panj River, the Afghan border, and I was indulged in Snickers, a campfire and DIY fruit brandy with Dilshod's quince compot. Dilshod had been a welcome host the night before in Muminabad, stopping his car in mountain dark to invite us for anything he could do, which turned out to be the annex, his mother's plov, a lake tour and birthday breakfast. He is an international polygamist and businessman, honest and pragamatic, a small fortune made after the collapsing USSR allowed privately owned automobiles. I like the Tajiks. A friendly, mixed-up bunch who remind me most of all of Iranians. They speak Persian (call it Tajik) and Russian and understand my little Turkish as Uzbekski. Angliski is rare but they're fond of us for Wayne Rooney. In Dushanbe (the second time) I'm staying with Umed who sold fruit juice through junior school to pay for his English lessons and now teaches soldiers and orphans. Generosity comes standard.

My first Russian embassy visit was comic. A two hour gates wait, full-body tensed to stay upright in the crushing passport crowd, only to be told (imagine the guard's perfectly constipated Soviet tone) Wednesday. Another hour on Wednesday morning; Three o-clock. At four-thirty... Next Wednesday. I went again today having backtracked four days ride, which is nine hours jeep, incidentally. Tomorrow I'll squeeze into another car and catch myself up in Kalaikhum, unlock my velocipet and perhaps catch up my droogs after a few days; one is faster than three. Although infact they're four now, Laurens having imported another Belgian for company across the Pamirs. For now it's nice to return to a city, rare in this kind of trip. I know how to use the minibuses, what to enjoy and where to eat. This morning I visted cobblers and seamstresses to get the soles stitched back to my trainers and the crotch to my shorts. In the bazaar I found perfect twelve dollar boots for the mountains. They have leather and red and Goretex, and come ready broken-in.

And I've a plan now, something like a goal. After the Pamirs comes Kyrgzstan with their free-on-arrival, sixty-day visa (Bishkek already some kind of big-rock-candy-mountain in our minds' eye for this fact alone). From there the plan needs only three more visas: Kazakhstan, Mongolia and China. One a formality, one a mystery and one a nightmare (but perhaps not in Ulan Bator). Irkutsk, Lake Baikal, vast steppe, Beijing airport for August? Welsh cottage, Notting Hill Carnival? We'll see. There'll be no internet in the Pamirs. I'm not sure how long it'll take. Big tyres and new boots. Expect an update from Kyrgzstan; snowy mountain vistas by the dozen...