A Short Drive in the Hindu Kush

As luck would have it, when discussing the question: "to Af or not to Af" in an internet cafe in Dushanbe, an Aussie publican, Nic, piped up - oh yeah just been there mate, ripper - and we spent a few hours and a few beers learning about the exciting sounding road ahead. Our drinking crew in Dushanbe's opera square (Dushanbe the nicest of the Soviet towns we visited) grew next day after we met a group of Americans working in Kabul, very much on the military side - we like to think they were CIA - and with views on everything that are way further to the right that most you come across on the road. There advice for Afghanistan: take your plates off, dont stop for anything and better still get a gun! After a pleasant few days in Dushanbe trying to ignore the mini light saber waving traffic police (another feature of the region, at every 100 meters in towns)and discusssing the 'roll the tanks in' views of our American freinds, with afghan visas in hand we headed to the border with Afghan further down on the Pyanj (or better known as Oxus) river. Stamped out of Taj, the Kenlowe fan went again, which needed fixing before we got on the tiny tug boat ferry. Hassled by the border guards to get on with the job or get stamped back in, got the fan sorted(ish) and after a short while borded the one platform (for one car) ferry, the starting problem becoming more and more acute as we tried to get on. After barely managing to get the old girl going before getting off the ferry, a v relaxed into Afghan in the clouds of dust, we sped the 70km to Kunduz past camel trains and tank traps in fine mood until on arrival our rushed botch up at the border went again. Some astonished looks from the locals as we got the fan running again - the engine being too hot even for a few block crawl without it - we got to our hotel (a reccomendation from Nic) which we were astonished to find was owned by a German, served cold German beer and German (pork!) sausages! There we met a NGO from Denmark who asked his driver to show us to a good mechanic for our badly needed repairs. His advice for the road ahead: don't take your plates off, do stop if you want to and don't carry a gun - everyone knows the cars that do that are full of Americans, and they are a target! The Mechanics came round straight away and sorted out the fan, but the source of the fuel problem not all that apparent. Thankfully all Afghanistan runs on Toyotas, and our type of LCruiser is common, so they soon found the problem next morning, the high pressure fuel lines that lift the fuel out of the tank having big holes in them - surely a result of the Tajik brutality to the old girl when fixing the springs. As the repairs, including changing the most suspect spring, took all day we stayed an extra day. An afternoon stroll turned into a bit of a nightmare after Cadie was followed and stared at (sometimes with menace) relentlessly - it seeming that Afghans are not ready for western women (even dressed appropriately) to walk around just yet. Car fixed up completely, we set off next day over the Hindu Kush via the Salang pass, stopping 15 or so times on the way up as, when there is a following wind, we have had to do since the UK to let the car cool down on the long ups. Scenery throughout beautiful,with charming villages strung along the crystal clear river, finally made it over the pass (and through the infamous tunnel)to the other side. Near the top we bumped into our mechanic, Gulwali, off to Kabul with his mates to spend our money on fast women and hard liquor no doubt...not. The pass on the other side even more charming as we passed a gypsy caravan and villages with terraced fileds of rice and corn, we made regular stops to chat with Gulwali and friends, them giving us a melon to add to our delicous chip lunch. Into Kabul for five o'clock, a little later than we had hoped. We had decided to stay at the Intercontinental as a treat, and as it is supposed to be easy to find (it being on a hill overlooking the town). Well, we couldnt find it, a most disageeeable situation, particularly as whilst driving we witnessed an altercation, Afghan style, in the traffic perhaps 20 yards ahead: 3 locals moving quickly and then all of a sudden pointing very heavy machine guns at each other, and at one point seemingly at us. On advice from a guy by the side of the road we reversed back up the street 100 or so yards, and were just a touch relieved to see the 3 guys get back in their car and speed off! After more driving around, once past the very mean looking ISAF tank convoys (also to be avoided as they are a target) we collared a taxi driver to show us the way. A few minutes later we were at the hotel, to find with horror that it only served non-alcholic beer. After recovering from the shock of that we decided to split town the next morning, and to get an Afghan, a driver for the hotel, to come with us to show us the way out of town, onto and through the Jalabad road, which passes through an area that is supposedly more risky than the areas further North. After an early start next day ( 4am )past the huge UN and ISAF compounds, our guide, who I was happy to let drive, showed us to the new road which is still officialy closed and which we would never have found. The drive through the Kabul Gorge past Surobi in the early morning light perhaps the most picture perfect of the trip, all going well and us going at high speed until we had a complete blow out, writing off the tyre, not too far from J'bad itself. Tyre changed in double quick time we got a new tyre in Jbad, Cadie sat in the back of the cruiser looking (according to our driver) like Mullah Omar with only her eyes showing through her headscarf. 2 hours later we were at the Torkham border, one of the easiest (and yet also most chaotic) of the trip. I (Tom) had tea and biscuits with the customs man, suffering a lecture on Israel and Bush & Blair, whilst Cadie sat sweating in the back of the car, our very friendly and helpful driver - a lovely guy who made our last day in Af the most enjoyable - having been replaced by the meaningless armed guard (of at least 100 and incapable of hitting the backside of a barn door) from the Khyber rifles that the Pakistan authorities insist on to accompany you to Peshawar. In high spirits, and more relaxed than for days, we sped through the historical yet unspectacular Khyber pass and finally arrived onto the subcontinent.

It has been a fanstastic and wonderfully varied journey to get here, through the pretty mountains of Europe, the Eurasian madness of the Caucuses, to liberal Iran (well the people are even if the goverment isnt) with its beautiful islamic architecture, then across the harsh and terribly hot steppe to the grand adventure of the last month in the mountains. We really enjoyed our time in the Soviet stans, with Tajik the undoubted highlight. Afghanistan in truly peaceful times would, for men at least, no doubt top the lot,and now that we are in Pak we have done 6 out of the 7 stans.

Now in Chitral after a nice few days in Peshawar buying two persian rugs (we only wanted one, but the salesman was very persuasive) and getting other things done to the car. After 2 days in Dir waiting for the Lowari pass to be cleared of a recent landslide caused by the monsoon rains, we slipped over the very rocky and very rough road that is now open for some traffic and spent the night at the stunning Naghar fort (for free) as the guest of Prince Siraj and family. Sadly the food they served cant have been all that Royal as we now both have a bad tummy that is thankfully now clearing. We have now hooked up with Iqbal Jan, a guy who took Paul and me trekking when we visited in 1999, and who it is pleasing to see is still as much of likeable rogue as we was then. We are off to his house for dinner tonight. After that we will make our way slowly over to Gilgit, where we hope to do some trekking, by foot and by car, up to the Nanga Parbat or Rakaposhi basecamp (by foot) and the Deseoi plains, a high Alpine plain at the foot of Nanga Parbat, by car. However we are not in any rush, after three and a half's months of virtual constant travel we have definitely slowed down.

Photos are of: 'Across the Oxus', Camel train near Kunduz, Gypsy caravan, Salang Pass, Gulwali with freinds and Mullah Omar, Surobi in the early morning light on the Jbad road.

Up the Pamir highway without a spring

After leaving Bishkek we had beautiful drive back over the Tian Shan mountains, staying at a favourtie camp spot we found on the way up, eating pot roast chicken, a major success, and sharing the campsite with some friendly locals of Ruski origin who gave us honey combe and wild rasberries (picked around our site) for pudding. Next day back through Osh and for some reason tons of military checkpoints (Cadie's womenly getting us through quickly), we camped below a low pass amongst the yurts before climbing the first 4000m pass of the Pamir highway the next day. The border between Kyrgzstan and Tajik must be one the most beautiful in the world, great views of 7500m Peak Lenin and other Pamirs all the way up, with Yaks, eagles and very sweet marmots, which look and sound like oversized Guinea Pigs, providing interest along the terrible road. A 20km no man's land between the two countries, in parts the road so bad as to be little more than a river, ending at the high and cold Tajik post on the 4500m Kyzl Alta Pass. Cruiser spewing black smoke in the altitude but otherwise running ok, we crossed easily into Tajik and into other world scenery - a high mountain desert with high white peaks all around, very reminiscent of Western Tibet - the heavily corrugated road following the soviet barbed wire fence and mine field of the Tajik / China border, a strong wind whipping up the sand and adding to the drama of the scenery, perhaps the most beautiful either of us have ever seen. That night we decended a little to lake Karakol, the highest lake in central asia and we'd say the most beautiful, a wonderful blue colour with salt deposits on its shores, surrounded in the distance by the white peaks of the Pamirs, all bathed in an ethereal white light. We drove a long way off piste on the gravel / salt pan desert to get to the lake shore, springing the first of our Tajik punctures just before setting camp in a freezing wind which kept us up most of the night. However we had a not so bad spanish omelette and few vodka shots (for medicinal purposes of course) to keep us going. After deciding (wisely as it turned out) not to attempt the puncture repair ourselves that morning, we took it to the tiny town of Karakol and asked there - the snug fitting new tyre taking the locals (who knew what they were doing) 3 hours to get the dam thing off the rim, the bead finally going after 10 or so times of driving over the tyre. After a nearly edible lunch with the family into the $3 bargain to fix the puncture, we pulled off the 'highway' - well it is a highway but a good road it aint - and took a terrible track up to some salt lakes and great views of the high mountains in China, camping along way from the lakes way off piste to avoid the thousands of huge mosqitoes at lake side. After a detour next day to the Madiyan hot springs that werent worth the effort, we camped next to a beautiful natural spring a few clicks off the road. The natural spring providing delicious drinking water and a great place to chill our 'medicinals'. That night we dined on a not so gourmet feast of spaghetti carbonara.. the ham a kind of spam that we think must be left over from the war, a foam texture that disintergrated when cooked... Ramsay would not have approved. We awoke from our two storey mansion and, gazing out out onto our extensive backgarden, went about our morning routine, only to notice that our rear coil spring had snapped near its top. With no spare and no prospect of getting one for 100's of clicks, called Charles on the sat (bat) phone for advice as to what to do. His advice - make a rubber bung, jack up the chassis and wedge it between axle and chassis. We did so out of two inner tubes, getting it spot on after two goes, and continued on our way at no faster than 10 to 15 mph - like being a cyclist without the effort!. After some debate as to whether we should take the shorter and better road straight through to Khorog, or the longer and worse road through the Wakhan valley, we wisely decided to take the latter. That nights camp by a stunning small salt lake, the v large paw prints of the almost mythical snow leapord clearly visible at the lakes edge. After a very rough pass next day we descended below 4000m for the first time in a while, following the Pamir river and the border with Afghanistan down to the Wakhan valley. At the confluence of the Pamir, Hindu Kush and Karakoram mountain ranges, where the borders of Tajikistan, China, Pakistan and Afghainistan all come within a few kilomoteres of each other, the Wakhan valley must be one of the most magical places in the world - where you can stare from one country (Tajik) over another (Afghanistan) to the high peaks of the Hindu Kush (in Pakistan), and turn your head left to the peaks of China in the distance. The valley itself is dotted with picture perfect villages made up of Pamiri houses, vegetable gardens and orchards of Apricots and mulberries, the villages populated by the colourful and friendly Ismaili Muslim people, the women unveiled and resplendent in their gold teeth (a feature of the region) and half wild gypsy look to their eyes. After stopping in a few villages to soak up the atmos we camped beside the raging (and flooding) Wakhan river on some high ground, springing another puncture on the way down. Next day moved on to the 'entertaining' border town of Ishkashim where we got the puncture fixed and where opium is sold openly (and herion not so openly) in the markets. No paper work (and no suspension) to cross the border for a little look on the Afghan side, on leaving town we bumped into two Germans, Martina and Sebastian on mbikes, who we had met in Khiva and with whom we camped the night with alongside the river, their bikes also suffering suspension problems on the rough roads. Next day through to Khorog and our first shot at getting the suspension fixed, though after hours of trying to persuade the Aga Khan NGO mechanics to part with a spring, we left with our rubber bung still in place, camping again by the now seriously raging river that markes the border between Afghanistan and Tajikstan, and which splits the region of Badakshan in two. For the next two days we followed (and camped by) the raging (now called Pyanj) river, close enough to the Afghan villages to wave and (after an astonished pause) be waved back to over the river. No road (or electricity) on the Afghan side, just a precarious looking donkey track that links the vertiginous villages - it wouldnt pay to be an Afghan with vertigo! After another day through the Gunt river valley, passing lots of burned out tanks (evidence of Tajiks civil war of only 10 years ago), we finally crawled into Dushanbe after 700 miles with no suspension, two punctures and 12 nights straight camping. Having indulged in Newby / Careless style dreaming of food all the way through (my desert island dinner was a cheese ploughmans with a pint of lager top, Cadie's roast duck noodle soup and at least 2 bottles of Sauv Blanc), we spent the weekend eating good food and drinking ice cold beer in NGO hangouts, and for a long time trying and failing to find a spring to fit our car. Eventually we were led to an afghani run junk yard where springs of a kind were availalbe, but in trying to follow the other car taking us (too quickly) there, the other one went too! Got both fixed up with second hand springs that are defintely not off a landcruiser, not a pair and one being bent to fit, but it was either that or wait 2 weeks for parts to be sent from Dubai, so we let them do their worst! We winced as we watched the guys try and fit the new springs, their methods seemingly unecessarily brutal for the poor old girl, but when you let someone loose on your car and cant speak the lingo it is difficult to intervene. Anyway they finally got them on, but afterwards the car became difficult to start when hot, a possible leak in the fuel system but from where not easy to spot. Still she would go after a few tries and so we set off (or so we thought) back to Kyrgzstan (and ultimately China) through the Garm valley for a couple of nights and an even better pot roast chicken, the Kenlowe fan packing up near the border - another call to Chalres on the Sat phone and the thermal electrics by passed, we now switch it on and off on the dash - before we were turned back at the border as it is apparently not open to tourists. This despite long descriptions in the Lonelyplanet that it is and a travel agency having confirmed to us that is was too. A very low point ensued, but after trying to persuade the border gurads to do us a favour, we turned back to Dushanbe wondering how we were ever going to get out of Tajik at all. After another puncture, Tom shutting his fingers in the door and some stone throwing locals at our camp that night added to the prevailing bad mood (and no Taj money to buy any medicinals to soothe it), we returned to Dushanbe to think again. As we couldnt go back up the Pamir h'way to Kyrg as our permit for the road had expired, to get to Kyrg we would have to go back through Uzbekistan (necessitating another visa and the time it takes to get it), as well as getting another Kyrg visa before finally getting there and thus China, the 'easy' route option staring us in the face was to take our chances in Afghanistan, and be in Pakistan in a few days. So, hamstrung by the ridicolous paper work problems that central asia requires, Stalin's crazy jigsaw borders between Tajik & Uzbek meaning one has to cross and recross one country to get to another, we took the only 'sensible' decision there was, to drive through Afghanistan via Kunduz, Kabul and ultimately through the Khyber pass to Pakistan..

Photos are of Lake Karakol, Yak in no mans land on the Kyzl Altyl pass, cruiser in her element, snow leopard lake, burnt out tank in the Gunt valley.