Monday's town

We woke in Khorog with every expectation of catching a flight that would weave through the valleys and land us in Tajikistan's capital - Dushanbe - within the hour. What we actually ended up with was a twenty hour ride in a box with windows strapped unsubtly to the back of a truck. It has worked though and we are soaking up the heat, dietary variety, and severed soviet sinews of Dushanbe. What's more, the disappointment felt when it became apparent, at lunch yesterday, that they had run out of kebab meat was temporarily forgotten when Andy suddenly appeared.

Apparently we had contacts in the airport and with clear skies from the day before clearing any backlog our seats seemed assured. Dr Rajput’s (a.k.a. Dr. Khorog) girls were even friends with the manager’s wife but none of this was enough and we were soon hoisted unceremonially onto the bus and waved off - our hand luggage woefully undersupplied for a day in a tin.

Not a problem. In the villages early on the route, the passengers chopped and changed. Sitting by the door were handed babies and apples. Sent the former to be fed at the back and feasted on the latter. The was quite a cross-section of passengers: twin brothers who paid their 100 somani fare in one somani note denominations; a uniformed guy of unknown office who handed us split peas scrumped from a roadside field; a glamorous twig of a girl and friend whose seat kept collapsing under the lack of weight; a old bearded man with a pair of sticks who kept bullying his grandson for being weak; the rather drained looking mother, toddlers swaying from her chest; a guy in a camouflaged scull cap and shirt spattered with English nautical terms chatting up a girl with a pencilled monobrow and dying hair-dye; and us, three westerners stuck in the reverse-facing seats - we were each other’s audience.

The road clung to the slopes of the Gunt river valley like the road north along the Indus in Pakistan that Andy and I took all those weeks ago - outside, hours of filmstrip. On the opposite bank the route was no more than a donkey track, but where streams joined the settlements we alive: orchards of apricot trees and mulberry bushes, fields of wheat, caravans of donkey traffic, leaf-hidden houses and children playing on swings – the tranquil shores of Afghanistan.

The road peeled away from the border and we stopped a lot look for a place to eat. We toured towns on foot as a coach party before hopping back on finding everywhere too full. Eventually, a place was found and we chewed our way though some very fatty meat that lingered between the teeth all the way to Dushanbe.

It was now dark and the remainder of the route a case of endurance. The mountains had changed but they were dimming fast. Sleep was impossible but we tried our best: balancing on the fuel cans, lying flat down the aisle, new and original uses of a travel pillow, shoulders and hair.

We arrived soon after dawn and the bus was promptly besieged by taxis. Taking the least irritating of drivers we handed him the address given to us by Dr. Rajput and soon bounced into a complex of concrete towers next to the circus. After some confusion as to which building we would be staying in – they seem to be named after the number of floors they have – we took the release-the-button-when-you-want-to-stop lift to the eight floor and sleep.

With late morning, we got though to Andy’s intended hotel and with news that an “Andrew Graham” was in residence we headed to make contact in Dushanbe.

Wakhan, Baby!

I'm quite aware that a few people (parents) are slightly concerned about the recent lack of blogs. This is simply because we've been having too much fun I'm afraid. We have spent the last few days making the most of the Pamirs before leaving this amazing place, then we had a mission to get to Dushanbe and find a particular bearded man. We are now all in Dushanbe, although we've not quite found Andy yet, but we've arranged to meet him soon.

However, I have the task of telling you about the Wakhan valley. This is because I had the strangest experience there.....

We had managed to rent a car (and driver) through Dr Khorog to drive into the Wakhan and back over two days. We had a friendly driver and a dying jeep. We had planned to go to Bibi Fatima hot springs, which is far enough into the wakhan to see everything, stay the night, and come back.

The Wakhan isn't heavily populated, so we don't have that many stories about the place. The only special thing about it is that it's stunningly beautiful. It also lines the border with Afghanistan and has magnificent views of the Hindu Kush. I'd love to describe the wild turquoise river, the small farms, the multi-coloured mountains (honestly, no idea why), the white and rocky backdrop of the Hindu Kush and the painted night sky with more stars than I hoped to see in a lifetime. Unfortunately, I would not be able to do then justice (and it will make for a very long blog, we've done too many of those lately!)

The Afghan border did, of course make a good subject of entertainment. We had a game of spot the Afghan. Harder than it may seem because the other side of the river was largely rocky and uninhabitable. There was a path all the way where I saw two of my Afghans, and quite a few little towns of two or three farms. They also had a lot of donkeys and pyramid shaped hay stacks on the tops of houses.

And now for my experience......

The hot springs where 4000 m high. We stumbled out of the jeep and into the reception where a man in medical looking clothes slurred long sentences at us in Russian and after each one said "you don't understand Russian?". Pa Russky ne panimay? He talked like this to us the whole time. He walked down some steps and to the changing rooms before the springs. Outside the large changing room stood a crowd of middle-aged women in long dresses and scarves giggling away. I soon noticed that the reason they were giggling because the mischievous short one by the door kept opening it to reveal a group of half naked men.

The man pointed to us and asked us to follow, we all went. He then stopped me and gestured that I was to stay with the women and the boys where to go with him. He pulled the boys away and I shouted at them where to meet after. I then stood and waited with the giggling women.

These countryside women soon adopted me and showed me what to do. It was quite a strange being handled and passed from woman to woman and being given instructions on how to become more fertile. Forgot to say, these springs are renowned for boosting fertility. The women obviously strongly believed in the properties of the springs. They drank the water from one waterfall, washed their back with another, put pressure on their bellies with a strong fountain and climbed into a small cave to pick up the stones from the bottom and breathe on them.

I read in the Lonely Planet before leaving that lone women travellers often get to see a part of Central Asia that many people miss. I'd say I've seen some of this. Not so much the springs, but the women. They where all so kind and helpful, in fact they reminded me a lot of Welsh village women! One even lent me her scarf and walked me to the car afterwards to make sure I don't get cold.

I'm not sure if the springs did boost my fertility, but one thing it did do was fix my scar! Now when Andy gets here I will have nothing to compete with but a measly little line.

More blogs soon.

Cariad mawr i bawb adra', welai chi gyd mewn tua pethefnos. xx

Dr Khorog

The method for finding accomodation in Khorog is slightly eccentric. The lonely planet, as I discovered, does not get you very far. No. The best way to find somewhere to stay is with binoculars.

The victim of Mike's rock in a paper-sissors-stone decider, I went off to do the foot work, while they gaurded the bags. I returned an hour later to find them surounded by gleeful girls offering "sleep" - which we soon established was actually accomodation. Some heightened touristy behaviour - using the binoculars to examine routes to a peak opposite - had attracted some attention. At $3 each a night, they beat anything I had found with ease.

We went to take the bus and hopped on to the very same vehicle conquered by the Canadians in Murghab, riding for 1 somani (30c) to a Pamiri Villa on the edge of town. We lugged our bags up to the gate at the foot of the mountain seen through the binoculars and were shown inside. They gustured to a room requesting, "see the boss." With the clean, panelled, richly carpeted, hall and the lack of men, it seemed like some sort of cult.

Luckly it wasn't, all their excitement was due to the fact we are their first paying customers and the the boss is actually a retired 82-year-old Mathematics professor from Edgabaston; summering in Khorog; born in Pakistan; four masters degrees; doctors, accontants, dentists and daughters for decendants; turned down from Cambridge for having too many letters after his name already; a former representative of the Aga Khan in the Pamirs; and with some connection to Gilgit and the Hunza royal family in Pakistan. He has lots to say, but little to hear and it seems, quite annoyingly, that he follows our route, in some respect, every year. Despite all this, he has been extremely welcoming and has helped arrange a two day side trip to the Wakhan valley for us that starts tomorrow, for which we hope things continue on the surreal strain our journey has developed.

Sherry, Chips and a monobrow Bride

The morning after the incident with the Canadians, we got up early to go to the Market and pick up some public transport to Khorog.

In the market was a lonely jeep with a piece of paper on the windscreen saying "Khorog". We settle down to wait for the driver, a bus or a truck. Mike disappeared with some men offering a lift and Pete and I waited in the market. A group of very well dressed, James Dean look-a-like men asked us if we wanted to go to Khorog. Murghab is a poor town on a drug route, so Pete and I decided that it would be a good idea to politely ignore these men. We asked how much and didn't understand the answer then said no thank you and stopped talking to them. They sat down next to us and kept asking.

Mike came back, after being unsuccessful in finding a lift, but he had found out that the minimum price a private car would give was $120 for the three of us. The well dressed men started haggling with Mike. We pointed out that they where slightly dodgy because they had tight belts and shiny shoes. Mike agreed so offered them $60 for the three of us to send them away, they said OK. We weren't sure why they gave in to this, but decided that if they where on a drug run that three little tourists would be a nice little alibi. Mike was getting into the bartering so I wondered off to the old reliable ACTED office and its little wrinkly man. He agreed that it was a good deal, but sounded slightly dodgy. He told us to accept but to bring the drivers to the office, where he would take down their details. "This way they'll know that you know people and there will be a record of the fact that you have nothing to do with them", He explained.

We did as ACTED suggested and started the drive. We found out each other's names and ages, they put on some relaxing music and things settled down nicely.

After a while they stopped the car. The engine had warmed up and they needed to put more water in the radiator, or something else technical to do with cars... We had a little walk about and took some pictures then got back into the car. Mike had been talking to the driver, and it seemed that he had given us permission to each drive the jeep for a kilometre! Pete went first. He had to do a hill start in a backward car with a massive gear stick and a stiff clutch. The driver gave him 3/5. I went second. Anybody who knows me well enough to know about my driving may be slightly worried by the prospect of letting me loose in a run down jeep in the middle of nowhere, but there's no need, I got a nice 5/5! I think this was a joint effort of having a nice road, getting an extra point for needing to stand up to reach the clutch and being born a female. After initial problems with the gears, Mike got to drive for the longest and became best at avoiding the pot-holes. Unfortunately, pot-hole avoiding ability was not rated too highly and he had a 2/5, unfortunate.

The drive from Murghab to Khorog was interesting. From what we had been told by Yoggi and Megan in Osh, we'd expected the same kind of scenery all the way. This scenery had grown on me by now, so I was quite looking forward to the drive. We passed a sky blue, salt shored lake at one point, which we thought would be the best view all day. We couldn't have been more wrong. Within a few hours we started descending into a valley that had a fast turquoise river running along the bottom. The valley floor became greener and greener and soon Mike and Pete where comparing it to the Hunza valley. We asked to stop at a point after the great rapids where the river had become quite wide. We wondered down to the river to get a better picture only to find a rickety bridge!!! We had a field day and spent a good 20 minutes taking pictures from the bridge, of the bridge, of us on the bridge and of us in front of the bridge. This created a small crowd of confused locals so we decided to leave and let them discover the joys of the rickety bridge themselves.

The lower down in the valley we went, the prettier and greener the view became. Grass and the odd tree developed into fields of different types of fruit trees lined with tall Cyprus trees decorating the skyline. We still followed the stunning river that was being joined by smaller, whiter rivers from other vales. Surrounding us where still the red crumbly mountains of the Pamirs and the odd snow-capped peak.

This perfect journey did not end in Khorog. It ended with the explanation of the well dressed men offering a ridiculously cheap ride - a wedding. The two men where headed to their sisters wedding in a village on the way, but not far from, Khorog.

We were warmly welcomed and invited to sit inside the Pamiri house to "drink tea". In front of us they set out plates of sweets, apricots, plums and cherries. A few women then came in with massive bowls of Plov (a traditional meal of rice cooked with meat and vegetables, a little like special fried rice), only to be followed by 3 plates of chips!!

A crazy drunk uncle came to greet us. He didn't speak a word of English, but this was no dampener on the conversation. He asked us if we wanted vodka, beer or wine. We refused vodka, so disappeared and came back with a bottle of beer and a bottle of what looked like home-made wine. He shared the beer between three glasses and gave us each a small bowl of the wine. The beer was good Russian beer, the wine was definitely fortified. After some debate, we decided that the wine was actually more similar to sherry.

The evening wandered into the night in the same fashion. People came in and out to talk to the foreign people. Young girls came to practice their English, older women came to give us more and more food and the drunken uncle came back again and again to give us more drink.

The after-party came to an end and we all had a night's sleep in the strange house, wondering how we got ourselves into such a surreal situation. What we didn't know then was that this was just the beginning of the strange and wonderful happenings in/near Khorog...

Blame Canadia

The morning after the trek we got driven straight to the ACTED office, in the hope that they would have an idea of how we could get to Khorog cheaply. Our little wrinkly man said he knew that some Canadians where going to Khorog in a minibus at 10 am from the market, it was now 11 am. He sent our driver to the market to see if he could find them and within 10 minutes the driver was back with a minibus and a minibus driver. The bus was leaving in an hour and the driver was willing to take us for 40 somani each ($13). The price of public transport would have been 35 somani but would be harder to find, so this was perfect.

Pete went back to the homestay with the driver to fetch the bags and Mike and I went to the market to get some travelling previsions (and got lost on the way back, but this is unimportant, beside the point, and quite embarrassing seeing as we only needed to find one road). We all got into the minibus in time with our bags and our provisions and drove off to find the Canadians. We spent a good hour looking around town, asking at each homestay. Finally we found someone who knew something. A small "nicely dressed" man from Khorog who was "friends" with the Canadians came to talk to us and the driver. He was quite wet and what Mike would describe as "proper bent", in fact, a bit of a girly pants. He said that his "friends" where having lunch and we would leave at 2 pm. We decided to follow suite and went to find a cafe with the help of the nice little man.

Half way through lunch a large, angry Canadian man walked in and put his dusty boot on the carpet. And he didn't shake our hands.

"OK guys, I understand you want to travel in OUR vehicle"

Slightly shocked, we explained that we'd spoken to a driver of a minibus who said that he was taking some other people and would take us too. The Canadian explained that "the situation" was that they'd hired the vehicle for 1000 somani (later proved to be a lie) for the three days, so the vehicle was theirs, so we should pay them and they wanted 350 somani. We said no. They asked of we wanted a ride. We said 120 somani. In the end, after a long explanation of how Mike and I are really quite small and although the Canadian did have longish legs, he didn't really have the right length of legs to demand 350 somani for loss of comfort, he came down to 200. We then sent him and his dusty boot out so we could finish our lunch.

After finishing our lunch (which was very yummy by the way - a kind of dumpling soup) we realized that this guy was being ridiculous, but we did quite need to get to Khorog in the next 24 hours and, after our "unanticipated 3 day break" in Sary-Tash, we wanted to take what we could.

On the way to the minibus at 1:30, armed with various plans to annoy the Canadians as much as possible for being absolute pr**ks, we bumped into an ACTED person who we'd met at the Tajik border who was looking after the Belgian family. We mentioned what had happened to him and asked for advice on who we where supposed to pay - the driver or the Canadians. He said that we where to pay the driver, we should tell the Canadians that we will pay them in Khorog then when we get there explain that our deal was with the driver. He talked to the driver in Russian and he agreed.

We waited in the bus until about 2:30. A Canadian girl came over, shook our hands, introduced herself quite nicely as one of the people we will be travelling with today. We started to feel guilty about planning to con them. Then she said,

"I'm sorry to do this now, but we really need the money now to pay for a few things."

Ha! So, we tell her that we're paying the driver. She then goes on the same tangent of "this is our vehicle". We explain that we'd spoken to a local tour guide who said that the way things work is that we owe the driver, not the hirer. She says that there must be some mix up, goes away and comes back with the Canadian with the dusty boots.

He asks what's going on, we say that we're not paying. He says that it's their vehicle, we say that it's the driver loosing petrol money by taking us. He says that he's loosing leg space, we say "dy Fam" and he gives us a funny look. He goes on about his bloody legs and I get pissed off. I tell him that his asking for money has nothing to do with his giant Canadian legs an he just wants to make a buck from us (because he's a mean man), he says "Yes". I said that they don't need the money, they'd already agreed to paying for the minibus so they're not loosing anything. He agreed to have paid 700 somani, yes reader, 700 somani, not 1000. So, I point out to this man that he'd hired the bus for 3 days for 700 somani and on his first offer was expecting us to pay half of that for only a 8 hour ride. He said "yes". Somehow his job pops into the conversation, he's a humanitarian worker. With beautiful tone of sarcasm Mike repeats his words. Mike then has a go at him for not practicing what he preaches, he replies by saying that it's "only his day job" at the weekends "he likes to be comfortable".

He says 200 somani or don't come, so we unpack our stuff from the bus. As we're unpacking, the drivers right/leftenant agrees to beat them up for us when they get to Khorog. Girly-pants feels pity on us and says that when we get to Khorog we can stay with him. He then gives Mike his home phone number. The other people in the group where talking to the man with the dusty boots telling him to just pay the extra money because they know he has it. We part without a handshake, but we did express the hope that the manage to find the extra 200 somewhere because it would be a shame if they couldn't afford to go.

We went back to our homestay where we had a banya (sauna with bowls of hot and cold water for washing), I painted a picture and at night Pete took pictures of the stars. The Canadians must have left about 4 pm, arriving Khorog in the dead of night.

A ridge too far

Our first trek in the Pamirs started with a chat with a wrinkly old man who runs Acted, a French tourist agency in Tajikistan. He offered us a night in a yurt, then a trek (known for tax purposes as a hike) over a 4800m pass and another night in a yurt. After lulling over the map for a while we decided that the route was easy to follow so we wouldn't need a guide and that a yurt at the end only would be sufficient. We also decided that it would be a good idea to do the trek backwards. We were then ready to get into the jeep at 9am the next day, start walking by 10am and be at the yurt for tea time.

9:30am the next day - waiting outside Acted office for wrinkly old man to give driver instructions. 10am - filling car with petrol from old coke bottle. 11am start "hike".

The scenery in the Pamirs is strange. It is a high-altitude, bumpy desert. From the road it looks pretty repetitive at first, but as time goes on and you get used to the view it begins to look amazingly diverse. The drive to the Gumbezkul valley, the start of the trek, took us out of Murgab along a large valley that was orange and rocky at the sides, but green and smooth at the bottom. Suddenly the jeep turned off the road onto a large stony dried river bed, with no visible road most of the time. After a very bumpy ride the car got stuck in a ditch and the driver announced that the road had ended. He pointed up the valley to tell us where to go then got into his car to attempt to get out. We were now alone in the Pamirs, free to do and go where we wanted.

The walk along the valley floor was much longer than expected. At first it was only rocks and dry bushes, but strangely as we got higher we came to grassy fields and alpine flowers. Near the end of the valley, before the steep ascent to the pass, we came across two yurts, a large family and a herd of goats. The children were running about outside playing in the river and chewing sticks of leek. We said hello and began to move on when the father came out of the yurt and asked "chai?" (tea?).

In Central Asia, as in most places worth visiting, tea is very important and will come any time of the day, always with something sweet to eat. We had tea, bread, butter, jam and yoghurt in the warm yurt and then said our goodbyes and set off to the pass.

By the time we got to the bottom of the climb the air was very thin. I was feeling the altitude the most (I think it's because I have really small lungs...) and Pete the least after his recent trek in Pakistan. The climb was definitely the most physically challenging feat i've ever attempted, and 100% worth it. The first part was a relatively steep scree slope, this wasn't bad (although I did cut my hand on a sharp bit. I had two stones in the cut, but have pulled them both out. It's quite an impressive cut because it's kinda curvy so I've decided to look after it well so I can compete with Andy for the best scar). We then had a rocky bit which was great fun, although because of the speed we got out of breath it consisted on a few sudden birsts.

The third part was the highest (obviously) and the hardest. It was the most unsteady, steep and unfriendly scree slope I have ever encountered; and by now we were 4000+. By now I had got rid of my bag and was in fact feeling quite sick from the ascent. Mike was carrying two bags and was feeling the strain, but kept on going beyond what I imagined possible. Pete, being acclimatised, was battling the scree but not having the breathing dificulties Mike and I had. By the end Pete became our encouragement and we made it to the top in style. I decided to have a nice little burst of energy about 5 meters from the top and learnt how to run up scree like a gecko, which was fun.

The top was simply perfect. As we were rising we saw the Gumbezkul valley fading away and the snowy peaks behind it grow. What we didn't see until the very top was the stream-laden Pashart valley and the snowy peaks surounding it. We also had a line of snow on the other side of the pass, which was a short but cold slide to start the descent. We could also see from the top the mush easier path that we should have taken. Oops.

The way down was yet another scree slope. This was great fun. I got to learn how to surf down scree, my headache subsided and I stopped feeling like throwing up, all good things come in threes! We had a nice walk along the river to the yurt which worked its way into the sunset after the late start, the long walk to the start of the pass and the steep scree slope (on further scrutinising of the map we realized that doing the trek backwards had a few more dificulties than the other way. Again, oops.)

We found the yurt were we where supposed to sleep after asking a man in a yurt by a motorbike. In the yurt were two small children, a mother and a grandmother. The mother sat us down on a large long coushin and layed down a cloth. On the cloth she broke some bread, lay some yoghurt, jam and butter, and served us tea. We finished this meal fast and went straight to sleep.

I was woken in the morning to the sound of butter-making. The mother and grandmother were warming yak milk and pouring it into a plastic, hand operated curdling machine. The children stood around singing and stealing the cream. For breakfast we had the same as supper but with the runny fresh butter. We also had our first taste of the Tajik speciality of salty and milky tea, best served with butter, and best drank thinking it's soup.

Oblast from the past

Our first day in Murghab was highly productive. Mike went on one of his early morning scouting missions, acting our his organisational dreams that we hear so much about at odd times of night and soon we were arranging a trek, proposing a jeep hire through the Wakhan valley that borders Afghanistan, touring the various beaurocratic agencies designed for the entertainment of Cyrilic-loving tourists, and phoning Andy direct from the town's soviet switchboard.

We seemed to have slipped into a package holiday. We paid up front for accomodation, jeep hire, trekking (for tax purposes, to be refered to only as hiking) and a night in a yurt. All courtesy spikey haired, wrinkly man working for a French NGO called ACTED, who seemed very suprised we were so happy to be in his town.

We were driven to get ourselves registered, irritated by the $23 fee we would be forking out. We took the charming approach, drew out our student cards, and made the police guards wet themselves as Mike poured over our phrase book and tried to explain student poverty. This didn't work, but we did each get a little hand-written and stamped reciept to present along the route for the cash.

Next came the KGB. Walking through corridors of fierce portraits, we came to the right office. Our names went in yet another book, there was no fee and we even managed to relieve them of three staples for our little reciepts.

The final stop at this red-tape theme park was the Environment office. A man with very little desk furniture demanded, quite sweetly, $1 per walker per day and spent the next ten minutes carefully copying out our "trekking" permit.

Felling very chuffed at all the paperwork we had created, we went to call Andy. There were no phone booths; calls were made directly from the exchange by a large babushka with a headset and a deskful of plugs who yelled "Murghab" down the line before handing you a handset through a trap door in the wall.

The afternoon was for recovery and our hosts at the homestay had brewed us a bath - a Russian banya.

Murghab at Midnight

Our first point-of-no-return, crossing the border into Tajikistan, was a little reluctant. After waiting two days in the cardboard-cutout-horizon truck stop of Sary Tash, Mike was getting nostalgic about Kyrgyzstan. With the fruitless flagging of Chinese bound vehicles getting us all down, we began to plot a retreat: trekking round Osh, more beach time in Issyk-Kul, and a dodgy ride across the sneeze-like border straight to Uzbekistan as our visas expired.

When we eventually did it, it was a bit of a shock. We were arranging an unhopeful, almost mournful excursion to the edge of no-man's-land on the dubious pretext of being able to find transport there to take us further, when a truck drew up. It was the third of the day heading to Tajikistan and, unlike its predecessors, it had space. Some highly confusing three way dealing ensued: the truck driver, the amateur cabby and us. None of the prices were in our favour and the truck pulled off. Already preparing for the journey back to Osh, were took the taxi to get a closer look at the mountains that had been taunting us in the distance. We roared across the plain as swiftly as the Lada could carry us and were engulfed. With necks taking the strain, we came to a checkpoint. The truck was waiting. Our bafflement in Sary Tash had just delayed matters. Slipping into the rejected hitchhiker routine had become familiar, but now we had a ride. Admittedly it was at a price, but it seemed our only chance and we took it.

There isn't actually a road between Kygyzstan and Tajikistan, but some how the truck found the remnants of one: weaving across the valley to avoid broken causeways, fording dry streams, and pausing to turn the truck to face the wind and cool the engine. We squeezed into the cabin, a duvet for a seat belt and Mike straddling the gearstick, wincing every time we had to change into first gear. Our bags we crushed nicely under the spare tyre on the roof.

The barren, crumbling, but aluring valleys wobbled beyond the windscreen and with a jolt we stopped at the Tajik border post. The gaurds were huddled in a toppled-tin caravan and grumbled as we lugged our bags in and forgot to close the door. Despite the apathetic exterior, they were a curious bunch and insisted on seein g ever item we'd packed. We played along, adopting their casual interest, and one-by-one emptied our lives on their table: "no that really is talcum powder", "I'd forgotten, I'd packed that" and "That harmonica is in the key of C". As a parting gesture, they subtly requested a bribe, "This man is a collector of foreign coins. Do you have any?". I showed him some loose change: twenty pence, ten pence, a penny. These would not do; they looked cheap. I found a pound, hoping this would satisfy. He took it, but for some reason got quite annoyed that it wasn't Australian. Poor man.

We drew away, but metres later we stopped again and ushered into another little hut - customs. Our crumpled, loo-paper-like, Kyrgyz customs forms were unstamped and only vaguely complete but, with little more than a shrug, the six men fingering our passports were convinced and we moved on.

There were more checkposts on the way. We met a Belgian family and a guard keen on Agatha Christie and Sherlock Holmes and had a drunken guy in uniform clinging to the wing mirror for several miles. The moon was full and the eery high altitude desert continued to bounce past as we headed down from the pass. The view over the salt lake of Kara-Kul was enough to cause us to hail a photo stop, but lifting the door latch the door flung open and we were almost sucked out - the Pamir wind. Braced, I raised the lens, clicked on hopped swiftly back in to the warmth of the seatbelt. On the route through the half darkness we drifted in and out of sleep - anyone's rustlings causing a domino effect through the cabin. The driver gestured for Mike to steer while he lit another cigarette. In our dosileness we missed the fact that it was a fuel truck!

With midnight, the truck trundled into Murghab and stopped in front of a Hotel. The truck's lights waved off down the valley, leaving a pile of bags and bodies. Lowri and I went to knock, and were greeted by a harsh echo. Mike chuckled from behind with the Lonely Planet wisdom on the matter, "the semi-abandoned Hotel Murghab has basic rooms for five Tajiki Somani, if you can find anyone working there."

With the hotel out, we wandered the ghost-town streets in search of a homestay. More knocking, no lights, no answers. We met one guy, but he didn't want to help he wanted to go to bed. In slight desperation we knocked at the first house we saw with windows still lit. Two women openned the door and, taken aback, we were welcomed in. After a late and now familiar supper of bread, tea and pills we colapsed into beds, with the lights still lit. It seemed they were hastily sewing for a shotgun wedding.

Tajik shipment

Spenting last night in a more central Osh guesthouse, we met out first Pamir travellers; a Icelandic guy (who had recently been the first visitor to their consulate in Islamabad in three years) and a Russian-speaking Texan girl.

It took them just over 2 weeks to get from Dushanbe to Osh, taking in the Wakhan valley. Anyway, they've managed to help us get across the border, returning with the trucks they got to Osh on. Tomorrow, Tajikistan.

just smile

now hoping that this computer will be more forgiving, althought it has already been slightly temperamental........

I was expecting to travel Central Asia and find a gem, instead I have found two. I have seen the beautiful scenery as expected, what I didn't expect was to see the extent of the kindness of the human heart.

The scenery to start. The drive to Issyk-kul was a road along plains and valleys walled by rocky mountains. I saw my first typical Central Asian view when we arrived at the beginning of the lake. To my left was this enormous body of light blue water, devoid of tourist yachts and skidooimythings, to my right brown hills growing steadily into great rugged snow-capped mountains and in front of us was a small valley with a windy dried river bed at the bottom. The dusty valley was studded with small lavender like bushes and coming up from the valley was a old farmer on a horse. The scene wes perfect, magnificent and unblemished.

But, as I said, the people i've met in the last week have made this trip all the more worth it.

Ainura is the girl who I've been staying with. She has opened her home to us, been a travel agent and a tour guide, but most importantly a greatly needed friend. Looking around Bishkek, I found that Ainura is not an exception. Everybody here is ready to help a lost tourist by pointing the way or showing the cheapest shops. The nicest sight in Bishkek has to be the people on the packed minibuses, that are more like sardine tins with wheels. Anybody will get up as soon as a mother, old woman or expectant mother walk on to the bus. If someone walks on with a lot of bags there will always be someone offering to hold something. Even today when we where being a pain by gatting on with 3 large backpacks, an old woman let one bag rest on her leg. We offered to move it but she insisted that it was fine.

I'm also learning that connection between people who don't speak each others languages is much easier than i thought, and much more rewarding. I'm not just talking about pointing to a loaf of bread and picking up one finger to say one. On the bus there was a young boy who was very polite and quite interested in the western people with lots of bags. He picked things up when we dropped them, smiled a lot and tried to talk to us. After an hour or two he had got quite aggitated and was moving around the bus. Michael was listening to a cassette player and the boy asked to listen. We gave him the new toy and he looked so happy. Within half an hour most of the children on the bus had had a listen to Dave's Cousin's Band and had learning to play an air guitar and to headbash. His father and grandmother thanked us, and we had made new friends.

I have found that although there may not be an universal language, a smile is the same anywhere.

PS El - gobeithio gewch chi amser anhygoel yn Groeg, cofi ymlacio! Cariad mawr i'r teulu xxxxx

Aerofloat

Smuggled out of a Heathrow besieged by caterers, over apocalyptic cloud cover, on an aeroflot flight to Bishkek via Mosocow has been the method of my return. Coupled with a Kyrgyz turbo-prop south to Osh, this trip has swallowed up the best part of 30 hours.

Leaving the sit-on-a-newspaper, paint-peeling-candidate-city, duty-free-liquor-swimming-pool of the Moscow airport and blitz of thunder storms over Russia far behind and this morning's distraction of Turkish taxi drivers with Gamlet and Othella while waiting for the ditch-waylayed Mike and Lowri an airport halucanation ("Desdamona, i'findi"), we are now nicely ensconsed in a homestay complete with velvet seating, chandileer and... a piano!

Osh, we have found, is easy to get lost in; the maps minimalist, people keen to help but often not of any. We have already had to scurt the juice stall of a man who untied his apron to lead us up the wrong street. His batton taken up by an older man who, on discovering our nationality, heckled us with "Margaret Thatcher". We chuckled thinking this town may be a bit slow on the pick up, but were soon corrected when he then hailed "Cook" and mimed a sleeping pose.

I look forward to supper eating at what looks like a coffee table placed on a large double bed, some sleep, another day getting less lost in Osh, and the bus south to Sary Tash; the border crossing hub of southern Kyrgyzstan.

From there it is the tricky hop to Tajikistan and up into the Pamir mountain range, a yurt trek from Murghab before reaching a place named Korog and more internet eager circuitry in about ten days time.

Das Vedanya!

Poo

I've just had a wonderful 3 days, and just wrote a very complimentary blog about people, scenery, lakes and peculiar sunsets. Unfortunately, my lifelong curse with computers has hit again and the 5 long paragraph post has been swallowed by a Kyrgyz computer. Oh well, maybe tomorrow.

Unsent postcards

Exit Pakistan

One thing the Lonely Planet fails to mention is that you should remove all non-essential organs prior to departure.

If you think, and Andy has agreed quite fiercely on this one, you're going to be told the full drama of the operating theatre and how we got Andy stitched up, packed up and out of the country without at least feeding and/or watering us, you are mistaken.

With catapults all primed for me to get back out again by the end of the week, I could happily fill this entry with hype that will rev the engine of last week's events ready for their journey into the realms of legend, and perhaps still have time for a quick brake test to stop them skidding off into the autonomous oblasts of myth. Except, of course, Andy seems to have beaten me to it.

I may just offer one piece of advice:

Don't sleep on a hospital floor.

Sex and the Sufi

I am now in Bishkek. I know that according to the schedule that I should be in Osh and heading to Sary-Tash now, but the schedule has gone to pot!

Pete is ill, and doesn't know when he is flying and Mikes flight to Bishkek has been cancled! So after I survived 2 Aeroflot flights (after a few points where I wasn't sure if I would!!) i arrived in Bishkek only to find out that I need to wait here another week for the boys. Whe have met a woman in Bishkek called Ainura. She is a school friend of someone Andy met i University at the beginning of last term and I must say that she's a star! She is letting me stay in her appartement and has given me all the information I could ever need on buses, safetey, changing money and speaking Russian!

Bishkek is an unique city. It looks much more developed that i was expecting and the culture is much more European. It is a wonderful blend of east and west. There are European type cafes outside, and very well dressed women meeting for luch. But there are also the norms of a city in a developing country of crazy cars and fruit stalls all over the street. This gives a very cool and friendly atmosphere.

The people living in the city also have the same mix. Ainura is a great example (although most of her friends and couliges are the same). She is very well dressed, she lives in an apartement on her own and she has a small group of close friends, but know a lot of people. I would even go as far as saying that she's like a Kurgz equivalent of Sex and the City! But she has another side. She is from Issa-kul, a lake in the north east of the country. She has kept all the traditions of countryside kurgz life. I believe that this is something very great abou the city, which is the way modern living and traditions blend together so well.

Tomorrow i will leave to Issa-Kul to spend some time in the country. I will stay in Ainuras parents house and will spend time with her sister and nephew. This will be another chance to see the way people live here. I feel very lucky to see this.

The future of the trip is as yet undecided. We are all near somwhere where we can get flights, but we don't know to where yet. Time is running out, and it may not be possible to do the whole trip. But because there are airports spotted about the place, we may still do half the trip. But be asured, we are all safe!

Cariad mawr i bawb! x