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.