More diesel tribulations are overcome as the team continue on to Iskanderkul lake, stopping to experience the fantastic nature before braving the harrowing mountain pass of Aznob.
Steve dew-Jones: It is possible that Alexander the Great once sat upon the very same rock upon which I currently find myself, not a stone’s throw from the water’s edge of Iskanderkul Lake (Alexander’s Lake). The surrounding scenery is breathtaking, as it has been ever since crossing into the little country of Tajikistan.
Last night we had another trial involving Uzbekistan’s lack of Diesel - this time Bryn and I drove around with one of the workers from the charming Antika B&B until we had found somebody who could point us in the direction of some fuel. Eventually we chanced upon a group of local taxi drivers and were soon following them to what we assumed would be another trucker looking to shift some of his leftovers for a sweet, sweet profit on the black market. So when we ended up in just another petrol station – having already visited half a dozen, on top of those in Tashkent – we were a little surprised, and altogether pessimistic.
We needn’t have been. The ringleader from our taxi crew, Odin - a handsome chap with a sizeable paunch – marched straight up to the young petrol attendant and demanded that his foreign friends be given some Diesel.
As if suddenly released from comatose, the young chap burst into life, switching on the lights of the dusty Diesel pump, and proceeding to pump out 60 litres as if this were any other transaction on any other day. Our emotions were transformed from hopelessness to jubilation at the flick of a switch.
Following the shenanigans of last night, we had a border to cross this morning and we were all preparing ourselves for the standard minimum time of three hours for the procedure. Only, when we arrived at the border, and found that we were the only car in sight, for once the endless streams of paperwork and waiting in queues seemed a doddle, and we were officially into Tajikistan within seventy minutes.
Today’s drive has been a mixture of very good roads, awful dirt tracks that aren’t fit to be called “roads”, and about everything else in between, whilst all the while we have been navigating our way besides the cliff edges of mountains that make up the breathtaking little country of Tajikistan. We’re happy to be here.
Sophie Ibbotson:
There are a few places on earth where everything comes together to make a perfect space. This accolade can’t be earned solely by appealing to any one sense: indeed, the sixth sense of a place just feeling ‘right’ is as important as the sights, sounds and smells.
Iskanderkul is pretty close to my idea of perfection. Snow-capped mountains dappled in golden sunlight rise strikingly above a turquoise lake of crystal-clear water. The few single-storey buildings dotted around the shoreline are discretely hidden, and in between them lie stretches of woodland, wild flowers and well-tended vegetable plots. The air is pure, with only the occasional scent of blossom and goat to taint its smell. The wind rustles the trees and ripples the surface of the water. Now and again, a dog barks out at its shadow.
The Tajik president has his dacha at Iskanderkul: he has chosen the location well. We made our camp by the water’s edge. The flames of our small bonfire and the glow of the almost full moon were the only lights to be seen. I slept a deep and dreamless sleep.
It has previously been said that hell is knowing heaven and then being forced to leave. Iskanderkul may be fairly close to paradise and therefore colour my subsequent experiences, but my capacity for fair observation has not entirely deserted me. As the literary canon often informs us, there are many circles to hell. One of them is called the Anzob Pass.
Mountain passes are often a little hairy. High altitude, snow fall, poor roads and the constant threat of avalanches all play their part in making you nervous, but this is almost always off-set by an incredible view. The Anzob has no view.
As we approached the pass we thought that we’d taken a wrong turn as we ended up in the midst of a disorganised quarry. Huge piles of rock, Nissan huts and corrugated iron sheets obscured our view and vast Chinese trucks laden to the brim with hard core were attempting multi-part turns in too little space, while men in hard hats scurried amongst the maze. We were utterly confused, asked for directions, and were sent straight towards the rock face. The confusion didn’t abate.
The Anzob is not actually a pass in the usual
sense but a 3 km long tunnel through the bowels of the mountain. It was built by the Iranians several years back but appears never to have been properly finished: it has no ventilation, no drainage, erratic lighting, and only one open carriageway. We plunged into the blackness, the tunnel a gaping hole that swallowed the Isuzu in an instant. We inched our way along, cursing as we drove the EU regulations that limit the headlights’ glare.
Just a day before, the tunnel had been shut due to flooding. Pumping machines (unlit and unmarked) would suddenly appear out of the gloom and necessitate a swift swerve to the left. Their out-flow pipes zig-zagged across the road like super-sized worms but substantial puddles remained. Avoiding such treacherous obstacles required intense concentration and multiple pairs of eyes.
A kilometre or so inside, I thought the tunnel could not get worse. I was wrong. In fact, the tunnel itself was not at fault: it was the other users of the tunnel. Impatient drivers beeped in the blackness, tailgating the Isuzu in a bid to overtake. We could barely see a few feet in front of the windscreen and so overtaking anything was verging on suicide. Still, our fellow motorists persisted.
Another individual was even more crazy. Not only did he have a death wish for himself, he also pursued the same fate for his team of little donkeys. These poor beasts of burden could see nothing but the tail of the donkey in front and were being herded in the dark through the entire length of the tunnel. One car overtaking us narrowly avoided crashing into the animal at the front of the pack, earning its bonnet an almighty thwack from the furious donkey herder. I was somewhat in awe by the donkeys’ placid natures as they plodded on through the blackness. They must have had absolute confidence in the man at their side as even for me the sudden noises and glaring lights in an otherwise dark and claustrophobic space were nothing short of terrifying.
Steve dew-Jones: It is possible that Alexander the Great once sat upon the very same rock upon which I currently find myself, not a stone’s throw from the water’s edge of Iskanderkul Lake (Alexander’s Lake). The surrounding scenery is breathtaking, as it has been ever since crossing into the little country of Tajikistan.
Last night we had another trial involving Uzbekistan’s lack of Diesel - this time Bryn and I drove around with one of the workers from the charming Antika B&B until we had found somebody who could point us in the direction of some fuel. Eventually we chanced upon a group of local taxi drivers and were soon following them to what we assumed would be another trucker looking to shift some of his leftovers for a sweet, sweet profit on the black market. So when we ended up in just another petrol station – having already visited half a dozen, on top of those in Tashkent – we were a little surprised, and altogether pessimistic.
We needn’t have been. The ringleader from our taxi crew, Odin - a handsome chap with a sizeable paunch – marched straight up to the young petrol attendant and demanded that his foreign friends be given some Diesel.
As if suddenly released from comatose, the young chap burst into life, switching on the lights of the dusty Diesel pump, and proceeding to pump out 60 litres as if this were any other transaction on any other day. Our emotions were transformed from hopelessness to jubilation at the flick of a switch.
Following the shenanigans of last night, we had a border to cross this morning and we were all preparing ourselves for the standard minimum time of three hours for the procedure. Only, when we arrived at the border, and found that we were the only car in sight, for once the endless streams of paperwork and waiting in queues seemed a doddle, and we were officially into Tajikistan within seventy minutes.
Today’s drive has been a mixture of very good roads, awful dirt tracks that aren’t fit to be called “roads”, and about everything else in between, whilst all the while we have been navigating our way besides the cliff edges of mountains that make up the breathtaking little country of Tajikistan. We’re happy to be here.
Sophie Ibbotson:
There are a few places on earth where everything comes together to make a perfect space. This accolade can’t be earned solely by appealing to any one sense: indeed, the sixth sense of a place just feeling ‘right’ is as important as the sights, sounds and smells.Iskanderkul is pretty close to my idea of perfection. Snow-capped mountains dappled in golden sunlight rise strikingly above a turquoise lake of crystal-clear water. The few single-storey buildings dotted around the shoreline are discretely hidden, and in between them lie stretches of woodland, wild flowers and well-tended vegetable plots. The air is pure, with only the occasional scent of blossom and goat to taint its smell. The wind rustles the trees and ripples the surface of the water. Now and again, a dog barks out at its shadow.
The Tajik president has his dacha at Iskanderkul: he has chosen the location well. We made our camp by the water’s edge. The flames of our small bonfire and the glow of the almost full moon were the only lights to be seen. I slept a deep and dreamless sleep.
-------------------------------
It has previously been said that hell is knowing heaven and then being forced to leave. Iskanderkul may be fairly close to paradise and therefore colour my subsequent experiences, but my capacity for fair observation has not entirely deserted me. As the literary canon often informs us, there are many circles to hell. One of them is called the Anzob Pass.
Mountain passes are often a little hairy. High altitude, snow fall, poor roads and the constant threat of avalanches all play their part in making you nervous, but this is almost always off-set by an incredible view. The Anzob has no view.
As we approached the pass we thought that we’d taken a wrong turn as we ended up in the midst of a disorganised quarry. Huge piles of rock, Nissan huts and corrugated iron sheets obscured our view and vast Chinese trucks laden to the brim with hard core were attempting multi-part turns in too little space, while men in hard hats scurried amongst the maze. We were utterly confused, asked for directions, and were sent straight towards the rock face. The confusion didn’t abate.
The Anzob is not actually a pass in the usual
sense but a 3 km long tunnel through the bowels of the mountain. It was built by the Iranians several years back but appears never to have been properly finished: it has no ventilation, no drainage, erratic lighting, and only one open carriageway. We plunged into the blackness, the tunnel a gaping hole that swallowed the Isuzu in an instant. We inched our way along, cursing as we drove the EU regulations that limit the headlights’ glare.Just a day before, the tunnel had been shut due to flooding. Pumping machines (unlit and unmarked) would suddenly appear out of the gloom and necessitate a swift swerve to the left. Their out-flow pipes zig-zagged across the road like super-sized worms but substantial puddles remained. Avoiding such treacherous obstacles required intense concentration and multiple pairs of eyes.
A kilometre or so inside, I thought the tunnel could not get worse. I was wrong. In fact, the tunnel itself was not at fault: it was the other users of the tunnel. Impatient drivers beeped in the blackness, tailgating the Isuzu in a bid to overtake. We could barely see a few feet in front of the windscreen and so overtaking anything was verging on suicide. Still, our fellow motorists persisted.
Another individual was even more crazy. Not only did he have a death wish for himself, he also pursued the same fate for his team of little donkeys. These poor beasts of burden could see nothing but the tail of the donkey in front and were being herded in the dark through the entire length of the tunnel. One car overtaking us narrowly avoided crashing into the animal at the front of the pack, earning its bonnet an almighty thwack from the furious donkey herder. I was somewhat in awe by the donkeys’ placid natures as they plodded on through the blackness. They must have had absolute confidence in the man at their side as even for me the sudden noises and glaring lights in an otherwise dark and claustrophobic space were nothing short of terrifying.
No comments:
Post a Comment