Sophie Ibbotson:
I’m sat in the Aga Khan’s Hotel Serena in Khorog, looking out of the window across an immaculately kept lawn towards a small suspension bridge that leads to Afghanistan. The fluttering flags either side of the river identify their respective sovereignties and one or two guards lounge in the sunlight. No one is crossing today, and there is little else to do.
The drive south from Dushanbe to Khorog can be completed in 18-20 hours. Local drivers will do the trip in a day but for us the road was unknown and so we took a break en-route at a guesthouse just outside Tavildara. Driving the road is painfully slow. It twists and turns in the narrow space between the River Oxus and the steep mountainsides and frequently disappears entirely, leaving the Isuzu floundering in wet mud and gravel.
Nature is the greatest threat to the roads in Tajikistan. This threat comes in two main forms: avalanches and water (rainfall and river swell caused by snow melt). Both of these can wipe out the road in minutes, leaving a gaping hole in the hillside.
It was on the morning of our second day of driving that we encountered our first major obstacle. Rainfall had washed away the road through the village and, as the slopes behind were almost vertical, the only alternative route was through the river bed where a JCB had cut a rudimentary track through the mud. We turned on the Isuzu’s 4x4 system and slid down the bank to the river.
We reached the middle of the river bed before we ran into difficulties. The water had, in fact, already been crossed and the end of the mud was almost in sight. Then we ran aground. The undercarriage of the car was stuck on rocks and the wheels had sunk up to their axels in mud. Every time that Bryn put his foot on the accelerator all four wheels would spin, and we would sink a little deeper. We weren’t going anywhere at all.
In a bid to lessen the weight and increase the traction, we all jumped out of the Isuzu and began to push. It didn’t move an inch. We then collared a passing car to ask for a tow. The tow rope snapped and hit the other car with an almighty crack. It wasn’t looking good. Fortunately the tow car was accompanied by a number of squaddies in camouflage gear. They came to our rescue, helping us to build a ramp of stones, dig the mud away from the tyres and, at last, to heave the Isuzu up the rock ramp and onto firmer ground. We were away.
Almost. Once out of the river back and onto some semblance of road, we stopped to assess the
damage. Standing on the driver’s side we could hear a loud hissing. It didn’t sound promising. One of the spikier rocks had punctured the rear tyre and by holding your hand close you could feel the force of air coming out. Had we continued to drive, the tyre would have been completely flat in a matter of minutes. Bryn disappeared into the back of the car and came out with his box of magic tricks. Included in the pack was an aerosol of liquid rubber that could be squirted inside the tyre to coat the inner tube and re-seal any tears. It was just what we needed.
Quite surprisingly, the further we drove, the better the road surfaces became. That’s not to say they weren’t pitted and we didn’t have to navigate the occasional river running across the road, but we were usually able to maintain a sensible speed of 20 mph and we didn’t have to get out and push. Khorog came into view far faster than we’d anticipated, and we pulled up outside the Serena in time for their breakfast buffet. Fab.
I’m sat in the Aga Khan’s Hotel Serena in Khorog, looking out of the window across an immaculately kept lawn towards a small suspension bridge that leads to Afghanistan. The fluttering flags either side of the river identify their respective sovereignties and one or two guards lounge in the sunlight. No one is crossing today, and there is little else to do.
The drive south from Dushanbe to Khorog can be completed in 18-20 hours. Local drivers will do the trip in a day but for us the road was unknown and so we took a break en-route at a guesthouse just outside Tavildara. Driving the road is painfully slow. It twists and turns in the narrow space between the River Oxus and the steep mountainsides and frequently disappears entirely, leaving the Isuzu floundering in wet mud and gravel.
Nature is the greatest threat to the roads in Tajikistan. This threat comes in two main forms: avalanches and water (rainfall and river swell caused by snow melt). Both of these can wipe out the road in minutes, leaving a gaping hole in the hillside.
It was on the morning of our second day of driving that we encountered our first major obstacle. Rainfall had washed away the road through the village and, as the slopes behind were almost vertical, the only alternative route was through the river bed where a JCB had cut a rudimentary track through the mud. We turned on the Isuzu’s 4x4 system and slid down the bank to the river.We reached the middle of the river bed before we ran into difficulties. The water had, in fact, already been crossed and the end of the mud was almost in sight. Then we ran aground. The undercarriage of the car was stuck on rocks and the wheels had sunk up to their axels in mud. Every time that Bryn put his foot on the accelerator all four wheels would spin, and we would sink a little deeper. We weren’t going anywhere at all.
In a bid to lessen the weight and increase the traction, we all jumped out of the Isuzu and began to push. It didn’t move an inch. We then collared a passing car to ask for a tow. The tow rope snapped and hit the other car with an almighty crack. It wasn’t looking good. Fortunately the tow car was accompanied by a number of squaddies in camouflage gear. They came to our rescue, helping us to build a ramp of stones, dig the mud away from the tyres and, at last, to heave the Isuzu up the rock ramp and onto firmer ground. We were away.
Almost. Once out of the river back and onto some semblance of road, we stopped to assess the
damage. Standing on the driver’s side we could hear a loud hissing. It didn’t sound promising. One of the spikier rocks had punctured the rear tyre and by holding your hand close you could feel the force of air coming out. Had we continued to drive, the tyre would have been completely flat in a matter of minutes. Bryn disappeared into the back of the car and came out with his box of magic tricks. Included in the pack was an aerosol of liquid rubber that could be squirted inside the tyre to coat the inner tube and re-seal any tears. It was just what we needed.Quite surprisingly, the further we drove, the better the road surfaces became. That’s not to say they weren’t pitted and we didn’t have to navigate the occasional river running across the road, but we were usually able to maintain a sensible speed of 20 mph and we didn’t have to get out and push. Khorog came into view far faster than we’d anticipated, and we pulled up outside the Serena in time for their breakfast buffet. Fab.
Steve Dew-Jones:
This is the beginning of the end. In a few hours time our trusty Isuzu will make the short journey from here to Ishkashim, from where we will be crossing into Afghanistan.
What a journey it has been. From Western Europe to the ex-Soviet block, the wastelands of the Kazakh Steppe to the magnificent Pamir mountains of Tajikistan, which we have been attempting to navigate for the past three days.
Suzi the Isuzu has done us proud, even if she has been struggling, understandably, a little of late. The sporadic tendency not to wish to start has escalated into an almost complete failure to do so; the rear left suspension is faltering; the hole in the exhaust has reappeared; the fuel filter doesn’t filter; all in all, our delivery to the Afghan people is a bruised one, but at least she’ll probably fit in quite well.
Our tow-rope snapped yesterday at the height of our perilous journey through a muddy field – the only option following the collapse of the road – and we only managed to shift ourselves from the mound of dirt that had grounded us thanks to the help of a group of Tajik soldiers who just so happened to be passing by.
The day before had been slow and we failed to make much more than 100km through the vast mountainous terrain. Yesterday didn’t start much better – what with that episode in the field and a puncture sustained therein – but upon scaling a considerable peak (3280m), we finally found the flat again and continued to chug along happily until we arrived at the village of Roshan, where we would be hosted by the kindest of drunks, a man named Gulmar.
In the absence of “gastinitzas” (hotels), it was Gulmar’s place or nothing, and we were happy to find shelter upon the floor of his living room, even if it did become a little annoying that he wouldn’t stop pestering us for some money so that he could buy another bottle of vodka – an intent signalled by the flicking
of his finger to his neck and the pretence of drinking out of his thumb.“Farda,” we protested (it means tomorrow), and when the morrow arrived he appeared to have forgotten.
We left early this morning and have had ourselves what might prove to be the last healthy breakfast in quite some time, at the Serena Hotel. In a few moments we’re off to get ourselves kitted out in Afghan clothing, and then we’ll make for the border. Afghanistan here we come.
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