The Pamir Highway: Part 1

The Wakhan Corridor

Pamir Highway

Welcome to the Pamir!

The Pamir Highway runs from Dushanbe (B) to Osh (J) in Kyrgyzstan, and our journey began with a long drive to Khorog (C). A thin yellow line can be seen running east from Khorog - this is the main Pamir Highway, which we did not take. Instead, this post covers our week along the Wakhan Corridor (C - F), the rural alternative route which follows the Afghan border along the Panj River.

The first drive was the worst. For twenty hours we sat crammed into a Toyota Landcruiser, every seat filled and the luggage secured to the roof, knees pressed against seatbacks, head crouched, shoulders cramped. Quite the welcome, after all.

Ten of us were squeezed in for the endless drive to Khorog.

The drive first brought us south through Khatlon Province, Tajikistan’s poorest whose agrarian locals subsist on $200 per year, and after hours along its cultivated plains we came to our first exciting landmark: the border with Afghanistan. 

We had arrived at the Panj River, the dividing line between Afghanistan and Tajikistan, which we would cling to for 700 kilometers. At times the river was no more than twenty meters across and we could look in the faces of Afghan villagers on its far bank. While a paved road runs on this side, only a dirt path connected the opposing villages. Two sides of a river, but worlds apart. 

An Afghan village on the far shores of the murky Panj.

Taliban flags flew above villages and while we never spotted a single woman - surely they were holed up inside - we thought of the young girls who were barred from attending school by their new government. 

The Taliban flag blows in the wind above one of the larger villages. The white is meant to represent purity and the black spells out the shahada, the Islamic declaration of faith.

We stopped once to pick up some goods and share in a family meal before hopping back in the car for a dozen more hours.

A feast for the road! From left to right is our driver, Robison, Roger, myself, and our lunch host.

We had teamed back up with Roger from the Fann trek and also found Belgian Robison in our hostel, and together convinced one another to take to the road tour-less. With much unknown and zero public transport in the region, our plan was to unite when the need to split taxis arose and to share info along the way.

Slow going along as we skirted the Panj. Ongoing road construction meant much of our day was spent twiddling our thumbs in front of roadblocks.

Day turned to night and it wasn’t until after 1 AM that we arrived in Khorog. After a feeble thanks to our driver - who had driven the 20 hours with no sleep - we crashed into our room.

After 19 hours with no car trouble, it was about time when our tire exploded at midnight shortly north of Khorog. We replaced it with our single spare, now hoping to not repeat the experience as few cars remained behind us. Thankfully, we arrived safely an hour later.

Khorog

The coming days were spent enjoying Khorog, the capital of the autonomous region of Gorno-Badakhshan (GBAO), which 25 years ago waged a civil war against Dushanbe and the west. As the unfortunate losers, the region and its Pamiri people have been the recipient of little aid from the government.

With a population of 30,000, Khorog is by far the largest city in Gorno-Badakhshan. The region covers 45% of the Tajik landmass but is home to only 2% of its people.

Thankfully, where federal aid has lacked, the Aga Khan Foundation has stepped in. Pamiris are Ismaili, a progressive branch of Islam which views the Aga Khan as their spiritual leader. In response, the Aga Khan Foundation sends aid by the truckload, and against all odds Pamiris have some of the highest rates of education, female workforce involvement, food security, and access to medical services in the country. It was a joy to see firsthand the difference that effective philanthropy can make.

Schools, government buildings, medical centers - you name it. Buildings across GBAO are marked with the blue hand of the Aga Khan. It is no exaggeration to say that this organization is single-handedly pulling the region out of abject poverty.

A couple Khorog days were spent recovering from the drive while exploring the fascinating little town on the edge of the unknown and familiarizing ourselves with its proud Pamiri heritage.

The colorfully embroidered Pamiri toki caps are proudly worn by local men and always accompanied by a small poof, distinguishing them from the toki worn elsewhere in the nation. That said, as is typical, women were much more likely to be wearing the traditional attire than men.

Despite lying on opposite ends of the Earth, Khorog reminded me in spirit of Yurimaguas, a town found at the edge of the Peruvian Amazon. The road ends in Yurimaguas, with journeys deeper into the jungle requiring a boat, and thus evokes equal parts adventure and opportunity. In the same way, while on its face Khorog was no more than a dusty mountain town, it felt magical and full of potential. It was our gateway into the heart of the Pamir, and it’s a place I’ll always cherish.

Jizeu

Mack had gotten sick and needed some extra rest in Khorog, so together with Roger and Robison I tacked on a side trek in the nearby Bartang Valley. The others took a shared taxi to the trailhead while I tried my luck at hitchhiking and was exceedingly proud to beat them there.

Hitching in the Pamir doesn’t follow the normal rules: for starters, it’s not free. Gas is expensive and any car going between villages alerts the community and locals pile in, each chipping in for gas. As a result, cars are always packed and taking a seat for free would essentially be robbing the driver, so Mack and I always happily contributed the fair amount. Here I am in my first car with a new friend!

As usual, hitching proved a wonderful way to interact with locals, and on the way to the Bartang Valley I shared a conversation with a gentleman before being invited for lunch at the driver’s home. The people here in the valley speak Bartangi, a micro-language with only about 2,000 speakers, but we were able to converse using my terrible Russian.

My driver regaled me of tales from his time in Russia, where he worked for a couple decades while sending remittances home to his family. Recently aging out of his job there, he was back home in tiny Yemts while the next generation of Tajik men followed suit. An astounding 51% of Tajikistan’s GDP is from remittances, leading the world for remittances as percent of GDP (Samoa being #2 at 33%).

Arriving before the others, I hiked solo and thoroughly enjoyed the solitude that fifteen kilometers through the Bartang and Jizeu Valleys brought me.

The rugged Bartang is carved out by a muddy river, and every few kilometers a flimsy bridge led to a side valley through which snowy peaks could be spotted.

I eventually made it to the crossing marked for Jizeu Valley and inched across delicately, each step bouncing the whole bridge up and down.

The murky Bartang was met by the turquoise Jizeu River at the valley head, and I followed the rapids for eight kilometers to the village.

I arrived at Jizeu for dinner, where I was soon reunited with Roger and Robison.

Jizeu Village was basic - perhaps the most basic place I’ve ever stayed - but the few families living here were happy to host us, providing what I’m sure is the lion’s share of their income.

Together we continued a few kilometers beyond the village for the best views of the snowy mountains at the end of the valley.

Smaller villages and solitary homes lie deeper in the valley.

Returning to Jizeu, we shared a dinner with our hosts, the daughter of whom could speak some English and gave us fascinating insight into what life in a village of seven homes looks like. For half the year, snow makes the hike out of the valley impossible. Cut off entirely from the outside world, completely self-reliant, fully at the whims of the weather… a life like this has not been lived in the US for a very long time, if ever. We closed out the night by claiming a spot atop the raised platform of packed earth that’s a feature in all Pamiri homes and unrolling our sleeping bags to the symphony of ribbiting frogs and rushing river.

Jizeu lies on the far shores of the dammed river.

I rushed out the next morning, leaving Rob and Roger behind and wanting not only to return to Khorog, but to continue to our next stop. A lucky hitch brought me back to Khorog in record time only for Mack and I to spend four grueling hours at town’s edge failing to find a ride onwards. We were stuck in the city for another night.

My ride partners on the way back to Khorog were these friendly ladies who sang and danced the whole way and cackled with glee when I joined in poorly. They invited me to their homes, but thinking we’d be on our way, I politely declined.

The challenges here foreshadowed the difficulty to come as we entered the most sparsely populated parts of the country.

Ishkashim

The next morning, we headed to the unofficial bus station, where after a few hours we’d filled a van going to Ishkashim, our first stop in the Wakhan Corridor.

Our first views of the Hindu Kush mountains of Afghanistan. To the right of the road is a basic fortification used in times of strife with their volatile neighbor.

The Wakhan Corridor is an offshoot of the official Pamir Highway which instead leads travelers along the Afghan border and through the Wakhan Valley that the two nations share. The mountain scenery is dramatic and the village lifestyle fascinating, but being off the main way means little traffic, and it would pose our greatest challenge to independent travel.

Near Ishkashim is the Ishkashim Market and the neutral island on which it stands, connected by bridge to both Tajikistan and Afghanistan. In times past, the market operated weekly and opened its gates to traders from both nations. Sadly, the island has been closed-off and the market non-operational since the rise of the Taliban.

Once arriving in Ishkashim our luck took a turn for the better, and we hitched a few rides on the way to Darshai, where we spent the night.

The floodplains of the Panj provide fertile land to the Wakhi people whose agrarian lifestyle depends on the river.

Along the way we explored the Qahqaha Fortress, ruins from the once-great Kushan Empire which ruled this valley in the 2nd century BC during the earliest days of the Silk Road. The fortress stood proud on a rock outcrop overlooking the Panj for nearly a thousand years before the Arab conquest swept through the region, destroying everything in its path.

Little of the fort remains today, but it still provided incredible views both to the west…

… and east and we threaded further up the Wakhan.

Our final ride of the day was the most memorable, as we were stranded between villages with the sun creeping towards the horizon. It can be hours between cars on these roads, so, not wanting to sleep under the stars, when we saw a truck eclipse the far hill, we waved our arms and jumped like crazy people such that they had no choice but to stop. Inside was a band of soldiers who gladly took us in.

With no space, I sat on the back of the truck alongside the youngest cadet while Mack had a seat of honor inside crammed between three oversized soldiers. After a 20-minute ride, we arrived in Darshai.

Darshai

Darshai was a village of no more than a dozen houses, and we stayed at the homestay of a man who we’d shared a car with that morning.

Our host’s daughters greeted us warmly and we slept like babies after a filling meal of pasta and rice. Meat and veggies are a rarity out here, and various simple carbs form the basis of nutrition. The young girls were threshing the fields as we left.

A village stroll brought us upon a friendly troupe of local guys, who after some shared jokes directed us up a mountainside for the town’s main attraction: Darshai Fort.

Making friends with approximately all the young men within a thirty mile radius.

Views above Darshai, taken from the ruins of another Kushan fortress.

Within Darshai also lies the most fascinating of many shrines in this section of the Pamir. A plastered wall and horn-guarded entryway surrounds a central table piled high with revered ibex horns. While the locals are Ismaili Muslims, it’s no surprise that animist traditions live on here; when being surrounded by soaring mountains and having your livelihood depend on the temperament of the river, it’s easy to ascribe divinity to the land.

The entrance to the shrine is watched over by the spiraling horns of the rare Marco Polo sheep, the largest sheep in the world, found only in this remote region.

Inside the shrine, called a mazar, is a table of ibex horns and sacred stones. Such mazars are devoted to animistic deities adapted from the Aryan and Zoroastrian religions that long predated Islam in the region. Whenever we passed a shrine while hitching, the locals would touch their face, bow their head, and mutter a prayer.

The next morning we were back roadside and getting into our groove. Patience was necessary hitching here. No more than a couple cars passed each hour, and they were always full, meaning our rides were limited only to those willing to squeeze us in. When we did find a car, it was only to the next village, often little more than 10 kilometers down the road. But we expected this, and with good spirits we enjoyed the long waits, always accompanied by spectacular mountain views and - in the case of leaving Darshai - an age-old shrine.

Hitching invariably meant piling into already-overstuffed cars.

But with waiting views like this, what did we care?!

Yamchun

We made a midday stop in Yamchun, where we were promptly spotted by and invited into a local’s home for lunch before visiting the town’s 3rd century BC fort.

Our new friend in the back, who accepted no payment for a filling lunch, and his English-speaking nephew. Our friend worked as a professional deminer, disarming and removing countless landmines that plague the border area between GBAO and the west of Tajikistan, a sad remnant of the civil war of ‘92 to ‘97.

Hiking slowly to the fort, getting lost in the maze of goat paths and saved by farmers, sharing impromptu meals with new friends… this is what stood out to us on the Pamir, especially in this Wakhan section. The locals were spectacular and traversing the road independently let us savor every spontaneous encounter. It wasn’t easy, but looking back, we both have nothing but happy memories from these long days.

We might still be in the mazelike alleys of Yamchun trying to find our way to the fort if not for this sweet gentleman guiding us. He didn’t speak English or Russian, but when he realized we were from the US he beamed and gave us a thumbs up with “George Bush, George Bush!”. Being on the border with Afghanistan, the locals here tend to be extra supportive of Bush’s intervention in their neighbor.

We did eventually come upon Yamchun Fort, the best-preserved in the region, and enjoyed more spectacular mountain views.

From Yamchun, a few more primarily roadside hours brought us to Vrang.

We sat waiting for a car at the edge of Yamg village, a mere 10 kilometers from Vrang, for two hours. It might’ve been faster to just walk!

Vrang

After a quiet night in Vrang, we started the morning with a short hike to Vrang Stupa, the remains of an ancient shrine that serves as the only evidence that Buddhism had a brief hold here before the introduction of Islam.

Seeing foreigners, some local boys took it upon themselves to guide us up to the stupa, reciting a couple memorized English lines to explain its history on the way. They were overjoyed to be tipped in chocolate candies upon return to Vrang.

Views over Vrang, the largest town since Khorog.

Back in town, we waited for half a day to find a car going our way, giving us plenty of time to observe the slow pace of village life.

A storehouse in Vrang houses sacks of USAID-funded fortified flour. The micronutrients added to this flour keeps much of the population vaguely nourished, especially in the winter months when meat and vegetables are a rare treat.

The only street in Vrang, where we waited alongside milling locals for many hours before a car passed.

By evening we’d made it the 30 kilometers to Langar, our last stop on the Wakhan Corridor.

We set our record for most people in a car on the way to Langar with a whopping 14 people (plus a plasma-screen TV on my lap) shoved into the seven-seater.

Langar

From Langar, the road pulls away from the Panj River and climbs up and up endlessly to what’s known as the “Roof of the World”, the Pamir Plateau. 

Langar is the last of the Wakhan villages and therefore the most remote, and its facilities are fittingly bleak. “магазин”, meaning “shop”, is written on these containers, and they constitute the only shops in town.

It’s over 100 kilometers between Langar and connection with the true Pamir Highway, and with precisely no habitation between these points, we were told that no cars would be going. Unperturbed, we attempted hitching, and thus tallied up our longest wait of all time: two full days. Well, about 40 hours to be exact.

Two days in Langar were spent in this position, sitting roadside with a good book in hand, waiting for the rare car to pass. When it did, we’d throw down our books and dance and smile and wave and beg… all to no avail. Every time, the car was just going elsewhere in Langar. 

That said, while we technically waited forty hours, if we didn’t catch a ride by noon, we were done for the day as no cars begin the long haul in the afternoon. Thus, half-days were spent exploring the village and its surroundings, chatting with tour groups coming in for the night, and devising a Plan B.

A couple kilometers above town was a group of rock carvings depicting scenes of hunters, bow & arrows, and ibex. The petroglyphs likely date back to the Scythians, a nomadic people who lived here 3,000 years ago. Sadly, the age-old drawings have been defaced by modern graffiti.

The mountainside location provided what would be our last sensational views of the Wakhan Corridor. Soon, we would be climbing to harsher lands.

On our third morning in Langar we decided it was time to pay for a cab. Plus, by now we’d built a crew: Roger and Rob had caught up, and we also teamed up with Kenta, a Japanese guy also braving the road solo. The five of us split the price and were off, covering the 120 barren kilometers to Alichur, the first town back on the highway.

Five minutes into our drive the car broke down and we all thought we’d never make it to the highway. Thankfully, after a short break, some sweet-talking to the engine, and a pushing start, she revved back up and brought us all the way.

For five hours the road brought us endlessly up, lifting us from the Wakhan Valley and carrying us to a new world: the high Pamir.

Shortly before arrival in Alichur, we arrived atop the Pamir Plateau to a tremendously different environment. Gone was the Panj River and its fertile floodplains, gone were the fields of wheat and the apricot groves. In their place sat desolation. We were now at 4,000 meters elevation - over 13,000 feet.

That said, while the terrain evoked death, we were thrilled to see signs of life: a distant 18-wheeler was bumping along the pocketed road towards us. Our hitchhiking odds would soon change and a new phase of the Pamir Highway was about to begin!