 |
| Rivière Obikhumbou. |
Tuesday, September 11th. After a bad night, I wake early to go to the place indicated by Kamila from where are leaving the ATVs for Khorog and other distant destinations. I arrive just before 8.00 a.m. More than twenty drivers and as many travelers are speculating about the arrival of new passengers, the first ones to maximize returns on the journey, the other ones to quickly take the road. Just got out the taxi, a guy accosts me and draws me towards a driver. I am dithering, tell to the driver that I am waiting for somebody, try unsuccessfully to call Kamila. Curious about me, other people come to me. I cannot go to Pamir, I am advised.
- Why ? I have a GBAO visa.
The foreigners who want to travel in the autonomous Tajik province of Gorno-Badakshan must have a special visa. GBAO is the abbreviation for Gorno-Badakhshan Autonomous Oblast, name given by the Soviets to the province and which stuck. I know that there were fights last July in Khorog, province's capital, which have caused dozens of deaths. It started with the murder of the security supervisor and continued with fights between the opposition and the army. The access to the region was forbidden for foreigners. Badakhshan is known to be a politically difficult region for the Tajik State. Geographically isolated and poor, it supported the Islamist opposition during the 1992 civil war. The border with Afghanistan is porous and drug-trafficking does not help.
- There are still clashes ?
- The fighting has ended but the region remains under surveillance. Tourists who tried to go there were sent away at the first control, somebody adds. The driver will leave you at the checkpoint and you shall have to find another driver for the return.
- OK, no problem, I say. I am ready to give it a try.
In the people around me, each person expresses his or her opinion.
- You should rather go to Kouliab, a woman suggests.
I ended up having Kamila but the line is bad and I understand nothing in that she says. Something about a cousin which shows that I cannot travel with her. What can I do ? While I am wondering what to do, two girls appear, blondes, dressed in local clothes, backpacked. They are talking with a driver. I go to see what it is about. A Pamiri guy is there. He is a poet he says and can help. The girls are Polish. They have already tried the expedition last week but were turned back. Their return fly is in three days and they absolutely want to go to Ishkashim, or else their trip would not be complete, they consider. I will understand later that their desire to approach the Afghan border has something to do with the representation they have of the Afghan mountain dweller, with his green eyes, virile and proud, who has held Red Army at bay. They heard that after the Independence Day the road would be reopened, and that if they dressed like the local women, maybe they would go unnoticed. Would I also go unnoticed ? The Poles are skeptical. I see Kamila, ready to leave in another vehicle. No, she insists, I definitely cannot accompany her. It would not be loyalty to family and tradition. Can I understand that ? After endless talks with the Poles, the poet and the driver, we make the decision to leave together. But first of all, the driver inform us that he has to go to the "KGB", as it is still called here the special services of the national police. He takes our passports and come back a long time later to tell us that it is not possible to leave immediately. By hearing his repeated calls on his mobile, I understand he considers the number of passengers insufficient and plays for time whilst ensuring we are staying there. And to be reassured, he drives us in an apartment where we shall have to wait for him.
11.00 a.m. I am with the Poles in this apartment in an unfamiliar area of the capital. Living room with a large TV screen, two sleeping rooms, a messy kitchen, a filthy bathroom where the water runs only at certain hours, the apartment seems vacant. We wait there two hours, four hours. Nobody shows up. At about 4.00 p.m., I manage to talk on the phone with the poet who tells me he is waiting some news from the driver. The Poles are dozing, curled up on the couch. I go out for a walk in the place. Nothing. Soviet blocks. The driver and the poet, accompanied by a relative, will arrive one hour later, too late to hit the road. At 4.00 a.m., tomorrow morning, we will leave, promises the driver. The relative cooks a frugal dinner after which we prepare for sleep.
Wednesday. The driver arrives at 8.00 a.m. and he does not seem to be in a hurry. We make time for a copious breakfast before breaking camp. Instead of taking immediately the road to Pamir, the driver passes at various places and finally picks up an additional passenger before returning to the starting point of yesterday. It will be necessary to wait 10.00 a.m. before leaving Dushanbe.
The road, acceptable at the beginning, becomes rough as soon we arrive in the Khingob valley. A track of pebbles and rocks, full of holes and bumps, winding. But Khush, our driver, is the virtuoso on this road. The difficulties amuse him. He drives 100 km/h, overtakes everybody, greets the other drivers, has calls on his mobile, swallows a grape, bites into a piece of bread, stops sometimes to exchange jokes with a friend. He knows when it is necessary to halt to relax, for a light meal or a short nap. They are not all like him and, on wanting to drive non-stop, without another driver to take over, without breaks, some of them pay it with their lives and those of their passengers. During all the journey, Khush will rewarding us with an extensive look into the Tajik music from his MP3 player. To cross the checkpoints easier, we try to look like local people. Poles straighten their kerchief and I wear the Uzbek skullcap offered by Nargiza's father. At the first checkpoint, the guards do not give the effort to go out of the sentry box. In the following, a guard turns around the vehicle, checks the papers and lets us leave. We cross a 3200-metre pass. Magnificent landscapes, snow-capped summits, before arriving at Qalaïkhum, on following the Panj river which defines the border between Tajikistan and Afghanistan. We meet armed soldiers, asleeping cows and herds of goats. New checkpoint. This time, it is the real border with the Gorno-Badakhshan province. The soldiers want to see our passports. We keep our mouth shut. There are discussions between their chief, the driver and the poet. And may be a discreet and friendly exchange. They let us go.
- Why ? I have a GBAO visa.
The foreigners who want to travel in the autonomous Tajik province of Gorno-Badakshan must have a special visa. GBAO is the abbreviation for Gorno-Badakhshan Autonomous Oblast, name given by the Soviets to the province and which stuck. I know that there were fights last July in Khorog, province's capital, which have caused dozens of deaths. It started with the murder of the security supervisor and continued with fights between the opposition and the army. The access to the region was forbidden for foreigners. Badakhshan is known to be a politically difficult region for the Tajik State. Geographically isolated and poor, it supported the Islamist opposition during the 1992 civil war. The border with Afghanistan is porous and drug-trafficking does not help.
- There are still clashes ?
- The fighting has ended but the region remains under surveillance. Tourists who tried to go there were sent away at the first control, somebody adds. The driver will leave you at the checkpoint and you shall have to find another driver for the return.
- OK, no problem, I say. I am ready to give it a try.
In the people around me, each person expresses his or her opinion.
- You should rather go to Kouliab, a woman suggests.
I ended up having Kamila but the line is bad and I understand nothing in that she says. Something about a cousin which shows that I cannot travel with her. What can I do ? While I am wondering what to do, two girls appear, blondes, dressed in local clothes, backpacked. They are talking with a driver. I go to see what it is about. A Pamiri guy is there. He is a poet he says and can help. The girls are Polish. They have already tried the expedition last week but were turned back. Their return fly is in three days and they absolutely want to go to Ishkashim, or else their trip would not be complete, they consider. I will understand later that their desire to approach the Afghan border has something to do with the representation they have of the Afghan mountain dweller, with his green eyes, virile and proud, who has held Red Army at bay. They heard that after the Independence Day the road would be reopened, and that if they dressed like the local women, maybe they would go unnoticed. Would I also go unnoticed ? The Poles are skeptical. I see Kamila, ready to leave in another vehicle. No, she insists, I definitely cannot accompany her. It would not be loyalty to family and tradition. Can I understand that ? After endless talks with the Poles, the poet and the driver, we make the decision to leave together. But first of all, the driver inform us that he has to go to the "KGB", as it is still called here the special services of the national police. He takes our passports and come back a long time later to tell us that it is not possible to leave immediately. By hearing his repeated calls on his mobile, I understand he considers the number of passengers insufficient and plays for time whilst ensuring we are staying there. And to be reassured, he drives us in an apartment where we shall have to wait for him.
11.00 a.m. I am with the Poles in this apartment in an unfamiliar area of the capital. Living room with a large TV screen, two sleeping rooms, a messy kitchen, a filthy bathroom where the water runs only at certain hours, the apartment seems vacant. We wait there two hours, four hours. Nobody shows up. At about 4.00 p.m., I manage to talk on the phone with the poet who tells me he is waiting some news from the driver. The Poles are dozing, curled up on the couch. I go out for a walk in the place. Nothing. Soviet blocks. The driver and the poet, accompanied by a relative, will arrive one hour later, too late to hit the road. At 4.00 a.m., tomorrow morning, we will leave, promises the driver. The relative cooks a frugal dinner after which we prepare for sleep.
Wednesday. The driver arrives at 8.00 a.m. and he does not seem to be in a hurry. We make time for a copious breakfast before breaking camp. Instead of taking immediately the road to Pamir, the driver passes at various places and finally picks up an additional passenger before returning to the starting point of yesterday. It will be necessary to wait 10.00 a.m. before leaving Dushanbe.
The road, acceptable at the beginning, becomes rough as soon we arrive in the Khingob valley. A track of pebbles and rocks, full of holes and bumps, winding. But Khush, our driver, is the virtuoso on this road. The difficulties amuse him. He drives 100 km/h, overtakes everybody, greets the other drivers, has calls on his mobile, swallows a grape, bites into a piece of bread, stops sometimes to exchange jokes with a friend. He knows when it is necessary to halt to relax, for a light meal or a short nap. They are not all like him and, on wanting to drive non-stop, without another driver to take over, without breaks, some of them pay it with their lives and those of their passengers. During all the journey, Khush will rewarding us with an extensive look into the Tajik music from his MP3 player. To cross the checkpoints easier, we try to look like local people. Poles straighten their kerchief and I wear the Uzbek skullcap offered by Nargiza's father. At the first checkpoint, the guards do not give the effort to go out of the sentry box. In the following, a guard turns around the vehicle, checks the papers and lets us leave. We cross a 3200-metre pass. Magnificent landscapes, snow-capped summits, before arriving at Qalaïkhum, on following the Panj river which defines the border between Tajikistan and Afghanistan. We meet armed soldiers, asleeping cows and herds of goats. New checkpoint. This time, it is the real border with the Gorno-Badakhshan province. The soldiers want to see our passports. We keep our mouth shut. There are discussions between their chief, the driver and the poet. And may be a discreet and friendly exchange. They let us go.
| Aperçu sonore de l'ambiance dans le véhicule. |
We have passed ! That is reflecting on the atmosphere in the car. The poet sings loudly with the MP3. "Home, we arrive home !" He exclaims. The river has widened to form a kind of winding pond strewn with pebbly islands. At the next checkpoint, some additionnal passport controls, some additional discussions. Khush claims to have rescued us by showing to the officer the card of a Tajik Secretary. Now, everybody is singing. At the last checkpoint, they will only check the papers of the driver. Before the starry night sets, we see the Afghan villages on the other side of the Panj river. We pass many Chinese trucks. Their drivers are the new slaves on this new silk road with for cargo some electric whiskers and other waffle guns rather than elegant silks and chinas. We arrive at 1.00 a.m. at the Pamir Logde in Khorog. Eight dollars per night, Spartan rooms, shared toilets. Situated close to a Ismaili prayer hall, it is a little way from the center for my liking.
 |
| Chaïkhana sur la route de Khorog, à Yazgand (ou Ezgand) dans la région de Tavildara, marche du Pamir. |
 |
| Lakaye, le gérant, ravi de sa recette. |
 |
| L'indispensable samovar. |
 |
| Tapchane nocturne dans une chaïkhana à l'entrée de Rushan. |
More photos Gorno-Badakhshan
No comments:
Post a Comment