Pamir Highway and Silk Road The Rough Side of Text: Simon Thomas SilkPhotography: Simon and Lisa Thomas pegs for better control over the mixture of ly stay upright before pulling up outside a tumbling large rocks and loose soil, we small homestay. We painfully peel our stiff round a wide bend, our progress brought to bodies from the frozen bikes. Exhausted a sudden halt as a half-hearted flag bearer and wet, we settle down in a whitewashed waives us to a stop. The scene down in the room lit by a single candle. We can barely lower valley through which we are about move inside our sleeping bags under the to cross looks decidedly post-apocalyptic. weight of half a dozen old rugs for warmth Dozens of eight-wheeled, rolling metal gi- and soon fall into an exhausted sleep. ants belch black diesel fumes into the sky as they claw and tear at the mountainsides. We Wearing as many layers as we can find and choke on the thick clouds of dust these mon- heavy with 20 gallons of fuel, we head for sters produce as we are stuck behind two of the Tajikistan border. We ride the short 3 he Pamir Highway: since time im- modation in their locked compound by blank looks make me feel uneasy. Hidden them as they barrel through the long, nar- km track to the base of the Alay range, the memorial, the Silk Route (M41) in handing over two pirated DVDs we’d ac- from view inside a small café, we devour row gorge. With a deep breath and fingers route ahead indistinguishable among the TCentral Asia has existed as an artery quired, giving thanks that money isn’t the a bowl of rice flavored with the ubiquitous crossed, we plunge into the airborne debris vast slabs of rock and thick, snow-covered of trade connecting west to east and north only currency when you travel. mutton fat. As we eat, locals stop, stare, and emerge safely on the other side. We are ground. Inside the small border compound, to south. Contrary to its name, the Silk and finally crack huge smiles as they walk instantly transported back to northern Ar- we complete the exit paperwork and steel Route is not a singular road but a web of The Siberian town of Novosibirsk, where past the parked bikes. gentina, the landscape painted in shades of ourselves against the plummeting tempera- ancient tracks and rock-strewn trails trod- we collected our Kazakhstan visas three yellow and tangerine red, the tall peaks of ture outside. den for a millennia by travelers, merchants, weeks before, seems all but a fuzzy memo- The Teeth of the Pamirs the Alay Mountains in the distance brought explorers, soldiers, and kings. Over 3,000 ry. We now only remember Kazakhstan as We head down the road after lunch, and out in sharp relief by the royal blue sky. Soon the patchy tarmac turns to red clay years of meandering history is carved into a blur, with fragile recollections of paper- Lisa’s 650 thumps a steady rhythm as we as we climb in altitude in second and third one of the most striking landscapes in the work, more visa applications, and depress- pick up speed on serpentine tar that now Perched atop the Taldyk Pass at 12,000 feet, gear. We’d read countless stories of the se- world. Our dream of riding the Silk Road ing overnighters in old mental asylums now stretches out below us. The M41 disappears we gulp down the thinner air and watch the vere weather in this region even in sum- was now a reality, and we must ride it suc- posing as motels. from view and reappears as it snakes its panorama bathed in a translucent mauve. mer, and here we are with winter closing in cessfully if we are to reach Iran and con- way between layers of orange and caramel Night is coming fast. Looking out across the around us, literally. We are giving this range caption 1 caption 1 caption 1 caption 1 tinue our westward journey. It’s midday as we ride southeast around the mountainsides; in the distance, the teeth of Alay Valley, we watch the lights of a distant the full respect it’s due. Two tired Brits with- caption 1 caption 1 caption 1 caption low-lying Fergana Mountains before turn- the Pamir Mountains rake the sky. My GPS village twinkle to life as small generators out cell or satellite phones could easily get kick into nightly action. The temperature has in trouble up here. caption 2 caption 2 caption 2 caption We wake in Kochkor-Ata, a small village ing southwest and entering the ancient lists our destination as Sary-Tash, a small 2 caption 2 caption 2 caption 2 caption northwest of Jalal-Abad in Kyrgyzstan. We Kyrgyz city of Osh. Market stalls spill their village on the Kazak-Tajik border, and we plummeted to 15 F, and the snow-fringed sit cross-legged around a tattered Persian wares into the streets, selling all manner need to press hard if we are to cross the track and slippery switchbacks tug on our Kalashnikovs and Toenails caption 3 caption 3 caption 3 caption 3 rug joined by ten or so construction men, of items from flashlights to goat heads. A Taldyk Pass before nightfall. already frayed concentration as we work We crest a rise and the Tajikistan compound caption 3 caption 3 cap- each covered in paint, mud, and sawdust, few domed mosques dot the city skyline, our way down the backside of the pass to- comes into sight. Two large, rusting fuel tion 3 caption 3 caption 3 caption 3 watching us intently as we munch down making the scene feel familiar, almost Mo- With investment from China, the length ward the sanctuary of the village below. tankers rest in the red mire and are now in mouthfuls of stale bread and pieces of fruit roccan. Riding into the center of Osh, our of the lower M41 is being torn up and re- active duty as the passport offices. A half- as the strong smell of concrete hangs in the cheerful waves of greeting are received placed. It’ll be a delight in a year, but right On an unlit path in Sary-Tash, I suddenly dozen young (and presumably bored) sol- air. We pay our bill for last night’s accom- without a response by the locals whose now it’s a nightmare. Standing up on the barrel into a deep-water crossing and bare- diers, Kalashnikovs slung over their shoul- 74 WWW.ROADRUNNER.TRAVEL March/april ‘12 75 ders, saunter outside. Inside the cramped cramped yard. Inside the simple room, a do without. Even with sunglasses and dark room the scene is bizarre. By some miracle, low fire sits in a grate waiting to be stoked. visors, the glare from the snow is painful. a set of bunk beds is squeezed in, occupied We sit around a low table sipping on sweet, This is truly a giant’s playground, and we by a guard who sets about our paperwork. warm tea and swap information about each are just specks passing through. He’s only wearing his stained thermals; the other’s upcoming journey. longest set of yellow toenails I’ve ever seen Our progress is halted 3 km from the sum- stick out of the holes in his woolen socks. A In the morning, a thick layer of frost cov- mit, the thinning dark trail we have been TV hisses in the corner, and a small, smoky ers both bikes, making them glisten in the following now lost under deep snow. Lisa is iron furnace belts out a bit of welcome pristine morning air. Straining our eyes, we feeling worse, and I haven’t told her that her heat. watch Ben become a speck on the north- lips are now dark blue and her eyes have ern horizon as we head south. We begin the sunken look of the oxygen-deprived. Two hours later we pull alongside Lake our own steady push to the Ak-Baital Pass. Karakul, the highest lake in Central Asia. We rise from the plains too quickly, with- From over my shoulder the coughs of an At 12,800 feet, the vista is nothing short of out the chance to acclimatize. At 13,000 ancient Russian 4×4 grabs my attention, spectacular, the lofty silence only broken by feet, waves of nausea hit Lisa thick and fast; and I wave it down explaining, “My wife the dark, icy waters lapping the shore. The along with a pounding head, she’s showing is unwell!” Without question, they agree to sight of a lone bicyclist coming toward us signs of altitude sickness, which is a deadly carry Lisa to the top of the pass, leaving me is reason enough to pause. The cyclist pulls concern in this remote location. We have with the two bikes. I ride mine to the top up alongside and introduces himself. Ben, to push on. Our fastest way down is up and (15,309 feet) and walk back for Lisa’s, truly from the U.K. He looks as exhausted as we over; returning won’t get us low enough, tough going. We stop only for the briefest surely feel. He describes the conditions fast enough. It’s -7 F, and 50 feet to our left of moments at the top of the pass to take in ahead of us as “tough,” and we quickly re- a seemingly endless fence of wooden posts the view, but have no way to document it alize we aren’t going to cross the 15,000- and barbed wire marks the Chinese border.