We have been on the road with our bikes for just over two weeks. We have been riding the road on our bikes for about 8 of those 17 days (the other 9 spent getting here from southern China via train, bus, and van), the most recent 8 consecutive days (or 6, if you don’t count rest days). It is July 5th, we are in the town of Karakol, a high elevation winter settlement sitting snug as a tick next to the giant Lake Karakul of Tajikistan’s Pamir Mountains. It is currently near-deserted as most of its inhabitants have taken their herds (mostly yak and goat) to the nearby Bartang Valley for summer grazing.
The Empty Playground of karakul. Everyone, including the children, head into the bartang during the summer.
Our pedaling journey has until this point taken us from Osh, a largish city (by Kyrgyzstani standards) in southern Kyrgyzstan, on an increasingly rising ride through farmland, Gulcha, yurt-dotted green pastures, Sary Tash, over the 4300m meter pass of the snow-covered border with Tajikistan (another story in itself), and down into this enormous meteor crater. We have spent the day recovering from climb and cold, settled into a sprawling guest house where every guest is a Pamir traveler (most by bike, some by motor bike). We all sleep on small mats spread across carpeted floors and take turns showering in the sauna like small room that holds the metal stove that warms the water (fueled by compressed yak dung in this tree-less high desert terrain).
Meals here (and all over Central Asia) are shared sitting on an elevated platform cross-legged around a low table, piles of bread in the center of the table, endless pots of tea, green or black, and the customary constant of small plates holding candy and cookies. It is a meat and potato culture, with a heavy emphasis on the delicious fermented milks of varying animals, including horse.
We’ve made some friends, all with good stories of long travels. In the tradition of travelers convening, no one is shy about asking to borrow this or that, some spices, powdered milk for coffee, a yoga mat (yes, I’ve been biking with one), the guitar (yes, Tucker has his strapped to the back of the bike), an iPod for a much-missed music-filled stretch session.
People are in the Pamirs biking for 3 weeks before turning around and flying home or 2 years in on their biking trip around the world. They have biked in New Zealand, up the coast of Africa, all over South East Asia, into the heights of Nepal, etc, etc. Tucker and I don’t feel sheepish about our story, again the off-the-couch kind of adventure, as we call it. Neither of us has even been on a bike for almost 3 years. This is the second highest bike route in the world. I blame Tucker. I told him I wanted to do a bike tour, that he could choose what it was. He chose the Pamirs.
Our first glimpse of the pamir range from Sary tash, Kyrgyzstan.
So far we have been taking it slowly, no more than 50km a day (which feels like a ton when hauling near 40 kilos). The climbs have demolished us, our quads and knees have been threatening to end the trip, it seems like we get off and stretch every 20 minutes. We take rest days to “explore”, aka, rest. We have planned the remainder of our route to stick to the M-41, the mostly paved “easy” route through the mountains. Tomorrow when we leave, we will go a mere 46km to stay in a yurt and then tackle the highest peak in the morning, before the winds pick up. Ak Baital is 4615m, unpaved for plenty of kilometers on either side. We have encountered a bit of the unpaved roads before, they are new to me, I have never been off-road biking. I find them a little terrifying and trying, especially on the downhill. But after the unpaved bit, Ak Baital promises 33km of well-paved, downhill cruising. I can already feel the cold wind on my fast-moving face. Thrilling, chilling glory…
The 4300m pass right before the Tajikistan border.
Only we never make it to Ak Baital. On the morning of July 6th, we leave at the same time as 4 of our new friends: 1 guy from America, 2 guys from France, and 1 girl from England. Jay is moving fast to meet up with his girlfriend, Lauren, who is slightly ahead in Murghab (they’re the pair who biked up the coast of Africa), the 3 of us will most likely spend the night together in the yurt and then rise early for the pass and Murghab (that is if he doesn’t get too crazy and do the full almost 100km in one day). Sophie and Nathan have been biking for a year and a half (they’re the crazies who biked in Nepal) and their friend Romain has joined them from France to spend a month biking the Pamir. All 3 have well designed and well thought-out cross bikes, solid but light mountain bike frames (no suspension) with big fat off-road tires and slim, light bags strategically placed in the triangular space of the frame, hanging from the handlebars, and lightly protruding from a small real rack. It’s the get-up of bike-packers– smart, sleek, intentionally lightweight. Sweet for off-roading. These guys have spent enough time on the road to realize that biking side-by-side with cars can suck, though there are very, very few cars in the Pamir. (We, on the other hand, being city cyclists for over a decade, decided to buy touring bikes, essentially slightly beefed up road bikes with semi-elongated frames [except Tucker’s which is too small for him]. We carry traditional panniers off both front and rear racks [you can see the set up in the above picture], great for non-bumpy hauling, really shaky [and likely to fail] in anything other.)
Nat’s bike-packing set up (plus two young girls from the Bartang). Photo courtesy of Nat and Sophie whose Instagram of their trip is awesome. @a_bicyclette_
These 3 are headed for the Bartang Valley, a 280km off-road track that undulates 100km across a plateau and another 150km down through a river canyon, to once again pop out on the M-41. A short cut of sorts, but a very rough ride with varying terrain and formidable climbs and descents (nothing like the ups and downs of the M-41, but consider the addition of scree, boulders, river crossings, and lengthy sand pits). Their turn off for the Bartang is 26km from Karakul, so we all ride together, a gentle upslope, but smooth and paved. It’s fast and fun and energetically fueled by excitement.
It’s somewhere during that 26km that Sophie, Nathan, and Romain convince Tucker and I to join them (I can’t even imagine why they’d want some unfit-for-biking Americans on un-tested touring bikes to join the fun, but I guess such is the stoke and camaraderie of a traveling community). At the turn off, we stop and look at their map. We consider our provisions (which we had planned to replenish in Murghab in 2 days, but will need to last at least 4 days in the Bartang), we think about how to better secure our panniers, we look skeptically at our sweet new Chinese steeds when placed alongside their well-honed machines, and we shrug and say, why not? And off we 5 go, waving a fond if slightly wistful goodbye to Jay and to the M-41.
Biking with Jay on the M-41 before the turn off.
*****
On that day, we only make it a further 33km. Romain and Nathan are feeling like shit, some of the inescapable stomach issues that eating in remote mountain villages foster in foreigners. We find an incredible camping spot near a clear, cold river on a bed of thick soft grass, small purple flowers growing everywhere, yaks grazing in the distance.
Now, from this distant perspective, I can admit openly that while sitting at that beautiful campsite, I feel bad for the boys, but I am also a little relieved to have not made it so far that turning back in the morning isn’t an option. Though I am trying to keep it to myself (and Tucker), I find off-road riding really difficult. Like I said, never having done it before and having ridden thousands of miles on silky soft pavement, the unpredictability of the ground is making me tense. I skid and get lodged in sand pits and need to get off my bike to cross rocky rivers and, holy shit, going downhill on a gravely dirt road is maybe the most terrifying experience of my life as the brakes lock up and the real wheel skids slightly sideways. And I knew I’d be the slowest, but I am still worrying about holding everyone up. I’m seriously wondering if we made the right choice, and I’m regretting the things we’ll miss on the M-41, feeling sad not to indulge in the unthinking grind of uphill coupled with the distractingly epic views. On the other hand, I also know that at this point, the M-41 will feel like the easy adventure, the cop out, and I don’t want to feel like I’ve given up. And (and and and), it’s hard to describe the stark beauty of the Bartang.
Even only 30km in, the desolation of the huge, uninhabited plateau gets into your bones. The snowy peaks that fly into the air on all sides, placing you into the bowl they create… its stunning. So I decide to sleep on it, and it’s a hard night. I even cry, just a little bit: I feel stuck.
In the morning, I’m determined to turn around. Tail between legs. Tucker and I talk about it, it’s probably the best decision for happiness, stick to the adventure we’d planned, use the bikes we bought for the kind of ride we intended to use them for (because, jesus, I’d have bought a mountain bike if I thought we’d be off-roading). He agrees, though he’d like to go on. Everyone has a freezing cold swim, packs up, mounts up. And in the classic way I make decisions, my mind is still made up until the bikes are repacked and we are straddling them at the verge of saying goodbye to our new fiends, when I look at them in all their bike-packing glory and rehash all the reasons the Bartang is rad, and once again say, fuck it. And on we 5 go further into the Bartang.
The next 5 days… are such a cataclysmic variety of up and down, both physical and emotional, that I’m not going to lay them out in a calendar fashion. In retrospect they don’t feel like they progressed along time. They just feel like the singular unit of time that was the Bartang. The searing, lovely, desolate, hospitable, light-headed Bartang.
THE BARTANG VALLEY
In this unit of time, I got a lot better at off-road riding (a lot is an exaggeration, but I go from walking my bike down the steep slidey hills to riding with slightly more speed than none and to figuring out how not to get stuck in the sand with the right approach angle and speed and to riding through the flowing rivers rather than dismounting and taking off my shoes and pushing my bike across).
See the tiny bikes hooping and hollering…?
Each night of river-side sleeping (even when co-inhabited by piles of goat poop and big thorny bushes) was a gift from on-high, both because of the continually stunning landscape and because of rest from another long day of being pushed… hard. I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say this is one of the harder physical things I’ve ever done. The combination of altitude, altitude gain, sun, and terrain kicked my ass. It’s always seemed that if I just put my head down and keep going I can do pretty much do anything physical that requires endurance, that the mind is the only inhibitor. But this experience humbled me and made me realize that might not be true. I did it, I finished every day as planned, made it to camp, got up the climbs and down the terrifying (and eventually super exhilarating) down-hill. But it is also true that I was so physically spent that on certain 15% uphills, I had to push my bike a few steps up, stop, fold my chest over the handlebars of my bike with my hands firmly on the brakes, and breath for a full half minute. Then repeat. For most of one day, which in retrospect I think must have been my first taste of altitude sickness, Tucker had to come back repeatedly to help me push my bike up the hill. Not because I’m not strong enough to push 40kilos, but because I was too light-headed and breathless. I hated it, I don’t like feeling weak. But I was so trashed that I couldn’t protest. By the way, thank you, Tucker.
it was really hard.
In this unit of time, we ate sparingly, conserving our limited rations. We doused ourselves in sunscreen over and again, we wore absurd outfits to hide from the sun, we jumped in frigid rivers to bath at camp, we “washed” clothes by wearing them in. We collapsed at night into heaps of down and exhaustion. We all took GoPro videos of flying down switchback gravel paths with sheer, loooong drops on one side to the river valley below and monstrous mountains jutting up in the background, whooping and hollering.
I was slow, so Tucker and I played a continual game of catch up with our much-faster friends, joining them for lunch and to set up camp. They left us little notes on the road held down by rocks, small pages torn out of Sophie’s notebook, numbers from previous planning calculations scrawled on the other side.
Best note ever. Photo courtesy of Nat and Sophie.
In this unit of time, we saw a herd here and a herd there, a motorcycle here and there, but really we saw almost no one. Then we saw many people. Heading west, as we were, we immediately entered no man’s land once we left Karakul and the M-41 (not that there were many people up there either). For days, up on the plateau, the landscape was dry and greenless. Until it wasn’t. After our first big descent from the plateau, everything changed. There is no other word for it but “oasis”. Where streams come down from the high snow to join the silty Bartang River, they allow the most amazing explosion of green to grow along side of them. An unbelievable amount of green. Electric, neon green. And, as any logical water-needing being would do, the hearty people who live in the Bartang have built their villages only on the banks of these explosions. The result being stretches of desolation suddenly cut by an oasitic little town buried in green and bursting with cherry and apricot trees.
Oasis settled into the mountains.
These towns are small. The road to “civilization” requires a very strong 4-wheel vehicle, and it is still 150km away. They are isolated. And they are muslim. Combine all of these facts, and you find one of the most hospitable cultures in the world. No visitor can go a foot without being invited in for tea, even if they are in the process of exiting a different house in which they have just been regaled with tea. And fruit. And cookies. And fresh-baked bread. And homemade kefir and yogurt. And candies. And sometimes even, depending on the financial resources of the person inviting, a multi-course meal. For us, this process is mind-boggling. Strangers calling you into their home to give you stuff, simply in the name of hospitality. The poorest man working a field carrying his full lunch of weak tea and stale bread will insist upon you sharing it with him. You are invited for no reason other than as a gift, a chance to rest and to recharge. The hosts often bring out food and then slip away. They encourage you to nap afterwards by clearing plates and bringing pillows.
One of the many meals gifted to us.
We have thought long and hard about this, it presents a bit of a conundrum for us. As foreigners who do not speak the local language, we worry we do not understand some nuance of this interaction. We have asked around (a surprisingly large number of people, even in the remote Bartang, speak some English). We have tried reading up on it (once we exited the Bartang and, many days later, found the internet), and everything we have read has simply attributed the hospitality to custom and religion. Still, there is ever the feeling that we should be doing or giving something in return. Though gentle offers, even just to help wash up, are rebuked, we worry that the rebuke is also just part of the custom and we are missing an essential final step… I still don’t really know. We all finally decided to just take it at face value, to imagine that it really is simple, a custom. The people there do it for each other as well, we are occasionally joined by local travelers (on foot or on bike, travelling the many km from one town to another), and we all sit cross-legged on our raised eating/napping platforms imbibing kefir and black-or-green tea. A custom that must work because it is respected. Each family knows the same will be done for them when they are on the road. And it is a hard road in the Bartang. If this sort of treatment of travelers is useful anywhere, it is here.
The occasional truck carrying a load of passengers along the Bartang River.
In this unit of time, we were invited in at least 20 times a day for 3 days. We said yes 2 or 3 times a day. We accepted gifts of apricots and cherries. We stopped to talk to people: a mother with her infant, gangs of small cherry-smeared children, a man who loved rock and roll, a very shy woman with a full mouth of gold teeth excited to share the English she had just started learning. We were treated kindly, over and over and over again. We were offered fields to camp in and dinners of fresh milk and bread. We drank our weight in tea. We camped in a field to find ourselves harvested around in the morning and invited for bread by the harvesters. We detoured for waterfalls, drank water directly dripping out of the rock, and felt the air get warmer and the breathing easier as we got closer and closer to the end of the Bartang.
Tuck picking apricots with some boys who adamantly invited us to share from their trees. And Romain and the boys showing the booty.
On the evening of day 6, after a progressively more and more populated road that eventually turns from rock to unkempt pavement to pavement (and after a seriously debilitating day full of diarrhetic stops behind big rocks, hospitality sometimes come with undesired consequences, I guess), we exit the Bartang and rejoin the M-41. There are cars driving fast and reckless (though some still do stop randomly to make sure we are not lost and have a place to stay), there are houses lining the road in more and more concentrated quantities as we get closer to Rushon. For days now, we have been holding Rushon up as the provider of beer/showers/delicious food/possible internet… the Bartang has treated us so kindly, but also brutally and we are humans used to luxury, and even a few days outside of our accustomed comfort bring dreams of those comforts returned. Upon arrival, the excited expectation clashes a bit with the reality of the hectic-while-at-the-same-time-still-quite-rural town of Rushon. In the falling evening, we ride 4 km on the M-41 before we stop at the first (and maybe only) lodgings in the town. By dark, we are eating friend chicken, French fries and chocolate, drinking pyramids of beer, smoking cigarettes, and cuddling the tiny house-kitten who is in need of a good cuddle (as we are too).
As we talk French and American politics (Sophie is British, but has lived in France for years), the Bartang is behind us, surreal, ethereal, and over too soon. We promise each other to return, to spend a longer time here, maybe travel on foot. They aren’t just promises of the moment. I will go back there. The Bartang has lodged itself into my understanding of how the world can be good…
…Not because it is perfect, not because the people aren’t poor, have access to good health care, don’t perhaps wish for the bigger and better of outside. But because it feels like a place where a rule can be imbedded in a human without being observed like a rule or being imposed like a rule and people can be accountable to one another by simply knowing that they will receive the same that they give, in their turn. Maybe I’m blind and confused. Maybe this isn’t real at all. And maybe if it is real, it can only exist in relative isolation (a sad thought, knowing that nothing stays isolated forever). I simply do not know. But romanced as I am by the potential of its existence, I’ll be going back, no question.
thanks, bartang…
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