From Tajikistan to Kyrgyzstan
Heading into the Central Asian Alps
Have you ever thought about travelling to Tajikistan or Kyrgyzstan?
Before we started our trip, these Central Asian countries were certainly not on our bucket list. Why Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan are definitely worth travelling to, how we survive the tunnels of death and why we end up switching from asphalt to gravel roads? Find out in this blog post!
Table of Content
- A Sick Bay in the Wild
- The True Meaning of an Invitation to Tea
- The Shahriston Mountain Pass
- Old Acquaintances in Khujand
- From Bikepacker to Cross-Border Commuter
- The World’s Youngest Bike Mechanics
- Rubbish Dumps and Gourmet Ice Cream
- A Trip to the Toktogul Reservoir
- Things Are About to Get Serious!
- Midges and Dust
- Freedom Beneath our Feet Goes Off-Road
Tajikistan
A Sick Bay in the Wild
The Tajik border official checks my passport, stamps it and hands it back without even looking up. That’s it? Surprised, I thank him and push my bike along. The guard at baggage control doesn’t seem to care much either and simply waves us through. Easiest border crossing ever! Hello Tajikistan!
We like Tajikistan from the very beginning: People curiously ask us questions, children run after us waving and a nice shop owner gives us a free Snickers bar. Also, our first camping spot is truly magical. As we ride along the main road, a farmer in a green shirt dragging a cow on a rope waves at us and points towards a dirt track in the distance. “There, that’s a good place for your tent!” he calls out in Russian. We are sceptical at first. Other travellers have told us about locals charging money for camping.
We push our doubts aside: Whatever he may charge, we are probably able to afford it. We follow the dirt track and reach a cliff: In the shade of a mighty oak tree we spot an area of flattened grass. It seems as though someone has camped here recently! The view is amazing: a raging muddy river carves its way through the sandy valley below, the hilly landscape of ochre-coloured sandstone stretching out behind it.
In the middle of the night I wake up shivering and feeling incredibly sick. My stomach is cramping up painfully. Oh no…. My thoughts jump back to the day before: John-Mi had messaged us to say he had taken an involuntary break from cycling due to a tummy bug. Everything is spinning before my eyes, so I drag myself out of the tent. The crickets chirp in the mild summer night and a perfect starry sky shines upon me. It could be so romantic … Instead, I throw up into the bushes. “Thank you, John-Mi!” I think bitterly.
With me developing a fever, we think again about moving on. Our campsite is pretty remote. The only hotel in the area lies 20 km (and a big hill) behind us in the border town of Panjakent. Despite the 40 degrees heat, we decide to stay put. A good decision: I feel exhausted and as the day progresses Joel also starts feeling ill.
When we run out of water in the afternoon, he heaves himself onto his bike and cycles to the village 4 kilometres away. He comes back looking white as a sheet: “I was so slow on the way back that I almost fell off my bike,” he pants. “Then I felt so sick that I just projectile-vomited in a bush to the side of the road.” While we are both lying in the shade wallowing in our misery, the friendly farmer comes over to us. Has he come to charge us for staying here?
On the contrary! He hands us a bowl of Plov, fermented yoghurt and fruit! Unfortunately, in our current state we can only enjoy it to a limited extent.
We don’t feel much better the next day either. Exhausted from doing absolutely nothing, we lie in the shade on our Thermarest mats. For lunch, we boil up the remaining Plov to make a soup. Joel, who is now feeling better, is very interested in the irrigation technique for the surrounding fields. When the farmer comes round again, I am pressed to translate Joel’s questions into Russian. The man responds, but my language skills are not good enough to understand the answer. Safe to say we don’t find out how the irrigation system works. We do however get an invite for tea the next morning. As he turns to leave, I remember to ask: “Wait! Where do you live?” He laughs and just points into the distance.
The True Meaning of an Invitation to Tea
The Tajik farmer lives with his wife in a tiny hut at the end of the dirt track, about 500 m away from our camp spot. He owns quite a bit of land where he grows corn, potatoes, apples and apricots. In addition he has two dairy cows. Too bad our stomachs still feel so sensitive: A blanket loaded with bread, tea, bowls of fruit, butter and oversized sugar cubes is spread out in the shade of the small shack. I thought we were only coming for a cup of tea! Apart from some candied fruit and biscuits, we have nothing to contribute to the feast. Our host pours us tea and drops three sugar cubes into each of the tiny cups. We sip politely – hmmm…sugar water! The farmer’s wife joins us, but mostly keeps in the background and rarely speaks.
When we get ready to leave an hour later, the couple asks us to wait. They pour hot milk with sugar and butter in two bowls for us. Then they bring out a watermelon and the wife disappears into the little hut. A savoury smell begins to fill the air. 10 minutes later she returns with a huge bowl of Kuurdak (fried potatoes with meat)! My stomach churns: It’s too early for that! And by that I mean in terms of daytime AND my food-poisoned stomach. We are taken aback by the couple’s generosity, but simply can’t manage more than a few bites. The two of them, on the other hand, really go for it – Kuurdak for breakfast seems to be a thing here. We apologise profusely for our lack of appetite and compliment them on their cooking. It seems to do the job – they don’t seem to be insulted.
Before we go, the farmer tries out Joel’s bike and only just avoids a fall (sorry, Joel!). Joel wants to shake the couple’s hands to say goodbye, but the woman politely but firmly declines and takes a step back. Tajikistan is a predominantly Muslim country. However, as the practice of Islam in public is heavily restricted by the government, it is often only visible in private.
The Shahriston Mountain Pass
The Shahriston Mountain Pass at an altitude of 2720 m is the highest point of our journey so far. For comparison: the highest mountain in the UK, Ben Nevis, is only 1345 m high. To get over the pass, we have to gain 1400 elevation metres within 15 km. In the small town of Aini, we turn north towards the ridge and begin an exhausting climb. The gradient of the road continuously averages between 5 and 10 percent, forcing us to stop every few hundred metres for air. The view of the valley is stunning, but we can’t admire it for long as the road is too narrow to stop without putting ourselves in danger.
Luckily, at lunchtime, we pass an abandoned wooden stall, like you would expect to see at a market. Somebody has left cushions and blankets which we spread out onto the floor for our lunch break. We can’t indulge in this comfort for too long. Time is ticking and we still have 500 m of elevation gain ahead of us.
When we finally reach the tunnel at the mountain pass, it’s 4:30 pm. We collapse into each other’s arms, sweaty and exhausted but happy.
The next challenge awaits us: The 6 km long Shahriston Tunnel is considered one of the most dangerous tunnels in the world. Without lighting or a ventilation system, the carbon monoxide concentration is astronomically high. Not the sort of tunnel you want to go through with your bicycle that’s for sure! Luckily, after just 2 minutes of waiting, we are able to flag down a pick-up truck that gives us a lift.
The tunnel is even scarier in reality than I had imagined: The air is so polluted and dusty that even with the headlights, we can’t see much further than 10 m. I can’t even make out Joel in the darkness and he is sitting right next to me. When we get out the other side and wave the pick-up driver goodbye, I feel slightly faint. Is this the carbon monoxide levels or maybe just the relief of having survived? Who knows…
The vegetation on this side of the mountain is completely different to the bare rock in the south: Everything is a lush green, almost like in the Alps. I discover a dream spot on an alpine meadow to pitch the tent. There’s just one catch: We have to carry our bikes and luggage through two ice-cold mountain streams to get to it.
Old Acquaintances in Khujand
60 km of descent and a lunch stop in the town of Istaravshan are followed by another 60 km on the flat. The aim is to get to the town of Khujand, where a hotel room and a shower await us. At our current speed, we should be able to make it by 4 pm. But far from it: A strong headwind renders the next few hours brutally exhausting. Additionally, having descended almost down to sea level, the temperatures are approaching 40 degrees Celsius again. Two hours later than planned, we reach Khujand with aching thighs.
The air in the industrial town is full of smog and it smells of burnt metal and petrol. The wide river that meanders through the city doesn’t look particularly clean, but due to the high temperatures a number of people have gathered in a small bay and are splashing about in the water: The men and children are in swimwear, while the women wear long-sleeved dresses and trousers. Even though Tajik women participate much more frequently in public life than i.e. in Turkey, scenes like this always remind me that the road to achieve gender equality is still very, very long.
As we turn the corner towards our hotel, we bump into two old acquaintances: Motorcyclists Christoph and Stuart, who we already met in Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan! Coincidentally, they have booked the room right next to us in the same hotel! To be fair though: There aren’t many budget hotels for tourists in this town. In the evening, we go for Shashlik, listening to stories about the Pamir Mountains and talking about our tough 120 km day. The two men seem unimpressed. On a motorbike, 120 km must seem like a stone’s throw away. Oh, they really don’t know how it is…
From Bikepacker to Cross-border Commuter
Lake Kayrakkum is the largest reservoir in Tajikistan and situated directly on the border with Kyrgyzstan. Ever since an armed conflict between the two countries in September 2022, all border crossings remain closed. Sadly, this means we have to skip the famous Pamir Highway in western Tajikistan. Instead, we head north towards Uzbekistan to then cross from there into Kyrgyzstan.
We expect a large military presence at Lake Kayrakkum, but get surprised: The apricot trees and cornfields on both sides of the road give no indication that we are cycling along a national border. On the contrary: There isn’t even a border fence! As we pass a small settlement, the level of absurdity increases: The ruins of destroyed Kyrgyz petrol stations and abandoned shops line the right-hand side of the road. We see a few cars with Kyrgyz licence plates. They aren’t using the road however, and instead drive on the gravel on their side.
On the Tajik side, to the left, the houses are inhabited and street vendors offer fruit and vegetables. The cars that overtake us on the actual road all have Tajik number plates. Military or police however, are nowhere to be seen. Not knowing exactly where Tajikistan ends and where Kyrgyzstan begins, we may well have illegally crossed the border at some point…
The World's Youngest Bike Mechanics
Near the Uzbek border, Joel’s gears start playing up. It’s the most inconvenient place for a breakdown really. The outer cable surrounding the shifting cable for the front derailleur has burst, disrupting the tension necessary to switch gears. All attempts to mend the cable with tape fail. Joel, now only able to use the middle gear, is visibly agitated: on the straights he has to pedal like crazy while the uphill parts force him to stand up and pedal with all his bodyweight. We still have a few Tajik Somoni left and find a tiny hardware store. As a brace for the shift cable we try to buy a piece of wire and a round bracket.
Try? Yes, the owner of the shop stubbornly refuses to accept any money from us. And so we arrive at the Uzbek border with about 8 euros worth of Somoni left in our pockets. We buy ice cream and fruit gums in a market. Everything together costs 80 cents. Bugger. We have to go back to the shop several times before we manage to use up the cash. Finally, after supplying the shop owner’s whole family with ice lollies, we wave goodbye and head over to Uzbekistan.
Uzbekistan
In the city of Kokand in the Fergana Valley, we coincidentally cycle past a bike shop. A boy, no older than 9 years old, skillfully inspects Joel’s bike and then stops a passer-by to translate for him. He asks Joel to lift up the back of his bike while he spins the rear wheel and inspects the gears. Although we are impressed by the boy’s professionalism and sense for business, our problem seems to get lost in translation. Eventually we give up and ride on.
To our surprise, we discover another bike shop just minutes later! Joel explains the issue in gestures to the 5 teenage boys hanging around at the workshop. Another boy of about 17 is then called out of the back room. He takes a quick look at the bike and immediately sets about removing the broken outer cable. He commands the other boys to go and get him spare parts. It’s clear who’s the boss. After only 10 minutes, Joel’s bike is as good as new. We are pretty impressed and very relieved. To be honest, we hadn’t expected to be able to get a replacement cable within the next 1000 km. Cheers to the youngest bike mechanics in the world! The repair cost us 20000 som: €2.50.
Rubbish Dumps and Gourmet Ice Cream
At the border with Kyrgyzstan, we come across the biggest rubbish dump I have ever seen. On both sides of the road, mountains of stinking rubbish pile up in deep pits as far as the eye can see. Acrid smoke from multiple small fires fills the air. Even though I know of course that the rubbish has to be stored somewhere, I am horrified. Now that we carry our own waste around with us, sometimes for kilometres, before finding a bin, I am, if anything, more aware of the amounts we generate every day.
Nevertheless I am shocked to find the people here live in and from the rubbish. Men, women and children in worn-out clothes walk along the roadside and poke around in the rubbish in search of something useful. They breathe in the toxic fumes every day, while I, just a traveller passing through, try to breathe as shallowly as possible.
Kyrgyzstan
After an easy border crossing we leave the dreary conditions at the border between Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan behind us and arrive in a small town in the afternoon. While buying a SIM card, an elderly gentleman, presumably the local Imam, enters the shop together with a younger man, presumably his student. Both have a long, thin beard and are dressed in long robes and oval hats. After a brief conversation, the friendly man invites us to his home. We politely decline. A big portion of the day still lies ahead of us and also, we are looking forward to some quiet time.
The man leaves the shop just to return a few minutes later with two big tubs of ice cream. “Welcome to Kyrgyzstan!” he grins as he hands them to us. In the evening, we eat the half-melted ice cream with roasted almonds and banana chips in front of our tent. What a gourmet dessert!
A Trip to the Toktogul Reservoir
Over the next few days we follow the bright blue Naryn River through a narrow gorge confined by rock formations of various shapes and sizes. We can’t get enough of the contrasts and colours. In fact, the turquoise colour of the river is a result of dissolved calcium carbonate particles from limestone in the water. In the narrow gorge, a descent towards the river is rarely possible but the few spots that are, seem to be quite popular: although we are many kilometres away from the next village, eggshells, empty plastic bottles, disposable cutlery and the odd half watermelon on the floor bear witness to recent picnics.
Even at night, these seemingly idyllic places don’t remain unvisited: when we set up our tent under some apricot trees, we only get to enjoy the silence for a short period of time. From dusk onwards, the headlights of cars coming and going every half hour dazzle our tent, while the air is filled with loud party music.
It’s my birthday soon. Over the course of the week, we realise that we won’t make it to Bishkek before then. It looks like we will be somewhere out in the sticks. And so it is: I wake up on my birthday morning to the sound of the waves hitting the shore of the Toktogul reservoir at regular intervals. I don’t wish for much, as I’ve already been incredibly blessed by life: I get to travel around the world with my best friend and partner without a destination or time limit. What more could I wish for?
Well: A day without cycling, a hot dinner and mobile phone reception would be nice! Joel has put up our tarp/poncho in front of the tent as sun protection and set up a birthday table underneath. There is even a pre-packaged cake roll with matches as candles! In the afternoon, we swim in the crystal-clear water of the Toktogul Reservoir with a lukewarm beer in our hands.
The approx. 1 km wide, sloping shore around the lake consists of gravel and sorrel-like plants. Water must have covererd this strip of land not long ago. The hydroelectric power plant of the Toktogul reservoir produces around 40 % of Kyrgyzstan’s energy and fluctuations in the water level regularly lead to energy shortages. In fact, it is estimated that there is currently a shortage of 2 billion cubic metres of water. This is partly due to the sale of water to other countries, but also to intensified agriculture. A dropping water level could have dramatic consequences for the Kyrgyz population, especially due to power cuts.
“Bikepacker!!!” shouts Joel. And sure enough, two figures cycle towards us from the opposite direction. Ine and Viktor from Belgium have just started their trip through Kyrgyzstan. With their light-weight mountain bikes and minimal luggage, they are following the route of the Silk Road Mountain Race. This ultra-endurance bike race covers around 1800 km and almost 15,000 m of altitude within a maximum of 15 days – mainly off-road. It is the first time we meet cycle tourers whose main motivation is the physical challenge. Ine and Viktor are in really good shape and, in my opinion, also a little crazy: A few days ago,, they took a gravel road over a mountain pass just to avoid a tunnel. An extra 800 m in altitude on an unpaved road – ha, we certainly wouldn’t do that!
Things Are About to Get Serious!
Before we reach Kyrgyzstan’s capital Bishkek, we still have to conquer two mountain passes at an altitude of over 3000 m. If we believe Google Maps, there are a good 240 km without civilization ahead of us. We are a little nervous, but are also looking forward to the challenge. We buy supplies for five days, including oatmeal, dried fruit, lentils, tinned beans, onions, carrots, tomato paste and packaged bread. Let the climbing begin!
To our surprise, the tarmac road through the mountains is not as deserted as we had anticipated. On the first day, we pass restaurants and small shops every few kilometres. Lots of minibuses stop here for breaks. The road seems to be the main connection between Jalalabad in the south-east and Bishkek in the north-west of the country. The higher we get, the greener the landscape becomes. We are relieved that it is finally getting a little cooler. At 2000 m elevation, we pitch our tent near a nomadic village of yurts and old caravans right by the river.
The peak of the Alabel Pass road lies at 3200 elevation metres, so when the sun rises we have to climb another 1200 elevation metres within 10 kilometres. Once celebrated by us as a milestone, the ascent to the Shahriston Pass in Tajikistan seems almost ridiculous now. To make matters worse, the DOMs from the excruciating climb the day before kick in. We wind our way up the mountain at a sloth’s pace, kilometre after kilometre. The locals wave at us from their yurts on the roadside where they offer local fermented milk products. We are way past the point of small shops, so “normal” drinks are unfortunately not available anymore.
We have no choice but to drink from one of the abundant streams. Once again, we are grateful for our filter bottles, as numerous cows and horses graze near the water. The last few kilometres to the pass are so steep that we have to stop every 200 m to catch our breath. 3200 m.a.s.l. – a new milestone on our journey!
Midges and Dust
All this climbing makes us hungry and we are delighted to find a small restaurant between a group of huts 20 km down the road. Just as we are about to leave, another cyclist enters the café: If we are considered crazy for travelling by bike, this cyclist, Simon (click to see image), is off the scale: The British fireman is cycling back to England from Australia. So far, it has only taken him 4 months. The next countries on his route: Tajikistan, Afghanistan and Pakistan. We have rarely met an adventurer as energetic as him. Among other trips, he has cycled the famous African route from Cairo to Cape Town – in 3 months!
The tarmac road leading across the plateau between the Alabel and Töö-Ashuu Pass is deserted. Every now and then we pass a small settlement of huts or yurts. In the distance, huge herds of sheep and goats are dotted all over the green plains. When it is time to set up the tent, we simply push the bikes a few hundred metres through the tall grass away from the road. That evening, I take some breathtaking pictures with my camera. But as is so often the case, there are two sides to the story:
What you don’t see in the photos are the countless midges that seem to enjoy flying into our eyes, mouths and nostrils. It must look strange as we try to set up the tent with one hand and fend off the flies with the other. This technique isn’t suitable for cooking though. Instead, I pull a scarf over my mouth and nose and wear my sunglasses despite the twilight. Classic example of two sides to a story.
I trace the serpentines with my eyes as they wind their way up the massive rocky mountain in front of us. At this moment, I honestly doubt that we will make it up there today. I motivate myself by searching for landmarks like road signs along the route. A short breather. Then 500 metres further on. Another 500 metres. We struggle up the mountain bit by bit for a few hours. Fortunately, the Töö-Ashuu Pass at an altitude of 3200 m is the last mountain pass before Bishkek. We could really use a longer break.
After 15 kilometres and a whopping 1200 metres in altitude, we reach the Töö-Ashuu tunnel at the highest point of the pass road. It’s another one of those tunnels that cyclists should avoid at all cost: 6 km long, poorly lit and ventilated, a dangerously high carbon monoxide concentration… We start looking for a ride, but this time it’s more complicated than we thought. Only small cars and fully loaded lorries queue outside the tunnel. When we still haven’t found a suitable vehicle half an hour later, the tunnel attendant frantically beckons us to follow the lorry that has just passed. We get on our bikes and pedal as fast as we can.
The Töö-Ashuu Pass is up there!
View back onto the valley
Horses are crossing the road
It is an experience I wouldn’t want to repeat. The inside of the tunnel is pitch black, dusty and the tarmac is dotted with potholes. The rear lights of the aforementioned lorry soon disappear into the darkness ahead of me. If something – or someone – falls off the bike now, I think, it/he will be lost forever. Needless to say, I am incredibly relieved when I see the light at the end of the tunnel. We stop at the side of the road, where we first have to wipe a layer of grey ash off our hands and faces. But then, a breathtaking view over the mountains rewards us, with the road winding its way through numerous hairpin bends between the hills into the valley.
Freedom Beneath our Feet goes Off-Road
Everything you have read until now was just the easy part of our trip through Kyrgyzstan. Despite some reservations, from here on, we will go off the tarmac roads with our heavy touring bikes. This is not least due to the huge amounts of rubbish next to the main roads, which destroy even the most beautiful natural scenery. Outside the big cities, there is no public rubbish collection service, so many people just throw their rubbish carelessly into the countryside. This is difficult for us to comprehend. We experience an especially absurd situation, when Joel asks for a bin at a small restaurant. The owner takes the plastic bag from Joel’s hand and throws it into the river. We are dumbfounded.
In Bishkek we take an extended break and enjoy the benefits of a big city: we get our bikes serviced, eat burgers at prices you can only dream of in Europe, and meet up with old friends.
Moritz unterhält sich mit einer Gruppe Teenager
This is the end of this blogpost. Yet, our adventure through Kyrgyzstan is far from over. In fact, it has only just begun!
