I cycled several kilometers out of Dushanbe and held out my thumb. Almost immediately, a Hyundai Porter—something halfway between a pickup truck and a flatbed, very common in Central Asia—pulled over, tossed my bike in the bed, and we set off. For the next hour and a half, the driver excitedly told me all about how great it is to be a Muslim (“If you believe, you will go to heaven!”), how great Tajikistan’s president is (“He built us a road!”), and how I really need to get married and have kids already (“…dude, you’re 26…”). He was neither the first nor the last person to go into great detail on these topics with me.
A few kilometers from where he left me, I waved down an empty cargo van. This time we didn’t have much conversation because the driver’s Russian was limited to our names, marital statuses, and “good salary in America, yes?”. He took me to Kulob, where I met Detti, spent a long time with the police, was interviewed on national television, and spent our most comfortable night of the trip in the hospital.
The road out of Kulob is beautifully paved but soon starts climbing up a steep pass where the pavement abruptly ends and large rocks and dust appear in its place. Fresh out of the hospital, we decided to hitchhike up to the top of the pass, where at least it would be downhill and under 40°C. A Porter picked us up and tossed our bikes on top of the construction materials in the back. The driver runs a small business buying materials from the large bazaar in Kulob and selling them in his village. In the fully loaded truck, we could barely go faster than a bike, but at least we didn’t have bike saddles between our legs over all of the bumps.
On top of the pass, an absolutely beautiful sight lay in front of us. A freshly paved road winding down the mountainside to the Panj River with the wild mountains of Afghanistan spanning the horizon on the opposite bank. This was our only descent of the entire trip where we had both a paved road and no head wind. Our path would wind along the rugged border of Afghanistan for the next several days, a surreal experience after growing up surrounded by negativity about the country. Spending several days within a stone’s throw (literally) revealed the vast differences between news and reality. Instead of the axis of the evil, we saw the exact same peaceful settlements and pastures on both sides of the river and were greeted with friendly waves from motorcycles on the opposite bank. These villagers are not terrorists, the US army are the terrorists.
Early the next morning we set off under a colorful Afghan sunrise. By 9am it was already too hot to cycle, and after a break, we decided to hitchhike to higher elevation. A truck picked us up and took us very slowly to Qalai Khumb. Near the end, the asphalt disappeared, and the last 20 km took an hour and a half, getting us to the town after dark. We found an empty parking lot by a very abandoned-looking building and pitched the tent, only to find out in the morning that the building was, in fact, not abandoned. At least we got an early start.
Several hours later, we had still only made 30 km because the road surface was such that speeds over 8 km/h were impossible. The mid morning sun was already so hot that we were stopping at every stream crossing to dive into the water, fully clothed, just to be dry again 5 minutes later, and soaked with sweat after another 5. We settled on hitchhiking a bit further; we would stop the next truck that passed.
Eight hours later, no trucks had passed. We had stopped at a small cafe and, along with another cyclist, waited out the midday heat on their tapchana by the road. As the sun began to set and the shadow of the mountains consumed the road, we set off to find a campsite. As soon as we pitched the tent, about 10 trucks passed.
The next morning we cycled for a few minutes, Detti’s stomach problems returned, and we were lucky to stop a truck and ride out some of the bumpy and hot road in the comfortable cab. After 14 hours on the road, we had covered 110 km. Apart from lots of very slow driving, we also waited for two hours while a giant convoy of Russian tanks took over the road, and stopped at 3 restaurants where our driver ordered kurdaak—fried chunks of sheep fat with a small amount of meat and potatoes on the side—for every meal. Finally, well after dark, he dropped us off at a truck stop where we met several other cyclists who had also decided to hitchhike, and pitched the tent up for the night.
The final leg of the trip to Khorog was slightly smoother and at 2000 m the temperature was much more bearable to push the pedals. The stomach problems hadn’t disappeared, but luckily Detti is tough, and she was able to jump back on the saddle after rolling into the ditch with severe cramps. Traveling in Tajikistan is not easy on the digestive system. When we finally rolled into Khorog a few hours later, we were greeted with a beautiful sight—a pizzeria! With fresh calzones! Well, at least this was exciting for me. Detti still couldn’t eat.
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