Good thing we’d left our emotional hiccups and unreasonable fears behind, because the real challenge hadn’t even started.
But first, we still enjoyed a few comparably “lazy” days through the Wakhan valley, with Afghan markets, hot springs, bumpy and sandy roads, and mild, sunny, but short days. The extreme beauty and ruggedness of the landscape is far better captured by Thomas’ stunning pictures than any words of mine. So, as usual, I’ll let the photos speak for themselves.
Then, just before leaving the Wakhan Corridor and heading toward the Khargush Pass—our supposedly highest pass (that we are allowed to cycle)—, the weather shifted. It turned cold and started raining. Wet and tired, we arrived at a hostel in Langar. It was very simple, unheated, and deserted as we’d arrived at the end of the season. Bundled in all our clothes, we tried to warm up in the common area, where Thomas found a Tajikistan travel book in German. By chance, he opened it to exactly the right spot:
“Langar is the last place in mild realms. As soon as you leave the upper village, you get an idea of what to expect in the rugged valley of the Pamir River: mostly bare gravel slopes. The wind that sweeps down from the river’s upper reaches also carries a clear message from the end of August at the latest: dress warmly! Public transport doesn’t cross this uninhabited wasteland. To reach Alichur or Murghob, you should rent a car with a driver in Ishkoshim at the latest. Even they will only set off in favorable weather and only before the first snow in early autumn. After that, the Khargush Pass is impassable for normal vehicles until spring.”
It was already early October, and with Langar at 2,850 meters and 7°C, temperatures at the 4,344-meter Khargush Pass would surely have dropped to snow levels by now… Perfect! The forecast for the next day hinted at more rain and mostly cloudy skies, but it was expected to clear up in the days ahead. We wouldn’t reach the pass until the following day anyway, and we certainly weren’t with a “normal vehicle,” were we?
The ride up to the Khargush Pass was beautiful but tough, with nothing but gravel roads (or worse) and thin, high-altitude air. We eventually made it, but unfortunately too late to reach Alichur on the other side. As darkness crept in, it started snowing, and the road worsened. We decided to spend the night in our tent on the shore of Churkurkul Lake at nearly 4,000 meters. Our water was scarce, as we’d missed our last chance to fill our bottles before the pass, and Churkurkul is, unfortunately, a salt lake…
The next day brought us enormous relief, leaving the relentless washboard gravel behind for smooth paved roads and a cozy homestay in Alichur with heating, tea, and a sweet little granddaughter. That relief, though, was short-lived. It was Thursday afternoon, and we thought we had just enough time to reach the Chinese border (190 km with 1,700 meters altitude) before our Tajikistan visa expired on Sunday. However, sitting in the warm room planning our next steps, Thomas remembered that the Chinese border is only open on weekdays… which meant it would be closed on Sunday.
We had entered Tajikistan visa-free and registered ourselves back in Dushanbe, which gave us 30 days. For most countries we’d visited, overstaying meant a nominal (or at least defined) fee. But Google had a different answer for Tajikistan: “just don’t!” At best, we’d face a hefty bribe; at worst, fines in the hundreds plus a court appearance back in Dushanbe, embassy involvement, and more. No thanks. Hitchhiking or catching a taxi to the border on Friday was tricky as there are no trucks going there on Fridays, and a taxi would have been costly, difficult to find, and most probably too late anyway.
Thomas’ ingenious counter-intuitive solution: take the even longer route—to Kyrgyzstan. There the boarder is closed for locals but open all week for foreign tourists, though Kyrgyz entry does require registration. Normally, that takes three working days (too late), but a guy on the other end of WhatsApp promised to try speeding it up. Even if registration couldn’t be processed in time, we’d at least be able to leave Tajikistan and wait in the no man’s land in between—a stretch of 18 km from the pass to the Kyrgyz border. The only “drawback”: The Kyrgyz boarder was twice as far as the Chinese. We now had three days to cycle 290 km with 2,900 meters of altitude (a lot more than we’d been doing here) and cross the highest point of the Pamir Highway, the Ak-Baital Pass at 4,655 m—our unplanned but finally highest pass—higher than Dufourspitze (4,634 m), Switzerland’s highest peak.
Our journey through Tajikistan had been incredible, filled with stunning landscapes and unforgettable experiences, but it was also exhausting. We really maxed out our 30 days in Tajikistan by riding the Anzob Pass instead of the Anzob Tunnel, taking the “north route” to the Pamirs with more climbing and terrible roads instead of the paved “south route,” the far longer and gravel-filled Wakhan valley instead of the direct M41 to Alichur, and, finally, Ak-Baital Pass (4,655 m) into Kyrgyzstan instead of the shorter route with the lower Kolma Pass directly to China.
I had never been happier to hear the sound of an exit stamp in my passport that Sunday afternoon—just in time. It didn’t even matter that we ended up sleeping in a freezing guard shack outside the border premises at 3,500 m, coughing through the night, waiting for our permit to cross. We made it.
Anecdotes
Before Ishkoshim/Tent: My stomach cramped again, and I wasn’t sure whether it would first come out top or bottom, front or back, but I knew: “I have to get out of here. Fast!” I stumbled out of the tent, almost collapsing to the ground, my head buzzing and my vision flickering. It was pitch dark, and I felt dizzy. I clung to the ground to steady myself but forced myself forward, climbing over rocks, getting tangled in a thorn bush, struggling free—and then, with no idea where I was, decided this spot would have to do. I couldn’t go any farther…
Back in my sleeping bag in the tent, I felt slightly better. My shoes were ready, and I kept the essentials in my jacket that I did not take off—just in case. But I prayed I’d make it through the rest of the night without needing them. The cramps kept returning in semi-regular intervals, keeping me awake. To stop my mind from spiraling down yet another rabbit hole—or rather, one of the same old ones—, I repeated a mantra during the worst waves of pain, and listened to an audiobook the rest of the time, twice over. I must have dozed off a few times because I noticed things the second time that I couldn’t remember from the first.
Finally, morning came. Shaken but grateful to have made it through the night, I crawled out of the tent, ate the breakfast Thomas kindly prepared, fixed my tire (again), and, still dizzy as I rose from the ground, climbed onto my bike. I had no idea what had happened last night, but my legs could still pedal, so off we went.
Akim Guesthouse: We returned to the cute little guesthouse after a walk to the nearby castle to enjoy the beautiful view over the valley. Just as we arrived, six massive Chinese cars pulled up at the small guesthouse. Akim, the elderly Russian-speaking owner, and his daughter gesticulated wildly, trying to explain that there was no space. But soon, the little garden was flooded with 18 Chinese travelers and their suitcases.
When Akim spotted us, he warmly welcomed us back and hurried us towards the house, leaving his daughter to handle the crowd. Earlier, his mantra had been, “Swiss, good tourists,” which may not have been unrelated to me accepting his relatively high price without bargaining, while Thomas was still down the road, repairing his tire with the (moral) support of two little girls. Now, as I prepared myself for a less quiet evening than expected, Akim shook his head and repeated, “Chinese, bad tourists.”
Eventually, the Chinese guests seemed to realize that the guesthouse truly couldn’t accommodate them all, and one by one, the cars pulled out of the driveway. Their departure seemed to bring Akim some peace, allowing him to focus on his “good tourists” again. Soon, we were treated to a feast—partly leftovers from a birthday dinner, partly cooked just for us—a much-appreciated variety in Tajikistan’s extremely limited food options. There were even other veggies besides a few thinly sliced carrot strips!
Langar: We cycled off the main road to the upper village and bought, twice, the last two Snickers in each of the village’s two shops. Ready to go, we took a hiking path that cut through to the main road without losing altitude. For a while, I was confused—shouldn’t we already be back on the main road? Then, it slowly dawned on me: we were already back on the main road.
Ak-Baital Pass: We started the day at a good pace, but it slowed more and more as we got closer to the top. For the past hour, I kept telling myself “just an hour more to the pass,” yet at our current pace, it was still an hour away. Near a seemingly abandoned house, we innocently shared some old bread with a dog, not realizing what we’d just started. As the dog’s new best friends, it joined us on the way to the pass—happily bouncing along while our speed dwindled. At times, I jokingly doubted whether the dog was really cheering us on or not rather waiting for its chance to attack in case our strength faded. Eventually, we got off and pushed the last stretch to the top. Pushing wasn’t necessarily faster than cycling, but at least we didn’t have to stop every 50 meters to catch our breath. Leaning on my handlebars, I could ignore the dizziness and just put one foot in front of the other—until finally, we made it to the 4,655-meter pass.
We tried to send the dog back down, but it stayed, almost destroying the pass sign we had drawn in the snow because there was no official sign. Forty kilometers further down, after countless attempts to shoo the dog away—and some attempts to out-cycle it as it chased a rabbit in the dark—the dog was still with us. That’s when a military car pulled up and offered us a ride for the last few kilometers to town. They briefly considered what to do with the dog, then decided to take it along. The hostel with the sauna was closed for the season, but Thomas got an involuntary one from the dog, which sat on his neighbor’s lap and panted in Thomas‘ face.
They dropped us off at the only open homestay, and as we entered the dining area, the entire room burst into claps and cheers. A bit bewildered, we recognized an Italian tour group that had passed us in their 4x4s on our way up to the pass where they eagerly snapped photos and videos of us as if we were the local tourist attraction.
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