Charm in Garm

A road less travelled this week; off along the ancient Silk Road to Garm and the Rasht Valley, to the north western edge of the great Pamir mountains. It’s less travelled by foreigners at least which, in Tajikistan tourism terms, means it’s like going to the far side of the moon because the Sea of Tranquility is getting too “trippery” with all those folk from Apollo 11…

It’s not clear why few foreigners come this way so it’s a fact-finding mission for me – again, that tough job that somebody’s got to do. The scenery is fantastical and almost lunar. The narrow winding valleys of the Fann mountains and Badakshan here give way to broad valleys and high plateaux. We’re going toward Kyrgyzstan and the nomadic tribes crossing miles of grassland with their yurts and yaks. It’s breathtaking.

On the way we are able to make a major contribution to the development of Tajikistan civilization by introducing the roadside picnic. You know, find a nice spot; park; get out; decide there is a better spot further on; get in ; move; get out etc. Get the flatbread and tomatoes and cheese and plates and fruit and apricot juice and water out. Drop a sliced tomato face down in the grass. Sit uncomfortably on some rocks and eat lunch. It’s not that we’re completely insensitive to cultural differences but we’ve only just noticed the puzzled stares from cars as they distractedly disappear over the side of ravines next to the road. Our young guide and translator, Masur, politely explains to us that Tajiks do not do this and simply find it bizarre. He is, though, intrigued by the whole idea and plans to introduce it to his friends.  In fact later in the trip – after we have visited his house – he produces home made bread, delicately-flavoured home made cake (similar to Greek baklava) and fruit from the family orchard to complement our two day old, slightly sweaty cheese.

Choosing the picnic spot away from the crowds

Could the introduction of the picnic spread goodwill and stem the advances of the Taleban in central Asia? We feel we may be on to something. We need a massive NATO picnic deployment offensive.

We stop for some impromptu dancing at a riverside wedding celebration before we get to Garm, a town still bearing the scars of Tajikistan’s civil war in the 1990s when over 50,000 died. Much of the fighting was in this area between militant Muslims and the Tajikistan army. The people are absolutely charming; how do these things happen?

We have tea in the living room of Masur’s childhood home in the mountains with panoramic views down the valley. You can pick juicy apples and pears from the window and watch chickens and a cow happily free-ranging in the garden.  We visit an exotic horticulturalist with his own botanical gardens and his own museum, with 3,000 year old coins dug up locally and pictures of his father wearing rows of medals from Red Army service at Stalingrad. We travel through to Jirgital, a frontier-like town not far from the Kygyzstan border, and see some of the lesser Pamir peaks, a mere 5,400 metres up (or, in Scottish terms, four Ben Nevises). 

The view from Masur's house

We learn about Buzkashi, a wild game in which men on horseback battle in a makeshift arena over possession of a dead goat.  The winner is the one who can hang on to the carcass for long enough to do a complete circuit of the field of play at a thundering gallop, and then drop it into a tyre placed in the centre.  Unfortunately, as it is only played in the snow and we are still in bright, sunny autumn, we can’t saddle up and give it a go. We meet the only woman in the area who plays, though, an American from California, and discuss the prospects of introducing this exciting sport into our respective countries. We decide a lot of the appeal might be lost if there were rules, a referee, padding for the players, commercial breaks and the substitution of a teddy bear for the goat. Some of it would not look completely out of place on the terraces of football grounds however.

Buzkashi (courtesy of Janice Setser)

Too soon we are trundling back down to Dushanbe, bowled over by another side of the country that we’d love to see appreciated by lots and lots of visitors but, at the same time, fearful of the consequences of tourism success.