Kayaking with the Taliban

It was back up into the mountains last week for a tourism workshop in Khorog. Two of the main topics at the workshop were “cross border tourism” and “adventure tourism”. The Pamiris – as the locals prefer to be identified – have ideas to combine these. Cross border tourism here means crossing the Panj river to Afghanistan and following your donkey up into the hills. Adventure means getting back.

I felt I was spoiling the party a bit by explaining that, although adventure tourism was certainly popular with western tourists, playing hide and seek with the Taliban in the Wachan and, say, kayaking in the Trossachs, fall into two quite different categories of adventure.

The bridge over the Panj at Khorog

Anyway, it was a great couple of days and tremendous to see the interest and energy. As can be seen from the photo, though, I think my Afghan trekking disguise might need a bit more work. It may take more than a scarf and a hat to persuade anyone I’m a local.

Book now, at the Serena Inn, Khorog

Coming back to Dushanbe was interesting. Clouds and snow prevented flying so I was resigned to a twelve hour shared taxi ride. My host took me to the taxi park on the edge of town where I was told to hide behind a tree. He then went off to negotiate a place in a car and a price. I’m not sure whether I had to remain out of sight because, on seeing me, nobody would take the risk of my lasting the journey or whether there would be too much jostling to have the honour of my conveyance. I prefer to think the latter.

A vehicle was chosen – a good looking 4wd with all wheels and doors etc. in place - a deal done and I was whisked aboard. I don’t actually mind the road trip; the scenery is incredible the whole way and navigating the steep dirt roads in the face of Chinese trucks and flocks of sheep provides thrills enough. Finding  myself in the company of three non-English speakers was a bit disappointing initially though. I’m pretty good on nouns for different types of fruit in Tajiki and on phrases like “stop the taxi, I want to get out” and “take me to the opera” but this didn’t sustain conversation much beyond the end of the town. We relaxed into positive noises and I tried to avoid blowing my nose.

Winding through the Panj valley

The one thing I felt a bit daunted by, with no English speakers present, was how I’d get on at the inevitable police and army checkpoints en route. Travellers on all roads in the country are subject to checks but, as more than half the 600 kilometre route from Khorog to Dushanbe follows the Panj river valley – which is also the border with Afghanistan – then the checks are a bit more frequent and edgier.

Sure enough, as we pulled into Qalai Khum, a small town on a bend in the river, my heart sank. An army officer ushered our car off the main road into a dead end. We were then hustled from the vehicle down some metal stairs and on into a small, windowless room, where ………....... lunch was served.

Unbeknown to me, I was travelling with some quite high ranking military officer (in “civvies”) making his way to the capital. The local commander at this half way point had laid on lunch for his superior. Tajik hospitality would not allow the exclusion of anyone travelling in the party so I felt obliged to join in fully as we made our way through shurbo, (soup with mutton), osh (fried rice with mutton), choi, non (bread), fruit and, of course a bottle of vodka (the cap of which can, in all good form, never be put back on). I’m not sure what we were toasting, perhaps the resurrection of Stalin, but it all seemed a good idea at the time and it certainly helped to shorten the journey. Before I knew it I was shaking hands all round as I alighted in the familiar streets of Dushanbe.

I think I prefer lunch with the General to kayaking with the Taliban for my Pamir adventure.