Back in Khorog, via the border town of Ishkashim

In the morning we had breakfast and then settled up for our room and board. Aydar asked 50 somoni but was open to negotiation. Meggy thought this was a bit much, but given that official homestays cost that much for a bed and breakfast alone, I thought his price was quite fair, especially given that we each had our own room and there was a western toilet... and especially since it had been a rough year for tourism with the region closed for tourists for most of the peak season.

We ended up paying 50, and Aydar helped us find a ride into Ishkashim. There's a fort near Ishkashim, on a hill between the road and the Pyanj river, which many tourists stop at and which is somewhat known for being frequently occupied by Tajik border guards who don't take kindly to unannounced visitors, but since we weren't in a private car we didn't stop. Most of the excitement involved in stopping at this fort seems to center on interacting with the border guards, anyway, so I don't think it was any big loss.

Once we alighted in Ishkashim we first headed west of town to the location of the cross-border Saturday market to confirm it wasn't being held, then came back into town and explored the regular, daily market. The market was pretty basic, but we picked up some fruit and snacks. Ishkashim seemed like a pretty basic town, and in 2012 there were somewhat surprisingly no real places to stay there, even though it was the jumping-off place for exploring the Afghan Wakhan. And even though not a lot of tourists explore the Afghan side, there are plenty of traders and local who do cross over into Afghanistan (or vice-versa), so the lack of options is somewhat surprising.

West of Ishkashim, near the Saturday market, looking towards Afghanistan.

Cool bus stop. Does this mean they had proper bus services in the Soviet era?

More Lenin, with some of Rahmon's words of wisdom on the walls behind.

Interesting construction techniques: concrete supports on the lower level, stone walls, and rough wooden logs as floor and ceiling supports.

Building new shops in Ishkashim's market area.

Strange happenings on the ride from Ishkashim to Khorog

We managed to find a car heading back to Khorog without too much difficulty. All of the other people in the SUV were young guys in their twenties, and out bags were stuffed in the back.

As we left town, we made a brief stop at a farmhouse just outside Ishkashim. These kinds of stops to pick up passengers and cargo are pretty normal, but this was a bit different, as we stopped about 100 meters from the house and they didn't want us to get out. The driver and his friend headed inside, then a couple of minutes later they came running back to the car, jumped in, and we immediately sped out of there. This is all very strange, as you never see anyone running, and usually no one is in a rush to get into a car (even if the driving is often quite manic). The concern was amplified when one of the guys in the rear seat started stuffing things into someone's bag—we couldn't see what he had r where he was putting it, but something was going on. 

Meggy and I exchanged slightly concerned glances, and we were both a little apprehensive when we reached the checkpoint between Ishkashim and Khorog, as we were both thinking that possibly these guys had picked up (or stolen) some drugs or other contraband and put them in our bags to help smuggle them through security. It turned out we had no problems at the checkpoint and there was certainly nothing removed from our bags before we left, so while the circumstances around that little stop remained a mystery, it was likely much more innocuous than we imagined. Or maybe not. 

Anyway, during the post-checkpoint ride to Khorog, we talked a bit with some of the guys, and it turns out that a couple of them were Afghanis from Afghanistan's Ishkashim who were studying and living in Khorog. I was a little surprised to hear this, as I kind of figured that Tajikistan would make things difficult for foreigners (from poorer countries) who wanted to live and study in Tajikistan, but apparently it isn't that uncommon in the region.

Back in Khorog

In Khorog we were dropped off at the taxi lot, and then decided to head over to the botanical gardens for the afternoon. Meggy was going to stay with the family she had stayed with the last time she was in Khorog (she had met a woman on her car ride from Dushanbe, and the woman had invited her to stay with her), so she went there while I headed back to Lalmo's. We met a half hour later, and took a marshrutka to the botanical garden, which is on the east side of town on a bluff south of the river overlooking the town.

I'm not quite sure what your typical botanical garden looks like, and October probably isn't prime viewing season, but this garden seemed to be mostly trees, with a path winding through it and a few picnic areas. On the south edge of the garden, overlooking the valley below, there is a large and impressive European-style house (currently undergoing renovation)—this building doesn't really have anything to do with the garden, but is one of the President's residences.

Behind the President's house is an orchard full of regularly planted apple trees, which were full of fruit when we were there. There was some fruit on the ground, and many apples which could easily be knocked loose by shaking the tree or throwing sticks up at branches.

Khorog's botanical garden on the east edge of town. It's meant to be the second or third highest botanical garden in the world. It was pretty abandoned when we were there, but they had lots of trees full of ripe apples which we stocked up on.

After filling our pockets with apples, we returned to the President's house and headed down the grassy slope to the valley below, where we had spotted an interesting building near the river. It turned out to be a fancy chaikhana that was surrounded by a chain-link fence and locked up. I think it was used mainly during big events like Presidential visits and weddings. The guard came out to the entrance gate and after chatting with Meggy he let us in and gave us a brief tour of the exterior. It was impressive overkill: the sort of ostentatious but useless buildings you see being built in Dushanbe by people like Rahmon, and not the sort of functional infrastructure built in the Pamirs by the Aga Khan.

The ornate and little-used chaikhana.

The weather in Khorog was disappointingly grey and cool, which only served to remind us how lucky we had been with the brilliantly sunny and warm weather we had enjoyed for the last few days. When I got back to Lalmo's she said that she had forgot to ask me if I wanted to eat there that evening, and when I said I did (it was dark and I didn't want to head down into town to find the Delhi Darbar Indian restaurant, which is pretty much the default option for travelers in Khorog) she was kind of pressured to whip something up on short notice. Reminder: always let her know in advance if you want dinner, as if she has notice she can make pretty great stuff.

Speaking of food, while walking to Lalmo's, I had encountered a young boy who offered me some food. I declined, and in doing so I think I committed a serious faux pas. As I said earlier, the Afghan market and the borders with Afghanistan were closed at this time for Eid al-Adha, which commemorates the willingness of Ibrahim/Abraham to sacrifice his son for God/Allah. Today, Muslims who can afford to do so commemorate Ibrahim's sacrifice by sacrificing their best animal, which they then divide into three portions for themselves, their neighbours, and the needy—and that distribution of food is what the boy was doing when I turned him down. This sort of community spirit is something I love about Islam: their religious holidays are still very much about the community and the less fortunate, and taking care of them. Ramadan is all about depriving yourself of food so you can understand how the hungry feel every day, and breaking the fast is about inviting the community to share in your food. Now think of the largest Christian holidays and what they mean (or don't). It's because I found the philosophy behind Ramadan so appealing that I started to observe Ramadan in my early twenties: it's a holiday that makes sense, unlike my equally secular historical observation of Christmas.

Budget

October 27, from Yamg to Khorog: 157 somoni

• Taxi from Yamg to Ishkashim: 25 somoni
• Taxi from Ishkashim to Khorog: 60 somoni
• Room and dinner at Lalmo's: 72 somoni ($15)

Another day in paradise: Yamg, Vrang, Yamchun Fort, and Bibi Fatima hotsprings

Leaving Langar

On my second morning in the Wakhan we got ready to leave Langar, and Megi's language skills came in handy once again. It turned out that one of Yodgor's relatives would be heading down the valley later in the morning, so we arranged to have him pick us up from the side of the road as we started ahead of him.

It was only while we were leaving that we discussed money with Yodgor, and when we asked him how much we owed him, he suggested 30 somoni per night–including breakfast and dinner–but said that if we thought this was too much we should say so. This is a screaming deal compared to prevailing rates at tourist-board-affiliated homestays—which are around $10 (45 somoni at the time) for a place to sleep, with meals adding another $5-$7 per day—so I was perfectly happy with his prices... and happy to recommend him to anyone staying in Langar. Of course the facilities are a bit more basic than at more tourist-oriented homestays (expect breakfast to be the shir choi that is a staple of local diet—bits of old, hard bread mixed with back tea, milk, and butter), but Yodgor is friendly and honest.

Panorama of the Wakhan valley to the west of Langar.

Tajik car seat. Rather like a 1970's western car seat, except the kid is way cuter. The car was a Lada Niva, which is like a 4-wheel-drive version of a 1970s VW Golf/Rabbit—a model which has been in continuous production since 1977. Just about every old car is equipped with an mp3 player that accept tiny micro-SD cards, and it can be comical to be bumping along horrific roads in an ancient vehicle driven by a rough and tough local who starts fumbling with a tiny little memory card between his fat, callused fingers when he decides to switch up the music.

We were dropped off in the village of Vrang, which is notable mainly for a five-level stepped pyramid which is usually described as a Buddhist stupa, but which some think may originally have been a Zoroastrian fire-worship platform—it definitely doesn't look like any other Buddhist stupa you're likely to see. Regardless of its original purpose, the structure was used for Buddhist purposes at some point in its history, and their are monks' caves built into the stupa's foundation—and apparently there are more caves on the other side of the Pyanj in Afghanistan, where a monastery was also located.

We were dropped on the main road through Vrang, from which it is a short walk through the fields to the Buddhist or Zoroastrian stupa/pyramid on a salt-dome above the village.

A Pamiri girl in the fields.

As we walked through the village towards the pyramid which towers over the village, Megi and I were approached by a girl of perhaps twelve who offered to show us the way and guide us around the village. This sort of thing is very common in Southeast Asian countries like Cambodia and Burma, where there are kids at local temples and caves who will tag along and show you the path or point things out with their flashlights, all in the hope of getting a tip at the end. I didn't know if this was the same sort of setup, but I suspected it might be, especially since the Lonely Planet section on Langar indicated people would expect to be paid for guiding you to the petroglyphs there. That being the case, I largely left Megi and the girl to walk together and chat, which was relatively easy to do since could talk pretty easily in Tajik.

The best way to the pyramid is to curve around the base and enter from the side. This approach lets you take a look at the (inaccessible) Buddhist caves built into the pyramid's foundation, which you can see on the left.

Panorama from above the pyramid, with the ruins of an old fort above the pyramid.

Welcome to the Wakhan: two nights in Langar

The eventful ride to Langar

After getting my visa I headed over to the taxi lot for Ishkashim and Langar. Walk through one of these lots and you'll be approached by people asking where you're going, and if you're lucky they'll either be going there or point you to someone who is. Then you start negotiating price, which can be tricky for locals and foreigners alike. The general rule is that you try to get to car lots as early as possible, although when traveling from a market town to nearby rural villages most cars leave after people have had a chance to shop at the market. Ishkashim itself is probably somewhere between the two options: it's lose enough that people may drive up to Khorog in the morning for the market, but it's also big enough that it has a decent market of its own. Langar is far enough away that no one would drive to Khorog just to do shopping, however.

Despite this, and despite my not leaving until the afternoon as a result of obtaining my Afghan visa in the morning, I was able to find a vehicle going all the way to Langar, for 100 somoni.

Of course, this being rural Central Asia, things are rarely as simple as they seem. Even though the car was full, we ended up making a stop at the nearby village of Dasht, which is just above the Khorog-Ishkashim road but utterly hidden from the valley below, so that we could pick up some cargo from one of the passengers' family. We ended up staying in Dasht for fifteen minutes or so, stopping at a couple of different houses before continuing on our way. Pretty standard stuff. One of the ladies returned from one of the houses with a big bag of apples which she shared with the car.

Poplar-lined road in Dasht village, above the road to Ishkashim.

Hay stacked precariously on the roof.

Rooster just wandering around the village.

A Tajik farmhouse, with Afghan mountains on the other side of the Pyanj river.

Looking north down the Pyanj towards Khorog: Afghanistan on the left, Tajikistan on the right.

Looking down the main street in Ishkashim, with the Hindu Kush in the background.

The much-hyped, internet infamous, flight from Dushanbe to Khorog

There's a lot of hype out there about the flight between Dushanbe and Khorog, with breathless claims about how dangerous and terrifying it is, and how the plane routinely comes dangerously close to the sides of mountains as it flies between them and not above them. You'll even read about how, despite there not being any crashes involving this flight, there have been instances where the wingtips have actually brushed up against the mountains, dusting the snow off them. That the flight only runs on days when they can confirm at both ends that the weather is clear, and the mountains they fly between clearly visible, only serves to confirm the notoriety of this segment.

But first things first: I had to actually get to the airport in the morning and hope for good weather so the flight could be confirmed. The time printed on the ticket was 6:30, and I figured that it would be a good idea to show up early. You know, like people do in most airports. I thought this would be an especially good idea since I had heard that despite tickets not being sold until the evening before a flight, there were sometimes more tickets sold than seats available if earlier flights had been cancelled due to bad weather.

I took one of the first-running trolley buses from the Farhang to the airport, and made my way to the domestic terminal, which is actually just a large room off to the left of the main terminal, with a separate entrance and a few counters. The terminal was open when I arrived around 5:15, but people were just milling around and they were not waiting for the flight to Khorog. I was pretty sure of this as I didn't see my friend from the day before.

At around 5:45, once the flight those people were assembled for had left, they closed the terminal and kicked me out, making me wait outside. This wasn't that bad, as I fired up my netbook and discovered that the flagship Megafon telecom store, located in the international terminal, had an open wi-fi connection that was extremely fast (a rarity in Central Asia outside of Kazakhstan). I took the opportunity to download a bunch of movies as I waited for things to get cooking.

It wasn't until the actual indicated departure time that people began showing up, and even as they began to gather in the square outside, the terminal still didn't open up. When it did open up the entire check-in process was remarkably relaxed and surprisingly informal. They have a 10 kg weight limit on luggage, and I ended up paying an extra 10 somoni for being a kilogram over. What was more surprising was how many people who showed up who weren't taking the flight, and were also not related to any of the passengers—they were there to ask them to take things to their friends or relatives in Khorog. Obviously this would be a big no-no from a security perspective in the West, and those who buy into the idea that Badakshan is a restive area filled with potential terrorists might also balk at the idea, but my Pamiri friend said that pretty much everyone would agree to do this as it serves an important function in facilitating the transfer of important items. He himself accepted a car part that someone would be waiting for in Khorog. Given the standards of hospitality in the area, none of this should be particularly surprising.

After getting everyone checked in an passing through the rudimentary security, we went out on the tarmac to the plane. You enter at the rear through bomb-bay doors and a little ladder, and inside there are five rows of seats, with single seats on the left of the aisle and benches that seat two (or three) on the right. The seats are little fold-down benches of the sort that might have appeared in cheap post-war cars, but which are more akin to lawn furniture than modern seats. I first picked the first seat on the left, but later asked my Pamiri friend if I could switch with him when I noticed that my window was cracked and scratched and practically impossible to see out of. Since he had taken this flight a number of times, I thought he wouldn't mind, and I was able to get his window seat on the right side.

The seats don't have seat belts—not that it would matter that much—and parents kept their kids in their laps or let them sprawl over the backs of the benches. Again, similar to post-war driving culture, before we cared about things like padded dashes, seat-belts, and car seats for kids, let alone air bags and the like.

We ended up taking off at about 9:15. This flat agricultural land was just outside Dushanbe.

The views on the right on the Dushanbe-Khorog leg are meant to be the best, but at this time of year you get a face full of glare from the sun, and hazy views from the smog, making views from the left side much clearer, if less spectacular. In the summer the sun would be much higher and less problematic, and in the later Khorog-Dushanbe flight it would also be less objectionable.

Nurek Reservoir, formed by a 300 meter high dam—the second-highest in the world.

Low mountains are already covered with snow. I know they're low because the plane apparently doesn't go above 4,200 meters.