Rumours and stories are an integral part of a travellers life. When there is little to do and travellers are clustered together they tend to tell ‘their’ story. Some are fascinating some are tedious and some end up being ridiculous. A substantial part of these rumours concern visas and border crossings and the horror stories that come with them. “One person had heard at this border you had to bribe three police men just ti make it through customs etc etc”. So as I sat in Tashkent waiting for a Chinese visa which was rumour to be almost impossible to obtain I couldn’t quite believe it when I got mine in a day without a squeak of protest. In Tashkent I also learnt that my registration with the police was late and I risked being grilled on the border of my whereabouts; the six days I spent in the mountains. I’d also been told that leaving the country with more money than I had entered with would result in it being confiscated. So I arrived two days later at the Oybek border ready to enter Tajikistan. My extra money was stashed inside the frame of my bike and my stories were rehersed but I resigned myself to the fact I might have to give someone a backhander… I sailed through, my registration papers were not checked and money was never even mentioned, I couldn’t believe my luck. So the stories were false, or were they? I’m sure its a lot to do with luck, meeting the right official on the right day, but I also think its do with smiles, looking innocent and playing dumb, all of which I can do without too much bother. After all the worries I suddenly realised I’d arrived in Tajikistan the country probably highest on my wish list for the trip, I was excited to say the least.

Things changed instantly, the boys bowed their heads solemnly, touched their chests and ‘Salaamed’ and the hustle and bustle of an intense Uzbekistan was replaced by a much cooler relaxed Tajikistan. Beer replaced vodka and pipes replaced cigarettes. I love it already. The road was a surprisingly a dream and I cruised for a couple of days but with the knowledge that big passes were to come. Before that I had a couple of lovely homestays, one of which was a melon farm so when I arrived with a huge watermelon and offered it as a guest everyone let a quiet but definite groan, I polished it off handsomely by myself. There is currently a big project in Tajikistan to replace the ailing passes with nice Chinese tunnels. Subsequently the passes have been left to disintegrate and disintegrate they have. The first pass was marked by 15km of gruelling uphill where the road was littered with pot holes and rubble (a sign of things to come I imagine). But the down hill was beautiful, once the asphalt had returned the road became a sweeping mountain road through some stunning scenery. The road was empty and smooth and so my speed was pretty high, I couldn’t conceal a huge grin and a couple of whoops as I sped down the 3000m of altitude in about 30 minutes. I was in heaven. The day finished with me arriving at Iskanderkul a beautiful high altitude where the water, it turns out, is exceptionally cold but fresh. I spent a day resting here with my tent on the beach, partying with a group of Tajikis meeting for the first time in 25 years.

From here I headed to the next pass where the road was just as poor and steep, exhausted I arrived at the pass at sundown, with ominous clouds looming behind me. At the top I found a weater station and I was immediately welcomed in and handed a glass of warm milk. That night as the storm came in and the rain splattered on the window, my host radioed in the readings from all of his instruments. There was no power but I could hear the crackling radio, in the other room, with all the other stations radioing in their reports. I felt a long way from home and isolated, yet safe and at home. The flickering candle in the other room sent a warm glow into my bedroom and I huddled up near to the stove and feel asleep.

What with all the rain the next day the road was atrocious, mud was everywhere, my wheels jammed, spokes snapped and my tyre burst. I was cold, my hands were numb and my bike was totally unridable. Luckily a truck passed on its way to Dushanbe (60km away) so I jumped aboard and brought my wreck of a bike with me. Both the night before and the following morning will live with me for a long time but both were so different in emotion and comfort. It was one hell of an introduction to Tajikistan though.