Once Upon A Time In Tajikistan-Part 2
A world away from it all
The M41 follows the river alongside Afghanistan until rejoining the Pamir Highway in Khorog. The valley is narrow, but lush with vibrant life similar to an oasis. The mountains jaggedly rise up around us. Occasionally we drive through a traffic jam of goats and cows as the shepherd gives us a wide smile. There are a few homes that dot the valley across the Afghan side. Most look constructed from rock and mud. We see people filling buckets of water from the river. They are wearing traditional tunics with the turban and scarf. Ahmed calls out to them “Salaam alaikum!” and the people wave back to us cheerfully. He motions for them to come over to our side, but they shrug shoulders, shake their heads and trudge back up the river bank. They couldn’t have been farther than 100ft from us. We drive through more check points, and frequently see patrols of 3-4 soldiers watching the border. We pass by small pockets of houses, the people turning their heads to gawk at us in curious surprise.
The first main village we stop at is called Yamchun. There is fort above the village built in the Silk Road days. On one side the walls and parapets are now heavily eroded. On the other side a tower is still fairly preserved. The view over the Corridor and Hindu Kush beyond are spectacular. Another hot springs is located just below the fort with a really nice set up, but not enough English to explain how it got here in the first place. Its all good. Later at the guesthouse, the host sings a folk song for us using a lute. He said he was famous on Indy Guide, a tour group. His house has a traditional roof. Wooden planks layered diagonally on top of each other ending as a sun roof.
We make the drive to Eshkashem where I will be doing WorkAway for 3 weeks. For those who don’t know, WorkAway is a volunteer site that allows travelers to help the locals with their projects or business. It can be almost anything. You have to pay to make an account($49 per year, subject to change.) but then you have access to thousands of hosts from almost every country in the world. You both have profiles that help each other decide if the exchange is accepting. There are also reviews to aid in your decision. Typically you help for a few hours per day in exchange for room and board. Once both parties are happy with a plan then you show up and enjoy the time! I think its a great way to get more immersion into the place you travel through, save money while at that particular location, and establish better connections with the local people. You will gain a perspective that you would never glean from staying at the hotel. Go to WorkAway.info to learn more. There are sometimes additional visa rules depending on your passport, but they will let you know. So far, my volunteer experiences have been overwhelmingly positive, I’ve done it many times and will continue to use this site for as long as it lives.
The volunteering I will be doing here is at guesthouse called Hanis. Teaching the local kids English, helping the guys with renovation, and farming projects around the property. After our information is once again recorded by the police, we enter the town and I excitedly yell out “There’s a stoplight!”. Its the first one we’ve seen since we left Osh over a week ago. The owner of the guesthouse is a wonderful Babushka who gives me a hug and affectionately insists I call her “Mama”. Her weathered skin showed years of perseverance. Her eyes sharp, bright, and piercing. Her story is a hard one. From surviving the Soviet Union, the Tajik Civil War, and even Taliban harassment. She was a tough cookie, but still kept a heart of gold. She didn’t tell me what happed to her husband, but one time had to flee into the mountains while pregnant to escape the war. She said the Taliban occasionally blockade the valleys just 20 miles south of us. Demanding bribes or extortions. “But here its been safe long time now, welcome!”, she said flashing a warm smile. Ahmed had another tour group to pick up in Khorog, and Marieke had planned a bus from there to Dushanbe, where she would catch a flight home. So we shared a final goodbye with some Tajik beer. As I watched the duo drive off, the kids were coming back from school. Time for lesson one.
Bouncing around, doing cartwheels, screaming and laughing; children are universal. Innocent, full of joy and wonder, their energy is the same anywhere you go. I was starting them off singing the English Alphabet and writing out letters. We spend the afternoon on the porch enjoying the shade, as the sun was hot in this valley. Mama said just spending time with them is the best. We would walk through the fields, climbing trees, lounging in the grass and observing life around the village. One time we went shopping together. Others joined us until I had a classroom worth of kids following me into the store. They were so curious to see what a foreigner would want to buy in their country. When I pick up an apple: “Ooohh”. When I pick up some bread: “Aaahhhh”. When I pick up the beer lots of laughter. The group I was teaching was three girls age 10, 5, 2, and a boy 7. The 2 year old would just hang out with us, I would carry her around sometimes. Tragically I don’t remember their names(and many names here are difficult to pronounce and remember), but they were great kids. What I thought was so nice was that the people here trusted me while hanging out with them. In the US there is so much red tape and legal liability, background checks, etc. Which is not a bad thing, but here there was belief that if children willingly choose and enjoy being around someone, then that is accepting enough for the adults. The sense of community here is strong, even tribal. A social connection I don’t always feel back home. I was warned however to be cautious around the military and police, as they held anti-American sentiments…
In the mornings I would help the guys on renovations. One of the projects was building a wall along one side of the house about 15ft high. All we got is rocks, mud, and straw. Stack the rocks, plaster the mud and layer straw in between. Old school. Of course without modern equipment, there’s no 100% certainty that the walls will keep its integrity. This lack was confirmed when freshly finished wall came tumbling down, creating a thunderous echo around the neighborhood. Luckily no one was hurt. We take a lunch break at the balcony. Hearing them converse in their language was really interesting. Since none could speak English I would sit in silence and just listen, but they still made me feel like I was part of the group. The fields around Eshkashem grow some variety of vegetables, I watch people dig out pathways from the river to irrigate the crops. The water set in rows are neatly parallel to each other. We dig rows in our own field for future growth. In the evening the guys would cook some amazing plov(beef and rice), we’d share a drink and that was the day.
On some days when there was not as much work or the children were at home, I had free time to walk around. What interested me about Eshkashem was they would host a weekend border market between the Afghan village of the same name. There was a small island in the river next to the border bridge where they would do it. Unfortunately at the time I was there, Mama told me they had closed it due to bad situations further south. Nevertheless, I was curious to check the border bridge out. It sits a few miles north of town. As I’m walking out along the road, I pass the police station. There are a dozen relaxing with some chai and cigarettes when suddenly I feel all of their eyes on me. “Hey where are you from?!”, one calls out. “Um, I’m from the Philippines!”, I reply with a friendly smile. He says “Really!? Duterte said fuck Obama! We love the Philippines! Come have a drink with us!”, and they enthusiastically wave me in. “I’m going for a walk, maybe later!” and with a wave I keep moving before they ask me more questions. Until now Ahmed had always talked to police, but since I was alone I had to be cautious. After the Soviets fumbled the ball, some people believed America would do no better. Afghanistan is the graveyard of Empires after all.
Out of town the road is quiet, a slight breeze meanders its way through the grass, and all I can hear is the river. Seems too peaceful to be at the edge of a war. After 45min I come up to a modern looking gas station. I feel so perplexed, like as if it shouldn’t be here. Neon lights? A working pump? Didn’t seem real at first. Previous gas we had gotten from mud built hovels with a barrel hose. The bridge is still further north up the road. I take a break across the street from the gas station, sitting on a large rock looking across the river. One of the workers comes over to sit next to me. Through hand charades we try to tell each other about our lives. We share some good laughs when suddenly a black Lada screeches to a halt behind us. Two men in fancy suits. The passenger opens the door and quickly walks over to us. In broken English he demands where I’m from, why I am here, and what I’m doing. My gas station friend tells him I’m a tourist(from the Philippines). They argue for a moment in their language. The fancy suit man demands to see my passport and visa. I hand it over and as I try to stand up he yells “No you down!” and pushes my shoulder. He scans the documents again with a confused look, hands everything back to me and with wide eyes he yells “We get police! You stay here! Police talk to you!”, and then quickly walks back. The driver proceeds to barrel the Lada back towards town, dust filling the air. “Well that was weird.” I said. Gas station friend replies “Police no good!” and waves his finger side to side. Deciding not to take any chances, I shake hands and proceed to walk through the bushes out of sight back to town. I figured Mama would help me if the police showed up to cool things down. When I get back to the guesthouse, there is a Russian tour group from Siberia enjoying vodka(go figure). I’m immediately invited to take shots with them and we toast to peace. In Russian tradition, if you open a bottle, you have to finish. Alright here we go! They shared with me political opinions about Russia that they would not be able to speak about openly in the Motherland. They ask me about Trump. They laugh when I tell them I’m from Chicago. “Gangster bang bang!”, they joke. Really quality talks. They sing folk music with passion and bravado. I was even gifted a mouth harp placed into a wooden carved bear. What an honor. We enjoy our evening and no police show up. “Well whatever happens, happens.”
Next day as I was teaching the kids phrases, playing Paddy Cake, the Tajik Army came marching through town. Could have been a thousand of them. Moving as a column, in step. The sound of boots smacking the ground reverberating off the walls. Having served in the military myself, I remember what that feels like. There is a sense of power and unity while in formation. An ancient act, something deeply intertwined with shaping human history. Wearing light green and yellow camo’s, AK-47s at shoulder arms, they move in sync like a centipede down the valley. I watch in awe as they pass us. Their presence of course was to act as a deterrence to keep the border safe. The girls tug my arm to continue playing. They seem used to it. For me on the other hand, I was blown away. Not something you see everyday in America. I try to imagine being in those soldiers shoes. What have they witnessed? What have they experienced? Perhaps they believe the cause was noble. They were defending their homeland after all. US military operations of the past decades have a huge divide in public opinion. Maybe the perspective of these guys is different. A bubble of thought and an internal world I can only imagine…
Stay tuned for Part-3 where I wrap up my time in Eshkashem with a few more close calls, and then make my way to Dushanbe!
-AbroadwithBrian