Drifting through the Wakhan Valley (and a small homage to Big Mother)

Mothe Amma!!!

I am sitting on my bed a fine Saturday afternoon. It’s September in Liberia and the weather is pleasant with the rains having subsided a little compared to the past couple months. The birds have been chirping since the morning as if they are also enjoying this break from the rains.

Not everything has been great today. Just spoke to my family and heard that my grandmother is very sick and probably nearing her end. She is almost 90 and has slipped into a sort of trance, not responding, not eating or drinking. I tried speaking to her via video chat but she barely responded. The only thing that moved were her eye lids.

Everyone, including the doctors reckon she is nearing her end and it’s a surreal feel as I write this blog. Especially as I saw her just a couple weeks ago. The day I was leaving my hometown towards Mumbai and was about to get in the car I glanced towards her room at the back end of the house compound. She stood by the door and looked forlornly through the netting of the door.

I don’t know what it was but I had to go back and say goodbye to her again. She hugged and wept saying she does not want to live anymore. I wonder if she wanted to be free – free from her frail body that was gradually giving up and wasn’t allowing her to fully participate in life. I wondered how long she would be able to soldier in that state. It almost seemed that she was mentally ready.

UPDATE: She has since passed away. Mothe Amma (Big Mother) broke even somewhere on the night of 15^th September 2019. She lived almost ninety years, experienced the birth of India as an independent nation, grew old enough to see three great grandchildren – even attending their function till the very end and then passed away peacefully. If you gotta go…you do it the way she did it!

She, along with my grandfather who passed away 6 years ago, leave behind fond memories of having taken care of me and my bother like we were their own children. Rest in Peace Mothe Amma!!!

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I digressed a bit but returning to recollecting the rapidly fading details of Tajikistan. In Langar, I was at the eastern entrance to the Wakhan valley and over the next few days had to make my way west to the village of Ishkashim which is the other entry/exit into the Wakhan valley depending which way one comes in.

Leaving Langar on foot to the next village in the valley, I soon got a ride with a Tajik government official and his sidekick. They dropped m off in Vrang – a Wakhan village famous for its Buddhist stupa. Personally, when my memories of Vrang fade I’ll rather remember this picturesque village for Khurshid and his family.

The stupa in Vrang overlooking the Wakhan valley

Village of Vrang

I ran into him when asking for directions to the stupa shortly after landing in Vrang. He gave me the directions but first invited me to his house for tea. I’ve traveled a bit and it’s not common for a stranger to get invited by another into their house like this. The Pamiri people are know for their hospitality but still…I wasn’t expecting this.

L to R: Me, Alaman, Khurshed, Rafshanbano, Khalisama

I was full but decided to get some tea nonetheless. It’s wouldn’t just be rude but travel is more than satisfying one’s thirst for experience and adventure. That would be too selfish…somehow a truly enriching experience for the traveler is when the locals also get something out of the whole sojourn. Some travelers give money, other gifts and many more bring cold hard cash. That’s all well and good but there is no substitute for giving time and respect because memories outlast everything.

Khurshed couldn’t speak English and his mother Khalisama tried conversing in Russian but my extent of expertise in that language extended from Net (No) to Spacibo (thanks) and nothing in between. We somehow managed to get by with sign language though - it’s amazing how much we can communicate with body language and hand signals when words can’t be relied on.

At Khurshed’s house I first got served shirchoy and then the yogurt came out…all of it to be enjoyed with the quintessential homemade bread.

Alaman – the shy neighbor soon showed up wondering what the ruckus was all about. Soon thereafter Khurshid’s wife, the beautiful and effervescent Rafshanbano entered the house. To my surprise she spoke good English and I was glad I finally had someone to help me communicate with the entire family. Even today, I pinch myself in disbelief contemplating how lucky I was to be a guest to this remarkable family. Some say I am blessed…and I can’t argue with that!

Streets in the charming village of Yamg

Khurshid asked Alaman to accompany me to the Stupa while I left my backpack back at their house. The stupa is today considered to be an ancient Buddhist religious site but considering the Wakhan valley’s complex history with so cultures and civilizations having crisscrossed through this old silk route corridor, I can easily see how it could have also been an ancient Zoroastrianism religious site. Afterall, the whole of the Pamir is replete with Zoroastrianism influence so it must have been the preeminent religion of this area at sometime in its history.

Afghan village under the shadow of the towering Hindu-Kush

This region was also part of the Kushan empire – yes…the same one that we Indians read in history textbooks and consider one of the great empires of ancient India. Even though the Kushans were Central Asians in their original ancestry, its was mind boggling that I was perhaps walking through a region that was part of ancient India and possibly my ancient ancestors. I believe in the human migration theory and quite naturally also lean towards the Aryan migration theory that sort of contested in across India. There is no way to know if it really was migration, invasion or assimilation but I’m proud of my heritage as a person of the Indian subcontinent.

The village of Vrang and its people were amazing but I had to keep moving - I still had to traverse a majority of the Wakhan, possibly on foot, so saying goodbye to Khurshed and his family I picked up my backpack, unfold my trekking poles and towards the next village through this historic valley.

The Wakhan is not touristy but neither is it remote -  it is a well know path for most travelers coming to Tajikistan. Majority of them come as overlanders – part of a big adventure group or in small groups like the crew I traveled the Murghab-Langar route. Some others come on motorbikes and fewer still as bicyclist. I was perhaps the only one walking through the valley.

The slow pace giving me a dramatic perspective of the place – The sandy soil with rounded stones, the occasional shade of the birch trees, the meandering Panj river to my immediate left, beyond which were small villages on the Afghan side pretty much mirroring the ones on the Tajik side I was walking through. If to my immediate right were high mountains of the Pamirs, across the Panj and past the Afghan villages was the mighty snow-capped Hindu Kush Range.

The locals would occasionally stop by to converse and invite me for tea, the kids and teenagers would come running to take pictures and even the occasional foreign traveler would wave at me as they passed me in their various modes of transport perhaps wondering what I was doing walking the Wakhan!

Eventually my weary legs made my way to the village of Tughoz; there was one final hill to climb to get to the highly rated homestay of Akim Khan. Dropping my backpack, I climbed atop the roof of the homestay to catch the sight of the sun setting while the locals channeled the snow melt waters through their fields.

Akim Khan, the patriarch of the family showed up a little later and we warmed up to the excellent local dinner with a round of vodka and fresh watermelon. It turned out that everyone in the Khan family is a teacher. If the patriarch is the pioneer who started the school, then his son teaches history while his daughter-in-law who spoke excellent English, teaches English.

Yamchun Fortress overlooking the Wakhan Valley

It didn’t take me long to go to sleep that night with my sore legs crying out for a good night’s rest after the intense walking.

The following day I climbed higher still to get to the Yamchun fortress standing in a charmingly dilapidated state overlooking the valley and the Hindu Kush mountains in Afghanistan. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to see how this fort could have been a strategic vantage point for civilizations that called the valley home and controlled this stretch of the silk route.

Higher still from the Yamchun fort into the mountains lay the Bibi Fathima hot springs - a revered place in Tajikistan especially for women who come to boost their fertility.

Akim Khan (2nd from Right) and family

Luckily there are separate sections for men and women so both sexes get access to the site. Fifteen minutes in the therapeutic hot springs and my weary body was rejuvenated. Refreshed I returned to Akim Khan’s guest house, had a hearty brunch and continued east through the valley.

Bibi Fatima

A couple hours later I was able to flag down a vehicle and it turned out to be a taxi driven by Khurshed of all people. I never thought I would every run into him again. He was headed to the village of Ishkashim which basically marks the end of the Wakhan valley but I asked him to drop me off at the Khakha fortress close to the Namadgut village.

A quick walk around the heavily eroded, deserted fortress charmingly situated on a small hill overlooking the Panj river and the Afghan village on the other bank and I was ready for Ishkashim. It was about 4pm and I still had three hours of daylight so I reckoned I’ll be able to catch some ride in that direction.

Waiting for a ride, I might have dozed in and out of sleep multiple times aided by the balmy evening breeze and the shimmering warm evening light filtered through the birch trees. A couple more hours later and I still hadn’t seen any vehicles going in the direction of Ishkashim. I suppose the little kid biking up and down the road was right -  there rarely are any vehicles plying that route past 4pm.

The realization soon set in that I would not be making it to Ishkashim or Khorog that night. With my tent and sleeping bag in tow I had little to worry plus the village of Namadgut wasn’t far off. With snow melt water running through hand cut steams access to water was easy as well.

Sophia...playing catch-catch was fun

Waiting for the ride...that never came

Just when I was contemplating pitching my tent close to someone field, a kid came by and started a conversation. Turned out he was an avid footballer and wanted to practice his English. Soon I was invited to his house and his kind family insisted I stay with them that night. They had large farm and an orchard immediately surrounding their house but were a highly educated Wakhi family. The mother was a teacher and the father was an immigration officer in Ishkashim. His sister, Dilnoza spoke immaculate English and aspired to be a journalist.

While the mother cooked dinner, the kid (not proud that I have forgotten his name) and I went back to the Khakha fort and saw it perhaps at its best. I tried being a kid with him - cartwheels, jumping over hurdles of this 4^th century CE fortress and throwing stones across the Panj and trying to land them in Afghanistan. Ah…the simple pleasures of life.

Jumping through the ruins of a 4th century CE fortress

The next morning, I got fed breakfast by this kind family and the father dropped me off in Ishkashim on his way to work. I gave them my contact number, email address and Facebook handle and told them I would love to return the favor someday but I don’t know if I will ever hear from them – perhaps its good that some people are not so dependent on technology as others and still depend on local connections over virtual.

Panj river separating Tajikistan (L) with Afghanistan

 Soon I made my way back to Khorog and met up with Purdil who showed me Khorog. After dinner, after saying bye to him as I walked to my hostel I saw good old Indian restaurant. It was an amusing sight to see one in such a remote region. I’ve since learnt it’s a very reputed Indian restaurant.

The kid and his kind family

I decided say hello to the owner wondering so checked in but learnt that he was away in India on vacation. The Pamiri lady who managers the restaurant invited me and true to her Pamiri roots offered tea but this time masala tea giving me a taste of India. She even called the chief cook who hails from Uttarakhand, the mountainous regions of India to interact.

Early the following morning I would be catching a 4X4 taxi retracing my journey back to Dushanbe. Throughout the Pamirs I had been sloppy drunk with epic mountain scenery and being a guest to the kindest people I have met as a collective group. Experiencing their hospitality and generosity was a life lesson and I hope I can implement some of these traits in my own life.