Profusion of Pamir Poopiness

(Charles holding down the fort built by the Kushans in 3rd century(??!.) Justing doin' my job, keeping the silk road safe and the Afghans out!)

(Afghanistan! the novelty wore off after five days)

(my personal field of dreams, in Rushon, Badakshon. Panj river and Afghanistan in the background)

(Tajik checkpoint guards are just the cutest! Note Orzu and Dildor in the back, paying off the bigwigs)

(high altitude gangsters, aka Tajik mine-sweepers)

Dir Frekhnds,

You knew this day would come, when this blog, with all of its pristine intentions to deliver the finest in exploration, reportage, and political commentary, would descend into that basest of all genres - the public poop journal. Yes my friends, there is no other way to record the last week other than with copious amounts of descriptions and references to the ole' bowels. So here it goes, faint of heart forewarned.

We left Dushanbe in one Land Cruiser and one Hyundai "Galloper" (read: Land Cruiser knockoff), our drivers, Dildor and Orzu, and the highest of hopes. Rather than risk the 45 minute flight to Khorog, the program decided we should be safe and take the two day drive.

It's sort of a grand tour post-civil war mayhem and present day Tajik disfunction. The paved road ends about an hour out of town and from then on it's just a rocky road full of ups and downs and twists and turns. Large stretches of the road are fronted with minefields and there are plenty of broken-down tanks still resting in place by the side of the road. Some of the countryside is really quite beautiful, but you can't help but looking at the debris and wondering how different it all might have been. This was the center of the anti-government resistance and saw the brunt of the fighting. This really is rough travelling and nothing in my previous Central Asian travels saw anything the poverty of this road. (There are zero signs of the civil war in Dushanbe, by contrast). All in all a 600 km journey to Khorog, the center of the Badakhsan Autonomous Region, took two full days in the car.

Our first night was spent in a dreary town called Kalaikhum on the Panj river and bordering Afghanistan. We took our first excitable photos of both of these sites, but soon realized they would be our constant traveleing companions for the next few days. We spent the night in a truck stop which featured a pretty nice courtyard and food, but we soon got hit by a windstorm which pelted us with apples. My friend Sean and I (a well-built African-American Marine who the drivers took an immediate liking to, "he's tough and he's a novelty!") were going to go for a run along the river in teh morning and when the rain prevented this, the drivers promptly joked that we were "spirits-men" rather than "sports-men", given the vodka of the previous night.

Kalaikhum was the gateway to the Pamirs, and thankfully the scenery only got better. The Panj wound its way through some very steep canyons and created some absolutely unrunnable rapids on its way to the Pamirs proper. The river is pretty silty, but every so often an utterly pristine turqouise stream would come down from the mountains and show its trail in the river for a few meters before being swallowed by the brown.

We climbed higher and higher and found ourselves in a surprising summer rain storm. On our side were brown rocky mountains dotted every so often by the green blotches of Pamir villages. Many of these villages looked downright happy and quaint, especially the farther away we got from Kalaikhum, which I assume is Pamiri for "Tijuana."

In one of these villages we stopped off for a drink and were, as usual, surrounded by curious children. We noticed that the trees were full of apricots, and the hillsides were literally awash in green and orange. Our program attache, Khurshed, (more on this amazing man later) joked that they were "from God," and regarding their bountiful nature, that "here in Pamir there is still Communism." I literally slipped and fell and stained my new Chinse fake-Adidas running pants on a hillside of apricots. Never before in life have I looked down to see that I tripped on an apricot, that my pants were stained orange with apricot, and that my hands reeked of rich, sweet apricot nectar. Then we all started chowing down. This was good, I thought, for I have been constipated for a few days.

The Afghan side was a bit more sparsely populated but with no road, and only spotty electricity. The Soviets didn't do a whole lot right, but they did bring hydroelectric stations and paved roads to Central Asia whereas one look to the Afghan side made one think that the were in the stone age. For four days as we sped along in our cars we would stare at the small donkey trail that linked the AFghan towns. At times it was wide and flat, and at others it precipitously arced back and forth along sheer cliffs. This part of Afghanistan (populated historically with Tajiks, I'm told) is among the most isolated. These folks are literally pinned to the river by massive dry mountains, and the caravan ride to the south and the major city of Faizobod takes two weeks. On a side note, when we arrived in Khalaikum there was no electricity, however when in the bathroom I noticed that there was light coming from personal generators in Afghanistan. You know things are bed when........you crave Afghan electricity.

Anyhoo, eventually the valley opend up and the Panj got wider. The towns got more picturesque and I found the soccer field depicted above. For some reason all the Pamir kids were wearing replica jerseys. Like, way more so than normal. I demanded the driver stop, handed off some strange black cherry lollipops (thanks, mom) to the kids and took a few photos.

All of my communication was done in Russian. One of the soccer kids was a blond-blued eyed fellow who said he was ethnic Russian, and all the other kids chimed in perfect Russian as well. anywhere in TJ, but especially in Badakhshan, where job prospects are low and anti-govt sentiments high, Russian is a necessary job skill for later in life. The kids all speak in Pamiri, which is an Iranian language related to Tajik, but is quite distinct. There are many dialects, depending on the valley, and it all sounded Greek to me. But I did notice that they seem to pitch their voices up and down a lot. They also make up some really zany town names. Some of my favorites: Avj, Sist, Ptup (x2!!), and, my fave, Snib.

We finally pulled in to Khorog on the evening of day 2. Curran, our resident director who likes to embellish things, warned us that unemployment in the town is 80% and that we would find drunk locals looking for fights starting at 12pm. It wasn't nearly this bad, but it was a bit creepy. But it was a town of 20,000 or so, and felt like a thriving metropolis compared to elsewhere. It is the capital of the Gorno-Badadkhshon Autonomous Region, which preserved some modicum of freedom (i.e. neglect) from the Soviets, who created the appellation, and enjoy the same sort of deal from the Tajik govt today (who have nothing to give). I found it to be rather Soviet looking, but charming, with several little bridges over its own Panj tributary, and with settlements creeping up the mountains beside it. My apologies to Anaita for the forthcoming Pamiri objectification, but the women are beautiful. Yes, the men are handsome too ( shocking the FSU), but the women were gorgeous. I feel a little less "national geographic creepy" when I say this about the city girls, though the country girls were just as beautiful. I refrained from taking too many photos, but lots of women with big bright eyes, long dark hair, and, somehow, dressed much less conservatively than in Dushanbe. The Aga Khan foundation must be the primary employer in town, and he and his Ismaili Islam foundation basically keep the region from starvation. It's got a typical bazar and a large World War II memorial. We stayed in a beautiful little guesthouse called the Pamir Lodge, which had a large covered patio overlooking their little orchard, overlooking the mountains. (how's that for an outsider's account of the city?!)

I purchased a soccer ball in town and decided to try to make friends with some local youth in the adjoining school yard. I found two teenagers and one of their younger brothers eager to join me. It was a strange combination of travelers' paranoia, the highs and lows of the Pamiri language, the likely drug abuse of the kids, that made me feel the whole time that they were having fun at my expense. No worries though, fun was had by all, but I left with a creepy feeling.

Dinner was plov. Afterdinner activities were drinking vodka with the drivers and then playing poker (with pistacchios as chips) with two French girls, a Spaniard and a northern Irishman. Something about the vodka left me feeling strange and all the Europeans reminded me that smoking is in fact cool so I was headed for a very unpleasant 3 am wake-up date with the grass outside my room.

Waking up a bit hungover, but having heaved out most of the toxins, I still felt like death. This was constipation in a bad way. You feel completely plugged up and look longingly at your friends with their toilet paper in hand, waiting for the bathroom to open. I told Khurshed and the drivers (the only ones up with me at 6am) and we went over a list of possible solutions: more vodka, run around a little, really strong green tea, more apricots, etc. So I finally settled in with green tea and water. I got a few laxatives from a friend. Hours later and we were ready to depart, but still no movement. I took a few more laxatives, and still nothing. Finally Khurshed asked if maybe I should say in Khorog for three days. Hell no.

So we went on a trip to the local pharmacies to see what they had. Finally, Khurshed asked me if I wanted to try a "klisma" at the local hospital. Without my Russian dictionary in hand, I said yes, guessing what "klisma" must mean.

We walked into a small courtyard and asked for the inpatient room. Khurshed asked the nurse on staff if they could give an emergency "klisma." The smurk she could not hide, directed at the strange, tall, curly-haired American, was all the proof I needed. Enema!

I'll refrain from some of the details and say simply: we spoke in Russian but there was a small communication barrier. So we had a few "practice" rounds before we got it right. We were interrupted a few times by construction workers who were fixing the gutters outside of the room. They seem to be able to walk right into to hospital rooms without knocking in Khorog. As I lay prone, pantless, and on my side, giving a friendly salute to the passing workman, with the nurse holding the tube and bucket at my side I thought, this is a day I'll remember.

The evacuation was only mostly complete and I opted for another laxative, and away I went. I thanked the nurse, who refused payment, but wished me luck and hoped I would make other memories in the Pamirs. Khurshed did see that she got 5 somoni for her troubles ($1.50). Imagine that in America! An emergency room rush visit, 30 mins of very personal attention, no lines, and no payment! Yes, Communism still exists in Badakhshan.

So I rejoined the group and away we went, out of Khorog and on to more adventures. I looked down at my stomach and silently rooted for movement. Any movement.

The first stop of the day was a sulphur hot spring, not far from the town of Snib. It had a cool mineral formation, not unlike those at Yellowstone, and a small little tourist infrastructure for the bigwigs of Khorog who "take the waters" for multiple day stretches. After we waited for the girls to have their turn, the guys were escorted to a small room with its own tub. The sulphur was not too pungent, but the water was ridiculously hot. I put my body in step by step, each new inch feeling like a new area of general burning. Once underwater any sudden movements also felt like more burning. I had already been sweating out my "condition" previously, and sitting in the pool only made me sweat more. After two minutes I got out and felt pretty darn close to fainting before leaving the pool. This had not been a good idea, but no disasters were had in the sacred waters, which was a very good thing, if you get the drift.

Finally, a few minutes from Snib, and not far from Ptup ( I can only assume) I asked for a stop, found a rock, settled in with a good view of Afghanistan, and released.

This happened many other times that afternoon and evening. And I was thankful to the nice nurse at Khorog, the wet-naps which I'd purchased for emergencies only, and that movement had returned.

And on this note I'll sign off till tomorrow.

More to come, and much of it non-bowel related.

Best,

Charles