The Wakhan
Corridor is a panhandle of land that extends 140 miles in northeastern
Afghanistan, separating Pakistan to the south from Tajikistan to the north. The
Wakhan was created in the late 19th century as a buffer zone between
British India and the USSR during the period of diplomatic rivalry known as the
Great Game. Although politically part of Afghanistan, the Wakhan is aptly
described as belonging to the Badakhshan cultural region, dominated by Tajik
people speaking various Pamiri languages. Having developed a keen interest in
Badakhshan during visits to Tajikistan and Pakistan, the Wakhan has for a long
time captured my imagination.
Lying at the confluence of the Pamir, Hindu Kush, and Karakoram ranges (known as the Pamir Knot), the Wakhan boasts one of the most stunning mountain landscapes in the world. Coupled with the hospitality of the Wakhi people and a mere trickle of tourism, it’s difficult to imagine a more exciting adventure travel destination.
Ian and I accessed the Wakhan Corridor from the Pamir Highway, driving counterclockwise from Dushanbe (Tajikistan) and ending in Bishkek (Kyrgyzstan). A legendary road trip in its own right, the Pamir Highway was an exciting complement to the Wakhan.
The Tajik officials presented poorly in shaggy uniforms, but they were professional. The Afghan officials, on the other hand, looked stylish in their NATO uniforms and Ford Rangers, but proved themselves unbecoming of their posts. Reaching into my bag with a filthy grin, an INTERPOL officer sifted through my toiletries. “Shampoo?” No, that’s my deodorant. “You buy in America? How much?” I’m not sure, it was a gift. “iPod mp3 player! How much you buy?” I’m not sure, it was a gift. “You travel so many countries, and now you come to my country, and you bring no gifts for police?”
In Eshkashem we stayed at a beautiful guesthouse perched on a small hill overlooking the bazaar. Inside the barb-wired mud walls were rows of salad herbs, a small orchard of stone fruits, flower-lined walkways, and a large area behind the main house dedicated to marijuana cultivation, with meter-high plants and six-inch buds glistening in the afternoon sun.
Moments later we arrived at the petrol station to fill up with benzene. Upon realizing he didn’t have enough money, the driver suddenly ran back into town. Ian and I had depreciated our patience for all the monkey business, and had lost all trust in the new driver. We grabbed our gear and proceeded to walk back through the bazaar to the guesthouse. The whole scene was quite a drama for observing shopkeepers. Back at our refuge, we deliberated on what to do, and agreed that we held only one card that could potentially override the Governor - a senior contact at the regional office of the Aga Khan Foundation, a highly respected NGO that delivers far more impact (utilities, infrastructure, healthcare, education) for the local community than the Afghan government itself.
The next day we made it to the end of the road, arriving at the final village of Sarhad. The setting was stunning – about a hundred homes nestled against the cul-de-sac of the valley as it abuts an amphitheater of impenetrable peaks. From Sarhad, we would navigate by foot the oxbow river canyon leading to the upper portion of the Wakhan, inhabited by Kyrgyz rather than Wakhi. Gratefully, we hired a donkey to carry our packs over incredibly demanding switchback passes approaching 5,000 meters in elevation.
Lying at the confluence of the Pamir, Hindu Kush, and Karakoram ranges (known as the Pamir Knot), the Wakhan boasts one of the most stunning mountain landscapes in the world. Coupled with the hospitality of the Wakhi people and a mere trickle of tourism, it’s difficult to imagine a more exciting adventure travel destination.
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| Approaching the Afghan border with trusty Tajik driver Dashi |
Ian and I accessed the Wakhan Corridor from the Pamir Highway, driving counterclockwise from Dushanbe (Tajikistan) and ending in Bishkek (Kyrgyzstan). A legendary road trip in its own right, the Pamir Highway was an exciting complement to the Wakhan.
The Afghan Visa
In Bishkek,
before flying to Dushanbe to begin our drive, we visited the Afghan consulate.
Ushered into a smoky side room, we explained that we would like to obtain
tourist visas to visit the Wakhan via the Eshkashem border. The official behind
the desk appeared perplexed, briefly left the room, and returned to ask with
skepticism why we would want to do such a thing. “Eshkashem is poor security
area. Taliban area. There is nothing to see there. Why you want to go Eshkashem?” Ian replied that we were interested in seeing the mountains, and
the official suggested applying for a visa in Dushanbe. Undeterred, we wondered
whether he had been posturing or if in fact we were more knowledgeable about
the Wakhan than he.
We returned
to our hotel to find a group of three trans-Asia motorcyclists from Poland who
had just visited the Wakhan. We were thrilled to hear their report. “Afghanistan?!
Worst country we’ve ever visited. Registration required at every other village.
Terrible roads! Basically just rocks, there is no road… horrible place.” Ian
and I smiled at each other, thinking that if you’re not up for an adventure,
better to stick with the lovely Pamir Highway!
We flew from
Bishkek to Dushanbe via a 12-hr layover in the Almaty airport. Placing
ourselves next to the 24-hr duty-free liquor store, we proceeded to make the
most of a long night, attracting other like-minded travelers and generating
quite a disturbance in the departure lounge. We nearly missed our flight to
Dushanbe, and had to be driven in a separate vehicle onto the tarmac to board
the idling plane.
Dreary and
dehydrated, our first stop in Dushanbe was the embassy of the Islamic Republic
of Afghanistan, where we were told to secure a letter of support from the US
State Department, with which we could obtain a visa in three business days.
Thanks, but no thanks.
Next we
visited the US embassy, whose consular staff bent over backwards to advise us
on logistics and practical information, as well as provide notarized letters
verifying that we were indeed who we said we were. Finally we received a
security briefing from the embassy’s head of security, who advised in no
uncertain terms: “Do not go to Afghanistan. If anything happens to you guys,
you’re on your own. Tajikistan is beautiful; the biggest risk here is earthquakes.”
We took it with a thick pinch of salt. That night a few of the staffers
congregated at a local watering hole, and we prodded the security official,
reiterating that if anything happens we would be counting on his support. “I
told you guys already, don’t f---ing go to Afghanistan!”
After 16
hours of driving from Dushanbe and a few anxious nights of anticipation, we
arrived in the small Tajik town of Khorog where we would make our third and
final visa attempt. Standing on the curb of the consular building peering
through a window, a pretty girl approached us, we smiled, she smiled back, and
five minutes later we walked away with one-month visas for Afghanistan.
The First Day
The morning
of July 23rd we awoke in a dilapidated soviet hotel in Tajikistan,
packed our things, and went to pay our $5 tab. The hotel owner’s wife proposed
that I marry her daughter, a beautiful Tajik girl with jet black hair, a long
glittery dress, and a look of mischief. Sitting at the bar at 8am we found two
Tajik soldiers drinking beer in advance of their morning shift. We downed
several glasses of Russian malt liquor with omelets before walking over the
bridge that joins Tajikistan with Afghanistan at the gateway to the Wakhan
Corridor.
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| This photo needs no caption... |
The Tajik officials presented poorly in shaggy uniforms, but they were professional. The Afghan officials, on the other hand, looked stylish in their NATO uniforms and Ford Rangers, but proved themselves unbecoming of their posts. Reaching into my bag with a filthy grin, an INTERPOL officer sifted through my toiletries. “Shampoo?” No, that’s my deodorant. “You buy in America? How much?” I’m not sure, it was a gift. “iPod mp3 player! How much you buy?” I’m not sure, it was a gift. “You travel so many countries, and now you come to my country, and you bring no gifts for police?”
Meanwhile
the half-full bottle of whiskey we planted in Ian’s bag was discovered. A wave
of celebration rippled through the room. Moments later one of the soldiers conceded
to Ian that we could keep the whiskey. “We have special law in Afghanistan. Tourist
can bring half bottle of whiskey for personal use. It is our special rule.”
We cleared
immigration and stood on Afghan dirt squinting at the sun and the distant
outline of the snow-capped Hindu Kush. A police pickup truck pulled up, we
hopped in the back with our packs, and sped towards the Eshkashem bazaar,
passing fields of alfalfa, apricot orchards, and women scurrying roadside in sky-blue
burqas.
With the
goal of leaving first thing the next morning to begin driving east up the
Wakhan, we had precious little time to obtain the myriad registrations,
permits, and handwritten letters of permission we would need. We hired a local
kid named Azim to help us wade through the tangle of Afghan bureaucracy.
Meanwhile we collected supplies for our trek and haggled for shalwar kameez outfits and checkered scarves.
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| Haggling for provisions in Eshkashem |
In Eshkashem we stayed at a beautiful guesthouse perched on a small hill overlooking the bazaar. Inside the barb-wired mud walls were rows of salad herbs, a small orchard of stone fruits, flower-lined walkways, and a large area behind the main house dedicated to marijuana cultivation, with meter-high plants and six-inch buds glistening in the afternoon sun.
To make a
long story short, we fired Azim as our handler upon uncovering grave acts of
dishonesty. The next morning we departed the guesthouse for our final letter of
permission at the army base. The military officer authorized to draft this
letter was allegedly at the border post. We drove to the border post. No, he is
at the army base, so we returned. No, he is at the bazaar. Finally we spotted
him in the bazaar and walked together back to the base. Handing him our
passports, he asked if there was any money in the passports. We responded in
the negative, and waited patiently outside the main gate under a parcel of
shade afforded by a small tree.
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| Flaunting our permits! |
The Jeep Debacle
Finally we
are on our way in a navy blue Land Cruiser (indisputably the vehicle of choice
for the Wakhan) with Dowlat, who is the spitting image of a Kalash man I
befriended years ago in Lahore. He was the first person Ian and I met in Eshkashem, and we immediately liked and trusted him. Dowlat would prove to be
one of the finest people we acquainted during our visit in Afghanistan.
Suddenly a
rusting, early-90’s Toyota Hilux careened across the bumpy road leaving Eshakashem, blocking our path. A debate ensued between Dowlat and the other
driver, who claimed that it was “his turn” to drive tourists into the Wakhan.
The story of what follows is too lengthy to describe in detail; in short, the Badakhshan
province has such a nascent tourist industry that transporting tourists is
restricted to a lottery system administered by the government. After an
hour-long debate attracting a crowd of onlookers, the final decision was delegated
to the Governor of the Wakhan district, who demanded that we ride with the
other driver against our will. It was one of the most uncomfortable experiences
I have ever had as a tourist, but out of self-interest we complied, and had
little choice in the matter.
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| Which rig would you choose?? |
Moments later we arrived at the petrol station to fill up with benzene. Upon realizing he didn’t have enough money, the driver suddenly ran back into town. Ian and I had depreciated our patience for all the monkey business, and had lost all trust in the new driver. We grabbed our gear and proceeded to walk back through the bazaar to the guesthouse. The whole scene was quite a drama for observing shopkeepers. Back at our refuge, we deliberated on what to do, and agreed that we held only one card that could potentially override the Governor - a senior contact at the regional office of the Aga Khan Foundation, a highly respected NGO that delivers far more impact (utilities, infrastructure, healthcare, education) for the local community than the Afghan government itself.
We passed
through security at the AKF office, and moments later our contact happened to
walk in. We explained the situation, and feared that out of savvy he would be
reluctant to stick his neck into such a mess on behalf of two tourists he had
only briefly met. After pondering his next step, he made a minute-long,
impassioned phone call. Two minutes later his phone rang, and the Governor’s
decision was overturned – we would ride with Dowlat, who was on his way to the
guesthouse to pick us up. In the end, Ian and I managed a difficult situation
craftily, and we had a bit of good luck as well.
After hours
of wrangling and frustration, our spirits were elevated into a state of triumph
as we passed the final stretch of trees marking the edge of Eshkashem. We were wheels
up, diving into the Wakhan at last. It had been over a week since we left
Paris.
The Wakhan
We came a
long way to see the Wakhan. My expectations were lofty, and the scenery knocked
me out. It was Death Valley on steroids, an order of magnitude larger, and
sustained every mile of the way. The Hindu Kush commands up to 5,000 meters of
vertical relief above the valley floor, exposed by side valleys that offer
glimpses of its towering, glacier-clad peaks. Few places in the world can claim
such dramatic topography.
We were
mentally prepared for rough driving, and the driving was rough. Heading up the
corridor we had a tailwind which maintained a persistent cloud of dust around
the vehicle, so thick that Dowlat relied on his wiper blades to clear the
windscreen. The abundance of lateral streams flowing into the valley meant
frequent river crossings that limited our momentum to second gear. As we
progressed up the corridor the technical sections became more difficult, and we
had a few legitimate river crossings that demanded an engine snorkel. The Land
Cruiser was built for this drive and it handled the Wakhan in style.
Our first
night we stayed in Dowlat’s village, strolling its maze of paths and aqueducts at
dusk. For dinner we feasted on naan, yoghurt, noodles, salad, vegetable curry
and chai. We requested to sleep outside that night despite the gusty winds.
Dowlat’s family prepared a small castle of mattresses, pillows and blankets for
our campout. In true Badakhshani style, no money was ever requested for our
stay.
The next day we made it to the end of the road, arriving at the final village of Sarhad. The setting was stunning – about a hundred homes nestled against the cul-de-sac of the valley as it abuts an amphitheater of impenetrable peaks. From Sarhad, we would navigate by foot the oxbow river canyon leading to the upper portion of the Wakhan, inhabited by Kyrgyz rather than Wakhi. Gratefully, we hired a donkey to carry our packs over incredibly demanding switchback passes approaching 5,000 meters in elevation.
The second
day I became quite ill and was unable to hike to the next campsite. Insisting
that Ian proceed with guide and donkey, I collapsed next to a small stream on a
steep hillside. In the afternoon I constructed a gazebo of branches to avail shade
for a long nap on a bluff of dry grass above the tumbling Wakhan River. As the
afternoon gave way to twilight, I reflected on my solo camping adventure in the
Afghan wilderness. There wasn’t a soul for miles and miles, and I relished the
solitude to reflect on an incredible journey. The wilderness experience
transcended borders - I could have been anywhere in the world gazing at a night
sky splattered with flickering stars.
Gaining my
strength back on the third day thanks to antibiotics, I eagerly awaited the
sight of my companions descending into the small valley where I spent the
night. Reunited, we spent our third and final night aside a gin-clear granitic
stream. Canned garbanzo beans and cat-food-grade tuna for dinner, eaten with
sticks in lieu of cutlery, and made edible thanks to pepper sauce imported from
Iran. Any thought of self-pity with regard to our provisions was swiftly
dismissed by the sight of the 65-year-old donkey sardar, who came prepared only with chai and bread that, by that
time, had turned rock hard.
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| Dinner preparations at camp |
The departure – not so fast!
Prior to the
trek we made a point of counting out our days with Dowlat who agreed to drive
back up the Wakhan to pick us up on July 29th. Shortly after our
return to Sarhad, we heard the blue Land Cruiser faithfully chugging up the dirt
road to the guesthouse. We spent the evening taking pictures, and were rolling
downhill at 6am the next morning. At some point it occurred to me how lucky we
had been with the driving conditions, although in the days since we had driven
up, warm weather was causing glacial runoff to surge. About a third of the way
down the valley our progress was arrested in the village of Kret, which lies at
the foot of the 6,500-meter Baba Tungi. Shaking his head, Dowlat reached into
his tool kit for a sledge hammer as we set out on foot to examine the damage:
“Strong problem here... strong problem.” A flash flood the evening before had
delivered a torrent of water, completely obliterating the road in its path. That
high in the Wakhan, it could take weeks to dispatch a tractor. We deliberated
our options while squatting in a field and snacking on freshly plucked green bean
pods.
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| Where did the road go?? |
We doubled
back with Dowlat, crossed a bridge to the other side of the valley, and bounced
along an old section of road to its terminus, where it became flooded with a
meter of river water. With packs on our backs, we carefully waded a short
rapid, clinging to the sidewall of the constricting river gorge. Grinning
ear-to-ear, we walked a few kilometers to a small village named Sargez where we hoped to avail a
ride to the downstream village of Qila-e-Panja, where we could stay with Salahudin, a man we had befriended in Eshkashem.
After several hours of waiting we decided to huff it on foot to Qila-e-Panja, and hire a donkey to carry our packs. Strangely enough, Sargez did not have any donkeys they could hire out, but a scrawny, red-haired Afghan man eagerly volunteered himself for the role of porter - he was pleased to carry both our packs on his back to Qila-e-Panja, all for the price of a donkey. Just as we were tying our shoe laces, a foreigner appeared out of nowhere, exclaiming: "I am French, my name is Lafayette, I have come to rescue you!" We soon learned that Salahudin had sent him, that his real name was Bernard, and we peered around the wall to see a lifted Toyota Corolla with its engine hood raised, its driver pouring river water into the radiator. It was a welcome sight, and we piled in without asking any questions, arriving at Salahudin's home shortly thereafter.
The next morning we arranged two vehicles to get us back to Eshkashem in time to cross the border back to Tajikistan. Upon arrival at 13:04, the soldiers informed us that the border had just closed, at 1pm, but we could stay the night in Eshkashem and try to cross the next morning. Bernard became irate, retorting to the soldiers that the border closes at 2pm during Ramzan. Ian and I were pressed for time with a long drive to Bishkek awaiting us. Stubbornly, we all decided to pay and release our driver, squatting at the border until they let us through.
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| Wading through the flooded section of the old road |
After several hours of waiting we decided to huff it on foot to Qila-e-Panja, and hire a donkey to carry our packs. Strangely enough, Sargez did not have any donkeys they could hire out, but a scrawny, red-haired Afghan man eagerly volunteered himself for the role of porter - he was pleased to carry both our packs on his back to Qila-e-Panja, all for the price of a donkey. Just as we were tying our shoe laces, a foreigner appeared out of nowhere, exclaiming: "I am French, my name is Lafayette, I have come to rescue you!" We soon learned that Salahudin had sent him, that his real name was Bernard, and we peered around the wall to see a lifted Toyota Corolla with its engine hood raised, its driver pouring river water into the radiator. It was a welcome sight, and we piled in without asking any questions, arriving at Salahudin's home shortly thereafter.
The next morning we arranged two vehicles to get us back to Eshkashem in time to cross the border back to Tajikistan. Upon arrival at 13:04, the soldiers informed us that the border had just closed, at 1pm, but we could stay the night in Eshkashem and try to cross the next morning. Bernard became irate, retorting to the soldiers that the border closes at 2pm during Ramzan. Ian and I were pressed for time with a long drive to Bishkek awaiting us. Stubbornly, we all decided to pay and release our driver, squatting at the border until they let us through.
These
efforts were in vain, as we later learned. At some point the soldiers sourced a
nearby villager who spoke English and could translate. “The border closed at
2pm today for Ramzan.” But we were here at 1pm. “Actually the border closed at
12pm today.” We crossed at 1pm just days ago and there was no problem.
“Actually there is a problem on the Tajik side.” Bernard piped up: There is no problem on the Tajik
side, I am friends with them and they do not close early for Ramzan.
“Actually the commanding officer on the Afghan side is sick today, so the
border never opened.” Why did you lie to us and say the border closed at 1pm?
“Actually the commanding officer is out of town visiting his family and will
return tonight.” What would it take for us to cross immediately? A huddle and
brief debate led to a quick verdict: “$300.”
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| The formidable Afghan border force |
Ian and I
were tired and hungry so we asked one of the soldiers to call us a taxi. He
said it would cost $20. When the taxi arrived, it occurred to us that we could
play their game, too. We said we would pay $10 for the taxi, or the driver
could head back to Eshkashem with an empty car. Embarrassing the soldier who
had called the taxi driver was no small victory for us at that point. Further, two
of the soldiers expected a complimentary ride to town and we told them they had
to pay $5 too, shoving them out of the car. They demonstrated little respect
for themselves or their uniforms, and commanded even less from us.
Meanwhile
Bernard became irrationally persistent, declaring that he was French, he had
five days worth of cigarettes, and that he refused to leave until they open the
border. We bade Bernard adieu, who proceeded to smoke cigarettes and install
his tent on the army grounds, eventually leaving the soldiers no choice but to
escort him free of charge to the guesthouse. Despite being stranded in Eshkashem, we all felt like winners that night.
The next
morning we greeted the commanding officer and wasted no time in getting through
formalities, only to be informed that we were missing one of the required
registration cards, which we were never informed we needed in the first place.
We suggested that perhaps it was possible to solve the problem right there at
border, and the officer responded that $40 would be sufficient. At the sound of
the exit stamp impacting our passports, we grabbed our bags and sped on foot
through no-man’s-land towards Tajikistan.
We didn’t look back.
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We didn’t look back.
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