In the final instalment of his tales from Tajikistan, Robin Butler tells us about sleeping under the midday sun, scrambling to the mountain’s summit and Tajik monobrows…
So here we were, high in the Fann Mountains of Tajikistan. Our only link with the outside world was a frightfully swanky satellite phone which was becoming increasingly useless as the battery died.
Despite this we were confident. As the third morning dawned, we shouldered our packs and strode up the valley towards the Dukdon Pass. As we worked our way along one side of the stream, a couple of shepherds passed down the other, a reminder that we weren’t the only humanity traversing these mountains.
What research I had done before the trip suggested this pass was not a formality in any way, but evidently achievable for anyone with a vague level of fitness and skill. We didn’t think that anything could really slow us down or force us to question our ability to complete our trek.
Rounding the bottom of the glacier’s remnants, we reached a stunning mountain meadow, chequered with wild flowers and the local marmots. The view back down behind us was, in my opinion, the most beautiful we saw. However, we’d already been walking for a couple of hours and here we were, only at the bottom of the pass proper. Little matter though; we were stocked up on water and a few boiled sweets to keep morale high.
Five minutes in and our different tactics became clear. Freddie powered on, trying to clear as much ground as possible before stopping for a long break. I, on the other hand, went for the ‘little and often’ strategy. Both were effective, but it was the mountain that really began to take its toll. At only a few hundred metres below the 4000-metre mark, oxygen felt like it was at a premium and my legs began to really ache.
As the path clung to a scree-face, bending its way ultimately towards our goal, we hit the first patches of snow. Even though we were on the exposed south-facing side, the midsummer sun had yet to clear the way fully. Nervously, with Freddie in front, we edged our way across, all too conscious of the 50-metre slide down sharp scree that awaited us were we to slip.
Another snow patch was coming up. We successfully ground our way across, our legs really aching now. It seems as though the pass is a matter of metres away, and yet it never seems to get any closer, until finally, we are there. There is no more up, no more traversing to be done, just a bracing wind. We would have loved to stay there a little longer, but as our chests heaved to suck in what oxygen there was, we opted instead for a quick photo and a charge down to the heavy air of lower climbs.
Slipping and sliding down the other side of the pass, we both started to get a little grumpy under the midday sun as blood sugar ran low. Eventually, to our immense relief, we found an overhanging rock and collapsed asleep in the shade.
Rejuvenated, but still with several hours hiking to do, we heaved the packs back on. This in itself was becoming a problem for Freddie as his pack was starting to come apart in many places. The bottom zip had broken halfway up a scree slope and was now held together with cable ties, creating a certain sense of trepidation every time he picked it up.
Nevertheless, we carried on down this new valley. It was strikingly different to the one we had just left. Gone were the barren scree faces and mountain meadows, to be replaced by smaller boulders tossed around by forces long since gone and woodland of gnarled little trees that writhed out of the ground.
It was beautiful, and promised a fire for the evening when we found somewhere to set up camp. Our roles by now had become well defined: I dealt with the language side of matters and got us from A to B; Freddie entertained the inevitable gaggle of children and was designated Fire Master. This campsite was his greatest hour, fashioning a huge fire that must have been clear to see for miles around. A hot meal resting inside us, we settled down to enjoy the view of the mountains and appreciate quite what we had achieved that day.
Day four. In theory a simple day of flat that would get us to the base of the Munora Pass, the second of the three passes between the Seven Lakes, our final destination. We’d slept well – Freddie’s tendency to hug things in his sleep only disturbing me once.
The beauty of having 5kg of ration packs was that every day got lighter as we got fitter, and the mornings were always the best.
You might be wondering what we actually talked about with only each other as company for so long. There was a lot of debate over girls, both present and past. We planned, down to the most minute of details, Freddie’s 20th and 21st, as well as my 21st, and our respective careers. Remarkably there was little else of much note, other than the banal conversation that fails to stick in the memory.
That morning the hours quickly flicked past, as the day warmed up. At one point Freddie got a little over-excited by a sophisticated irrigation ditch (he does ‘geographical science’, as he likes to call it) that led eventually to a group of huts. We were able to help them in a small way with a few Nurofen for a girl’s sore tooth, giving a bit back to the people who had helped us so much.
Apart from that we were making serene progress, or at least that’s what we thought. We knew there was a river that signposted where we had to turn off this valley towards the pass. However, our ‘trusty’ map let us down again. We ended up caught halfway up a slope on a path that suddenly disappeared under the weight of a scree slide. Turning back wasn’t an option, so we very gingerly slipped and slid down this steep slope, silent in our concentration on not falling to a very painful landing.
Reaching the bottom matched the relief of cresting the Dukdon Pass, and we were prepared to sleep there and then. But again, the Tajiks came to our rescue. A lonely farmer had seen us being such idiots in our route and he soon arrived at our resting spot, a grin of knowing on his face. Tired as we were, he beckoned us to his little house, braying donkey standing guard outside. Inside we flopped onto some cushions and were accosted by a little kitten. As we began to relax our saviour put on the kettle, produced some delicious bread and beckoned for us to start.
Aside from the hiking, one thing I had been interested to discover was whether the Tajiks were as diligent in their observance of Ramadan as the Jordanians, who I had spent the previous three months with. This man was the first we came across who was staying true to his religion, and it was hugely impressive to see given his hard life working the mountain. He had a mobile phone, one of the few signs of the modern world around, but it was a six hour round hike to reach somewhere that he could charge it.
Back to the hut and with the sugary tea coursing through to our dehydrated muscles we quickly dozed off, happy to be out of the midday sun. An hour or so later and we were ready to head off. Our saviour kindly walked us to exactly where we had to go, clearly not confident after our earlier exploits that we would find our own way.
Full of gratitude we bid him farewell and climbed up towards the base of the pass. The sun was begin
ing to dip in the sky and we knew that we had to put our heads down and crack on if we were to reach the base of the pass. Coming round a bend we came across yet another little group of huts and the requisite gaggle of children.
Conscious of time and slightly intimidated by the guard dog that didn’t warm to us quite so much, we made it clear that we had to keep going as they invited us in for the customary cup of tea. Impressed by their level of hospitality yet again, the head of the family gestured to follow him up the valley to a good campsite used by the shepherds as base for tackling the pass. At a slow and steady pace we trudged behind him, weaving along goat tracks to a small clearing alongside a small stream, a perfect campsite if ever there was one.
Here we pitched the tent, took another very brisk bath in a deeper pool and hunkered down for the night. As the sun set we knew that we were coming to the final stage of our hike and it felt a little strange that soon we would be coming across proper civilisation. There were still a couple of days’ hiking left, and still many memorable experiences in front of us. Content with what we had already achieved and intrigued by what was to come, we slept well that night.
Our second pass, with the somewhat mystical name Munora, was within sight of our campsite on the sixth day. Nestling to the right of a towering mountain and laced with goat paths, it seemed easily within reach. Our guide from the night before clearly knew his thing, because although the ascent was steep we were soon cresting the first false summit and within touching distance of the pass proper.
Logistically this was a tricky moment as our platypus water carriers could only hold two litres each, so as we approached the thin line between sky and grass we sucked dry the final dregs. Not to fear, we thought, as every time this had come close to happening before we had always stumbled handily across a little stream to replenish our supplies.
So onward we pushed, sucking diligently on boiled sweets to moisten our mouths and bolster blood sugar. The final 100 metres were a gentle amble compared to everything before, and so it was in high spirits that we scrambled on top of the cairn that marked the summit, keen for a photo or two. Unlike the last moment of triumph, this one was far more enjoyable given the greater abundance of oxygen to replenish our lungs.
Looking back after the trip, we both agreed that this was the most beautiful of the three passes we conquered. Perhaps it was the weather at the top, or the feeling of accomplishment without the absolute pain of the Dukdon, but either way our grins were face-wide.
Descending down the sharply winding path that led towards the valley floor, we fortunately found a brook just as our final water bottle ran dry. Restocked, we powered on forward with a real sense of purpose. As we rounded a little knoll we were confronted by a large herd of goats and sheep, guarded by some very officious hounds that certainly didn’t take a liking to us.
Skirting well round the side, we rested for a while under our tarpaulin to avoid the midday sun. Snoozing contently away, the dogs were fortunately not to be seen again.
Conscious that the previous day had been a lot tougher than we expected, and keen to reach the base of the Tovasang Pass before nightfall, we strode on through a steep-sided ravine that opened up into rolling grass meadows dotted with reclining cows.
Spying the path that would lead us to our night’s sleep, we passed through yet another village where we (very self-consciously) turned down the myriad offers of yoghurt, tea and a full-blown meal. I can’t stress enough how generous these people are with their time and food, however precious it may be to them.
As we carried on up a new path, giving way to a couple of oncoming cows keen to be back home before nightfall, we reached another village. Here we had different ideas; whilst Freddie wanted to carry on to the true base of the pass, I was happy to accept their kind offers of shelter. Thankfully my idea held through, and we were sitting down in the tent as the family busied themselves about the fire preparing dinner.
In one of the more bizarre moments, one of the children had acquired a couple of Tajik/Russian-English phrasebooks, and was impressive in what he could say even from that. He was also very proud of his donkey that we both had a ride on. His other defining feature was most definitely his truly outstanding monobrow. The monobrow is in fact a sign of beauty in Tajikistan!
As dusk drew in, the clan gathered round the fire to feast on mounds of ‘plov’, the renowned regional dish. It was delicious, although very filling, and our appetites were hardly helped by the fact we were in need of a quiet loo break but felt too embarrassed to ask.
Finally convinced that we had eaten our fill, Freddie was able to make his excuses and retire to our little yurt that had been vacated by the women of the village to make room for us. I remained for a while, happy to laugh away as they tried to marry me off to one of the daughters. Prominent monobrow aside she was rather attractive, but I felt that was not something I should bring back from my travels.
Brimming with tea I drifted off to our yurt, very full and very happy. Snuggled up under a weight of blankets, Freddie conceded it was a good call to stay here. Then we fell sound asleep.
Bidding farewell to our hosts, I managed to press a little gift on them by insisting that it was for the baby. Any attempt to pay them directly was flatly turned down and ignored, so I was happy to find a way round this stubborn hospitality and give a little bit back.
The final pass was something of a formality now that our packs were markedly lighter and our legs fitter. Reaching the summit within a couple of hours, we got our first bit of phone signal in over five days. Happy as we were to get back in contact with the world and confirm our survival, it had been rather nice ignoring everything for a short while.
Below us was Marguozor Lake, one of the stunning Seven Pearls of the Shing. Each of these lakes is a different colour, and folklore has it that those who reach the final lake are enlightened. Marguozor was only the sixth lake and so we may not have achieved enlightenment, but camping on its shores that night was a beautiful end to the most incredible trip, and the perfect way to say goodnight to Tajikistan.
Robin Butler
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