Two years ago, I cycled on the famed (for cyclists) Pamir Highway in Tajikistan. I did it at the end of the cycling season when it was getting extremely cold. Along with a British cyclist named Jonny, I rode on the dreaded alternate route in the Bartang Valley. We pushed our cycle across icy frozen rivers, cycled on every terrain imaginable, and slept in nighttime temperatures reaching -25 deg C.
I was thinking of what to pick out of this time to write in this edition, and a small experience came to mind. It was on the first day of my time in the Bartang Valley.
The valley had a different feel than the main highway. The people were friendlier, and spoke more English. I would be cycling along and kids would run up with mad energy from their house, shouting “Hello!”, “Whatisyourname?!”, “Whereareyoufrom?”, and “Das Vidaniya!”, at the top of their voice. Smiles and invitations for tea were everywhere, and it felt like you only needed to stop for a moment to get both.
Around noon, we saw a woman baking Non— a typical bread in Tajikstan: round in shape, dense, and somehow stays fresh forever.
She smiled and invited us in to her house for tea. The whole family— she, her husband, their kids, her mother, her bedridden father, the neighbour and his— gathered around us in the living room.
They smiled a lot, talked a little, and gave us tea and candies as I admired the peaceful wooden interiors of their house. Just like many other Pamiri houses that I had seen, there was one big room which was the centre of all activity. There was a room heater — a bukhara, like in Indian Himalayan villages — inside. The walls were covered with elaborately embroidered carpets, serving as both insulation and decoration. There were plain, but strong wooden pillars supporting the roof, which had a design right in the centre with tapering wood diamonds. It was dark inside, but in a wise and confident way. The kids looked at us shyly, and laughed when I tried to talk to them.
When we left the house, the lady gave us two loaves of bread to take for the the road. While trying to squeeze them into the bag on the back of my bike, a small piece fell to the ground. Her husband picked it up carefully and placed it on a stone. Bread was sacred to them, he said. Wasting bread was a sin.
Not knowing what else to do, I apologised and ate the piece promptly, mud and all!
My time in Tajikistan was full of adventure, but I also remember these moments of warmth and connection very fondly.
Lovely post!
Great post!