the stans.

July 2, 2024 - Indira Gandhi International Airport

 

I’m in New Delhi to meet Jo for our flight to Almaty, Kazakhstan.

 

Our Africa trip last May went so well that we decided to repeat it this year; only this time in central Asia. Our plan looks like this:

 

Kazakhstan => Kyrgyzstan => Tajikistan => Uzbekistan. We’ll begin in Almaty, and then (hopefully) make our way through Bishkek, Dushanbe, Tashkent, and end up in Samarkand.

 

We’ve taken to calling it: The Stan Trip.

 

Planning began several months ago, but it wasn’t until we checked into Air Astana flight KC908 that it began to feel like anything more than a daydream. To be more precise, it wasn’t until we checked in that we even believed that Air Astana exists.

 

Over the course of the next few weeks, we’ll be filling in these country-sized gaps in our minds and hopefully have some fun along the way.

 

(It feels strange to find myself back in India. But India is a story for another time.)

 

 

July 3

 

Almaty.

 

Even without any expectations, I still find myself surprised.

 

A beautiful seemingly-European city with shades of Soviet, Muslim, and Chinese influences. It truly feels like a crossroad of civilisations, but with its own distinct and proud identity.

 

The city itself is blanketed with nature, trees line all her roads and small streams of water criss-cross the city. The mountains watch over us from every direction.

 

It’s calm in Almaty. It feels… serious? But then there are the children. Almaty, more than any city I’ve visited, seems as though it’s been built for children. And there are LOADS of children. They fill nearly every park, museum, and attraction that we visit.

 

And Almaty comes prepared. There are carnival rides crammed into every open space. And jungle gyms pop up around every corner.

 

It’s heartwarming, truly. And rejuvenating.

 

July 4

 

Today, we visited the child-packed Central State Museum of the Republic of Kazakhstan. It was a cool building. Other than that, we walked up and down Dostyk Avenue, visited Central Park, gothic clothing shops on Gogol Street, cafes, and ate some of Jo’s delicious home cooked meals.

 

In the evening, we took a cable car up to Kok Tobe to watch the sunset.

 

 

July 6

 

After 3 days in Almaty, we packed everything up and lugged our massive backpacks over to Sayran bus station to catch a bus to Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan.

 

Bishkek itself is far less ‘developed’ than Almaty, giving off a smaller, more traditional vibe. The people, too, are more traditional, and we barely come across any English speakers. It took about an hour for us to find our Airbnb, since it was tucked away behind a large black gate, through a courtyard, through an unmarked doorway, and up four flights of cement stairs. But once we arrived, it was very beautiful. Tall ceilings, fancy carpets, a large bathroom and pretty views over a leafy yard.

 

They don’t quite make apartments like this anymore, do they?

 

Communist propaganda remains prominently displayed throughout much of central Bishkek. A large Lenin statue, a stone wall that reads (in Russian) “We went to fight for Communism!” In all caps.

 

And of course the Karl Marx statues.

 

I almost wrote that Bishkek feels more ‘communist’, but in fact Almaty was even more so, with its pristine boulevards, stunning metros, and brutalist structures. Rather, Bishkek feels more like a town abandoned by communism.

 

Oh, I had my first bumble coffee. I’d seen ads for it in Almaty, so when it appeared on the menu at Bublik cafe I ordered it (against the warning of the waitress). It’s a shot of espresso in a cup of orange juice. The espresso sits on the top, making the drink appear like a bumble bee.

 

To be honest, I found it delicious. Will it order it again? Probably not.

 

In any case, after just a single day in Bishkek, we head back to the bus station to take a madrushka to Karakol, on the eastern coast of Issyk Kul lake.

 

 

July 9

 

We arrived in Karakol — a small timeless town perched at the foot of a snow capped mountain — after what felt like forever. Stuffed in a minibus between Jo and an 80 year old Kyrgyz women for 9 hours is probably not my favorite way to travel.

 

We were welcomed by a gaggle of young girls from the family we’d be staying with. They seemed even more excited than we were!

 

On the advice of the old lady on the bus, we spent out first day at Ak Syy, a beautiful series of hot springs up in the hills above the town. Picture a rushing river, spilling through flowery hills, surrounded with snow-capped peaks, and right on the hillside, the steaming water is captured in a series of stone-lined pools, each mixing with various degrees of river water to create a range of heated pools.

 

It was us, a handful of families, and the usual babushkas. Five dollars gets you all-day access. Another five, and you’ll get a hot bowl of soup and unlimited bread.

 

We spent all afternoon there :)

 

 

July 9

​

Horseback riding in Jeti Ogyuz.

 

After breakfast we ordered a yandex out to Jeti Ogyuz, a small village 40 minutes outside Karakol, surrounded by maroon cliffs and yet another rushing river.

 

When we arrived — it took some time to communicate with the driver, as several Jeti Ogyuzes appeared on the map — we were met with a band of children on horseback. $10 for an hour ride. $25 for three hours out to a waterfall. Due to the scorching sun, we chose the former. I hadn’t ridden a horse since I was 10 or so, but the young boy told me to get on, shouted a few words of instructions, and set us off.

 

Right before we left the camp, he shouted after us, “One problem. My horse kicks.” And then quickly disappeared.

 

But it went really well! It was like my horse and I could read each other’s minds. We pranced all around the cliff tops, and I was sad to let him go at the end of the hour.

 

 

July 10

​

I had hoped to write something about the local culture.

 

But I haven’t had the chance to really talk to anyone here in depth. And I haven’t been able to find any English language books by local writers.

 

Once I’m back in the US, I’d like to read Abai Qunanbaiuly, a Kazakh poet and philosopher.

 

Spending time here, I’ve only now become aware of the fully obvious fact that Russia was an empire. And many of the countries here are still living within it. They exist in a Russian world.

 

I see it in their mannerisms, their architecture, their language, their food, and their culture. I see Russia in their words and cars and hills.

 

I’d like to spent more time in this Russian world — whether in Russia itself or a neighbour. I’d like to feel the Russian energy. The Russian dance. Russian trauma.

 

Growing up in NY, we study the great French and British literature. We read German philosophy. We even practice yoga, play Pokemon, and eat Chinese food with chopsticks. We are taught to respect the great cultures of Europe and Asia. But what about Russia?

 

On the windy southern coast of Brooklyn sits Brighton Beach, a broken shell of a city. A refuge community. Aggressive men and haughty women. They drive too fast and drink too much.

 

Even the Russian alphabet exudes a certain energy to me. Brutal. Raw. Cold. Mechanical.

 

Violent?

 

Did Tolstoy write with cold letters? Did Tchaikovsky compose brutal notes?

 

Why is Russia so distant to me? I, who was raised by Eastern European refugees? My own great grandfather, born in Russia; his family emigrated to the US when his sister was killed in a pogrom.

 

Is Russian history written in blood?

 

Are all histories?

 

 

July 12 - Tong

 

From Karakol, we caught a madrushka to Tong, a tiny village on the south coast of Issyk-Kul.

 

We’ll be staying in Bel Tum Yurt Camp for a few days. It’s no more than a collection of yurts on a secluded outcrop about 10 minutes from the closest road, but for us it’s paradise. On one side are the red stone and snow capped peaks and on the other the azure waters of Issyk Kul.

 

The camp has it’s own private beach. Like the other tourist-focused companies we’ve come across in Kyrgyzstan, it’s run by a handful of teenagers. But they do a great job. An open air shower, clean facilities, and the most comfy yurts this side of the Ural Mountains.

 

As we lie back and gaze at the colourful fabrics and intricate woodwork that trace the contours of the structure, it feels like we’re living in a work of art.

 

In the morning we hire a driver to take us out to Fairy Tale Canyon, which resemble a red dragon, or the great wall of china. Depends who you ask.

 

We climb around the fantasy-like structures with still more epic views of the unspoiled landscape. There are a handful of tourists around us, but still, in Kyrgyzstan, one always feels like an explorer in uncharted territory.

 

The tourist industry hasn’t developed enough to distinguish it from the local traditional ways. Our travels take us into, not apart from, this nomadic civilization.

 

After we nearly pass out from sun stroke, we crawl our way back to the lakeside and collapse on the red-tinged sand. I plunge into the crystal water and turn back to grin at Jo. And the mountains behind her.

 

 

July 16

 

The past few days have been a whirlwind. From Tong, we hitched a ride with a young Kyrgyz couple to Kochkar. On the way, we stopped at a police blockade because they were busy blowing up the hills with dynamite.

 

I took the opportunity to ask their thoughts about the USSR and communism. They said that their parents liked it. That everything you needed was provided for free. But that, in return, there was no freedom. No freedom of speech or religion. Everything was controlled by Moscow. They said that the Kyrgyz state simply didn’t exist. It was all part of Russia.

 

We arrived in Kochkor in the rain. We grabbed our bags, thanked the couple, and dashed into the nearest restaurant. Before long, two French men sat at the next table. They were also headed to Song Kul, so we split the cab.

 

The road to Song Kul is so bumpy and long that the price of the taxi includes room and board for the driver for the two days that we’ll be staying.

 

No matter how beautiful the rest of Kyrgyzstan is, the road to Song Kul hits like a ton of bricks. As we climb higher and higher into the mountains, the temperatures plunge, snow and ice coat the hills, and the full beauty of Central Asia is unleashed.

 

Packs of galloping horses rumble across the mountain ridges. Hawks patrol the blue skies. Yurts dot the landscape. Families of cows lounge on the road — I say road, but it is barely more than two tire marks pressed into the glistening green grass.

 

After an eternity, we arrive at our camp, set back from the iconic lake, nestled between two gentle hills. We’ve arrived at the absolute middle of nowhere. No cell service. No noise. Nothing but wide green pastures where horses roam free and the blue lake beams in the frigid sunlight. The elevation is just around 10,000 feet. It’s freezing.

 

Sunset is quickly approaching so we dash up a nearby hill, sit out on a ledge, and sit transfixed as a kaleidoscope of colors, smells, and sounds wash over us. We lay back and watch as a carpet of twinkling galaxies unfurls itself across the dark sky. We look at each other, tears in our eyes.

 

———

 

 

I woke up around four in the morning to use the bathroom. As I made my way across the crisp grass, with misty spray settling around me, and old man trudged past dragging a sled filled with poop.

 

———

 

In the morning, we hiked over to the lake, chasing the clouds of breath that dart out into the crystal cold air. We sat out by the shore and meditated for a while. By the time we arrived back to the camp, it was almost time to set out on another horseback ride through the mountains.

 

The wind was frigid. The mist biting. We bundled up under every layer we owned; I wrapped a scarf around my face. And off we went.

 

The ride up was slow, visibility was low, as we pass through cloud formations. But once we made it to the top, we were met by yet more unsparingly gorgeous views. How can a land be so beautiful and remain such a secret?

 

On the way back down, the sun broke through, and we broke through with it. We gave our horses a sharp kick, rose up in a saddles — I think I even shouted giddy-up? I definitely waved my hat in the air — and then we were gliding across the hills.

 

Flying.

 

I heard Jo shout. I grew scared. I looked over. And there she was, flying right beside me.

 

 

 

July 18 - Some yurt camp on the Kyrgyz-Tajik border

 

Somewhere near the Kyrgyz-Tajik border, where the sharp white peaks soften into round green hills, where the crystal glacial waters gather into a hundred fairytale ponds, a small yurt camp run by a tall woman offers a handful of weary travellers a bed to sleep in, a fire to stay warm by, and a meal to eat.

 

The camp is perched at the edge of a sunken river with an old wooden foot bridge. After we drop our luggage, we cross that bridge and make our way toward Lenin Peak. We’re told that there is a point, a few hours away, where we can sit and watch as the row of towering peaks across the narrow valley shed their snowy coats in a series of beautiful avalanches.

 

We walk and walk.

 

One hour passes. Then another.

 

Every 20 minutes or so, we pass a few hikers or a posse of horseback riders heading in the opposite direction, back in the direction we came from. Well that can’t be a good sign.

 

We find a cozy perch overlooking a waterfall and munch on our Snickers bars for a few minutes. Oh well. We pack up our stuff and begin the long walk back from nowhere.

 

In the morning, we pack up once again and settle into our jeep for what will prove to be a day filled with adventure. It’s border day.

 

 

Part 1: The Border

There are borders and then there are borders.

 

After breakfast, we drove three hours along a wide river, through a rocky valley straight out of some Cold War spy film.

 

When we arrived at the Kyrgyz side of the border, a few bored officials came out to greet us. Our driver offers them a watermelon. Yes, a watermelon. Which they appreciatively lug back to there grey shack.

 

For several years now, only tourists have been allowed to use this crossing. Our driver had registered us on a special list which they peruse carefully. One by one, we are asked to leave the jeep and unpack our luggage.

 

After about 30 minutes, they return our passport and lift the gate. We’re through.

 

But are we in Tajikistan now? Not even close.

 

Another hour drive through a designated buffer zone that even a tank would find difficult to navigate. Then again, I guess that’s the point.

 

If you’re looking to attack a country, this is definitely not the place to do it.

 

At the top of a red hill with a massive iron statue of a ram, with clear views down across both sides of the valley, we grind to a halt at a small gathering of jeeps.

 

We shake hands with Nurvik, who will be our Tajik driver for the next week, transfer over our bags, take a selfie next to the ram, and speed off in a cloud of ever-present dust.

 

30 minutes later, we pull into a shanty Tajik border station. And suddenly it’s an entirely new world.

 

Thin aluminium huts have replaced the sturdy Kyrgyz buildings. Old soviet uniforms that look more like cheap Halloween costumes than military issue. A handful of Tajik soldiers with light-grey eyes that sparkle in the sunlight stare coldly as we slowly rumble through their small complex. We pull to a stop in front of a hanging rope.

 

A young soldier emerged from behind a building with a drug sniffing dog.

 

And that was that.

 

Jo immediately shouted: “WHAT A CUTIE!” Nurvig begged her to stay in the car, but too late, her door was already open and she dashed out.

 

Oh shit.

 

Sometimes I’m honestly more afraid of Jo than I am of the soldiers.

 

But I shouldn’t be. Jo’s bright smile and puppy eyes melted their stern glares like a hot knife through plov.

 

A moment later, all of the girls were out of the car cuddling puppies. (Can you call military K9s puppies?)

 

Being the only responsible person in our group, recognising that we’re at a contentious border outpost between two war-torn post-soviet fundamentalist countries run by dictators and funded by heroin trafficked from Taliban-controlled Afghanistan, I sat patiently like an adult on a nearby bench. 

 

A commander came out of the main building and quickly took in the scene; a complete melt-down of any kind of military decorum; I was there to meet his eyes with the same disapproving shrug. 

 

Permits confirmed, passports stamped, dogs patted, we piled back into the jeep and continued on into Tajikistan.

 

 

Part 2: The Pamir Highway

 

Legend has it that when Marco Polo passed through central Asia on his way to Mongolia he chanced upon a mountain range populated with a dizzying array of mystical yet terrifying peaks. Rising up to 7,500 meters, they are among the tallest peaks in the world, and certainly its most inspiring. 

 

Young Marco named them the Pair Mountains, and the name stuck.

 

The Pamir Mountain Range stretches from the Afghan Wakan Corridor bordering the Hindu Kush, and works its way east across parts of Kyrgyzstan, China, Pakistan, and into the Himalayas.

 

But nowhere are they more beautiful displayed and dutifully revered than in Tajikistan, where much of the south and east of the country lives amongst its unforgiving, yet unforgettable, peaks and valleys.

 

The central lifeline of the Pamir people, a people who care little for national boundaries or creature comforts, as their nomadic villages spread across several countries. And through their territory runs the Pamir Highway, the only continuous path through most of this region. It has been in use for millennia (perhaps Marco Polo used it as well) and formed a critical node of the Silk Road, stretching for 1,000 kilometres.

 

But it wasn’t until the Soviets took up its cause in the 1930s that the Pamir ‘route’ was developed into a ‘road’. And it is this road, 100 years later, that we’d be traversing over the next seven days.

 

After successfully crossing into Tajikistan, we drove to Karakol (yes, another Karakol, this one barely more than a dozen homes) for lunch. There we met a few European cyclists who were stranded without a permit to cross into Kyrgystan, and without the internet access to obtain one. They were running out of money and food, and seemed rightfully desperate.

 

After a long lunch, we began the drive up to Murgabh where we’d spend the night.

 

On the way, Nurvig suddenly and quite aggressively pulled off the road and sped up across the barren rocky desert; something which would prove to be a habit of his.

 

After criss-crossing and slicing our way across the bleached slopes for some thirty minutes we reached a peak. Nurvig looked over his shoulder at us and grinned his big grin.

 

Great bodies of indigo lakes filled the open bellies on the other side of the hill. Endless horizons stood framed by the distant white slopes. Neon blue, deep maroon, and blinding white all perfectly (imperfectly) leaning into each other.

 

Just before I got out, Nurvig turned to me and whispered, “this is my spot. No one comes here. Do you like it?”

 

I turned back, one foot already on the ground, “Yes, Nurvig, I like it a lot.”

 

 

Part 3: Murgabh

​

Pulling into Murgabh for the first time, bathed in the evening glow.

 

Murgabh is a director’s dream if they want to film an Afghan battle scene. Where Taliban heroes battle cowboys in the Asian Wild West. Where white sheep skulls lay comfortably beside a young woman pumping water from a grey well (true story) and no one dares to speak louder than a whisper, lest they wake the angry desert gods who rule over this merciless terrain.

 

The guide book says that Murgabh exists as more of a statement than a convenience.

 

The locals — refusing to relinquish their homes back to the greedy mountains nor to the marauding enemies that frequently pass through on their border campaigns.

 

Murgabh is stubborn.

 

A large sign greets visitors at her entrance: Tajik and Kyrgyz flags side-by-side, overlaying a pair of hands grasping each other.

 

Most people in Murgabh are historically Kyrgyz, as their tall white hats proudly announce, a rather inconvenient fact for two countries that have been at each other’s throats for much of their short existences. But never mind. This is Murgabh! Where the impossible is the ordinary.

 

In the morning, we stroll through the makeshift bazaar, a collection of 20 or 30 shipping containers that sell everything from horse meat to power tools. People move slowly here, and smile broadly.

 

On the way back to our homestay, we pop into the local Marco Polo Sheep Museum. The name is so good that I’d hate to spoil it with a description.

 

On the way out of town, we stopped for lunch. Just as I stepped out of the car, an intense wave of dizziness came over me. I could barely walk. I felt like I’d black out at any moment.

 

I stumbled to the bathroom and spend an hour emptying my body from every end.

 

Surprisingly, and wonderfully, I walked out of the restaurant an hour later feeling kind of great.

 

And that was the only serious illness I had the entire trip. My travel mates, unfortunately, were not so lucky.

 

 

Part 4: The Hospital Day(s)

 

A few hours down the road from Murgabh, we pulled into Alichur Village for the night. A seemingly deserted collection of admittedly handsome homes, offering us another case study of what Jo calls “the absolute middle of nowhere.” I mean, for real.

 

The village had no roads. Why would it need any? The scarcity of homes sprinkled through the flat terrain made driving effortless and creative.

 

The homestead we pulled up to was adorable. With the usual outdoor shower and toilet. We took a short stroll through the short village, and were greeted with the familiar ‘kak dila’s by the few children who darted past us into the shadow of their homes.

 

Returning home after only 15 minuets, we thought we’d have a pleasant evening and an early bedtime. But no. Exactly two minutes after I’d gotten into bed, Jo came into the bedroom and began asking me strange questions about the presence of malaria in India.

 

She plopped down on the floor and admitted that her legs were hurting her in that specific way that they did when she contracted malaria in Kenya last summer. I tried to reassure her that there were more likely causes for sore legs, but then…

 

A feverish daze came over her. She lost all of her strength, and I very nearly had to carry her into bed.

 

Seeing what was going on, Nurvig (our driver) first negotiated with the owner of the house to have us moved into a room with ‘heating’ [heating coming from a single metal pipe that ran along the wall, and was fed with a small fire]. Elvira and I literally lifted Jo’s bed with her in it, and positioned her along the length of the warm metal pipe.

 

Next, Nurvig called the village doctor, who arrived on a bicycle with a small backpack with the word ‘Apteka’ stitched on the back. Never mind, at this point we’d take anything.

 

He took her temperature and blood pressure, and then prescribed her a strange regiment of wiping down her body with cotton balls soaked in alcohol.

 

Thankfully, Jo did this without too much complaining.

 

She resolutely refused, however, to be injected with the mysterious liquid medicine which Nurvig and the doctor passionately endorsed. I forced a few spoonfuls of rice down her throat followed by some paracetamol, and tucked her away for the night.

 

I moved my bed against hers, offering her what body heat I could spare.

 

I asked the doctor how much we owed him — he’d spent well over an hour with us, and patiently took care of us despite our complete lack of Russian, Tajik, or Kyrgyz languages. He insisted it was free.

 

Of course, I ignored him and forced him to take some cash, even as he and Nurvig protested. He shamefully took it quickly, without looking at it, and stuffed it into his jacket.

 

The next morning dawned brightly, and Jo rose with a smile and a skip in he step. I guess her malaria was cured.

 

 

Part 5: The Afghan Border

​

Today was a special day.

 

We drove two hours down toward the Afghan border. Although Afghanistan would initially be blocked by a series of Pamir hills, we stole our first peak of the legendary and tragic land by hiking up the Khargush Pass (4800 meters).

 

While the hike itself wasn’t that complicated, it followed a steep ascent and the angry winds were punishing. I wrapped a Kashmir scarf around my head to protect my chaffed skin and beat back the swirling dust.

 

I couldn’t help thinking — as I took step after laboured step up the desolate slope — if I had been shipped here to fight a war, how miserable and hopeless I would quickly become.

 

At this altitude, it’s all too easy to lose your breath, and as we reached the peak and gazed across the stunning Afghan valley ringed by its infamous white and grey mountains, breathless is the best word I can choose.

 

We sat there for a while, amazed at where we were, amazed by what we could see.

 

History, geography, mythology, and majesty all merged together into a single breathtaking frame.

 

I think to myself that if I had grown up among these indomitable fairy-tale cliffs and neon blue lakes, surely I too would became a religious fanatic.

 

—

 

As we continued driving down the rocky mountain road, we reached the Pamir River which softly traces the boundary between Taliban and Tajik soil.

 

Our eyes glued to the left-hand widows, we watched the Afghan world slowly file past, sometimes so close we could almost reach out and touch its somber hills. I remember the first time we saw people walking across the river. A young boy and girl, guiding a small flock of goats.

 

We jumped out of out Jeep and waving our arms, shouted at the top of our lungs, “Asallam aleikem!”

 

They glanced over in our direction, stared blankly for a moment, and then chased after a few errant goats that had slipped off.

 

We just watched.

 

Soon, we saw more people. And then entire villages. Taliban flags flapping above US-built schools. And always, always the never-ending procession of truly humbling landscapes. At every turn of the road, fresh cliffs came out to greet us, towering overhead, threatening to crush the narrow strip of road that had been dug into their sides.

 

Just before we pulled into Langar (stunning Langar) for the night — resting softly in a wide flooded Wakan valley with great cliffs on each side and green pastures for grazing flock — we glimpse the Hindu Kush mountains off in the distance.

 

Has fact finally become fiction? Or the other way around?

 

 

Part 6: Langar

 

I woke up early to go walking alone in the pastures. I came across a shepherd tending his flock. I tried to get closer but was met by a growling dog. I glanced at the shepherd. He waves me off. I returned to the hotel to pack up for the day.

 

——

 

We drive up into the hills to bathe in the hot springs of Bibi Fatima. On the way, we passed a few fortresses. One was built by Czar Nicholas and the other two are allegedly from the 12th century, but we saw workers (re)constructing one of them brick-by-brick. So I’m sceptical.

 

After bathing in the scolding hot, but mineral-rich, waters, we drove over to Khorog.

 

After a week on the road, sleeping in tiny village homesteads, Khorog is like a modern metropolis. We stare out the windows at the buildings, a few cafes and a scattering of banks.

 

We spent the night at an adorable homestay just across the street from the airport — with its one weekly flight to Dushanbe — where we have our first wifi in a week.

 

 

Part 7: The Little Calendar Museum

 

We stopped at this little museum that had a big rock out front with a hole in it. Twice a year, when looking through the hole in the rock, you can see the rising sun. And so, they use that to mark the new year.

 

 

Part 8: Jizeu Village

 

After stocking up on water in Rushan, Nurvig drove us an hour or so out into the middle of nowhere and dropped us off near a large river in the Jizeu Valley.

 

He waited patiently until we’d crossed the river carrying a small bag each, and then quickly sped off for the night.

 

We’d need to hike several hours up into the valley to a small remote village without any electricity or road access. We’d need to get there before nightfall, and before the gathering clouds got too angry.

 

At first, our path hugged the lower edge of one of the mountains. While a healthy river kept us company, there was barely any other life present in this barren rocky terrain. Just massive mounds of crumbling red rock that had plunged into the valley during the many land slides.

 

From what I’ve heard — and can see — even a small amount of rain or a heavy wind can trigger a landslide along these rocky, lifeless cliffs. And we’re standing right in its path.

 

We nervously picked our way through the stone graveyard, glancing up nervously at the grey storm clouds. After about an hour, we reached one of those bright blue glacial lakes that appear our of nowhere in this area of Tajikistan. From there, the terrain softened as the mountain ridges gradually lowered themselves down beside us.

 

Then something strange and wonderful happened. Although the mountains remained a stony grey, a widening band of green began to blossom over and around the river. First grass, then bushes, and then trees rose up around us. Birds, berries and bugs.

 

To the left, Martian craters. To the right, the Amazon.

 

And then, finally, after three hours of climbing, 

 

A tiny patch of farm land. Two woman bent over, collecting bushels of grain as it began to rain.

 

They looked up at us. And smiled.

 

A few more steps and a handful of makeshift homes came into view.

 

A man came out to meet us. Dinner is almost ready, he tells us, and there’s hot tea waiting for us in the kettle.

 

We collapsed in gratitude. And awe.

 

Here we are, mere miles from the Afghan border, deep in the Pamir range, three hours from the nearest road (which isn’t even really a road), surrounded by gorgeous and untouched nature. Mountains on all sides, and a blue river streaming by. And a village of kind angels has welcomed us, offering us to share in their hard-earned food and impossible homes.

 

 

—

 

 

After a dinner of lagman and freshly baked bread, I wandered over to the pond at the edge of the village. 

 

How can I describe it?

 

The edge of the pond is ringed with lush forest. The water, fed by a glacial stream, gleams indigo,

 

Large boulders puncture the surface here and there, almost like a zen garden. Looking up, red mountains with white snow peaks.

 

Glittering. Shimmering. Bright maroon.

 

The muffled sounds of a few villagers playing slavic melodies on wooden flutes melts into the timeless murmurs of the still pond.

 

I’m in one of those places that shouldn’t even exist. I sit down on a rock and open myself up.

 

The book of Exodus speaks of desert mountains where the voice of god speaks in a roaring whisper. Rumi sings of gentle streams where the mind of minds reaches out to us. I am no poet and certainly no Rumi.

 

And yet.

 

 

At that moment

In that holy place

My ancestors came down beside me

Imma, Bubby, and Abba

Came to join me

Avraham, Yitschak, and Yaakov

Rachel, with her tear-streaked cheeks

Rashi, wearing his crisp white turban

Generations of parents who birthed generations of children

Who stubbornly fought on

Lived on

Loved on

Against all

Against god itself

All of my ancestors came to sit beside me

On that night beside the pond

I could feel their presence as strongly as I’d ever felt anything at all

They’d come to share in my joy

They’d been there all along.

 

I cant say how long I stayed there,

Tears streaming down my face.

Was it Friday night?

I whispered the Shmoneh Esrei.

I sang from Psalms.

A song of ascents / Shir Lamalos

I turn my eyes to the mountains

From where my shepherd appears

 

I knew, at that moment, that it was time for me to return home.

It was time for me to follow my ancestors 

To follow their god.

 

The god of my forefathers and foremothers

I had struggled tirelessly, all week long

And now, now it’s time for Shabbos.

 

I sensed that Jo had come and sat behind me.

I took a short walk to let my feelings return to where they came from

And then came back to sit beside her.

We spoke about tears

And about suffering.

I told her about Rachel Imeinu, Rachel our mother.

 

And they we just sat quietly. Together.

 

———

 

Happiness is: the desire to be one’s self.

 

 

Part 9: Arrival in Dushanbe

 

After a night at Kalaikhum we made our final push toward Dushanbe, Tajikistan’s capital city.

 

All along the Pamir highway, the Tajik military set up checkpoints where we had to show our special traveler permits and passports. Fortunately, we’ve never had an issue. So when we pulled into the final checkpoint before reaching the capital we were barely prepared for what unfolded.

 

First, we were pulled off the road and forced into a holding zone. Then, the official double and triple checked all of our documents. They handing back mine and Jo’s passports, but held onto the Danish girls’.

 

We could see Nurvig arguing with the soldier. After 20 minutes or so, we walked over and found out what was happening:

The travel agent who had filled out their permit applications had switched up their passport numbers. It was a clear and stupid mistake, but the checkpoint official wasn’t looking to let it slide. We sat there for an hour, as phone calls were made, threats issues, and clocks ticked.

 

To kill time, Jo and one of the Danes flirted with the soldiers manning the checkpoint. Eventually the soldiers got their numbers, and we then quickly waved through.

 

I can still remember sitting there, on a curb at the side of the highway, baking in the sun, Jo’s laughter, the sight of heavily armed soldiers smiling (even blushing), and the stolid official with the passport sitting stubbornly in his booth.

 

An hour later, we arrived in Dushanbe.

 

 

Part 10: The Thing

 

After the modest and somewhat extreme conditions of all the towns and villages we passed through on our way through Tajikistan, we were completely blown away as we rolled through the tree-lined boulevards and gleaming towers of downtown Dushanbe. Great white government estates mingled with dozens of fountains and oversized statues and monuments.

 

Range Rovers and G Wagons roamed the streets. My first thought was to wonder why the government would waste all this money when the country lies in ruin.

 

My second thought was: with a country barely 30 years old and only just emerging from a 15 year civil war, the people need something to believe in, even if it’s still only just a dream. Something to be proud of. Something to fight for. A vision of what could be.

 

Dushanbe is no Dubai. But then again, it kind of is.

 

But the most iconic feature of Dushanbe is certainly the ‘thing’. A hulking monument in the centre of town. Or is it an obelisk? A tower? Unlike the Washington Monument which is smooth and minimalist, The Thing bears a striking resemblance to the male autonomy wrapped in gaudy neon lights, rising 400 feet into the sky, with a literal crown on the tip of its engorged head. 

 

I cannot make this up. It’s called Monument Istiklol (Independence). Google it.

 

(Yes, I paid the $7 to take the elevator up the shaft to the top. I was hardly surprised to find that I was the only visitor.)

 

Dushanbe is cool. But too strange.

 

 

Part 11: The Synagogue

 

Growing up in Brooklyn in the 90s, there was a large influx of soviet Jews from central Asia. So, on a whim, I searched for ‘synagogue’ on Google Maps, and wouldn’t you believe it - the only shul in Dushanbe (in all of Tajikistan, really) was right around the corner from our hotel.

 

I stopped by on the way to the ATM. I never made it to the ATM.

 

As soon as I reached the shul, I was met by the leader of Dushanbe’s Jewish community (20 people strong) who guided me through the beautiful synagogue and sat with me for over an hour, telling me all about the community’s history, its challenges, and blessings.

 

For example, the building we were sitting in was donated by the brother-in-law of the president of Tajikistan, a wealthy muslim man. Two large portraits greet visitors to the synagogue. One, of the donor. The other of the man who tirelessly fought for the Jewish community, also a muslim.

 

The soul has an old torah scroll. But sadly no one in the community knows how to read it. So it stays locked up. I almost offered to read it for them. But then remembered that moving to Dushanbe to be Tajikistan’s chief rabbi was not what I had planned for the day.

 

So I bit my tongue. But I felt bad.

 

Just before leaving, I asked him if he’s married.

 

“Marry a muslim woman??” he exclaimed. “Never.”

 

Oh right, I laughed to myself. There are literally no Jewish women in the entire country.

 

 

July 27 - Uzbekistan

 

We hired a taxi to the Uzbeki border. Took about 5 hours.

 

We had to walk across the lengthy border zone with all our stuff in the afternoon heat. Nothing we weren’t used to at this point though.

 

They took their time with my passport (Uzbekistan was the first country on this trip where I had to apply for a visa) before finally letting me through.

 

Our first stop was Samarkand, that legendary Silk Road metropolis that conjures up images of magicians and sultans. Spices and sorcerers. 

 

Sitting at the crossroads of the main trade routes connecting India, China, and Arabia, it quickly became one of the wealthiest and most beautiful cities in the world. When Alexander the Great conquered the city in 329 BC, he exclaimed, “Everything I’ve heard about Samarkand is true, except that it is even more beautiful than I could have imagined.”

 

Indeed, it is crammed with great madrassas, glittering mosques, and grand mausoleums. The splendour of ancient Central Asia is on full display, and it does not disappoint. We’re transported back to an impossible time in history with flying carpets and rainbow bazaars. You can almost taste the sands from the hourglass of History.

 

Old men play backgammon in back alleys, and leafy green boulevards display Soviet advances. The tilted authenticity of the city contrasts sharply with Dushanbe’s shiny facade.

 

Next, we took the train to Bukhara, a city similarly encrusted with a majesty that is not easily lost. This city seems eagerly invested in preserving, restoring, and perhaps even fabricating its ancient architectural and cultural treasures.

 

At the heart of Bukhara sits the infamous Ark, which once housed the city’s emperor. The story goes that Czar Nikolai wished to form an alliance with the Old Sultan (against the encroaching British). He sent 5000 soldiers to meet with the Emir. As they approached the city, the Emir sent a message telling them that he didn’t want to alarm the city’s residents with so many soldiers. Instead, he asked them to disperse across the surrounding villages while he considered their proposal.

 

Once the Russian forces were divided up, the Bukharian leader launched a surprise attack on the isolated troops, quickly killing them off. It wasn’t long before Soviet forces returned with a vengeance. This time they didn’t bother asking nicely. They sacked the Ark and bombed it to the ground. But not before the Emperor loaded 40 wagons filled with gold and treasures and escaped across to Persia, where he lived out his years in opulence. 

 

We’ve visited four countries on our Stan trip. Kazakhstan, Kyrgyz, Tajik, and Uzbek. They are all right up next to each other, and from a naive American perspective, seemed to all share a similar Soviet history. Turns out, that could not have been farther from the truth. Each country has been completely unique.

 

Kazakhstan with its confidence and calm. Kyrgyzstan with its wild west and natural beauty. Tajikistan posses an ineffable mystique and sense of adventure. And now Uzbekistan with its ancient glory and dreamy facade.

 

 

————

 

In Samarkand, I spoke with a Polish man about the very different accounts we’ve received about life under Soviet rule. The usual refugee reports that reached us in New York; reports of brutal reprisals and poverty. As well as the casual conversations we’ve had on this trip filled with nostalgia for a time when everything (from doctors and teachers to food and housing) was provided for and life was less of a struggle.

 

Even the Jewish guy in Dushanbe said that things were great under the Soviets, until I asked about religious freedom and he admitted that the Russians only allowed a single mosque and synagogue in the entire city.

 

Anyways, the Polish guy thought that things truly were bad, but that people just naturally think back to their childhood with fondness. Also, it’s somewhat a tale of two cities, in which repression helps some (those who are more naturally in conformance) and hurts others. My own instincts tell me that eastern European countries are more likely to think negatively about the USSR because they could look over their shoulder at western Europe with its freedom and BMWs, while a Kyrgyz city had nothing to compare itself with. More likely, they see roads and hospitals being built and are happy to see development.

 

We can see something like this happening today with China. Tajikistan is very clearly being bankrolled by China, which I’m sure goes a long way in propping up the authoritarian regime, but which makes little difference to the vast majority of villagers throughout the country. But perhaps this trickle-down approach will work in the long run.

 

Alsooooo, we have to consider what happened after the collapse of the USSR. Eastern Europe has developed quite steadily and positively. Many of those countries are now part of the EU and can travel, study, and work freely across the West. The Stans? Their planned economies and puppet governments collapsed like a house of cards. It’s easy to compare the height of Soviet life with the absolute bottom of independent governance, and feel that communism was the better option.

 

In any case, I’m not taking sides. Without a doubt, the legacy of the USSR is far from the monolithic brutal political machine that we learn about in school, and its consequences remain to be seen for many years to come.

 

 

————

 

 

On our last night in Bukhara, on our way home from dinner, we passed a home with music pouring from the open front door and festivities spilling out into the street. I’d read that it is considered good luck when guests join a wedding celebration, so we cautiously stepped inside where we were welcomed with open arms. We spent an hour celebrating their marriage, dancing in their courtyard, and sharing their wedding feast.

 

 

August 2

 

To reach Tashkent, we took a 7 hour train ride from Bukhara. The train was old, without AC, and had been baking in the sun all morning. We were sweltering. Out of desperation, I went to talk with one of the conductor guys about our options.

 

He gave me a look and then silently motioned for me to follow him. He guided me through car after boiling car until we reached business class. Magically, the AC is humming. There is cool bottle of water at each seat, and white tablecloths grace the tables between the large recliners.

 

I go back to ‘economy’ to proudly escort Jo to our new home.

 

Several hours later, I get a tap on my shoulder. It’s my conductor friend. He gives me a small nod and walks off. I follow him to a little room at the back of the train car. The lights are turned off. We step inside.

 

He says nothing; just continues to look at me. I causally pull out 200,000 UZS (the equivalent of like $18) and hand it over. He gives me one last nod and I hurry back to my seat, beaming with pride at my very first bribe.

 

I feel like a million bucks. 

 

 

————

 

 

The train pulled into Tashkent Station just before midnight, for what would be our final stop on this month long marathon through Central Asia.

 

Due to time constraints, we had to choose between visiting Khiva and Tashkent, and ultimately opted to experience a few days in the unofficial capital of Central Asia rather than one more ‘museum city’.

 

And how glad we are that we made that decision. Tashkent is an easy city to love. It’s leafy, quiet, relatively walkable, and displays some of the most striking remains of Soviet architecture, not to mention an updated — and toned down — Uzbeki opulence.

 

Think South Beach meets Lawrence of Arabia meets the Kremlin. Intriguing, right?

 

We spent our first day wandering around. The White House Museum, where we learned a lot about the first leader of Uzbekistan, Islam Karimov, who ruled from 1989 until his death in 2016. After the president’s museum, we stop by the adorable State Puppet Theatre, Kosmonavtlar Square with its monument of Yuri Gagarin, and the gorgeous Exhibition Hall of the Academy of Arts.

 

We eat a longggg lunch at Bon! and then meander over to Alisher Navoiy Theatre, Czar Nikolai’s palace, and the National Art Gallery. Finally, we visit Memorial Square (with her Mourning Woman) and the famous Monument of Courage. At one point, our taxi passes the iconic Hotel Uzbekistan, (it’s like the Eiffel Tower of central Asia), and we ogle at it through the car windows.

 

We drag our sun-soaked and dehydrated bodies back to the hotel to recover before dinner. In fact, we turned out to be so tired that we decided to just order in, but then couldn’t figure out how to use the delivery app, so we gathered our tired bodies together and went out to Sevchenko Street, one of the more modern/trendy lanes in Tashkent. After dinner, we felt much better, so we grabbed a yandex to Steam, a club that a girl I met on Bumble recommended to me.

 

By now, it was pitch dark out, and the taxi pulled to a stop in front of a darkened restaurant with people in fancy clothing mulling about outside. It seemed strange, but the location was right, so we gingerly got out.

 

Once we turned the corner, we were met by perhaps the most Stanny experience yet. (Mind you, in the taxi ride over, we’d just been remarking about how modern and European the city felt.) The power was out for the entire neighbourhood. But instead of using generators to power the club or just closing for the night, the staff had set up candles here and there, and walked around with their cell phone flashlights to add a bit of light.

 

Due to the heat and lack of lighting, everyone just sat outside in the ‘yard’ beneath the now-very-bright stars. At first it was quite awkward and disappointing, but in the still evening, undisturbed by thumping club DJs, and a cozy candlelit ambience, we began to notice how special it was.

 

Everyone had dressed up, planning to go clubbing on a Friday night, but instead we all ended up relaxing quietly to the soft lullaby of a pleasant Tashkent evening. We stayed for hours. 

 

Funny enough, there was a DJ in the shoe store we visited the next day. So yeah, that’s Tashkent for you. A soothing night club and an absolutely lit shoe store.

 

August 4

 

We returned to Samarkand to catch our respective flights home. Jo to Portugal, and I to New York. My flight left a day later than her’s so I had one last day to wander alone through Samarkand’s avenues and wonder about the peculiar relationship between beauty and magic.

 

It’s another sweltering day, but Registan Square remains as crowded as ever with tourists, locals, and wedding brides. We’ve all gathered here together, drawn around by her magic.

 

I gaze up, one last time, at the bright blue madrasahs, listening closely for the echoes of history. All I hear are the excited children who’ve conquered Registan Square. If humans go to heaven after we die, where do empires go? Where does Beauty go after she passes away? Rome lies in ruins, yet Samarkand still clutches her pearls.

 

How many times can we run our greedy eyes over her proud body? Not enough, apparently. Never enough.

 

The call of the muezzin calling us all to prayer has gone silent. I turn to go. As I climb into my taxi I can still catch the last shimmering notes as they linger on, like grains of sand floating in the hazy air.