Motorcycle Sport & Leisure

Silk Ride 2

Dushanbe had served its purpose. As like most cities around the world when travelling on a motorcycle, they hold little appeal. A section of the trip awaited that we had all anticipated would be one of the highlights of this adventure. Tajikistan was home to the Pamir Highway, one of the highest altitude roads in the world and only recently open to travellers, as well as the remote Wakhan Valley, running the border with Afghanistan.

But first we had to get to Khorog, the capital of the autonomous Gorno-Badakshan region, or “GBAO” for short. We had already got permission from the Tajik Embassy in London, and armed with our permit stamped in the passport, we set off for Khorog. Our map showed the main road was along the northen route and there didn’t seem to be an alternative! On questioning local guides, we soon learnt that the main road shown on the map was in fact the minor route and in terrible condition. It was too early in the season and remained closed due to heavy snow and landslides.

The alternative was to take a route that was not even shown on our maps! It would run us south east and then follow the Afghan border up to Khorog. This route was longer, but open, and we would have to break the ride in the small town of Kalaikhum. Sounded straight forward enough! The start of the day was easy going with a good Tarmac road and not too much to deal with, this was soon to change. As we head east towards the Afghan border, the facilities and traffic all but disappeared and then the road turned to gravel and dirt.

Our progress slowed, but the views were breathtaking, we now had a river on our right across which lay Afghanistan. Thoughts of the Taliban and drug smuggling ran through our minds. This was further endorsed by signs warning of mines along the route, between the road and the river, which was the border. Be very careful where you stop for a pee!

Then came our first major obstacle, a wide river bed lay ahead, together with the remnants of a bridge to the right that had either collapsed or been blown up. As we rode across the first side, it was OK. Deep gravel in places made the bike squirm around, but a bit of aggression got the bikes over to the far side. Here the river waited for us, so we now had loose deep gravel, small boulders and the swollen red river waters. I had made the mistake of stopping and walking back to check if Julia was OK. When I returned to my bike and tried to pull away in the river, it just drove itself deep into the river bed. I dismounted and the bike stayed upright on its own. So it was down to walking the bike across. With good revs and a slip of the clutch, both bikes were man handled to the other side of the river.

We caught our breaths and carried on. There wasn’t too much daylight left and we still had a way to go. Barely tens miles up the road and there was another river. This time wider, deeper and with a forceful current. The initial approach was the same as the previous river, across tennis ball sized gravel, mixed with sand. Some small children waved at us to go to the part of the raging river where 4WD vehicles were crossing. We parked the bikes to the side of the track to allow a Land Cruiser through. This way we could watch the line he took and see how deep it was. After all if he had trouble, we had two hopes. . . . . . The Land Cruiser stopped to have a look and picked his line. He smiled at us and set off. He took a diagonal line so the current would help to move the vehicle, slipped and bumped his way over some large rocks, with water filling his wheel arches, as he slowly moved to the other side of the river. By now there were four 4WD vehicles lined up to cross the river and once they had all got across, they were all out waiting to watch the bikes come across.

They all had their own idea of which line we should follow and shouted from the far bank. This was probably the most entertainment they would have for a while – two westerners trying to get their motorcycles across the river. I lined my GS up and then went for it. The first part had the strongest currents and the largest rocks. As the bike entered the deep water, the current instantly caught the bike and moved it off the intended line and in doing so caused me to catch a large rock downstream. Luckily for me another even larger rock hit the pannier and held the bike upright. I was now on the wrong side of the bike, down stream. I remounted, hit full revs and focused on the far side, heading off again. The bike squirmed and bucked as it hit small rocks and slipped in the gravel bed, all the time the locals cheering us on. I was out, drenched and even my seal skin socks were full of water due to the depth.

Julia was on the other side waiting her turn, wide eyed, she had watched as I was almost swept away. I waded back across and with extra help we encouraged her to go for it. With a person either side of her bike, we shouted to her, “keep the revs up, look ahead, keep moving, keep moving”. Again the GS bucked and leapt its way across the river, crunching rocks as it went. Finally we were both across to the delight of all the locals and especially seeing Julia, a woman riding such a large bike.

It was dark when we finally rode into town and searched out a homestay. In these remote areas of Central Asia, there are very few hostels and hotels outside the main towns and locals offer part of their homes to travellers. The homestay is usually basic, sometimes with a bed or matting on the floor, an outside squat loo and if you arrive early enough they can knock you up some grub.

We slept well that night and woke to a bright sunny morning. Locals told us there were no more rivers ahead, but as we filled our bikes with petrol from buckets in the local garage a car coming from the direction we headed told us the road ahead was closed due to a landslide. We couldn’t go back either. It had rained so much in the night that the rivers we had crossed the day before were now impassable. We decided to go ahead and have a look at the landslide. Ten miles up the road and there it was. It looked like a whole torrent of water had rushed down a small gully bringing with it half the hill side. Locals were camped out either side as an old grader slowly cleared the road – it was going to be a long day!

As we waited I killed some time giving local kids rides on the back of my bike to the amusement of everyone except the school teacher. After five hours, we were at last riding heading to Khorog.

In Khorog, we found ourselves a small hotel run by an Indian family. The extra treat was the Indian restaurant, and as we tucked into curry and beer, we texted our friend, Mark Hamilton, who was somewhere in town. Mark had flown his bike, a BMW R1150GSA into Bishkeck and had travelled down to meet us and continue into China. After our second round of chicken tikka masala, Mark appeared, but he was bikeless! He told us about the high mountain passes in Kyrgyzstan that were all snowed in and, after attempting to cross using a combination of his best motorcycling with skiing, was beaten back. He had to leave his bike in the city of Osh, where we would collect it on our way through. In ten days time, we were due to try and cross the very same passes and just hoped that some of the snow and ice would have gone by the time we reached them.

After the local police checked that our GBAO permits were valid, we set off for the remote Wakhan Valley. The rough dirt road running the valley is separated from Afghanistan by a small river, in places only 20m wide. The valley is part of the ancient Silk Road and in the 13th century was travelled by Marco Polo, with mule power rather than horse power. The route runs past many side valleys that on the wonderfully clear day we had, gave great views of the 7000m peaks into the Hindu Kush, marking the border with Pakistan. Due to its location, the road had many military check points and this slowed the day as we had to register each time and have our permits checked.

After another overnight at a village homestay, we took a side excursion to visit one of the most impressive of all the ruined fortresses, the 13th century Yamchun Fort. To get close to the fort required a five mile ride up steep gravel switch backs and as we climbed over 500m from the main road along narrow tracks, it was not for anyone who suffered from vertigo. Once at the top not only was the fort an amazing view, but the breath taking sights of the high peaks across into Afghanistan and Pakistan made for a spectacular lunch stop.

Rejoining the Tarmac of the main M41 Pamir Highway made for some relief and helped move us north towards the border lands with Kyrgyzstan. An overnight stay in the Mad Max frontier town of Murghab was the base for an early start to the Kyrgyz border and another entanglement with bureaucracy, but more so, the road. With Tajik exit procedures complete, it was only a few hundred meters that was the difference between easy riding and deep snow with a couple of narrow rutted lines to follow. A local car was already off the road buried deep into the snow. We stuck our bikes into the ruts and with feet skiing along the top of the ruts, we set off uphill. Every so often the bikes would get stuck and the rear wheel would spin and dig itself deeper into the slush. With no grip, we had to get off and walk the bikes out. All this at over 4000m, this was not the place for physical activity, as our lungs burnt, gulping in the thin air.

We finally reached the Kyrgyz border post and with formalities complete, rode into the 18th country of the trip. Our first experiences of this new land, were still one of frozen high passes. As we rode through villages that seemed to be built in muddy fields, another sprinkle of snow fell and we wondered if we were ever to ride in warm climates again! The next pass was just over 3500m and the ride up was going well. The road was clear and a few vehicles chugged up and down. It all changed at the top when the effect of the wind chill flowing over the road turned it to nothing more than an ice rink. Julia was the first to go down as the bike slithered sideways, crashing to the ground. So we took the decision to again walk the bikes down a few hairpins to the unfrozen mud. But I had barely covered 100m when I could hardly stand and the bike went sliding away out of my hands and there was another sickening crunch. Without enough grip to barely stay on two feet, picking up the bike was only possible with the help of Mark, who had skated down to reach me!

The bikes, as always, are tough. With no real damage done to them (or us), we headed north east. Kyrgyzstan was a welcome relief in terms of police control. It lacked the lolly pop waving police or military checkpoints and it made for more fluid riding. We collected Mark’s bike from Osh and then there were three GS bikes heading east to the Chinese border. Our final night was spent camping at an ancient Silk Road caravanserai, just 60 miles short of the frontier.

The Torugurt Pass sits 3752 metres and sees very few foreign vehicles and even less motorcycles. It had taken months of preparation and paper work to even allow us access to this remote border post. We finally stood next to our bikes at the Chinese entry point. The temperature was reading minus one, it had started to snow (again) and the mud on our tyres had frozen. We were in limbo as our Chinese guide was not there and until he arrived, we could not carry on. Two hours later, he appeared in their 4WD. We quickly shook hands and left Central Asia behind.

Our Silk Ride entered its final section, but with the joy of entering China, we still had no certainty about the route we would follow and whether we could take the bikes to Tibet. The wheels turn slowly in Beijing, and far slower than our bikes even when riding in snow, so we would have to sit it out and wait in Kashgar, a crazy place, the centre of the Silk Road and a cultural melting pot.

Would we be continuing over the roof of the world or would it be the central deserts?

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* MSL August 2009 - Issue no. 587

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