WASHING down Yak soup with some sprightly drink at the Roof of the World, barely miles from a barbed-wire Chinese border, after just having retraced the steps of Marco Polo. If this does not flutter your heart, chances are few things will.
BECKONING: Carried out some time back, it was one of the most memorable journeys of my life when I finally made it to Pamirs — Bam-e-Dunya or the Roof of the World as the locals call it — one of the remotest regions in the world. The Book of List must have been one major source to beckon me here when it mentioned Pamirs, along with Amazons, as one of the last areas of the world yet to be mapped completely; by God, this is as close to terra incognito as you get in the 21st century. On the other hand, the international press may have been the latest to implore by quoting Pamirs as a possible hideout for Osama Bin Laden. But the deepest lasting credit definitely goes to Marco Polo.
The first person to introduce the word Pamirs to the lexicon of his wide eyed Middle Ages European audience, Marco Polo had described Pamirs as one of the most difficult section of his travels — a place of such high altitudes where the climate won’t allow a blade of grass to grow or a single bird to exist. In addition, his steamy account of local girls and their ‘unbridled friendliness’ with the travellers in the general area — to and ahead — of Pamirs was perhaps the lasting catalyst. The stone was cast a long time back when aatish was, perhaps, a bit younger. I dare you, however, to read Marco Polo especially when he talks about these climes. Even seven-eight centuries later, the romance of his travels is still magnetic.
ARRIVAL: Coming back to the present, however, the journey started with a flight through Pamirs. Yes, this is not a misprint; the Russian 18 seater propeller driven Antonov 29 plane takes you, for a considerable part, right through Pamirs (not over them), the shadow of surrounding mountains often blocking your view of the sun. At times, the plane’s tips are barely meters from the mountains on both sides. Definitely not a trip for the faint hearted! No wonder this was the only aerial route, in the erstwhile Soviet Empire, where pilots used to be given a Danger Allowance for the trip!
ENCHANTMENT: The one hour journey from Dushanbe, the capital of Tajikistan, gets you to Khorog, the capital of the remote and exotic autonomous province of Badakhshan. Had it not been for the Soviet style constructions, this place and its environs would have been a vision of Shangri La. Even now its locale along Afghanistan, separated by the River Pyunj which graduates ahead into the fabled River Amu (Oxus) is stunning enough. The Grecian features of the locals are pointedly riveting, with their sharp proud noses directing towards the blood of the Greek soldiers who obviously had a good time in the area twenty-five centuries or so back. Thus, all the time you run into a countenance which makes you repeat that ultimate cry — Lord give me chastity, but not yet!
For the historically inclined, it may be interesting to note that Badakshan is the province where Babur appointed Humayun as a governor — the purpose may have been both to apprentice the latter for the reins of empire and second, perhaps equally importantly, to retain a linkage with Central Asia, which Babur and his clan always considered as their family ground. However, this is another long interesting tale for some other time.
CAPTIVATION: From Khorog, which itself is in Pamirs, I took a trip to Murghab, the heartland of Pamirs, in my desire to retrace the steps of Marco Polo. The landscape on the way is out of this world — even Martian in its remote, bizarre character. Even when travelling in a modern 4 by 4, at the speed of 80, hours pass before you come across a person. You have to imagine the scene eight centuries ago when Marco Polo would have passed through this barren, unpopulated land.
The mountains, especially when you reach the plateau at 4000m or so achieve a mysterious, timeless character. This is then the eerie landscape that gives rise to images of devs, djinns and fairies; this is where you think that afreet may emerge from behind any of these looming craggy peaks and this is the sort of secluded and inaccessible terrain which gave rise to the legend of Prester John, the mythical Christian King in the depths of Central Asia, to whose imaginary court the Pope of Rome would one day send emissarries!
TRANSPORTATION: The journey, moreover, takes you over the Pamir Highway — the 700km roller coaster of a highway from Osh in Kyrgyzstan to Khorog in Tajikistan which, in the 1930s, took the efforts of the best Soviet engineers to be constructed. A trek along this highway, like Pacific 101 for highways and Trans-Siberian or Patagonian Express for railways, is one of the world’s most memorable journeys; however, in the spectacular vistas that it offers, there is perhaps no other rival. The side trip to the Northern edge of Wakhan Corridor was equally memorable, if not for the incredible panoramas, for being one of the focal points of what is now almost a cliche i.e. The Great Game; the Russians, surprisingly, put it much more romantically as ‘The Tournament of the Shadows’ when China, along with British and Russians, played a dangerous game of brinkmanship and one-upmanship on the roof of the world.
ENTHRALLMENT: The route, throughout, is also littered with yaks, the tough skinned cattle of this area who can survive temperatures of minus 40 degree centigrade or less, standing out in the cold during winters. For those brought up on a dose of Dastan-e-Amir Hamza in their childhood, the famous Qitaas of Amir Hamza is nothing but the local parlance for yak! This is also the place which is home to Marco Polo Sheep — named obviously after Marco Polo, now decimated to such an extent that they already have a mythical tinge attached to their name.
I had always wanted to possess a stuffed Marco Polo sheep head with its full fledged horns. And as fortune always favour the fools and the engineers who foolishly rush in where angels fear to tread, I got my desire fulfilled and am now the owner of a stuffed Marco Polo sheep head, with the curved horns long enough to be 1.5 meters. Having managed to pull a license as well, I am not wary of announcing this publicly! That I managed to get a yak-skin rug, too, can only be treated as a foot-note (pun intended).
I reached Murghab, the largest town on the Pamir Plateau, and was astounded to see a mosque nestling in the foothills of mountains in this remote place. Offered prayers there and was moved to realize what a great world religion Islam has become reaching this far fledged, previously heathen, corner of the world.
TRANSFORMATION: It is places — and experiences — like this when the concerns of the world fade away — Green Cards and Gold Cards — all worldly desires melt away in a silent cacophony of modesty and humility. It is a humanizing, humbling experience akin to placing a camel next to a mountain. You realize your place in the world and return home a chastened person. Pamirs are capable of taking you through such a re-incarnation — and, I say, all the better for it.
WASHING down Yak soup with some sprightly drink at the Roof of the World, barely miles from a barbed-wire Chinese border, after just having retraced the steps of Marco Polo. If this does not flutter your heart, chances are few things will.
