The Wakhan Corridor seems to begin in earnest after leaving the village of Qazideh. The gravel track that serves as a road mirrors each twist and turn of the Oxus and as the evening draws on, houses on the Tajik border twinkle with light. Afghanistan is cloaked in darkness.
Every few miles the landscape of the corridor changes, often dramatically. The whim of the rives dictates where is fertile and where is barren, and where rocks, sand and morrain fall. We drove through boulder-strewn plains, rocky riverbeds interlaced with streams, dustbowls, and patchworks of lush, irrigated fields. Even in a 4x4 we could move at little more than walking pace and so there was ample time to take in the views.
September is harvest time in the Wakhan. The women's shawls and dresses are a passionate riot of colour against the golden grain and burnt brown stubble in the fields. In the distance, framing each scene, are barren grey slopes with scattered snow tips: the peaks of the Afghan Pamir.
Driving the so-called road is draining; the surface is incredibly poor and often non-existent. In the course of a morning we waded through two rivers, checking their depths and holding our breath that the water would not flood the car or carry us away downstream. In one area, a short distance past Qala e Panj, a torrent of water has swept away the road entirely and you must pay a $15-20 toll (a truly exhorbitant sum, especially by local standards) to a local farmer to cross his deeply rutted field. Once out of the mud you must then take your chances on the steep gravel ramp hacked in to the base of a decidedly unstable cliff.
Progress along the corridor is slow: 10mph is a respectable pace for the few people passing this way. You are unlikely to see another vehicle from one day to the next: the other road users come by donkey or on foot.
We stopped for lunch in an idyllic location close to the confluence of the Panj and Wakhan rivers. The valley there is wide and flat. Animals grazed on the grass and I ate my own weight in pistachio nuts whilst soaking up the sense of serenity.
Every few miles the landscape of the corridor changes, often dramatically. The whim of the rives dictates where is fertile and where is barren, and where rocks, sand and morrain fall. We drove through boulder-strewn plains, rocky riverbeds interlaced with streams, dustbowls, and patchworks of lush, irrigated fields. Even in a 4x4 we could move at little more than walking pace and so there was ample time to take in the views.
September is harvest time in the Wakhan. The women's shawls and dresses are a passionate riot of colour against the golden grain and burnt brown stubble in the fields. In the distance, framing each scene, are barren grey slopes with scattered snow tips: the peaks of the Afghan Pamir.
Driving the so-called road is draining; the surface is incredibly poor and often non-existent. In the course of a morning we waded through two rivers, checking their depths and holding our breath that the water would not flood the car or carry us away downstream. In one area, a short distance past Qala e Panj, a torrent of water has swept away the road entirely and you must pay a $15-20 toll (a truly exhorbitant sum, especially by local standards) to a local farmer to cross his deeply rutted field. Once out of the mud you must then take your chances on the steep gravel ramp hacked in to the base of a decidedly unstable cliff.
Progress along the corridor is slow: 10mph is a respectable pace for the few people passing this way. You are unlikely to see another vehicle from one day to the next: the other road users come by donkey or on foot.
We stopped for lunch in an idyllic location close to the confluence of the Panj and Wakhan rivers. The valley there is wide and flat. Animals grazed on the grass and I ate my own weight in pistachio nuts whilst soaking up the sense of serenity.
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