Issue link: https://bluemagazine.uberflip.com/i/25062
e Russians now. are nosta wo planes flew, there was petrol for the cars and there were jobs. Now ... Now there is nothing. Then he laughs loudly, "The Russians taught us how to drink!" Another toast and we are on to our third bottle. I am starting to think that the Tajiks miss the Russians. I ask how I can get to Dushanbe. There are no planes, trains, buses or regular transport. There is very little fuel and what is available is sold in glass jars at the side of the road. The only way to get to Dushanbe is to find a car and negotiate. If you wait down by where the buses are maybe you can find some other people who want to go. Local people pay about US$60 per car so it depends on how many people you can stuff inside. That's if you can find a driver who wants to make the treacherous trip and anyone else who wants to go. "Treacherous?" I ask. Do I mean the broken bridges or the corrupt border guards? It seems there are 10 military road blocks, washed out roads, landsl ides, smashed wooden bridges and a 3,700-meter-high mountain pass between me and Dushanbe. A measure of the difficulty is made clear when Hamrakul tells me that it is so dangerous that he visited his cousin in Dushanbe in six years. His cousin fought in and around Dushanbe and would tell him how the Russian tanks were positioned in ��trႀ䊉AIK-4 ammunition was worth two cases of vodka. Compared to where I am going this is Shrangi-La. I offer to pay for Hamrakul's passage to Dushanbe and his return if he will accompany me and tell me more about Tajikistan. He says he must ask his wife and will tell me in the morning. If it does not rain tonight, maybe the pass will be open. WHITE DAWN The next morning it hasn't rained, it has snowed. The hills and streets are dusted with a fresh thick layer of white frosting hiding all the brown mud and making it seem like Christmas. We have a breakfast of milk soup (grease, milk and walnuts with chunks of bread). Later we go outside and the snow is melting and the mud is thicker and wetter. Just past the market is where the taxis hang out. They're not really taxis; many are rented out to young men who try to make a few dollars driving people back from the market. One driver thinks he can get over the pass. He has a Moskvitch essentially a very poorly made copy of the poorly made Lada that is a poorly made copy of the ancient Fiat 128. Just from the outside I can tell that this car is on its last legs. I see a more sturdy Yugo and suggest taking that. Hamrakul tells me that you must take the next car in line. These drivers have been here for days. In fact, there is a woman with two small children who has been sitting and sleeping in our car for two days, waiting to share a ride with someone to Dushanbe. The driver of vehicle, in a minor sales flourish, opens the trunk and holds up a handful of wire and chainsaw chain. Oh, we have chains, no problem. Let's go. Apparently it is not even his car as just before we leave the owner explains 4 4 how to use a bicycle pump to fill up the carburetor float bowl. I sit up front behind the broken windshield (broken in seven places I note carefully in my diary) and wait while the driver bangs and kicks the doors open to let my new road pals in. He loads up on jars and plastic bottles of petrol for 250 Tajik Rubles a liter and we are off, wobbling and banging down the road. It is myself, Hamrakul, the woman and her two small children of indeterminate sex bundled like small Eskimo dolls. THE ROAD TO DUSHANBE The road is the only link to Dushanbe and it is used by farmers to move goods from the fertile north down to the markets in the war-torn south. Dushanbe means the valley between the government and the rebels. They would fire at one side for a while and then turn thei turrets to fire at the other side if things got slow. Russian soldiers sold their rifles for one case of vodka. A box Monday, the date of the weekly market that made it famous. We have only about 260 kilometers to cover but it is supposed to take us the good part of the day or maybe more. Our fi rst checkpoint is an education. The soldier stares at my passport and I can't figure out why he is staring so long. It dawns on me that he can only read Cyri llic. So I brazenly point to my Uzbek visa and tell him that it is my Tajik visa. He confers with his superior. They both stare at it. They slowly hand it to the driver and ask him what it says. He says don't worry and slips them something. They smile and wave us on. This scenario is repeated except now the driver says, "Let me handle it or we will be here for days." From that point on, I never even pull my passport out: our passage is confirmed with a handshake and a few rubles. Along the way I get to see life in Tajikistan. The people of Tajikistan have that hard squint and painful stoop that comes from working in the fields too long. Life now is subsistence. Even the dogs look tough and hard. There are big dogs with their ears cut off to prevent the wolves from ripping them off. Sheepherders, soldiers, policemen and pink-cheeked stocky women all stare and wonder why I am here. There is very little that could be described as exotic, mostly it's hard, tough and poor. I get a chance to take pictures and meet the people more than I really want to because about every 20 minutes our car conks out and the driver must attach the bicycle pump to the gas line to move the gas up into the carburetor. It gives me a chance to stretch my legs and look around. There is not much here. People will sit on the side of the road just to sell four or five apples. Dusty stores are packed with up to a dozen brands of cheap vodka and a few brands of cigarettes but not much else. Cigarettes are the equivalent of about 10-20 cents a pack. We pass through spectacular scenery as we cross back and forth over the river gorge that will take us up into the mountains. Landslides are a common occurrence and the road is broken up, bent and rebuilt on a regular basis. It is getting colder and colder but the