Issue link: https://bluemagazine.uberflip.com/i/25065
- Cadillac Summit By 5:30AM, after the coldest night of my life on a summit in the Pamir mountains, I can't just sit and freeze to death. I tell Hamrakul, my Tajik travel companion, that I'm going to walk over the pass and down to the next village some 20 kilometers distant. No one was coming for us and it really doesn't matter if you freeze in a car or fall down the edge of the precipice that runs along the side of the road. Hamrakul had lost the feeling in his feet and hands and thinks it's a fine idea. So we bid our driver adieu and crunch up the mountainside until we see the faint dull dawn begin. In the dim light the white mountains glow a deep blue. The sharp wind and piercing cold is replaced by an eerie quiet disturbed only by the crunching of our boots on the fresh snow. Soon we are at the top �nd surprised to find a brand new emerald green Cadillac Seville among the dozen or so abandoned trucks and cars. Their occupants are inside a destroyed weather station with a small curl of gray smoke coming from the chimney. The building is too full of people to even enter. The drivers inside are waiting for the sun to come up since it was more dangerous to attempt the descent of the pass on the ice than the ascent. Even walking is lethal. As we crest the summit and begin walking down I slip and fall flat on my ass. As I struggle to get up I begin to slide off the road. Sheet ice covers the road and there is a small edge of dirt before the cliff. After falling a few times I learn to slowly put my foot down and measure my next step. As we gingerly walk down, the sun glances off the tops of the massive crags. Later, when we hit our first patch of sun, it is like being recharged. For the first time there is heat. As the light intensifies we can see the village below. It looked about ten minutes straight down by parachute or hang glider but it is miles as we walk back and forth along the steep switchbacks. Finally we hitch a ride with a potato truck and bask in the strong mountain sun as the truck picks and slides its way down the mountain. In the village we order soup, bread and tea at a chaikhana (a local teahouse). The villagers have never met a Westerner and slaughter a large sheep in my honor. They invite me to watch. I am not a fan of watching people's or animals' last moments but I politely sit there as the confused animal sees its lifeblood squirt out. Long after its blood had drained, it continues to breathe and then suddenly its brain starves of oxygen. Its eyes glaze over and its life stops. I wasn't really that hungry anyway. After we warm up and feed ourselves, our driver shows up. The car sounds oddly quiet. It is. He has coasted down the entire mountain after getting a truck to push him to the top. After rebuilding his carburetor at the side of the road we are off to Dushanbe. Such is travel in Central Asia. Dushanbe Without a Reservation I finally arrive at the Hotel Tajikistan and they ask if I have a reservation. Now Dushanbe may not be crawling with tourists but the entire fifth floor of the hotel is full of Russian army, police, spooks, civilians and special forces officers. The striped T-shirts of the Spetznatz seem to be prevalent. They don't smile or acknowledge me. In fact, they go out of their way to be rude when I try to strike up a conversation. The hotel reminds me that I have to check in with the police. I smile and assure them that is the first thing on my agenda. Instead I wander over to the Afghan embassy. After this trip I need to get to Afghanistan to meet with Shah Ahmed Massoud, the mythical "Lion of the Panjshir" of the embattled Northern Alliance. I have been carrying four bars of Toblerone chocolate with me to give to him as a gift and it took an act of great will power not to dig into them when I was stranded on the mountain. I walk up to the gates and ask if the ambassador is there. The guard shoos me away and does the crossed arms symbol for closed. A young boy playing in the driveway overhears me and says sure the ambassador is there. From across the street trot two other men. One is the military attache and they are genuinely pleased to see me. They ask if I know Pierre Juvenal, a well-known reporter and filmmaker who has been covering Afghanistan for decades. They invite me in and tell me politely that no one crosses the border from Tajikistan to Afghanistan. I show my letters of introduction. Sorry, no one. Next stop the Aga Khan Foundation. I had hoped that they would take me out in to the remote areas of Gorno Badakshan where they single-handedly support thousands of Pamiri Ismaelis. Although I have sent letters and been told they will be delighted to see me, I am blown off. The boss is in a meeting and is too busy. Call back later. Later it's the same story. Back in the hotel I squeeze into an elevator with Spetznatz officers with their silly striped sailor shirts and large bloodtype patches on their shirts: chunky Army officers and plain-clothed goons. They stink of alcohol and, even though I smile, they give that weary suspicious look and stop talking until I get out. Dushanbe: A Hotel Primer My room is 20'x20: decorated with a stained overstuffed chair that takes up too much room, a table with a large dirty glass, a chipped ashtray and a tiny TV. The bed looks like a stretcher and even has a dirty gray blanket to give it that military hospital look. There is also an ancient refrigerator, a heater, a phone, an air conditioner and a lamp. All are broken except the lamp. The colors are the 1950s made-in-China style pastels you see in retro stores these days. Out on my balcony I have a stunning view of a public toilet, a trash fire and a panorama of nondescript box buildings that disappear into the haze. Dushanbe's wide streets and '50s-style buildings are classic post-Soviet retro. During the Soviet era there were large shops that specialized in one product-meat, shoes, dresses. But the Tajiks are quite happy to go back to what works for them and not what is supposed to work. Now the stores are empty and people prefer to do their shopping in outdoor markets. Everything is made from massive aluminum castings: fences, railings, signs, letters, cornices, decorations, statues and giant letters that crown the boxy nondescript government buildings. Not being able to read Russian makes Dushanbe feel Orwellian since it probably doesn't really matter what the slogans and banners say. They are as false now as they were before 1991. I don't want to be on the streets because I am not supposed to be here. Not just because I don't have a visa, but because some people kidnap and shoot foreigners here. So I check out the hotel disco. A beer costs 90 cents. The disco is really just two alternating flood lights in a pitch black bar, one red and one green. Both are spastically unrelated to the beat of the music. There are no people, there is no 59