July 27 – Aug 2
“Call me. No Tajikistan.” was the brief and direct message I saw when I turned on my phone for the first time in nearly 1 week, a curious note from my brother Bobby back in the US. I had just come down from the mountains to a tiny village and was sitting in the living room of a local home stay. Perplexed by this comment, I shrugged it off and then proceeded to take this rare opportunity of internet to catch up on some news. The first story that I saw was one of 7 cyclists, including 2 from the US and 1 from Switzerland, who were run over and attacked in Tajikistan along the Pamir Highway 2 days prior. Only 3 survived. ISIS was claiming responsibility for the attack. I sat, contemplatively stoic, overcome with emotion. My exuberant high was promptly ripped out of the clouds as my thoughts went deliberately down a rabbit hole. This was the closest that I come to such an act of terror. I was not in the same country, however, last week, we had talked about traveling to Tajikistan, and cycling that very stretch of the country. At the last moment, we decided to head north due to logistical issues and time limitations. The Pamir Highway is well known and traveled among the circuit of long distance bikepackers, offering gargantuan views of the Pamir mountain range, and surreal feelings of being “out there”. The region has been deemed no more unstable or dangerous than the area of Kyrgyzstan that we were currently pedaling through. It should have been like going to Canada.
Paralyzing feelings of sadness flooded over me, tempered by confusion, anger, and disbelief. Normally one thinks of “safety in numbers.” They were 7 cyclists. Including my 2 Swiss friends, we were 3. I’m still trying to come to grips with this horrific act and realistically, the truth may never be known. One of the American’s who was killed, loftily mused in his blog about the kindness that he had experienced from people all over the world, feelings that people are genuinely good and caring – sentiments that have mirrored my own through all of my travels.
I have stopped short of thinking…this could have been me – but in reality, it could have been…or any of my friends and other wanderers who I have met over the past two years – people anxiously, optimistically exploring this fascinating world on two wheels. So, what do we as travelers do when we hear something like this? Do we stop traveling, wandering this beautiful planet that we are all mesmerized by? Will I now, into the foreseeable future, constantly be looking over my shoulder with each approaching car? What do we do in the face of terror? My mind is swiftly transported to other acts of terror that occurred back in the US, attempting to draw a parallel or find some rationalization. How long did it take parents around the US, after the Sandyhook elementary shooting, to feel a little more comfortable in letting their kids go back to school, knowing they will never be as comfortable again? What about after the Aurora, Colorado movie theater shooting? The nightclub in Miami? My intent is not to equate any of these horrific acts to this one in Tajikistan because they are all unique, but rather my mind is spinning in a million different directions and I’m just trying to make sense of it, as if that’s possible at all.
Three days prior, we were slowly clawing our way through an expansive valley, into a very ominous and imminent storm. We were tired, yet still excited to see what lay over the next mountain pass. The plan was to cross this 12,000 foot pass late that afternoon, but the storm that was mounting had a bulls-eye on our chests and thus had other ideas of our progress. We could see it coming from several miles away so we frantically dug into our bags for gore-tex just as the first sheet of rain came darting in, sideways. I distinctly remembered seeing a dried up drainage culvert about 500 yards back so we took advantage of the ferocious tail wind and retreated back to the only visible haven for several miles. While it provided shelter from the rain, the wind found a way to wrap itself inside the concrete tunnel that we were all huddled in, slowly freezing us to the core. Brigitte spotted smoke billowing across the road behind a hill. We knew it must be a local home so we made a break for it. The family living there was already hunkered down inside, as I’m sure they have become quite accustomed to these freak storms. We knocked on the door and were immediately rushed inside. The mother, father, and 4 children anxiously pulled out the table in the small concrete house, began boiling water for tea, and laid out bread with fresh raspberry jam and cream. The youngest daughter who was maybe 6, looked over at me as she was playfully wiggling a loose front tooth, and immediately started to giggle, the way only the innocence of a child could giggle. I was once again at ease. This was not a tourist guest house and this family was not looking to make any money. In fact, I’m not sure if they had ever invited foreigners into their home before. But it didn’t matter. They saw three travelers who were cold and wet so they did what I would hope any human would do – opened up the door and invited us in – without any fear. Wind gusts angrily rattled the single pane glass windows as we all gathered on the sofa and watched the Smurf movie, dubbed in Russian, on their 12” television. At one point I’m nearly certain I saw a chicken, or maybe a old lady on a broomstick, go flying by the window outside.
I have been in Kyrgyzstan for approaching 4 weeks. Landing in each new country is always a shock to the senses. In places like Kyrgyzstan, I can’t read, can’t speak, don’t know what the food is like; the culture is different and of course I have to do the math to understand the money. But gradually, I realize that it’s just a sliding scale of the same; then I recalibrate, and find my groove. It’s all based on the same human currency called kindness – the same that the American in Tajikistan referred to. This kindness that I have experienced in Kyrgyzstan has not been overt like in India and Nepal. I had to go looking for it. However, it is still here, and once I found it, it has shone brightly. This is why we travel. This is why we have come. To experience, to share, to give and receive. To make the world a smaller place, free us from that closet full of fear that is so embedded in us, and say fuck you to those who seek to drive us apart and have us feel anything less.
One more is a sentiment that I have been embracing for the better part of 3 years now. It has to do with the premise that time is finite. Opportunities are limited. It’s easy when you know something is your last so you should savor it because…it is your last. It’s only when things happen that are unexpected do you say “If only I had one more…” One more has a more optimistic feel than last one, giving us the feeling that perhaps we have some semblance of control. Like most, especially those of us in our now 40’s or beyond, I have experienced losses that I have had to look back on with the curious despondence of, if I only had one more…
If I know that I have but one more mountain pass, one more talk with a friend, dance with a partner, embrace from a loved one – how would I change the way I experience that moment? Would I go slower? Would I talk nicer? Would I be more patient? Would I smile more, laugh more, without reservation? If I accept this truth – that every experience is a gift and opportunities are limited, living in the now of each moment, maybe I can live more deeply and not rely on the mental scarcity of one more but rather embed this into my normal life.
Over the past 2 years, I was traveling more open ended. There was no fixed ending, no hard stop, no flight to catch. I was truly living with the gift of time. There was no concept of last one. However, I have a flight booked out of Bishkek in a few days so the finite concept of time here is very real. Starting out this morning, I was acutely aware that there was but one more mountain pass, one more set of switch backs left in my time in Kyrgyzstan, with these 2 great friends. One more night of camping. One more opportunity to exhilaratingly, yet needlessly bathe in the ice cold rushing snow melt of a river before making one more pasta dinner on my camp stove and climbing into my sleeping bag, one more time with the sound of horses and goats frolicking around my tent – and I planned to relish in each moment.
It was only 3 o’clock. We could have definitely made more distance up the pass that day, whereby shortening the effort the next day, but why? Instead, we found the last bit of lush green carpet, tucked into the elbow crease of the mountain switch back at the base of the climb, nestled along the omnipresent gushing river. I laid on my back on the cushion of a pillow of green clover and just veered peacefully up at the crystal blue sky, not focused on anything but rather just allowing my gaze to drift wherever. I reminded myself: “This is your one more. Just because you’re tired or stressed does not give you permission to rush through this. Slow down. Be here now. You’ll miss this when its gone.”
I awoke the next morning and played “Here Come the Sun” by the Beatles outside of the Swiss tent, a song that we have sung aloud together most of the mornings of most of the months that we have traveled together, a symbolic anthem to start each day. “Here comes the sun…” I sang. Inside their tent, I could hear Ivo and Brigitte chuckling, then responding, “Sun, sun, sun, here it comes…”
On the way up the pass that morning, I stopped frequently, not because I was winded, but rather because I wanted to drink in each moment; take dozens of mental photographs to keep with me and pull out whenever I needed beauty; and keep me forever optimistic that I should get the opportunity to do one more trip with my Swiss friends. I climbed slower; descended even slower than I climbed, because I didn’t want to miss a single frame. As we dragged our bikes the file 2 miles over a scree field of loose shale, each step potentially initiating a rock slide on the switch back below, we crested the summit of the 12k Kegeti Pass just before noon. Looking behind me, I could see the next storm, ominously chasing us over the saddle. We hastily suited up in gore-tex, bracing for the next lashing…but it never came. Mother nature winked at us and for about 20 minutes, the clouds somehow got hung up on the peaks allowing the sun to peek out. Instead of frantically scurrying down the other side of the pass, effectively finishing our journey in haste, we were able to have lunch at the summit. Thunder crashed all around, yet no storms fell upon us. In those moments, time stood still and everything was right.
From the summit, it was nearly 60 blissful miles of dirt track, gently descending down 9000 feet, back to Bishkek – a feeling so unreal – like I was pedaling off the end of the earth. As I looked back in the distance, I could somewhat make out the snowcapped peaks peering over the rolling green hills, euphoria still plastered on my face. I just hope that I get one more chance to ride bikes with these guys again.
As a result of my experiences, quite simply, I’ve learned that traveling makes you less of an asshole. I’m sure of it. Each country that I see, each person that I meet shows me the world through a new lens. Going to far away places where I don’t speak the language, trusting that the people I meet along the way who do not speak my language, will do me no harm. Knowing that the best laid plans sometimes blow up into an infuriating mess but having the patience and resolve to smile, roll with it, and see what beautiful masterpiece evolves from the ashes of the initial perceived disaster. Plans are great, but you cannot control the outcome, so forego these insecure and lofty ambitions of false control. Life is unscripted, and even though you may have a map, the true adventure happens at the intersections of fear and control. So loosen your grip and resign yourself to what might be. Say yes when opportunities arise and step through the doors when they open. Live in the moment and be ready to take advantage if life lobs you one more.
Digging out the gore-tex for the next storm
Coming over Kegeti Pass
Slowly making my way up Kegeti Pass
Kegeti Pass
Enjoying lunch at the summit
A rare bit of sun on the pass
Before the next storm rolled in
Brigitte nearing the summit
Smiles like this…
Shy daughter of the kind family that invited us inside
I should have traded him hats
All convenience shops stock 2 things. Vodka and noodles. We were getting noodles
Who you calling a turkey, turkey?
A woman getting the special sauce to make kumis, a drink from fermented mare’s milk
Volumes of descriptive adjectives are insufficient for me to even begin to try to express the depth and feelings of my thoughts of the writings and photographs of the writer ..