Chapter 4
The commitment took immediate effect the very next day, when we packed our backpack in hangover and had a lengthy late lunch at a local restaurant, eating Osh and Kebabs, over a semi-cynical joke on dating girls shared by Yuri, who opened up ardently after a hearty meal and a glass of fresh sherbet juice. Later on the conversation moved on to Varzob Bazaar where a couple of beers were consumed before we hit the road heading north.
The first car pulled over beside us was occupied by three young Tajik lads, who let the blasting music of their choice acoustically humping the vehicle. They warmly greeted us when we crammed ourselves into the backseats, and not without much curiosity asked our background and relationship. In reply, as Yuri and I already agreed on for the convenience of travelling together, we naturally posed as a couple who got to known each other at university in Netherland where we both studied. The story of us as a couple were told through out our trip again and again, with a few more embellishment each time. Yuri was pretty happy to brush up his Russian by repeating the story whenever we were asked, while I was contented to leave the conversation with the guys since none of the questions were addressed directly to me, as one could understand in a Muslim culture the female were generally overlooked and shadowed by guys, I redirect my attention to the breath-taking view outside of the car: it was late spring, snow dwelling at the top of mountains lost last winter’s prowess and started to melt as temperature arising day by day, stealthily seeping and conglomerating as gushing muddled torrents into Varzob river, which winded through the south and north Varzob valley. Vegetation nourished by amiable weather and adequate precipitation at the lower altitude of valley bore the presence of affluence, unruly and abundantly thriving amidst the wildness. After two years living in an artificial city (Singapore) whose whole supports are lavishing capital, and overbearing laws, rules and regulations, a city of consumerism, extravagant landmark buildings, and plastic trees reaching 100meters wired up by neon lights, I was exultant now by each sight of a deserted pebble, an anonymous flower, a donkey greasing by the road…
The ride lasted less than half hour before those Tajik young lads departed us at a fork, while our interests of direction differed. We carried on with our backpacks, walking along the M34 high way for a while, picking up a cheap bottle of vodka , a carton of tomato juice and some tajik bread at a small shop besides the road. When we hailed a Russian truck stop, it was already getting dark. The driver was a middle aged northern Tajik whose face, like most middle/lower class tajik, was toughened with years of hardship. He let us sit at the co-driver seats as the back of truck was occupied with commodities, mostly beverages from the company he was working at. we routinely exchanged our background stories, using gestures, body languages, and a Russian phrase book that made the simplest conversation in Russian with Tajiks possible. The truck managed to manoeuvre through the darkness quite smoothly, not much of traffic was encountered at night. We stopped for a while at a small cabin served as a local farmer’s house-slash- a stop-over restaurant for drivers and passengers passing by the highway. Stewed beef and potato served with Tajik bread and Chai were offered on the dinner table, which was more or less like a bed where every guest sat around the food with leg crossed. The truck driver invited us to dine with him, who insisted with such sincerity and heartfelt kindness that we could hardly reject.
Half an hour later, we hit the road again with the same truck. With a contented stomach, after the buzzing of a long day, I started to doze off at my seat until Yuri woke me up suddenly, announcing that we were about to cross Anzob Tunnel, the infamous 5 Km long tunnel locally known as ‘the Tunnel of Death’ for its deteriorated road condition and peril of year-round avalanches. The driver popped some Naswar , the central Asian snuff, under his tongue, to keep him awake and alarm during night drive. The tunnel certainly lived up to its notorious reputation. The truck was trudging through puddles after puddles of water the moment we entered into the tunnel. Water was still drooping in from jagged rocks both from the ceiling and sides of the tunnel. Accumulated black fumes and exhausts from cars had been hovering inside the tunnel due to the lack of appropriate ventilation, obscuring the vision even with the headlights on. The side windows of our truck were shut down dead in fear of carbon monoxide poisoning. The driver gave us a genuine apologetic smile every time the truck hit a notched rock or slumped unexpectedly into a puddle, splashing water furiously besides the vehicle , and bumped us few inches up from our seats. The dreadful journey continued for about forty minutes before the truck finally maneuvered itself through the exit. The windows were able to roll down, I stuck my head out , started to engulf the cool, fresh mountain air into my lungs. The temperature had dropped almost to freezing point at night in this mountain region with an altitude as high as over 3000 meters. Tank-sized icebergs were deserted beside the road, an ominous remnant of previous avalanches.
The truck continued trotting uphill for a short while before it made a turn, meandering downwards to the foot of the mountain, where the driver took a lodge to stay over the night. Yuri and I kindly declined the driver’s offer to stay at the motel, and made the decision to camp outside.
Stand Correctly 