Downtown Nukus and the Dosliq Canal

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Downtown Nukus and the Dosliq Canal

Down by the water on a Saturday night, Nukus is buzzing. The Dosliq Canal brings water from the Oxus through the centre of the city. Along its bank, families promenade, eat ice creams, and watch the dancing fountains. There’s a small fairground and a colourfully lit ferris wheel nicknamed the Nukus Eye. On warm summer evenings like this, life seems easy.

Nukus has been Karakalpakstan’s capital since the early 1930s. It was just a village then, but the Oxus flooded Tortkul, the previous capital of the Karakalpak ASSR, twice in quick succession, so the Soviets decided to move the regional administration to Nukus where it would be less vulnerable. Today, Nukus is Karakalpakstan’s largest city, the political, economic, and cultural hub. There are grand white government buildings, the Savitsky Museum with its world-famous collection of Russian avant garde, universities, and plenty of well-run businesses. In the decade of so I’ve been coming to Nukus, it has grown and become wealthier: the increased number of restaurants, coffee shops, and supermarkets testifies to the fact that locals have more money in their pockets. There’s been an uptick in tourism, too.

 

Lots of people have ambitious plans for Nukus and for Karakalpakstan. President Mirziyoyev came in August to announce a ream of new projects for every sector. IFIs and development agencies have allocated huge budgets to the republic, for economic development and job creation, as well as to mitigate some of the worst environmental consequences of the shrinking of the Aral Sea. But there’s an elephant in the room: if Nukus runs out of water, all this investment will be for nothing. 

 

And although political discourse goes on and on about the shrinking of the Aral Sea, very little is said about the looming water shortages up river. But forecasts look bleak. There’s a very real risk that Nukus will run out of water within 15 years, and in the worst case scenario, maybe 10. The end of the Oxus is already getting close to Nukus, and when the Taliban complete the Kosh Tepe canal in 2028, taking a great volume of water from the river basin in northern Afghanistan, it will accelerate the river’s decline. 

 

What then? There’s only so long you can truck in drinking water. It may be viable — or politically expedient — to keep Nukus supplied for a short while, but the same can’t be said of smaller cities and villages. Karakalpakstan has a population of 2 million people. Where will they go, those 2 million climate refugees? No amount of strategic planning or money is going to avert disaster; at best we can slow it down. With little time to prepare, the government and international partners must confront the reality of what’s to come and plan accordingly so that there are homes, jobs, and opportunities for Karakalpaks elsewhere.

Hope and despair in the Lower Amudarya Biosphere Reserve

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Hope and despair in the Lower Amudarya Biosphere Reserve

The Oxus links Urgench and Nukus, still broad and impressive as it crosses the Kyzylkum, but with its water level dropping year by year. The Lower Amudarya Biosphere Reserve (LABR) is an oasis in the desert, the river bringing life to all manner of species within the tugai forest. But the future of the reserve is in jeopardy due to drought. Positive news first, though. In the 1970s the Bactrian or Bukhara deer — a close relative of the European red deer — was almost extinct. Scientists at LABR have run a hugely successful breeding programme, however, and there are now 31 of of these beautiful creatures in an enclosure, and 1,500 running wild across the park. The rangers keep a close eye on the captive deer, studying their behaviour and health, referring to them as fondly as if they were their children.

There’s a small visitor centre and site office on the edge of LABR. Inside, half a dozen sad stuffed animals poorly illustrate the richness of the local wildlife, but there are reasonably informative maps and other visual displays. Here, we met Hayrat, who studied for a PhD in biodiversity before coming to LABR a few years ago to work as a ranger. He’d be our guide within the reserve. 

Thanks to the number of deer, LABR is one of very few places along the Oxus where you’re guaranteed to see native wildlife. There are fish, birds, mammals, and reptiles along the route, but usually they are hard to spot.

Hayrat took us first to the deer enclosure, then through the forest to the riverbank. Most of the wild deer scattered into the safety of the trees when they heard the car’s engine, but curiosity got the better of one, which stood and stared back at us as we drove along the track. I stood a while at the water’s edge, thinking what an idyllic picnic spot it would be, but noticing the water seemed shallower than it did two summers ago. 

We stopped at several viewpoints and then in a less scenic but critical location: LABR’s new pumping station. With insufficient water, the forest is dying out, and can no longer support the wildlife. In a bid to delay the inevitable, the reserve’s staff have constructed two small canals, unlined, and a pumping station to lift river water a couple of metres up into the channels. They weren’t pumping the day we visited, but apparently are capable of keeping disaster at bay for now.

This is only a temporary solution, however. It’ll work as long as there is water in the Oxus to pump. But when that water is gone — and it may only be a few years until we reach that tragic point — that’ll be the end of LABR and the animals and plants living here. The deer have been brought back from the brink of extinction once; they may not be so lucky again.

Konye Urgench, with and without water

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Konye Urgench, with and without water

What happens to a city that loses its water? The answer is that it becomes deserted, particularly when it exists, climatically, in the midst of a desert. Such was the fate of Konye Urgench, once the capital of the wealthy Khwarezm empire and one of Asia’s greatest ancient cities. What remains now is an enigmatic and bewildering assortment of mausoleums and minarets thrusting from the parched lands of northern Turkmenistan; lonely sentinels frozen in time as monuments to the civilisation of Khwarezm Shahs, consigned to oblivion in the Middle Ages.

Turabek Khanym Mausoleum
Turabek Khanym Mausoleum
Turabek Khanym Mausoleum
Kutlug Timur Minaret
II Arslan Mausoleum
Dry canal which once brought water to Konya Urgench

Nothing symbolises Konye Urgench more than the Kutlug-Timur Minaret, a 62-metre brick-built tower that was once the tallest minaret in the world. Visible from a huge distance, it draws and lures you to find out what it is. In fact, that was its purpose even when it was first built back in the 11 th century, for it was not only a minaret but also a lighthouse; a beacon whose purpose was not to warn of danger but to show weary caravans the direction to safety. In modern times, riding a ship of the desert that’s more likely to be a Landcruiser than a camel, a traveller will arrive at the base of this architectural marvel to find that they have been lured by the sirens of the past. There is no thronging mosque. There are no markets.There are no places to rest your weary head. Konye Urgench is empty.In common with most other great ancient cities, Konye Urgench owed its existence and success to its geography, of which the key component was its river, the Oxus/Amu Darya. With its source in the mountains and snowfields of the Pamirs, the Oxus provided a reliable supply of water, and with water, irrigation was possible. Making the most of long hours of sun and warmth, along with the fertile silt that had accumulated for hundreds of thousands of years, crops thrived. The surplus of food that any civilisation needs was assured. Indeed, the whole surrounding area, comprised of the delta channels of the Oxus delta as it spilled its way across the lowlands towards the Aral Sea, was green and prosperous. This was the prosperous delta oasis region called Khwarezm. The wider geography of the location was also an asset.

Konye Urgench existed at the crossing of two major caravan routes: a north-south route from Persia to Russia and an east-west route between China and the Byzantine Empire. To the south lay the desert of Kara Kum, or Black Sand; to the east there were the red sands of the Kyzyl Kum; to the west was the desiccated Usturt Plateau. To the caravans, these were the formidable barriers that only enhanced the feeling of paradise of Konye Urgench.

With agriculture and trade came wealth, culture and influence. Konye Urgench was described as “the capital of a thousand wise men” and it was home to some of Persia’s most influential thinkers, including Al-Biruni and Avicenna. In the year 1220 CE, the geographer Yaqut al- Hamawi wrote, “There is hardly a town in the world comparable to the capital of Khwarezm for its riches and metropolitan grandeur … all the while there is general security and undisturbed peace.” Little did he know that a year later, this peace would be shattered. Prosperous places have the tendency to become the focus of invaders, and it was in 1221
that Genghis Khan raided and destroyed much of the city in what is considered to be one of the bloodiest massacres in history. His tactics included not only the usual pillage but also attacks on the irrigation system, including the destruction of the upstream wooden dam that had been in place since the 10 th century. The result was a devastating flood, followed by a change in the fragile equilibrium in the hydrology of the Oxus, leading to a change in its course that would gradually become more pronounced over the following centuries.

Initially on its knees, the city rebuilt its irrigation from the more distant river and gradually grew once more in the period of stability that the Mongol invasion initiated, with Turks replacing Persians. Its revival was so successful that it was described by Ibn Battuta as the ‘largest among the cities of the Turks, with broad streets and splendid bazaars’. The 13 th century Persian historian Ala al-Din al-Juvayni wrote that Konye Urgench remained "the throne of the Sultans of the world and the dwelling place of the celebrities of mankind.” This was not to last, for Khwarezm was not a willing supplicant to the 14 th century regional leader, Amir Timur. Tired of uprisings, resistance and disrespect, along with the unwanted competition to Samarkand, Timur attacked Konye Urgench. He levelled the city and destroyed the irrigation system once more. This proved to be too much for the city to rebuild itself. With its irrigation system in disarray and an Oxus River that was cutting a channel
increasingly further to the northeast, people started deserting it. By the 17 th century, the city had been fully abandoned, and a new Urgench had been built 30 kilometres to the northeast; a place that is today inside the border of Uzbekistan. This was when the ghost city became known as Konye (Old) Urgench.

Repeated sudden destruction and then gradual abandonment have meant that Konye Urgench is once more – and probably permanently – what one visitor called it in the wake of the Mongol invasion: “The abode of the jackal and the haunt of the owl and kite.” It certainly has a haunted feel, but what adds to the mysterious beauty are the isolated architectural marvels that rise into a deep blue sky from the parched dusty plain.


From the base of the lighthouse minaret, the modern visitor will see other structures rising from the scrubby arid plane. One is the Il Arslan Mausoleum, a structure with a 12-sided glazed turquoise dome that was spared by both Genghis Khan and Timur. A mere stub shows where the Mamun II Minaret once stood: first destroyed by the Mongols, then rebuilt, then toppled amid the deserted city by an earthquake in 1895. There’s a grand and mysterious gate too, which may be known as the Caravanserai Gate, but its true function is unknown. There are other island-like structures everywhere, but for indescribable beauty in a crumbling frame, the pick of the bunch is the Turabek Khanum Mausoleum. Thought to date from the late 14th century, it is exquisitely proportioned, making exact use of the repeated division or multiplication of the number twelve, probably inspired by the months of the zodiacal calendar. The interior domed roof is a stunning depiction of the idealised heavens, radiating outwards in geometric formality from a dark central rosette to repeated vivid gold, white and blue stars and skies. When you venture outside and look back, you appreciate that the mgnificence of the interior dome of the Turabek Khanum Mausoleum is a metaphor for Konye Urgench as a whole. The outer dome collapsed long ago, but the inner beauty steadfastly remains for those who are adventurous enough to find it.

Dayakhatyn and the Caravan Network

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Dayakhatyn and the Caravan Network

Caravans are icons of the Silk Roads: long lines of camels and horses carrying trade goods across the deserts, accompanied by merchants on foot. The pictures might look romantic, but these journeys were harsh. And though the camel on a sand dune may be the first thing which comes to mind, many of the most-trodden trade routes followed rivers, including the Oxus River. 

The ruins of caravanserais are dotted along the Silk Roads, but one of the best preserved examples is Dayakhatyn in Turkmenistan. It was built by the Seljuks in the 12th century and still stands almost intact, overlooking the Oxus in the distance. 

Caravanserais were the motels of their time. They were located a day’s walk apart so that travelers could be confident that they would always have somewhere to stay, get water and a meal, and get information about the road ahead. Around one in five caravanserais was fortified: these were larger, better defended establishments where merchants could stop, unpack and repack their wares in safety. Dayakhatyn is one of these fortified caravanserais, a strong castle wall surrounding the central part. 

Dayakhatyn is right beside the Turkmen-Uzbek before, past the compound used by the Turkmen border guards. They’ve even had to add a dogleg to the border fence to enable civilians to visit this extraordinary historic site. 

The first thing I noticed at Dayakhatyn was how much of the structure survives. The US Ambassador’s Fund has done some work to stabilise the portal and reconstruct its roof, but the Ministry of Culture has a general policy of conserving but not rebuilding ancient monuments. This means that most of what you see is original, just cleaned up and made structurally sound. The patterned brickwork decorating the front of the caravanserais has barely changed in 900 years, and as you walk through the cloisters with their barrel-vaulted ceilings, it is as if you have stepped back in time. 

All around the courtyard there are small cells, rooms for sleeping and eating. In fact, the layout is very similar to that of a Buddhist monastery or Islamic madrassa. The largest and grandest of these rooms is at the back of the courtyard, opposite the main entrance. This is where the caravanserai’s owner lived in luxury, beneath a now-collapsed cupola. He must have been a wealthy man, and the caravanserai he built is a remarkable legacy.

The history of the Amul Fortress

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The history of the Amul Fortress

Rising above the landscape on the southern outskirts of the modern settlement of Turkmenabat is a prominent flat-topped hill. It looks as if it could be a mesa, a landform typical of the deserts of North America. On closer inspection, however, and particularly when it is viewed from the air, it becomes clear that this is no natural hill because it is just too regular. It is, in fact, what remains of one of the most significant settlements on the Oxus/Amu Darya River and a key trading post on the Silk Route. It is Amul. 

On the evidence of archaeological discoveries of coins of the Kushan Kingdom, it is believed that Amu was founded in the 1st century CE. It grew significantly after the Arab Conquest and, by the 9th century, was a bustling and wealthy trading centre. Mediaeval authors such as Al-Istakhri, Yakut Hamawi, Al-Masut, Ibn-Khordabeg, and Al-Maqdis all wrote about the rich bazaars of Amul.

What was the secret of its success? It was a node along two trading routes, both related to the Oxus/Amu Darya River. All along this river, crossing points were typified by pairs of fortresses either side of the channel (in this case, Amul’s twin fortress on the other bank was Farap), and trading caravans were therefore funnelled and controlled in specific locations. From Amul/Farap, a land route went westwards through Merv to Persia and the Mediterranean; and eastwards through Bukhara and eventually to China. The second trade route through Amul was the river itself, with goods being brought down it from Afghanistan, many of which had originated in India. In short, therefore, Amul was a focus for the trade that reached across a continent. 

The importance of Amul is further exemplified by the fact that it is likely to have been the origin of the very name of the river that flows past it. As is common in this region and over time, the name “Amul” has varied, sometimes being Amuya, Amuye and often Amu. From these names, the river became the Amu Darya, literally the “Amul River”. 

Destroyed in 1220 by the Mongols, Amul rose to flourish again by the 15th century, by which time it had acquired a new name: Chajui (Chardzhui), which means “Four Streams”. From the 16th century, it was under the rule of the Bukhara Khanate, and a palace known as “Bek’s Fortress” was built on top of the flat-topped citadel. Interestingly, despite its name change, by the time that Europeans were exploring the region in the 18th and 19th centuries, the location on their maps was again being called “Amul” in addition to Chardzhui. 

British army officer Alexander Burns, visiting in 1832, wrote that Amul/Chardzhui was protected by “a beautiful fortification standing on a hill dominating the city.” He estimated the number of residents of the town to be 4–5 thousand people. By the 1890s, photographs were even being taken of the old structures, most notably by one of the early pioneers of the medium, Frenchman Paul Nadar. What now remains, significantly diminished from its heyday thanks to neglect and stripping for building material, is a 9-hectare ruin, the centre of a 50-hectare site that has UNESCO World Heritage List status as a transnational nomination.

Where the Amu Darya Gets its Name

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Where the Amu Darya Gets its Name

 

There were always going to be two countries on the Oxus Expedition route which would be logistically and bureaucratically challenging: Afghanistan and Turkmenistan. Unlike its southern neighbour, the latter keeps a low profile on the international stage and seeks little engagement with the outside world. Accurate information about Turkmenistan and how to travel there is hard to come by, and requirements change with little notice.

Amul Fortress
Glazed ceramics at Amul Fortress
Guide Dima at the Astana Baba Mausoleum

When I entered Turkmenistan in September 2024, the country had not long since re-opened after its COVID-19 lockdown and still required international arrivals to take a PCR test. Foreigners are not allowed to travel unaccompanied in Turkmenistan, unless they are in transit, so I asked the highly professional Stantours to arrange my paperwork and meet me at the border. It was just as well that I did, as guide Dima had a lot of explaining to do. Very few tourists visit Turkmenistan, and
they tend to follow a standard route to Ashgabat, Merv, and the Darvaza Gas Crater. The immigration officials were perplexed at my proposed itinerary, travelling along the river and far away from these popular (relatively-speaking) destinations. Why did I want to visit X? Where would I stay? How would I register the authorities? Dima was calm, persistent, and consistent, and having exchanged quite a few dollars for a pile of forms and receipts, I was allowed to enter the country.

The closest city to the land border post was Turkmenabat, the modern name for an ancient settlement. People have lived here since time immemorial because it was one of the easiest places to cross the Oxus; Silk Road caravans heading south from Bukhara towards Afghanistan followed this route. It was important to defend such as strategic location, and so from the 1st century AD onwards the Kushans built Amul Fortress. It is thought that the Amu Darya (literally “Amu River”) — the name commonly used for the Oxus as it passes through Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan — is derived from Amul.

Substantial remains of the fortress still lie within the boundaries of Turkmenabat. From a distance, it looks like a dusty hill, rising up beyond the new mosque, but once you get closer, you realise that the structure is manmade. I climbed from the parking area up into what’s left of the citadel, the shape of the bricks still visible. Amul was surveyed by Soviet archaeologists in the mid 20th century but hasn’t been fully excavated; there are shards of glazed ceramics just lying on the surface, and goodness knows how much else is hidden in the layers beneath. Like Italy or Greece, there are countless archaeological sites in Turkmenistan, many as yet undiscovered and unexplored. But so far there is neither the interest nor the money to launch all the necessary scientific expeditions to excavate them, let alone to properly preserve what is found.

From Turkmenabat we drove east to Kerki along the northern bank of the river, and then turned back west, driving this time on the southern side. There are a small number of mausoleums here, dedicated to medieval saints like Astana Baba, but what was more interesting was the irrigation networks which turn a strip of the desert green. September is the height of the cotton harvest; we saw workers in the field, tractors and trucks on the roads, and huge white pyramids of raw cotton piled in walled enclosures awaiting processing. Unsustainable agricultural practices are arguably the greatest treat to the Oxus, but that’ll be the subject of a future blog.

Cotton harvest
The Amu-Bukhara Canal branching off the Oxus

Nowhere was this issue more evident than at the point just east of Turkmenabat where the Amu-Bukhara Canal begins. In scale and importance, this is one of Central Asia’s great canals, carrying fresh water from the Oxus to the city of Bukhara in Uzbekistan. Bukhara depends on this canal for its agriculture, but also for drinking water, and bilateral agreements are in place between Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan to ensure it is properly maintained, with adequate water flow. 

On the northern side of the river, there are several vantage points along the cliff. Dima’s 4×4 was rugged enough that we didn’t have to worry about the lack of road, so we could head out to wherever the views were best. I look down at the chain of pumping stations cleaning silt and other debris from the canal. I looked across at the place where the river bifurcates; from this angle it was impossible to see if the river or the canal received the majority of the water flow. Either way, a significant proportion of the water was entering the canal, and thus depleting the volume of water in the Oxus. And this is by no means the only canal in the river system: it is a situation repeated over and over again. Of course there river is shrinking. 



Takht-i Sangin and the Temple of the Oxus

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Takht-i Sangin and the Temple of the Oxus

It is always unnerving when Google Maps says that it’ll take six and a half hours to your destination, 22 km away. Is the road really that bad, or is it a glitch in the mapping algorithm? We faced this dilemma late in the day, having already been on the road for 10 hours, in sweltering heat. But the destination in question was Takht-i Sangin, one of the most important historical sites on the Oxus, so we decided to take our chances and see if Miskola’s driving skills could prove Google wrong. If we did get stuck there for the night, it would be the end of the world: we had a 4×4 full of camping kit, after all.

 

Takht-i Sangin is an archaeological site in southwest Tajikistan, overlooking the Oxus and, these days, the barbed wire fence demarcating the border exclusion zone. There’s one small guard tower and an occasional Tajik soldier patrolling on foot. Because of the sensitivity of the location, would-be visitors have to get a permit to come, and ours were checked by an army officer in a truck, who happened to be passing the other way.

Turning off the main road towards Takht-i Sangin, we passed through several villages, strung together by an unsurfaced but fairly smooth track. We made good time, and though Google’s estimate of our arrival time still seemed wildly inaccurate, we reached the point where if necessary it would be feasible to walk. Once the last house was behind us, though, the quality of the track deteriorated significantly, becoming steep and rocky as we climbed a small pass.

We stopped at the top of the pass: we couldn’t not. The sun was already low and the Oxus stretched out before us, glittering in the late afternoon light. Whereas a few days ago, confined by steep-sided gorges, the river had been fast and angry, here in gentler terrain, it was broad and calm. In the shallow-bottomed valley there was also space to farm, so there were pockets of dark green irrigated land below the dusty mountain slopes.

Descending towards the river, you reach a point where the road becomes a loose concept and you have to pick your own path through the boulders. The driving became physically and technically challenging; Miskola did a fantastic job managing not to ground the car. We knew which way we were heading, as in the distance we could see a corrugated roof, and there was nothing else marked on the map.

We pulled up immediately in front of Takht-i Sangin, just before the border fence. Unsurprisingly given the difficulty of getting here and the time of day, there was no one else around: it was just us and the ghosts of the past.

Takht-i Sangin has been excavated several times in the past century, and a large section of its centrepiece — the Temple of the Oxus — remains open to the air. Although the main finds have been taken away to museums, the original layout of this Graeco-Bactrian temple is clear from the base of the columns, substantial sections of walls, and even part of what I’d guess is an altar.

Archaeological evidence suggests that  Takhti-i Sangin was constructed in the Hellenistic period, after Alexander the Great’s conquest of Central Asia in the 4th century BC. The temple in the middle of the citadel dates from around 300 BC and was dedicated to a Graeco-Bactrian god, Oxus. There was a Greek-style sacrificial altar, and a large number of votive offerings, and the temple remained in use until it was sacked by the Kushans and then, a few centuries later, abandoned completely.

Due to the multiple periods of excavation at Takht-i Sangin, the finds have been widely dispersed, including to London. We were able to see some of them in the National Museum of Antiquities in Dushanbe, however, and there are copies of some items from the Oxus Treasure (see below) in the newer National Museum. Most beautiful are the ivory carvings, and also the clay and alabaster sculptures of people, some of which are still colourful with their original pigments.

The Oxus Treasure is a gold hoard thought to have been found at Takht-i Sangin in the late 19th century. It includes around 180 gold and silver items, plus a further 200 coins, from the Achaemenid period, so some of it is older than the temple where it was amassed. There are miniature gold chariots with horses, statuettes of human figures with intricate costumes, and large numbers of votive plaques. The treasure seems to have been found in the 1870s and was sold by locals to Indian merchants. British officers including Sir Alexander Cunningham (the first Director of the Archaeological Survey of India) got wind of the hoard and tracked down as many of the items as they could, in bazaars and from dealers, mostly in Afghanistan and Pakistan. They sold or bequeathed the items to the British Museum and the Victoria and Albert Museum, where you can still see them today.

It’s clear from the huge area of uneven ground around the temple that there are numerous structures still under the surface, some excavated and re-covered to protect them, others untouched. We were losing light fast as we explored, but could still see the numerous pot shards scattered on the floor, some patterned and all easily 2,000 or more years old. I felt absolutely at peace here, for the first time in a very long while.

Khorog, the city on the Roof of the World

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Khorog, the city on the Roof of the World

The city of Khorog in GBAO is the closest place Tajikistan — and probably Central Asia — has to a backpacker town. With its young, well-educated population, lots of cafes and cheap places to stay, tourists passing through on their road trips along the Pamir Highway, and plenty of attractions in and around the city, it reminds me a lot of the Himalayan tourism destinations of Leh. No one comes to Khorog by accident: whichever way you’re travelling, it takes effort to get here. There used to be a daily flight, weather permitting, from Dushanbe, but now the only way in or out is by road. For most travellers, that means coming by car, but a few crazy types do make the journey by bike, often as part of an attempt to cycle round the world.

We arrived, hot and dusty, in Khorog late in the day after our drive from Kalai Khumb. We dropped our bags at Lal, a hotel, hostel, and cafe in the centre of the city, dressed up, and headed out for dinner.

Anyone who has spent any significant time in the Pamirs will be able to guess where we went to eat. The reputation of Delhi Darbar (not part of the famous chain…) extends far beyond Khorog and, frankly, far beyond what you’d expect from the quality of the food. But just the chance to eat Indian food, even if it is mediocre, in the middle of Tajikistan is a treat. Founded years ago by an Indian-Tajik couple, the restaurant has achieved god-tier status; coming here is akin to a pilgrimage. We cracked open beers and snapped papadums, then feasted on butter chicken, dal, and paneer.

Rising early enough that the day was still cool, we went our separate ways for a few hours. Sophia and Miskola headed out of Khorog to hike at Khabnou, a picturesque spot where a small lake has pooled in a gorge. The views down onto the valley are splendid.

Meanwhile, I met a friend, Zarra, for tea, relaxing on the veranda of her grandmother’s garden. The house is tucked behind KFC — the altogether superior Khorog Fried Chicken — and given the altitude and the harsh climate, I was amazed how the plants were thriving. The flowers beside the house were bright and abundant. We ate tiny scarlet strawberries, and in a bid to pick fat, dark mulberries straight from the tree, I turned almost every part of myself a brilliant purple. Only Zarra’s baby son made more of a mess with this fruit!

Rendezvousing back in the centre of Khorog, we took a walk through Chorbogh, the city’s riverside park. Government propaganda was blasting out from the speaker system, which was unnerving and an unwelcome change from previous visits. But other than that, Pamiri families seemed to be going about business as usual, sitting on benches in the shade, eating ice creams, and swimming and shrieking in the huge outdoor pool. Khorog isn’t a large city, and if you spend enough time here, sooner or later you’ll bump into someone you know. Miskola and I had a good chat with Mirzo Mirzoev, who runs the excellent Pamir Ecotourism Association (PECTA), and I also saw a colleague from the Commitee for Tourism Development, who was visiting from Dushanbe. There are numerous challenges in Khorog, political, economic, and environmental. It’s a stunningly beautiful, enjoyable place to visit, but not necessarily and easy place to live. When the upgrading of the Pamir Highway is complete, better connecting Khorog to western Tajikistan, it’ll be an improvement, but that time is many years off.

Karon, the Lost City of the Pamirs

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Three Women, One River

Karon, the Lost City of the Pamirs

How do you lose a city? I’ve often wondered that. It is sort of comprehensible in an environment where there’s thick jungle or other forest cover, but on a barren mountainside? That sounds more far-fetched.

 

Castle Karon — a citadel and substantial trading town just east of Kalai Khumb — was rediscovered only in 2012. A local shepherd saw a strange mound in the earth and must have mentioned it to someone, because a local archaeologist came to have a look. At first, they thought they’d found a mausoleum, but on further study it turned out to be a Zoroastrian fire temple: the empty chamber in the centre of the structure was for an eternal flame, not a body.

I came to Karon in 2019 and described it then as the Machu Pichhu of Tajikistan. Miskola has visited the site previously, too, so it was an appropriate reminder to us both about why it remained lost for so long that this time we missed it, drove past, and had to retrace our steps.

In 2019 I drove up all the way to Karon, albeit slowly and gingerly as the track is steep and narrow, with sharp bends. Now, it’s not allowed. Tragically, a team of my REDP colleagues were killed falling from the cliff after the driver made a minor mistake. Until the track is improved and made safe, everyone must walk.

We had left it as late in the day as possible to visit, but even around 5 pm the heat was still searing. We plodded and sweated our way up, wishing above all else for shade. Karon isn’t visible until you’re right on top of it, so there’s no visual cue as to how much further you must walk.

The first thing you see at the site is the fire temple, now excavated and protected from the elements beneath a plastic roof. It is grand enough in scale to almost justify visiting for it alone, but as you turn and scan the plateau, you realise there’s more all around you.

To one side, there is a polo field and stands, a couple of thousand years old. I was told by an archaeologist excavating the site that it could have accommodated 10,000 spectators; that’s not much smaller in capacity than Wembley Arena! This is a sparsely populated area. Was the climate and population density so very different then?

In the opposite direction, looking out towards the Oxus far below, is another large flat area with stone walls around it and some Graeco-esque columns. The columns are a modern addition, constructed for President Rahmon’s visit so he’d have something to look at, without using much imagination. That aside, this structure is important: it is the only extant example of a Zoroastrian water temple in Central Asia.

The light was fading now, and we knew we needed as much daylight as possible to get down safely to the car and back to the guesthouse. This meant we had to leave the upper part of the citadel for another day.

Our first drive on the Pamir Highway

OXUS
Three Women, One River
OXUS
Three Women, One River
OXUS
Three Women, One River
OXUS
Three Women, One River
OXUS
Three Women, One River

Our first drive on the Pamir Highway

Without doubt, driving the Pamir Highway is one of the world’s greatest road trips. This 1,250 km route over the Roof of the World links Dushanbe in Tajikistan with the city of Osh in southwestern Kyrgyzstan. I first drove the Pamir Highway almost 15 years ago, getting stuck in the mud of the Oxus on the way, and although Chinese and Tajik road crews work tirelessly to build a modern, avalanche-proof road, they still have a lot of work to do. Typically, the journey from Dushanbe to Khorog in the Pamir, a distance of 600 km, takes 16-18 hours, and it’s a rough, uncomfortable ride. 

Route planning for stage one of the Pamir Highways
All packed!
The main gate of Hulbek Fortress
Our first stop on the Oxus!

We decided to split the journey to Khorog over two days. After all, we weren’t in a rush, and there were things to see along the way. The first section of the road is smooth, as the road crews have finished their work and the asphalt is still in good condition. We left Dushanbe shortly after sunrise so as to miss the traffic, and with Sophia’s playlist sounding from the stereo, there was a lightness in the air. This wasn’t the adventure we’d planned, but it was an adventure nonetheless.  

Mid morning, we stopped at Hulbek Fortress, close to the city of Kulob. Dating from the 9th to 12th centuries, it is by no means the oldest of Tajikistan’s historic sites, but it’s one I have visited many times and have a certain affection for.  For the past five years, I’ve been the international consultant for the World Bank’s Rural Economy Development Project, and we’ve spent around $900k improving the environment and conditions at Hulbek. The site guardian was pleased to see us, and even lent us a lighter so we could light the camping stove and make a pot of much-needed black coffee.

 

Miskola was driving, and I dozed in the passenger seat. A bigger than usual bump in the road jolted me awake, and to my delight we had just reached the point where the Pamir Highway starts running parallel with the Panj. The Panj is the local name for the Oxus, and applies for the section between the confluence of the Pamir and Wakhan Rivers in the Wakhan Corridor, and the confluence of the Oxus and Vakhsh Rivers in southwest Tajikistan. The river, narrow but fast flowing through the gorges, is the border between Afghanistan and Tajikistan, and from the Pamir Highway the Afghan villages are only a strong stone’s throw away. Of course, we jumped out of the car to take pictures. This is OUR river. It’s exciting!

A short way before Kalai Khumb, our stop for the night, we pulled in to stretch our legs at Chorchaman Hills, a new mountain resort where wealthy families from Dushanbe escape for a weekend away. The almost life-size sailing ship and the mock castle are kitsch, but Chorchaman is in a fabulous location, with two impressive waterfalls thundering down into a stream which feeds into the Panj just beyond the parking area. A trio of boys were splashing in the outdoor swimming pool, their parents watching on nonchalantly from a distance. Here, the Oxus and its tributaries have not only created a dramatic landscape but also an opportunity for recreation and leisure.

Chorchaman Hills
Day one of our road trip along the Pamir Highway
A waterfall at Chorchaman Hills