From Samarkand I followed a quick half-day of cycling to the border of Tajikistan. There, snowcapped mountains began to frame the picturesque, green valleys I at first cycled through, leading me up to the Pamir Mountains. The latter is in fact a plateau at between 3,600 and 4,600 meters of altitude, with a much more moon-like, desolate landscape than the vegetated one down in the valleys, which rivers the plateau feeds.

It was one of the odd experiences of this trip, having cycled through numerous deserts, when temperatures now dropped below zero at night and often peaked at only about 10 degree Celsius at daytime. I had no clothing for that kind of weather – especially considering that this winter and spring had been the longest and wettest in 20 years for Tajikistan. But I waited out the rainy days, and invested in some made-in-China clothes at the bazaar in Dushanbe. It was just enough to make it through. And it was definitely worth it – absolutely breathtaking scenery, and great hospitality. I could finally conclude that hospitality wasn’t only in the desert – it’s simply so that the fewer the people, the more friendly they are.

After a week in those highlands, I slowly rolled down to Kashgar in China at 1,500 meters via a two-day trip through Kyrgyzstan. Kashgar is - with 250 kilometers to Kyrgyzstan, 400 kilometers to Tajikistan, less than 1,000 kilometers to Pakistan and 4,500 kilometers to Beijing – not very Chinese at all. Rather it is a main city for the Uighur people – one of the country’s many ethnic minorities – and spiced up by each of it’s close-by country neighbors. It’s also at great contrast with cities across Central Asia, with a great bustle instead of the previous’ tidy order. Anyway, I’ll write more about China – or it’s different parts – as I travel along. It will take between two and three months to reach Beijing – first heading northeast towards Urumqi, then straight east along the ‘northern Silk Road’ (in fact a highway) – in total some 2,000 or so kilometers of desert.

Last but not least, it’s fitting with a poem by modern Iranian poet Sohrab Sepehri, without any comments:
“We should go under the rain.
We should wash our eyes,
And we should see the world in a different way.”

Before the border, there are some indescribable moon-like landscapes. Haunting beauty. I arrive at the frontier in time for lunch with the Tajik narcotics police: potato soup, bread and green tea. Just after the Tajik immigration is the climb of another pass, followed by a deep mud road down the green slopes of the Kyrgyz side. The latter’s immigration is another 20 kilometers ahead, and 25 further north is small town Sary Tash where I stay at a cafe for a small fee.

I met Canadian couple Chris and Margo, also on bicycle for quite a while, earlier in the day. Check out their website: http://candmwanderings.blogspot.com.

Next morning, we wake up to a clear blue sky, sunshine and untouched, chalk white snow – absolutely beautiful. The Caravanserai is so beautiful too, because it has helped us despite its simple structure and because it has stood proudly still for so many hundred years.

We put on lots of sun screen and pull our bikes up to the road again. 50 kilometers further on we reach the lake Kara Kul and the village with the same name, where we for ten dollars each get a place to sleep and food from a local family. In the village, there is also a shop, a bar and a mosque. The last two are probably the village’s most important institutions, and that is typical Central Asia.

The two day long leg of cycling between Murghab and Kara Kul – two small towns in eastern Tajikistan – is one of the most memorable of the entire trip. It is part of the among touring cyclists famous Pamir Highway – known in part because it is the world’s second highest altitude tarred road, but in part also for being an exceptionally good quality road given the desolate and difficult terrain.

The stretch has historically been part of the so called Silk Roads, but the actual road as we know it, and the tarmac, was built by Soviet military during the 1930′s to facilitate military logistics in what was then one of Soviets outposts. The name ‘Pamir’ comes from the plateau with the same name over which the route passes, but its Kirghiz name is more illustrative: ”Barm i Dunjah” or in English ”Roof of the World.”

Between Murghab and Kara Kul is also where the road passes its highest point – the Akbaital Pass at 4,650 meters. Suitably for the challenge, I meet Francophone Canadian Jean-Denis in Murghab – also on bicycle in the same direction as I – and we decide to cycle together up the pass. For a start, the tarmac is still there – although barely – so it all goes faster than we’d expected. The last piece of winding road up to the pass is tough – our lungs have to work at maximum – but even Jean-Denis manages the challenge despite having a heavy cold.

We take a few photos of eachother standing in the black snow-mixed clay on the top before we head down on the other side. Unfortunately, the wind turns against us – a snow storm gains force, and the house which we’d previously been told would be just a few kilometers away is nowhere to be seen. Instead, we’re forced to keep cycling on a road which has now turned from tarmac to a graveled washboard. The snow whirls and soon we both have ice hanging from our beards. I’ve bought a couple of gloves and a hat along the way, but they’re in no way quality stuff.

The road is now flat, following a wide valley floor with high mountain peaks to the East and West. The latter are soon out of sight as the snow fall increases; thickens the air. I and Jean-Denis feel anxious after an hour or so storm; yet no shelter in sight – not much time is left before darkness, and with darkness comes a cold that we’re not geared for. A large black rock thrown out in the flat landscape resembles a house from afar, but the mirage reveals itself as we get closer. Further on we see a small shelter at short distance from the road, but soon realize that the half frozen river and deep snow in-between us would be too difficult to pass. To loose our foothold in a zero degree river would be perilous. We ponder at the idea of pitching our tents in the open landscape, but the wind is too strong. We pedal on.

After another hour or so on the saddle we finally catch sight of what we’ve hoped for – a deserted caravanserai. We all know what caravan means, and ‘sarai’ is Persian for ‘guesthouse.’ A caravanserai was at its time simply a really basic hotel for those tradesmen who traveled along the Silk Routes. We’d been told about this particular one already in Murghab, but without knowing exactly where it would be located. The low profile stone building uses a slope for its back wall, and just above is where the road passes. We walk our bikes down through the deep snow and ‘check in’ at the old hotel – completely empty, but with some traces from previous passersby who might also have got caught in a much too stormy weather.

Jean-Denis and I pitch our tents in each one of the many small rooms, and in the room in-between make a fire of bushes which we collect. As exhausting as the day has been, as deep is the sleep. The feeling of putting on some dry spare clothes and finally get to tuck oneself into a warm sleeping bed for a night which couldn’t be better. The intense pursuit of a safe and sheltered place to sleep made me forget all the other stresses of life; want, desire, hunger.

Roll down some 400 altitude meters to nearby Murghab – the main town of the eastern Pamir, yet not more than a village by any normal scale chart. The market is big enough though to have both noodles, chocolate, tomatoes and simple gloves from China. Meet Canadian cyclist Jean-Denis and decide to continue together the next morning.

Leave Hossein and his family in the early morning, their pink house even more in solitude when contrasted against the solid sea of fresh white snow which fell during the night.

The road climbs a minor pass again before plunging down into the Alichur Valley. The landscape could be compared to the moon or something out of Star Wars, at distance seemingly lacking in vegetation completely. Village Alichur – the only one along the road today – used to have a shop, but it’s shut these days. Instead I treat myself with a potato and mutton soup in one of two restaurants. The road is more or less flat through the valley, and even the following Neizatash pass at 4,137 meters isn’t much more than a faint elevation at the foot of peaks of 5,000+ meters by its sides.

Stay the night at nearby Mamazair, where the only resident family has a motel. Judging by the faded signs, it must have been around as long as the highway itself.

Climb the 4,271 meter Koltezek Pass in the early morning – my feet gets terribly cold and I’m short of breath during the last zigzag turns up, but else it’s ok. The tarmac is gone from just before the top of the pass, but the dirt-road is alright.

23-year-old Hussein invites me for tea and later sleep at his family’s home along the road, in Karkakte (30 kilometers before Alichur). It’s in fact the first inhabited house that I see since the pass, and with a snowstorm building up by the horizon, I’m quite happy to be inside. Hussein’s family is Kyrgyz, and the hospitality is accordingly at maximum. During the night, I can see through the window as it gets brighter. It’s neither the moon nor dawn that breaks, but a thin layer of fresh snow which now covers the ground.

Finally a clear-blue sky and a day completely lacking in downpour. Continue the Pamir Highway (M41) along the Gunt River, slowly climbing towards the first pass at 4,200 meters.

I stop for the night at a roadside guesthouse in village Jelandy, some 400 meters below and 20 kilometers away from the pass. Slight headache.

Start climbing along the Gunt River. I’ve waited two days in Khorog for a rainy weather to pass, and by noon it finally abates a little. I have no rain-proof clothes whatsoever – neither shoes nor pants or jacket – and since temperatures drop below zero up in the Pamir Mountains, I simply can’t cycle if it also rains.

It would usually not be a problem this time of year, but 2009 has brought a record-long, and wet, winter. More than for me though, this has been a huge problem for the locals. Only in the Alichur valley, 400 yaks have died so far.

I reach village Vuzh where a local invites me to his traditional Pamiri house for the night. ”Tadzjik? No! Pamiri!!” Boiled potatoes and meat for dinner, plus the usual flat, round bread and tea. My host proudly tells me which number Henrik Larsson has on his shirt when he played for FC Barcelona – ”fanatic!”, as he said about himself when it came to football.

Reach main-town Khorog by noon – the last larger outpost before Kashgar in China. Internet, shopping, hot-water shower.

Long day. End up at 2,000 meters altitude and small town Rushan – the road climbs slowly as it follows the Panj upstreams.

Since yesterday, the road follows the River Panj, which also doubles as the border to Afghanistan. It’s interesting to have a look at the more simple life on the other side. Although many of the mud houses have satellite dishes and solar panels, none of the villages have road access or telephone (cell phones have no coverage in these narrow valleys). The only way to get there is by foot or donkey.

The Afghans are blasting off explosions on the mountain side to widen the donkey path; the sweet smell of dynamite finds its way across to ‘my’ side.

Once again sleep at a roadside restaurant. They call them chaikhanas – teahouses – but almost all of them offer simple food such as soups with bread, or egg and sausages, as well – and if you eat there, sleep is free of charge.

Another night at a roadside restaurant – this time one which turned out way too busy come evening, so I was left with just three hours of sleep.

Leave Roscoe and Dushanbe and start cycling towards the Pamir mountains.

Sleep at a roadside restaurant, beautifully situated on the mountain side above the Norak water reservoir.