With its 7,000-metre-peaks, the Pamir Mountains belong to the so-called roof of the world. Neighbouring Hindu Kush and the Himalayas, it is one of the world's highest regions. The former Soviet main road M41, known as Pamir Highway, leads through the mountainous region on the border with Afghanistan and China from the Tajik capital of Dushanbe to the Kyrgyz city of Osh.
In September 2024, I have been self-driving this route with my camper van Fred. Here's the first part of this story, in case you've missed it.
Fred Fails
There's a saying in German language, which says: If you love your car, push it. That's what I think of, while pushing my car along the dirt track towards the road. With the driver's door wide open, I've got one hand on the frame and one on the steering wheel, like I've seen all these locals do it. Luckily, I've prepared myself car-wise at least a little bit before this trip.
After a quiet night not far from the main road, which wasn't particularly busy anyway, my van Fred lets me down again. Fortunately, it doesn't do this too often. We have driven all the way here together from Germany, and Fred has served me very well as a car and living space over the last year and a half. Driving Pamir Highway, however, turned out to be one of our greatest challenges so far.
The time has come, Fred's battery died the second day in a row. After 20 minutes, the first car comes along, a truck, and another vehicle stops shortly after. Jump-starting has become my new routine. I can't find a suitable battery in the town of Murghab, which we reach next, so I buy a spare one for jump-starting. However, as I disconnect my car battery at night from now on, my replacement model remains unused.
A few days later, Fred struggles again at an altitude of around 4,000 metres. The diesel engine almost refuses to start, gives me shivers with sounds I've never heard from Fred before, but luckily doesn't let me down. Right here, just before the Kyrgyz border, we are at the most critical point of our journey. The nights are getting cold and it's only a matter of time until the first snow falls. The last, dreaded pass called Kyzyl-Art lies ahead of us and worst-case towing across the border is not possible. Additionally, we are almost 800 kilometres away from Dushanbe, which means several days of driving. Eventually, however, we made it to Osh safely.
Weeks in the Middle of Nowhere
Even weeks later, these memories of my time in the Pamir Mountains are still very vivid. Encounters, landscapes, highs and lows chased each other and finally fell like rain on saturated ground, forming rivulets. Flowing away. I can no longer remember everything, but I know that the rivulets have left deep, permanent traces.
Often, travelling is not a conscious process for me. Of course, learning and observing are essential parts it, but the feeling of it is even more important. One eventually develops a gut feeling based on experiences, because no brain in the world can process this variety of impressions fully and consiously after all. One understands how countries and people, their cultures and systems work without understanding where this understanding actually comes from.
On Pamir Highway, I got a feeling for one thing in particular: what it's like to be very far away. Even in Khorog, the largest city in the region, medical care was so inadequate, for example, that it was impossible to get a rabies vaccination in any of the numerous hospitals after an animal incident. In addition, network reception is already limited in the city, let alone outside of it.
For days on end, we travelled through nameless nowheres without reception and contact to the outside world. Suddenly, days slowed down. What counted were the things right there at that time, which meant breathtaking, vast landscapes, snow-covered mountains, wide rivers or hot springs. But above all, the present was quiet.
The silence, which was all-encompassing, roared in my ears. It allowed thoughts, crises and peace. The silence offered space, it offered room to let go of an inner restlessness that otherwise tries to keep up with the pace of the world. At the same time, it offered space for fear, as any mistake can fade away in this vastness, unheard. Human destiny seemed largely irrelevant out there, on a small and large scale. In this silence, it felt like I was nothing. Small, grounded and very far away, I got in touch with a world that I did not yet know.
This article was published in the Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung in October. Check it out!
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