Bradt/Independent on Sunday Travel-Writing Competition 2011
Goodnight Afghanistan
"There is a light on the Afghan side." Ed pointed across the brown torrent.
I put my camping bowl of mashed potato down and stared hard through the evening gloom at the broken cliffs on the opposite bank. To where I thought there had been no-one.
Hurriedly I fished binoculars from the tent pocket. A man in a pale shalwar kameez came into focus, bending down at the edge of the rushing water. Panning upwards, I could see that two others were tending an orange glow on the tiny path above. They were quite close to us, less than 200 metres away. Afghanistan was separated from the former Soviet republic of Tajikistan by a narrow void of air churned into icy gusts by the river beneath.
"What are they doing there?" I shivered, feeling suddenly exposed in our campsite above the road. Actually we had seen no truck drivers on our side for hours and not a soul opposite since this morning's first glimpse of the sinews of the river Oxus, with the jagged peaks of Afghanistan beyond, from the Shurabad pass. The only sign of life in Afghanistan had been a small collection of houses hours ago, visible from the veranda of a cheery Tajik shopkeeper's house, who locked up, refusing to sell us anything and lead us away for a lunch of lamb stew, yoghurt and naan.
The men had certainly seen us, but even if they had wanted to call out, the wall of sound between us was as impenetrable as thick glass.
In the weeks that Ed and I spent forcing our bicycles along Tajikistan's Pamir Highway, the scratch of a path on the opposite bank always accompanied us. Sometimes it zigzagged up cliffs, sometimes it squeezed right along the edge of the river. I watched five brightly dressed women skip down it towards a lush field nestled in the barren gorge. Later, two women sailed along the path in cornflower blue burqas and a man tugged a donkey loaded with firewood down a steep dip. A group of men, heads low in discussion, walked along it on some unguessable business and just like on our side, children swam in the quieter reaches or picked apricots and white mulberries from the orchards, although they had no truck drivers (or cyclists) to sell them to. Once a heart-stopping bang echoed around the cliffs, and my mind flitted to war, but a cloud of dust cleared to reveal men blasting a better path through the opposite cliffs. Tanks rotted and mines lay in deadly silence at the rivers edge, but in 2010 this former frontline of the Soviet-Afghan war, was a wrinkle of Central Asia that was occupying neither Taleban nor western soldier.
Still, on this first night with the Oxus, I had my fears as I watched the unknowable men by the fire.
"Do you think they could be smuggling drugs?" We knew the Pamir Highway was a major route for trafficking opium. Surely our bright blue fleeces branded us as one of the tourist they must have seen before. They would not have stopped because of us? Would they?
I eased my bottom back onto a sharp rock, agreeing with Ed that crossing would be impossible here, and swilled down cold mash potato with lukewarm tea as we speculated.
"No it would not be possible to swim would it? You'd have to fire a rope across or something. It's far too fast for a boat" I said trying to conjure up a plausible solution from a list of James Bond options.
"What are they doing there anyway? It's just so weird that they happened to stop here."
"Perhaps they are looking for Badakhshani rubies?"
"Or just walking to another village?"
"Or collecting plants? Mushrooms?"
"It could be days walk between villages"
In fact, the next morning with binocular fixed on bleary eyes, I saw one of them already scrambling precariously above the path, tossing something down to the men below. I will never know what.
But that night, we might as well have been watching from a sofa ten thousand miles away, the barriers of tumbling water and rushing sound felt as vast. Eventually a curtain of darkness drew on the show.
I wormed my way deep into my down sleeping bag, imagining that the men must be huddled close by the fire in blankets. Maybe they were cradling steaming bowls of chai, laughing at the madness of two westerners cycling here.
Then, unable to resist, we swept one long torch flash out across the dark river. A moment later, amazingly, the unmistakable blue glow of a mobile phone signalled goodnight from Afghanistan.
Under the Central Asian stars a small orange glow shone next to the yellow halo of a torch-lit tent.
About the author – Helen Watson
Helen Watson spent 13 months cycling from Scotland to China with her husband Ed and met many amazing people on the way. She is currently writing a book about it. In her other life she is a Biologist at Edinburgh Zoo.
Judges' comments
'An intriguing tale that reveals the author's structural skill as the narrator moves about in time, relating events, creating images and provoking thoughts without ever physically leaving the riverbank.'
Kate Simon, Travel Editor, Independent on Sunday