Waiting for the electricity.

The wait for electricity continued, with many people gathering around.  Today was different as everyone was welcoming to us as well.  In fact, I was pulled into the local interactions—a sort of socialized aggression of pushing, kicking and other horseplay.  At one point I was looking under the car and one of them proceeded to pour cold stream water down my back—something we had seen them do to each other.  They really were treating me like a local.

A car pulled up, the popular guy jumped in and tried to convince me to get in with him.  I was not sure what they were doing or where they were going, so I acted as if I didn’t understand.  He finally gave up and drove off.  I would have gone with them, but by this time I was pulled away from the group three times and offered a strange red crystal—some form of opium.  I politely turned it down each time, but the offers were regular and repeated.  The most likely thing the two of them were going to do off and away from the town was going to involve the opium.  It was confirmed when they came back with big smiles and bloodshot eyes.

A car drove up and a tall girl in her 20’s approached me.  She introduced herself in English and proceeded to explain that she was asked to come in to translate a few things.  She first asked what the purpose of our trip was.  I had been trying desperately to explain that we were driving on behalf of a children’s charity—something that despite my drawings, hand gestures and pointing was interpreted as a midget’s colony.  She translated to the crowd about children, schools, and our purpose.  Then she asked the big question.  “Are you married?”  I said yes, to which she said, “Ok”, turned and left us.  She had nothing more to say and no more need for us.  I tried to point out that Will and Joe were single, but there was no interest.

I asked if there was a restaurant for us to eat at.  We needed some nutrition after the traumatic 48 hours we had just went through and the pasta was not cutting it.  They walked us into the shop and pointed to packets of noodles.  I shook my head, walked the guy to the car, and pointed to the 30 packs of noodles sitting in the car.  We needed something else.  He shook his head as he walked away.

“Fire up the stove, we’re having noodles,” I sadly said.  As we started to unpack the stove, a couple of townspeople walked up and motioned for us to follow them.  We were not too comfortable following them, but we went anyhow.  They walked us to the other store in the town.  Maybe this place had something besides noodles?

The locals hosting us for dinner.

When we walked in, they sat us at a table in the corner.  They were going to prepare a meal for us.  A real meal.  Different townspeople walked in with different items.  One had cucumbers, another tomatoes, another onions.  Will laughed as he pointed out my comment to him the first day on what I liked:  “just about anything except onions, raw tomatoes, and onions.”  This was a salad of everything I didn’t care for.  But it was being prepared for us special, so what could I do?

The vegetable salad was complimented with some naan bread, an assortment of candy, and some hot tea.  As we ate people would come in, greet the popular guy, and give us a nod.  More and more came and went.  Finally the woman running the shop began to try to talk with us.  This time the usual was replaced by a point at me and a point at her ring finger.  She was asking if I was married.  I had learned from Kazakhstan that yes, I am married.  But Will and Joe did not move quickly enough.  I immediately pointed to them and explained that they are completely single.

Faster than you can say “snapped strut” the meat market had begun.  They started to parade girls in and present them to the two “single” guys.  As the team elder I took it upon myself to evaluate them and give indications on which ones were preferred.  Joe and Will were very uncomfortable.  I was having a great time with it.  At times they were even making hand gestures as if to indicate they go and sleep together.  It was hilarious.

As an extra treat for dinner, a jar filled with what looked like spoiled milk was brought out.  It was first handed to Joe, who promptly passed it to Will, who immediately passed it to me.  There was no one for me to pass it to, so it looked as if I was stuck drinking it.  I suppose I deserved it after the marriage fun.  So I closed my eyes and took a big swig.  Not only did it look like spoiled milk, it tasted like spoiled milk.  I suppose it was spoiled milk.  I started to set the jar down when they motioned for me to take another drink.  So I brought it back to my lips and took another hit, trying to avoid the chunks of spoiled cream floating on top.  If I was going to drink it, the other two were also.  I passed it over to the guys and watched with enjoyment as they sipped from the jar.  It was then passed to the locals, who began to quickly drink it up.

Outside the store where we were served dinner.

As a gesture of good will, I went to the car and returned with a handful of tea bags.  They brewed a new pot, trying to figure out how to use bagged tea since their pot was made for loose tea.  We poured glasses and shared in the English version of the universal beverage.

As the evening progressed, walls came down.  We began laughing, joking, and having a great dinner with the local people.  We were not sure how long we should stay, but when we would indicate we were getting up they immediately insisted we stay longer.  Locals came in, introduced themselves to us, and we began to feel comfortable as they treated us as guests.  It was at that time that I had a complete change in perspective.  From the beginning I had been looking at it from the point of view of the three of us being weary of the locals.  The truth was we were the strangers in their home town.  We were invading their world.  They were weary of us, and that is why we received the guarded reception when we strolled into their lives.

It was all different now.  We were being pulled into the village.  We were becoming one of them.  It felt good.  No, it felt great.  After being concerned with the breakdown and the need to stay overnight in this town, we now were thrilled with the idea of spending more time with the local people.

Will and I quickly discovered everything this town had to offer.  Nothing.  There were two “stores” in small rooms selling basic goods, the welders, a mechanic working on a dump truck from the ‘60’s, and a scattering of houses up and down the hills leading to the mountains.  Nothing more, nothing less.  Other than a few gardens and a random cow, there is no agricultural production; other than the welder and the mechanic, there are no services offered; other than the two small shops, there are no businesses being operated.  This was almost solely residential and the people obviously worked in areas other than the village.  Will and I found a nice pile of boulders to perch on, pulled out books and relaxed next to the river.

Two o’clock came and went.  No power.  I asked when the power would come.  4:00?  There was a shake of the head.  He leaned over and wrote something in the sand.  7:00.  I looked at him in disbelief.  I tried to get clarification.  Not 4:00?  7:00.  This is disappointing.  We would not make it to Khorog, the next “large” city, today.  We can’t drive through the night because we are low on fuel and the next available fuel ranges from 10 km to 100 km depending on who we ask.

Hooking the electricity up to the power lines--directly!

A couple hours go by.  Suddenly there was a ruckus.  Someone climbs up on the roof of the building while another tosses him some cables.  He takes sticks and connects the lines directly to the power lines, tosses the other end down, and watches as someone drags out the welder.  We have power.  They immediately begin work.  Some cutting, some grinding, we are making progress.

Half way through the work, they unplug the welder and the grinder.  Joe, Will and I look at each other with puzzled looks.  The power is gone.  We were so close, but the job is not finished.  I ask when the power will be back on.  They shrug their shoulders.  11:00?  AM or PM?!?  No answer.  Today or tomorrow?  No answer.  It was clear that they had no real idea when the power would be available.  We were likely in for the night.  Stranded.  Stuck in a town with people who did not like us being there.  And no way out.

As we started to take a look at the car with two men who seemed to be the welders, a crowd began to gather around us.  With our proximity to the Afghanistan and Pakistan borders (just over the mountains) we started to get a little edgy.  The people did not seem too pleased with us being around.  We had little choice and needed the car fixed.

The Pamir village. If you click on it you can see the houses scattered along the foot of the towering mountains.

After some major miscommunications, we finally understood that there was no power in the town at the time.  The power would come and go, and the next power was expected about 2:00 PM.  Since it was 11:00 AM we were left with little choice other than to get comfortable and wait.  The comfort was not coming quickly, though, as the people were not very friendly.  We began to eye each of them and assess the perceived risks of each of them.  “That guy looks shady—we need to keep an eye on him.”  “Those kids obviously don’t like us around.  Be careful.”

One of the welders seemed to be the popular man about town.  As the people would wander up, they would immediately walk to him and greet him with a handshake or hug.  As the population grew around us, the familiarity of the greetings started to grow.   The more we were outnumbered, the more friendly the people became—with each other, not with us.

“Mr. Popular” made the bold move to come over and start to talk with us.  He asked the standard questions: where are you going, from where did you leave, what is with this crazy car?  We began to explain by showing on the map that we were driving from England to Tajikistan.  He immediately took a step back, looked at the car, and shook his head as he assessed the idea of driving Betty along that route.

One usual question did not come up:  where are you from?  The assumption was because we left form London and the car was a righty, we were obviously from England.  I watched as he explained to the masses around us that we were Brits driving from London to Dushanbe.  Since we were leaving in a couple hours, it was not worth correcting them.  Besides, they accepted the British citizenship without a problem.  Would they be as accepting of me being an American?  I didn’t want to bother finding out.  Especially since we had no “escape” with the car in pieces.

Will and I decided to take a walk down the road and see what this town had to offer.  Joe volunteered to stay with the car, which was comforting since everything we had was strapped to the roof or shoved in the back.

The view of the Pamirs...in reverse.

We continued to reverse down the Pamir Highway, Will watching my port side for potholes and stray cows, Joe looking out the front windshield watching for traffic.  The traffic we would come across in this area usually were Chinese semi trucks driving between the border and the capital in Dushanbe.  They usually came in threes and barreled down the highway with little regard to anyone else—driver or pedestrian.  The other cars would be a random resident or a mysterious luxury SUV.  Quick aside:  considering the average annual income for the country is $1,040 and this area is the most impoverished of the nation, a Lexus SUV driving down the road is a strange sight.  Knowing that drug trafficking in the area is a major issue, it is easy to make assumptions on what business in which they are involved.

Occasionally we would stop to ask the wandering person for the closest welder.  The answer was consistently a point in both directions with an answer of 20 kilometers.  So apparently we were half way between the two—and stayed half way the entire drive.  It was as if we were not making any progress.

We crested a hill and came up to what seemed to be the next “town”.  It was nothing more than a few houses and scattered buildings with a population of maybe a hundred.  But sitting on the side of the road was metal that was half-welded.  We had found our svarker.