We made Murgab in about an hour, a rather large town but only slightly more up-market than Alichur. Nothing to stop for so we pressed on to the Ak Baital Pass which, at 4,655 metres, is said to be the second highest pass on a major road in the world. I was a bit nervous about getting over it in a 2X2 van but the sight of convoys of huge Chinese trucks coming the other way was reassuring.
In the end, Ak Baital was a major disappointment. We passed the sign, three hairpins, and we were over it. We must have been rising up a tiny gradient all the way from Murgab. Some time after the pass, we drove alongside the Karakol lake which is a brilliant ultramarine colour as a result of some naturally-occuring chemical in the water. In the background is the snow-covered Peak Lenin (7,134 metres) and in the far distance, shrouded in cloud, is a mountain massif including Peak Communism.
The next pass, the Kizyl-Art at 4,282 metres, was something else. You leave Tajikistan at the top of the pass, the border post being a collection of shabby decrepit buildings with no sign of life and a rickety barrier across the road. We sat there for ten minutes waiting for someone to come rushing out. In the end I went and knocked on a door of the grottiest-looking building and a grunt inside beckoned me in. The “office” was a filthy disgusting room, rather like my house when Jennifer isn’t there, and a man asked me to take my shoes off!!!.
He got through the paperwork fairly efficiently and then directed me to a hovel with “Ministry of Transport” written on it. A man demanded to see my vehicle import certificate which I didnt have. He then demanded $10 for the certificate which I also didnt have. So he let me off and sent me to the Ministry of Health hovel where a man wanted to see my “quarantine certificate” which I didnt have. He then demanded $10 for the certificate which I also didnt have. So he let me off. I was then sent to “Passport Control” for the passports to be stamped and we were away.
I have a feeling that we should have got thesecertificates at the Batken-Isfara crossing but the harassed officials were fearing a lynching by thousands of extremely angry Tajiks when the internet was down and, having let us in at the front of the queue, wanted to get us out of the way as quickly as possible,
On the Kyrgyz side, we were asked if we could give a lift to two women and, as a result, we got through the formalities in record time. The two border posts are 15 kms apart (at the top and bottom of the Pass) and the road descends in no-mans-land with no-one taking responsibility for it. It is therefore a mud road riven with deep ruts, crossed by rushing streams and the occasional lake of unknown depth. A deep gorge on the left side of the road. Our friend Jim Wintour had warned us not to descend in wet weather, and we soon realised that it would have been suicidal to have tried. Fortunately the mud was baked solid, although it did rain an hour after we had got down the pass.
On the way to Osh,this was the third time we passed through the Alay Valley and it seemed more beautiful than ever with the River Gulcha running through it, carving a path through deep crimson sandstone. The cliffs are fluted like the folds of a curtain and topped by emerald-green pastureland dotted with sheep and goats. Huge flocks are herded down the road by men on horseback, and we saw a herd of 20 of the most gorgeous horses herded by a man in a car. There are yurts at the side of the road with smoke coming out of iron chimneys.
The two girls got out half way to Osh and we spent the night in the car park of a yurt camp for tourists.
