It had been over a week since we began our journey from Tashkent, traveling the legendary road known as the Pamir Highway. Now, we continued our journey from Ishkashim, a small town nestled in the quiet and beautiful Wakhan Valley, the border region separating Tajikistan and Afghanistan.
The day began with a stop at a gas station on the outskirts of town. What caught my attention was the sign “Gasoline” in Cyrillic script and the price per liter: 11.50 Somoni. This seemed quite expensive, at over a US dollar per liter—illustrating the logistical challenges in such a remote, mountainous region.
From Ishkashim, we drove along the banks of the Panj River—a major tributary of the Amu Darya—which serves as a natural dividing line between Tajikistan and Afghanistan. The river meandered serenely, sometimes swift and wide, sometimes so narrow and shallow that we could see straight across to the villages on the Afghan side. There, in the distance, a burqa-clad woman rode a donkey, accompanied by a heavily bearded man on foot. The scene felt like a scene from another era, untouched by time.
Mas Agus, a seasoned travel companion, recounted his experience crossing the Afghan side in 2009 and the Tajik side in 2006.
“On the Tajik side, 60 kilometers can be covered in one and a half to two hours by car. But on the Afghan side, it can take two days—walking or riding a donkey,” he said with a smile, reminding us how different the two sides of the river were in terms of infrastructure and accessibility.
Along the way, in addition to the Panj River, which is the mainstay of the community’s livelihood, we also passed several man-made irrigation canals. In the village of Shanbedeh, I saw a sign with information about a canal aid project from the Partrip Foundation, a foundation that collaborates with the German government to assist communities in conflict-prone border areas. The aid consisted of a modern, efficient irrigation system, explained in both Tajik and English.
Our convoy continued along the dusty gravel road, winding between rocks and ravines. At a bend, we stopped for a moment at a small cafe that stood out for its color: light green walls and a blue tin roof. A Tajik flag fluttered proudly above it.
“Kavhahonai Nur,” was the cafe’s name. On the wall was a menu of food and drinks, along with a sign that provided 3G internet access—a luxury in the remote Pamirs. I took a photo by the riverbank with the red, white, and green flag in the background, a symbol of national spirit and identity amid the silent mountains.
Toward noon, around 11 a.m., we began to enter the outskirts of Khorog, the capital of GBAO (Gorno-Badakhshan Autonomous Oblast). It was here, on a street corner, that we encountered Lenin.
A bronze statue stood tall, his figure clad in a long robe that seemed to flutter in the mountain breeze. There was no written description other than the inscription “CCCP” and a red hammer and sickle symbol on the wall behind the statue. Lenin stood silently, as if a silent witness to a bygone era. I wondered: had this statue remained where it had been since the Soviet era, or had it been moved to this corner of town after the Soviet Union dissolved in the early 1990s?
We took a quick photo in front of the statue before getting back into the vehicle and continuing our journey toward downtown Khorog. Soon, on the right side of the road, a large three-story building appeared.
“Aga Khan School,” Ibrahim said, pointing to the building. The Aga Khan’s name is well-known in this area. The Aga Khan Foundation is very active in education and social assistance in GBAO. I even remembered his photo hanging in the home of Yodgor, a Langar resident we had met a few days earlier.
Entering the town, a gate greeted us with the words “Modar Yaktost, Tajikistan Yaktost.” Mother is One, Tajikistan is One. A slogan imbued with the meaning of unity and nationality, important in a pluralistic country like Tajikistan.
Soon, we arrived at Bozori Markazi Sahri Khorog, Khorog’s Central Market. Since it was a Sunday, the market was actually closed. However, thanks to prior arrangements, one stall remained open for us. We entered the market area—its roof was made of corrugated iron, with most of the stalls covered with cloth or tarpaulin. We headed to a small stall that remained open, manned by a middle-aged woman who greeted us warmly.
There, rows of Pamir souvenirs were lined up: hats, embroidered fabrics, bags, and handmade knickknacks. I bought a traditional hat for 120 Somoni, the same one Mbak Retha had bought, only in a different color. That hat would become my constant companion for the rest of my Tajikistan trip.
After our shopping spree, we had lunch at a restaurant across from the market. The menu was a combination of Central Asian cuisine with Chinese influences—hearty and filling. Halfway through, news arrived from the group of photographers in Syamil’s car: their vehicle was experiencing technical difficulties. They were temporarily transferred to another car until a replacement could be found in Kalaikhumb.
The journey to Kalaikhumb was long—around 250 kilometers, which could take 7 to 8 hours, depending on road and weather conditions.
Throughout this long journey, the shadow of Lenin, standing silently in a corner of the small town of Khorog, seemed to follow. In a world changing so rapidly, that figure remains a reminder of a past that lingers in many places, even in the heart of the Pamir Mountains.
