Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Afghanistan Part 2 - The Daliz Pass

Day 1)

June 8, 2009-

Sarhad e Broghil, Population 548. -elevation 3,400M or 11,154 ft

The lingering effects of food poisoning have left my body in poor shape. I am tired, my body continues to ache, my appetite is minimal, and my muscles feel heavy and weak. Despite this, I must put on my 65lb pack and begin the trek I have spent the last four months planning. As I stand in the tall wet grass beside the guest house, I feel antagonized by the imposing nature of the snow capped peaks that majestically surround me. I feel the adrenaline building up in my veins…….. I can hear adventure, discovery, and experience calling me with a seductive whisper from somewhere beyond the majestic rocky curtain known as the Daliz Pass(4,277M or .

Despite the lingering effects of food poisoning, and diminished oxygen level in the air, a result of the relatively high altitude of Sarhad, I slept fairly well. Excitement and anxiety pried my eyes open at around 5am. Soon after, our host served us a breakfast of flat bread with thick buttery tea before pointed us in the direction of the Daliz Pass. Filled to the throat with dense flat bread and salty tea, we began walking toward the barren mountainside. Our intended destination was a camp ground for nomadic caravans called Barak. Barak was located ten miles from Sarhad, and was unapologetically obstructed by the Daliz Pass (14,000+ ft). Day one of our trek turned out to be a long one, it provided us with several important lessons and an experience that neither my brother nor I would ever be able to forget.

As Toby and I slowly dragged our feet up the muddy mountainside, across the shallow streams and through the thickening snow, our lungs began to feel the strain of the thinning air. It was not until we neared the top of the first snowy ridgeline that I was able to coerce my brother to admit that the altitude was in fact wearing him down. This is the same guy who adamantly refused to wear sunblock because he was brown, and didn’t need it ( more on that fallacy later). By the time we had arrived at what we had hoped was the saddle of the pass, we were hopelessly fatigued, dehydrated and thoroughly discouraged by the incessant gusts of wind that ripped through our morale and pierced our cotton shirts like shards of frosty glass. At around 12:30 we employed the shelter of a large overhanging rock to escape the torment of the wind long enough to choke down a lunch of stale flat bread with raisons and peanut butter. The altimeter on my watch said 13,246 feet.

Shivering now, paradoxically soaked to the core from perspiration, we pushed forward up the thick muddy trail and through the knee high snow at a progressively slowing pace. Because of our fatigue, and our lack of acclimatization, we were not able to take more than 15 steps at one time before pausing to suck enough oxygen from the air to continue. The air became increasingly thin and our bags seemingly heavier with each agonizing step. We eventually made it to the top of the Daliz Pass; a flat snow field intermittently speckled with large patches of thick grass and boulder clusters. The wind gusts across the soggy mantle of the Dariz pass were pervasive and cruel. As we scurried over the top of the pass, the wind cut through our wet clothing, chilling us to the core as it gnawed at our cheeks and ripped open our tear ducts with blatant disregard for our mounting fatigue.

The descent provided us with satisfying and much needed relief, it had become obvious to us both that our pack weight and the mountain climate were given far less reverence than deserved during the planning stage of our trek. The trail gently zigzagged down a steep barren mountainside and soon placed us at the base of a steep ravine with a shallow but rapid stream providing a vein of life to the base of the desolate gorge. According to our old soviet topographical maps that we acquired online from the UC Berkeley archives, this stream was a tributary to the Oxus River.

It was now late afternoon, and my brother and I were weighted down heavily by debilitating fatigue. Being the ox that he is, Toby was now carrying a pack that weighed in the ballpark of 70lbs (30kg); mine was around 60lbs. Regretting it now, my brother had earlier in the day agreed to carry a bit more than I; this was because I was still feeling feeble due to the previous days I had spent praying to the porcelain/dirt hole gods in Ishkashem and later Sarhad e Broghil. This generous gesture is one that Toby would soon deeply regret, but one that has left me forever grateful.

After a 20 minute break spent complaining and contemplating how it was possible that we had not made it to Barak yet, we hastily began discussing possibilities of deviating from the path that lie directly in front of us. The trail in front of us looked hopelessly steep and appeared to unfeasibly lead up the far side of the steep rocky gorge. Ill with fatigue, we foolishly convinced ourselves that the trail ahead would be painfully challenging for us to navigate; therefore, we were better off finding an appropriate alternative route. Option B was to assume that the stream at the base of the gorge would gently and directly take us to the base of the Oxus River, at which point we would simply follow the river upstream until reaching our intended destination, Barak.

Undoubtedly influenced by heavy fatigue and driven by optimism thickly saturated in blinding ignorance, we chose to diverge from the path and attempt to navigate the presumably less strenuous route that followed the stream down the ravine. In retrospect, I find it shocking that we were so irrational to have diverged from the physically intimidating, yet assuredly correct path to Barak . We hardly spoke as we slowly worked our way down the stream; in vain, we diligently scoured the rocky creek bed for any sign of a path. After an hour and half, the seriousness of our mistake began to fuse itself to our dense skulls with terrifying force.

It was after 4pm, we were exhausted, and feeling lightheaded and slightly nauseous due to our lack of proper hydration and acclimatization. The stream soon became more reminiscent of a small river; this was interrupted at times with a massive snow bridge that assumed the shape and function of a small glacier. Not only were the snow drifts becoming increasingly dangerous to cross, but the ravine itself became incredibly steep and difficult to traverse. After Two hours, it appeared that we were perhaps half way to the Oxus river; however, small waterfalls and melting snow bridges obstructed us from navigating the last 500 (estimated) vertical feet downward to the base of the river.

Going further down the steep gorge had now entirely lost its appeal. We were forced to put our heads together and to brainstorm options, or lack of. It was clear that continuing down the stream would be incredibly dangerous; furthermore, we began to realize that even if we made it to the river, there was a very real possibility that we would be trapped by the steep canyon walls and swollen Oxus River. If no trail existed due to high water level, it would be likely that our exit strategy would be an immense challenge, if not an impossibility under the circumstances. Our options were limited, we were so far down the gorge that getting back up with our level of fatigue appeared to be an impossibility; moreover, camping on location was also impossible, we were deep in a narrow canyon with nothing below our feet but an ice cold stream, melting snow drifts, and large loosely set boulders……….setting up a tent would not be possible.

Worn down and weakened by the lactic acid accumulating in our legs and backs and feeling suffocated by the cold thin air, our debilitating exhaustion made our heads feel spongy and lifeless like the cumulous clouds hovering above us. In this unfavorable condition, we made our second utterly imprudent decision of the day.

I noticed a shallow rockslide (gully) on the left side of the steep gorge. It appeared that the shallow rockslide was at a climbable slope, and if we could pull together enough strength to shimmy our way up about 150 vertical feet, perhaps the steep wall of the ravine would level out enough for us to set up a tent and rest for the evening. It seemed at the time to be a simple and logical solution to our increasingly worrisome predicament, a quick fix that would bring our day of trekking to an end in no more than 20 minutes…

Perhaps not surprisingly, the gully turned out to be more challenging to climb than we had anticipated. Even at the early stage, each step was both dangerous and exhausting. We slowly and methodically crawled up the steep narrow gully and though our feet slipped continuously on the loose rocks beneath us, we were able to cling to the jagged cliff wall and slowly pull ourselves up the gully at a respectable pace. We climbed ten feet at a time, with heavy packs (my brothers being at least 70lbs), and thin mountain air, any more than that would be an impossibility in our feeble condition. After each ten foot burst our legs and arms would turn to jelly and the lactic acid built up in our muscles would deliver to us a sharp burning sensation that would often make our muscles cramp and temporarily seize up. Each incremental segment climbed would make my heart beat so hard that I could feel the veins in my temples twitching with each pulsing beat. After a minute or so of gasping for air, and wallowing in physical and psychological despair, I would check on my brother, before forcing myself upward an additional ten paces.

At 150 vertical feet above our starting point, it appeared that our climb was coming to an end. At the 300ft mark, Toby and I began to internalize our emotions of panic and fear; I for one cannot remember ever feeling as desperate, afraid, and exhausted as I did on that mountainside. At about 500 vertical feet I became so exhausted and dehydrated that my head would not stop pounding, my heart was beating so hard that it made my entire body twitch with each beat; with every meter I climbed I would feel an overwhelming feeling of nausea and shortness of breath. The gully at this point was so steep that one slip would without doubt send me to my death; even more horrifying than my own personal despair and fatigue was my lucid understanding that if I were to lose my grip, in all likelihood my body would act like a bowling ball and knock my brother off the rocks below me. There was no doubt in our minds that if this were to happen, we would both weightlessly cartwheel down the cliff at an uncontrollable rate until reuniting with the merciless boulders waiting for us more than 500 vertical feet below. I could not stop thinking about how if my brother were to slip, it would be entirely my fault. Words cannot describe how absolutely horrifying it was for me to embrace this realization.

6pm…….we were both out of water……….we were 1.5 hours into our climb, the gully was no longer a gully. We were now climbing up the side of a cliff. The 60lb+ bag on my back ceaselessly pulled me away from the cliff, providing me with a constant reminder of my hatred for gravity and our ever more dire predicament. According to the altimeter on my watch we had climbed over 600 vertical feet. The ‘cliff leveling out’ mirage was incessantly cruel, leaving us feeling ever more devastated and hopeless with each increment of climbing. I constantly searched the Cliffside for any sort of shelf that would be large enough to fit our tent and shelter us from the snow that was now coating the rocks with an undesirable lubricant. Above and below us the steep rocky Cliffside sandwiched us into a nightmare of hopelessness and fear.

At 6:30pm I could not comprehend why the cliff had not given into the hillside………….when would it level out. The snow poured heavy upon us as the sun slowly disappeared. My hands became numb and the rocks slippery from the falling snow. My palms and wrists were now raw and bleeding from the hours spent pulling myself up the sharp jagged rocks. Toby kept begging me to take some stuff from his bag, but I selfishly refused, I just could not bring myself to even consider adding more weight to my bag. Despite this I could not stop worrying about his role in this dilemma. After every 5-10 foot shuffle upward I would call down and check on him, he would usually just ignore me and look at me with a cold blank stare. What the hell could we do to get out of this……………..the cliff would have to end at some point………..but would we have the energy and will to make it to the top without passing out, or slipping on the snow covered rocks?

At 7pm it was getting dark, and we were in the middle of a snow storm. I told my brother that I could not go any further and that we should just climb into our sleeping bags and tie into the rock, or perhaps tie our tent to a four foot wide slanted rock ledge I had found. We needed to think of something quickly, time was running out, and I was becoming increasingly worried that my brother or I might lose consciousness, and allow gravity to pull us off the cliff. Toby would not entertain either of those ideas, saying it would be impossible to make it through the night that way due to the wind gusts and snow.

I continued to climb with determination to endure, though my nausea began to worsen and my head continued to throb. Toby sluggishly followed below, following each of my steps about ten feet beneath me. I felt a glimmer of hope after spotting a large jagged rock that protruded about ten feet from the edge of the cliff. The rock was about the size of a truck and lay about fifty feet up from us and off to the right around forty feet. It seemed plausible that the upper side of the rock would perhaps contain a large flat surface. We were now more than 800 vertical feet above our starting point. I felt like crying, helplessness and vulnerability was overwhelming us both. I fought hard to maintain enough motivation and optimism to escape from this situation. Having my brother below me and in such a dire predicament provided me with an ample amount of determination and incentive to continue climbing.

The other end of the large rock proved to be less than helpful as a potential camping spot. However, from this rock it appeared that an area fifty feet to the right, and seventy five feet up the mountain was an area where the cliff gave into a more gradual, but steep hillside. Toby and I pushed forward with excitement and anticipation, our misery would soon end. At around 7:20pm, Toby and I were out of the gully and standing on a steep hillside.

Feeling elated and comforted by our newfound ability to physically stand without the guidance and support of our frozen hands, Toby and I looked at each other and smiled. We cut sideways to the right along the hillside another 75ft until we came across an area level enough to pitch our tent. The snow had now stopped, the wind had thankfully subsided. After clearing away a small area, Toby and I used sharp rocks to cut a flat spot in the hillside. Toby in fact did most of the digging, each time I bent over to dig, I became overwhelmed with lightheadedness and nausea. I instead used my boots to clear away the sand that Toby had dug up ( I was basically worthless during this entire task). We set up our tent and were in bed by 8pm.

Toby and I were both incredibly dehydrated, and were far too exhausted to consider cooking. Instead, we treated ourselves to a scoop of peanut and handful of raisins each…………it was delicious. During our in-tent debriefing session, we solemnly promised ourselves that we would be more careful, and only make prudent and well thought out logistical decisions.

I shivered through the first half of the night, but eventually was able to heat my core enough to lie comfortably and fall into a semi-conscious slumber. Neither of us were able to actually sleep, our stomachs ached with hunger, our throats were dry and course from dehydration, and our muscles cramped and ached each time we attempted to readjust ourselves in the tent.

At two in the morning, when exiting the tent to use the penthouse toilet, I discovered that the tent was covered in 2 inches of fresh snow. Seeking to capitalize on this gift of nature, I quickly filled our water bottles and aluminum cooking bowls with snow and placed them in our sleeping bags so that we could melt enough snow to rehydrate ourselves. Within an hour we were able to hydrate ourselves with cold refreshing water. I continued this routine about every 2 hours until morning.

-June 9, 2009-

As the sun began to rise we slowly became aware of where we were. At 7am we saw a caravan of Yaks 100 meters above us. We had camped directly below the trail. We had learned our lesson and vowed never to diverge from the trail again.

Leaving Sarhad:

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Going up the Daliz Pass:

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The first saddle:

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The end of day one- Toby cooking breakfast the next morning (the snow had melted by 8am)

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A video of our camp spot:

Thursday, January 06, 2011

Afghanistan Part 1 Ishkashem to Sarhad

After narrowly slipping through the gauntlet of the pompous and patronizing Tajik border officials and crossing the Panj aka Amy Dariya aka Pamir river into Afghanistan, my brother and I were picked up by a middle aged Afghan man who worked for the Ishkashem branch of the Agha Khan foundation. At a slothlike pace, the dust coated white jeep carried us along a winding road and up the rocky hill to the town of Afghan Ishkashem. After being dropped off in the center of the village, my brother and I began to feel uneasy, frightened and thoroughly intimidated by our surroundings. The town was little more than a series of narrow muddy streets lined with small bazaar stalls and an occasional mud brick house. As we wandered up the muddy uninviting road, I became riddled with paranoia; I could not help but notice the leathery faces and the soiled clothes of the clusters of men who were now glaring at us with suspicious and curious eyes. My brother voiced his concerns about our safety, … I hesitated before telling him that this village was quite safe and not to worry. I was in Afghanistan……was I just being paranoid? Indeed it is common knowledge that the USA has not won any popularity contests in this country,…. after all it was the USA who was largely responsible for ripping this country to shreds for the last thirty years….but how would this affect my interaction and experience with these people.

I made a mental note: calm down and ignore stereotypes. It is unambiguous that the Western media paints a negative image of Afghans: the Taliban and ‘Islamist terrorist’ are often associated with the image of rural Afghans. This of course is an unfair and inaccurate depiction of the rural, poverty stricken Afghan people. It is common knowledge that often times Islamist terrorists come from expatriate communities in Western states, most of which whom were brought up in middle to upper class households.

I made a conscious decision to meet these curious stares head on. My brother Toby and I began confronting the curious stares by walking directly to each person on the street and saying Asalam Ahalikum, and following this with a sincere handshake and a smile. The fear and unjustified paranoia began melting away with each Afghan we met. Most would open both hands and sandwich my hand with theirs, they would do this with a warm smile and welcoming eyes. The key, in retrospect, was to ignore the nasty images of the Western media and to humanize these people by looking into their eyes and establishing a real and more accurate perception of these people; one based on fact and experience, rather than propaganda and negative imagery. Why does a turban, muddy boots, a weathered caramel colored face, and a striped chapan (Tajik/Uzbek robe) inspire in us a visualization of terrorism and hate? With this logic, should it not be fair that an image of a Chinese person immediately remind us of the atrocities and ideologies of Mao, or should a Georgian person fundamentally inherit the visage and reputation of Stalin?

Ishkashem was really not much of a town, it is a small trading post reputed to be a hub for opium trafficking. Despite the unlikely location, being so far out of my comfort zone began to make me feel alive. The previous eight months I had spent back in the United States had provided me with rest, reconnection, and a thorough reevaluation of the strengths, weaknesses, and existence of the relationships that make me whole. I left the U.S. because of the suffocating feelings of anxiety, monotony, and uncertainty that was chipping away at my soul. Falling back into my old life, and into my old self was becoming a depressing reality………being back on the road and in Afghanistan freed me from these heavy feelings. Peace and happiness slowly returned to me with each step I took into the Wakhan. These feelings were strengthened by the privilege and honor of sharing these special, unique and exhilarating experiences with my little brother.

After shaking dozens of hands and growing a bit more familiar and comfortable with my new surroundings, Toby and I checked into a small quest house across the road from the local police station ( the ‘Aria guest house’). We spent the rest of the evening wandering around Ishkashem gathering supplies for our trek at the local shops. We purchased: 4 head scarves, 3kg of rice, 1.5kg of lentils (bad idea, they take forever to cook at high altitudes), curry powder, 3 rolls of TP, .5kg of raisins, .5 kg of black tea, and a few bags of seasoning powders.

We were not alone at the Aria guest house. An enlightened Japanese guy with an American accent(he went to photography school in the States, and was born there) in his early 30s was also staying with us at our guest house. His name was A.K. Kimoto (his website is: www.spidersandflies.com). AK is a journalist and was in Ishkashem taking photos and gathering information about the problems associated with the widespread opium addiction in the area. Toby and I enjoyed spending our evenings with A.K. and learning about all of his research and experience. Though he considers his home base to be Thailand, he had previously spent a good amount of time in Kabul, and was putting together a self funded academic piece, and photo book on opium addiction in NE Afghanistan. According to A.K., many villages in the area, if not all, have an adult population with a 50% or higher opium addiction rate. In essence, most of the households have at least one opium addict.

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-Side note: over a year later, as I finally type up my journal about Afghanistan, I have found out some unfortunate news. While doing a bit of research on A.K. to make sure his website is still up, I have found out that A.K. had passed away in spring of 2010. His website is no longer working, but you can find tributes to him, and an array of his work all across the web.

I feel compelled to share with you these words A.K. wrote about his time in Ishkashem, I found them online, but have not been able to track down his photo essay yet. I hope to do so.

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“I offer to transport the mother and child to a clinic. One of the elders cuts me off before I can finish my thought. He smiles gently as he tells me that the child would never survive such a journey in the cold rain, and anyway, this way of life and death have been repeated for centuries in these mountains.”

Opium Addiction in Badakshan- words of A.K.Kimoto

In the remote North-Eastern province of Badakhshan in Afghanistan, opium and heroin addiction are ravaging isolated mountain communities, and the staggering numbers are only getting worse. In some places, it is said that 70% of the population use drugs in some form, from hashish, to raw opium and refined heroin powder. It is not uncommon to find three generations of a family smoking together behind closed doors.

Traditionally, Opium was used as a cure-all, the magic medicine that could work wonders on anything from back pains to headaches to the nagging cough that every one has during the brutally cold winter months. The residents of Ishkashem, on the Tajikistan border say that it was never a problem before. Now, the situation is changing. In Ishkashem, it is said that at least 50% of the population has a serious drug addiction problem. Other remote villages further down the inaccessible Wakhan Valley are said to have an unbelievable 70-80% addiction rate. Children are born into addiction every day, and thus, the cycle is perpetuated.

I also found one of the last correspondences he had with his close friend James Whitlow Delano ( www.jameswhitlowdelano.com ) regarding his lack of recognition for his work in Ishkashem:

-a pic A.K. took in NE Afghanistan-

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“I don’t care about being recognized, and I don’t care if I go through life with no fame to show for my efforts. What bothers me is if people don’t take my latest work seriously. Not for my sake, but for the sake of the people who allowed me to photograph their lives. When was the last time you saw a 4 year old sucking down heroin? Is it not a tragedy? If I can’t do anything to bring attention to their plight, and if nobody cares, then what am I doing with my time and in fact, my life? It was never about awards or anything like that. I thought it was about being out in the world, witnessing things that others don’t see, and sharing these stories with a larger audience. I always said that I do what I do because I only have 2 hands.

6-6-2009 (journal entry)

I feel like shit again. The mutton stew and beans I ate for dinner last night ripped my stomach apart and has left me frail and weak. Food poisoning again! Went to the border bazaar today but was too ill to enjoy it. Popped a few pills that A.K. hooked me up with, and sat on the side outside the rock gate trying to ignore the curious stares and salesmanship of the vendors.

Getting transport and permission to go into the Wakhan Corridor has been a headache. After a lot of haggling with several different drivers, I was able to get transport for $600……….which is an extortionate price for the service. The Hilux will take us from Ishkashem to Sarhad e Broghil, and pick us up two weeks later and drive us back to Ishkashem. We also have a local guy sorting out our permits to get into the Wakhan. He is using his connections in Faizbad and Ishkashem to sort out permission for us to go into the Militarized border zone of the Wakhan corridor and Afghan Pamir. Slept most of the day, too sick to eat, sat around outside with Toby and A.K. most of the evening, drinking tea to stay warm and listening to A.K. talk about the heartbreaking stories of opium addiction and poverty in the villages surrounding Ishkashem. He spends each day with a young interpreter, about 18 years old, and a driver that he picked up out of town for the price of $50 a day, which is not that bad. He tells us that people are usually reluctant to have their picture taken, but he always explains to them that what he is doing is trying to spread awareness, so as to bring help to the area, and a way out of opium addiction and poverty.

7-6-2009 (Journal entry)

It all begins….. Our documents showed up late from Ishkashem, so we were not able to leave Ishkashem until 7am. The first police checkpoint in the Wakhan Corridor was a breeze; our papers got us through without hassle. Down the road a ways, we were stopped at the next checkpoint in the town of Shandar, this scheduled stop was a bit more challenging. After an hour of phone calls, waiting around, and a douse of uncertainty and confusion, the head of police called the commander in Ishkashem (whom he knows well,.. my brother and I had both met him as well), and soon after we were allowed to pass through the gate. Four hours into the jeep ride we reached the town of Qali Panja.

-side note: Qali Panja marks the end of the Wakhan Corridor and the beginning of the Big Pamir)

The local police questioned us briefly before accepting our permits from Ishkashem and Faizbad and writing us another one for Sarhad e Broghil. After the business end was taken care of, they invited our driver and both my brother and I into the police shack for lunch. Rice, bread, and tea…..sitting on the floor with five other soldiers, eating scoops of rice with curled fingers,……though my stomach was still a bit rough, it was a great and memorable experience.

The drive through the Corridor has been amazing, small Wakhi settlements and villages seemed to arise from piles of barren rock, caravans of double humped camels were often visible from the narrow dirt road. The Wakhi people wore bright red clothes and elaborate necklaces and scarves. I began to notice how their pale skin was often chapped and severely sun damaged, this giving them a very unique and weathered look, one that brought about emotions of empathy and sadness. The rugged road that took us the entire way to Sarhad was by all definitions intense. We drove through rivers and deep muddy streams, over deep ruts and mounds, and up and down the steep rocky mountainsides. Wakhi shepards, young and old watched over their sheep and goats, grazing them in the lush grassy fields along the riverside. Centuries if not millenniums old petroglyphs were frequently seen on large boulders near the road. It was a fascinating and beautiful ten hour jeep ride; however, Toby and I were both quite relieved when it ended. We arrived in Sarhad e Broghil slightly after five pm. Sarhad is the end of the jeep trail, it was an exciting realization that we must go on foot from here…

Soon after arriving, we were greeted warmly by our host and a dozen or so of the local Wakhi villagers. All had severely chapped cheeks, leathery skin and glowing eyes. The guest house consisted of a mud and rock shack surrounded by a 1.5 meter mud wall. Just outside the guest house were about forty Yaks owned by a Kygryz caravan. They were all resting and reenergizing after a long journey into Sarhad from their mountain settlements deep into the Little Pamir. The Kyrgyz territories are located deep into the Little Pamir and start with the village of Bozai Gombaz, before this village is exclusively Wakhi settlements. They respect each others cultural and religious differences and seem to have a very solid trade and social relationship, despite the fact that they segregate themselves geographically. The Kygryz are Sunni Islam, while the Wakhi are Ismaili Islam (a branch of Shia). Their language also differs, but from my experience, they all seem to know each other’s languages, as well as Pashtun.

Sarhad can be described as a serene location. Sarhad is made up of a series of mud shacks and low grassy hills. To the south is a wide flat riverbed interrupted at times by generally shallow streams. Beyond this is a wall of jagged snow peaked mountains belonging to the Karakoram Range, the peaks of these mountains generally representing the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan. At the eastern tip of Sarhad is where three of the four highest mountain ranges in the world collide with breathtaking elegance. To the east of Sarhad you can see the Hindu Kush on the left, the Pamir in the center, and the Karakoram to the right. I don’t believe I have ever stood in a location exhibiting as much natural beauty and cultural vibrancy as Sarhad e Broghil. I must note however, that the Wakhi people of Sarhad are visibly worn down by the struggles of everyday life. The infant mortality rate in the Wakhan Corridor is claimed by many to be the highest in the world (163+/1000).

-Reference:

-“The human population of the whole Wakhan/Pamir area-both settled Wakhi and nomad Kyrghyz-suffer

from a compound of problems including chronic poverty, ill health, lack of education, food insecurity,

and opium addiction, arising from the remoteness and harshness of their environment and the lack of

resources and facilities”. (UNEP 2003 http://postconflict.unep.ch/publications/WCR.pdf)

After a quick meal, my brother and I went on a walk around the village trails. We stopped briefly on a large burial mound overlooking the river and expressed to each other the overflowing joy we felt to have finally reaching the trail head.

Here are a few pics:

Men in Iskhashem

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On the road leaving Ishkashem…

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Pics from the jeep trail:

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Lunch at the Police Station

My Brother Toby pictured to the left:

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The people of Sarhad e Broghil:

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Photo credits go to my brother Toby on a few of these, notably the one below.

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Day one! Hitting the trail………..destination over that pass in front of me

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Videos:

Ishkashem panoramic shot:

Border market in Ishkashem. Tajiks and Afghans meet at the border once a week to trade with one another: