This post recounts a traveler's journey through Tajikistan and the famed Pamir Highway during the summer of 2018. The trip began and ended in Tashkent, Uzbekistan, weaving through breathtaking landscapes and cultural landmarks. For travelers interested in this route, rich with details and visual wonders, here’s a translated and reimagined version of the original account. The full Russian version can be found on the travel forum awd.ru, posted by user evil_nn.
Intrigued by tales of the Pamir Highway, I set out to plan a trip to Tajikistan. Known as the highest-altitude road in the former Soviet Union, the Pamir Highway is a marvel of engineering, skirting the Afghan border, with mountain passes reaching 4,600 meters. Despite summer heat, nights in these elevations remain chillingly cold, while the surreal beauty of the landscapes promises memories to last a lifetime. However, the first hurdle appeared unexpectedly: flights to Dushanbe were unavailable. After some deliberation, I decided to fly to Tashkent instead. From there, it’s a short 150 km drive to Tajikistan’s northern city of Khujand, offering a chance to explore the region while journeying southward toward the capital.
The journey from Tashkent to Dushanbe was planned meticulously, with stops at Khujand, Istaravshan, and Panjakent. For some sections, like the Wakhan Corridor along the Afghan border and the Marguzor Lakes, manual mapping was necessary due to Google Maps’ limitations.
Our trip began smoothly. We arrived in Tashkent on time, skipping the old requirement to fill out customs declarations. Outside the arrivals terminal, we headed to the departures area to exchange money at a better rate. With cash in hand, we exited the airport premises, where taxi prices dropped dramatically. A car quickly pulled up, and for 110,000 Uzbek soms, we were off to the Oybek border crossing. While I knew I overpaid slightly (a trip to Kuylyuk bus station and then to the border would have cost less), the convenience of a direct ride was worth the extra $2.50.
The 94 km journey was quick, and after bidding our driver farewell, we walked across the border into Tajikistan. The process was efficient and courteous, and we soon found ourselves negotiating with local drivers for a ride to Khujand. Settling on 150 Tajik somoni (approximately $16.30), we were on our way.
The next morning, we set out to explore Khujand, a city where history and modernity coexist. Just a short walk from our accommodation, we arrived at an ancient fortress housing a museum. Nearby stood a modest replica of Rome’s iconic she-wolf sculpture, while a theater with a fountain completed the charming tableau.
The fortress itself is a quintessential example of Central Asian architecture—a massive clay mound partially restored with new brickwork. Adjacent to the fortress lies a shaded park filled with fountains, offering a pleasant respite from the blazing summer sun, which already hovered around 35°C by mid-morning.
As we strolled along the banks of the Syr Darya River, the inviting coolness of the water and a sandy beach on the opposite shore beckoned. However, resisting the temptation, we retreated to our accommodations to avoid the oppressive heat.
At 11 a.m., we hailed a taxi for just nine somoni to the bus station, where shared cars awaited passengers for Panjakent and Dushanbe. The fare to Panjakent was 70 somoni per vehicle. By noon, we had reached Istaravshan, ready to continue our adventure through the heart of Tajikistan.
Releasing the driver, our first task was to arrange with the hotel across the street to store our bags and backpacks for a couple of hours. With that settled, we set off to explore the modest cultural heritage of Ura-Tyube, the old name for the town.
We began with the ancient Hazrati Shoh Mosque and Madrasa. As it was prayer time, entering the mosque was out of the question. We took a few photos from the outside and then delved into the labyrinth of narrow streets in the old town.
Our next stop was the Kok Gumbaz Mosque, a 15th-century structure no longer used for worship and now functioning as a cultural site. Admission was free, and a very friendly woman at the entrance gave us a brief overview of its history. She then sent her son with us to guide us to the rooftop. Unfortunately, the mosque’s interior has not been preserved. However, the intricately carved entrance doors, the decorative canopy above an old well (which, we were told, is fake and once concealed an underground passage), and the mosaic exterior were captivating.
The climb to the roof was tight, and reaching the highest point required a bit of scrambling. The view of Istaravshan from above was underwhelming—an expanse of monotonous rooftops stretching in all directions, with the eye drawn only to a hill in the center crowned by a large, recently reconstructed fortress. That was where we were headed next.
But first, we needed to eat—breakfast was long behind us. Out of my own initiative, I handed the woman at the entrance 20 somoni as a token of gratitude, and we set off in search of a place to dine. Retracing our steps through the old streets back to the town center, we asked passersby for recommendations. They directed us to a spot just a couple of buildings away.
The eatery turned out to be a cafeteria-style establishment, modest but respectable, now bustling with people fresh from their post-prayer lunch. The line moved quickly, and for just 49 somoni, we had a hearty meal. Our spread even included apricot juice and a plate of sliced watermelon, leaving us thoroughly satisfied.
After lunch, we hailed a taxi, agreeing on a fare of 45 somoni for a multi-stop journey. The plan was to visit two landmarks with the driver waiting for us, then swing by to collect our belongings, and finally head to the local market where taxi drivers bound for Panjakent usually gathered.
Our first stop was the fortress, which turned out to be a bit of a letdown. From the outside, it appeared impressive, but as we approached the entrance, a man hesitated awkwardly before addressing us. "You're foreigners, right?" he asked, pulling out a stack of tickets. "So, uh... that'll be two dollars each... or, okay, let’s say 10 somoni each," he offered. When we asked for a ticket as a souvenir, he replied that these weren’t the proper tickets, just ones for locals. It was clear what kind of operation this was.
Inside the fortress, there wasn’t much to see—manicured lawns and a central amphitheater-style concert stage. It became apparent that entering was unnecessary; the exterior view was more than enough.
On the way, we picked up our luggage and headed to Sari-Mazor, a village famed for its ancient, towering plane trees. Five of these magnificent giants remain, one bearing a plaque that claims it is over 600 years old. I had read online that there used to be nine trees, but during the bitter winters of World War II, four were cut down to provide firewood for heating a local school.
Those bound for Panjakent gather at the farthest end of the local market, where our taxi driver quickly struck a deal with a man driving a Zafira—70 somoni per person. With two passengers already occupying the back row, we set off immediately. The road was decent, and before long, the scenery transitioned into an unbroken panorama of mountains. We passed through the Shahristan Tunnel, a gloomy, over 5-kilometer stretch devoid of lighting or ventilation. Emerging from the tunnel and descending the serpentine roads, we stopped to buy a small bucket of apricots from a young boy for just 10 somoni.
The driver spoke little Russian, which made it challenging to negotiate future arrangements for a planned trip to Dushanbe and excursions for the next day. Even with the help of his father acting as a translator over the phone, we couldn’t reach a clear agreement. As we passed through the town of Ayni, where the main road continues to the capital, we turned right into a canyon carved by the Zeravshan River. Along the way, we occasionally stopped at our request to snap photos of the breathtaking landscapes.
For the most part, the trip was uneventful, and we arrived in Panjakent around 7:30 p.m. The hotel our driver brought us to met our expectations, so we decided to stay there for the next two nights. A triple room ranged from $42 to $51 per night. With the help of a young man at the reception, we finally managed to communicate with the driver about our travel plans. He quoted 500 somoni for a ride to Dushanbe without additional passengers, which aligned with the rates I had previously heard. However, he wanted an extra 300 somoni for a detour to Iskanderkul Lake, about 25 kilometers off the route, with a 2-3 hour wait. While the price seemed steep, we agreed on a total of 700 somoni.
For tomorrow’s plan to visit the Seven Lakes (also known as the Marguzor Lakes), his car was unsuitable—it lacked the necessary ground clearance and all-wheel drive. The receptionist promptly called a contact who agreed to take us there for 450 somoni.
14 July
At around 10:45 a.m., a second-generation RAV4 pulled up, and we loaded our gear before setting off toward the Seven Lakes. This was the excursion I had meticulously arranged the day before—a journey to see the stunning chain of seven alpine lakes nestled in a gorge of the Fann Mountains, not far from Panjakent. These lakes had captivated me during my pre-trip research, and I was determined to visit them if the opportunity arose.
The smooth asphalt road didn’t last long. In the village of Sujin, we turned off, following a sign pointing toward Shind. For about five kilometers, the ride remained relatively comfortable, but soon the road transitioned into a rugged, gravel path. Heavily used by quarry trucks transporting materials to a Chinese-operated gold mine, the road bore the marks of their constant passage.
Once the trucks disappeared, the road began to climb, snaking along a riverbank. After passing another small village, we ascended a rocky ridge and were suddenly greeted by a breathtaking view of the first lake. Narrow and wedged between steep mountain slopes, its dark blue depths shimmered, fading into near blackness in the shadows.
Surprisingly, while the rest of the lakes displayed shades of turquoise and green, this one was uniquely somber. At the far end, a massive rock dam towered some 150 meters high, with the road zigzagging steeply up its face.
As soon as we crested the ridge, the second lake came into view. Its shoreline was a jumble of large boulders, perfect for climbing. From atop one of these, we snapped a few panoramic photos. This lake was noticeably larger than the first.
The third lake, Gushor, lay at nearly the same altitude as the second. Its popularity was evident: a shaded picnic area, a beach-like stretch, and plenty of trees offered respite from the blazing sun. Around ten cars were parked here, mostly locals enjoying the spot. Swimmers, however, were scarce, which wasn’t surprising given the chilly water—definitely not the inviting warmth of a summer pond.
The fourth lake, Nofin, didn’t leave much of an impression.
But the fifth lake, the smallest of the chain, brought a surprise. Three young men were splashing around near the shore. Thinking the water might be warmer here, I decided to wade in but quickly discovered otherwise. The icy water made standing in it unbearable, with my legs cramping almost instantly. Nearby, there were a few picnic spots with tables and shaded areas, suggesting the place gets busier on weekends.
The sixth lake, Marguzor, is considered the largest. Its banks were less steep, dotted with local houses, small gardens, and orchards. Trails crisscrossed the hillsides, forming an intricate web. On the far side of the lake stood a sizable village, where our driver hesitantly asked, “Shall we continue to the seventh lake, or stop here?” There was no escaping the final stretch, and we began the climb.
It soon became clear why our driver was reluctant. The ascent was the steepest and roughest yet, with large rocks scattered across the path and challenging inclines. The road followed a small river that remained our constant companion.
At last, we reached the seventh and final lake, Azor-Chasma. From here, the snow-capped peaks seemed much closer. My companions dipped their feet into the lake, only to leap out moments later—the icy water caused their legs to cramp instantly.
After spending about half an hour at the top, we began our descent, stopping along the way to capture views we had missed on the way up. We also revisited the third lake, where our driver’s acquaintances were relaxing.
The entire excursion took 6.5 hours, and the pricing began to make sense. Covering 136 kilometers, with roughly 100 of those on rough, suspension-destroying gravel roads, the 450 somoni fare seemed fair. Perhaps, with some negotiation, it could be brought down to 400.
July 15: Penjikent to Dushanbe (via Iskanderkul Lake)
After a hearty breakfast, we packed up and stepped out onto the street at half-past nine. Within five minutes, we were on our way to Dushanbe. The journey began smoothly, with just one brief stop along the way—for a restroom break and to pick up some chilled water for the road. The ingenuity of the locals was on full display: they had redirected a mountain stream so that it fanned out over a tiered display of drink bottles. The result was not only visually striking but ensured the drinks stayed ice-cold.
The first 25 kilometers to the turnoff were uneventful, the road a winding two-lane route through the mountains. Once we turned toward Iskanderkul, however, the asphalt gave way to a more rugged terrain—patches of broken road interspersed with stretches of rocky dirt track. Despite its appearance, the route was navigable by most cars, even compact ones.
After about 40 minutes of driving, a glimpse of the lake suddenly appeared below, nestled between the slopes of a narrow gorge. The view was breathtaking! Far below, a frothy river tumbled over rocks, and, according to the map, a waterfall lay directly beneath us—though it was cleverly concealed by a cliff that obscured the stream.
Descending toward the lake, we encountered a barrier. Access to the lake required a fee—not for parking, but seemingly for the duration of one’s stay. The guard asked how long we planned to visit. The cost was modest, around 15 somoni (approximately 100 rubles) per car.
Here, we began to regret not hiring the man with the RAV4 we’d considered earlier. Our driver, in his Zafira, refused to take the car off the main road, even though the local paths didn’t seem particularly treacherous to me. As a result, we had to walk—first to Snake Lake (a manageable 150 meters uphill) and then to the waterfall, a little over a kilometer away. Half of that distance, by my reckoning, could have been driven.
Just past the barrier, a trail branched off to the right, leading to the waterfall, but we opted to visit Snake Lake first, a short distance farther along. This lake was formed when a landslide blocked one of the streams feeding Iskanderkul, creating a lush valley that transitions into a crystal-clear lake. The lower portion of the gorge is thick with grass and trees, which thin out as you approach the water. I briefly considered swimming but was quickly deterred by the icy water—it was so cold it promised more discomfort than joy, with my feet threatening to cramp after just a few moments. No snakes were spotted; presumably, they were hidden in the tall grass. I did, however, come across the skeletal remains of a small predator, perhaps a victim of the serpents lurking unseen.
The tourist camp at Iskanderkul remains largely unchanged from Soviet times—a blast from the past for those nostalgic for the era. The camp features rickety cabins, a rudimentary latrine of the "hole in the ground" variety, and other bare-bones amenities. But the surrounding natural beauty more than compensates for these shortcomings.
One highlight of the area is the "Five Springs." This isn’t a metaphor but a literal description: five pristine springs gush directly from the mountainside at the base of a peak. These springs form one of the streams feeding Iskanderkul, and their water is so pure and icy that drinking it leaves your teeth aching from the chill.
As I mentioned earlier, we had to walk from the paved road to the waterfall—a trek of just over a kilometer. The views along the way were mesmerizing: dramatic cliffs framing the waterfall’s gorge, the roaring river below, and the majestic peaks surrounding us. Photographing the waterfall itself, however, proved challenging. The narrow chasm limited vantage points, and the specially constructed viewing platform offered only a top-down perspective—not ideal for capturing its full splendor.
While we admired the falls, a group of around 20 people, presumably from the nearby tourist camp, arrived with children in tow. Their sudden presence made the spot feel crowded and less appealing, so we decided to head back to the car.
The visit to Iskanderkul was undoubtedly worth it, though the practicalities of the journey left much to be desired. Still, the stunning landscapes, the serene lakes, and the icy, refreshing waters made it an experience to remember.
The drive back from the lake to the main highway was marked by an encounter with several cyclists tackling a grueling, approximately 7-kilometer incline uphill. I couldn’t fathom the sheer stamina required for such an endeavor. Upon rejoining the road to Dushanbe, we merged into a sparse stream of trucks and cars heading toward the capital. Along the way, we passed through the Anzob Tunnel, stretching over 5 kilometers. Built with assistance from Iran, the tunnel had officially opened just the previous year. Compared to the Shakhristan Tunnel, this one was a notable improvement—it featured proper ventilation and a more refined interior finish.
These tunnels, including Shakhristan, have revolutionized connectivity between the northern region and the rest of the country. Prior to their construction, travelers had to cross two high mountain passes, often impassable during winter.
After a long descent, we entered the Varzob Gorge, which extends nearly to the outskirts of Dushanbe, only broadening shortly before reaching the city. The gorge is densely dotted with guesthouses, small cafes, and private dachas belonging to those fortunate enough to own land here. We passed yet another presidential residence, far more imposing, well-maintained, and fortified than the one at Iskanderkul. It was clear that President Emomali Rahmon frequents this property more often.
By evening, we reached Dushanbe. Our pre-booked apartment exceeded all expectations. Spanning 130 square meters on the 10th floor, it featured a spacious terrace with panoramic city views, precisely as advertised online. Later that evening, I coordinated with our local contact to finalize the meeting place and time for the following day.
It seems appropriate here to delve into a brief backstory about the trip planning process. Much of my preparation was guided by the Vinsky Forum (awd.ru). While the route itself was quickly decided, arranging transportation for the Pamir segment proved more challenging.
The forum featured a detailed report that outlined the logistics and included contact information for a couple of drivers and several travel agencies. I started my search by reaching out to these contacts. The first driver didn’t bother to respond to emails or Viber messages. The second, however, enthusiastically replied, revealing that he had transitioned from driving to managing a tour company specializing in the region I was interested in.
I requested a commercial proposal based on my draft itinerary from this company, as well as from two other firms. After reviewing the offers, I eliminated one that seemed to assume I was a wealthy foreigner. Negotiations continued with the remaining two options. Eventually, I secured a deal with Tajikavia, the company that had submitted the most competitive bid. After a bit of haggling, I managed to get a price slightly better than the forum’s baseline recommendation.
The finalized arrangement included a Land Cruiser 100 for the route Dushanbe–Khorog–Osh–Kokand via the Wakhan Corridor. The cost was $1,100, covering fuel, driver-related expenses, and passes for the Gorno-Badakhshan Autonomous Region (mandatory for entering the border zone), which cost an additional $45 for three people. Interestingly, the total cost was reduced by $25 at the end of the trip, but more on that later.
For reference, I learned that the driver received $900 of the total payment, with calculations based on a rate of 65 cents per kilometer.
In the spring of 2018, I received some welcome news from Tajikistan: the registration requirement for stays of up to 10 days was abolished. Since our trip was exactly 10 days, we avoided an additional financial and logistical burden—$15–20 per person and a full day of time. Previously, registration had been mandatory after just three days in the country.
This small but significant change made our journey smoother and saved us both time and money, ensuring a more seamless experience from start to finish.
July 16: Dushanbe - Kalaykhum
Today marks the beginning of the Pamir segment of our journey. Yesterday, I arranged for a noon departure to allow us some time to explore Dushanbe. We arrived late and hadn’t managed to see anything yet. While the city isn’t overflowing with attractions, it certainly warrants a brief walking tour, especially since we were staying in the very heart of it.
From the terrace of our apartment, the views were spectacular.
We stepped out around 9:30 a.m., compressing our planned itinerary into just an hour and a half. The highlights? The same landmarks featured in nearly every travel report about Dushanbe: the Ismoil Somoni Monument, the Government House, the world’s tallest flagpole in the park, a handful of statues nearby, and a posh high-rise at the corner of Rudaki Avenue and Bukhara Street. That’s about it.
We wrapped up the quick sightseeing tour and hailed a taxi back home, paying 6 somoni for a short three-stop ride. By noon, we were meeting Berdibek, our driver for the next six days. A Kyrgyz, Berdibek arrived with a Land Cruiser 100 bearing Kyrgyz plates. After loading up our bags, I went over the agreed-upon terms one more time to avoid any confusion:
Satisfied, I handed over the cash, and we set off. As we were driving, I casually brought up Kokand again during our conversation. Berdibek suddenly turned to me with a puzzled expression: “What Kokand? We agreed on Osh!”
Fantastic. I asked why he hadn’t clarified this earlier, especially when we were still with the tour organizers, and I had directly confirmed our destination. The distance between Osh and Kokand is nearly 200 kilometers, not to mention the need to cross the border.
I told him to call the organizers immediately. On the phone, they clarified that the driver’s responsibility ended at the border, just 20 kilometers from Osh. That wasn’t much of a relief. I took the phone myself and asked, “What’s the deal here?” They explained that another car would pick me up at the border to take me to Kokand. While that sounded reasonable, the real question was, who would cover the cost?
Ergash, the person on the other end of the line, assured me they’d resolve it once Sanavbar, a representative at the committee, was available. “Fine,” I said, “but keep in mind that our email correspondence clearly specifies Kokand as the endpoint.” We left it at that—at least for the moment, or so I thought.
From there, the drive to Nurek was uneventful but excruciatingly slow. The Land Cruiser, running on gas, struggled heavily under the load, sputtering and jerking violently. Berdibek blamed the quality of Tajik gas, though I wasn’t entirely convinced since the car occasionally misfired even when switched to gasoline.
We decided against visiting the Nurek Dam itself, as obtaining the necessary permit had reportedly become a tedious process. Besides, with our late departure, we were short on time. Instead, we settled for taking in the views from a nearby observation point.
It was a less-than-perfect start, but the road ahead promised more excitement—and, hopefully, fewer hiccups.
Our next stop is Pingan, home to an ancient fortress that once served as the residence of a provincial governor in the Ghaznavid Empire, which was part of the Samanid dynasty. The fortress itself is closed, but the museum is open. I step inside, curious about gaining access to the fortress, and soon find myself in the capable hands of the director of the historical complex. Despite it being a Monday, this passionate historian and Doctor of Historical Sciences personally leads us on a tour—what a tour it is! For an hour and a half, we are captivated by his riveting narration of the region’s history. Under his guidance, we even enact humorous historical sketches, much to our own amusement, using authentic museum artifacts as props.
At the end of the visit, our gracious host presents roses from the museum’s garden to the ladies in our group, while I can only express my appreciation with a modest donation for the museum’s needs. It’s worth mentioning that this site falls under federal jurisdiction and is well-funded. Restoration efforts are projected to last nine years, with the fortress ensemble expected to be fully restored by 2020. As of now, about 70% of the work has been completed.
After leaving Kulyab, the road deteriorates significantly, and we ascend a mountain pass while dodging numerous potholes. At the top, our GBAO permits (for the Gorno-Badakhshan Autonomous Region) are checked for the first time. Descending the pass, we are greeted by a pristine new road constructed by the Chinese. Why am I not surprised? After a few switchbacks, a stunning valley comes into view. Below, a swift, muddy-gray river winds its way, bordered by rugged mountains. It dawns on me that this is the Panj River, and those mountains across the water are already Afghanistan. Incredible!
Soon, the road narrows into a tight gorge. Sheer cliffs loom above the car on one side, while the Panj’s turbulent gray waters churn on the other. The sun is setting, casting a golden glow on the mountain peaks, while the gorge itself sinks into a somber, slightly ominous twilight. Afghanistan lies a mere 100 meters away, and I can clearly see farmers in distant villages going about their routines. We encounter a washed-out section of the road, then pass a small waterfall spilling directly onto the asphalt. A clever Tajik driver has parked his car under the cascade to give it a thorough wash. Along the way, we see border patrol units walking in single file, as well as checkpoints where our passports and GBAO permits are inspected. We stay in the car while our driver handles the formalities. Occasionally, an officer approaches, compares our faces to our passport photos, and moves on.
Berdibek, our driver, makes a phone call. From the conversation, I gather that he’s arranging dinner and accommodation for us. His motives are clear—he’s likely calling a friend who will reward him with a free meal and lodging for bringing tourists. I’m not thrilled about this arrangement, as prearranged meals often create a sense of obligation, and there’s no guarantee the accommodations will suit us. “How much will it cost?” I ask aloud.
“Fifteen dollars per person, including dinner and breakfast. Deal?”
“Hmm, how would I know if it’s a deal until I see it?” I reply skeptically.
The journey continues into deepening twilight. About 25 kilometers from our destination, the smooth asphalt gives way to stretches of dirt and remnants of an older, crumbling road that slow us down. Nearly in complete darkness, we pass a massive convoy of military vehicles with Russian plates, likely a fully equipped motorized rifle battalion. The soldiers appear to be setting up camp for the night—a relief, as we would otherwise have been stuck crawling behind them in a cloud of dust. Fifteen kilometers to go.
We finally arrive in Kalai-Khumb, a small town wedged between the Panj River and a steep mountain slope. It’s unremarkable, except for an alternative road from Dushanbe that’s shorter but reportedly in worse condition than the route we took. I quickly ask to be dropped off at a shop to grab some beer for the evening before it closes. While I’m inside, the power goes out, though the locals seem unfazed—evidently a common occurrence. Meanwhile, outside, a local hotelier has approached my wife with accommodation offers, but she politely declines for now; we need to see Berdibek’s arrangement first.
His recommendation turns out to be dismal—a haphazard cluster of dilapidated rooms with communal facilities far off in the distance. Expressing our dissatisfaction, we set out to explore other options. Next door is a far more inviting guesthouse, already bustling with backpackers. While my wife waits to speak with the host, I decide to scout the main street for alternatives. The town is alive with festivities—either a comedy show or a local talent performance has drawn nearly everyone to the central square. However, I find no other accommodations, apart from the four-star Karvon Palace, which at $150 per room is well out of our budget—a stark contrast to the grim lodgings we rejected earlier.
Returning to my wife, I find her with disappointing news: the guesthouse is full. To make matters worse, the owner reveals that Berdibek’s contact has warned all nearby hosts not to accommodate us, claiming us as “his clients.” Furious, I loudly declare my unwillingness to settle for subpar accommodations, even if it means driving further into the night. We pile into the car and leave, determined to find a better place.
I recall a sign for a guesthouse 5 kilometers back along the alternative road to Dushanbe. Hoping it’s beyond the reach of Berdibek’s meddling, we head there. After a longer-than-expected drive, we arrive to find surprised but welcoming hosts. For $40 (after a bit of haggling), they offer us rooms on the ground floor. The upper-floor guest rooms are occupied by dignitaries from Afghanistan, including a provincial health minister who speaks excellent Russian.
A grand table is set for the minister and his entourage on the terrace, complete with alcohol and karaoke. Though initially worried about the noise, I’m relieved when the gathering ends quickly. Meanwhile, we’re treated to a private meal in a quieter spot, featuring nearly everything served at the main table. The host even gifts us a bottle of vodka and some beer.
Lying in the evening coolness, fruit in hand, I reflect on the day. Just below the terrace, a mountain stream rushes by, its sound adding a touch of magic to the night.
July 17: Kalai-Khumb to Khorog
The morning greeted us with an indulgent breakfast spread: a fluffy omelet with stewed vegetables and meat, several types of cookies and jams (a true feast even for the most jaded sweet tooth), butter, cheese, a bowl of fresh fruits, and dates. I suspect the generosity of this breakfast wasn’t unrelated to the previous evening’s camaraderie.
After savoring the meal, we packed up and hit the road around 9:30 AM. The day’s agenda was straightforward: a long drive, 240 kilometers to Khorog, with no planned sightseeing stops. Well, apart from the jaw-dropping views that came standard with every bend in the road.
The route continued to hug the contours of the Panj River, and I found immense satisfaction in watching the river's wild, untamed flow. It struck me that rafting on this river would be an incredible adventure for daredevil enthusiasts of white-water rafting—though in this case, the water was more of a murky gray. The river alternated between swift currents and stretches of chaotic, fearsome turbulence: five-meter-deep pits of swirling water, whirlpools, and submerged boulders, where the flow surged into towering, frothing waves.
Midway through the journey, as we rounded yet another bend, we encountered the military convoy we had seen the previous day. They had clearly set off much earlier than we did, overtaking us while we were leisurely enjoying Kalai-Khumb. A brief moment of panic set in at the thought of getting stuck behind the entire convoy. Berdi, quick on the uptake, stepped on the gas. We managed to slip into the convoy, letting about ten vehicles ahead of us before we were stopped at a checkpoint. What rotten luck!
While our papers were being scrutinized, the rest of the convoy passed us, one vehicle after another. By the time we were cleared to proceed, we found ourselves stuck behind at least thirty military vehicles. The overtaking process was arduous and time-consuming, but once we broke free, we knew we had saved ourselves from the frustrating prospect of being caught in their dust trail for hours.
We reached Khorog around 5:30 PM. To our relief, Berdi’s suggested accommodation turned out to be a winner this time. For $12 per person, we secured a cozy place to stay, along with dinner and breakfast. The hosts came highly recommended—not only did they offer comfortable lodging, but they also had a sauna and pool on-site and could arrange tailored Pamir tours.
That evening, we unwound with our hosts, sharing drinks and heartfelt conversations about life. Their warmth and hospitality made the perfect end to a day of epic landscapes and relentless road adventures.
July 18: Khorog – Garm-Chashma – Ishkashim – Vrang - Langar
We managed to leave around 9:30 AM. Our first stop was a stationery shop where we bought a small flag as a traditional souvenir. After that, we headed to the Khorog Botanical Garden. The entry fee was 15 somoni, paid at the foot of the hill where the garden is located. From there, you have to climb quite a distance to reach the main area. The garden doesn’t have a designated entrance or planned routes, so you can wander around wherever you like, following three paved paths and a number of small trails. The garden seems somewhat neglected, with half-faded signs, untrimmed grass, and weeds growing freely. It is divided into different zones representing North America, Southeast Asia, the temperate zone, and others. My wife found several interesting specimens, collecting cuttings and cones, while I occupied myself with sampling the numerous fruits and berries growing there. I especially indulged in red chokecherry, mulberries, and raspberries. For the record, we were given an indulgence by a local employee who accompanied us, allowing us to eat anything we could find. The best part of the visit was the panoramic view of Khorog, which is truly worth the trip on its own.
After bidding farewell to Khorog, we continued our journey along the Afghan border. About 25 kilometers out, we turned left off the main road towards the Garm-Chashma hot springs, around 5 kilometers off the path. The mineral deposits that resemble the formations in Pamukkale were visible from a distance, and the characteristic smell of hydrogen sulfide wafted in the air. The scale isn’t quite the same, but perhaps in a few thousand years, it could match Pamukkale’s grandeur. The site is enclosed by an ugly fence, and within the perimeter are three equally unattractive utilitarian buildings—essentially sheds with corrugated metal roofs—housing shallow pools. A schedule on the wall indicates when the male, female, and privileged groups (i.e., patients from the local sanatorium) can use the pools. According to the timetable, the only option available at the moment was the closed pool in one of the sheds, where a bunch of naked men were already splashing around (the entry fee, by the way, was 10 somoni). I wasn’t particularly keen to plunge into 40-degree water in the heat of the day, so we contented ourselves with taking a few photos and saving some money.
We then drove for quite a while until we reached Ishkashim, a relatively large village by local standards. On Sundays, it hosts what are called Afghan bazaars, during which border guards allow people to move freely between the two countries without a visa. However, today the bridge connecting the banks of the Panj River was sealed with gates wrapped in barbed wire.
Just 15 kilometers after, we came across the ruins of the 12th-century Kah-Kaha Fortress, which bears a striking resemblance to the many fortresses we saw in Karakalpakstan last year in Uzbekistan. The only difference is that here, a massive rock served as the foundation, to which mudbrick walls and stones were added. Today, a border guard observation post seems to occupy the top of the rock, so we refrained from climbing up and instead took photos from lower vantage points.
Next on the itinerary was a canyon carved by a nameless stream in the rocky massif. The canyon is impressive, though the conditions for photography weren’t ideal—standing on a bridge, it was impossible to fit everything into the frame, and from below, the roaring water made it impossible to approach. From above, the water was hidden from view, and much of the polished rock faces were obscured by the overhanging walls of the gorge.
In Yamchun, we encountered two attractions at once—the ancient fortress perched high above the Panj River, with a 7-kilometer climb up the mountain slope, and a thermal spring with a bathhouse just a kilometer further. The fortress is fantastic, particularly for the spectacular views it offers over the valley. Nearby, there’s a peculiar rock formation resembling three fingers—another interesting feature. The remains of the walls are also quite intriguing.
The hot spring is just a short distance away—why not stop by? We arrived to find several newly built hotels in the area, so we decided to check them out after our visit. The conditions were much the same as those at Garm-Chashma: entry was 10 somoni, with separate baths for men and women. By now, the outside temperature had dropped, and the idea of soaking in a hot bath sounded particularly appealing. We decided to take the plunge. There were only a few people in the men’s section, thankfully. I undressed and waded into a pool that was just over knee-deep. In one corner, a pipe released a stream of hot mineral water, and several smaller streams flowed from the wall, which was coated with mineral deposits. It’s difficult to stay in such hot water for too long, like in a sauna—after a long soak, you shorten the duration, and then either leave or relax until you’re ready for another round. Relaxing here wasn’t an option, so we decided to leave. My wife and I emerged nearly simultaneously, while our daughter stayed behind, playing the role of the guardian of our valuables.
We then checked out the hotels. One had a very negative review on the local forum, so we skipped it. The second one had a bathroom disaster, and the third had the toilet situated fifty meters from the building, downhill. Still, outdoor facilities are a harsh reality we’ll have to live with for the next three days. Our driver made an unexpected suggestion—what if we drove another 40 kilometers to Langar instead of staying in Vrang? This would allow us to get a head start on tomorrow’s itinerary, bypassing the remote village of Bulunkul in favor of Murghab (a bigger, albeit still remote, town with a few shops and a decent hotel). I considered it. With this new plan, we’d pass by the Buddha Stupa in the neighboring village, but the pictures online didn’t seem too impressive, and it was quite a trek to get there on foot. Another site, the Abreshim-kala Fortress, would also require a couple of hours to visit, and its differences from the Yamchun Fortress we’d seen today were minimal. Decision made—we’re heading to Langar. On the way, we stopped at another place marked as “sand dunes” on the map. There were no dunes, but the combination of mountains, small sandy hills with bushes, streams, and the setting sun created a stunning scene.
We arrived at our destination just as dusk was falling. We liked the place, and I bargained the usual 12 dollars per person for the night. After settling into our room, we found two other groups staying there—one from Switzerland and another from somewhere else. All the tourists were housed in annexes built specifically for this purpose, while the hosts lived in a traditional Pamiri house, which must have been at least 200 years old. It was here that they set the table for us. The only downside was that the facilities were located in the yard, but there was a limited supply of hot water, heated in a tank throughout the day, and the electricity ran through the night. Things will get worse from here on.
July 19: Langar – Bulunkul – Murghab
Today marked the toughest and least pleasant stretch of the journey. We departed from the Wakhan Corridor and the Panj River, which veered deep into Afghanistan, spending the entire day traveling at altitudes above 3,000 meters. The ascent began immediately upon leaving Langar, where we made only a brief stop to snap a photo of a well-known shop set up in a battered old bus (currently closed) and to grab some nuts from a nearby kiosk to accompany our beer later.
In about 20 minutes, we gained 600 meters in elevation. The road completely surrendered any pretense of asphalt, transforming into a rugged, rocky dirt track carved into the mountain slope, mirroring its every curve. Vegetation vanished entirely, save for isolated patches of thorny grass clinging to the stony terrain. To our right, a raging tributary of the Panj roared in the gorge below, while the steep mountainside loomed on our left. Our destination, the village of Bulunkul, lay roughly 130 kilometers away through an almost barren, lifeless expanse. Yet, sporadically, we encountered lone pedestrians. Their purpose was a mystery to me, but perhaps they were heading to the seasonal pastures of shepherds, whose camps occasionally appeared on the plateau we were approaching. As usual, they waved for a ride, and Berdibek, with a familiar shrug, signaled that it wasn’t possible. I wasn’t keen on taking passengers either.
After about 60 kilometers, we reached the Kharghush border checkpoint. Documents were inspected, the barrier lifted, and we continued on our way. The road turned left, and we entered a narrow valley flanked by gentle slopes on both sides. What stood out most were the cyclists we passed along the way—true iron-willed individuals. I couldn’t fathom how they managed to pedal uphill on such steep, rocky roads, in thin air, and with heavily laden bikes.
Soon, we spotted the first marmot of our trip, causing quite a stir among us. Observing these creatures and attempting to photograph them up close became a key pastime for the next couple of days. They were amusing with their plump hindquarters and unexpectedly bright reddish fur—a curious feature that sparked a debate we never resolved. Certain areas teemed with marmots, clustering near their burrows and vigilantly monitoring us. Standing upright on their hind legs, they signaled warnings to each other with piercing whistles, reminiscent of a raptor's cry.
On our way, we passed the small Lake Churkul and eventually found ourselves on a proper asphalt road—part of the M41 highway connecting Khorog and Murghab.
However, our immediate goal was Bulunkul. After a brief respite on the paved road, we veered off onto another dirt track. Fourteen kilometers later, we arrived at the nondescript village perched on the shore of its namesake lake. There were no cafes, no hotels, no electricity, and no mobile internet—essentially, a complete backwater. And here we were supposed to spend the night.
First, though, we decided to visit the nearby Lake Yashilkul. The journey was just 6–7 kilometers, but a small ticket booth blocked the road. To our surprise, Yashilkul had been declared a national park with an entry fee of 17 somoni per person. A young girl, no older than thirteen, was manning the booth. When we asked where the adults were, she explained they’d left and insisted on recording our details in a thick visitor registry. After some negotiation, Berdibek convinced her to take 30 somoni in total and skip the formalities. With the road clear, we proceeded. Apart from the scenic views, Yashilkul offered yet another hot spring. The makeshift bathhouse, a small shed, was currently occupied by a group of local women—evident from the laundry drying outside—while their men waited by a van. We decided to forgo the bath and drove another kilometer to find a stream, where we stopped to snack on sandwiches and half a watermelon.
Then came the question of what to do next. Spending the night in Bulunkul didn’t appeal to anyone, especially as it was still too early to settle down. We opted to push on to Murghab, the largest settlement within a couple hundred kilometers. The 20-kilometer drive back to the main road and another 110 kilometers on asphalt—albeit of questionable quality—took two and a half hours. By early evening, we arrived in Murghab.
The only semi-decent hotel had already been claimed by quicker and luckier backpackers, who had crammed six to a car and were now unloading their gear. Left with no other choice, we sought lodging with locals. A place was found quickly, though it barely warranted a single star. The amenities were outdoors; handwashing was reminiscent of childhood in rural villages, and there was no hot water. Electricity came from a diesel generator and lasted only three hours after sunset. Still, we were fortunate to secure two separate rooms with beds. When the house filled up, latecomers were put on a shared wooden platform in the main hall.
Dinner, surprisingly, wasn’t bad. Before that, I’d ventured to a store, where the prices floored me. When I asked for a bottle of beer and a small bag of chips, the shopkeeper quoted 60 somoni. Stunned, I double-checked. Yes, indeed—40 somoni (about 270 rubles) for the beer and 20 (135 rubles) for the chips. Berdibek attributed the cost to logistics. It seemed plausible: getting supplies from Khorog (itself costly) to Murghab, 320 kilometers away, involved crossing mountain passes and a border with additional customs duties. Transport expenses reportedly added about 15 somoni per kilogram of goods, hence the exorbitant prices.
How the town’s 15,000 residents survive here—and what they do for a living—remains a mystery. Surely, not everyone tends livestock or caters to tourists. And the climate? Harsh winds and winter temperatures plunging to minus 50 degrees, all at an altitude of 3,600 meters. Interestingly, Murghab was the Soviet Union’s highest-altitude town.
With nothing else to do, we watched a movie and turned in for the night.
July 20: Murgab – Ak-Baital Pass – Karakul – Kyzyl-Art Pass – Sary-Tash – Osh
After overachieving on our itinerary for the past few days, our logistics began to feel somewhat disjointed. According to the plan, we were supposed to visit the Shorkul and Rangkul Lakes, then move on to Lake Karakul and its namesake village for an overnight stay. However, it was evident that this schedule was too light for a full day, leaving us pondering the next step. Karakul is a small village akin to Bulunkul, and the thought of idling there for half a day followed by a night stay was unappealing. Beyond Karakul, there are no notable landmarks until Osh.
One option was to make a detour to the base camp of Lenin Peak (now officially called Peak Abu Ali Ibn Sina) to photograph the tallest mountain range of the former Soviet Union. Yet, this sidestep posed two challenges: first, the additional 120 km drive would incur extra costs, and second, it involved a 4-km uphill hike at an altitude exceeding 4,000 meters—something the female members of my group were not thrilled about.
With no definitive decision, we stuck to our original route. Shorkul and Rangkul Lakes turned out to be strikingly similar, both memorable primarily for their aggressive swarms of mosquitoes inhabiting the lakeside grass. Approaching the water triggered an immediate onslaught of these relentless creatures, which, unlike the mosquitoes I’m used to, wasted no time latching onto you, seemingly mid-flight. I managed a single photo before retreating in disgrace, unable to endure the numerous bites and incessant buzzing. One wonders what these creatures feed on to proliferate in such numbers. Back in the car, we had to air it out at high speed to rid ourselves of the mosquitoes that had infiltrated with us.
This route once had a border checkpoint due to the proximity of the Chinese frontier, as evidenced by the remnants of a Soviet-era post with faded signs marking the USSR border. To rejoin the main road, we took an alternate path, crossing a couple of small rivers along the way—a bit of fun.
The Ak-Baital Pass, the highest in the former Soviet Union at 4,655 meters, was our next challenge. Thankfully, our gradual acclimatization and a regimen of medications had paid off—none of us experienced any adverse effects, despite spending the last 36 hours at altitudes ranging from 3,500 to 4,600 meters. For the record, we followed a regimen of meldonium (as recommended, starting two days prior to entering high-altitude zones) and acetazolamide (one tablet daily for the first two days at altitude).
To our right, a barbed-wire fence became a constant companion, marking the border with China. The rugged terrain makes patrolling difficult, so the fence was conveniently installed along the road. In places, it had fallen into disrepair, with broken wires and toppled posts—not exactly an impenetrable boundary.
After a lengthy descent (shedding about a kilometer in altitude), we reached Karakul. The lake offered good photo opportunities, with the mountain range across the water faintly visible under dense, dark clouds. The peak of Lenin (or Ibn Sina) wasn’t visible from here, as Peak October blocked the view. This confirmed our earlier decision to skip the detour to the base camp. Lunch in Karakul didn’t pan out either—only eggs were on offer—so we decided to push on to Sary-Tash, already across the Kyrgyz border, and reassess our plans there. The time required for border crossings was an unknown factor.
A few kilometers past Karakul, the road began to deteriorate rapidly. Soon, we encountered a mountain stream where an old Opel with German plates had become stuck, its nose buried at the stream’s edge. A young couple was frantically trying to free the car. Spotting our Toyota Land Cruiser, the man ran toward us with a tow rope. We pulled them out, exchanged contact information to share photos of the rescue, and learned that they were traveling from Germany and planned to explore the Wakhan Corridor, like us, but in reverse. Remembering the roads we had traversed, I wished them luck.
The descent into yet another “valley of death” (a barren desert caravans once hurried to cross) was followed by the climb to Kyzyl-Art Pass, where the Tajik exit post is located. This stretch of road, possibly the worst of the trip, alternated between rocky terrain and slippery clay, making it nearly impassable after heavy rain. Neither Tajikistan nor Kyrgyzstan seems to prioritize this road; its upkeep benefits only the residents of Murgab, hence its sorry state.
Fortunately, there were no queues at either the Tajik or Kyrgyz checkpoints, and formalities added no more than 30–40 minutes to our journey. Interestingly, the two checkpoints are quite far apart. While the Tajiks stationed themselves at a windswept summit (not ideal given the relentless gusts), the Kyrgyz settled in a valley, several kilometers away from the actual border.
Crossing into Kyrgyzstan, we eventually reached Sary-Tash, where we stopped for a meal and made use of surprisingly strong Wi-Fi. At this point, it seemed feasible to continue to Osh despite the late arrival, allowing us to rest the following day with only a brief excursion to the city’s sole point of interest.
The road to Osh included three more passes, each lower than the last: Taldyk Pass (3,615 meters), offering stunning views of a serpentine road winding upward, and finally Chirchik Pass, dotted with yurts catering to agrotourism enthusiasts. The setting sun and dramatic clouds provided excellent photo opportunities.
We arrived in Osh at 9 p.m. and found a hotel on our second try—a brand-new establishment that opened just a month ago. It’s worth recommending, considering its price-to-quality ratio, though there were minor quirks typical of post-Soviet Central Asia.
Our driver, Berdibek, insisted on the remaining $200 payment upon dropping us off, but I declined, as our transfer from Osh to Kokand remained unresolved. We parted on a somewhat sour note, but I reasoned that since Berdibek had been prepared to drive us into remote areas under the original plan, he could surely spare a couple of hours showing us around Osh without additional charges. After some hesitation, he agreed, and we set a meeting for 10 a.m. the next day.
At 10 a.m., as agreed, Berdibek arrived. Neither of us had yet received the coordinates of the driver who was supposed to meet us on the Uzbek side, which left both of us uneasy—him because I hadn’t paid the final hundred, and me because of the uncertainty. First, we stopped at a currency exchange where I converted 10,000 rubles. This amount was more than enough to cover two nights in a hotel and any additional expenses. Afterward, Berdibek drove us to Osh’s sole notable attraction: the Suleiman-Too Mountain. This lone peak rises dramatically in the center of the city, starkly contrasting with the surrounding flat landscape. We agreed to meet on the other side of the mountain in about an hour and a half and began our ascent.
Suleiman-Too is fascinating, filled with caves that once housed primitive Kyrgyz dwellers. Today, the largest cave, slightly modified, houses a museum. Tickets were 50 som for locals (the som is roughly equivalent to the ruble) and 150 som for foreigners, according to a nearby sign. Russians, however, often seemed to pass as locals.
The museum, typical for provincial locations, was eclectic—featuring archeology, ethnography, and a taxidermy gallery under the theme "Animals of Kyrgyzstan." Strangely, marmots were absent from the display, which left us mildly disappointed.
A walking path encircles the mountain, but access to each subsequent section comes with a small fee of around 20 som. There are also unmarked caves you can explore at your own risk, which we eagerly did. The physical exertion was tough, as the temperature had already reached 36°C, with forecasts of 41°C later in the day.
After clambering through the caves, we returned to the path and reached its final point, where a Kyrgyz flag waves atop a flagpole. The view was stunning, though the city below offered little visual interest—just uniform rows of roofs. Descending on the opposite side, we found Berdibek waiting for us. The entire excursion lasted about an hour and a half.
On one part of the mountain, a trough on the rock surface has been polished to a mirror-like sheen, serving as a slide enjoyed by both children and adults.
From the height of Suleiman-Too, Osh stretched out below, the horizon fading into a shimmering haze.
At my request, Berdibek took us to see a Yak-40 airplane in a city park. It stood in poor condition, with its purpose there unclear. Afterward, he dropped us off at the hotel, where we parted ways, agreeing to stay in touch regarding the next day’s transfer.
In the evening, I called Sanavbar and finally received the contact information for someone named Mumin, who was supposed to meet us on the Uzbek side. I planned to call him later that evening to coordinate details. However, when I called during a café visit, a woman answered the phone. Speaking very broken Russian, she insisted the phone was hers and had no knowledge of Mumin. Frustrated, I returned to the hotel and sent a message on Viber explaining the situation. The response assured me that I would receive a call in the morning.
The next morning, I got a text from an unknown Uzbek number. When I called, assuming it was Mumin, it turned out to be a dispatcher or logistics coordinator sitting in Fergana. He hadn’t even sent a car to the border because, as he claimed, no one had called him the previous day. To top it off, he demanded $80 for the trip—80 dollars for just 173 kilometers! By Uzbek standards, this was as outrageous as paying thirty grand for a ride from Nizhny Novgorod to Moscow.
When I mentioned a budget of $50, he interrupted me with a pompous declaration that he owed me nothing, insisting that the ride would cost $80 or nothing at all. Realizing the futility of further negotiation, I politely told him I’d consider it, despite wanting to tell him off. I informed Sanavbar that I’d arrange transport myself and left it at that.
By 10 a.m., Berdibek arrived, and within 20 minutes, we reached Dostuk, a suburb of Osh where the border crossing is located. After saying goodbye, we crossed into Uzbekistan on foot.
The border was bustling. Exiting Kyrgyzstan was quick, but Uzbek passport control was reminiscent of Soviet-era liquor store lines. The key was to avoid hesitating at the back of the crowd and instead maneuver to the front, catching the attention of an officer. Spotting our Russian faces, one immediately asked, "Tourists? For sure?" The second question was laughable: "No, we’re migrant workers rushing to Uzbekistan for jobs," I thought sarcastically. Convinced of our touristic intentions, he escorted us to passport control without delay—a gesture for which we were immensely grateful. After a few quick customs questions, we were in Uzbekistan.
Fifty meters ahead, we spotted a crowd of taxi drivers. Amusingly, they seemed determined to block our path, closing ranks as we approached, yet hesitating to cross an invisible boundary. The moment we stepped closer, they swarmed us. Knowing the approximate fare and with $50 in hand, I negotiated briefly. Within minutes, we were on our way to Kokand for 190,000 som (about $26). The journey took about three hours.
Interestingly, the previous night’s search on Booking.com revealed only three hotels in Kokand, none particularly impressive. We decided not to book anything and instead check options upon arrival. Driving through the city confirmed the scarcity of accommodations, so we settled on the Kokand Hotel. It appeared to have been the best option during Soviet times, with presentable hallway lobbies but rooms in dire need of renovation. The receptionist initially quoted a price higher than listed on Booking.com but quickly conceded when shown a screenshot, offering a 20% discount.
After resting briefly in the coolness of the room, we mustered the energy to venture out for plov and sightseeing. This took considerable effort, as the thermometer now read 41°C.
Finding plov turned into an adventure. Locals directed us to eateries boasting the best plov, but one required orders of at least a kilogram, and the others had already run out. After trying three taxis and making a full circle, we finally found a place serving the dish just around the corner from our hotel. Thankfully, taxis in the city cost next to nothing—about 50 cents, regardless of distance.
After eating, we visited the Palace of Khudoyar Khan. Built during the height of the Kokand Khanate in the 18th–19th centuries, the palace was completed in 1871. Of its original seven courtyards and 119 rooms, only two courtyards and 19 rooms remain, now housing a local history museum.
Next, I doused myself fully under a sprinkler in a nearby park—a brief relief lasting just ten minutes before the heat evaporated everything. A taxi then took us to the Jami Mosque and Madrasa, built by the son of Narbutabiy, the Kokand ruler during its peak. The mosque, with its 22-meter minaret, features 98 intricately carved wooden columns, some likely centuries old.
From there, we walked to the 18th-century Narbutabiy Madrasa and the Dahma-i-Shahon Mausoleum, the burial site of Narbutabiy and his descendants. Located in the middle of a cemetery, we had to navigate through densely packed tombs to snap some photos.
Exhausted, we returned to the hotel, spending the rest of the day lounging under the air conditioner. The highlight of the evening was a cold half-watermelon brought from Osh. Later, we ventured to a nearby café for a satisfying meal at the usual bargain prices—about 650 rubles for three people, including 180 rubles for beer and a 10% tip.
July 23: Kokand to Tashkent
There was absolutely no rush to leave. Wandering around Tashkent in the blistering heat held no appeal, so we decided on a later departure and lingered in our air-conditioned room until 1 PM. A quick poll of the locals revealed that a shared taxi from Kokand to the Kuylyuk Bazaar in Tashkent would cost 40,000 som per person or 160,000 som for the whole car.
So, when the receptionist unexpectedly offered a brand-new car with air conditioning for a direct ride door-to-door at 200,000 som, I didn’t hesitate much before agreeing. Though it required a half-hour wait, the promise of comfort made it worthwhile.
The drive itself, spanning 237 kilometers, was uneventful. The route lacked anything particularly remarkable, but the smooth journey in the cool, climate-controlled car was a small luxury in the scorching summer heat.
