The Tajik people shine
By Scott Weller
Photos by Scott Weller
The rain began as a cordial drizzle, but steadily
thickened, soaking us through the rotten soft shell of the Russian jeep
as we bounced along in second gear. Across the river border, Afghan mule
trains animated an otherwise stark mountainside, clinging to ancient
trails along the Panj River, and drawing contrast with Tajikistan’s
Soviet legacies, including the Pamir Highway itself. Leaving its
dilapidated asphalt behind, we took to dirt and veered into the sweeping
Bartang Valley beneath a corridor of 17,000-foot peaks. Here in this
sparsely populated corner of southeastern Tajikistan, I was beginning to
discover a fascinating confluence of landscape, culture and history.
Tucked
between Afghanistan and the western reaches of China, Tajikistan is a
little-known Central Asian gem. Convening at the doorstep of its
legendary Pamir Range is a who’s who of the world’s greatest mountain
ranges: Himalaya, Hindu Kush, Karakoram, Kunlun, and Tien Shan. While
the eastern Pamir Range contains a vast high-altitude plateau
reminiscent of the nearby Tibetan plateau, the Bartang Valley is a
classic specimen of the western Pamir: a contortion of steep river
gorges sculpted by glacial whitewater. Tajikistan’s rugged terrain
provided a measure of insulation from the major political and military
events throughout Central Asia’s early history, allowing the Tajiks to
retain their Persian heritage in a region dominated by Turkic influence.
Entering
the Bartang Valley, we were now several hours north of Khorog, the
provincial hub that serves as a sort of gateway between the eastern and
western Pamir. From Khorog, about a two-day drive from Tajikistan’s
capital city of Dushanbe, the Pamir Highway separates from the river
border with Afghanistan and tracks east onto the desolate plateau
inhabited by yurt-dwelling Kyrgyz. The plateau eventually leads to
China’s western Xinjiang province. But before continuing east, I was
intent on exploring one last feature of the western Pamir: the Bartang
Valley.
My
driver spoke the Indo-Iranian languages of Pamiri and Tajik, then
Russian, and fragments of English. His anxiety was unspoken but
palpable, being well acquainted with the effect that rain has on the
scree slopes of the Bartang Valley. Soon we encountered our first major
landslide, a sluggish effluence of mud and rocks several feet deep. A
Russian minibus full of local families joined us at the bottleneck, and
soon men from a nearby village appeared to help clear the path, shovel
by shovel. Well accustomed to arduous overland travel, the Pamiris
approach such adventures with a lively spirit of camaraderie.
Darkness
descended as we progressed up-canyon on desperate allowances of road
flanking the swift and icy Bartang River. We stopped briefly in a small
village to visit with the driver’s extended family, who rushed in from
nearby fields to stoke their woodstove and prepare hot tea. The hosts
being wet and muddy from their daily chores tending goats, ourselves wet
and muddy from clearing landslides, we took mutual pleasure in the
comfort of a dry home. After warming up with tea and conversation, we
resumed our journey having acquired several goats, which joined me in
the front seat with tethered hooves. Beyond the last remnants of
twilight, we arrived in the village of Basid, where my driver graciously
arranged for me to stay with his brother’s family, and I began to
experience the remarkable hospitality of the Pamiri people.
At
first light, I awoke on a bed of richly decorated carpets. The Pamiri
home is simple and cozy, with each element steeped in Aryan, Buddhist,
Zoroastrian, or Islamic symbolism. The skylight and its concentric
squares represent earth, water, air and fire, known locally as the "four
houses.” Surrounding the skylight, five supporting pillars stand for
Muhammad, Ali, Fatima, Hasan, and Husayn, as well as the Five Pillars of
Islam.
The Pamiris are predominantly Ismaili Muslims, whose
geographic nexus occurs in this historic region of Badakhshan, extending
from southeastern Tajikistan into northern Afghanistan and Pakistan. At
the core of Ismailism is Prince Aga Khan IV, the imam whose religious
leadership provides a living interpretation of the Koran. The Aga Khan’s
embrace of women’s rights and education has fostered a uniquely
progressive orientation among the Ismailis, whose peaceful communities
constitute a foundation of stability in one of the world’s most
polarized regions.
My hosts greeted me with a pot of black tea, a
warm loaf of bread, and a heaping plate of potatoes. A sunny morning
was not to be taken for granted, so after breakfast I hurried out to
explore the village with my camera. Clusters of mud-walled homes were
interspersed within fields of wheat and apricot orchards. Women in
colorful full-length dresses and headscarves led their sheep and goats
to pastures on the opposite side of the Bartang River, navigating a
precarious "bridge” of two cables overlaid with brittle sticks, and a
conspicuous lack of anything else to prevent a plunge into the swirling
rapids below. For the moment, I was content not to attempt it myself, as
the scenery alone captivated my attention, and I quickly developed an
admiration for life in this mountain paradise.
After
a few days in Basid, I recruited my jeep driver to take me deeper into
the Bartang Valley, to a hamlet known as Bardara. Similar to its
neighboring villages, Bardara is perched atop a giant alluvial fan
spilling down from precipitous peaks and spanning the width of the river
canyon. As we puttered up to the edge of the alluvium on switchbacks,
over 40 villagers amassed to usher me through their maze of turf
pathways, gurgling water canals, and bursting apple blossoms. It was
simply the loveliest place I had ever visited. But it was soon apparent
that the warm nature of Bardara’s residents easily surpassed the appeal
of its physical beauty. To accept each household’s invitation for tea
would have consumed weeks; at last, I embraced their hospitality,
staying five days with one family, and having tea with many others.
My
first morning in Bardara, the children eagerly gathered to show me the
village sights. Bardara is an unlikely place for thousand-year-old
juniper trees, although it claims three of them, in linear alignment and
perfectly equidistant. Legend has it that Nasir Khusraw, the Persian
poet and missionary who established Ismailism in greater Badakhshan,
planted the trees. The middle tree contains the village shrine, Farmon,
memorializing a religious communication to Bardara from Aga Khan III,
the late grandfather of the current imam. Farmon also boasts an
impressive collection of spiraling Marco Polo sheep horns, whose
significance in Pamiri tradition as symbols of purity concern Aryan and
Zoroastrian philosophy, pre-dating Islam in the region.
Later, we
set out on foot for Bardara’s alpine summer pasture, which provides
seasonal grazing for livestock, although it’s too lofty and
temperamental a place to support fruit trees. A half dozen families
reside in this final node of civilization, nestled at the foot of a
series of peaks reaching nearly 20,000 feet. Life here occurs on the
margin, and they utilize nature’s resources to the brink, including a
hydro-powered wheat mill and small hydroelectric generator to power a
few light bulbs. The Pamiris have finely tuned their self-reliance,
particularly since the abrupt cessation of communist sponsorship in
1991. Many here recollect the Soviet era with a sense of yearning.
Visiting in the summer, it’s easy to overlook the rigors of a long
winter in the heart of the Pamir Range.
My last night in Bardara,
we slaughtered a goat to celebrate newfound friendship. Sleep escaped
me that night as I reflected on my growing affection for the people of
the Bartang Valley. The initial perception I recalled having of this
inhospitable backwater of Central Asia only weeks before now seemed
foreign. Here I acquainted a people, a religion, a story completely
unknown to me. Here I experienced a way of life remarkably unaffected by
the world from which I had come. Here I found a landscape so serene, it
was to imprint my memory forever.
Here in the Pamir Range, I felt at home. |