Dear All,
We’re back at it and thought you might want to hear about it, or at least see some pretty pictures. Hope you enjoy.
The winter months in Tajikistan were harsh, and our paddling suffered accordingly. In the 7 months since our last trip report we only paddled once, and this was a very rusty scramble down our local river in May. After this first paddle, we devoted ourselves to the children, Tajikistan’s future- everyone loves children. For two months we ran summer camps for Tajik kids. The camps were funded by the U.S. Embassy with the impetus to provide a fun, positive boost to America’s image in conservative regions of the Muslim country. The idea is to fight terrorism before it starts by teaching kids American games, rock climbing, and other outdoor activities. On the other hand, one of our more skeptical parents pointed out, “great, so now they can climb up walls and then throw their bombs at us.” The effect of our efforts will remain unknown, but we think we broadened some horizons. Some campers, when asked to list religions they knew, could only list two religions “Islam” and “infidels”; one assertive young girl wanted to know if, in America, a woman could live alone- without a man- and she was much pleased when we answered it was possible. However, one adolescent girl in a traditional dress and a headscarf from a seriously conservative village, told us that she didn’t want to go rock climbing (an embarrassing boy’s activity in her eyes) but her father said she had to as this was probably her only opportunity in life to due so- reminding us you can’t judge a person by their headscarf.
For our first kayaking trip we upgraded from Simon, who couldn’t even be bothered to drive over to Tajikistan to join us (despite being practically next door in France) to Yuri. Yuri hails from Moscow, via Rockville, MD, and he had much to teach us about the Russian manner of expedition. Lessons included ‘russky buckwheat,’ ‘pain: why it’s just so fun,’ and our favorite- ‘how to pack a kayak in style,’ where ’style’ is alternatively translated as ’snugly fitting underwear.’
Yuri arrived early in the morning, registered with the authorities, and we were on our way to the Karatog River in less than 24 hours, an impressive turnaround for Dushanbe. We got a ride up the river in a military truck carrying motley fellows in civilian clothes and a sack of potatoes to the wilderness to ‘protect the president’ during the Shangai Cooperation Organization summit then going on in Dushanbe. Secure in the knowledge that the enemies of Tajikistan were stymied yet again, we sat awhile for tea with them at the put- in.
Last year’s attempt on the Karatog had been a success only insofar as we lived, and to avoid the high water, which had linked consecutive drops into long, sickening rapids, we scheduled this year’s descent a few weeks later in the year. The results were mostly as we had hoped: manageable rapids. The first several miles of the river were class III, allowing a fine opportunity to furiously polish our decayed paddling skills. Then the river began to drop; right away the lower water made a difference, letting us run two thirds of a bouldery triple drop, only the last drop of which we had done the year before. Andrew got right back into last year’s groove by accidentally running it backwards. We camped below that rapid, on a beach under trees, with warm wind blowing from downstream. Certain sleeping aficionados declared it the Best Sleep of 2008, pending further data collection.
The next day was full of great whitewater, some of which we even ran. There was a long lead- in to the deadly 40- footer. It consisted of an 8 ft ledge above a shallow, slanted finger of rock landing on a fast ramp leading up to a 10 ft ledge falling in large part on a rock, followed by an easy move in front of a huge undercut, a big rooster- tail rapid, and one last tall drop; then there were two river- right eddies and the falls. A casual glance revealed the eddies to be enormous and flat- indeed, nearly stagnant with inviting, calm water. But after the last drop, while scrambling back from the left side, watching the river peeling off the cliff from the corner of the eye, it turned out that the last eddy was guarded by a flourishing curler, fed in large part by water surging out of the boily eddy itself. Andrew caught the eddy with little room to spare; the others wisely began their portages one rapid farther upstream. The whitewater continued in this manner all day. Some rapids we still portaged, but many were rendered runnable by the lower water.
The third morning started with some unexpected action. Although we had already paddled through all the class V, there were a few easier miles to go, followed by many miles of class II-III to reach the road. Yuri, who considers misfortune an indispensable part of his warm- up routine, flipped and pinned underwater on a boulder in the first rapid. The only way to gain his release was apparently a salvo of ferocious headbutts to the rock, which he quickly administered, leaving him with a bloody and soon- to- be- swollen nose, and a broken camera. However, he didn’t drown, and not drowning is one of our highest priorities when kayaking. The rest of the morning was fortunately less eventful. Around noon we arrived in the town of Shakhrinau and were greeted by the group of teenagers we had met there the previous year. We found a ride back to Dushanbe and presently began preparing for the next morning’s departure to the north.
We managed to spend only 13 hours in Dushanbe. The next rivers were a short stretch on the upper Zeravshan River and then a hike into the Garif River (note: last year we used the name Garib as it appeared on our maps, but locals corrected us to Garif which matches many of the villages in the region that also end in “–if”). After scouting and paddling the bottom several miles of the Garif last year, we believed the rest of the river could potentially be one of Tajikistan’s best; paddling the entire Garif was one of our major goals for this year.
We haggled for a driver to pick us up at 2am and take us to Ajni, a major town at the bottom of the Zeravshan valley from which we would get another ride up the valley itself. The driver arrived late and decided he wanted more money. This was a frustrating early morning haggle that wasted much time and resulted in a little more money for the driver. Finishing our first haggle of the day at 330am, we sped off at such a rate as to arrive at the small cross-roads in Ajni before there were any taxis to take us up the valley. Around mid-day we haggled again and got a ride up the Zeravshan. Our driver was a young Tajik guy who was actually on vacation from his job driving a dairy truck between Moscow and St. Petersburg in Russia. His driving style was indeed slow and steady like a big-rig conductor, but this at least gave us time to enjoy the view and ponder the world of this young man from a mud-walled hut with faded blonde highlights driving us up the valley on his vacation.
The drive finished at about 10 pm near the town of Vodif. We slept well on the shore of the Zeravshan. The next day began as days usually begin when sleeping near a Tajik village: you hear people and farm animals; you slowly wake up; a villager comes over to chat while you’re still in your sleeping bag; you are invited to eat and rest in their home; you decline politely; they bring you a delicious wheel of fresh baked bread as a departing gift; they watch you pack and dress; you speed away on the river, waving back to the villagers waving and watching you go.
The upper Zeravshan is a large rumbling river that speeds over a sand and gravel bottom. From Vodif we paddled to Pakshif. Early on there was a mile- long canyon beginning with large boils surging and bouncing off its walls. Midway, the river- right side of the canyon opened to a tributary, and a large fin rock divided the river in two. Rivers don’t often have fin-rocks dividing them, so its newness caused us to look twice, but the rapid turned out to be simple on both sides of the rock. The canyon continued with more water bouncing off canyon walls until it finally funneled into a deep hole on river left. We opted to sneak and land in the backwash of the hole that was jetting out through narrowed canyon walls.
The river then whisked us downstream. A second canyon arose. We got out to scout and a posse of young boys who were working the fields came over to chat. The scouting proved the canyon to be simple boil-bouncing fun. The scouting also gave the kids time to try on our gear and sit in the boats. Our ideas of silly didn’t really match- for them just sitting in a kayak was a silly sight, but for us their solemn expressions when wearing a helmet big enough to protect two of their heads was the most entertaining.
The canyon proved a fun bounce which Yuri particularly enjoyed. There was one other rapid with a hole under a bridge and possibly a troll to match. We could see most of it but thought it might be good to scout. This proved unnecessary after Andrew fell out of his eddy and ran it accidentally, then flagged us through a simple drop with a hole having more bark than bite.
Late afternoon, we disembarked and, under the sardonic gaze of resting donkeys, began trudging our gear through potato fields on our way to the Garif River. While the potatoes had more eyes, we got plenty of stares and smiles trudging through the town of Pakshif and into the hills toward the pass. Some of the less hearty viewers tired of watching our slow progress up the steep incline, but some stayed true and watched us for the full hour it took us to get out of sight and around the small bend- a total distance of about two miles and 700 vertical feet.
We made a small fire and slept on the slope, wondering which of the distant mountain saddles was our pass.
