The Pamir Highway – Tajikistan to Afghanistan12th September – 9th October 2024

I finally arrived at the start of the notorious Pamir Highway, a must-do route for any serious motorcycle adventurer. Beginning in southern Kyrgyzstan, at the base of the towering 7,000-meter Lenin Peak, this road follows the Oxus River—also known as the Wakhan River—which forms the natural border between Tajikistan and Afghanistan. It stretches across the entire Pamir region, caught between China, Tajikistan, Pakistan, and Afghanistan.

The Pamir’s average altitude is above 4,000 meters, with surrounding peaks rising beyond 7,000 meters. This landscape, home to elusive snow leopards, mountain yaks, Marco Polo sheep, bears, wolves, and ibexes, is a sanctuary of biodiversity. The rugged terrain comprises snow-fed rivers, high-altitude peaks, and green valleys, with some of the world’s most dangerous, thrilling roads. Often referred to as the "roof of the world," this region is one of the most remote and inaccessible places on Earth.

I had dreamed about reaching this part of the journey for years. The pamir had a magnetic draw on me. Maybe it was its remoteness and famed natural beauty, maybe it was the challenge of taking the bike and myself to its limits. I didn’t know I was filled with nervous excitement at heading into what many had described as some of the hardest and most rewarding motorcycling in the world. Was I ready? Was the bike going to hold up with the altitude, did I have the skills to get through it, all these questions would soon be answered.

The Pamir highway, carved through mountains and mysteries, was more than just a road; it was a rite of passage for those seeking adventure and perhaps something deeper—solitude, challenge, or maybe a glimpse into ourselves.”

This land had seen centuries of conflict, dating back to Alexander the Great, who named the Panj River the Oxus during his march into India. Here, Islam meets Buddhism, and the Far East converges with Central Asia. The culture is a blend of Kyrgyz, Tajik, Persian, and Afghan influences—a patchwork woven together by history and survival.

In ancient times, this region was a thriving empire of interconnected valley kingdoms, ruled by local kings and khans. In the 1980s, it served as a natural barrier during the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, and remnants of Soviet forts still dot the landscape. More recently, it became a base for the Northern Alliance in their fight against the Taliban. Today, the area remains heavily militarized, requiring special passes for access. The prolonged border conflict between Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan has kept villages on either side isolated, preserving their unique cultures but also keeping them impoverished and unsupported.

It was humbling to think about the layers of history that lie beneath these mountains—the empires that tried to conquer them, the cultures that flourished and faded. Riding through here, I felt a deep respect for the resilience of those who called this place home. There was growing apprehension growing as I approached Afghanistan. A country that the empire I had fought for had retreated from and abandoned so many to such an uncertain fate.

Osh to Murghab – Riding on Mars

With all this history in mind, I was beyond excited to start this part of the journey, which would also lead me closer to Afghanistan—a place I’d served in ten years ago, a place I felt both drawn to and haunted by. On the way to the border, I teamed up with Manu, a young German motorcyclist heading the same way.

When two lone riders meet on a dangerous road in a remote land, instinct and safety draw us together. Normally solitary characters, we become an unspoken team in the face of shared risk.

Manu was riding a fully decorated Royal Enfield Himalayan, nearing the end of his 13-month journey. His bike was a spectacle, painted with tigers and parrots from Pakistan and adorned with Nepali Buddhist flags on the handlebars. Beneath this colorful exterior, though, Manu was meticulous and detail-oriented—a typical engineer. At 29, he had completed his studies before COVID and decided to trade stability for adventure, riding from Germany to Nepal and now back.

Manu’s nervous energy was both a relief and a challenge. On the one hand, his careful approach felt like an anchor on these perilous roads. On the other, his restlessness often put me on edge, a reminder that not all fellow travelers share the same rhythm.

We rode together to the border, pushing our bikes to the limit. Manu’s was less powerful than mine by threefold, yet he drove it hard over bumpy tarmac. I thought he was pushing too fast; an accident here could be unforgiving. Later, I learned he had broken the frame of his bike three times already, but in his mind, it was the fault of the bike, not his speed—a typical youthful view.

We reached the border, a remote outpost beneath Mount Lenin. The Kyrgyz guards, lazy and indifferent, let me through first. As I entered the 20-kilometer buffer zone between Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan, we discovered Manu’s special permit hadn’t been processed correctly, so he had to stay behind. With a few hand signals, we agreed I’d ride ahead to the next town, 200 kilometers away, where Rob, a British rider, was waiting for us to tackle the more challenging parts of the Pamir.

As I rode alone into the Pamir, an odd sense of freedom washed over me. There’s something raw and humbling about being on your own in a place like this—no backup, no distractions, just you and the road. The feeling was ambivalent, having rode alone for so long I also felt a sense fo sadness of having lost my riding companion so early on.

Climbing to the Pamir Plateau

From the Kyrgyz border to the Tajik one is a 20-kilometer stretch of relentless incline, climbing from 2,800 to 4,600 meters. The road quickly deteriorates from track to rock-strewn trail, and the air grows thin. Tara, my twin-stroke engine, struggled for breath, and I had to nurse her in low gear, gently working the throttle to keep us moving. The road seemed to rise endlessly, while the peaks around me loomed ever larger. Finally, after passing the Tajik border at 4,600 meters, I crossed into an otherworldly landscape.

The Pamir Plateau, averaging above 4,200 meters in altitude, is surrounded by 7,000-meter peaks, yet remains strikingly dry, with snow only appearing above 5,500 meters. The environment is harsh, barren, and windswept. Mineral springs color the landscape in shades of yellow, orange, gray, and black. There is no vegetation, only high-altitude lakes that reflect the turquoise sky—a startling contrast against the bare rock.

In this alien terrain, I felt like an intruder, a speck moving through a land untouched by time. The silence was deafening, and for a moment, I wondered if this place was meant for human eyes at all. How could people live in such harsh conditions, the bareness of it all was mindboggling. The thin air, the harsh winds, the lack of vegetation made it the most outlandish landscape I had ever seen. It felt like being on Mars.

Encountering the Johnny Duo

For a while, I saw no one until I came across two young German cyclists, both named Johnny, riding adapted touring bicycles. One had a boombox strapped to his handlebars, blasting German techno. We shared a cigarette as they told me they were heading to Kazakhstan, looking for a rave and hoping to score some ketamine. Their wild energy felt out of place yet strangely fitting against this surreal, Mars-like backdrop.

Out here, people take on an eccentricity that matches the landscape. The Johnnys’ wild energy reminded me that, no matter how remote the road, we all bring our own worlds with us. In a sense it was perfect they and I were the aliens on this land. We werejust excited wanderers bewildered by what we were seeing. I felt a prang of jealousy for these tow kids, riding as a team really has its advantages. Although I was glad we weren’t heading the same way or there would have been far too much mischief. My partying days had almost led me to the edge of insanity a year before at burning man. Where rather than burning the man I set myself on fire spiraling further into drug use and depravity. A path I was running away from, it was a pass on the rave

A Night in Murghab: Meeting Rob

I made it to the first town, Murghab, by sunset and found Rob waiting at a simple but cozy hostel charging ten dollars a night, breakfast included. Rob and I hit it off right away. Being around another Brit was refreshing—someone who shared my humor and understood the quirks of our journey.

Rob, too, was riding a Royal Enfield Himalayan he’d recently bought. He was on the return leg home after cycling from Indonesia to Kazakhstan with his wife, Emily. When Emily returned to the UK, he decided to take the long way home, trading his bicycle for the motorbike.

Manu joined us late that night, having ridden through the Pamir darkness to catch up. Though we scolded him for taking such a risk, we were glad he’d made it. And so, our unlikely trio was formed: three riders—one German, one Brit, and me, a Franco-British stray—crossing the Pamirs together.

Despite our differences, we were united by the road and the shared challenge of the Pamir. In a place where solitude is vast and risks are real, companionship is no small comfort. Strength in numbers was key in this isolated region.

The next morning, we set off early, aiming to delve deeper into the Pamir region and reach the source of the Panj River, which later becomes the Wakhan River, also known as the Oxus—a name given by Alexander the Great as he marched toward India.

Before leaving, we stopped in Murghab, a desolate “end-of-the-line” type village. Tajikistan feels different here, even in a place as remote as this. Giant flagpoles stand tall in the village square, and posters of the president line the streets, a reminder of the central government's reach. Ethnically, the people still look Kyrgyz, though we start to notice Persian features—a mix of darker skin and distinct faces—becoming more prominent as we near Afghanistan. The houses are built from mud, the air thick with the smell of burning yak dung, the only available material for heating.

Murghab was a run down and desolate place, the few people we saw scuttled from mud house to mud house. It was a forgotten town, the end of the line. Men sitting around doing nothing. The bazar was a collection of converted containers selling everything from fuel, toys, dried foods and car parts. Many of the men were already drunk on vodka stumbling around aimlessly. I felt sorry for the inhabitants that suffered from the political tensions between the neighbouring states which meant that aside the odd adventurer cruising through there was not business of life coming through.

On the way, we decided to hunt down an abandoned Soviet solar observatory perched atop a 4,600-meter peak, accessible only by a rough road. Rob also mentioned a lesser-known destination, Zorkhul Lake, nestled in a nature reserve at the center of the triangle formed by Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, Afghanistan, and China. Deciding that we had strength in numbers, we agreed to venture off the traditional Pamir Highway and take this less-traveled, off-road route to the lakes.

Leaving the M41 to explore uncharted territory felt like a deeper dive into the wild. The road turned to tracks and the tracks turned to vast open high-altitude desert. The feeling of vastness and freedom was almost overwhelming.

Manu’s Crash

Our spirits were high as we set off, each of us riding with purpose. Manu took the lead, standing on his foot pegs, followed by me, with Rob bringing up the rear. The tracks were a mixture of packed gravel, loose sand, and rugged washboards. Manu launched ahead at 70 km/h, his riding style as erratic as his energy—sketchy, yet determined.

On a sweeping curve, the track suddenly turned to loose gravel, and Manu’s front wheel buried itself in the grit. His bike was thrown into the air, and Manu went flying, slamming into the ground at 70 km/h. A cloud of dust rose, swallowing both bike and rider.

I hit my brakes, jumped off my bike, and rushed over to him. Miraculously, he was already on his feet, adrenaline still coursing through his system. Around him lay fragments of his bike—a broken windscreen, torn saddlebag, and other bits scattered across the trail. Shaken but unhurt except for a nasty graze, Manu couldn’t stop apologizing, saying this “never happened before.” “I don’t understand I have been riding for 13 months this has never happned “ I responded “just calm down have a seat and let the adrenaline go down and lets see what we do next ok?”

Manu’s crash was a stark reminder of the razor’s edge we were walking. Out here, a single mistake could spell disaster, with help hours, even days away. I wondered how many riders had left pieces of themselves on these unforgiving roads. Unlike more famour motorcuyle riders and other instagramer types, we were alone, no support wagon. There were no helicopter rescues in the whole of the country. Last I head there were two in the whole country and both belonged to the president his personal flying taxis.

With a bit of makeshift repair, we managed to get his bike back in shape, and Manu chose to carry on. Good lad. What choice did we have, really? There was no point dwelling on the crash.

Riding into the Storm

We reached the observatory just as a storm rolled in, thick clouds swallowing the sky and casting a shadow over the mountains. It was time to head to a small village we’d marked on the map, some 60 kilometres away, straight into the heart of the storm. After Manu’s crash, we were all riding more cautiously, aware of how exposed and vulnerable we were in this wilderness. Hours passed without sight of another person as we pressed deeper into the mineral-rich mountains, the landscape shifting colours under the brooding storm.

Crossing the dried basin of Chatyr Lake, we finally found flat, compact ground and opened our throttles. Suddenly, a herd of yaks ran across our path. One massive male stopped in the middle of the track, facing us down. We halted, holding our breath as he sized us up. After a tense moment, he trotted away. Had he charged, we would’ve been toast.

The storm broke open above us, releasing a torrent of snow that made visibility nearly impossible. The cold bit into us, and the thought of crossing a river in these conditions lingered at the back of my mind as an ever-present threat. We pushed through, the snow covering our helmets and bikes, until we reached Jorti Gumbez, a village at the source of the Panj River.

The storm was both majestic and terrifying, a reminder that nature here didn’t care for us or our journey. The dramatic scenery quickly was replaced by the practical fear of being cut out in the snow and having to camp out in what would be a very cold mountain.

An Oasis at Jorti Gumbez

As we reached the village, two houses huddled together in the thin, frigid air, separated from us by a deep, rocky, fast-flowing river. I let out a nervous laugh—of all the things I’d feared on this journey, a river crossing was now standing between us and rest.

Thankfully, a kind-eyed Tajik man appeared from one of the houses and waved us over, guiding us to a rickety bridge we could use to cross. Exhausted, we entered the guesthouse and discovered that it had been built on a hot spring. The thermal springs provided all the heating, and, to our delight, there was a small hot spring bath in the house itself. Eagerly, we stripped off our riding gear and sank into the sulfuric waters, feeling our aches dissolve into the warmth.

Sinking into the hot spring was a balm for body and soul. After a day of cold and danger, it was surreal to find such comfort here, in the heart of the Pamirs. At first I felt a bit guilty about finding such a place as if it undermined the ruggness of the journey. I realised that moments like these were as much a part of the adventure as the rugged roads and stormy skies. I let go my ego and just enjoyed it for what it was.

The guesthouse sat at 4,600 meters, linking the Pamir Highway to the Zorkhul Nature Reserve and marking the beginning of the Afghan border along the Wakhan Corridor. That night, the altitude began to take its toll on us. Rob suffered from acute mountain sickness (AMS), with headaches, vomiting, and diarrhea. For me, it was shortness of breath and dizziness, like teetering on the edge of a panic attack. As if that wasn’t enough, thoughts of Emily crept in, adding an emotional weight to the physical discomfort.

We managed a few hours of restless sleep. Rob struggled to keep food down, while Manu, still apologizing for his crash, nervously reassured himself. In the morning, we each took some Doxycycline to help with the altitude and prayed for good weather.

The Zorkhul Lake to Langhar – Off-road Heaven

The next morning, we woke to snow-capped mountains and the majestic Wakhan Valley stretching out before us. Across the valley, the snow-covered Panjshir Mountains of Afghanistan loomed, inviting us into their mystery. Seeing Afghanistan stirred conflicting emotions in me—a place where I’d once spent nine months, building an army we hoped would protect it. A place where I’d met Kate, the love of my life. It was the start of a love story that had brought both so much joy and equal pain. It was in part due to this love story that I had set off on this journey. Maybe to outrun those deamons or maybe to sart anew, I didn’t know anymore. And now, it was a land I feared, having fallen back into the hands of those we were supposed to protect it from.

Looking across the valley at Afghanistan, I felt an ache of memories—of battles fought, connections made, and promises left unfulfilled. This wasn’t just another leg of my journey; it was a return to a place that had shaped me, for better or worse.

This time, I was going in alone, unarmed, vulnerable. The thought was frightening, but there was no room for fear now. The task at hand demanded all my concentration

With Rob’s condition worsening, and Manu’s bike now fixed, we prepared to move on. Riding in a group brought its own challenges; when you’re alone, you move at your own pace, but with others, the rhythm is never quite yours. Yet, as the saying goes, “Alone, you can go faster; together, you can go further.” For the next few days, this would become our mantra.

Our goal was to cover 150 kilometers—a short distance on paved roads but a full day’s work in this rugged terrain. Rob and Manu seemed to be dragging their feet, which frustrated me, but I held back from slipping into “military mode.” In the end, I accepted that we might have to camp along the way.

Traveling with others meant compromise—a lesson in patience and humility. It wasn’t just about the road ahead; it was about finding a rhythm that worked for all of us, even if that meant moving a bit slower. Something I felt was triggering Manu, increasing his nervosity and darkening the group dynamic.

Rob and I set off first, leaving Manu to catch up after some last-minute repairs. The first mountain pass was blanketed in snow, with herds of yaks grazing among patches of grass peeking through the white. As we descended into the Zorkhul Nature Reserve, deep blue lakes reflected the sky, merging with green and maroon grasslands. Above the lakes rose the towering mountains of Qurumbar Park, marking the natural border with Afghanistan and China.

Surrounded by such beauty, I felt small yet at peace. The landscape here has a way of putting life’s troubles into perspective, not just that but keeping myself on the bike left no time to think. It took all my concentration to dodge the huge rocks, snow patches, mud and sand. This was real off road adventuring like I had never experienced before.

We followed the lake until we came upon an old abandoned Soviet military outpost from the 1989 Afghan war. Now converted by pastoral nomads as a place to keep their beasts in the winter or to protect them from the roaming wolves, bears, and elusive snow leopards.

On a particularly difficult segment between a steep cliff drop and some unforgiving boulders, Rob, still a beginner rider, literally pooped his pants. The stress of the ride and the AMS got the better of him. He took it with typical Brit pragmatism, and we all laughed it off and cracked on. By nightfall, we finally made it to below 3,500m in the hope that the lower altitude would reduce the AMS symptoms in Rob.

We found a small hunting lodge to rest in, where we were taken in by the kindest hunters, who regaled us with hunting stories all night and showed us their trophies. They told us about Badakhshan, their language, their culture, of the animals they hunted, of the harsh winters. One old hunter with wrinkled skin as dark as mahogany and deep blue eyes told me of when the Soviets were there; he reminded me of how this region has all too often been the graveyard of empires. The hunter told me of the forts that could only be reprovisioned by donkey and horse and regaled me with hunting stories all night. All these abandoned forts were the tombs of past empires, who would be next, the Chinese perhaps?

How many countless foreign lives, some I knew, had been lost trying to hold this land, how many countless Pamiris, Afghans, Tajiks, Uzbeks, Hazaras had suffered the greed and unchecked ambitions of global powers. I felt ashamed to have been part of this game, one I swore never to go back to.

The hunters us delicious mountain goat soup and provided us a sheltered place to sleep. Showing us untold kindness and generosity, only interested in sharing stories and laughter. We smoked Badakhshan tobacco, a strange and strong herb that transported us to a quiet sleep in the oxygen-richer air.

We decided to ride only 50 km the next day to get some rest; all of us were exhausted from the last few days. The destination was the village of Langhar. The start of the Wakhan corridor route. Rob was still suffering from AMS, so the decision was taken to descend to 2,500 meters and let his body rest. My back was killing me from the off-roading; rest was needed. The road to Langhar was as terrifying as it was beautiful, the descent from the Pamir plateaux into the valley, from the arid rocky peaks to the lush green valley of the Wakhan. Autumn had already painted the trees with its yellow and orange brush, the water of the Oxus turned turquoise blue, and amidst the trees lining the river, small white houses could be seen. In the fields, Pamiri men and women colourfully dressed were busy harvesting the last of the summer crop in preparation for the winter.

The scene was of complete serenity, a sharp contrast with the adrenaline-fueled road to get down to it. One false move, and the bike could plummet down 100-meter cliffs; the gravel made the tires unstable, and the occasional rockslide kept us guessing if we would be knocked off our bikes into the ravines!

Langhar -Rest!

We made it down to Langhar and found a quiet little guest house with a lush flower-filled garden. Surrounded by the towering peaks we had just descended from.  It was a good place to rest and recover before heading down the Wakhan corridor on our way to Dushanbe.

We spent two days in Langhar, resting, sleeping, doing some PT. Weirdly, there was a 20 kg kettlebell there, so I managed to get a bit of training in. Staying fit on the road is a challenge; early starts, the long hours of riding, late finishes, and constant change make it hard to implement a routine training program. Discipline is key, so whenever I found a pull-up bar, a set of weights, a random gym, I would take the opportunity to move my body and get some training done. The gym is to the body is what meditation and prayer are to the soul.

Langhar sits right on the border with Afghanistan; we could start seeing Taliban pickup trucks on the other side and small Wakhan villages going about their daily tasks. So many memories come flooding back as I looked at this land from the safety of the Tajik border. How many poor souls had we abandoned after the retreat, what had we achieved there other than create another power vacuum now filled by those we fought? We fought them so hard with the might of the American army, and despite this, they asymmetrically defeated the US; despite not agreeing with the Taliban reign, I have nothing but admiration for their guerrilla tactics, determination, spirit of resistance, and resilience. They are extraordinary fighters; this cannot be denied. Of course, it’s more complex than a binary explanation, but they still managed to asymmetrically defeat the strongest military power in the world, with AK47s and wooden-made IEDs.

Langhar to Khorog – A Beautiful Descent

After two nights in Langhar, we set off down the Wakhan Corridor, heading toward Khorog, the Pamir capital. As we descended, the air grew thicker, and our breathing grew easier. The grueling dirt tracks of the past weeks gradually gave way to semi-paved roads, which brought much-needed relief to our battered suspensions and aching spines. Finally, we could pick up speed, opening our throttles and hitting 60, sometimes even 100 km/h, reveling in the smoothness of the ride.

The Wakhan Corridor is a long, winding valley flanked by snow-capped peaks, with villages dotted along the Panj River. Autumn had begun to paint the trees in hues of gold and orange, and the river’s water turned a striking turquoise. We rode past Pamiri villagers going about their day, children running to the roadside to wave and try to high-five us. Their smiles and cheerful waves were a welcome sight, a reminder of the simple warmth that persists even in remote corners of the world.

The descent into the Wakhan Corridor felt like a soft landing after weeks of rugged terrain. Watching the Pamiris work their fields, surrounded by autumn’s colors, I was struck by the resilience of life here—a world away from the harshness of the mountains, such a contrast, in the pamirs the valleys are oasis of life and colour.

We found hot springs near Bibi Fatima, where we took a break, soaking in the 41°C sulfuric waters. After days of cold, dust, and altitude, the hot springs felt like pure luxury. For a few hours, we let the warmth ease our bodies and reset our spirits.

In that warm water, the aches and weariness of the road melted away even if just temporarily.

Khorog – The Gateway to Civilization

As we continued down the valley, the road gradually morphed into something resembling a proper highway, and soon, we reached Khorog. After weeks in the wild, the sight of traffic lights and buildings was almost overwhelming. We were greeted by the quiet hum of civilization—a small but bustling town tucked away in the Pamirs.

Khorog surprised us with its modernity. It has two universities, several bazaars, and even coffee shops. Unlike the rest of Tajikistan, where conservatism often prevails, here women walk freely without hijabs, and the atmosphere feels relaxed and open. It was refreshing to see young people, eyes bright and curious, unburdened by the constraints of strict tradition.

After days of isolation, Khorog felt like a gentle re-entry into society. It was both comforting and strange, a reminder of how quickly we adapt to new rhythms—even those of solitude—and how jarring it can be to step back into the noise and flow of a town. Although the espresso machine of the coffee shop was such a welcome stable of civilisation!

After refueling on real coffee and cheesecake—a true treat—we spent the day gathering supplies for the next leg of the journey. The city’s markets offered everything from fresh fruit to handwoven fabrics, a vibrant mix of local and foreign goods, mirroring the blend of cultures in this borderland town. We had officially reached the halfway point of our journey, and the small indulgences of Khorog were a welcome reward.

Khorog to Bartang – Manu’s Second Crash and Broken Egos

After a day of rest, we left Khorog and headed into the Bartang Valley via Rushan. The Bartang is notorious among bikers, a challenging and wild route that must be attempted by any serious adventurer. Rob and I planned to go halfway before returning to Dushanbe, while Manu, impatient and eager, wanted to do the full loop. He was clearly more focused on the thrill of the ride than on the journey itself—an important distinction I was beginning to notice in fellow travellers.

Manu took the lead as we started our ascent, riding faster than I thought wise. I kept a short distance behind, with Rob trailing a few minutes back. As Manu picked up speed over a small hill, he missed seeing a bridge made of two narrow metal planks. His bike fell between them, wedging him and his bike between the planks.

Thankfully, Manu and his bike were unscathed, and we managed to pull him out with help from some local villagers. But instead of gratitude, he grew defensive, blaming Rob and me for holding him back. His frustration boiled over, and he claimed that if it weren’t for us, he would have ridden faster and avoided the accident. Rob and I exchanged a look, exasperated by Manu’s youthful arrogance and unwillingness to own his mistakes.

In travel, as in life, ego can be as dangerous as any cliffside track. I realised that while the road could teach patience, humility was something each traveller had to find on their own.

Watching Manu, I was reminded of my own early days on the road, when speed felt like freedom and caution seemed overrated. It’s only after enough close calls that you realise that survival depends as much on patience as on skill.

Leaving Manu to cool off, Rob and I continued down the road, somewhat glad and relieved to part ways with him. Soon enough, Manu overtook us without a word, and left us in a cloud of angry and frustrated dust. Only to end up with a punctured tire not much farther along. This time, we rode past him without saying a word—karma is a bitch.

As Manu’s antics grew tiresome, my bond with Rob deepened. Rob and I were closer in age, shared a similar sense of humor, and had an easygoing approach to travel. While Manu seemed obsessed with conquering the road, Rob and I were here for the experience itself—the connections, the quiet moments, the shared laughter over a cup of tea.

Rob, a seasoned traveler and Burning Man veteran, had proposed to his wife at a festival. They lived on a canal boat in Birmingham; he was a scientist, she a doctor. Together, they had cycled from Indonesia to Kazakhstan before she returned to the UK, and he traded his bike for a Royal Enfield Himalayan. Rob’s laid-back, intelligent nature made him the ideal riding companion—a perfect blend of curiosity and caution.

Traveling with Rob reminded me that the best companions don’t push you to go faster or farther; they simply share the journey at your pace, savoring each moment rather than chasing the next thrill.

We arrived in Basid as the sun began to set, a small, isolated village nestled deep in the Bartang Valley. We dismounted, sharing cigarettes and stories with the local villagers as the day faded. Not long after, Manu appeared, his ego deflated like his tyre and his temper cooled, and we all shared a laugh at his expense. I had even shown the villagers a photo of him stuck in the bridge, and they got a good chuckle out of it.

A Night with Panj and Shira

That night, we stayed with Panj and his wife Shira, the local school teacher. They welcomed us warmly, feeding us a simple but satisfying meal of vegetable soup, bread, and fruit. As I lay down that night, belly full and mind heavy with thoughts, the sound of the river running through the valley lulled me to sleep.

Recent events in Afghanistan weighed on my mind. With the northern border to Pakistan closed due to protests, my route had changed. Now, I would have to ride down to Kandahar—a former Taliban stronghold—and cross into Pakistan via Quetta. The thought of traveling through those regions alone, without the support of my brothers-in-arms, kept me awake well into the night.

The thought of crossing into Afghanistan alone was daunting. This journey wasn’t just about the physical distance; it was a test of faith, in myself and in the unpredictable nature of the world. The familiar rush of fear and anticipation reminded me why I was here in the first place—to confront those fears head-on.

Basid to Rushan – A Glimpse of Eden

At dawn, I rose to watch the village wake up. Basid felt like a hidden Eden, a place untouched by the chaos of the modern world. People here had little by Western standards, but their lives were rich in ways that defied material wealth. Doors were left unlocked, neighbors cared for one another, and the children roamed free in the fields and hills.

That afternoon, as I was fixing my motorcycle, a young boy named Mounir approached, eyes wide with curiosity. He introduced himself with pride, watching Rob and me closely as we worked. I handed him a wrench, and he became my assistant for the afternoon, tightening bolts with diligence and a quiet satisfaction.

In Basid, wealth wasn’t measured in possessions but in community, in the strength of connections between people. Watching Mounir’s concentration, his hands steady on the wrench, I felt the beauty of a life lived close to the earth—a life that knew its own rhythm and needed nothing more.

That evening, Panj shared stories of his time working in Moscow, only to return to the village because he missed it too much. “Yes, the money was good,” he told me, “but look around—how could I not come back?” He was right. In Basid, wealth was woven into the land, the mountains, and the rivers. Here, individualism had no place; community was everything.

The next morning, Rob and I decided to head back down to the Wakhan Corridor, parting ways with Manu for good. On the way down, somehow, my iPhone bounced off my bike. We searched the route over and over but found nothing. Losing my phone felt like losing my last tether to the outside world—all my photos, contacts, and connection gone in an instant.

As we rode back to the nearest town, my mood darkened, weighed down by the loss. Rob, ever patient, put up with my frustration. Just as I resigned myself to replacing the phone, Rob got a call from a Russian number. It was Panj’s brother, who had found my phone and brought it back to the village. The odds felt miraculous, and I couldn’t believe our luck.

Rushan to Qalaykum – A Misjudged Journey

After reuniting with my phone, Rob and I set off once again down the Wakhan Corridor, intending to make it to Qalaykum before nightfall. It was a six-hour ride if all went smoothly, but starting late in the afternoon was a miscalculation. The road ahead was a narrow gravel track, blasted into the rock face between the mountains and the river below.

The Belt and Road Initiative by the Chinese government had brought bulldozers and heavy trucks to improve this route, but the constant traffic churned up thick clouds of dust. Between the trucks, the blasting, and the occasional rockslide, the path became a chaotic mix of obstacles. Local drivers seemed to take a twisted pleasure in speeding past motorcyclists, forcing us dangerously close to the cliff’s edge.

The road felt like a battlefield, with the dust, noise, and reckless drivers constantly pushing us to the edge—both literally and mentally.

As darkness began to fall, we found ourselves still far from Qalaykum. The winding path became even more treacherous in the fading light, and with camping prohibited due to the road’s proximity to the Afghan border, we had no choice but to press on. Riding in the dark, with trucks barreling toward us and only our headlights to guide the way, was a surreal and nerve-wracking experience. By the time we rolled into Qalaykum, we were completely drained.

We found a cheap hostel and set out to get some food, hoping for a quiet end to a long day. But as we walked to a nearby shop, a local man suddenly collapsed in front of us, having a seizure. We spent the next two hours doing what we could to stabilize him until an ambulance finally arrived. Exhausted, we returned to the hostel, collapsing into a much-needed sleep.

Qalaykum to Dushanbe – The Promise of Civilization

We set off early the next morning, finally heading for Dushanbe, the capital of Tajikistan. After weeks of rugged, punishing tracks, the fully tarmacked road felt like a gift. We cruised along, watching the landscape change from the high, barren Pamirs to the dusty, arid plains of the Tajik desert lowlands. The rising heat was jarring after the chill of the mountains, but the thought of reaching Dushanbe—and all it promised—kept us moving.

Throughout the Pamirs, we’d fantasized about Dushanbe. In our minds, it was an El Dorado where civilization awaited with open arms: proper food, comfortable beds, even a few indulgences. We pictured neon-lit streets, cold beer, and a sense of grounding after weeks of constant movement and uncertainty.

The idea of Dushanbe had taken on a mythical quality, a place where we could reconnect with something familiar and comforting, like a beer or a pizza!

Reality was not far off from our fantasies, though Dushanbe had a Central Asian twist. Tajikistan is one of the poorest countries in Central Asia, but Dushanbe appeared as a strange imitation of Dubai. Neon-lit skyscrapers lined wide boulevards, digital billboards displayed images of the president’s smiling face, casting a watchful eye over the city. We arrived at the famous Green House Hostel, a known hub for Pamir overlanders, and checked in, eager for rest and perhaps a cold beer or two.

Dushanbe – Jiu Jitsu with Savages and Mounting Anxiety

After a few days of indulging in the city’s comforts—bad food, hours of television, and the ease of Wi-Fi—it was time to prepare for the next leg of the journey. My next destination was Afghanistan, and the thought of returning weighed on me. To calm my nerves and reconnect with my physical strength, I found a local Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu club to train at.

The club, Team Buruyodov, was a modern gym on the outskirts of Dushanbe, and to my surprise, it hosted some of the highest-level jiu-jitsu practitioners I had ever trained with. Fodil, the owner, was a 34-year-old five-time world champion, and his team was preparing for the upcoming world championships. They were eager for fresh “meat,” and the training was intense, a stark reminder of the physical demands I had left behind in my old life.

There’s something about the primal act of fighting that clears the mind. In that gym, I felt my anxiety transform into focus, each roll grounding me a little more, reminding me of my own resilience. Here, stripped of pretensions, I felt closer to my true self than I had in weeks on the road.

As I spent my days training and fixing my bike at a local garage, a familiar unease settled in my stomach. The thought of returning to Afghanistan, of facing the unknown dangers there, was daunting. Although I had a solid cover story, there was still an element of risk—what would happen if the Taliban found out about my past? I began to wonder if the journey was worth the potential cost.

My conversations with friends back home only heightened my apprehension. Emily reached out to a journalist friend in Afghanistan to seek advice on my route. He warned me in no uncertain terms against going, though I later found out he had his own reasons—apparently, he was trying to get close to Emily himself, lizard.

I’d been running toward this challenge, convinced it held some kind of answer, but now, the closer I got, the heavier the doubts became. Was this a search for meaning, or was it recklessness disguised as courage?”

Lunch with a Spook

At Aziz’s garage, where I spent hours working on my bike, I met Francois—a peculiar Frenchman with the only other Triumph in the entire region. He worked at the French embassy and kindly offered me a wrench to fix my handlebars. Our initial phone call was strange; he had insisted I address him formally as “vous.” Expecting a dull conversation with a diplomat, I prepared for the worst.

But when Francois arrived, I immediately sensed there was more to him. Clean-cut, wearing Solomon shoes, he carried himself with a nervous energy I recognized from my time in the military. As we chatted, he revealed that he, too, had served in the military before transitioning into diplomacy. When I mentioned I was headed to Afghanistan, his demeanor changed. He urged me not to go, recounting the horror stories of recent events, from ISIS executions to the Taliban’s oppressive tactics.

 “Francois reminded me of a life I was trying to leave behind—a world where caution and suspicion ruled every decision. His warnings echoed in my mind, and for a moment, I wondered if I was being reckless. But the pull of Afghanistan, of facing that unknown, was stronger than any fear.

A few days later, we rode together into the mountains for lunch, passing by abandoned KGB holiday camps and sharing stories of our lives. Francois disclosed more of his past in the French special forces, detailing the challenges of life as a soldier and the transition to a world of diplomacy. His tales of Afghanistan were grim, filled with warnings about Taliban rule and the growing influence of ISIS. He seemed to carry a heavy burden—a hyper-vigilance I knew all too well.

As much as I enjoyed Francois’s company, he reminded me too much of the life I was trying to distance myself from. My intuition about him being a spook—someone with intelligence ties—was confirmed, though he never said it outright. His foreboding tales made me pause, but my curiosity about Afghanistan, my need to see the truth for myself, was stronger.

Francois was a mirror of the man I’d once been, shaped by war and bound by duty. His life was a cautionary tale, a reminder of the costs of loyalty to a cause. Yet, even as I listened, I felt my resolve harden—this journey was mine to make, and I wouldn’t turn back.

The Decision to Go

That night, as I prepared my bike, a sense of finality washed over me. My mind was set. Afghanistan was calling, and I felt compelled to answer, despite the risks. I knew that whatever awaited me, I had to face it head-on. As I smoked a cigarette outside my hostel, a Chinese man approached me—a fellow rider on a BMW GS850. His English was broken, his manner abrupt, but there was something magnetic about him.

After a few minutes, he revealed that he was also headed to Afghanistan the next day. I told him I was planning to go as well, and we decided to ride together. The thought crossed my mind that traveling with a Chinese companion might serve as a “deflector” at Taliban checkpoints, given China’s recent financial support to the new regime.

Travel throws strangers together in the most unexpected ways. In that moment, Duu was a mystery, a wild card in this journey.

That night Rob and I shared a final beer, saying our goodbyes as he prepared to head west toward Iran and I braced myself for the journey east into Afghanistan. Our paths had crossed for a reason, and now, they were diverging once more. As I rode away, a mixture of anticipation and trepidation filled me. It was time to return to Afghanistan.