Eshkashem 16/9 The next morning I arrived early in Khorog. Time to gather all necessary supplies. Driving south to Eskashem along the Afghan border and from their back north all the way back to the Kyrgyz border was a scarcely inhabited place. Food could be a problem as I was told and diesel was nowhere to be found at all. Khorog with 22.000 inhabitants would be the only place with a reasonable bazar. Arriving in Khorog made many heads turn. Not only is my car a rarity in this region it also turned from green to almost white. Mountains here are well supplied with chalk and together with the water running downhill it forms deep ditches in the mountain roads. Not only is this a test for my suspension, the whipers have to work hard to keep my window clean. The bazar was easy to find, in the middle of town next to the busstation. Almost anything was sold here exept for meat for Ata and diesel. The things I needed most. As I left the central building a russian jeep pulled over with Aga Khan printed on it. A local aid organisation. The charming and English speaking lady was very helpfull. She showed me a separate room where they sold meat. Pieces of cow, hanging on meathooks, uncooled and smelly. Only Ata would be the non-vegetarian this week. As a former streetdog this would probably not harm him as much as it would me. I was only to glad that for the first time in Tadjikistan I had to push rather then tense my anal muscles all day in order not to drip all day. Diesel was also available and if I wanted to I could even stay in their guesthouse for the night. Driving to Khorog left me with 125 lites out of 200, 75 in my standard tank and 125 in the extra tank built in the back of the car. The rest of the trip was still another 1250 kilometres, driving through mountains or at 3500 metres upto 4500 metres. As I calculate the fuel I need, I usually use a ratio of one litre for every 9 kilometres. Having no idea how driving at this height would influence the consumption, maybe some more wrong turns or using the engine to heat the car at night taking the maximum amount of fuel seemed like a good idea. The people from Aga Khan were very friendly and helpful to sell me another 75 litres. The guesthouse however was full. The driver told me that Eshkashem would only be another three to four hours driving. My tank filled again, the fridge full with beer and meat, enough supplies for a week, only three o'clock in the afternoon. Driving to the next town looked like a good idea to me. Eshkashem. From Khorog directly south, along the border river dividing Tadjikistan and Afghistan. A breath taking tour, pasted to steep hills offering a view of this river, finding its way through the valley between the steep mountains on both sides. Three hours of fighting to keep the car on the small track and three police checks later. The Russian border control post near Eshkashem was to be my next challenge. The Russian still guard this border against the poor Afghaan people making loads of money trafficing drugs to Moscow and Europe. A post Bruno had warned me for. Together with the commander of Khorog a former KGB agent had a scheme set up only to allow tourists with organised tours. Bruno had already spent a day on this post before and two weeks ago a Germain journalist was detained for two days before being allowed to continue. As I showed my papers the guards told me it would only take ten minutes to clear my passage. I dug into my book. A 100 pages later and an hour and a half later nothing happened. Time to make some noise. Calmly I climed the barrier and walked over to the post in the middle of the area. The commander did not arrive yet and it would probably take another hour. I don't think so. Give me back my passport and let me continue or I will go back and check everything again in Dushambe. Just wait another 20 minutes please. No, now open the gates. Please just another 5 minutes. No way. It is getting dark, the road is very bad and I want to be in Eshkashem before the dark increases the risk of driving of the cliffs. And as the border guard picked up the phone for the third time I decided to use probably my only means to increase the pressure. I walked back to the car, parked besides the gate and moved it in front of it. If you will not let me pass, nobody is going to pass anymore. I was hungry and it seemed like a good time to unpack my stuff from the car and unpack it in the middle of the road. The border guard came over to the car and started to explain to me that he could end up in a lot of trouble by the created situation. Just to show him my good intentions I packed the stuff back in the car and offered him a sigaret. The car stayed. The commander arrived after 20 minutes. A blond real Russian looking gentleman from St. Petersburg near the Finnish border. A very polite and diplomatic person. Apologizing more than once for the bad service. His English was sufficient to have a conversation and as he was filling out the form sitting next to me in the car I started to feel a little bad about my behavior. According to him my permission was not valid. I had to take the protocol to the nearest militairy camp in Eshkashem from where I could continue. He even phoned a befriended collegue to escort me over there. I am not sure if he was my guard or my guide to see me get safely through the mountains. When we were getting in the car the commander apologized again for the bad service and told me he was glad people from the civilized world started to visit these parts of the world. Somehow this made me feel about again. Only to remember that in dealing with Russians you have to show your teeth. As in Russia itself last year. Only if you show you have some balls they start to respect you and offer to help. Maybe me blokking the post was just the thing they liked and the reason the commander and I got along fine, even during this short acquintance. The friendly friend was a captain as well and wanted to practice his English during the hours drive to the camp. He came from Novosibirsk. A city I visited last year. Enough to talk about, although I did not understand everything he said concentrating on the dark road ahead. The hours drive past by quickly and soon I was waiting in front of the gates to the camp. The gates opened and after a few lefts and rights I was directed to the office of the camp commander. Two golden stars on his shoulders. A full blown colonel. I am not sure whether they are selected for this duty but all Russian here were huge. The muscle types you always see in these America versus Russia movies. I decided to shut up and behave as friendly as possible. I was directed to another office accompanied by two of these biggies. The colonel entered later accompanied by an interpreter. As he saw my papers he immediately started phoning. Three conversations later it turned out that my papers were valid. Thanks to the service from Intourist in Dushambe. The problem had been that this kind of permission was somehow new. The guards at the post never saw a tourist permission before. For people working here the ministery of internal affairs issues the permissions. Mine was issued by Ovir, the agency taking care of tourists. The rest of the conversation was a display of disbelieve. They could not understand somebody touring around in a place they probably compared to Siberia and were years serviced counted double. A place only to go when you were banned. The questions were smart and to the point. Why are you travelling alone? Why are you travelling here? You know this is a drug trafficing area? Do you want to cross to Afghanistan from here? The only question from the young colonel, to me he seemed very young for his rank, was by far the most to the point. Are you bored in your own country? Maybe he was right. Since I did not feel to register a complaint I was free to go and they apologized for the delay and offered the interpreter to guide me to the tourist registration office and to a nearby hotel. As we walked out another huge Russian inquired about me being in the camp. Very confident I was no longer impressed with their sheer size and after shaking is hand I walked back to the car. The interpreter was, just as all the Russians that evening, very polite and helpful. He guided me back to the registration office and took me to the city hotel for important visitors from Dushambe. They however were unaware of my arrival, the hotel was closed and nobody around to open it. The private hotel nearby was run by friends of his and were all to happy to put me up for the night. A pleasant family with three small children and a very comfortable guestroom. All for a dollar. A quick bite and my lights went out.