We had this and every other trucker song in our heads as we rattled over the last leg of our journey with the convoy of Tajik transport tucks.
With low energy from being sick and only a few days left, we decided that we had to start hitching. The first day out of Khorog, our bikes got a nice ride in the back of a highway crew's dump truck for about 100 rattly kilometers. That night we stayed in a little roadside hotel and woke up to a parking lot full of trucks. In the morning, I started asking about rides to Dushanbe. Their loads were all tagged so they couldn't open them to load bikes, but they were more than willing to take us anyway and ended up cramming all of our dirty gear in the cabs. With our bikes and bobs in four different trucks, we made sure that we had our money, passports and plane tickets on us in case we never saw that gear again. We hopped in with 'John Rambo' and 'Morog' to start the adventure. We were told that it would take 15 hours to Dushanbe. The 550 kilometers ended up taking a total of 32 hours and was an adventure and a cultural experience to say the least!
We had a lot of laughs with this group and as we got to know them, soon came up with a list of nicknames. I wont go into detail about them, but use your imagination... They included John Rambo or Joey from friends, The Prophets, Lola, Che Guevara (the Tajik version), and Ole Dad. It was great to watch their interactions, they are just like family and are constantly bantering back and forth and laughing. We often weren't really sure if they were arguing or just talking, but these loud discussions would often end with boyish handshakes, high fives or fake punches.
The road quality is probably best described as treacherous. It's hard to believe that a road connecting two of the country's major cities could be a single lane boulder field for most of the distance. We clung to the edge of a cliff as we wound our way along the Panj river that is the boarder between Afghanistan and Tajikistan. We would stop to throw freshly fallen boulders off of the road while carefully watching above for anymore that might be falling down. Around corners, we would honk to let traffic know that we were coming. When we could meet another big truck, one of us would back up to a slightly wider section, fold the mirrors in and hold our breath as the other would inch by. When Christine and I were sure that we were going to go tumbling over the cliff at any moment, she asked to get out and our driver Morog burst out laughing saying, "Normal! Normal!"
It might be because of the rough road, the quality of the tires, or the fact that our bad luck seems to be contagious these days, but we had THREE flat tires on our truck alone! Each time, the whole convoy would stop to help with the process. It went like this: put rocks under the tires so the truck can't roll, put on 'work clothes,' take a chew of raw tobacco, jack up the axle with the flat, remove the tire, pry the tire off the rim, use random tools (different every time) to chisel the tube off of the rim, pull out the tube and toss it over the bank, clean the rim and cover it with dirt, put the new tube in, start the air flow, smash the pieces of the rim back together and put the tire back on, wash your hands and face, change clothes, remove the rocks from the tires and get on the road (not that you were ever off of it in the first place- the whole time you are watching for other vehicles passing by). This is even more interesting in the dark and when all of these steps have been completed only to find that the tire itself is blown and will have to be replaced. At this point the tools start to fly and we do our best to decipher the Tajik cuss words...
We were very amused with the level of personal care that our driver displayed. After a flat he would have us pour water for him as he washed with soap (not so common in this here). He would change his entire outfit, fix his hair and get back into the truck to spray Hogo (not Hugo, Hogo) cologne and to finish the process, he would spend five minutes moisturizing his hands. Who knew a Tajik trucker could be so concerned with his look? He also often sprayed air fresher everywhere, leaving us coughing and gasping for air. The dash and the floor were wiped when we were waiting for others and everything was always neat and tidy. When you live in your truck, it's nice to keep it clean.
And live it it we did! At two am and another 165 kilometers to Dushanbe, we stopped for sleep at a truck stop. We were on asphalt at that point so it seemed crazy to be stopping so close to our destination, but what we didn't realize was that the road would soon go back to single lane dirt and would be another eight hours the following day. We were happy to sleep in the seats and let the Morog have the bed but he insisted that we take it. Not feeling like arguing all night we gave in and Chris and I shared a two and a half foot wide bed - yet another bonding experience! Five hours later we were back on the road, listening to our favorite four song Russian cassette tape.
We arrived in Dushanbe with some great memories and a better understanding of Tajik culture. Despite the fact that we had to turn down a few marriage proposals, this was a safe and amusing way wrap up our trip.
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