Journey Through Tajikistan: From the Pamirs to the Fan Mountains
September 2011: As part of a two-week journey that included Latvia and the Wakhan Valley, I spent nine days exploring Tajikistan, venturing deep into its rugged landscapes and remote highlands.
My journey began in Dushanbe, from where I embarked on an epic overland adventure across the legendary Pamir Highway, traveling eastward into the high-altitude wilderness of Tajikistan. Eventually, I reached the country’s far eastern frontier, where I crossed into Afghanistan’s Wakhan Corridor, spending a week among the isolated Wakhi and Kyrgyz communities.
Returning to Tajikistan via Khorog, I continued my travels along the Afghan border, weaving through the stark yet breathtaking landscapes back to Dushanbe. From there, I headed northwest into the stunning Fan Mountains and Penjikent, where I spent a few more days exploring the region’s glacial lakes, ancient Silk Road ruins, and dramatic alpine scenery.
This is the story of my travels in Tajikistan, a land of towering peaks, remote villages, and untamed beauty.
My route across Tajikistan
About Tajikistan
Tajikistan: A Land Emerging from Isolation
Tajikistan is a mountainous country just beginning to open up to the world. Trekkers and mountaineers are now discovering the Pamir Mountains, one of the wildest and most remote ranges on Earth. For much of its modern history, however, Tajikistan has remained isolated—first under the Soviet Union, and then again after independence, when it was plunged into a brutal civil war.
In the early 1990s, after the Soviets withdrew, a power vacuum ignited conflict between rival tribal factions, leading to a war that claimed approximately 30,000 lives. It was President Rahmon who ultimately pulled the country back together—but with a strong arm.
Everywhere in Tajikistan, giant murals and portraits of the suit-clad Rahmon loom over public spaces, often showing him in idealized, surreal imagery—embracing children, walking through wheat fields, or surrounded by flowers. Similar to what I saw in Turkmenistan, there is a clear cult of personality surrounding him. Having ruled since independence in the early ‘90s, Rahmon has extended his rule by altering the Constitution, suppressing media, and silencing criticism.
Yet, surprisingly, many Tajiks I spoke to revere him. “We love our president,” they often said. Part of me believes that every nation deserves democracy and transparency, but at the same time, this country was torn apart by war less than 20 years ago. Rahmon has managed to keep Tajikistan stable, even if it has been through authoritarian control. Perhaps, in a fragile post-war nation, a Western-style government might not succeed in preventing another collapse.
That being said, Tajikistan is not without its dangers. Terrorist groups still operate in some areas, and foreigners have been targeted. During my trip, I heard of a cyclist who was gunned down on the roadside, a stark reminder that even in times of relative peace, threats still linger.
Tajik President Rahmon
Tajik President Rahmon
Crossing the Pamirs
Into the Pamirs: From Riga to the Roof of the World
After an overnight six-hour flight, I found myself transported from the far north to the far south of what was once the Soviet Empire—landing in Dushanbe, Tajikistan, from Riga, Latvia. I had pre-arranged a driver, and I was relieved I did. Upon arrival, the airport was utter chaos—taxi drivers, porters, and corrupt officials mobbed me the moment I stepped outside. Thankfully, my driver intercepted me, cutting through the madness and ushering me out before I could get tangled in the usual arrival hassles.
As with most of my trips, my itinerary was action-packed, leaving little time for on-the-ground logistics. With that in mind, I had organized a Soviet-era Lada jeep through a Tajik fixer, ensuring that I could hit the ground running. From the airport, we embarked on a grueling 17-hour drive along the legendary Pamir Highway, the second-highest highway in the world, with its highest pass reaching 15,000 feet.
Exhaustion quickly overtook me. Despite the bumpy, treacherous roads, I somehow slept through most of the drive, missing long stretches of the spectacular mountain scenery. I must have been beyond exhausted because normally, on roads like these, sleep would be impossible.
Occasionally, I woke up to fleeting glimpses of the Pamirs—soaring peaks, remote villages, and endless rugged landscapes. Along the way, we had to refuel, but in this part of Tajikistan, gas stations don’t exist. Instead, we relied on wooden kiosks run by local kids, who sold plastic bottles of fuel. In some villages, there weren’t even kiosks—kids would sprint toward our jeep, waving bottles of gasoline in the air, eager to make a sale.
By the time we finally reached Khorog, on the Afghan border, I had already begun to grasp what made this journey so legendary—a land of extremes, where survival depends on resilience, resourcefulness, and the raw beauty of the mountains.
Lada Jeep that I crossed the Pamirs both ways in
Pamir Mountains
Along the Pamir Highway we passed many small villages, and I took this photo of an old Tajik man with a kind and wise disposition.
Villager with blue eyes on Pamir Highway
Khorog
Khorog: Gateway to the Afghan Wakhan
After an exhausting 17-hour journey along the Pamir Highway, I finally arrived in Khorog, a quiet mountain town nestled among towering peaks. One of the largest settlements in the region, Khorog is an oasis of greenery, with apple orchards and irrigated fields fed by glacial waters from the surrounding mountains.
Despite its natural beauty, Khorog is one of the poorest regions in Tajikistan, where many residents rely on aid from the Agha Khan, the spiritual leader of the Ismaili Muslims—a branch of Islam followed by most people in this part of the country. The Agha Khan Foundation donates millions to support Ismaili communities worldwide, providing assistance in education, healthcare, and infrastructure development.
Curious about the Agha Khan’s source of wealth, I asked my driver—a local man—where it came from. He glanced around cautiously before lowering his voice and saying, “Well, he is a businessman… and opium is a big part of that business.” Whether this was truth, rumor, or whispered conspiracy, I had no way of knowing, but his tone suggested it was a common belief in the region.
Local Hospitality and Afghan Logistics
The owner of the vehicle I had hired lived in Khorog, and rather than staying in a guesthouse, I was invited to stay with his family in their home, where I was given a private guest room. His hospitality went beyond providing a place to sleep—he became instrumental in ensuring the smooth execution of my trip, helping me navigate the bureaucratic hurdles of entering Afghanistan.
His assistance included:
✔️ Helping me secure my Afghan visa at the consulate in Khorog
✔️ Arranging a local fixer on the Afghan side of the border
✔️ Coordinating permits and a vehicle for my journey into the Afghan Wakhan
Exploring Khorog & Its Tensions
While my main goal in Khorog was to obtain my Afghan visa, I enjoyed my time exploring the town, relaxing at riverside restaurants, and eating freshly grilled kebabs. Khorog had a laid-back charm, but it was also a town on edge. Guerilla activity was known to flare up, and the heavy police presence was a stark reminder of the region’s instability.
To visit this part of Tajikistan, a Gorno-Badakhshan Autonomous Region (GBAO) permit was required in advance. My fixer had arranged mine before my arrival, but the region remained fragile.
Just one year after my visit, a violent revolt erupted in Khorog, leading to deadly clashes between rebels and government forces. Dozens of fighters and police officers were killed, and the area became a no-go zone for outsiders. It was a stark reminder that even in remote mountain towns, tensions can simmer beneath the surface, waiting for the right spark to ignite.
Khorog
Securing My Afghan Visa in Khorog
Khorog was known as the easiest place to obtain an Afghan visa, and true to what I had heard, the process was hassle-free. In just a few hours, I had my Afghan visa in hand, with no questions asked—a stark contrast to the near-impossible process at the U.S. Afghan Embassy or other Afghan consulates around the world.
At the time, most of Afghanistan was embroiled in conflict, making entry difficult. However, my goal was only to visit the Afghan Wakhan, an isolated mountainous region far removed from the fighting. The easiest and safest way to access it was through Tajikistan, crossing the Ishkashim border, just a few hours’ drive from Khorog.
Exploring Tajikistan on the Way to Ishkashim
Although visiting the Afghan Wakhan was the main reason for my trip to Tajikistan, I was glad to have the opportunity to explore the country itself, which I found incredibly unique and fascinating.
On the drive toward Ishkashim, I made several stops along the way, including:
✔️ A natural hot spring, with stunning travertine limestone formations
✔️ An old Soviet-era health resort, still in use but with outdated rooms and aging facilities
✔️ Local village marketplaces, where I wandered through stalls selling fresh produce, spices, and traditional handicrafts
Each stop offered a glimpse into daily life in this remote, rugged part of the world. Soon, I would be crossing into Afghanistan, stepping even further off the beaten path.
These Tajik women at the market in their traditional dress were very kind and insisted I have some apples for free. Tajikistan just on the other side of the river from Afghanistan seemed worlds and centuries apart.
Village boy at the hot springs
Soviet era spa hotsprings
A Tale of Two Hot Springs: From Soviet Relic to Natural Paradise
My journey led me to what was supposed to be a hot spring, housed in a strange, Soviet-era structure that looked like a space capsule from the 1980s—poorly maintained and showing its age. When I arrived, the basin was dry, and the operator—with a well-practiced motion—turned a faucet to fill it with hot spring water.
Curious, I considered giving it a try, but as the water filled the basin, I quickly noticed two problems: it wasn’t actually hot, and worse, there were visible smears of what appeared to be fecal matter along the edge. That was enough for me—I opted to pass on the experience. The decision, however, wasn’t well received. The operator scolded me in Tajik, clearly offended by my refusal to partake in the questionable waters.
Fortunately, my search for a real hot spring wasn’t over. Not far from the Soviet relic, I stumbled upon a small, natural hot spring, complete with travertine deposits cascading into a crystal-clear pool. It was paradise—or at least, it would have been, minus the group of naked old men already soaking in the water beside me.
Despite the unexpected company, this natural oasis was exactly what I had been hoping for—a true hidden gem in the rugged landscapes of Tajikistan.
Naked old men in a natural travertine deposit hot springs
Natural hot springs I swam in
Crossing Into Afghanistan: A Moment of No Return
I’ll never forget the moment my taxi pulled away, leaving me completely alone at a remote border crossing into Afghanistan. The wind swept across the desolate landscape as two Tajik soldiers unlocked the barbed-wire gates, swinging them open to reveal the narrow bridge that spanned the border.
As I stepped forward, I felt a wave of emotions—excitement, apprehension, and a deep awareness that I was about to enter one of the world’s most infamous and misunderstood countries.
On the Afghan side, a burnt-out Soviet tank sat rusting in the dirt—an eerie and symbolic welcome mat into a land shaped by decades of war and resilience. This was it. I was in Afghanistan.
Driving to Dushanbe Along the Remote Aghan Border
Escaping the Wakhan: Bribes, Landmines, and an Endless Drive
After a week in the Afghan Wakhan, I barely made it back to Tajikistan. Without warning, the border suddenly closed, leaving me stranded. Fortunately, my fixer, well-connected with the border officials, had caught wind of the situation. But in this part of the world, a closed border is just an invitation to negotiate—and the price of reopening it was laughably cheap.
To convince the Afghan border police to let me cross, I handed over six eggs—a modest bribe, yet apparently enough to get the job done. The Tajik side, however, had a steeper price—$20 in cash to the border guards, who pocketed it without hesitation. Just like that, the gates swung open, and I was back in Tajikistan, standing alone on a desolate mountain road, waiting for my driver.
My fixer in Afghanistan had texted my Tajik driver, and after what felt like an eternity of waiting in the wilderness, I was back on the road. I spent one last night in Khorog before embarking on an unforgiving 22-hour drive back to Dushanbe, this time via the southern route, which hugged the Afghan border.
The Longest, Bumpiest Drive of My Life
Unlike the Pamir Highway, this southern route was even more remote and far less developed. On the Afghan side, I saw no roads, just a narrow mule trail winding along the steep cliffs, the only connection between villages without electricity.
Every time I stepped out of the vehicle, I had to watch my footing—live landmines and rusting Soviet tanks from the Soviet-Afghan war still littered the landscape. One wrong step, and I could have set off an explosive reminder of history.
With no restaurants along the way, I bought fruit and snacks from kids selling them on the roadside and filtered drinking water from village pumps. The villages along this route were extremely conservative and visibly poorer than those in other parts of Tajikistan.
22 Hours of Bumpy Hell and Scorpions on Repeat
The ride itself was brutal—squeezed into a tiny Russian jeep, bouncing along mercilessly uneven roads for 22 hours straight. To make things worse, my driver had only one mixtape, which he replayed over and over again. At first, I enjoyed hearing a few great songs from the Scorpions—but after the tenth, twentieth, and thirtieth loop, even their best hits became pure torture.
By the time we finally rolled into Dushanbe, I was exhausted, sore, and delirious—but I had made it. The journey had been grueling, unpredictable, and at times, absurd, but it was an experience I would never forget.
Lonely Road to Dushanbe
The Russians left mines along the river bank to keep the Afghans out. I didn’t know this while I was walking along the river bank until I came across this sign.
Soviet tanks left over from the war
Soviet tanks left over from the war
Remote Afghan village across the river. My driver mentioned to me that on occasion he could hear bullets being shot from Afghanistan when driving this route
Village kids selling food
Dushanbe
A Night in Dushanbe and a Change of Plans
After a 22-hour grueling journey, my driver and I finally arrived in Dushanbe, utterly exhausted. Too tired to be picky, I checked into the first hotel I found—a Soviet-era relic with outdated décor, gaudy pink bedcovers, and gold window drapes. It wasn’t much, but at that moment, it was exactly what I needed—a place to collapse for some much-needed sleep.
Visa Troubles and a New Plan
The next morning, I had a clear plan—get an Uzbek visa, drive overland to Tashkent, and fly home. Simple, right?
Wrong.
At the time, U.S.-Uzbek relations were at an all-time low due to American criticism of Uzbekistan’s dictator, Islam Karimov, and his abysmal human rights record. Despite my best efforts, stacks of paperwork, and even an attempted bribe, the Uzbek authorities flat-out refused my visa.
With my original plan derailed, I had to think fast. Instead of heading to Uzbekistan, I decided to explore the northwest of Tajikistan, venturing into the Fan Mountains and the Silk Road ruins of Penjikent.
Dushanbe: A City of Contradictions
Before setting off, I took time to explore Dushanbe, a city that reminded me of Turkmenistan, with its bizarre architecture, oversized monuments, and grandiose government buildings.
I happened to be in town for Tajikistan’s Independence Day, celebrating its separation from the Soviet Union. Thousands filled the parks, watching fireworks and parades, the city pulsing with a mix of patriotism and surreal excess.
One thing that immediately caught my eye was the giant flagpole towering over the city. Tajikistan, with an annual GDP of just $250 million, had spent $25 million to build the world’s tallest flag—not for necessity, but purely to one-up their regional rival, Uzbekistan.
“Everyone in the region hates Uzbekistan,” a local casually informed me, as if it were common knowledge.
Of course, like most of Dushanbe’s extravagant projects, the country couldn’t actually afford it. Yet the government continued to sink millions into massive statues, opulent palaces, and lavish presidential residences, all while ordinary people struggled to get by.
The ironic twist? The contract to build this enormous flagpole was given to a company from my hometown of San Diego, a business that specializes in manufacturing giant flags for dictatorships. Of all places, Dushanbe had an unexpected connection to home.
Borat’s Iranian Cousin?
At the Tajik National Museum, I met an Iranian tourist with a camera crew, claiming he had hired his friends to film his vacation. With our mandatory blue plastic shoe covers, we toured the exhibits under the watchful eyes of multiple museum workers.
He bore an uncanny resemblance to Borat, and I couldn’t tell if this was a documentary or just a vanity project, but he was clearly having the time of his life.
At the end of the tour, he turned to me with dramatic enthusiasm and declared, “You are my new bestest friend!”
I had known him for an hour, but in Tajikistan, nothing surprises me anymore.
Soviet era hotel
Tajikistan Museum in Dushanbe, Before Islam Tajikistan and Afghanistan were Buddhist and Zoroastrian.
Iranian Borat and his film crew
A Tajikistan woman with golden teeth
A Golden Smile: Soviet-Era Tradition
Like many who grew up under the Soviet Union, this woman had golden teeth—a once-popular status symbol that remains widely common across the Central Asian “Stans.”
During Soviet times, gold teeth were seen as a sign of wealth, durability, and even fashion, with many opting for them instead of traditional dental work. While the trend has faded in many places, in rural Tajikistan, it’s still a strikingly common sight, a glimmering relic of the past that endures in the smiles of the older generation.
Fan Mountains and Penjikent
Journey Through the Tunnel of Death
Without an Uzbek visa, I opted to hire a driver and guide to explore northwestern Tajikistan, including the stunning Fan Mountains and historic Silk Road cities. Leaving Dushanbe, we climbed high into the mountains, where one of the most harrowing parts of the journey awaited—the infamous Tunnel of Death.
This four-mile-long tunnel, carved through the mountains by Iranian and Chinese engineers, lived up to its ominous nickname. Pitch black in many sections, poorly ventilated, and with a glacial melt river running through its center, it felt more like an abandoned mine than a functional highway. The crumbling walls and collapsed sections did little to inspire confidence, and I felt like the entire mountain above was on the verge of collapse at any time.
As we crawled forward, massive Soviet-era trucks roared past, barely squeezing through the narrow passage. The air was thick with exhaust fumes, and knowing that past traffic jams had turned this tunnel into a carbon monoxide death trap only heightened my anxiety. It took us 30 agonizing minutes to reach the other side, and the realization that we would have to pass through it again on our return made my stomach sink.
When we finally emerged into the sunlight, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I had crossed many dangerous roads in my travels, but this was truly one of the most unnerving.
Tunnel of Death
A Night in the Fan Mountains & A Dictator’s Mansion
We spent the night in the Fan Mountains at a Soviet-era resort on the edge of a beautiful lake—a setting I wish I could have enjoyed. Instead, I spent the night battling severe food poisoning. After a miserable few hours and a Cipro pill, I was feeling well enough to continue exploring.
One of the most intriguing stops was a lakeside mansion belonging to Tajikistan’s president. Though heavily guarded, the soldiers surprisingly allowed us a quick peek inside since the president was away. As expected from any good dictator’s residence, the place was adorned with endless murals of the leader. One particularly fascinating piece was a massive textile mural—a striking tapestry of the president’s image.
To my amusement, I later discovered that a shop in a nearby town could create similar textile portraits of anyone. If I had wanted, I could have walked away with my own woven likeness, dictator-style.
Fan Mountain lake
Textile Mural of the President at his lake House-I found out I could have one of these textile murals of myself made for 200$ with an image of myself. I thought that would be awesome but then I was told I had to travel one day to the place where it could be made.
Once a Luxury Soviet Hotel in Panjakent
Silk Road Ruins, Soviet Relics, and Vodka Nights
The next day, we drove all the way to the Uzbek border to visit Penjikent, an ancient Silk Road city. We explored its historical sites and wandered through the bustling old bazaar before settling in for the night at what was once a Soviet-era luxury resort—a title that no longer fit. The grandeur had long since faded, leaving behind a crumbling concrete relic of the past.
On our way back to Dushanbe, we spent the night with the family of my driver’s friend. That evening, we went out to a local restaurant, where I found myself in the middle of a lively reunion of his childhood friends. Over endless plates of kebabs and many bottles of vodka, the night quickly turned into a blur of toasts, laughter, and enthusiastic—if slightly slurred—conversations.
The next day, we made stops at some idyllic lakes in the Fan Mountains, where I took time to hike and admire the striking turquoise-green waters. The scenery was breathtaking, a perfect contrast to the intensity of the previous night’s festivities. Tajikistan had turned out to be a land of contrasts—one moment, I was drinking with locals in a smoky restaurant, and the next, I was standing in complete solitude before an untouched alpine lake.
The students of the Islamic School gathered around me to shake my hand and welcome me to the ancient Madrassa from the 1400’s.
Old Penjikent was once a famed city along the Silk Road and now just a crumbling field of dry stone.
Roadside Public Toilets-I never had to ask anyone where the toilet was since I could always smell it from a mile away.
Having dinner with lots of vodka with my driver and his friend’s village buddies and not one person in the group spoke english
I stayed with this family in their house and they were very kind. I had no choice but to photograph this beautiful girl with her baby.
Me at an old bazaar in Penjikent
Local girl riding a donkey
Fan Mountain Lakes
A Picnic, a Shepherd, and a Curious Misunderstanding
Like much of Tajikistan, the remote lakes we visited were almost entirely devoid of people—no foreign tourists, and often, no one at all. As we enjoyed a simple picnic of watermelon and salted sliced tomatoes—two of my favorite Tajik foods—an old man suddenly emerged from the wilderness, herding his goats. Without hesitation, he sat beside us, and we shared our meal. He devoured the watermelon with enthusiasm, as if it were the greatest delicacy he’d ever tasted.
As we chatted through my driver, the old man studied me curiously before asking if I was German. In his mind, all foreigners came from Nazi Germany—a belief shaped by his childhood during World War II, when the only outsiders he had ever heard of were the Soviets’ wartime enemies.
When I told him I was American, his confusion was palpable. He simply had no reference for what that meant. In all my travels, I had never been mistaken for a Nazi before, and I’m fairly certain it won’t happen again.
Fan Mountains
Fan Mountain lake
Old man who stopped to ask if I was a German nazi
A Final Night in Dushanbe & A Corruption Gauntlet at the Airport
I spent one last night in Dushanbe before catching my Aeroflot flight to Moscow and onward back to the U.S. Having heard from other travelers about the rampant corruption at Dushanbe Airport, I knew to stay on high alert. Security screeners and immigration officials were notorious for attempting petty shakedowns—whether through intimidation tactics or outright theft from security trays.
As expected, there were a few attempts to extort money from me, but I stood my ground. I remained respectful but firm, refusing to engage or show any signs of weakness. After realizing I wouldn’t be an easy target, they quickly moved on in search of easier prey.
With that, I boarded my flight and left Tajikistan behind—a land of breathtaking mountains, ancient Silk Road history, Soviet relics, and, apparently, airport hustlers.