North by Northwest

Early Saturday morning eight of my classmates and I left Dushanbe in two jeeps, heading toward the ancient cities of Panjakent and Khujand. Rarely paved, the roads were overwhelming and great--the best part of the trip. To best represent my rawest impressions of the journey I took notes at points throughout. The road to Panjakent is best characterized by smells: of gasoline, desert and burnt trash. At times when we would exit the cars to admire the vistas and take photos the air was its lightest--when the air was weak and fresh, so much so anything else was lost. At all times the air was unreal in lightness or gagging in smog.

From DW in Dushanbe

Most of the ride was in between the narrow roads of mountain sides and the roaring, brown river hundreds of feet below. The landscape shifts were stunning: from city to desert to mountain to desert to oasis. Dry rocks, red rocks, green rocks, sprinkled the mountains and the roads; some still hung thousands of feet up, snowed in or carved out from the spring-time melt. Driving through had taken us through natural beauty of places like Colorado, the Alps, Morocco, and the Izrael Valley.

From DW in Dushanbe

The trip to Khujand was equally stunning. As opposed to the mountains roads to Panjakent, situated on and around their waists, the road to Khujand took us over them--up to heights of 3300 meters (~11,000 feet)--into stubborn snow.

From DW in Dushanbe

The ride down led us into valleys--on shaky and bumpy roads, perhaps more so than the ride up--in between greener mountains that gradually dried until we arrived in the flat and arid plains leading to Khujand; a city split by a river, humid, but watched by towering western mountains. Khujand, the republic's most important financial city is found at the peak of the map of Tajikistan, slipped between Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan. Its great trees, busy streets, and markets had the whispers of Tel Aviv's metropolitan charm. Walking into the Panjshanbe Bazaar (or Thursday Market) is a punch; the nose fills with freshest spices and the salt of body odor, too. Eyes and ears are overwhelmed by colors and packs of shoutters; hands and calls, welcomes, thick movie-taught hellos.

From DW in Dushanbe

Our trip from Khujand to Dushanbe--a flight--was laughably rickety. The plane on which we flew was an old Soviet plane that suffered turbulence before we even took off. The (thankfully) quick flight was a fitting close to adventure--an arthritic ride back home.

From DW in Dushanbe

In moments of instability and imperfection--driving on rocks and sand, inches from a catastrophic plunge or boarding a plane older than your father--try to laugh. And pray, maybe. I've heard before: worrying is like a rocking chair, it gives you something to do but doesn't get you anywhere. So just take it easy and hope the plane will land. And when it does, laugh.