Excitement for the trip started building in spring. We kicked it off with a bracing, icy dip in the Cantabrian Sea near our home and began enjoying longer afternoon rides after work, with Tajikistan always in the back of our minds. Although spring turned out to be cold, rainy and grey, the bad weather gave us time to focus on things we don't usually prioritise before a trip, such as researching tips and gathering important information. I’m typically open to going with the flow, but Tajikistan required a bit more planning – permits were needed to cycle through the Badakhshan region, and I reached out to other bikepackers to check if the floods in Kyrgyzstan had impacted any routes or road conditions in Tajikistan.

Bikepacking is about so much more than just cycling; at least for me, it’s about being part of a beautiful community of people who travel on two wheels, and appreciate everything from the local food to the landscapes and the people who inhabit those remote places.

Our trip began in Samarkand, Uzbekistan, a perfect opportunity to explore such a beautiful, ancient, and historically significant city in Central Asia. It was intense. We fell in love with every corner of Samarkand, from its traditional streets to its charming neighbourhoods. Expecting large crowds and a modern city, we were pleasantly surprised to find quite the opposite.

However, our adventure had to continue, and we needed to make our way to Khorog, which was still a long way away! With only a month off, using up all of our vacation days at once, we had to rely on three different modes of transportation: first, we travelled from Samarkand to the Tajik border, then from the border to Dushanbe, the capital of Tajikistan, and finally, from Dushanbe to Khorog. Negotiating each ride, carrying our bikes and gear, and surviving the chaotic drivers and rough road conditions proved mentally exhausting. If you're reading this, you might be wondering why we, as bikepackers, would go so far to explore a region in Central Asia, right?

This became clear the moment we started riding in Khorog, the day after arriving, leaving behind all the chaos and focusing on the road ahead. We were finally on our bikes, feeling somewhat disoriented but ready to explore the legendary Wakhan Corridor, the natural border between Afghanistan and Tajikistan. This region, steeped in history and adventure, has long attracted mountaineers, motorcyclists, climbers and cyclists alike. Despite its rugged, mountainous terrain, the Wakhan Corridor has been a vital trade route for centuries, linking Badakhshan with Yarkand. It's even believed that Marco Polo passed through this remote area.

We were finally here, but it didn’t feel real until that first night! Due to the military presence in the area, camping wasn’t an option, so we stayed at various guesthouses along the way. Connecting the villages meant connecting with the people. We were constantly invited into homes, offered tea, soup, or even a place to stay by Wakhi families. The first few days were smooth and enjoyable: great weather, stunning views, and perfect trails. We were also lucky to have the company of Pablo, a friend from Spain who was cycling the same route. However, our luck ran out when we both began experiencing a common issue: diarrhoea, and, eventually, dehydration. I held up better than Diego, who had to visit a small hospital in one of the villages we passed through. This setback forced us to stop for a few days, giving us time to recover and regain our strength before continuing with a renewed sense of joy and a better quality of experience.

Ishkashim, one of the larger villages in the area, offered a unique opportunity to visit its Afghan-Tajik market on a Saturday morning. This narrow strip of neutral ground is where locals from both countries gather to trade in hand-made goods, along with the usual assortment of Chinese items now found all over the world. The Panj River, winding through the mountains, serves as the natural border between Tajikistan's Ishkashim and its Afghan counterpart across the water. As a tourist – and as a woman – it was an intense and eye-opening experience. Leaving the bike at the guesthouse, I ventured into the market, where I found myself the only female tourist amidst a sea of curious eyes. Given the devastating news coming from Afghanistan regarding gender issues, I was careful and took my time getting comfortable in this environment, surrounded by so much curiosity and attention.

It was time to continue, with the majestic Hindu Kush range looming closer than expected, just 20 kilometres away across the river. The views were so breath-taking that we found ourselves stopping every five minutes to take it all in. Meanwhile, Diego’s health was taking a turn for the worse, deteriorating with each metre we climbed. After receiving intravenous fluids at a rudimentary hospital, and getting some much-needed rest, Diego's condition improved, though he wasn’t fully recovered. We pressed on, continuing to explore the Wakhan Corridor with regular midday breaks to escape the harsh sun, rest in the shade and refuel with food and cool mountain water. Badakhshan’s isolation has kept it largely untouched by the conflicts that have ravaged Afghanistan since the late 1970s. Despite decades of war, this area has remained peaceful. Many locals, primarily ethnic Pamirs and Kyrgyz, are largely unaware of the violence that persists elsewhere in the country.

Saying goodbye to the Wakhi people was bittersweet. We had experienced their immense kindness – being invited into homes, waved to from distant fields along the river, and exchanging high fives with kids who would ride alongside us. But it was time to tackle the Sasok Kul Pass leading to the M41 road, also known as the Pamir Highway. We transitioned from the heat of the lowlands to a sudden rain and hailstorm, as we ascended to 4,344 metres. The highlands felt remarkably similar to parts of the Andes, stirring a deep sense of nostalgia as we descended through landscapes that reminded me of those distant mountains. We were eager to spend a night camping, enjoying the solitude, cooking for ourselves, and having our own space. While we appreciated staying with local families, we craved some time in nature. That night, we finally got what we wanted. Our only setback – ironically – was that we were nearly out of water, and every lake we found was salty. Even so, we managed to cook a great dinner with the supplies we had brought from Spain, including a touch of extra virgin olive oil. The pasta was fantastic, and the night’s sleep was peaceful and refreshing.

Camping at altitude is often ideal, with cooler temperatures, quiet surroundings, and breath-taking views. However, the next morning brought its own challenge: the track from the Ozero Churkul Kul lake, where we had camped, to the M41 was in poor condition. Thick sand made cycling difficult, even with wide tires, and the rugged terrain was more exhausting than what we had faced at lower altitudes. Our shoulders and backs were aching, but with only half a litre of drinkable water left, we had no choice but to push forward. Around 10 a.m., I told Diego it was about time we came across a tourist car. As if by magic, a 4 x 4 appeared just a minute later. We flagged it down and, thanks to a group of Malaysian travellers, we replenished our water supply—saving us from a difficult situation. The Pamir Highway felt like butter beneath our tyres. It was like a series of endless straight lines cutting through lunar landscapes, where shades of brown, red, and blue formed the perfect backdrop. Despite hearing warnings about heavy truck traffic, we found the experience to be one of solitude and serene nature. Whenever a truck approached, we moved off the main road for safety – Central Asian drivers don’t seem familiar with brakes or the idea of sharing the road with cyclists!

We covered 90 kilometres on our first day on the M41, and it was pure bliss. After days of rough, uneven terrain, my legs and body were aching, but, while the M41 wasn’t perfect – there were quite a few broken sections – it felt like the smoothest road in the world compared to what we had ridden before. After Murghab, we faced a tough new opponent: a relentless headwind. During our rest day in Murghab, we were cautious with the local food, cooking most of it ourselves, knowing that our stomachs still hadn’t fully recovered. We were preparing for the most challenging leg of the trip: the final kilometres of the Pamir Highway and the wild Bartang Valley that awaited us.

The last 50 kilometres of the Pamir Highway, battling a fierce headwind, felt like an eternity. We set out early, hoping to get ahead of the wind, but by 11 a.m., it became exhausting. I was carrying an extra 10 litres of water on my rear rack because we had found a shortcut that bypassed Karakul village, allowing us to avoid detouring for supplies. Fully loaded and already on the high plateau, we struggled against the wind. It roared so loudly that we couldn’t hear each other, forcing me to drown it out with noise-cancelling headphones and music. We spent two days riding across this incredible plateau, surrounded by towering mountains, and serene lakes. I fell in love with the sublime remoteness and the stark beauty of the desert moonscapes. Despite the challenges, the sheer wildness of the eastern Pamir region was all the motivation I needed. We were up at 4 a.m. each day and ready to leave camp before dawn in a bid to avoid the punishing winds.

After two days on the plateau, it was time to descend into the Bartang Valley via an off-road pass. The descent was nerve-wracking in places, with steep, rocky sections that tested our nerves. But the views were beyond belief – the river winding below us, surrounded by raw, untouched nature. It was a mind-blowing experience, the kind of beauty that makes the effort and discomfort worth every moment. Bartang means ‘narrow passage’, and we certainly felt that during the five days we spent riding through it. Bartang was an adventure in every sense, from river crossings to navigating through rockslides and mudslides. We were constantly amazed at the landscapes, with our mouths open in awe at every corner, every turn. Once we began meeting locals from the valley’s small villages, we realised that the hospitality here was a hidden gem. We couldn’t help but wonder how long that would last, as the valley becomes more appealing to foreign travellers with each passing year.

Sharing a few days with Asier, another Spanish cyclist, was a highlight. We all had the same rhythm and goals as we explored Bartang together. Initially, Bartang seemed tricky in terms of finding campsites, but it turned out to be the best valley for camping. We were fortunate to stumble upon some stunning oases in this dry, dusty region, where we could wash off the dirt from cycling. Fed by cold glacier water, they stood out lush and green in the otherwise barren landscape. The villages, all connected to a water source, appeared as small green patches of life in the middle of the high-altitude desert. The best part of the Bartang Valley wasn’t the breathtaking landscape, but the unforgettable interactions with the locals, especially in the village of Savnob, which became the highlight of the trip. Despite the language barrier, I spent an afternoon playing traditional games with the local children, making a genuine connection that transcended words.

Our final days in Bartang, cycling through a narrow canyon beside the river, were surreal. The canyon was so striking it left us in awe during the last two days. It offered a new perspective on the landscape we had been riding through, this time from the vantage point of lower lands. Without a doubt, this valley was the crown jewel of our Tajikistan adventure. I can’t thank enough the incredible people we met along the way. From the fresh tomatoes and apricots picked straight from their back yards, to the fresh (and also ‘old’) bread, tea and the heartfelt embraces from women who hugged me like my own mother – these are the memories that made Tajikistan, and especially Badakhshan. Unfortunately, every bike experience has an end but this chapter is one that I will never forget.

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