I awoke in the early morning with extreme stomach pains and diarrhea. It seems that the pain I had started feeling the previous day had gotten worse, and I found myself regretting drinking that appetizing-looking mountain stream water, which I should have realized was filled with somewhat less-appetizing bacteria which were now having a party in my intestine. Malik provided me with pretty little yellow pills, which I eagerly gulped down with some ever-ready tea, and prayed that the road would somehow magically feel less bumpy.
Thankfully, the pills seemed to do their trick, and I felt much better as we pulled into the same little roadside teahouse we had stopped at three days earlier by the river, where we were greeted as old friends by the waitress and served Beef Things With Onions, which besides their unusual appearance, were quite tasty – but at that point, I was happy to have some digestible food in my stomach. I asked Farahnush what the cafe’s name meant – “Cheel Tan,” to which she replied, “It means ‘forty bodies.'” This made my stomach somewhat more queasy again, and I excused myself to go check out the hydroelectric plant above us on the hill, which powered the nearby village of Rushon. Who names a cafe “Forty Bodies” no matter what language it’s in, anyway?!
We returned to Kalai-Khumb as the sun was beginning to set, only to find the Homestay hostel we had stayed in previously was completely full. In a town this size, this did not bode well and we were afraid that the Niva might end up being our cottage for the night, but luckily Malik was persist in his search for alternative housing, and he found a new homestay house which was just nearing its completion. He came back out to us in the truck, reporting that the inside was clean, new, freshly painted – but the running water hadn’t been hooked up yet. The toilet was of the “rustic variety” – a metal, roofless shack next to the river out back. I suddenly found myself very grateful that my illness’s unpleasant symptoms had ceased. The place had electricity though, and oddly enough, an unplugged old ice cream machine in the front parlor (no ice cream though, darn it). I would have happily spent the evening writing up more blog entries for posting upon my return to Dushanbe, except that a fast-moving thunderstorm blew over for 20 minutes and completely knocked out the power to the entire village.
This was of no matter to the residents of KK, though – of course, they had existed here in this village for thousands of years without electricity or running water, and until the lines were fixed again, a day without it didn’t matter one bit to them and it was business as usual. We had our dinner by candlelight, and Farahnush and I decided that we wanted to climb the interesting-looking mountains to the north of the village (or more specifically, I wanted to climb them and Farahnush decided to go with me to make sure I didn’t do something crazy). I had tried to climb one of them the morning of our previous stay, but had run out of time before we had to continue – I figured, if there’s mountains to be climbed, I wanted to be in on this! So we hitched up our trousers and hit the slopes, to the shock of the children playing in the playground below, who clustered about us as we headed towards our chosen rock-covered giant.
It didn’t take long for this to turn into a somewhat questionable idea. As before, the sun vanished quickly over the mountains, leading us with a hazy blue glow to the west which did less and less to illuminate our rocky goat path as the minutes passed. “Are there bears in these mountains? We are next to Russia, after all,” I asked. “You know, these are questions you should have thought of earlier,” Farahnush retorted. Wisely, she elected to wait for me on a rocky outcropping while I bravely told her that I expected to reach the top in 30 minutes or so, and be back in an hour. “Don’t do anything crazy, okay?” my sister pleaded as I scrabbled up the rockslide on all fours, bypassing the goat path entirely in my quest to use every last moment of light available to me. I peered down at the ground me as Farahnush’s head disappeared below me. The children, who had been previously playing energetically with a soccer ball in the field which spread before me like a rocky patchwork quilt, were now quiet and still, clustered together near the edge of the mountain and staring up at us.
I can’t resist an audience, unfortunately, and this goaded me to climb even faster. After 15 more minutes of climbing, I suddenly realized that if I kept climbing, there would be a good chance I would either die, or at least have to spend the night on the top of the mountain. The slick, now almost invisible rocks beneath my hiking boots were wet from the recent rain, and I had no water, no light, and Malik and Saeed didn’t know where we were. I took out my camera, switched it to video mode, and composed a touching, heart-wrenching eulogy about myself with instructions to distribute my possessions upon the recovery of my body from the top of the mountains, which shan’t be published here for the sake of my remaining dignity. Then I tucked in my shoelaces and kept climbing.
After another five minutes, and the realization that the children were now shouting for help below, I realized I was being an idiot and I turned around and started to pick my way back down the mountain. I called out for Farahnush as I descended, telling her to go on without me and that I’d meet her at the house, but I heard no response. It was now almost completely dark and I dug out my trusty iPod and switched its brightness to maximum, holding it in front of me like a index card-sized torch. I signaled with it every few minutes, waving and calling for Farahnush to assure her I was stupid, but alive. I slid down the steep mountain, but thankfully those goats had a few more brains than me, making their path narrow but safe. I’d never been more glad to have those hiking boots than at that moment, and finally, 20 meters from the ground, I barely made out the dark shape of Farahnush waiting for me at the bottom, where she explained that she had almost fallen off, but one of the children had come up to lead her back down. “You know, they told me that some tourist died in these mountains in the village last year,” she told me severely. “Good to know; we’ll have to try earlier in the day next time!” I replied enthusiastically. I’ll probably never learn. But I just love climbing mountains.
Malik and Saeed were waiting for us by the house when we returned, worried about our safety but amused by my description of my bravely stupid adventure. Farahnush’s feet had gotten extremely muddy during the journey, her father helped her start to wash her feet with buckets of water in the otherwise useless bathtub, with me holding a lighter for them to see.
As the water ran down the drain, I idly moved the light around the room, exploring it in the darkness. I glanced a yellow leaf in the bathtub, then realized that leaves aren’t supposed to move or have legs. I looked more closely, then straightened up and said as calmly as possible: “Farahnush, don’t panic or make any sudden moves, just move your feet out of the tub immediately.” As she obeyed, I shined the light back into the tub, revealing the small yellow scorpion that was a dozen centimeters from her left foot. Farahnush let out a small noise, and I noted the small size of its body, pinchers, and striking tail. It was still moving towards the drain when Malik leaned in with his slipper and bashed it twice, leaving it mangled and twitching. Farahnush decided that her feet were clean enough, and I warned her as we were adjourning for the night that she should check under her bed and cover her shoes before sleeping. I sure did.
you also mentioned your wife on your “last” video from Darvoz mountains. is there something you’ve been concealing from me, Zach?
His wife ? Yes, he is a dark horse. Perhaps she’s one of the forty bodies. The whole excursion/adventure was therefore, according to this psychobabbler’s dark and curious perspective, an obsessive’s compulsion to go back and see if he can remember that red-mist moment and somehow come to terms with its long-reach aftermath.
Seriously, though, great adventures told with gusto and brio. I think you will be a welcome guest at the Istanbul not-the-Hilton Travelogue Narrators’ Caravanserai (Nicholas’ long-term unfulfilled yet retirement dream – more on this subject later)