After northern route that I have just followed, any path would appear beautiful to me. Especially if Afghanistan is day after day on the other side of the river, so close and at the same time so far.

A comfortable 250 km to follow the river and skirt Afghanistan.

Of course, the M41, which I have been following from Dushanbe, is still in poor condition but at least I have no passes to climb! However, I easily forget the absence of asphalt and the heavy traffic of truckers rallying to China, constantly letting my gaze wander across the river that I am.

This tumultuous, wild, winding and unpredictable river seems like the country it borders: Afghanistan. I see its inhabitants over miles and villages, and if I imagine myself in 1950 in Tadjikistan, they seem still taken in the Middle Ages ... I see several women and children doing their laundry in the river. Large hand-woven scarlet carpets are cleaned on the outside, before returning to their rammed earth houses clinging to the sides of the cliff.

The high cliffs, Afghan side. The landscape seems to come from another planet.

Because even wilder than the river are the cliffs that border the stream. Steep like immense granite walls, they mark their respective territories better than any barrier, and make it almost impossible to build decent roads.

On the left, Tajikistan, on the right, Afghanistan.

A village at the foot of the entrance to a gorge, on the Tajik side.

The villages

Villages are easy to predict and spot in this part of the world. Usually, when two mountains meet, a small river will come out of it. And those thin streams of water are all that is needed to create life for a few tens or hundreds of people. Accompanied by a few animals, the majority of the inhabitants then work to bear fruit on the thin plots of flat soil.

The work is long and difficult. Children and seniors alike were still working in the last light of day when I asked them if I could pitch my tent near their field. The next day, when I woke up, the working day had already started. All in silence. No farm machinery here. Everything is by hand.

All the work is still done by hand, from morning to night.

HELLO ! HELLO ! HELLO !

If one word could sum up Tajikistan, it would be Hello. Preferably repeated 300 times in a row while shouting.

Children especially are euphoric as the cyclists approach. They start running towards the road and get into position to give high five. The most motivated spread their legs to be able to slap my hand as hard as possible. Everything generally follows this typical conversation.

- HELLO !! HELLO !! HELLO !! HELLO !!
- Hello...
- HELLO !! HELLO !! HELLO !! HELLO !!
- ok, bye now.
- HELLO !! HELLO !! HELLO !! HELLO !!

Sometimes it can get deafening. But I tell myself that this is probably the only distraction they get in their isolated region. In Tajikistan, the infant mortality is 35 per 1000. This means that each year 3,5% of children under one year old die. This is 7 times higher than in Canada.

The worst part is that even with this staggering figure, Tajikistan is ranked first in class ahead of Afghanistan, its immediate neighbor. They come last in the world, with a mortality of nearly 122 per 1000. You read that right, more than 12% of children do not make their first birthday.

So I let them marvel as much as they want in front of a guy on a bicycle in their village.

A night with the Pamiris

With my 2 for 1 gift: fashionable and nourishing!

Towards the end of most of the day, I start looking for relatively flat ground to pitch my tent. If there are people around, I ask their permission, and if not, I just settle in. I think I am well hidden and invisible ... until I am reminded otherwise.

One evening, I just stopped and I'm about to pitch my tent. A grandmother has already seen me and comes to give me fruit. Then, without further preamble, she invites me to her place on the other side of the road.

I imagine the conversation behind the curtains that could take place in our so-called civilized world.

- Linda, there's someone camping on our land.
- Call the police, he must be a murderer.

Here, zero stress. You see a stranger, you invite him.

The grandmother soon offers me a huge quantity of walnuts. I ask him a questioning face to see if I should choose one or take all of them. Rather believing that I don't know how to open them, she takes one and simply snaps it with one hand inside her fist! You see, she seems to say, not complicated!

His whole family insisted that I sleep inside the house. I try to reply that my tent is perfect, but my bike is already forcibly pushed inside under granny's orders.

I also feel a little bad when I learn that Grandma is finally a mom. She is only 53 years old despite looking like she is close to 70. Aging faster than years is the burden of almost everyone here. The sun, hard work and difficult living conditions do not forgive.

The house, like all the houses around, has no running water. The dishes, the showers and the laundry are done thanks to the stream, outside. I now understand even more why villages are systematically built so close to rivers. The mud house consists of two rooms. One is the kitchen and the bedroom for the girls, and the other is another bedroom for the boys. Above, there is hay stored for the animals. Set back from the house, a hump. This is in fact a huge hole covered with old planks, and surrounded by tarpaulins. A few holes are drilled in the boards. And by setting foot there, you definitely hope it doesn't give in ... And you say to yourself ... do I really need to go ?!

Of the five children in the family, the two youngest are boys and I will sleep with them after supper. I suspect the rooms were changed especially for the occasion to leave me the kitchen, the larger of the two rooms.

I am placed a pillow next to theirs, but before going to bed, I go outside to brush my teeth. The whole family follows me behind me and looks at me like I'm coming from the future when I floss!

The problem with the kitchen is that the only door leads to the women's bedroom. Not knowing if I had the right of way, I opted to repress all night long my desire to free my bladder!

The family having offered me their home, accompanied by a curious neighbor !.

The next morning, I am offered lunch. As with supper, I only share it with the boys. Being a foreigner, I cannot eat in the same room as the women. But after eating, I manage to form a group with everyone. I show them some of my travel photos, and I even push the a capella song a bit. Then, at my invitation, they put on local music.

It's not a very large production, but I still invite Grandma and her children to dance a little bit after the other. Then, before leaving, I offer Canada stickers and buttons to my two new roommates.

It's often easier to just ignore the people on the road and go straight for the next town because you think you've got miles to go and you're tired of repeating the same story over and over. per day. Even despite the title that I myself gave to this trip, The good people, I sometimes forget that the exchange of cultures is the best memory, much more than the most beautiful photo of a landscape. These few hours with this Pamir family reminds me that I must take the necessary time to meet and get to know the people on my path. Language and cultural barriers are often very difficult, but we come out of them grown.

Freddy and pierre

Further on, while I was taking a photo, I was caught by two other cyclists: Freddy the German and Pierre the French Parisian.

- Wow, you're the first cyclist we've caught up with since we left Europe!

Thanks guys, it's rewarding.

- I'm not that slow, I just take a lot of pictures!

Wasted effort. Here I am called the slowest cyclist in Eurasia.

Freddy on his normal bike, and Pierre next to his abnormal bike.

I had already heard about Pierre and his gigantic bicycle on the road. Something like a local cycling tourism legend. The guy patented three frames together to make himself a high-pitched bike. Why ? Why not !

In any case, the center of attention is now definitely on him. No one looks at Freddy or me anymore, and we pass through invisible villages like motorists.

Khorugh

My two new companions and I arrive together at Khorugh, a city of around thirty thousand inhabitants where we will enjoy life for a few days. To tell the truth, Pierre and his gurgling will mainly benefit from the toilets, but Freddy and I will walk more!

We meet other Germans in a restaurant. One of them confided to me, upon learning that I am Canadian:

- Ah it's funny, I saw young people on the road with Canada macaroons. They asked me if I was from Canada, and they were disappointed that I said no, I am from Germany.

I think I should be appointed Canadian Ambassador to Tajikistan!

Pierre, Freddy and I will then decide to continue the journey together. They will be my first travel companions since the start! By resuming the road, we then leave our view of Afghanistan to climb even higher in altitude and cross the mountain range of Pamir.

Our trio will experience two weeks of adventure, cold, altitude, climbs and descents, until our respective routes separate us. But these are the next stories of Eurasia's three slowest cyclists ...!