The Green House Hostel

I rolled into Dushanbe's venerable Greenhouse Hostel, the staging ground for all those who dare tackle the Pamir highway on two wheels. Among those gearing up were a Turk and two French motorcyclists, but unfortunately I would not be ready to join them as Strom had been sent off to the mechanic for some much needed repairs. The skid plate, for example, was bent and dangling from its remaining bolt. I estimate that I had bottomed out at least a hundred times up to this point, so I fitted rising links, which would lift Strom by one vital inch. "These wheels are not for the Pamirs" Aziz said menacingly, so I had him throw on a more aggressive, half-worn tire that some other biker had abandoned. Who knows what poor sap will eventually end up with my old tire in a pinch.

There were many characters at the Greenhouse. A well-to-do Muscovite showed me a website where $30 gets you an American credit card with an address in Delaware. "So you see, syanctions don't verk!" he said, Russianly. Two young men from Vladivostok (whom we'll call Dmitri and Vasili, because statistically those are almost certainly their names) denounced the war, and shared the ways in which sanctions had made it difficult to procure various industrial components. Still, I got the sense that life was pretty normal for them. I felt privileged to have these opportunities to speak with the “other side.” Anybody who equates CNN with Russian State TV or attempts to justify the war is an illiterate jackass, but there are indeed voices that we don’t hear that are at the very least interesting.

I met a Parisian who said he was honestly a nice guy, but had to be an asshole to tourists lest they feel like they didn't have an authentic experience.

My dormmate was a lecherous Egyptian with rotten teeth and the affability to convince you otherwise. An average Cairene, from what I hear.

I encountered Na from Bangkok, and we resolved to ride the Wakhan Valley together. The ATMs in Dushanbe are ravenous, and they ate our cards, but I got mine back Sooner, so I headed out and would wait for Na to catch up. 

That night, from my campsite on a slope above the Panj river, I stared into Afghanistan.