A story of willpower against adversity, cycling the Pamir highway toward China.
In 2016 I managed to pedal about 850km toward my final destination, Kashgar, in China. | got really sick for drinking contaminated water and | had to abort the trip because | was feeling weak and for ten days after going back | could not Function properly. After this, | thought a bikepacking redesign of my bicycle without racks and lig ter gear would let me push it even in case of sickness.. From that lesson I redesigned my bicyle from scratch around a bikepacking asset.
July 28, 2016
Departure!
The journey began as expected, complete with the usual fierce arguments at check-in. This time, even though I wasn’t supposed to pay for my bike—since, according to Aeroflot’s customer service, I was allowed two pieces of luggage of 23kg each—they couldn’t find it in their system and wanted to charge me. As always, a supervisor had to step in, and they wasted so much of my time that I once again nearly missed my flight—only to later confirm that I was right all along.
The flight was smooth, but arriving in Samarkand was a nightmare. Only one plane lands at a time, and passengers are immediately surrounded by police and escorted to passport control under close surveillance. After filling out the customs form, you wait for your luggage. Once you have it, you must queue again for another full X-ray scan before leaving the airport. The checks and questioning are relentless, especially regarding medications. They even laughed when I declared my possession of Imodium—so charming, like a skin rash.
This time, I got the officer who wanted to inspect my phone. But since I had anticipated this, and knowing Android allows it, I had cleverly created a fake user profile with four random pictures of fields and daisies. Take that!
Most importantly, he completely overlooked the food-grade alcohol I was carrying disguised as grappa for my stove. Here, methylated spirits are unavailable, and the local gasoline burns terribly and dirties the cookware.
Welcome to Samarkand.
July 29
Day 1 – A Day from Hell
A grueling day. First, I went on a quest to find an ATM. I had some dollars with me but preferred to save them for more remote areas by withdrawing some local currency instead. Easier said than done! I visited seven banks, but.. One had no electricity, one had an ATM, but it was turned off, one still had the ATM wrapped in cellophane and one didn’t have an ATM at all.
At another, they wouldn’t even let me try because they didn’t support Maestro cards, so they redirected me to another bank that supposedly accepted Maestro, .. but it didn’t. Then, they sent me to yet another bank that did accept Maestro, but I couldn’t withdraw cash myself—I had to go through an operator. The operator tried and dialog went more or less like:
- “NYET.”
- “Huh?”
- “NYET.”
- “Nyet? It doesn’t work?”
- “NYET.”
I sent her to hell for free.
Then, I returned to my hotel to reassemble my bike, but… my worst nightmare had materialized. The bike was in perfect condition except for one tiny detail: the rear wheel must have taken a massive hit during the flight and was completely deformed.
I spent the afternoon with my spoke wrench, improving the situation a bit, but it was still not good. I couldn’t tighten the spokes too much either, or with the weight of my bags and the rough roads, they might suddenly snap.
Finding a bike shop here was a nightmare too. When I asked at the hotel, they suggested I try a car repair shop… Great! But in the end, I managed to find one.
I can only hope for the best because this is not a trip where I can afford mechanical failures. My safety—literally, and not as a figure of speech—depends on it.
July 30
Day 2 – And Finally… After “a sleepless night spent under the light of resentment” [quote]
Against Aeroflot, which last year destroyed my rear light and this year my wheel, I armed myself with patience, a spoke wrench, and brake pads as a visual reference, adjusting a quarter-turn at a time until the wheel was back in shape.
Unfortunately, I cursed so much in the process that I erased All Saints’ Day from the calendar, so this year there’s no red holiday.
Given the circumstances, and after some test rides proving that the bike was handling well, I set off according to schedule. Fingers crossed.
A road going uphill. In the rain.
This morning, I left a bit late after reorganizing my bags in a more sensible way. The bike was fantastic—my Surlyna never left me stranded, and today was no exception!
As soon as I left Samarkand, a light drizzle started and gradually became heavier. Twenty kilometers later, the mountains began—massive, towering, and just a small taste of what awaited me.
I completed the stage more or less on time, considering the breaks for food, but I could definitely feel the lack of training.
When I arrived at the hotel, it was decent, but the restaurant was closed. I went out to get the most improbable kebab ever from a shop where a group of young guys, thrilled to meet an Italian, bombarded me with questions about the football league. I didn’t have the heart to disappoint them by saying that I couldn’t care less about football.
Currently in Tamerlane’s hometown. Tomorrow, I’ll visit the monument and then tackle more steep climbs.
July 31
Day 3 – Still Desert, 47°C (116°F)
Today was a massive 120 km stage through insane slopes and 47°C temperatures, just to gain some time.
I visited the madrasa and Tamerlane’s statue in Shahrisabz.
Met two super nice British girls traveling in the opposite direction from Thailand to Tashkent. We exchanged pleasantries, contacts, and travel stories—just like travelers on the Silk Road have always done.
I struggled up brutal climbs that gave me saddle sores.
I was invited to lunch by a local family.
I encountered two little rascals, about 12-13 years old, who tried to ride my bike while I was buying water. They ended up toppling it over onto themselves, giving me a mild heart attack (for them, not for the bike! Well… also for the bike).
If they were my kids, they’d be grounded for a month with just bread and water, and their phones confiscated.
I suffered under the heat.
I ended up sleeping in a hotel in the middle of nowhere, with a spectacular view of the Milky Way.
Everything was closed, but I managed to scrounge up some bread and mortadella for dinner from a tiny shop.
All in all, business as usual.
August 1
Day 4 – The Desert, Despair, The Ancient Guesthouse, and the Russian Family – 279 km, 15% Completed
This morning, I woke up at 6 AM to start early after doing some maintenance on the bike. I went out to buy rice, tomato sauce, and ice-cold water to store in my CamelBak. Then, I set off to find breakfast since the hotel didn’t provide any. The local chaykhana only had boiled ribs from some unidentified animal (probably mutton). I was starving, so… GNAM! And a liter of Coke, just for good measure.
After quickly checking a strange noise coming from my rear brake, I hit the road!
The road, which cuts through a desert area, immediately showed its tendency for relentless 7-8% inclines with brutal, never-ending ramps. After hours of suffering in 42°C (108°F) heat, I collapsed exhausted in the shade under a bridge. A guy passing by invited me to stock up on water at a fountain, saying “mala voda” (not much water) from here on out.
The ice in my CamelBak was still giving me refreshingly cold sips even after hours, but since that wouldn’t last forever, I broke my golden rule of drinking only sealed bottled water.
As I was filling my bottles, a bus pulled up, and suddenly EVERYONE inside got off—to take a photo with me. Before I could even process it, I was surrounded, posing with each one of them, all of us making cheerful victory signs.
I asked how much more climbing I had left. Their responses were apocalyptic: “20 km”, “It never goes down”, etc.
Feeling defeated, I got back on my bike and kept going—only to reach the top and find… a beautiful, wide, perfectly paved descent through jaw-dropping desert landscapes!
After finishing that long downhill stretch, I reached the road leading toward the Afghan border, only 120 km away.
At that point, I was stopped by the police for questioning: Where did I come from? Where was I going? Where were my hotel registrations?
Once that was done, I continued. But soon, another seemingly endless incline appeared, crushing my morale.
I asked an elderly man how much longer the climb would last, and he said: “It NEVER goes down until Boysun.”
Frustrated and exhausted, I kept pushing until I reached the top—only to discover (AGAIN!) a glorious, sweeping downhill road that got me to Boysun in the blink of an eye!
Upon arrival, I searched for a place to stay, and by sheer luck, I stumbled upon an incredible hotel. Inside, it felt like a caravanserai—a true frontier outpost, with its small rooms, a ring-shaped layout, and an atmosphere straight out of Tsarist Russia mixed with an Ottoman trading post.
Seeing how exhausted and hungry I was, the owner treated me to a fantastic meal: an incredible meat soup, a huge plate of fresh tomato salad that revived me, cheese, and bread.
Here, I met Anton, a Russian traveler, who, along with his wife and 9-year-old daughter, was trekking all the way from Russia to Mongolia! He was fixated with “how STRONG Italian men are. You are STRONG man!”. We exchanged stories over a couple of beers, he seemed impressed by my cycling prowess (not that his and his family’s achievements were anything less anyway). He told me that now he wanted to do the Ustyurt desert walking, to which I had to explain that especially with a 9 years old it’s not a great plan. “You DIE in that place, Anton! There are scorpions, black widows.. and if you just walk the sun will cook you out!”. I don’t know if I ever convinced him. At any rate he was now in some sort of “detention” because somehow he had managed to get into Uzbekistan with an invalid (or non-existent, that wasn’t clear and I didn’t want to know more) VISA, and he was waiting for the police to take care of that.
Today, I learned two things:
Never trust old men about road conditions.
Whatever goes up must come down.
Tomorrow, I hope for a calmer day—I spent way too much energy today.
August 2-3
Days 5 & 6 –
Day 5: Italians in the Guesthouse! The Desert Offers Afghan-Style Landscapes, I Put a Corrupt Cop in His Place, Beer Tastes Great (But Not at 46°C on a Bike), “Say It with a Flower,” Party Town, and My Credit Gets Bullied by the Phone Company – 379 km, 20% Completed
The morning started with a solid breakfast: tea, biscuits, eggs, butter, and jam. Yesterday’s breakfast didn’t help me at all, so today I went for carbs and energy. After finishing, I said goodbye to Anton and his family. But just as I was leaving, Anton ran after me, asking a ton of questions about my bike setup, my solar panel (14 watts), and general travel logistics. As I headed out, I suddenly heard Italian voices! Unbelievable—I ran into three Italians in Boysun! A Sicilian, a guy from Puglia, and a Bergamasco (seems like the beginning of a joke!), all there for a speleological expedition with their university. Anton, on the other hand, turned out to be an astronomer. That place was overflowing with scientists! If I hadn’t been on a tight schedule, I would’ve stayed another night. To be honest, I had already noticed that the desert had some truly unusual rock formations—so much so that I kept thinking, “This must be a paradise for geologists.” After the usual group photos, I stocked up on water, downed a Red Bull, and continued through the desert. This time, though, I was going downhill! The headwind slowed me down a bit, but I wasn’t about to complain. Soon, I hit a series of rolling hills—nothing too extreme—framed by stunning Afghan-style landscapes: intensely yellow hills against a deep blue sky, striking geological formations, and houses made of sun-dried bricks. Then, I reached a police checkpoint. I greeted everyone with “Salam Aleykum” and extended my hand, but instead of the usual warm response, I was met with smirks—not with me, but at me. A cop stood up, rubbing his hands together, grabbed his baton, and loudly repeated “SALAM ALEYKUM! SALAM ALEYKUM!” between bursts of laughter. I immediately knew this wasn’t going to end well. He asked for my passport. As I opened my handlebar bag to get it, he caught a glimpse of some Uzbek SUM banknotes and started pointing at them and touching them. I closed the bag slightly. He opened it again. Then, he started a speech along the lines of,
“Ah, you’re Italian! In Italy, you have the euro! What are you doing here with all this local currency?”
He was fishing for a reason to extort money from me. I snapped the bag shut and said, “Oh really? Can you spend euros in Uzbekistan? REALLY?” (exaggerating my surprise with an over-the-top expression). I pointed at myself and mimicked rubbing my fingers together, as if counting money.
“So, I can spend money HERE, in Uzbekistan?” (waving my arms in a big circle). I didn’t give him a chance to respond. I pulled out my official exchange receipt and shoved it right under his nose. His face changed color. He looked frustrated. He turned to another cop sitting nearby, who gave a subtle nod, signaling, “Let him go.” I grabbed my passport and got the hell out of there. Around 1 PM, I had covered about 40 km, and hunger struck. A kid dragged me into a chaykhana shouting “SOMSA!!” Samsa is like a rustic calzone, baked in a dome-shaped oven made of straw and clay. Inside, it’s filled with minced meat and vegetables and is served with fresh tomato sauce. It was the best meal so far! To go with it, I ordered a tomato salad and a пиво (piva, aka beer). When you order a beer here, everyone looks at you with an amused smirk—like you just told a dirty joke. (“You like beer, huh? Naughty…”) It went down beautifully, except for one thing: it was 10% alcohol, and in that heat, it absolutely wrecked me!
August 3
Day 6 – Signals from the Deep: Traveler’s Diarrhea (Part 3), The Border Crossing, The Cop I Sent to Hell, Customs Inspections from Hell, How I Saved My Drone from Confiscation, The Tajik Sibyl, The Sprint to Dushanbe, The Hotel That No Longer Exists, and Paradise That Doesn’t Wait – 486 km, 26% Completed
The morning started slow—I had to do some mandatory maintenance on my bike. But soon, an unmistakable heavy feeling in my stomach warned me of something I had experienced before. At first, it was mild. Then, it became annoying. For the third time in three years: traveler’s diarrhea. Luckily, it was mild and manageable. I just had to compensate by drinking much more water to avoid dehydration. Under a burning sun and on roads that tortured my saddle sores, I covered the 40 km to the border. There, a shady-looking guy was sitting on a chair next to the registration checkpoint. He asked for my passport. Not seeing him in uniform and thinking he was a scammer, I responded:
“NYET PASSPORT! PASSPORT FOR POLICJA!” (pointing at the uniformed officer).
The others pointed at him and said, “Militsiya! Militsiya!” Realizing he was actually a cop trying to help, I asked, “Are you a policeman?” Annoyed, he said yes, but now I had to wait in line like everyone else. Fine. I pointed at the queue, at myself, and gave him a thumbs-up: “OK.” Then, mimicking putting on a uniform and saluting, I basically told him: “If you’re not wearing your uniform, you’re nobody.” 1-1, ball in the center. After passing the first checkpoint—where Tajik women in front of me kept getting more and more passports to have checked in bulk—I reached customs. And this is where the nightmare began.
First, I had declared that I was carrying some Tajik money. But since I hadn’t had any when I entered the country, I couldn’t possibly have any when leaving. They made me redo the customs declaration, granting me this favor as if it were an act of grace, at which I snapped telling the guy that all sorts of money exchange in the black outside under the nose of an officer in civil clothing.. Predictably everything got a lot smoother. But I was seething already.
Then, all my bags went through X-ray screening. Then, they made me open every single one and explain everything I had: every single medicine, my water filter, the SD card in my GoPro (which they examined), then my phone and tablet (go ahead, search away)
Then, the cop smirked and asked, “Do you have porno?” The temptation to say, “Yes, with your girlfriend,” was overwhelming. But I counted to three hundred and said: “No, I don’t have any porn. Don’t worry.” Then, he asked, “Do you have pictures of military areas?” HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHERE YOUR MILITARY AREAS ARE?! I said no. Then, they found my drone.
Panic mode activated.
“Why do you have this? This is illegal in Uzbekistan! Why didn’t you declare it?” I let them rant for a bit, then pointed out that“I landed in Samarkand with this, and no one said a word!” That threw them into utter confusion. “We need to call our chief!” A soldier in camouflage showed up and interrogated me. Finally, I figured out the issue: Autonomous drones (self-flying) were banned. But manually controlled ones? They just wanted to hassle me. “This doesn’t fly by itself! I have to pilot it!” (I very carefully avoided mentioning the Follow Me mode). “And I NEVER used it in Uzbekistan! (true!!!) You can check the videos in the drone’s memory—there’s no porn there either!” After more back-and-forth, they finally relented and said, “Take this drone and get out of here.”
The Tajik Sibyl
I was beginning to think that I wouldn’t get out of this without some really big trouble or being arrested. After all, it’s not an everyday thing to undergo a meticulous search in front of all those soldiers. I don’t need to be told twice: I take it, thank them, apologize again for the reckless drone, and gather my things as best I can, putting them back in my bags. The girl who explained the situation to me hands me the stamped exit slip.
“This is the second time,” I think to myself, “that I’ve been held up for objects in my luggage, last year for the camping axe in my hand luggage at Baku airport and now the drone. I’ve been really lucky so far,” I think.
I look at the time, it’s late. Very late, it’s well past 4 and I still have to cross the border into Tajikistan. And from here to Dushanbe it’s still 66 km. I don’t lose heart and head towards “No Man’s Land”. I present the printed slip to the Uzbek officer at the exit booth. There in front of me is a boy of barely twenty, in camouflage uniform and a rifle bigger than him. I take the bicycle and set off, and as I pass near another officer, a military salute comes out of me as a sign of mockery… I can’t help myself. “What the hell are you doing,” I say to myself, “these guys have zero sense of humor.” The truth is that the Uzbek customs is exasperating. This is the sixth time I’ve suffered this martyrdom. I can’t take it anymore.
I approach the Tajik side, and a stocky, burly man with a thick black mustache comes out… I notice that he’s not wearing a uniform like his Uzbek colleagues and I’m already drawn to him. He greets me with great courtesy and a solemn tone, and I respond with the appropriate formalities. We have a brief conversation, I explain that I’m Italian and that I’m heading to China on the Pamir Highway. He’s not surprised. He listens to me and smiles. He gives me a customs slip to fill out and explains in good English that I’ll have to keep it with great care and return it when I leave the country. He lets me into an office to fill out the form. “This process is definitely faster than on the other side,” I think. The man walks away and when he returns, after a while, he explains that he loves Europe and especially Italy. “Your cities, your houses are so beautiful,” he says to me. I’m pleased to hear those praises of my country so far from home. We talk about his passion for philately and I tell him, “If you want some Italian stamps, I’d be happy to send them to you when I get back!” He demurs and thanks me, but tells me that he really can’t accept. “Now we have to do the inspection with the customs officer,” he tells me.
A very strong “BUT NO F**K, AGAIN?” makes its way between me and myself. We go down to get the bike and I sadly already think that I’ll have to camp outside, even though I want a bed. I take the bicycle and we go to another section. “Put the bicycle against the wall,” he says, still solemn. I do as he asks and sit down. And it’s at that point that I see the customs officer: a woman at least 1.85m tall, with delicate features and a beautiful face, in traditional clothes. Her long black hair like her eyes held back by a headdress. I literally stop breathing because of how beautiful she is. The woman in question comes towards me and greets me smiling in Tajik with a nightingale’s voice, I respond with a timid “Salam Alaykhum” and my hand on my chest, bowing my head. The man speaks to her with great and solemn deference.
I sit there enchanted admiring this unexpected and divine creature while he explains about me, in fact I seem to hear something that sounds like “turisto velosipiet”. She whispers something in response, softly. It’s a surreal situation, I feel almost like the pilgrims who went to question the oracles for important decisions… Meanwhile I can’t take my eyes off her.
The man approaches and continuing the solemnity of the tones, with a broad gesture of his arms says to me:
“She said that everything is okay and you can go. Welcome to Tajikistan.”
I would have liked to ask him if I could kiss the Tajik Sibyl, but I limit myself to a very happy “Spasiba!!” warmly shaking his hand, and with reverent and smiling bows to Pashira – I seemed to hear that was her name. Pashira responds smiling from her divine pedestal, while I walk towards the bicycle.
WELCOME TO TAJIKISTAN!
I leave the customs, greet the soldiers who respond courteously, and take the road to Dushanbe. It’s almost 5:10 now and the sun sets relatively early, I still have to cover 66 km and I’m starving since I haven’t been able to eat anything yet. While I’m thinking about a short break for the map point, I start to notice some differences: the people compared to Uzbekistan are dressed better and the cars are more varied, instead of those strange Uzbek vans.
I glimpse some shops on the other side and decide to stop for a bite. I enter and find things that are absolutely impossible to find in the Uzbek villages: cheeses, yoghurts, snack bars. I take some bread and cheese, some Gatorade, some Coca Cola and an energy drink. I start drinking like a camel, I also notice that people are looking at me but compared to Uzbekistan it’s more discreet. I eat like a glutton, send some text messages to reveal that I’m still alive, and between one thing and another it’s about 6 when I get back on the road.
The Sprint to Dushanbe
And there, thanks to the food, the now cooler air, the scent of the fields and the flat road, I start to run. But to run for real, the kilometers start to pass quickly one after the other. I easily maintain 35-36 km/h fully loaded, with peaks of 42 km/h. The sun begins inexorably to set, before setting off I had thought that if I got close enough to Dushanbe I would find more villages and public lighting. While the road becomes increasingly dark and the cars increasingly threatening, my plan takes shape and a trail of small villages begins, in one of them the public lighting suddenly comes on which from then on accompanies me.
The Hotel That Didn’t Exist
I run, I run with my heart bursting in my throat and finally at 8 past I arrive at one of the entrances to the city. A sign reads: “Душанбе”!! I made it, I covered 66 km in just over two hours! OsmAnd+ guides me towards the hotel indicated by the Lonely Planet. The city has wide and well-lit main streets, but I’m tired and I take the wrong road. I go back and find myself, as I get closer, crossing dark streets and alleys in the heart of the city. There’s almost no one outside, which is usually not a good sign. I arrive at the hotel, it looks like it’s inside a complex but there’s no access, no bell or intercom. I doubt I’ve taken the wrong road but no, I’m right where I should be. I notice that there’s a guard, who comes towards me. He doesn’t speak English, with gestures and words I explain the name of the hotel and he says something in response. From the tone I understand that something is wrong. He motions for me to wait and makes a phone call. Then he says “piet minutov” (5 minutes). I guess I have to wait: “they’ll come to open,” I think.
After half an hour, a sprightly old man arrives in a white car and motions for me to follow him, I seem to understand that the hotel has moved somewhere else. I start to follow him, we arrive on a large avenue, and he doesn’t realize that he has a motor vehicle and I have a bicycle whose total weight is close to forty-five kg… The road is also uphill and I can’t go more than 15-20km/h, I catch him at traffic lights but he’s making my lungs burst! I catch him at another traffic light and motion for him to slow down: “YA VELOCIPYET,” I tell him! And I pat my legs indicating the bike. The old man understands a bit and goes a little slower until we arrive at a brand new hotel, after about 4 km. A 5 star. “WOW,” I think.
Some guys come out who speak good English: I finally understand that the hotel where I wanted to go had closed two years earlier, and that the one they had taken me to had just been built. “Thank you for bringing me here, but this is a 5 star hotel, how much do you want per night?”. They ask me $75. “WHAT? With 75 dollars I sleep for 5 days!”, and I motion to leave. Bluffing because where could I go at that point? A fierce negotiation begins, which we close at $35 a night including breakfast. I’m starving in inexplicable ways, but everything is closed, even the hotel kitchen. I enter the room, from a huge and beautiful atrium, with marble and crystals everywhere… An incredible thing. And my room is no less, practically an apartment, marble everywhere, desk and computer, 60-inch TV. It’s perfect. I don’t even have time to think “now I’m going to get in the shower and I won’t come out for at least 38 hours” when there’s a knock at the door: courtesy of the house, they deliver a very respectable dinner: tomato and cucumber salad, meat and potatoes, bread and lots of watermelon.
I take a shower, eat and get into bed: tomorrow the hardest part begins. For tonight, I LOVE TAJIKISTAN. And tomorrow, I suspect… also.
August 4
Day 7 – In Search of Cash.. Again.
Waking up in Dushanbe, in a four-star hotel (Lotte Palace), which Booking.com describes as “Exceptional”… Not bad, especially at the price I had furiously contracted the night before. After the past few days, a little comfort was necessary—I needed to recover some energy. From here onward, the real adventure would begin, and the next days were going to be intense.
The First Problem: Finding Money
Uzbekistan’s banking system is insane. I never managed to withdraw a single cent. I had trusted the owner of B&B Antica in Samarkand, who had told me it was possible to withdraw even US dollars there. She was right, but the banks were guarded by police, you couldn’t access the ATMs directly, the police had the final say. Even if I knew a Visa card worked, if the police officer on duty was clueless, there was nothing I could do. The only bank that accepted Maestro/Mastercard required transactions to be made through a clerk at a POS machine… Who then asked for my PIN to type it in herself. Yeah, right. Not happening. Dushanbe instead had dozens of ATMs listed on the Maestro/Mastercard ATM Locator, or so I thought.. Confident, I went to the first one. “Cash withdrawal is temporarily suspended.” Okay, no problem—on to the next one. Same message. And the next. And the next. I checked eight ATMs: one had a Windows network error, Another was completely turned off.. At this point, I seriously considered aborting the trip. I had brought around $1,000 in cash, careful not to exceed the customs limit, but if I couldn’t withdraw more, I would have no emergency funds. And when you’re about to ride along the Afghan border for 500+ km, there’s a fine line between “adventure” and “recklessness.”, a line that I had already crossed one time too many. But a glimmer of Hope came in the hope of the Kazakh Bank: frustrated, I returned to the hotel and asked for advice. The manager explained that at the start of the month, when people receive their salaries, they rush to withdraw all their cash—so the ATMs are empty. However, he mentioned a Kazakh bank that they worked with. According to him, this bank accepted all international cards and always had stocked ATMs. With nothing to lose, I went there and IT FINALLY WORKED! It dispensed USD and Tajik somoni without any issue, with the only downside of daily limit of $200 and 800 TJS (~$100). But I’d take it. I planned to withdraw more the next day before leaving, just to be safe.
New SIM Card, Stocking Up on Essentials
Now that I knew I could continue my journey, I bought a Tajik SIM card (with a real number—for anyone wanting to send me live insults).
For ~$12, it gave me: 10GB of data (5GB day, 5GB night) and 📞 Some extra credit for emergency calls
Apparently, this provider (Megaphone) had good coverage even in the Pamirs—hopefully, at least HSPA+!
Final Preparations Before the Mountains
Now, I could finally prepare for the real journey ahead. I saw the mountains in the distance, and I was itching to go, but I had to be smart. Here in Dushanbe, I could find supplies that might not be available later and I stocked up on long-lasting food. My saddle sores were still bothering me and that 120 km climb on Day 3 murdered my skin in the area, so I treated them with antiseptic cream. When I went to buy it at the pharmacy, there was this lady with an hijab to which I had to explain that some private parts of mine had been heavily irritated by the saddle. I made her day because she could not sop laughing at me.. Even when she called a doctor with better English speaking skills, the general amusement did not relent. I was devastatingly embarrassed !
Also, despite massive amounts of SPF 50+ sunscreen, I started to get a mild sun rash on the inner parts of my arms. So I got advised on antihistamine cream to help.
The only good thing was that the traveler’s diarrhea It was almost gone, but I wanted to fully recover and a few extra medical supplies wouldn’t hurt anyway. I was a bit anxious about timing, beacuse unlike long-term bikepackers who travel for one or two years, I had a return flight to catch.. That meant zero flexibility.
This trip wasn’t a true bikepacking adventure—it was a battle against time. And in this game, I was already at a disadvantage, due to 1 lost day for the wheel damage and 1 lost day due to the ATM disaster. If anything, I couldn’t afford more delays and from here on out, there were no more second chances.
August 5
Day 8 – Technical Stop: Supplies, Recovery, and a Pizza That Almost Tastes Like Home
Day eight dawned, a day dedicated to the practicalities of travel—a technical stop, as it were. The to-do list was clear: a final, comprehensive stock-up of food supplies, a thorough check and maintenance of the bicycle, and, perhaps most importantly, a much-needed day of recovery. Fortune smiled upon me when I stumbled across a Western-style supermarket, a veritable treasure trove of useful items for the journey ahead. A particular highlight? They even stocked De Cecco pasta! A little taste of home, even here in Tajikistan.
The day took a bizarre, almost comical turn when I visited the “Monument of the Motherland.” While snapping a few photos, I was hailed over by a policeman. “Photo, photo!” he exclaimed, gesturing for me to follow. Thinking he was about to point out a prime photo opportunity, I obliged. Instead, two more officers materialized, and they proceeded to take a series of posed pictures of me. I stood there, utterly bewildered, wondering what on earth was happening. The situation became clear when one of them casually mentioned that it was a national holiday and then, with a disarming directness, asked for money. Fifty TJS, to be precise, roughly six US dollars. I was so taken aback by the sheer audacity of the request that I couldn’t even muster any anger. It was just so ridiculous. Clearly, they were simply trying to supplement their income. I explained that I was traveling by bicycle and, therefore, wasn’t exactly flush with cash. I offered them ten somoni, a little over a dollar, which they happily accepted. They then proceeded to shower me with praise for Italy, Juventus, and Italian football before disappearing. The whole encounter left me shaking my head in disbelief.
With the amusement of the bribe attempt behind me, I completed my shopping, adding medical supplies for my saddle sores and some last-minute bike gear to the basket. The highlight of the day, however, was the pizza. I ordered it from a local who had learned the art of pizza making in Milan, and, surprisingly, it was genuinely delicious! A small taste of normality in the midst of my travels.
As my time in Tajikistan drew to a close, I couldn’t help but compare it to Uzbekistan. Uzbekistan, I felt, was a place frozen in time, still bearing the heavy imprint of the Soviet era. Rural areas suffered from extreme shortages of supplies, and the bureaucracy was oppressive. Yet, the people I encountered were incredibly kind. Tajikistan, on the other hand, felt more modern, more educated. The supermarkets were well-stocked, and Dushanbe itself was well-maintained. I found myself genuinely enjoying my time here.
Tomorrow, the real adventure begins: the Pamir Highway. The challenge ahead is immense. Will the scorching heat of a 53°C desert prove more formidable than a 4,655-meter mountain pass?
Kashgar awaits..
August 6
Day 9 – Departure! The M41 Pamir Highway Begins!
Day nine marked the true beginning of the adventure. From this point forward, the journey would become a real test, a chance to answer one of the great existential questions of adventure cycling: which is worse, the scorching heat of a 53°C desert or the lung-busting challenge of a 4,655-meter mountain pass? Only Kashgar, assuming I even made it there, would hold the answer.
Before setting off, a few important notes. I discovered that Facebook was blocked in Tajikistan, apparently a consequence of the local president-for-life’s aversion to criticism. However, this obstacle proved to be a minor inconvenience. Unperturbed, I’d already set up SSH tunnels on all my devices, bypassing the restrictions with the help of JuiceSSH and PuTTY. Facebook, YouTube, Instagram—all were accessible. A small victory for free speech against the world’s dictators.
The day’s ride, a 107-kilometer trek that included the first major pass at around 1,800 meters, began with oppressive heat. The kind of heat that melts your brain and drains your soul. After about 40 kilometers, the real climbing began, and the brutal combination of extreme humidity and steep ascents took a heavy toll. My legs felt like lead, and my energy reserves depleted at an alarming rate. With the very real threat of heatstroke looming, I took frequent breaks, often walking my bike while drenching myself in water to cool down.
As I gained altitude, the temperature slowly began to drop, and the landscape underwent a dramatic transformation. Sharp, rugged peaks replaced the rolling hills, and the vegetation became sparse. Notably absent were the familiar conifers, a stark contrast to the mountains I was accustomed to.
Just before reaching my planned stop, I encountered two cyclists, a German man and a Taiwanese woman, on a journey from Taiwan to Germany. They shared some concerning news about the road ahead: it was absolutely horrible, they said, with massive climbs and rough conditions. Up until this point, I’d been averaging 98 kilometers a day, far exceeding my anticipated 60-70 kilometers in the mountains. From tomorrow onwards, I knew that pace would be impossible to maintain.
After another ten kilometers, I arrived in Obigarm, my intended destination, only to discover that my planned hotel was closed. Panic set in. Fortunately, a group of locals noticed my predicament and rallied to help. Through a chaotic mix of phone calls and gestures, they managed to find me alternative accommodation. However, there was a catch. Reaching my “room” involved hoisting my bike up a crumbling stone wall, climbing a rickety wooden ladder, and then dismantling my bags and carrying them up separately. The “room” itself was… basic, to put it mildly. A wooden floor, a simple mat (thankfully, I had my sleeping bag), and zero insulation. Comfort was a distant dream, but at least it was a roof over my head.
Later, I went out for dinner, where three older men took an interest in my travels. After hearing my story, they insisted on paying for my meal, despite my protests. Two steaming bowls of soup, a massive fresh salad, endless bread, and cold Coca-Cola arrived at the table. Tajik hospitality? Absolutely outstanding.
August 7
Day 10 – The Moment of Truth: A Day of Wonders
Day ten began with a 4 AM alarm and a 5 AM departure, the goal to cover as much ground as possible before the oppressive heat of the day descended. The early morning held a special kind of magic. Silence reigned, broken only by the subtle sounds of nature. It was just me and the mountains, a solitary communion with the landscape. Rejoining the Pamir Highway, I was struck by the breathtaking vistas that unfolded before me. I passed by a dam under construction, an Italian company was building it, the Rogun Dam. AFAIK would provide great amounts of hydroelectric power, but has generated plenty of tensions with Uzbekistan for the fear of reducing the volume of water destined to cotton field irrigation.
But the idyll was short-lived. The road soon transformed into a nightmare, a grueling obstacle course of steep, brutal inclines, some reaching 8-10%, and a treacherous mix of loose stones and cracked cement. In many places, the road was simply unrideable, and every single pedal stroke became a battle against the terrain.
At one point, I stumbled upon an open-air market, a scene straight out of another era. Men in traditional robes and long beards mingled with shoppers at vibrant, bustling stalls. I seized the opportunity to replenish my supplies, stocking up on salt, sugar, and, most importantly, 300 grams of the most delicious black mulberries I had ever tasted. They were devoured in mere seconds.
By midday, with the temperature soaring to 45°C (113°F), hunger gnawed at me. It was time for some survival cooking. I prepared a simple meal of instant soup and mashed potatoes, utilizing the abundant fresh mountain water to refill my bottles. Many locals and children were stopping, getting out of their cars and drinking. I imagined it to be ok, until later in the day I crossed a village. Some kids immediately followed me (the view of a stranger is always a novelty in those areas, especially an idiot on a fully loaded bicycle..) and I asked them “Voda!” (water). They pointed at a fountain and they were drinking it, I loaded my bottles and much to my shock, the water was very muddy.. A cold shiver went down my spine.
Shortly after my wilderness lunch break, I encountered two French brothers whose approach to bike touring was… shall we say, relaxed. Their strategy seemed to consist primarily of lying under a tree and doing absolutely nothing. Meanwhile, I had already battled my way through 50 brutal kilometers. Different strokes for different folks, I supposed.
At a police checkpoint, I was reprimanded for not stopping at the sign. I handed over my passport and endured a lengthy wait before finally being cleared to continue. Before leaving, I inquired about a nearby shop and was directed two kilometers down the road. I raced off and stocked up on bread, mortadella, and condensed milk. There, I met two Polish motorcyclists who were dealing with a flat tire. We all ended up sharing a meal together under the watchful gaze of an elderly Tajik man.
With renewed energy, I continued along the wild, rugged road toward Khorog. Streams flowed across the road, and the mountains loomed majestically around me. Out of the blue, I received a call from the Polish motorcyclists. They had discovered a hidden guesthouse, 10 kilometers from the police checkpoint. Mustering my last reserves of energy, I pedaled with all my might to join them, on terrain that now was very uncertain and small streams of water invading the Pamir “highway”.
The guesthouse owner turned out to be a local elementary school teacher who graciously offered food and shelter to travelers. The place was a small paradise, nestled between a stream and lush trees. A “shower,” consisting of hot water from a giant cauldron, was available. Dinner consisted of homemade bread, honey, and pancakes. We spent the evening in conversation, discussing the fall of the Soviet Union, installing photovoltaic panels to protect from electricity shortage on government grants, the economic struggles of modern Tajikistan, and the teacher’s life struggling to get modest salary (100$) paid irregularly, sometimes after 3 months. “The road you are doing, once was all asphalt until China, and now it is falling apart”. To make ends met he would host travelers for a small fee, he had dinner with us and excused himself if his daughters and wife would not be joining, but as the daughters were not married it wouldn’t be considered decorous. The Polish men spoke Russian, which allowed me to follow the entire conversation.
That night, I slept like a king.
August 8-
After a good breakfast with bread, honey, coffee and milk we greeted our host and me and the polish cyclists parted. The area was now very different, almost magical. The mountains irregular, harsh, and the Obikhingou river on the bottom was really noisy and powerful. On my way I could see the beauty of those valleys, and even got traffic in “pamir traffic”, as sometimes herds of goats, sheep and donkeys would trap me on the road.
The kms were going very slowly, and I was not feeling all that great. I thought it was the heat, I was also strangely having sour stomach. I decided to stop, eat something and send some messages and selfie kisses to my girfriend. I prepared some of the dry noodles I had with me for these cases, and grabbed some Nutella (bought in Dushanbe) for extra energy. I kept going forward , today’s stop was supposed to be in Tavildara, where I’d find a hotel. I arrived there early enough, the village seemed more modern and orderly. It was rebuilt after a devastating flood, I learned. While waiting to get to my room I met there.. Ruggero On Tour! The very first and only other Italian I had ever met on the road in all these years.
Later that day me and Ruggero had dinner, it was amazing to share so many adventures, tricks, advice and intel on the road condition moving forward. We ate quite a lot, closing the night with amazing watermelon, then we went to our room.
But something was going on, after a couple of hours I started feeling really sick and got nausea. Then unequivocal signs of diarrhea, and then I spent most of the the night going back and forth to vomit. I was feeling really really ill , I had fever and this time I was afraid I could not easily get out of this.. But I tried, luckily I had bought powerful antibiotics on my GP advice from Italy, and I got the pills immediately after the vomit subsided.
August 9 – Disaster Strikes
The next morning, the antibiotics had worked some miracle. I had a very light fever, but felt better. I was doing calculations about the travel: my brain was telling me I should have rested another day, but my heart did not want to miss more time, risking to not make it. A lot of things went into my head, I did not want to make my girlfriend panic, what should I have done?
Finally the irrational part took over and decided to continue. At breakfast I tried to stay light and got very hydrated, I looked for yogurt (borderline choice, but it has always helped me with diarrhea), and before leaving I went to but sugary fruit juices and snacks. I consulted with Ruggero, and then took off.
The first kms were fine, I was hopping on the rocks on the road like a grasshoper. I followed the river on the left side after Tavildara for a few kms, until I had to turn and cross a bridge, and then got through a village with the road in horrible conditions: it was clear that a flood had moved huge rocks there and they were still in the middle. I followed the river on the other side, then a sharp right turn marked the start of the climb to the Khaburabot pass, at 3700 m asl. The hill was steep and the heat brutal, which combined with the weight of my bicycle did not offer the best combination.
I kept going, passing through villages, but very slowly. I was starting to get concerned of where to spend the night, because on the top of the pass there is a mine field (a residual of the tajik civil war in the 90s, after the collaps of the soviet union), and surely I did not feel comfortable getting there in the dark and having to camp.
I kept going until I even saw an intrepid rider on a moped on those solitary rocks with panniers.. Chapeaux! at a certain point, the heat and the weak condition of my body had the best on me, and I fainted falling off the bicycle. It was a brief moment, I saw all black and fell, but I was immediately able to recover and push myself on the side. In that moment I just realized how close I got to fall down, there was about a 200 mt jump on my side. While I was pondering what to do, some Russian guys racing the mongol rally approached me and asked me if I needed help. I asked them if they could just let me know if there was a hotel nearby, at the next village: my maps seemed to show one but I just needed to be sure and not to have any surprises. Sure enough they went and checked, and came back, but they found nothing. They offered to load me but I declined, also I was feeling bad for them since they had a race. I thanked them wholeheartedly and then.. In that moment I decided to abort the trip. I called my girlfriend, told her a reassuring version of what happened, and after gathering my forces I started cycling back to Tavildara.
It was the safest option, the village was new and I was sure to find medical assistance. I was again feeling very unwell and at this point I realized that it was not safe anymore to continue.
The next part was one of the hardest things I ever did on a cycle tour: I never ever went back before, and undoing those hardly conquered kms felt like a betrayal and a failure. My friend Daniele from Italy, who was monitoring my progress on my SPOT-GEN3 tracker, called me very alarmed when he saw I was going backward. In pain, I had to explain the situation and that I would call later.
I made it back to the Tavildara Hotel, Ruggero was out there and ran toward me asking what happened.. I briefly explained the situation and the ladies that owned the hotel found a doctor, with the help of this school inspector that spoke a little bit of English. The doctor visited me and after some embarrassing questions about the coloring of my droppings, he sentenced: “E.coli infection. 10 days of absolute rest, twice the amount of antibiotics you are taking, and no exposure to the sun because your skin is burnt”. (He also advised to bathe in the river to quench my sunburn, but considering how that river looked I gladly passed).
I spent the rest of the night just resting. At this point, my main worry was to go back home and to reassure my girlfriend that I was ok. At that point I worked for a travel company, so I contacted my colleagues and explained the situation, asking them to find me a flight to Italy as soon as possible.
I was able to secure a passage back to Dushanbe by car in the following days, Ruggero meanwhile had already gone to Dushanbe and we agreed to meet at the Green Hostel. The hotel owners were very helpful in putting me in contact with a driver that would also take my bicycle with the bag. I spent 2 days at the Tavildara hotel resting and regaining forces.
August 10 – The End of the Road: A Sad Day
The next morning I was still feeling awful, but now I was all concentrated on organizing my return back home, my colleagues found a flight from Dushanbe to Istambul and from there back to Milano. I was still massively tempted to keep going, but reason for once prevailed. Reality was, I did not want to go to my employer with any excuses about an excess of leave days taken – This could have taken a lot more than I was expecting since I was so weak now. And as a manager certainly I needed to give a good example. I sat down on the bed and I wrote a message to all my friends and supporters:
The End of the Road – A Sad Day
First of all, I want to thank everyone for the encouragement, support, and help you have given me—thank you! I am feeling better, but I am still quite out of sync, certainly not in any condition to play the hero. Yesterday, I received a valuable lesson, and I wish I could say I learned something from it.
Rest is necessary for me—I have slept from late yesterday afternoon until this morning, and then again in the mid-morning, I still needed to sleep a bit more. I have thought about it over and over, and continuing this journey with the Sword of Damocles of a countdown hanging over my head has forced and would continue to force me to make irrational choices. Yesterday, setting off was a mistake that could have cost me dearly.
These are tough countries; cycle touring here needs to adapt to the conditions, evaluating the situation day by day. If one day it is necessary to ride 30 km instead of 70, then that should be possible. If one day it is necessary to stop to recover energy or rest, then that should be possible too.
Here, I met Ruggero On Tour, an Italian guy who has done amazing bike trips in South America, Oceania, and Asia. He doesn’t worry about the clock—if he needs two days to climb a pass without exhausting himself, he takes them. Unfortunately, I have never been able to experience that kind of freedom.
Now, after the wheel issue (one lost day), the problem with withdrawing money (another lost day), and the intestinal infection, I am behind schedule by too many days. To catch up, I would have to push myself even harder, but even optimistic calculations are now against me. And I would rather be on the Pamir Highway, in awe of one of the most beautiful landscapes in the world—not staring at a calendar, because that would completely undermine the beauty and the absolute sense of freedom that comes with traveling by bike.
Cycle touring is about personal and inner growth; it is about admiring the world and humbly connecting with different ways of life. The modern world, with its punch clocks, work shifts, and vacation days, is completely incompatible with this philosophy. In fact, I consider it a small miracle that I even made it this far—after 8,800 km, navigating between mountains and deserts. But I have always known that at some point, a decisive obstacle would arise. Unfortunately, it came right at the final stretch, after I had spent so much time and energy organizing everything.
But now, I don’t have much choice. Ruggero suggested taking a ride to skip a boring and rough section of road, from Kalai-Kum to Khorog, to recover 2–3 days. But I have come this far by bicycle, always pedaling, and I have never broken that rule—not even in the Karakum Desert—and I don’t feel like breaking it now.
In the end, two things remain with me:
The awareness that I tried stubbornly until the very end, and that it was the rules and the clock that knocked me out—not my own willpower. I would start again tomorrow morning, lightening my bike and throwing away everything that is not strictly necessary. But I don’t want to make excuses if I miss my return date.
Dreams don’t die. They are stubborn—three extra days on a calendar can’t stop them. I said I would reach Kashgar by bike: I don’t know how or when, but I will do it. I will have to change my life, my strategy, or my perspective—I don’t care, but I will do it, even if it’s the last thing I do in my life!
August 11 – The drive back to Dushanbe
Well, I still had a certain amount of adventure to live: in the morning the driver showed up with a 4×4 vehicle, loaded to the extreme. My bicycle was put on the roof, where much to my horror he tried to put carpets and heavy jars of honey over the wheels.. Afraid for the spokes and the frame, I “gently” dissuaded him. Two minutes later, another carpet was laid on the car roof, and I realized that inside there was.. a GOAT? A black goat? All wrapped and on top of it, a tarp. I got quite belligerent with the driver, fearing that the poor animal would suffocate. “NYET, NO PROBLEMO”. And I was like “DA, DA, PROBLEMO!!”, mimicking asphyxia. I fianally convinced him, if not to let it free, at least to to cover her nose and face. The school inspector was on board too, so was a lady with her daughter – the lady was the owner of the goat, I understood. We all got onboard and we left. All the road I did until then, every single piece , was rolling back in front of my eyes.. It was really sad and devastating. Then the driver started racing. On those roads? I feared for my life on the bicycle, now he was going at 80 to 90 km/h on those cliffs edging the river.. Quite scary. Then he started stopping at every village and talking to people. I wanted to strangle him! At the next village he loaded two other guys, that traveled in the trunk basically. We finally got out of the worst stretch, back to the checkpoint were the cops had yelled at me some days before. The old madman driver goes out, not after taking some money, and I realize he tipped the cops. We took the road again, and around Obigarm , when the asphalt appeared , a very old man in traditional attire with a long beard and a staff was asking for charity on the side of the road. Everyone stopped very very deferentially, and received blessings. I contributed a small sum too, I figured with that crazy driving I could use all the blessings that I could get..
Then another checkpoint, and again another tip to the cops. I asked the school inspector: “why is he doing that?” and he said “I don’t know I didn’t see anything”. I was like YEAH RIGHT.. A bit later we were now riding on asphalt, and the driver stopped to wash the car. I was very puzzled, but apparently you couldn’t enter Dushanbe with a dirty car without being harassed by the police for lack of “decorum”. Go figure.
We finally got to Dushanbe, the lady with the daughter and their goat left at a condominium building. I was curious and asked the school inspector “where will they keep the goat?” . He answered that the goat was probably not going to last very much. Meanwhile the poor thing was walking all weird from having been wrapped on a carpet on top of an SUV for hundreds of kilometers.
I asked the driver to bring me to the Green Hostel, and when he brought me there I tipped him some extra money for the deviation. He really appreciated the gesture.
And here I was finally, and Ruggero was there! He did not recognize me fully shaven: “that is not you!”. I argued that who he saw was not me!
All sort of adventurers where there at the green hostel, it was an incredibly nice crowd from all over the world! A girl told me she had my same problem, like me she had drank water from the fountains, except at a certain point she realized, cycling up, that cows where pooping upstream from those fountains. No surprise we were getting e-coli!
I spent the rest of the night on my bunk bed, the flight was on the 13th so I still had one day to spend there.
August 12 – Italian cooking
Me and Ruggero were wishing for some italian food, and I launched an idea: “Why don’t we make fresh tagliatelle with ragu? We can easily find all the ingredients!” Ruggero added the proposal of making pizza, and I accepted: “When I was here a few days ago I found an international supermaket, I am sure we’ll find everything”. And we sure found flour, eggs, tomato sauce, yeast, basil, and even “mozzarella” (albeit the choice was between “russian” mozzarella or “tajik” mozzarella, none of which had the minimum resemblance of texture of the real thing.. but ok!). The problem was minced meat. We were pointed at the bazaar, where we found some butchers. We tried to explain what we wanted, but they wanted to know the cut and we could not easily explain it with google translator. Finally the guy took half a carcass of a cow, dumped it on the board, and asked us to choose. Gruesome. We chose a part that seemed quite nice, and then with gestures we explained him to mince it.. We had our list of ingredients!
We went back to the hotel , where everyone could not believe to what we were preparing: “wow you Italians are incredible, you can even make your pasta and pizza!”. It was an incredible success, that we shared with our fellow adventurers, much to the dismay of this Turkish guy who until then was renowned as the local chef.. Sorry buddy.
August 13 – The flight back
Now I could not wait anymore to go back home. The trip was long but largely uneventful, at this point I was actually very anxious to go back home to my girlfriend and reassure her that I was ok.
The aftermath
It took me another week to fully recover, but I eventually did. Readjusting to normal life after that huge roller coaster of adventure, fears, facing my own limits was not easy. But I realized that one thing that really I needed to change was the setup: my bicycle was too heavy, I needed a lighter setup that I could push even on harsh mountain passes with horrible roads, even not feeling in great shape. And from this experience I started experimenting with a lighter bike packing setup, with frame and saddle bags, and lighter kit.
I have never got back there, the geopolitical situation of the world has radically changed. But still sometimes in my sleep I get back to the Pamir highway, with it glorious mountains and its winds of adventure, and dream that one day, I don’t know when, I don’t know how, I will bring my bicycle to Kashgar.
つづく
