It was 3:36AM.
During the drive, Dagar gave the full history of Gorno-Badakhshan. Prior to the province’s creation in 1929, the land was divided up amongst various self-governing territories claimed by both Russia and China. While part of the Tajik Soviet Republic, the province received subsidiaries directly from Moscow. Even in Soviet times, Dushanbe had little control over the region. The province was home to Tajik Pamiris, an Indo-Iranian people who adhere to the Ismaili sect of Shia Islam.
Although Gorno-Badakhshan compromised nearly half of Tajikistan’s landmass, twenty-five thousand square miles, barely two hundred thousand people lived here, less than 5 % of the country’s population. With only two roads connecting the province to the outside world, this was one of the most isolated places in the world. With limited modern infrastructure and development, Avery thought it must look much the same as it had centuries ago.
Dagar played tour guide, occasionally pointing out towns or land features near impossible to see in the dark of night. Avery thought it was simply a contrived means to break the silence. Never one to make light conversation, Avery kept his mouth shut and eyes on the road. He knew that his propensity for silence tended to make others uncomfortable, and he didn’t mind if this was the effect on Dagar.
After an hour, Dagar’s voice gradually slowed down, replaced within twenty minutes by loud snoring. When Avery took a glance, Dagar’s head was slumped forward. Too much crap Russian beer for him.
Avery had started to feel tired earlier, too, but he’d chugged a Monster and devoured a couple high calorie protein bars before leaving the safe house and had a second Monster with him now in case he needed it. He rarely consumed caffeine or other stimulants, so he quickly felt its effects in his system.
They neared Khorugh before first light.
Avery could make out enough from the Tajik-Farsi street signs to know they were getting near. He woke up Dagar, who, after looking around to gather his bearings, provided Avery with directions off the highway and eventually onto a rough, unpaved road that led to the village.
Eventually, Dagar instructed him to slow down.
A man in a gho robe stepped out of a decrepit hut and motioned for them to stop.
Avery lowered his window. Dagar spoke over him and exchanged words with the man in Tajik Persian, and the man stepped aside and allowed them to pass.
“One of Gurgakov’s men?” asked Avery.
“Yes,” Dagar answered. He yawned. “Gurgakov still needs to be cautious. No one has reason to come here, so any outsider is automatically subject to suspicion. They are expecting us, but Gurgakov is concerned that the GKNB may be following you, that you will lead his enemies to him.”
“But Gurgakov trusts the local villagers and peasants not to turn on him?”
“But of course he does. They are loyal to him here. These people are very poor, and Gurgakov supports their village with money and food, insulating homes, repairing roofs, and digging wells and irrigation systems. That is more than the Tajiks in Dushanbe has ever done for them. There are other villages just like this one throughout this entire province, and Gurgakov has their support, too. This is why he is a threat to Emomalii Rahmon’s power.”
The village consisted mostly of similar ramshackle huts and tiny dilapidated houses packed close together. Most of them looked like they could have three, four rooms at the most. Many appeared on the verge of collapsing beneath their own weight. There were limited power lines, and many homes lacked electricity. Vehicular traffic was sparse, almost non-existent. Most people were peasants and got around on foot and rarely, if ever, even ventured outside of the village. Others wandered around with donkeys in tow. Avery saw mostly old people, children, and lots of women.
Dagar explained that there were no jobs here, and most of the men went to Russia or Kazakhstan to find menial work in manual labor and sent the money back to their families, or they joined Gurgakov’s ranks. Less than three thousand people lived here
Tajikistan was the poorest country in the region. Farmers, whose crops failed due to years of drought, sold most of their possessions, including the tin roofs of their houses and their livestock, for cash, while children dug up rat holes to scavenge for food and skipped school because they didn’t have shoes.
“Stop here,” Dagar instructed. “We go the rest of the way on foot.”
Avery complied. He grabbed his liter-bottle of water and got out of the car. Local Pamiris walked by and looked at him curiously, but kept their distance. Dagar led the way, and Avery followed. It was a thirty-five minute hike through the steep hills and wide valleys. Avery estimated the temperature at eighty degrees, and was soon sweating. The sky was clear of clouds, and the morning sun radiated over them, the air dry and hot.
The path they took eventually led to a long, narrow rope bridge crossing a deep river valley. The bridge looked old and decrepit. Avery let Dagar go first and followed him across. The Gunt River flowed a hundred feet below, its banks steep and precipitous, with a rocky bed. A small group of men from the village fished there. On the other side of the bridge, there were wide open fields of tall grass blowing against the light breeze, and a herd of goats curiously watched them pass. Avery scanned the overlooking mountain ranges. Maybe four hundred feet high, he saw a machine-gun nest occupied by two tiny, dark figures.
They next traversed a dirt road carved through the field. Big tire treads ran down the length of it. Soon, in the distance, Avery could make out a farmhouse, and a wide, dusty road leading to it. Dagar took Avery down this road. Within minutes, two figures emerged from the farmhouse and began walking down the road in their direction.
They met almost halfway down the road. The Pamiris were dressed in tracksuits and carried AK-47s.
Following Dagar’s example, Avery stopped in his tracks and slowly raised his hands halfway up into the air, palms forward. He remained calm and showed no intimidation as the two Pamiri militants eyed him up and down and spoke quietly to each other. One of them laughed, and the mockery and derision were apparent in his laughter.
Dagar spoke with one of the men in the Pamiri language. They seemed to recognize each other, probably from Dagar’s travels through here the previous day, Avery surmised. After a few more words, Dagar turned his head to Avery and said in English, “He asks that we hand over to him any weapons we are carrying. They will be returned to us when we leave.”
Avery reluctantly complied. There was no point in arguing or turning around and going back. He slowly reached beneath his windbreaker and produced his Glock. He extended his hand, holding the Glock by its barrel with the butt pointed out. The Pamiri, keeping his eyes locked on Avery, stepped forward, and took the pistol. He then padded Avery down and searched through his backpack, while the second Pamiri stood back and kept his rifle trained on him.
The two Pamiris then escorted Avery and Dagar the rest of the way down the road, around the farmhouse, and to a large barn where another armed man stood, smoking a cigarette. This man opened the doors into the barn and allowed them inside. Two of the Pamiris followed them in, but they kept their distance and stayed out of the way of Gurgakov and his visitors.
Gurgakov was in his fifties, but his face appeared older, from a lifetime spent living in the mountains and waging war. He looked strong and fit, with straight, erect posture. An aged AK-47 hung at his side from a strap over his shoulder. He wore a loose fitting dirty white robe that fell to his knees and baggy tan cargo pants, with a Pamiri hat resembling a turban. He had a long, scraggly gray beard. His skin appeared dark tan, cracked and leathery, and deep lines extended from around the narrow slits of his eyes.