I sit on the dry mud, leaning against a dusty wall, feeling the afternoon sun on my face. I’ve just had my first proper shower in ten days, having “made do” with dips in mountain streams and the odd bottle of water thrown over my shoulders. My legs are covered in cuts and bruises, I’m sun-burnt on the left side of my arms and legs (too much cycling on the right), I’m still getting over the dreadful ubiquitous “central Asian flu” that I’ve had since Dushanbe.
But I’m clean. And we’ve made it all the way to Kharog, over the (many) mountains, along the river.
I can see Afghanistan.
We are camping in a courtyard, rather amusingly referred to as a “cyclist retreat”. To be honest, I don’t think anyone has come here for the food, or the facilities. There are certainly no special massages or treatments on offer. However, there is a shower, and somewhere to wash our clothes; shops to buy provisions; other cyclists debating which of the two (two whole roads!) to take to get to the next destination on the Pamir Highway.
I lean back and Skype call my brother, in the USA. He and his wife are expecting their first baby. I’m about to become an Auntie. We talk for a couple of minutes (she is 36 weeks pregnant, it’s very real now).
Jeremy looks serious.
“Hannah, you need to call Dad. Now.”
I spoke to him ten minutes ago. I SAW him (online, but still) ten minutes ago. We talked for an hour.
“Hannah. Call him. Now.”
So I do.
My father looks serious. And old. I mean, he is old, but he really looks his age.
“Your mother has a lump. In her breast. She’s had it for a while now. You might need to come home. She wants you here.”
That’s when the power goes. It’s not constant here, on the southern border of Tajikistan.
I can still hear chitchat of ten or so random cyclists. I can still feel the warmth on my face.
I can still see Afghanistan.
But everything has changed.
Power doesn’t return to Kharog for almost 24 hours.
Travelling Slowly! 