We rode through Tajikistan like celebrities. Kids shouted “hello!” from all over and dropped everything for a high-five, launching themselves in front of the bikes and putting us all in mortal danger.

They often wanted to cycle alongside and practice their English, but we never got much further than: “what is your name?”

I tried to learn a few Tajik phrases to ease things along. More useful was Russian; so I did my best with a “teach yourself” tape as we climbed the narrow gorge that follows the Zeravshan River.

The road is the main link between Tajikistan’s two biggest cities, so this mountain service station made a lot of sense!

Every traveller seems to get ill in Tajikistan. Even Marco Polo complained of being sick “for about a year” after passing through! So we bought a full litre of kefir to prime our stomachs and some dried apricots and samsas to seal the deal.

Villages sprung into view as the road continued, before we were swallowed up again by the gorge.

After 60km or so we reached the base of a monster 1000m climb which would take us over the mountains to Dushanbe. It was too late to start climbing, so we began looking at satellite maps for flat ground to camp. This proved tricky. The area was dusty, steep and inhospitable, lying in the shadow of an enormous Soviet era coal mine. We asked a local family if we’d have any luck down a side road. They shook their heads and pointed unanimously and, pretty confusingly, to the mine itself.

A miscommunication? Apparently not…

The dad and kids walked us over to the mine and showed us a hidden gate that led to an improbable grassy area: the family’s plum orchard, directly behind this amazing mosaic. Jackpot!

The kids were eager to help with the tent, whilst their dad showed us where we could find some water. We all took some photos and were even invited to watch TV with the family! I said we were fine with the mountains. The dad nodded his approval.

It was a surreal spot… the mountains lit up by the mine, whilst 16 wheelers roared by, just meters away. But we felt safe and looked after. The dad even returned in the morning to wish us well!

We were pretty well out of food by morning, relying on a breakfast of stale bread and energy gel to power us up the long, steep climb to the Anzob Tunnel.

The tunnel is a bit of a talking point.

Amazingly, before it was built, the only way of travelling between Tajikistan’s two major cities was to go through neighbouring Uzbekistan. Uzbek politicians enjoyed this leverage and shut the border at will, cutting Tajikistan in half! The construction of the tunnel was supposed to bring a new dawn. Instead, it’s become notorious, known locally, (and by cyclists), as “the tunnel of death”.

It’s 5km long and, despite carrying all the coal traffic from the mine, has just one measly fan, trembling half-way along for ventilation. There are grisly stories of people getting stuck in the tunnel due to breakdowns and crashes and dying from carbon monoxide. As a result, everyone tries to rush through as fast as they can, making things even worse!

Safe to say that cycling through the tunnel was never on the cards!

We intended to hitch, but every car we saw was loaded to the gunnels. So we waited around at the entrance, doing our best to look hopeless.

Eventually, a military official appeared. He pointed at our bikes and put his hand to his throat, worried we were about to ride through. He asked us to wait and soon returned with a huge double lorry full of onions (plus driver) which he’d commandeered for our safety! The lorry driver played along, but clearly had no say.

Riding high in the cab, the sorry state of the tunnel was clear. Coal dust hung heavy in the air, only a few brief sections were lit, while large potholes and streams of water sent drivers swerving out of lane. We were all relieved to make it through.

It should have been an easy downhill to Dushanbe… But some very sooty coal trucks and a stiff headwind made it hard work!

We’d still had nothing to eat, so were happy to stock up on more dried apricots!

President Rahmon watched over us as we approached town. We passed one of his new, Chinese, coal-fired power stations on the outskirts. So THIS is where all the coal was going! We’d followed it all the way.

The centre of the city was pretty odd. While much of the country has no running water or reliable electricity, Rahmon has found the cash to build the world’s biggest flagpole! A title soon lost to Saudi Arabia. Curious, we went to take a look, but Becky fell through a broken grate in the pavement, cutting her ankle. Big vanity projects, clearly, but shaky foundations.

We spent a few days at the famous Green House Hostel, which is basically a giant waiting room for anyone headed to or from the Pamir Mountains.  There was plenty of chat about visas, permits, and routes – a surprising number of people were even headed for Afghanistan!

We soaked up what knowledge we could, made some adjustments to the bikes, and bought a monster stash of oats.

Pamir Highway – here we go!