I'm an independent traveller, get me out of here!!...

Right, Tajikistan. Where do I start? Well, firstly we almost didn't get into the country at all. In the tradition of rubbish countries that no-one wants to go to, the border guards were crazed with suspicion and a love of bureaucracy. I had made the fatal error of declaring that I had 150 dollars more than I actually had when ordered to turn out my pockets. After a tense few minutes while the guy tried to guilt us into bribing him (unsuccessfully - we're spending enough money as it is) he finally relented. We were then stuck at the border, in the middle of nowhere about 10k from Penjikent, searching for transport to the nearest town when a dapper local man turned up and invited us to have lunch and stay the night at his house.
Never one to turn down a free lunch, we made him our best mate. A wise move... Penjikent and Tajikistan in general are poorly lacking in both public transport and hotels. We spent a lovely afternoon with Niyazov and his family and three Russian mountain guides, one of whom, Fyodor is ex Russian military and hard as nails. He has kindly invited us to stay with him in Tashkent and we are definitely going to take him up on his offer. He's like no-one else I've ever met.... the three Russians slept outdoors on a charpoy (a sort of bed/bench) with the crappiest mountain kit ever, and it was freezing.
The next morning Niyazov's daughter accompanied us to the local bus station. We were headed for Iskander Kul, Alexander the Great's Lake, supposedly a stunning turquoise lake deep in the Fan Mountains. The bus was the oldest boneshaker in Tajikistan, but at least it was cheap. We spent seven hours travelling through the passes of the Fan Mountains with a motley selection of locals, including two brothers who were fascinated to see our books, guide book and diaries. They were really friendly and shared their sweets an apples with us. My apple was delicious but half a dozen ants crawled out of it while I was eating it. I had to flick them off and try to finish it off...
The bus delivered us as far as a village called Djijik. We were told it was a mere 6 kilometres to Iskander Kul. The lake had become a Holy Grail - to be reached at all costs, using every form of transport.... A friend from the bus (wearing a suit and startling winkle pickers) was heading in the same direction - he asked around for a lift but none was forthcoming. We started to walk. An hour later, it was getting dark and we'd heard reports from the villagers that the lake was everything from 6 to 24 kilometres away. We were having to set a cracking pace and I was going a bit red in the face. Andy was positively glowing with the possibility of a hike in the pitch black, with the possibility of being stuck on the mountain with only his wits and his bloody flint and steel for survival. His idea of bliss... Thank heavens a car screeched to a halt just as it started to get seriously dark, and the three of us piled in. A twenty minute drive over the mountain later and I was really worrying what would have happened had our lift not turned up...
The guest house at the lake was - and I exaggerate not - like something out of a Stephen King novel. Pitch dark, deserted except for 4 Russian men (Government cartographers no less) and three staff. The accomodation was in filthy concrete cabins, called dachas, which had four bedrooms each with two broken single beds with drab grey sheets. It looked like an Auschwitz lager - an impression reinforced on inspection of the communal bathroom block which stank, was crawling with insects and had communal "showers" which were simply holes in a piece of piping stretched across the ceiling. We decided to have a qick glance at the lake in the morning and then high tail it out of there.
Come the morning, we found ourselves staring at an exquisite, desolate, stunning turquoise lake. I should add freezing cold, as reported by Andy who, in his own unique tradition, simply had to go for a swim.
I took the pictures... There really was something special about being the only tourists (and even the only people) within miles and miles. The owner was nowhere to be seen, which was a pity as we had counted on him for a lift back to the village. We decided to start walking and hitchhike.

Four hours later, we had scaled the mountain, fully laden (see picture for route), and were back in the village. We had no water with us (a silly mistake) and had drunk from waterfalls which we occasionally came across on their way to crashing into the Iskander river below us. We ate biscuits which I happened to have in my backpack. Survival on our wits alone! The uphill was really hard but actually the downhill bit was very enjoyable - a relaxing tramp through incredible mountainous countryside albeit with a pack weighing 18 kilos. Ok I know you army people do it all the time, but it was hard! Andy was a pig in the proverbial....
To cut a long story short, after a couple of hours in the village looking for lifts, and two successful hitches, we found ourselves in Ayni, full of hope that our long day would end at our eventual destination in the north, Istaravshan. We found a taxi which was prepared to take us on the 3 hour journey and set off. Unfortunately I had ignored my Golden Rule of taxi drivers (always go with the old guy - they don't drive fast and you can beat them up if they get fresh) and our driver was a 16 year old punk. His wing man appeared to be his little brother. Within minutes of setting off up the mountain road he had veered dangerously close to the precipitous edge whilst taking his hands off the wheel to put his jacket on. I screamed and gave him a piece of my mind. Over the next hour, the road wound up and up, our driver drove like a lunatic and Andy and I had screamed and shouted several times, each time resulted in a full thirty seconds of slower driving before he took off again. We were travelling through the Fan Mountains over the Ayni Pass, which is over 3300 metres high. On one side of the road rose the sheer cliff face, on the other, a sheer drop with no verge, falling down around 600 to 700 metres. The road was full of potholes and our driver swerved all over the road to avoid them. By the time we stopped at the landslide, which was blocking the road, I'm not ashamed to admit I was crying with terror. Landslide shifted, I spent the entire way down the other side (by this time its pitch black) with eyes screwed shut and I-pod blasting soothing music into my ears to try and take my mind off the road ahead.
Despite our driver's best efforts to the contrary, we finally reached our destination in one piece. After inspecting and rejecting the Lonely Planet recommendation (I swear the author has never even been to Tajikistan) as a filthy bordello we settled on an only slightly cleaner guesthouse. At least there was a hot shower - after carefully taking off the brown stained bedding we settled down to sleep. Only to be woken by a man attempting to barrel through the door at three in morning. I won't tell you what I yelled at him from my bed, but Andy was impressed that they were the first words which came to mind, despite having been in a deep sleep only seconds before. We later realised he was trying to rouse us for Ramadan. We proved ourselves true infidels.
Our peace was only to last another three hours. At six, someone started hammering on the door, to the usual response. He went. He came back. We carried on yelling and swearing through the door, refusing to open it. He came back with reinforcements. Andy answered the door - the lad had come to return our passports. Thanks, but do you realise its six in the morning? Blank stare, boy leaves. Back to bed. Five minutes later, hammering begins anew. More swearing. More knocking. Yelling. Man leaves. Man comes back. Repeat ad nauseam. Turns out he wants his money for the room. Andy opens the door just enough to throw 20 Somani at him, the agreed price. All staff should by now be fully conversant in English swear words and should also have got the message that we don't like to be disturbed in the middle of the GODDAMN night. We go back to bed. Men return. Want more money. This time I get up, ready to kill. Two men confronted with the sight of Rachel, wearing a small towel, hair like a madwoman, screaming in her best Memsahib. Older man tries to talk round her to Andy - gets a shove and more screaming for his trouble, "you speak to ME!". Eventually I seem to scare them enough that they actually leave when I slam the door in their faces (this had not previously worked). Sleep. Nine o'clock, hammering begins again. More money required. This time we get up, dress, pack, have a final argument with the hotel owners and leave for Khojand, thankfully.
Next year, Tuscany. Anyone up for it?