asia – Kerk Boon Leng Photographs & Notes

motoring in montanistan

We checked out of the lovely Lotte City Hotel Tashkent early in the morning on Uzbekistan’s National Day and headed for the airport. From my window seat, the one-hour flight offered a spectacular view of what I took to be the western end of the Roof of the World. Jagged ranges rose one behind another, their summits capped with summer snow and their slopes streaked with glaciers and waterfalls, folding into each other like some enormous granite accordion.

Dushanbe—meaning Monday—was named after the day of its weekly market. I expected the capital of a poor former Soviet republic—shaped by Soviet planners once home to a large Russian population and formerly known as Stalinabad—to have a somewhat crumbling back-to-the-USSR feel, with a hint of East Slavic nostalgia.

Yet, having read about Tajikistan’s secular laws and restrictions on the hijab, I was surprised, and a little deflated, to find Dushanbe feeling more like the better bits of Pakistan or Iran than a capital of an ex-soviet socialist republic: more headscarves, conservative clothing, featureless public spaces and buildings, and a different rhythm of everyday life—or at least that was my hurried impression as I dashed around with our driver, trying to buy two SIM cards and change our money into somoni before heading off to the mountains.

Happy children in Margeb, a village at the entrance to the Yaghnob Valley surrounded by steep slopes and high peaks.

Yaghnob Valley is a world apart. Remote, untouched and difficult to reach.

The people of the remote Yaghnob Valley speak a language called Zivok, a living descendant of Sogdian, the ancient Eastern Iranian language of a civilisation that once flourished along the Silk Road before the Arab conquests of the eighth century.

Local boys in Margeb gathered fallen apricots from the ground and passed them to us through the fence. An act of small sweet kindness we will remember long after the trip.

This isn’t just a country that has mountains. The mountains are the country. A whopping 93% of Tajikistan is mountainous.

The roads prove it.

An hour or so north of Dushanbe, which itself lies at a respectable altitude of between 750 and 900 metres above sea level, the road enters the Anzob Tunnel, five kilometres of damp, dimly lit darkness burrowing through the mountains. You can barely see beyond the faint, scattered lights and the dark shape of the car in front. You drive on, hoping that the small, distant patch of light ahead is the exit and not an oncoming lorry.

I hadn’t come to Tajikistan, as many do, to tackle the Pamir Highway, that great Central Asian automotive bucket-list adventure, complete with nomad selfies and glamping yurts. Nor had I come to spend my days being driven from one lake to another, climbing out of a Land Cruiser, taking a photograph and climbing back in. There are only so many lakes a man can admire before even a beautiful one begins to look like the last.

Mizhgon (eyelashes), is the first of the Seven Lakes (Haft Kul) of the Fann Mountains. The others have names just as evocative: Soya (shadow), Gushor (awake), Nofin (bellybutton), Khurdak (little one), Marguzor (blossoming place) and Hazorchashma (a thousand springs).

Our hosts in Padrud: Navruz, a student earning some holiday money, and Mohamad, who appeared to be running the homestay.

We spent a night in Padrud right beside a roaring cascade, its torrents tumbling over rocks in a rush of icy blue water. Early autumn mountain scenery, the constant thunder of the falls and a proper bed with sit down toilets – better than camping beside a waterfall.

Two friends, smiling and playing in Margeb.

*Samsa* – the Tajik version of siew pao. Piping hot, filled with meat and eaten with a spicy tomato sauce.

Our dinner of mountain *plov* in Padrud.

In Margeb, a man in army fatigues takes his grey donkey down the mountains in the evening.

Zokir ready to tuck into our plate of delicious home-cooked qurutob, Yaghnob Valley.

A lone traveler on our way down from Yaghnob, with the mighty Zarafshan Range rising behind him.

A group of women walking along a mountain road in Yaghnob. In these remote valleys, the future of women lies in the balance between preserving tradition and having the freedom to choose their own path.

Checking the way forward in Bidev (2,580 m), a remote outpost deep in the mountains of Yaghnob.

The Yaghnobi people have lived for centuries in isolated mountain villages, preserving their own language and traditions. In the 1970s, the Soviets forced thousands from their mountain villages to work on cotton farms in the lowlands. Many died. Their abandoned villages now lie in ruins.

Hamadon and friend outside their homes in the mountain village of Voru where houses are built of stones and weathered earth, with wooden doors, small windows and terraces, looking like they are stacked one above another up the mountainside.

I wanted to explore the country’s small, scenic and historically rich western region called Sughd, slowly enough to see what was going on beyond the scenery.

We started with Iskanderkul and Sarytag, then to Voru and Panjakent, drove up and stayed a night at the Seven Lakes, or Haft Kul. From there, we dropped Khujand from the plan and doubled back to Panjakent before heading to the mountain village of Margeb that served as gateway to the hauntingly isolated, heartstoppingly beautiful Yaghnob Valley. Finally, it was back to Dushanbe for our flight to Tashkent.

We travelled in a Toyota RAV4. The first driver spoke passable English, though his people skills could have done with a little servicing. The second, Zokir, who took us to Yaghnob, was a gem: perpetually laughing and smiling despite the tough mountain roads. We had no common language, but somehow managed to get along fine with a smattering of Russian, extravagant gesturing, and plenty of shrieks, grunts, oohs and aahs. Think three Teletubbies on a road trip.

Eight days later, we were back in Dushanbe, having covered a fair stretch of western Tajikistan. It had been a good trip, with its share of surprises, sore bums and roads that looked considerably shorter on Google Maps.

The Tajiks are essentially an ancient Iranian race. Their language is a Central Asian form of Persian, written in Russian Cyrillic since the 1940s, when Stalin ordered the change.

Although only 5% to 7% of the land is arable, agriculture is important to the economy, employing over half the country’s workforce and generating around 25% of Tajikistan’s GDP.

*Qurutob*, a traditional Tajik dish of torn layered and flaky flatbread (*fatir*) soaked in yoghurt (*qurut*) and topped with onions, tomatoes, cucumbers and herbs.

Panjakent, Tajikistan’s third-largest town, sits in the country’s west, not far from the Uzbek border. It has a history stretching back more than 1,500 years, when ancient Panjakent was a flourishing Sogdian city on the Silk Road. Today, the ruins of that once-prosperous settlement lie just outside the modern town.

Emomali Rahmon, whose face appears on buildings and streets throughout the country, has ruled Tajikistan for more than 30 years. His rule has become increasingly authoritarian, but it has also brought a degree of order and stability to this small, isolated nation, where mining is a mainstay of the economy — not counting the export of a third of its men aged 20 to 39 to Russia as labourers.

Dushanbe still has an attractive older area with lots of trees and stately buildings but it is tearing down many of its old buildings and Soviet-era apartments and houses, replacing them with glass and steel. In some areas walking around the city feels like wandering through one enormous construction site.

In 2024, remittances accounted for about 49% of Tajikistan’s GDP, among the highest in the world. The new wealth shows in the grand houses, luxury dwellings and smart cars, but behind it are families separated by migration and visible social divide between those who leave to earn a living and those who stay behind.

In 1939, Russians made up 57% of Dushanbe’s population. By 1989, their share had fallen to nearly a third. After the Soviet Union collapsed and civil war broke out in the 1990s, most left. Today, only a small Russian community remains but their influence lingers. Russian is still widely spoken.

Waving the Tajik flag on Independence Day on 9 September. For a country that endured a bloody civil war from 1992 to 1997, torn apart by regional rivalries and ideological divisions, freedom and peace are no small achievements. Especially in this tough neighbourhood with Afghanistan and China next door, and Russia, Iran, Pakistan and India within a drone’s throw away.

Unlike the mules and donkeys I’ve seen in Pakistan, India and Egypt, those in Tajikistan looked healthy and well cared for.

Walking back after the Independence Day parade.

Sarytag, a village with a homestay and tranquil walks approximately 7 km from the western shores of Iskanderkul Lake.

Oct 11, 2026Oct 17, 2026 by dkwts Categories: TAJIKISTANTags: travel, asia, central-asia, hiking, adventure 1 Comment

twinkle twinkle lofty stairs

A church in Bethlehem Veng, Aizawl, stands steadfastly against the stormy backdrop of Muthi Tlang—‘Prayer Mountain’—its peak peeking through the rain clouds as the unsettled weather of the southwest monsoon lingers till mid October.

I’m hitting a milestone this year, and instead of celebrating, I’m doing what I do best—running from it. So I grab Yen, and set off this time to one of India’s most remote corners—the overlooked, underrated Northeast. Our destination? Aizawl, the capital of Mizoram, a place Rough Guide describes as looking more like a country in Central America than a state squashed between Burma and Bangladesh. No tourist hordes, no flashing signs—just the kind of place that hides in plain sight, quietly under the radar, with just enough urban niceties and modern comforts to keep it from feeling too off the grid.

*With around 1.3 million people, Mizoram is one of India’s least populated states—half of whom live in Aizawl and its hill-perched district. It’s a society where men slightly outnumber women*.

We touch down at Lengpui Airport, where the red carpet’s rolled out, and soldiers in parade headdresses and a military band stand by, ready to welcome delegates to some important conference. After the obligatory paperwork to get our Inner Line Permit, we meet Buanga, the driver sent by our homestay, who’s here to take us to a neighborhood with the no-nonsense name of Bethlehem Veng.

The drive up to Casablanca Homestay winds through vine-draped jungles, passing houses and huts with rusty roofs that extend over the steep slopes, presenting a panorama of untouched, primeval greenery. It is the kind of ride that shakes you from any travel daze as the road takes on twists and turns sharp enough to make your stomach question its last meal. I roll down the window; the air is filled with the earthy scent of wet foliage and the decibel-defying sound of chattering cicadas.

When we finally arrive, there’s nothing to say “Welcome, tourists.” From the car porch, it looks more like a storehouse or bunker clinging to the hillside than a cozy hideaway—iron sliding gate, plain walls, no plants to cheer things up.

But then Isak Vanlalruata, our host, brings us through the door, and the mood changes. Inside, it’s a different world—wooden furniture, warm standing lights, tasteful and partly ethnic decor — cottagey, but with a certain elegance and class. Through the wide windows that span our whole room, the entire city unfolds. Aizawl astounds us like a sudden slap to our sleepy faces—a sprawling, buzzing city clinging to the hillsides, gripping the ridges like barnacles on a rock. The view is absolutely amazing. We can’t take our eyes off it, at that moment and for the next couple of days.

At night, the city transforms into something magical. The hills sparkle like a Christmas tree, thousands of tiny light bulbs scattered over the mountain slopes, each one clinging to its own precarious ledge.

*The glass patio door of Casablanca Homestay frames an enchanting evening picture of Aizawl*

This is as far from India as you can get, without actually leaving the country. In terms of geography, genealogy, and general gravitation, Mizoram distinctively leans more toward Southeast Asia – and in certain aspects, even China- than the Indian Subcontinent.

*Freshly-caught river crabs or chakai are eaten in a stew cooked with cowpea leaves and green chilies.*

*Honest Women Vendors: Bara Bazaar is Aizawl’s main market, where locals and people from surrounding hills come to buy and sell everything from bread to bracelets.*

*Fresh air and sweet smiles: motorcyclist couple rides up to Muthi to spend time in nature together.*

*What real vegetables taste like: freshly-harvested greens sold at 50 Rupees (about RM2.60)* *per bunch that can feed a large family*.

*Stairways in Aizawl serve as both shortcuts and shopping lanes, linking streets and neighborhoods. Walking them offers an intimate and interesting way to explore the city*.

The Mizo people take their faith seriously. They are almost entirely Christian and Sunday here isn’t just a day of rest; it’s something sacred. The entire city shuts down. Churches fill with the sound of choral hymns, and from sunset to sunrise—and throughout the day—you can hear the soft, soothing, and rhythmic clang of bell chimes. It’s as if the whole city pauses in unison to catch its breath, to reflect, and to pray.

Aizawl is content to just quietly exist, perched on its hillside. It doesn’t seem to care whether you come here or not. It doesn’t see the need to build grand monuments or lively tribal markets to lure you in, nor are there souvenir shops peddling funny hats and fridge magnets. Nothing is plastered with “must-see” or “world heritage” signs for wide-eyed visitors. But that’s part of the charm, and that’s what I like about it.

The beauty of Aizawl is in its raw simplicity—in the happy, hardy, stair-climbing hill-dwelling people; the breath-snatching views; and the messianic voices and chimes that fill the quiet nights with sounds and sights that linger in your head and heart long after you leave.

This is how I want to spend my birthday.

*Mother and Sleeping child at the entrance of Millennium Center Shopping Mall*

*A typical hole-in-the-wall shop selling sachets, packets, and cans of drinks, along with biscuits and cup noodles, like those found in roadside corners across India.*

*The sun shines on Reiek Tlang (1,465 m)* *after a heavy afternoon downpour*

*Shoppers and school students walk along the bazaar shops*

*Mizoram, along with Kerala, has one of the highest literacy rates in India*.

*An assortment of aubergine for sale in the rain, Bara Bazaar*

*School friends exchange a quick wave and goodbyes before parting ways down separate paths toward home.*

Located on a ridge 20 miles north of the Tropic of Cancer at an average height of 1,132 meters above sea level, Aizawl enjoys a comfortable climate but some monsoon days in June to September can get hot, sticky and sweaty. *Nothing to deter you, just pack an umbrella, sandals and some deodorant.*

*Blanket sling is more practical than prams and push trolleys in Aizawl*

*Cakes with icing and coconut behind a glass case*

The young people of Mizoram look to the West and, these days, also eastward for inspiration, drawing their fashion and beauty trends from Korea and other parts of Asia, rather than from Mumbai, Kolkata or Hyderabad.

*Sheltering from the rain outside a shop selling plastic wares*

*Budding musicians on the trek in Reiek*. Mizoram’s music scene is deeply rooted in the church’s choral tradition. Young artists blend Western genres with Mizo themes, producing visually striking music videos that showcase Mizoram’s picturesque landscapes.

“The eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good”. In the late 19th century, Christian missionaries, particularly J.H. Lorrain and F.W. Savidge from the Welsh Presbyterian Mission, created a Roman alphabet-based script for Mizo. They translated the Bible into Mizo making it accessible for reading and writing and laying the groundwork for widespread literacy. Today, Mizo and English but not Hindi are the main languages of Mizoram.

*Not a land of curry and hot spices: traditional Mizo cuisine is centered on meat (mainly pork), vegetables, rice, noodles and dumplings (steamed or grilled).*

*Mizoram is renowned for its woven shawls and handcrafted baskets made from bamboo and cane.*

*Safety in Numbers: After-work pedestrians at a road crossing*

*Night-time motorists in an early-to-bed city* *where due to its easterly location on India’s single time zone the sun sets at 5:30 pm and rises at 4:30 am.*

*Sip and browse at Books Cafe with Isak*

*In Mizoram, alcohol is sold and consumed only in licensed hotels, reflecting the state’s strict alcohol regulations and a quiet, puritanical nightlife.*

Nov 8, 2024Apr 21, 2025 by dkwts Categories: UncategorizedTags: Aizawl Street Photography, Aizawl travel blog, asia, Casablanca Homestay, India, life, mizoram, Mizoram 2024, Mizoram in October, Mizoram Travel, Mizoram Travel Advice, Northeast India Travel, travel 8 Comments

melons and tamerlane

Fresh from the fields: Melons start to hit the bazaars of Uzbekistan as early as June, but it’s the late-ripening winter varieties, arriving in September, that are renowned for their tantalising textures and tastes.


We travel not for trafficking alone:
By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned
For lust of knowing what should not be known
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand

James Elroy Flecker, The Golden Journey to Samarkand (1913)

To be honest, I hadn’t really thought much about Samarkand before I found myself there. It’s one of those names that gets tossed around in history books and travel guides—forever linked to the Silk Road, ancient caravans, bustling markets, and epic land crossings. Writers like Goethe, Byron, and Oscar Wilde spun it into the Western imagination as a distant, exotic land, dripping with both treasures and cruelty. A place that’s half-fact, half-fantasy, sitting somewhere between legend and history. But for me, Samarkand wasn’t exactly top of my list. It was more of a “maybe someday” destination—a place you figure you’ll hit when you finally decide to get lost in the forgotten expanses of Eurasia.

And then, in September, I went. The landscape was mellowing as the leaves started to turn from green to gold, and I wasn’t chasing some romantic vision of ancient traders or long-dead kings. No, I went because the opportunity came up, and you don’t say no when it’s for Samarkand, Uzbekistan. My friend Dilshod arranged for his buddy Abdujamil to show me around, and just like that, I was in. What I found was a city that both surprised me and confirmed what I half-expected: Samarkand is as grand and imposing as they say, but there’s something raw and real beneath the surface. It’s a city where history doesn’t sit quietly in the background—it’s in your face.

*In my humble reckoning, the shaded streets of Samarkand offer a more authentic glimpse into Uzbek culture and memory, than the tourist-driven “Silk Road” fantasy.*

*Working man snacks: fried bread with meat or potato fillings dipped into a salsa-type sauce and washed down with kuk choy (green tea) Chinese-style.*

Bibi-Khanum when completed in 1404 was one of the most magnificent mosques in the world. It collapsed in an earthquake in 1897 and by mid-20th century survived as a ruin until restoration by the Soviets.

Let’s be clear about one thing: Tamerlane—Amir Timur as the locals call him—still looms large over everything. Born 50 miles from Samarkand, he built his empire with blood and a brutal efficiency that would make even the toughest modern-day despot flinch. And yet, amid all the conquering, he decided to make Samarkand his masterpiece. You can’t run far without seeing his mark. Monuments, mosques, and mausoleums stamp his gleaming blue presence all over the city, shimmering in the sunlight and reminding you of the power he wielded. The place feels like a shrine to conquest.

But Samarkand isn’t just about Tamerlane. This city is older than his empire, older than most things you can name. Long before Timur, this place was home to the Sogdians—an Iranian people who built their own version of Samarkand before the Arabs rolled in, swords in hand and the Qur’an, and changed everything. The city’s history is layered like that—one civilization piled on top of another. You can feel it as you walk the streets—there’s something Persian in the air, something ancient beneath all the grand monuments.

And even though you’re standing in modern Uzbekistan, Samarkand feels more like a distant cousin to ancient Persia. People here speak Tajik, a near twin to Farsi, and the atmosphere of the city is steeped in that blend of Persian and Turkic culture. Samarkand, along with Bukhara, gives you a glimpse of Transoxiana—the land beyond the Oxus River—where every alley, courtyard, and market stall tells you a little more about a place that has been at the crossroads of history for thousands of years.

As the sun begins to dip lower at Shah-I-Zinda the light hits the turquoise tiles just right, casting an almost magical glow. It’s hard not to feel like you’re standing in the most stunning necropolis on earth.

*Although officially a secular country with a predominantly muslim population, Uzbekistan has been experiencing a revival in its religious identity after more than a century of Russian and Soviet rule.*

Organic vegetables sold at a stall in Siab (Siyob) Market. Even with Samarkand’s dry climate near the Kyzylkum Desert, old irrigation techniques, fertile land by the Zerafshan River and plenty of sunshine help produce great harvests.

Normally, I wouldn’t go on about fruit, but the melons here deserve a mention. They’re something else: sweet as honey, fragrant like something you’d bottle and sell as perfume, bursting with the flavour of the earth they grew in.

Sun, soil, desert—it all comes together in a way I wasn’t ready for. Melons of every size and shade, sold on the streets like the season’s finest delights. Honestly, they’re worth the trip alone.

*Picking the prize, Siab Market. Uzbekistan ranks 32nd globally in fruit production by quantity and it holds 12th place in melon export.*

Khoja Zudmurod Mosque (10th century) is steeped in legend, with stories claiming that Tamerlane buried the relics of St. George here. True to its name, prayers at this mosque are believed to bring the fulfillment of noble desires.

*Puppet seller at the entrance to Bibi-Khanum Mosque.*

I spent most of my two and a half days walking the tree-lined streets and exploring the hidden courtyards. These are the places where Samarkand still holds onto its quiet, Central Asian charm. The heyday of the Silk Road is long gone. The Russians rolled through in the 19th century, leaving parts of the city in ruins before it was rebuilt by the Soviets in their signature blocky, concrete style. Today Samarkand is a thriving, modern city, the third largest in Uzbekistan. But somehow, despite all that, there’s a sense that Samarkand has never really let go of its past. It’s still there.

Samarkand might not be the bustling trade hub it once was. The atmosphere has shifted—modernity has taken over, with Chinese-made BYD electric cars gliding down the tidy streets where camels and donkeys once trod. The bearded traders with their sunburnt faces and laden beasts are gone, now only seen in old photographs. But even so, Samarkand still has that weight of history pressing down on you. You feel it in the silence, in the stillness of the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees where time appear to move a little slower, if at all.