On August 1st, which I remember because it was National Day in Switzerland, my host mother came into my bedroom not long after dinner, just after dark as was typical during Ramadan.  Her tone a combination of excited urgency, she said “Some foreigners just came by and they were speaking English and I think they needed help.”  Not one to skip an adventure, I grabbed my book and set out in the direction she had pointed me.  Two blocks up, sure enough, was a short young Irish woman with a rolling suitcase staring confusedly at her map in the dark.  Her husband soon joined from down the street, where he was trying to get directions in his very good Russian. In what was likely one of the weirdest moments of their trip, the white guy (me) walked up to them and began speaking to them in English.

“My host mother said that you needed some help?”

It turned out that their guidebook had directed them to a homestay or guest house that either no longer existed or no longer existed at the address they had.  This is somewhat common, as the guidebooks for Central Asia are limited in scope and often slightly outdated, so we often found ourselves at nonexistent shops or places that looked like they had been shut down since the fall of the Iron Curtain (I’m looking at you, sketchy telepherique).  Luckily, I did know of one, and rather than direct them to the guest house (the directions to which were “go to the German Embassy, climb across a rope bridge, and walk down a road until you see a sign and hear foreigners”), I decided to walk them there, since I figured that it was both easy to get lost and that they might need a translator.

We walked up Hakimzoda, my street, and turned to head towards the German Embassy (which I hadn’t been to, so I also saw this as an important fact-finding mission).  Sure enough, there was a little bridge mounted over a canyon, and across we went with their rollaboards in tow, down the street for a few minutes before we stopped to pick up water and a Snickers, and finally rolled into the guest house.

The guest house, though, was full up.  We stepped into the courtyard, which was filled with people, bikes, tents, and a generally festive atmosphere.  I discussed the situation with the owner of the guesthouse, and it was going to be a no-go, but we sat and chatted with people anyway.  The Silk Road really brings together one crazy motley crew of expats and adventure travelers from all over the world.  There were the Aussies, the Irish, the French, and to my surprise and excitement, a big group of Swiss who were celebrating Swiss National Day.  Sadly, I had just missed the Rösti that they had prepared.

Thankfully, I knew several other hotels at various price points (I didn’t offer the Hyatt or Serena, as I wagered that hundreds of dollars per night wasn’t going to fly), and so we made our way back up to Hakimzoda, then up to Varzob Bazaar, where I knew we could catch a taxi.  In short time, they had picked a hotel, and I negotiated us a cab price and we headed south on Rudaki, and I proudly gave my directions to the Mercury Hotel, which was tucked away quite nicely off of a few side streets.  Once we got there, I bid them farewell and made my way home.

I know that if I had been in a similar predicament, that a Tajik person would have done the same for me.  It’s so ingrained in the culture here to help others and guide others that I was not surprised when a shopkeeper would close his shop to show me 10 minutes across the bazaar to the stall I sought, and I would not be surprised if someone even walked me to the next town.  At various points, we all were connected through the networks to great drivers, skilled craftsmen and women, museums, dancers, and all kinds of other people.  Who doesn’t love getting to put on a local hat and help out people?  I like to think that’s something that I’ve taken with me from Tajikistan.