Explore Central Asia’s 5 Stans on an epic odyssey. Uncover Silk Road cities, vast deserts, towering mountains, nomadic life, and unique capitals.
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The “Five Stans” – Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, and Uzbekistan – are formidable former Soviet Union republics in the heart of Central Asia. This Central Asian region, sprawling between the Caspian Sea and snow-capped mountains like the Tien Shan Mountains or Ala Too Mountains, had long beckoned. Last summer, my epic trip began, a voyage to unravel the enigmas of these lands, historically wary of tourism.
Naturally, I tackled all five on this guided tour—the quintessential 5 Stans pilgrimage. This journey promises exploration across vast deserts, perhaps near the Darvaza Gas Crater, and over majestic mountain ranges offering views of Iskanderkul Lake or the Seven Lakes in the Fan Mountains. Expect a city tour of an ancient city, possibly a UNESCO World Heritage site or an ancient silk road town with its bustling Old
Town and local market. Then, another fascinating city gleaming with modern ambition, perhaps with a visit to its Independence Park. We’d stand awestruck before architectural wonders, and experience the simplicity of a yurt camp (often with basic toilet and shower facilities) under a million stars, maybe near Issyk Kul Lake’s southern shore, truly connecting with local life.
For me, the irresistible allure was a potent cocktail of rich history and mystery – a true quest. From Roman times, this region pulsed as the vibrant heart of the fabled Silk Road. This legendary network connected Silk Road cities, a dynamic conduit for people, products, ideas, and armies, weaving between the Mediterranean and Far East. What traveler wouldn’t leap to trace a path of historical sites and notable sites, once imprinted by Alexander, Marco Polo, and Genghis Khan, perhaps visiting a national history museum, historical museum, or archaeological site to delve deeper?
After Russian tsarist conquests and decades behind the USSR’s Iron Curtain, the “Stans” became lands veiled in speculation. No documentary could replace the profound need to discover for myself what these faraway lands were genuinely like, to understand the warmth of local people, or taste freshly baked samsa after an early morning start for a bumpy ride to a remote location. The screen and page can only take you so far; the true essence demands presence.
While adventurous independent travel, perhaps staying in a guest house with your own room and enjoying a free afternoon for a walking tour, is relatively straightforward in four of these nations, Turkmenistan remains the enigmatic outlier. Accessing its secrets, like its gleaming capital city Ashgabat with its Independence Square, necessitates joining an organized guided tour. This demands acquiring a Letter of Invitation (LOI) from the Foreign Ministry, a vetting process that can stretch months, before a visa is granted upon arrival, perhaps at the railway station or after a border crossing.
After extensive research, comparing departure dates and trip codes, I opted for Lupine Tours. This British outfit, renowned for guiding travelers into Turkmenistan, also offered an itinerary—maybe a private tour option existed too—across the entire Central Asian expanse. We’d journey from Ashgabat to Almaty, Kazakhstan’s largest city, perhaps visiting its Republic Square, Panfilov Park (with a chance to visit Panfilov Park near the Central State Museum or Applied Arts Museum during a half day tour).
All this, using diverse local transport over an action-packed two-and-a-half weeks, with potential for a picnic lunch en route. Our tour leader was seasoned, the stunning scenery from vast deserts to mountains awaited, and the adventure begins here, with flight details confirmed. I might even find a free morning to explore Oak Park or Ala Too Square in Bishkek’s country’s capital.
Peeking Behind the Curtain
I approached Turkmenistan not unlike a curious child peeking inside of a wrapped gift — an overwhelming desire to find out what’s inside of a place often described as strange, secretive and shrouded in mystery. This doesn’t even mention the fact that it’s one of the world’s most isolated and least-visited countries. Only around 10,000 foreigners visit Turkmenistan each year, and only a handful of those are genuine tourists.
It’s difficult to adequately convey just how surreal it felt, touching down at Ashgabat International Airport, the plane taxiing towards the gleaming, futuristic terminal, only to realize we were the solitary aircraft gracing the entire airport. Not another plane in sight.
The silence was almost deafening, a stark contrast to the usual cacophony of international hubs. Then, as if to underscore the uniqueness of our arrival, things took an even stranger turn as we made our way into the capital city on the designated shuttle bus.
The urban landscape that unfolded before us was unlike anything I had ever witnessed. Nearly every single building was a stark, brilliant white, many of them extravagantly clad in shimmering, imported marble that reflected the intense Central Asian sun with an almost blinding intensity.
It was a city that seemed determined to radiate purity and opulence. Adding to this peculiar aesthetic, all cars, trucks, and even public buses were also white, a mandate enforced by the nation’s first post-Soviet president, Saparmurat Niyazov, who harbored a fervent desire for his capital to perpetually appear immaculate and pristine.
And then there were the statues – gold statues, everywhere. An astonishing number of them, many featuring the gilded likeness of that very same former leader, often in heroic or contemplative poses, his presence an indelible mark on the city’s identity. One couldn’t help but wonder about the stories behind such grandiosity, perhaps detailed in a national museum somewhere within this gleaming metropolis.
After settling into the Hotel Ak Altyn – a slightly faded but perfectly comfortable establishment which, to my considerable surprise, boasted a surprisingly busy and atmospheric pool bar, a little oasis of conviviality – I had the chance to meet the rest of my Lupine tour group. We were fifteen souls in total, a fascinating cross-section of global adventurers.
Roughly half hailed from various corners of the United States, while the other half represented a smattering of European nations. The group itself was a delightful mixed bag: energetic Millennials eager to explore uncharted territories and seasoned retirees with a lifetime of travel stories, dedicated teachers taking a well-deserved break, and innovative tech workers seeking a different kind of connection.
What united nearly all of them, I soon discovered, was a shared, ambitious quest: to visit every single country on the planet. Our expedition leader, a young and impressively knowledgeable Australian, radiated competence and enthusiasm. He would be our main guide, but along our extensive route, we would also rendezvous with a series of local guides, invaluable experts who could render the nuanced lowdown on each specific destination, offering insights that only a resident could possess.
One of the persistent rumors I’d frequently heard before my arrival in Turkmenistan, a whisper that often accompanied tales of its reclusiveness, was the assertion that tourists weren’t permitted to wander around on their own, that every step had to be supervised.
I’m pleased to report that, at least in our experience, this turned out to be entirely untrue. I, along with a couple of my newly acquired travel companions, spent the better part of two glorious days ambling through the wide, clean streets of Ashgabat, soaking in its unique atmosphere.
Perhaps the secret police were indeed watching, their eyes unseen from shadowy corners or unmarked cars, but if they were, their surveillance was impeccably discreet. It certainly wasn’t obvious or intrusive. Crucially, nobody stopped us.
Nobody hindered us from attempting conversations with the friendly, if sometimes initially reserved, locals. Nobody prevented us from going wherever our curiosity led us, from exploring the sprawling grounds of Independence Park to exchanging our currency for a more favorable rate on the ubiquitous black market – a transaction conducted with surprising ease and openness.
We even managed to quaff a few refreshing pints at the unexpectedly authentic British Pub Florida, a quirky establishment tucked away beside the bustling Russian Market, a vibrant hub of local commerce where you could find everything from fresh produce to intricately woven carpets.
Our only tangible interaction with any form of authority occurred when vigilant guards politely, but firmly, informed us not to snap photographs of sensitive government buildings, their gleaming facades evidently off-limits to casual photography.
It was a small restriction in an otherwise surprisingly free exploration of this enigmatic capital city. We even passed by what we were told was the National History Museum, though time didn’t permit a deep dive into its collections on that initial foray.
With Ashgabat and its white marble vistas receding in our rear view mirrors, our adventure took a decidedly more rugged turn. We clambered into a convoy of robust 4x4 vehicles and pointed them north, embarking on a thrilling drive through the undulating, sun-scorched dunes of the formidable Karakum Desert.
Our destination was a site of rather peculiar fame, perhaps the only industrial accident on Earth, aside from the infamous Chernobyl, that has metamorphosed into a bona fide, if somewhat bizarre, tourist attraction: the Darvaza gas crater.
This giant, perpetually flaming hole in the ground, often dramatically dubbed the “Door to Hell,” was an unintentional creation from Soviet times. During a natural gas drilling operation in 1971, the rig unfortunately collapsed into an expanding sinkhole, releasing vast quantities of methane. Geologists, fearing the spread of poisonous gases, decided to set it alight, expecting the fire to burn out within a few weeks. More than half a century later, it still burns with an infernal, mesmerizing glow.
We caught our first tantalizing glimpse of the Darvaza gas crater as the sun began its descent towards the desert horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple.
As if on cue, a sudden sandstorm blew in from the seemingly endless expanse of the desert, the air thickening with swirling dust. For a few tense moments, the only thing visible through the gritty haze were the distant, angry licks of flames, a fiery beacon in the encroaching gloom.
The atmosphere was electric with anticipation. Later that evening, after settling into our yurt camp – surprisingly comfortable traditional dwellings, though the toilet and shower facilities were understandably basic, adding to the authentic rustic experience – Darvaza revealed its true, spectacular nature.
The short hike from our camp to the crater’s edge was illuminated by the flickering, almost supernatural glow rising from the giant chasm.
Standing on the precipice, feeling the intense heat wash over us, and gazing down into that fiery abyss under a vast, star-dusted desert sky was an experience that bordered on the profound, a potent reminder of nature’s raw power and humanity’s often unintended impact upon it. The sheer scale of the burning pit, the roar of the flames, and the primordial energy it exuded were utterly captivating, etching themselves permanently into my memory. This was a vision of the underworld, right here on Earth.
A Tale of Three (Very Old) Cities
After the white marble modernness of Turkmenistan’s capital, crossing into Uzbekistan felt akin to stepping directly through a time portal, plunging us back centuries into a world of ancient empires and fabled trade routes.
The transition was palpable as we cruised through a magnificent trio of ancient walled cities, each a legendary major stop along the historic Silk Road. These weren’t just cities; they were living museums, their very stones saturated with history, each whispering tales of caravans laden with exotic goods, of scholarly pursuits, and of empires won and lost. All three – Khiva, Bukhara, and Samarkand – are now proudly designated as UNESCO World Heritage Sites, and deservedly so, for they represent some of the finest architectural and cultural flowerings of Central Asian civilization.
Khiva was the first to unveil its ancient charms, its magnificent Itchan Kala (the inner walled Old Town) protected by towering, formidable, buff-colored mud-brick walls that rose from the desert floor like the ramparts of a giant, intricately sculpted sandcastle. The scale was breathtaking, immediately transporting you to a bygone era. With the relentless summer sun pushing temperatures into the triple digits, the labyrinthine alleyways of the Itchan Kala were often eerily deserted by day, creating a ghost town-like atmosphere.
It was as if the city itself was taking a siesta, its secrets held close under the shimmering heat. But as dusk began to settle and a welcome coolness finally permeated the air, the old town would magically spring to vibrant life. The open-air cafes, tucked into ancient courtyards and alongside beautifully preserved madrassahs, would become crowded with a cheerful mix of local people enjoying their evening meals and fellow travelers recounting their day’s discoveries. The historic buildings, including majestic minarets and domed mosques, were artfully illuminated, casting a warm, inviting glow over the scene. Merchants, with a timeless patter, would hawk Khiva’s famous intricately patterned carpets and the distinctive chugurma fur hats, their stalls adding to the vibrant tapestry of the revived city.
I didn’t fully realize it at that precise moment, surrounded by the nocturnal magic of Khiva, but this extraordinary ancient city would ultimately wind up as my personal favorite among the three iconic Silk Road burgs we explored. There was an intimate, almost tangible charm to Khiva. It felt smaller, more manageable, and significantly less overtly touristy than its larger, more famous counterparts. Its treasures felt more accessible, less overwhelmed by crowds. And it was remarkably easy to navigate, largely because so many of its most prominent landmarks – the stunning, turquoise-tiled Kalta Minor Minaret, an ambitiously wide, unfinished tower that still captivates; the exquisitely decorated Mohammed Amin Khan Madrassah, now a charming hotel; and the ancient Jama Mosque, with its atmospheric forest of over two hundred uniquely carved wooden pillars, some dating back to the 10th century – are conveniently arrayed along a single, easily walkable pedestrian street.
If there’s a single place in all the 5-Stans that genuinely summons the enchanting, mystical vibe of One Thousand and One Nights, Khiva, with its sandcastle walls and whispered legends, is unequivocally it. A walking tour here felt like stepping onto a perfectly preserved film set, each corner revealing another photogenic vignette of a lost world. We even briefly visited a small, local applied arts museum showcasing the incredible craftsmanship of the region.
Bukhara, our next destination, lay another six hours farther east, a journey undertaken via a high road that fascinatingly meandered alongside the legendary Amu Darya River, its waters a vital lifeblood in this arid landscape, and then across miles upon miles of seemingly endless, open desert. The sense of scale, of the vastness of Central Asia, truly began to sink in during these overland transits. Founded by the ancient Persians and steeped in millennia of rich history, Bukhara has witnessed the rise and fall of numerous empires.
It was famously pillaged by the formidable Genghis Khan in the 13th century, a devastating event that reshaped its destiny, yet it rose again. Such was its reputation as a hospitable and scholarly center in medieval times that Marco Polo and his father, Niccolò, reportedly stayed there for three formative years on their epic journey towards China, no doubt marveling at its wonders much as we did. The city boasts an incredible array of historical sites, including the iconic Kalyan Minaret, the Po-i-Kalyan Complex, and the Samanid Mausoleum.
Even more than the stunning ancient structures and the sheer weight of its history, I found myself utterly blown away by Bukhara’s legendary covered bazaars. There was one on each side of the sprawling old town, vast marketplaces sheltered beneath colossal, ancient domes and gracefully arching brickwork. Within these atmospheric warrens, hundreds upon hundreds of shops and stalls peddled an intoxicating array of goods: vibrant, hand-woven carpets displaying intricate tribal patterns, lustrous hand-painted ceramics in shades of blue and green, fragrant mountains of aromatic spices, exquisite handcrafted jewelry, and delicate miniature paintings depicting scenes from Persian epics and local folklore.
The air hummed with the murmur of bargaining and the scent of exotic wares. Tucked away within the labyrinthine passages were charming restaurants, many ingeniously established in age-old caravanserai – traditional roadside inns that once sheltered Silk Road merchants and their camel trains. Here, we feasted on iconic Uzbek dishes like shashlik – succulent skewers of grilled meat – and plov, the rich and flavorful national rice dish, often cooked in enormous cauldrons and redolent with lamb, carrots, and chickpeas. A visit to the historical museum provided even deeper context to the city’s incredible past.
When it comes to absolutely blow-your-mind, jaw-dropping architecture, however, nothing encountered elsewhere in Central Asia quite compares with the majestic Registan in Samarkand. This iconic public square, often hailed as the pearl of the Islamic world, was meticulously created between the 15th and 17th centuries during the height of the Timurid Empire. The square is dramatically flanked on three sides by three enormous, breathtakingly beautiful Persian-style madrassas (Islamic schools): the Ulugh Beg Madrassah, the Sher-Dor Madrassah, and the Tilya-Kori Madrassah. Each boasts magnificent turquoise domes that seem to float against the azure sky and lofty, elegantly proportioned minarets that punctuate the skyline.
Their vast facades are entirely covered in the most intricate and dazzling mosaics, a symphony of color and design. These aren’t just the usual, though beautiful, geometric and floral patterns common in Islamic art; here, the artists dared to depict living creatures – ferocious, almost heraldic tigers on the Sher-Dor Madrassah (giving it its name, “Tiger-bearing”), graceful leaping deer, and even giant, stylized faces that are said to represent the sun, a testament to a unique artistic fusion. This ancient silk road town was clearly a hub of immense power and artistic innovation.
The only conceivable downside to such unparalleled magnificence (if you’re someone who isn’t particularly fond of crowds) is the undeniable fact that the Registan has been well and truly discovered by the masses. It was, without a doubt, the only place along our entire two-and-a-half-week epic trip that genuinely felt overtly “touristy.” This was especially true in the evening, when thousands of people, both locals and international visitors, would gather for the spectacular sound and light show projected onto the ancient facades.
The open side of the square, facing the Registan, effectively becomes an amphitheater, and the shared experience, despite the numbers, was undeniably powerful. Still, the sheer volume of people also made for some absolutely choice people-watching opportunities, a vibrant kaleidoscope of humanity drawn together by the timeless allure of this architectural masterpiece.
Observing families enjoying an evening out, young couples taking selfies, and older visitors gazing in quiet contemplation added another layer to the Registan’s enduring magic. Exploring these significant sites with a knowledgeable guide brought their stories to life, transforming stone and tile into testaments of a glorious past. The city tour here was a highlight, connecting us deeply with the spirit of this legendary crossroads.
Into the Pamirs
Moving onward from the architectural splendors of Uzbekistan towards the rugged, mountainous landscapes of Tajikistan was a carefully orchestrated two-step process, an adventure within an adventure. It commenced with an unforgettable overnight journey on a vintage Soviet-era passenger train, chugging its way slowly but steadily towards the border town of Termez. We were booked into a second-class sleeper car, a classic and somewhat romantic mode of transport that offered a genuine glimpse into a different era of travel. Each cabin contained four relatively narrow bunks, a small table, and a window that, thankfully, opened to the rushing night air. The toilet facilities were located at the end of the carriage, basic but functional.
The open windows served as our rudimentary but surprisingly effective air conditioning. Uzbekistan Railways, with a charming touch of old-world hospitality, supplied each passenger with a clean pillow, a freshly laundered sheet, and a small bottle of drinking water. Anticipating the long journey ahead, our group had wisely stocked up on a delightful assortment of local beer and savory snacks at the bustling Samarkand railway station before our departure, transforming our cabins into cozy, impromptu social hubs.
I found myself sharing a cabin with our insightful Uzbek guide, a man of endless stories and practical advice. He astutely suggested that I should claim one of the upper bunks. “You’ll get the full effect of the cool air flowing in from outside,” he explained with a knowing smile. Taking his excellent advice, I clambered up and, despite the rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the tracks and the occasional lurch of the carriage, I slept like a baby.
The gentle breeze wafting through the open window provided a refreshing counterpoint to what was otherwise a hot, sticky desert night, making the journey on that very slow train surprisingly comfortable and restorative. There’s a unique charm to train travel, a sense of passage and connection to the landscape that flying can never replicate. Waking up to the early morning light filtering in, revealing glimpses of the changing Uzbek countryside, was a truly memorable experience.
After disembarking in Termez and taking the obligatory, slightly surreal selfies in front of a rather stark barbed-wire fence that clearly marked the boundary between Uzbekistan and Afghanistan – a potent reminder of the region’s complex geopolitical realities – we boarded a bus destined for Dushanbe, the capital city of Tajikistan. And boy, was that an abrupt transition, a genuine shock to the system. After nearly a week immersed in the arid beauty of open desert landscapes and the medieval charm of ancient walled cities with their sun-baked mud bricks, we suddenly found ourselves thrust into a gleaming 21st-century metropolis.
Dushanbe presented itself as a city of wide boulevards, modern high-rise buildings reaching for the sky, meticulously manicured green spaces, and serene artificial lakes that shimmered in the sunlight. It was a striking contrast, a testament to Tajikistan’s own unique path of development. Here, we were treated to what were undoubtedly our swankiest digs of the entire trip.
I’ll always remember the Rumi Hotel in Dushanbe with particular fondness, not just for its incredibly epic shower with its invigorating water pressure, nor for its seemingly endless breakfast feast that catered to every conceivable taste, but especially for the delightful and utterly unexpected fact that it remains the only hotel I’ve ever encountered anywhere on planet Earth that offers a complimentary laundry service (up to five pieces per guest). After days of dusty travel, this small luxury felt like manna from heaven.
Yet, this brief interlude of pampering and urban sophistication was destined to be short-lived. The very next day, we faced the rather daunting and exhilarating prospect of crossing the mighty Pamir Mountains. Located at the western extremity of the same colossal massif that bestows upon our planet the towering Himalayas and the rugged Hindu Kush, the Pamirs are a range of breathtaking scale and grandeur, harboring some of the world’s highest peaks, many soaring to altitudes over 25,000 feet – that’s nearly twice the height of California’s tallest mountain, Mount Whitney. The air here is thin, the landscapes raw and untamed. The Fan Mountains, a specific range within the Pamirs, are particularly renowned for their dramatic beauty and challenging treks.
One of the main arteries, if you can call it that, through these formidable highlands is Highway M41, often referred to as the Pamir Highway, a narrow, twisting roadway that is as legendary as it is perilous. It’s a route frequently plagued by rockfalls thundering down from precipitous slopes, sudden avalanches sweeping across the road, dangerous landslides that can block passage for days, and a host of other natural dangers that make any journey along it an unpredictable adventure. Our first stretch of this iconic highway took us alongside the gorgeous, tumbling Varzob River, its whitewater rapids carving a dynamic path through a valley flanked by thick, verdant forest and flower-filled alpine meadows, a startling splash of vibrant life against the starker mountain backdrop. The stunning scenery was a constant companion.
Then came a series of seemingly endless, gut-wrenching switchbacks that lifted us higher and higher, the engine of our vehicle straining as we ascended towards the notorious Anzob Tunnel. This roughly three-mile-long underground passage, burrowed deep within the mountains, is described by Atlas Obscura with characteristic understatement as “dark, damp, perilous” and is known chillingly by locals as the “Tunnel of Death” due to its poor ventilation, lack of lighting, and often flooded conditions.
The payoff from the unsettling darkness was awaiting us on the other side was nothing short of spectacular: the view from the windswept, 11,000-foot Anzob Pass. It was a panoramic vista of jagged, razor-edged peaks, their colossal forms still draped in cascading waterfalls and lingering patches of snow, even in the height of midsummer. It was a truly humbling sight, nature at its most raw and majestic. This leg of the journey was certainly a bumpy ride, but the rewards were immeasurable.
By the following day, after navigating more challenging mountain roads and witnessing more awe-inspiring landscapes, we had successfully made another border crossing and found ourselves in Kyrgyzstan, overnighting in the ancient city of Osh. Strategically located at a crossroads of trade routes, Osh has a history stretching back over 3,000 years. Back in the heyday of the Silk Road, the area’s renowned silk production played a significant role in helping to give that legendary network its famous name.
The mulberry bushes that fed the silkworms and the intricate knowledge of sericulture are largely long gone now, relics of a bygone economic era, and sadly, there is little tangible evidence left of ancient Osh for the casual visitor to see. Instead, the town’s most prominent and somewhat incongruous leading landmark is a colossal, 90-foot-high statue of Lenin, one of the very few monumental depictions of the Soviet leader I saw throughout our entire journey across the 5-Stans. It stands as a stark reminder of a more recent layer of the region’s complex history. We found simple but clean accommodation in a local guest house, where our hosts shared stories about local life and the changes they’d witnessed.
After disembarking in Termez and taking the obligatory, slightly surreal selfies in front of a rather stark barbed-wire fence that clearly marked the boundary between Uzbekistan and Afghanistan – a potent reminder of the region’s complex geopolitical realities – we boarded a bus destined for Dushanbe, the capital city of Tajikistan. And boy, was that an abrupt transition, a genuine shock to the system.
After nearly a week immersed in the arid beauty of open desert landscapes and the medieval charm of ancient walled cities with their sun-baked mud bricks, we suddenly found ourselves thrust into a gleaming 21st-century metropolis.
Dushanbe presented itself as a city of wide boulevards, modern high-rise buildings reaching for the sky, meticulously manicured green spaces, and serene artificial lakes that shimmered in the sunlight. It was a striking contrast, a testament to Tajikistan’s own unique path of development.
Here, we were treated to what were undoubtedly our swankiest digs of the entire trip. I’ll always remember the Rumi Hotel in Dushanbe with particular fondness, not just for its incredibly epic shower with its invigorating water pressure, nor for its seemingly endless breakfast feast that catered to every conceivable taste, but especially for the delightful and utterly unexpected fact that it remains the only hotel I’ve ever encountered anywhere on planet Earth that offers a complimentary laundry service (up to five pieces per guest). After days of dusty travel, this small luxury felt like manna from heaven.
Yet, this brief interlude of pampering and urban sophistication was destined to be short-lived. The very next day, we faced the rather daunting and exhilarating prospect of crossing the mighty Pamir Mountains. Located at the western extremity of the same colossal massif that bestows upon our planet the towering Himalayas and the rugged Hindu Kush, the Pamirs are a range of breathtaking scale and grandeur, harboring some of the world’s highest peaks, many soaring to altitudes over 25,000 feet – that’s nearly twice the height of California’s tallest mountain, Mount Whitney. The air here is thin, the landscapes raw and untamed. The Fan Mountains, a specific range within the Pamirs, are particularly renowned for their dramatic beauty and challenging treks.
One of the main arteries, if you can call it that, through these formidable highlands is Highway M41, often referred to as the Pamir Highway, a narrow, twisting roadway that is as legendary as it is perilous. It’s a route frequently plagued by rockfalls thundering down from precipitous slopes, sudden avalanches sweeping across the road, dangerous landslides that can block passage for days, and a host of other natural dangers that make any journey along it an unpredictable adventure.
Our first stretch of this iconic highway took us alongside the gorgeous, tumbling Varzob River, its whitewater rapids carving a dynamic path through a valley flanked by thick, verdant forest and flower-filled alpine meadows, a startling splash of vibrant life against the starker mountain backdrop. The stunning scenery was a constant companion.
Then came a series of seemingly endless, gut-wrenching switchbacks that lifted us higher and higher, the engine of our vehicle straining as we ascended towards the notorious Anzob Tunnel. This roughly three-mile-long underground passage, burrowed deep within the mountains, is described by Atlas Obscura with characteristic understatement as “dark, damp, perilous” and is known chillingly by locals as the “Tunnel of Death” due to its poor ventilation, lack of lighting, and often flooded conditions.
Emerging from its unsettling darkness felt like a rebirth. The payoff, however, awaiting us on the other side was nothing short of spectacular: the view from the windswept, 11,000-foot Anzob Pass. It was a panoramic vista of jagged, razor-edged peaks, their colossal forms still draped in cascading waterfalls and lingering patches of snow, even in the height of midsummer. It was a truly humbling sight, nature at its most raw and majestic. This leg of the journey was certainly a bumpy ride, but the rewards were immeasurable.
By the following day, after navigating more challenging mountain roads and witnessing more awe-inspiring landscapes, we had successfully made another border crossing and found ourselves in Kyrgyzstan, overnighting in the ancient city of Osh. Strategically located at a crossroads of trade routes, Osh has a history stretching back over 3,000 years. Back in the heyday of the Silk Road, the area’s renowned silk production played a significant role in helping to give that legendary network its famous name.
The mulberry bushes that fed the silkworms and the intricate knowledge of sericulture are largely long gone now, relics of a bygone economic era, and sadly, there is little tangible evidence left of ancient Osh for the casual visitor to see. Instead, the town’s most prominent and somewhat incongruous leading landmark is a colossal, 90-foot-high statue of Lenin, one of the very few monumental depictions of the Soviet leader I saw throughout our entire journey across the 5-Stans. It stands as a stark reminder of a more recent layer of the region’s complex history. We found simple but clean accommodation in a local guest house, where our hosts shared stories about local life and the changes they’d witnessed.
Real Life Nomadland
Waving a somewhat bemused do svidaniya (goodbye) to the rather stern, bygone Bolshevik leader whose giant statue dominated a prominent square in Osh, we hit the road again, embarking on what would prove to be the longest single drive of our entire epic trip – a grueling, yet utterly rewarding, 16-hour journey up and over the majestic Tien Shan mountains towards Bishkek, the country’s capital.
The Tien Shan, or “Celestial Mountains,” stretch for an impressive 1,500 miles, arcing from Western China all the way across the length of Kyrgyzstan. While they aren’t quite as high and dramatically mighty as the Pamirs we had recently traversed, they possess a different kind of allure, proving far more fascinating from a human and cultural perspective, for these are the lands of true nomads.
Away from the scattered towns and settlements, the vast, rolling landscapes of the Tien Shan are primarily populated by these nomadic and semi-nomadic pastoralists. These aren’t the romanticized, van-dwelling digital nomads of the modern Western world, but the real deal – communities who continue a way of life that has endured for millennia. They live in surprisingly comfy and ingeniously designed traditional yurts (called ‘boz ui’ in Kyrgyz), their felt-covered, circular dwellings dotting the verdant hillsides like scattered mushrooms.
Their lives revolve around tending to their free-ranging herds of horses, sheep, and sometimes yaks, these hardy animals forming the backbone of their existence. These migratory people live intrinsically off the land, their rhythms dictated by the seasons and the needs of their livestock, much as their ancestors have done for thousands of years. That is, of course, with a few pragmatic “mod cons” integrated into their traditional existence.
You’ll often see sturdy mini pickup trucks parked beside a yurt, used for hauling supplies or navigating tougher terrain, and strategically placed roadside stalls where enterprising families sell local delicacies like kumis (a tangy, slightly alcoholic beverage made from fermented mare’s milk) and qurt (hard, salty cheese balls, also typically made from mare’s milk, designed for preservation). Horse milk, I discovered, is definitely an acquired taste, its unique flavor profile quite unlike anything I’d encountered before.
But, as I had pleasantly discovered the night before in Osh during a convivial evening with some fellow travelers, the qurt cheese balls aren’t at all bad, especially when paired with a cold beer, their saltiness complementing the brew rather well. We even stopped for a delightful picnic lunch amidst this stunning scenery, the simplicity of the meal elevated by the grandeur of our surroundings.
It was an unbelievably gorgeous countryside that unfolded before us as we drove deeper into the Tien Shan mountains. Imagine vast, rolling green meadows, liberally scattered with these picturesque yurts, smoke curling lazily from their central openings. Herds of horses grazed peacefully on the lush, nutrient-rich grass or drank deeply from small, crystal-clear ponds and streams that perfectly reflected the jagged, snow capped mountains looming majestically behind them.
This breathtaking vista, I imagined with a sense of profound connection to the past, must have painted a scene remarkably similar to what greeted Marco Polo and countless other Silk Road travelers as they journeyed through this very region so long, long ago – if, of course, you mentally edit out the occasional pickup truck and power line. The essence of the local life here felt timeless, deeply intertwined with the land and its ancient rhythms. The Ala Too mountains, a specific range within the Tien Shan, were particularly spectacular, their peaks forming a dramatic backdrop to our journey.
Bishkek, the Kyrgyz capital, when we finally arrived, had the most overtly Soviet feel of any city we encountered along our entire route through the Stans. This is largely because Bishkek wasn’t founded until the mid-19th century, relatively shortly before the Kremlin’s imperial ambitions led to the conquest of the region. As a result, much of its core architecture is heavily Russian-influenced.
You can see this in the Tsarist-style city hall, with its classical facade, and in the massive, somewhat imposing Stalinist-style White House, where the president of Kyrgyzstan resides and conducts state affairs. Dominating the city’s main central square, Ala Too Square, for decades was a very large Lenin statue.
However, after Kyrgyzstan gained its independence following the collapse of the Soviet Union, this iconic statue was carefully moved to a somewhat more obscure location, tucked away behind the State History Museum (itself a fascinating repository of Kyrgyz heritage, also known as the National History Museum), where it now overlooks an old, star-shaped Soviet monument filled with vibrant red flowers. We spent a pleasant free afternoon exploring Oak Park, a leafy green oasis in the city center, and admiring the various sculptures and monuments, feeling the pulse of this intriguing Central Asian hub.
Another relatively short drive, one last, remarkably straightforward border crossing, and we were perceptibly back in what felt like the modern, globalized world. Suddenly, we found ourselves cruising down a modern, multi-lane freeway, a stark contrast to the often rugged and unpredictable roads we had become accustomed to. Our destination was Almaty, Kazakhstan’s largest city and its vibrant commercial and cultural heart. It was also to be our final destination before reluctantly catching our flights home.
Almaty, clearly boosted by significant oil money and the presence of a noticeable oligarchy, presented a flashy, energetic face to the world. It boasts a sleek, efficient metro system, Parisian-style luxury boutiques showcasing the latest international fashion brands, and more gleaming steel-and-glass skyscrapers than I could possibly count, their modern forms reshaping the city’s skyline. The city felt dynamic, ambitious, and forward-looking; a true largest city in every sense. For a period, it was also the former capital before Astana (now Nur-Sultan) took that title, but Almaty undeniably retains its cultural and economic dominance.
We took a half day tour to see some of the notable sites, including the impressive Republic Square and the serene beauty of Panfilov Park, where we made sure to visit Panfilov Park’s Zenkov Cathedral, an entirely wooden structure built without nails. The Central State Museum also offered deep insights into Kazakh history and culture.
Yet, despite its embrace of modernity and its evident prosperity, Almaty hasn’t entirely lost touch with its deep nomadic past. Instead, it has ingeniously found ways to update and integrate its heritage into the 21st century. This was evident in its new, world-class art museums and innovative cultural centers, which often showcased contemporary interpretations of traditional themes. High fashion boutiques featured designs inspired by long-ago styles and traditional materials, reinterpreting nomadic aesthetics for a modern clientele. And then there was something I especially enjoyed and found particularly fascinating – the emergence of Neo-Nomad cuisine.
This culinary movement artfully blends modern cooking techniques and sophisticated, artful presentation with the very same vintage, time-honored ingredients used by those throwback nomads I’d encountered in the highlands – horse meat, dairy products, hearty grains, and wild herbs.
The result was a dining experience that was both innovative and deeply rooted in tradition, a delicious testament to Almaty’s ability to honor its past while confidently striding into the future. Our free morning before preparing for departure dates and flight details was spent revisiting a favorite café, reflecting on the incredible diversity of experiences this epic trip through the 5 Stans Central Asia had offered. From the ancient Silk Road cities to the raw beauty of the mountains and the vibrant pulse of modern capitals, it had been an odyssey for the ages.
Getting There
Turkish Airlines flies daily between LAX and Istanbul, with onward connections to both Ashgabat and Almaty.
urkish Airlines offers daily flights between major international hubs like LAX and Istanbul, with convenient onward connections to both Ashgabat (Turkmenistan) and Almaty (Kazakhstan), making the bookends of this incredible journey easily accessible.
Getting Around
Lupine Travel offers guided 5-Stans journeys through Central Asia that range from two to three weeks.
Lupine Travel (the trip code for our specific itinerary was clearly marked on our documents) and other specialized adventure travel companies offer guided 5-Stans journeys through Central Asia.
These typically range from two to three weeks and can cover a wide array of significant sites and experiences, from exploring archaeological sites and historical museums to trekking in places like the Fan Mountains or visiting the southern shore of Issyk Kul Lake (though our route didn’t specifically include Issyk Kul, it’s a popular Kyrgyz destination often featured on longer itineraries, sometimes reached via the Fergana Valley or by detouring to the northern edge of the lake region).
Many tours offer options for an own room supplement if you prefer not to share. The adventure truly begins when you select your departure dates and commit to exploring this fascinating corner of the world.
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