“You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.” – Mahatma Gandhi

Dushanbe, Tajikistan. June 2016

I can still remember the blank stare Anne and I gave the flashing monitor in Terminal 2 at the Dubai International Airport. Terminal 2 is not the fancy Emirates terminal in Dubai. Instead of flights to Paris, London, or Tokyo, there are flights to Baghdad, Addis Ababa, and Jaipur. Most of the airlines are local to the Gulf, originating in countries you’ve only seen on a map if you’ve heard of them at all. “What is Somon Air?” we said out loud, almost simultaneously. It’s a rare occasion I come across a capital city or airline name I don’t recognize, but Tajikistan has both.

In all my travels, I’d never come across anything about Tajikistan, but here we were, boarding a flight three hours northeast of Dubai into the heart of Central Asia bound for Dushanbe, its capital city. This is when I could focus the most – as my mind stopped darting around like lightning stuck in a bottle when I boarded a plane to a country I knew absolutely nothing about, where everything was new and my only goal was problem-solving the next five minutes.

The summer heat of Dubai is at its peak in July, and it has long stopped being fun or a novelty. All thoughts are on escaping to somewhere, anywhere cooler. Months of oppressive heat are already behind and months more are still ahead before it finally cools off toward the middle of October. The humidity hits like a punch in the face when you step outside, and the thick air soaks up the last of your energy before lunch rolls around. Anne and I had been dating for about a year and a half, and sitting in our small Dubai apartment, the warm tile floor covered in endless dust beneath our feet, blistering heat permeating the large sliding glass doors surrounding our living room, we began dreaming of escaping for the upcoming long weekend. A quick search while hovering over the kitchen counter and Tajikistan popped up. “Tajikistan?” I thought.

‘How am I going to sell this?’

“Tell me one interesting thing about Tajikistan, one thing we can do there, and I’m in.” Anne chimed from the bedroom half-jokingly, knowing I’d jump on the opportunity.

‘Challenge accepted.’

I’d typed “Where is Tajikistan?” before she could finish speaking. Bordering Afghanistan, China, Kyrgyzstan, and Uzbekistan, Tajikistan is known for its rugged mountains, if anything at all. Telling Anne that in addition, Tajikistan had the world’s largest flagpole didn’t quite sell it as quickly as I’d hoped, but there we were at the airport nonetheless.

Calling my travel style erratic was an understatement, and while the excitement of jumping into the complete unknown is how I’d come to best navigate the world, I was constantly nervous that Anne wouldn’t be able to tolerate it. But she hadn’t given up.

‘How on earth did I convince this beautiful French girl to travel the world with me?’

I like to think my unending American enthusiasm convinced her to take the chance - both on me and on many of our shared adventures – like chasing after a puppy through an ice cream shop at 30,000 feet in the air.

Stepping off the plane in the middle of the night in Dushanbe, we sleepily stumbled down the heavily air-conditioned empty corridor towards immigration. Blinking fluorescent tubes on the ceiling panels seemingly guiding our way. Long-since arrived and departed flights flashing names like Kam Air and Ural Airlines paired with cities like Almaty, Kabul or Chelyabinsk followed us as we walked. Little did we know I would find myself back in these dark, empty halls in less than 48 hours, held against my will.

Sighing with exhaustion, we were soon faced with the harsh reality that the airport had no ATMs and they didn’t take UAE dirham, the local currency in Dubai, at immigration.

‘You win this round, Travel Gods. Time to put some problem-solving skills to the test.’

Approaching a cracked plexiglass window, I interrupted the sleep of what seemed to be the only man working in the airport. Multiple layers of green and brown, some resembling an official military uniform, others hand-me-down sweaters, lined his thick frame. A faded gold watch band hugged his chubby wrist, dark black hairs covering the knuckles on each and every finger. A droopy mustache escaping the corners of his mouth, was all that was visible under the brim of his army-green beret. I imagined his stale breath reeking of cheap cigarettes and cheaper beer, but Tajikistan is a 98% Muslim country, so I wasn’t sure of anything other than that he probably hadn’t smiled since the Clinton Administration.

Holding my breath, I tapped the rickety window, which creaked enough to rouse the officer. Assuming we were local Tajiks returning home, he didn’t even bother looking up before reaching out his hand to accept our documents. Upon realizing we were actually tourists, he was utterly unfazed at our predicament and ushered us out of his sight until we had the right bills to pay for our entrance visa. Explaining through broken language and hand gestures that we didn’t, and couldn’t, manifest his local currency no matter how long we stood there, he stewed in his badly worn swiveling chair for what seemed like hours before begrudgingly pocketing the small bills we had on hand - a few Dirham, a folded dollar bill, a few Euro coins as well - the contents of whatever we could scrape up from the bottom of our backpacks after so many travels. “Very important - keep for exit.” he said, slapping the entry paper in our passports and sliding them back to me. It was 3 am, and the airport terminal was utterly deserted but we were in. Welcome to Tajikistan.

Met with a silent blanket of darkness covering the Arrivals terminal exit, no cars buzzed by and no locals shuffled about in the dark, only dim lights in the distance and a cool breeze passing through the dead of night. We paused for a moment, took a breath, looked at each other, closed our eyes, and smiled.

‘Ok…now what?’

Flashing a smile that was impossible not to return, with her streaking blond and brunette hair, an eclectic wardrobe only a European woman could pull off without looking disheveled, the glow of her golden Mediterranean tan escaping between layers of spandex, checkered scarfs, and an Adidas track jacked that would make Joseph’s technicolor dreamcoat blush, Anne’s eyes said it all, “You got us here, so this one is on you, buddy.”

Slowly, one of the dim lights in the distance crept closer. A sputtering exhaust came with it, and a dusty mustard hatchback with one working headlight approached us at the airport entrance. Unsure whether friend or foe, his warm smile confirmed my boyish optimism, and when he offered us a ride to our hotel, we didn’t bat an eye as he really was our only hope. Backpacks hastily thrown in the trunk, we bounced over the exit speed bump and sputtered down the main road into the sleeping city.

“Ha! Take that. Told ya it would work out!”

Passing dark, obscured government buildings along the way, I had no idea at that moment how close I’d get to ending up held in one of them in the coming days.

The two single beds pushed together were comfortable enough, and we sped through the last ten minutes of the sparse hotel breakfast the next morning - local sweet rolls, pourable tangy yogurts, and sliced cheeses. After all we’d been through just hours prior at the airport, our first mission was to find cash. None of our bank cards worked at any ATM we tried. The local machines took four-digit pins only, and our cards were six, so we failed every time. We only had a weekend to explore Tajikistan, and at this rate, we wouldn’t be able to do much, so we called our bank for help. “Tajikistan? Can you spell that? Do you mean Afghanistan?” the teller sheepishly responded.

‘Thanks for nothing.’

Abdul was young, energetic, and clearly had both his morning coffee and a great night’s sleep - two things any traveler hopes for in a front desk clerk. His eyes sparkled with kindness behind his large round glasses and pressed white collared shirt as we approached. “How can I help you sir?” he happily spat out, excited to speak English to us after overhearing our frustrated phone call with the bank. Explaining our cash conundrum, he motioned to a boy sitting by the hotel entrance. Abdul passed along the message in Tajik, and the boy waved for us to follow him out the door into a fast-approaching old model minivan with his friend inside. From one bank to the next, ATM to ATM, we had no luck. Local pop music blaring, Anne and I could only look at each other and smile. We were trusting Tajikistan to show us the way, led by the guidance of our new friend Abdul with the help of his two friends, who couldn’t have been more than 20. Finding, at last, a small, dilapidated Western Union in a rundown grocery store that was willing to sell us Tajik somoni, we finally had a wad of cash in our pocket –our golden ticket to exploring for the weekend.

Returning to the hotel, Abdul eagerly greeted us and was so excited that we were there simply to see Tajikistan that he took the day off work, jumped in the passenger seat with us, and planned an entire itinerary on the spot for us to see all we could around the capital city. He’d only ever welcomed rich Saudi businessmen looking to party or retired German hikers heading into the Fann Mountains to grow their sandal tans -never excited tourists just looking to discover his country, and he couldn’t contain his joy.

Hours after arriving at a cold and unwelcoming immigration terminal in the middle of the night, we sat grinning ear to ear as we sped down the road out of the city center with a new friend, to explore his country, his culture, his world. “Tajikistan is a Muslim country now” Abdul explained, “and although the majority religion is Islam, our national language is Farsi, and we use the Cyrillic alphabet.” A collage of cultures had evidently remained after the end of the Soviet rule - perhaps the most unique mix we’d ever come across.

Pulling off the paved highway onto a coffee-colored dusty road, we explored the ancient city and fort of Hisar, on the banks of the Khanaka river - a city dating back to Cyrus the Great, King of Persia, in 600 BC. Heading for the mountains, we swerved up stunning, winding roads that hugging -hugged the crystal clear river’s edge on our way up the Fann Mountain range. We passed by endless, sprawling summer homes dotting the valley, homes that held the stories and memories of countless generations – silent and unknown to us until this moment. Snow-capped peaks revealed themselves as we climbed higher. The river slowly faded away, man-made buildings vanished, and we were left with stunning views fading into infinity. As Robin Williams once said about Alaska, “It’s not the end of the world but you could see it from here.”

At Abdul’s signal, the driver pulled into a gravel patch on the side of the road. Awash with stones and rocks in every shade of gray, it was hard to see where the earth ended and the mountain behind began, as both sheltered in the shade from the hot summer sun. The empty lot was dotted with faded wooden boxes - white, yellow, blue, and green. An outdated Soviet trailer contained even more, stacked on top of each other, paint chipping away into the wind. Gravel crunching beneath our feet, a humble man with a shy smile approached. “Salom!” I waved, relying on my own smile to show our friendly intentions better than my weak attempt at speaking Tajik.

“This man is a bee farmer - the best in Tajikistan,” Abdul eagerly explained to us. This was his bee farm, his workshop, his office - not a roadside stand to sell his goods. He had no golden jars of honey on display and no Instagram handle, but he was more than happy to pry open one of the boxes, wave away the buzzing bees surrounding them, and proudly dip a thin wooden stick into the side, scraping the edges of the box and revealing its dripping treasure. It was the freshest honey we ever tasted –bee pollen served to us like fine caviar on a teaspoon. “The best for a strong heart, inflammation, and antioxidants.” Shaking hands and waving goodbye, Anne yelped and started dashing zig-zag across the gravel, swatting at her yoga pants. You can’t enjoy fresh honey without a bee sting… Anne was the last to laugh, but soon we were all giggling, and at that moment any language or cultural barrier completely evaporated - sharing an experience every child can relate to.

Winding our way back down the valley towards Dushanbe, our conversation returned to Tajikistan’s turbulent history. Clashing between Soviet rule and Islamic pressure from neighboring Afghanistan, the tensions culminated in a bloody civil war between 1992 and 1997. Over 1.2 million Tajiks were left displaced, and the country was left in absolute devastation, the economy in disarray, infrastructure demolished, and government services abandoned with most of the population subsiding on international handouts and aid.

“Afghanistan has a big problem with Islamic extremists.” Abdul continued. To combat this, Tajikistan introduced a highly controversial mandate to avoid the same fate within their borders - both beard and hijab (a Muslim woman’s headscarf) bans were forcibly imposed around the country, especially within Dushanbe. While the government denied that a ban was in place, police encounters on the street painted a very different picture. The women could continue to wear the traditional dress, the abaya, but black was no longer allowed, as it was deemed to be too extreme –only colorful abayas would be permitted, and there would be no hijab. The men could still grow short facial hair, but anything longer was no longer permitted - and completely cleanly shaven if you wanted a passport.

Traffic picked up on the outskirts of Dushanbe as we approached, and bouncing from stop light to stop light, we soaked in all we’d experienced - our thoughts enough to fill the air with no more need for conversation. Passing soviet monuments, towering Slavic structures, crumbling museums, and outdated city parks, we meandered through the city center. And we passed that famed flagpole, which Abdul proudly told us was “the second largest flagpole in the world!” only behind Saudi Arabia. “Ha!” Anne was quick to blurt out with a chuckle and a flash of her smile that I could never get enough of.

Our stomachs were growling, and the late afternoon sun was long across Rudaki Park as we pulled onto the curb and said goodbye to both Abdul and our trusty driver. We’d walk home from here we told them, doing what we do best; wandering aimlessly through an unknown city as evening fell. We never saw the French or American Embassies in Tajikistan that day, but we found the one other establishment you’ll find in any country on earth - an Irish pub.

Grabbing an outside table, flanked with local brews and a monumental platter of fire-roasted meats from who knows what, we were quick to make friends. Our adventurous day turned into a riotous evening filled with laughter and mostly nonverbal communication with the locals any traveler knows so well. A warm smile and a gung-ho attitude can go a long way when you’re far from home. Pausing from the action, I stepped into the bathroom and found myself face to face with poorly constructed topless cutouts of famous actresses glued to the wall above the urinal. The edges were peeled and picked at by someone wanting a souvenir, the good people of Public Pub quick to glue them back in place. The awkward tilted head of Mila Kunis staring back at me atop some other woman’s naked body. I was caught in the moment between pop culture pranks and the sordid history of this country fresh in my mind. The meat was overcooked, the weissbier was flat and watered down but to us, it tasted like champagne.

I couldn’t help but chuckle - what an adventure.

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There came a point in every weekend adventure Anne and I took from Dubai, usually around 7 pm on a Saturday, when we both acknowledged that our overnight flight was due to leave in a few hours, with work waiting for us hours after landing, and it was time to start heading to the airport. Fumbling around in our backpacks as we walked into the same terminal we’d emerged from 48 hours earlier, Anne was quick to throw her passport in one hand, arrival visa and paperwork in the other, but I wasn’t quite so lucky.

I found my passport easy enough, as it’s always in the same spot. But as I continued to fish in the middle pocket of my backpack, I could not locate the small inserted immigration paper that the hairy-knuckled officer had resentfully shoved in between the pages of my passport a few nights earlier. “Very important - keep for exit, ” his words echoed in my mind.

‘I’ll just let them know, they’ll see the stamp in my passport and understand.’

“I’ll be right back” I half muttered under my breath as I handed Anne my bag. Still flipping through my passport pages, I approached a gun-wielding security officer and with hand gestures, revealed my predicament, sure that a warm smile was all that was needed to remedy the situation. I’d been through passport controls in more countries than I could count, a necessary nuisance of travel that was never fun but never an event either. Swiping my passport out of my hand before I could offer it to him, he motioned for me to follow, and within a second, I was being escorted to the next building over, with Anne left standing alone in utter confusion.

Out the back door we went, across a dimly lit sidewalk, into a secondary building, and up a dark staircase to an endless hallway that reminded me of my grandparent’s basement. As stale cigarette smoke filled my nostrils and I tried to process what was happening, I glanced back and saw two additional guards following at a short but constant distance. It was all happening too quickly. The weissbier turned stale in my belly. My mind was electric but calm. One step at a time. I had to focus.

I have never seen a single lightbulb just hanging from a wire like the one above this guy’s desk, it looked like a cartoon. I had to blink to believe what my eyes were seeing after being whisked from the hall and into the middle office of the dark second floor. Whoever he was, he looked important, the same multi-layered green and brown military-style uniform I’d become familiar with at this airport but with one big difference - this officer was sporting a lot more metals, pins, and stripes, and he was not excited to see me. He wore a different hat than the other officers, pointy at different ends. The faded patches sewn to his forest green uniform lapels held high rank despite their age.

Placing his cigarette on the desk, burning tip dangling off the edge, thin trails of smoke racing to the dim light above, he motioned for me to look at his computer screen, an invitation to approach and stand shoulder to shoulder. An old Windows monitor, one any 90’s kid knows too well, displayed a crude translation website running Internet Explorer 95.

‘It’s 2016 man, time to update your system.’

I instantly didn’t take him as seriously as I should have because of his ancient tech –the same way I just can’t take police sirens in Europe seriously either, because they just sound too funny.

But my amusement was short-lived.

“You will stay here and go to Monday court.” the screen generated in English as he started typing. I instantly realized the gravity of the situation I thought was quite innocent just minutes prior. I started to worry that my birthright American enthusiasm would struggle to translate through a typing program. Usually, the golden retriever puppy when I travel, the hairs on my neck started to stand on end. Feeling like I may need to be more of a pitbull to get out of this one, I remained calm, my mind both racing and completely blank.

I spent countless lazy afternoons in college glued to my couch watching reruns of “Locked Up Abroad” fantasizing about being featured in an episode someday a thrilling story I was sure I’d have been able to wiggle out of and proudly regale to friends after returning home unscathed. The allure of a travel adventure was like no other in providing yet another detour to growing up and finding a career. Now, sitting here in a darkened and damp holding cell of a government office, I wanted absolutely no part of it. A hero’s journey this most definitely was not.

‘I bet you never experienced anything like this, Dad! But maybe that’s for the better…’

I tried to argue, to plead my case, but it was hopeless - any nuance was erased immediately in the poor translation on the dull monitor before us. Reaching down and patting my jeans, I felt my wallet in my front pocket. I pulled it out and slowly flipped it open on the cheap laminate desk. Fingers shaking, I spread out all the remaining Somoni bills I had so they peeked above the crease and were visible to everyone in the room while keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead. Proceeding to type further onto his yellow-stained keyboard, I nudged the wallet in his direction intending that he would understand it was meant to be a bribe.

I’ve coughed up my fair share of pay-offs while traveling, but for the most part, they felt like friendly kickbacks, a little thank you, and ways to open doors otherwise closed - nothing sinister. There was no escaping the reality of this one, however. It was a bribe plain and simple –and of a military police captain. My heart pounded at the thought of the repercussions if I misjudged, came on too strong, or not strong enough - and I couldn’t stop thinking of Anne caught in the crossfire. I’d seen those episodes of Locked Up Abroad spin out of control, one small mishap snowballing into establishing my new residency at the local jail, spending all my time learning Tajik.

My mind was a hollow shell as he stared at my meager offering while inhaling a thin, endless gulp of his cigarette and placing it down once again. Glancing at the officer who brought me in, he whispered a string of words as smoke escaped his lips with a smile like he was saying the punchline to a well-known joke. Everyone smiled but me.

Leaning down, he began typing again as I eagerly watched the computer screen translating each character in real-time - transfixed on the outcome. Words like “bear” or “tablecloth” would flash for a split second before settling into their rough translation, unable to predict his thoughts well enough. When he stopped, a grin filled his face like he was presenting a finished work of art to an adoring audience but I laughed out loud when I saw the translation of what he’d typed. His grin evaporated instantly.

I’ll never forget what I saw on that screen. And I’ll never forget my instant impulse to reach into my pocket and take a picture of it before immediately stopping myself from quite literally attempting to document a crime in a dimly lit room with a post-Soviet officer who was not my biggest fan.

‘This would make the dumbest episode of Locked Up Abroad yet…’

Because of how hard I was laughing inside while simultaneously panicking, as my mind raced to plot my next move, the words on that hazy, pixelated monitor were burned into my brain:

“You show me your pussy, I’ll show you mine.”

Obviously not exactly what he’d intended to say, but I understood well enough what he was suggesting…

What he didn’t know was that Anne and I were experts at travel efficiency, especially with seldom-used foreign currency, which meant our remaining cash was perfectly accounted for down to nearly the last note, save for the return taxi fare to the airport and the last pint. In that barely lit room, it was clear that the wadded-up low-value notes must have looked much more impressive than their actual value would have justified.

‘No turning back now, I’ve bribed a military police officer.’

I nodded and tried to exude an air of confidence in response to his subtle nod back, like a begrudging proud father who doesn’t know how to show love, with the last bit of cigarette smoke dancing in the light as it trailed up the wall to the single, hanging light bulb, straining to illuminate us both.

After an uncomfortably long pause, he took the entire crumpled contents of my wallet in a hurried fistful, including the $1 American bill and all the coins, and dialed the officer in Passport Control #4, to give him my details. It was only after he hung up that he realized the bills I had offered only amounted to pocket change, not even enough to buy himself tea at the end of his shift. Within an instant, I was being ushered out, frustrated words exchanged between all involved, a waste of everyone’s time, my heart racing with every second as I moved away from that little room, each step one closer to the light and to Anne. Back down the dark stairs, across the path to the airport terminal where Anne, was frantically waving my ‘lost’ arrival card in her hand as she saw me approaching.

Like the peanut butter to my jelly, she obviously knew exactly where to find that document if I’d have just given her a second, but I was too proud and flustered to lean on her for help, preferring to act stoic and smug, like I had it all figured out. The paper had been in my bag the entire time. She fished it out moments after I’d disappeared in utter confusion at how I’d vanished so fast. And she had lived her own silent hell during every minute I was gone, imagining the worst.

‘Was he arrested? Kidnapped? Disappeared?’

“I’ll explain everything on the plane” I whispered into her ear as I held her tight and moved us towards security. Approaching Passport Booth #4 as instructed, I could feel my chest tightening and my heart was pounding. This was the point in every episode of ‘Locked Up Abroad’ when something inevitably went wrong - but no matter how panicked I should have been, I felt strangely calm, because for once, I was fully focused on the present moment.

‘Thwap.’

The customs officer met my gaze with a pause that said it all as I hastily laid my passport on the counter. A loud smack of the departure stamp and I was through without a word exchanged. Sitting anxiously at the gate, my eyes darted at every movement in the terminal, sure that I would be detained again just out of principle. I felt like Ben Affleck at the end of Argo waiting for the plane to take off, my breath held until all wheels were off the ground, visions of angry immigration officers storming the plane and removing me for attempting the weakest bribe of all time.

“The things we do, love.” Anne said to me with a sigh under her breath, the plane wheels finally tucking closed beneath us as we lifted into the dark night air and headed for Afghan airspace. “The things we do.” I whispered back as I rested my head on various layers of her earth-toned scarf and smelled the familiar scent of her lotion that now felt like home.

‘I have to marry this girl.’

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I learned a lot on that trip. I learned about a country I knew nothing about, its history, culture, nature, and its second-largest flagpole. But I was also confronted with the reality that the way I’d taught myself to harness my own mind could be reckless and erratic and could lead me down pathways I didn’t intend - pathways I’d survived going down alone thus far, but pathways I couldn’t inflict on Anne going forward.

And I learned the value of knowing how to read people, whether trusting the local front desk clerk at a hotel in a city I had never been before, getting in his car and sharing a spontaneous day together exploring his home, or reading the situation, and body language, of a grumpy military officer who’d pulled the night shift. Travel heightens all of your senses, and while sight, smell, and taste are often thought of first, feeling and instinct are the senses most bound to save you on your adventures. For me, they became the bedrock for how I navigated the world, how I navigated my life. Learn to read them, to develop them, and to trust them beyond anything else. You never know when you may need to rely on them for your life.

Most importantly, I learned that ‘if you show them yours, they’ll show you theirs’. Abdul welcomed us with open arms, the smile on his face never decreasing as he proudly showed us his home, his country, his world. That is how I’ll always remember Tajikistan.

And I hope that crusty immigration officer thinks of me often and remembers the worst bribe of his life.

Embracing the unknown may be risky, but it has its own rewards. It’s the connection I seek, not the danger.