Breath Pamir 
People often ask me if I have new travel plans, if I intend to leave, where and when ... In fact, since the writing of this travel diary data in 2008 and 2009 of my book, I am already left twice, in east China and central Asia again at Tajikistan. This country is a marvel, an isolate from the world where the sublime and the most precarious living together. I give you today is an excerpt from my travel journal of the summer, and some photos to encourage you to get a closer look at this beautiful country.
16/07/10
villages spaced out gradually leaving the rough rock take precedence over human life, dominates the ocher green subsists only in scattered spots. Abandoned in some bushes sun pest. The road winds relentlessly, singing fa wrap around our ears by the languid hum of the engine. As we gain the Highlands Pamir, these mythical trays available only price of effort and patience, long hours of waiting, the dust gets in the cockpit, making the air less breathable. And suddenly, after a last gasp, the car crossed the pass. A small jump allows the vehicle to propel itself on the road beat-winded. Appear suddenly in the highlands, in all their desolation. The solitude of these areas consist of scattered stones, huge chunks of rock, swaying to and fro by a dark force, shakes my throat, like a hug too passionate. The stone belches from side to side as the burning sun of summer. The pale light revealed bright red in some sections of rock, much bloodletting in the steep sides of these massive and impressive natural sculptures. Unspeakable violence of the landscape where nothing seems to survive, and only some strange forces seem to animate, immerse myself in a daze, mingled with anxiety. What am I come, once again, look in these austere and rugged land, which carry all the loneliness and sorrow that man can endure in a few camps and a few villages. It seems that the men here are doing as an existence a form of penance. May the peace of the mountains is even more cruel than the frantic clamor of cities. Never zero environment, not even the Tibetan plateau, only seemed strangely alien and more hostile to humans. Men and women here have for them the time and silence, but they needed with fury at the expense of life. Here, days and nights succeeding without further ado, in an inextinguishable race without any activity not fill the time comes. Beyond a horizon so vast as to be imperceptible, the look is lost, because the borders on madness.
Murgab extends almost a valley green, a green that seems exuberant contrast to the dryness of these sites. This is not really a town as human density is low in this last bastion of humanity that people before the high Pamirs. Beyond white houses with tin roofs, some son of electrical tension close to the ground and the sinuous line of the road rushing into the mountains, the horizon is so vast and so sorry that it becomes elusive. He escapes. No eye can embrace it, nobody does it reflected echo, no smell does not emanate. It is absent to the senses. A line, the vacuum and a sea of rubble, a single road in fifteen hours in the Kyrgyz city of Osh side, the city of Khorog bordering Afghanistan Tajik side. Road that only a handful of cars now borrows, and is crossed from time to time by a truck bringing supplies necessary to the survival of Murgab. The successive summers cold winters burdened by antiquated light of the sun too high, the days are alike in an endless struggle against wind and dust. The unquenchable instinct for survival that drives people here can be seen in the faces of both disks et rieurs, souvent moqueur, parcourus pars des éclats de tendresse. Les chiens semblent eux aussi avoir été moulés dans la roche, tant leur fourrure hirsute, leur têtes belles et hideuses à la fois, renvoi à la dureté du milieu. On n’atterrît pas à Murgab, on ne vient pas à Murgab, on n’y passe rarement. Le plus souvent, on y nait et on y meurt. C’est pour cela sans doute que ce lieu si âpre et désolé, éloigné de tout et soumis à des conditions climatiques extrêmes, possède une âme qui transpire dans les sourires et les visages, et ce vent incessant qui balaie le décor. On se laisse séduire par ce petit coin du monde où l’eau does not flow from the tap, electricity is erratic, and where time is suspended, because it seems to linger a little, we would be able to stop the mad rush hours, minutes and seconds pace insidiously urban life. One begins to dream, so we did not arrive at Murgab by chance, that we came rather try to cure the illness of fleeting time.
The crowd massed, compact and dense, monochrome scarves from which emerge kalpak. The crowd moves and shakes to the beat of hoofs that beat the frantic pace of summer racing. Music echoes from a small stage placed at the heart of this vast open space, the extent of rubble and dust that is the playground. The sound of the zither dutar and spreads in warm air and bursts into the sky as small bubbles. Cramées and faces, wrinkled by the sun is exhausting warped into broad toothless smiles.
The rider on the little horse chestnut hair washed, it's me!
After 
