A photographer walks the roof of the world

Hindu Kush, Pamir, Karakoram, Tian Shan—these words, to me, are pure poetry, and when I pour over maps of Central Asia’s Wakhan Corridor, there on the edge of the Himalayan world, my mind starts racing.

This narrow strip of present-day Afghanistan is bordered by Pakistan, Tajikistan and China. It was conceived and drawn up at the end of the 19th century by faraway imperialists in St. Petersburg and London to separate Tsarist Russia from the British Empire. To them, the Wakhan Corridor was a wasteland. To me, it is an incredible land of light and beauty, populated by the Wakhi people in the lower valleys and a small, semi-nomadic community of Afghan Kyrgyz in the high-altitude plateaus.

I first walked from Pakistan into the Wakhan Corridor in the year 2000, a time when borders were porous. When I reached the Irshad border pass at 5,000 meters (over 16,000 feet), with one foot in Afghanistan and the other in Pakistan, I felt an absurd sense of freedom. I have been chasing that feeling ever since—over 20 expeditions and counting.

Outside, dwarfed on the trail, the massiveness of these mountains excites the imagination. I feel the agitation best at altitude, at the end of a long day carrying a heavy pack, on the way to a high pasture. At the edge of the meadow, where there are shrines of stones crowned with horns, and trees draped in colorful pieces of cloth, you sense the layers of belief that have passed through this part of the world. If you know how to look, they are all still here: echoes of nature worship, the fires of Zoroastrianism, the quiet devotion of Buddhism, and, more recently, Ismaili Islam. In this land, people still believe in the presence of fairies, too—supernatural beings created out of smokeless fire with names like the feared Birgooch, a creature with a hole where its stomach should be.

Even today, most of the Wakhan moves at walking speed, a tempo that matches something restless and unresolved in me. Most of my heroes—shepherds, pilgrims, foragers— travel on foot and the gradual pace of the Wakhan reshapes one’s perception and inner chemistry. The body adjusts first to the altitude and to the cold. The repetition of steps begins to level the mind. Physical exertion humbles you; then it liberates you.

Among these mountains, you will witness an abundance of good, honest hardship, and bitter cold, wind, isolation, and the warmth of mud houses … Inside, what you will remember are the quiet moments and kind gestures: a woman’s hand adjusting her veil through the smoke of the fire, a bowl of salty milk tea offered by your gracious host. As a photographer, I know that these beautiful moments are also fragile. Gazing too long can affect the picture I am desperate to take. I like walking on these eggshells.

Learning Wakhi, an endangered Pamiri language, played a crucial role as I fell deeply in love with the area. I didn’t formally “learn” Wakhi; it just happened over time on those long journeys. Speaking the language slowly changed everything. Laughter blossomed, lots of it. Having a shared language creates proximity and it is key in shaking off possible misunderstandings. It makes me a better photographer. My camera can be an intrusion, but mostly I am always responding, always answering, always being answered … We feel our cultural differences, but the language is essential in helping build bridges.

As a photographer, what keeps you coming back, beyond simply “telling the story”? Maybe you want to create beautiful pictures because then, perhaps, you are a bit beautiful too, right? You dig deeper for that feeling. It’s a good driving force. It might lead you to explore different photographic languages. You might even dare to try and write verses through your pictures. You forget about grammar, you play with the edges of composition. Success, failure. You pull that thread to see what comes out.

That’s one of the reason I keep coming back here. When the connection to a place is right and honest, you will return obsessively—because it has also become your place of poetry. Of course, with better roads and the arrival of mobile networks, some things have changed. But the ancestral knowledge is still here and that is what I am focusing on—because it is the part of Wakhi culture that will disappear first. Yet, to my eyes, it has an irreplaceable value.

Each visit becomes a dialogue, and also a mirror—one where you wipe the dust off your preconceived notions and you are changed by the kindness and hospitality here, changed by simply being present, being seen, being allowed to participate, being accepted. And this place, too, is changed by my presence. I see you … you see me. It is a type of dance, one of mutual recognition, a vibration between worlds. When I’m here, my heart beats harder. And so this relationship can’t stop—not for me, I think. It is love, simply love that calls me back, again and again.