Murghab is, in one word, remote. The closest big city is in another country (Osh, Kyrgyzstan). The nearest Tajik town is, at the moment, besieged by the military in response to problems with the nearby Afghan border. The road to town was built by the Soviet Army in the 80’s, and doesn’t seem to have been maintained since then. My daily routine in town was to wake up late and walk to the bazaar to buy a watermelon, then head back to the guesthouse for 10 or 15 rounds of board games. That bazaar? Three parallel streets of old shipping crates that flood dramatically with even the lightest rain.

Why, then, are the people so friendly?

If there were anything to compare this town to in America, it would be those frightening parts of Appalachia or Arkansas where movies like Deliverance are set.

Instead, the people were open. Friendly. Lots of kids even asked us to take their photos. Of the people I had to ask myself, like this pair of old Kyrgyz dudes in traditional hats, I don’t remember a single person blowing me off or telling me no.

At one point, shopping in the market, Maki (my Japanese travel buddy through much of Central Asia) even ran into a friend of a friend. Between Maki’s phone and the lady’s memory for phone numbers, they called back to Japan so they could say hello. Oddly small world, no?

Murghab is more of a city that travelers go through rather than to, but those of us who get stuck there have yet another example to support the accepted wisdom that mountain people are the nicest in the world.