Welcome to Bulunkul, Central Asia's Coldest Town

Nestled in the heart of Tajikistan’s Pamir Mountains, more than 12,000 feet (3,700 meters) above sea level, lies a small plateau where 45 houses line a road that abruptly finishes. Just 10 miles (16 kilometers) off the Pamir Highway, many travelers pass by without stopping. This is Bulunkul, home to 306 people and known as the coldest town in Central Asia. Temperatures here have plunged as low as -81°F (-63°C). Photographer Alex Pflaum recalls his time in Bulunkul.

Bulunkul has one school, one shop, and one medical station for emergencies. Though there are 45 houses, the village is, in reality, one large family. There is no electricity aside from a few aging car batteries and no running water. Aside from remnants of Soviet occupation, it feels as if time has bypassed this remote corner of the Pamir Mountains entirely.

In place of modern conveniences, the people of Bulunkul have mastered life through the yak. They drink its milk, churn its butter, and rely on its frozen dung as their only source of fuel. They eat its meat, wear its wool, and depend on it for survival. To them, the yak isn’t just an animal—it’s a way of life.

We initially planned only a brief visit to catch the sunset before continuing east to Murghab. But from the moment we arrived, I was captivated. Life thrived here, despite the remoteness. I wanted to connect, but there was an immediate challenge: a complete lack of shared language.

On our second afternoon, we sat in a circle with our host family, sipping yak’s milk tea, trying to communicate through gestures. Searching for common ground, I decided to take out my Polaroid camera. I snapped a photo of the youngest daughter and hid the developing picture in my hands, blowing on it as she peeked in curiosity. To her, it was magic.

When I finally handed her the image, she bolted around the corner and returned seconds later with two friends. Excitedly, she pointed at the picture, then at me, then back again. Within minutes, a small but polite queue had formed. Over the next 48 hours, I took 120 photographs—one for nearly every second person in Bulunkul.

Standing in what could be called the town center, families gathered quickly. At first, it was mostly children. One would receive a photo and immediately run to grab their best friend. Their joy was contagious, spreading through the village like wildfire. Soon, the adults joined in. Though their smiles were more reserved in front of the camera, once they held their portraits, they often reacted with the same delight as the children. Some told me it was the first photo they had ever seen of themselves. As a photographer, that might be the most powerful thing anyone has ever told me.