RIOTS AND CONVOYS IN PAKISTAN
The Iranian people’s fierce protests for more women’s rights and the regime’s heavy-handed repression, may cast a shadow over Iran today, but we cannot help but be particularly charmed by this mysterious country.
After more conservative cities like Qom and Zanjan, we arrived in Tehran, the largest and also the most liberal city of the country. Women were casually dangling their chador, illegal alcohol was for sale if you knew the right people, and as we strolled through the park the overwhelming smell of green cigarettes met us. The sole officer in charge of keeping the park “safe” stood by and watched. More than anything, Iranians just want to be able to do the same things we do in the West. And secretly they do. The young people party away at illegal pool parties, drink alcohol, flirt and enjoy their young lives. The rebellious nature of the Tehran people is a harsh reaction to the strict religious laws: the imaginary middle finger to the much-hated regime is everywhere. Until things go wrong, of course. Arash, a friend from Shiraz, was rewarded with 80 lashes for being caught with beer. “It wasn’t too bad after all,” so he said, “but now it’s time for the Ayatollahs to go and never come back.”
Pizza that any proud Italian would envy, delicious vegetarian dishes and the best kebab in town. After five months on the road, we felt we deserved it. And we sure did! A delicious coffee in the historic setting of an old pre-revolutionary brewery, could it be more ironic
Those few days in Tehran were a relief, but adventure called relentlessly. We gave our steel horses the spurs again and headed north toward the border region with Turkmenistan. Every single day endless dirt tracks brought us to some godforsaken village with incredibly hospitable people. Countless times we were stopped and invited to yet another dinner with an Iranian family or lined up for yet another photo with those two crazy travelers on bikes.
For hundreds of miles, we rode south through the desert on paved roads. We had distance to cover because our Iranian visa would soon expire, so we usually rode until sundown to find ourselves in places where the first tourist had yet to set foot, like the town of Ravar. A dodgy hotel that any western hygienic inspector would lock and seal in no time became our sleeping place for the night. Caroline and I were relaxing on the dirty bed after the long riding day, when all of a sudden we heard a loud knock on the door. It turned out to be two Iranians, dressed completely in black. “Police! Give me your passport and your visa!”. Wow, we didn’t see that one coming. “Eh, do you have some form of identification maybe?” That was not the case.
The obese wild-haired hotel owner in his undershirt was signaling that these were real cops, as if they were going to throw me in jail for every wrong word or move. I didn’t trust it though. What if this hotel owner was a member of some shady gang and had called two accomplices to kidnap me under the pretext of a police check. I told them to show their ID or I would go back into my room. We didn’t get more than a few pictures of one of the officers in uniform on his phone. The atmosphere became more grim and they insisted on taking me to the station. What was I supposed to do now? Stand my ground but risk being questioned all night with a flashlight in my face, or meekly go along, hoping these were real cops. Before I realized what was happening, I was pushed into a car and a mad rally ride ensued all the way to a building with flags on the facade. “You see sir, this is the police station.” As if I could even read the crazy Persian writing. But they had computers and a handful of uniformed jokers walking around, so it seemed all right.
“What’s your itinerary?”
“Well, we want to go through the Lut desert and head to Pakistan.”“No sir, that route is forbidden. The desert is full of bandits! You cannot take that route.”After half an hour of questioning and the inevitable round of selfies, the policemen drove me back to the hotel. But bloody hell, one of the highlights of Iran turned out to be forbidden. Except, a few days later, we took our chances. At 6:30 a.m. we were already on our bikes on our way to Shadad, the gateway to the Lut desert, hoping the checkpoint cops would still be half asleep. We sneaked through the first checkpoint where we saw the cop stepping outside as we were a hundred yards away already. Give it some more throttle, honey, we got through! Yes!
Dash-e-Lut, the Lut desert, holds the world record of the highest surface temperature ever recorded: 160°F! That day it was a rather mild 113°F, ideal for 250 km of desert fun through landscapes full of jagged rock formations, dazzling salt flats and, above all, sand. Caroline, motorcycles and sand may not be the best combo, but I took my Husky for a good spin in the sandbox and boy did I enjoy it!
THE HELL OF BALOCHISTAN
The border crossing from Iran to Pakistan was one we won’t easily forget. The formalities at the border were not that bad. It took about three hours before we were finally let into the Pakistani province of Balochistan after yet another round of questions. Balochistan borders Afghanistan and does not have the most impeccable reputation in terms of security, but we had weathered bigger storms than this; only some Pakistani bigwig had once decided that foreigners should be escorted at all times and are certainly not allowed on the streets alone. So, we slept in dirty police stations with horror sanitation and, as a premium, a great view on a cage full of prisoners.
Going outside? Forget about it! We were completely at the mercy of the police. Every move we made, a cop with a kalashnikov was next to us. Crossing Balochistan the proper way is done at best behind a Toyota Hilux worn to the bone, burning more oil than gas. The exhaust fumes just made us sick. About 30 times we had to change convoys and had to follow old bangers or a moped with two heavily armed 18-year-olds at a whopping speed of 25mph ... or a rundown Suzuki micro-car at 26mph.
Whereas we were initially supposed to be “free” in the city of Quetta after 650km, the lies kept piling up. “No sir, the escort is up to the Balochistan border,” only to continue at that particular border again until Islamabad, some 1,500 km in total.
Our frustrations ran high and there were heated discussions.
“If you don’t drive 60 mph, we won’t follow.”
“You have to follow, sir.”
“Wait and see!”
We opened the throttle and drove off, leaving the sluggish police escorts behind. At first, we still stopped at the checkpoints which - given their attempts to block the road - had clearly received phone calls from their colleagues. But when the umpteenth snail drove in front of us, we just gassed it.
They tried to confiscate our keys and withhold our passports, but that was beyond my boiling temper. In an unguarded moment I snatched the passports out of the cop’s hands, and we stood face to face: “You are keeping our passports? Over my dead body, sir.” There was pushing and shoving and the atmosphere was pretty grim, but we were really so fed up with this whole circus.
One cop tried to record a TikTok video promoting Pakistan:
“What did you think of Pakistan so far, sir?”
“We absolutely hate it! It’s the worst experience ever!”
“Oh, did you have a bad experience, sir?”, he asked still amazed. “You know what the bad experience is? You and you and you and you and all of these useless, inefficient and frustrating convoy cops around!”
I guess that clip didn’t actually make it to TikTok.
We finally worked our way through the next checkpoints without even stopping and left those crazy convoy cops behind. This frustrating circus lasted six full days, and we saw virtually nothing of Balochistan. Can anyone tell that bigwig what a complete waste of time this was?
It was after dark when we finally joined the snarling traffic of Islamabad, exhausted but unescorted. We thought we deserved a slightly better hotel this time, and that spicy dish of lentils in oil had to give way to a sumptuous McDonalds menu on the top floor of the far too posh shopping mall. We spent three days in Islamabad mentally recovering from our convoy horror story before heading north.
KKH
The Karakoram Highway is the 800 mile road that connects Islamabad to the 15400 ft high Khunjerab pass, in the very north of the country on the border with China. The KKH definitely belongs in the list of legendary motorcycle rides like Ruta 40 in Argentina, the Road of Bones in Siberia, the Carretera Austral in Chile and the Dempster Highway in Canada. The contrast with southern Pakistan could not be greater. Absolute freedom surrounded by jaw dropping landscapes. Endless wild rock formations and snow-capped peaks, some over 25000 ft high. Today the KKH is entirely paved but that doesn’t make the ride any less impressive. Due to the exceptionally heavy rains of the past few weeks, landslides had washed away entire sections of track. Giant boulders blocked much of the road and where there was once a guardrail, there was now nothing more than a pile of warped steel. Forgotten villages where time stood still were part of the scenery. Cannabis plants on every free plot of land indicated the production of Pakistan’s pride here: artisan hash. They enveloped the ride in a spicy fragrance. But above all, it was the grandeur of nature that was overwhelming.
No bike, let’s go hike!
Caroline had the genius idea to leave the bikes behind and spend a day hiking in Passu, a village of no more than 100 inhabitants surrounded by high peaks. The hike would be 10 miles long and we had arranged for a guide because the road could be “a little bit dangerous,” the hotel owner told us. His son would accompany us most personally. Admittedly, the trek was a bit tricky here and there with narrow paths, slippery surfaces, deep abysses and the occasional gap we had to jump over because the path had disappeared.
Our guide was already on his fourth joint (something he thought was the most normal thing in the world) when, after 9.5 miles, we came to a crossing that even I - for the record, I am the one without a fear of heights - didn’t fancy at all. High on hash and only 55kgs in weight, our guide wanted to lead us over a precipice ten ft wide and 1500 ft deep. “I will hold you, sir.” That wasn’t going the happen! Caroline was freaking out and started crying. She was so desperate. For a moment we thought we would walk the whole trip back, but we wouldn’t make it before dark. So our red eyed friend called the local rescue team. They would come and help us, with ropes and stuff, and a harness, so we would be safe.
Nine men showed up. One in his Sunday shiny shoes, another one in sandals and yet another one in flip flops. Except for a piece of rope, they had nothing. Like mountain goats they jumped over every crevasse and when their feet started sliding down, they just remained dead calm. These guys had grown up in the mountains and it showed. We grew up in “le plat pays”, which showed as well. I can still see myself standing on that sandy edge 4 inches wide above a 1500 ft deep abyss, supported by a motley crew whom I begged to please hold on to me. I must admit, in the more than 80 countries we have traveled on the bike, I have never been as close as this to literally shitting my pants. We finally made it through, but both Caroline and I haven’t stopped shaking for at least half a day; our egos took a hit, that much is sure. “I suggest we’ll just stick to the bikes for now honey…”
Today we are back in Islamabad. I just spent a whole day working at the airport to get our brand new Mitas tires through customs without paying import duties. It required some pushing and shoving and I finally ended up in the big customs chief’s office, but the effort was rewarded. Tomorrow we’ll mount them on the rims before leaving for India, the land of spicy food and crazy traffic, so we were told. Next up: India and Nepal.
Days on the road: 173
Distance covered: 14000 miles
Mood: Tired, nothing seems to go very smoothly since entering Pakistan
What did we miss the most: Finger resistant toilet paper
Biggest frustration: Pakistani police escorts
Best moment: Surviving the mountains
