6/09/2011 – 17/09/2011 Leh to Kaza – One of the highest mountain roads in the world
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The Indus valley, the bedrock of many civilizations and a river we had followed in Pakistan and now closer to the source in Ladakh, India was left behind for the last time. The rocky valley feeding into the Indus was tighter and more challenging to ride, but the area began to feel more remote and more as I had expected of this road. Dhabas (Indian restaurants) became more sparse, the only buildings tight sets of Tibetan houses with huge stacks of cut and dried grass sitting outside, animal feed for winter carefully collected in bundles for storage.
Huge slabs of dark rock erupted from the floor at sharp angles, further along Gompas sat up high on the rock outcrops. We camped next to a group of sheep herders who became the proud owners of my broken sleeping mat, having picked up a cheap Chinese imitation in Leh, in the morning they are busy vaccinating the animals against BSE as we pack up.
Tanglang La pass sat towering above us at 5300m, fully loaded this was going to be more tough than Khardung La (5358m) we’d completed without baggage a few days back. The first section wasn’t too tough, slight breathlessness above 4500m as the huge switchbacks winded up the mountain always obscuring the final summit marked by colourful prayer flags. Thoughts of relieving myself of the considerable library I’ve amassed and letting them fall to the valley floor did pass my mind, every kilo at this attitude is like lead weight, your body struggles to provide the muscles with the sufficient oxygen you need filling your body with lactic acid.
A huge sigh of relieve at the top, the climb was tougher than expected, most the day had been spent edging up, resting at the side of the road and taking in the scenery, it was a short windswept descent into a sparse high altitude plain, Morei Plains. A huge expanse of dusty red and lime green mountains, road building forcing drivers to forge their own paths across the mass, creating a dense tapestry of intertwined tracks. A remote area with no settlements except small encampments made from discarded tarp and old oil cans, occupied by Southern Indians and Nepalese road workers these groups live a hard life away from their families in challenging conditions working hard to turn the highway into one continuous strip of smooth tarmac.
After a short descent into Pang, a roadside village consisting of a double row of tent structures acting as restaurants and hotels all run by excited Ladakhi’s eager to secure your business, we begin to ascend through a rock theme park of spewing landforms, turrets and tunnels. This place has to be one of the strangest I’ve ever visited – a psychedelic wonderland, rock formations straight from Albert Hoffmann himself. As the sun set, the weather got colder and rain fell making the river crossings that much colder, on the way we met a couple of Indian cycle tourists who’d come from the south to spread their cycling for peace message, one told us excitedly that We must go to Malana! as you can roll your own hash. We made the summit in the dark and settled for a small patch to camp right at the top – 5000m, the highest I’ve ever camped, it was surprisingly comfortable considering how exposed you are this high, the only problem that the stove sometimes cut out.
At the top of Baralacha La pass the following day, a passing driver confirms that the track heading away from the road towards the horizon is a trekking trail to Chandra Tal, a high altitude lake and somewhere I was very interested in visiting. Having seen this route on the map, temptation for adventure - 7 days of wilderness without any proper villages obscured any issue we had of not having enough food and we begun the track full of adrenaline. The first obstacle, a huge expanse of boulders roughly 500m wide, an un-rideable river bed started the pragmatic wheels turning in the brain and we begun to question A). The feasibility of completing this route in a decent amount of time and B). Whether any of it was actually cyclable. We sat on the open plain flanked by rows of huge snow capped mountains on either side and decided that the route was only suitable if you had a horse, an unloaded bicycle or just a backpack and walking shoes. Slightly dejected we made the return journey back to the safety of the tarmac road, a route for another time.
After a week of hard riding, the desire to sit around and be lazy grew stronger but we were still a few days away from the first stop in Kaza. Feeling a little weary of mountain roads – despite how beautiful they are, it can be easy to slip into a non-plussed attitude about the surroundings especially when the beauty is there 24/7. The ideal solution would be to transport yourself into the heart of hectic Dehli for an afternoon I’m sure the desire to be in the mountains would quickly recharge. Unfortunately this isn’t possible, the next best thing however is a pannier full of cold crisp beers clinking away as you descend down the road to find camp in the cool heat of the setting sun.
Descending from Baralacha La the valley had shifted from stark rock to lush alpine, a thick aroma of pine emanating from everywhere. Tired and a little weary, the road difficult to cycle due to a high concentration of boulders leading up to Kunzum La, the entrance to the Spiti Valley. These stretches really test your patience, it requires a lot of concentration and physical exertion to ride the bike in such difficult circumstances especially when all you want to do is rest. Luckily we reached the base of the pass filled up on plates of Thali (Mixed curry plate) and started up the 20 switchbacks of decent track.
Spiti valley brought a fresh palate of colours, yellow from the numerous tree-planting initiatives there and newly built houses in Tibetan style with blue window frames. The valley felt more wealthy than previous places, the new construction, the lack of rubbish, people appeared to be well-nourished and the friendly mentality of the Ladakhi’s was firmly back. The ride past gompas and rock formations but all I could think about was having a day off in Kaza and how painfully slow to arrive it was. Finally we made it and got our permit to ride further in the valley out of the way. It was time to start munching mo-mos (Tibetan dumplings) and Chow mein to recoup some energy, the bike safely out of sight on the balcony.
24/08/2011 – 5/09/2011 – Srinagar to Leh – I cycled the line
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We leave Srinagar cycling around the lake, passing the early morning swimmers and boats with huge rotators clearing away the weeds from the surface. Traffic is ok but still quite heavy as we weave through small outlying villages, in one I get a bump from behind, the driver almost completely oblivious to the situation, apparently I shouldn’t be on the road, I’ve got two words for you my friend.
The rain pours down after a fantastic Wazwan (traditional Kashmiri cuisine) lunch for the remainder of the afternoons gradual climb. Hoping to find a roof to camp under our hint dropping to sleep in an abandoned barn doesn’t yield any results, but further down the road Mohammed offers a room in the front of his house and leaves us to cook on the windowsill. He routinely pops in with his two sons to sit watching us use the stoves, always a great source of interest to people.
Pine trees filled the valley as we climbed up towards the first pass, Zoija La. Nomads passed us followed by donkeys stacked high with hay and all their possessions, their hands out stretched, years of tourism have cemented the role of foreigners as a source of money and pens. On the rocky pass, the traffic and stress of the road to Srinagar slipped away, it felt so good to be alone amongst the mountains and nature with the cool mountain air replacing the heat of the lowlands. Up towards the top of the pass, we met Colin an Australian touring the Manali – Srinagar highway on a Molton, a vintage English folding bike with tyres unsuitable for the rocky deluged path leading down off the pass. He’d cycled from England to India as a young lad and had passed through Afghanistan in the 1980’s, im sure he’d have some great pictures.
Zoija La marks the entrance to the Ladakh valley, the dense pine of Kashmir left behind for a stark, tree-less valley of red and sand coloured rock. The light is phenomenal up here, nights are accompanied by a dense blanket of bright stars and mountains sit against a light blue sky populated by huge white plumes during the day. After passing through the Drass, apparently the 2nd coldest village in the world registering -60 celcius one winter, and Kargil we’d left the Muslim world behind for a new and unfamiliar landscape of white Tibetan houses, colourful prayer flags, Gompas (Buddhist monasteries) perched ontop of hills and smiling Ladakhi’s shouting “Joolay” (Hello) as you’d pedal past.
After almost 9 months and 10 countries dominated by Muslim culture it was a breath of fresh air to enter into a predominantly Buddhist area. Many Tibetan refugees live here amongst a population of Buddhist settlers who’d spread from Tibet when the border was open. The Chinese closed the border and prevent the descendants from returning to their homeland, its common to see huge panoramic posters of Lhasa (Tibetan capital) in shops and houses. Ladakhi’s have a calm and friendly aura, Buddhism focuses on meditation as the route to enlightenment and its obvious to see it’s effect. It’s easy to feel happy here, people are smiling and always welcoming, the bewildered stares of the Indian lowlands left behind in the smog. Mulbekh attached to the valley side, offered a great place to soak up some of the new environment. We visited a huge stone carving of the Buddha and wandered in the Gompa (Tibetan monastery) colourfully decorated with paintings of demons and their associated evils alongside enlightened beings. Bells chime out sporadically from around the villages, knocked at every rotation of the prayer wheel. Some people walk past and push the wooden wheels in an almost idle manner, others seem to be in a deeper and more reflective mindset as the walk around the wheel fiddling with prayer beads.
Another day another pass, Namika La the final mountain pass before getting to Leh the regions capital. Resting would come later however, at 6am the next morning we began ascending the Khardung La pass. 45km of uphill riding into high altitude. At first Leh was spread out beneath, a green blanket hugging the river valley but soon became a distant speck on the ground below flnaked by huge 6000m snowy peaks. After 5 hours of climbing we summated the “Worlds Highest Motorable Pass,” as the Indians like to claim but its actually 3rd or 4th as there are higher passes in Bolivia and Tibet, but a feat nonetheless and with little altitude sickness, the ride back down to Leh finished off a more active than usual rest day.
The rest of the time in Leh was spent eating pizza, drinking beer and all the other couch potato activities which provide a welcome balance to the stresses of bike travel. Ialso managed to get an infection in my ankle, the altitude prevents any wounds from healing properly and had to visit the hospital, which was surprisingly clean and efficient considering how the rest of the country is kept. After doctors orders of rest and antibiotics a trip on the bus to the sand dunes in Nubra Valley just north of Leh seemed like a happy compromise. Surrounded by high mountains the dunes cover a sizable area, camels slinking across the sand waves with excited Indian tourists whooping and cheering as they disappeared into the alien landscape.
Amritsar to Srinagar – HONK HONK
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Amritsar had been a great introduction to India, super curry, the serenity of the Golden palace, friendly people and an energetic street life but I was very ready to leave the hustle and bustle and head for the Himalayas for something more relaxed. The desire to get back on the bike escalated each day as I waited for a package of maps and a water filter to arrive, which it never did.
Finally I gave up on waiting and left the hectic city behind with 500kms of hopefully good road up to Srinagar in the heart of Kashmir where the Himalayas begin. I was joined by an American/French cyclist called Kevin for the first day, roads were congested and hot, lorries pumping out huge plums of smoke straight into your face whilst beeping their customised horns eager to let you know they’re going to come past within a few inches. A disappointing Dhaba (simple restaurant with huge pots of curry) for lunch and it wasn’t turning out to be a great day luckily we avoided the monsoon which battered the dingy hotel near the Pathankot Jammu turn off and I cooked a decent curry bringing the day to a more positive close.
In the morning I parted ways with Kevin as he was heading east to Dharamsala, the home of the Dalai Lama. A huge military convoy of trucks full of armed soldiers sat at the side of the road, this would become a normal, if quite unnerving, daily sight as the area I was beginning to enter is highly contested between India and Pakistan. Bloody wars have been fought between the two countries over Kashmir since Pakistan was annexed from India in 1947 and the tenuous line of control (border) decided by the UN in 1949 has done little to prevent 2 further wars over the region. One million Indian soldiers are posted along the border, however, despite tension the situation in the region is relatively stable at the moment, .
My attention turned towards the towering green mountains in the distance, the start of the Himalayas. I turned off the main road on to a shortcut and was treated to some remote hillside riding away from the stupid horns and thundering traffic, people instantly seemed more friendly and the sounds of birds in the trees provided welcome rest bite. I rejoined the main road but not in the place I had expected, the road marked incorrectly on the map I was about 40km off schedule, but the experience had shown that it was possible to find refuge in India and I was happy for that.
Finding a camp spot was tricky, people seemed to be everywhere and almost all the land used. A temple sat at the top of the hill and knowing they sometimes they offer a place to sleep I investigated. A young Indian couple greeted me and invited me to eat and stay in their house when I gestured to put my tent next to the temple. Curry was served within a more balanced home life than I‘d seen in a long time, the wife joking with her husband and not scurrying off as soon as something was served, it was refreshing to see a more equal relationship.
The road to Srinagar cut up through vast green valleys, over the 2000m Patnitop tourist attraction and through the Pir Panjal range via a 2km pitch black tunnel. The scenery was stunning yet the experience soured by a huge amount of traffic, lorries carrying supplies to remote regions and the relentless beeping that had now caused ear damage. I interacted with few people along the road, the only way to remain sane on these roads was to block out everything including the sound using ear plugs, we’re great. Searching for a place to sleep in a valley near Ramben the only option seemed to be a police checkpoint, I asked about the flat area next to their building and they said I should sleep inside due to wild tigers and monkeys. Here I met Tosif and an Indian Army officer eager to show me that the negative relationship depicted in the media between the Muslim population and predominantly Hindu army, was incorrect. Up towards Jalawhar tunnel I met an old man who wanted to join me on my trip, we joked that he should sit on my rear rack and I’d carry him.
The final day into Srinagar was a long one, thoroughly soul destroyed and at my wits end with traffic and noise, I made a beeline for the hippy hangout in its hey day. After 8 hours of cycling I arrived in a completely dead town, Srinagar has an unofficial curfew of 8pm so theres little life left on the street after that. The only shop I saw open was selling booze and I battled my way through the throngs, face up against the metal rails I ordered by beers and whiskey, people pushing from all directions, it felt like everything was on the verge of kicking off so I got out of there asap.
Srinagar is famed for the houseboats which rest majestically on Dal lake, huge wooden constructions moored in long lines creating a quasi village on the lake. The origins of the houseboats dates back to the British colonial times, unable to build on Kashmir land they took to the lake and built houseboats to skirt the laws. In the 60’s hippys from all over the world flocked there to chill out on the boats smoking some of the best hash on the planet. The conflicts between India and Pakistan combined with terrorist attacks put the area on the tourist black list but since the period of relative peace begun 5 years ago, tourists have begun to return and pretty much do what was done in the 60’s.
Srinagar was a mixed bag, where I stayed with Gohar, a young entrepreneur and all round good guy, the area was entirely wrapped in barbed wire, soldiers sat idly in gunner turrets and even the post office heavily militarised. But away from this part, around the lake and floating between the houseboats with only the sounds of the paddle cutting the water it felt serene,. The tense atmosphere created solely by the military’s presence was swept away as you peered into the ornate houseboats and watched tourists battling with the mosquitoes whilst trying to read a book on the veranda.
When I bumped into Tim, a Swedish cyclist I’d met in hostel in China, I didn’t need much convincing to leave Srinagar the next day and return for the package which was being held in Delhi customs. I spent the last night on a houseboat on Jhelum river drinking whiskey and teaching Tim how to roll and joint, in true 1960’s style.
Do the ‘Du – Kathmandu
So after a couple of fairly uneventful days i dragged myself and bike up the final ascent to Kathmandu. It certainly wasn’t as i had imagined it would be, for over 2 years i had daydreamed about this moment but contrary to my imagination there were no tears and unfortunately no best friend to share the jubilation, just a deep sense of achievement.
So many amazing things have happened in the past year and 3 months i’m glad to have shared them with you and would like to send out a big thankyou for all the people that have supported us and ICT.
The final updates will be posted on here imminently so stayed tuned.
Thats all from Kathmandu baby!
13/08 – 15/08 – Amritsar – Chandigarh – Oh monsoon, do your worst
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I was keen to get on the road, and excited about heading to Chandigarh. It wasnt long before i had negotiated the gridlocked rickshaw crowd negotiating the flooded streets and was heading out of the city. My first target was Hoshiarpur, off the main route to Chandigarh – i was duly rewarded with a quiet, well paved road with close tree cover providing ample shade from the relentless sun. It didnt stop my from burning though – i soon realised cycling in my new vest was not such a good idea.
Before long i was topping 100km – which was great as i had planned to cover the 250 km to Chandigarh in two days. I stopped around 125, which was just the other side of Hoshiarpur, and started looking for camp. I heard many stories about the challenges of camping in India – about the lack of privacy, and the difficulty of hiding away from curious onlookers. I had no trouble at all, and ducked off the main road down a track that was flanked by recently turned fields. I found a great spot of grass that ran between two of these fields, well hidden enough fromthe road and far enough from any serious vegetation so I wouldnt be too hassled by insects. There was a nice breeze and the ground was cool – it was perfect.
It wasnt long though before i was spotted, by the owner of the land. He came over and looked dumbfounded as to what i was doing. I gestured in my best hand-ish that I wanted to sleep here for one night, and he said in his best hand-ish that i could sleep in the temple for free. I told him i would rather camp, and he was cool, off he went. Result. I settled down to my first night, camping alone in India. Cooked up some curry, and had a blast.
It was hot in the night – too hot to put the topsheet on. I regretted this decision at around 3am, as the rain started in earnest. I got up and quickly covered my tent, and tucked into my dry spot, actually rather thankful that it was chucking it down – at least the temperature had dropped. The rain didnt ease up until gone 10am – I hid in my tent until then waiting for it to stop. It eased up just enough for me to pack up, only for it to start again, even stronger than before. I contended to cycle the next 25km almost blind in torrential rain. My bike computer gave up the ghost, but i was loving it. The fresh monsoon cooled my bones and cleaned my bike, and the feeling of overcoming such a hatred towards rain was really envigorating. Normally i hate rain, but in India, i love it.
It stopped around lunch time, and theheat turned up instantly. I got more sunburn (strange to get a drenching and sunburn in the same day) and had to stop several times for Mountain Dew breaks(slightly overdoing it on one occaision – three bottles) i reached Chandigarh before sundown and spent the remaining hours navigating its arrow straight and busy streets, desperately trying in vain to finda hotel in my price range where i could explore the city from. I duly failed, checking into a hotel on the edge of town for a hefty 500rupees a night (about $11 – outrage!) i got over it by getting the beers and the curry in.
10/08 – 13/08 – Amritsar and the final farewell
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So here we are, India, and the end of our ride together. For those of you who don’t know, this is where myself and Julian part ways.
Unfortunately the trip has taken a lot longer than expected (we originally planned to be in Kathmandu in mid July) and here we are mid August having just reached India. For me, this means i wont be going to Kathmandu – instead my road will end in Delhi.
I am mildly dissappointed that I won’t get to the final destination, but I’ve come to realise over the last year that its not about Kathmandu at all – its about everything in between. It was a shame we named the trip London to Kathmandu – its put pressure on us the whole way to make sure we will be there beforethe time runs out. Really it should have been called sometihng like ‘the big cycle’ or ‘UK to India’ (even though that has a destination in mind, its a bit more flexible) or we shouldnt have named it at all. Either way, my road ending in Delhi doesn’t make it for me any less of an experience.
Julian is continuining on, beyond Kathmandu. His plans from Amritsar are to head to Kashmir where he will avoid the worst of the monsoon, then to Nepal and Kathmandu. He will spend some time at the ICT project there doing volunteering work. Afterwards his plans are to head to south India, Goa, Kerala, and back up to Calcutta, before getting a flight possibly to Singapore, cycling up through central Asia andback into China, before heading to Japan and searching for a job in Tokyo.
So the trip has really blossomed and changed since we left. Amritsar we felt was a good time to part ways, allowing me three weeks to settle and come to terms with everything that has happened over the last year, and to prepare for the manic ride back into normality and study when i get back home. My plan is to head from Amritsar to Chandigarh, then on to Shimla, into the Himalayan foothills towards Rishikesh, where I will relax hard before heading down to Delhi and getting on a damn plane.
So we arrived in Amritsar, and had Julian’s birthday to celebrate. Fisrt things first, we headed to The Golden Temple, to get our bearings. This beautiful temple, is set amidst a huge marble ambulatory with a lake that is supposed to contain the sould ofthe seven gurus of Sikhism. Its a beautifully calm place, and incredibly welcoming – you must take off your shoes and cover your hair upon entering, and then you can sit, bathe in the water and enter the temple at your own free will. The amazingly reductive quality of the Sikh religion means eveyone is welcome. We as non Sikhs were allowed to go right into the golden temple, eat the free food that was provided at the kitchen, drink the water that was provided at each corner. Even sleep in the dorms if we wanted. You wouldnt find this in Islam.
The Sikhs are very photogenic – the elaborately coloured turbans dominate the skyline of the crowds that bustle in and out of the temple. Everyone must carry a knife, at all times, and the women dress in a wonderful array of deep, rich colours. There is live music from the temple that is pumped all around the complex, creating a very inviting, soothing and wonderful atmostphere. We would have stayed longer, if it wasnt the call for curry that was dominating our thoughts. We didnt have to venture far – we were tipped off about Punjabi Raosi around the corner, possibly the best curry of my life. So good in fact, that we ate there every day for three days. It was cheap, it was plentiful, and it was tasty beyond belief.
That evening we found a bar and drank a few cold Kingfisher blue’s to celebrate. We picked up a few for the road and even managed to score some hash – a rather dodgy deal (as always) that saw us actually buying quite a low – 1,000 rupeesbeing the minimum he would sell. We went back to the hotel with a big bag of weed, a big bag of beers, and saw the night off in style.
The next few days I stalled on leaving – instead using my time to scour the depths of Amritsar to find Julian a birthday present – I was looking for something – a blowup globe – a great idea from one Alastair Humphreys as an easily packable talking device about the trip to anyone he may encounter, aswell as a good toy to play with kids. Eventually i found one down the back alley of a back alley, in a shcool supplies shop. Julian was delighted. I was delighted. We saw the day off eating in the Temple kitchen and smoking a joint.
After yet another day of rest, i was ready to head on to Chandigarh. That morning i packed and Julian saw me off from the hotel. Our goodbye was a low key affair, neither of not wanting to make a big deal of it. I shall miss my brother of the road – its been the most amazing year of my life.
06/08 – 10/08 – Rawalpindi to Amritsar – too hot for cycling
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The night under the fan was a blessing – a full nights sleep, saw us ready to tackle the searing heat and the busy road to Lahore.
This was going to be a tough run – the heat had escalated to new heights of +40 degrees. The air was humid, the heat relentless, and the road teeming with agressive, lawless traffic. Luckily for us there was a hard shoulder, but it did little to offer us any protection from the Pakistanis brandishing their trucks and motorcycles, overtaking unawares of two little cyclists to their left. Trucks would hurtle past honking their horns, merely saying hello, but quite literally deafening us as they howled past. The motorbikers were worse, trying to initiate conversation while moving, often oblivious to their proximity to us aswell as the proximity of passing traffic – sometimes two or three at a time.
The heat really was too much to bare, and by lunch time all our energy had been zapped. We had to hide during lunch because of Ramazan, meant we often escaped to a nearby roof or hid behind a truck to eat in private. Sometimes though the need for a cold drink was to instant and i couldnt help but neck it then and there in the shop – much to the startled looks of those around me. I kept forgetting that it was Ramazan, and its offensive for me to be eating or drinking anything during the day. I tried hard to remember to ask before i did so, and everytime i did no one objected – people were even insistant at times that i did eat or drink – but it often slipped my mind.
During our various conversations with people on motorbikes, we increassingly met people who were from the UK, over in Pakistan on holiday to visit family. Its quite a bizarre thing to be in Pakistan and then hear a Brummy accent shout ‘alright mate!’ from behind you as he goes by on the back of a bike. One more memorable introduction was with a young guy who told me he was on the run from the police in Bradford for dealing smack. He boasted about how much money he used to make as a dealer, the prostitutes he used to bang in Picadilly (he even gave me a good reference – watch out Michelle) and the bags of drugs he used to carry around with him. I was unsure to believe him – though he did have two shiny gold front teeth and was driving a brand new motobike, and had a really heavy northern accent. Either way I entertained his story for a bit before he dissappeared, only to reappear again telling me Julian was behind me and I should wait. He invited me to stop and to buy me a cup of tea, which turned into three. Never would you trust someone in the UK who tells you he deals smack, but in Pakistan he buys you a cup of tea. Nuts.
That night was a particularly hot one. We were too far from the nearest town to stop into a hotel, so we stopped at a petrol station conveniently just as the scramble alarm/explosion was going off for breaking the fast, and we were promptly invited to a chow down of bhajis, apples and tadziki. They offered for us to put our tents in the car park of the petrol station, and we happily obliged. We didnt appreciate the warmth concrete stores until that night. It was an impossible sleep. I spent 5 hours between the shower, sleeping in my tent to avoid the insects, and sleeping outside to avoid the oven of my tent. The night patrol staff of the petrol station did what they could to help us, but they couldnt do much,not at least until the guy on shift at 3am woke up from under the giant fan, surrendered his charpoy to us and we got a couple of hours sleeping outside the door of the shop to the petrol station under the fans cooling breeze.
We werent going to make another mistake like that again, and every night to the border we stayed in hotels. Luckily, theyre so cheap in Pakistan, it wasnt such a problem. I never appreciated a rotary fan as much as i have in the last few days.
We stopped for the night in Gujrat, then pushed for Lahore. The road into Lahore was insane. We arrived on the outskirts of the city as night fell, meaning we had to undertake the mammoth task of finding our way into the city in the dark. Of course, no street lights, manic driving, a loss of the hard shoulder, and recent flooding on the road made for a wild ride. Many people were casually cycling along the highway with no lights, as if it was no bother – they were even more insane than we were. We eventually got into the middle of town and found a cheap bed and crashed out under the fan.
The next day was the last in Pakistan, or so we thought. The border is only 30km away, and we were planning to see the closing ceremony that started at 430,so we had loads of time. We spent it drinking mango smoothies behind a curtain (its still Ramazan) and using the internet, just to let people know we didn’t die in Pakistan. We head out to the border around 2pm, being glued to the computers reading about the riots in London. We get to the border only to find that they have closed the actual gates in time for the ceremony, meaning we can only cross tomorrow. Disaster. We wanted to be in Amritsar tonight to celebrate Julian’s birthday. We were not happy, but there was nothing we could do. We checked into the PTDC hotel at the border, pleading with them to let us camp for free inthe grounds as we literally had spent all our rupees. They very kindly agreed, and we went to go and watch the ceremony from the Pakistani side.
For anyone who’s seen Michael Palin’s account of the ceremony, or been there themselves, they know what its about. Its quite a pompous and rather ludicrous affair. Theres two big gates, one Pakistani and one Indian. There are grandstands on both sides – The Pakistani side was mildly populated whereas the Indian side was rammed. Two guys come out to get the crowd going, swinging sticks and shouting. Theres a bizarre competition between two men over the loudspeakers – to who can hold the longest ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH’ The Pakistani’s always win, much to the rapture of the crowd. Then the soldiers come out, doing a rediculously over zealous march with heavy stamping – their legs literally go as high as their heads as they try to outstamp eachother over the fence. Theres a rallying cry and the soldiers gnash their teeth like animals at the opposition, clenching their fists and beating their chests, doing it all while holding Ak47’s. Every now and again they open the gate, flamboyantly march upto eachother, shake hands while looking eachother dead in the eye, then march back to the ranks, feet over head, again to the rapture of the crowd. It all culminates in who can pull down their respective flag the fastest, again the Pakistani’s winning outright. There’s a big salute, joyous shouts of PAKISTAN! PAKISTAN! Then everyone goes home.
We get spotted by the crowd and people rush over to take pictures of the Gohre (whiteboys) we have to refuse offers to be driven back to Lahore to break the fast with various different characters before we duck into the safety of the PTDC hotel.
The hotel staff are lovely and accomodating, allowing us to cook on theporch and use the restuarant space to relax in away from the insects. Around 7pm the power goes, meaning the fans go, and we all start to roast in the night heat. An Afghani guest is concerned for us sleeping outside, and offers to pay for a room for us for the night. We politely refuse, but he insists – before we know it we’ve moved all our stuff inside and are sweating in the comfort of a room as opposed to the mosquito ridden discomfort of the garden. We received unbelivable generosity from this gentleman – I was surprised to receive so much warmth from a man who’s country is so ravaged by war, in which we are involved. He was going to India to inquire about treatment for his son who was badly burned all across his face and body in a bomb blast. He didnt mention anything about the war. All he said was that we are all gods people, and we shouldnt sleep outside. I was speechless with humble admiration.
That evening i had quite a deep chat with the cleaner. It turned out, despite his typically Pakistani appearance, that he was christian, living in Lahore. He asked me how many wives i had. He inquired about girlfirends – the meaning of which i think is quite different over here. He couldnt grasp the conept of a girlfriend in my terms – of casual love without the ceremony of marraige – to him girlfriend meant mistress or whore. He told me about his girlfriends – the women in Lahore who wouldnt let him touch them but would let him watch them – he considered these his girlfriends. I couldnt help but feel pity for him – it seemed he was trapped in a system where marraige is merely a function – your wife is there to bare your children, not for love or for any kind of physical relationship. He sounded trapped in a world where he wanted connection but had to pay for it and deceive his wife – he envied us for having what he saw as casual relationships that were not socially unacceptable.
The next morning we rose early after a sweaty night and made for the border. It was open this time, and before long we were riding off into India. We’ve made it – here we are. INDIA! The road to Amritsar was hot of course, but the promise of beer and more curry kept our pace up – our last cycling together, and a great way to celebrate – Julian’s birthday.
28/07/2011 – 05/08/2011 – Gilgit to Rawalpindi – Popping round to our old pal Bin Laden’s pl ace
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Before we left Gilgit I had to make a trip to the spice shop, after months of meat and bones floating in noodle soup the sensory overload of Pakistan left us resoundingly satisfied, in fact we’d sampled almost everything from the local restaurants menu, which even for 2 hungry cyclists was quite a feat.
The spice shop was full of re-used sunflower oil tins filled with tall sculpted pyramids of multicoloured powders. I asked for garam massala and was offered 3 varieties each with their own distinctive shade of red, “which is best?” I asked, pointing to a sack on the floor, I reached down and grabbed a handful, the smell was immense, all the different ingredients fresh and strong, it was still possible to see some of the ginger rind. I grabbed a small sack for a about 10 pence and left, wish I’d picked up more.
With the razor sharp teeth of the Karakoram mountains all around we continued following the Hunza river towards Chilas where the turn off for the Kaghan valley begins. Having heard a few scare stories about the KKH (Karakorum Highway) beyond Gilgit, “people no good” we’d heard a lot alongside stories of foreign cyclists getting hassle and worse, we made the decision to take an alternative route. The new route, however, would involve a 3000m climb from Chilas to Barbusar top, the map on Google showing a relentless stream of switchbacks creating quite a pattern on the screen.
On the route, a dusty rock strewn track occasionally enveloped in thick dust by elaborately decorated lorries passing, the Hunza river was met by the mighty Indus River. This water source and associated valley, stretching from the Indian/Tibet border into central Pakistan has been the bedrock of several civilizations. The same spot was also the meeting point of 3 of the highest mountain ranges in the world – The Karakoram’s, The Hindu Kush and the Himalayas.
Villages were full of kids, mostly boys, running alongside us in their different coloured shalwar kamiz each one different yet sharing the common thread of being caked in dust. Each one would shout “one pen” “One pen” with their hands out stretched, we didn’t give out any pens. One thing that was instantly noticeable in Pakistan was the complete lack of women in public environments, in this entirely male-dominated environment it was rare to see girls let alone women, all of them remaining in the house or fields making only completely necessary trips to shops.
The weather soured bringing small rock falls down the mountain and creating some sketchy do or die moments akin to ‘Raiders of the lost arc,’ where we’d have to speed past sections to avoid getting hit. We arrived in a small roadside village just before a deluge and took shelter crammed under a veg stall with some bemused teenagers. After 10 minutes an exuberant man had invited us to sit in his shed and have milk tea, slightly soaked we explained our story as the crowd towering above us as we sat on a bench grew. After some harmless conversation he dropped a bit of a bomb, “you know Taliban?” Shit I thought to myself, is this it? All the months of blasé attitude and now we were in deep shit in the middle of nowhere in fucking Pakistan. “Yes” we replied quickly glancing round, all the guys looked like they could easily have been on BBC News. “Good people” he replied glancing over to a quiet looking man in the 2nd row and with a completely straight face said “He’s a Taliban.” The guy did little other than offer a small indistinct smile, I felt incredibly uncomfortable, the situation didn’t feel threatening but it was obvious we both were thinking about getting out of there pretty sharpish. Getting up and stretching we made it clear it was time for us to pedal off, thanking them for the tea we got on our way feeling pretty unnerved.
Whether it was a joke or not we’ll never know but entering Chilas the usual interested stares became more sinister, it felt like people we’re eyeing us up. Kids started to throw things and give us hassle, adults doing little to stop it, it became difficult to tell who was friend and who was foe. Luckily some young guys on a scooter saw that we needed some help and shooed the kids away. Camping didn’t feel safe, I wanted to get to a police station as quickly as possible. We weaved through the pedestrian traffic, trying to keep a low profile with little success, after some wrong turns we got to the police station and breathed a sigh of relief when they greeted us happily and said we could stay there for the night without asking too many questions. We locked out belongings in an empty cell and set up camp on the patch of grass in the police station, talking sporadically with the more senior officers one of which had studied molecular biology at masters level.
Chilas seemed a lot more friendly after a good nights sleep, but the sun was roasting hot and the prospect of climbing all day up to the pass dripping in sweat not so great. We stopped for lunch outside a shop and were quickly offered the best seats, seeing our measly lunch of chapatti, tomato and cucumber, bowls of dhal and veg curry were whisked over free of charge. We devoured as much as we could with an amphitheatre of different age groups encircling us watching every mouthful. Climbing was tough, in some places kids would help push the bike up steep sections, sometimes with great success other times pushing the bike off balance and making it harder. Groups of men walked around proudly with shotguns and rifles, were they off to shoot animals?
As the sun was setting, we were no where near the top, nowhere near a hotel or police station and out of luck with camping as the area had few flat spaces left free. We tried to motion to stay in a mosque but no one spoke English an we had 2 or three words in Urdu. A few minutes later a huge white Toyota land cruiser pulled up with Islamabad number plates and out jumped 4 young Pakistanis in shorts and t shirts, a very uncommon sight here. Speaking perfect English we told them we needed somewhere to stay and they relayed the news that the next police station was 10kms up the road. They saw we probably would struggle to make that so fielded our problem to the surrounding audience, from which one man stepped forward and said we could stay at his house.
A room was cleared and sporadically serviced with food by the women of the house who would deliver trays or curries to the door without entering. Over dinner we were told that Ramadan was beginning in the next few days so no shops would be open and were also introduced to “No tension’ a hugely popular phrase in Pakistan designed to make people feel at ease. “No tension’ – Do what you like, my house is your house.
The road continued to climb the following day. We got some hassle from kids asking us what we were doing here and telling us we weren’t good people and we shouldn’t be here as we’re not Muslim but soon got rid of them. Begs the question of who is teaching them this stuff. The landscape was dotted with dirty canvas tents and kids, including girls without headscarves running amok. This area is where the nomadic ’Gujurs’ migrate to during the summer to graze their animals on the higher altitude pastures. Sash made the mistake of getting out a huge bag of sweets, the children toppling over each other to snatch their gift, his attempts to create order completely ignored and even the adults couldn’t resist diving in for their share.
We procrastinated numerous times on the ascent, tea stops, rainfall, police checkpoints all gave the perfect excuse not to exert ourselves, but when we did the climbing was tough. On one switch back, trying desperately to grab some air back into my lungs a 4×4 load of pristine shalwar kamiz’s came over to greet me, the English accent was immediately noticeable. “I’m from England” one man replied “Oh ye, where abouts?” “London” came the reply. “Whereabouts in London?” “East London?” “Where in East London?” we were quickly drawing in on the location, “Ilford” he replied. This man came from 10kms down the road from my house and we had met on the top of a remote mountainside pass in Pakistan. So when I told him we’d cycled from there his face was priceless.
We finally summited the pass in the afternoon, 2 full days of climbing and almost 3000m in altitude gain, the mountains which loomed over us 2 days before were now sitting beneath us. We celebrated the achievement and were invited to a house down in the valley. The slightly odd man with a heavily German English accent told us we could stay at his house 3kms down the road. 10kms later, pushing our bikes across a field past the small remaining holdings I started to wonder where the hell we could be heading. The houses he’d pointed to at the top of the pass were far behind us now and the light was starting to fade. “It’s just up here… I think” he said without much conviction, he didn’t really seem to know where he was going, raising alarm bells. So when we arrived at a fast flowing river with no sign of a bridge and he began taking off his shoes and rolling up his trouser legs, we asked with a bit more force “Where is this place?” “It’s just up here” came the lacklustre response. We waded through the river thigh high in the dark, Sasha decided the cavalier attitude was best wading in with his entire bike to the middle before falling over, soaking his clothes and testing his iPod’s underwater ability.
We arrived at a spot where four palettes sat on the grass covered by a piece of weathered polythene, “this is my house” he announced. I couldn’t help seeing the funny side of this situation, the guy had completely lied to us and now cold and wet there was no house. His brother appeared out of the darkness and I hoped he might shine some light on the situation, behind him I could just make out the outline of a stone structure but with no lights on it was difficult to see. After a few minutes the situation began to unfold, his 2 brothers, sisters and mother all lived in the house, he considerably older had to sleep outside in his make shift shelter.
We were invited in to the bare stone room just tall enough so that you had to hunch and sat huddled around the yak dung stove/ heater and watched the family make dinner. There was a good vibe and it was really great to sit in a room with a full Pakistani family, women included watching the interactions and nifty handwork to create chapattis. They obviously had very little so we offered up our veg which they reluctantly took in exchange for a hot plate of curry and bread. The place felt like a squat, in a good way, and it was enjoyable to see a family that had stuck together all their lives, no one had married out and it felt like they were all good friends.
One brother sat outside cloaked in a thick sheeps shall and an enormous automatic weapon “guarding” our tents and bikes. Whether its true or just imagined people fear ‘thieves’ all over Pakistan. The men I’d seen carrying guns the day before, for hunting I’d assumed, we’re hunting of sorts but not animals it would seem, rather their neighbours.
In the light of day the green valley stretched beneath us, water buffalo lumbered alongside the river we’d crossed the night before. Shorts were not suitable for breakfast we were told so we donned the shalwar kamiz in time to sit outside for tea and sweet chapatti’s, slowly two figures made their way towards us one a younger man carrying something on his back the other a stocky elderly man. Everyone jumped up to their feet when the two arrived and sincere welcomes offered to the elderly man, an important elder in the area and a descendant of the ’King of Chilas.’ We then walked through villages further in the valley, still dressed in shalwar kamiz pushing our heavy touring bikes much to the amusement of the hordes of kids encircling us. Again our hosts sense of direction wasn’t too great and we had to back track to the only river crossing, a rickety bridge perched above a raging river, with everyone eager to help push the bikes across the thin passage, I could see the whole lot being washed away, luckily we got across and continued on.
Now the real treat began, having climbed 3000m it was now time to shed it. The Kaghan valley was lush and green, full of tall pine trees producing a heady aroma, a super smooth asphalt road carried us round some of the sweetest bends known to man, it made you feel like Valentino Rossi. Bee boxes lined the road accompanied by thoroughly worn UNHCR tents left over from previous flooding that had destroyed the area only a few years ago.
Ramadan had begun but shops still seemed to be open, allowing us to buy food for the evenings, lunch however was more problematic as all restaurants were closed. We had to fill up on samosas and other deep fried pastries used in the ceremony of breaking fast at 7.15pm and then find a secret place to devour our illicit purchases out of the watchful (and longing) eye of everyone not allowed to eat or drink during the day. We came a cropper a few times, someone would inevitably find us eating and whilst most people understood that we probably weren’t muslims, some people didn’t understand why everyone wasn’t fasting. On a couple of occasions we slipped up and forgot, buying drinks and gulping them down, and were angrily confronted by wide-eyed men telling us we were bad, whoops. At 7.15pm each day the klaxon from the mosque sounds out and people can begin eating the samosas and fruit. Breaking fast wasn’t the giant gorge fest I had expected, people weren’t stuffing their faces faster than they could swallow but would take small bites obviously thinking about the importance of the period.
In a hectic Balakot the Kaghan valley with its cool fresh air and beautiful alpine scenery came to an abrupt end, we were back on the plains in the heat and the shit. A sweaty pass and endless up and down hill brought us into Mansehra at 7:00. City + rush hour + fasting muslims created a mental atmosphere, shop shutters thrown down to the ground in almost perfect unison, we found a hotel and sat in the serenity of the cool room. Accompanied by an eager afghan boxer we found some supper and watched the aftermath of breaking fast. It was a bit like being in a zombie movie, some people would be ambling around stuffed, the body overloaded with sustenance, others slumped on chairs in various stages of sleep or exhaustion. Not eating or dinking for over 16 hours and still trying to maintain some kind of normality must be a real feat, a true devotion to God.
The next morning we joined the chaotic main road which would lead us all the way to India. Dusty, dirty and busy it was unfortunately a world away from the valley we’d been in a few days back. Trucks beeping, people trying to initiate conversation at inconvenient times and the general hustle and bustle a higher population density brings would be the norm for the next few weeks. After a monster downpour left us stranded in a petrol station with some young evangelical muslims abhorred at our desire to fill our bellies at lunch time, we were losing valuable time.
And so we arrived in Abbottabad, a relatively unknown middle class city which until recently would have completely slipped under the radar, that was until Bin Laden was shot down in his house there. Keen to get as close as possible we found out the rough location and went about trying not to look too obvious, after a few wrong turns we were on the right track. I imagined the US special agents making their way possibly along the same very road armed with one of the most important missions of our time, the excitement was building. As we closed in, possibly no more than 20 meters from the front door a line of police stopped us and requested us to leave the area. It was close enough for us and we didn’t want to push our luck so left with a few snaps.
With limited camping we thought we’d try our luck and look a bit lost around the time of the eating klaxon, sure enough we secured a place to put our tents (in a graveyard) and got a platter of food to devour whilst setting up the tents. We were then invited into their house and enjoyed some great food whilst chatting about the their reaction to Bin Laden being found in their home town with a well-educated family. Just as we were about to retire the police show up and tells us we can’t camp because it isn’t safe enough from thieves, after numerous attempts to asure them, we’re loaded into a van with all the gear and driven back into Abbottabad to a hotel. The police paid for the hotel, nice chaps, and even offered us some drink (completely illegal in Pakistan) before they wandered off visibly a bit pissed.
With the KKH (Karakorum Highway) completely over we settled into the maelstrom with a great deal of unease. Feeling completely rinsed and still not recovered from the mammoth climb into the Kaghan we approached Islamabad and bypassed it completely arriving into Rawalpindi,, its sister city, on an 8 lane motorway filled with blacked out 4x4s emblazoned with “Terrorist squad” in big white letters, on top gunners sat, their faces completely covered by balaclavas.
£5,000 raised for ICT
A memorable day – we have just exceeded our target of raising £5,000 for The International Childcare Trustthanks very much to everyone who donated – its been a great experience raising money for this great charity.
for those of you that don’t know, I am back after finishing in Delhi on the 1st September. I am a student again and my bike is collecting dust in the cellar – seems like a lifetime ago that it was my sole road companion (including Julian of course!)
Julian however is still rolling – He has just come out of the Himalayas in Kashmir and is now in Nepal, heading towards the Nepalese ICT project to volunteer for a couple of months.
so, as he is still going, there’s still good reason to donate… he told me if we make £6,000 he’ll upload a picture of himself cycling naked…
you know what to do!
Sash x
Gilgit – CURRY!
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We checked into our 100rupees a night hotel (thats about 85pence) and went straight out to get some new clothes. Shalwar Kameez to be precise – a trip to Pakistan wouldnt be complete without a proper Pakistani suit.
We popped down to the local shop and bagged ourselves a couple of gems – second hand shalwar kameez made of the finest cotton. We rushed back to the hotel to try them on, then ventured out onto the streets to eat some curry. The looks we got were much the same – that of bewilderment – but im sure we received less, as the casual glancers had gleemed over us thinking we were just another Pakistani – result!
The people who talked to us complimented us on our ‘cool clothes’ and before long we didn’t feel so stupid anymore. The kameez it seems is not so much a religious dress of any sort – its just Pakistani culture, or even fashion. Safe to say though, they were quite sweaty, and it wasn’t long before i was peeling mine off my back in favour of a tshirt and shorts.
The curry we had was probably some the best food to date. It was so cheap – each dish was no more than a quid tops. We ate chicken Karahi, Lamb karahi, Dhaal, chappal kebab, endless djapati and mountains and mountains of Mountain Dew – the nectar of the gods and the favourite drink of Pakistan.
We had two nights in Gilgit, with little more on our agenda other than eating, sleeping, eating some more and deciding what route to take from Chilas. We had two options – stick to the KKH and head into Indus Kohistan – famous for its frosty reception and stone throwing kids – or climb up over the Barbusar pass from Chilas and head down the Kaghan Valley – a huge climb of 3,000m to the pass but the just reward of a beautiful green valley all the way down to Abbottabad – we chose the Kaghan.
