PAKISTAN....tortuous climbs and the taliban

 As I approached the Indian Immigration building to officially leave Incredible India, I was shocked to see 5 hot female officers all dressed in tight-fitting army jumpsuits. What was going on, I’d seen only men since leaving Calcutta, and here was an Indian beauty pageant competition at the border! It seemed their only job was to hold the door open for me and give a good last impression of India. On entering the customs building, I walked over to the desk where the Border Police checked to make sure I had a Pakistani visa, had a good laugh at my “I love my India” baseball cap (which he strongly advised me to remove) and stamped an “Exit” stamp in my passport. The only other person at the border crossing, was an Ozzy on a motorbike, also coming overland from Australia. A police motorbike was waiting for us outside, which we followed past various official-looking buildings before ending up at the stadium where I watched the border closing ceremony the previous evening (see last India blog update). This time, you could hear a pin drop as I pedalled along the road that dissected the large grandstand towards the big metal gates that separated the two countries. A tall man with an impressive moustache dressed in full army attire opened the gates, the same man that had been marching up and down the packed stadium the night before working the crowd to a frenzy! I was officially in Pakistan.

The Pakistan immigration building made the India one look state of the art, and that's saying something! One officer attempted to multitask 2 enquiries at once, tapping away at a stone age computer, while the other smoked a cigarette and watched. Luckily, Indians don’t like Pakistan and the queue was short, or I would have been stuck there for days! I collected my passport, navigated around some fake border officials (who pretended to re-check my passport and ask a few border-force-like questions, with the final ploy to exchange money at an inflated rate) and was on my way! An empty dual carriageway led the way to Lahore, a big sign spread across it, “WELCOME TO PAKISTAN”.

Rohtas Fort

A couple of lads I met on a motorbike carrying a huge bag of bras!

World famous Lahore Kebabs

The gate from India to Pakistan

Weightlifting club Lahore

Beard trim on the house

Me and Alex

The cycle ride from the Pakistan border to the city of Lahore was a brief one, just 29 kilometres. As I approached, the traffic intensified, and the wonderful hospitality of the Pakistani people became apparent, people waving and chasing after me on motorbikes to pass over bottles of water and coke. “How do you like Pakistan, people say bad things”, said a young lad on a motorbike. A question I was to be asked many times in various forms during my stay in Pakistan. The former cricket player and prime minister Imran Khan, who was wrongfully arrested just a week before I arrived, leading to huge protests, had worked hard at promoting tourism. Unfortunately, the few overseas tourists that had visited had dwindled even further following the rise of the Taliban and the capture of Bin Laden in the Pakistani town of Abbottabad. It seemed the locals were hurt by the way the West portrayed Pakistan and were doing their best to show what a friendly nation they were. “Why was Imran Khan arrested?” I asked one guy. Apparently, the US were behind the arrest as they didn’t want Khan in power. The US wanted arms in Pakistan so as to be able to attack neighbouring Afghanistan, to which Khan objected. He simply didn’t want his country to be accused of facilitating attacks on its neighbours and to be bullied by the US. It sounded fair enough. I didn’t meet a single person anywhere in Pakistan that didn’t Love Imran Khan and want him back in power. It showed what a corrupt world we all live in.

As the blue bullet arrived in Lahore, my Ozzy mate Alex touched down at Allama Ibbal, Lahore International Airport, from his home in Dubai. We had met on a sailboat from Panama to Colombia around 15 years ago, which we later found out was using Western backpackers to disguise the fact it was smuggling shitloads of cocaine. At the time, Alex, like me, was a  skint backpacker. I’m glad to say he is still that fun-loving, humble adventurous guy and hasn’t changed a bit. He is, however, no longer skint and literally creaming it in….as the  Global head of Careem (Ubers food delivery service - excuse the pun). He’s paid a  similar wage to my firefighter salary…well…only 7 times my firefighter's salary!  Broke or being the big boss, nothing had changed and we acted like 20-year-olds, jumping on the back of motorbike tricycles delivering scraps of metal, playing street cricket with local kids, or bartering over a 50 pence taxi ride. 

Alex fancied a beer and a massage. Good idea I thought. The only problem is that alcohol is illegal in Pakistan. After asking around, we were told we could buy booze from underneath the Sheraton Hotel. We took a lift to the basement and were directed through a labyrinth of warehouse-style corridors, before stumbling across a tiny serving hatch. Behind that hatch, were stacks of beer! It felt more like a secret operation to buy illegal weapons. The beer was clearly locally brewed, though the packaging deliberately disguised this. We bought a few cans and secretly drank them on the rooftop, disguising the warm beer in cups like naughty underage schoolboys bunking off school to get pissed. A few pints later, we were suitably relaxed for our massage. The Sheraton massage parlour was managed by a short middle age guy with a high-pitched voice (who kept trying to catch us out drinking beer) and 5 female masseuses. Not to give any ideas, especially if my masseuse ended up being the fat bloke, I left my lycra shorts on. Then again, there was probably no need, this was The Sheraton 4 Points, not a backstreet massage parlour. 

How wrong I was! As I lay face down on the massage bed, the overweight female immediately whipped off my shorts and placed the towel barely covering my arse crack. Maybe that's the norm here I thought, though I began to question things when the massage seemed to repetitively delve between my arse cheeks and concentrate solely on my upper groin, each slide of the hands making clear contact with my balls! “Happy ending, how much!!??” came the inevitable request. “I’ve never paid for a happy ending in my life and don’t intend to change that now!” I replied. With 45 minutes to kill, the disappointed masseuse pratted around lightly touching my shoulders and feet. It was agonisingly uncomfortable as the seconds ticked by. I thought to just walk out, though the nice guy in me didn’t want to rumble the dirty masseuse. “Shall I just give YOU a massage?” I said and proceeded to give the masseuse a (fully-clothed!) back massage? As the hour finally came to a close, I handed over my cash and left. Paying to give the bloody masseuse a massage, never again I thought to myself! Shame on the Sheraton, hand jobs and illegal booze, if only the head office knew! Alex got the same scrotum massage, though presumed it must be the way it's done in Pakistan, his masseuse (who was far better looking than mine) wasn’t quite as brazen to boldly offer a handjob! “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, are you ok!?” He asked as I left the booth.

After a brilliant weekend, I boarded the blue bullet in the direction of Islamabad, Pakistan's capital. I had been suffering from the worst shits of my life since day 1 in Pakistan, the culprit I think was a dodgy Biryani.  The mixture of nearly 40-degree heat and the inability to hold down food made the journey agonising. A couple of days into the ride I checked into a small hotel in the town of Jhelum. “All Pakistani food is checked and regulated to very high standards, it must have been something from your hands”, said the very proud owner. He then offered to upgrade me to the Dulux room. My room had wallpaper which contoured over the top of old light switches, and what appeared to be a painting, the deluxe must be something else I thought to myself! Despite the wallpaper, the generosity of the owner was exceptional. He called in the chief of police to stay in the hotel overnight, “for my protection” and didn’t even want to accept any payment for the hotel. I flatly refused.

Sarah Jane & her husband - Islamabad

Faisal Mosque - Islamabad

 

Islamabad was built between 1960-1970 to replace Karachi as the capital. It is home to 1.2 million people and is a green and exceptionally beautiful city, set against a mountain backdrop with wide boulevards and expensive highly secured detached housing. Pakistanis claim it is the 4th most beautiful city in the world. For me, a city with 70’s architecture cannot possibly be the 4th most beautiful! Yet still, it's a nice place. Being in a metropolitan city was a chance to get some medicine..and also another beer. My friend Helen who I stayed with at the British High Commission in New Delhi put me in contact with a guy called Matt, who worked in Counterterrorism at the British embassy in Islamabad. After being denied guest entry at the embassy supercomplex, which houses several countries and seemed more secure than Guantanamo Bay, we raced around to the gate on the other side to be allowed in. Inside the embassy, I felt like I was at Butlins, top-notch sports facilities, beautifully maintained grounds and “The Brit Bar”. I exchanged 20 quid and was given a time warp voucher booklet of monopoly-style money, from 20p to a quid. At 1 pound 20 for an imported beer, I literally couldn’t get close to getting through the booklet! I got a taxi back pissed to my hostel (which was someone's apartment block with bunkbeds in one of the rooms), a strange feeling in a capital city where alcohol technically didn’t exist.

The next day I went to meet another of Helen’s friends, Sarah Jane. Born in Scotland with a very strong jock accent, but of Pakistani heritage, her husband was the big cheese at the embassy. Sarah Jane is one of the world’s good people and helps with numerous charitable schemes. I had agreed to volunteer my services in helping the children of beggars learn to play cricket. I don’t know the first thing about cricket, and to make matters worse, had a terrible hangover, but did my best! After the cricket lesson, the kids (which could be up to 100), sat on the concrete and were taught maths and English by a man who had volunteered his services for the last 30 years, hats off!

I was due to leave Islamabad on Sunday morning, though a crazy idea popped into my head……..Islamabad was the only place in the world I could get a visa for Afghanistan. The few other embassies issuing the visa before the Taliban takeover had since declined to issue them. I  didn’t have the balls to cycle all the way across Afghanistan, but to pop over the border and get a taste of the country!? I called my mate Alex, who replied emphatically, “Don’t miss this opportunity to visit Afghanistan!” I woke that morning stewing on the idea, the incredible opportunity balanced against getting kidnapped by ISIS or held in a cell by the Taliban government. I tried to do as much research as possible, driven on by rumours circulating of a few people that had visited the country since the takeover. A big problem was that nobody would issue travel insurance. Another thought in my mind was the agony I’d put my parents through if I was taken hostage there. Though I did make a deal with Alex, if not Afghan, I would cycle into Kurdistan (northern Iraq) once I crossed the border into Turkey (or via Iran should I be able to get a visa) and then dump my bike and take a flight from the Kurd capital Erbil to Baghdad. 2 tourists in Baghdad sounded like a hell of an adventure! Alex assured me he could, “Get this one past his wife!”

After thinking it over and over and over............the big draw being that It would be a hell of an adventure, seeing the country that defines "off the beaten track" that the world is so curious about - and the big con........... that I could easily be detained by the Taliban and / or get my head chopped off..... I finally left Islamabad at about 3 pm on Sunday without an Afghan visa. I made it to the former British Hill station of Murree (2291 Metres above sea level) just before nightfall. A nice place for local tourists from Islamabad, though with less of the British old-world charm of some of the Indian hill stations. From Murree, I descended to Abbottabad, a name which might sound familiar? It is the place where the world’s most wanted Terrorist, Osama Bin Laden, was found hiding and ultimately killed. As well as a great spot for anyone on the terrorist tourist trail, it is apparently the best place to shop for a gun, with a thriving customer base from the Taliban popping over from Afghanistan.

Heading northeast from Abbottabad was where the real climbing began and Pakistan really started to impress. The road ramped up weaving first through beautiful pine forest, crossing numerous streams and rivers (through not over most of the time) and then carving channels through glaciers with 10-metre ice walls on either side as it gained altitude. Some ingenious locals carved shelves into the ice to sell beverages…literally ice cold! This was the start of the Babusar Pass, a 13,700 feet climb. To put that into perspective, over 3 times the height of Britain's biggest mountain, Ben Nevis. The pass had only opened 3 days ago, after being closed since October due to heavy snow. Apparently, it was still supposed to be closed, though someone got stuck in their car and had to be rescued, clearing a way for vehicles to pass. By European standards, there's no way it would be allowed to be open! I had to wade through rivers with fast-flowing water up to my knees (nearly losing my bike on a couple of occasions) and there were fresh rockfalls here, there and everywhere that would flatten any vehicle.

At the top of the pass, I was fucked! The climb was steep and relentless for 10’s of kilometres and my heart rate went through the roof as the air thinned, giving that horrible sensation of feeling faint mixed with sea sickness. Though the view from the summit was a million per cent worth it. On the top, it started to snow, and the sweat from the climb quickly turned icy cold. Being an underprepared muppet and favouring the low-weight approach, I didn't even have a pair of gloves. The downhill was going to be painful! To make matters worse, my brake pads were completely shot. I gripped the metal brake levers with all my might as I descended, hands frozen to the core and rims squeaking as I flew down the mountain negotiating the hairpins with my foot on the floor as a secondary brake. To make matters worse, I had a slow puncture which I kept having to pump up (my hands were too cold to change the tube) and the snow had turned to freezing rain! What should have been the descent of a lifetime was more agonising than the climb to get there. What a muppet. Luckily, my frozen fingers were soon to warm up, as the road descended for bang on 40 kilometres without a single uphill or flat section, and by the time I reached Chillas (1265 metres above sea level) the temperature had increased by over 30 degrees and I was in the bottom of a dry barren valley.

Going downhill was great, but at the same time extremely frustrating. All that altitude I had worked so hard to gain, was all lost, I was back to almost sea level and had to do it all over again! After exchanging my winter jacket for a short-sleeve jersey, I left Chillas that afternoon, following the river upstream as I climbed a dry valley, not a tree or piece of greenery in sight. It looked like Iraq, what a contrast in such a short space of time. Then, out of nowhere I was accompanied by a military pickup, one machine gun turret sticking out of the roof facing forward with 2 guys armed with machine guns in the back, now I really felt like I was in Iraq! I had passed military checkpoints every 20 miles or so where I had to submit my passport, the military pick-up must have been informed I was coming. I was told that this was a slightly sketchy area, I think due to it being a former Taliban area, so the police presence made sense. Unlike my police escort in Egypt and Bangladesh, who followed metres behind me, giving me sugar cane, letting me hold their machine guns and literally watching me piss, this was a very considerate escort. Every Time I went around a bend, I checked over my shoulder, and there they were, just emerging from the previous corner. A comfortable amount of breathing space. After about 4 hours, they let me go on my way. Apparently, they were just looking out for my safety. That attitude of friendly concern for the welfare of guests was with me from day 1 in Pakistan, the police always offered me a cup of tea or food at the various checkpoints. Pakistan may be financially in the shit, and it may be unfairly tarnished as being dangerous, though for me, it is quite possibly the most friendly and beautiful country I have ever visited.

Not long before sunset, I reached a signpost for Nanga Parbat, aka Killer Mountain. A couple of very basic hotels sat on the dusty road with a line of old 1970s Toyota Landcruisers and Jeeps with bald tyres out the front. I checked into the hotel for the night and woke early, managing to share a jeep with 4 Pakistani guys from Islamabad. The best way to see Nanga Parbat was first by a 3-hour jeep ride up a steep rocky path with 100 + metre vertical drops on one side, and then a 3-hour hike to a lush plateau in the valley known as Fairy Meadows. It seemed a soft name for a place at the bottom of a mountain with the largest and most vertical face in the world, that has a death rate for climbers of 22 percent! The peak is by far the most impressive mountain I’ve ever seen, way more than seeing Everest from base camp. What makes Nangna Parbat so special, is that unlike Everest, which is surrounded by other 8000-metre peaks, Nagna Parbat rises all by itself out of nowhere, towering 8126 metres vertically into the skies. It is so steep that one of its faces has never been climbed. For the world's best mountaineers, Nanga Parbat along with K2 are the mountains that strike fear into their hearts. Nagna Parabt was first summited in 1953 by the legendary alpinist Hermann Buhl, after 31 others died trying. What makes Killer Mountain such a Killer, is that it is an Island Peak. Not only are its faces insanely sheer, but it also sits alone, with nothing to shield it from jet stream winds, making for a very small climbing window. If all that wasn't enough danger for climbers taking on Killer Mountain, in 2013, the Taliban disguised in Scout uniforms stormed the base camp killing 11 climbers.

Ice cold drinks

Nanga Parbat

Pool with a view

The Karakoram highway from Killer Mountain winds its way past countless glaciers and snow-capped 7000 and 8000-metre mountains reaching to the heavens, all clearly visible from the bicycle. It is the highest paved international road in the world, connecting western China and Pakistan, forming part of the old silk road. I don’t think there is a more impressive road anywhere in the world, period. I could go on for hours about this road, but anyway, I eventually reached Sost, the last town in Pakistan. Like many border towns, it had a different feel to the rest of the country. Essentially a handful of hotels, dusty market stalls and shops line the Karakoram highway with cliffs and high mountains all around. Reasonably lively in summer, but a bleak and hard place to be in winter when the one and only road to China closes and trade comes to a standstill. For me, it was an exciting place to be, a new country loomed, and so did the opportunity to ride up to the highest border in the world (& a new record for me on the bicycle). The Khunjerab Pass, as it is known, sits on top of a mountain at 4706 metres. That's just 100 metres less than Mont Blanc, Europe's highest mountain.

What I didn't realise, was that despite Sost being 90 km from the border, it was the site of Pakistani immigration and customs, which didn't open till 9am the next day.  Not a problem I thought, I checked into the Riviera Hotel (not as posh as it sounds!) and tried to take a warm shower. I didn't have much joy, so the lad from reception came to my room and wrote the word “HOT” in permanent marker on the tiles next to the shower and washbasin tap, brilliant! I then went out in search of what I’d been looking for since entering Pakistan, a flag sticker for my bicycle, and an embroidered badge for my green hat. Amazingly, I found both on my last day and took them to a small shack where a guy was working on an old sewing machine. I already had an India flag and decided to cut the flag off the very tired-looking Australia cap I had bought on Bondi Beach back in Australia. I had to smile when the tailor impatiently stitched the Indian flag, erratically cutting half the orange colour from the top, then perfectly stitched the Pakistani flag to the other side! I also picked up a Punjab motorcycle number plate from a pile of scrap bikes in Lahore which I wanted to mount. When I looked at the plate more closely a few days later, I was amazed to see that by sheer coincidence, the digits almost spelt my birthday of 14th May 1982.. ...."M4 5 82". All I needed was a bit of yellow paint to change the "M” into a “1”. I thought it fitting to fit it to my bike before I went over the border, and asked a guy in a local mechanic shop to give me a hand. Ingeniously he used impromptu bits of metal found on the floor to attach the plate to my front rack, whilst cutting his hand and splattering my bike In blood in the process.

Sost - last town in Pakistan - I went to that place for a coffee, "We only say Tea" came the reply!

I reached immigration at 9am sharp. After much confusion, I was told outright, “You can’t cycle!”. Apparently, Unlike the Pakistanis, things are very strict in China and all passenger names must be accounted for and travel by bus from Sost to the China border. As much as I argued, it was getting nowhere. Eventually, they agreed that I could cycle to Point Zero, the Chinese Border Gate, return down the mountain, and then go by bus the next day. This may seem like a pointless exercise to most, but when I told myself I wanted to cycle the world, I meant exactly that! With all the messing around, it was gone 10 am by the time I left immigration, and I still had to buy a day's worth of food as there was literally nothing after Sost until China. At around 10:30 am I passed through the military police immigration metal barrier that sits at the end of the town, promised the police I would return the same day and not sleep in the restricted mountain zone, and set off up the mountain!

From the moment I left, I knew I was going to be in the shit. I had a 180km day ahead of me, including a climb up to the world's highest border at 4706 metres and back again, and it was already late morning. After passing several Yaks, switchbacks and feeling like I was about to pass out, I eventually reached the top of the Khunjerab pass. I left the blue bullet with Pakistan Police and walked the 100 remaining metres to a brutal-looking gate building, on which the Chinese flag was flapping in the wind. It was a tremendous feeling. I could have stayed up there for hours taking it all in. The problem was that it was 4:30 pm already and I had to cycle another 90 kilometres. Initially, I set off at a great rate, flying down the switchbacks in the cold air, though after a blistering 20kms, things slowed right down. The rising air blasted up the valley against me, and it felt as though I was going uphill more than down. I had to pedal hard all the way back, reaching Sost in pitch black. As I did, the border guy told me, "China border closed tomorrow, day of dragon in China!" Just like East Timor, Pakistan had pulled me back to enjoy its hospitality for a couple more days, and I wasn't at all disappointed. Current location: Sitting in my bed at the Hotel Riveria, Sost, typing the last few words of this blog, which will be up to date for the first time in this whole journey. Hopefully, you’ve enjoyed reading it, please leave a comment if so…..& that this time tomorrow I will be in China!