Tripistan

Tripistan: Torkham Border

Arriving in Pakistan was a relief, I had upheld my promise to ride one last time with the Sultans and, although I felt sad to leave my adopted tribe, I was relieved to be out of Afghanistan and into Pakistan.

Valentyn, the erudite and wild Ukrainian rider I had met in Kabul, joined me to ride into Pakistan. We were headed in the same directions a round the world, it made sense to share some tarmac together. We arrived at Torkham, the northeastern border crossing between Afghanistan and Pakistan, unsure of the security situation. Reports from the overlanders’ grapevine indicated that the border could shut down without warning due to rising tensions between the two countries. Just the week before, a Dutch traveller had been stranded in no-man’s land for a week after the Pakistani side closed due to rioting. The relationship between Pakistan and Afghanistan had always been fraught, often leading to violent clashes.

Upon arriving at the border, we were greeted by chaos. First, we encountered long lines of “Jingle” trucks—colourfully decorated Pakistani and Afghan trucks loaded to the brim with Afghan pomegranates, it was the season. We rode to the front of the line—one advantage of traveling on two wheels. Nearing the gates, we saw crowds of Afghans trying to cross. A friendly Pakistani border official later explained that Afghans could secure visas for Pakistan solely on medical grounds, as the Afghan medical infrastructure was underfunded and mainly run by NGOs. Most Afghans queuing were elderly or ill, yet the guards treated them deplorably, herding them like cattle, beating them with sticks, and shouting at them. It was a far cry from the passive-aggressive vocal herding at Heathrow Airport that most travellers are accustomed to.

At the gates, we were met by surprised yet bored-looking Taliban guards. After checking our passports, they waved us through—no stamps, no paperwork—just a wave, and we were out of Afghanistan.

On the Pakistani side, we were greeted by an educated, smart official dressed in civilian clothes. He smiled and joked with us, a stark contrast to the stern, fierce, and suspicious Taliban officials we had become accustomed to. I could feel my tension easing.

“Welcome to Pakistan, and please don’t worry, you are in a safe place now”

He unironically beamed as we entered his office, though not without noticing an RPG (rocket-propelled grenade) impact hole just above the wall.

After accepting some very dodgy-looking kebabs offered kindly by the Pakistani guards—who watched us attentively as we ate—we were cleared to enter Pakistan.

Fifty shades of Pakistan

A Week Earlier the Pashtun tribes had called a “Jirga” (a council of elders) to discuss potentially seceding from the government.

The tribal areas had long been a thorn in the side of Pakistan’s military junta, going back to the partition with India and beyond. Understanding the complexities of Pakistan would take a lifetime of research. The northern border with Afghanistan consisted of tribal areas—various tribes loosely demarcated by topography, each major valley hosting a separate tribe (Chitralis, Gilgitis, etc.). The southern border regions were under Tarek-i-Taliban influence, all loosely held together by the iron grip of the Pakistani military. One thing united the south and the north: they were all ethnically Pashtun and both hated the government. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend” seemed to govern their relationship. However, this only appeared to be the case on the surface; the deeper I delved into Pakistan, the murkier and greyer the lines became between who was actually fighting who and why.

The tribal areas had profited financially during the last Afghan war, as NATO forces were supplied through Pakistan. Since the war ended, that income stream had dried up. Meanwhile, the Chinese were pumping more money into Pakistan to grow their sphere of influence, building roads under the guise of friendship. In truth it was to facilitate mineral extraction in these mountain regions—precisely where the tribes lived. On a macro level there were rumours that chian was courting Pakistan to gain a nuclear ally to compete against India.

The lucrative Chinese mining contracts could have replaced the lost income from the war’s end. However, the tribal leaders did not feel that the government was redistributing the funds fairly, if at all. The week we had arrived, the Pashtun Jirga had unanimously voted to declare an ultimatum to the government: "redistribute the wealth or risk civil war." They gave the government two months. That was our window to discover the place before it could potentially blow up.

The moderate Pashtun leadership decided that it would hold the government to account and held rallies and at times violent demonstrations in Islamabad to pressure the government. The more radical wing of the tribes had started targeting government officials and Chinese workers in the region. That week, twenty Chinese workers had been killed in a bomb blast, several more had been kidnapped.

Consequently, any travellers going through the tribal areas had to receive a military escort. However, it’s not one escort that stays with you throughout; at every new village, visitors are passed around like a relay baton to the new escorts, village to village. The escort takes the form of a pickup truck, one driver, one commander, and two armed guards on the back. The unit in charge of foreigner security is the CTS Commando, tactical security, dressed in all-black dishdashas, and with bizarre slogans on their T-shirts like “one shot, one kill” or other such strange non-reassuring affirmations. When observing them closely, I doubted any of them would be capable of lining up a good shot if their lives depended on it. Their weapons were in a poor state, some rusty and old, they themselves didn’t look like the sharp end of a spear, more like the blunt end of a baker's roller.

There was no escaping it; having just come from Afghanistan where we required no escort and one could argue a much wilder place, we were pretty annoyed at this new security situation.

It’s for Your Safety: The Khyber pass

The escorts started from the border to the Khyber pass. At first, we were escorted from the border control to the Khyber pass control point, there we were held for an hour while the next patrol organized themselves out of their narcotic slumber. In a dark, dingy control post building, I was introduced to the police commander, a large individual with a laconic bordering on lazy allure, who lay on a sofa surrounded by weapons and cigarette butts.

“Welcome to Pakistan, here is haram country, you understand?”

 “Yes, yes.” “No alcohol here, it’s haram.”

I could sense he was trying to probe me to see if he could maybe try and confiscate some for himself.

“No alcohol, we understand, we have just come from Afghanistan; it’s the same.”

 He nodded somewhat dissapointedly.

“But this we have a lot.” He pulled out half a kilogram of the darkest hashish from behind the pillow he was resting his head on.

 Sensing a trap, I feigned ignorance of the product.

 “Ha, very nice, what is this?”

 “Charas.”

He then spent the remaining hour trying to befriend me, convinced somehow that I could offer him a visa to France so he could emigrate out of Pakistan. This would become a recurring theme throughout the country.

 We finally had our escort ready and took off over the Khyber Pass direction Peshawar. It was strange to not be in Afghanistan anymore; in comparison, Pakistan was a developed country, it had functioning roads, uniformed(ish) police, shops, cars. More strangely, the start of old British colonial influences was felt. Railways, signposts in English everywhere, old British forts peppering the ridgelines of the hills surrounding Peshawar.

Peshawar

The architecture and the culture were not the only different things; here the air was richer, warmer, the smells sweeter, we had entered the sub-Indian continent and could feel it. The light was different, the sun setting over the Khyber Pass was orange and red, the skies golden; we were truly on the sub-Indian continent now. 

Our reveries of entering this new yet ancient world were abruptly interrupted as we descended the Khyber Pass into Peshawar, the capital of Northwestern Pakistan. A bustling, wild, and somewhat dangerous city, renowned as the "Wild Wild West."

Over the past 40 years, Peshawar's strategic significance and proximity to the Afghan border have made it a focal point for regional security issues. During the Soviet-Afghan War in the 1980s, Peshawar served as a key base for Afghan mujahideen, where they received support and training from international allies including the United States, Pakistan, and Saudi Arabia. This period transformed the city into a hub for military and logistical operations against the Soviet forces in Afghanistan.

Following the withdrawal of the Soviets and the eventual rise of the Taliban, Peshawar faced a new set of security challenges. The city saw an influx of weapons, drugs, and millions of Afghan refugees, which had a profound impact on its social and economic fabric. The refugee camps around Peshawar became breeding grounds for militancy, which later contributed to the rise of various extremist groups.

The post-9/11 era marked another significant shift in Peshawar’s security landscape. The city found itself at the crossroads of a new global conflict, as operations against the Taliban and al-Qaeda intensified across the border. This period saw Peshawar grappling with increased militancy, as it was targeted by numerous terrorist attacks that aimed to destabilize the region and challenge the efforts of the Pakistani government and its international allies.

Peshawar's security situation was further complicated by the internal dynamics of the tribal areas along the Pakistan-Afghanistan border. The Pakistani military's operations to flush out insurgents led to ongoing violence and unrest in the region. These operations, coupled with U.S. drone strikes targeting militant hideouts, created a pervasive sense of insecurity and contributed to the complex humanitarian crises in the area.

 In recent years, the security in Peshawar has seen some improvements due to extensive military operations against insurgent groups and efforts to integrate the tribal areas into the mainstream political and administrative framework of Pakistan. However, the city remains vigilant, as the threat of militancy still looms, shaped by decades of socio-political unrest and regional geopolitical games.

The escape

We arrived at sunset with our third escort of the day. As we approached the city, we had to stop in one of the suburbs to rendezvous with our new escort. We stopped in the middle of a busy road and within minutes drew a crowd of onlookers who just stood and stared at us with blank, emotionless eyes. We soon got tired of being the local attractions. The heat, the fumes from the congested traffic, and the oppressive weight of a thousand eyes staring at us became too much. Valentyn shouted from behind,

“Screw this, let's just ditch the cops”

“Hell yeah, this is unsafe, let’s bolt.”

A quick U-turn in the middle of traffic and within a minute, we had escaped our escort and were free to roam in Peshawar’s rush hour.

 After battling through seas of 70cc single-cylinder Honda motorcycles carrying entire families, dodging mad rickshaws, and inhaling the equivalent of twenty packs of cigarettes from car fumes, we made it to a small hotel. Relieved to have dodged our escorts and reinvigorated, we planned our route north into the Swat Valley and toward the Chitrali valleys of northern Pakistan, heading toward the Chinese border. Our guiding principle was selecting routes that would allow us to avoid any potential checkpoints or escorts.

 Peshawar to Chitral:

We woke up early in the morning to escape the rush hour, the air was thick and sweet, new smells of exotic trees, spices, and perfumes rushed through our helmets as we drove out of the city. Such a contrast from the crisp, thin air of the Pamir Plateaus and Afghanistan.

We wove our way out of the city using back roads, avoiding motorways since motorcycles are not allowed on them in Pakistan. The countryside around Peshawar was lush and fertile, with rivers flowing down from the Himalayas nourishing the subcontinent. The vegetation transformed from the barren mountains of Afghanistan to the beginnings of a jungle environment. In the villages we crossed, we were constantly welcomed for tea. When accepting it would attract crowds of onlookers, surprised to see any foreigners in these parts. Unlike Peshawar, here it was cheerful and inquisitive; of course, it required us to take a million selfies followed by countless invitations for tea, a recurring theme anywhere in Pakistan.

 On the outskirts of the city, during a pee break, a giant Pakistani man appeared out of the bushes, with a huge beard and carrying something wrapped in his hand. He initiated a conversation with us, his tone jovial and curious, asking where we were from.

“Europe,” we answered, and he beamed.

“Please don’t worry, you are safe here in Pakistan,” he said as he unwrapped a cocked Sig Sauer 9mm pistol and proceeded to show it to us.

He invited us to his home for tea, which we politely declined. It appeared in Pakistan, to demonstrate safety, you have to show them how you intend to keep the peace. This was the wild east.

 As we rode north, the climate and vegetation began to transform, shifting from the rich, dense, and sweet-smelling plains to the foothills of the Swat Valley. Known for its tumultuous history and breathtaking landscapes, the Swat Valley is often dubbed the "Switzerland of the East" due to its towering mountains and lush green valleys. However, beneath its serene beauty lies a history of conflict, having been a battleground between militant groups and government forces. This legacy has left the area with a notorious reputation, yet it's also celebrated for its resilient communities and cultural richness.

We were feeling pretty good about our evasion from the security patrols and vindicated by the kindness shown to us by all whom we were meant to be protected from. However, as we rode closer to the hills, all roads funnelled through major cities, meaning that checkpoints were unavoidable.

 You Can Run but You Can’t Hide:

  We crossed a chaotic city, at the end of which was a major military checkpoint. I was riding at the front, slowed down a bit to look for an opportunity to sneak by the occupied soldiers. A large jingling truck rolled up behind me. It was perfect; I let it overtake me just as we neared the checkpoint and stayed right next to it, hiding me from the view of the guards. As the truck stopped, I revved up and sped through the checkpoint before they could react. Val wasn’t so lucky and got held up. Being Val, a no-nonsense kind of guy, he expressed his annoyance at the guards and rode off before they could comprehend what had happened.

This is where we made our first mistake. Feeling pretty smug about our evasion, instead of accelerating away, we followed the traffic and lazily rode out of the city. Suddenly, a car furiously overtook us and came to a sudden halt in front of us, forcing us to stop. Out came a very nervous and irate anti-terrorism policeman.

Of course, this drew a crowd, and once again we became the centre of attention. We tried to bribe him to let us go, and to our surprise, we met the first ever incorruptible officer in Pakistan. After some pleading and deliberation, we agreed to head back to the massive checkpoint we had driven through. Tail between our legs and feeling a bit sheepish, we rode back, not without looking for opportunities to escape again, but no luck this time. 

After a mild scolding and another explanation about how the escorts were for our safety, we conceded to let them escort us through the Swat Valley. However, before leaving, one of the officers with whom I had sympathised slipped me a block of hash, telling me to enjoy it once we got to Chitral, the northeastern capital of the Chitrali tribe. I had no reason to think this was a setup, so I accepted it gladly.

We set off with our new, not-so-elite police escort, one of them looking like a cross between Mario Bros and Saddam Hussein, with a big belly, even bigger mustache, Ray-Ban sunglasses, an ill-fitting helmet, and a rusty AK-47.

 We were passed from escort to escort for the next two hundred painful kilometres, drawing far more attention than necessary. The irony was that Val and I were not the targets of the recent attacks, the government was! So being part of a military convoy riding through an area with strong anti-government sentiment didn’t feel that safe…

 Not only had they now painted a target on our backs, but they also drove like maniacs, forcing other drivers off the road, cutting through blind corners, and just being completely obnoxious and bullish to all other road users. We felt really “safe.”

 If it weren’t for our escort, I would be able to tell you how beautiful the Swat Valley was, but I was seething with rage and frustration at having to risk my life in the name of safety. The journey that was meant to take 2 hours ended up taking 6. Finally, we reached the start of the Chitrali Valley, not without the final escort ordeal. The Swat Valley and the Chitrali Valley are separated by the Lowari Tunnel., an 8.75 kilometers long tunnel that provides a year-round connection between Chitral and the rest of Pakistan, especially important during the winter when the Lowari Pass is typically closed due to heavy snowfall. However, according to local law, no motorcycles are allowed to travel through it—a catch-22. Our escorts were adamant we couldn’t cross, and we had heard from other travellers that this was a scam intended to get locals to come and mount the bikes on trucks and charge a premium for the service. We stood our ground and refused to submit to their stupid rules/scam. Eventually, we were allowed to go, but with an escort to ride in front of us through the tunnel. My motorcyclist's pride was hurt by this insult! Didn’t they know that a week before we had ridden through the most infamous high-altitude tunnel in the world along the Kunduz passes?

Finally, on the other side, we nodded goodbye to our escorts, The view was astounding, a mixture of alpine forestry, high altitude mountains, and fresh clean air—a sharp contrast from the plains of Peshawar.

Chitral Valley:

After a half-day lost to our escorts, we crested the valley as the sun dipped low, splashing the sky with pastel oranges, turquoise, and violets. Despite my vow after the nightmarish rides in Tajikistan’s Wakhan and dodging Taliban in Afghanistan to never ride at night, here I was, anxious yet free, pushing into the dark once more. Val set a brisk pace ahead, guiding us through the encroaching night.

We rolled into Chitral by nine, coated in dust and fatigue. Our refuge was a quaint hostel perched next to an old British military fort, promising a few days of recovery with a view over the city that commanded the valley.

Chitral, isolated yet majestic, stretches across Pakistan's northern border, cradled by Afghanistan, Gilgit-Baltistan, and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. Its strategic position has imbued it with a unique cultural richness and historical significance. Once a princely state, Chitral's isolation preserved a vibrant tapestry of resilience and tradition. The region's rugged passes not only served as daunting natural defenses but also as arteries on ancient trade routes of the Silk Road.

The native Kho people, speaking Khowar, are famed for their hospitality. The area is also home to the Kalash, an indigenous tribe with ancient pagan customs and vibrant festivals, adding to the cultural mosaic.

Historically, Chitral's tranquility belied the geopolitical storms around it. During the 1980s Soviet-Afghan conflict, it was a quiet front for mujahideen and a conduit for arms smuggling. Post-9/11, with NATO’s engagement across the border, Chitral’s strategic relevance was spotlighted anew, necessitating stringent military vigilance to curb militant incursions.

Recent years have seen concerted efforts to promote tourism and develop infrastructure, transforming access to Chitral year-round with the completion of the Lowari Tunnel in 2017. These efforts aim to stabilize and economically invigorate the region while preserving its unique cultural heritage against the backdrop of ongoing security concerns.

Today, Chitral represents a blend of vigilance and tranquility. Its stunning landscapes and warm people offer a stark contrast to the harsh geopolitical realities of its location. Authorities continue to foster a peaceful image, encouraging cultural exchanges and tourism that highlight the serene environment and resilient spirit of its communities.

Our guesthouse, nestled amid lush forests with the melody of mountain streams, was a perfect sanctuary. Here, we rejuvenated, frequented the local gym, savored homemade curries, and relished a well-deserved break.

 Then We Were Four:

  I was then contacted by Tomaz, one of the Portuguese travellers we had met in Afghanistan. He was in Chitral and had just rescued a little street dog that had been hit by a motorcycle. Tomaz was traveling around the world alone with his converted Toyota Land Cruiser. We decided to meet that evening at our hostel.

That evening we were introduced to newly named Muxu, a little Chitrali stray with big ears, a long snout, and razor-sharp teeth. Tomaz and Muxu were heading north in the same direction, so we were four. It was a luxury to travel with Tomaz and his big 4x4; it meant we could unload some gear and lighten our bikes, which was a godsend as the roads only got tougher the higher we climbed.

The next day, we set off early, hoping to outride a spell of cold winds coming from the east that threatened to cut us off from the neighbouring valley of Gilgit, a two days' ride away. 

The evening before leaving, I made the acquaintance of an Afghan refugee who had fled after the fall of the last government. He had been an interpreter for US special forces, and we talked long into the night. I mainly listened to his stories: how he missed the thrill of the war, how he wanted to return to his country but couldn’t, how he had crossed the border illegally to join his Pakistani family but had to leave his wife and children behind, and how he planned to go back and get them. Another abandoned soul we had promised the world to, who had been abandoned—I felt ashamed, so I just listened.

Later that evening, Val and I entered a long philosophical discussion about the meaning of life and finding purpose. At the end of which, we concluded that to get some clarity, we would go as close to the Chinese border in the Hunza Valley and indulge in some psychedelics to get some answers. We informed Tomaz of the plan, and of course, he was delighted, so we headed to sleep, eager to hit the trails the next day.

 Chitral to Tensu—The World's Highest Polo Pitch

The road, if you can call it that, up from Chitral to the high mountains was nothing short of breathtakingly beautiful. The snow had fully melted on most of the high mountains, except for the glaciers that loomed over us at above 7000 meters. The rivers were clear of all muddy sediments and had turned a vivid turquoise colour. Autumn was in full swing; the tall cedar and birch trees lining the rivers had turned yellow and orange, the contrast of colours was like nothing I had seen before. Villages were becoming sparser; the road conditions were deteriorating the higher we climbed. I was up on Taras pegs, cutting through rivers, rocky paths. Finally breathing and slowly letting go of the anxiety of the past month in Afghanistan.

An unplanned road closure meant we were diverted to a side road, adding hours to our planned itinerary. Which would have been fine had it not been for the snowstorm brewing up in the high mountains. The blue skies that had turned the river turquoise were now covered by clouds, the mountains turned dark and menacing.

The further we climbed, the more Valentyn’s 1994 Honda Transalp started struggling for air, choking, stalling, and slowing him down to an average of 10 kph, not ideal while being chased by a storm. At the top of the mountain pass separating the Chitral and Gilgit valley is the world’s highest polo pitch  once attended by Prince Charles and lady Di. Guarded by some shivering Pakistani mountain scout regiment. They incredulously looked at our odd band and waved us through the checkpoints. The going got a bit easier as we headed down on the other side of the pass, however, the snow started falling, and the temperature suddenly dropped to the minuses. After a few dodgy river crossings and some steep rocky descents, it was time to find a spot to sleep before nightfall.

 We found a lodge in a small village called Tensu, owned by a retired Pakistani Army Major with shrapnel in his leg from fighting the Taliban. We spent the night there, reassuring these tough mountain people that Muxu, the two-month-old puppy with big ears and sharp teeth, didn’t have rabies and wasn’t going to kill them. How strange that these tough mountaineers feared such a small furry thing. Rabies and dog bites could be fatal in Pakistan due to the poor level of healthcare, their fears were justified. I wondered what they must have thought of us weirdos adopting street dogs, and indulging in a life that for them seemed so removed from their reality.

Tensu to Gilgit:

After an early start and copious amounts of tea, we set to work trying to sort out Valentyn’s bike. Valentyn took a methodical approach to the issue; after a tough brushing of his spark plugs, the bike started to sound more like itself. Reassured that it would function till we reached the nearest town, some 150 kilometres away we set off down the valley. Golden-leaved villages, deep blue rivers, and the now fresh snow that had covered the mountains. The road was challenging—gravel, rocks, potholes—the air was fresh and clean; we were in motorcycle heaven.

The descent from the high mountains took us through a number of villages that time had forgotten, through the Pradhu valley. The roads between Chitral and Gilgit were under construction, the government was trying to link Gilgit and the Hunza valley to Chitral to enhance tourism in the region. This meant construction, work heavy blasting, and crews of workers perched above the roads cutting through the rocks with picks and dynamite.

Due to the constant blasting and subsequent fold-ups, it meant that we had to do the last 60 kilometres in full darkness, once again the principle of not riding through the night was thrown out the window. The Wakhan Corridor, Afghanistan, Chitral, and now the Pradhu valley… My morale started to sink and I had to dig deep not to let my frustration and fear get the better of me. The roads became narrower, and the cliffs and drops deeper, disappearing into the darkness. Through the darkness would appear these monster, jingling trucks covered in neon lights, driving at breakneck speeds, pushing everyone and everything out of the way and not slowing for anyone. One such truck pushed me off the road into a ditch; I swerved to the right, I was headed into the darkness—by luck, a rock bounced me back onto the road, straight into the line of another incoming tractor. With no time to swerve, I had to throw my leg and kick the road to redirect the bike and not have a full frontal. In the process, almost breaking my leg. Having narrowly avoided falling off a cliff, being run over by a tractor, and breaking my leg, I was fuming at myself for driving at night. I spent the next hour cursing every truck I crossed, then it started raining.

 We finally rode into Gilgit late at night. Exhausted but glad to be alive. I vowed to Valentyn, again, that we wouldn’t ride at night, again.

Gilgit: The Pakistani Hippy.

Nested high toward the Chinese border and connected to the Karakoram Highway, Gilgit is a bustling and noisy town that serves as a crucial hub in the region. Its location on the ancient Silk Road linked it to various cultures and empires, facilitating the exchange of goods, ideas, and religious beliefs. The region became a focal point for explorers and mountaineers with the advent of the Great Game in the 19th century, when British and Russian interests collided in Central Asia. The town is surrounded by rugged mountains and breathtaking landscapes, including three of the world's highest mountain ranges: the Himalayas, the Karakoram, and the Hindu Kush. This makes it a prime spot for trekking, mountaineering, and adventure tourism.

Today, Gilgit is not only a key tourist destination but also an important geopolitical player due to its proximity to China and the disputed territories adjacent to India. The Karakoram Highway, one of the highest paved roads in the world, starts from here and stretches up to China, enhancing its role as a trade corridor between the two countries and a strategic military route.

In this vibrant city, we found a small guesthouse owned by a charming old Pakistani hippie named Quaylum. He was in his late seventies and had taken the hippie trail in reverse during his youth, traveling from East to West. He spent many years in Ibiza before it became the hedonistic, drug-fueled trap it is known as today. During his time in Spain, he learned to make jewelry and cook, embracing the hippie lifestyle.

Quaylum was short man with a brushy white beard, humble, gentle, and kind. He returned to Pakistan to start a family and become a mountaineer. He regaled us with his stories and welcomed us into his modest yet paradisiacal guesthouse, perched on a hill overlooking the city with a well-tended garden. Now, he no longer travelled; he was content caring for his garden and looking after weary adventurers like us. He lived simply, tending his plants, feeding stray dogs, and offering hospitality to travellers. We felt instantly at home and at peace there.

We cooked, rested, and carried out maintenance on our vehicles. Val and I kept to our morning physical training routine: 15 minutes of calisthenics, 15 minutes of stretching, and 10 minutes of high-intensity interval training. Staying fit on the road is a constant battle that requires rigor, discipline, and adaptability. You need the rigor to stick with it, the discipline to do it despite fatigue or bad weather, and the adaptability to turn your environment into an improvised gym—where a ledge can become a pull-up bar and rocks can serve as weights.

Tomaz arranged for our little four-legged companion, Muxu, to get vaccinated. Traveling as a team felt good.

Finding the dragons

After two days of rest, it was time to head further into the mountains toward the Chinese border along the Karakoram Highway. Our plan was to find a good camping spot and stay there for a few days to indulge in some high-altitude psychedelics. Val carried 200ml of liquid LSD, which he used when he wanted to connect with a place on a deeper level.

With our bikes repacked and our excess gear loaded into Tomaz’s Land Cruiser, we set off toward the Chinese border on the famous Karakoram Highway. Once part of the ancient Silk Road trade route linking China, India, and Central Asia, it has since been transformed into part of the Belt and Road Initiative. The Chinese government has invested $62 billion in Pakistan through the 15-year China-Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC), which includes hundreds of miles of highways and railways. The Karakoram Highway forms a critical link in this vast network, allowing valuable minerals to be transported from the mountains back to mainland China under the banner of friendship and development. 

Nonetheless, these geopolitical considerations didn’t interfere with our pure joy at returning to smooth, modern tarmacked roads. The N35 leads all the way up to the world’s highest drivable border crossing—over 5,000 meters—on the China–Pakistan border. We spent the day looking for the perfect campsite, riding through the Nagar and Hunza valleys before settling on the Passu Valley, also known as the “9 Cones” because of its surrounding 7,000-meter peaks. We entered a snow leopard sanctuary, where we were allowed to camp in a clearing between a river and a stand of golden, maroon, and green cedar trees.

After a cold night at over 3,000 meters, we prepared both our camp and ourselves for the journey within. We dug a fire pit, gathered wood, cooked porridge with Hunza apricots, and settled in for our psychedelic afternoon.

 The air was fresh and warm, and the sun slowly setting to the west cast a gentle light into the towering mountains. The acid was tame. We laughed, walked, swam in the freezing mountain waters, and talked long into the night around our fire—philosophy, arts, aspirations, and dreams.

The mountains and valleys transformed into winter dragons that breathed cold air into the night. Stars pierced the Milky Way, overwhelming us with their immense beauty. We jokingly dubbed ourselves the 'Porridge Dragons,' with Muxu as our spirited totem.

Meanwhile, Mushu nipped playfully at our heels, sparking laughter with his puppy antics. In the company of new, good friends, I felt safe. Valentin, ever the philosopher on his Promethean quest for wisdom, was the idealist without a tribe. Tomaz, now a dog father, was heading home to start a new life, hopeful for a future with his dog and perhaps, his future wife.

Val had become a great mentor, challenging me to introspect about my purpose and where I wanted to commit my energies. This journey would eventually end, and within it, I needed to find my purpose. But there, high in the northern mountains of Pakistan and under the influence of LSD, I found myself facing more questions than answers. Yet, in that moment, I felt an unparalleled sense of freedom and safety.

Gilgit to Naran

After a rejuvenating two days in the wild, we set our sights back on Gilgit, then onward to Islamabad. The ride back on the N35 was exhilarating—smooth tarmac under our wheels allowing full speed. Once in Gilgit, we visited Keilun's shop to admire and purchase some of his exquisite rings and jewelry. Spending time with Keilun, the old Sufi Pakistani hippie, allowed us to connect deeply with his tranquil and nurturing spirit. He was a man truly embedded in his community, caring deeply for those around him.

 His son, a local politician and a stark contrast to his father, offered fresh insights into Pakistan's socio-political landscape. Educated in the UK, he spoke of the tension between the military junta's desire to maintain control and Pakistan’s aspirations for progress. The military's pervasive influence, he suggested, was not just a power mechanism but also a means for social mobility, and rumors were rife that they might be exacerbating western frontier instabilities to justify their stronghold.

 The following day, we were set to leave Gilgit for Islamabad, traversing the notorious Babussar Pass. Joining us was Patrick, a German traveler on his fully kitted out BMW GS, a young tech millionaire that had decided to leave Germany and hit the road for ten years for tax issues. He had a nervous and weary disposition. Having been on the road for almost 32 months now he seemed to be at the end of his tether, I saw something in him that scared me.

 Crossing the Babussar Pass, standing at 4,167 meters, we encountered an unexpected and surreal sight—a rusty amusement park and a Ferris wheel precariously hanging amid the snow. Our bewilderment was soon overshadowed by a swift change in weather; clear blue skies turned a menacing grey, and snow began to fall, urging us to descend quickly. We reached Naran, a town popular with Pakistani tourists seeking respite from the bustle of Islamabad. Here, we encountered a lively group of young Pakistanis, high on MDMA, who gurningly invited us to join their revelry. Recalling my own challenging experiences with synthetic drugs, I politely declined. We opted instead for a quiet night in a quaint wooden cottage.

The next morning, faced with urgency, Tomaz had to depart early. Poor Muxu was refusing to eat and needed veterinary care. He sped ahead, and we planned to regroup in Islamabad.

Mountains to the plains

The road from Naran to Islamabad challenged us with a fierce thunderstorm, shrouding the valley in mist and flooding the roads. Despite the harsh conditions—freezing temperatures, falling snow, and the threat of landslides—it was a day of raw and rugged riding that tested my resolve. I became increasingly jealous of Patrick and his fully kitted BMW GS with heated grips.

We descended from the high mountains and crossed most of northern Pakistan's Kashmir region until we finally reached the Punjab.

 Patrick the rich German that had tagged onto our group was starting to grate me. He had somehow made his fortune in some sort of high-tech business and decided for tax reasons that he would ride the world on his motorbike. His initial plan was to ride it for 10 years. However, he had arrived at the point now where he had become completely disillusioned and bitter with the whole experience, preferring to hide in his room every night, play video games, and avoid any kind of contact with local people, culture, or anything outside his world which he felt was broken. His presence depressed me. He had all this money, he had all this freedom, and yet he decided to seclude himself and not make any contact with the outside world. He was bitter and broken.

I feared something that might happen to me if I carried on the way that I was going, riding for a destination without a purpose. His purpose being fully financial, I felt he had lost his way and I was afraid the same was going to happen to me. His bitterness, his anger, his rudeness towards locals had started to affect me and I started to dislike the guy. Eventually, as we arrived in Islamabad, he decided that he would go into a fancy hotel and figure out what he was going to do next. I was happy to see the back of him. He made me feel insecure. He made me feel afraid. I feared I would become like him if I didn't decide on what I wanted to do or if I didn't find a purpose that would bring some meaning to this trip other than just trying to escape.

Islamabad

As we descended into the Punjab, the traffic intensified and the vegetation changed completely. We had arrived on the sub-Indian continent. I almost crashed my bike as the roads were getting more and more crowded and the quality of the vehicles and the maintenance of them was below standard, meaning that the roads were covered in oil and very slippery. My back wheel skidded off and I almost went off a cliff.

We arrived in Islamabad, a bustling city just at the start of the Pakistani Punjab. I was tired and feeling completely exhausted. It had almost been six months on the road by then and the cold from the day before riding down from Naran had knocked me out. I spent most of the time in bed. It was so nice to just chill with Mushu, Tomas, and Val, and I felt sad that I was about to leave them. Tomas and Mushu were going to be going back towards Portugal via Iran and that our little band of dragons would be separated..

After Muxus vet appointment we found discovered that Mushu was not a he but a she, to the surprise of us all. After a day of rest and saying our goodbyes to Mushu and Tomas, Val and I decided that we would ride from Islamabad to Lahore. After a big bowl of porridge, we hugged Mushu and Tomas and headed south.

Six hours of riding through the ever greener and hotter Punjab. The earth was redder, the air thick with new aromas. It was hot and densely crowded. Riding through cities was a perilous game. The traffic was frantic. There was a cart drawn by a horse with a camel on it pulling a car. People everywhere. There was life everywhere, this was the Punjab! 

Islamabad to Lahore

As we entered the Pakistani Punjab on our way to Lahore, we pulled over at a roadside restaurant that could have been straight out of a Sergio Leone spaghetti western. The place was deserted, with just a few employees who gave us suspicious looks—quite the departure from the warm welcomes we’d grown accustomed to in the north.

Just then, the hum of a powerful engine caught our attention. Turning around, we were greeted by the imposing figure of a large, mustachioed man, dripping in gold rings and oozing the aura of a Pakistani gangster, a surreal blend of Saddam Hussein and Tony Soprano. Flanked by two bodyguards armed with drum-fed automatic rifles—one wielding an AK-47, the other an M4—he assured us with a grin, “Pakistan is safe, don't worry.” Our nervous laughter barely masked the tension as we glanced at the weapons. “Yes, very safe indeed,” we agreed, quickly making our excuses to decline his invitation to stay at his house.

The law of the gun reigns supreme in Pakistan, a stark reminder that we were indeed in the wild wild east. We soon left Gujranwala and continued towards Lahore, eager to find respite at a guesthouse known for welcoming overlanders. There, we met Hussein, a young Pakistani criminal lawyer with a zeal for motorcycling. Immaculately dressed, clean-shaven, and with inquisitive, incisive eyes, he welcomed us warmly. His courtyard boasted three fully kitted Honda Africa Twins and a Yamaha R6, a sight for sore eyes.

Curious about gun ownership after our earlier encounter, I asked Hussein about the legalities in Pakistan. He explained, “Here in Pakistan, if you can prove that you have enemies, you can own a gun.”

“That simple?” I queried.

“Yes, the more enemies you have, the more guns you can own! I have five; want to see them?”

Without waiting for a response, he walked over to his car, retrieved a 9mm Turkish Glock imitation, loaded a clip, and handed it to me, saying,

“You were a soldier, take some shots.”

There we were on the outskirts of Lahore, shooting rounds into a tree with a criminal lawyer we’d just met, having crossed paths with half the criminal underworld of Pakistan.

Though Hussein was deeply entrenched in the layers of the Pakistani underworld, I steered clear of probing too deeply, preferring to shift our conversation to motorcycling, something we both passionately shared. He lamented the restrictions imposed by his Pakistani passport on international travel, but he had found his own way of bridging that gap: “If I can’t travel the world, I’ll bring it to me!” Through his legal connections, he had become the go-to expert on the import and export of motorcycles in Pakistan, likely turning a tidy profit organizing tours and aiding affluent foreigners in discovering Pakistan.

Lahore

Lahore is the heart of Pakistani Punjab, the culture there is distinctly different from the rest of the country. Punjab, otherwise known as the land of five waters (Panj=5, Ab=Water), is a bustling, vibrant, polluted, overcrowded beautifully overwhelming mess.

What better way to discover such a mess than to become it? So another few sprays of acid and off we disappeared into this urban jungle. Led by an enthusiastic Christian Pakistani named Samuel, we delved deep into old Lahore, navigating through side streets, tunnels, and underpasses, all the way into the jewelry quarter. Samuel, keen to get some business done, was expecting us to buy some precious stones. Little did he know that in our minds we had entered the mines of Moria, where the diamond dealers were these huge-bellied, long-bearded Pakistani caricatures, a mix of Tolkienian dwarfs and corner shop owners, as we cruised through their gold and stone-lined tunnels, the emeralds and gold intensified in colour.

Reemerging into the open air, floating from the mines to the parks where overhead, buzzards circled, fed by the locals. It is believed that feeding meat to birds of prey wards off the evil eye; bags of rotting meat are dropped off on main roads, drawing in circling predators. Chased by hordes of incredulous locals following us around desperately trying to get selfies, we aimed for the Badshahi Mosque. This majestic red-bricked mosque built by the Mughals at the height of their reign, is an important example of Mughal architecture, with an exterior that is decorated with carved red sandstone with marble inlay. It remains the largest mosque of the Mughal-era and is the third-largest mosque in Pakistan. Able to house over a hundred thousand worshipers, it engulfed us in its marble floors and tranquil atmosphere. Still chased by selfie vultures, we could not sit still and take it in, so we fled back into the hustle and bustle. At the height of psychedelia, we sat outside the Lahore Fort. After the fall of the Mughal Empire, Lahore Fort was used as the residence of Maharaja Ranjit Singh, founder of the Sikh Empire. The Sikhs made several additions to the fort. It then passed to the control of the East India Company after they annexed Punjab. The fort was inscribed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site for its "outstanding repertoire" of Mughal monuments dating from the era when the empire was at its artistic and aesthetic zenith.

Surrounding the fort are lush green gardens, no doubt a legacy of the British, too clean and organized, it feels like an OCD Englishman had a hand in their designs. We lounge around as fewer selfie vultures dare approach us. One young Pakistani man wearing a pakol and a dishdasha approached me.

“Where are you from?” he asks.

At this stage, I’m able to speak, “Europe.”

“Why are you here?”

“Traveling, visiting, watching.”

“But we all want to leave...” 

We stare at each other intensively but without animosity, curious and sad that this was the limit of our exchange. He shook my hand and walked off.

The day turned to night, it was time to sample some local cuisine. In the depths of Lahore is the famous Butt Karahi House. To say that Pakistani curries are good is a disservice, they are simply out of this world, the combination of spices, flavors, meats, and chili is an explosion of joy.

After filling our bellies, we scoped out the wildest-looking rickshaw driver, a young man with a cheeky smile, backward baseball cap sped past. He was the guy; we hopped in and negotiated a tour around the city. He seemed confused; a minute later some of his friends appeared, carrying bags of building supplies—it appeared he had already a prior engagement. I hopped off the rickshaw and helped them unload their gear from their motorcycles into the rickshaw. This seemed to gain their respect, so we headed off, the bikers following us through the streets of Lahore at top speed, screaming jubilantly at slower rickshaws we overtook. As it often the way in Pakistan, our driver offered the ride for free, we had to insist to pay him. He left us with a sad glint in his eyes, like an abandoned puppy confused that play was over.

The night ended in a café overlooking the mosque in what used to be a brothel now converted into a restaurant. In the restaurant overlooking the mosque is a statue of the Virgin Mary, once gifted by the German ambassador in a somewhat ironic reminder of the building's past. Below the restaurant were Pakistani cross-dressers known as "Hijra" or the third gender. This was not modern Western wokism at play; "Hijras" have had a long-standing place in the sub Indian continent. Much superstition had been weaved around these brave people, mostly by themselves. It was believed that offending a Hijra can bring the evil eye, so people fear and acquiesce to their over-the-top displays of extraversion and aggressive begging, a smart survival strategy in a country where women are still regularly killed in honor killings and homosexuality can result in a sentence of 2–10 years in prison, life imprisonment, 100 lashes, or stoning to death for homosexuality.

As the acid wore off, we contemplated this vast mess of religion, gender, post-colonialism, Sufism, culture, and pollution from the relative safety of the converted brothel rooftop.

The Indian Loophole

 It was time to part ways with Val, his search for wisdom leading him toward Multan and Karachi in pursuit of Sufi teachings. We planned to reunite in India, our journey together far from concluded. Exhausted, I felt my time in Pakistan drawing to a close, and India beckoned.

However, there was a snag: India hadn’t been in my original plan, necessitating some nimble logistical manoeuvres. Securing a visa online was straightforward, but obtaining permission to bring my motorcycle was a different matter altogether. Approval from the relevant embassies was essential, yet achieving this in Pakistan was virtually impossible. The common consensus suggested the likelihood of approval in Islamabad was nil. Nonetheless, a well-known loophole among overlanders presented a viable solution: secure an online visa using a VPN, fly to Amritsar via another country—Dubai in my case—then cross into Pakistan on foot at the Wagah border. Upon crossing, I’d receive the necessary stamp to validate entry through land borders, enabling me to return for my bike in Lahore and cross back into India. A simple forty-kilometer journey now morphed into a cumbersome seven thousand kilometer odyssey.

I Bid farewell to Hussein, the criminal lawyer who graciously allowed me to store my bike and gear, I embarked on my first flight of the trip. Though it felt somewhat like a betrayal of my journey’s ethos, as any veteran knows—no plan survives contact.

The sterile, procedural ambiance of the airport was a stark contrast to the chaotic freedom of road travel; boarding a plane to be effortlessly transported thousands of miles was a peculiar comfort.

Dubai airport felt surprisingly close to the Indian subcontinent. The staff, predominantly from India, Bangladesh, Pakistan, or Nepal, conversed mainly in Urdu and Hindi, all under the watchful supervision of their Emirati overseers. Who could blame these economic migrants for seizing a shot at a better future? In a twist of historical irony, descendants of one of the world's oldest civilizations now served in the lands of erstwhile nomadic desert tribes, transformed by oil wealth into the world's nouveau riche.

 My initial relief at the ease of air travel soon gave way to boredom and frustration as a delay extended my time in the overly air-conditioned lounge, prompting reflections on what awaited me next.

Lying in the corner of the waiting lounge, wrapped up in my thoughts and a cold shiver, I awaited my flight to Amritsar. The aircraft, filled with robust, turbaned Sikhs donning an intriguing mix of traditional and Western attire, was a striking reminder of the eclectic cultural tapestry that awaited in India. After months amid conservative muslim countries, the vibrancy of India was alluring.