Between Dust and Giants: A Journey Through Pakistan
PAKISTAN
1,312 Km – 70 Days
1 July – 8 September 2008
1,312 Km – 70 Days
1 July – 8 September 2008
VOICEOVER
Prelude
Pakistan entered my route more as a
question than a destination—misunderstood, whispered about, and wrapped in
warning. What unfolded instead was a land of staggering contrasts: blistering
deserts and icy glaciers, rigid rules and spontaneous generosity, moments of
fear interwoven with unexpected freedom. This journey was never just about kilometres covered or borders crossed;
it was about surrendering to uncertainty and letting the road rewrite my
assumptions.
Taxi
to Taftan & a Lunar Border Crossing
As I
prepared to leave for Pakistan, my hosts insisted that cycling was out of the
question, deeming it a “dangerous activity.” A taxi had already been arranged,
its fare prepaid, and as I loaded my panniers, I could feel the frustration
rising. Tired of arguing against the tide of caution, I surrendered, climbed
into the cab, and embarked on a surreal journey through a lunar-like landscape
toward the border.
Honestly,
I had no regrets about saying goodbye to Iran. Though its people were
undeniably friendly and welcoming, the country wrapped me in an atmosphere of
extreme restriction that felt suffocating. Maybe my aversion stemmed from my
inherently anti-authoritarian mindset.
Upon
reaching the Iran-Pakistan border, a mischievous urge to flash a cheeky gesture
crossed my mind. Iran had been too conservative for my taste, and their
treatment of women? Don't even get me started. I mean, who really says, “I
dream of draping myself in head-to-toe black,” unless they’ve been conditioned
from a young age?
Warm Welcome, Cycle Ban & Baluchistan Heat
But
as soon as I crossed the border, Pakistan enveloped me in a warm embrace of
friendliness. The border officials were surprisingly helpful, showing genuine
curiosity about my journey. Their questions about my biking adventure in such a
rugged, often perilous region made me realise that not many cyclists come this
way. Initially taken aback by their enthusiastic inquiries, I soon found myself
melted by the kindness radiating from every interaction.
What
I didn’t expect was the unwelcome news that biking was strictly prohibited
between the border and Quetta. The ban stemmed from safety concerns, and the
looming military presence, along with hushed mentions of the “Taliban,” sent
jolts of apprehension through me. The seriousness of the restriction hit home
when I saw my beloved bicycle hoisted onto the roof of a bus before I could
even protest.
Our
bus ride to Quetta spanned an exhausting 620 kilometres through the rugged
beauty of Baluchistan. It was a marathon journey, taking anywhere from 20 to 24
hours, and every kilometre was a dance with Mother Nature in her harshest form.
The desert landscape, characterised by barren mountains and sweltering
temperatures, took my breath away— though I was dubious about how much longer I
could endure those conditions. The bus was packed tighter than a can of
sardines, with as many people perched precariously on the roof as inside. I
couldn't help but wonder how they managed to stay balanced on our bumpy route in
that scorching heat.
As a
woman navigating this part of the world, I had some privileges, like sitting up
front and skipping the lengthy queues. Yet, I still felt like a fish out of
water, constantly aware of the curious stares that followed me.
Quetta
Arriving
in Quetta, the capital of Baluchistan, just before dawn felt like a small
victory. The early morning air was refreshingly cool—the only time of day you
could comfortably wander through this arid, scorched landscape.
A
short bike ride took me into the heart of the city, where I faced the usual
challenges of settling into a new country: finding accommodation, getting
refreshed, withdrawing cash, and acquiring a SIM card. Yet, in Quetta, these
seemingly simple tasks spiralled into mini-adventures. Pakistan was rarely on
the average traveller’s radar, and Quetta, being even less frequented, gave the
impression of an untouched gem.
Surrounded
by camel carts, bustling alleys, fragrant milk tea, fluffy chapattis, and the
vibrant chaos of rickshaws—all set against a dramatic mountain desert—Quetta
exuded authenticity. Still, I felt like an obvious foreigner in this rich
tapestry of life. The moment the friendly locals discovered I was South
African, they erupted into spirited conversations about cricket. It seemed this
sport was their refuge from the political turbulence that weighed heavily on
their lives.
The
hospitality I encountered was truly heart-warming. Yes, the country was hot,
dusty, and occasionally daunting, but an undeniable friendliness hung in the
air, like a comforting blanket. In no time at all, the spicy street food,
coupled with stunning scenery, had captivated my heart, making it impossible
not to fall in love with Pakistan.
I
couldn’t resist picking up a shalwar kameez—those flowing, loose-fitting pants
and long-sleeved shirts that are the hallmark of the culture. While both men
and women wore this attire, the styles differed by gender.
As
the day wore on, I began to hear whispers about more challenges ahead: cycling
to Islamabad would require a police escort for nearly the entire 1,000 kilometres.
If the police were willing to escort me, I couldn’t have cared less; the
thought of sitting in a vehicle at 15 km/h under a blazing sun felt far worse
than pedalling my way there.
Yet,
a bigger hurdle loomed: accommodations. It seemed that staying at most places
was off-limits for women, which complicated my options. After speaking with the
local police, it became clear that biking to Islamabad was out of the question.
I had no desire to endure a miserable journey, challenge the status quo, or be
whisked away by bored passengers in a car.
Reluctantly,
I began to consider the next best option: a train ride to Islamabad, celebrated
as one of the most scenic routes. Yet, looking back, I can’t help but feel a
pang of regret. I should have stuck to my guns and cycled! To this day, I'm
sorry I didn't assert myself.
Train Through the Bolan Pass
The
bustling station platform was a vivid tapestry of humanity—hordes of passengers
with luggage in every conceivable size and shape. It was a scene that made manoeuvring
with a bicycle feel remarkably easy. With a last-minute ticket in hand, I soon
discovered that all sleeping compartments were full, leaving only upright seats
that felt more like waiting-room benches than a comfy spot for a long journey.
Originally
scheduled to depart at 14h30, we finally lurched forward around 16h00. To my
surprise, the train itself was quite modern, with air-conditioned coaches—a
welcome relief from the heat outside. However, the unforgiving seat made sleep
elusive, and the strong military presence around me didn’t ease my nerves. A
soldier took up a seat directly across from me and seemed to be unwaveringly
attentive. I later learned that the train ahead had been robbed, which explained
the extra vigilance.
As
we wound our way through the infamous Bolan Pass—a wild and desolate mountain
range occasionally haunted by lawless intruders—the train, pulled by two
engines and pushed by one, crawled along at a snail's pace, stopping at every
station where vendors shouted their offers of tantalising snacks. Realising my
chances of comfort were slim, I persuaded the conductor to upgrade me to a
sleeping compartment as soon as one became available. A few Pakistani rupees
later, I found myself in an empty bunk, finally able to stretch out.
Punjab’s Green Fields & Islamabad at Midnight
A
full day on the train unfolded, leaving little to do but gaze out the window
while curious passengers watched me with unabashed interest. At times, I
couldn’t help but think that a burka wouldn’t be such a bad idea for some
privacy! As we crossed into Punjab, the landscape transformed into a vibrant
patchwork of lush green fields—wheat, rice, and cotton stretching out as far as
the eye could see, with the occasional water buffalo meandering by.
We
finally rolled into Rawalpindi around 22h00, which was a bit of a surprise as I
expected to arrive in Islamabad. After retrieving my bicycle and panniers, I
set off in search of a hotel, but to my dismay, every place I approached was
either full or refused to accept foreigners. It soon became clear that being a
foreign woman was a significant factor. Exhausted and weary, I abandoned the
hotel hunt and hopped into a taxi that took me to an international hotel in
Islamabad. It wasn’t glamorous by any means, but by midnight, a bed was a bed.
Islamabad
- Sticky Heat, Creepy
Crawlies & K2 Dreams
The
windowless room did my sleep schedule no favours, making it hard to rise and
shine as the sticky heat enveloped me the moment I woke. To my annoyance, I
wasn’t alone—tiny creepy crawlies shared my space. When I finally ventured
outside, I was greeted by a steamy downpour that left me feeling sticky and
dishevelled.
Islamabad,
the capital city built in 1960 as a planned urban oasis, was a breath of fresh
air. With its spacious layout and lush greenery, it felt like a world away from
the previous chaos. While exploring, I came across a trekking agent who
unlocked a flood of excitement in me with offers of treks to K2 base camp. My
fascination with K2, which has surpassed my interest in Everest, has consumed
my reading for years, so the prospect of embarking on this iconic trek made my
heart race.
Although
the price tag was steep—thanks to K2’s location within a protected National
Park—I was resolute. Accessing such a majestic landscape required a guide, but
the package included transport to the starting point, a knowledgeable guide, a
cook, and porters to carry everything, including my personal gear. With a leap
of joy, I signed up, ready to chase my long-held dream.
Street
Food Sunday & a Bombing at Melody Market
I
was so excited about the trip that I arrived at their office a day early,
thinking it was our departure day. Thankfully, the extra time was anything but
a disaster; it turned into a delightful adventure exploring the vibrant markets
and indulging in an array of street food that made my mouth water—samosas,
chilly bites, potato fritters, and a medley of nuts and fresh fruit. The rest
of my day was spent meticulously packing essentials for the trek: warm clothes,
a sleeping bag, and a sleeping mat. I toyed with the idea of splurging on a
pair of hiking boots but found most shops closed on Sundays, a minor hiccup in
my plan.
Then,
a chilling event unfolded. Just hours after my visit, a suicide bomber struck
the crowded Melody Market, claiming the lives of 15 innocent people and
injuring many more. The unnerving part? I had been there less than thirty
minutes earlier. Yet, life in the rest of Islamabad marched on. Vendors
continued to sell their wares, the muezzin called people to prayer, and kids
joyously played cricket in the alleyways, their laughter ringing through the
streets. In fact, it was rare to see a child without a cricket bat in hand. You
wouldn't guess, watching TV, that hockey and squash were also celebrated
national sports!
Permits, Briefings & the Long Road to Besham
Eager
anticipation woke me at the crack of dawn, ready to embark on our journey.
However, it wasn’t until well past midday that we finally left Islamabad. True
to tradition, we visited the Minister of Tourism for our trekking permits, had
a briefing at the Alpine Club, and made a pit stop in Rawalpindi for final
supplies—a cherished ritual steeped in history. I felt truly honoured to be
part of it, even if my trek would be short, just to base camp.
The
journey north was a sensory delight. The roads were alive with colourful trucks
and buses, and the lush, green hills unfolded a stunning contrast to
Baluchistan's starkness. We passed small communities with villagers dressed in
vibrant traditional attire. Shops lined the pavements, showcasing everything
from tyres to clothing, and the Jeep ride soon led us to the renowned Karakoram
Highway (KKH), which snaked alongside the mighty Indus River. The narrow road,
sometimes washed away, made for a slow and painstaking journey. It was long
after sunset when we finally reached our overnight stop in Besham, exhausted
yet exhilarated.
Karakoram Highway to Skardu
The
next morning, we geared up to hit the road by 5 AM since our
destination—Skardu—was quite a trek. Almost immediately, the rolling green
hills morphed into a stark, barren landscape, a testament to nature's extremes.
Our driver graciously made a quick stop at a breathtaking viewpoint where the
majestic Himalayas, Karakoram, and Hindukush mountains converged.
Shortly
after Jaglot, the road veered off the KKH onto an even narrower path. With high
cliffs to one side and sheer drops down to the river, navigating this stretch
alongside other vehicles was nothing short of a thrilling performance. The pace
was slow, and we pulled into the bustling, dusty Skardu long after dark.
Arrival at the K2 Motel
Upon
arrival, an electric thrill coursed through me; Skardu was a place I’d long
dreamed of, and it brimmed with adventure. The town teemed with life and
offered a variety of trekking and mountaineering shops, perfectly situated at
the foot of such significant climbs. My night at the iconic K2 Motel was
nothing short of inspiring. The spacious rooms and large shower facilities felt
like a luxurious haven, and the lush garden outside, overlooking the Indus
River, was a picturesque backdrop. It was humbling to be among many of the
world's most accomplished mountaineers.
Jeep to Askole & Landslide Detours
To
my surprise, I was the sole guest on the trip, an odd but intriguing situation
with a crew made up of Ali, our guide, Munwar, our cook, and ten eager porters.
Before we set off, I decided to scour one of the second-hand stores for hiking
boots, and I hit the jackpot, finding a fantastic pair at a fraction of the
original price.
However,
our departure was delayed well into the afternoon. Six more hours in a Jeep
took us to Askole, the last village accessible by road. From there, all our
gear would be carried on foot, which is why we needed ten porters. Just before
reaching Askole, a landslide forced us to abandon the Jeep and haul our luggage
across the rubble to where another vehicle awaited. The final stretch to Askole
was a bone-rattling drive, steeped in thrilling hairpin bends and dizzying
cliffs dropping down to the river—definitely not for the faint-hearted!
Finally, as dusk approached, Askole camp was set up, complete with my tent and
a large cooking tent, while Ali organised the porters. The adventure was truly
beginning!
First Steps to Jhola Camp 3,200m asl
What
an exhilarating start to my adventure! As I set off with my lively entourage on
a glorious day, I couldn’t help but laugh at the spectacle we must have been. I
fancied myself the Queen of Sheba, radiating joy. Our first day’s trek along
the Braldu River was a mix of beauty and challenge—short, but rugged, with
narrow trails that often danced on the edge. As we crossed a side river, I
watched donkeys expertly navigating a swaying suspension bridge, offering a
hint of the thrilling journey ahead. When we finally reached our campsite, it
felt like stepping into luxury, complete with toilets and washing facilities.
However, the icy river water straight from the glacier ensured my wash was a
quick, invigorating splash!
That
evening, Munwar, our cook, treated us to a delicious feast of chapattis, rice,
and chickpeas. The dry mountain air made my skin feel tight, but nothing could
dampen my spirit as I relished the majestic surroundings. As I snuggled into my
sleeping bag, laughter bubbled out of me, fuelled by the sheer joy of being in
this incredible place alongside my merry team.
Paiya Peaks & Porter Rituals 3,600m asl
The
dawn greeted us with a delightful walk along the river, and the allure of
towering peaks on the horizon only heightened my excitement. As we neared camp,
the stunning Baltoro Glacier and the Cathedral Towers rose majestically in the
distance. The rocky trail tested my feet, but by the end of the day, kicking
off my boots felt like a luxury. To my surprise, my new boots had remained
comfortable throughout, sparing me from blisters or chafing.
Our
porters, steeped in tradition, performed their rituals and prayers as we
commenced our trek. Although we hadn’t walked far, this was their designated
rest day, marked by the ceremonial slaughter of a goat. The vivid dancing and
celebration lasted late into the night, adding to the joy of the adventure.
Paiya -
Rest Day with Mark &
Alex
At
Paiya, we met Mark and Alex from the UK, an easygoing couple who quickly became
my companions on this journey. Their company was a welcome relief, as solitary
walking can sometimes feel monotonous. We spent the day at a leisurely pace,
recovering from upset stomachs and enjoying each other's stories. From that
point on, we formed a close-knit group, sharing a single cooking tent under the
starlit sky each evening.
Onto the Baltoro Glacier Khuburtze at 4,000m asl
The
following morning called for an early start; we were about to embark on a
six-hour ascent up the mighty Baltoro Glacier, which stretches an impressive
sixty-two kilometres
up
the valley. Surprisingly, it didn’t feel like walking on a glacier at all. We
navigated rocky terrain, with the occasional glimpse of deep crevices reminding
us of nature's power. The icy surface, while slippery, had me clutching my
walking sticks tightly for balance.
As
we steadily climbed, I couldn’t help but marvel at our camp, nestled among
rocks and dotted with a few tents. Chickens and goats, brought up by the
porters, flitted about, though I noticed their numbers dwindling. Settling
under the sun, sipping cup after cup of green tea, I gazed at the imposing
Paiyu Peak (6600 meters) and the stunning Tango Towers (6239 meters). Gratitude
swept over me—was I really here, soaking in this breathtaking beauty?
Urdukas Rain & Greenland Climbers 4,200m asl
Our
next stop was Urdukas camp, reached by walking along the lateral moraine. Our
walking pace had by then slowed considerably, and the daily distances became significantly
shorter. Nevertheless, the views remained spectacular and close to camp were
reminders of climbers and porters who had died on K2.
Soon
after arriving at camp, it started raining and the rest of the day was spent sleeping
and nibbling on nuts and dried fruit swallowed down by numerous cups of tea
At
the camp, we met two fearless climbers from Greenland who had set their sights
on conquering K2. However, after grappling with relentless rockfalls and
avalanches, they decided to retreat. Soon, the temperature dropped
dramatically, and the biting cold forced all of us back to the comfort of our
tents.
Slipping Toward Goro 2 - 4,500m asl
We
awoke to a stunning, clear morning that made our walk along the Baltoro Glacier
an unforgettable experience. The terrain had its challenges, rocky and slippery
in spots, but Mark, Alex, and I carefully navigated our way across the glacier,
making sure to sidestep the daunting crevasses while soaking in the distant
sight of Gasherbrum 4. As we climbed, the altitude left us breathless, but our
determination pushed us onward. The day turned into a graceful dance of
slipping and sliding, culminating in our arrival at Coro 2 camp, positioned
right in the heart of the glacier.
Coro
2 was jaw-droppingly beautiful, cradled by towering peaks that formed a
breathtaking backdrop. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the temperatures
dropped drastically, prompting us to gather for an early supper. The meal was a
delightful spread, featuring soup, rice, several delicious dishes, and, of
course, a tantalising dessert.
Concordia & the First Sight of K2 - 4,700 asl
The
following day greeted us with a relaxed, albeit slow-paced, stroll that
revealed jaw-dropping views of Muztagh Tower, Gasherbrum 4, and—finally—K2
itself. Even though we were weighed down by exhaustion, I couldn’t help but
wear a broad smile, overwhelmed by the realisation of where I was. The sun
shone brightly in a cloudless sky, allowing K2—a magnificent giant rising
3,600m straight from the Godwin Austin Glacier—to dominate the landscape,
giving me goosebumps that had nothing to do with the cold.
Our
camp sat atop the glacier, with the eerie sound of cracking ice keeping us
company through the night. For days, I had been wearing the same clothes to
combat the chill, but thankfully, it seemed like everyone else had adopted the
same strategy!
Concordia to
Gasherbrum Base Camp
& Altitude Nausea - 5,300 m asl
After
breakfast, Ali, our guide, led us on a challenging trek to the Gasherbrum base
camp and Gondogoro La, traversing steep, slippery ice. The journey was a slow, gruelling
ordeal, and I found myself nauseous on our return to Concordia, most likely due
to the altitude. Once again, as dusk fell, the temperatures plummeted, and all
I could do was curl up in my sleeping bag, seeking refuge from the cold.
Rest Day in the “Shit Zone”
We
took a much-needed rest day at Concordia. The energy was low, and no one felt
up to venturing far. Instead, we spent the day soaking in the awe-inspiring
scenery—a panorama I had never expected to witness again. Concordia was a
magical place where five glaciers meet, popular among trekking expeditions.
Unfortunately, many of us struggled with upset stomachs, a common problem at
Concordia. The respite was more than welcome.
Back to Urdukas in Clouded Silence
Eventually,
it was time to retrace our steps. A long day of trekking awaited us as our
group departed Concordia, relieved to leave behind what was affectionately
deemed the “shit zone,” where sewage disposal was a major issue on the frozen,
rocky terrain. The day was overcast, obscuring the majestic peaks we had
enjoyed on our ascent. We finally reached Urdukas camp around 5 o’clock, which
boasted an incredible location along the mountainside, overlooking the lofty
pinnacles. As we settled in, we watched fellow trekkers and climbers make their
way up the mountain, all of us sharing in the exhilaration of our remarkable
journey. The only damper was watching rescue helicopters flying to and from the
mountain. It turned out that 11 mountaineers died on K2 that season, the worst
single accident in the history of K2 mountaineering.
Downhill to Paiyu in the Rain
Waking
up had transformed into a delightful ritual, thanks to a freshly brewed cup of
coffee delivered to my tent. Breakfast was a hearty affair with chapattis,
cereal, and steaming tea. As we enjoyed our meal, the porters efficiently
packed up the tents, ready to hit the trail. The day promised a lengthy trek,
but the silver lining was that much of it was downhill.
However,
as we reached the end of the glacier, the skies opened up. By the time we
stumbled into camp, we were drenched to the core. My quick and inexpensive
backpack from Islamabad turned out to be a regrettable choice, as it was far
from waterproof. Everything I owned was soaked, including my sleeping bag. Ugh!
Return to Jhola & Dzo Caravans
The
morning greeted us with overcast skies, but thankfully, it was dry—a promising
start for our walk to Jhola Camp. We navigated a narrow, rocky path,
progressing in single-file, but the banter flowed easily among our group.
Before long, we arrived at Jhola Camp, bustling with climbers eager to conquer
K2.
Among
the adventurers were porters leading dzos—an intriguing mix of half-cow,
half-yak. These sturdy animals were bound for base camp, where they’d provide
much-needed meat for the climbers returning from their summits. The evening
brought a welcome change, allowing us to spread out our damp gear and finally
relax.
Final Trek to Askole
As
dawn broke, our coffee ritual resumed, courtesy of the porters bringing
steaming cups to my tent around 7 in the morning. After breakfast, we set out
on what would be our final day of trekking. A nostalgic tinge filled the air as
we walked alongside the river and across the snout of the Biafro Glacier for a
leisurely six hours. Eventually, we were greeted by the lush green fields
surrounding Askole.
Although
the clouds gathered and rain began to fall as we reached the campsite, we
swiftly dove into our tents. The evening took a lively turn with the arrival of
a fun group of Russians, all gearing up to climb the Ogre. We exchanged stories
and laughter, turning an otherwise dreary night into a social gathering.
Jeep Chaos & Luxury at Shigar Fort
The
next leg of our adventure began with a bone-jarring Jeep ride along a treacherous
mountain road, narrow and hairpin-bent, with sheer cliffs. Our journey took an
unexpected turn when we encountered a washed-away bridge, forcing us to abandon
the Jeep and cautiously traverse the fragile-looking structure on foot.
The
adventure wasn’t over yet—a slippery scramble through a landslide area demanded
our full attention. But eventually, we were back in a Jeep, and soon arrived in
Shigar. Much to my delight, Mark and Alex opted for a night at the Shigar Fort
Hotel, and I couldn’t resist joining them. After 14 days without a shower, the
thought of hot water and clean clothes was irresistible!
The
400-year-old fort, newly restored and converted into a hotel, proved to be the
perfect retreat. I basked in the luxury of hot showers, standing under the
water for what felt like an eternity. Refreshed, we indulged in a sumptuous
dinner at the hotel restaurant before retreating to our lavish rooms.
Flight
Out of Skardu
The
morning saw us departing for a quick drive to Skardu, where small planes whisked
passengers off to Islamabad—though at our own expense. The flights were
notoriously unpredictable, reliant on the whims of the weather. To our joy, the
skies cleared, and our delayed flight finally took off, sparing us a cumbersome
two-day Jeep journey back.
By
evening, I discovered that Ernest was just 16 kilometres away from Rawalpindi,
his knack for showing up at the most surprising moments never failing to amuse
me. What an adventure this had been!
Islamabad Campsite & New Plans
My next
adventure began in Islamabad, a city with a surprising treasure: a campsite nestled
in the heart of town. It was here that I encountered a motley crew of
travellers. Some came pedalling on bicycles, while others made their way
overland, each with their own captivating stories that added colour to my stay.
Before
long, my friend Ernest arrived, full of enthusiasm for our ambitious plan to
bike to China. However, our dreams were dashed when we learned that securing a
Chinese visa in Islamabad was next to impossible. Undeterred, we quickly
pivoted and decided to pedal through India instead. With our Indian visa
applications submitted, we set off from Islamabad to tackle the legendary
Karakoram Highway, a route famed among cyclists.
Bus
to Aliabad
Instead
of making the trek to the Chinese border and retracing our steps, we opted for
a more sensible route: taking a bus to Aliabad. This would allow us to pick up
our Indian visas before our stay in Pakistan expires. The bus ride would take
us into the heart of the Hunza Valley.
Our
journey got off to a slow start, with a brief bike ride to Rawalpindi to catch
our bus. As the clock struck 14h30, we boarded for the long overnight journey.
Though the ride felt painfully sluggish and the seats were less than
comfortable, I found myself admiring the intrepid backpackers who travelled
overland on buses.
Karimabad’s Communal Table
Little
sleep came my way on that rattling night bus, with it bouncing and jostling
along the narrow, bumpy Karakoram Highway. We finally reached Aliabad at
midday, completing a gruelling 22-hour bus ride. With a burst of energy, I
hopped on my bike for a short seven-kilometre ride to Karimabad, facing a steep
two-kilometre climb along the way.
The
Haider Inn awaited us, a beloved haunt for overlanders and backpackers alike,
boasting stunning views and delicious meals. Every evening, a communal dinner
brought travellers together—bowls of soup, garden-fresh veggies, hearty pasta,
fragrant dhal, rice, tea, and delightful desserts served on a long table,
sparking laughter and late-night stories.
Ride to Passu & Glacier Breeze Moonlight (51 km)
The
next leg of our journey took us higher into the mountains, as we cycled from
Karimabad along the scenic path towards the Chinese-Pakistani border, knowing
full well we couldn’t cross. Nevertheless, we were determined to reach the
border for a photo opportunity.
Finally,
I felt the exhilarating freedom of being back on my bike! The road, washed away
in places and littered with signs of past rockfalls, demanded patience and
care. Fortunately, the route remained mostly quiet, and we faced just a few
trucks and Jeeps on our way. As we rolled into Passu, we found camping right
behind the Glacier Breeze Restaurant, with stunning views of the majestic Passu
Glacier.
The
restaurant lived up to its reputation for excellent cuisine, and we treated
ourselves to a delightful dinner featuring the renowned flavours of Hunza. As
the full moon rose, its silvery glow illuminated the snow-covered peaks and
glistening glaciers—a truly unforgettable end to our day!
Short Day to Sost (41km)
The
KKH wound its way through the valley, offering a gentle ride with no
significant climbs but plenty of undulations, each turn revealing tiny mountain
hamlets nestled in the hills. The short journey brought us to Sost early, and
seeking shelter for the night, we chose a rather shabby hotel that delivered on
its promise of extremely basic accommodations. Sost felt like a quintessential
border town, dusty and dingy, with trucks buzzing back and forth to China,
creating an atmosphere both vibrant and gritty.
Khunjerab Pass Attempt (87 km)
The
weather turned grim, keeping us grounded for a day before we finally took the
plunge towards the Khunjerab Pass. On a brilliantly sunny, cloudless day, a
bumpy Jeep ride whisked us up to the border at a staggering 4,733 meters. The
descent back to Sost covered a breathtaking 87 kilometres, with the landscape
unfolding in grandeur at every twist and turn. We paused halfway down for a
well-deserved coffee stop, igniting a stove amidst the splendour of towering
peaks. In that moment, engulfed by nature's magnificence, we could only sit in
silence, soaking in the sheer beauty and feeling incredibly fortunate.
Back
to Karimabad (94 km)
The
path to Karimabad was less a downhill glide and more an eventful ride, with
undulating hills and several steep climbs. By the time I rolled into Karimabad,
fatigue weighed heavily on me, especially with the daunting two-kilometre climb
to the village still ahead. I wondered if my lack of energy stemmed from the
altitude or the pesky flu that had been lingering. Thankfully, an enticing
supper awaited us at the inn, a comfort that lifted my spirits.
Surrounded
by stunning vistas at Heider Inn, we chose to stay another day, hoping my cold
would let up before setting forth again. Yet, the local electricity was
notoriously fickle—three power outages thwarted my attempts to send an email. I
couldn’t really complain, though; many villages only enjoyed power every other
day. The scenery and atmosphere here made it easy to let go of such
frustrations.
Milk
Tea and Pancakes
The
rain drizzled down on this overcast day, making it perfect for lounging.
Breakfast consisted of milky tea and thick pancakes slathered with jam, while
lunch was a Hunza twist on pizza—onions, tomatoes, and cheese nestled between
two chapattis. Dinner featured our usual communal sharing, complemented by a
few beers and lively conversations with fellow travellers. Karimabad is one of
those magical places where a single day's visit turns into a week-long stay,
and I completely understood why. Exploring the hamlet revealed a fascinating
old fort, a remnant from the 8th century BC, perched on a steep hill. The hike
to it offered gazing points with unobstructed views of Karimabad and the
sprawling valleys beyond.
Landslides
and rockfalls en route to Gilgit (106 km)
After
indulging in hearty meals and a bit of rest, Ernest and I set out towards
Gilgit, only to be thwarted moments later by a landslide blocking the path.
With nothing to do but wait, the tension ramped up as boulders tumbled down the
mountainside, sending us scurrying in all directions—definitely not how I
pictured my day unfolding! I had anticipated a smooth ride to Gilgit, but the
hills quickly reminded me of our altitude along the KKH. Wheezing and panting,
I tackled the sharp inclines, grateful for the numerous settlements along the
way offering snacks and drinks. Finally, we reached Gilgit, a sprawling valley
accessed through a narrow tunnel and a thrilling suspension bridge, adding a
dash of excitement to our ride.
Gilgit
Ancient Markets
We
settled in for the night at the renowned Madina Hotel. While it was a bit
pricier than some places, the clean bedding and hot water made it worth every
penny. Gilgit, often dubbed Pakistan’s tourist capital, buzzed with energy as a
central hub for trekking and mountaineering in the awe-inspiring Karakoram
region, surrounded by some of the tallest peaks on Earth.
The
next day unfolded as a delightful adventure, wandering through the vibrant
markets that echoed the town's historical significance along the Silk Route.
The stalls were alive with colours and sounds, and it wasn’t long before Ernest
snagged himself a stylish Hunza cap, encouraged by enthusiastic fellow
shoppers.
Gilgit
to Thalichi (67 km)
We
departed from the Madina Hotel a bit later than planned. As much as I cherished
our travels together, I sometimes wished Ernest could start earlier. The time
it took him to load his bicycle felt excessive, bordering on ridiculous. With
no major climbs ahead, we navigated the gentle ups and downs of the Karakoram.
A striking whitewashed monument marked the meeting point of the Karakoram,
Hindukush, and Himalaya Mountain ranges—a spot I had visited not too long ago.
Not
far along, we came upon a Dutch traveller whose Land Cruiser had veered too far
off the road, now overturned in a rather unfortunate spectacle. A little
further, the half-built Nanga Parbat Hotel caught my eye, a perfect place for
camping with breathtaking views of Nanga Parbat itself, soaring at 8,125
meters, the second-highest peak in Pakistan. Known as 'Killer Mountain' for the
tragedies that befell mountaineers, I was grateful to observe its beauty from a
distance.
The
Road to Chilas (71 km)
The
day dawned hot and dry as we pedalled toward historic Chilas. Delays due to
three punctures Ernest suffered meant our arrival was much later than
anticipated. A relentless headwind rolled in during the afternoon, making the
morning ride significantly more pleasant—if only we could have started on time!
We
were warned about potential stone-throwing in the area, and we indeed faced it
that day. Miraculously, we passed the notorious landslide zone near Raikot
Bridge without incident, no dodging boulders required this time. Yet, upon
reaching Chilas, we found the Karakoram Inn to be a typical budget hotel,
lacking in cleanliness with dirty bedding and grimy bathrooms.
Entering
the Indus Kohistan District (117 km)
As
we journeyed from Chilas to Dasu, we entered the Indus Kohistan district—a
region steeped in conservatism where women remained unseen outside the home.
The landscape transformed into a dramatic gorge, deep and narrow, flanked by
towering cliffs and nerve-wracking drop-offs to the river below. It reminded me
of the rugged beauty of Ethiopia, with both the scenery and children playfully
throwing stones as we passed.
This
area, often considered somewhat lawless, advised against wild camping, pushing
us toward established accommodations. However, about 15 kilometres before Dasu,
we stumbled upon a charming rest house with breathtaking views. The manager graciously
offered us a room at half the price, making it an easy decision to stay the
night.
Flat
tyres en route to Pattan (53 km)
Our
initial plan was to make it to Besham, but after travelling just 50 kilometres,
we found ourselves delayed yet again due to another flat tyre for Ernest. We
reluctantly opted to overnight in Pattan, having exhausted all spare tubes
between us.
The
ride today was nothing short of picturesque. The route climbed gracefully along
the canyon walls, revealing a landscape dotted with lush greenery, a stark
contrast to the barren areas we had traversed further north. The Indus River
sparkled far below as we navigated the winding path, a road occasionally swept
away by rockfalls but still leading us through nature’s stunning artistry.
Pattan
to Batagram (96 km)
The
ride from Pattan to Batagram was nothing short of breathtaking, a true feast
for the eyes with lush greenery and majestic, forest-clad mountains. However,
the poor condition of the road had its consequences—my front luggage rack
succumbed to the rough patches and broke apart. For months afterwards, it hung
together with duct tape and cable ties, a testament to our journey's
challenges. Still, I couldn't help but feel a tinge of sympathy for the Polish
cyclist we met, who struggled along on a single gear.
As
we crossed the Indus River at Thakot—the official start and end of the
Karakoram Highway—the landscape dramatically changed as we climbed out of the
valley, leaving behind the river's heat and sweat. Our hotel in Batagram,
unfortunately, had seen better days; the lack of tourism was evident in its
faded charm.
Batagram
to Abbottabad (98 km)
The
next day began with a challenging ascent to Chatter Plain, but a thrilling
descent into Mansehra awaited us. As we pedalled through the villages, we found
ourselves surrounded by bustling bazaars, where the cacophony of traffic made
for a slow, often frustrating ride. Vibrant trucks, cars, Jeeps, and donkey
carts crowded the roads.
Once
we left Mansehra, the ride to Abbottabad was a series of undulating hills. By
this point, the local children were a mix of curiosity and terror, scattering
at the sight of us as if we were an exotic species. Despite being a popular
route for cyclists, encounters with other bikers were still rare, making our
presence a surprise in the quaint towns along the way.
Return
to the Capital & Campsite Stories (125 km)
The ride into
Islamabad was, in a word, grim. After weeks of swooning over mountain vistas so
majestic they practically demanded a national anthem, we suddenly found
ourselves pedalling through roadworks that appeared to have been designed by
someone with a personal vendetta against cyclists. Dust billowed, trucks
lurched, and the whole thing felt like being chased across a construction site
by an angry deity.
Still,
Islamabad welcomed us back with familiar faces at the campsite — people who had
been waiting for their visas so long they were beginning to resemble permanent
fixtures. I half expected someone to start charging rent.
Islamabad
- Visa Success & India Pivot Confirmed
A miracle
occurred: our Indian visas were ready. Ernest celebrated by cleaning and
servicing the bikes with the solemn dedication of a man preparing for a lunar
expedition. I celebrated by buying books — two novels and a Lonely Planet India
so heavy it could double as a weapon. All at prices so low I briefly wondered
if I’d accidentally robbed the shopkeeper.
Ramzaan meant
the markets were quiet, but the campsite was not. At 4 in the morning, the call
to prayer drifted through the air, followed immediately by the clatter of pots
and pans as camp guards prepared their pre‑sunrise meal. It was like living
inside a percussion section.
Cyclists’
Farewells & New Routes Ahead
(124 km)
We pedalled
south toward India, and immediately the road improved so dramatically it felt
like someone had ironed it. After the KKH, this smooth surface was practically
decadent. Even the oppressive heat and humidity couldn’t dampen our spirits —
every pedal stroke created a tiny breeze, which we cherished like royalty
receiving fan service.
Jhelum
offered a guesthouse that was quintessentially Pakistani: breakfast at 4 o’clock
(we declined with the enthusiasm of people avoiding a medical procedure),
prayer mats instead of towels, and directional signs to Mecca where one might
expect instructions for the Wi‑Fi. It was perfect in its own wonderfully
bewildering way — exactly the sort of thing that makes travel addictive.
Jhelum to Gujranwala (100 km)
We began the
day with peanut butter sandwiches, the breakfast of champions who have run out
of other options. The ride toward Lahore was pleasant until the sky decided to re-enact
the end of days. A storm rolled in with winds strong enough to exfoliate us,
followed by rain so heavy it felt personal. We huddled beside motorbikes like
damp livestock until it passed.
The rain
cleared the air beautifully, but by evening we were checking into an overpriced
hotel — the kind of place that charges extra for the privilege of existing.
Still, after the storm, it felt like luxury.
Gujranwala to Lahore (90 km)
The road to
Lahore was flat, uneven, and lined with buffalo dung drying in neat cakes — a
sight that transported us straight back to Africa. Children chased us with the
enthusiasm of Olympic sprinters, usually ending in mechanical failure on their
part. I admired their spirit.
Entering
Lahore itself was like participating in a live‑action episode of Fear Factor.
The streets were a swirling mass of vehicles, animals, and humans, all moving
according to rules known only to them. Progress was measured in ten‑metre
increments, each one a small triumph. Making noise seemed to help, though I’m still
not sure why.
Lahore
We found
reasonably priced accommodation in Anarkali market, a neighbourhood so narrow
and lively it felt like living inside a pinball machine. Cricket was played
everywhere — pavements, alleys, possibly rooftops — and dodging cricket balls
became part of our daily routine.
Lahore,
cultural capital of Pakistan, was a feast for the senses. We wandered the old
city, explored the ancient fort and mosque, and climbed a minaret for views of
Old Lahore that made the chaos below look almost poetic.
Street food
at Gawalmandi was irresistible, even during Ramzaan. I had the best salty lassi
of my life — a beverage so good it briefly made me consider religion.
Unfortunately, the air pollution was so tangible you could almost spread it on
toast, and Ernest developed the dreaded “Lahore throat,” a condition that
sounds like a folk dance but is decidedly less fun.
Across the Border — Onward to Amritsar, India (67
km)
Leaving
Lahore filled me with gratitude — Pakistan had been a tapestry of kindness,
chaos, beauty, and bafflement, woven together in a way only travel can manage.
With hearts full of stories, we pedalled toward India.
Kids leapt
into muddy canal waters as we passed, cheering us on like a very wet welcoming
committee. The border was modern, efficient, and shockingly quiet — a rare
combination in this part of the world.
And then:
India.
The
difference was immediate. Women in colourful saris billowed past like walking
rainbows, and I fell in love with India on sight. Within minutes we found
ourselves cycling straight into a parade — elephant included — and I realised
that India wasn’t just a country. It was a performance.
Punjab
greeted us with turban‑clad Sikh men and a warmth that felt almost ceremonial.
Amritsar, home of the Golden Temple, radiated a sense of brotherhood and
equality so profound it made even weary cyclists stand a little taller.
The journey was far from over — but what a beginning.
Epilogue
Long after the dust had settled on my
panniers and the mountains had receded into memory, Pakistan remained—etched
into me through kindnesses offered without expectation, landscapes that humbled
me into silence, and challenges that tested both resolve and vulnerability. It
was a country that demanded resilience but repaid it with wonder. I left
knowing that the journey had not ended at the border; it had merely changed
direction, continuing quietly within me, shaping every road that followed.
