Mountain Retreat

I'm afraid the previous posts may have painted a picture of the KKH that is a shade bleaker than I actually meant it to be. True, in its current state the KKH is hardly fit for any form of transport, let alone the kind that involves fully-loaded touring bicycles without suspension. Add to that the blood feuds and freakish weather swings that often shake up these parts, and this particular leg of my journey starts to sound like a struggle for survival rather than the highlight I had imagined it to be. More than once have I asked myself why on earth I was so bent on looping around Afghanistan. Nowadays, most cyclists leave Pakistan for what it is and cut straight through Central Asia to get to China. A sensible shortcut, I now realise. At least it allows you to cycle all the way. Besides, the roads there couldn't possibly be worse than the KKH.

Fortunately, the moments of sheer exhilaration easily outnumber the times I'm tempted to gift-wrap my bike and hand it over to the first passer-by. For one, the sense of accomplishment is far greater than anywhere else. But what really makes this stretch worthwhile are the pit stops. Having pushed yourself to the limit the day before, there is nothing like wasting away an entire afternoon in the orchard of a forgotten hotel a few miles off the KKH, book in hand, a stack of snacks within arm's reach. Equally fine was the hike to Rakaposhi Base Camp, which, due to my pathetically underdeveloped navigation skills, turned out to be a wonderful hike to a nameless side valley.

But that wasn't all. Relaxation bordered on bliss in Karimabad, a sleepy village that overlooks the stunning Hunza Valley. Snowy peaks up above, a raging river down below, and in between rows of poplars sprouting up from near-vertical mountainsides. The view from the village is so enchanting that many people end up staying a lot longer than they anticipated, myself included. My neighbour at the Hunza Inn, a US-educated fellow from Karachi, was entering his seventh month in Karimabad when we met. To the horror of his family he gave up a well-paid job in the city—and with that the prospect of marrying a suitable girl—for the uncertainty of a new life in the rugged north. He now devotes his time to grassroot projects in and around the village, one of which revolves around the recording and promotion of local folk music. Sometimes I would wake up to the sound of a quavering voice accompanied by a softly strumming guitar. There was no denying that Hunza was working its charm on me.

All in all, my stay in Pakistan couldn't have ended in a more curious fashion. After the noise and clatter that dominate life in the Indus Valley, the peace and, above all, the fresh mountain air of Hunza came as a huge relief. The splendour of the scenery seems to have a definite effect on the locals, too. The Hunzakuts are a lively people with ruby cheeks and a keen disregard for low-land Pakistanis. Almost all of them are Ismaili Shi'ites, a very laid-back branch of Islam. Rather refreshingly, Ismaili women don't hide behind veils, nor do they stay at home all day. They are very much out and about, working the fields, taking classes, buying groceries, giggling at the sight of a lanky foreigner walking by.

Each day I spent exploring the area or simply drinking in the view from the bench outside my room seemed to contribute to the restoration of something vital. Life regained a sense of normalcy amid surroundings that are among the most outlandish I've ever seen. To me, that could well be the ultimate wonder of northern Pakistan.

Eight Lives Left

As I round the rocky outcrop and lift my eyes from the road I see something that shouldn't be there. A long line of liveried trucks brightens up the dusty mountainside like a string of multicoloured lights clinging to the branches of a perishing Christmas tree. I groan softly. The KKH may have its faults, but an abundance of traffic lights isn't one of them. Stationary traffic means there's trouble ahead.

The traffic jam is very definitely a traffic jam but, rather incongruously, has the general atmosphere of an impromptu picnic. People sit together in threes and fours, drinking tea from filthy cups. Jangly music fills the air. A man is having a kip between the wheels of his lorry. They smile as I pedal along, then shake their heads as if to say: 'Forget it, mate!'

Rounding another bend I see what they mean. The road runs straight into a wall of stone. I get off the bike to take in the scene. It doesn't look good. It seems as though the mountainside, tired of pressing the heavy boulders to its bosom, has given up with a sigh. Men stand about in little clusters, laughing and gesticulating. A few are trying to clamber to the top of the rockfall.

Before the scramble

'How long do you think this will take?' I ask a man of sixty-odd. He is sporting the kind of flat woollen hat that's so popular in Pakistan's Northern Areas—a crude cousin of the French beret. 'Should be cleared in 24 hours,' he replies in crisp English. 'But it could take longer. You'd better turn back and find a place for the night.'

I examine the landslide and think of the murderous miles that lie behind me. All day long I've been sweating blood on what is easily the worst stretch of road I've ever navigated. A few years ago, the Pakistani government rather took to the idea of having a platoon of Chinese roadworkers come over in order to blast 400 kilometres worth of KKH to smithereens, only to run out of funds when the Chinese were ready to start repaving. Today, the road is in such a state that it puzzles me why anyone should want to hang on to the name Karakoram Highway when Karakoram Goat Track is so much nearer the truth.

I shake my head. 'No,' I say, as much to myself as to the old man. 'I'll take my chances.' He sighs. 'Why risk your life, boy?' I realise that's a very good question. So good, in fact, that I can't be bothered to come up with an answer. As I unhook the panniers I feel quite positive that I'm about to do something so daft that, by comparison, all the other daft things I've done in my life seem like the work of a brilliant mind.

Being a nimble cyclist but a poor climber I'm somewhat surprised at the progress I make. Perhaps it's the adrenaline pushing me on, I think as I hop from boulder to boulder, two light bags dangling from my left hand. The landslide, massive as it seemed from the road, is not very wide—fifty metres at most. It takes me five minutes to scramble to the other side. What I find there is predictable yet oddly comical: cars, lorries, people staring sheepishly at a big heap of rocks. I swap my carbon cycling shoes for a pair of decent hiking shoes, leave my bags with a friendly fellow in a pickup, and return.

On the second run I feel less confident. More people are crossing the rockfall now, both men and women, heavy bundles slung over their shoulders. Bus passengers, I reckon, hoping to find transport on the other side. We all look up anxiously as a few pebbles come skipping down. I make a quick calculation. At this rate it will take me another five runs to get everything across, the bike included. That's nearly an hour of tottering to and fro. Perhaps my luck won't last.

My growing despair is soon detected by one of the bus passengers. 'Can I help you?' he asks, a big smile on his face. 'Yes, yes,' I stammer. Within seconds he has recruited five or six young lads. One of them lifts my bike with an effortlessness that astounds me; the others take care of the remaining panniers. All I can do as we climb the rocks is to give a hand with the rear wheel, though this only seems to hamper the boy doing the real carrying.

After the scramble (the Chinese have arrived, with thermos)

As we approach the end of the rockfall and are about to lower my bike from a particularly chunky boulder to a man waiting with outstretched arms, a distinct rumble makes us look up. All I can see at first is a cloud of dust. Then the rocks appear, bouncing down languorously like big inflatable beach balls. For a moment I stand transfixed. Only when I notice that my companions are making a mad dash for the road do I jump into action. Blindly, without minding where I put my feet, I race across the boulders and make a dive that wouldn't look bad in a MacGyver episode. Then the noise subsides. We scramble to our feet and shake the dust from our clothes. No one appears to be harmed, though I vaguely recall being hit by something. But where?

We all stand about laughing nervously. Then it flashes through my head. The bike! I turn around. There it is, neatly propped up against the large boulder. Amid the dusty rubble it resembles a helpless foal waiting to be led to calmer pastures.

I thank my helpers abundantly, shaking their hands at least twice, and finish the remaining twenty kilometres to Gilgit in a daze, this time hardly noticing the potholes, ruts and stones that litter the road.

The Road Is Life

"The road is life," Sal Paradise says in Jack Kerouac's Beat classic On the Road. In a wider sense that may be true, though the average thoroughfare, designed to get you from A to B in what you can only hope is a more or less straightforward manner, hardly inspires metaphysical reflection. Usually, it's the destination that counts, not in the least to those poor sods who spend a good part of their working lives staring at the license plate of the stationary car in front of them.

Here we go!

Some roads, however, far outshine any place they may lead to. The most attractive among these are a destination in themselves. I have no idea where the Pan-American Highway begins or ends, but the name alone conjures up images of hazy mountains and azure skies, of zipping down miles upon miles of smooth tarmac in a dented convertible. The funny thing is that each of these roads (and railways, not to forget) that have this magic ring to them appeals to different kinds of people. Route 66 is the stuff of dreams for potbellied office clerks who waste away entire Sunday afternoons polishing their unused Harleys. The Silk Road seems to have a particularly strong pull on yuppies in customised Landcruisers—think: bullet-proof windshield, built-in kitchenette, big-ass tyres—while I imagine the Trans-Siberian Express to groan incessantly under the weight of bespectacled fossils who wish they had left their nagging wives at home.

Fortunately, thirty-year-old whiners who think a two-year bicycle trip through a series of obscure countries will somehow provide them with answers to questions they haven't even begun to formulate aren't left out in the cold. Their playground is the Karakoram Highway, or KKH, as the acronym-loving Pakistanis prefer to call it. A far cry from your average twisty mountain road, the KKH was blasted through an area that boasts the highest concentration of 8000-metre peaks anywhere on earth. It connects Islamabad, situated at a trivial 500 metres above sea-level, with the unimaginable wastes of western China, taking in the majestic Khunjerab Pass on its way (which, incidentally, at an altitude of 4693 metres, is the world's highest paved international border crossing). The KKH is one of those engineering feats that's drenched in human blood: for every mile of roadway on the Pakistani side of the border one roadworker died. Road maintenance has been an ongoing concern ever since the KKH was opened to traffic in 1978. Landslides can choke this main artery between Pakistan and China at any given time, while several bridges spanning the Indus and its tributaries are still awaiting repair after the devastating 2010 floods.

All is calm again in Gilgit

Having done at least part of my homework, I already knew most of this before I set off. In fact, the idea of tackling the holy grail of bicycle touring on my maiden trip was what appealed to me in the first place. What I didn't know was that certain areas along the KKH are prone to occasional outbursts of sectarian violence. Not that this knowledge would have led me to reconsider my itinerary, but it might have prepared me for the shock I got when I was in Lahore last month. It was all over the news: an unidentified number of Shi'ites had been slaughtered in a bus raid carried out by Sunni radicals. And it hadn't happened in some remote side valley but right on the KKH. The attack was soon retaliated, and before the rest of Pakistan realised what was happening up north the situation threatened to spiral out of control. Islamabad responded by flying in extra troops, putting the town of Gilgit under curfew, disabling all mobile communication in the area and evacuating a handful of Japanese tourists who were in the middle of whatever it is they do when fruit trees start to blossom.

Good times...

The situation was tense for a few days. Several trucks plying the KKH were plundered, resulting in a road block near Besham with dozens of angry truck drivers calling for extra security measures. Countless people were stranded at bus stations, unable to return home. Food shortages fuelled fears of a new wave of violence. Suddenly the story disappeared from the headlines. I scoured the internet for morsels of news, but attention had shifted to the many other crises that continuously rock the country.

Three weeks later I found myself at the official start of the KKH, some 100 kilometres north of Islamabad. I was absolutely thrilled. Of course, the road itself looked like any other, and there wasn't even so much as a sign that welcomed me to the centrepiece of my journey, but it felt as though I was treading hallowed ground. All around me the landscape seemed to flex its muscles. Hills rippled up from the plains and far beyond I could make out the jagged outline of mountains shimmering in the heat. Gradually, traffic thinned and the dust and clatter of the Indus Valley made way for pine groves shrouded in mist. For the first time in weeks I had the road to myself.

There was no sign of the recent troubles until I reached Thakot Bridge. On the other side of the river the district of Indus Kohistan loomed, a bleak and narrow gorge with a bad reputation. Dixit one of my guidebooks:

Anyone riding trough Hazara, North West Frontier Province and Indus Kohistan will find some locals unfriendly if not downright menacing. The police often escort foreigners through these regions though not in Indus Kohistan where they too find it safer to keep a low profile. It's strongly recommended that you don't camp or travel at night in Indus Kohistan. Between dusk and dawn even Pakistani vehicles travel in a police convoy here.

The police manning the checkpoint at Thakot Bridge seemed reluctant to let me enter this land of milk and honey. I was led to a sandbagged shack where someone told me to sit down and register my details. When I got up to leave I was not very kindly asked to remain seated. 'Where is your yunissee?' a junior officer demanded. 'My what?' 'Your yunissee.' 'I have no idea what that is,' I said. He showed me a piece of paper. Three or four Italian names, something about a mountaineering trip, and a stamp of the Ministry of Interior in Islamabad. It dawned on me that what he wanted was an NOC, a No Objection Certificate.

...and bad times on the KKH

'A yunissee to cycle the KKH?' I said, effortlessly slipping into the local vernacular. 'This isn't Kashmir, is it?' This move was swiftly met by a threat to send me back to Islamabad. Realising I would lose at least two weeks and run the risk of being denied this precious slip of paper, I bluffed that my visa was about to expire. This set things in motion. A few phone calls were made and then, with a short nod, I was dismissed.

Of course, Indus Kohistan wasn't half as gritty as I had been led to believe. I didn't even get stoned by bored little kids—the area's biggest claim to fame. Rather the opposite: it was hospitality all around. In Komila, unable to find a hotel that would accept foreigners, I was doused with invitations to tea and dinner, and within minutes someone had found me a shabby little room for the night.

The real shock came two days later, not far from a hamlet called Gunar Farm. Five burnt-out buses at the side of the road, their windows smashed, stained rags and juice cartons among the charred remains that spilled out of the luggage compartments. These were the buses that had started it all, I realised. I snapped a picture and left.

In the days that followed I told several people about the scene at Gunar Farm. They all knew, of course, yet no one was able to account for this sudden eruption of violence after years of relative peace. Pressing them only resulted in a lecture on the fine distinction between Sunnism and Shi'ism. 'I know all about these differences,' I said, cutting them short. 'But why slit each other's throats over them?' Now, that may have been a very naive question on my part, but I couldn't help myself asking. It was met with a shrug. 'That's the way it goes.' Frankly, I felt like shrugging it off, too. But back on the bike I found I failed to savour the mountain scenery each time I saw another bus filled to bursting come careening round the corner.

The Indus Valley in 6 Shots

The Indus Valley is one of those places that takes some getting used to. The sauna-like heat and diabolical air pollution can be suffocating, and even the biggest city slicker will find the human crush daunting. Fortunately, there is more to the Indus Valley than carbon monoxide and clammy armpits alone.

The Indus Valley is Pakistan's bread basket

Nothing beats a cool dip to escape the heat

The national obsession

Soldier at Wagah Checkpoint

Spiritual counsel at a shrine in Multan

Snake charmer training a particularly feisty specimen