Freelance Journalist

My fortnight as a backpacker will only earn the utmost distain in my memory, so i was glad to be back on the road for the final installment of the motorbike trip. The experience has not only stiffled my brain,  but diminished my blogging skills, as India gradually drove me to the point of depression with its busy mindlessness. It is the least endearing place i have ever visited (excluding Spiti Valley and Ladakh, which are essentially little pieces of Tibet). Foolishly i had tried to leave Delhi at the crack of dawn to beat the traffic, but all i did infact was deprive myself of a precious lie in, which i needed for my excursion east on the Grand Trank Road thanks to the morons of the Indian population, for whom which driving is a new and exciting past time which knows no limits of reality.

By the time i had reached the Nepali border, I was hot, pissed off and not in the mood for the other wonder of India, the obsession with legal wrangling, stamping scraps of cardboard and paperphilia. Bambassa is listed in the lonely planet as the most ‘remote’ and ‘least used’ border in the western half of the mountain kingdom, yet upon arriving at the border gate, i find it locked shut, the pedestrian gate wide open and hundreds of locals aimlessly milling about, crossing the semi-pedestrian bridge to the Nepali side of the river, with little or no care for the crossing, no soldiers and no officialdom. Eventually a customs official casually tracks me down; he finds me sitting hopefully waiting at the border gate and takes me to a small office where he was eventually is convinced to stamp me and the bike out of India. He picks up on a number of mistakes on my hurridly filled exit papers and pompously and ceromoniously tip-ex’s them out, while making a large amount of tutting noises. He is particularly annoyed that i have not included my middle name on the papers and spends a few minutes wiping a grubby finger over it in my passport to prove his point. The rubber stamps are finally brandished with the usual force, regalia and ceremony and i am realeased into the relative carm and peace of Nepal. Nepali customs take a few minutes with their checks, tell a few maoist jokes (despite the countries recent  coup by the communists) at the expense of a small child who sits in the corner of their room; they claim he is the head maoist for the area, but until he is a couple of years older, is small enough that they can still ‘poke him in the eye’ if he reports them to the leadership. Interesting.

The best thing about Nepal is that there isn’t any petrol. That’s a strange thing to hear a motorcyclist say, but with a few jerry can’s of Indian energy strapped to your back, it makes a welcome change as the roads are your own. Cruising along at a leisurely pace, i don’t use my horn once in around 600km, the only road hazards are a few frolicking goats, sheep and buffalo on the wet Terai plains, which are bright green in the middle of the monsoon. Nobody overtakes me with an inch to spare, nobody plays ‘happy birthday’ by Airhorn from behind me, at loud or regular intervals and it all makes for a thouroughly enjoyable motoring experience. Whats more, as if god was looking after me, i manage to find a petrol pump, with no rationing, half way along the route, allowing me to fill up with enough petrol to finish the trip to Kathmandu, without any queueing, fighting or ruckus.

The Chitwan national park is a vast nature reserve featuring large quantities of one horned Asian rhinos, Bengal Tigers, Crocodiles and other endangered species. I arrive within three days of leaving Delhi and begin the bewildering task of finding the right guide to go on safari with. The problem is, since the Maoist insurrection, tourism in Chitwan (and Nepal in general) has really suffered, the result is hundreds and hundreds of guides, travel agents, hotels and resturants with very little to do but skulk about and hunt the rarest animal of all Chitwan; a tourist who has arrived without a tour group or package.

As a consequence you have to dig through loads of shit to find the gold. Some guides ramble on in a never ending blurb about the park, some wow you with their cheap prices, others simply hound you like beggars, but i soon settled on a Nepali with a stunning resemblance to Homer Simpson. With a gut which any British male would be proud, a less than smooth style and a surprising affinity for trouble (His office has both newspaper clippings, some double page spreads reporting his surviving both a fight with an angry Rhino and a fight which he and a Japanese tourist had with a Bengal Tiger) he seems the perfect choice for me, so i book a kayaking tour with him followed by a half day jungle walk.

I arrive at 6.00am at the riverside, as instructed by Simpson, in my camouflage clothes, long sleeves, stopping short of bringing my pith helmet. Its good to see Simpson has taken his own advice, and dressed aptly for the occasion. He is attired in a pair of swimming shorts, a pair of plastic slippers, a printed t-shirt and a large american trucker style cap with a picture of a rhino on it. He also has a large piece of bamboo in which he demonstrates how he intends to fight off various wild animals, gives a short safety brief, before demonstrating that he had not taken his ritalin that morning by running about the bank as if he was an excited child with a pair of novelty sized binoculars.

‘Who wants to see a crocodile. Well. He’s over there. Over there. Big Crocodile. Over there.’ *Sprints to the other side of bank*

‘Ooh! Ooh! Who wants to see green viper. He’s here. Here. Green Viper. You see him. Good. Kingfisher. On the other side, in the bushes…etc.’

It turns out that despite the rather animated chaos safari on the bank, Simpson and his assistant who shall hereby be known as Bart, are rather good at what they do. They spot things in the bush at an unbelievable distance, they can recognise a bird from one hundred metres, identifty and replicate any animal call and seem genuinly to have an enthusiasm for the birds and wildlife in the park. At one point Bart (who is leading out expedition at this point), goes completetly nuts and sprints off into the distance, i am hurried along by Simpson and find myself running for quite a considreable amount of time. It turns out that his noble assistant has cornered himself a huge monitor lizard, its incredible that he spotted it from so far, it must be nearly five feet in length. This comedy safari goes on all morning in the same fashion. Its completely insane, but completely fantastic, I end up seeing three times as much as other tourists who took the more sedate guides. Alot of people see nothing at all.

Simpson really makes my stay in Chitwan a pleasure. He books me on an elephant ride where i get up close and personal with a rare rhino, reccomends various excursions and is generally a good example for other guides in the park. There is also opportunity to swim with the elephants at bath time, which is great because i manage to fill my expensife camera with water and humidity.  I can’t stay in Chitwan for long though, and i get out the maps to see i have covered around 700km in the last three days.

I sit less than 150km from my dream, from Kathmandu, from what will be; the End of the Road.

I left the 5* Himalayan camp-site,  with a full belly of hot, warm food from the a-la-carte menu from the night before (sic.). Never before had i seen a campsite in Asia, with white sheets, running water and king size beds, it was like an oasis in the depravity of the mountain wilderness, glowing at me on the dark road, soon after the electrical fault on the bike had been solved. Being a tight fisted (as well as ham fisted) sod, i had pitched my little tent a short distance from the circus of the German tour group, only stopping to enjoy a cold kingfisher, a few Nazi jokes and a good meal.

Setting off down the road to Manali, the world was again a wonderful place, my bike was running smoothly and despite the pity patter of the rain, the freezing temperatures and a spot of fog, i was a happy bunny in my gore tex. Yet fifty kilometres later i again find myself cursing and swearing, the road has turned from at best awful, to abomnible. Approaching Manali it becomes a quagmire of mud, akin only to a two foot deep muddy stream in which a number of considerate truck drivers have ploughed a considerable number of large ditches, ruts and divets to catch the unsuspecting motorist. I find myself dragging along at a leisurely ten miles an hour in the pouring rain, slowly writing my letters of mental apology to the various backpackers, back in Leh, who in enormous detail had described the appauling conditions of the road; which both me and my partner had scoffed at dismissively. ‘Haven’t you heard the news? I rode from England; amateurs!’ Our arrogant attitude had not been without logic. All over Leh, travel agents advertise ‘Jeep travel to Srinigar, Minibus to Manali’, and surely the road must be in a poorer state to require a jeep than a minibus. But obvisouly neither of the two valient bikers had been in India for long enough. In India everything is sheer economics, you can fit fifteen people in a jeep, and 45 in a minivan. The demand to go to Kashmir was lower than that to Manali. In this great sub-continent, if a route ran to hell itself, and only two people a week wanted to go there, they would run a small cycle rickshaw for the journey, powered by a one legged dwarf. My logic has no place here.

Yet even with trail tires, long suspension, a plethora of fancy equipment, I’m still at times a little bit terrified on the muddy mountain pistes, with hairpins and a constant mini bus army driving as if the road was a race track. So what to make of the constant stream of Israeli’s riding ancient Enfields, up and down the pass is beyond me. They even have bald tyres, and girlfriends tied haphazardly to the back for extra comedy value. On every plateau, at every small Enfield garage, a long queue of Israeli’s assemble, to re-assemble their ageing bikes, as they splutter and struggle up the road to Leh; they almost become part of the scenary, wheels spinning, or more often wishing their wheels could spin.

The road conditions are compounded by the fact the weather conditions are terrible, with visibility down to around ten meters at the best of times. Yet still i hear ‘Light is on!’ being screamed at me from the thick pea-soupy fog.  In India, dawn, day or dusk(or sometimes night) people feel the need to constantly remind you that your light is on. It’s as if you have insulted their mother or defecated on their family cow, they seem at times very angry and aggressive that you are driving with your lights on. A typical conversation occurs when you pull up to ask direction:

‘Light is on’

‘Yes i know thank you. I wonder if you know the way to somewhere there are less Indians to bother me’

‘Light is on’

‘Yes i know. The directions’

‘Light is on. Light is on!’

‘I know. In my country motorbikes have them on all the time’

‘Light, light *open and closes hand* Light is on!’

‘Fuck you’

‘Light it on!’

They seem equally puzzled at the voice coming from the fog on the Rohtang Pass approaching Manali, when a broad English accent (although i now refer to it as ‘BBC’ if anyone asks) emerges from the darkness ‘Turn your darling lights on you unpleasant imbercile’. Towards the end of the journey, a select few drivers have turned their hazard warning lights on for visibility, yet still reserve their headlights, saving precious electricity for signalling ‘get out of my way’.

I reach Manali wet, tired and extremely muddy , change my oil, snap my sump plug and then my clutch fails. With my worldly woes all fixed up in a jiffy, its all tarred, and 700km to Delhi, only God himself can stop me. I musn’t be late to pick up my blonde package.

Normally, travel writers and bloggers who hark on about a place in a simile diarrhoea, earn nothing but my utmost distain.They describe deserts as being yellow like the burning sun, explain how the trees fluttered like flags in the wind, and in general nobody appreciates the place they are talking about, or can picture their journey, merely being confused by a collection of flags, lemons and artistic nonsense. It is often said that pictures speak louder than words, but my photographic skills do not do justice to Ladakh, and so i can only try to do justice with my pen.

Ladakh is the most stunning place in the world. Pulling out of Kargil, the green, pine trees of Kashmir slowly give way to the barren, rocky, sandy, high altitude desert of Ladakh. The scenery is completely lunar, you could happily accept that you had been transported to another planet, especially with the air so thin, riding at a constant altitude of around 3500m, but often closer to 5000m (That’s higher than Mont Blanc). In the distance the snow capped mountains near the Chinese Tibetan border can be seen glistening in the deep blue sky, as the road descends into a sandy, bumpy madness that grinds my hind into submission. The road conditions are especially tough as the BRO (Border Roads Organization) fight a constant battle to keep the road open to the army, in which the Himalaya constantly tries to retake, which has been so clumsily cut into it by brute force. The road constantly detours off into the sandy desert, while teams of men and women, their faces covered from the dust thrown high into the air by the military convoys, break rocks in the brutal sun, and high altitude, with nothing but hand tools. Black smoke billows in the air as they burn large barrels of tar in a desperate attempt to make a patchwork of repairs to the road which is frankly at some points beyond repair with only picks and hammers.

As i have crossed the Himalayas, i never knew that mountains could be so many colours. From the dark, almost black mountains of the Hindu Kush, the grey mountains around Rakiposhi and the Karakorum into the browning muddy ranges of north-eastern Indian Kashmir, the green, grassy and lush Himachal Pradesh and finally into the yellow, orange of sandy Ladakh. The people of the Himalaya are equally varied, in Kashmir the Hindus and Sikh majority of the foothills and hill stations gave way to the Kashmiri Muslims, striking with their fair complexions and light coloured eyes.

In Ladakh the influence is obviously Tibetan and Buddhist, and the Ladakhi language is one with more in common with Tibet than Hindi. There is evidence of Buddhist settlement in this barren wasteland, from the 7th century, and immediately prayer flags begin to flutter above every bridge and Buddhist stupas and gompas (monasteries) can be seen upon every rocky hillside, while monks enshrined in their saffron and maroon robes walk slowly along the roadside, or can be seen clattering around the back of trucks on their way to their devotions. It’s incredible anyone can survive up here at all, yet from the white washed buildings which sporadically emerge on the landscape, with their thatched flat roofs are shepherds with their turquoise jewels and dark leathery skin; a testament to the firey sun which burns down on Ladakh, the dryest and most punishing place in India. The people look more Mongol, Central Asian, Chinese and are more quiet and reserved than their counterparts on the plains, not staring, touching, shouting; a welcome break!

The BRO seems to spend more money on amusing signs for their roads than actually repairing them. At every short interval, a colourful sign gives you an uplifting message of support for your journey, warning you of potential dangers, through rhyme and comedy. They are all in English, and seeing as most Indian truck drivers can’t read English, they are probably largely useless, yet their grammatical errors at least provide some amusement for the occasional tired foreign motorist. My personal favorites include ‘Drinking Whisky, Driving Risky’, ‘Don’t gossip; let him drive!’, ‘Married to speed? Get divorce’ and my personal favorite ‘Overtaker, fear the undertaker!’. I’m sure there is a whole beaurocratic government department designated to thinking up these cunning rhymes.

Arriving in Leh, the two English bikers seem to create quite a stir, with few people arriving from Kashmir due to the civil unrest, the tourists and locals alike wave and stare at us with are big, sandy, noisy dirty bikes. By evening time I finally manage to seek out a crowd of gap yearers in a bar, some of the few i have met on my journey (The average age of travellers is 25 or 26, come on the youngsters; turn off your Playstation, go outside) and begin to talk about jumpers-for-goalposts, school days and the prospect of going to university. The subject finally moves onto travelling, with everyone telling their finest urban legends about the world.  One backpacker excitedly tells the group about, a fellow gap yearer his friend had met in Pakistan; he claims to have met a gap yearing ‘Toff travelling from London to Kathmandu on a motorbike; bit of a nutter’. I can’t work out if I’m more pleased that my fame has travelled far and wide, or if i am simply chuffed as to being termed a ‘Toff’ or if the true praise is in the ‘nutter’.

Riding the Khardung La out of Leh, we are on the claimed highest motor able pass in the world; at 5300m (There are probably higher passes in the world; but lets not burst my bubble). Climbing through the rocky absolute we are more of less totally alone apart from the occasional truck or mini bus to the Nubra valley on the other side. There are some pictures which are part of overlanding folklore, and the picture of motorcyclists astride their machines, astride the sign commemorating the completion of the pass is one of them. It’s therefore terribly disappointing when we reach the top, of what we imagined to be a lonely, cold, terribly inhospitable place to find a long line or tourists wasting astride their, bicycles, Enfield motorbikes, mini buses and jeeps waiting to take their snap. I also join the queue at the self styled, army run ‘Highest Souvenir Shop In The World’ to buy a commemorative t-shirt. Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt; its another Disney Land.

Starting the journey south to Manali, i think i have nearly run out of time. The news is that there is something blonde and pretty waiting for me in Delhi, and its nearly time to leave my new riding partner, Nick behind. We decide to make one last trip together before we leave Ladakh, we collect our inner line permits, we will be less than 40km from the contested border with Xinjiang, China and set off from the Leh. Stopping at the last petrol station for a while we drive towards Tsomoriri lake, the salt lakes, hot springs and isolation of the eastern plateau. This isn’t going to be anything like Disneyland.

I hadn’t long crossed the border, before i noticed the change. The Wagah border ceremony is a pompous reminder of the problems still faced between old adversaries; India and Pakistan. It is pretentious, yet strangely entertaining as the tallest men from the two countries strut and stamp, in a display of what appears to be great national pride and ego. I had waited two hours for the charade to start, after being dropped off at the border with a Pakistan News television crew, who had followed me all day, filming me with great glee and excitement. On both sides of the gate, where grand stands have been erected for the daily ceremony, huge crowds gather to shout over the loud bollywood music on both sides ‘Pakistan Zindebad’, ‘Hindustan Zindebad’. On the Indian side a large party breaks into full swing, the women dancing bare foot to the delight of the crowd, while on the Pakistani side a few young boys shift from side to side to the music nervously, no match for the Indian parade, but the strictly Muslim country couldn’t have its women shifting their head scarves, even in the secular Punjab!

Yet the real change, and most entertaining change was not the sudden change of culture. So the women, had their hair out, some pretty young things were wearing tight jeans and short tops; who cares. The sudden distinction between the tourists i had met in Syria, Iran and Pakistan, compared to the strange bunch in India is massive. I was sitting in the tourist enclosure waiting for the start of the ceremony, when what can only be described as an American homeboy, wearing a large turban and a patchy beard arrives. He informs me without question, that he is a Sikh. I congratulate him on his decision to become a Sikh and firmly break the conversation, thinking that he is merely a rare nutter in the world. While for the past months, all i have met is cyclists, mountaineers, hikers, scientists and journalists along with the occasional Japanese mentalist. In India, all there seems to be is a collection of trustafarians trying to find themselves in life.

The evening of strutting, goose stepping was quickly over and i find myself in the Golden Temple at Amrtisar, minus my self appointed ‘Sikh’ guide, but among his kinsmen, the kindest of people; the Sikhs. The Golden Temple is a feast for the emotions and senses, where every Sikh should come to perform his duty and to serve others. From the richest to the poorest, Sikhs come to work in the huge communal kitchens, providing free food for anyone who wants it, to clean the communal bathrooms and guard the huge pilgrims quarters that i find myself slumbering in for free. My grandfather always told me to ‘Seek to be a Sikh’, although i suspect strongly that he was taking the piss, he was probably correct in his assertion. The temple is noisy as always in India, because Indians are unable to do anything quietly. Twenty fours a day, the loudspeakers scream the Sikh scripts into the night sky, the communal kitchens clatter at a deafening pace and the hub-jub of India continues despite the sacred nature of the temple.

In the separate foreign visitors quarters, I find myself talking happily to a girl from the west country. She seems vaguely normal, and we begin to wonder round the temple, bare foot, with our orange scarves taped to our heads; singling us out as phoney Sikhs in the sea of big turbans and the guards, carrying their spears peacefully. Its not long before she drops to the floor, looking at the moon, and proceeds to announce ‘its the summer solstice tonight, normally i would be at stone henge’. I make a swift exit, stage left.

So i met two lunatics in my first five hours on Indian soil; so what? Its not until i drive out of the Punjab and arrive in Dharmasala; the home of the Dalai Lama in exile that i really start to notice the tambourine banging nutters. I find myself surrounded by pseudo hippies, playing Sitars, smoking dope, having deep but ill thought out conversations and generally wasting alot of time. I feel like a little bit of a square, wearing normal trousers and a shirt, everyone else is donned in an acid trip like collection of hemp skirts (for the boys), and other vaguely ethnic clothing for the others, or those who can’t decide. A huge collection of events are advertised on every spare space or wall, such as ‘Free Dance’, ‘Booty Shake with Cinna-man’ (Who it turns out is a girl), ‘Probitoic Aviotic Massage, yoga, and general hocus pocus’. Maybe i made the last one up, but you probably get the idea. I select the ‘Free Dance’ from the list of events, and wonder along with one of the other ‘normal’ guests in this mad village. We enter the room to find a number of multi-coloured people wriggling like maggots on the floor, while others flail their arms and yet more strange are the legions yelping and making strange noises. I attempt to dance along, but find myself pulling on my crotch, shifting from side to side like I’m in an R&B club, uncomfortably and struggle for twenty minutes to hold onto a straight face.

The amount of shameless exhibitionism in Dharmasala, or Bhagsu; it’s traveller enclave is fascinating. People seem to be determined to go out of the way and make complete fools of themselves. A lot of people have stayed far too long and lost all sense of what is reasonable, or normal in reality, and find themselves talking nonsense about the earth, the meaning of life and blowing various digareedon’ts (or a didge, if you are cool), while sipping vairous frappacinos, spending copious amounts of times on the Internet and eating a collection of Pizzas, Pastas and other western imperial dishes. The establishment of what was correctly described  by one traveller, as a ‘Kibbutz’ is a further oddity about the place, a small piece of Israel in India, complete with a chabad house (a right wing synagogue for missionaries), a large amount of Hebrew signs, Israeli restaurants and hundreds of Israeli backpackers.

Most people need to go home to their parents, get a haircut, a pair of corduroy trousers and stop trying to fund their jollies through bizarre exhibitions, selling musical instruments and busking . So what, yes, I’m a bigot. But the place is so mindless, and the cabin fever faced is incredible. People seem genuinely to be bored, and therefore forced to do bizaare things, while the monsoon rains lash the wettest place in India and mask the Himalayas which in other months cast their shadow over the foothill station, which otherwise may allow them to get some fresh air.

I’m only saved from buying a pair of stripey trousers and a large bag of drugs to keep me interested in my bamboo flute, by my adopted Israeli parents who are counting down the days to fly home and get married in Israel, who nurture and mother me, along with my bed bug bites which have arrived with my arrival in India. Further saviour arrives in the shape of Nick Gravely, another English biker who has flown in from the ‘stans, and we are soon on our way, back to the Himalaya, to Indian held Kashmir.

I knew it was time to leave Karimabad when i found myself at a barbecue party at two in the afternoon nibbling on a piece of burnt cabbage hosted by my brethrin travellers; the Japanese. Once i had a good look at myself, i contemplated the fact I was sitting with a load of tie-die lunatics, got on my bike and was driving north by four o’clock. It was good to be back on the road after a few days sitting about, even the potholes, the overflowing water channels which saturate my boots endeared themselves to me and plowing North-East I head for the Chinese border.

The Khunjareb pass sits majestically at the top of the Pakistani side of the Karakorum highway, marking the crossing point into China, and another road of mystique and old. I have to tick it off on my list, maybe toe the line (An expression of old) and do some more Marco Polo impersonations, on the road which leads to Kashgar, the road which begins to feel and leads to Central Asia.

Leaving the Hunza valley, the twisting roads cost me time though, i have spent too much time nibbling on bits of burnt chicken gristle and it soon becomes clear that i won’t be able to summit the pass the same evening. I begin driving faster and faster in an attempt to make the pass before the freezing sunset and to return the 80km or so to the Pakistani customs post which sits at Sost much lower down the valley. As the altimeter on the bike shows a constant rise in altitude, twice the front wheel hits sandy water and begins to lose its place on planet earth, sending alarm bells ringing inside my smash hat, that it might well be time to stop.

Pulling into the last Pakistani checkpoint, I am at 4000m and the deep blue sky is darkening by the second, the prospect of a further 17km to the pass, followed by an express train drive back to Sost does nothing for my worsening mood. Nobody comes to the barrier across the road, so i casually put my hand on the horn for a couple of minutes, which seems to be the polite thing to do round here.

Ambling towards the gate, a turtlenecked soldier approaches me with black beret, silver belt and swagger stick and makes the gesture which could drive you insane on the sub-continenet. It can mean anything from ’What do you want?’ or ‘Where are you going?’ or simply ‘Good Evening’ or any other question you may like to ask. If you want to practise it at home, take your thumb and first two fingers from your right hand and point them at an angle to your palm, then in a swift motion twist your hand and make an expression on your face like you are constipated. It helps if you have a little moustache, a slightly moronic facial expression and can raise an eyebrow on demand. The reply is to waggle your head indiscriminately from side to side, in a gesture which means ‘yes’ or maybe ‘no’. I waggle my head. Nobody understands as usual.

The Englishman on his motorbike seems deeply puzzling to the Koksil checkpoint. The border was officially closed an hour or two ago, how did he manage to decieve the customs post? I explain my predicament to the officer on duty, and within a moment i have an invitation to stay. Fantasic. I can make the pass in the morning, stay longer, take more photos and no longer risk life and limb on the icy roads. I set to work setting up my tent to the mountain back drop, while copious semi clad border guards wonder around in various states of uniform.

I’m just inflating my mattress when i realise something is not quite right at this checkpost. They are all quite clearly as drunk as skunks. And within about ten minutes so am I. Its slightly surreal really, but having three drinks at this altitude and having not drunk for a couple of months, i am all but ready to do a strip tease while singing ‘God save the Queen’, wearing a turban made from my sleeping bag, in an act of national pride (or is it embassrasment) thanks to the small glasses of Chinese rum being passed around.  A large plate of charred Yak meat slips down much easier than the Japanes cabbage and gristle combination, and the atmostphere is good. The toast is ‘Chost!’ or ‘Happy’ and most of the toasting is done towards a large grumpy bear like man who sits in a gold shalwar kameez in the corner.

They refer to him as ‘Chief’ and shout ‘no problem’ at me, gesturing towards the rum, in an expression which suggests they are worried that they might be comprimising my Islamic ideals in this dry country. Polishing off the last of the yak, i think it might well be time to retire to my boudoir, but the Chief has other ideas. He is terribly upset that the rum and meat is finished, and seems sure that he must correct the situation. He jumps into his car, and zooms off into the darkness. The soldiers all tell me ’2 or 3 kilometres’ as some sort of explanation, which could mean anything. I know for certain that apart from a few cold skinny Chinese border guards 17km away, there aren’t any shops or people for atleast 50km. Even in Pakistan Chinese border guards can’t taste that great.

The car pulls up into compound once more, and the chief appears to have commandeared a sheep from somewhere. It seems terribly cross to have been shoved in the boot of a Nissan crappy, but it is probably even more cross when it’s butchered in about ten seconds flat. For the first and only twenty minutes of my life i am a converted and fully fledged vegetarian, until the curried meat is served up and i decide to give being a carnivore one last chance.

One soldier is obviously chocking on his lamb, but nobody else seems to give a damn. They point and laugh as he gradually goes blue and staggers about. I’m not sure if the staggering is because of the choking or the drink, but he certainly doesn’t look too jolly. By this point the attention of the men has turned to a rather streched punjabi tape playing from a crackly Chinese tape deck, and it still would appear that the chokee cannot breath. 

I give it another thirty seconds, and still nobody seems to be taking notice to the man who now looks like papa smurf on a bad arthritus ridden day.  I run towards him spilling a glass of rum in the process and promptly recall how to perform the heimlich manoeuvre. Within around twenty seconds he is also merrily twisting light bulbs and patting cows, or whatever you do to Punjabi tapes. Its definately time for bed, the stars are clear on a perfectly clear night.

The night is bitterly cold and with a bang on my door, a mug of hot tea is shoved through my zip. There is frost on the outside of the tent and i stand doing star jumps on my scrap of turf. I feel terribly groggy with the combination of rum and height, so saddle up the bike slowly and with some difficulty. I begin trundling up the 17km corkscrew to the border post, after a brief lecture where i am told ‘Don’t cross to China’, ‘Chinese Policeman Angry’, ‘Please don’t cross the border’ and finally ‘Just don’t cross the border’. The road is awful, multiple small land slides have partially blocked the road as the altitude climbs and climbs. By 4500 metres Bianca feels slow and underpowered and refuses to idle properly, she either wants to go on painfully or stop, no sitting around.

I havn’t felt this cold in a long long time. My fingers are like icicles and i can no longer operate my camera controls. I wish i hadn’t sent my winter gloves home as the GPS reaches a reading of 4600m.  This river’s are covered in ice and in places the snow reaches the road, this is complimented by a brilliant blue sky. Suddenly as if from nowhere, a central asian plain appears infront of me with rolling grasslands. Asian Hares scurry about in the cold and large yaks graze slowly in the meadow. They have large horns and thick thick coats and seem to compliment the landscape, which looks more Pamirs, more Tajikistan than Pakistan. Its exotic, its adventurous, it feels slightly dangerous. This is an unhospitable place, not somewhere for humans to live or dwell, and prehaps this is the only reason it has maintained its raw beauty. I now understand why so many Chinese lives were lost building this road; its horrendous even in the warm month of June.   

With the smooth white topped peaks in the background i continue along the road and stop the bike, my GPS now reads 4700m and i hope it will start again. Around 300m away sits the chinese customs post and this is the highest point i have been to on earth, so i set about photographing everything in sight. Ben Nevis sits at a measly 1344 metres and even the summit of Mont Blanc shares a similar height to my current position, and I stop and trudge breathlessly to a line painted on the road. A black asphalt, high speed two lane highway leads into China running smoothly all the way to Beijing and further to the Chinese Sea, this is the very geographical line and actual border. It is probably only 4500km infront of me, without any hazards, borders or dangers. As the old cliche goes; so close, yet so far away.

Taking a few more snaps, I look disheartedly back at the broken, bumpy, potholed track back into Pakistan and wonder. I must say i wish i had a Chinese visa, i long to visit Kashgar, to feel the Central Asian twang and once again feast on Lamb Kebob. One day i will return to this place. Securing the buckle on my helmet, my time in Central Asia is coming to an end after only ten minutes; its hard to do anything up here, cold and bleak. I arrogantly stick a foot across the line onto Chinese territory, as I swing the bike around with difficulty and press the start button. The old faithful storms into action with a new sense of urgency and eagerness. I definately made it to China.