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Travels in
Turkey, Iran, Pakistan & Northern India
Newsletter
4: 28 June 2002
Part 4 : Pakistan-India
Date: Fri, 28 Jun
2002 15:23:49 +0100 (BST)
(message for the
Dutch speakers :
Dit is opnieuw
een engelstalige brief geworden. Ik hoop dat jullie dat ons niet al te kwalijk
nemen (een beetje mag). Om hier dagen achter een computerscherm te gaan zitten,
is zonde van de tijd vinden we. En voor jullie is het makkelijker om Engels te
lezen dan voor engelstaligen om
Nederlands te
lezen. Thuis, vanachter een glaasje bubbels (droom !), zul je alles in de nederlandstalige versie
kunnen horen. We oefenen elke dag.)
========================
Location : McLeod
Ganj (province of Himachal Pradesh, India)
Total ridden
kilometers today : 14,300 kms
38 days in Pakistan
/ 4,760 kms
At 4.30 in the
morning there's a sharp metal bang followed by a range of lighter bell rings
from across the road. One hour later, a deep gong sounds, and again, and again,
and again. Through our sitting room window, opening one eye from the bed, we
can just spot a
faraway gompa
(= buddhist monastery) coloured by prayer flags in the early morning sun.
After almost three months we have exchanged Islam, first for Sikhism in Amritsar,
now for Buddhism in the span of a couple of days.
This afternoon we
sit along five buddhist nuns involved in their daily religious discussions,
each point of logic sealed by a loud handclap and a strike across one arm.
Sometimes very serious and even angry, then rolling over with laughter. We're
informed that this discussion's topic is "the best way to
enlightment" but haven't got a clue about the details. We watch with
utmost fascination.
Our route in
Pakistan
Via Murree and
other hillstations just north from Islamabad, we ride to our first goal,
Gilgit, a small town halfway up the Karakoram Highway. The Karakoram Highway or
KKH as everyone calls it, is one of the main axis in Pakistan, linking the
capital with the Northern Areas and China, and providing access to several side
valleys.
Started in 1959
and fully completed in 1978, it claimed 400 lives --some
sources say very
many more-- and it cuts through the worlds highest mountain ranges : the
Karakoram, the Himalaya and the Hindu Kush. At the peak of its construction
25,000 people were at work on it ! The road follows the Indus river, and higher
up the Hunza river. We expected a narrow tarmac road in bad condition with too
many trucks riding up and down, but this is far from the truth. The road was
two-lane all the way, in a reasonably good state and with very little traffic.
From Sost to the Khunjerab Pass on the Chinese border and back, we crossed
exactly 5 vehicles. And only where
roadworks were being executed, passing was rough.
Some 100 kms
before Gilgit one can see the Nanga Parbat, a spectacular
mountain of 8,125
m, one of Pakistan's five 8,000+ peaks, and the only one visible without several
days of trekking. Pakistan has also 47 7,000+ giants on its territory, and hundreds of 6,000+ mountains,
many even remain nameless. Belgium's highest mountain is 800 and something
meters...
The road between
Gilgit and Sost, and on to the Khunjerab Pass is one of the most spectacular
ones we've ever ridden, if not THE most spectacular. We find ourselves virtually
alone in a splendid everchanging theatre of gorges and torrential mountain
rivers, the highest peaks all around and barren valleys. Between 3 and 4,000
meters on some mossy patches we see groups of the very funny and very furry
Golden Marmots, whistling like referees. And in the end, we arrive on a plateau over 4,700 meters
stretching towards China. A-w-e-s-o-m-e, all of it.
Coming down we
look around in the Hunza valley. Normally Hunza is Pakistan's major tourist
attraction - now we're again almost alone. Only a handful of longterm travellers
or people like
On our way back
to Gilgit and fully loaded, we want to pay a short visit to the 600 year old
fort Baltit in Karimabad. A stone paved road leads a kilometer up to the fort,
but our guest house manager failed to inform us how steep it is. Only halfway
up, we realize it gets steeper and steeper. Then we see it's a one-lane road
with two-way traffic... Never in my life have I blown my horn so furiously
! And after we finally find a flat side lane, we just know there's no way
we can ride this down again. Not only is the road way too steep for any vehicle,
but it also has a thin layer of sand and a very sharp bend in the middle.
After asking around, the villagers point us to a much less steep sand track
down. We 'only' have to ride on a small wall to reach it. I manage to tumble
off it spectacularly. No harm, only ego damaged. Till the end of days these people will consider women
not fit to ride motorbikes, I'm sure.
Again from
Gilgit, we make another journey, east towards Skardu and on to Khapulu where
the tarmac ends. After Khapulu, you can only head north towards Hushe on a
'very rough jeep track' (according to the guidebook), east is straight to the
Line of Controle, the factual border between Pakistan and India, thus forbidden
zone for us.
The road to
Skardu is constructed after the KKH and is even a greater accomplishment. In
some places they have blown galleries into the granite. The rocks above our
heads do not look reassuring. The road follows the Indus river up to Skardu, raging
and thundering below so wildly it gets scary. We crossed the Indus in the
middle of Pakistan, as an enormous lazy stream of a few kilometers large, and
soon we'll be travelling along its banks again in Ladakh, when it's a much
smaller mountain river.
On our way back
to Gilgit, in an idyllic tea stall where we enjoy a long rest, an intriguing
Pakistani woman walks in. She looks nothing like the average woman here :
no headscarf, trousers and a light blouse, and neat long grey hair in a pony
tail. Then she comes up to us and starts talking (!). We have just met Shadmeena,
Pakistan's first female Expedition Liaison Officer, now a teacher of teachers, and receive a heartily
invitation for dinner the next day. She later said she was equally intrigued
by the stickers on our bikes. We spend one of the
After another
couple of worldcup games in our basecamp (Madina Guest House in Gilgit), more
very good communal dinners, lots of chats with the three extremely friendly,
helpful and intelligent assistants and manager Yacoob, and with the few
foreigners, heaps of laundry and some small repairs on gloves and horns, we finally
head back south to Islamabad. We get our Indian visas, change the rear tyres
(and even manage to sell our used ones), and move further down to the scorching humid heat of Lahore. We hate
the city instantly because of this, and because of the impossibly hectic
traffic. For the first time, the heat almost knocks me off my bike - it's
simply unbearable. We sort of visit the city briefly, and head for India.
And the bikes ?
Iris's bike is
parked in front of a motorbike shop in Gilgit to get louder and more horns
installed, as a military jeep stops. The jeep sparkles from the stars and
stripes in it, but the tall man jumping out is dressed in civilian clothes. The
man chats with the mechanic in Urdu. I quickly realize he probably has more
stripes then the others combined. All of a sudden he addresses to me in perfect
English and explains he was inquiring about the bike. He says it's exactly what
he sees fit for the army. He greets me politely and jumps back in the jeep.
Less then an hour later, a doctor walks by and also wants to buy it. And again
in Islamabad, with the two of us on one bike, a posh car pulls over and wants
to know if we would sell it.
Just like last
time on the old XT 500's, these big bikes appeal to many here. In Europe no one
ever takes a second glance but here they gleam and boast.
So yes, the bikes
do well. We also wash them after too much dirt, we look them over almost daily,
keep a solid eye on the oil temperature in the heat etc. Iris's Scottoiler
still consumes double of mine; my bike still uses 0.7 or 0.8 liters/100 kms
of fuel more then hers; and -- a new bit since 15.6 - my bike refuses all
starting orders after a long hot ride. Putting her in the shadow for 10 minutes
is one solution or starting with full throttle (doesn't always do the job). Dear mechanic Seifert ( http://www.motorrad-seifert.de/ ) was the one to clear this total mystery
(by e-mail !). The phenomenon is called "vapour lock" if I'm correct.
Because of external and engine heat combined, the fuel evaporates inside the
carburettor or sometimes even before, and the mixture becomes too lean to
spark the engine.
Apart from that :
"LONG LIVE THE DR'S !!!"
Useful/useless
gadgets
When moving in
and out of hotels all the time, dragging luggage in and back, you sometimes
wonder what on earth makes these things so heavy and bulky. Not that you bother
going into real detail by spreading it all out, but still, one wonders. And
then, while searching for
the tape, or a
pair of fresh socks, an unseen item rises from the depths and you know
instantly : this is useless.
So far we have
NOT used :
- two referee
whistles (I pictured us in the struggle for survival on Indian roads with
our horns AND this whistle, just to survive. No !?)
- two mosquito
nets (nowhere to hang them / too much trouble to hang them ) we do have an
inner tent with a mosquito net / no mosquitos)
- two pepper sprays
(sits in each of our tankbags and will remain there, HOPEFULLY NEVER to be used)
And yes, there're
also quite a number of gadgets that we couldn't survive without (apart from,
say, the motorbikes). Our wonderful silk sleeping bags / my sarong used as a
quick drying towel /our English minidictionary / my sister's little Italian
tripod / and many more.
Yes indeed, life
is slightly reduced to 'essentials' while on the road :-)
First part of our
route in India
Crossing the
border the differences are visible right away : shorts (we haven't seen a bare
man's leg in ages), colours all over, even more dirt and stench, and full of
people everywhere. We also have a problem understanding the Indian English
accent.
The border is
crossed without the slightest problem. We actually have the custom officers all
to ourselves as this border is only open for foreigners and foreigners
have fled from Pakistan and India
alike. But we do meet our first "motards" since a month : very
friendly Britts, a man and a woman, on one BMW R 80 G/S in the opposite
direction.
Arriving in Amritsar
is like arriving in a magnified cliche of India : big colourful turbans all
around and a very holy Golden Temple to match. We see sadhu's - even a couple
of white ones - get bored with the rice and curry almost instantly, and annoyed
with the touchy begars.
After this Sikh
city, we ride straight to Dharamsala or actually McLeod Ganj, the home of the
Tibetan Government in exile and of course the Dalai Lama himself. On the way,
we survive our first true monsoon shower. Muesli, chocolate cakes, real coffee,
BEER, brown bread, cheese... we don't know where to start. Our hotel here is
across the road from a nunnery, and is called "Ladies Venture". WHERE
ELSE could we be staying ?!
Iris and Trui and
a row of buddhist monks walking by this Internet cafe at this very moment.