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.