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.