Hors Catégorie (3/3)

Did I mention that the road was pretty awful?

A few days later the serenity of the lake was but a distant memory. There were more serious things on our mind. At last the time had come to take on the Khunjerab Pass, a 4693-metre beast that seemed to have shaken off the ribbon of tarmac that once adorned it in one big fit of laughter. We pretended not to be impressed, tried to ignore the appalling road surface, and grew increasingly smug as officials at various checkpoints told us that we were the first this year to cycle to the top. 'And quite possibly the only,' we were quick to add.

From the icy plateau that is the Khunjerab Pass, it was a 2000-metre descent back to the village of Sost—an inevitable piece of backtracking given that the Chinese insist that cyclists bus it to Tashkurgan, the first town on their side of the border. The bus ride itself was largely spent worrying about our precious bikes strapped to the roof of the bus. Fortunately, it only took customs and immigration on both sides of the border nine hours to rifle through everyone's belongings and establish that the bales of tea carried by Pakistani traders really only contained tea and that our bicycle panniers were stashed with nothing but a harmless assortment of odd-looking tools and dirty laundry. By the time we reached Tashkurgan—it was 3am—we'd given up all hope of making it to scenic Karakul Lake the day after. We decided to take that day off and limited our activities to eating, sleeping, acquanting ourselves with a new culture (in these parts Central Asian rather than Chinese), congratulating ourselves on having reached China and revelling in the thought that the worst lay behind us.

The (very) cold, hard proof that we actually made it

How wrong we were. The two-day ride from Tashkurgan to the ancient city of Kashgar, terminus of the KKH, was every bit as nasty as anything we'd done before. On paper it looked fair enough: a 1000-metre ascent to Ulugh Rabat on the first day, then a night in a yurt on the shores of Karakul Lake, followed by a long but mostly downhill stage to Kashgar.

Had we grown too self-confident? Too optimistic at the sight of the lovely Chinese tarmac that stretched out before us? Hard to say. The only thing I know is that Ulugh Rabat, at a mere 3955 metres not nearly as high as the Khunjerab Pass, is the biggest lung buster I've ever climbed. High up on the Khunjerab Pass we'd noticed the effects of altitude—we were a bit short of breath—but on the flanks of Ulugh Rabat we were panting like pneumonic packhorses. The hailstorm on the summit did little to improve our mood.

God bless China and its heavenly tarmac

And the KKH hadn't finished with us yet. On the last day a fierce headwind tried to blow us back to Pakistan, forcing us to ride in each other's slipstream. Out of sheer exhaustion (or, quite possibly, dim-wittedness) we then missed several turnoffs to Kashgar, something we didn't realise until the flat countryside consistently refused to give way to anything resembling a biggish city. This little detour bumped up that day's total to a positively loopy 219 kilometres.

And here we are. In Kashgar. Too dazed to look back, too tired to look forward. The only mountain I'm interested in right now is the mountain of smoky kebabs served at the tiny restaurant next-door; the only lake a lake of cold, smooth, and yes, at last, legal beer.

Hors Catégorie (2/3)

The temporary alliance Emily and I had struck that morning seemed to be working out fine. 

Emily with icy backdrop

We'd first met in Islamabad, and although we'd made a point of keeping in touch, we'd never really discussed the possibility of riding together. But somehow, having reached what is probably the most challenging part of the KKH, we sensed that we could do with a companion. This little experiment wasn't entirely risk-free. Being hardcore solo riders with our own quirks and habits, there was no guarantee that we wouldn't try to sabotage each other's bike two kilometres into the first day. 

Moreover, I was a bit wary of riding with a legend in the making (sorry, Emily). Although she'd never say so herself, her story so far is nothing short of amazing. One day, this former London bicycle courier got it into her head that cycling around the world (and when I say around the world I mean: all the bloody way around the world) might be a nice way to spend a year or four. She more or less settled on the Silk Road for the first leg of her journey, very wisely applied for a Pakistani visa before she left the country, realised that she would have to cover the entire distance from her hometown in Wales to faraway Pakistan within six months or else she wouldn't be allowed to enter the country, and then set off anyway.

Sometimes even legends need a breather

Like me she started her trip in September (albeit one year later), but instead of heading for sunny Spain she cut through eastern Europe, braved arctic conditions in eastern Turkey and western Iran (check her superb blog for some gruesome pictures) and made it to Pakistan with only a few days to spare. By that time the entire cycle touring community was raving on about her. 'Have you heard about that girl from Wales?' we would ask each other. 'Did you know she's putting in 200 kilometres a day?' As I told her in an email, she made us male pedal pounders all look like pathetic underachievers.

Rather disappointingly, it turned out that she isn't quite the female hulk we had imagined her to be. In fact, I would like to dispel all rumours that she has bicycle chains for breakfast. A sprinkling of diced knobbly tyres on her cereal is enough to keep her going.

Hors Catégorie (1/3)

The ultimate defeat for a cyclist is the moment he has to get off the bike and push because the road is either too steep, too bad or too non-existent. My most recent walk of shame was brought about by a combination of these factors. I'm only very slightly exaggerating when I say that, an hour or two beyond Karimabad, the road I'm referring to went up almost vertically and I was standing knee-deep in loose sand. By putting all my weight behind the handlebars and with a good deal of grunting I managed to inch my way forward. It wasn't a pretty sight. Fortunately, the sense of humiliation was somewhat alleviated by the fact that, twenty metres behind me, someone else was doing the same.

Attabad Lake (with me for scale)

The hill we were climbing wasn't exactly a hill but a natural dam. Two years ago, one of the mountains directly adjacent to the KKH decided to take a refreshing dip in the Hunza River, with rather catastrophic results: like a clogged-up toilet the upstream gorge filled with water. Not just the KKH but entire villages straddling the river were submerged. Today, the situation is much the same as it was two years ago. The scale of the disaster is so immense that there are plans to leave the lake for what it is and drill a tunnel through the surrounding mountains.

Whatever the method, something needs to be done soon. Pakistan's economy must be suffering considerably now that the only land route to China has been rendered useless. A few entrepreneurial souls, however, have managed to turn the situation to their advantage. God knows how they got them there, but several wooden passenger boats that normally bob around in the harbour of Karachi, some 2000 kilometres south, now ply Attabad Lake, as it's officially called. At 100 rupees per passenger (300 for foreigners willing to bargain aggressively) someone must be making good money here.

From an aesthetic point of view it seems a shame to pull the plug and drain the thing. I haven't seen that many in my life, but this must surely be one of the world's most stunning mountain lakes. The turquoise expanse clashes spectacularly with the blue skies above, while the sloping mountainsides open up one breathtaking vista after another as the boat winds its way to an unseen shore twelve kilometres away.

A taste of Karachi high up in the mountains

Sitting aboard, taking it all in, waves of ecstatic happiness washed over me—the kind of happiness that most travellers will be familiar with, and yes, the kind that usually makes for pretty lousy travel writing. These moments, rare though they are, can occur at any given time and are not limited to otherworldly scenery alone. I vividly remember riding down an unassuming hill in France and experiencing something similar when the sun pierced the clouds and set the dull landscape ablaze. My first glimpse of snowy peaks in the south of Spain caused me to stop and swallow hard. What have I done to deserve such splendour, is all you can think at times like these.

Munching on a chunk of dense Hunza bread with home-made marmalade I glanced at Emily, the first cycling buddy I've had since that memorable ride into Istanbul. I think she felt the same. Covered in dust from the long push uphill, we sat there grinning like idiots.

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.