Gilgit, Pakistan. 13th June 2023.

Heading south down the KKH out of Gilgit, then a left turn onto the road for Babusar Top, another high mountain pass, up at almost 4,200 metres. The road going up there was good but busy. It was a nice ride until I felt my front tyre going flat again.
I was in a small village, just next to a bridge over the river. Some people were hanging around by a few wooden buildings and when I stopped and pointed to my flat tyre they signalled that one of the sheds was a tyre repair shop. Great news! But where was the repairer? Across the river in the mosque, they said.

So I waited around for a while, making conversation with the locals as best I could. I rather felt as if I’d wandered into the set of the film Deliverance. There were distinct signs of inbreeding there. People were coming out of the mosque but no sign of our repair man. Eventually I asked again where he was and this time they told me he was up in his house, asleep. I sent one of the kids up there to fetch him and when he finally appeared I finally got the repair done.
The climb up the side of the mountain was steep. I was in first gear quite often as I neared the top and the little engine was struggling with the altitude, popping and misfiring. The road passed through walls of snow, with streams of water running out from underneath them. The parking area at the top was busy, not only with tourists but also with a disorganised mess of stalls, hawkers and tents. Singularly unattractive.

But none of that could spoil the view of the snowy mountains stretched out across the vista in front of me. It was beautiful, particularly because I could see so far into the distance. I took a photo of the marker at the top of the mountain and had a coffee while I decided what to do. The decision was to keep on this road and head towards Islamabad rather than to turn back.

I’m very pleased to have decided on that because the ride down was beautiful. The road is reckoned to be one of the most dangerous in Pakistan because of its steepness and the switchback bends, which catch out inexperienced drivers and their sometimes poor brakes. I enjoyed the ride down, passing through 3 metre high walls of snow and looking out over the valley as it stretched away into the distance.

I came across a long queue of cars and when I got to the front I found a deep pool of water across the road with water gushing into it from the hillside. I got through with no problem but these water crossings became a common theme, a couple of them also quite deep. Realising that all this snow melt water runs into the rivers explains why they’re so full and powerful. You don’t really think about it until you see it in action.

I came down into a nice green valley and spotted a hotel on the side of the road. It was already 5 p.m. so the obvious thing to do was stop for the night. I laid out my damp belongings to dry and tried to wash myself. But there was, once more, no running water. No electricity either until they turned on the generator in the evening for a couple of hours. But when you’re in a place such as this, minor inconveniences don’t matter.
When I went down to eat I was invited to share the food of a family from Lahore. I worked out that they’d sensibly brought their own with them and the hotel staff were cooking it for them. It was only fish and Maggie noodles but it was plenty for me. The young lad of the family even brought up some desert to my room later on. Kindness personified.

The next morning brought more of the same kind of views. I was still riding along the valley, at an elevation of about 3,000 metres. Snow melt gifted me more rushing water to wrestle the bike across and the consequent challenges to enjoy. The mountain grass was green and inviting, especially to the herds of goats I saw being driven along the road. There were at least ten separate herds and small tent villages set up between the road and the river to accommodate the herders. Thinking back I remembered see several heavily laden pick up trucks struggling up the mountain road. Tents, bedding and utensils, all topped off with kids. They’d clearly been heading to there. They are from the Gujjars, and other tribes, who come there for the summer pasture.

At one point I saw an ice bridge next to the road, with water flowing underneath it. The herders were driving their goats across it rather than through the water. I was later told that it was the bottom end of a glacier. Further on I saw some guys ploughing a field using a team of oxen. And soon after that I saw a single guy doing the same, with a woman walking along behind him scattering seeds from a basket. A truly biblical scene, with a sense of timelessness to go with it.
The journey through this valley had been quite something and I think it was my favourite part of the whole trip. It was the combination of the climb up the mountain pass, the beautiful views and the timelessness of the culture that made it so good.

Once out of that lovely scene things became rather more prosaic. I was heading to Besham once more but Google maps took me onto a motorway, even though I’d set it up not to. Bikes aren’t allowed to use them in Pakistan. Having said that, it didn’t seem much like a motorway apart from having a very good road surface. It had turnings off to the right; people selling tomatoes at the side of the road; pedestrians; somebody leading a packhorse. I saw other bikes on there and the police didn’t seem too bothered either.

I turned off it, into the town of Battagram and took shelter from the rain under a bridge. When I got going again I took a wrong turn out of the town and, I later discovered, turned south instead of north. I ended up wandering among the hills in the hazy afternoon sunshine, quite enjoying the ride even thogh I wasn’t quite sure where I was going. Until, that was, I came off the bike!
As I came round a bend I moved across the road to pass a truck and to avoid a puddle, and the bike just slid over. I can only assume there was some mud there. The truck driver’s mate came across and helped me up. I dusted myself off and carried on. Eventually I came to the town of Manserha, found a hotel and took stock.
The bike had suffered some scratches on the front fairing and the tank. The headlight was broken. My riding trousers were torn where they’d scraped along the road. And, coincidentally I’m sure, the speedo no longer worked. I needed some repairs.
I didn’t rush out next morning, which was a mistake. It was Friday and I knew that everywhere shut for Friday prayers. My mistake was in assuming that businesses opened up again. Generally, they don’t. So I couldn’t get anything done until Saturday.
Next day I found a Honda shop that could do the repairs. The speedo drive had stopped working, which he fixed, and he straightened out the bits that had got knocked out of shape. It cost very little and I was very happy although he couldn’t get a new headlight.
When I left I rejoined the ‘motorway’ and admired the guy leading a goat along it. I was aiming for Besham, from where I wanted to head down the Swat Valley. When I turned off for Kalam Valley, one of my listed places to visit, the town of Mingora was as far as I got. Malik had sent me a video a couple of days previously showing some flooding along my route. I’d hoped it would have cleared up but it hadn’t.

At the bottom end of the high street, right next to the river, there had been a landslip, blocking the road. I pushed out onto the flooded section and got through a deep pool but no further. I had to turn back. There were machines shifting some very large boulders ahead of me. Getting past just wasn’t going to happen. The lowest floor of the buildings between the road and the very fast flowing river were all flooded. I found a hotel instead. The annoying thing about the blockage was that it prevented me from visiting a couple of sites that had been recommended to me.
In the morning some of the road had been cleared but it was still blocked further along. I gave up and went back the way I’d come. I had a nice day just riding around. I was very amused to see people washing their cars down by a river, with other people queueing up for their turn. I’d already seen this at one of the water crossings on the road down from Babusar Top.

I headed into Islamabad, using the GTR. I noticed a lot of old Ford Transit vans and pick ups in use, although the most popular variant was the mini bus. Presumably a hangover from when they were imported in the 1980s. Some of them were real wrecks but some had been nicely decorated in typical Pak style. I came across one which I wanted pictures of. I overtook it and stopped further up the road, hoping to get a decent photo. I tried doing this three times before I gave up. I’m sure the two guys in it thought I was mad. But I did think it odd that I only saw them around this area.

I met Tauqeer at the hotel where he works. We managed to meet up with some of his friends in the area. We went out to a bike shop hoping to meet a young woman biker but she’d gone back to Karachi. Instead we met the shop owner’s sister, who’s a boxing champion. Clearly two very modern young ladies. On the way back a guy ran into the back of my bike, breaking off my number plate. He’d been on his phone, the stupid idiot. All he did was to point it out to me then to ride off. If he offered money I must have missed it.
We headed down to a place called Dhok Dani, Tauqeer’s home village. His house includes a small compound, where the bikes could be parked and the family could sit around outside. The weather had been very hot recently so it was a pleasant thing to do.

We went out to do some visiting. First was to the home of a family that were in mourning for a son that had been murdered in a shooting in a nearby village. It was a revenge killing. I felt quite uncomfortable being there, if I’m honest, not knowing the family and not being Muslim. There was a routine that everybody was going through which was to clasp their hands together, mutter some prayers, then wipe their hands down their faces. I tried to copy that one time but immediately felt it to be inappropriate so I then just sat respectfully. Then we went to the home of the second victim and went through the same process. At both places we were given a drink of squash. Tauqeer’s son, brother, cousin and and father were with us. If my presence helped in any way I’m very happy about it. The process did reinforce to me how close rural families are.
Later in the evning we socialised with various people in the village. One of the people was a headmaster at a local boys school. When I asked he said that they do some of the lessons in English but that a lot of the boys weren’t very good at it. We were always given soft drinks and biscuits wherever we went.

That night it was very warm so we slept up on the roof, lying on those raffia beds that you see everywhere in this part of the world. It was much better than lying in a hot, stuffy room, especially as the electricity cut out and stopped the fans.
We sat around in the morning, with food and drink arriving at intervals. His dad was there and Tauqeer was paying him a lot of personal attention. It was nice to see but I hoped there wasn’t any underlying reason for it. There was lots of joking going on too. He’s from a family strongly linked to the military. His Dad and Grandad were both in the army and his two younger brothers are in the police.
In the afternoon we over to another village for some entertainment. We sat ourselves down under a canvas shelter to watch some bull racing. We were next to an oval arena, probably about one third of the size of a standard running track and we were going to watch the fun. Two bulls, of similar size, were yoked together and attached to a kind of lightweight sled which they dragged behind them.

The idea was that they should run around the track and complete at least seven circuits, otherwise be disqualified. Assuming they managed the seven, then the fastest time was what won. The most surprising thing to me was that the yoke had reins attached, held by an obviously fit man who would run behind the bulls, encouraging them on. This duty was shared between two guys and given how hot the sun was, it must have been exhausting for them. I wasn’t sure why they didn’t just ride on the sled, which seems to be, some research suggested, the common method. Judging by the amount of banknotes that were thrown into the air when the bulls won, there must have been some serious money riding on the races. It was quite an amazing spectacle and is common throughout Pakistan. What is certain is that these bulls will never pull a plough!

We left after a while and back to Tauqeer’s for some food before I set off for Lahore. I stopped off in Gujarat to visit another friend of his. Tauqeer had given me the impression he was going to put me up for the night but judging by the puzzled look on his face when I walked in with my bags, that was not the case. But he gave me food and he showed me some excellent photos he’d taken on his bike tours and had had blown up. All taken on his phone, he said. He runs a club called GT Bikers. I was impressed by the Matchless 350cc bike that he had parked outside, ready for his son to restore – one day. I found a hotel for the night then carried on to Lahore.

I elected to splash out a bit and found a proper hotel, rather than stay at the hostel again. Fifty stairs, remember? It was a nice place and, fortunately, had room service for food. I had aimed to go out but when I went downstairs the rain was hammering down and clearly had been for some time.
The main objective for the next few days was to sell the bike and get back to India. But I was going to need to get on with it because over the upcoming weekend was a big Muslim festival, Eid-Al Adha. What’s it about? It relates to the Prophet Ibrahim (Abraham) and the story of how God had doubted his faith. He’d instructed him to sacrifice the thing that was most dear to him, which was his eldest son. Just before he was about to do it God relented, accepting that his faith was pure after all and allowed him to sacrifice an animal instead. This story exists in both the Muslim and Christian/Judeo religions.

To celebrate the event families buy an animal, the larger the better, which will be ritually slaughtered on the appropriate day. It is then butchered and shared between the family, friends and relatives, and the local poor, one third to each.
The holiday meant that businesses would start to shut down on Wednesday and not open again until Monday, so I needed to get things done as it was now Monday.
I contacted Malik and he came round next afternoon. We went looking for the parts I needed to repair the bike and managed to get a new headlight and number plate. We couldn’t get a fairing as the model was too recent. It would have to do.
Meanwhile he’d secured an offer for the bike of 2.5 lac rupees, cash waiting. I messaged Salman to tell him of the offer as he’d also been keen to buy the bike. If he wanted to go higher I was happy to accept it. He said he’d come to see me in the morning and we’d talk. I hoped he wouldn’t leave it too late as time was short.
In the evening Malik came back with Abbas and Ijaz, who wanted to buy the bike. He’d looked it over and was satisfied. We walked up to an eating area where I paid for the meal, to say thanks. We saw some bulls being unloaded and taken up behind some houses. One of them got a feisty and almost escaped, but didn’t quite manage it.

When we walked back we saw various animals tethered in the side streets, ready for Thursdays events. I asked Malik about cost and he reckoned a decent bull would cost about 1.2 lac rupees (about £340). A sheep would be 0.8 lac (about £225) and so on down the scale of size. This takes place every year. I don’t know what pressure there must be on families to buy the biggest animal they can, but it seems to me to be quite a high financial burden on the poorer ones. But given that the meat is shared out, maybe the cost is shared too. I’m not sure how I feel about the whole thing to be honest. I eat meat and accept that animals get killed for that, but it’s the idea of the ritual slaughter that I don’t feel very comfortable with.
Next morning Salman came to see me. He was quite scathing of Malik and his friends and his attitude rather put me off him. Whatever had happened between them in the past, Malik had been very good to me. Salman didn’t believe the promised money would ever materialise. But he did confirm there would be no problem with transferring the ownership should it go through.
He didn’t think the bike was worth the money on offer, given the damage on it. I asked him what he would be prepared to pay and he wouldn’t commit to a price. He talked about the scratches on the bike a lot. He only said that we should decide on a “friendly price”. Friendly to whom, I wondered? He also said that all businesses would be closed later that day, but I’d already been over to the money exchange area and had been assured they would be open. Western Union wouldn’t quote a closing time so I just hoped they’d still be open when the deal was done. I absolutely did not want to leave with a whole load of PKR. I wouldn’t be able to change them in India, I knew that.

Ijaz and Malik came round soon after 1 p.m.The business was done and the bundles of notes were tucked away in my pocket. I gave Ijaz Salman’s phone number so they could discuss passing over the paperwork. As the conversation progressed Malki started to look annoyed. He said to me that Salman was criticising the bike and saying it wasn’t worth the money Ijaz was paying. Now that, as you can imagine, really annoyed me. It seemed to me that Salman was trying to lose me the sale so he could get the bike for himself at a lower price. I might be wrong,  and I very much hope I am. But what else could it be? What was so upsetting was that he’d been very kind to me in helping me buy the bike so I couldn’t understand his attitude.
Ijaz half heartedly asked me for a discount but I said no. A bit more exchanging of information was done and then the guys left. I legged it straight over to where the money exchange places were, only to find that Western Union had closed. That was annoying. They had offered me a rate of 290PKR to the USD. There was a rather dodgy looking place nearby and as it was the only place still open I had to go there. In the end it cost 298PKR per USD, a loss of £24. But I had no choice. The $100 notes he gave me were all old ones, which I thought might be a problem, but they were genuine. I was very pleased to have got the business completed.

Although I was now free to leave Lahore for the border I knew it would be extremely difficult to find a taxi on such an important festival day. So I stayed another day, interested to see what went on.
I went out for a walk in the deserted streets. Farther along the road was the courthouse and the post office, which I hadn’t got round to visiting when I first arrived. This part of the city had several large buildings from the time of the Raj. As I walked along a couple of young guys stopped me and gave me a small bowl of rice with sugar and sweets in it, just by way of celebration. Further on I chatted to an ambulance biker forced to be on duty, and his companion, a security guard.

The desk jockey had managed to organise a taxi for me, which took me down to the border. Getting through, on both sides was straightforward enough. As I went through on the Indian side a guy approached me and asked if I wanted to change any money. I most certainly did, but what was his rate? He offered me 85 INR per USD. I almost bit his hand off. That morning the rate had been 82 INR. He accepted the old notes, a bit reluctantly. I reckoned to have made 800 INR on the deal, or £8. That made up a bit of what I’d lost when buying the dollars.
The trolley dolly saw me through immigration, where I was asked if I had any more than 10,000 INR with me. Well yes, I did, but no way was I going to say so. There were taxis waiting in the car park and one of them took me down to Amritsar. Goodbye Pakistan, welcome back to India.

And talking of welcomes, When we got to the hotel I’d booked, via booking.com, they asked for 1,500 INR. Booking had quoted 700. I argued about it, saying that I’d settle for 1,000 as a compromise. He said no, 1,500 or nothing. I said it would be nothing, told him he was a thief and told him to Eff Off. He got VERY upset at that. I just walked away with the grinning taxi driver alongside me. He found me another hotel nearby so all was well. Next morning I was on a plane back to Pune.
So what are my thoughts about Pakistan? I’ll look at it through the lens of South Asia first. I’ve visited India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka and Nepal, as well as Pakistan. There is a commonality between them, which is extremes of poverty in all of them; sub standard infra-structure in all of them, to a greater otr lesser degree; unemployment; high inflation in some of them.
How does Pak stand up in these regards? It’s a mixed picture. Infrastructure is generally good and roads are being improved, mostly thanks to China. They’re also enabling improvements in electricity supply via hydro power. But the legacy of railways is in very poor shape, in complete contrast to India. The obvious signs of poverty are not so great as in India. But there is high inflation, the same as with Sri Lanka. Education seems to take place everywhere, which is the best investment any country can make. The political situation is a bit of a mess at the moment. The government isn’t popular, as witnessed by the disturbances that took place when Imran Khan was arrested. He is very popular but I’m not too sure about him.
On a more personal level Pakistan is a delight to visit. All Asian peoples are friendly and helpful. But South Asia is steeped in the Hindu and Muslim traditions of looking after strangers. When I thanked people for their generosity the usual reply was that it was their duty. Peoples’ interest in me was definitely greater because of my age. Older people in South Asia have simply worked and worried themselves to a standstill and don’t go travelling. They want to rest and I don’t blame them.
The biker brotherhood in Pak is as strong as it is in India, as witnessed by the help I received from Malik, Salman and various others. Everybody was keen to make sure the bike was just how I wanted it and nothing was too much trouble. Thanks guys!
If you you get the chance to visit Pakistan make sure you take it up.