After 7 months, 25 countries, 38,000km, 3 punctures and a few tumbles, I rolled off the Pride of Dover onto the Dover quayside. The day before, I had met a couple of old friends in Epernay who had driven down from London to escort me safely onto English soil. Pete and Tim have a (completely unfounded) belief that I am a catalyst for accidents, natural disasters and other Acts of God, and thought that since I had made it this far without any major dramas, an upset was probably overdue. Obviously, as a bloke I did a totally inadequate job of explaining to them how touched I was that they took a couple of days off work and came all that way to share the final day of the trip, but it meant a great deal to me. From the very first day of the trip, I had imagined the journey ending with a great reception from my mates somewhere in Europe, although I thought that if I managed to entice anyone outside the M25, I would be lucky. The moment did not disappoint.
Guys, can I just remind you that the Transalp tops out at 75mph...
I set off with a mild hangover on the final day to cover the 200 or so miles from Epernay to Calais. The weather forecast was fairly grim, but fortunately the rain held off in Northern France. Unfortunately, it was blowing a gale, which provided my escorts with plenty of entertainment as I weaved my way down the autoroute (the panniers act like a sail in the wind).
Dumb and dumber...
I had assumed that they wouldn't see many vehicles with Aussie numberplates crossing the Channel, so I was amazed to see that the car in front of me was also from Melbourne - a 1932 Lagonda Rapier driven by a couple of similar vintage from East Brunswick (although they'd shipped it over for a round-Europe tour).
The exact moment of landfall...
Even though I had seemed like I was on my victory lap since I entered Western Europe, it was still a bit surreal riding the last few miles through the City of London, which used to be my old stomping ground on a ZX6 seven years ago. Felt bloody good to be back though!
Back to reality - breakfast with Emma and Joe
After a couple of nights with my brother Joe and his fiancee Emma, I headed up to Churt for the christening of my godson, Oscar. I think I managed to conduct myself appropriately, although I was out of my seat with my hand up pretty fast when the vicar asked who had travelled the furthest to be at the service...
My new godson Oscar, with Malcolm, Alicia and the vicar
After that, all that remained was the final 200 miles up to York to see my parents. And sure enough, the English weather lived up to its reputation. By the time I reached Newport Pagnell on the M1 at 8pm, the rain was so heavy and the spray was so bad that I had to put on the high-vis vest that had not been required on the entire journey thus far...
So did the trip live up to expectations? Of course, it far exceeded them. I had more fun, met more interesting people, and saw more incredible sights than I could ever have imagined. And the Honda Transalp performed absolutely flawlessly - the only maintainence required was routine replacement of tyres, filters, brake pads and chain, in spite of some pretty rough treatment and a few big stacks. It was always up to the job, even though it was up in the snow at 4,800 metres one week and in the sand at 50 degrees the next. It always started first time, even though it didn't get a service for almost 40,000km - hopefully this will still be the case after I've stripped it down and rebuilt it next week...
Would I do another trip like it? Of course - in fact I'd happily do the same trip again. But hopefully the next big ride will be Argentina to Alaska - may be a few years away though...
You'll have noticed that the blog updates are now coming thick and fast - all thanks to my swanky new iPhone which allows me to surf at my leisure in wifi-enabled cafes, and failing that, by loitering outside houses with unsecured networks...
Kotor in Montenegro was just a taste of things to come, as I worked my way up the Dalmatian coast through Dubrovnik and Split sipping coffee, camping by the beach and topping up the tan to impress folks back in the UK.
You say "one way street into Dubrovnik" and I say "racetrack"...
After a few days on the coast I decided to cut up through Bosnia, which is a beautiful country with some great biking roads. I spent an evening in Bihac (pronounced, somewhat amusingly, bi-atch), largely because I had forgotten that not many of the roads leading to Croatia actually enter Croatia (since it's a separate country...). Anyway, Bihac turned out to be a delightful place. In fact, I was really taken with the whole of old Yugoslavia. But even though there's been a lot of construction, there are still a lot of bullet holes around!
Bosnia to Croatia - road closed!
Bihac - peppered...
A nicer view of Bihac
Onwards and upwards, through Slovenia and into Italy. By now I'd been in and out of the EU a few times, but it wasn't until Italy that it started to feel like mission accomplished. There are some breathtaking roads in the Dolomites, and I enjoyed cruising through the mountains with Matt Monroe's 'On Days Like These' on the mental iPod. In fact, the roads are so good that I found a cozy B&B in Arabba, ditched the luggage and went out to scrub the edges off my new tyres on the racetrack that masquerades as a public road around the Dolomites - Passo Campolongo, Passo Gardena, Passo Sella, and Passa Pordoi. The Transalp took everything in it's stride, which is more than can be said for me when I tried to run up the Passo Pordoi later that day - I blew a gasket after about 15 minutes and found myself coughing my guts up next to a couple of friendly cows called Nesquik and Hannelore (it's so fancy up there that the cows have name badges...)
Parking in the Alps - keep the Jags on the left and Astons on the right, please...
After the great roads in the Dolomites, I didn't think it could get much better - but it did. There weren't many landmarks on the trip during planning, but one of them was the Stelvio Pass. Which turned out to be 46 hairpins of pure pleasure (they're numbered - I was too busy to count them) - and that's just the way up. I felt quite a sense of achievement at the 2,800 metre summit, so you can imagine how all the cyclists felt after 2 1/2 hours... Is is better that the 1148 in Thailand? Who cares - they're both incredible. But as a measure of just how good it is, the Stelvio Pass sticker was only the third one to get valuable real estate on the bike screen. On the way down, I was planning to cut over the umbrella pass to Switzerland, but then I saw the way down the Stelvio Pass - missing it would have been like climbing up the stairs but not taking the slide down.
The final few curves on the way up the Stelvio Pass...
...at the top...
... and back down the other side
Now I'm back in Europe, I'm starting to miss the constant attention I got throughout Asia, which is probably because the roads here are full of touring bikes and nobody recognises my numberplate. I lost the AUS badge from the back of the bike somewhere in Nepal, so in order to comply with EU law (but mainly to attract some attention) I made a new sign with some insulating tape. Unfortunately most people now assume that I'm from Austria - not the best outcome...
No, not Austria, STRAYA!
After a chilly night of camping in St Moritz, it was on to Zurich to stay with Paul and Sue Calthrop, who provided great company, a delicious Sunday roast and a very comfy bed. Next day I crossed the Bodensee by boat and continued north to Ulm, where I called in to see Claus and Rainer, a couple of the Africa Twin riders that I crossed Nepal and India with. It was great to see them again, and I suspect that there will be many more adventure rides for us.
Reunited...
Another day of riding northwards brought me to Frankfurt to visit the Bohles family. Unfortunately Carlos was away on a business trip, so I took the opportunity to corrupt the kids - sorry Carlos, but I think the girls are all expecting motorbikes for their birthdays now!!!
Meet the Bohles...
Next stop? Well tomorrow I'm meeting up with my guard of honour, who will be escorting me the final few hundred kilometres to the UK. Jenksy and Morris have arranged a final night out in Epernay, which suggests that they have far too much money and no idea how low my standards have slipped over the past 6 months...
Over the past few weeks I've done the rockstar thing and jetted into Glastonbury for the weekend (well, Luton to be precise) and I'm back on the road in the Balkans.
Glastonbury was a blast and provided a gentle reintroduction to life in the UK - great music, happy people and even some sunshine (what do you mean England`s not usually like that???). Actually, it rained constantly from Thursday evening to Friday lunchtime, which completely justified Pete and Caroline renting a campervan, which seemed far too bourgeois when the trip was planned six months ago.
Slumming it at Glastonbury
That`s more like it...
So in keeping with tradition, the place turned into a quagmire and everyone got to wear their Hunter wellies, except for yours truly who decided to brave it out on flipflops. Which would have worked well except for the fact that I had absolutely no traction and needed a tow whenever the going got tough. The game was finally up when I got stuck in the mud and did irreparable damage to my footwear (apparently the technical term is 'blowing a plug'). Anyway, Neil Young rocked, Bruce Springsteen had the time of his life, and the company wasn't bad either...
Eminem called by at our campervan to say hello...
Not much to report from Istanbul - retrieving the bike from customs was the same frustrating ten-signature process as before, only in reverse and over ten different lunchbreaks. I managed to run out of petrol on the way back to the city, but fortunately the few drops in my stove were enough to get me to a filling station - good trick, that...
Back on the road, I headed north and crossed into Greece at Ipsala. Fortunately I had bothered to get green card insurance from Arisa, because I was asked to show it at the border. Unfortunately, the cover note was still in the mail. But my new iPhone came to the rescue, because I had received a copy by email. Now the customs officer was clealy bamboozled by the technology and wanted me to go back to Turkey to buy another policy, but I utilised my 'firm' negotiating approach (I've been trying to do 'polite but firm', but I can't pull it off), and his boss relented. So I'm claiming to be the first person to achieve an e-crossing into Greece...
On to Thessaloniki, which has changed massively since I was there as a teenager (or maybe it was because I was too broke / stupid to go beyond 100 metres from the railway station back then). Anyway, the waterfront is very fancy, the girls scrub up really well, and the party keeps going all night, even on a Wednesday.
The original plan was to head from there to Naples to visit some friends, but it turned out they were all going to be on holiday (next time I'll give them less notice), so I decided to collect some more stamps in the passport and head through the Balkans. Some of those countries are so small that they should really be called counties... In fact I managed to pass through the first two without spending any money, which is my idea of a successful visit...
Peaceful Albanian scenery? Look closely for gun placements in the background...
Admittedly, I stayed at the Sheraton in Tirana and busted out the frequent flyer card for a free stay - I'd been keeping the points in reserve in case I got really stuck anywhere, but they tend not to have Westins in the hotspots of the world, so I figured it was time to cash in on those many months of servitude as a consultant for a hot bath and a comfy bed.
If only all my hotel rooms had been like this...
I offset this indulgence by dining on bread and cheese that I'd been carrying from Greece, thus avoiding the need to change any money into Leks. On the way to Tirana, I managed to pass through FYROM (that's Macedonia to you) in an hour and a half (including a 20 minute kip), and I never even found out what currency they use...
Ever wondered what Macedonia looked like? No, neither had I
Albania was nicer than expected, with some fetching commie-era relics and a breakers yard every kilometrew. Surprisingly, the place is full of cars with UK licence plates - mercedes e-classes to be precise. In fact, most of the cars on the road are mercedes e-classes with Italian number plates, german number plates... I was told that most of the working population have left the country, and are just back for their holidays...
Is that a gun, or are you just pleased to see me?
Onwards and upwards, to Montenegro (I guess FYROM was already taken). Now when I was at primary school, I think I could name every capital city in the world (I was a lonely child...). But Podgorica was a new one for me - although to be fair the whole population is less than half a million. Combine that with some mountains and you end up with fantastic biking roads. Once in a while on this trip, I have a 'wow' moment where I have to stop the bike and take some totally inadequate photos of a stunning view, and I cetainly had one of those on the road from Cetinje to Kotor, which winds it's way from a cliff about a kilometre high to a beautiful medieval port with mountains on all sides (google it!) over the Trojica pass.
View from the Trojica Pass
I was planning on pushing on to Dubrovnik, but it was 6pm, I was hungry, and Kotor looked interesting, so I figured out what currency they use and stopped for the night in Montenegro (it's Euros, in case that question ever comes up in a pub quiz).
Kotor - the super-yachts are just starting to arrive...
Another foreword - the last blog from Iran was a bit of a whinge-fest, which I thought would be a turn off, but people seemed to like the change in tone (or return to normal???). Once again, by the tıme the One Man Caravan left Iran, ıt was ın a state of socıal and polıtıcal upheaval (just lıke Thaıland, Nepal, Indıa and Pakıstan) - I thınk I've seen more electıons than a UN monıtor recently (not that there were many of them ın Iran). I can only conclude that a lot of Iranıans are readıng my blog and were spurred ınto actıon by my explosıve crıtıque of theır regıme...
*****
Anyway, I'm pleased to report that things have brightened up again in Turkey, figuratively if not literally. Turkey is a great country to travel through, with great biking, scenery, food and people. However, I had Turkey down as a 'hot' country, but within 5 minutes of crossing the border, some ominous looking thunderclouds formed, prompting me to don my Dryrider rubber suit for the first time the trip. No sooner that it was on, the heavens opened, but the suit fully justified being carried for 30,000km and I was dry as a bone. The only leak was from my gloves, which by now are looking very second hand (pun fully intended...).
Turkey is blessed with many historic sites, and first stop was Nemrut Dagi, a hilltop where King Antiochus built a tomb-sanctuary flanked by huge statues in the first century BC.
The heads of Nemrut Dagi
View from the top
The next day, we decided to cut cross-country to Cappadoccia across about 100mk of fantastic dirt roads. I came up behind a tuk-tuk, which seemed a bit out of place since it was the first one I had seen in Turkey. Just as I overtook, I noticed a big slogan on the back that read "Kolkotta - Paris" and as I cruised past, a couple of French guys waved at me! We stopped and had a good chat - Sylvian and Elred bought their tuk-tuk in Calcutta and are driving it to Paris to raise money for charity! Great guys, great adventure!
Calcutta to Paris by rickshaw - only the French...
More relics...
Later that day on the road to Cappadoccia, the rubber suit came out again. It takes a few minutes to put on and sometimes it's tempting to ride through light showers without it, but there was no mistaking the ominous grey clouds on the horizon. A few kilometres down the road, I was riding through a storm with hailstones the size of marbles! With no shelter in sight, there was no alternative but to plough on through, even though the hail was a couple of inches deep on the road...
Hailstorms in June? Not even in England...
I battled on, and by nightfall I reached Goreme, the so-called backpacker centre of Cappadoccia. I checked into the excellent Flintstones Hotel, where I enjoyed the most comfortable bed in about three months. I also passed the 30,000km milestone for the trip, and the Transalp still hasn't missed a beat.
Cappadoccia - surreal
Goreme by night
After Goreme and a night in Egirdir, I headed south to Olimpos where I saw the sea for the first time since Phuket - the Med may still be a long way from the UK, but İ'm definitely starting to feel close to home. Turkey is a great country for motorbikes - the hıghways are ın good condıtıon and not too busy, and wıth a few hours to spare, there's usually a back road or dırt track alternatıve to the maın road.
First glimpse of the Mediterranean
From Olımpos, I've just been workıng my way north along the Medıterranean coast, through Fethıye, Bodrum, Kusadası and Ayvalık. The mountaıns drop straıght ınto the sea, so the coast road ıs full of twısts and turns and has beautıful vıews of the blue sea and Greek ıslands just off the coast. Accommodatıon has been a combınatıon of pensıons and free campıng on the beach or ın the mountaıns.
Cross-country to Olimpos
Camping with a view
Spaghetti bolognese cooked on driftwood!
In Ismır I was fınally able to change the tyres on the bıke. The Brıdgestone on the rear that I pıcked up ın Shımla was defınıtely lookıng worse for wear, partıcularly sınce I had two punctures ın three days. The second tıme, I managed to pınch the ınner tube twıce, so I ended up removıng and replacıng the tyre on the rım three tımes. If you've never changed the tyre on a motorbıke before, the process ıs just lıke changıng the tyre on a bıcycle, only ıt ınvolves about 10 tımes the blood, sweat, tears, oıly fıngers, skınned knuckles and swearıng. So I was glad to see the back of the Brıdgestone, and the Contınental on the front had seen 26,000km (sınce Brısbane!) and had about as much grıp as a banana skın.
Slow crossing...
The source of the tyres, new brake pads, and other delıghts was Ergur Motors ın Ismır. The tyres were fıtted at a workshop round the corner by Barıs Tok, local motorcyclıng legend and reıgnıng Turkısh 600 Superstock champıon. Barıs then demonstrated the benefıt of years of racıng experıence by straıghtenıng my bent front brake dısk wıth a hammer... Izmır ıs defınıtely a cıty for bıkers - we spent the afternoon hangıng out at the workshop and talkıng bıkes wıth Hakan and Mustafa, a couple of other racers...
Slightly pleased with himself...
How a professional straightens bent forks...
From Ismir, I headed north again, with a quick stop to check out the ancient city of Ephesus. There are more ruins in Turkey than you can shake a stick at, and I must admit to blasting past most of them with a 'seen one, seen them all' attitude, but we were told that if you only see one, then Ephesus is the place to go. And I must admit that it was interesting to see a two-storey classical building - I was starting to wonder if the Greeks ever got beyond building the foundations...
The Celsus Library at Ephesus
The final run in to Istanbul began at Carnakkale, where we took a ferry over to the Gallipolli peninsula and finally reached Europe after almost 6 months on the road. I may only be a pseudo-Anzac, but it was still pretty powerful to see the Commonwealth cemeteries from WWI.
British memorial at Cape Helles
It was a great feeling riding into Istanbul - until we got completely crossed up with some terrible Turkish signposts trying to find Sultanahmed. But we got there eventually and found a room at Just Bar, where we were very well looked after by Ibrahim and his staff.
Just Bar (although it actually offers food and accommodation too...)
Istanbul is a fantastic city, but to me it had a totally different vibe when I first came here over 15 years ago as a teenage backpacker. It was my first trip outside Europe, and it felt very exotic back then, but this time I was amazed at how modern and European it felt (or maybe it's just me...)
The Blue Mosque
Istanbul was an important milestone for another reason. When I had originally planned the trip, I thought it would be a good idea to 'bookend' it with a trip to Glastonbury. That would neatly cap the trip at 6 months, and Glastonbury was significant because it was the last event I attended 7 years ago before I left the UK and moved to California. So I duly assembled a small crew (Pete, Caroline and Rich jumped at the opportunity - everyone else is too grown up these days) and forked out 185 quid for a ticket (ah yes! Back to UK prices!). But in Nepal, it became apparent that I would struggle to finish the trip in 6 months, so I reckoned that Istanbul was a realistic place to reach by the end of June, and booked a cheap flight back with Easyjet.
Now one thing I hadn't reckoned on was the complexity of Turkish customs. Instead of stamping the Carnet like most other countries, they record the details of the motorbike in your passport. By coincidence, I watched an episode of 'Long Way Down' in Pakistan where the intrepid explorers are prevented from flying out of the Sudan until their motorbikes are locked up in a customs depot. By sheer good fortune, I checked with Turkish customs when I entered the country, and sure enough, the same thing applies in Turkey (try figuring that one out on the fly...). So my last day in Istanbul was spent locating the special 'car customs' office, which doesn't have an address and is located on a motorway-under-construction, and then navigating my way through a convoluted process which required no less than 10 (ten) signatures, took 2.5 hours and made Indian immigration look efficient. But eventually the process was complete, and my motorbike was parked in a lot full of Mercedes that had either been illegally imported by drug dealers or totalled by tourists. To cap it all, I had to sign a form saying that if I didn't collect the bike within 30 days, it would become the property of the Republic of Turkey...
Don't worry, I'll come back for you...
The next day, T-Bone was due to head back to Germany, so it only seemed fitting to celebrate our three months on the road together with a few beers. We were having a bit of trouble finding some nightlife, when we met a couple of local guys who offered to take us to a club... After one drink we were joined by a group of Russian ladies, who ordered champagne, and we were then informed that we would be picking up the tab for everyone, which was 150 quid! We both found it hilarious that after chancing our luck in the snow of the Himalayas, with the Taliban in the Swat Valley, and with the Iranian secret police, that we should fall for the oldest sting in the book! We left the manager in no doubt as to what he could do with his bill, had a brief scuffle with some frankly disappointing bouncers, and walked off into the night - can't beat the taste of a free beer!
A quick warnıng prior to reading this blog posting - it comes across as a bit of a Ewan-and-Charley style whinge... I am starting to appreciate how sometimes you just want the locals to bugger off and give you some space and respect! The good news is that Turkey is shaping up to be much more fun!
*****
Well, I was in Iran for about ten days, and I have to say that I have some serious reservations about the place. Sure, the complete absence of bars, alcohol, and almost anything resembling fun is a negative. And the naivity / xenophobia is extremely tiresome - every couple of minutes in the street, someone will mutter 'Hello, how are you' and walk away giggling wildly to his mates. The treatment of women is also troubling - making them sit at the back of the bus seems pretty lame for the 21st century. And for practıcally the first time on this trip, people have tried to rip me off - in fact, almost every visit to a restaurant or petrol station ends in a heated debate about the bill (even though petrol costs the same per litre at every filling station...).
Sorry Iran - no prizes from this visitor!
But what bothers me most is the not-so-secret police, who have really pissed me off and have brought out a subversive streak in me that has not been seen since hıgh school! Equally strıkıng ıs the ambivalence that most people have to the ınterference of the polıce in everyday life.
The nonsense started as soon as we entered Iran. Our passports were confiscated with no explanation, leaving us stuck at the border. Eventually it was explained to us that we would need a bodyguard to proceed to Zahedan, but no indication was given as to when this bodyguard would arrive. After 90 minutes, a boy-soldier (about 19 going on 12, and doing his best to act tough) presented himself, with no radio, no gun and no transport. Not much of a bodyguard. But he had our passports. Now there's not much spare space on the back of my bike, but this lad can't have been more than about 50kg, and since the alternative was to pay $25 for a taxi for him, he was duly added to the rest of the luggage and we set off.
I'll spare the gory details of the remainder of the day, but it took us 14 hours to cover the ~350km to Bam, with brief spells at 120kph behind police escorts interspersed with lengthy waits in 40+ degree sunshine outside many, many police stations. At one point we waited 30 minutes to be escorted 500 metres to the next post. No smiles, no explanation, no passport. I was extremely pissed off. We eventually received our passports back about 50km from Bam, but only because the final escort ran out of petrol. We were then almost run off the road by another police escort arriving in Bam, who thought they could tell us which hotel we would be staying in. To make matters worse, it was the hotel that I had planned to stay at anyway, so I had to make it absolutely clear that I was staying there because I chose to, and not because they wanted me to...
With Akbar and friends ın Bam
Akbar's Tourist Guest House in Bam proved to be a great place to stay, and Akbar and his son Mohammed were wonderful hosts. My stay there was somewhat spoiled by a chronic case of heat exhaustion / diahorrea, for which I blame the Iranian police for keeping me hanging around in the sun the previous day. Bam was completely devastated by an earthquake in 2003 and is still being rebuilt, and the ancient mud-brick city is a far cry from what it once was, but it's still an interesting place to visit.
Ancient city of Bam
Akbar insisted on calling the police to let them know that we were leaving, and escorts continued on and off to Sirjan. We checked into the uninspiring Fadak Hotel and left our passports with the manager. When it came to dinner time, the conversation went something like this:
Overland biker: "We're going out to dinner. Can we have our passports back please?" Hotel manager: "You can have dinner here. We have kebabs." OB: "No thanks. We're going out. Passports please." HM: "You can't go out." OB: "Why not?" HM: "Police" OB: "Sod the police. Passport please! Now!"
Passports duly received, we went out and had typical Iranian fare (uninspiring fast food). By then end of the meal, there was a couple of plain clothes policemen sat outside in a car, who then followed us back to the hotel. At the hotel, they asked to see our passports and noted down the details. Next morning as we were about to leave, another plain clothes policeman arrived, insisted on seeing our passports and noting down the details (did they change overnight???), and escorted us out of Sirjan (as far as the next escort).
Salt plains on the road to Shiraz
Shiraz didn't really do much to float my boat - it's a reasonable city but there's not much to do there! And Persepolis was a bit of a let down - sure, the 2,500 year-old bas-reliefs from the palace of Xerxes are pretty interesting, but I was over it in about 2 hours. We also got ourselves involved with a bit of a lunatic called Mr Ematy, who claimed to be an English teacher, invited us to lunch at his mother's house (which we accepted), and gave us a very uninspiring tour. Mr Ematy bore an uncanny resemblence to a fat Borat, and after 60 minutes of his company we tried to extricate ourselves from the lunch invitation, at which point he protested that his mother had already prepared lunch, so we reluctantly went along. The lunch was quite good, and when he asked if he could show us his nearby language institute, I had a moment of weakness and agreed. Long story short, he then drove us 35km to his 'institute', whıch was closed, and then started approaching strangers ın the street to see if they wanted to talk to us (thankfully they were as unimpressed by this as we were). At this point, I totally lost the plot and made it very clear to our friend that he should return us to the motorcycles immediately...
An old ruin, and Persepolis...
I wish I could say that thıs was the turning poınt and Iran got better from here on, but it didn't really. On the posıtıve side, we met a very nice girl called Samaneh who showed us the beautiful bridges in Esfahan.
Thirty-three Brıdge, Esfahan
We also met a cool guy ın Oremıa called Resa who drove us round the cıty ın hıs brother's Hıllman Hunter (stıll ın productıon ın Iran...).
The Hıllman Hunter - long belıeved to be extınct...
We also vısıted the seasıde - the Caspıan seasıde, that ıs.
Makes the North Sea look lıke the Carıbbean...
The Turkish border - and my first beer in 6 weeks beckons...
Yes, that's right, I didn't know temperatures went that high, but they do, in Pakistan in the summer, and I rode right through the middle of it. Since the last update from Dharamsala, I've holidayed in two of the world's most notorious hotspots (Peshawar and Quetta), endured hours of police escorts, and I am now recovering in Bam from a spot of heat exhaustion (read - extreme diahorrea). I'm still travelling with T-bone, my intrepid German companion.
I would normally have steered clear of Peshawar, but I had received a strong recommendation for a tour guide there, and when I contacted the Prince he assured me that all was well. The ride from Islamabad was fairly straightforward until I got a puncture about 20km outside Peshawar. There was a big chard of metal in the tyre, so it went down pretty quick and gave me a big speed wobble at about 100kph. Fortunately there was a tyre shop about 50 metres away, so after taking the back wheel off, I paid the grand sum of 50 rupees and spared myself the trouble of changing the tube.
Pimp my bus - Peshawar style
On arriving in Peshawar, we checked in at the Rose Hotel and called the Prince, who came out to meet us with his colleague Hussain. While I was waiting for the Prince, I went across the road to a tyre shop to see if I could find a replacement inner tube (for a Transalp? Not easy...), where they told me that the Taliban had bombed an internet cafe in Peshawar earlier in the day with many casualties - I decided the situation was sufficiently hazardous for me to stay off Facebook for a few days. The Prince and Hussain arrived and they were an absolute blast, so we decided to stay in Peshawar for a couple more days so that they could give us the full tour. On the way up to their office, there was a loud bang which sounded suspiciously like a bomb blast, but the Prince assured me it was a wedding - he later fessed up that it was a bomb, but he didn't want to worry us on day one...
Local dress to help us blend in (although the T-bone looks more like a Parisian painter???)
Fun and games with the Prince
The next couple of days were a laugh - the Prince (who really is a Prince) was a constant source of entertainment and Hussain was a constant source of political debate. We enjoyed fantastic Pashtun cuisine (i.e., meat), we visited architectural wonders, mausoleums, schools, markets...
In a 350-year old house in Peshawar
Dining out Pashtun-style
We met with the local tribal leader, which was a bit like meeting the Wizard of Oz - he was about 35 years old and his inner sanctum was like a teenager's bedroom, with posters, toys, a big TV... and lots of guns. We took the obligatory 'western tourist grinning inanely with an AK47' photographs, which will not be appearing on this blog in case I ever attain high public office and you decide to use them against me.
Is it loaded? If you have to ask...
Making bricks = donkey work
I then had to visit Islamabad again to collect my visa from the Iranian Embassy (come back at 4pm the next day - NO EXCEPTIONS!). Rather than spend another night in the dump that is the tourist campsite, T-bone and I rode up to the hill resort of Murree. It provides welcome relief from the heat of the plains, but has a big problem with touts. After being hassled by the same half dozen or so, that apparently work for every hotel in the town, I had worked up quite a temper, so it was not a good time for the local policeman to pull me over and tell me that I did not have a registration plate on the front of my motorcycle, and my bike was overloaded. After the overloading I've seen over the past few months, the reaction he got was sufficient for him to wave me on quickly...
I then embarked on the long slog across Pakistan to the Iranian border. There are three routes across to Quetta: very unsafe, unsafe, and moderately unsafe. We had originally planned to take the latter, but we figured that we could take about 200km off the journey by riding across the mountains through Lorelei (the 'unsafe' route). Unfortunately the plan came unstuck fairly quickly - we arrived in Dera Ghasi Khan to be greeted first by the traffic police, then by the real police, and finally by some shady looking 'military intelligence' in plain clothes. Our conversation did not get off to a good start - they asked me for my passport, I asked for their ID, they didn't have any... it was made clear to us that we were not to stay in DG Khan, and I was escorted back 100km to Multan. In Multan, the first two hotels I tried were 'full' (read - I don't want this Taliban-magnet in my hotel)... I finally found an overpriced room, but by that point I was beyond caring. We later found out that there was a bombing in DG Khan a couple of months ago that killed 30 people which explains why the locals were a bit twitchy...
Next day, we elected to play it safe and take the longer route to Quetta via Sukkur. Other than being extremely hot, the ride to Sukkur was fairly uneventful. In Sukkur we receieved the same 'no room at the inn' treatment from the locals and ended up paying a bit more than we would have liked (3,600R) at the Inter-Pak Hotel.
Riding through the desert
On the final 400km ride up to Quetta, we had a police escort most of the way. Other than one old Toyota pick-up that couldn't manage more than 45kph, we cruised along at about 90kph so the escorts didn't really hold us up much. They were always very polite and considerate, and we had a chai break every time we switched escorts at the end of each district (far more pleasant than the Iranian escorts - more of that later). I'm not sure how effective they'd be if we saw any trouble, but fortunately it never came to that...
My guardian angels - I feel much safer now...
This was probably the hottest day of the entire trip - in Sibi, the locals told me that this is the hottest place in Asia, and a quick check online confirmed that the maximum temperature on the day that we passed through was 50 degrees (and it felt it!). It's not too bad when you're cruising on the bike, although I managed to drink about 10 litres of water in one day.
Quetta had some pretty stern security, and really felt like it was on the edge of a war zone. We were passed by a convoy of trucks carrying new toys for the US Marines in Afghanistan - I don't know exactly what was under the tarpaulins, but I'm pretty sure that Teledyne don't make washing machines... But all in all, another friendly Pashtun town, and we stayed at the excellent Bloom Star hotel.
From Quetta, there was a gruelling 650km ride to the border at Taftan. To make things even more interesting, we heard that a group of French tourists had attempted the same trip a couple of days earlier, and were ambushed by Al Qaeda - one of them was kidnapped and is still missing. So security was stepped up even further, although I think the police were more afraid than we were (after all, nobody was going to bother kidnapping them...). This manifested itself in Taftan, the final town before the border, where we were unceremoniously dumped at the Customs House by the final police escort at dusk. We spent our final night in Pakistan sleeping rough in an unguarded truck park, deep in unfriendly territory - not the best recipe for a good night's sleep... Next stop, Iran!
The last update came from Dharamsala in northern India, where I was enjoying a few days of R&R at the excellent Hotel Akant Lodge after a tough week in the Spiti Valley. I changed the oil at a local workshop. The oil filter on the Transalp is not well protected by the bashplate, and it had obviously seen a few big rocks - it was totally bent out of shape, but fortunately it wasn't punctured. From there, we had a relaxing day's ride down to Amritsar except for the last 100km where we were playing Tata-roulette with big trucks overtaking cars, bicycles, ox-carts... I'm now in Gilgit in the far north of Pakistan after a mad dash up the Karakorum highway - more of that later - and I'm planning to stay here for a week before travelling back through Baluchistan to Iran.
Amritsar was a bit of a pilgrimage. In September 1997 I stayed at Mrs Bandari's guest house, where I met an Australian couple travelling up to Europe on a BMW motorcycle. That was the inspiration for this trip, so I was keen to stay there again. We camped in the beautiful gardens, and although it is no longer mentioned in the Lonely Planet, it is still as welcoming as I remember it, even though Mrs Bandari died a couple of years ago (aged 101).
Through a connection, we were able to visit a company in Jalandar than builds buses for Mercedes Benz India. The road from Amritsar to Jalandar was one of the most dangerous I've seen - it's under construction, and every few kilometres it switches from dual carriageway to contraflow with no warning - total chaos at 100kph... Indian drivers really are the worst I have experienced in any country, and after weeks of pent up road rage, I finally lost it and landed a well-placed boot in the passenger door of a Maruti Suzuki that had cut me up (if they're within range, they're fair game in my book)...
The Sutlej bus factory in Jalandar was a trip. We were hosted by Bernard, an engineer who had been sent by Mercedes to teach the Indians how to build buses like the Germans. After two years he was reaching the conclusion that this was an impossible task. He was under a lot of pressure because the order book was fairly thin and the family obviously had complete faith in this German whizz to rescue the company. He told us about all the challenges he faced - he had even been attacked by buzzards that were circling overhead. Just as we were preparing to leave, there was a swoosh and another buzzard swooped down and took a chunk out of his scalp! "OK", he says, "now I get a gun!"
Next day we took a quick look at the Golden Temple, and headed to the Pakistan border at Wagah. We were warmly greeted at the Pakistan side with a plate of gulub jamun. At 6:30pm the flag ceremony began , with large crowds on either side of the fence to watch the rabble-rousing chants, pythonesque high-stepping, and haka-like grimacing that is the nightly closing of the border.
Bordering on the ridiculous...
From there, it was a quick dash to Lahore to stay at the Regal Internet Inn, which seems to be the place to stay (which makes me wonder what the other hotels in the city are like). Already, Pakistan felt totally different to India - the city was more open and modern, the welcomes were warmer, and in the evening the smell of beef on the barbecue was never far away (as opposed to the smell of burning plastic).
On Wednesday, our group had a big parting of ways, with three of the Germans starting on the 3-4 day trip to the Iranian border. I headed north with Thomas Bohn, hereafter known as 'T-bone' or 'Boner' ('TaliBohn' was also considered but we're not making those jokes right now). The motorway to Islamabad begins with 3 lanes in either direction but we soon discovered that this was no autobahn as we encountered donkey-carts, tractors travelling in the wrong direction, buses stopping to pick up school kids in the fast lane, and even an old man salvaging grains of wheat from a broken sack in the middle of the road. Not to mention the speed bumps...
Islamabad is a new city build specifically for government buildings, and looks suspiciously like Milton Keynes. We stayed at the much heralded Tourist Campsite which was a huge disappointment. The manager was extremely beligerant, told us Islamabad was not safe, and then insisted that we camp right next to the road in the filthiest part of his near-empty campsite. Now I'm no security expert, but I quite liked the idea of putting the French motorhome between my tent and the road in case the bullets started flying. A brief stand-off occurred, but suddenly we were best of friends and I could camp wherever I wanted. We shared the campsite with one French and one German couple who had spent 10 days there and quite liked it (why?????), and about 30 Frontier Constabulary troops who had clearly not been told that it's impolite to point an automatic rifle at your midriff while they're practising their English with you. And they had made a real mess of the toilet block...
Next day I headed to the Iranian Embassy to pick up my visa. When I asked if I could collect my passport the same day, I was given the ambiguous 'Inshallah, inshallah' and sent off to deposit money in a local bank and make photocopies of my passport. Well bugger Inshallah, because after 2 hours of waiting around I was told it would be ready the next working day, and because it was a Thursday that meant Monday. I was not inclined to hang around in Islamabad for 4 days, so I grabbed my passport back and by 12:30 we were heading at full speed for the Karakoram Highway.
We were hoping to cover some ground and possibly reach Bisham by nightfall, but at the first stop for petrol we were ushered into a very smart office by a very important looking gentleman who welcomed us warmly to Pakistan, gave us a glass of apple juice, and insisted that on our return trip we come and stay in his village. That pretty much set the tone for the whole journey - every time the bike stops, people are very keen to have a conversation. At Haripur we stopped for lunch, and when we told the locals that were we planning to stay in Bisham, they laughed and said "Taliban! Taliban!". Good joke, guys...
In the end, we only made it as far as Mansehra, where we stayed at the overpriced Karakoram Hotel. I was not much reassured by the old guy at the gate with a double-barrelled shotgun, but at least he was first in the firing line if there was any trouble. Next day, we set off at 6am because we wanted to cover the entire 460km to Gilgit. We knew that the road would be rough and is prone to landslides, and we had to run the gauntlet through the Swat District and Kohistan, which are not known to be particularly tourist friendly. I had read online that the Pakistani Army was currently engaged in a full-scale offensive against the Taliban in the Swat Valley, and although the highway passes through the Swat District about 50km from the front line, it runs along a parallel valley (the Indus river) and is not affected by the fighting.
No left turn...
I was a little on edge when I saw a company of Pakistani soldiers on patrol with weapons drawn, but the only trouble we experienced was with the Pashtun kids, who are crack shots with their catapults. Fortunately, at 60kph I am safely out of range by the time the little buggers have loaded. This is not so good for T-bone who usually rides behind me, and he took three direct hits...
We made good time and by mid-afternoon we were out of the North West Frontier Province and into the Northern Areas, which are a lot more friendly. The whole ride up the Karakoram along the Indus river was beautiful, and late in the day we were treated to a great view of Nanga Parbat, the 9th highest mountain in the world at over 8,100 metres. Arriving in Gilgit was fantastic - it's a vibrant, friendly town. We checked in at the Madina Hotel, an overlanders' favourite, where the staff are totally in tune with the needs of the long distance traveller. I think it's my favourite hotel on the entire journey so far. There's a Slovakian couple travelling to India by Jeep, and a German girl travelling alone through Pakistan on a Transalp (truly hardcore!).
In the Hindu Kush, with man's best friend...
We hung around in Gilgit for a few more days to catch the start of the polo season, which was fairly full-on - I think Prince Charles would have been lucky to escape with just a broken arm playing with this lot.
I hope those things have better brakes than my Transalp...
Then we pushed further north to the Chinese border and the Khunjerab Pass - the highest point on the trip so far at 4,800 metres (and boy was it cold...). Unfortunately it's nearly impossible to get permission to take vehicles into China so we had to turn back, but since there were no guards at the border, we thought nobody would mind if we just went a little bit further...
At 4,800 metres in China
I may already have waxed lyrical about the Himalayas in Nepal and India, but the Hindu Kush is really something else - photos don't do it justice, but I'm told that the Hunza Valley was the inspiration for James Hilton's Shangri-La.
Rakaposhi - from my hotel balcony...
Next stop is Peshawar - I know it's a little dicey at the moment, but we have a guide lined up who has promised to keep us out of trouble...
Dumb and dumber...
The exact moment of landfall...
Back to reality - breakfast with Emma and Joe 
Lake Van, Turkey
View from the top
Calcutta to Paris by rickshaw - only the French...
More relics...
Hailstorms in June? Not even in England...
Pimp my bus - Peshawar style
Making bricks = donkey work
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