True Grit
"Kidnapped UK aid worker Khalil Dale killed in Quetta, Pakistan" –
29 April 2012 - BBC
"Senior Pakistan policeman shot dead in Quetta" -
8 May 2012 – BBC
"Three killed and thirty five injured as car bomb hits FC convoy in Quetta" -
15 May 2012 - Pak Tribune
"16 killed in gunfight between police, squad members in Balochistan" -
June 8 2012 - Balochistan Online
"Pakistan blast: Quetta religious school toll rises to 15" -
8 June 2012 – BBC
Every which I looked at it, every conceivable option was exhausted and I couldn’t escape the inevitable. I would have to proceed through Balochistan to Quetta. Quetta, it seemed was on the verge of an all-out war, with bomb attacks and killings nearly every day, usually at the hands of the Taliban or other upstart militant groups. My research led me to believe that I should have police escorts with me at times on this route, but by no means was this a sure thing, and besides with the amount of police being murdered I was wondering whether this would make me more of a target.
There was always a quote I liked by Jeff Bridges character "Rooster" from the movie "True Grit"
"If you ride at a man hard enough and fast enough, he don’t have time to think about how many’s with him; he thinks about himself, and how he might get clear of that wrath that’s about to set down on him"
The time had come and my conclusion was that, like "Rooster", I was going to go as hard and as fast as I could for Pakistan. Perhaps if I showed "True Grit" any dangers lying ahead would be thinking about how to get "clear of that wrath that’s about to set down on them" (By the way, thanks for putting up with my creative indulgences haha )
Pakistan: This definitely aint Kansas no more!
I rose at dawn from my hotel in Zahedan, Iran. It wasn’t difficult, as I had been lying awake all night waiting for my alarm to sound, images of the news headlines dancing through my mind. The previous night the hotel reception found out my intentions and insisted that I get police escorted to the border (this was to be the first of many), so the arrangements were made for my departure. The 90km to the border would take several hours as my police escorts changed over every few kilometres. On a positive note I was making friends already, as I shared banter with some of the younger military guys. After my last border fiasco I was on high alert for potential scams, but to my advantage one of my new friends from the Iranian police force handled the whole Iranian customs and immigration process, in which I cleared without a hitch. I was handed over onto the Pakistani side and much to my surprise, it was just as easy. I changed a little money and the man who was assisting me asked if he could have a t-shirt, I was more than happy to oblige. I exited the border and was greeted by the site of Taftan (the Pakistani border town).
Taftan is your typical border town… It’s a complete dump! So having said that I wasn’t into hanging around to take holiday snaps. I was introduced to my first police escort,(their force is called the Balochistan Levies) he was a small, how should I say? senior gentleman, carrying a massive AK-47. I took off through the 630km gauntlet to Quetta, my stomach full of butterfly’s, yet somewhat excited as to what was ahead. It was a surreal feeling really, I had spent countless hours reading and researching this particular leg of my journey and It was finally here, and I couldn’t believe the emptiness of it all. Either side of the little road was endless desert and sand hills, occasionally we would pass through a small village but that emptiness made me feel completely vulnerable. I would stop at police check points every 50km or so to sign into their books, and on occasions my escort would swap.
I had reached my scheduled overnight stop at Dalbandin, and was asked by my escort if I would like to stay at a hotel or the police station for the night (never been asked that before). I elected to stay in the hotel, which was surprisingly nice, and was assisted by the hotel manager. I spent the evening sitting outside the hotel with the manager and my escort smoking (I had come to the conclusion that smoking made me look tough) and chatting away. It all felt strangely normal! I could imagine doing the very same thing at my own place, and this sense of normality put me in a much better frame of mind.
It was a strange night. At about half past ten the power went out. Now this happens many times a day in Pakistan and India but at this point it was all new to me. It meant I had no ceiling fan in my room and it was scorching hot. Meanwhile I had no idea what was going on and when I heard chatter and saw flash lights dancing in the halls I thought the worst. Perhaps the terrorists had discovered my location and were conducting "Operation Whitey. My heart was racing and when there was a knock at my door you can imagine all kinds of scenarios were running through my mind. It turned out it was the hotel manager coming to enquire whether I would like to sleep on the roof as it was far cooler. I agreed and dragged myself upstairs to a small mattress inside a mosuiteo net. I actually slept very well from then and only realised in the light of the morning that there were also police sleeping on the roof that night.
Are you Muslim?
A question that I wasn’t prepared for was "Are you Muslim?". This sprang up on a number of occasions, and left me in quite a conundrum. Considering best strategy, should I completely lie and say yes I am a Muslim? Or tell the honest truth and admit that I wasn’t a religious person at all. I figured its better to believe in something than nothing, and I hoped they would at least respect that I might have some sort of religious faith. So I settled on being of catholic faith, which was usually met with indifference (which was fine with me), and I was happy to change subjects as quick as possible.
However this got me thinking as to the nature of the question and the attitude surrounding it. They could have easily been asking me what football team I support, in that it was like "my team is Muslim and we are the best", and I briefly pondered as to why human beings need others to share their same beliefs or opinions. Whether it’s as trivial as what sporting team do you support or as complex as someone’s political, religious or social views. It seems that we all must think that we are the ones whom are ultimately correct, and we have this innate desire to convert someone to your belief structure.
Flying solo by the Afghan border
The road from Taftan to Dalbandin was relatively good, but I knew I wouldn’t be so lucky on my journey into Quetta. To say the road conditions were terrible would be too polite. Some of the time I wasn’t sure if I was looking at potholes or unfinished swimming pools. Never the less I slowly pushed on (most of the time with escorts). I was stopped at a check post and judging by my calculations I would have been about 20km from the border of Afghanistan. Things were starting to get a little serious now and a police truck was getting prepared with the driver plus two machine gunners in the back. My escorts were genuinely surprised that I was a travelling solo, and they quickly gave me a nickname of "danger man "and I was simultaneously proud and petrified. Then as I was pulling away behind my escorting police truck, one officer poked his head into my window, smiled at me and simply said "Drive fast!". With the hair on my arms standing on end, I drove hard fast and didn’t look back. This section was mountainous and remote, and I spent much of that time planning exit strategies if things went wrong. Suddenly my escort who was now travelling behind me, pulled away and I would complete the next 20Km flying solo, this was thankfully incident free.
My next major hurdle was actually getting into the city of Quetta and my hotel safely. This felt like a full scale military operation. I once again waited at a check post just outside the city, before leaving with the most intense escorts so far. I would drive a few kilometres into the city before there was another escort waiting for me to go a little further. I felt like a sitting duck….. a giant, blue, van shaped duck and I was itching to get to my hotel. I finally checked into the Bloomstar hotel, and had the rules for foreigners dictated to me. I would not leave the hotel without escorts and I had a curfew of 18:00. They also informed me that I would have to stay until the following Monday to get a letter from their Home office, officially notifying police forces of Balochistan, Sindh and Punjab of my travel plans and my requirements of police escorts.
I made contact with my parents who were utterly relieved to hear that I was safe in the hotel… They informed me that hours earlier four police officers were murdered on the road into Quetta. I was catapulted back to earth and it made me realise, out here how quick the situation could change.
Kiwis in Quetta
The timing couldn’t have been better, while I had become an expert on Pakistani politics and media; the two motor bikers from New Zealand whom I met at my hotel were nearly completely oblivious to the danger that was associated with Quetta and Pakistan as a whole. Ohh how I envied them! They had started in Malaysia and had ridden their little postie bikes around South East Asia before flying their bikes into Nepal, travelling through India and Pakistan. They admitted they only bought a map once in India, and they simply would find their way to a city, ride around for awhile until they secured lodging for the evening. While I had never prepared anything so carefully in my life, they had virtually no plan at all. They told me how they attempted to enter restricted zones in Pakistan before being sent away by police; once again they were completely oblivious to it all. As I gave them my crash course in "Surviving Balochistan", their eyes began widening, before looking at each other, shrugging and taking another swig from their beer. Ohh the envy!
R&R at the Hotel Bloomstar
I had succomned to the fact that I would be stuck in Quetta until I could receive the compulsory letter from the home department, which meant I had a little time to kill until the following monday, when offices were open. I formed a little routine and actually started to enjoy myself, as I re-discovered the art of doing.... not much at all. I would rise whenever I wanted, enjoy a full breakfast and mosey on over to the internet cafe (pending no power cuts) which was about 2 minutes walk from the hotel. I really wasn't in the mood for soaking up the sights and sounds of Quetta (whatever they may be?). I would be back at the hotel way before my curfew of 6 o'clock, to gorge on another delicious Pakistani curry with the Kiwis. I hadn't expected to find peace and calmness in Quetta but those few days at the Hotel Bloomstar were some of my most relaxing.
On the Monday, I reached the home department and received that letter which permitted me to continue my onward journeys, this came along with the mandatory preaching of the virtues of Muslim life. I was now ready to leave Quetta and continue on out of the Balochistan, through the province of Sindh to my next destination of Sukkur.
Driving... and not much else
Leaving Quetta, was a duplicate of my entry and was once again a full scale military operation, but once on the outskirts of the city, the mood relaxed and I was instructed to follow a coach carrying passengers, which contained a police officer. The hardest part was keeping up with the bus driver who was determined to break the land speed record. He would overtake everyone and if anybody dared to stay in his way he let his horn do the talking. Little old men on bicycles were beaten into submission by his overtly loud and colourful horn, which I found hysterical.
Meanwhile the scenery had livened up and I passed through varied villages and landscapes. By this time i was now under the jurisdiction of the Sindh police force. Once I ditched my bus escort I was picked up by another police truck. This soon grew tiresome though as their vehichle could only maintain a maximum speed of 25KM per hour. The lunacy was encapsulated when the truck ran out of fuel. They managed to limp to a fuel station where their was a lot of discussion and not a lot of action. I soon realised that none of the policeman had any money to fill up. I have become an expert on remaining absolutely oblivious, and I used this to perfection when I sensed they were angling for me to pay for the fuel. After a while another truck came by to take me further, amazingly a little while later the same problem. The day was getting on and I needed to reach my next destination so I offered to put in a few hundred rupees of fuel, to which they swiftly accepted.
As the sun was setting I reached Sukkur - without escorts (believe me this was a blessing) and I set about getting a hotel. I knew of the Inter Pak hotel and made my way there. The reception informed me that they were completely full, however I knew this was of course absolute bollocks. There's a degree of risk that hotels take when hosting a foreigner, and in fact when accompanied by police officer it is significantly harder to get accepted in a hotel (this is because when checked in, accompanied by a police officer, they take on a level of liability for my life). I pleaded my case that I was without escort and would be gone early the next day. They conceded that they did have room available but it was only the ludicrously expensive deluxe suite. It was obvious that I had little options elsewhere at this point, so I begrudgingly accepted the room and settled in for the night.
The following morning was a complete mess, as the only ATM in town that would accept my card was out of order. So once again I was budgeting until I could atleast get to Bahwalpur. Thankfully a kind chap from the hotel accompanied me to a money exchange outlet to change over a mere few Iranian Rials that I had left. (I felt bad that I couldn't tip him.... but not that bad) After the delayed morning I left for Bahwalpur.
On the road again, and more escorts. This time I was cruising with the Punjabi Elite and had the deputy chief riding shotgun with me. He took great pleasure in mocking his fellow police comrades of other states. He explained how the Punjabi police were highly educated people and thus the reason the reigned supreme over the Sindh and Balochi peasants. Meanwhile, I went along with him and mocked them also (I find this tactic usually helps to build immediate rapport, yes I know, a little slimey, but don't judge me!)
The Elite led me into Bahwalpur for the night, which was relatively uneventful and the following day on my way to Lahore.
Lahore! The unexpected highlight
Just outside the city of Lahore I was signalled to carry on by my guards. At last I was free of police escorts. Although I appreciated their help, the ever present police tail, grew tiresome. A couple of weeks earlier I had emailed a tour group called "Untamed borders", which specialises in conducting tours to more remote areas of Pakistan and Afghanistan. I was asking their advice regarding the situation in Balochistan and Pakistan, but they also advised me that I should stay at the Lahore Backpackers Hostel. I was now making my way to the hostel with absolutely zero expectations for Lahore. Without difficulty, I reached the hostel and was greeted by Ali, who was in charge while the owner of the hostel Sajjad was away. Soon another chap who worked at the hostel arrived and the boys quickly went about making my stay as relaxing as possible, fetching my dinner (to my amusement, the boys went about thoroughly helping themselves to my dinner) and attempting to generally lavish me with comfort.
For any Seinfeld fans, you may recall a character named "Babu" who is the owner of a Pakistani restaurant, which Jerry is desperate to help get off the ground. Their is a particularly amusing scene where Jerry is eating in a completely deserted restaurant, with Babu eagerly waiting by his side. Every time Jerry takes the smallest sip of water from his glass, Babu is there right away filling it again to the brim. Amazingly, this was exactly what was happening to me, and I was holding in the laughter for the duration of our meal.
The lads were excited about my arrival and were eager to hear about my journey, and no sooner did they get the manager of "Untamed borders" on the phone for me to chat to. A short time later, Sajjad arrived and he was also eager to hear of my journey and share stories from other overlanders who has stayed at his hostel. Sajjad was the man with connections. Andy Dufrane from the Shawshank redemption might describe him as "a man who knows how to get things"... I felt lucky to have met him and fortunate to have been given the right advice in coming here.
Lahore was baking hot and the power cuts throughout Lahore were some of the worst that I had encountered thus far. As per usual without power, my room was unbearably hot, I would therefore spend my nights sleeping on a beach sun bed on the roof. My first full day in Lahore was to be a personal tour by Sajjad on the back of his motorbike. Sajjad, (perhaps knowing it was better for me to blend in as much as possible) dressed me head to toe in a traditional Pakistani dress. Due to my full lucious beard, light skin and blue eyes he said I looked just like a Pathan (Pakistani ethnic group).Once again without any expectations we set off, firstly making our way out of the city to his local village. After some time we pulled off the highway onto a dirt track and via what seemed like acres of Maijuana crops. We stopped near a few small huts were Sajjads, Uncles and Cousins were sitting under a tree, everyone seemed to be pretty good and high by this point. We walked around and took a refreshing dip in the village well. It was a beautiful place, the type of thing you would see in a NatGeo documentary.
Our next stop was at another village and their traditional festival. I can't exactly recall what it is they were celebrating but it didn't seem to matter, everyone was having a great time. Sajjad, who once again seemed to know everyone, gave me samples of all the tradtional Pakistani fare. We came across a big crowd all dancing and chanting to the constant rythyms of a man drumming. Sajjad signalled me over and we joined in the spectacle. The man playing the drums had a very strong aura about him and immediatley left a lasting image in my mind, he was like a shaman, controlling everyone with his rythyms. Sajjad made a subtle gesture towards him and immediatley a young boy came over, wrapped his arms around the neck of the drummer. While the man continued to play, he began spinning around with the boy around his neck to perform a good ol' fashionaed helicopter. It was a spectacular performance and one that had me captivated. After the show had ended the drummer came over and was introduced to me by Sajjad. He gave me a warm embrace like we had been friends our whole lives.
Much to my delight wrestling was next on the agenda and we sat around a big dirt field with all the other spectators. The wrestling consisted of huge men, in nappies, grabbing and slapping each other until one of the men crossed an imaginary line. It was both absurd and hilarious and I joined in with all the other spectators laughing at the on field antics.
When we left it was getting towards dusk and we had to hurry a little because the tour was far from being over. Once back in Lahore, we headed for the Lahore fort and the Badshahi Mosque. As the sun had now completely dropped from the horizon, it made for a lovely yet heavy setting and after wandering a little we stopped at a restaurant for a drink. Although, as it was Sajjad's tour and he is the man with connections, it was no ordinary restaurant. I was introduced to the owner of Cuckoo’s Den and after a few pleasantries, I was free to wander the place. It had a strange but beautiful ambience and the walls were decked out in fascinating artwork focusing on the ladies of the famed red light district of Lahore (Heera Mundi). The idea and concept was formed in collaboration with artist Iqbal Hussain, whose mother and sister’s worked as prostitutes in the district. The restaurant also kept another secret, and that it has the best views of Lahore throughout the whole city. We sat on the rooftop sipping cokes and enjoying the stunning sights of Lahore. Before heading back to the hostel we made a small detour to the old town markets, which also contained the red light district. The alleyways were quite small and only big enough to fit motorbikes. Darting through the laneways of the red light district felt like a theme park ghost train and it was a great thrill.
Completely exhausted we ventured on home, and once arrived I collapsed on the roof top deck chairs, were the boys began fussing over me. It all got a little absurd when one began fanning me while the other massaged my legs. It was an extremely kind gesture and only highlighted the desire to make my stay as comfortable as possible, if not a little awkward. Another power cut and another roof top bunking, provided little sleep but never the less I bidded farewell to the wonderful team at Lahore Backpackers and set forth for the Wagah border (The land crossing between India and Pakistan). It was to be my final charge through Pakistan and as was my theme for this whole leg, I rode hard and fast to the border. The Pakistan border formalities were straight forward (although I had to wait for about 30 minutes for power to return). Just like that weeks and months spent planning this route was now over, I had conquered my fears and felt proud of what I achieved. I wondered what adventures lied along the next part of my yellow brick road but as usual the next adventure would never be to far away.
"Kidnapped UK aid worker Khalil Dale killed in Quetta, Pakistan" –
29 April 2012 - BBC
"Senior Pakistan policeman shot dead in Quetta" -
8 May 2012 – BBC
"Three killed and thirty five injured as car bomb hits FC convoy in Quetta" -
15 May 2012 - Pak Tribune
"16 killed in gunfight between police, squad members in Balochistan" -
June 8 2012 - Balochistan Online
"Pakistan blast: Quetta religious school toll rises to 15" -
8 June 2012 – BBC
Every which I looked at it, every conceivable option was exhausted and I couldn’t escape the inevitable. I would have to proceed through Balochistan to Quetta. Quetta, it seemed was on the verge of an all-out war, with bomb attacks and killings nearly every day, usually at the hands of the Taliban or other upstart militant groups. My research led me to believe that I should have police escorts with me at times on this route, but by no means was this a sure thing, and besides with the amount of police being murdered I was wondering whether this would make me more of a target.
There was always a quote I liked by Jeff Bridges character "Rooster" from the movie "True Grit"
"If you ride at a man hard enough and fast enough, he don’t have time to think about how many’s with him; he thinks about himself, and how he might get clear of that wrath that’s about to set down on him"
The time had come and my conclusion was that, like "Rooster", I was going to go as hard and as fast as I could for Pakistan. Perhaps if I showed "True Grit" any dangers lying ahead would be thinking about how to get "clear of that wrath that’s about to set down on them" (By the way, thanks for putting up with my creative indulgences haha )
Pakistan: This definitely aint Kansas no more!
I rose at dawn from my hotel in Zahedan, Iran. It wasn’t difficult, as I had been lying awake all night waiting for my alarm to sound, images of the news headlines dancing through my mind. The previous night the hotel reception found out my intentions and insisted that I get police escorted to the border (this was to be the first of many), so the arrangements were made for my departure. The 90km to the border would take several hours as my police escorts changed over every few kilometres. On a positive note I was making friends already, as I shared banter with some of the younger military guys. After my last border fiasco I was on high alert for potential scams, but to my advantage one of my new friends from the Iranian police force handled the whole Iranian customs and immigration process, in which I cleared without a hitch. I was handed over onto the Pakistani side and much to my surprise, it was just as easy. I changed a little money and the man who was assisting me asked if he could have a t-shirt, I was more than happy to oblige. I exited the border and was greeted by the site of Taftan (the Pakistani border town).
From Iran with love - One of my Iranian police escorts felt compelled to give me this heart felt illustration
Taftan is your typical border town… It’s a complete dump! So having said that I wasn’t into hanging around to take holiday snaps. I was introduced to my first police escort,(their force is called the Balochistan Levies) he was a small, how should I say? senior gentleman, carrying a massive AK-47. I took off through the 630km gauntlet to Quetta, my stomach full of butterfly’s, yet somewhat excited as to what was ahead. It was a surreal feeling really, I had spent countless hours reading and researching this particular leg of my journey and It was finally here, and I couldn’t believe the emptiness of it all. Either side of the little road was endless desert and sand hills, occasionally we would pass through a small village but that emptiness made me feel completely vulnerable. I would stop at police check points every 50km or so to sign into their books, and on occasions my escort would swap.
I had reached my scheduled overnight stop at Dalbandin, and was asked by my escort if I would like to stay at a hotel or the police station for the night (never been asked that before). I elected to stay in the hotel, which was surprisingly nice, and was assisted by the hotel manager. I spent the evening sitting outside the hotel with the manager and my escort smoking (I had come to the conclusion that smoking made me look tough) and chatting away. It all felt strangely normal! I could imagine doing the very same thing at my own place, and this sense of normality put me in a much better frame of mind.
It was a strange night. At about half past ten the power went out. Now this happens many times a day in Pakistan and India but at this point it was all new to me. It meant I had no ceiling fan in my room and it was scorching hot. Meanwhile I had no idea what was going on and when I heard chatter and saw flash lights dancing in the halls I thought the worst. Perhaps the terrorists had discovered my location and were conducting "Operation Whitey. My heart was racing and when there was a knock at my door you can imagine all kinds of scenarios were running through my mind. It turned out it was the hotel manager coming to enquire whether I would like to sleep on the roof as it was far cooler. I agreed and dragged myself upstairs to a small mattress inside a mosuiteo net. I actually slept very well from then and only realised in the light of the morning that there were also police sleeping on the roof that night.
Are you Muslim?
A question that I wasn’t prepared for was "Are you Muslim?". This sprang up on a number of occasions, and left me in quite a conundrum. Considering best strategy, should I completely lie and say yes I am a Muslim? Or tell the honest truth and admit that I wasn’t a religious person at all. I figured its better to believe in something than nothing, and I hoped they would at least respect that I might have some sort of religious faith. So I settled on being of catholic faith, which was usually met with indifference (which was fine with me), and I was happy to change subjects as quick as possible.
However this got me thinking as to the nature of the question and the attitude surrounding it. They could have easily been asking me what football team I support, in that it was like "my team is Muslim and we are the best", and I briefly pondered as to why human beings need others to share their same beliefs or opinions. Whether it’s as trivial as what sporting team do you support or as complex as someone’s political, religious or social views. It seems that we all must think that we are the ones whom are ultimately correct, and we have this innate desire to convert someone to your belief structure.
Flying solo by the Afghan border
The road from Taftan to Dalbandin was relatively good, but I knew I wouldn’t be so lucky on my journey into Quetta. To say the road conditions were terrible would be too polite. Some of the time I wasn’t sure if I was looking at potholes or unfinished swimming pools. Never the less I slowly pushed on (most of the time with escorts). I was stopped at a check post and judging by my calculations I would have been about 20km from the border of Afghanistan. Things were starting to get a little serious now and a police truck was getting prepared with the driver plus two machine gunners in the back. My escorts were genuinely surprised that I was a travelling solo, and they quickly gave me a nickname of "danger man "and I was simultaneously proud and petrified. Then as I was pulling away behind my escorting police truck, one officer poked his head into my window, smiled at me and simply said "Drive fast!". With the hair on my arms standing on end, I drove hard fast and didn’t look back. This section was mountainous and remote, and I spent much of that time planning exit strategies if things went wrong. Suddenly my escort who was now travelling behind me, pulled away and I would complete the next 20Km flying solo, this was thankfully incident free.
My next major hurdle was actually getting into the city of Quetta and my hotel safely. This felt like a full scale military operation. I once again waited at a check post just outside the city, before leaving with the most intense escorts so far. I would drive a few kilometres into the city before there was another escort waiting for me to go a little further. I felt like a sitting duck….. a giant, blue, van shaped duck and I was itching to get to my hotel. I finally checked into the Bloomstar hotel, and had the rules for foreigners dictated to me. I would not leave the hotel without escorts and I had a curfew of 18:00. They also informed me that I would have to stay until the following Monday to get a letter from their Home office, officially notifying police forces of Balochistan, Sindh and Punjab of my travel plans and my requirements of police escorts.
I made contact with my parents who were utterly relieved to hear that I was safe in the hotel… They informed me that hours earlier four police officers were murdered on the road into Quetta. I was catapulted back to earth and it made me realise, out here how quick the situation could change.
An average day in Quetta - My police escorts coming into the city of Quetta
Kiwis in Quetta
The timing couldn’t have been better, while I had become an expert on Pakistani politics and media; the two motor bikers from New Zealand whom I met at my hotel were nearly completely oblivious to the danger that was associated with Quetta and Pakistan as a whole. Ohh how I envied them! They had started in Malaysia and had ridden their little postie bikes around South East Asia before flying their bikes into Nepal, travelling through India and Pakistan. They admitted they only bought a map once in India, and they simply would find their way to a city, ride around for awhile until they secured lodging for the evening. While I had never prepared anything so carefully in my life, they had virtually no plan at all. They told me how they attempted to enter restricted zones in Pakistan before being sent away by police; once again they were completely oblivious to it all. As I gave them my crash course in "Surviving Balochistan", their eyes began widening, before looking at each other, shrugging and taking another swig from their beer. Ohh the envy!
R&R at the Hotel Bloomstar
I had succomned to the fact that I would be stuck in Quetta until I could receive the compulsory letter from the home department, which meant I had a little time to kill until the following monday, when offices were open. I formed a little routine and actually started to enjoy myself, as I re-discovered the art of doing.... not much at all. I would rise whenever I wanted, enjoy a full breakfast and mosey on over to the internet cafe (pending no power cuts) which was about 2 minutes walk from the hotel. I really wasn't in the mood for soaking up the sights and sounds of Quetta (whatever they may be?). I would be back at the hotel way before my curfew of 6 o'clock, to gorge on another delicious Pakistani curry with the Kiwis. I hadn't expected to find peace and calmness in Quetta but those few days at the Hotel Bloomstar were some of my most relaxing.
On the Monday, I reached the home department and received that letter which permitted me to continue my onward journeys, this came along with the mandatory preaching of the virtues of Muslim life. I was now ready to leave Quetta and continue on out of the Balochistan, through the province of Sindh to my next destination of Sukkur.
Driving... and not much else
Leaving Quetta, was a duplicate of my entry and was once again a full scale military operation, but once on the outskirts of the city, the mood relaxed and I was instructed to follow a coach carrying passengers, which contained a police officer. The hardest part was keeping up with the bus driver who was determined to break the land speed record. He would overtake everyone and if anybody dared to stay in his way he let his horn do the talking. Little old men on bicycles were beaten into submission by his overtly loud and colourful horn, which I found hysterical.
Meanwhile the scenery had livened up and I passed through varied villages and landscapes. By this time i was now under the jurisdiction of the Sindh police force. Once I ditched my bus escort I was picked up by another police truck. This soon grew tiresome though as their vehichle could only maintain a maximum speed of 25KM per hour. The lunacy was encapsulated when the truck ran out of fuel. They managed to limp to a fuel station where their was a lot of discussion and not a lot of action. I soon realised that none of the policeman had any money to fill up. I have become an expert on remaining absolutely oblivious, and I used this to perfection when I sensed they were angling for me to pay for the fuel. After a while another truck came by to take me further, amazingly a little while later the same problem. The day was getting on and I needed to reach my next destination so I offered to put in a few hundred rupees of fuel, to which they swiftly accepted.
Sindh Police, damn fine organisation!
As the sun was setting I reached Sukkur - without escorts (believe me this was a blessing) and I set about getting a hotel. I knew of the Inter Pak hotel and made my way there. The reception informed me that they were completely full, however I knew this was of course absolute bollocks. There's a degree of risk that hotels take when hosting a foreigner, and in fact when accompanied by police officer it is significantly harder to get accepted in a hotel (this is because when checked in, accompanied by a police officer, they take on a level of liability for my life). I pleaded my case that I was without escort and would be gone early the next day. They conceded that they did have room available but it was only the ludicrously expensive deluxe suite. It was obvious that I had little options elsewhere at this point, so I begrudgingly accepted the room and settled in for the night.
The following morning was a complete mess, as the only ATM in town that would accept my card was out of order. So once again I was budgeting until I could atleast get to Bahwalpur. Thankfully a kind chap from the hotel accompanied me to a money exchange outlet to change over a mere few Iranian Rials that I had left. (I felt bad that I couldn't tip him.... but not that bad) After the delayed morning I left for Bahwalpur.
On the road again, and more escorts. This time I was cruising with the Punjabi Elite and had the deputy chief riding shotgun with me. He took great pleasure in mocking his fellow police comrades of other states. He explained how the Punjabi police were highly educated people and thus the reason the reigned supreme over the Sindh and Balochi peasants. Meanwhile, I went along with him and mocked them also (I find this tactic usually helps to build immediate rapport, yes I know, a little slimey, but don't judge me!)
The Elite led me into Bahwalpur for the night, which was relatively uneventful and the following day on my way to Lahore.
Lahore! The unexpected highlight
Just outside the city of Lahore I was signalled to carry on by my guards. At last I was free of police escorts. Although I appreciated their help, the ever present police tail, grew tiresome. A couple of weeks earlier I had emailed a tour group called "Untamed borders", which specialises in conducting tours to more remote areas of Pakistan and Afghanistan. I was asking their advice regarding the situation in Balochistan and Pakistan, but they also advised me that I should stay at the Lahore Backpackers Hostel. I was now making my way to the hostel with absolutely zero expectations for Lahore. Without difficulty, I reached the hostel and was greeted by Ali, who was in charge while the owner of the hostel Sajjad was away. Soon another chap who worked at the hostel arrived and the boys quickly went about making my stay as relaxing as possible, fetching my dinner (to my amusement, the boys went about thoroughly helping themselves to my dinner) and attempting to generally lavish me with comfort.
For any Seinfeld fans, you may recall a character named "Babu" who is the owner of a Pakistani restaurant, which Jerry is desperate to help get off the ground. Their is a particularly amusing scene where Jerry is eating in a completely deserted restaurant, with Babu eagerly waiting by his side. Every time Jerry takes the smallest sip of water from his glass, Babu is there right away filling it again to the brim. Amazingly, this was exactly what was happening to me, and I was holding in the laughter for the duration of our meal.
The lads were excited about my arrival and were eager to hear about my journey, and no sooner did they get the manager of "Untamed borders" on the phone for me to chat to. A short time later, Sajjad arrived and he was also eager to hear of my journey and share stories from other overlanders who has stayed at his hostel. Sajjad was the man with connections. Andy Dufrane from the Shawshank redemption might describe him as "a man who knows how to get things"... I felt lucky to have met him and fortunate to have been given the right advice in coming here.
Pathan Pakistani with Sajjad
Our next stop was at another village and their traditional festival. I can't exactly recall what it is they were celebrating but it didn't seem to matter, everyone was having a great time. Sajjad, who once again seemed to know everyone, gave me samples of all the tradtional Pakistani fare. We came across a big crowd all dancing and chanting to the constant rythyms of a man drumming. Sajjad signalled me over and we joined in the spectacle. The man playing the drums had a very strong aura about him and immediatley left a lasting image in my mind, he was like a shaman, controlling everyone with his rythyms. Sajjad made a subtle gesture towards him and immediatley a young boy came over, wrapped his arms around the neck of the drummer. While the man continued to play, he began spinning around with the boy around his neck to perform a good ol' fashionaed helicopter. It was a spectacular performance and one that had me captivated. After the show had ended the drummer came over and was introduced to me by Sajjad. He gave me a warm embrace like we had been friends our whole lives.
Much to my delight wrestling was next on the agenda and we sat around a big dirt field with all the other spectators. The wrestling consisted of huge men, in nappies, grabbing and slapping each other until one of the men crossed an imaginary line. It was both absurd and hilarious and I joined in with all the other spectators laughing at the on field antics.
When we left it was getting towards dusk and we had to hurry a little because the tour was far from being over. Once back in Lahore, we headed for the Lahore fort and the Badshahi Mosque. As the sun had now completely dropped from the horizon, it made for a lovely yet heavy setting and after wandering a little we stopped at a restaurant for a drink. Although, as it was Sajjad's tour and he is the man with connections, it was no ordinary restaurant. I was introduced to the owner of Cuckoo’s Den and after a few pleasantries, I was free to wander the place. It had a strange but beautiful ambience and the walls were decked out in fascinating artwork focusing on the ladies of the famed red light district of Lahore (Heera Mundi). The idea and concept was formed in collaboration with artist Iqbal Hussain, whose mother and sister’s worked as prostitutes in the district. The restaurant also kept another secret, and that it has the best views of Lahore throughout the whole city. We sat on the rooftop sipping cokes and enjoying the stunning sights of Lahore. Before heading back to the hostel we made a small detour to the old town markets, which also contained the red light district. The alleyways were quite small and only big enough to fit motorbikes. Darting through the laneways of the red light district felt like a theme park ghost train and it was a great thrill.
Completely exhausted we ventured on home, and once arrived I collapsed on the roof top deck chairs, were the boys began fussing over me. It all got a little absurd when one began fanning me while the other massaged my legs. It was an extremely kind gesture and only highlighted the desire to make my stay as comfortable as possible, if not a little awkward. Another power cut and another roof top bunking, provided little sleep but never the less I bidded farewell to the wonderful team at Lahore Backpackers and set forth for the Wagah border (The land crossing between India and Pakistan). It was to be my final charge through Pakistan and as was my theme for this whole leg, I rode hard and fast to the border. The Pakistan border formalities were straight forward (although I had to wait for about 30 minutes for power to return). Just like that weeks and months spent planning this route was now over, I had conquered my fears and felt proud of what I achieved. I wondered what adventures lied along the next part of my yellow brick road but as usual the next adventure would never be to far away.
