One Week into Pakistan
Before flying out to Pakistan, travelling up to the Khunjerab Pass, the restart point of my expedition on the Chinese border, seemed like a huge challenge, belonging to a different person and place. The thought of a flight to Islamabad, sleeping overnight in Heathrow Terminal 2, and persuading the airline to take my huge bike box with Chris the tandem – and then getting my bike from the airport to the city at 3am – felt like a lot. Following that, I knew that I would need to somehow move the bike almost 500 miles up mountain passes, beginning with an overnight bus journey to Gilgit. And then I would have to wing it – with my friend TJ’s help – to Sost, the final village before the Khunjerab pass. Even when we arrived in Sost, there would be another 50 miles, climbing 2000 metres into freezing and snowy conditions before we could start cycling.
From the comfort of London, sipping a flat white, these challenges seemed overwhelming, and they definitely preyed on my mind in the week before my departure. How would this be possible? How could I plan this and reduce the uncertainties from where I was in the UK?
At the airport, with bikes and bags packaged up
The short answer was that I couldn’t, and I had to trust I would be able to sort things when I arrived in Pakistan. That didn’t seem like a good answer and didn’t really stop me from worrying.
Ironically, the most difficult bit of my journey was getting my bike to Heathrow. I ended up needing to hire a man-with-van to take the bike box to Heathrow (too big for a normal car), but for insurance reasons, I couldn’t go in the van. When my bus didn’t arrive, I had to play catch up in a taxi to beat my bike to the airport.
Once I was in Pakistan, pragmatism and creativity took hold. If the bike would fit in the bus to Gilgit, it could come. No questions asked. Contrast this with Heathrow where it felt like the check-in staff were doing all they could to stop me taking the bike and extort as much money as possible.
The overnight bus took TJ, Chris, and I up to Gilgit, a medium sized town nestled in the mountains. When we arrived in Gilgit, we had no idea how we would get the bike further up the mountains. We went to the bus station the next day. There was no timetable and nothing that looked like a bus. There were only old Suzuki minivans and Toyata Hiaces in the parking area. Surely there was no way we would be able to get Chris up to Sost?
“Sost?” I called out hopefully. A few men pointed us to a white Hiace.
“Are you sure?” There were nods.
The driver came up. “You’re going to Sost?”
“Yes – but I have this big bike and trailer. Do you think you can take it?”
“No problem, no problem sir.”
“OK…”
Within a few minutes, Chris and the trailer were lashed to the roof of the van, and twenty minutes later, once the bus had filled up, we were off.
Chris tied to the top of the van, ready to go to Sost
It was so simple. Some things that we make incredibly complicated in the UK are dealt with a minimum of fuss in Pakistan. And not just Pakistan, but also across Central Asia I met this pragmatic attitude time and again. One less concerned with the rules, and more concerned with getting things done. It’s very refreshing.
We managed to find a driver to take us from Sost to the Khunjerab pass the following day – Chris was again lashed to the roof. It had been one week since I left London and at last I was about to start cycling again. TJ and I stepped out onto the snowy plateau and a biting cold quickly penetrated my legs, fingers and toes. A kilometre away stood the grey concrete gate, looking more like a fortress, marking the Chinese border. This would be the closest I got to China for some months and the moment – finally – when I rejoined my original route (with China’s border’s still closed because of Covid, I was not able to link Tajikistan with Pakistan, a distance of around 200 kilometres).
TJ and I counted “three, two, one, GO!” and we were off, cycling cautiously on the snowy road. Soon we were on clear tarmac and speeding downhill. The air was icy and my winter gloves were doing nothing to stop the numbness entering my fingers. We stopped and I pulled out my skiing mittens – a bit of prior planning that had paid off. We soared down the mountain roads, in awe of the towering mountains, jagged rock edges, craters in the road from boulders smashing from above and the shy ibex which we spotted on a distant hillside. Bristol2Beijing was once more underway. Now, only 6,000 miles separate Chris and I from Beijing.
Over the last week, I’ve been reminded that – particularly when adventuring – it’s often much better to take things as they come, rather than project ahead and worry. When challenges come along, I will be able to deal with them. I wonder if this applies more generally?
It is easy constantly worry about the future, plan for many possible outcomes and try and influence the future in advance. This can work for some things. But there are many things that we cannot control or do much preparation for, and we simply have to deal with these challenges when they come along.
It’s been a difficult switch for me – going from the ordered, planned and (fairly) predictable life in the UK back to an existence where I honestly don’t know where I will spend the next night. I’m now in a mode where you trust in the ability of yourself to solve problems – and in the kindness of people around you to help you.
The road ahead
So, whilst 6,000 miles stretch out ahead of me to Beijing, I’m much less worried now than I was before heading to Pakistan. I know there will be challenges. I know things will go wrong. I know there will be dark moments. But I also know, and believe, that I will be able to deal with these things, each in their turn, but not before.
It’s now time to live in, and for, each day.