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The 300 or so Km from Multan to Lahore was straightforward with good roads. We even managed to maintain a good pace despite the police escorts and were on our own for the last 50km or so. Traffic coming into Lahore was Menthol as usual but we got through it eventually and we found our way to the Regale Internet Inn since I had the coordinates.

We were delighted to find Thierrie, Tom, Els and Merijn all still there and Bryn arrived about an hour later. It was great to sit down to some Chicken Byriani and swap stories of the last few thousand km. It was also a little strange to see their photos of the same places we had been. Bryn still had not found his passport but had come anyway with the intention to sort it out in Islamabad where all the consulates are.

The following day we said goodbye to Tom, Els and Merijn as they headed towards the KKH. We stayed behind with Bryn to find oil to do a change on all 3 bikes. Bryn and I went off hunting while Helen stayed put. The petrol bikes were simple enough to find oil for but the Diesel tiger took a bit more legwork. As we walked and asked we were gradually pointed in the right direction until we came to Filter House on Montgomery road. The oil I ended up with was expensive stuff but being LiquiMoly would be expensive at home too. At least I was reassured it was good stuff, the other options available all being too heavy grade due to the warm climate.

For me this left the only issue that I had no way to drain the oil on my machine. I have a new sump made for the bike with drain plug but had no time to fit it before we left. This meant finding somewhere to suck the oil out the dipstick hole as this is the way all Smart are made (why I don‘t know). We tried a ton of places and got nowhere, being told stories that such things are very rare in Pakistan. We went back to the hotel and I picked up the bike to go try the Mercedes dealership. Bryn seemed to have endless enthusiasm and energy and wanted to tag along on the diesel bike so off we went across town.

After being pointed from the dealership to the workshop (not in the same place) I found that they were happy to do the oilchange but we were out of time for the day and would have to come back tomorrow. Bryn got chatting to the guard at the workshop who was carrying a pump action shotgun like a lot of the guards around here. As seems to be common though the weapon had no ammunition in it, I am not sure if that’s a legal thing or simply a money thing. There are also walk-through metal detectors everywhere but they are generally ignored by the guys using them. Either way Bryn still got a pic of him holding the gun on my bike (man points)

We were due to meet Omar of the Pakistan Bikers Club at his house nearby but were running late by now and had to meet Helen there. He lived in a spacious house with his wife and kids and also had some staff who tended to the house and cooking as seems to be pretty common here. We were served some great food and swapped stories for a while. More bikers from the club arrived and joined us wanting to see the Diesel bike which seemed to be the star for the evening. It seemed these guys were the only ones around that own bikes bigger than the typical 125‘s. The import duty here is 200 percent so the bigger bikes tend to be slightly older and hand restored by the owners themselves. Unlike home it seems the vast majority of people here still fix things which was nice to see. It is also simple to find most things in the bazar, including well stocked machine shops to keep things going.

The following day I went back to the Mercedes garage with the oil and got it changed as promised. I was surrounded by the mechanics, who were unused to seeing a big bike, let alone one with a diesel engine in. There were a couple of smart cars even parked but it seemed that everything was petrol. When the oil came out of the bike they thought it looked pretty dirty and must have been in there a very long time. In a diesel the oil turns black within an hour or so. I tried to pay but they had none of it, saying they were just happy to see me there. So we chatted for a while about their jobs and films we liked (one guy agreeing that anything with Angelina Jolie in is good). I doubted if I would get the same kind of help in a Mercedes garage at home, we all seem to be too busy to appreciate what is important over there.

The next day we did some Lahore sightseeing. We wandered round the Lahore walled city. Bright colourful shops selling clothes were juxtaposed with shops selling cookware and street food sellers cooking strange looking battered things in the middle of it all underneath a birds-nest of electrical transformers. People drove rickshaws and small bikes through the middle of it all in an amazing cacophony of horns and people.

We the walked to the red mosque and took our shoes off as we walked around. a friendly older guy found us and showed us around for a little while and a couple of rupees seemed to make him happy. He demonstrated the acoustics of the place for us by singing. We walked on through to the fort where everyone stopped us to have their picture taken with the strange foreigners. They were friendly and we obliged as many as we could before we were exhausted by it. I wondered if we would find ourselves on flikr or something after we get home. I also wondered if anyone would even get noticed in somewhere like London or Belfast and if they would get the same friendly interest. By the time we got back I was too tired to fully appreciate the cultural singing and dancing laid on at the hostel but that was entirely down to my frame of mind rather than the skill of the performers.

The next day (we were starting to feel like residents here) we changed the oil in Helens bike. The owners of the parking compound were feeding and washing some small pups they were keeping there. It was heartening to see them being properly looked after compared with the stray animals walking around. These pups had apparently come from a factory somewhere nearby. It would be even better to know they had been spayed to help contain the population but that does not seem to happen much unfortunately. In the evening we chatted to Malik, the owner of the Hotel and discovered he is a retired journalist who worked for Benazir Bhutto at one stage. The Inn used to be a newspaper office but people came to use internet there in the early days because it was one of the few places that had it. After a while people started asking if they could stay and eventually Malik bought the place and it morphed into the “Regale Internet Inn“. (Regale being the area of the city)

The following day as we attempted to escape (the longest we had stayed anywhere) we discovered the bikes were stuck in the locked compound and nobody had a key. With this turn of events we went to the Wagah border (with India) to see the closing ceremony. We travelled out there on a jam packed bus, but it was a great experience because everyone on it was friendly and curious about where we were from and what we were doing. I guess tourists don‘t ride the buses.

A few concerned people warned us about pocket cutting but ended the warning with “hey, this is Pakistan“ (reminding me of the police in Turkey). One passenger asked which hotel we were staying at and Bryn instantly earned both Helen‘s and my respect by asking us the name of a hotel we were not staying in to supply an answer. It was the sort of personal security awareness that others twice his age who we had travelled with just didn’t have.

The bus stopped about 5km short of the border so we switched to rickshaw for the rest.

We were segregated going into the border area but thankfully there was a specific area for foreigners to watch the proceedings which was mixed again. I managed to capture a little bit of video before my memory card ran out. The scene was electric and charged with passion. It was like being at an ice hockey match without the ice hockey. After some staff ha hyped up the crowd the guards came in their fancy uniforms and performed ritualised moves and singing, matching their Indian counterparts. It was heartening to see them shake hands at one point though. Afterwards we had photos with them and realised they were all huge guys, obviously hand-picked for the job.

The following day we finally left Lahore for Islamabad.

The journey to Multan was straightforward. We stopped at a petrol station and saw a goat strung up from a tree being skinned. We had just missed it being slaughtered apparently. I was unsure if that was a good thing or not. Our police escort were concerned we would be horrified by it but it was more interesting than anything else.

The rest of the way to Multan was ok. When we arrived we went to the ‘new Relax‘ hotel but the staff would not take us as foreigners. Apparently this was becoming an issue in Multan and what the real reason behind it was remained unclear. Perhaps some local mob was involved and needed to be paid some monies that were not being paid. Whatever we were taken to another hotel which would take us but was much more expensive than the first. I watched intently as Tom (a salesman in his previous life) skilfully and persuasively tried (with some success) to lower the price. It was still too much so we moved onto the Shelton Hotel.

The Shelton was a simple basic hotel but had secure parking with guard and satellite TV. Again Tom did his persuasive negotiation, flattering the hotel manager about his gaff but explaining why it was too expensive. He pointed out that the police wanted to go home and that we were all tired which seemed to do the trick with the final price being 1200 rupees for the room including breakfast. There was some wireless internet which stopped working the next day because the bill on the line had not been paid.

The hotel was near a KFC so we headed out to eat there which was a very strange experience. The entrance was guarded by private security with metal detectors and shotguns. Inside was just like home complete with screaming kids and a birthday party going on upstairs while everyone wore the traditional dress but seemed to be better off than most people we had encountered so far.

The next day Helens tummy took a turn for the worse and Tom had to head on to Lahore alone. We think it was because she inadvertently drank water from a bottle that was in the room before we arrived but had no seal on. Probably filled with tapwater to save a few rupees by the hotel but wound up meaning we stayed for an extra 2 nights. I was glad Tom had negotiated the price down. We stayed in and watched the satellite TV before we were ready for the 300 km push to Lahore.

In the morning the roads were bad again out of Jacobabad but we were up early to beat the traffic after yesterdays adventure. There was still lot of flooding and rebuilding had started on some houses but was going slowly. We noticed a lot of rubbish and poor sanitation on the streets which could not have been helping matters.

We rode right through Sukkur where the roads got better and we crossed the bridge beside the historic barrage. I had been told by Omar in Lahore that I should keep an eye out for blind dolphins so stood on the pegs the whole way across but saw only a few guys in small boats. We were now in the Sindh province and feeling a little more relaxed. The scenery was gradually changing to become more fertile and I noticed the clothes start to change also.

With the faster roads (but crazy traffic) we left the escorts behind until we reached the Punjab border. We passed one load of hay on a tractor that was so large you could not see the wheels so it looked like ‘Cousin It‘ crawling along.

At the Punjab border we were flagged down by new cops. These were the ‘Punjab Elite Police‘ who wore T Shirts emblazoned ‘no fear‘ on the back. They were better equipped than our escorts so far and had a newer truck which sat at around 100 km/hr no problem so it was pleasant to sit behind them. On the way into Rahim Yar Khan they had an accident with a small bike. I did not see what happened to cause the accident but one of the cops immediately got out of the truck and laid into the biker. They then beat a hasty retreat, presumably in case a crowd formed and turned on them. I was not sure what to make of it, if they were justified or perhaps we had gotten a glimpse of real life in Pakistan.

The first hotel they took us quite plush and was hosting a wedding complete with flower clad car. It was too was expensive but they were helpful to find a second. We sat and chatted with them for a while and found out that they slept at the police station for only around 5 hours a night, sometimes less. They had known we were coming 2 hours beforehand by a call on the radio and their duty seemed mostly to do with escorting foreigners. They said the reason for it was Pakistan worried about the country image to foreigners and there was no security problem. I was not sure what to believe anymore and doubted if they had experience of Quetta of Baluchistan, but Punjab did indeed seem safer and more plush. Their weapons had a stopper in end of barrel to keep out dust.

We had no more guards at the hotel overnight. They took us out around the town for traditional Dal and locally made sweets. Again we felt bad for creating hassle and using up police resources. We talked to them too and they were on call 24hrs a day sometimes with little sleep. They explained that this is why they were not always smiling in our photos. The hotel owner arranged a room for them though so hopefully they got some sleep in shifts.

In the morning the hotel manager brought his 4 daughters in identical school uniforms to meet us before we left towards Multan.

The road out of Quetta started ok. Some parts were unsurfaced but fine to ride as long as you were paying attention all the time. We had escorts right out of Quetta and afterwards they soon fell behind and disappeared. Occasionally we stopped and were picked up by them again though it was not so much of a hassle as we could set our own pace and they either kept up or did not.

With the good going we made around 300km to the outskirts of Jacobabad. I was feeling stupid for even having considered taking the train and missing this when the roads began to deteriorate. There were a lot of fields by the roads which had been turned into campsites, filled with UNHCR white tents for miles and miles. Each of the small towns we came through was overwhelmed with more people than they were ever designed (I use the word loosely) to handle. This was clearly where all the people displaced by the flooding earlier in the year had been moved to. We met some doctors working for MSF along the way. It was good to see the people getting the help they needed though the scale of it was dramatic.

I was happy when we were picked up by escorts again for each of the towns as we were mobbed by curious onlookers every time we stopped. It felt a little depressing to be here in the middle of it all on what must have seemed big shiny bikes when the people around us were really struggling. Tom entertained some kids at one police escort handover and we took a few pics but it was still a tainted experience.

When we got to Jacobabad we decided to stop for the night and told the escorts we were looking for a hotel. The road had become bad and slow going, basically deteriorating to a single lane potholed gravel track blocked with brightly decorated lorries. The escort decided to turn off the main road towards the town itself. What seemed to be a bad road deteriorated into the seemingly impossible. I was surprised at how well the bikes were coping with ruts gaps and potholes. Helen was managing it all like a pro too. Given that she had ridden the bike perhaps only 500 miles before we left on the trip, she had definitely earned her credentials as an adventure biker now.

The road was raised from the level of the fields which were still flooded so we were basically riding along thin paths with a couple of feet drop into the water either side. Some parts of the road had collapsed into the water and this made things interesting with oncoming traffic and the uneven surface. There was little choice but to plod on. I wondered if there would even be a hotel after all this devastation and felt like we were an imposition in a country which already had enough to deal with.

We arrived in Jacobabad just in time for a major traffic jam. Impatience from the drivers did little to alleviate the situation because every time a gap opened 10 people rushed into it. The first bottleneck was a narrow basic pipe bridge entering the town. The way was blocked by buses and TukTuks sitting there waiting for divine intervention to clear the way. Boys and grown men looked on in amazement at our spectacle. The temperature must have been in the high 20‘s at this stage and the pollution hung in the air around us. I wondered how it would be in summer when it touched the high 50’s. Helen likes to have her own space but even I was finding it tough going.

Thankfully the police with us went ahead on foot and made a tiny gap just big enough to fit us through. When the traffic got bad some sticks were produced and people seemed to understand and react quickly. However, this did little for our feeling of being an imposition by holidaying in the middle of it all. A helpful local directed me to turn left at one point then grabbed and turned my handlebars meaning I couldn’t hold the weight of the bike and wound up dropping it. I lost the rag with him immediately but thankfully neither he nor the crowd rose to it because if they had I doubt the situation could have been contained. I was amazed to watch Helen squeeze her bike through a tiny gap on one side with a van and a drop into an open sewer on the other.

Somehow we made it through all this to the hotel at the other side of town. Tom told us the police had taken us into an earlier turn-off and we did not need to come through it all. Whatever we were all soaked in sweat and covered in dusty sand, tired but jubilant at the achievement. Crowds of people stood outside the hotel gazing at our bikes and us. We negotiated a decent room with no tv. We then discovered that we had been assigned an armed guard, who sat outside the room all night. He followed us nervously as we went to the shop right beside the hotel to get water, clearly taking his charge very seriously. I felt that if we walked around in circles he would have followed us. We tried not to be any more of an imposition than we already were and went to bed tired but happy.

Again we had the police escort to Quetta. The German truck guy made a few cracks about Nazi Germany to one of them and machine gun gestures. I could not understand exactly what was going on but it was hard not to assume the guy was an a-hole. I was grateful that both Helen and I did not understand German so we could distance ourselves.

The road surface deteriorated but was still manageable albeit a bit more slowly. I had my first river crossing in about 3 inches of slow trickling stream, barely enough to get the wheel rims wet. Despite the slower pace we made it to Nuska at about 3pm where we got stuck at a checkpost.

We were repeatedly assured we could go in 10 minutes as we entered our names, passport and visa numbers and bike details in the millionth logbook. It all seemed a little more suspicious when they took our passports, for the first time in Pakistan. We had a frustrating wait as the sun sank in the sky. I tried to make use of the time to ask if I could go back to get fuel but was told I was not allowed so we had little choice but to wait. we grew tired of entertaining the police or having photos and our smiles gradually turned to frowns where we could not be bothered even being polite anymore.

Various calls were made on radios and excuses given. We were expecting a 5 person armed escort because we were told the area was dangerous. I noticed some guys leaving in a truck that had to be push started. It seemed they were not nearly as well organised or equipped as the Iranians. Merijn came into his own, remaining patient and pragmatic. I sensed I could learn a lot about stress management and patience from him as he always stepped back when he found himself getting wound up. He rightly pointed out that perhaps there had been an incident that we did not know about.

As we sat there it seemed like the entire town had driven past us. If there was anyone who intended to do us harm here then they probably already knew we had arrived and had plenty of time to figure something out. The police didn’t seem to realise or care about this, which seemed pretty unprofessional and incompetent although I was not expecting too much anyway.

Two hours later our escort arrived, consisting of 2 guys in another clapped out pickup truck. If this was a bad area they sure had not done much about it. Thierry rightly pointed out to the cops that it was getting dark and it would not be safe for driving but it was like beating your head against a wall. Later I realised they must have been going off shift and just wanted rid of us. I wondered if we had not been in a group if we would have acted differently, perhaps refusing to go on instead of being swept up in the group dynamic.

So we headed off into the hills which has to be the stupidest thing I have ever done. It seemed that everyone who had come past us at the checkpoint was encamped on these hills as we rode past. It was very intimidating although they did respond to waves from us so I was unsure what to make of it. I hoped they were all there to watch the sunset in the evening and wondered what use our escort would be if there was any trouble. The German truck stalled on an uphill hairpin but got going again as it started to get dark.

At the next checkpoint we gave our details yet again. This had been the case the whole way from the border so we had come to know our passport and visa numbers off by heart. The other guys were sitting round with engines running and lights on which I realised was because they were from countries where checkpoints are less familiar. We got moving again with no incident but the escort quickly dropped back and soon disappeared, either because their truck was clapped out or they didn’t want to do their job.

The group started to split because my engine took a minute to start at the next checkpoint, with Thierrie and the truck pulling out ahead and now no police escort. It was getting very cold and we were approaching the part of the road nearest the Afghan border. My intercom radio had become unplugged and the battery was slowly dying so I could not talk to Helen and the fuel in my tank was low though the light was not on yet. I didn’t stop to put my fleece on. I wondered who the different groups of people who are a security issue here are and realised that we were riding in an area we knew nothing about, in the dark, cold and without an escort. Fantastic.

The only thing we had going for us was that we were moving so we didn’t stop. A breakdown now would mean having to hope the right people came to help. The road deteriorated into a gravel track but thankfully came back to tarmac after a kilometre or so. We pressed on the rest of the way to Quetta without stopping, but also without a GPS waypoint for the hotel.

As we arrived into Quetta we stopped by the first police car and explained we needed to go to the Bloomstar hotel. It took a while for this to register with our new cops but they gave us an escort. On the way in we passed several checkpoints before stopping at the side of the road. I thought we would be handed to a different escort but this was not the case. As we stopped I noticed red dots rising into the sky like fireworks. It took a second to register that it was tracer fire a couple of miles away. We also heard some gunfire after this. Welcome to Quetta.

We proceeded through more checkpoints and were handed over to inner city police who took us on to the hotel. The other guys were excited by their experience but were soon brought back to earth by Helen and I. Perhaps it was all new and exciting to them but a little more familiar to us. We spent the next few days in the hotel, surfacing only to get cash and a phone sim card.

The others decided to take the South loop to Sukkur. A straighter road was also possible with a permission letter but would take a few days to get. From our experience coming in to Quetta and reports that the roads were damaged from the flooding we opted to put the bikes on the train. After a day of rest we waved a tearful goodbye to them as they headed South and we went to the train station to get booked on.

We could only get one ticket for a train 2 days later and we could not book the bikes in until the following day. We went back the next day and spoke to the bike booking guys and were told to bring them at 7am the next day to get them booked on. I enquired about loading ramps and ropes to tie the bikes down and was told ‘inshallah no problem‘. Somehow I had an uneasy feeling and we were miserable on our own trapped in a hotel without our friends. Two more bikers, Bryn and Tom arrived that night having caught us up after Iran.

On the following morning we arrived at the train station at 7. At 7.30 some staff arrived to open the luggage office and let us in. we paid and filled out unnecessary paperwork for the bikes and then I rode them along the platform to where the train would arrive at 8.30. At 9 the train actually arrived and of course there was no loading ramp and no way to tie the bikes down and a load of precariously balanced crap in the luggage car. Since the point of the exercise was to avoid damaging the bikes we turned round and headed back to the hotel to rejoin Tom and Bryn instead.

At lunchtime Bryn went back along the road he had already come to search for his passport, lost at one of the many checkpoints. He got us concerned when he didn’t return but it transpired it had got dark and he stayed at a police station which was probably wise. The following day under the supervision of Tom, we left towards Sukkur, finally breaking free of the grip of Quetta.

The guidebook was relatively negative about the stretch from Taftan to Quetta. Being mostly desert it mentioned that overlanders described this as the most boring part of their journey. I had no idea what sort of road conditions to expect and was concerned in case the going would get too tough for Helens lowered bike and mine with the low sump. It turned out that except for a few patches the road was fine.

It was indeed a little boring, but that was just what we needed after the scare stories in the media about Pakistan. I thought I would rather take a little bit of boredom than any dodgy security situation. Our police escort was a single cop for most of the way who was armed but conveniently was able to ride in the German truck so we kept a fairly quick pace all the way to Dalbandin after 300km. We were met with smiles and waving from locals and friendly staring curiosity every time we stopped. We did however note the kids making gestures to get a pen. Something which started years ago with missionaries giving away pens in the belief they would do a little good for the country but it soon became ‘expected‘.

In Dalbandin we stayed at the only hotel in town for a mere 500 rupees for a double room (less than a fiver). We replaced Els‘ chain and sprockets after they started making a clicking noise in Zahedan (chain breaking out here would not be good) and discovered the reason was a worn split link, probably due to no grease when it was assembled.

This was also the place the others had heard we could get our first beer after Iran and did indeed have the goods. At home I would regularly go through a month or two without a beer and think nothing of it, but somehow not having been able to have one in Iran made us all look forward to that moment. Unfortunately it was less spectacular than any of us remembered and overpriced in any case (2 beers costing more than the room) so we left it at one each and went to bed to get up early in the morning for the run to Quetta.