We left Bam in Iran bright and early at 6am with a police escort. They took us about 20km down the road where we go another escort, then another, then another, then probably another, until we got to Zahedan, where instead of going around a big city filled with crazy drivers, were escorted right the way through. We went from one roundabout to another changing escorts, at one point having a small 125cc bike with an old bearded bloke driving and a young lad with a Kaleshnikov on the back to defend us from the Taliban. Eventually after arsing about in the traffic the police just turned around to us and said go. So we went where we encountered a police checkpoint. They waved for us to pull over and get an escort, so we waved back and kept going. Near to the border we decided to fill up with the cheap petrol in Iran. In the middle of a sand storm a pickup truck pulled us over and demanded to have our passports until we go to the border, just like all the other escorts. George complied but I had had enough so flat out refused. This didn't make the adolescent army man who was too young to carry a gun happy. But he had Georges passport so we were at his mercy. He eventually got us to a petrol station where we could fill up then took us to yet another checkpoint. Here his truck left him and he still refused to return the passport but insisted on riding on the back of one of the bikes to the border, less than 1 km away. This was George's moment for revenge so he blasted along at 100kph with the young lad perched clinging to his spare tyres.
We arrived at the border 10 minutes too late but George managed to snatch his passport back from the conscript with the giant ego which made him even unhappier and he kept damading to give it back, despite us being at the border and trying to register with customs. We camped that night at the border. A hotel wanted 30 dollars for us to sleep inside so we offered 20 which they refused, so we camped on their doorstep and sat in their foyer instead.
The next morning the border opened at 8am Iranian time. The problem at this border is that Pakistan is 2 hours ahead so there is only a short operating window where both sides are open. After the usual customs faffing about we were through the the Pakistani side and clear by 1pm. We were told we needed an escort, again, but after refusing to take anyone on the bikes, who we would be liable for in the event of an accident, they told us to go. We planned to ride the 200 odd km to Dalbandin to stop for the night, just under halfway to Quetta.
We stayed in a ridiculously hot hotel where for the first time in weeks we could have a beer. It cost almost as much as our rooms at 250 rupees (80 RP = 1USD) but was worth it.
The next day we set off to Quetta, along what was reported to be a bad road. The first 20 km were good and we could cruise at 120kph until George spotted a giant dried up salt lake where we had some fun, riding in a HUGE open area and practising pulling wheelies. After an hour we decided to push on, encountering several security posts but not feeling threatened what so ever. In fact I think that the Pakistanis are even more friendly than the Iranians, plus they speak better English.
The road eventually did get worse, and we had to avoid trucks and busses coming the other way, but it was one of the most enjoyable rides of the trip for me, always keeping me on my toes. A lot of people are forced to ride the 600km from the border to Quetta in 1 day, often arriving in the dark, but by doing it in 2 days it was enjoyable. At no point did I feel uncomfortable, apart from when a 125cc bike unexpectedly emerged from behind a sand dune that had blown across the road and took me by surprise.
Quetta is the beginning of the subcontinent. The city is vibrant and bustling and full of wierd and wonderful smells of good cooking and shit. Its dusty and dirty and full of people from Pakistan and Afghanistan and nowhere have I encountered any hostility. Possibly because I have taken to wearing some local dress and paid for my first haircut in years. People have apparently mistaken me for an Afghan from Kandahar province according to people I met where I got my bike serviced.
My chain was pretty shagged after all the offroading we have been doing, the seals had actually started to come out! I also found some reasonably decent motorcycle oil so did a change and had to have my luggage racks sorted, since my crash in Iran had caused 1 bolt to disappear and 3 to shear leaving me with no bolts holding about 50kg of belongings on. All is sorted now but I dislike my plastic luggage bags so will either get some expensive aluminium ones send from the UK together with some new fork seals, or will get some made somewhere.
My mechanic
Anyway, the plan now is to head for Multan, which means going down and up on the safe road, so 3 or 4 days ride. From there we can head to Lahore and Islamabad before riding the Karakorum highway to China and maybe doing some hiking before popping into India. Right then, I'm off to enjoy some more REAL food, better than the stuff in Iran. There's curry, and roasted mutton, and chicken, and somosas and mango milkshakes and cake and biscuits and battered chillies! Yum!
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