The four of us were down stairs and loading our respective bikes by 6:30am, whilst the guy on reception frantically called his military buddies. We’d already made a group decision to head off whether we had an escort or not.

The morning’s fresh chill had already gone and the day was warming up fast when the last of the bags were strapped down. The sight of a lone green uniformed soldier running through the small hotel gate had us all sighing. What the hell was he going to do? No car, not bike? Ten minutes later and with words exchanged we’d made it clear that we were leaving. The young soldier looked concerned more than pissed. “Guy’s we are going to have to take him with us…if we head off, this poor guy is going to get a hammering from superiors, who knows what kind of trouble he’ll get into”! I spluttered a little half-heartidly. It was soon agreed. Quickly swapping around our bags and spares we made space on the back of my bike and with the soldier sitting on top of my Ortlieb water proof hold-all we pulled out of the hotel yard and a few miles later pulled up at the Iran-Pakistan frontier.

Much like entering Iran, leaving was simple enough but time consuming. After we’d completed the process at one department the staff simply led us to the next one. At the last gate, the chubby happy guard took our entry papers and wished us well for on our onward travels.

On the Pakistan side a feeling of chaotic ease quickly replaced the air of stringent rules and big brother. Two men in long robes directed us to park up and outstretched arms had the 4 of us heading into the long low white washed hut to our right. Inside a guard waved us to the front of the heaving throng of Pakistani nationals and into a small corridor where we filled in our immigration papers. The next room was jam packed as we pushed our way past 20 or so chador clad women to the end of the desk where the small dirty sign read ‘foreign tourist’. “Isn’t anyone who isn’t a Pakistani a tourist?” I thought quietly to myself, amused by my own question.

More women entered the small room until the 4 of us were surrounded and fighting for what little desk space we could find. Lisa turned and scolded two of the women who had been pushing into here for the last ten minutes. They may not have understood her words but they clearly understood the sentiment. Even the immigration officer was loosing his cool, he’d already warned them half a dozen times to no avail, until finally deciding he’d had enough barked something fierce and ordered all those not being seen to, to leave the room immediately; well that’s what we guessed he’d yelled as the room slowly emptied; the gaggle of women leaving like scolded children.

With passports checked we were directed to customs some 2-miles up the road.

The bright light stung my eyes a blinding contrast to the low fluorescent lit immigration room. Alex was already changing a few USA dollars for Pakistani rupees by the time I got to my bike. Nico quickly followed suit, with slightly less success. The tall white bearded and tired looking money changer had given Nico a lower rate then Nico had expected. Nico was about to throw his toys out of the pram.

“Why do you do this? Why…eh?’ Nico yelled, the accusational question sounding all the harsher because of Nico’s thick East German ascent.

“You are cheating me…why?”…”You are a cheater, it’s not right, why do you cheat me, you are just cheating…why do you do this?”

It was like listening to an Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonator. I was already having to stop myself from laughing out loud.

After overcoming our collective shock Alex and I tried in vain to calm Nico down. He was already attracting unwanted attention to our small group. Nico was having none of it!

“NO! Why do you do this job...why? Why do you do this job? “he yelled angrily again. “You are cheating me why do you do this?”

With Nico now on his bike I did my best to apologize to the hapless and now insulted money changer. There seemed little point in trying to explain to Nico that this poor bastard certainly didn’t have a bank account and so Iranian cash had little value for him, as his only means to change it would be to other western tourist and most of them travel west to east. There was just no way he could give us the bank exchange rate and make any money.

Inside the customs compound Nico had calmed down. Parking up in font of the stone and brick two story building we headed inside. The smiling face of the customs officer was a good change from the stone like scowls of their counterparts on the Iranian side.

After 30 minutes we’d Alex and Nico had passed over their documents and had their details entered into what has to be the biggest heaviest book any of us have ever seen. “Would you like a cup of tea?’ the officer asked in polite English, taking us all by surprise. $ nodding heads had him snapping his fingers and a few minutes later his tea wallah came scurrying with a pot of freshly brewed black tea, a small jug of milk and a plate of biscuits.

“I think I’m going to love Pakistan!” I mumbled through a mouthful of dunk biscuit. Feeling at ease we made polite conversation with the still scribing official, thanking him for his kindness. There was more to come.

“have you had lunch?” he continued.

With the formalities complete we were shown to a small annexed room, seated at a large wooden table and a small hospital like screen was pulled across to offer us privacy. We’d accepted his kind offer thinking we would be served a few more biscuits. 20 minutes later and the four us were grinning like idiots as the officer personal chef served up a 3 course lunch of soup, vegetable curry and rice and then a rice pudding desert. We were in our element savoring the spicy flavors of the thick veg curry, after Iran’s pleasant but bland cuisine. Our offers of cash were forcefully declined.

“Welcome to my country, welcome to Pakistan”, our new benefactor stated as he thumped the last heavy stamp onto the last of the tired looking documents.

A new sense of relief and excitement felt amongst the four of us had replaced the angst we'd started the day with.

4-miles further on and the smooth asphalt had delivered us to the military convoy we’d been told by immigration to expect. Warm handshake and smiles were easily exchanged and with our passports checked and promptly and politely handed back we were soon tucked in behind the small 4X4, the two rifle carrying guards with their legs hung over the back of the tail gate, grinning at us as they exchanged comments between themselves.

The light grey road speeding beneath us disappeared into the heat blurred horizon; a long, long ribbon of tar cutting through an otherwise flat desert landscape. I was in my element. I love desert.

By nightfall we’d swapped escorts 4 times and in the pitch black had pulled into the tiny town of Yakmack. Behind a stone wall we’d been shown the town s only accommodation, two dirt encrusted rooms with a layer of dust an inch thick. The four of us took turns in laughing at the conditions we were being shown. It was all in good humor and after thanking the owner for showing us his rooms we offered to simply camp out front and pay him the same rate he’d asked for the rooms.

The lone and older guard who had been posted as sentry watched us pitch our tents from the shadows. His body language stating the pride he felt as a career military man and the seriousness with which he now took his new role as our guardian. I felt lucky to have him here but guilty at the same time’ guilty that we were now taking up his time. Four silly bikers who wanted to travel were now under his protection. I felt unworthy. Leant against the dirty wall waiting for Alex to find his clean socks in the dark, I wondered if this older guard felt resentment towards us, for taking up his time?

The smell of food from across the road had the four of salivating, we’d not eaten today. Dirty bike kit and all, we quickly seated ourselves on one of the shabby floor rugs and did our best to mimic the seating position of the 5 other diners. The resteraunt was nothing more than a large stone room. Two of the walls had been painted with bright murals; a mixture of birds, flowers and local scenes. In the corner a plump short man with sprouting shoulder hair stirred two vast pots of steaming something over a roaring wood fire. The huge wooden spoon in his hands looking like a prop from the film ‘honey I shrunk the kids”.

Plates of curry, rice and broken popadom were placed at our feet as each of us fidgeted to get comfy on the hard floor. By the time we’d finished the word was out and a group of 20 or so had gathered around the room, each had come to watch the aliens…us!

Without going into laborious details it took us an hour to pay the bill as per head the chef had worked the bill out to be close to $10 per head. With the help of a passing school teacher (teaching English) we argued that a bowl of rice simply couldn’t be $6! The drastic shortage of rice was to blame we were told. None of us were buying that. We ended up paying the equivalent of $4 and laughed the experience off, the whole discussion had been firm but good humored with the chef inviting us all back for breakfast in the morning.

Back at our camp the old guard carefully checked both directions before unlocking the gate.

The shrill horn of a 4X4 had us all whipping our heads in the direction of the gate as a single bright lamp was swung on its pivot in our direction. Lisa look of concern mirrored my own. “Shit? This could be it, we’re about to be kidnapped and our poor old guard is going to be helpless. Pulling into the yard yells of geetings in English quickly quelled our silly fears.

“Hello, hello, everything is good?” asked the energetic sergeant. “ we heard that you are here and we come to see you are OK!”

“Things are OK, you are good” he asked again, until happy with our reply.

After a quick brew up and two rounds of tea with our new friends it turns out they are based 10-miles up the road and we’ll be seeing them tomorrow morning to check documents and pick up our new escorts.

I wished I’d been fast enough to grab a few photos of the 4X4 complete with the 50-caliber machine gun mounted in the back. I use the word ‘mounted” lightly as they basically had this formidable looking weapon trust up and now hoisted between two stout tree branches, with another plank running horizontally from sill to sill to brace the design.

With promises to see them all tomorrow morning excahanged and further refills of tea refused, they sped off into the night and we all settled back down.

What a day, welcome to Pakistan.

Ok, I’m not going to write much as I’m knackered.

With Lisa and the guys still in the land of nod, I rolled out of my sleeping bag and the tent with my camera at 5:00am wanting to see my first Pakistani sun rise and hopefully capture a few candid portraits. Over in the restaurant the cook from last night was keen to pose for a few photos as he stirred another monstrous pot of some boiling liquid. The bright light streaming through the dirty window was caught in the smoke lifting from the fire. I was desperate to try and capture it but haven’t yet managed to check the photos from today.

Out of the back I was led to the chapatti making room where a young man pounded and kneaded dough before skillfully spinning it high into the air, the centrifugal forces shaping the circular chapatti, much like the pizza guys in the fancier pizzerias. The young boy sitting crossed legged the floor and staring at me intensely caught my attention and I snapped half a dozen photos before he moved and changed his ‘half-light’ pose. I’ll post the portrait with this report.

I was now on a roll as I clicked the camera lens hundreds of times. Every so often the fat cook would pull my shirt sleeve and enthusiastically demand that I take another photo of a family member, friend or guest. By the time I was done I’d shot 237 photos.

Back at the camp Lisa had broken down the tent and we were ready for the off.

Much like yesterday we changed escorts more than a few times and finally arrived in Quetta in the dark. We’ve not ridden in city pollution like this since Bamako in Mali. With our dark visors still on the four of us had no choice but to ride with our visors open. The acrid dust filled air stung and choked our eyes. We’d waived to our armed escorts a few times to pull over, allowing us to take a breather as we swapped visors, but that clearly wasn’t going to happen. We’d all notice a distinct shift in our escorts body language and newfound intensity. Their automatic rifles that had lain across their legs most of the day were being waived from the back of the 4X4, the action finger placed alongside the triggers. Their earlier smiles had been replaced with fierce scowls. Quetta is known to be Taliban friendly and at least 3 Taliban warlords are known to live within the city. We make for a big target! The local know it, the soldiers know it and…we know it!

By the time we reached the hotel we’d GPS’d this morning our noses were full of black shit and our tired eyes were red sore. About an hour later and we’d checked out the rooms and decided to put up the tents in the grassy courtyard in the middle of the hotel. The hotel is an oasis. The staff seem friendly and the large broken-glassed topped high wall adds to that much need feeling of security.

We’ve been firmly told not to leave the confines of the hotel until our escort arrives tomorrow morning.

OK, that’s it; I’m not writing any more, I’m just too tired.

We left Quetta early this morning as the sun was coming up; the city bathed in a romantic charm, which had been sorely absent when we’d first arrived.

Twenty minutes out and our escorts were waiving us over to the side of the road, clearly we were to wait…for something or somebody. Across to our right a familiar looking bio-fuelled bus was parked up. It was Andy’s bus, the Brit lad we’d met up with in the lay-by in Iran. It was becoming clear that our small group was about to transform into a convoy. The four of us were all thinking the same thing…”shit, if we have to ride with Andy, it’s going to be a long slow and smelly ride”. It was another 30 minutes until Andy came strolling casually along the road, his pace suggesting he had no clue as to the urgency we all felt to press on and make some mileage.

“Where have you been?” I shouted with a semi forced smile, in place of a hello. “Oh hi there, I was just eating breakfast” Andy replied. Another 30 minutes went by before Andy had stopped farkling around and actually managed to turn the key in the ignition of the bus. The bus belched to life sending a plume of cooking fat fuelled smoke into the still air.

By mid-day Lisa, Alex, Nico and I were all getting frustrated by our complete lack of progress, waiting consistently for Andy. It came to a head when our escorts pulled us over to side of the road for the umpteenth time today and where we then simply waited for an hour and a half. Andy was nowhere to be seen. Had had broken down? Had he become ill? Was Andy in some kind of diffilculty? Nope. When he finally rolled up and was quizzed by Alex it turns out that he’s simple pulled up in front of a small café that had taken his fancy and enjoyed a pleasant bight to eat with a pot of black tea.

For the four of us, that was it! Andy had been told countless times by the escorts that he had to stay with in the convoy, that our military friends had strict orders to keep us together as a group, we only move as a group…period.

When we put this argument to Andy his simply laughed and commented, “Oh, don’t wait for me, I’m fine, just go on ahead and we’ll meet up”.

I shook my head in disbelief. Had he not heard anything he been told by the military or was it that he just didn’t understand that our escorts were not permitting us to split up. If one of us stops we all stop! Jesus, it’s not a hard concept to grasp!

After some tough negotiating we finally convinced our escorts to place a single armed soldier in the bus with Andy. It seemed perfect, he’s driving a bus, and he’s got a ton of space…it’s a bus!

By late afternoon we’d ridden some beautiful country side and by nightfall were pulling into the optimistically named ‘Decent Inn. The large white washed rooms were brighter than we’d expected and the vey curry and steaming rice were a tasty way to round off what had been another long day.

Mean as this sounds, we’re all hoping like crazy that Andy doesn’t turn up in the small hours, only to have to repeat the frustrations of this morning.

We’ll see….night!

244.3 miles ridden.

I could have cried…literally.

We dragged ourselves out of the room before sunrise and after a suspect breakfast the four of us complete with our now customary Police escort were heading out of town to find the imaginatively named ‘5’, the road that would take us north to Multan.

We’d made a few enquiries last night and the consensus regarding travel time was 11 to 14-hours. The prospect of another long slow day was already exhausting.

Clear of the tiny backstreet and I was in purgatory as the soft pink light of the morning kissed whatever it struck, the view diffused by a fairy tale haze. A mix of dust, morning fog and the smoke from a thousand different chapatti ovens, small bonfires and unchecked roadside burns. As we crossed the Indus river, I was almost in tears, I was that desperate to stop and simply take photos, the scene nothing short of breathtaking. The light grey blue water of the Indus River simply vanished into the mist. A stone bridge in the distance bathed now in gold light and it went on.

We finally pulled up on the outskirts of town, waiting again for the next escorts that would see us safely north.

What a change from yesterday’s frustrations. We’ve changed escorts only twice and both crews were armed with higher tech weaponry, side arms, and knives and actually looked like they could hurt someone dumb enough to threaten us. We’ve kept a good average speed and had reached Multan by 4:00pm in the daylight for a change.

We’d ridden tall gorges of stone and sand rock and a dozen different shanty towns. The first escorts had outdone themselves, with the two officers in the back taking their jobs maybe a little too seriously. We watched in amazement as the driver had run vehicles off the road, literally. Any cars, trucks or even lorries not moving to the side received and aggressive telling off from the two in the back. We watched stunned as the older officer, climbed out of the back of the Hilux, stood on the rear tail gait, lifted his automatic rifle with the butt in the air and mimicked smashing the slow driver in the head with his gun. In truth I really didn’t know whether to be happy with this incredible level of work ethic or simply embarrassed and guilty that we’d been the cause of such an act of visual aggression.

Stood above the roof of the Hilux, his colleague would simply swat vehicles to the side of the road with a seemingly all powerful waive of his hand. No one was left in any doubt that the consequences for not moving would be unimaginable.

We drove at ridiculous speeds into the centre of Multan city and pulled up in front of one of the mid range hotels, I’d ducked inside to enquire about prices and been stopped in my tracks before I’d even popped the question. “No availability…auull de roooooms ave geeeuuunnne” the desk clerk said with a thick Pakistani English accent. I already knew they weren’t. Sadly I’d also known before hand that most hotels in town in this current climate of hostility weren’t accepting foreign guests. It seemed pointless to argue the point. Back outside and we tracked down a few more numbers for hotels from the Lonely Planet and heard good news. The Sinbad Hotel would take us. The hunt had taken us an hour, time I’d spent snapping my camera at anything or anyone who moved.

The ride to the Sinbad was more a game of ‘dodge certain death’ than a journey, with the chicken played at every turn and at every second, with cars, trucks, pedestrians and scooters which buzzed us like mechanical mosquitoes. The blue Hilux we’d followed for hours to Multan was barreling its way down congested alleys and we were trying to keep up. Two gun toting officers casually hung their legs out of the back and simply grinned at us as we did our best to navigate the manic streets, trying not to kill or be killed. Behind us I knew that Nico and Alex were having their first real taste of rule less traffic riding, where anything goes and does. Bt the time we’d reached the hotel, Alex looked exhausted. Lisa and I had a private grin to ourselves, having dealt with this a thousand times, but remembering our first taste of this madness.

4 tired but happy travelers, hauled dusty and heavy bags up the long stairs and into their respective rooms. At $22 a night for western style room with secure parking and two armed guards to protect our beloved toys its good value and a welcome relief. The Sinbad Hotel can be found at GPS: N30 12.063 E71 27.164

Dinner was courtesy of the hotels restaurant, 4 helpings of spicy chicken Jalfrazy and rice.

It’s now 1:30am, I’m totally done and can’t keep my eyes open, talk to you tomorrow.

302 miles ridden.

With the bikes parked up outside, loaded and ready for the off, I gently tapped on the door hoping to find Nico and Alex up and ready. Alex was still lying on the mattress on the floor. We were going nowhere today. After a quick chat it turned out that the poor guy had been up all night vomiting and was truly sick. Desperate as we are to reach Islamabad before Christmas to apply for our visa’s, leaving Alex here alone wasn’t an option.

An hour later we’d returned all our gear to the room and had jumped in the back of the police truck in the hope of heading into town to find money, and a pharmacy.

We got a little more than we bargained for. Money and drugs sorted, one of the officers took us to his cousin’s metal shop…well you would wouldn’t you!??!?

And there we sat chatting and taking photos of the passers by, metal workers, welders and anyone else who happened to walk into shot. What a stark contrast to the semi-hostile, resentful attitude thrown at us by the Iranian cops.

By early afternoon we filled a camera card and convinced the officers that we really needed to head back to check on Alex. We ended up scrounging a flash drive and handing over a copy of al the photos we’d shot of the police.

I’m now tying away trying to concentrate but failing horribly as I’m also now feeling off with waves of nausea. Shit, I don’t want to be ill again.

For the most part the traffic parted like the red sea in the wake of the police truck we were again following. We ended up changing escort 4 times and after a fairly uneventful ride arrived in Lahore some 5-hours later.

I’d made a mental note of the carnage on the road and had lost count of the sheer amount of dog body parts that we’d seen smeared across the road.

We’d seen a dead horse on its back, all four legs stiff and now pointing skyward. The fact that the horse was white made the spectacle all the more disturbing.

On the outskirts of Lahore our escort waived us on and we were left to our own devices for the first time in what seemed like an age. The atmosphere is noticeably less tense that the other cities we’ve visited. After deciding that the Regal inn was a complete dump and offered nowhere to securely park the bikes apart from a multi-storey car park 10 mins away - we moved on and Lisa and Alex managed to wrangle a decent room rate 40,000 rupees for the four of us in a single room.

We went out to a local place to eat called Cookers where the food was good and very cheap compared to the other prices we’ve been paying. I’m falling asleep as I type. , ..so its time to stop. Not too sure if anyone snores though…….

Sinbad Hotel, Nishtar Chowk, Bahawalpur Road, Multan. Tel: 451 2640

After being woken up a few times with Nico snoring (sorry Alex I know I blamed you!) we left fairly late but it was nice to have a more gentle morning and very nice not to have any escort demanding our departure. We made our way out of town and then tried to find the entry onto the M2. We were eventually given directions by the police but still had to get onto it in a very off-road fashion as we could not find a proper entrance from where we had ended up!

After 20 km or so we were flagged down by the police. We then found out from a rather bolshie police man that motorbikes were not allowed to use the motorways. None of us had ever heard this.

We tried to convince him that we were not the normal motorbike‘s that he is used to here in Pakistan…but to no avail. We were sure that he didn’t believe us when we told him that we were faster than most of the cars currently using the motorway,,,and so to prove a point (as childish as it seems) when he went to escort us off the motorway – insisting that we remain on the hard shoulder…(where its all gritty and loose with glass etc?) we accelerated into the inside lane and left him standing …? nice one!

We were then left to fight our way through the traffic of the Grand Trunk road……where for most of the time aggressive car drivers tried to run us off the road despite the fact that we were usually overtaking with had nowhere to pull into. They’d still be only cm’s from our back wheels. If anything had caused us to break or swerve many would have hit us hard and probably run straight over us in the meantime.

We had given way quite a few times to one guy who was driving this way for around 20 kms. We would pull in when we could, let him go by and then around 1km later he would slow down and repeat the whole game of him driving 1cm from our tail. Nico bared the brunt of this guys stupid and dangerous driving…until it became my turn….twice I let him go by, I’d pull into incredibly small spaces between the vehicles on the inside lane just to let this ‘twit’ go by….on the 3rd time I became angry. This guy was quite literally trying to kill me driving at 70 mph 1cm away from my rear tyre whilst I had nowhere to go…….that was it! Even when I could pull in I didn’t…..Nico then joined in and Simon was now alongside the car driver. In a very smooth if somewhat reckless move Simon forced the car off the road and made him stop. Simon was angry – this guy was an incredibly dangerous driver having almost run quite deliberately into the back of both me and Nico. The guy then got out of the car and in good English said…”do you have a problem?”…to which Simon replied…”no – but you do”……what a great reply…the kind of one that you always hope you will have in these kind of situations!

After the guy went to shove at Simon (never a good move!) things got a little heated with both me and Nico joining in trying to inform this guy just how dangerous he had been (now as you probably realize this is all quietly understated..you can well imagine that feelings were running high and we all had the biggest temptation to smack this guy…but that would have put us in an even worse position…so we all refrained!).

After causing a huge traffic jam – everyone had stopped wanting to see what was going on – a few of the other drivers said..the driver apologizes (don’t think he did, I think he just got a bit scared…good!) we got back on the bikes all with the feeling that more should have been done and that this arss-hole was totally oblivious of the danger he had just put two of us in. Most of these guys just have no idea as to the size and power of our bikes.

We arrived after a bit of a stressful ride (more 1cm driving going on) and me even more pissed off – found the camping area…but once again it was dark. I am really quite fed up of arriving in the dark. The delays today had been caused by not being able to first locate the M2 – then getting on it and told to get off – then having to use the GT road – the road incident etc etc….it all adds up and the sun sets quite early at the moment at around 5:15pm. Then the temperature drops fast too. So, arriving at the campsite we are met with the security guy (?) saying to us. “shower cold – shower cold”…and then a few seconds later the same phrase. No hello’s, no greetings, no questions of any type, just …”shower cold” We initially all thought that he was a little simple….but as it turns out he really is the head of security!

As we entered the camping area we saw the shapes of around 9 or 10 silhouetted men staring at us…a bit off putting. In the dark we could make out their tents – were they permanent refuges here?? The LP book had said this was a secure camping area for foreigners…?

After checking out the toilets we found the usual ‘you can use the loo but keep your eyes and noses closed whilst you do it’ scenario. There’s no way I’d want to take a shower here anyway even if the water was hot…I would be too afraid of catching some terrible disease!

After setting up the tents and me cooking for everyone we began to really feel the cold and all climbed into our respective tents. We hope that the site looks better in the daylight.