personnel what we would do next . The accent was different , two German girls , travelling by bus , train , hitchhiking . They ’ d crossed Iran and were headed into Pakistan .
This was great news ; we would be in the same group for our 600-kilometre journey to Quetta . Quick introductions and we were ready to go .
The soldiers , complete with bullet proof vests and heavily armed , climbed into a truck with the girls , I followed through the dusty village streets onto a highway . The sun ever rising ahead of me as we headed east along a straight road through a sandy and rocky landscape . Nothing for the eye to see .
The road , even though substantially worse in quality than the Iranian roads , was decent . The occasional sand dune formed across the road , potholes tested the bikes suspension , I was sure the Japanese engineers hadn ’ t envisioned this bike in the middle of a Pakistani desert .
We ’ d barely made 20 kilometres before being stopped at a checkpoint . This would be our routine for the next two days ; stop , check passports , write down details , carry on . Occasionally it involved an escort change .
The frequency of stops varied , sometimes 100 kilometres non-stop , then we ’ d stop every 5 kilometres , the constant at every checkpoint was tea drinking and chatting with locals .
The first checkpoint set the scene as we entered a mud brick house , the only pieces of furniture a couple of beds and a large array of radio equipment . We were immediately bombarded with questions of where we were from , if we were married , and what did we do in life . All with a genuine curiosity , smiles and friendliness . Even with language barriers we were able to communicate with a mixture of gestures , mimics and an occasional drawing scratched into the sand with a stick .
Riding in temperatures around 45 degrees Celsius was tiring so I was thankful for the break . The girls gained most of the attention , especially as one of was blonde , I found myself the least interesting person in this party , allowing for a rest . The girls were already posing with AK47s in the beginning of the hundred ’ s selfies taken across the next few days .
As we wrote our details in the enormous registration book , I curiously glanced at the other entries . It seemed , on average , around five foreigners were crossing here every week .
We had to cover 300 kilometres until the town of Dalbandin , halfway to Quetta . It was the only place with a hotel so “ we ’ d better make it there before dark ”, I thought to myself . This was not the kind of location where you want to be after the sun sets .
My fuel gauge was showing a level getting lower and lower . I ’ d overtaken the military vehicle and frantically pointed at the fuel tank .
We pulled into the next village and one of the escorts shouted something in Urdu . A boy , barely ten years old , appeared with a 10 litre jerrycan . Like everyone I encountered in Pakistan he was professional and honest as he handled the fuel transaction .
Throughout this region the fuel is smuggled from Iran and sold as it is . We covered the funnel with an old rag , to filter the fuel and we filled the bikes tank . I just prayed that they hadn ’ t diluted the fuel too much or mixed it with diesel . The bike fired up fine . I guess I got lucky this time ! We sat in the courtyard of our hotel , munching on our first Biryani , a popular dish in Pakistan made
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