about my travel plans . He pushed a paper and pen across the table and asked me to put down my itinerary . I wrote Quetta - Multan - Lahore - Wagah with assumed travel dates . I wasn ’ t sure whether that would be precise enough or what he would say about my plan to travel along the Afghanistan border , one of the less safe parts for a foreigner . Obtaining a visa for Pakistan was a bit hit-andmiss , I ’ d heard of other travellers who had no luck .
“ So , you want to go to Pakistan ?”, the consul looked me deep in the eyes . I guess I did . He stamped and signed my application .
Heading towards the Pakistan border from the south of Iran on a late afternoon , after days of crossing arid country . It was early December , winter in the Northern Hemisphere , and it was cold despite a clear blue sky .
There was nothing apart from desert land after Zahedan , the last city in Iran , and I was just cruising along the road , when a railway line that was built on top of rather than flush with the road caused me a near breakdown . Decelerating as much as possible I felt a sharp sting in the suspension . Both my panniers broke off and the rear subframe bent a little , but luckily the wheels and suspension didn ’ t show any damage .
“ Good that the bike is built like a tank ,” I thought . A MacGyver fix to the pannier racks saved the day so that I could proceed to the border .
The incident had slowed me , and I was no longer sure they would still let me pass through the border ; the less frequented ones tend to close early in the afternoon .
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