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carts , cows , chickens , and anything else that is able to move .
The traffic was crazy , and everybody seemed to drive with no rules of the road so dusty and sandy that cleaning our helmets visors was completely useless . A constant smell of burning accompanied us as it came from the thousands of brick factories whose smoke is part of the horizon and gave to every photograph , we took a touch of the style attributed to Leonardo Da Vinci . We shot pictures continuously , without a stop , surprised by the unusual things surrounding us .
From Islamabad , we reached the Chinese border in about a week , making true our common dream to ride the Karakorum Highway . The ride was as amazing as difficult , as it followed the Indus River , passing lost villages set amongst the mountains , traditional ways and religious shrines made us feel more like we were thirteenth century Venetian merchants .
This was a different world indeed , one where Western influence was yet to encroach , perhaps never would , where everyone wore traditional dress , baggy pants , long shirts , and a half dome cap named Taqiyah . Northernmost , in the land of Pashtun and Ishmaelites , men wear a heavy wool hat similar to a beanie , called a Pakol , as well as a long beard .
From Abbottabad onward , the police were again with us for most of the time , it no longer felt disturbing as we ’ d become accustomed to a Kalashnikov and other guns of which became a source for joking and pictures every time , we came across the military . Amazingly it wasn ’ t the travellers wanting to take the pictures , we were the subjects . Enter Pakistan with a motorcycle and you are treated to the life of celebrity being hunted by the paparazzi , although the most senior Pakistani will welcome you first .
“ Anything I can do for you , Sir ?
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