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from the Qur’ an, and bright-eyed tigers leaping from their panels. I had to fight the urge to stare; on the KKH, staring gets you killed. A stray glance at a truck mural and suddenly your front tyre is skidding toward a thousand-foot drop.
Every now and then, a small shrine appeared. At first, I mistook them for roadside tea stalls; splashes of green paint, flags fluttering, rags tied to poles. But stopping at one, I realised this was no shop. It was a Sufi shrine, dedicated to a saint said to have wandered these passes centuries ago, bringing Islam to these far valleys.
A local man sat cross-legged in front of it, head bowed. I asked his name: Bashir. He told me the shrine was for Baba Ghundi, a saint whose blessing still protects travellers.
“ If you stop and offer prayers, you will cross safely,” he said, before splashing a little rosewater over my helmet and handing me a chunk of sweet rock sugar.
That was my first taste of the road’ s true religion: shrines, woven into the rhythm of travel. Not toll booths, not gas stations— shrines.
From Skardu, we rode west into Shigar Valley. The terrain here feels otherworldly: apricot orchards fade into sandy flats that look more Sahara than Karakoram. The road narrows to a ribbon, dust rising in plumes, gravel scattering under every turn.
Half an hour in, my rear wheel slipped on loose shale, and the bike fishtailed so badly I thought I’ d lost it. Somehow it caught traction again, but my pulse wouldn’ t settle. At a roadside shrine, little more than a
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