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mirror, as though the road itself had accepted my plea.
Far north, past Sost near the Chinese border, lies the Chapursan Valley. Few motorcyclists attempt it. I learned why within the first kilometre.
The“ road” is a battered track, chewed by landslides, crossed by icy torrents, and repaired only when the locals pick up shovels. I rode in first gear for hours, clutch hand cramping, sweat soaking through my jacket despite the altitude. The rear suspension bottomed out so many times I lost count.
Every so often, a locked, steel donation box appeared by the roadside, sometimes painted with Quranic verses, sometimes just a padlocked metal drum on a stick. I learned that these boxes are the
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