20 years ago today – Day 303

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Tuesday, December 31st – Lahore to Amritsar, India, 15,536 km

It is definitely warmer in Lahore than it was yesterday morning in Rawalpindi, being lower in elevation and further south. It is easier to get up when it is not below freezing. Frank is up and stretching like a lion. He is definitely a morning person like me.

This will be my first day of loaded cycling since I rode into Quetta almost three weeks ago, but it will not be a difficult one. The route between Lahore and Amritsar is as flat as a pancake and only about 60 km in total distance. After a breakfast of fruit and some chipatis we bought at a street stall last night, we set out. It is sunny and pleasant, a touch on the cool side, but warmer than I have known for weeks. It is a fairly busy road with only a narrow shoulder so we keep our heads down and our legs pumping. The fields on either side of us are dry and dusty. From time to time when there is a break in the traffic, Frank drops back to ride beside me and chat. He stays right with me as he promised he would.

Lahore is a large city, the size of Boston or Seattle by population. It is the traditional capital city of Punjab, a nation which was divided between India and Pakistan with the 1947 partition. Lahore fell on the Pakistani side. On the east side of the sub-continent, the ancient nation of Bengal was also divided, and its capital city, Calcutta, was given to India. Mahatma Gandhi went to Bengal when partition was declared, to try to quell the bloodbath that was sure to ensue. He was successful for the most part, but he couldn't be in two places at once to stop the bloodbath that occurred between the two halves of Punjab on the west side.

The Sikhs of east Punjab sided with India, sighting their distrust of Muslim oppressors in recent history, and their main city, Amritsar, lies right over the Indian border. They were particularly brutal during the massacres, at times stopping trains and beheading all the passengers, cutting the breasts off the women and the hands off children. The Muslims and Hindus also went on killing sprees in retaliation.

At present, Amritsar has the only border crossing between the two countries. Technically, the two countries are at war again over Kashmir, which they have been fighting over off and on for 44 years, which is why I have been a bit concerned about the crossing. We coast up to the crossing around noon and wait in line.

When we reach the border crossing kiosk, two border guards question us. They ask me to open my bag but when they see the laundry on top they say that is good enough. We are asked to fill in a form and they give us an instruction form explaining that a minimum quantity of rupees must be purchased from a registered bank and that we must produce a valid receipt for the purchase when we leave the country. It is a government strategy to limit the black market sale of rupees. When I have filled out their bureaucratic declaration form the guard asks me if he can keep my pen. "No, you wouldn't want to do that," I say to him. "Please," he tries again. "No, I'm sorry, I need it," I shake my head, and he gives it back to me. I feel like I am talking to a child.

I notice a complete change of scenery when we cross the border. The dusty, barren fields have transformed to green on the Indian side. Cascades of fuchsia-coloured bougainvillea hang down from the customs house itself and there are flowers and shrubs everywhere, as if to mock the impoverished Pakistani side. If I felt like I fell off the edge of the civilized world when I crossed into Pakistan at Taftan, I now feel like I have climbed out of that hole. Even the roads have a better surface.

The road entering Amritsar follows the railway line and leads past the railway station. We consult the Lonely Planet Guide that says there is a government information office in the Hotel Palace by the Golden Temple in the centre of town, but we cannot find it anywhere. After asking around, we learn that it was moved three kilometres out of town after the hotel was occupied by the Indian army in 1984 during the siege of the Golden Temple. The information is at least seven years out of date.

We have heard that the Sikhs welcome travelers with free accommodation and food at the Golden Temple residences, but we feel awkward taking advantage of their hospitality because we are not Sikhs. We find another cheap hotel called the Tourist Guest House across from the railway station, which has reasonable rates, but not nearly as low as the guide book suggests. When a popular guide book recommends a cheap place to stay so many travelers show up there that the prices soon rise.

It is early afternoon. Our plan was to visit the Golden Temple as soon as possible, but we realize that is more pragmatic to make our required purchase of rupees from a registered bank as soon as possible. Frank and I go together to a bank on Circular Road, which encircles the core of the city. Besides roads, railways, communications systems and the English language, Indians acquired the art of complex bureaucracy from the English. This is our first encounter with this pervasive characteristic of India. It takes the better part of an hour to fill in the forms to purchase the rupees and then a considerable wait to have them witnessed and our ID recorded.

That process proves to be more exhausting than our bike ride from Lahore. The afternoon is almost over when we finish so we decide to put off our tour of the Golden Temple until the next morning. We use the daylight that is left to ride out to the information office. The brochure for the Temple recommends seeing it in the morning light anyway. The agent also recommends we visit the Jallianwala Bagh Park, site of the famous massacre which was featured in the movie "Gandhi".

Frank and I deposit our bikes back at our hotel and walk through the narrow streets of the market area in the centre of the city. The Golden Temple is right beyond them. It offers free meals for visitors so we check it out. What a beautiful place this is! Spiritual music is playing from the temple, which seems to be floating in the middle of a small lake. Lights from the temple and the walkways surrounding the lake reflect across the water in the night sky.

On one side, a wall of white residence buildings borders a courtyard where the food is served. These buildings are where free accommodation is offered to travelers. They look quite nice and Frank concurs that it would be a wonderful and humbling place to stay. We will stay here the next time we come to Amritsar. The food is served out in soup kitchen style, with warm smiles from the heart of servers who are proud of what they are doing. We bow our gratitude for the excellent vegetarian food they serve us.

Most of those eating here are local and visiting Sikhs, but there are also a few overland travelers like us. We chat with a couple women from Australia and another couple from Belgium who are staying in the residences. They tell us the rooms are small and simple but they are clean and have a view over the sacred lake and temple. Neither of these couples wants to come for a drink with us, but as this is New Year's Eve and we specifically crossed into India so we could have a drink, we stick to our plans and find a restaurant that offers Indian and foreign beers on its menu.

Drinking is expensive and not too popular in holy sites like Amritsar. The waiter asks us if we want seconds but neither of us really likes consuming much alcohol. "What - a Canadian and a German who don't like beer? How is this possible?" the waiter chides us. We have a good laugh over that.

We make our way back to our hotel near the train station afterwards and retire for the night. Tomorrow will be 1992, a new year. If it is anything as exciting as 1991 has been it will probably kill me!



PHOTO: Amritsar's Golden Temple at night

20 years ago today - Day 302

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Monday, December 30th - Rawalpindi to Lahore -

Frank is up and rubbing his hands together, both out of glee and to warm them up. His cheery, youthful smile shows that life shines for him, and it shines in his eyes. Every new day is an adventure for him, and his attitude is infectious. I am grateful for it because it isn't easy to get up. It is quite cold in the room at 6:45am. We shower, dress and pack as the light is filling the morning sky. We eat a quick breakfast of fruit and power bars before leaving for the train station.

The station platform is still in shadow. The sky is bright and hazy, but it will be sunny soon. It is a few degrees below zero, so we are anxious to get into the train. Once inside though, it isn't any warmer. All the windows have been broken. The jagged remnants of the windows are still in the frames, although the seats and floor have been cleared of shards. By the shapes of the holes and breakage lines, it appears that they have been broken by rocks thrown at them. I remember how the children would throw rocks at us as we cycled into each town in Baluchistan, so I suppose it is a favourite pastime here too. There is no way of telling how long the windows have been broken. What is the point of replacing them when funds are limited and they will just be broken again?

Once the train is moving, the wind starts the whistle around inside the car. As it gains speed it becomes a blast freezer. Frank and I throw on all our extra clothes. That part I we can manage. What concerns me more is the possibility of a rock coming flying in through the window and possibly hit what glass remains. We move to a seat that is not immediately beside a window and wish for the best.

It will take five hours to get to Lahore. This is an excellent chance for me to get to know Frank better. He's only 22, but I find out he has cycled through more countries than I have, even counting the 23 countries I have passed through this year. When he was 18, he and Eric cycled across mid-Africa starting from Nairobi, Kenya. At one point near the Somali border, troops of a local warlord showed up at their campsite ready to kill them for their goods. Frank had done his research and knew what tribe they belonged to. They were a bit surprised when he knew so much about them. When they told him they wanted to take all their goods, Frank said. "Oh no, you are (whatever) and you are honourable people. You would never do that." This worked. They retreated in confusion and embarrassment. Frank and Eric packed up right away and got out of there.

At another place in western Kenya, Eric wanted to go out to take a piss in the night but he heard footsteps. "If there are people around they are just Massai who are peaceful herders," Frank told him, so Eric goes out. A few seconds he dove back into the tent and the ground began to shake with heavy footsteps that charge up to the tent and stop just outside the door. Eric signalled Frank to be quiet. After a few minutes of silence he explained that there was a herd of water buffalo around the tent.

Their biggest problem in Africa though, was actually a tree that was dropping long thorns. Frank had 25 flat tires in one day, even when he was walking and pushing his bike beside him. He says his parents thought it would be character building to do this trip when he and Eric suggested it, but he knows they would have said yes if they had any idea what was in store for them.

German youths often grow up with one best friend and they spend each summer together. It's like an institutionalized form of male bonding, a gay teen's wildest dream come true if his buddy falls in love with him. Frank's perennial buddy is Eric, and Frank says that has been quite a challenge for Eric. Frank likes mountaineering. A year and a half ago he and Eric climbed all 31 peaks in the Alps over 4000 metres high in one summer, including the Matterhorn, the Eiger and Mt Blanc. Frank also likes white water canoeing, skiing, motorcycling and scuba diving under the ice of alpine lakes in winter. Eric would prefer not to do any of these activities. His one preference is cycle touring, so they chose this trip so both of them would enjoy it. Frank has never traveled with anyone else but Eric.

So I am dealing with a super jock. It feels a bit intimidating, but Frank has made it very clear from the start that he will stick with me. In spite of my meatless bones, I have become quite a jock myself over the past year so I jokingly make the promise to stay with him too.


The train rolls into Lahore and we reclaim our bikes from the baggage car. There are hotel agents at the train station promoting their local hotels. We follow one of them back to his hotel. It is cheap and has a place for our bikes so we take a room with two beds for the night. Frank wants us to stay only one night and cycle into India tomorrow so we can share a drink on New Year's Eve. Sharia Law is in effect in Pakistan and it is impossible to get a drink.

We have arrived shortly after noon and we still have a few hours of light so we set off to see the two most important attractions in Lahore, the Red Fort built by the Moguls and the ancient market district. The Red Fort is impressively expansive and stylish. There are a few tourists around but certainly not bus loads of them like in most of Europe. Frank has his camera out so I might get more pictures of myself for a change, once he sends me copies.

An hour at the Fort is enough to satisfy us. Then we head for the market district. It is set in a maze of tight, narrow streets with overhanging awnings and balconies in such a way that half the time it feels like I am indoors. It is quite overwhelming - the noises, smells, the intense clutter of visual images and items for sale. The proprietors call out and try to pull me in. Motorcycles, bicycles and 3-wheeled motorized rickshaws try to inch their way through the packed crowds. The streets twist around and intersect with each other, many reaching dead ends. A couple blocks into it, I start to feel that I am sinking into quicksand that I might never find my way out of, like a rambling house of mirrors. I retreat to the open expanse in front of the Red Fort and wait for Frank. He isn't far behind me.

We have a good laugh once we are free of the maze, and we walk back to our hotel. In the evening we find a restaurant where share curry dishes and toast each other with chai. Tomorrow will be my last day in Pakistan and my first day in India. Hopefully there will be no complications at the border. I will pack my dirty laundry, skid marks and all, on top of my bags just in case.


PHOTO 1: the train platform in Rawalpindi
PHOTO 2: me in the courtyard of the Red Fort, Lahore
PHOTO 3: front of the Red Fort
PHOTO 4: screen at the Red Fort
PHOTO 5: entrance to the old market district

20 years ago today - Day 301

Sunday, December 29th – Islamabad to Rawalpindi, 15,470 km

Frank appears at my room at 10 am, where I have been waiting for him since breakfast, having no idea when he would return. I am grateful that it was earlier, not later, as I hate waiting.

He is looking rosy cheeked and is full of exuberance. He says he had a great time in Murree with 60 cm of fresh powder snow to play in. He spent most of the daylight hours snowshoeing. If I had done that I doubt I would be walking as well as he is, as though his legs aren’t tired or sore. He says he has been thinking about India and is excited about traveling with me, which makes me feel honoured. He asks if I am ready to leave tomorrow and I say I am, but there are a few things to do first. The first is to check out of here, say goodbye to Vincent and Coen. They give me affectionate hugs and handshakes for Frank. Frank takes their hugs as a sign that I must be a great guy to travel with. Well, I haven’t always been, but I think Vincent and Coen have given him a glowing report of me to make sure to give us the best foot to start off on.

Frank has to visit the Indian embassy to pick up his visa. He leaves his passport with the clerk at the counter and we sit and chat about his time in Murree and cycling in the North West Provinces, where he was shot at. He really like active sports. I tell him I hope I can keep up with him, but he assures me that he is in no race and that he like to cycle with his partner, not somewhere ahead (like Mike Silk did). Finally his visa has been installed in his passport and we are free to go.

The train to Lahore leaves Rawalpindi at 8 am so we ride back to Rawalpindi to find a place for the night near the railway station. He knows a slightly nicer place not far from the station, a place he stayed with Eric the first couple nights in town. Once we are settled in, we head for the train station to buy our tickets, which requires showing our visitor visas first. Again, it will be second class. The clerk assures with a smile that our car will be air-conditioned. Great!

We pore over the maps of India we have purchased, which are intensely detailed. I have a Bartholomew’s map that covers the whole sub-continent. It is the best and most detailed I could find. Frank and I also look over the Lonely Planet’s Guide to India. He is an easy man to plan with, either because he is easy-going or because we have similar ideas about traveling. We agree to avoid the heavily industrial Punjabi cities of Jalandhar and Ludhiana by swinging to the south after visiting Amritsar. Our route will basically head south-east through Punjab and Haryana to New Delhi, and then south-west from there through Rajasthan. I have not decided if I will fly home from New Delhi or from Mumbai.

We share a dinner out tonight to celebrate our new partnership, which makes sense since we don’t have any kitchen facilities in our present place. My camera has officially died again. I have given up on it but he assures me he will send me copies of the pictures he takes. He says he is a good photographer.

Everything we suggest to each other seems to go down like honey. He is open to trying whatever we want at the time and I know I am going to enjoy his company. I am ready to leave this cold plateau at the base of the foothills of the Himalayas to find somewhere warmer. We both want to visit Goa before we head home. I can’t wait!!

20 years ago today - Day 300

Saturday, December 28th - Islamabad

We prepare our last communal meal this morning, clean the dishes and then head for the Indian embassy at 10 am to reclaim our passports with our visitor visas inside. The newly installed visas are beautiful. I kiss mine as soon as I see it.

The others are as relieved as I am about having the visas in their hands. Kate and Stephen return the Boys and Girls Club immediately and complete their last minute packing. Before 11 am they have checked out, said goodbye to the Dutch boys and are on the road back to Lahore, headed for the Indian border. They didn’t say anything to me, but I don’t really care. Good riddance, finally!

Coen and Vincent, now having their Indian visas in hand, head to their travel agency to pick up their airline tickets from Lahore to New Delhi. They also pick up train tickets from Rawalpindi to Lahore for the 31st. They will fly to New Delhi on the third and meet their girlfriends on the 8th. They are very excited about this, but I cannot help wondering how their visit will go. Coen and Vincent have been riding for months and are in shape, as well as being used to the strange attributes and lifestyles of Asian cities. They are also accustomed to the local germs and much less likely to get sick by this point. Their girlfriends will not be as prepared physically or psychologically. But that is their challenge, not mine.

As for me, I am not sure if there will be any major challenges for me in India. Frank seems like an easy person to get along with and there are no mountain ranges we will have to contend with. Still, it is strange after all I have been through in recent months to entertain the idea of not having any serious challenges in the last six weeks of my trip.

Vincent and Coen want to share dinner together at a restaurant, since I am not sure if I will be staying here tomorrow night after Frank’s return. We choose an Indian restaurant and have a great meal. It hasn’t been often that all of our digestive systems have been strong enough to handle spicy foods. I thank them over and over again for all they have done for me since meeting them in Istanbul. I certainly would not have ended up here without their support. I feel much stronger now psychologically too. I could travel on my own but I am happy that I don’t have to. Even if things don’t work out cycling with Frank I will be able to handle the rest of my trip on my own. That is a very reassuring feeling.

While I am in India I want to regain some of the weight I have lost. Tonight’s big meal is the first step.

20 years ago today - Day 299

Friday, December 27th – Rawalpindi/ Islamabad, 15,442 km

Yesterday morning, I felt I had time to wait for my banking and Visa cards to arrive even if I had to wait behind a few more days after the others left. Now, having met Frank, I am anxious that they arrive before he returns from Murree, so that I will be ready to go with him. I don’t want to keep him waiting. I told him I hope to be ready to leave town the day after he gets back.

So I make another trip into Rawalpindi, make doubly longer by the required return. At least it is a lighter, unloaded trip. It is sunny and cold, and there is a wind too, whipping up little dust devils wherever there is enough dirt, which is most everywhere. When I get to the post office I find that both my Visa card and banking card are there. What a relief! I am still addicted to the corporate trappings of my old life.

I am a re-energized man on my trip back the Islamabad. I am a teenager once again. Little things can make such a difference. I want to share my joy with others but there is no one in at the Boys & Girls Club. I don’t feel like reading so I wander the malls and streets nearby. I find a Lonely Planet Guide to India, which has a footnote that it has won awards as the best guide to India. What a find! But it is thick and heavy. At least it beats reading my Harlequin romance, which I will leave here when I go.

When we all assemble at the B&G Club later in the afternoon and traipse over to the Indian Embassy. We are told the visas will be in tomorrow and that we must leave our passports with them overnight so that the visas can be attached. This is last concern I had about being ready to leave with Frank, and the second to be resolved today. I gladly produce my passport and leave it with them.

We prepare dinner and retire to the backyard and the B&G Club Clubhouse we have built in the tree over the past two nights. I have purchased a dozen candles which we have placed and lit in the tree and in the seating area below it. The manager pays us a visit. He has seen the tree fort and seems a little apprehensive, but hesitates to comment about it. We are all mildly stoned by this time anyway. We state how proud we are of it, seeing his apprehension, but if he wants us to take it down he doesn’t say so.

I am so out of character, building this sort thing without getting permission first and not worrying about the manager’s reaction. I am pleased with this, that I am learning to get out of my usual character and approach life from a different angle. I am not trying to win anyone’s approval. Nothing seems to be able to depress me now and I am not as anxious or restless as I was last night.

20 years ago today - Day 298

Thursday, December 26th - Islamabad

The phone office opens at 8 am so I make sure I am there when it opens. I call to my parents home in Toronto. It is still Christmas evening there, about 9:30 pm. I chat with both of them for about 5 minutes each. I thank Mom for rescuing me financially and assure her that I am healthy now.

When I return to my room, there is a note from Vincent saying that he and Coen are going to travel agencies to check on prices for a flight to Delhi from Lahore, so they won’t need to rush to meet their girlfriends. It is too cold and windy today to want to hang around outside so I stay in my room and read my novel.

It is late morning. I have been reading for about an hour and a half when Vincent and Coen come into the room looking for me. “Ken, we have a Christmas gift for you!” “Thanks,” I say. I sit up, expecting them to produce some sort of package wrapped in used newspaper. Coen beams sheepishly and opens the door. To my surprise, a young, hunky German lad steps into the room, a brunette glowing with so much vitality and wholesomeness that he might have just stepped out of a milk commercial. I am caught speechless.

“This is Frank,” Vincent announces. “He’s cycling to India! We ran into him in the travel agency.” Ah, I get it. They want to make sure I have someone to travel with so they can feel better about parting with me here. Well, I totally approve of their gift so far, but Vincent keeps talking to explain how they met him.

“We met Frank in Kerman in Iran when we were cycling without you. He and his buddy Eric were cycling there. Eric is about to fly home from here. Frank wants to continue on to India but he was on his way to buy a ticket home too because he couldn’t find anyone to cycle with. We told him about you and he wanted to meet you.” Then, Vincent and Coen are off on another errand, leaving Frank to chat with me.

Frank tells me more of his story. He and Eric had cycled from Germany and arrived in Tabriz in north-west Iran seven weeks ago. In a village near Tabriz, both their bicycles were stolen. They went to the police and filed a report. The police, angry that this had happened to two foreigners, went door to door in the surrounding neighbourhood and threatened to kill anyone found with the bicycles. After that, there is no hope that anyone would come forward with a tip. They took a train from Tabriz to Tehran, much as we had, and bought two cheap substitute bikes there. They continued their cycling trip on to Qom, Quetta, Yazd and Kerman, keeping in contact with the police in Tabriz from time to time.

In Kerman, the same day they had met Coen and Vincent, they got a call from the police who related that one of their bikes have shown up and was now in their hands. They didn’t have enough information to determine if it was Eric’s or Frank’s so they returned to Tabriz together. The bike was Frank’s. He ditched his cheap replacement but Eric had to continue on his piece of junk.

They returned to Kerman, cycled across eastern Iran to Taftan (arriving after us), caught a bus to Quetta (arriving before us) and then cycled through the North-West Frontier States to Peshawar. On there way there, they were fired at by a solo thief trying to kill them for their belongings. Somehow they managed to outrun him without being hit. The reported it to the police and they have closed the area to foreign tourists two weeks ago. From Peshawar, near the Khyber Pass, they cycled down out of the mountains to Rawalpindi, where Eric decided he has had enough.

Being shot at, now that’s hard to top, but he is pretty impressed with my stories about the war in Croatia, the mastiff guard dogs in Turkey, my robbery and internal bleeding in Iran, the stones that greeted us in every town and our night in the snake pit. There is no doubt we will get along. He is obviously a kind, considerate man who is filled with positive energy. He’s only 22 but he feels very much my equal, only taller and hunkier.

He cannot stay and chat though. He is leaving in two hours to go to Murree, a town in the hills to the north-east of here, near the border of Kashmir. A European diplomat he met at the German embassy has invited him and Eric to spend a post-Christmas long weekend in his lodge up there. He is anxious to go snow-shoeing as Murree already has lots of snow. He excuses himself to go back to finish his packing. He says he will return on the morning of the 29th.

In a flash he has gone, like a wet dream that is prematurely interrupted. Thank you Vincent and Coen. This is potentially the best Christmas gift I have ever been given. Wow, India is going to be a very different phase of my trip than the one from Istanbul to here, but I am sitting here tonight, the others having disappeared somewhere, unable to concentrate on my cheap hetero Harlequin romance. I am feeling very restless and alone, and for the first time very eager to get on with my journey to India. I feel like a child who has opened a delightful gift for Christmas, only to be told that he cannot see of play with it for the next three days. Bummer!

20 years ago today - Day 297

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Wednesday, December 25th - Islamabad

Christmas Day! Islamabad does not have much of a Christmas atmosphere. For perhaps the first time in my life, I have more Christmas spirit in me than anyone around me, instead of the usual opposite. Everyone is up and helping prepare breakfast - toast, jam, eggs and dhal. They don’t want to make anything special out of today, yet on the other hand they do. They each seem more restless than usual, as though they are lost and they need something to fill the time until the restless feeling passes.

After eating and cleaning up the dishes, we scatter. I think Vincent and Coen have gone to the international phone office to call their families for Christmas. It is still way too early in Canada to call there. It is early afternoon here and the middle of the night in Canada. I am better to wait until tomorrow morning, when it will be Christmas evening there.

It is sunny today. The stores are open because there is no holiday here. Kate and Stephen have gone shopping, or at least window shopping. I ride my bike along some of the major streets in the city and through a couple parks before returning to the B & G Club. I am the first one back. I read my crappy novel until the others return.

We make a dinner of dhal, potatoes and chicken breasts, a Christmas dinner of a kind, and afterwards find ourselves in the backyard again. The guys start working on the fort again. Stephen soon quits to sit watching us with Kate. Coen gives up a few minutes later. Vincent and I labour on, enlarging the platform and making a wall on one side to lean on. Vincent tires and retires to join the others but I keep going, making steps that climb higher and a smaller, higher second platform.

I climb down and hand out the gifts I have wrapped for the others. They are a bit bashful because they didn’t buy anything for me, all except Kate who sneers at as though I have insulted her by buying her a bar of scented soap. Oh, I know I won’t miss her at all once she’s gone. I had hoped the gifts would have brightened their spirits but we are quieter and more pensive. Perhaps they are missing a real Christmas with their friends and families or remembering that we’ll soon be parting. The rest of the evening is just soft conversation.

20 years ago today - Day 296

Tuesday, December 24th - Rawalpindi to Islamabad, 15,417 km

This morning we eat a light snack of fruit and power bars from our groceries on-hand before setting off to Islamabad again. Kate does not want to spend the time having a full breakfast until we are settled in the Boys and Girls Club, which has a full kitchen for the residents to use. It's a dusty, windy day as we make our way north along Murree St again. It is not a grueling trip but it is not interesting enough to merit redoing too often.

I don’t think there is anyone else staying at the Boys & Girls Club in Islamabad, or at least I haven’t seen any sign of anyone else, so they let us have access to the rooms before noon. That usually means there was no one staying in them the day before. This club is the nicest we have stayed in so far, and perhaps the newest. There are four people in two bunks per room. The Dutch boys and I have one room and Kate and Stephen are in another. Besides a spacious kitchen with pots, pans, utensils and plenty of counter space, there is an enclosed back yard that is half an acre or so, filled the small trees and some bushes. There is a shed for our bicycles, too.

Once we are settled, I go for a ride by myself. That’s a treat as I haven’t been riding alone and feeling safe at doing so since Bulgaria. But today I have a second purpose. I visit one the local malls I found yesterday and pick up Christmas gifts for others in our group: new woolen gloves for Vincent, to fit over his cycling gloves; a new handkerchief for Coen, who lost his in Zahedan; a roll of duct tape for Stephen (there can never be too much of that); and a bar of scented soap for Kate. I even find scotch tape and wrapping paper. The passing world gawks at me as I sit on the steps outside the mall to wrap them. I did not want to try to do this at the residence as it would be hard to find a space away from the others.

What I would really like to find a nice bottle of wine, perhaps with a crazy name like “Derriere Les Faggots” that we found in Le Puy, France, and share it with the others. I am in a Christmas mood and want to pass it around, even if the others aren’t into it. The other option would be to glum, disinterested and borderline depressed like some of them.
I am not mentioning the gifts until tomorrow. I doubt they have bought anything for me or each other but if I tell them tonight they might resent the pressure to go out and buy me anything. I just want to have fun tonight, and the secret that I have gifts for each of them hidden in my bags puts me in even a better mood.

The evening turned into something unusual. I think it was Stephen who started it by breaking off a branch of a scrub tree that was hanging down in our faces in the back yard. Then Coen starts stripping the bark off in long strips, trying to see if the wood would be any good to carve. It isn’t. It’s like a soft alder and it snaps off cleanly when broken in two. Vincent decides to use the strips of bark to tie segments of the branch to another tree, making steps so we can climb up into the tree. I get into the act and break off another branch and the four of us do our “boy” thing by building a platform in the tree to sit on. The takes us an hour and a half. It has been fun and a great bonding exercise, just before we are set to part for good.

Kate, who hasn’t participated in the building, doesn’t want to climb up to the platform and doesn’t approve of our bonding exercise either, because we didn’t stop building it when she announced she wasn’t interested in it. She manages to coax Stephen and Vincent down. Coen and I follow soon after. Stephen rolls a ganja cigarette, lights it and passes it around. That mellows everyone out, even Kate to still has a cucumber up her ass.

I survey our little group as we ‘nest’ in the back yard of the Boys & Girls Club. I forgive each one their foibles – Kate, her arrogance and selfishness; Stephen, his frequent bouts of utter stupidity; Vincent, his blowing his nose upwind ahead of me while riding. (There’s nothing I need to forgive about Coen.) I am even ready to forgive myself my many short-comings. In less than a week, we will be scattered like seeds in the wind.

20 years ago today - Day 295

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Monday, December 23rd – Rawalpindi/ Islamabad, 15,290 km

We seem to be back on our feet today, a few rumbling digestive systems and the occasion rush trip to the toilet but a good day overall with no one being too sick. I am doing well. My system is still struggling with the food or perhaps the malaria medicine. The weather is cool and cloudy, not cold enough to freeze, but there are no mosquitoes. I settle my digestive system I have decided to stop the malaria medicine for now as there probably won't be any mosquitoes or malaria until we are south of Delhi.

By late morning, all five of us are washed, fed and ready to go about our duties. Vincent, Stephen and I have gone to the post office six blocks away to check for mail. My banking and Visa cards have not yet arrived. I will need to check back every day until they do.

Our next task is to ride north to Islamabad, the national capital, and apply for a visitor visa to India at the Indian embassy. The two cities are two halves to a whole, a double city if you will, like Minneapolis and St Paul, but they couldn't be more different. Rawalpindi is an ancient city with an erratic street pattern, crowded retail strips and the usual hustle and confusion of a crowded Asian city that has a couple million people or more. It has served as the national headquarters of the Pakistan army since its independence from India in 1947.

We make our way from the district of Rawalpindi near the railway station along Murree Road, one of its main streets, through the city to the start of Islamabad. The transition between the cities is stark. Islamabad is a planned city built as the national capital in 1960 directly along Rawalpindi's north side. Its streets are on a grid pattern and are spaciously wide streets with impressive view lines. A row of low mountains form its northern border. Besides the National Assembly and many other national architectural show pieces, it is where the various international embassies are located, including the Indian embassy.

On the down side, Islamabad doesn't have much of a street life or many business services that are not related to government bureaucracy or the military. The clutter of markets and retail strips has been replaced by sterile malls. If you need to shop for regular supplies or do day to day business it is better to return to Rawalpindi, at least at point of its history. It hasn't yet matured into a city with full services.

Rawalpindi, or 'Pindi' as the locals call it, has wide enough streets that aren't as crazy as some Asian cities, like Tehran or Istanbul, though they are filled with 3-wheeled motorized rickshaws, carts, bicycles, buses, trucks and motorcycles as well as taxis and cars. Islamabad has even wider and much emptier streets, lined with trees and with spacious setbacks for many of the buildings. There are also lawns and gardens that use an inappropriate amount of water for this desert environment.

The Indian embassy is easy to find. It looks like any other government building and it belies the fact that India is a poor country. Perhaps that is intentional, to show Pakistan that it has money if it needs it. It has six times the population of Pakistan so it is harder for Pakistan to keep up with India's military spending. We are able to keep our passports until our visas are ready. We fill in our application forms and each pay our US$50 fee.


After that is done, Coen, Vincent and I ride around the streets of Islamabad. They are like a cyclist's playground, even more peaceful and civilized to ride around than in any European city its size. We stop at a couple malls and ride up to the Shah Faisal Mosque, which sits at the base of the mountains to the north. It's a massive mosque and very modern. It was only completed five years ago.

We ride back to Rawalpindi, which takes forty-five minutes, and we team up with Kate and Stephen again for dinner. Kate has been asking around and has learned that there is a Boys and Girls Club here, but in Islamabad, not Rawalpindi. She called there and they have told her they have plenty of room so we have decided to change our residence to there tomorrow morning. I am grateful that I won't need to put my mattress on the floor after tonight.


PHOTO 1: old building on the way to Islamabad
PHOTO 2: donkeys on the street, Rawalpindi
PHOTO 3: the huge, modern Faisal Mosque

20 years ago today - Day 294

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Sunday, December 22nd – Rawalpindi, 15,369 km

It was next to impossible to get any sleep last night on the train. The five of us drag our sorry asses off the train at the station in Rawalpindi when it finally arrives at 8 am. After w collect our bikes and load on our bags, we make our way to the train station reservation office to see if they know where the Boys and Girls Club in town is or if there is a tourist information office. They don't know of either. Kate asks where we might find cheap hotels and the agent just waves his hands in a south-easterly direction, towards the centre of town.

The street traffic is a big crazy and we are not in our most conscious state so we decide to wheel our bikes along the sidewalks to look for a hotel. The sidewalk traffic is easily as crazy and congested as the street traffic, just slower - much slower. Vendors try to sell us things as we try to squeeze around them. As in most cities, there are several cheaper hotels within blocks of the train station. It takes a few tries before we find one that can accommodate our bikes though, and that accommodation involved carrying them upstairs to the second floor and keeping them in our rooms. It is crowded, dingy and with questionable cleanliness, but at last we are here and we have beds. Mine sags like a hammock so I lay the mattress on the floor and sleep there for the better part of the morning and afternoon.

When I awake, Vincent, Stephen and I head out and explore the local streets. They are noisy and alive. The major streets are wide and filled with every type of vehicle from bicycles and donkey-drawn carts to full-sized trucks. We find a couple interesting food markets and a few options for prepared food that look clean and safe and return to the hotel room to report our findings to Coen and Kate. Today Kate and Vincent are having more digestive issues than I am so we decide to eat food that we can prepare in the hotel.

Our naps earlier in the day haven't been enough to refresh us for long so we retire fairly early this evening. Tomorrow we will need to find the Indian embassy in Islamabad, Rawalpindi's sister city, and apply for our visitor visas as soon as possible. It may take a week for them to be processed.


PHOTO 1: Rawalpindi Railway Station
PHOTO 2: downtown Rawalpindi
PHOTO 3: street scene with a mosque in the distance
PHOTO 4: pedestrians on our street

20 years ago today - Day 293

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Saturday, December 21st - Quetta to Rawalpindi (train)

This being our day to travel, the five of us pack in the morning right after breakfast and leave the Boys and Girls Club by check out time at 10 am. We do last minute grocery shopping for the long train ride and last minute trips to the pharmacy to buy tooth paste and other small items.

By noon we are finished and waiting to board our train at the railway station, which we are allowed to do at 12:30, after we have made sure our bicycles are being loaded carefully onto the baggage car. We find our seats that have been pre-assigned to us yesterday and try to settle in comfortably for the duration of the trip.


That isn’t possible however. The train is way too crowded. Buying a second class ticket in Pakistan does assure one of a seat but there might be someone squeezed in between your knees on the floor and another leaning on your outer thigh, which there are on this trip. It is no different for the others in our group. The aisles fill up too, with over-sized duffel bags and sacks of agricultural products. It seems that many people on this train are moving don’t to the valley for winter, and taking everything with them including goods to sell in the markets to pay their way. Who would deny them? But it still feels a bit like insanity. If I do want to make it to the washroom anytime in the coming few hours, it will requiring actually stepping on many people and climbing over bales of hay, etc. One doesn’t have to travel on bicycle here to have an adventure. You could even say the train is more challenging.

The train is instantly stuffy and filled with a thousand smells, which when I relax and sink into it, not minding the people on the floor leaning and snuggling up against me, I soak and try to be part of. Noise and smells have to be part of a crowded Asian urban experience. The train rattles, shakes and sways as it twists through the mountain passes on its way downhill towards the Indus Valley.


My stomach is rumbling like the train. I hope I am not going to be sick again, like I was on the train from Tabriz to Tehran. There is a chance I won't be. My insides are not sour inside this time, just noisy. Every few minutes I let out a rather pungent fart, which I would normally try to smother in the seat cushion by keeping my legs together, but today I have someone nestled between my legs on the floor in front of me, his head about a foot from my asshole. He doesn't react. Perhaps it's just another of the many smells around him.

The brown, naked hills roll by as we follow the Bolan River south-east. Our first stop is in the town of Mach. It is a brief stop to allow a few more passengers crowd into the already-full train. Another one squeezes onto the floor beside me. We imagine we are a bunch of kittens all cuddled together, those we are beginning to smell like sardines. Thankfully it's not hot out.


The train slides into the small city of Sibbi about an hour out of Quetta. The mountains have given way to rolling hills here. The city is about the size of Dalbandin with lots of mud brick construction. This is still Baluchistan. The station platform is sprinkled with kiosks and roving vendors that sell their wares at the windows of the train. Having the seat by the window, I act as the exchange agent, taking money from those seated on the floor to pay for food that I take from the vendors and pass back to them. One man needs to get out. As the aisles to the door are nearly impossible to reach, he climbs over me to get out the window. He plants his knee into my abdomen, causing another embarrassing expulsion of gas, as the vendors help him through the window. He walks to the end of the train, pulls up his robe and squats to take a shit over the edge of the platform. Then, without wiping himself, he climbs back through the window and over my stomach.

Vincent is sitting behind me and having as much fun as I am. Coen is seated across the way and Kate and Stephen are behind him, on the other side of the people and piles of goods in the aisles. The station platform is on my side so they have enjoyed the entertainment of watching other passengers climb over us. Seeing Stephen and Kate seated together, I am thinking she has perhaps wizened up and knows that Stephen needs to sit beside her for her own protection.

The train continues down through Jacobabad and Shikarpur to the Indus River, and then bends north east towards Lahore once we cross the river. Kate, Stephen and Coen have several turns having passengers climbing over them, and Vincent and I have it happen again and again too. Some the agricultural products are off-loaded as we follow the valley upstream so the aisles are a bit less crowded, bit it is never comfortable.

I expected the Indus Valley to be lush and green but it does not seem well managed. It is warmer down in the valley, bordering on hot in the peak of the day, but there are many empty, untilled fields, baked hard and without vegetation that look like they have not been used for years. As we roll on towards Lahore, the daylight fades and our view of the river is gone.


The trip is gruelingly long. It is late in the evening by the time we reach Lahore. We are almost an hour in the station before the train turns north-west to climb up to Rawalpindi. I need to use the toilet by this time. I climb over the passengers around me, taking great care not to step on them. At points, I need to step on their packages and bundles which are stacked high in the aisles. It takes me ten minutes to reach the washroom in the next car, and when I do I have to climb over the goods stacked in front of it to drop inside to use it. It is a struggle to climb back out again, but it is worth it.

The aisles in the next car are filled with people standing. I am in no hurry to get to rush back to my seat as I have been sitting too long. I stand by an older, distinguished man with a short beard for a bit. He asks me if I am from the United States. I say no, that I am from Canada. 'The same thing,' he comments in an off-handed manner. That's a bit offensive to me so I retort, 'Yes, just like being from India or Pakistan is the same thing.' 'Oh,' he gasps, quite horrified, 'you must never say such a thing!' 'Well then," I respond, 'you must never say that being from Canada or the US is the same thing.' He laughs and apologizes for his mistake.

We go on to talk about other things then fall into silence. I am in a spiritual mood, thinking of Christmas and missing my family. I start softly humming 'Amazing Grace' to myself and he turns to me again, asking me what that beautiful song is. I explain it is a Christian hymn and he seems truly disappointed. I want to tell him I am not a Christian and that the message is for anyone who is spiritually inspired, but he is turned off because I said "Christian" and is no longer listening to me. I remember a funny line from the movie "My Beautiful Launderette", where one Pakistani character says the problem with Pakistan is that it has been sodomized by religion.

I make my way back to my second class seat and coax out the third class passenger who has been warming it for me while I was gone. Coen and the others have their eyes closed. I close mine too and try to get some sleep as the train slowly crawls uphill towards Rawalpindi.


PHOTO 1: Quetta railway station
PHOTO 2: near the town of Mach, leaving the hills
PHOTO 3: outside Sibbi village
PHOTO 4: the Indus River Valley

20 years ago today - Day 292

Friday, December 20th - Quetta

My money has arrived this morning, on my second visit to the bank in late morning. Banking in this part of the world feels especially bureaucratic, but here it is - $500 cash – which I discreetly tuck away. I exit the bank like a spy, looking around to see if I am being followed. I am not, though I know I will be much more careful from this point onward. According to my mother, who I chat with today to confirm that I have received it, my own monies I have saved for the trip have dried up. Eeek! She says she can cover me until I get home, which is still nine weeks away. Fortunately, India is reputed to be quite inexpensive.

I visit a camera store here and the owner looks inside my camera to see if he can do anything with it. He manages to take part of it apart and put it back together again and it seems to be working. He only has print film so I buy a roll to check it out. It seems to be taking pictures and advancing properly, my second piece of good news today.

The five of us trek down to the railway station to buy our tickets to Rawalpindi. We make sure to get second class tickets where we will be assured seating. At this time of year, we agree that it makes no sense to buy first class for the air conditioning, since first class is double the price. I am disheartened to find out that the journey will take 18 hours. We will leave at 1 pm tomorrow and arrive in Rawalpindi around 7 am the next morning. It promises to be a grueling trip.

Vincent has a new haircut. He has had all of his head shorn like a buzz cut except for a large tuft about his forehead which he is training to stand straight up. It is both modern and comic. Older Pakistani men look at it, shake their heads and laugh. It gets their conversation going. One doesn’t need to speak the local language to know what they are saying, that the barber must have died before he finished or that he has kept it to keep his hat from falling forward. Vincent pays them no mind. He likes that it creates a stir and shows an alternative way of being.

Tonight I get my bags ready and stroll around before sunset to get a couple shots of Quetta. Tomorrow I will see the Indus Valley, one of the oldest cradles of civilization in the world and where Alexander the great had his greatest victory after his army walked all the way here from Macedonia. I feel fortunate to have a bike, and paved roads.

20 years ago today - Day 291

Thursday, December 19th - Quetta

Coen is up and smiling in his groggy way. As soon as we’ve had our showers we make our way to the cafeteria. He seems more himself today. He says it has been getting better and that the bout of amoebic dysentery was awful to endure. He thought he was going to die at one point. He is quiet at breakfast when the other start chatting, but he is attentive and no longer in a daze.

He hasn’t forgotten that I need his help to get money from his bank. He brings his bank cards and ID and he walks with me to a local bank. We discuss various options with the manager but what Coen is most comfortable with is getting a $500 advance from his father in Luxembourg and then we go to the post office to phone my mother in Toronto with instructions on how to get $500 to Coen’s dad. I wanted to have $1000 in case my Visa card and bank card aren’t waiting for me in Rawalpindi as promised, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable with a wad that large in my money belt. The transactions still need to be completed so the money won’t be available until tomorrow, but it feels like a great relief. All I have left until the money arrives is $19.

We have a stroll out through the city for a few blocks after the banking is done. I find a market that sells gloves and buy a pair. My own have holes in them. I also buy a new money belt. After this, Coen is feeling exhausted. I walk back with him to the Boys and Girls Club and he crawls back into bed while I go off looking for lunch.

I have started taking malaria medicine. I have read a lot about it and know that it is dangerous. It can cause organ damage and hair loss and shouldn’t be taken for prolonged times. Malaria is carried by mosquitoes and the larvae attached themselves to red blood corpuscles and feed on them, which becomes like a blood disease with many side effects, like fevers, etc. They can attach themselves to red blood corpuscles because of their shape. The medicine is so powerful that it causes of the corpuscles to change shape so that the malaria cannot take hold. This takes time. I am supposed to take it for two weeks before being exposed to infected mosquitoes.

I started taking the medicine in Mirjaweh, figuring that there would be mosquitoes in Pakistan but I stopped in Dalbandin because it was obviously too cold for mosquitoes. But we are leaving Quetta in two days, dropping into the Indus Valley and climbing again to Rawalpindi. A week later we will be back in Lahore and preparing to cross into India. That is about two weeks away so I have begun taking the medicine again. The directions say I shouldn’t start and stop and start again, but I have to choose between the lesser of two evils. I haven’t noticed any obvious effects yet.

In anticipation of my money arriving tomorrow, I feel like going out for dinner again with the others. Coen comes with us this time, refreshed from his afternoon nap. He is only having the soup and bread with yogurt but he is happily amongst us again, even making comments and telling stories. I tell the others the story of him eating the hot pepper while waiting for lunch on our way to Polatli in Turkey, commenting on how red his face turned. He says I didn’t let him know it was hot but I had told him.

With the money issues resolved and everyone getting along together again, I can sense a shift, that we are ready to move on. It hasn’t been discussed yet, but the five of us cannot carry on together much longer. Coen and Vincent’s girlfriends are flying in to Delhi on January 8 and they will travel only with them after that. I am certainly not traveling on through India with Kate and Stephen, even if for the moment we are tolerating each other better. I am not worrying about it for the time being. I am willing to travel on alone until I find another cycling partner, but at least I will be beyond the desert, in places with other travelers that will likely be safer than here.

20 years ago today - Day 290

Wednesday, December 18th - Quetta

Carlos does succeed in leaving town this morning, after another communal breakfast in the Boys and Girls Club with Kate, Stephen and I. He gives me a big hug when he is ready to roll away, being the warm-hearted guy that he is. It has been several weeks, it seems, since I have had that much physical contact with another man, perhaps as long ago as Istanbul. A wave of isolation and loneliness washes through me as he pulls away.

I watch him ride away. He is a handsome man but I have not fantasized about him, as sweet as he is. I sensed from the start that his warmth had nothing to do with a physical attraction to me. I don’t feel attractive or generally sexual at all these days. I haven’t even masturbated since Cappadocia – my long days of travel on train and bus from Kayseri to Esfahan being immediately followed by my sickness and internal bleeding. Since then, I have felt no urge to think about other men, even when I was alone in Zahedan for four days.

I doubt I will see Carlos again. We won’t be visiting Peshawar as far as I know, but then it is so hard to know what is around the next corner. During the first half of my trip, the awe of that unfolding mystery, of seeing things I have never seen before and will likely never see again, kept me going from city to city, country to country. Since the outbreak of the war in Croatia that freaked me out so much, the magic of my journey has faded.

Even though I am still seeing things that are totally new to me and likely never to be repeated, I am now drifting like a leaf on a stream, still able to choose my course if I want to, but having little interest in doing so. I am letting others do that for me, going where they go and having no real interest in the attractions along the way. I don’t know why I am traveling, what I am learning or supposed to learn from this journey. I am physically wasted, now down to about 57 kg (125 lb), emotionally numb, intellectually tired of learning new ideas and of adapting to new places, and spiritually adrift without any sense of purpose or belonging. Many of the words I used to identify myself at home in Canada, including the label “gay”, have become irrelevant to my life now. Only the labels “cyclist” and “Canadian” have stuck, but even those I question the relevance of when I use them. I cannot see how I will even fit in anymore when I return home.

I have learned one thing, and that is to embrace anything that is a source of joy and to celebrate it without analyzing it to death. That is a good thing. Today my source of joy is knowing that Coen and Vincent will arrive on bus from Nushki. The anticipation makes me anxious. It would be easier if I knew when to expect them but I don’t, so I am not waiting for them at the bus terminal. I have not checked the schedule, so they might even be arriving by train. I remember the same feeling when waiting to reconnect with them in Zahedan, and the feelings of betrayal and disappointment that followed when I realized they had been avoiding reconnecting with me. I don’t let my anticipation sweep me away this time.

Vincent and Coen arrive late afternoon by bus. I don’t see them until they check into the Boys and Girls Club. Coen is still looking pale and a bit shaky, but he acknowledges my concern and seems appreciative of it. Vincent says Coen should rest another couple days in Quetta before taking the 18-hour train ride from Quetta to Rawalpindi. They both look relieved to be back with us, though Coen soon retires to his bed in our dorm room. Like I did for two days, he is subsisting on a diet of juice and yogurt.


Kate, Stephen, Vincent and I go out together to a local restaurant five blocks away for dinner. It is a Pakistani restaurant with curries and dhal, potatoes and rice. We are celebrating our reunification and everyone is happy. I am surprised to find that I am enjoying Kate and Stephen’s company too. Perhaps I have become delusional, creating joy where there shouldn’t be any, or perhaps this is the way it always should be. I think I forgive too easily, a fatal flaw that followed me throughout my life.


PHOTO: sunset in Quetta

20 years ago today - Day 289

Tuesday, December 17th - Quetta

This is the wet season here in Quetta. It certainly doesn’t compare to Vancouver’s wet season, is happening now on the other side of the world. It is raining lightly here and there is a wind. It isn’t enough to stop Carlos and I from going out for a walk after breakfast at the Boys & Girls Club, but it is enough to delay his departure until tomorrow.

Kate and Stephen sat with us during breakfast, only because of Carlos I suppose, to see him off. That was uncharacteristically thoughtful of them. He ran into them yesterday and told them he would leave for NW frontier this morning. Perhaps Coen and Vincent will arrive today and he can say goodbye to them too, although he only spent half a day with them so I suppose that doesn’t matter to him.

So we are walking around the central core looking for things of interest. There are a few mosques, but not of the dazzling character I found in Istanbul, Esfahan or even Kayseri. It doesn’t matter as my camera is still jammed with desert dust. Last night, I took out the roll of slide film I had in it to see if I could clean it somewhat myself. I can get the film to advance but I think there is a problem with my shutter, which sometimes opens. Regardless, there isn’t much to take remarkable pictures of here.

We look around for a camera or electronics shop, but the only repair place I see doesn’t specialize in cameras. I think it would be safer to wait until I am in a bigger city, like Rawalpindi or Lahore. I am also in the lookout for a used bookstore. There are a few of those but the only books they have in English are school textbooks. No thanks. I do browse through them in the store though. They look archaic.

The rain lets up in the afternoon. I have my first falafel as my digestive system in growing stronger. It goes down like an offering from Heaven. I worry a lot about Vincent and Coen and how they are managing. The manager of the Boys and Girls Club agrees to call the manager of their branch in Nushki to ask if Vincent is still staying there. The manager in Nushki returns a call after dinner, saying that he is and that Coen has just left the hospital. They will be checking out tomorrow.

Life is good once again. I am thrilled to know they are coming tomorrow and that Coen is OK, or at least OK enough to travel. It occurs to me this evening that tomorrow will be a week away from Christmas. I had almost forgotten this. In spite of the cold air at night, there is nothing Christmasy about this staunchly Muslim part of the world, other than the desert buses which I haven’t seen here. Mom will be worried about me having a good Christmas, though I rarely do anymore when I am at home in Canada.


PHOTO: shoppers on Quetta

20 years ago today - Day 288

Monday, December 16th - Quetta

I am definitely feeling better today. I have had a good sleep and a normal bowel movement - almost. I would be feeling even better except for two things. The first is that Carlos has decided to move on. He wants to explore the region north of here, between Quetta and Peshawar in the North West Frontier where the Khyber Pass is. He finds Quetta to be quite boring. Boring can be a good thing. I tell him. I have come to see adventure as a highly over-rated concept. But in spite of his run-in with Iranian forces, he still yearns for it. He plans to roll out of town tomorrow.

The second unpleasant occurrence was running into Kate and Stephen in the cafeteria of the Boys and Girls Club. Stephen asks how I am, and I say I am much better. "Thank you for being concerned," I say, somewhat sarcastically. We both know that neither of them are. "Did you make it to the bank on time on Saturday?" I ask him. Yes, he tells me. "Good, you should be able to pay for your own cigarettes now," I respond, staring Kate in the eye when she glares at me. They don't offer to pay back what they 'borrowed', although I have next to nothing and now they have lots. They don't invite me to sit with them and I don't ask to.

Other than that, it's a pretty quiet day. I walk around the neighbourhood of the Boys and Girls Club a few blocks in each direction looking for interesting distractions and architecture. Although Quetta is cleaner than Zahedan and the sidewalks more complete and even, there is not much to see. It doesn't matter much that my camera generally isn't working because there isn't much to take pictures of. There are several carpet stores and mini-markets that remind me of Chinatown in Vancouver, but I haven't found a bookstore where I might find something in English to read.

There are a couple of travelers, mostly Asians, who have spoken to me in the Boys and Girls Club, but there is no amenity room with a television or other meeting areas other than the cafeteria. I almost ran into Kate and Stephen again this afternoon, but I presume they saw me because they changed direction. I count my blessings.

I am down to $30 cash left.


PHOTO: winter in Quetta

20 years ago today - Day 287

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Sunday, December 15th - Quetta

My bowels are healing. This morning I still have a little discomfort and a minor bout of diarrhea, but this is much better than when my small intestine was bleeding in Esfahan. It clearly isn't a case of amoebic dysentery, which is what I was really afraid of. It seems strange that only Coen fell ill when most of us were sharing the same water. This bout started the day after he fell ill so I feared the worst, but one doesn't get over amoebic dysentery after a day and a half.

Still, I have to take it easy. There are so many types of bacteria in this part of the world that are foreign to my immune system, so the challenges keep coming. After my first serious illness in Iran, I am sure my immune system is racing in response, over-reacting to the attack. I will stick to yogurt and juice for now so not to acerbate the situation. Besides, I don't have any money to play with. I am down to my last $40. If Coen and Vincent don't make it to Quetta in the coming week, I will run out of money. I am really on thin ice in many ways - financially, medically, and socially. Interesting times!

I meet Carlos for a tea late morning after visiting the post office, where I left a message for Vincent telling him where we are staying. This is three days since Coen fell sick and he might not be ready to travel for another few days, if all goes well. Carlos is restless in a city. He prefers to be riding in open country. While he enjoys my company, he is used to being on his own and prefers to walk around the city alone. For my part, I don't care for walking around much today. I just want to recuperate

I make a trip to a local bank to discuss a way to resolve my lost bank card situation. They took my passport information and forwarded it to Visa with my signed request to replace my card. I paid a fee to them to send it by express post to my Canadian Visa Card office and requesting that they send it to Poste Restante in Rawalpindi, where we will need to go to apply for our Indian visitor visas. To get an advance, I will need to come in with Coen or Vincent, someone with valid bank cards, and discuss options. At least the first step has been made to re-establish my banking abilities, which feels good.


I haven't seen either Kate or Stephen all day, which is a treat. I spend the latter part of the afternoon reading back at the Boys and Girls Club. In the evening Carlos and I go out to look for something to eat. I order some soup and bread, keeping it simple. His falafel looks really good. Maybe I will try it tomorrow if all goes well with my digestion tonight.


PHOTO: Liaqat Bazaar in Quetta

20 years ago today - Day 286

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Saturday, December 14th - Shikh Wasil to Quetta, 15,329 km

What a cold morning! I am so weak that is a struggle to crawl out of my sleeping bag. If I was at home I wouldn't be getting out of bed, except to go to a hospital emergency. I feel like Death warmed over. I feel like a sick and abandoned child but I have no choice. Not only do I need to re-pack all my clothes into my panniers and roll up and secure my sleeping bag to my rear rack, but I need to change my bike's leaking rear tire. It is well below freezing and the work must be done with bare hands. I am so weak that it takes several tries and all the effort I can muster to pry the tire off the rim, and once the inner tube is patched (the glue on the patch has either dried or frozen instantly), all my effort to get the tire back on the rim. All of this takes me half an hour.

It is about 8:30 am when I am finished. Several people have passed me on their way to their work. They glance at me with curiosity while I struggled pathetically with the tire. I really doubted that I had enough strength but now that it is done and I have finished pumping up the tire I feel much better - a touch of pride but mostly a sense of relief. I rest for a minute on the frozen ground. At this point I can put my gloves back on.

Carlos appears while I am still resting. He is on his own, wheeling his bike with him. He is full of concern for me and helps me mount my rear wheel into position and load my panniers. Then he guides me as I struggle feebly to roll the loaded bike back to the road. Stephen and Kate have already left for Quetta, he says. They did not want to wait for me, using the excuse that they need to get to the bank in Quetta before it closes. I understand their financial concern. It's their lack of concern for me, knowing that I am seriously sick and spent the night sleeping on frozen ground. They could have dropped by to check on me before heading off but they just don't care about me, even though they have been using my limited cash to buy their cigarettes.

But Carlos promises to stay with me. He tells me that he and the Brits were offered a dry, unheated place to lay their sleeping bags, and then kept up most of the night by the townsfolk who used this as a reason to party all night, insisting that they drink with them. Probably they just wanted an excuse to stare at Kate in her cycling tights. Dumb bitch! I hope she is miserable today.

At first I can barely move my half-frozen legs fast enough to maintain a walking speed on the bike. Carlos stays close to me all the way until my strength improves incrementally. Beyond the town, there is a tea house and he suggests that, even though I cannot stomach food, we stop for a hot tea. The tea house is above the road, which has been rising as we leave the town. From its windows I have a partial view of the town we are leaving.

I am very fragile today. This is my lowest point of my whole trip. I cannot even focus on the seemingly unattainable goal of reaching Quetta by tonight. I am making it through this day minute by minute, hour by hour. I am on survival mode. I cannot remember ever being this low before.

After warming up for half an hour in the tea house, Carlos reminds me we must keep moving to reach Quetta. Unlike Kate, he makes sure I am ready to move on first. I am thinking I must have a guardian angel who introduced Carlos to our group at the last minute to save me from this crisis. I am also thinking that I would have been better to stay with Coen and Vincent in Nushki instead of attempting to cycle with the incredibly uncaring and selfish Brits. When I think about them my blood boils, which is probably a good thing on this cold morning.

So we are moving again. I am starting to feel human again, slowly, but it is still a struggle. I haven't digested any food for a day so I am not surprised. Carlos is still staying fairly close to me but at least I am able to get up to 15 km/hr. And so we continue for the next few hours as we draw closer and closer to Quetta, where I will be able to rest for a week while we wait for Coen and Vincent to arrive.

By late afternoon, we are nearing Quetta. Carlos feels more comfortable with my ability and is now riding 300 m ahead of me. Suddenly, I see two youths, about 15 or 16, chase after him and try to grab his bike. He bolts to get out of their range, barely escaping their grasp. One of the picks up a sizable stone and hurls it at him, narrowly missing his head. He disappears around a bend in the road having safely outrun them. They shrug and laugh and turn to walk back to where they started from. Then they see me.

They each pick up large stones and stand by the road, their faces filled with mischief and excitement as they wait to attack me as I pass. They are right at the side of the road and there is no way to safely get past them. The rocks they have picked up are large enough to knock me unconscious and I have to pass the youths at a very close range. I have no helmet for protection anymore, having given it to the Iranian cyclist in Esfahan. I cannot turn around for there is nowhere for me to return to, and if I don't continue, Carlos may return for me and be attacked again. I see no alternative but to proceed, with the probability of being seriously maimed or worse.

My strength is still seriously compromised but I give it all I can. I crank up my speed to 25 km/hr. They ready themselves to pounce at me as they prepare for the challenge, their broad smiles laced with determination. Ten metres before I reach them, I veer off the road to go behind them. They step back quickly to adjust to my maneuver, only to find that they have stepped right into my path as I am barreling towards them. They leap back out of my way, falling off the road backwards into a steep culvert. I veer back onto the road and keep moving without looking back. They scramble back up the embankment after I have passed. A few seconds later I see the fist-sized stones they held bouncing along the pavement beside me.

I continue around the curve and out of sight. I find Carlos waiting for me rather anxiously half a kilometre further along. I stop and explain how I outwitted my attackers and we share a laugh. The rush of adrenaline from the close encounter is all I need to carry me the rest of the way into Quetta. From this point onwards I can keep up with Carlos. The sign for the city limits appears two kilometres further along. Incredibly, I have made it, just barely, to my destination city at the end of the valley. Since I have not seen the bodies of Kate or Stephen lying by the roadside along the way I assume they have made it too. Now we only have to wait for Coen and Vincent.

Quetta, a city of a million people, is the capital and by far the largest city in Baluchistan. It sprawls endlessly. The streets are wide. Even the core looks like a low-rise suburb, but there are trees and some attempt at urban design in places, making it much more pleasant looking than Zahedan. It is doesn't look anywhere like its actual size, other than that it goes on forever. This place and the Khyber Pass north of here marked the western end of the British Empire in India. The British reached here in 1876. In 1931, a massive quake leveled the city, including all of the multi-storied buildings, killing 40,000 people. I suppose the city has felt safer with low-rise buildings since then.

I see the post office and Carlos watches the bikes while I go in to ask where the Boys and Girls Club is located. They give me the address and directions how to get there. Again, it turns out to be a clean, comfortable looking place. I see on the registry that Stephen Brown and Kate Simpson have already arrived here. I make sure Carlos and I are assigned to a different room. Hopefully, I won't see them again, or at least for a few days. Perhaps by then my anger will have settled down.

I am still weak but I feel the need to eat something. Carlos accompanies me to a local store where we buy groceries to make a couple meals on our own. I buy myself yogurt and juice to ease my bowels back into digesting food. So far my Imodium has settled my stomach since last night. After eating our simple meal, I crawl into my sleeping bag and spend the rest of my evening there. Carlos goes out and I do not hear him when he returns.

20 years ago today - Day 285

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Friday, December 13th - Nushki to Shikh Wasil, 15,270 km

It's a reluctant and anxious goodbye I share with Vincent this morning. I am anxious about Coen, of course, but equally anxious about riding alone with Stephen and Kate who have no interest in my needs or well-being.

Carlos and I are ready first but we have to wait two hours for Kate and Stephen to shop for supplies at the market. Kate is wearing just her cycling shorts and jersey again, begging for trouble. I swear, she must be the world's first surviving brain donor. The wait makes me anxious because it will be noon before we get started and I don't want to be riding after dark.

The route to Quetta climbs out of the depression that Nushki sits in with slow, winding twists. Kate tries to stay well ahead of me, and Stephen stays with her, but they are smokers and not in as good shape as I am. Still, I stay a ways beside her so she doesn't have to look at me and we don't have to interact much. I am not feeling well today. I am having some sour burps and my energy is low. The highway passes through a series of low hills and valleys. My sourness and weakness increases. To add to my increasing misfortune, my rear tire has developed a slow leak for the first time since Belgium.



I stop to pump up my tire. I have no time to change it. The others don't wait for me and I don't want to be left behind. I race as fast as can to catch up with them so I can ask for 10 minutes to change the tire. I see them waiting for me half a kilometre ahead, but as soon as they see me they take off again before I am in shouting range. Before I can make up the distance between us I need to stop of pump up my tire again.

This continues for two hours, but by this point the leak has worsened and I have to stop every two kilometres to pump up the tire again. I have had to stop at least ten times. I would have stopped and changed the tire while it was still light, but that was because it was growing dark and I presumed we would stop at the next town, the only one nearby I saw on the map. Apparently, Kate did not like the looks of this town and they continued past it. Now it is too dark to see to change a tire, and even too dark to read my map.



I am getting much sicker too, and feeling much weaker because of it. I have cramps, lots of sourness, queasiness and I think I might have a fever since I have started shaking. I know now that I will be sick soon but I do my best to continue as long as I can. I cannot see anything ahead of me anymore. I have turned on my feeble headlight on this otherwise darkened road, which helps me see the next few metres. Road traffic is almost non-existent. If there was any, I might see the other riders ahead. I use the detachable headlight to see while I pump up my tire again. The temperature is almost down to freezing. I feel the sting of the cold wheel rim as I use the tire pump.

It has been totally dark for two hours now. I haven't seen the others for more than half an hour. The temperature is still dropping, my sickness worsening and the road has been climbing through a low pass. As it crosses the pass, there are hills on either side of me. I hear someone shout at me from a hill top nearby, shouting something in either Baluch or Urdu, the official language of Pakistan. I think he is shouting at me. If I reply, they will want to engage me. I take a gamble and keep riding. If it is a military outpost, they may have night goggles and might shoot at me, or perhaps they are smugglers. Either way, I am hoping they will not be bothered enough to chase after me. Whoever it is, he shouts at me a couple more times, but I keep riding. My gamble pays off.

Another half hour has passed. I am still riding in the pitch black alone. I am shaking from the cold and my fever, and I know I cannot make it much further. The road has been dropping from the pass in a fairly straight line and I begin to see the glow of a settlement in the distance. I think I can make it. As I approach it I see the silhouettes of Stephen, Kate and Carlos waiting at the side of the road for me. I am relieved, but quite pissed off too.

I don't have the strength for making a scene, but I do ask the Brits why they didn't wait for me. They don't really answer, clearly being peeved with me for keeping them waiting. I wouldn't have kept you waiting if you had given me enough time to change my tire, I say, but they aren't listening. They ask what I want to do now. I tell them I am feverish and am going to be sick. I ask Carlos to hold my bike while I struggle across a frozen field to go behind a cinder block tool shed 50 m off the road, where I crouch down on the leeward side and shit my brains out.

I stumble back to the road. Kate has run out of patience for me - not that she ever has any - and announces that they are going into the neighbouring village to ask for a place to stay for the night. I wish them luck. The village has no apparent signage or retail strips - no western amenities - which is fine, but the arrival of foreigner visitors is likely to trigger off a party that will drag into the wee hours. I don't have the strength to wander around with them in the village and I know they won’t wait for me. They don’t have much choice but to go in anyway. I can't go any further, I tell them, and say I will camp on the ground behind the cinder block tool shed, the only nearby shelter from the biting wind I can see. Carlos is the only one showing any compassion for me. Without prompting, he promises to come back for me in the morning.

I watch them start off towards the town. I suddenly feel horribly alone. My insides feel very hollow but I am trembling from weakness and the cold. I retrace my steps back to the tool shed, pushing my bike with its half-flat rear tire over the hard, uneven field. I dread what comes next. I must sleep on the leeward side of the shed, not only for protection from the wind, but so that my bike and I are not immediately visible from the road. I do not want to be attacked and robbed in the night. But earlier, before I considered where I might spend the night, I used this same spot to empty the rancid liquid contents of my bowels. Instead of shitting at one end of the wall, I chose a spot right in the dead centre of the base of the wall. Now I must sleep here.

The tool shed is about four metres long, which leaves me less than two metres on either side of the noxious brown lava flow. My sleeping pad and bag barely fit on one side and there is room for my bike on the other. I unpack all my clothing and stuff it into my sleeping bag for extra insulation, since it is not built for temperatures below zero, and tonight it will likely be at least -8C (about 18F). I tuck myself deep inside it and fold the top over itself, leaving just enough of an air hole that I will get some fresh air.

I am comfortable and on the edge of unconsciousness when it suddenly occurs to me that my bike could be stolen easily during the night by anyone who might have seen me roll it behind the shed, or even in the morning before I wake. With a Herculean effort, I extricate my weakened body from my cozy bag. I carefully stretch the strings at the bottom of the bag over the steaming diarrhea to the front wheel of my bike, being careful not to touch it, so I will be immediately alerted if the bike is moved. Then I hurry back into the comfy zone of my insulated bag and drift into sleep.


PHOTO 1: the road climbing out of Nushki
PHOTO 2: camels silhouetted at sunset