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Friday, December 6th - Mirjaweh to east of Taftan, Pakistan, 14,712 km
After last night’s decision to cross the border two days before the train comes, I asked to borrow Vincent’s Lonely Planet Guide to Western Asia, our travel Bible for this part of the world, to read about the Pakistani side. Like early explorers who thought the world was flat, I have been fearing, at every border crossing since Europe, that I would fall off the edge of the civilized world. Bulgaria, Turkey and Iran were all better than northern Greece and (dare I say) better than many parts of Canada. But finally, I am convinced, I have reached that point at the border of Pakistan.
The Guide gives a description of Taftan as a smugglers’ den, devoid of children, women, schools and the attributes of normal towns its size. It is comprised of smoldering heaps of half-burnt garbage and millions of flies, which is what greets us within a kilometre of crossing the border. Beyond that, the town has a haphazard layout, lacking of any formal planning, and has the overall appearance of a massive junkyard. There is no pavement – only dirt roads.
The Guide also says we might see smugglers with machine guns over their shoulders fading in from the vast desert beyond. We didn’t see them but we did see a huddle of activity around the bus depot. It is mostly an open air affair, with winter cold and dust storms being the only need for a terminal. Regardless, they don’t have one.
Pakistani buses are the most exotic thing one can see in this desert. They look like a tube with ends, with rounded sides which, beyond the filthy windows that don’t open, are covered with ornately shaped silver frames, each of which defines a vibrant painting, often in psychedelic colours. There are dozens of them on each bus. Their wheels have heavy tread to handle the desert sand, and on top there is a shallow-sided rack to carry luggage or cargo. Some are transporting iron scraps or agricultural products, and one in town today is carrying plastic lawn chairs. They are known to turn off the highway to deliver their cargo at rendezvous with smugglers in the desert.
The Guide tells us, as we see for ourselves later, they are decorated with Christmas lights and have hot pink, yellow and green (the colours young school kids wear) antennae thrusting skyward from their front bumpers to bring in radio stations, which they blare from loudspeakers as they plough through the desert nights like prehistoric glow-in-the-dark caterpillars. The safety of luggage placed on the top rack cannot be vouched for so it is best to be kept with you – on top of you on your seat because the buses are always full. The aisles may be filled with crops and contraband when there is too much to fit on top of the bus. They have no air condition, and (get this) no suspension. The trip to Quetta is ten hours long. There are no washrooms. Getting in and out at stops along the way might be a serious challenge and if you don’t have all you luggage with you it might not be there when you return. But the buses are amazing to look at.
I suppose it doesn’t matter what any of us thought about taking a bus once Kate decided she wouldn’t get on one, but no one disputed her decision. We all had serious concerns when we saw how the bus driver threw luggage onto the roof like bails of hay. Our bikes could not fit inside and would likely be broken with that treatment. They might not even be there when we arrive in Quetta if they are tossed off unceremoniously at one of the stops.
It is still two days until the weekly train comes so we discuss staying in Taftan for two nights. The Guide, which always lists places to stay, contains only one word – Don’t!That leaves only one option – cycling off into the desert. They can’t seriously be considering this, I think to myself. There is no town for 130 km (and it doesn’t look like much of one on the map) and we have not stocked up on food and water.
There are no stores in “town” where we can buy supplies. 75% of Alexander the Great’s army died of thirst in this desert, and they stocked up beforehand. The only “highway” to the east is an unpaved sand trail, and bicycles and sand are a bad combination, especially mine which has narrower tires. Then adding to this, the Guide says no one should enter this region without armed police escort because it is controlled by smugglers, not the Pakistani authorities.
But that is what the group decides to do, though I would have chosen to return to Mirjaweh for two more days. At least we could stock up. Coen, in his goofy, friendly way, engages the curious smugglers in a broken conversation and they offer to cook us a meal of fried potatoes, which tastes delicious. I gush my thanks upon them so they will be less apt to attack us later.
And then off we go. I get at least 300 m before my tires begin to sink into the sand, and from that point they sink in every five to ten metres. I try going faster but I almost go flying over the handlebars when I hit a deep pocket of sand. At best, I can average about five kilometres per hour, and that pace is exhausting. The others manage better with their wide tires, but their frequent stops for cigarette breaks allows me to catch up. Coen stays with me so I won’t be cycling alone.
At about 11 km we reach a military outpost, a small building with about a dozen soldiers. They have a well. Kate is leery of it, thinking she might get amoebic dysentery. No one can become immune to amoebic dysentery, I tell her, and since the soldiers are drinking it it is safe for us too. It has taken us two hours to make it this far and we have used up all the water we have so, we take time to fill up every water container. Now at least we will only die of starvation, not thirst.
We continue on for another three hours. By this time it is 5 pm and the sun has already set. There is no sign of habitation as far as the eye can see, but there is a cinder-block shepherd’s hut 50 m off the road. Vincent says we should break into it and Stephen concurs. I agree that we will freeze to death if we don’t as the temperature is dropping rapidly now that the sun is gone. The wind is picking up too and it will be well below freezing soon.
Vincent manages to break the lock on the only window and, being the slightest and most agile of us, he climbs in through the window and opens the door for us. We wheel our bikes inside where we can guard them and spread our gear out on the dirt floor. Kate and Stephen make tea for us. Their small gas camping stove throws a tiny light which helps us see inside but is probably to faint be seen from the road. Half an hour after dinner, they turn it off to save fuel so we are talking in the dark. Kate is telling us that she won’t wear the cover when she’s off the bike anymore. In fact, she intends to tear in up into strips and use it as ass wipe between here and Quetta.
Against the odds, we have ventured thirty kilometres into the desert and have found fresh water and a safe place for the night. The others are happy to be here, as I am, but none of them have expressed any concern for the serious risk we have put ourselves in. “Netsimukelut (piece of cake),” Vincent shouted as we set off into the desert. There is still a hundred kilometres to go to get to Nok Kundi and we are running out of food. We have eaten almost all of what we were carrying for tonight’s meal. Vincent will be begging for the piece of cake before we get there. All I know is that I, for one, don’t need to be on a diet.
PHOTO 1: coming into Taftan
PHOTO 2: main street, Taftan
PHOTO 3: Taftan's bus depot
PHOTO 4: a painted lorry in Taftan
PHOTO 5: detail on the side of a lorry
PHOTO 6: a friendly smuggler and his scooter
PHOTO 7: boy and boy love, friends in Taftan
PHOTO 8: unsurfaced road into the desert
PHOTO 9: the endless desert
PHOTO 10: our route to Quetta
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