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Monday, December 9th - Yekmech to Dalbandin, 14,980 km
We aren't in a major hurry this morning. Stephen comes down to join the Dutch boys and me in setting up our bikes and browsing through the mini-store. Kate like to "luxuriate" in bed a while longer, Stephen tells us. In my mind, I see her spread out in the bed like a swastika.
We are one the road by 10:30, which is fine for our shorter trip today. By then the air has warmed up considerably. We set out together and do a better job of staying together, physically and spiritually. None of us feel any pressure to perform today.
At this point of the valley the mountains on either side are closing in and the floor flattening out so that it looks more like a broad valley. Dalbandin appears in the distance, centered in the lowest point on of the valley ahead. At first, it looks like a possible mirage, a rough spot in the valley's carpet, but soon enough we see more and more green. It is an oasis town, and it looks like something out of a movie about the French Foreign Legion in Morocco with its baked brick buildings glowing in the sun.
We are spotted approaching too, and we are given a traditional Baluch welcome. Children of the town gather by the highway and hurls rocks at us. I suppose, with a lack of malls or television, this substitutes for entertainment. Fortunately, the children in Baluchistan have never played baseball and they have terrible aim. None of the stones find their mark, although there must have over fifty of them thrown.
Dalbandin loses some of its mystic splendour once we enter the town. It deteriorates into clutter and noise, the hubris of human activity. But it is wonderful because we haven't had any of this since Zahedan, and Zahedan has none of Dalbandin's charm. Part of the charm consists of the trees that line the streets in the residential sections, which we also have seen little of for weeks.
Our first goal is to find the Boys and Girls Club of Pakistan, an arm of Boy Scouts and Girls Guides, which runs the cleanest and safest hostels in Pakistan. The hotelier in Yekmech recommended we look for it in Dalbandin. When Lord Baden-Powell created the Scouts movement in Canada it spread around the world. When it reached Pakistan, which loves formality and ceremony, it found its most fertile ground. It has become a major land and property holder in Pakistan, and it is highly respected. The rooms we take are affordable and cleaned with military-styled pride. Lovely!
We change and walk around the town to check it out. The one thing that grabs us more than anything else is a willow we have never seen before. It doesn't appear unusual or extraordinary in any way, except that when the wind passes through it, it makes the sound of running water. It's that familiar and compelling sound that grabs our attention and gets us looking for a stream nearby that doesn't exist. When we realize it is coming from the tree, we stand like apes before the monolith in "2001, A Space Odyssey" trying to understand how it does this. Of course, it just is, so we just stand in its shade to wallow in the comfort of that soothing. Kate dubs it the "magic tree".
Since Nok Kundi, when the guard offered us free drugs that we refused, Stephen and Vincent have been hankering for some local ganja, or hashish paste. They don't tell me until after dinner that they have made contact with a dealer and they have an address they need to visit this evening to make the purchase. This is making me very anxious. I have nothing against buying or using hash or pot at home, but in a dangerous environment, where the police could be involved with the scam and where white Europeans are perceived as rich targets, anything could happen. I offer to go with them and wait outside the house while they make the purchase, in case something terrible happens.
The location is a few blocks away. I can see they love the excitement of the deal as we walk the distance, like this is some kind of game. I wait patiently a short distance away so I am not noticed by the dealers when Stephen and Vincent are invited in. Nothing happens for some time, which is creepy, like a film noir. There are no gun shots or screams, but then perhaps their throats were slit quickly. But I know, even though it is a small purchase, nothing happens here without offering tea and mother's homemade treats or perhaps a pipe full of ganja. Eventually they emerge with a rather large square of ganja for five US$. I am relieved, except that I don't think we should be at the disadvantage of being stoned while traveling through this part of the world. They wouldn't listen to me anyway so I don't offer them advice. Perhaps I worry too much.
We return to the Boys and Girls Club. Vincent entertains with the story of how the deal went down. It sounds pretty tame compared to my imagined concerns. Having the dope in hand, I can see they are anxious to use it when riding tomorrow. It will be a two day ride to the city of Nushki, a total of 200 km. We will pick up supplies at the market before we head off.
PHOTO 1: the mountains are closing in
PHOTO 2: shortly before Dalbandin
PHOTO 3: main street of Dalbandin
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