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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
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