You've Gone Too Far This Time, Sir!

by Danny Bent

  As we strolled home through the old town, we saw a number of police storm an Uyghur house with the people protesting outside receiving the raw end police batons as the price of their interference.

  Throughout Kashkar, if Uyghurs voice discontent at their treatment, they are branded as at least ungrateful and as, at worst, separatists or terrorists, and treated accordingly. The Chinese used September the Eleventh as an excuse to round up all the leaders in Uyghur Muslim society and execute them.

  There has been fleeting international interest from the media on the trials and tribulations of the Uyghur community under the Chinese government, but this media attention is always short-lived. Many put this down to the fact that the Uyghur people are Muslims rather than Buddhists, like the Tibetans, whose treatment provokes continuing international outcry.

  I had hoped to pass through Tibet to Nepal, and then India, but with riots all over Xing Jang and the anniversary of the fifty year occupation of Tibet, no tourists were being given alien permits allowing them to travel freely. I considered my options. Should I take a trip to Pakistan, a highly unstable country in the grip of terrorism, should I try to make my way across Tibet chased by the military, or should I fly to straight to India?

  Chapter 27

  As Shirley and I pulled out of the hostel, Hai called me back. As he opened his arms wide, I realised he wanted a hug. Wonderful.

  Matt was leaving for a flight to Vietnam where he intended to build a boat and learn to sail. Katya and Cedric had hired bikes from the market and were joining me until lunch time. They said they needed some exercise and wanted to see me safe. They were worried about me going to Pakistan. Sharing a breakfast of lagma, then seeing them suffering on their bikes just so that we could spend a little extra time together, was amazing. Their legs soon got tired. Cedric held onto my bike, Katya held onto Cedric's, and we managed a few more miles together. Eventually they had to say bye and head back. They knew they would be aching in the morning but still they smiled and joked as we had a group hug and went our separate ways.

  Making my way towards Karakul Lake, a popular tourist destination famed for its unreal scenery and the clarity of its reflection in the water - mirroring the mountains that remain snow-covered all year round - I took a road that felt as though it led nowhere.

  As I rode around a river, I heard a call. “Hello, hello, over here!” Two people were waving from a spit leading to the water's edge.

  A German couple with family, kids and mortgage had retired, sold their house and were touring the world by bicycle on the profits. Hans sported a full-blown white beard and an ageing body warmer that had probably seen every continent on the planet. Eva was still incredibly youthful after three kids and a taxing career. She moved like someone in her twenties, jumping up to get more ingredients, or bowls or plates to serve with. They’d popped their tent right next to the river and had built a fire. I pitched up next to them. We talked about our experiences and plans for the future whilst cooking our dinner. They had somehow managed to rustle up a three course lunch. I, having picked up some pasta in Kashkar, ate pasta surprise. At around 11 o’clock we saw torch lights up on the hill meandering down to where we were. Was it the Chinese police? We were in serious trouble if it was. The people came closer, seating themselves near the fire in silence. Using arm movements, they communicated that we should cover up the fire when we slept. They were simply farmers scared of forest fires.

  The following morning, as we ate breakfast, Hans switched on the World Service on his long wave radio. It was the first contact I’d had with the world outside of China since arriving there. From Xing Jang province the Chinese had banned Internet and phone calls outside of the country. I’d asked Katja to call my mum as they were leaving that night for Beijing where phone and internet rights still existed, just to let her know I was safe and well and on my way to Pakistan.

  Breakfast was more pasta for me, and porridge with fruit, honey and nuts for Hans and Eva. It was a beautiful day. The sound of the river was the bass, the wind in the trees the treble. The sun shone brightly and the air was crisp with the incoming winter. Wrapped up warm, we all suddenly stopped. The presenter was stating that war had broken out in Pakistan. The Pakistani army was launching an offensive against the Taliban in the northern areas that I would be visiting. The initial thought that crossed my mind was that my mum would be receiving a call just about now from Katya saying I was heading to Pakistan at the same time that the newspapers and TV were showing the bloody consequences of war in the area.

  With the radio blaring I couldn’t think straight. The gun fire. The explosions. I decided to get on my bike and head off so I could retreat into my own world and work out what to do. I was not allowed into Tibet - now Pakistan too? Surely I’d be turned round at the border if things were too hairy.

  That night I hoped to reach Karakul and sleep in one of the yurts that occupy its shore, lie next to a warm fire and eat cooked food. The lake is at four thousand metres again, so it was a steep ascent all the way. Every few pedal strokes I needed to stop and regain my breath. The altitude was starving me of oxygen and I couldn’t function very well without it.

  The days were getting short now and, before I knew it, the sun was dropping to the horizon. I knew that Karakul Lake wasn’t far ahead so I kept on. The reflections off the snow were keeping the darkness away as the sun dropped behind the mountains and, with this, the temperatures plummeted. It was literally freezing. An hour later I was wondering whether I had somehow missed the lake. Were my distances correct? I couldn’t risk it. Soon the road and I would turn to ice. Darkness was now complete. Nestled behind a wooden stable, I put up the tent and tried to boil water for tea and noodles. The lack of oxygen in the air meant the flame was very weak and I ended up soaking the noodles in lukewarm water and ditching the idea of tea altogether. I had managed to get the water from a pump in a local village, confident that in these surroundings there would be nothing to pollute it.

  Tucked up in my down sleeping bag, I fell fast asleep whilst all around me turned white. I awoke to a frozen sleeping bag and my tent frozen both inside and out. Thanks again, Cotswold - I was super warm!

  The silence made me feel like I was inside one of those glass Christmas balls you get which contain beautiful winter scenery and which you shake to generate artificial snowfall. Everything was totally silent. When I touched the top of the tent, the frost flaked and fell, hovering on my heat thermals before landing beside me. It was like the ball had been shaken to create a blizzard inside.

  * * *

  Once the tent and my belongings had defrosted, I packed up and got on my way. I cycled for approximately five hundred metres before rounding a bend. The sight that greeted me was absolutely stunning, a wide open flat expanse framed by white-tipped mountains and, as its main feature, Karakul Lake. I’d given up last night about three minutes too early. The lake was breathtaking. I walked through a paifang (the typical Chinese archway made of two ornately colourful pillars supporting a roof type structure) as I pulled off the road and approached the water's edge. In the distance I could see yurts with smoke rising from their chimneys.

  Even this short cycle had allowed the bite of the mountain air to take hold of me and I decided to try to find a yurt serving some food and warming chai. A light-skinned man wearing the typical Uyghur hat greeted me and motioned for me to sit down by the fire. My wet gloves were taken from me and set out to dry. The smell in the yurt was intense. Yak dung had been used to insulate the house and yet more was dried and used as fuel for the fire. This, along with the distinctive taste of yak milk, was enough. The tea was salted as well. Wow – taste sensation of the bad variety, although it served well enough to soften the dry bread I was served for breakfast. Four other tourists had shared this yurt last night but had headed off early to Pakistan, so other people were making their way there too. Did they know about the war?

  Concrete yurts also lined the side of the road. I guess the traditional felt and wooden yurt
s wouldn’t handle the extreme weather at this altitude. The landscape changed as the altitude dropped. I found myself in a desert of silver sand. It gave off a glimmer like fairy dust, the sand dunes looking like velvet in the shimmering sun.

  I was pulled over by the Chinese police. I was worried about the photos I’d taken holding a hamburger with a large statue of Chairman Mao in the background so that it looked like he was holding it. They told me to get my camera out but only so that they could pose for pictures with the fabulous landscape in the background. I asked them if there was anywhere I could eat and they pointed to a village just off the main road where there was a celebration going on. I passed a lady in traditional formal dress comprising a red skull cap with silver coins hanging over her eyes and a red sari with silver lace wrapped around her head and body. Nervously three men sat next to each other on a bench outside, scowling at me as I walked past in my Lycra and smelly gear.

  In the home I was greeted by two people whom I assumed were the mother and father of the girl in red. A table was laid with all sorts of delicious goodies. They asked me a variety of questions about my life in England and my trip. Nodding and smiling, I stuffed my face with whatever I could get my hands on. The parents then turned their attention one by one to the other men waiting outside.

  I suddenly realised that the parents were looking for a suitor for their daughter. I was the first to be interviewed. No wonder the other guys looked a bit cheesed off as I walked past.

  As I left, the father said something along the lines of 'Don't call us, we'll call you', so all you ladies are still in luck. I haven't been married off yet.

  Arriving in Tashkurgan, the Chinese border town, I met Ali from the Old City Guesthouse in Kashkar. Travelling with Matt, a gem hunter, they’d left Kashkar that morning and were heading to Pakistan tomorrow. Ali was as sick as a dog, having to run into the street to vomit every few minutes, but somehow she remained in good spirits.

  At the Chinese border no one ventures past the border post by foot or cycle or motor bike. All are placed in extortionately priced buses that take you to the Pakistani border. Unhappy at having to take any part of the trip by anything other than bicycle, I had to come to terms with it. It wasn’t very far and I guessed I’d be able to forget about it.

  The next morning we were woken at 6pm by loud announcements in Chinese over the tannoy system. An Aussie, who was sleeping when we arrived and again when we got back at night, announced it was the Chinese call for exercise which made us all giggle in our tired state.

  I met the bus driver who was destined to take me to the Pakistani border. He told me to cycle to the border post and meet him there. Leaving my gear with Matt who would be riding the bus from the hostel, I cycled to the edge of town. No one stopped me so I carried on looking for a big Chinese border. I regretted not asking the bus driver how far the border was.

  Carrying on, I stopped a car and asked “Border control?”. I was met with perplexed shrugs of the shoulders. “Passport?” As I mentioned the word, a realisation hit me. Matt had my passport. What if I’d taken a wrong turning and he was on his way to Pakistan? Shit! The driver smiled in recognition of the word and held up ten fingers eight times - eighty yards, eighty kilometres? I carried on and asked again. They replied this time “Tashkurgan”. Had I cycled past the border? I’d cycled about fifteen kilometres since the edge of the town. Turning, the men nodded in agreement and pointed back the way I’d come.

  I pedalled like crazy, I was shouting at myself, at the surroundings, at the Chinese authorities. I swore over and over. When I arrived back at the edge of town it was a hive of activity. Matt and Ali were in no man's land between the two countries like me - in a wire mesh pen. So was the bus, my belongings and my passport. Skirting the barrier that now lay across the road, I motioned for Matt to come to the fence and give me my handlebar bag. As he handed it over, a soldier ran at us with his gun aimed and his finger on the trigger. Were we smuggling? I pulled out my passport in the nick of time and he made me give the bag back to Matt. The bus driver was shouting at me to hurry up, completely frantic. I made my way through customs, accepting all the excess charges that the border guards seized the opportunity to apply.

  The bus driver scowled as I came through as though my delay had cost him dearly. The entire luggage from his bus was on the floor as the Chinese guards rifled through it to ensure no smuggling was taking place. Two hours later we were still there. The bus driver had been placated with the large stock of sweets I’d hoarded just in case I encountered trouble in Pakistan. The soldiers still looked at each other each time Matt and I spoke, and I was far from relaxed.

  Eventually the luggage was loaded back on. I was told to wait with Shirley and, in the end, the bus was too full for me to take. I had to wait for another as Matt and Ali waved at me and passed over the horizon. I got a Pakistani bus which I shared with a fat Pakistani who was all smiles and laughter and who sat next to the driver talking incessantly at him. The only other passenger was a man with a turban wrapped around his head and a beard that hung down to his waist. He had dark eyes and simply stared at me…

  Chapter 28

  As the bus filled with exhaust fumes and the cold crept through every crack and crevice, my two companions were talking of the war. I heard talk of bombs, the Taliban and the US. When I asked them what they were talking about, they said “Business.”

  Taking me to one side, the fat man said it wasn’t safe in the tribal areas on the road from Gilgit to Islamabad. The tribal people, he motioned with his head towards our other passenger, didn’t understand the idea of cycling for fun. I would be taking a massive risk to cycle this route. The road was rough and the people were equally rough to match.

  In this mountainous area of Pakistan, there had been constant fighting for ten years. That August, Baitullah Mehsud, the leader of the Taliban in Pakistan, had been killed in a drone attack. That October, the Taliban, to show they were still a united fighting force, had started a string of attacks in cities across Pakistan. The Pakistani Army retaliated with a large-scale offensive soon afterwards, taking towns from the Taliban but also those from under Islamic Uzbek fighters' control.

  Undecided as to whether I would cross the border, I was still slowly being taken towards it by my Pakistani bus, imagining bullets and bombs whistling through the air from all sides, extremist fundamentalists looking to make examples of any Western infidels they discovered in their country.

  The bus passed under a paifang archway and entered Pakistan.

  * * *

  As I stepped off the bus, the first thing I noticed was the lack of road. Which way should I go to get to Pakistan? The Chinese border guard pointed in a southerly direction where I could make out a rough track of stones and boulders which looked like a dry river bed. That was my road?

  This pass was the second highest I’d been in in my life at 5,000 metres – five kilometres - above sea level. It was dwarfed by the surrounding peaks, grey monsters sprouting all around me with snow white hats covering their peaks. It must have been very cold up there. My panniers were almost empty; I was wearing every piece of clothing I owned. If there had been people to see me, they would have recognised the Michelin man cycling on a little bicycle that he seemed to consume in all his layers. Little storms of steam bellowed from my nostrils like a cross dragon as I took short breaths.

  Luckily the slope was so steep there was absolutely no need to pedal. As I sat on the seat, zombified by the altitude and its consequences on my body, I discovered that, as I got lower, my pulse lessened, my oxygen levels rose, the carbon dioxide poisoning in my blood dissipated, and my sensors came back into action. As I whooped, with my legs out like a kid, the sheep looking on no doubt couldn’t believe their eyes. I wasn’t sure if I could believe mine. Swerving around one corner, I came across a large bony sheep with long arching horns. Later I was told that they are a very rare breed and that you have to be lucky to see one. Americans come each year to Pakistan to hunt these sheep, p
aying $5,000 for one shot at them. If they miss, that’s it; game over. If they score a hit, the sheep can earn them ten times the fee when they take it back to America. The sheep are so rare the government only issues twenty permits a year but the locals are known to poach them owing to the huge price they can raise on the black market. These fees are nothing compared with the $25,000 people pay for one shot at the Marco Polo sheep, a beautiful white beast with huge twisted horns. They earn up to $200,000 for their trophy back in the US. The lamb chops had better be good.

  Clouds began to envelop the mountains and run down the valleys like locusts, consuming everything they came across. My visibility was starting to drop. Rounding a corner, I crashed into the back of a bus. There was a hold up. The best thing about bikes is that you can squeeze through little gaps and I was soon at the front. The locals travelling by bus were huddled together, wrapped in their woollen blankets that became the distinguishing feature of the Northern Pakistanis. Sharing food and cigarettes, they chatted without a care in the world. The fact that they may be delayed for hours wasn’t an issue. I remembered people on the M1 during my last visit to my grandparents. A lorry had shed its load and there were tailbacks all the way up the road in both directions. People were hooting their horns, swearing under their breath, brandishing their fists and pulling out their hair with the stress of the delay.