It seems ages ago since my last night in Pakistan which I shall remember for a long while! On was still on a come down from the 3 weeks I had spent in north Pakistan and was feeling very fit.

I looked up Chris’ sufi night in Lahore. Got the train from Islamabad on the last day, arrived in Lahore station at 10pm leaving there my bike and luggage and set out for an all night sufi night, where two drum beaters kept a dozen Sufis in trance until the early hours. I got back to the bike in the morning and pedaled the 40km or so to the border, and the remaining 20kms to Amritsar, home of the Sikhs. Here I met up with Chris after us not seeing each other for a month or so. Chris left for the mountains and I went straight to Delhi from where Sarah, my girlfriend, and I would go for a holiday (yes I know, from the holiday, very funny!).

For me, the arrival at Delhi represented the end of a first chapter in the 360ways book.  When building this project Christopher and myself talked of every new day as being a new page in the book of life.

 And I believe that this is been brought to us is perspective by our cycling trip from one country to the next with all that is involved. Just the fact of not being at home puts this into perspective.

There are pages in our lives, and therefore there must also be chapters.

I see Paris-Delhi as being the first chapter: cycling from the “Fete du Velo 2004” monsoon India whilst getting a lot done. “Just before the end of the first chapter, Christopher and Peter separate, deciding each to go their ways.”.

To develop the plot, circumstances meet the moment, the initial itinerary we decided on can no longer stand due to the fact that overland entry into Burma is impossible. Neither of us are therefore tied to a given direction and we are now free to ourselves, to the journey, and to writing the pages of chapter 2. Which are the pages of the 360ways book, but also those of Christopher and Peter’s lives.

I invited Sarah to come to join me in Delhi. Rishi, our main man in Mumbai, India, came with the helping hand and contacted James, an English friend of his, who stored my bicycle for the time I was going to spend with Sarah. Thanks to you both, my holiday would not have been the same, with the bicycle!

And indeed a holiday it turned out to be! A holiday from riding by bicycle to the benefit of enjoying the pleasures of conventional tourism! And to be honest, I adapted well.

Sarah, fresh from euroland, treated me to an all inclusive holiday. As soon as we were at the airport, I realized that negotiating rickshaw prices was going to be a harder matter, as for one we were at the airport, for two we were far too clean and three, our bags too expensive looking.

It took me a good week to stop going crazy each time Sarah accepted a rickshaw price. Before then I would turn round saying, ‘buts that is 10 times the amount this person derserves’. But slowly, day by day, I accepted these things for being a rich western tourist, and realized I simply wanted to have a good time with my girlfriend, as I was on holiday!

We went to Agra, saw the Taj Mahal, the red fort, walked around casually, taking pictures of ourselves, of the monkeys, the engravings in the walls. On the way out, locals harass us with their tourist good, we buy a small backgammon set.  In the lonely planet guidebook, I now found myself skipping the budget accommodation pages, especially when in the Rajasthan chapter.

We found a chauffeur driven car to take us around Rajasthan, where we had romantic times visiting the cities such as Udaipur, Jodhpur, Jaisalmer and a few others. I couldn’t help but cringe as our chauffeur, Lucky, went full speed past innocent cyclists on the way.

When our car got stopped by road-side camel people, and one of them got into the car and began bargaining with us on how much we should pay for a 15 minute camel ride. I had to shut my eyes, oh no not a tourist camel ride where you’ll probably meet another fat tourist on the way back from seeing something you can get to probably faster were you to walk. Whilst I was going insane in the back of the car shouting ‘let me out, let me out’, Sarah vindictively encouraged the situation by saying ‘no, not 500 roupees, 400!’. So I sat back and relaxed on top of a camel and trotted off to the nearest sand dune where cold cocacola and musicians awaited us!

Rajasthan is the place every repectable couple should pay a visit to. We were at the off-season time during the first month of the monsoon which is a good time to visit (cheaper, cooler and not too much rain).

Further north in India we visited  Shimla, Dharamsala, stayed in the Tibetan Institute where a French couple had taken over the restaurant, over in Rishikesh by the ganges. We were wondering if we would bump into any recumbent cyclists….

We got back to Delhi on the 16th ready for Sarah’s flight out. Spent that day walking around the bazaar, then going to the red fort, and then to the mosque, and then the sunset meaning we had to go to pack the bags and get a taxi to the airport.

Hmmm what can you say, its always hard, if it wasn’t hard it would not be worth it, or something like that….!

Sarah’s flight left to return to Toulouse, and I went to the nearest bar.  Tomorrow, I am in Delhi, how do I take it from here?

French globetrotter on wheels
Geetanjali Gayatri
Tribune News Service

Chandigarh, July 10
He’s bitten by the travel bug and it is taking him places. Literally. Twenty-six year-old Frenchman Christopher Huggins is on a roll, riding around the world on a recumbent bicycle, powered with the desire to explore the unexplored.

The smallest of countries, cities, villages and streets are all on his agenda and he’s a man with a purpose — a mission to promote cycling for which he is meeting heads of municipalities in towns he is crossing. In the city today after visiting Dharamsala and Shimla, Christopher said he would meet the Municipal Commissioner, UT, tomorrow for the same.

It all began one fine day while Christopher, a keen traveller, was sailing with his friend in 2002. As his friend narrated experiences of cycling around different cities, the idea of going round the world took shape in Christopher’s mind.

“With a degree in Computer Engineering, I had a job that was paying me well in Amsterdam, my parents were happy, my girlfriend was satisfied. However, I knew my calling lay elsewhere. It was not just working on the French market and trying to get people to sign papers. Finally, I resigned a week before I started from Paris in the June of 2004,” he recalls.

The plan took wings and he flew far and wide beginning with Italy, proceeding to Austria, Hungary, Serbia, Bulgaria, Turkey, Iran and Pakistan before finally setting foot on Indian soil. “I had realised that the best way to explore a country was on cycle, slowly and gradually, watch the people, the landscape, the food habits change within a few kilometers. I arrived in India through Pakistan last week and plan to be around for atleast four months, pedaling across the length and breath of this vast country,” Christopher says.

Though preparing for the trip was not a wee bit difficult, this traveller maintains the toughest bit came from dealing with his mother’s trepidation and his girlfriend’s concerns. “Making a website (www.360ways.org) for recording my experiences, too, was a challenge as was getting the sponsorships. In three months’ time, I had figured out what the website should look like, its contents et al. Now, I update it weekly, noting down not only my experiences of various countries but also the characteristics of food, culture, music and people of the place I visit. I also have a database of photographs of countries I have visited,” he mentions.

Full of traveller’s tales, Christopher prefers to sleep rough as he snakes through mountain roads, takes the straight roads and braves the heat or the cold. Through it all what keeps him going is the smile his odd-looking cycles brings to the faces of country folk. “They are almost amused to see a foreigner riding this crazy bike,” he comments.

So far, his most pleasant experience has been in Turkey where he was presented with a huge cake. “After having food at a restaurant, I asked the manager for a picture and recipe of the cake to put on my website. They were so thrilled at the prospect of having it hosted on my website that they gifted me a cake. While passage through most countries has been trouble-free so far, in Baluchistan some people threw stones at me while I was pedaling down the city. My parents were worried while I was in Iran though the rest of the journey has been fine,” Christopher claims.

“Do in Rome as the Romans do” is his guiding light through the journey. He eats, sleeps and dresses like the locals. “At the border I stop and ask translations of ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’. That suffices for as long as I stay there,” he explains and is looking forward to a feast of Indian curries while he is here.

Come rain or sunshine, this highway peregrine, with the spirit of a nomad goes on, moving from one place to another, “from point A to B, leaving all my worries behind”, as he puts it. Christopher Huggins is hooked to the drug called travel and his addiction is growing, taking him to a new high everyday.

Apparently the situation in Kashmir is calmer now. India and Pakistan are trying to resolve the conflict, somehow. I would have gone, but Kashmir isn't on my way, and by bicycle... well let's just say it would have taken a couple of months.

The rain continued regardless. The local news announced that the road ahead was flooded, in fact even my next stop, Chandigarh, was flooded. I was starting to give up hope until one day, a week after my arrival in Shimla, I awoke to find the sun pearing in through the window.

This was the sign I had been waiting for. I packed my bags, said goodbye to my new friends, and hit the road. Chandigarh lies about 130kms South of Shimla... the sun was shining and the road ahead was all downhill.

What a perfect day. All the technical and squeeking problems that had developed on my bicycle whilst cycling through monsoon just dried away under the sun. I was gliding down the road, using my brakes carefully, and enjoying the scenery around, kilometre after kilometre after kilometre...

The road winded down a never ending hill. Just steep enough to keep the bicycle moving, effortlessly. I gazed around at the pine trees. Monkeys lined the side of the road. Brown monkeys, grey monkeys, long haired monkeys, cheeky monkeys. After my close encounter with a monkey thief in Shimla, I carry a stick around with me, just in case.

In this heat, when cycling uphill, I tend to drown in my own sweat. It is not a pretty sight. Add to that the tortured look on my face as I force my legs to get me to that 'next corner', and maybe then you can relate when I talk of the infinite pleasure of a long stretch of downhill.

With the loss in altitude the heat grew stronger, making it difficult to stay in the sun. On my bicycle though, a cool breeze kept me refreshed and alert.

So I sat back, relaxed, and enjoyed the surround sound mega screen experience of nature unfolding around me. From time to time, stopping for a break from gliding downhill, to enjoy the impressive views, drink some water and catch a little sun.

People continue to gather around whenever I stop, prodding my bicycle, blowing the horn and asking me where I'm from. Encounters with the locals are always special. It's special for them, because I present something new, and that makes it special for me, because it's special for them.

Usually, after the first hour of cycling, the thoughts crowding my mind tend to float away. I concentrate more on the world around me. The landscape, the birds singing in the trees, the eagles circling high above, the occasional trucks hurtling past like elephants on drugs and locals...

From far away, I see them appear slowly, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups. I wait for the moment where they notice me. If they're alone they stare at me, sometimes amused, sometimes completely expressionless. When I look into their eyes and smile, it takes them a second to realise that I'm communicating and then they smile back. If in a group, then the first one will take a calm look at me, and, suddenly full of excitement, run to tell his friends.

"Stop, Chai." "Rest!" "What's your country?" "Where are you going?" All day, every day. Welcome to India. There are two ways you can treat this overdose of attention. You can sulk, ignore the onlookers, get caught up into a spiral of negativity, start thinking that all they want is money and shout at them... or you can keep your calm, accept the fact that they're curious, remind yourself that you do look like a martian, and smile.

Usually, I try to stick to the second option, although I do sometimes revert to the first... When I'm tired or when I've reached my breaking point, I pull my cap down over my eyes and concentrate on the road ahead. If you don't look at people, people tend not to look at you.

That night, although the sky was cloudless, I decided to stay in a hotel. Paranoid from my previous experience of camping under the monsoon rain... plus I wanted a room with TV so I could catch up on the news about the terrorist attacks in London. Hotel rooms are cheap in India, 4 maybe 5 euros per night... if you negotiate down from the special 'tourist' starting price of 15 euros.

So after 70kms of downhill, I stopped in a resort by the side of the road. The floor in my room, for some reason, was completely wet. The electricity and water didn't work and the receptionist was, well let's face it, somewhat backward. A small shouting session later, I got my money back and hit the road again. It was 8PM and the sun had set.

Some 5kms later I set up camp, between the pine trees. Thankfully, the clouds never came that night. The stars shone down from above in all their glory. I fell asleep to the sounds of nightlife animals and the crackling of my camp fire. 

On the next morning the heat from the sun woke me... one more sunny day had begun! Well, at least until 11, when a small downfall forced me to stop for a break in a trucker's parking.

The rain didn't last long and as the sun reappeared, I sat back on my mobile armchair and continued the descent to my next destination... Chandigarh.

Chandigarh is India's youngest city. With a population of over a million, it was planned by the famous French architect Le Corbusier. It is a model city, with large roads running through it vertically and horizontally. Chandigarh is capital to the states of Punjab and Haryana, and it's flat. All these reasons and many more led me to believe that bicycle promotion here could be more successful than in Shimla, which is the steepest city I have ever seen!

As I arrived in Chandigarh, an improvised procession of cyclists quickly built up around me. Mainly children but adults as well, curious and excited, were following me on their bicycles. When asking for directions I got 15 different answers and even more smiles.

An elderly Sikh man appeared from the side of the road. Also accompanied by his bicycle, he introduced himself. "Hello, my name is Narinder Singh, I am 69 years old and I have lived in Chandigarh since 1958. I am very very happy to meet you and I know where you can stay for free." 5 minutes in Chandigarh and already, I had a new friend. India, one moment you can't take it any more and the next a good Samaritan appears to the rescue, amidst the curious crowd around.

So I followed Narinder as he cycled towards a Sikh temple. We stopped for Chai and I explained the 360ways project to him. Despite his age Narinder is full of energy and moreover, a sincere fellow. Over the next couple of days, he presented me to a multitude of reporters, helped me get a meeting with the Mayor of Chandigarh, Anu Chatrath, who happens to be a lady, which was a pleasant surprise indeed!

It wasn't all work and no play, mind, as I was introduced to the Chandigarh Sikh Guru, who blessed me on my trip and presented me with a spiritual necklace and some sweets. On this trip I have now been blessed by Catholic, Orthodox and Protestant Priests. I wear a Muslim Shi'a ring given to me by a an old man in the Dasht e Lut desert in Iran, who confirmed Allah would protect me, and a Buddhist necklace from the home of the Dalai Lama. Now, with the Sikhs on my side too, I'm pretty confident nothing can go wrong.

Soon enough, after a multitude of encounters with Chandigarh's journalists, my picture started appearing in newspapers and I even appeared on television a few times! Now, after these four days of following Narinder around and meeting his friends, I get stopped in the streets of Chandigarh... "We saw you in the news this morning!"

Local celebrity indeed. All the time, Narinder keeps repeating "We must try more, without trying we will not succeed." At times I couldn't take it any more... 6 interviews in one day and Narinder is still taking me places. Thanks Narinder, your perseverance is exemplary. You really are the good Samaritan of Chandigarh.

But what will I do with this new found celebrity? Well, I've decided not to let it go to my head so tomorrow, for ten days, I will be retiring to Karnal, where I will follow a Vipassana meditation course. Once this course is over I will come back to Chandigarh, at which point the Mayor has accepted to sign the Velo Mondial Charter at a press conference, adding Chandigarh to our fast growing list of bicycle friendly communities.

Narinder is also helping me set up a meeting with the Governor of Punjab... fingers crossed!

Thus for the next ten days, I will not be allowed to speak, smoke, drink, or basically do anything really, apart from meditate. Hidden away from the world and put on a diet of plain boiled rice and water (maybe if I'm lucky I think I get some vegetables), I will follow intense meditation, travelling this time not through mountains nor deserts but instead through the landscapes of my mind. For more information, take a look at www.dhamma.org.

Tomorrow meditation begins. Every day for ten days I will awake at 4 AM and in complete silence, with guidance from the Vipassana experts, I hope to come one step closer to enlightenment... in this manner I hope to gain control over my supersize ego, dangerously overgrown by the media events here in Chandigarh...

A new adventure begins!

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

I stayed near Mc Leod Gange, in Bagsu. Days were filled with treks to the waterfalls, eating Banofi Pie, reading about Buddhism and the Dalai Lama (who now lives in Mc Leod Gange), and eating more Banofi Pie.

Friends came and went, and on my last day in Dharamsala, I realised that I had pushed my luck a little too far.

The clouds above were getting denser, and the word on every person's lips was... Monsoon.

It was an other one of those moments, where I had to tear myself away from the comfort I had so quickly grown used to. Staying in a hotel room, lounging in the local cafes, eating, drinking...

Shimla was 375kms away and it was raining heavily. One of those moments where you mustn't think, just pack your bags, get them on the bike... and go.

It took 6 days to get to Shimla... instead of 3, which I had forecasted. Why? Monsoon.

It rains constantly, and when it rains hard, the only solution is to find a shelter.

I remember someone asking me once: "So you're cycling around the world, well what do you do when it rains?". That day I replied with a smile: "I get wet"... but now, during monsoon, it becomes increasingly difficult to smile about rain.

Having said that, it's easier to cycle through a bit of rain then no rain at all. 

If the sky is cloudless, then the temperature soars up to well over 40 degrees Celsius, in which case I can't move anyway.

So in the rain I set off from Dharamsala, that night, after some 60kms of cycling up and down the slopes of Himachal Pradesh, I made my first mistake: the rain had momentarily stopped and I decided to sleep in my tent.

Around 3.30 AM, I woke up very wet.

My tent, which I had pitched on a slight slope in order to counter a potential flood, was moving. The rain had caused a small scale landslide and, although I managed to unzip my way out before the tent completely collapsed, the whole scenario was very very muddy.

I don't think I swore that much in a long time.

The next day, my steering broke.

An accident I had had in Pakistan some months ago had seriously weakened it, and now, the humidity and the heat did the rest of the work, snapping my steering clean through the middle.

After some 20kms getting thrown around the back of a crazy Indian driver's truck, I found a mechanic who was far too keen to use his welding machine on my bicycle. In the end, reluctantly I let him at it and he did an excellent job!

Indians are great at fixing things.

Maybe that's why they don't have any bins? They just fix whatever is broken before it gets thrown away.

I was off again, puffing and panting up the hills, and marvelling at the stability of my new steering down the hills.

On the third day, in the rain, I decided to stay in a hotel: the River View hotel in Mandi. River View indeed!

The rain from monsoon added to water from melting glaciers had swolen the river to the extent that it had taken out half the hotel already.

"What happens if it rains more, then the water will come up to my room no?" I asked the receptionist, slightly alarmed. He just smiled and semi nodded at me, the way only Indians can...

Thankfully, the river didn't swell any more, and I survived another night.

The next day, the rain hit more than ever. I wasn't even half way to Simla, and decided once again to just not think, pack my bags, hit the road, get wet...

It's a strange feeling to cycle through this kind of rain. It reminds me of the moments when I was sailing in a storm and arrogantly shouting out to the sea "Is that all you've got?"

The rain, as refreshing as having buckets of water thrown at me, continued ever harder, and my terrible singing got louder.

As always, people continued to slow down next to me, or stop in front of me and try to get me to stop. "Hello, what's your country?"

On one occasion, it caused a motorbike accident. Two middle aged Indians riding on a motorbike slowed down next to me.

Both were staring at me, mesmerised, and as I answered "France" to them, the driver was so intent on staring at me instead of at the road that he completely missed a curve and crashed into a wall.

Thankfully no one got hurt. Sometimes though, I feel like a beautiful woman with a short skirt when I'm riding my bicycle.

You meet all sorts by travelling overland like this.

This man has quite a strange business sense. He built a shack some 50 metres away from the road, along a small path, and spends his days standing by the side of the road, trying to get people to walk to his shack with him to buy sweets or cigarettes.

It just can't have been a good business model as he was branching out into other means of income.

For example, when I took a picture of him he demanded 100 rupees.

I gave him 5 and he was happy.

Finally, wet to the bone, my bags flooded, my bicycle screeching, I find Shimla.

Shimla is situated in North west Himalayas and is the capital of Himachal Pradesh.

Dotted with dense oak, pine and fur, it is a beautiful city, and attracts mainly Indian tourists. That was quite refreshing after the 95% Israeli tourism I found in Mc Leod Gange.

An army of Indians was waiting outside the city walls, offering discount hotels and trekking tours. "No thanks, I really don't need an adventurous trekking tour, I've had quite enough for now..." Once I managed to escape them, I set my mind on Shimla.

Perched high up in the mountains, towering over the Himalayas, it is a mind blowing city. Shimla was the summer capital of India during the pre-independence era. It still preserves the splendor of bygone days. I watched the sun set into the clouds below, and retired to my room at the YMCA.

The next morning, I woke up to find a large monkey searching through my bags in my hotel room on the second floor.

Indeed, I had left the window open and it had somehow managed to find a way in.

I panic. I throw a pillow at the monkey and start screaming. Instead of getting scared it jumps onto the bed and starts screaming back at me and jumping around, showing its large oversized teeth.

We scream at each other for a while, a completely ridiculous scene.

By that time, it was becoming obvious the monkey had declared my room to be his territory. I jump up onto my feet on the bed, wearing my boxer shorts I attack the monkey with the only weapon at hand... my bed sheet.

Some more shouting and arm waving moments later, the monkey jumps back onto my bags, picks up a tub of vaseline from out of my tool bag, sticks it between his teeth, glares at me one last time and disappears through the window.

Later, dazed and confused, I share this shocking experience with the hotel receptionist, who remains completely unimpressed. He advises me to acquire a large stick that I would keep in my room 'just in case'.

Through monsoon and mountains the trip continues regardless, and this time with a large stick.

Like a breath of fresh air in a trip with too many fumes.

It's 9AM, and I managed to get an early start to the day. I've been cycling since dawn. Now only 160kms and a couple of mountains stand in the way of the safe haven of Dharamsala. The rickshaws and monster trucks fade away as a long empty winding road opens up ahead.

Farmers continue waving from their fields. Pine trees appear, along with uphill slopes. The sun strikes harder and harder, avalanching onto the road.  Exhausting heat.

Wearing a turban around my head as a flimsy effort at shade, I follow the road to the mountains.

At 11AM, I take a break. Checking my water bottles, I realise I drank 6 litres of water in the past 4 hours! Not bad considering it's warm (due to the heat), and tastes like a swimming pool (due to the water purification tablets). No matter, I'll find water, there are rivers everywhere, water from the mountains... pure water!

People urge me on with their smiles, their waves.

At midday I stop under a tree, and pass out in the heat.

A few hours later, I awake to the sound of children trying out my bike.

I make my way through the cloud of children, tearing my bike away from smaller hands than mine...  'NAMASTE!' 'What's your country?' As I cycle off the children run after me screaming and laughing. 'Welcome to India!'

A few slopes later the heat kicks in again. My arms and legs trembling, I stop.

Too much heat. 

A large waterfall appears out of nowhere. My bicycle falls to the side of the road as I dive head first under the waterfall. Cold water! Refreshed, I hit the next slope. In the heat, it becomes increasingly difficult to cycle, to move forward.

Slowly, every metre an effort, I cycle my way up the road.  Sometimes, cars stop and people stare. Sometimes they just slow down and speak to me from their cars or motorbikes. 'Hello, what's your country?' At one point an Indian stops his car and starts taking pictures, many pictures. 

My face clearly shows I'm in pain as I slowly make my way up to the next 'corner', but he just keeps snapping away happily. I think I'm going to have a heart attack. My new found paparazzi runs past me, stops and swirls round taking more and more pictures.

The slope gets steeper, the cramps in my feet force me to stop. I fall to the shade of my bicycle, too exhausted to move.

He towers above me, taking more pictures. He's taken about 20 by now, his film should finish soon. Who does he think I am?

"Please, take picture with my wife."

Time to go.

That night I find an idyllic spot at the foot of the Himalayan mountains. Camping in India is tricky because there are people everywhere. As usual, a few curious Indians appear and gather round. A suspicious farmer looks at me as though I shouldn't be there.

"I'm just going for a swim! How is the water? Good?"

Doesn't seem to be working. The old farmer continues eyeing me out suspiciously, as though he was getting ready to attack me with his plough. I pull out a Hindi newspaper, with my picture on it and show it to him, as though it were a permit to camp everywhere.

Confused, he looks at the picture then looks at me. I'm not sure he can read but it seems to work. He mutters something incomprehensible and walks away.

The sun sets, the rest of my audience go home, I pitch my tent...

One more night in India.

The stars are different here.

I think back to all the places I camped over the past year... all the meals cooked under the stars, all the different landscapes... and I fall asleep outside my tent.

Gurus appear everywhere throughout Himachal Pradesh... leading to strange spiritual conversations.

"Religion is the comfort of the masses!"

"Really, how much do you charge?"

"Himachal-Pradesh is immersed in spirituality."

"Why do they bother talking about Gods then?"

The wildlife keeps getting stranger, more diverse.

Long-feathered birds and multicoloured mules act as decoys to the cheeky thieving monkeys.

"Don't camp there, dangerous! Tigers!"

"Grrrrrr!"

Confused, my new camping advisor stomps away in a huff.

Himachal Pradesh, land of the thousand Gods.

Statues hide in caves.

Tibetan monks greet me. Their dark red habits and yellow scarves making them easy to spot from a distance. Smiling shaved heads, innocent eyes.

Dharamsala home to the Dalai Lama finally appears, perched on a mountain ledge.

2000 metres in altitude, I can feel the air getting cooler.

Less polluted.

Less dense.

Breathe in the fresh air.

Welcome to Dharamsala.

-----------------------------

Badly singing "Nothing can stop me now" by Queen, I found the road to Waga Border. One sign post: "30kms to India" lifted my spirits to new heights. A new chapter was about to begin!

One slight problem... My daily delays in meeting the mayor of Lahore meant my visa for Pakistan had expired over a week ago. To extend it would have meant another trip to Islamabad. My friends at Lahore municipality had warned me that I may even get arrested at the border!

With my bicycle as my ambassador, and a 100 rupees note (2 euros) in my passport as a cheap attempt of a bribe, I decided to risk it.

At the border, as I had hoped, the 100 rupees note in my passport disappeared soon to be replaced with an exit stamp. Whether they actually noticed that my visa had expired I don't know. Frankly, I don't care.

The Indian border guards didn't bother looking in my bags as they were too busy driving my bicycle into walls, torturing my gears and blowing the horn... so India won't be that different to Pakistan after all! One last look behind, to recollect the strange experiences I had had in Pakistan and wave goodbye to the Muslim world, which had been my home for 7 months, and I was gone.

India. If cycling through a country can be compared to eating an ice cream, then the ice cream of India comes out of Charlie's Chocolate Factory's Secret Test Lab.

India is a magical ice cream, which changes colour and taste as you eat it. One moment it tastes of delicious strawberry and mango, and the next it tastes of cow dung and has a worm in it. As though all the experiences of all the countries I have cycled through until now were mingled and mixed, in one exhilarating experience. Punjab is supposed to be one of the 'calmer' regions, and already here so many strange things are happening. Cows adding to the congested streets, gurus walking around bare foot, chanting wildly.

As in Pakistan, people continue to stop me as I cycle past them, offering tea and biscuits. "Bas! (Stop)" "Cai! (Tea)". At every stop the "What's your country?" brigade swarms around me, prodding my bicycle as though they were buying a mule. 

Sometimes when I stop I feel like the queen bee, with all the worker bees swarming around me, staring at me, touching me to make sure I'm real, asking the dreaded question I am so sick of answering: "What's your country?". Out of sheer boredom I invent new homes: "Mars, I'm from Mars". "Aaaah Mars, very very nice country, I like Mars a lot. Which city?"

The sun pounds down more than ever. Since entering Punjab, I can see women walking along the streets again, and working in the fields. Now as I enter India, there are even more, they are even more colorful, and some of them even look up at and smile! 

Amritsar was my first port of call. Home of the Golden Temple, capital to the Sikhs, and magnet to Sikh pilgrimages from all over India, Amritsar is considered as one of the calmer cities of India.

It was strange to follow signs for a Golden Temple through the busy streets of this first Indian town.  A multitude of cycle rickshaws on the way. In Pakistan cycle rickshaws have been banned because of human rights issues, and finding them in India was a nice surprise. The feeling of entering a new country, a new culture overwhelmed me like a drug. Large cows everywhere, chewing away on rubbish and generally getting in the way.

Thus whilst in Amritsar, I lodged and ate free of charge at the Golden Temple. I enjoyed the amazing hospitality of the Sikhs. All over India you can stay for free at the Sikh temples. Say 'Sastriakar' a lot, and when accepting food, clasp both your hands together and bow your head down as a sign of respect.

The Golden Temple, or the Temple of God (Gurudwara), as the Sikhs call it, was busier than usual due of a religious feast. At night, the streets surrounding the temple were littered with sleeping bodies. So many in fact that I had to step over old men and sleeping babies, whenever I stepped outside the dormitory.

One morning I awoke to find Gavin, an English Backpacker looking for his backpack, which was later declared as stolen (certainly an other traveller, and not an Indian). An oversized Sikh with a large beard, holding a spear bigger than himself was listening to Gavin and trying to help him find his bag... Not sure what he was planning to do with that spear!

Sikhism, the youngest of the world religions, is barely five hundred years old. Its founder, Guru Nanak, was born in 1469. Guru Nanak spread a simple message of "Ek Ong Kar": we are all one, created by the One Creator of all Creation.

This was at a time when India was being torn apart by castes, sectarianism, religious factions, and fanaticism. He aligned with no religion, and respected all religions. He expressed the reality that there is one God and many paths, and the Name of God is Truth, "Sat Nam". Sikhism is the world's fifth largest religion.

Of India's population only 2% are Sikhs, but it is said that the Sikhs provide food for over 30% of India. They didn't care how long I stayed in the temple for free, and, in short, we got on well. I like Sikhs.

Peter came through Amritsar. We met up for the week end, which was a good chance to catch up on past experiences. He told me of his amazing times in North Pakistan, the mountains, the locals, the fantastic sceneries... Peter left in direction of Delhi and my path now goes to Dharamsala, home of the Dalai Lama, in the mountains of Himachal Pradesh. Depending on how hard the monsoon hits, I'll cycle back down to Delhi around mid July... not much is sure for now, only that I'm heading North.

In the Golden Temple I met Solange. A 55 year old grandmother from Monaco in France, also cycling around the world. We agreed to cycle a stretch together to Pathankot. It was a real inspiration to cycle with you Solange, you left for Dhalusi today but our paths will meet again, I hope.

Indeed it has been a year now since Peter and I left Paris. I celebrated the anniversary in a Sikh monastery some 70kms North East of Amritsar, with no alcohol and nothing much else to celebrate with except for rice, Dahl, and an overwhelming feeling of freedom. I slept on a rope bed, under the stars, and contemplated the fascinating experiences of the past year. All those people we met in the 11 countries Peter and I cycled through... all the friends we made, the adventures, the nights camping under the stars. I tried to think of what I had learnt from all this... maybe a little patience, less fear of the unknown. People continue to be the same everywhere. They warn you of the next place whilst confirming that the present place is safe. In Dharamsala, I hope to meditate a little, take some time out and maybe even learn a little humility? In any case, this trip continues to bring endless treasures. Right now I could not even consider going back to an office job. Every day is different, every day unfolds its own adventures... every day is a good day.

For now, mountains stand in the way between here and Dharamsala… and tomorrow early I set off. Once again it will be my bicycle, the heat, and the long road ahead!

Yohann kept his bike light by leaving most of his stuff at the hotel and I decided it was going to be difficult anyway and took everything, including all camping equipment. We slowly cycled up the Karakorum highway to the point where the jeep track leaves the road in direction of Shimshal.

We made a break at the signpost indicating 'Welcome to Shimshal, this road was constructed in 2004'. At this point we were still in the main Hunza valley on the Karakorum highway, and before us was a gigantic wall of mountains which somehow had a track road going through it. After 15 minutes, we asked ourselves, do we go on? The track was mainly composed of medium sized rocks which were slightly displaced by the daily jeep passings, leaving for the bicycles, two strips to progress on. That and the sand patches were to make the day a 'Ca passe ou ca casse' day!

We passed the first bridge over the main Hunza river, and entered the gorge slowly. Yohann was faster on the way as he was lighter, and also on the recumbent bicycle things proved to be more tricky. The recumbent bike is perfect when you are looking into the distance, but when trying to look at the road 1m in front of the front wheel, there is a certain technique to acquire. We progressed along the road moving up and down from the Shimshal river that we would follow all day until we reached Shimshal.

The rythm was a difficult one. As after each strenuous moment, a break is deserved. However to make it before sunset, we would only be able to take limited breaks after more than one strenuous moment. This we did, blending in the difficult uphill struggles when the bike tyres don't grip the rocky surface, with the gentle downhills when the legs don't work, only concentrating on keeping our balance. When we were offered tea by loesome road workers, we could not refuse.

"Salt tea of sweet tea?" ask the road maintenance guys. 'Salt tea please' we answer, following the local recipe for men working out in the mountains. Sweet tea is for later!

We cycled on. Uphills on this road were the supreme test. They forced out the energy we had been cunningly saving for later on in the day, were we to need it. But no choice, all had to be given! We kept on until we reached a hill that was just a monster of a hill, rediculous , and it was obvious there was no way we could keep a respectable face that day. We pushed the bikes up, feeling the bike muscles resting, getting back into place, whilst the pushing muscles of the back, arms and legs had to all come out to help. After the turning, the hill just kept on going, and thoughts of the mind had to be diverted from what the body was going through.

At the top, we were stunned. The lawless road, the supreme moutains above, and the torrents below, simply made it for us! It provided the unique feeling that we were (at last) lost in the mountains of Pakistan with noone around, pleased to be there with our bikes, our sweat and our humbleness. It is by far the most difficult cycling I have done since Paris, and coincidentally it is also the most adventurous and beautiful road I have used.

By now, the temperature had risen and the winds began to sweep up the gorge, as if insisting that we go on. The road was still there ahead, and we have no idea how, as the moutains around displayed in a convincing manor that they are still the rulers, deciding on whether the road should still exist or not. Every once and a while, rocks would tumble from the slopes and force us to pause to look up. We were not alone!

We had a quick lunch composed of super noodles and buscuits and we cycled on so as not to waste time. Passing swaying bridges, going up, going down, looking at the river beneath to keep a reference. We met road workers who said we were the first people to come by this way by bicycle! That gave us the little boost that would last for another hour. By now the cycling technique had been well practiced and we kept a strong 15 km/h on the flat, simply tanking our way over rocks, stones, and streams. We eventually reached a huge glacier, by the time the sun was showing signs of setting. We were so exhausted and the glacier provided such a tribulation to us, that we were ready to call it a day even if we had not managed it to Shimshal village. A german guy had told us it was 45kms to Shimshal, and we now had 50kms on our counters... how much further could it be?

To our luck, we found a small hut with a Shimshali inside (speaking perfect english) who said we could stay with him the night. So we looked on over the glacier, washed ourselves in the hot spring water nearby, and began to come down from the adventures of the day towards a well deserved sleep. Yohann and I cooked, the Shimshali made chapati and tea, adn we fell asleep early.

The next day, we had barely 10kms to go. In no time we could see the village in the distance, by the river we had been following the whole time, with outskirts and gardens of the village moving up the moutains and making the most of the large flat ridges the moutains provided. We stopped outside the village to make tea. Shimshali women shepherds were curious, but scared and shy. We pushed the bikes into the village with local children following and directing us along the paths. Houses evenly scattered around the flat surfaces and the rest were irrigated fields for potatoes and wheat mainly. We found a room to stay in belonging to the village doctor, and pushed the bikes there along the irrigation streams, doing our best not to fall in. In Shimshal things are more difficult than elsewhere, as there are only 2 shops that sell virtually nothing for food, as Shimshalis don't need shops for food, and cigarettes only on the days when the jeep brings some in from the Kalakorum. That night we had a disgusting meal, of floury pasta with a soup packet sauce, so so disgusting.

The next day we met up with a frenchman who was preparing a mountaineering expedition for 15 days later, when he would go off with yaks and men to discover ranges and valleys that have not been seen by man since the 1930's. Bruno was his name, and was more than a moutain fanatic! Yohann, Bruno and myself went on a one day treck up a nearby valley, we got completely lost, nearly killed ourselves, and came back again, deciding that we had had a very good day! Yohann was going to cycle back the way we came the next day, whilst myself and Bruno were going to try out a 5 day hike to the Shimshal Pass, at 4800m altitude. 

I saw yohann off at 6am as he wanted to be sure to get back within one day, and i went off to the shop to buy supplies for a 5-day trek. I got my bicycle bag ready, fitting in all camping gear, with the tent and sleeping bag and water bottles on the outside. By 10am Bruno and I were ready, determined to find the path without paying for a guide or porter, and determined to follow the path without loosing it!

The walking that was to follow indeed lived up to expectations, having heard mountain stories since my arrival in the region, and having cycled to this particular point. We spent half a day walking up from the river level to the top of a gorge where we began to walk along it. Glaciers and mountains to the back, the sky above, and a sheer drop now to our left. It was just the two of us, and frankly we should have taken a guide, at least for him to say, "yes this is the correct path, it is possible to go this way, I assure you!".

We took one break that day, on the 1m wide path, with the sheer drop before us, falling down into the gorge. The path itself was man made, making the use of stones and branches to keep the path stable and clinging to the the rock face. I urged Bruno to finish his buscuits quickly as I was by no means at ease taking a break in that kind of place. I needed to walk on and keep my mind focussed on action rather than letting the irrational part of my brain take over.

When the sun was setting, we got to the end of the gorge top and began to descend, or rather ski down on our shoes to the bottom of the steep slope, where we were told we would find a small hut. In the hut we were like at home, tea was made, dinner, and even french style chapati, that still needs perfecting!

The second day, it was a steep up, we lost the path, then found it, then lost it, then saw it along the cliff face, but absolutely no way of getting to it, then scrambling down a bit we found a small ledge that might just work, but then no, we decided it could not be that, we went back, found another path that went down a bit, and using our balance, arms and legs, we got to a secure path, and managed to progress ... and we went down again, down all the way to the river, where we had to once again scramble on all fours.

Its even more so amazing as the path we were taking was actually built by the Shimshalis for their summer migratory path, and they use it every year! Men, women, children of all ages, goats and sheep come this way! We just had to see it to believe it was possible!

At the end of the second day, Bruno decided to go back, as the path was very strenuous and he did have a heavy back-pack. I wasn't too reassured about progressing on my own, but I knew that once I reached the Pamir (high prairie), I would find huts and a few shepherds for sure. Only half a day to get there, and I would take no unnecessary risks.

So we split, and I went up further. Still though I exclaimed to myself "This cannot possibly be the path" as I scramble up a mountain face! I went up and up, until suddenly the mountains opened up themselves, and more and more space appeared around me, as the mountains opposite began to distance themselves. With this came the adrenaline, excitement and uncontrolled stress of beeing so high... i did not look down too much, and just focussed on reaching the doorway to the Pamir. Once I got there, I sat behind a man-made wall and tried to relax the body and mind. I think only experienced moutnaineers can do this easily, becasuse the altitude really did affect me in a strange way...

I carried on walking, following the Pamir, and watching in bewilderment at mountains opposite that were cut in half by the clouds that had settled...how high were those moutains opposite?? 7000? 8000?

In the late afternoon i came accross a hut, nobody there, but the fire was still warm. Two hours later I saw some sheep, and then a man! Such a stange feeling to see a man in the middle of nowhere, after two days walking! He was a shepherd, and I think he took it to his responsibility to take this guideless tourist into his protection. Two men and two women were taking a huge herd of sheep and goats up to Shimshal Pass, where the summer village is. I helped as I could to guide the sheep along the steep moutain faces, until we arrived at a hut, where we would all spend the night. The men spoke the local language, Wakkhi, and Urdu and English, whereas the women only spoke Wakkhi, (...hmm..they understood english but would not say so!).

The next day we moved together. Then we seperated as I wanted to move along faster without the sheep. They equipped me with a dose of bread and handfuls of dried mountain apricots. I went on in the Pamir, higher, occasionally hearing shouts from a lonesome shepherd. In the afternoon I finally got to Suzerav, the summer village, but there was nobody there. It was completely sureal as I wondered around the amateur alleyways, looking at the huts all built one against each other, yak and goat houses deserted. Looking up I could see the Shimshal Pass but it was still covered with snow, so this was as far as I would go! I got here early, but despite that it was a magnificient scene. I am going to have to come back to the exact same spot, I promised to the Shimshalis at the summer season, when 1000's of yaks, goats and sheep are here the flower filled pastures. Villagers experience the freedom and beauty of life here, that have made them love their earth. The best time to come is at the end of july i am told, when they have their festivals, and notably the yak races!

I began to walk down that very afternoon and saw noone al the way to a hut where I would spend the night. I was exhausted and a little nervous on the way down as I knew what lay before me to get back to Shimshal village....tricky paths and a lot of ups and downs!

Fortunately the next morning I met a young shepherd who gave a big shout as he approached my hut. He gave me a piece of meat and invited me to follow him all the way to the village, in one day. We walked together, him giving the rythm, saying astha astha to say slow slow in the tricky parts. We met villagers coming the other way with their sheep. Within the next week, most of the village would come by this way. In the evening we were arriving, and my legs could not actually move that much anymore. When we arrived, I ate, felt very good for the experience, but crashed and fell asleep immediately. The next day, i wanted to cycle out of Shimshal and I needed some rest.

The alarm rang at 6am, and I turned it off. At 10 am, my bike and bags were ready and I began to push the bike slowly, still feeling the pains from the walking. On a flat point just out of the village I began to peddle... I saw Yohann's tyre marks in the dust as I wondered if I would make it back by sunset, because if my legs did not soften out, I did not know where i would get the strength from.

The dust changed to rocks, and I was back in the thick of it. I went on, the road was still as beautiful, at least the road would be going downhill this time. Buscuits and tea got me the energy, and with little choice but to go forwards, I eventually reached the hard asphalt of the Karakorum highway....bliss! I went back to the hotel I was at with Yohann, ate rediculous amounts of food, and crashed again, exhausted.

The next day i aimed at cycling back down the karakorum highway to that village that would provide all the tranquility I needed after the effort: karimabad. How far I did not know, but it could be done in the day, for sure. So i set off, my legs hurting ever much more, but at least I knew this was the last day of effort. The road was hard, oscillating up and down, and the strong winds that day did not make anything easier. Soon, I decided to push my bike whenever the road went up for too long, there was no way my legs could take much more... In the end it took me 8 hrs to get to Karimabad. Beautiful scenery as the mountains rised around me, the strong winds seemed to wash my hair, but I was ever so tired now. To get to Karimabad there is a last steep slope from the highway, and i began to push up. I pushed and pushed, never stopping, feeling how tired I was, feeling the importance of each step I made to be sure it would not require excess energy to push off from it, and slowly I went up, and saw the begining of the village and did not stop, I went past the internet cafe, and up further through the village, to a different hotel that i stayed in at my last visit. I stopped outside the 'Lucky Star' hotel, put my bike down slowly, and asked for a room. I don't think i could have gone a metre further. There were steps to get to the hotel, and I slowly went up them one by one. I don't think I can remember having been so tired before in my entire life!! After 8 successive days of mountain effort, I first got my bags to the room, and came down to get my bicyle, put in on my shoulder and walked up the steps, one foot at a time, doing my best to keep my balance.

After virtually not spending any money since my last visit to Karimabad, i decided to indulge with the Lucky Star, marveling at the enjoyment and freedom found in a room with a view with double bed and hot water!

I had reached my safe haven and could now relax completely before taking the bus down to Islamabad again. This is the reason why I had to do 8 days of sport in a row...I needed to be in Islamabad for the 23rd May ready for the first meeting, and i needed to have two days in karimabad to relax from the Shimshal experience. So all was going to plan. All I had to do now was 1. print off documents in the internet cafe, and 2. buy a bus ticket, and 3. relax with the ever so warm hearted Hunza people.

Throughout Pakistan, people I met had told me of the Northern Areas of Pakistan and how unique these parts are. The whole northern area is on the west of the Himalayas on the Hindu Kurch and Karakoram ranges, where it is frequent to find peaks above 7000m. The Karokorum highway is the only road that goes to the north of the country and used to be a major silk route. Its now of political and strategic importance as it connects the subcontinent to central Asia and China to Europe. Built in the 1970’s, it now stretches from near Islamabad right up to the Chinese border at 4800m altitude on the Kunjerab pass.

Stefan and Anita the Austrian tandemists were going to cycle up and down again. This gave me the plan of finding a way to the top using public transport, to then cycle down again, from 4800m to Islamabad. First though, I needed to stop off at Islamabad to apply for the Indian via…

I got the train up to Islamabad. There I stayed a few days, for the visa, and preparing future visit of the municipality, meeting the Sustainable Development Policy Institute, and…the minister of the environment of Pakistan!

A couple of days later I cycled to Rawalpindi and got a bus for the north. I had no idea where I was going and just got a bus ticket for Hunza, the furthest north they could sell me a ticket for. I arrived 24hrs later, in a completely new environment. It is very calm compared to Punjab, the mountains are steep and high around you, and the religion is not the same. Here they are Ismaelites, they believe the Imam heritance is still alive today as the 49^th is alive today, and are basically the ‘peace and love’ muslims who simply believe in peace and nothing else.

A guy in the bus recommended I stop by Karimabad for the night before going any higher up the highway. I got my bike off the bus, loaded the bags, and began to cycle up a side road to Karimabad. Defintely very different from Punjab! After five of six breaks and pushing the bike up the last part, I arrived, found a very hospitable guesthouse for 50rps per night (0.6 euros) and crashed.

Karimabad turned out to be a charming village, full of good people. Either it’s the mountain air or their religion or a mixture of both but the atmosphere is a real one of peace. The region relies on tourism for modern day survival and development, and the Hunza people manage this is a perfect manor. 99% of children are educated and speak good enough English by the age of 10 or so. The women are not vailed, although still shy to foreigners, they have their local Mulberry wine that dates back for years, and even still have their king, although he has no political power since the 1970’s.

As I had time I decided to go for a short trek which I selected from aphotocpied lonely planet book entitled ‘Karakoram and Hindukush', which I highly recommend having done two of the treks. The back bicycle bag can be transformed into a 2-3 day trekking pack with tent, sleeping bag, stove, clothes and food and proved to be comfortable enough.

I went up to a place called Ultar Meadow, at the foot of Ultar peak where 3 glaciers come down. At first impressive and disorientating, the mountains became a display of splendour for the imagination, as you hear avalanches crashing down on the glaciers. Amin and Karim were my companions up there for two days, as we shared food and stories. Karim had been to 7500m once when his head began to swell so being a porter, he had to rely on himself and come down alone, which took him 3 days with no food! I think I’m a trekker and definitely not an alpinist! Although it is tempting when in such an environment where the challenge is just on your doorstep. The sensation of then walking down again through the village small streets, feeling fit, seeing the children playing outside the schools, and these simple people going about their mountain village chores, is indeed an appeasing one!

On the way down I followed the glacier, then the river, which then split onto the village canals that are built inot the cliff face. This way the canal moves virtually horizontally above the valleys to provide a waterflow that can be adjusted depending on which parts need to be irrigated. Its unbelievable when you think of the men who were up here doing this. I could barely look down from the 1m wide path by the canal. Further down I came across some fields that just had trickles of water moving through the plants and blades of grass. And then it struck me: if it was not for the generations of villagers here, this area would be completely and utterly dry composed of earth and rocks!

The next day I got further north on the KKH to Sost, the city where police check points start before the Chinese border. I shared a room with a Japanese guy, and the next day cycled to the first police barrier. And the police said I could not pass. The receipt paper the Indian embassy gave me, entitling me to travel anywhere in the country would not work in this area. I waited and finally got an interview with the head of police, who also said he would not risk it, as in the past many cyclists have not remained on the highway and have even got into China with no visa.

So that was that, I could not go to the top, and I needed a new plan. I got the trek book out, and read about this small village that has been connected to the highway for the past year, Shimshal village. It was to take me a day to cycled to where the track goes off the highway, in a town called Pasu.

I arrived there in the late afternoon, and the cycling and been the center of my attention for the day. The mountains were spectacular all around, the children run by my bike speaking English to me, and the road goes up and down, never letting me get too comfortable!

In the hotel that evening I made the aquatintance of a fellow French cyclist called Yohann. On a gap year, he had been through Mongolia and the South East, through India and into Paksitan. Now he is cycling through Tibet and Nepal to get back to India. We decided to cycle to Shimshal the next day, as it would definitely be more comfortable to not be alone. Everyone was saying we could not do it by bike as it still was an extreme jeep road. We weren’t sure how far it was, some saying 45kms, some saying 60.

With a good meal inside us that evening, we were ready to try out the Shimshal experience!

Lahore is the most visited city in Pakistan, and for good reasons. With 7 million inhabitants (unofficially over 10 million), Lahore is Pakistan's second largest city (after Karachi). Those tourists who do make it here are usually the rough tough backpacking overlanding extra poor travellers, who are running out of countries to visit. Being only 30kms from the border with India, Lahore is also a stopping point for travellers entering or leaving the country.

I'm staying in the Regale Inn on Mall road, a crossroads for travellers, and highly recommendable. Those coming from India are very spiritual, and never cease repeating how India will change your life, how you should go to Rishikesh, the yoga capital of the world and find enlightenment. Those coming from the North of Pakistan talk of the amazing mountain scenery, the Karakoram Highway, and the Kunjerab pass. Peter left a while back for North Pakistan, a place I will have to come back to on an other occasion.

So why spend a month in Lahore? Well, firstly because of bicycle promotion work. Today, the Mayor of Lahore officially signed the Velo Mondial Charter at a press conference. Pakistani bureaucracy had turned this into a long and painful process yet the result is surprisingly good. We have now formed a bicycle comittee within the municipality, and layed down a set of directives for Lahore to become more bicycle friendly. Getting the charter signed is one thing, but actually making Lahore into a more bicycle friendly city, is an other. Thank you Sheikh Farhid Ahmed and Tariq Zaman Khan for your help and perseverance.

In the following weeks, an analysis will be made on the current state of bicycle friendliness in the city of Lahore. Factors such as bicycle safety, cycle paths, funding and partnerships will be explored.

Lahore has a friendly, relaxed atmosphere. It is a fine place to watch the world go by. The mix of painted trucks, cars, bullock carts, buses, handcarts, and scooters carrying whole families make it into a surreal experience. But what do you do when you have seen the Moghul temples, the Old Fort and the other tourist places?

You explore the world of Qawwali music! Qawwalis are traditionally led by a Sheikh and are meant to help the audience realize the mystical ideals of Sufi Islam. Sufis, considered by many as the 'bad boys' of the Islamic world, believe that their teachings are the essence of every religion, and indeed of the evolution of humanity as a whole. The central concept in Sufism is love. Dervishes -- the name given to initiates of Sufi orders -- believe that love is a projection of the essence of God to the Universe.

Am I losing it? Not any more than usual. Every religion is like a musical instrument in the orchestra of life. The most important is the listening... and most people who know Qawwali music would agree: Intense, Mystical and Deep. Thanks Malik for introducing me to this incredible world. There are so many descriptions and understandings of Sufism that it would take a lifetime to really understand it, and I am grateful for the insight.

Whilst in Lahore, I met Steve, who came from Delhi on horseback. Yes, Steve came from Delhi on a horse. Steve is planning to ride his (now two) horses through Pakistan, China and beyond. Thus we went horseriding through the streets of Lahore, and through the Pakistani countryside. It is indeed a strange experience to sit on a horse with rickshaws, cars, horsecarts and Pakistanis everywhere, staring up at you. Different from the recumbent bicycle because, for a start, you're much higher up. You can look down on people and in a way, you fit in more.

Now my days in Lahore are coming to an end. After the signing of the Velo Mondial Charter and the press conference, I'll be cycling to Amritsar, in India. Lahore is a charming city, apart from the pollution, but I've been here too long already. I have heard so much about India that I am itching to get back on my bike and discover it for myself!

It's been about 7 months now since Peter and I entered Turkey. 7 months travelling through Muslim countries. I will miss the call for prayers, blaring out of the minarets, and more generally the Muslim culture, which I have grown fond of. Hinduism awaits, the world of Vishnu and Sheeva lays ahead... and in between, a refreshing break with the Sikhs in Amritsar.

You may have noticed that I am writing this update in the first person, as opposed to saying 'we' (Peter and Christopher). This is because Peter and I will no longer follow the same route around the world. Over a year of living this close to each other has made clear that we have different priorities. It is therefore better to pursue these different angles than having to compromise at many junctions. We will continue to write our news updates on this website and Inshallah, one day the interactive map will show a graphical representation of our route (separate and together). Please for any of you out there who is starting to panic, don't! The show goes on regardless. If you have any questions on this matter, leave them as a comment below, and we will both answer as best we can.

When they left they instructed the hotel manager to phone them when we left the hotel. Anita and Stefan are still with us and followed much the same routine during our stay, recovering from the outdoors. Multan was the first comfortable bed we had since Quetta, and even then it was pretty basic.

“We’re going to internet and we’ll be back in three hours”, and the manager would pick up the phone to let the police know we were going out for three hours and that we were going to the internet café. We visited the town, went round the bazaar full of its narrow streets, met a few locals, but on the whole Multan was not a very nice town. Very noisy, dusty and hot.

We packed our bags early on departure day, rushed downstairs, paid the bill, put the bags on the bikes and cycled off just as a police car arrived. “We’re going towards Lahore”, I say as we joined the rickshaw traffic heading for a roundabout, and thus losing them. And that was the last of our police escorts, at last! Since Quetta!

We stopped only when we were completely out of town to have some breakfast. The sun was hot and as we approached 11am, and our motivation had fallen, as the comfort of our shade became a necessity. So it seemed, until one of us made the first move, standing up and holding his bicycle. Pause for a few seconds, and then the voice, “shall we move on?”.

All is fine after a few minutes on the bikes and the rhythm is going again. We cycle further from Multan following the “Multan-Lahore highway” and covering thus good distance. There wasn’t too much traffic so we were quite happy to make this a day of highway. That night we camped in a cool mango field between the road and a village and a canal. Locals came to join us at our tents as they told us of their hard d ay's work of resting and working in the mango fields.

The following day we followed on the highway and turned off early this time to find a camping spot further towards the river. Along that road we came to a man-made canal about 20ms wide, with a side path to it! We cycled along the side path until we got to a sign saying “guesthouse”. And there we camped, on the grounds of a British colonial house owned now by a family of 3 generations .

The mango field and then fields next to the canal were a blessing after the dryness of Balochistan and the noise of Multan. It is calm here, there are the fields, the trees, the cattle, the birds and there is the sun. When it is hot, it is best to rest. We spent a quick night at the guesthouse, and cycled on early the next day.

We simply followed the canal path, slowly, looking at the canal, the fields, and nothing in particular. At the bridge we change sides of the canal, and continue to appreciate the calm of the countryside. Some locals carry on work during the day out in the fields, taking the cattle down to the canal for a cool off, others relax in the shade, smoke their pipes, waiting for something to happen…. “Oh look, two recumbent bicycles and a tandem” they seem to say to each other themselves as we cycle slowly past!

We camp next to a well just off from the canal. The next day Stefan and Anita prefer to go back to the highway to be in Lahore quickly. Chris and I decide to cut through the centre of Punjab with our more maniable bikes. It takes an extra day or two, the roads would be certainly flat and we felt rested after Multan, so it was a good time to take a small risk!

At first the locals pointed us to go back where we came from when we asked how to get to Lahore. In fact we had lost our map. So we were to make them understand that we could also go to Lahore cycling through the countryside and that we didn’t need to go back to the highway. In the end, most of the way to Lahore we had that feeling of wondering if we were going the right way or not, but at the same time knowing that we couldn’t go too wrong as long as we didn’t cross the second of the five rivers.

We stayed not far from river Ravi all the way up and were able to appreciate the way the rivers feed the region’s irrigation system, branching out from the large river, to the large canals, to the smaller ones and out into the fields.

We went like this from village to village, through fields and yet more fields, along bicycle paths, tracks and car paths. Each village looking similar to the previous one, apart from size, some having rickshaws, bus stops and even noise. Each time we stopped we would attract a few people, and then more, and this became tiring in the end. At night the locals go home for dinner and sleep, so we always managed to find a place to camp for ourselves.

In the mornings we set off swiftly before the curious Punjabis came at us with their questions, and thus making the most of the cool morning breeze. A couple of times we cycled on through the afternoon, but slowly. The continuity was broken when we were told Lahore was 80 kms away. That meant an early stop to the day for a last rural camping session ahead of the city.

The next day we went the villages became towns, and we tried to make ourselves believe this meant the road was getting better. Which it did by the time we were 10kms or so away from Lahore! The sun was setting as we entered the city. Lahore, 5 million people, and a lot larger than we expected.

After 100kms cycling in the heat, it was now time to compete for position with the rickshaws, by pretending we know in which direction we are going. Of course without a map or the name of the hotel where we were to meet Anita and Stefan, this is difficult to sustain. Asking for directions for the youth hostel proved pointless, as even when the question was understood, the answer had to be given and understood by us! By 11pm, it was clear we would not find it that night and after 140kms for the day, we found a cheap hotel next to the train station, carried the bikes up to the third floor, and crashed. A difficult arrival, but a bed is a bed!

The next day we settled in at the youth hostel and in Lahore, the last city of the Muslim world!

Thus for each of three days, we woke up and decided to stay a day longer. Lounging around, reading, cooking, and resting our legs which needed time to recuperate after the bumpy roads and paths we had cycled across since Quetta.

Ziarat is a small village, high up in the mountains of Baluchistan, and it oozes with charm. The locals are so welcoming that it is virtually impossible to walk through the centre without stopping at least once to share a pot of tea and a conversation with some. These moments are always pleasurable and often turn into eye opening experiences.

On one occasion Anita and I had set off into the centre whilst Peter and Stephan stayed with the tents, when we sat down and started answering questions put by inquisitive locals.

It is so interesting to look at the way people from this part of the world react to a girl like Anita. First they would speak to me, asking questions about me, where I'm from, what I'm doing... then, they would say 'What about her, is she your wife, your sister?'. Anita would answer and their faces would freeze: 'How strange, the woman is speaking!'

I could read from the shocked looks on their faces. Slightly frightened, they would turn and try to speak back to this woman who speaks for herself. On this particular occasion, when our new friends realised Anita was a nurse, they offered to give us a guided tour of the hospital. We accepted.

On the hospital grounds lay a large tent with many people sitting around waiting. In the centre, a middle aged man lying on bright red pillows, with a drip in his arm, half opened his eyes in our direction, just long enough for us to realise how weak and close to death he really was. 'That is the president of the hospital' explained our new friends, 'he is on strike'. The president of the hospital had in fact started a hunger strike a couple of weeks back, to try to get more equipment and medication from the government.

As we continued our tour of the hospital, Anita admitted to me that she had more medication in her first aid kit, than there was in the entire hospital.

The next day, after a short visit to Ziarat's day school, we hit the road again. The Baluchistan Levies, our personal police escorts, following closely behind on motorbikes.

The stay in Ziarat had been a great experience, relaxing too, yet we were happy to be back on the road... if one can call it a road. The bumps and stones on the dusty path ahead meant punctures were inevitable. Over and above that the road kept on going up, so much that, to our stupefaction, some 30kms after Ziarat, there was snow around us.

Being escorted by police in the way we were, cycling along, quickly became tedious. When we wanted to stop to meet people on the way, the police would urge us on, as though some unknown danger would fall from the sky and hit us on the head.

When we would pause for water or just to take a breath, they would urge us to move on, certainly anxious to get back home for dinner in time. When we would ask them why they were escorting us, they would dodge the subject completely or sometimes invent ridiculous excuses, going as far as to say that they were protecting us from snakes or spiders. On no occasion was the huge influx of Afghan refugees mentioned nor the tension regarding General Musharraf's military rule over the country.

Neither was it mentioned that the Baluchistan region was in fact, in the eyes of many, part of Afghanistan rather than Pakistan. Indeed, the Baluchistan province was rented to the British Government for 100 years, when the British still ruled over India, before its split. Now they want it back.

The Baluchistan Levies, in retrospect proved to be much kinder and more honest than the police we would find later, in the Punjab region. Also, I guess they did help in scaring away the overgrown children who occasionally threw stones at us, as we cycled by.

We could not help but marvel at the scenery that lay around us. First, the juniper forests around Ziarat, then the views over the snow topped mountains... Nomadic tents here and there, locals looking like sculptures from an other age. Difficult to say in words, the experience was truly mindblowing.

As we arrived in Loralai, and were escorted into the police grounds where we were allowed to put our tents up, things started getting slightly out of hand. The police had been informed of our arrival, and had informed their friends and family... Before we knew it, our camping ground was swarming with curious onlookers, all trying to get in front of the other. They all looked on in amazement while we cooked our dinner, as though we were preparing some secret magic potion.

Of course, being treated like a zoo animal is one of the side effects of travelling through countries such as Pakistan. Stephan, Anita, Peter and myself are aware of this and quite happy to comply, but in this case, it just became too much.

The next morning, as I pulled open the tent zipper and took a first look out, I could not see anything but layers of people, all looking down at me, as though they had waited there all night. 'So are you all policemen then?' I asked, yawning. 'Yes of course!' they all replied, nearly in chorus. It was too much, we had to find a solution and leave the police grounds, one way or the other.

As soon as we could, we packed our stuff and were ready to leave. However, a sand storm was raging outside the city, shattering our hopes of making it out of Loralai on that day.

Akbar, the owner of Loralai's beauty shop (yes, Loralai has a beauty shop), was to become our saviour from the masses that day as he organised a room for us to hide in for the next 24 hours.

We escaped from Loralai early the next day, and simultaneously, in the confusion, we escaped from our police escorts who sadly had only created problems and unwanted attention for us. The following days were truly amazing.

Cycling along through an idyllic landscape, free to stop and talk with whomever we wished, camp wherever we wanted (usually far from anybody else), and just enjoy travelling through the heart of Pakistan.

Soon enough we crossed from the Baluchistan region, where we waved goodbye to the Pashtuns and Balochis, into Punjab, where we were greeted by the Punjabis. We cycled over Fort Munroe.

The roads were in a terrible state but the multi coloured buses and trucks and the never ending views and scenery made sure our motivation stayed good and our legs kept churning on. At times, the scenery was so different from anything I have ever seen before, that I thought we had cycled to an other planet.

Camping in a temporarily abandoned village whose nomadic inhabitants had gone to Karachi to work for a couple of months, we built a fire, met a couple of shy locals from neighbouring homes and nearly adopted some puppies that had kept guard. Life was good!

The next morning, we decided we were close enough to Multan to try and make it by that same evening. At 10AM we were pulled over by police and our troubles started again... Stop here, go faster there, slow down here. Like sheep, we were herded on by our new police escorts, themselves drawing lots more unwanted attention towards us than we really needed.

Slowed down by our escorts, we decided to call it a day at DG Khan a town some 65 kms from Multan. There, I was put on the phone with DG Khan's assistant Chief of Police who explained that DG Khan was off bounds for tourists, and had been for a year or so now. He wouldn't tell me why. Something to do with nuclear tests, I have been told.

I agreed with the Chief of Police that we would leave the town of DG Khan and, in return, he guaranteed that, once out, the police would leave us alone. Sadly, this was the first lie we received from the police, in what was to become a terrible evening, and night.

We were once again herded on by the police, one promise of '1 more kilometre' after another meant we ended up, well after sunset, in a tank station tired and refusing to go on. Finally, we had to reluctantly accept, practically at gunpoint, surrounded by some 20 policemen, to get our bikes into the police trucks and finish the final 40 or so kilometres to Multan, in the back of their trucks.

Indeed, our contact with the Pakistani police until now has not been the most harmonious. Indeed as well, we understand that somewhere, somehow, the police are doing this for our protection... but what are we being protected from? Kidnapping? Terrorists? For all we met were the kindest of locals... or are we being protected from seeing hunger strikes such as the one in Ziarat? I guess we'll never know.

I feel I give a bleak impression. Our encounters and our travels through this amazing landscape have made this into one of the most beautiful and exhilirating parts of our journey until now. The locals are kind and generous, be they Pashtun, Punjabi, Afghan, Balochi, Taliban or Srekis. This trek was an amazing experience and, as we rest in our hotel room here in Multan, our police escorts waiting downstairs, we look ahead to the next leg, from Multan to Lahore, with great anticipation.

The trip continues into the heart of Asia. We are getting ever closer to India and, as ox appear more and more frequently on the road ahead, we realise we're definitely getting our money's worth of adventures!

This time, Peter and I are not alone as Stephan and Anita, our friends from www.ohnegrenzen.at had waited for us in Bam, with their Tandem.

People continue to warn us of the dangers ahead.

Baluchistan not being the safest place on earth, we decide to cycle this stretch together with Stephan and Anita: Strength in numbers.

As we slowly make our way out of the city of Bam, a strange procession of two recumbent bicycles and one tandem, hordes of mopeds, motorbikes, cars and even cyclists hoot, scream and shout around us in excitement.

Excitement indeed, one 12 year old Iranian boy riding a motorbike three times his size creeps up behind me and kicks my bicycle as hard as he can, nearly knocking me over to the side of the road. I look him in the eyes and beckon him to come closer. Then he's gone.

Luckily, this is the only little terrorist we would meet on the way.

Soon enough, the palm trees and semi destroyed buildings of Bam give way to the barren landscape of the Dasht e Lut desert.

A long road stretches out ahead of us as we silently cycle ever deeper into the desert.

The sun is pounding down and the traffic becomes nearly non existant.

From time to time, a car or a truck zooms past us, blowing their horn.

As we cycle on into the desert, even these short encounters become more and more distant from each other...

It is us, the road, the desert, the sun and the horizon.

That night, after 90 kms we camp in our tents, under the stars. We compare notes on our camping techniques with Stephan and Anita.

Anita, being the only girl in the group, still has to put a scarf around her face every time we stop, for fear of getting arrested.

The next day we wake up in a sauna.

At 10AM we're already finding it hard to move, and we ration one tube of suncream between the four of us.

We cycle on, sometimes for 10, 20, even 30kms without seeing anything or anybody but the sand, the rocks, and the road.

It is a strange and enticing feeling to cycle through the desert like this.

The only sound is that of the rubber on the road, and the wind in our ears.

When we stop, voracious flies attack us, biting through our skin, even through the fabric of our t-shirts... and if that isn't enough, the sun just keeps getting hotter, heavier, more overwhelming.

Gratefulness strikes when a truck driver stops and shares his Chai (tea) with us. As always, the poorer the locals are, the more generous they become.

Ahead, the road looks like a lake of lucious water. Images of ice cubes and ice cream flood my mind, and my legs churn on in front of me.

That night we stay in a road maintenance office.

The water tap helps us ignore the oversize insects lurking around, and the toilet from hell.

We have our first encounter with the local military police. Curious of our bicycles and what's inside our bags, they disappear when I try taking a picture of them.

The following morning, we thank our hosts and head back into the unknown. Our flasks and bottles are full with water, it's not as hot as the day before, or maybe we're getting used to the heat!

The wind is in our backs. Pushing us up to speeds of 40kms an hour on the flat road.

The wind keeps gets stronger and stronger and as we pause, about 50kms into the day, we realise we're in the middle of a sandstorm.

Last night's military police, which, seemingly, had been following us, pull up and order us to put our bicycles in the back of their van.

The scarves hiding their faces do little to build our trust in them, so we refuse politely.

The Sergeant gets offended and starts swearing loudly in Iranian.

The little trust we had disappears completely.

If we were to give in and get in their van now, it would be out of fear, and that's not good.

The sand is everywhere, in our eyes, ears, mouths.... At last, we manage to make them understand that the wind is in our backs, so it doesn't affect us when we're cycling.

They drive off in a huff.

Some 30 kilometres later, after having our passports controlled in a strangely improvised post in a mountain range, by even stranger looking men with big guns and turbans around their faces in the middle of the sandstorm, we decide to call it a day.

Stephan and Anita, with their long tandem and trailer, are swerving dangerously into the centre of the road, and we can't really see anything because of the sand.

An other night, an other day, sunburnt, tired and dirty we arrive in Zahedan. 100kms from the border with Pakistan.

These past few days, were intense. Our past encounters with the local Balouchis even more so. The chanting of Allah keeps pouring out of the minarets, enhancing the feeling that this is all but a dream.

Will this trance continue in Pakistan?

Pooya flew over to Kerman for a day for us to have one last intellectual moment together, and to visit the city. Later, Alessandro spoke of other places in India that seemed to get more and more mystical as he progressed. Then we realised we were leaving the next morning, by bike, and we were not ready…

All we knew of our destination, Bam, is what we read in the Lonely Planet 2001 edition, "laid-back oasis town with wealth based on date palms…incredible mud-brick citadel and walled city…one of the country’s highlights…" However, a devastating earthquake happened since then in December 2003, killing 30,000 people. A taxi driver in Kerman is new to the city as he had lost 7 members of his family in the Bam earthquake and warned us it would not be a pretty sight.

The bikes were not ready, but we had all we needed with us, and Kerman is higher than Bam so should be no problem. But we could not be so sure considering how fit we were!

The next morning we cycled through the valley where brown mountains became white at their tips and in the front was just the horizon.

The first 30-40 kms were a real pleasure as there were so few cars and trucks. It got us back into the cycling mood, got us sweating a bit, and reminded us which parts hurt… The next 20kms were less enjoyable, as we had to concentrate on the road, the trucks, and a storm that was approaching. At 5.30 the storm was on us and we decided to call it a day, especially as the sun would set an hour later. We wanted to pitch our tents 300m or so from the road, up a hill, which we then discovered to be very muddy. A strong wind was coming from the white mountain tops, the sky was black, and we had no choice by this time. We experienced the art of moving slowly despite the cold, to remind ourselves the cold could not affect us and could not affect our objective of putting the tents up. No dinner, tired, its cold so, goodnight. I’m getting into my sleeping bag.

The next morning the ground was already hard and dry. No real problems during the night apart from the cold, but we have coffee and sugar, so all is fine. As we lift camp, three locals pass and offer us tea and apples. "Merci", as they say in Iran!

We cycled off, with a slight up hill for 30kms or so. After that is was all slight downhill, as the valley widened out and the brown slopes from the mountains distanced themselves from us towards the vast openness of the desert before us. No dunes, just a very large open dry space. It was hot, and we got burnt whilst testing our water management tests. That night we were invited to stay with a farmer, but we preferred to camp out in a dry orchard, behind a mud brick wall. After the previous night it was perfect, spaghetti ‘a la usual’ with coffee and sugar, AND, we found enough firewood… The stars are bright.

The people are so loving in Iran.

A precession of 6-7 curious onlookers set us off that morning as we get back to the main road. On the road, we get stopped all the time for tea, for talking, for pictures, and the cars and trucks are constantly making a fuss of us with waves and hoots. Christopher was given a silver ring from one of our encounters. This man had two rings on his hand for years, worked and probably slept with them, and he decides to give one away just like that. The ring projected all the goodness he had inside him, and which he most wanted to show.

The downhill carried on for the whole day, with more magnificent scenery. By now the valley had disappeared, and the great openness brought with it the winds. At first against us, and after a while, they were with us, in our backs. Now we were taking our breaks from the sunand winds in mud houses by the road. It soon became pure bliss to have the hard gear on, and move swiftly into the desert, the only sound being that of the rubber on the road. Bam 55km, Bam 45km, Bam 25km, and I felt fit when speaking to the Red Crescent at the entrance to the city of Bam, for directions.

We cycled slowly into the central part of the city. It is incredible what has happened here since the earthquake of December 2003, about a year ago. Officially 30,000 dead, in fact local people think a lot more. I have never seen anything like it and it is not a pretty sight. There are no more houses in the city. There are piles of bricks evenly spaced out along each road. We went to the city centre to get some food, and that is something I have never seen either. Most of the shops and buildings are in fact freight containers with one of the sides open.

The good news is that here at Akbar’s Guesthouse, we have met up with Anita and Stefan, our two tandem-ist friends we met in Teheran. We’re going into Baluchistan to Zahedan, still in Iran (on the border with Pakistan), on two recumbents and one tandem! From there we have to see about the security situation as we have heard a few stories.

Today is the Muslim New Year, or Noruz, yet we’ll have a quiet time here in Bam amongst the rubble.

When foreign journalists asked Akhbar what he was going to do as his guesthouse collapsed. Akhbar answered "well, rebuild it of course."

More photos:

Lived in Shiraz about 100 years after Rumi, another famous Sufi poet. Hafiz became a famous Sufi master, he wrote some 5000 poems during his life and as Hazrat Inayat Khan, the Indian teacher that was credited with bringing Sufism to the West, proclaimed, “the words of Hafiz have won every heart that listens”.

His collection of poems is called “The Divan of Hafiz”, here are a few short ones (translated from Persian:

Why not be Polite?

Everyone

Is God Speaking

Why not be polite and

Listen to

Him?

Needing a Mirror

Your

Eye

Is so wise

It keeps turning, turning,

Needing to touch

Beauty.

It keeps turning,

needing to find a mirror

That

Will caress you

As I.

Stop

What

Do sad people have in

Common?

It seems

They have built a shrine

To the past

And often go there

And do a strange wail and

Worship.

What is the beginning of

Happiness?

It is to stop being

So religious

Like

That.

The Hatcheck Girl

Why

Are there

So few in the court

Of a perfect

Saint?

Because

Every time you are near Him

You have to leave pieces

Of your

Ego

With

The hatcheck

Girl

Who won’t give them

Back-

O

O

O

U

C

H

Links:

Hafiz the poet

Sufism

Rumi another Sufi poet

- Went skiing in the mountains north of Tehran
- Got snowed in by avalanches
- Met many good people in Tehran, and discovered the nightlife
- Got lost in the Bazaars of Esfahan
- Read poetry at Hafez’s tomb in Shiraz
- Did not meet any terrorists

Still last night, we camped under the stars, somewhere near Persepolis. Indeed, this last month has been an eye opening experience. An insight into Iranian everyday life. A taste of what Iran really is. Peter’s broken wrist has meant no cycling. We did not, however, let this get in the way of having a good time.

At first glance, Iran has different rules and regulations to the countries we have been to until now. Being a fundamentalist Islamic country, many laws exist, which we have never encountered before. Alcohol is illegal, of course, and women must wear head scarves. Then there are a series of more obscure rules, like playing cards being illegal.

Only in the past few years has Iran recovered from the excesses of the Islamic revolution and the aftermath of the Iran-Iraq war, yet the Iranians we met were fresh, warm hearted, and generous. Some of them, I sincerely hope, will stay friends of mine for a long time. Our new friends in Tehran are very much like our old friends back home. Same lifestyles, same sense of humour, same stories…

Whilst in Tehran we met Nigel, Managing Director of Alstom in Iran. Nigel invited us into his magnificent home, where we met his wife and daughter. Thanks Nigel, your welcoming us in Tehran in the manner that you did is only worthy of an English Gentleman. Thanks as well for your much needed help, and advice.

We met a lot of people in Tehran, including Stefan and Anita, also cycling around the world... on a Tandem! Here is a link to their site: http://www.ohne-grenzen.at/index1.php.

We also met Ali and Pooya. Through their friends and themselves we discovered Tehran and glanced behind some of its closed doors. The Iranians we met until now have been amongst the kindest, most warm hearted people we have met since leaving Paris 9 months ago. Iranians have hospitality in their blood. They are always eager to meet people from other countries, even just to practice their foreign languages. In many respects, they are like Italians, except they have Saffron ice cream. 

There is something mysterious about Iran. Not only due to its rich cultural heritage, but also because so much seems to happen behind its closed doors…

[[image:1_ontheroad_1.jpg:On the road 1:left:0]][[image:1_ontheroad_2.jpg:On the Road 2:left:0]]

We spent a much longer time then expected in Tehran. During this time we were invited by many of our new friends, for dinner parties and tasted local delicacies. In terms of culinary delights, we have, indeed, been spoilt. Sheep’s head soup is next on the list.

With regards to the bicycle, Tehran is not a friendly city. In fact, most people consider cycling in Tehran as suicidal. We held a few meetings in Tehran (and later in Esfahan and Shiraz) to promote the use of the bicycle. Tehran seems to be a write off, but Esfahan and Shiraz already have many good bicycle paths and the officials we met there were aware of the bicycle’s advantages. We may still get results here yet.

Between meetings we attended the Ashura religious feast, commemorating the death of the Chiite martyr Hussein, in the battle of Karbala in October 680. On this day, believers take to the streets and whip themselves slowly with chains. Nobody seems to hurt themselves badly, apart from the sheep, which get sacrificed.

Tehran continued to amaze us, yet our visa extensions for Iran only last until the 29th March... and time was running out. 1500 kms separated us from the border with Pakistan, and we had to get going. Peter’s unfortunate snowboarding accident meant no cycling for at least a month. Pooya kindly offered to drive us through to Shiraz, so we could enjoy and discover Iran in the time we had left from our visas…

Thus we were temporarily ‘relegated’ to the status of normal tourists, driving through Iran, stopping at the tourist sites, learning about history, culture and carpets… After all these countries we have been through where communication has been difficult, it was good to have someone who understood what was going on and was able to explain. Travelling with Pooya was truly a pleasure.

Out of all the cities we went through, Qom was the most religious, and Esfahan, I believe, the most beautiful. Tourism has taken a dip in places such as Esfahan over the past few years, and is now nearly non existent. Only the best carpet salesmen are left. Not the most persistent, not the loudest, but the best. Their tact and technique far surpass that of the Turkish carpet salesmen I came across in Istanbul or Capadoccia.

After a while, we went camping, close to Persepolis. Persepolis was a town built about 2500 years ago by Darius the Great. Alexander the Great stopped by a century later and burnt Persepolis down, and he hasn’t been popular since. Persian historians tend to see Alexander the Great more as a megalomaniac alcoholic than anything else. Camping in the Iranian desert, so close to Persepolis where so much had happened over the years, was a completely new experience. When looking for wood for the fire, all I found was a bone. The terrain was rocky and arid, and the sound of coyotes kept us awake at night.

[[image:4_persepolis_1.jpg:Persepolis 1:left:0]][[image:4_persepolis_2.jpg:Persepolis 2:left:0]]

As I now write this update from a hotel room in Shiraz, I can hear the traffic police outside, continuously screaming at the slower moving cars to speed up, through the loudspeakers on their cars. Throughout the larger cities of Iran the traffic police seem to shepherd the cars through the streets, with their loudspeakers.

Every day we learn more about the rules and regulations that control this country: Western music, for example, is only legal when no vocals are included (ie. No singing). Certain songs, exceptionally, have been legalised. For example some of the BeeGees songs are legal, which just makes no sense to me.

Visa, Mastercard and Maestro are accepted nowhere. Banks are interested neither in our plastic cards nor in our promises of fame and fortune. Now, we are in Shiraz, 1100 kms from the Pakistani border, and we don’t have much cash left at all. We’re not sure what the next move will be. One of the last calculations indicated 2 euros left each per day for the next 19 days. We’re hoping there’s a cash machine on the other side of the border to Pakistan, in a small town called Taftan. If any one out there knows for sure, please let us know.

Our visa extensions for Iran will last 19 more days. Peter’s plaster will come off very soon, and we are both waiting with anticipation as it means we will get back on our bikes, and discover some more of the rural parts of Iran, maybe even spend some time with the nomads. In any case we are in the right city now for the plaster to come off… as Shiraz University is internationally reputed for its medical studies department.

With our high hopes, our new bicycles, and our bags full of all the equipment we thought we would need, we hit the road. First we cycled south through France and its vineyards, then east through Italy, north through Austria, then Hungary, Serbia, Bulgaria, Turkey and now Iran.

Since our departure, we have slept in many different places, ranging from a luxury villa in Cannes to abandoned houses in Serbia.

As we left in June, the summer sun followed us well into Hungary. In Hungary the rain started, and became more regular as we slowly made our way through to Turkey. With time and wear, I noticed the rain increasingly making its way through the fabric of my tent and into my sleeping bag...

Every day, at sunset, our lifestyles have ranged from simple tramps looking for a dry spot on the side of the road, to honoured guests in someone's home. Camping in the wild, however, remains at the forefront of this trip, and it has, until now, nearly always been a pleasure.

Camping in the snow, however, is different. I am yet to meet a happy snow camper and learn from him where the pleasures of snow camping can be found.

After Peter broke his wrist, and had it fixed in Teheran, we made our way back up to Shemshack, where we had been skiing, to recover our belongings. Snow had fallen continuously for days, and was continuing to fall. That is how, some 60 kms north of Teheran, high up in the mountains, we got snowed in, in what was seemingly the middle of nowhere.

Camping was out of the question, as we did not have our tents with us. Luckily, we met Mr Kamali and his team, Ali and Reza. They were clearing the snow from the roads, when like us, they got snowed in. Their truck was safely parked under a rock ledge, protecting it from any impending avalanches.

We spent the night in their Truck, three seats for five people, and we fought the cold together. Together as well, we waited for the snow tractor to come and save us.

The snow tractor arrived a day late, during which we got to know our new friends better. Reza is an Iranian Kurd, studying architecture in Teheran. He clears snow at night to pay for his studies. Mr Kamali's wife and children were waiting for him back home, and Ali was busy single handedly fighting the snow with his spade and complaining about frostbite.

That night, in the cold, I realised that summer had begun.

Once out of these mountains, and then out of Teheran, we would head south, and very soon, the sun would start to hit again.

Of course, the desert in Iran can be cold too at night, in February, but this night truly marked the height of coldness, and thus the come back of the warmth.

I imagined the road ahead, the Iranian countryside, new people, new cultures, new horizons...

Time goes by and 360ways slowly takes us through the Middle East.

People continue to warn us about the next place, and people continue to warn us about other people.

Yet people continue to be people: Warm hearted, generous, and helpful.

The rift between the warnings we receive and the kind people we meet continues to grow.

Are we just lucky or is it something else?

That cold night, as I cuddled up to my new found Iranian friends and closed my eyes, I pondered on all the adventures we have had until now, all the good people we met, all those humbling experiences, and all those to come, and I felt warm again.

Next stop Esfahan.

Peter's broken wrist means no cycling for at least a couple more weeks so Pooya, who has been our host here in Tehran, has offered to show us some of Iran in his car.

In a week, Peter's plaster will be freed from the elbow upwards, then we will see if he can cycle again... fingers crossed!

Meanwhile, we're going to take our gear with us, and camp in the desert for a little while.

Every day, the sun shines a little stronger, and a little longer...