A van sneaked up the mountain right behind us. We were slow, and the road was wide with ample space to overtake, but instead, the van kept creeping uphill right behind us. Thomas, cycling behind me, confirmed my suspicion: a police van.
After quite a while, the van overtook us and gestured for us to stop and put our bicycles into their van. We had been warned of this possibility, the sun had already started saying goodbye for the day, and we still had 20 km to go to Chilās. Thomas and I looked at each other but quickly accepted our defeat and followed their instructions.
Squeezed between bags and bicycles in the back of their van, I suddenly felt a bit naïve. I had been feeling safe with these men and still did, but none of them wore a uniform, none showed a police ID, and the number plate on the back of the van was self-painted. “I hope they will bring us to Chilās…” I said, realizing that we hadn’t even communicated where we were heading. “Well, we did say it to that one guy.”
I was puzzled. “We did?”
I didn’t remember exchanging a single word with any of them besides ‘salam aleikum.’
“Yes, that guy on the motorcycle who stopped earlier and wanted to know where we were going. He didn’t say he was from the police, nor did he have a uniform, but he had a police bike—or rather, a police number plate. He must be the reason this van came for us in the first place.”
I hadn’t even noticed. To me, he was just another random guy interested in our journey, and I hadn’t even bothered to stop, leaving Thomas to deal with the socializing—or interrogation, as it turned out. And so, our police protection started.
They dropped us off at a hotel in Chilās and made sure we actually checked in. Two guys from the town, hanging around in the lobby, supposedly helped us get tickets for a bus leaving for Islamabad at 11 a.m. the next day—later than we wanted, but oh well. We never got physical tickets but were just supposed to turn up at the bus stop on time. The bus never came. Apparently, it had broken down on its way, and after waiting for hours at the station, we were finally on our way at 4 p.m. in a minibus, our bicycles strapped to the roof—not to Islamabad as intended, but at least to Mansehra, 120 km away.
After a short ride, we reached the first police checkpoint, where a random-looking man told us we had to come with him to make ‘an entry.’
“What is an entry?”
“It is very important here,” we were told.
So, we followed our young driver to make an entry in a huge book registering all foreigners and their drivers. Okay, well, we had been warned about this too. Security measures had tightened after recent attacks, which was, after all, the reason we had to take the bus in the first place.
However, this was only the beginning—the first checkpoint of many—MANY more. We had to stop at about 25 police checks—once even before and after a bridge. They didn’t seem to communicate with each other, and every police station seemed surprised by our arrival, improvising the procedures: checking passports and/or visas, with or without taking pictures of them, or us, checking our driver, taking his number, giving him their number, making him follow them to their office, telling him how to treat us or how to drive, and making him responsible for our safety.
We were placed in the front row, and whenever I saw another police officer, I tried to make myself invisible—with little luck. “Oh, foreigners!” And the whole procedure started all over again.
It became both very annoying and hilarious. These “safety procedures” only caused huge delays, unnecessarily prolonging the time we had to spend on this supposedly dangerous road in the middle of the night. Our driver patiently followed instructions, and our co-passengers patiently waited, even apologizing to us despite the constantly increasing delay—all while being way too many people uncomfortably squeezed in the back.
At 4 a.m., we finally arrived at the deserted Mansehra bus terminal, where the minivan was unloaded, our bicycles stuffed back into the van, and our driver dutifully delivered us to the next police station. The sleepy officers organized a hotel next door with the usual “brick” mattress—rather dirty, but whatever—it only cost 5 euros, and we were exhausted.
While Thomas and the police walked off with their rifles to check the room, our driver and I waited with the bicycles by the car. Slowly, the driver’s phone moved a bit higher… then turned slightly… tilting ever so subtly. I knew this position very well by now: secret picture time!
Busted.
He flinched when he realized I was watching him, but then, probably reassured by my amused smile, he shyly asked for a picture together. And then, encouraged and now more decisive, again with Thomas. He was beaming—we were probably quite a story, and the picture with us was probably worth far more to him than the tip we gave him.
He had safely delivered his foreigners, but for us, this was just the beginning.
Anecdotes
Fairy Meadows: We did not dare to hope it could be as beautiful as in the pictures—but it is! At least, after leaving behind all the newly built hotels and their friendly but very pushy owners (thank you, Thomas, for pushing through). Now, we are sitting on this beautiful terrace overlooking the meadow and the stunning scenery, with the impressive Nanga Parbat massif in the background. We can already see the first snow patches in the forest, but the sun is still strong, and we are enjoying every moment of sitting here.
While we sit, one man serves us tea, another cleans the rooms of guests who have already left, and yet another takes the laundry from the clothesline. As in most places since we left the Hunza Valley, women are completely absent in public and also among the many employees of this and most other hotels—resulting in men doing all the jobs. At first, it slightly confused me to see men doing room service—and even the fact that I noticed it irritated me.
On the road: In Turkmenistan, beards are forbidden, and Thomas was criticized by a bit of a bully on the night train for having one. In contrast, the Pakistanis love Thomas’ beard!
One day, a car stopped us and asked if they could take a picture with us. Nothing special—we are often asked (or forced) to stop for pictures in Pakistan, and later even more in India. Then, they asked if they could sing a song and make a video. For this, I was kindly asked to step out of the picture—tradition—giving me the chance to record their performance and Thomas’ slightly awkward stance in the middle of it.
Another time, two guys asked for pictures while we were taking a break. First, they took pictures with us, but then they became fascinated by Thomas’ amazing iPhone camera and couldn’t let go of it anymore—basically doing a full-on photoshoot of each other in front of the beautiful scenery, blurred by the iPhone’s portrait mode.
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