Our final movie covers the high-altitude ride from Leh to Manali, including the Khardung La north of Leh. One of the most breathtaking rides we’ve ever done, and not only because of the altitude! Hope you’ll enjoy the movie too.

A Royal Enfield is parked in front of Lalli Singh’s garage, where our bikes are being crated.

Our last ride takes us from Manali to Delhi, leaving the mountains behind. The time has come to put our bikes on a plane and fly home. However, finding an agent who is able to do this proves to be more difficult than we expected. In true Indian style they all tell us ‘it’s no problem’, but after three days we don’t even have a quote yet. Only after getting in touch with Mr. Lalli Singh, who has been providing his services to motorcycle travellers for twenty years, things start to move. Lalli clearly knows his business and within hours gives us a quote. Given the huge difference in price, we decide to ship by sea instead of air. After handing over the necessary documents, the paperwork is started at once. Within a week the bikes are crated, cleared through Delhi customs and on their way to Mumbai for the long sea journey to Antwerp. As for ourselves, we’ll both be home before the weekend!

Riding down the Rohtang La in thick mist.

Monsoon started early this year and struck India hard, especially in the Himalaya states of Himachal Pradesh and Uttarakhand. We were in Pakistan at the time, and already then we’d decided to spend more time in the Karakorams and Ladakh, where the monsoon doesn’t reach. Instead of riding to Nepal in the pouring rain, we’ll end our trip in Delhi.

Monsoon in Manali.

When we cross the Rohtang La pass (3979m) on our way to Manali, we literally ride into the monsoon. No more bright and sunny weather, from now on our days will be wet and cloudy. The high-altitude desert landscapes of Ladakh give way to lush green valleys, and again we see a different side of the Himalaya.

Enjoying the view as we look down from the Tanglang La (5328m).

On our journey through the Indian Himalaya we’ve ridden two spectacular high-altitude roads: the Srinagar-Leh Highway and the Leh-Manali Highway. These are the only two roads that connect Leh, the capital of Ladakh, with the rest of the country, and only for five to six months a year. The rest of the time the high passes are snowed under and flying is the only option.

The twisty road to the Fotu La (4108m), the highest pass on the Srinagar-Leh Highway.

Posing with some bikers from Delhi.

The buddhist monastery of Likir at sunset.

Despite the very bad road condition (as opposed to the newly paved Srinagar-Leh road), the Leh-Manali Highway has been one of our most beautiful rides ever. Much of the road is above four thousand metres and it crosses several high passes, including the world’s second highest motorable pass. The scenery is simply stunning and over the whole five hundred kilometres never once gets boring.

Trucks on the Leh-Manali Highway.

The uninhabited Moore Plains, at 4000m altitude.

The road passes through a few impressive canyons.

In two days time we’ve crossed both the world’s highest and second highest motorable pass. The Khardung La (5603m) crosses the Ladakh Range towards the Nubra Valley and the Karakorams in India’s far north. The Tanglang La (5328m), on the Leh-Manali Highway, crosses the Zanskar Range. Whether these are really the highest motorable passes in the world is debatable, as Tibet has some higher, albeit military passes. Still, this is by far the highest we’ve gone on this trip, and in a way we’ve reached our destination. Unbelievable, is not it?

On top of the Tanglang La pass, the more serene (no tea stalls or crowds here) and more beautiful of the two.

Leh, the low-key capital of Ladakh, is one of those Indian traveller hangouts where you meet too many Israeli’s and would-be hippies. Still a nice place to unwind for a few days though, with great food, peaceful garden hotels and perfect weather at this time of year. It’s also a good place for An to work on her upcoming novel, as her deadline is coming closer.

The road to buddhist Ladakh runs through the troubled region of muslim Kashmir. Here, the Indian government has to defend itself on two fronts: against Pakistan and Kashmiri insurgents. Never have we seen such an overwhelming army presence. The border road is congested with military convoys and we ride past one army camp after another. While we’re enjoying a shikara boat ride on touristy Dal Lake, a few incidents elsewhere in Srinagar (hindus burning a quran and the police shooting a protestor, or so we’re told) result in a curfew being announced, out of fear for demonstrations after the friday prayers.

We leave Srinagar at five o’clock the next morning, just before the curfew starts. Police is on the ready, blocking the entry roads to Srinagar.

As seen in our KKH movie, the F650’s charging system stopped working in northern Pakistan due to a burnt stator. We tried to have the coils rewound in Lahore but this didn’t work out. As our Pakistani visa was about to expire we decided to order a new stator from the US (BMW does not sell this part of the alternator separately) and have it sent to Delhi, where we picked it up at the UPS office a few days later. Back in Amritsar, from where we’d taken the train to Delhi, Mr. Kanav of the local Royal Enfield dealership was so kind to let me use their workshop so I wouldn’t have to fix the bike in the dirty streets. As BMW Delhi had not been able to provide us with a new paper gasket for the alternator housing, one of the mechanics helped me to create a liquid one, a great solution that I didn’t know about. After a few hours’ work the bike was running perfectly again and we were ready to continue our journey.

Guess which one is the fried stator…

The border crossing at Wagah, the only border between Pakistan and India open to foreigners, went smoothly. Pakistani customs was mainly interested in changing our remaining rupees (at a bad rate of course). At the Indian side our walkie talkies were discovered for the first time, although we always hide them in An’s trousers when crossing a border. Fortunately, the only thing the Indians seemed to care about was whether we were carrying a satellite phone (which we don’t).

Our first stop in India is Amritsar, home to the Sikh’s most holy shrine, the Golden Temple. We stay a few days at the Grand Hotel, a quiet oasis in the Indian chaos, and enjoy the food and a beer again.

Thursday night in Lahore is Sufi Night. Sufism is a form of Islamic mysticism, with a strong connection to music. I’d seen Sufi performances before -the famous whirling dervishes of Turkey and Cairo- but I was not prepared for the eclectic trip that is Sufi Night, and An even less… Sufi’s gather in the Shrine of Baba Shah Jamal to dance to the hypnotic music of great drummers. By whirling their bodies and vigorously shaking their heads they try to reach a higher state of mind. The cheerful crowd, barely fitting in the small courtyard, only adds to the sensation.

Beware: you can get a culture shock just by watching the movie!

Before our race down south, we actually spent a wonderful two weeks in Pakistan’s Northern Areas. First of all, we’ve been riding the Karakoram Highway, one of the most spectacular roads in the world. The KKH runs for twelve hundred kilometres from Kashgar in China to Islamabad, and every day is an adventure.

The Karakorams are also a prime trekking destination, with some of the most awe-inspiring mountain scenery I’ve ever seen. Most of the eight thousand metre peaks are found here, including the K2, the second highest mountain in the world. Unfortunately we haven’t been able to see it, as the trek to the basecamp takes two weeks. We did go on several day-hikes as well as a few longer treks. The most unforgettable being the trek to the basecamps of Rakaposhi (7788m) and Diran (7266m), on which we crossed the impressive Minapin Glacier with the help of our guide Hasan.

We stayed a while in the magical Hunza Valley, which is quite different from the rest of Pakistan. People are Ismaili here, a school of Islam far less radical than Sunnism, and are extremely friendly. Ever since 9/11 tourism has been on the decline, although in this region there has been no attack against foreigners in more than forty years. Until two weeks ago, when nine trekkers were killed around Nanga Parbat. In Karimabad, where we were staying at the time, people were genuinely sad about what happened, embarrassed even. And they’re afraid, afraid that the trickle of mountaineers and trekkers still visiting the Northern Areas will now also stop.

We were glad not to get another police escort when we left Abottabad. The night before we’d been looking at the map and decided to skip Islamabad and take the M2, Pakistan’s only motorway, straight to Lahore. Motorbikes are not allowed on this multi-lane divided highway, but as nobody stopped us at the toll plaza, we opened the throttle and raced off at 120 km/h. Even at this speed the wind could not cool us down.
It took about half an hour before the first police car pulled us over. We were taken to the nicely air-conditioned office of the chief of command who was so kind to grant us special permission to ride on to Lahore, where we arrived in the evening. The five hundred kilometre ride in 38°C and no shade was taking it’s toll, and by the time we found a hotel in the air-polluted, ten million people metropolis, we were totally exhausted and overheated. Before heading for India, we’ll be staying here in Lahore for a few days, enjoying our air con room…

After the Nanga Parbat killings we cancelled our Fairy Meadows trek and continued riding down the Karakoram Highway, to the capital Islamabad. The remaining six hundred kilometre journey turned into a slow, four-day endurance race, with armed police escorting us most of the way, a lot of waiting at checkpoints, temperatures of over forty degrees making driving in the afternoon almost impossible, a failing charging system on An’s bike and an overheating fuel pump on mine. Even my body let me down. On the way to Abottabad, I got extremely painful abdominal cramps and had to stop at a gas station (read: toilet). I was soaking in my own sweat and could barely stay on my legs. Again we were in for an early stop. After an hour of rest and cooling down in the station’s office, we went to find a hotel in Abottabad.

Just letting everyone know we’re alright. As you may have heard in the news, a group of nine foreign trekkers were killed last night in a Nanga Parbat basecamp in northern Pakistan, about two hundred kilometres from where we are now. This is pretty discomforting news, because if it wasn’t for An being ill the past few days, we would’ve been trekking in that area ourselves. We’re changing our plans now based on the information we get in the village and our hotel, and will try to post more info here in the next few days.

In Kyrgyzstan, the most exciting part of our journey begins. In the weeks that follow we’ll be riding and trekking in the world’s best mountain ranges, from the Pamirs over the Karakorams to the mighty Himalayas. These ranges and their extensions comprise all of the world’s seven and eight thousand metre peaks, as well as a few legendary highways.

Three weeks in the Islamic Republic of Iran means three weeks without a drip of alcohol. In Central Asia, however, the Russians have made sure that beer and wodka are widely available. Schol!

For a while we relax in the cozy hotels of Bukhara and Samarkand that we discovered two years ago. Good to recharge the batteries after crossing Turkmenistan, but things look a little too familiar and soon it starts itching to discover new things again. We ride to the Fergana Valley, which we skipped on our previous trip, to learn how silk is made. I’m a little shocked to see that this involes drying and boiling hundreds of little butterfly worms, but I buy a nice silk scarf anyway.

Uniformed officers wearing large Russian hats await us at the Turkmen border. It appears that we’re about to be catapulted back to Soviet times. We start with seeing the doctor (yes, we’re in good health sir), then passport control, then about four different customs officers each writing a line in a large book, and finally immigration to get our entry stamp. We also pass by the ‘bank’, where we have to pay the passenger entry fee, vehicle transit fee, road insurance, document processing fee and vehicle disinfection fee. We also get a fixed itinerary and have to pay a fee per kilometre to compensate for the cheap subsidized fuel. Total cost for our two days crossing of the beautiful country of Turkmenistan, where there’s nothing to see but desert, two boring potholed main roads and a surreal city or two: 138 USD, transit visa and the (for foreigners) ridiculously high bridge toll in Farap not included.

At the first police checkpoint we discover that the fixed itinerary is no joke. We’re sent back and have to take the truck congested main road via Tejen, quite a detour (zoom in on our route to see where we got turned back). We end up driving in the dark, quite dangerous if the opposite traffic doesn’t see the need to turn on their head lights! When we finally reach Mary, we get a cold welcome by a sleazy short-skirted Russian receptionist (a bit of a shock after Iran). All shops and restaurants are closed by now so I dine on water and honey, while An crashes on the bed.

Condensing three weeks of impressions in a ten minute movie wasn’t easy, and getting it uploaded was even more difficult. Thanks again Takis for helping us circumvent the internet censorship in Iran, China and Pakistan!

We hope this movie will give you an idea of what it’s like to travel in Iran. Looking forward to read your thoughts!

Mashhad is the gateway between Iran and Central Asia, and just about every overlander passing through seems to stay at Vali’s home. Vali is a busy little man who likes to insult his guests, but always with a lot of humour! He sorts out the last visa on our list, the Turkmen transit visa, saving us a lot of time. And we learn a few things about the Persian carpet trade while staying here.

Three things I wouldn’t hold possible happened on my birthday. First, the roadside mechanic I trusted to change my rear tire managed to break the valve in half and ran off with my ruined tube. Secondly, he reappeared after an hour with the valve perfectly welded back together. And last, after weeks of good weather, rain and hail came pouring down so heavily that Mashhad’s streets turned into rivers and two Belgian bikers were very sorry for not wearing their rain gear.

Central Iran is dominated by the great Dasht-e-Kavir desert, making for great rides between sand dunes, salt lakes and desert rock formations. On the way we visit the old silk road cities of Esfahan and Yazd, two of Iran’s highlights, and the isolated oasis of Garmeh.

On the desert road between Kashan and Esfahan, in the middle of nowhere, we drove past what is supposed to be Iran’s uranium enrichment plant. Not that we could see much, only kilometres of wire fence, guard towers and large artillery mounted on the hill tops. Every hundred metre or so there were ‘no parking’ and ‘no photo’ signs, urging us to rush through as fast as possible and leave our cameras stashed deeply in our tank bags…

Iranian hospitality is unequaled, but after a while can become a little tiring. So we learned to say no to invitations now and then. Especially after spending a night at Josephs, who was so kind to invite us in his modest home in Tabriz because all hotels were full of medical tourists from Azerbaijan. Only, he turned out to be a bit grumpy and insisted we’d help him find a Belgian wife for his one-legged friend, so he’d be able to move to Europe. Joseph was willing to pay three thousand dollar to any woman who’d marry his friend, on one condition: she should not be black. No, he did not like black women.

Another time a stuttering man kept following us to our hotel in Kashan, thinking we were lost. On the way he used the tree branch he was holding in his hand to point at every obvious thing we came across: ‘re-restaurant!’, ‘sh-shop!’, ‘wa-watermelon, hmm, ve-very good!’. In the end, the hotel staff had to send him away.

Unlike in Europe, we never have problems finding a hotel with parking. Iranians always find a solution, even if they have to improvise. We’ve parked our bikes in corridors, courtyards, in a dormitory and even on a roof, like in the beautifully restored Ehsan House in Kashan.

After staying with them for two days, our Tehrani friends had to catch a plane to Europe. Nema was so kind to arrange us other accommodation in a 5-star hotel owned by a family friend. It was a little embarrassing to arrive in our dusty motorcycle suits and drop our dirty bags in the lobby. And then a bit more so when they gave us their most expensive room and didn’t expect any payment. No point in trying to refuse Iranian generosity, so we relaxed in our two-bedroom suite for two days while we waited for our Uzbek visa to be ready

Fourteen million people are living in greater Tehran, traffic is mad and rush hour seems to last all day. That’s why we were glad our friend Nema would meet us on Azadi Square, which isn’t too hard to find, and escort us from there. When we got to their nice apartment in the north of Tehran, Nema’s wife Maryam awaited us with a delicious home-cooked dinner. The next day they guided us around the bazaar and the old part of the city and took us to a nice Persian restaurant where they serve dizi, a tasty stew which you have to mash yourself with a wooden masher.

On the way to Tehran we stopped in the town of Abyek to stretch our legs. As usual, a small crowd quickly gathered around us, curious about where we come from, how fast the bikes go and how much they cost. In such places it usually doesn’t take long before the police notices us also. But these policemen looked serious and weren’t dressed in uniform. ‘State police,’ they said, and we had to follow them to the nearby police station for an interrogation. Fortunately Ali, a helpful local who spoke English, popped up out of nothing offering help and joined us to the station to translate. The police asked us a few questions about our trip and what we were doing in Abyek, and photocopied our passports. They apologised for ‘just doing their job’ and we could go, relieved they did not check our insurance because we were riding without!

Ali, who turned out to be a businessman importing German harvesters, then took us to a restaurant for lunch. Afterwards he offered to fill up our tanks with benzin, which we kindly refused since he already paid for our meal!

The Iranians are among the most welcoming and hospitable people we’ve ever met. Genuinely happy to see us, they often stop for a chat, curious about our life and our opinion about Iran. Quite openly they also give us their own opinion about their country and its repressive government. Every day people offer us tea or bread, invite us to restaurants or their home, or want to guide us around their town. Quite incredible, given the image Iran has in the west.

The border crossing didn’t start too well, with the Turkish police telling me women aren’t allowed to drive a motorcycle in Iran. This misunderstanding was resolved quickly but I still felt uncomfortable, stressing about my headscarf and feeling very exposed in a world of men. The women gave me a warm welcome though, they invited me to sit with them and one even hugged me out of sheer happiness that I was visiting her country.

Van, in Turkey’s far east, is the last major town before the Iranian border. We spend an extra day here to prepare ourselves, as we need to do some administration, have a helmet microphone soldered in the bazaar, update the website and so on. An also buys a headscarf to comply with Irans hajib or dresscode, and is taught how to put it on by two enthusiastic girls, who seem to find it very funny.

We’re staying two nights in a very nice cave room, hewn out of a mountain in Urgup, Capadoccia. In the nearby village of Mazi we meet Ihsan, wearing jeans and brown leather shoes, who turns out to be the local Indiana Jones. After some tea he guides us around a huge underground city, which is not your average tourist sight. Ihsan hands us both a LED-light and we climb up and down many floors through dusty old shafts, and only see the daylight again after an hour or so.

Turkey has, in my opinion, some of the best sweets in the world. My favourites are definitely the baklava, made of filo-dough, pistachio or walnut and soaked in honey. Anneke is starting to like these delicious little pastries too, as well as the long rolls in the top of the photo, made of grenade apple and pistachio and covered with coconut flakes.

My connection with Istanbul is a special one. Eight years ago it was the starting point of The Wander Year, my first long-term travels in Asia. I’ve been wandering a lot since then and even though this is my third visit to the city on the Bosphorus, I still enjoy it.

While in Istanbul, we’ve also applied for a visa to Uzbekistan. Unfortunately, it’s not the most helpful consulate here, nor the fastest. Processing time is one week. A bit long, so we’ve asked to forward our application to Tehran where we should be passing through in the next week or so.

Although we’d like to visit the Balkans some day, we’d decided to take a south bound ferry from Venice straight to Greece. It took twenty six hours to sail across the Adriatic Sea to the town of Igoumenitsa, which is actually quite nice to stay for a night. The seafront is lined with fancy restaurants and bars, there’s a long promenade and also a beach. And after sleeping in a chair between snoring truckers last night, a comfy bed was nice too!

Sun is shining, weather is nice, and Venice is not too crowded at this time of year. We spent two days in the floating city, splurging on tasty Italian food and wine in charming osterie. It was our first time in Venice, and we truly enjoyed it.

During the first few days, with so much on our minds, it was nice not having to think about the route much. Simply immer geradeaus on the German autobahn! But once in the Austrian Alps, we took the more scenic secondary roads to Italy.

Note that Anneke is still getting used to being squeezed between her luggage :)

Traveling to Kathmandu on a motorbike has been a long time dream of mine. Following the old hippy trail of the seventies, from Europe to Istanbul and on to Iran, Pakistan and India. Even Afghanistan was still on the map in those days, being a favourite traveller hangout thanks to its hospitable people and cheap supply of the worlds best hash. A true adventure, in times without internet or mobile phones.

Today, politics, terrorist activity and a lot of red tape make traveling through this volatile region difficult. In planning our route a lot of constraints had to be taken into account. Most importantly, we wanted to avoid the dangerous province of Balochistan in western Pakistan, where kidnappings and bomb attacks are daily reality. Secondly, rumour has it that due to the elections in June, the Iranian border might be closed to foreigners. So we wanted to be able to skip Iran if necessary. The resulting route will be longer, more costly and require even more red tape, but it’ll make for a very interesting detour via the silk roads of Central Asia and China, and over the Karakoram Highway into eastern Pakistan.

We plan to reach the Himalaya in June, just in time for the mountain passes to Ladakh to open. After India, we’ll continue to Nepal, where our journey will come to an end in the great city of Kathmandu.