From the snow dusted Khunjerab pass we descended into Gilgit Baltitstan autonomous region of Pakistan, abbreviated to GB! The relief was immense and wild. Suddenly we were back in an untamed scape, but this was even more colossal than Kyrgyzstan. Mammoth vertical slabs of craggy rock reaching incredible lofty heights surrounded us as we weaved our way down the switch backs of the Karakoram Highway following the fledgling Hunza river as it crashes down steeply through mighty boulders chucking a roar into the air. The road was more diminutive and less substantial compared with the Chinese side and the engineering challenges were far greater  in this most extreme mountainous panorama. 

Xinjiang had been a section of insensitive modernity, where the land and people had been tamed by ideology and relentless engineering that carved through the place and people unsympathetically. 

Those vivid green mountainous ranges of Kyrgyzstan on one side, with semi nomadic herders on horseback and living in their  neat yurts, and on this side, the multi ethnic people of the Hunza living in the dramatic deep valleys of Baltistan with their apricot and apple orchards on terracing and mighty glaciers hanging from the higher mountains above. Xinjiang sandwiched between these two natural places was like some futuristic setting that had been plonked down by some distant regime. 

Again we had crossed a huge geographical boundary of the high Karakoram and were now amongst new and very contrasting people. Elegant genteel, dapper, almost regal looking men wearing shalwar kameez and Chitral hats sat drinking tea. Brightly decorated lorries were parked. The familiar smell of cooked spice and garlic as stalls turned out dhal and Karahi with paratha drifted by in the cool breeze.  We arrived at Sost, the first town of Baltistan which had the feel of a frontier town. The reception was warm and friendly. It was striking how everyone spoke perfect English as though they had been to some prestigious school. Everywhere people call out “How are you? Would you like to have a cup of tea?” Or just nice words of encouragement as we conquer another steep hill, “very good, well done”

Even the border formalities in a simple building were informal and relaxed, probably the nicest entry into a country we have ever had. “Welcome to Pakistan”.

There is a feel that we have entered the Indian subcontinent with the smell of spiced good food and the colourful street commerce but it is much gentler than further south. There is no hassle or annoyance, just kind helpful amicable proud people. 

The setting is striking and unique. Settlements smother the small areas of less steep land in the valleys, dark craggy veined slabs of rock make up the imposing cliffs that soar to great altitude, extreme rugged snow covered peaks  tower beyond limits into the cloud and beyond. Tributary valleys hang high with dirty white glaciers discarding their ice and freezing water that comes hurtling down the boulder strewn rivers to the main Hunza. 

We were following the Karakoram Highway, or KKH, the lifeline of the Hunza valley. This once cut off remote valley sandwiched between Xinjiang and the Wakhan corridor of Afghanistan was connected in the  late 1970s after the building of the road which took 20 years and 24,000 workers. A miraculous feat of engineering which cut through the stunningly beautiful Hunza valley. This artery snaking its way through this colossal towering landscape with surrounding 7000m glacial covered peaks links with surrounding remote valleys with precarious slender suspension bridges, some just wooden slats between wire cables and others a more reassuring robust structure that can take motorbikes, slung very high above the steep rugged ravine. Some inaccessible communities are linked with a hand pulled tiny cart slung from a cable anchored into the rock face at a dizzy height above the turbulent icy noisy water of the Hunza crashing its way down. 

This precarious link to the outside world regularly gets blocked with landslides even in the summer and we had to navigate our way through recently cleared mounds of wet rocky debris.  Huge banks of steep glacial moraine hugged the valley sides looking precarious as if they might give way at any time after a little rain and block our route. 

We left our bike at Minapin to trek to the Rakaposhi base camp. It’s always difficult when on a cycle tour to breakaway from one’s general direction, but we really wanted to experience a high altitude trek with views over a glacier. Rakaposhi has such a nice name that we picked this one and gosh it didn’t disappoint! Absolutely amazing that in a days walk from the road you can get to this sort of scenery. 

The road was quiet and the scenery towering way above us was immensely beautiful.  The valley narrowed to thin gorges, the road clung onto the sheer rock face, and then it opened out into the next region, slightly different people and customs. This repeated several times down the Karakoram Highway. The call to prayer melodiously reverberated around the steep valley. The further north people were related to the Whaka and Tajiks and as we crossed the different valleys people became more Pakistani looking. 

From Chilas we climbed out of the Indus Valley leaving the Karakoram Highway and crossed the Babusar pass. This area is quite traditional and there isn’t a woman in sight! The police were pretty quick to pick us up through this region, sometimes escorting us and sometimes insisting we put our bike in their Hilux truck..  Our series of police escorts eventually left us. It was quite strange. We would get picked up on the road and told to either be transported or we could cycle and they follow. One way or another they would get us to the boundary of their patch and then disappear. There was no formal handover or goodbyes. After a bit more cycling another police truck appears and the process is repeated. It was all very friendly and we had lunch with one lot but once we were off their patch they had gone! Anyway the area they seem to be concerned about was more conservative and perhaps we were getting less waves and “Hello, How are You” but there were still plenty of kind interactions.

Once clear of the police things lightened up. People are so friendly and it is probably the easiest and most relaxed country to travel in that we have visited. People are always asking us if we are ok, calling out of their cars “welcome to  Pakistan” “very good, good work, well done, would you like a cup of tea” A guy this morning was concerned I was cycling in flip flops, it was a bit cold, but my trainers were soaked from the day before, immediately he says, “ here, have my shoes”! I reassured him flip flops were absolutely fine.

We are now in the foothills of the Himalayas. Green alpine looking mountains surround us and the scale is reduced so much since we left the  Karakoram Highway at Chilas, some distance after passing  Nanga Parbat, the last mighty peak of the Himalayas before the range slips towards the Hindu Kush. We crossed the Babusar pass in snow and freezing conditions. Gradually as we wound our way through the valleys things became greener. Tented settlements of Afghan displaced people gave way to villages of stone houses clutching to the mountain sides. The rivers became clear and the valleys more and more cultivated as we descended. Eventually there were hotels and resorts, kind of modern hill stations for people to escape the heat of the lowland cities. Still the tented Afghans lived among this contrasting habitation. It saddened us seeing the families living like this in their patched up tents for more than 20 years since they fled Afghanistan when the Americans invaded.

Sickness struck on the way to Murree, the last climb of the Himalayas and we had to hitch a ride in a small decorated pick up. 

Washed out by illness we pushed on towards Lahore through very sticky hot weather on the Grand Trunk Road. We were now in urban busy traffic cycling, a far cry from those mountain roads of the trip so far from Kazakhstan. I thought of the quote I had recently read “that pain would pass from memory but the satisfaction of accomplishment would remain”! But the day had truly magical qualities and humbling experiences with the people we met and chatted too.  The hazy orange sky of the rising sun felt thick and humid despite being cool, after the thunderstorms of the night before. The day was starting in the murky warm light. A cricket match was being played on a scrap of land between a road intersection.  People drive in a curteous manner that sums up their considerate characters. Brightly coloured trucks approach from behind belching out exhaust and jingling like some temple ritual as their elaborate decorations rattle together in a tuneful way. Their radiant and cheerful paintings pass us by slowly like displaying a gallery of art. They give us plenty of room and there is always a beaming smile hanging out of the little cab window. People pass us fruit, or race on ahead and buy cold drinks and then leap out into the road and present them. An old lady on the back of a motor bike driven by her grandson passes over biscuits and mango juice. Others ask,  “do we need a drink yet, let’s have tea, or do you want to stay at my house” Pakistan really is the kindest, safest place we have traveled. People are so welcoming,  but not in an overwhelming way, you feel you have your own space. We are going to miss Pakistan and will certainly be back again soon.

A tall gaunt elderly man with a grey beard parked his ancient traditional bicycle next to ours outside a garage where we had stopped for refreshments. He was a quiet reserved proud gentleman. He insisted on  paying for our goodies we had purchased, “You are our guests and Pakistanis are not terrorists” he said before slowly getting back on his bicycle.  It left us saddened by western opinion. Not the first time that the lovely people here have said this to us. Others have just said please tell everyone that this is a great safe country with kind people.……We will do our best! 

We head to the border with India feeling humbled by the people of Pakistan, truly the kindness of strangers has never been this great for us.

Crossing the sleepy frontier feels strange after the exuberant parade of the night before depicting a theatrical comical display of the country’s differences. Now we were experiencing the reality that very few people can cross from Pakistan to India