In this thrilling episode, we embark on a two-wheeled expedition through one of the world’s most breathtaking landscapes – the Karakoram Highway in Pakistan. Join us as we pedal our way through this mountainous wonderland, exploring the culture, the challenges, and the sheer beauty that make this journey a must for every adventurer.
Hosted by seasoned cyclist and travel enthusiast, George Balarezo, this episode takes you on a virtual journey through the heart of the Karakoram Range.
Our adventure begins in Islamabad, the capital of Pakistan, where George sets the stage for the breathtaking ride ahead. From the bustling streets of Islamabad, he cycles northward, reaching the gateway to the Karakoram Highway in the town of Abbottabad. Along the way, he shares insights on the challenges faced by cyclists, including the extreme altitude, rapidly changing weather conditions, and the sheer physical demands of cycling at high elevations.
As he pedals deeper into the Karakoram Range, the landscape transforms from lush valleys to rugged mountains, with the mighty Indus River flowing alongside. George discusses the unique culture and hospitality of the local people, providing a glimpse into the warm and welcoming communities that dot the route.
Throughout the episode, George provides practical tips for anyone considering this epic cycling journey.
For armchair travelers and adventurous souls alike, this episode is a captivating exploration of one of the most challenging and awe-inspiring cycling routes on the planet. Join us as we embark on a virtual adventure along the Karakoram Highway, and discover why it is a true cyclist’s dream and a testament to the beauty of Pakistan’s northern frontier.
Enjoy the conversation. Be bold. Be intrepid.
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To find out more about host George Balarezo’s adventures, you can find the book Unhinged in Ethiopia: Two Thousand Kilometers of Hell and Heaven on a Bicycle at the following link- https://intrepidglobalcitizen.com/
Contact me at george@intrepidglobalcitizen.com and let me know your thoughts and feelings about the podcast or if you have a story you’d like to share.
Three AK-47 armed giants dressed in fatigues brashly interrupted my meal and made themselves comfortable at my table. “We have some things to discuss with you. But finish your dinner first. We will wait for you at your hotel,” one man explained. At this point I was enthralled with curiosity about what they had to say to me and wolfed down my rice and bread abruptly. As I approached my hotel in the mountain town of Chitral, the glowing outline of five AK-47 armed men in the candlelit lobby piqued my curiosity. Several hours earlier there was a power outage ravaged through town, and now all that was left was the shimmering moonlight. “This is like a real life gangster movie,” I thought to myself. Hopefully, I would play the role of the hero that would live to see another day. One man said they were here to provide me with a security service and it was necessary for me to have two armed guards escort me everywhere while in town. “They will be like your shadow. Anytime you leave your room you have to let them know and they will go with you. We can assure you that Chitral is a safe place, but they are here for your safety,” they expounded. How wild- now they were sleeping in the room next door!
Into Taliban Territory
“Five armed guards must escort you everywhere,” was the startling news I heard when I went to the police station in order to find out about the intricacies of visiting the nearby Kalash villages. The authorities promised it would be a completely free service and that the region was “one hundred percent safe.” Later on I found out that the number of guards required to follow you around depends on your country of origin- one guard for Japanese and Koreans, four guards for Canadians, five guards for Americans. Perhaps in increasing order of Taliban hatred? “We are just following orders from Islamabad,” stated the police officer. I attempted to maintain a positive attitude about the predicament I was faced with. “I could become good friends with these guys,” I naively tried to reason to myself.
We left for the mountain villages along the Afghanistan border and did quite a bit of hiking along some stunning mountain roads. My escorts did not like my leisurely walking pace and kept rushing me along like there was a golden plate of rice for the first one to arrive back to town. Unfortunately, I lost the opportunity to interact with the local Kalash people as these large men with guns were strikingly intimidating to have by my side. I could sense a bit of tension between the Kalash and the guards I was with as one of the beautifully dressed woman screched and said “Muslims” in a voice that did not sound so welcoming. Anyway, I didn’t enjoy having these guys around me anymore.
Along the way back I saw some graves of Pakistani military personnel who were slayed by the Taliban. Quite haunting, I must admit. Then it all came tumbling down on me like a Himalayan landslide. I was a tourist in a war-torn land. I realized that although my AK-47 equipped companions did not seem to be the least bit animated at taking me around the surrounding villages, they would have sacrificed their lives to protect me if the situation would have turned violent. Up to five men would have passed on, just to protect one. They would have easily joined the others at the graveyard without hesitation. Laying down your life for another person’s safety is the biggest form of hospitality one could ever receive. By my standards, those men should have been given red capes and have the word hero tattooed on their chests in Urdu and Pashto. The only reason for them to come to that area was because my of my curiosity and lust for adrenaline. Perhaps they were rushing me along because they knew the region was unstable and we were all taking a great risk due to our presence. Could I really believe the man at the police station whom insisted the region was secure? Those men all had families and responsibilities, possibly much greater than my own. This was not an ethical decision and quite selfish of me to subject those men to the potentially volatile nature of that region. I had overstayed my welcome! It was time to move on as swiftly as possible!
To start off the day, I made my way on foot to a neighborhood called Namak Mundhi for some mutton but ran into a potentially crippling ordeal along the way. As I was strutting around the food district, a man invited me into his barbershop for a cup of tea. We were having a normal conversation using body language and the very little Pashto I learned over the course of a few days. Suddenly, the man getting his hair trimmed started interrogating me about my nationality. Upon mentioning I am from the United States of America, his expression suddenly turned stark black, and he rotated his chair so it was pointing directly at me. “Muerdabad USA” (translation- die USA) he said with a very intense look on his face. “What are you doing in Pakistan?” he asked. When I responded I was on vacation traveling and learning more about the great country of Pakistan, it didn’t seem to help the situation at all. “You are not traveling! You are a CIA spy! Nobody travels in Peshawar, only CIA spies that want to kill Pakistanis and Afghanis come to Peshawar!” he continued as the jubilant shop owner offered me another cup of tea with a smile on his face (I don’t think he could understand the angry man’s English). The shop owner insisted I accept the tea refill and I attempted to explain myself in more detail to no avail. I went on about how I am only “one man” who has no influence on the foreign policy of my country. I explained I don’t agree with my government’s actions and that if I had a magic wand, I would stop all the wars going on in the world but unfortunately I’m not a magician that can solve complex issues with one wave of a stick. I don’t know how much he understood, but he kept on repeating the phrase “USA muerdabad” again and again. “You say you like Pakistan, but do you like Muslims?” he inquired in a bloodcurdling tone. As I clarified how Muslim people are just like any other people in the world and I consider many of them my friends I instantaneously gulped down my tea and left that neighborhood without a portion of mutton in my stomach.
One of my major objectives while traveling in hard to reach destinations is spreading peace and positive energy to those around me. Unfortunately, one lesson I have learned is that it is impossible to effect everyone I encounter as we all have stereotypes ingrained in ourselves that can be a gargantuan task to change. The only thing I can do is make the best effort possible, and I was thankful the situation I encountered at the barbershop did not escalate into anything worse. Attitude is everything and later that day I ended up making a much larger positive impact on a group of locals than I ever would have expected.
Scolding by the Cops
I took a turn down one alleyway in order to get a break from all the noisiness and chaos of the principal streets. I encountered some older men who greeted me with warm smiles and handshakes. Before I knew it, they were offering me tea and a crowd quickly formed around me. One of the people that approached me was a fifteen-year-old high school kid who was extremely well informed for his age with a high English fluency. At lightening speed, he started firing political questions at me when he found out my nationality. He was quick at translating my answers into Pashto, the local language. As the conversation developed, an audience of thirty local people accumulated into a circle around me while hanging on to my every word. The adrenaline continued to surge through my body as the conversation progressed. Here is how the cross-examination went down.
BOY: “Why are you killing Afghani and Pakistani people in Afghanistan?”
ME: “I am not killing anybody. Do I look like somebody that wants to kill Afghani and Pakistani people? Do I look like an angry killer to you?”
BOY: “No you don’t look like you want to kill anybody. You look like a nice man. Why do American people shoot Afghani people?”
ME: “The American people that shoot Afghan people are people that my government sends to do that. I don’t agree with many things my government does, and killing people is a horrible thing to do. What about you? Do you like the president of Pakistan and everything he does?
BOY: “No, I don’t like our president.”
ME: “American people are the same way. Many of us do not like the things our president does in Pakistan but there is nothing we can do about it. Can you change the things your president does?”
BOY: “No.”
ME: “Neither can I. I wish there would be no killing in the world but I can’t change the things my president decides to do.”
BOY: “Why do you hate Muslims?”
ME: “I was just having a cup of tea with all the nice Muslim people in this neighborhood, and we were smiling and laughing together. Does it look like I hate Muslims?”
BOY: “No.”
ME: “How many American people have you ever met?”
BOY: “You are the first one.”
ME: “What do you think of me? Do I seem like a ‘bad guy?’
BOY: “No. You seem like a very nice man.”
I won the crowd over after a few minutes of intense investigation by the boy and posed for pictures with everyone. All of a sudden, a police officer came over and interrupted our picture-taking session. The law enforcement officer escorted me out of the alleyway and sat me down behind a barrier of sandbags and barbed wire at a major intersection while giving me a stern scolding. “Don’t tell those people you are American. That is very dangerous for you. Be careful!” he exclaimed. He gave me a lecture on the dangers of disclosing my nationality to local people and then bought me a piping hot cup of tea. His tone abruptly shifted as he asked me more casual questions in a friendly and hospitable demeanor. We had a nice chat for about fifteen minutes or so and then hailed a cab for me. “It is starting to get dark. You better go to your guest house now.” I decided not to put up a fight and end the day off on a high note.
This was an immense triumph for me as I was able to have a positive impact on the local people in that small alleyway. Surely the gossip would spread that a peaceful man from the United States visited their neighborhood with the intention of making friends. Often lack of experience with others leads to misunderstandings and negative attitudes towards groups of people from different religions, nationalities and races. As a result of my experience that day and similar travel escapades, I realized what a large impact a simple conversation can have on world peace. I felt like an ambassador who was spreading his message of peace to the streets of Peshawar. After all, we are all global citizens who are sons and daughters of our Mother Earth.
I have to admit, my performance under pressure left me astonished for a while. The situation had the potential to turn hostile quickly, but my communication competency and persuasive speaking skills played a huge role in my survival that afternoon. One of the primary benefits of adventure travel is being placed in high-pressure, unpredictable situations, and being forced to survive and adjust quickly in exotic or even threatening environments. By doing this, one can also discover untapped talents at a moment’s notice. From that moment on, I committed myself to spreading peace and sharing my experiences one conversation, blog entry and language at a time.
Some friendly people on the streets of Peshawar.With a group of new friends.
“Militant groups lust for American bloodshed in Peshawar. Don’t go,” the man sitting next to me on the bus pleaded with me. “If you go there, I will pray to Allah for your safety,” he said with deep concern in his eyes. “Because of the US government’s support of India in the Kashmir dispute and their backing of Israel, you will have a target on your back,” he continued. He explained to me that Lahore is very “second, but humans sometimes get fed up if someone is devastating their situation,” he described. “Even though we are all brothers and sisters descending from Adam and Eve, it is natural for jealousy and envy to occur even within the same family,” he calmly explained. Before getting off the bus and setting off for his hometown, he kept on trying to convince me to visit his home for a few days to see what rural Punjabi life is like. “It would be an honor to have you as a guest in my home,” he stated. I declined his offer this time around, as I had limited time to travel and really wanted to see Peshawar. During the seven-hour bus ride from one border town (Pakistan-India) to the next (Pakistan-Afghanistan) the bus stopped at a roadside rest area that had a mosque (every rest area in Pakistan has a mosque) for afternoon prayer. At one point the bus driver stopped another time just to pray while everyone else was waiting on the bus. Along the way we had several police checks, which involved filming every passenger with a video camera for about five seconds for security measures. I have to admit my conversation with my bus companion made me feel a bit uneasy about visiting the border town of Peshawar, but my thirst for the unknown was far more powerful than any warning from a local man and I was excited to see what was in store for me next. The adrenaline continued to pump through my body as the man left my side. I felt like a fifth grade elementary student high on a sugar rush on Halloween night.
The First Day
We arrived at night in Peshawar and I was lucky to find a cheap hotel near the bus station where I got some solid rest. The next morning as soon as I stepped foot outside of my hotel I attempted to buy some fruit from an Afghani man, but he refused my money with a wide smile. I tried to practice some Pashto I learned on the bus the previous night- “suh taa noom sey dey?” (What is your name?) “chuh Pakistan hwah hoom!” (I like Pakistan) “Tey Dey Ruh Ha ee” (you are very kind). They were pretty amused by my attempt at speaking the language, and I looked down to see some Afghani kids laughing at me. As I continued on my way, a man approached me and invited me to come up to his office nearby for a cup of tea. While we sat at his desk and drank some chai, he warned me over and over about the dangers of Peshawar and said bombings happen here all the time. We talked for a bit and he escorted me onto the street after declining his offer to take me to my $2USD per night guest house on his motorbike. I have never been a fan of motorcycles and figured my odds of an accident occurring on his motorcycle are much high that becoming a bombing casualty victim in the border city. After walking for a few minutes toward my guest house (which I wasn’t sure how to get to) he pulled up again on his bike and this time I got on the back. I saw the deep concern in his eyes and changed my mind in a split second, especially after hearing so many warnings in such a short time. While I was on the back of his bike, he gave me a bit of a city tour. “There was a suicide bombing at this intersection one year ago,” he said at a traffic signal. “There was also a bombing close to the airport a few days ago, so we have to take a different route,” he informed me. He finally dropped me off in front of my guesthouse after a longer ride than expected- it probably would have taken me at least a few hours to find the place on my own, so I was glad I took him up on the ride. I made it safe and sound.
Low Cultural Intelligence Equals Danger
The following day I met a Chinese man named Jang who had been in Peshawar for three months. We talked for a bit and then hit the town together. What I had figured would be an excellent opportunity to get to know the city with someone who had been there for a while ended up putting me in several awkward situations and could have potentially cost me my life. First, we went to the clothing bazaar because he was looking for a shirt when I noticed right away he was drawing a crowd with his intense bargaining over about fifty cents. “You are wrong! Do the math!” he raised his voice. One guy that was observing everything going down came over and whispered “shut up” in my ear with a stern look on his face regarding my companion’s obnoxious behavior. I was getting quite frustrated with him as he was showing very little cultural sensitivity in one of the most feared parts of the world. The Chinese man was even scolded by locals for attempting to take photographs of children without an adult’s permission and proceeded to instigate heated debates on what the Koran says is the accurate age of adulthood. “You see this! Lack of education,” he condescendingly criticized everyone around him. At one point he fumbled around in his backpack while looking for something and pulled out a bottle of liquor in a crowded marketplace. Upon viewing a bottle of the forbidden beverage, people had looks on their faces as if a ghost had appeared and started doing a Bollywood dance. I assumed that anyone traveling in this part of the world must have a high cultural intelligence quotient, but I was dead wrong. I found it incomprehensible that such a person survived in Peshawar for three months. He was ruining his chance to make a positive impression on the Pashto people, as the tourist industry is practically nonexistent in this region of the world due to all the Western media stereotypes. I would have been much better off on my own, and it was a shame that the locals probably grouped the two of us together as arrogant outsiders trying to change their multiple century long traditions. “You are who you hang out with” is a motto I abide by, as I am normally very picky about the people I choose to spend my time with. I should have known better.
Darkness falls over Lahore. Potholes line the sidewalks, so I creep along with every step. “No sprained ankles!” I keep repeating to myself. Electricity cuts are the norm until ten in the evening in Lahore, so my next task was to find my way home as the streets became pitch black. I stumbled upon a dark alley that looked vaguely familiar. Voices in the distance made me realize there is someone around from my adopted home country. “너무 춥네!” one woman complained. “날씨가 춥지않고 지금 한국에서 매섭게 춥잖아요,” I replied as we were going upstairs together now. We entered the room of a different guesthouse, but now I was sitting in a candlelit room with three Korean women in their 50s who looked very shaken up and panic-stricken. “You speak Korean!” they exclaimed with mesmerized looks on their faces. They explained to me they were on a city bus earlier in Lahore when some political demonstrations turned violent, rocks were thrown and a stray struck the bus they were riding, shattering a window and cutting one of the woman’s hands. The women were trying to explain what happened earlier to the guesthouse owner, but they were having a hard time with English so I took on the role of translator for a few minutes. “Tell him we need a cheap bed for tonight. Very, very cheap,” they said. I gave them an apple that was in a bag with the name of the corner store I shop at in Seoul. “Have an apple smuggled in from your home country,” I said as their expressions became more and more dumbfounded upon hearing a white guy speak their mother tongue proficiently. They finally calmed down after a few minutes and the guesthouse owner helped them get settled in.
After returning to my guesthouse, I met Mohamed, a Palestinian college student who has been studying pharmacy in Lahore for three years. We started talking for a long time over tea, and he shared so many stories about his life in Lahore. No rules! He was robbed at gunpoint and got into numerous fights, one time with a man armed with a sword in a thirty-man brawl. As we walked around together, he pointed out a building where there was a suicide bombing several years back. “That pile of rubble over there?” I attempted to confirm by pointing my finger in the building’s direction. “Don’t point! They might suspect you,” he said, referring to the hoards of military and police personnel on alert behind sandbags and barbed wire at every intersection. Anyway, I was really lucky to meet such a great guy my first night in Pakistan. He took me around to many places I probably would have never found on my own and helped me buy a Shalwar Kameez (Pakistani traditional clothes- always better to blend in).
Overall, Lahore provided endless culture and history for anyone with a thirst or curiosity for travel and excitement. Our guesthouse owner Malik once advised many of Pakistan’s famous musical talents to take on some more innovative marketing strategies that helped put them on the map. As a result, many of these now world renowned musicians help fill Malik in on any performances happening in the area and go out of their way to see to it that Malik’s guests get a unique, full on, in your face Pakistani musical experience.
Sufi Festival Turned Deadly
One of my most unforgettable experiences in Pakistan was going to Lahore’s Sufi Festival. By far the craziest, most energetic festival I have ever seen- music, lights, street dancing, food- it was all there. Upon entering Istanbul Chowk where the streets were blocked off, there were crowds of people waiting to bypass many security checks and lines to enter the Data Darbar mosque to watch Qaawali music. It was pretty chaotic as people were pushing and holding each other in line to enter the mosque. I tried talking to one guard for a bit and practice the very minute amount of Urdu I learned over several days. He was smiling because I was wearing a Shalwar Kameez and liked that I was trying to learn a bit of the local language. “How can we get into the mosque?” I asked. “Go to the end of the line,” he pointed to the back of the line that extended beyond my field of vision. We made our way to the back and waited for several minutes with all the locals pushing and holding on to each other in order to secure their position in the queue. After a few minutes of trying not to fall and lose my balance, the guard came to find us. “Come with me, I will have someone escort you into the mosque so you don’t have to wait in line,” he said. He called another large, AK-47 armed guard who led us past the endless queues of people and took us into the mosque. The guard took us into the main area where we were given beautiful flower necklaces-mine must have been made of at least three hundred flowers all stringed together.
We spent the night dancing in the streets and listening to pounding Sufi music. It was all good fun until some kids started messing with one police officers, which resulted in wild night stick swinging and crowds scattering to avoid being caned.
As we hit the streets all night long crowds of Punjabi’s circled around us and took us around different places to dance and take pictures with their friends and family. Although I had an amazing time at the festival, now I understand what it feels like to be a movie star and I have to admit I was pretty exhausted by the end of the night.
Overall, I had a great time the first night at the festival but felt like it was time to move on and go to Peshawar. The festival would carry on for a few days thereafter, but I thought a street party put on by one of the more controversial Muslim groups in Pakistan combined with the immense crowds of people could be a potentially dangerous scenario. “This is a perfect opportunity for a suicide bomber to appear on the scene,” I thought to myself. My intuition proved correct as I returned to Lahore a few weeks later on my way back to India and heard the news of a thirty fatalities as a result of a suicide bombing at the festival. Life is so fragile, but I was high on adrenaline from living the extreme experience of being on Pakistani soil. Always follow your intuition! At that moment mine was telling me to venture to a more extreme territory- the Afghanistan border. I was quickly becoming an adrenaline addict!
