We set out early one morning from Delhi towards home, with 6702km to go as the crow flies but rather further as the Bullet thumps.The last days in Delhi were notable for the immense excitement of the Indians at their cricket world cup match against Pakistan, which as far as they were concerned was the only one that mattered. Even as a vehement non-fan of sports, I have to admit that the atmosphere during the match was infectious, and the place went wild when they won - spontaneous parades formed in the streets with drumming, dancing and fireworks, from which we retreated when things became just a bit over-exuberant.

Captivated by cricket

A couple of days of riding brought us to Amritsar with its serene Golden Temple, the centre of Sikhism that shines in gilded splendour in the centre of a pool. We saw also the square where the British shot dead hundreds of unarmed protesters in 1919, as described in Midnight's Children and Gandhi. Sometimes the apparent affection of Indians for the British is baffling.

No holding back on the gold

From there it was a short and nervous ride to the border, which we knew would be the first major hurdle we had to overcome, coincidentally on my birthday. The problem is that we're trying the trip without carnets (something like passports for the bikes), which have recently become next to impossible to obtain for this particular journey. In principle, there shouldn't be any way for us to enter Pakistan or Iran without them, so we were expecting trouble. The Indians were a bit puzzled at first, but were fine when they realised we had bought the bikes in India and plied us with tea and coffee.

When we eventually extricated ourselves from their hospitality, we came face to face with the Weasel. This was the name given to a Pakistani customs officer by Oeyvind, an Enfield-owning Norwegian we met in Delhi who had briefed us on his recent crossing of the border (with carnet). It is an apt moniker, since this man was the most unpleasant I've met for a considerable time. We were initially told, as expected, that we couldn't cross. However, we were soon called aside for him to whisper a suggestion that we could pay an unspecified fee to take the bikes on the train through Pakistan. Partly as a bargaining ploy, and partly in the hope of proceeding to an offer of crossing under our own steam, we declined.

This was nearly our undoing, since for the next two or three hours, he and all the other officials insisted that we must go back to India, and he wouldn't return to his original suggestion. We stubbornly but calmly refused to go, but the entire crowd of border post workers became rather aggressive as the time for closure of the border approached. They had crossed out our entry stamps for Pakistan and the situation was looking hopeless. We were just about to mount our bikes in a state of dejection when we managed to re-open discussion on the train idea. A deal rapidly ensued in which we bargained the bribe down to 35 dollars, after which the Weasel feigned friendship. Bizarrely, he later refunded about five dollars of the bribe. His insincerity was astonishing, as was his volatility. That night we slept in a staff room of the customs post, in dubious anticipation of completion of the paperwork the next day. Our bikes went into an office, and we wondered as the door was locked whether we would ever see them again, seeing the rusting hulks of overland vehicles that had been confiscated or abandoned there.

In the morning, we tried to establish exactly what the procedure was going to be, and protested at the parts that weren't acceptable. Twice more, The Weasel became angry and told us to go back whence we came, but eventually we managed to roll on towards Lahore, or rather to wobble, since we each carried a customs official perched on the rucksacks on the back of our bikes. Mine bore more than a passing resemblance to Jabba the Hutt, which raised the centre of gravity to precarious heights. Jabba and his mate were actually rather helpful, and by dusk we were set for a train journey to Quetta the following day (full details at the end of this post for those who are planning this approach themselves).

We managed to meet up with Oeyvind in the evening, eating in the buzzing atmosphere of an outdoor restaurant in Anarkali Bazaar. Pakistan feels distinctly more middle-Eastern than India. The language is essentially the same but now written in Arabic, mosques, minarets and prayer calls abound, men with worry beads wander around in skull caps or head scarves, and grilled meat is prominent on the menus (and in our choices). We had time for a quick bit of sightseeing in the morning before loading our bikes on the train and settling down for the twenty-six hour trip. The landscape became progressively more barren as we left the river valleys and entered the Baluchistan desert, where brown, rocky hills rose from a brown, rocky plain dotted occasionally with brown, rocky villages.

The bikes try train travel

Quetta feels that bit wilder. We're only about 50km away from the Afghan border here, and the small city is an ethnic mix with many Pakistani and Afghan tribespeople, most of whom look as though they could be smuggling weapons or opium, or both. Here the Persian influence is felt; tonight we had a fantastic meal of kebabs and a chicken curry, with phenomenal naan breads that must have been half a metre long, all in a place with carpets hanging on the wall, mujahadeen types eating cross-legged on the floor at low tables, and sweet tea poured from brass teapots.

Tomorrow we must try to persuade the customs officials here to allow the railway to release our bikes, so that we can proceed with the two day desert ride to the Iranian border post. Just to the north of this road, in the mountains along the border with Afghanistan, the hunt for Osama and his cronies is being intensively pursued. We're going to keep an eye out for him to scoop the story. Baluchistan is fairly bandit-infested, but it seems to have been quiet enough recently.

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Details on the carnet-less border crossing:
There really doesn't seem to be any possibility of them letting you ride through Pakistan. Even Jabba and sidekick were fed up with the run-around we were given at the railway station, and they may not be overly keen to repeat the whole train idea, so I'd recommend accepting the Weasel's offer sooner rather than later. You will need to write a letter of application to the customs superintendent asking the bikes to be 'booked' until Quetta (or Taftan on the Iranian border, but we opted for Quetta since the train from Quetta to Taftan only runs twice a month, and we hope to be allowed to ride this section). We were told to copy one they had, written by a French bloke who did this in April 2002. A letter then needs to be typed to the customs office at Quetta. Since no one turned up to type the letter, we were just starting to do it ourselves on their ancient typewriter when the clerk arrived. They keep a copy, give you a copy, and send a copy to Quetta. Also sent are photocopies of your passport and registration book, and the original loading receipt for the bike going on the train. These are all couriered using a company called TCS, which is the last thing you do with the customs officials in Lahore before you're finally free of them.

For the train, with the customs officials we were sent through every office of Lahore station several times, bought tickets for the daily Quetta Express from Lahore (departure 1545), and paid 3.6 rupees per kilo for the bikes to go on, which had to be (largely) emptied of petrol. We insisted that we travel on the same train as the bikes, which meant delaying the bikes for a day since there were no seats or sleepers available until the following day. Even then, there were only tickets for a/c sleeper for about 35 dollars - expensive, but a secure two-person cabin with private loo! Bikes appear to have arrived dusty but undamaged. The railway staff in Quetta won't release the bikes without the original loading receipt, which we have verified has now been delivered to Quetta customs. More news later on what happens with them.