Having undertaken several extreme cycling expeditions in the Northern Areas of Pakistan over the past few years, my perennial cycling partner Shahid Dad and I felt confident of pedalling a portion of the fabled Silk Road inside China’s Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region.  We planned to visit the historical oasis towns along the rim of the dreaded Taklamakan Desert, where a wind-blown sand dune can still expose a hidden skeleton of a forlorn explorer, or his camel or two.

Starting at Sost in Pakistan, we were to bike across the 15,400ft high Khunjerab Pass into China, and continue till Hotan to complete our target of 1,000km. The important way stations to be routed through were Kashgar, Yengisar, Yarkand, Karghilik and Hotan, which, along with Kuqa, were once known as ‘Altishahr’ or six cities that rimmed the sandy Tarim Basin in Xinjiang.

The Silk Road, a term coined by the 19^th century German explorer Ferdinand von Richthofen, is actually a network of several trade routes between China and the West that has existed for over 2000 years. Starting at the ancient Chinese capital of Chang’an (present day Xian), the road bifurcated into two prongs at Anxi to skirt the Taklamakan Desert, and then met again at Kashgar on a further course to the West. Today, high-speed expressways cover the same routes, more or less.

To say that we were excited about journeying in the footsteps of Marco Polo would be an understatement!

After staging through Abbottabad, Chilas and Hunza by a pick-up van, we did a test run of our bikes on the new portion of the Karakoram Highway that tunnels through the mountains at five places. The turquoise Attabad Lake formed a picture-perfect backdrop during the test ride; happily, we found both man and machine in good working order.

After reaching Sost, we checked in at the PTDC motel, where the old faithful Shams-ud-din welcomed us warmly. An excellent handyman, he had been of great help in a previous expedition, and was again at his best this time.

After a two-day stopover which involved tying up loose ends, and some coordination with immigration authorities at Sost, we set course for Khunjerab on July 12. We had been granted a rare special permission by the Chinese authorities to cross over into China on bicycles, which is otherwise almost always done on an authorised public vehicle or an escorted private one.

The 85km journey had to be spread over two days, as the very steep climb cannot be negotiated in one go without altitude sickness getting the better of any cyclist. The route to Khunjerab winds through stark mountains that seemed rather claustrophobic due to their proximity. Callously dumped mineral water bottles and unsightly graffiti spray-painted over rocks -- mostly of the ‘X loves Y’ variety -- was disconcerting to watch all along the route.

Ice cold and oxygen-starved air greeted us at Khunjerab Pass, commonly known as Zero Point. Our baggage arrived in an accompanying pick-up, and it was promptly rigged onto our bikes. In no time we had a mini bedroom, kitchenette, pantry, pharmacy and a workshop each, all mounted on two-wheels.

As we crossed the joint Pak-China border post that looked like a huge drive-through mausoleum, a small crowd of visitors cheered us off. We had to bike another three kilometres before we got to the Chinese security post where preliminary security clearance is done; the detailed immigration and customs formalities are completed at Taxkorgan, 125km away. The descent from Khunjerab to Taxkorgan was an ear-popping 5,000ft, though the eyes were treated to beautiful scenery all along, with the Taxkorgan River flowing parallel to the road, and the Kunlun Mountains forming a stunning backdrop towards the east. The lush green pastures were dotted with yurts (tents) of the semi-nomadic Kirgiz, many of whom continue to prefer a pastoral to an urban lifestyle.

Arriving at the Immigration and Customs facility in Taxkorgan, we were dismayed to discover that the computer network had developed a major fault. We had to wait for six hours before the system was in order, but during this while we were given preferential treatment and the VIP waiting rooms were opened for us. Some officials detailed to give us company told us - in passable English - that according to their records, we were the first Pakistani cyclists to have crossed over from Khunjerab into China. When all formalities were complete, an officer was nice enough to guide us to the Crown Inn, as we speed-biked behind his car in a midnight drizzle.

The Hunza connection

Taxkorgan, the seat of the sparsely populated county of the same name, is the western-most Chinese town, almost abutting the Tajikistan border. Its population speaks Sarikoli, though the language is officially referred to as Tajik despite being quite different from what is spoken in Tajikistan.

Taxkorgan’s historical links with Pakistan were noticeably advertised through many roadside billboards and buntings celebrating 65 years of Pak-China diplomatic relations. Our salaam greetings were always pleasantly responded to by the surprised locals. The small sleepy town has no high-rise buildings or flashy shopping malls. Some gemstone shops run by Pakistanis from Gilgit and Sost could be seen in the marketplace. The government bureaucracy and the Communist Party offices were abundantly evident all over the city. We noticed that mosques were nowhere to be seen, only to discover that the majority of people belong to the Ismaili sect that makes do with inconspicuous jamaat khanas for religious services.

Some cultural affinity with the people of Hunza-Nagar District was evident in women’s headgear, which consists of a colourful pillbox hat held in place by a headscarf. The custom of women shaking hands with male acquaintances was also found to be similar.

The small town has little to offer to tourists except the ruins of the 13^th century ‘Stone Fortress’, which is what Taxkorgan means. We decided to take a tour of the town on our bikes, starting with a visit to the Stone Fortress. With the museum closed, and finding nothing more than rubble in the so-called fortress, we biked across to the adjacent Golden Grasslands, a soggy pasture with wooden walkways to saunter around. Since it was a working day, none of the amusement facilities, including an open-air theatre, were functional.

Pretty much done with Taxkorgan, we decided to continue our journey towards the fabled town of Kashgar, the next morning. 

In Kaperelli’s yurt

Soon after leaving Taxkorgan, we were confronted with a very tough ride involving steep climbs, and a monotonous landscape pummelled by a merciless sun. The stillness was occasionally broken by two-humped Bactrian camels grazing over meagre shrub, with distant yurts testifying to their Kirgiz ownership. As we neared Kalasu Dry Port that leads to Tajikistan, we found a gushing stream and promptly decided to camp in its vicinity. Soon after pitching our tents in the shelter of a rocky outcrop, I strolled across and took an invigorating bath in the ice-cold stream. Shahid had prepared hot coffee over our petrol-fired stove, which was the right tonic to round off the day.

Windy as it was, we struggled to catch a wink, and unfortunately had a restless night.

An oatmeal and coffee breakfast set us up for another day’s very tough ride. Icy winds blowing down from the snow-capped Muztagh Ata (‘Father of Mountains’), and an excruciatingly steep gradient had us panting by the afternoon. We were in no mood to go through the tedium of finding a suitable camping spot and setting up camp, after another gruelling day.

While we stopped at the Muztagh Ata viewpoint for a photo session, an enterprising Kirgiz by the Italian-sounding name of Kaperelli, offered to take us as paying guests in one of his yurts. We agreed on condition that the yurt was neat and clean, and that it would be exclusively for us. His son Mahmood led us to the nearby Kirgiz settlement located at the edge of the serene Karakul Lake, with Muztagh Ata looming in the background. The well-carpeted yurt was inspected and found to be perfect for a good night’s rest.

Kaperelli’s wife, Bakht Gul, was delighted to be the hostess, and hastened to take our order for dinner, while her children arranged for a load of mineral water bottles. Jashilcha and naan were just the right words out of our handy smart phone translator, and in no time Bakht Gul had prepared a delicious vegetable stew served with bread.

We joined the family for the meal in an adjacent yurt that doubled as a kitchen and dining room. Small talk over dinner was restricted to hand signals, but we were able to please the Kaperellis for sharing their Muslim faith, and thanked them for the hospitality.

Well-fed and well-rested, we were done with the domestic chores at first light, next morning. After clearing the bill, we took leave for yet another day on the road.

Eventful night in an orchard

Starting off from Karakul Lake, the road was one long stretch of rubble as the new highway, a part of the recently announced CPEC, was under construction. After some very strenuous pedalling, we stopped at a modest Kirgiz hotel for lunch. Declining a traditional snack of ice-cold and stone hard naans dipped in green tea, I requested a round of the kitchen to which young Muneera and her sister Zaman Gul readily agreed. Spotting some buns, tomatoes and cucumbers, I put my rusty culinary skills to good use as they watched with much amusement.  In no time sizzling veggie burgers were ready, which their brother Alauddin served with ‘Abida’, our favourite ice cream soda.

After riding for a challenging 85km in the mountains, we had difficulty finding a reasonable camping site. To our good fortune, a Kirgiz village, whose name I later learnt was Keluge Ate, appeared in the distance, and we decided to camp there for the night.

Knocking at the door of the first house that came our way, we were greeted by children who hurried to call their mother. I promptly rattled out a well-rehearsed Kirgiz line, seeking permission to set up our tents somewhere for the night. Prompted by her excited children, the lady somewhat reluctantly agreed to our request, and pointed to a nearby apricot orchard as the campsite.

As soon we had pitched our tents, with the kids helping us, a man in military uniform appeared and started a discussion with the lady who had permitted us to camp in the orchard. After a while, four Han Chinese -- two men and two women -- clad in civvies appeared from nowhere, and demanded to see our passports. One of the women could speak good English, and she advised us to move out, as foreigners were not permitted in the village.

Our pleading that we had travelled a long distance, and were in no shape to bike any further, had no effect.

Finding ourselves in a hopeless situation, we pulled out our ex-military identification, which was closely scrutinised and photographed. Apparently, the pictures were sent to some higher headquarters via their smart phones, followed by a phone discussion that lasted for some time. Suddenly, their countenance changed and they were all smiles; we were informed that we could stay on, and that it was ‘just a misunderstanding’. To atone for the fuss caused, they promised all help that we might need during our stay, starting with a supply of mineral water bottles that arrived in minutes!

After sleeping well during the night, we had a breakfast of apricots off-the-boughs downed with coffee, then broke camp and said goodbye to the hosts.

We later learnt that in the past foreign extremist elements had infiltrated some Muslim villages to subvert the prevailing order, which is why the government had posted the Communist Party operatives to keep an eye on the goings-on in various settlements.

A good road on a steep downslope tempted us to squeeze two days of cycling in one, so we set course for a long ride. After about two hours of cycling, we were clear of the Kunlun Mountains, and soon caught sight of lush green orchards. The people also started to look different than the Tajiks and Kirgiz we had been seeing so far. Women wearing colourful headscarves, and men donning the four-cornered ‘doppa’ (toppa or cap) were signs that we were in Uyghur territory, and Kashgar, the hub of the Silk Road trade, was not far away.

(To be continued)