May 13th to 15th 2014

Countless times, and by countless people we had been warned that driving the Baluchistan desert road in Pakistan was hard and dangerous. We decided that with all of our experience and travelling wisdom, we could make it. However, there was absolutely nothing we had learned in 3 years on the road that could nearly prepare us for what happened next.

Our day started early and we struggled to shake off the hazy feeling from the Pakistan Border party the night before. The drive to Quetta is 600km along a desert road that flanks the border of Afghanistan, an area renowned for kidnapping and terrorists.

The Pakistan Government kindly provides a free armed guard to escort any tourists who are adventurous enough to embark on the journey. The guards, called Levies, are happy to chat away about near enough anything. We learnt, among many other things, that they refer to camel as ‘Gosht, which translates as meat. They told us that years ago kidnapping used to be a form of survival for the people that live in the barren deserts. When crops dried up or farm animals died they would kidnap a tourist and sell them back to their appropriate government. But things changed when terrorist groups got in on the action. The terrorist groups now buy the kidnapped tourists from the locals for a small fee and what ensues is what you have probably seen in the media. Either way, being kidnapped by anyone it is not on our bucket list.

The dusty, bumpy road has guard stations every 30-40km, at the stations you are handed over to the next set of guards. But that’s not before handshakes, signing your name, taking pictures and trying not to get diabetes through over indulgence in the Pakistan specialty of especially sweet tea. After 4 hours we had covered about 150km and we stopped at a mud village that had a large building with a walled car-park. The building was like a community house where everyone would sit around drinking tea in the minimal shade and also doubled up as a hotel.

We happily handed over $5 so that we could take a warmish shower in an attempt to try and wash away the inch thick layer of sand and dirt that now covered every part of our bodies. Whilst in the shower the guards, eager to please, went off to find us some of the world’s worst & most expensive beer.  Finding ourselves again in a clay oven for another 5 hours we tried to drink through it.

The intrigued locals pulled together plastic chairs and tables and set up camp right outside our camper van remaining there until the sun came up.  It was a strange experience, the combination of being stared at constantly and feeling uncomfortable about it, yet completely understanding that the men are just interested in what we might do next. It made us feel strange and nervous and guilty all at the same time.

The next day, after a mini photo shoot with the people we were leaving behind of course, we continued on the journey under escort, driving occasionally and seemingly casually through sand dunes that completely covered the broken tarmac road. We watched in awe at the elite truck drivers who sped by a hundred meters off the road using the flat desert as thoroughfare rather than the bumpy nightmare we endured. When asked why we did not wear our face scarves we answered, between coughs, that we didn’t have such a thing. Realizing in a moment of clarity and embarrassment that these full face scarves are not worn by the guards to try and be scary or intimidating but just to keep the sand from choking them.

As we trekked onward from check point to check point we saw hundreds of small mud hut villages but only a few people, the guards told us the people are there but you just cannot see them. It was hard to believe that so many people could live in such brutal conditions. The sun is relentless, the dust and dirt cloying and the land, seemingly dead all around us.

It had been a day or two since Peggy had made any complaint and on cue she started to make a new sound. A sound like a box of marbles combined with the sound a knife sharpener makes when you run a knife over it. Thirty seconds after we noticed this sound the Levies flashed us down, waving their arms to indicate for us to pull over. They had noticed smoke coming from our vehicle.

The guards surrounded us and Peggy, vigilantly watching for any approaching people as we checked over the van. Marco came over and helped to try and locate the source of the smoke. The smell of something burning was evident but the cause was evading us. After 15 minutes the guard’s tetchiness was more than evident. This was not a place to be stopping, ever.  Driving away slowly the noise started to increase and after another few painful kilometers Marco flashed his lights erratically. The back passenger wheel had started to billow out white smoke.

The cause hit me like a steam train. The Californian mechanic in Armenia had pushed for us to get our wheel bearings replaced. We hadn’t had the work done as we were beyond frustrated with hanging around even longer in Armenia and, stupidly, just wanted to get on.

I reached around the inside wall of the wheel and sure enough my hand came out black with oil. The guards openly laughed, hooted, snorted, cackled and I dare say even guffawed when asked about the possibility of a tow truck. Left with no other choice, Marco offered to tow us to the next town.

What happened next was straight out of a nightmare. With an explosive and almost over-dramatic detonation the rear axle snapped clean off.

Peggy veered about the road and the brakes screamed as the procession of vehicles was brought to a standstill. I ran out of the vehicle screaming “It’s all over” as Lisa peeled her nails out of the dash board and grabbed the camera. The forward thinking Marco met me at the back wheel with a fire extinguisher, we stood for what felt like an era taking in the scene of Peggy’s back axle on fire.

By the time I had unleashed a second fire extinguisher on the flaming axle we had somehow gained fifty spectators who had appeared from nowhere. Lisa searched in vain for the missing wheel as the head guard grabbed me. Through a mixture of sign language and Pakilish (half Pakistani, half English) he told me we had six minutes to get what we needed and then we had to leave. During all of the undesirable excitement we had failed to notice the six guards stood with guns raised and look of fear plastered across their faces. Later we would learn that the area we had ended up in was typically the worst part of the 600km road for kidnappings. Several tourists had been ambushed in the area and many Levies had lost their lives fighting to save them.

With just five and a half minutes left to gather what we could carry on our backs we both stood dumbfounded, spinning on the spot, seemingly with one foot nailed to the floor, completely uncertain what to do next.  We stood inside our home of 3 years and looking at each other we realized that none of it meant anything without Peggy. This was our home, a place of refuge and memories. A sanctuary from the madness of our day to day lives. Once outside of the van all we needed was the clothes on our backs and maybe a tooth brush. Yes definitely a tooth brush.

Lumbering into the back of the guard’s knackered old pickup truck we headed to the local Bazaar. As bizarre as that sounds the guards had made up their minds that it would be a sensible option to try and find an axle for a 1987 dodge ram 2500 camper van conversion in a town called Nushki nestled in the desert of Baluchistan, Pakistan.