Here I am, at the Pakistani border, where the real adventure begins. With the help of Hamid, known as the "King of Taftan" (Taftan being the name of the border between Iran and Pakistan), the crossing goes as smooth as butter, and in the blink of an eye, I'm out of Iran. As soon as I enter Pakistan, I'm told to follow a soldier who escorts me to a military base. There, I have to write down my personal details and my bike’s information in a huge ledger. While writing, I look around and notice the room is full of similar dusty books. I can't help but wonder what’s the point—no one will ever read these pages. But oh well, I do as I'm told. For the first time on this trip, they carefully check my carnet de passage and even verify if the chassis number matches. After a long wait, they signal me to follow another soldier who takes me to what they call the "prison"—where I’ll spend the night. For those who don’t know how the Taftan border works: tourists are not allowed to cross Balochistan without an armed escort. Due to extremist groups, separatist conflicts, and a very unstable economy, the region is considered extremely dangerous. Just think, on August 26, 2024—only eight days before I arrived—one of the worst attacks in recent years took place: a group of armed men blocked the road, forced people out of their vehicles, checked their IDs, and killed 23 people, mostly of Punjabi ethnicity. They also set fire to 35 vehicles, including buses and trucks. By the end of the day, there were 75 victims. Because these groups mostly target non-locals, the government provides a free military escort, known as the Levies. This unit has existed for over 20 years. Once I arrive at the so-called “prison”—more accurately, the Levies base—they show me my room. Calling it a room is generous. Inside there's only a broken-down sofa and a wardrobe covered in writings from past travelers. A ceiling fan hangs above me, which probably would have fallen on my head if I turned it on. The bathroom has no water and clearly hasn't been cleaned in 20 years. Definitely not a five-star hotel, but I figured I wouldn’t be staying long. Or so I thought. At 5 AM, I hear a huge commotion. I wake up and start getting ready, thinking we’re about to leave, but the station chief tells me I can't go. I have to wait. One day passes, then another—and still, no updates. I have no internet, and the days are endless. I talk to the Levies as much as possible. One of them warns me to be extra careful when riding in Pakistan because people drive on the wrong side and follow the law of the strongest: if a truck is driving toward you in the wrong lane, it's up to the bike to get out of the way.

Same with overtaking—a car overtaking you won’t stop, you have to move. Then he shows me pictures of wrecked motorcycles and tells me about people who tried to make this crossing but didn’t survive. That definitely stirred up some anxiety. One of the funniest conversations was when they were teasing a 26-year-old colleague who “only” had five children. They laughed and said, “See him? Something must be wrong with his thing—he only has five kids! We all have more than seven!” As a European, all you can do is stare in disbelief and laugh. If someone with five kids is underperforming, I better not tell them what it’s like in Europe. Three days in, I’ve run out of food and water. By now, I’ve become friends with all the Levies. In the evenings, the cook prepares food—stuff I still wonder what it was—but hunger makes everything edible. We lay a large carpet in the middle of the dusty courtyard, sit on the ground, and eat with our hands from a shared plate. Even the water is passed around in a single glass, though luckily I had my own mug. When we finish, the leftovers go to the prisoners. A surreal experience—tough, but adventurous. And that’s exactly what I signed up for, so how could I complain? Another night goes by, and in the morning I message Jörg and Birgit. They tell me they’ll arrive that day—and they do. In their truck, they have “normal” food, which felt amazing after four days of mystery meals. We’re told we might be able to leave the next day, but again, things don’t go that way. I’ve now been stuck here for nearly a week. I ask if there's a place to exchange money, knowing I’ll need to buy fuel multiple times before reaching Quetta. They take me across the road to another military base. It’s full of parked buses and people camping everywhere. I’m told this is where everyone who isn’t Western has to wait. Once again, I realize how much of a privilege it is to be European, even in the middle of all this. I had my own room, some privacy. Our base had only three people; that one had at least a hundred. After changing money, we head back. Birgit wants to cook dinner but is missing some ingredients, so Jörg and I ask if we can be escorted to a local market. We hop in the car and get our first taste of Pakistan—total chaos, trash everywhere, and people crammed in all directions. Jörg and I smile at each other and say, “Now the real adventure begins.” We return with the supplies, Birgit makes a delicious dinner, and for the first time in days we eat at a table, each with our own plate and fork, under the stars. After dinner, the head of the Levies tells us that tomorrow morning we’ll finally depart. Fingers crossed...