Today is the big day: I finally get to ride my first kilometers in Pakistan. The alarm rang early; we have a long journey ahead to Quetta. It’s 650 km—not a problem under normal conditions, but from what other travelers told me, it’ll be a tough ride. I’m excited, but also a bit anxious. I leave the room that hosted me for six days, load everything onto the bike, and with the military escort in front, together with Jörg and Birgit in their trusted truck, we head off. The journey turned out to be anything but easy. As soon as we left the military station, a powerful sandstorm hit us. I couldn’t see anything. The wind gusts were so strong that I had to lean completely in the opposite direction, as if taking a turn, just to stay straight. The road was covered in sand, and with my heavy bike, it was rough. During the storm, I experienced one of the most unforgettable scenes of my life: in the middle of the desert, on my Transalp, surrounded by a sandstorm. In front of me, a military pickup with the Levies—faces covered for protection, AK-47s in hand. In my helmet, “TRIALS” by Starset was playing. Two camels crossed the road. It felt like a movie scene. Once the storm passed, we stopped. Jörg came up to me, we hugged: we made it. The military asked for our passports, checked them, and handed us over to another escort. We left quickly. I lost count of how many times the escort changed during the day. After 13 hours of riding, we still weren’t in Quetta. It was dark, and riding at night on these roads is dangerous, especially on a motorbike. People overtake recklessly, and the risk of getting hit is high. I couldn’t even move off-road because I couldn’t see what was at the edge. Every moment was a gamble. Jörg decided to go in front with the truck to discourage dangerous overtaking. After 16 exhausting hours, we finally arrived in Quetta—a chaotic city full of soldiers and poor people. I parted ways with Jörg and Birgit, who couldn’t reach the hotel with their truck. The hotel they took me to reflected the city itself. I missed the police station in Taftan. I was exhausted: few times in life have I felt that tired. The next morning, two Levies came to pick me up on a motorbike. We rode in three: one driving with a machine gun on his back, me in the middle, and another armed man behind. A surreal scene, but I never felt safer—even though none of us wore helmets. They brought me to the police station, where I reunited with Jörg and Birgit. We filled out forms, moved from office to office, withdrew money, got a Pakistani SIM. Finally, they gave us the long-awaited NOC (No Objection Certificate), a document we’d need to show at every escort change, meant to ensure our safety.

At noon, we were asked whether we wanted to stay another night in Quetta or head to another city. After a quick discussion, we decided to go to Sibi, just 100 km away. “Three hours at most,” we thought. Big mistake. Between endless photo requests, a truck stuck under a bridge, a blocked road with massive traffic jams, and another overturned truck where the driver lost a leg, it took us eight hours to get there. Again, I was drained. But it wasn’t over. In Sibi, we asked the military if we could stay at a hotel. The answer was no: too dangerous. They took us to the police station for the night. I was given an office room with air conditioning: a luxury in that oppressive heat. Birgit was even jealous, since she and Jörg would sleep in their truck, which, although equipped, had no AC. Sadly, the paradise didn’t last. The AC only worked with an inverter that beeped loudly every five seconds. I kept getting up to turn it off, then turning it back on in the heat—a nightmare. Next to me, two smelly soldiers (not that I smelled great) snored like chainsaws. I barely slept. The next day we headed to Sukkur. During one of the last escort changes, the soldiers got lost. For a few hours, we enjoyed a rare moment of freedom. We found a beautiful hotel. After five nights in Taftan, one in a filthy Quetta hotel, and one at the Sibi station, a clean bed, a shower, and silent AC felt like a dream. When we went down to reception, we were told we couldn’t leave the hotel: the city was too dangerous. We ordered takeaway and savored that rare moment of luxury. The following day, the escort was already waiting outside. We left for Multan, but our pace was too slow. I couldn’t use the highway on the motorbike, and Birgit wasn’t feeling well. We only made it to Bahawalpur. Another rough evening followed—we argued with the escort, who kept misleading us about where we could stay. We spent another night at a police station, but this one felt almost like a hotel: clean and quiet, by Pakistani standards. The next day we headed to Lahore. For once, everything went smoothly: quick escort changes, calm journey. In Lahore, I parted ways with Jörg and Birgit, who stayed at a hotel, and reached the hostel where my friends Michele and Mirta, who I hadn’t seen since Turkey, were waiting. Traveling with an escort in Pakistan is extremely demanding. But despite the fatigue and difficulties, I must admit the Levies always did their best with what they had. Always kind, respectful, present. Even when we got angry, they never lost their cool. And in the end, that too is part of the journey.