Thwarted in the Baluchi Desert
We were at the Iran / Pakistan border. We got ourselves out of the country promptly by sole virtue of our pallid skin. I have little doubt it would have taken 2 hours longer at the very least, if we hadn’t been whisked out of the queue to the front of the line. Adam met a scared Kiwi biker, crazily pleased to leave Pakistan. He said it was ‘all going off’. He managed to petrify Adam completely. I never met him, and wish Adam hadn’t either. The Pakistan side of the border was ramshackle and chaotic, but in an identifiable way which pleased me greatly. We shuffled after old Pakistani officers in their excellent salwar-kameez denim cotton uniforms with badges on the arms. We met some incredibly nice Quetta police men who sat us down and gave us real tea and biscuits, and talked to us about the difficulties in arranging weddings, and other nice conversations like that. They laughed at us when we sat outside and ate our boiled eggs ...