China: Border, Control, and the Long Road to Tibet

Khunjerab Pass border crossing into China/Pakistan. The highest paved border crossing in the world is at 4693 meters above sea level.

“Fear is a reaction. Courage is a decision.” — Winston Churchill

Border Shock

After Pakistan, China hit us like a wall of order. The Khunjerab Pass at 4,693m wasn’t just a border; it was a statement: pressed uniforms, polished glass, and cameras everywhere. On one side, dusty chaos; on the other, regimented control.

Our truck number plate, translated into Chinese.

The plan had been to cross into India, but with the Wagah border closed after political fallout, the route shifted: China → Tibet → Nepal → India. That meant a 6,000km detour, heavily regulated, always watched. We joined a group to share the cost of the required guide.

Maps, Medicine, and Power

At the border, our truck was practically dismantled. Some of our household medicines were confiscated. The seriousness was made clear: 5g of heroin equals 7 years in prison; more could mean execution. Foreigners included.

We desperately wanted to go to floor 11. Every time we passed, we wanted to stop, but common sense said no!

Then came the map. I was asked if we had any maps, and when I handed over our world map as instructed by the border guards, I thought they were curious about our journey. Instead, I was marched into an interrogation room. Three officers loomed over me, jabbing at Taiwan and some obscure islands off Japan. Why were they not the same colour as China?

They said “everyone knows these islands (that I had never heard of) and Taiwan were part of China”, and so why did I have a map showing something else? Was I a political agitator?

Deportation was threatened more than once.

Charlotte, as usual, stayed out of it. She never interferes when I’m in trouble - she waits until later to tell me I’m an idiot. But I noticed her silence sharpen, the way she folded her arms and withdrew, as if willing herself invisible while the officers circled. It was a coping strategy I came to recognise again and again - her way of surviving the weight of scrutiny.

We later heard of eight German bikers deported for nothing more than a Nepalese flag sticker being displayed on one of their motorcycles. A reminder that in China, even a piece of paper could become political evidence. Maps weren’t maps - they were narratives, controlled and policed.

We saw a number of lorries carrying these. Randomly parked on a roadside. Why and what are they?

Surveillance on the Road

Getting SIM cards was another ritual. Passport photos weren’t enough. We had to pose with the SIM in hand, elbows showing, so they could see it was me holding the SIM and not something superimposed into the picture, then again with a placard of our number in Chinese and English. (Cultural note: this biometric SIM registration ties into China’s digital ID system, ensuring every call and click is traceable. In regions like Xinjiang and Tibet, these systems have been expanded further - part of the state’s strategy to track movement and suppress dissent. For travellers, it meant constant visibility, every phone call another data point.)

One of many ghost towns in China. All the infrastructure, but no one living there and no shops?

Once on the road, the rules multiplied. Checkpoints two or three times a day: photographs of us, the truck, the Chinese number plates we had to carry, and the translated driving licences. Meanwhile, above, cameras flashed endlessly. Charlotte and I both found ourselves quieter, speaking less - as if words themselves might be captured and judged.

The land itself was vast, mostly desert and scrub when coming in from the west. Then, out of nowhere, construction. Three hundred kilometres of roadworks in a single stretch. New cities sprouting from sand. The roads were flawless, smoother than anything we’d seen in Central Asia.

Food and Fatigue

Food was another endurance test. Egg fried rice, breakfast, lunch, dinner. Charlotte, normally cosmopolitan in her tastes, began pushing plates away in quiet resignation. Once she muttered, “I never thought I’d dream of a sandwich.”  Menus offered variety - pig’s trotters, half-developed chick eggs - but neither of us had the appetite. Add in constant spitting, constant smoking - no matter where, lifts, shops, restaurants, nowhere exempt from the disgusting behaviour - and the sense of suffocation grew.

Meals were cheap though - a plate of fried rice with a bottle of water cost about £1.50 and plentiful, even if repetitive. We didn’t cook much.

What struck me most was a lack of humour in daily interactions. Maybe it was the weight of rules, or the ever-present cameras. Either way, people seemed wary of laughing at the wrong thing.

Breakdown and the Long Catch-Up

Then disaster: the driveshaft bearing fell apart. Without it, the truck was stranded. Parts were not easy to source despite the “Made in China” label on half the world’s goods. Our hardship was not to be sympathised with, and our group of motorbikes decided to leave without us. Without them, we’d need a separate guide. Should we abandon the route? Head south to Laos?

The broken driveshaft bearing. The first of many mechanical issues.

Charlotte stayed detached during my debates with mechanics, but when the replacement part finally arrived sooner than expected, she gave the faintest smile - relief under fatigue. We drove 34 hours across two days, 15 hours, then 19, grinding through mountain passes until we caught up with the group, both of us shattered. Charlotte later told me I was mad, but that she knew I wouldn’t quit.

Along the way, we passed Lake Turpan, 154m below sea level, with desert heat soaring past 40°. Beauty and bleakness are intertwined, but no time to stop and enjoy the views. We needed to catch the group.

Joe the Guide

Our guide, Joe - real name ChuFeng - travelled with us sometimes. Just 22, raised in the countryside by grandparents while his mother worked tables in Chengdu, he’d studied hard to become a guide. Now he lived in a small flat, the rent was a mere £170 a month, his hobbies were video games, and his favourite TV series was Downton Abbey. Naturally, he

loved Taylor Swift and country music. Don’t all 22-year-olds listen to Country music?

Joe - Our guide.

I said to him one day, the Chinese would take over the world. He shrugged: “That will take some years.” His quiet pragmatism seemed emblematic of his generation: ambitious, globalised, but cautious. Charlotte and I respected him, though his age made deeper conversation difficult. He was kind, diligent, and a reminder that behind the checkpoints stood individuals making their own way.

Reflection: Control and Fragility

Crossing into Tibet, our final stretch, I felt a shift. Leaving China, we thought, freedom was suddenly tangible again. I joked to Charlotte that I could strip naked and run down the street and no one would care. She didn’t laugh - she just looked at me as if the idea wasn’t so far from how we both felt. Little did we know what lay ahead.

Crossing China wasn’t about distance - it was about control. Every camera, every checkpoint, every bland meal reinforced it. We had set out as independent overlanders, yet here we were dependent on guides, permits, and even the arrival of a single spare part.

Independence proved fragile when rules and machinery could stop us dead.

The East/West contrast was stark: Pakistan’s chaos against China’s order, Indian excess against Chinese blandness, individuality swallowed by scale.

The heat was horrendous, and a view from our hotel window, you can see people had beds and so they could sleep on the roof of their buildings.

Charlotte endured it all with quiet resilience - the food fatigue, the relentless checkpoints, the silence she retreated into when the weight of surveillance pressed down. Her way of coping was as much a part of the journey as the roads we drove.

And that map at the border still lingers with me: how a simple piece of paper became political evidence, how narratives themselves are policed. In China, power is drawn not only in borders but in colours on a page.

Yet there was space too - deserts, passes, and the quiet shrug of a young man named Joe. Strangeness became the constant, and perhaps the only way to keep moving was to accept it.

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In case you’ve not seen these…

How we got here (our last blog)

Escorted Across Pakistan: Guns, Landslides and a Narrow Escape to China

We were one landslide away from the river — and one protest away from missing China entirely. Find out what happens when the mountain road collapses and your only protection is a rifle convoy.

Tea with the Taliban: An Overlander’s Passage Through Afghanistan

A must read for those considering taken the road less travelled . Is this as scary as it gets? We certainly hope so!

We didn’t have 1.25 million dollars in cash strangely?

Bribes, breakdowns, and flooded crossings. One minute it was dust and diesel, the next it was gangs, collapsed bridges and a demand for 1.25 million in “cash.”

Escorted Across Pakistan: Guns, Landslides and a Narrow Escape to China

“Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature.” — Helen Keller

A Movie Escort at the Border

The sirens hit before the dust of the border crossing had even settled. Within minutes of entering Pakistan, we were in a convoy straight out of a movie — armed escorts sweeping traffic aside, rifles visible at the window, our truck suddenly the star of someone else’s action script.

Our armed guard and support car with 2 more armed officers and a driver.

The change from Afghanistan was obvious too - cleaner streets, English road signs, even women walking alone - but it was quickly overshadowed by the guns at our side. Afghanistan had felt far more chaotic, with Taliban checks at every turn - yet the people

there were warmer, perhaps because tourists are so rare.

A quick check before a new armed guard takes over.

On our entry to Pakistan, we were picked up by an armed police escort, and told it was necessary for our safety. They took us from the border to our overnight hotel (we were told we couldn't stay in the truck for security reasons, just as we were in Afghanistan). At our hotel, an armed guard was waiting for us, and so after the police left, the new armed guard took over. The rifles had decided for us: the evening would be spent inside the hotel.

The next morning, another escort arrived, lights flashing, waving us through toll roads without stopping, halting whole lines of traffic so we could glide through without stopping.

It was thrilling in one sense, unnerving in another - theatre and tension all at once.

When we asked why we needed an escort, the answers were vague. One officer muttered “Taliban,” explaining this was a different branch from the Afghan fighters, and that they were targeting police, soldiers, and foreigners alike. And our oversized truck made us too visible, too tempting a target for the Taliban. In truth, the escort felt less like protection and more like theatre, though I took some comfort in knowing we weren’t entirely on our own despite the surreal feeling of having our own armed guard.

The police had also informed us that the escort would stay with us for three days, right up to the Chinese border.

Roads of Risk and Reward

For us, it was mostly about making distance. Our initial plan was to cross Pakistan to India, but due to political tensions, that border was closed, so we had a 6000km (almost 4000 miles) detour to enter India via China to Tibet and then to Nepal and finally into India, and we had to meet fellow travellers in China, a group of motorbikers we were scheduled to drive with across China, so Pakistan was a line on the map to be crossed quickly, now.

We saw little in terms of sights, but saw much of the country’s reality. People seemed to live at a higher standard than in Afghanistan; roads were more organised, uniforms sharper, signs bilingual, spirits lighter. And despite the escorts, we felt oddly more at ease.

We drove the Gilgit Pass, the Karakoram Highway, and the Khyber Pass - all on Charlotte’s bucket list for years. But dreams rarely come without risk. Landslides scarred the roads, tarmac sliding into rivers before our very eyes, trucks teetering on the edge as tarmac fell into parallel rivers. Every few kilometres, diggers clawed at fresh debris to keep the roads clear before the next landslide meant they had to start over.

Charlotte sat silent for long stretches - the roads she had wanted to drive the most were now the ones she feared most. She had been delighted to tick them off her list, but the road conditions soon turned that delight into unease. Relief only came once we cleared each stretch without rocks above us giving way.

There were many beautifully decorated Pakistani trucks.

The Karakoram Highway is sometimes referred to as the “Eighth Wonder of the World,” an engineering feat that links Pakistan and China across some of the harshest terrain on Earth.

It is also notorious for constant landslides, collapses, and fatalities - beauty and danger in equal measure. Crazy to think just how vulnerable we were in a 12.5-tonne truck, lumbering across roads that seemed barely able to hold their own weight.

A week after we left, a landslide killed 43 people on the very road we had taken. That knowledge still chills me.

A Fragile Beauty

Northern Pakistan was a feast for the eyes - snow peaks, glaciers, rivers foaming against the rocks. Villages clung to mountain sides; some cut in half by previous land slides. Many houses lay derelict where rock and mud had swept through and destroyed much of the structures, scars of earlier landslides visible in every valley.

Yet life carried on with a quiet stubbornness. In the villages of Hunza and Gilgit, families tended orchards of apricots and apples that somehow flourished at altitude, their green terraces a shock of colour against the stone. Every tea stop offered “chai” with an insistence born of mountain hospitality.

We passed places of almost mythic renown - the Hunza Valley, with its turquoise Attabad Lake formed by a landslide only a decade ago, still swallowing the road beneath it; Nanga Parbat looming somewhere beyond, known as “Killer Mountain” for the lives it has claimed.

We wondered how people slept at night, knowing the mountain could take their home by morning.

Blocked at Sost

Tired and frayed, we reached Sost, the last town before China. Ready to cross, we were told the road was blocked by a demonstration.

Our armed escort bid us farewell, and we were finally alone.

Local business owners had barricaded the road in protest against new council taxes that, they said, made it nearly impossible to stay in business.

I went to speak with them and tried reasoning, asking them to remove their roadblock so that we, the tourists, could pass. I said, but they weren’t a part of their struggle, and it made no sense to block our access, but they were not for budging.

We were stuck, and this was a real problem as we had a rendezvous with a load of bikers, and we had to make that rendezvous to get across China. You are not allowed to travel without a guide in many parts of China.

Our saviour came in the form of a local man who took pity on us, guided me to a dirt track looping behind the blockade in town. The ground was rough and unpassable by car, but our truck’s 4x4 capabilities helped us crawl threw. Relief surged - until we saw the steel power cables hanging low across the path we wanted to cross. Our normal method is that we would nudge them up with a broom handle, but these were live, uninsulated, and untouchable.

After a few frantic phone calls, a policeman arranged to have the power cut, and so we could pass. Lifting the cable with caution, we crawled under it in our truck. As we edged through, wondering how many homes were left without power, the power was cut for our crossing. Oh, to be a white tourist in Pakistan. Again, parallel worlds.

No Guarantees

Pakistan taught us that danger wears many faces: rifles at your window, rocks above your cab, or wires across the road. Escorts and diggers gave the appearance of control, but none of it really made us safer. A landslide could come down without warning, or a handful of shopkeepers could block an international border for days.

Charlotte’s long-dreamed passes turned into long silences. The roads she had wanted most became the ones she feared most, and the only relief was getting through each stretch in one piece. Bucket lists don’t show the exhaustion in your shoulders or the ache in your stomach when the cliff edge drops away beside you.

Every border seemed to tell a story about power. Afghanistan had dust and tension, Pakistan had rifles and escorts, and China was waiting with its own brand of order. Different masks, same fragility underneath.

And that was the real lesson: the journey could be stopped by anything - a rockfall, a protest, a loose cable across the road. All the rules and uniforms in the world didn’t change the fact that we were just moving forward on borrowed time, hoping the mountain or the politics would hold off for one more day.

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Tea with the Taliban: An Overlander’s Passage Through Afghanistan

“Hospitality is making your guests feel at home, even if you wish they weren't.” - Anonymous Afghan proverb (commonly cited)

Before Afghanistan, the truck nearly gave up on us in Tajikistan. Lowering the rear lift that keeps the motorcycle and spare wheel aloft on a platform, we discovered the wire rope that lifts and lowers this, had almost sheared clean through.

After catching our breath, we flagged down a passing stranger who whisked me around the local town until we found enough bits to cobble together a repair. We paid him in the local hard currency: a few American dollars and a jerry can of diesel for his van. That’s the way forward, isn’t it?

With the fix holding, we crossed a border where rules blurred, passports disappeared into back rooms, and the Taliban themselves poured us tea. This was no ordinary leg of the journey.

The Border Ballet

Entry was easy enough. Kaiser, our guide, met us at the immigration point into Afghanistan, as passports were checked, stamped, and then quietly whisked away. Guards took a cursory glance inside the truck, looking for contraband, more for show than suspicion, and waved us through. What we hadn’t realised: the visa office closes on Fridays, and this was Friday. Our documents - passports and vehicle papers alike - vanished into back rooms, and we were shunted off to a “hotel” for the night to await the office opening the next day. We were told we weren't allowed to leave the border until the formalities were done.

Street markets are in abundance in Afghanistan

The hotel cost us £8 each, and we were robbed. The place stank; lorry drivers were stacked ten to a room, with one squat toilet and one hosepipe “shower", between us all. It was 40° inside and out, no air-con, no sleep.

We lay awake, sweating, asking ourselves yet again - why are we doing this?

Charlotte had packed a black Abaya for the occasion. Kaiser, our guide, told her not to bother, just cover your hair, Charlotte and that's it, done. The Abaya was ditched, replaced by a head scarf and a look of mild relief.

Lunch and dinner were brought to our hotel room whilst we sweated it out, and we set out the food on the floor, no cutlery in sight. Here, hands do the job, and I have to say, I enjoy it.

Eating with your hands feels like being at one with the food - somehow the flavours come through more directly. Less washing up too.

The next day stretched long. Officials drifted in, but not until late morning, and greeted us, telling us they would be with us after they were done on a two-hour lunch break. We waited and had time, and it was now getting really boring, and anticipation was growing.

This was Afghanistan, and we wanted to get in and see it, so we wandered into the local village. I guess we shouldn’t have done so as we had no passport and no right of entry, but hey, what the hell.

In the village, not a woman in sight, but men in robes squatting in doorways, children hammering toys out of wood, meat swinging from hooks in the sun, flies everywhere. Charcoal smoke. Grease. And yes - the same kebabs we’d eaten the night before. It was like something out of the Bible, complete with a miracle: No food poisoning did we suffer. How?  What are the chances?

A street food seller looking out at the white guys.

When the officials finally returned, they invited us into their living room (office) and sat us down. One guy asked if we were married and how many children we had. He then proceeded to tell us he had 4 wives and 42 children and wants more.  I nodded politely, trying to imagine Christmas morning in their house.

Meeting a fellow traveller, but he had two armed guards with him, we had Kaiser, our guide?

They gave us Black tea in a flask, raisins in a dish, and pistachio nuts, shells flicked casually onto the floor for the “boy” to sweep away. The boy moved silently around them, tidying their mess - invisible to them, though he was acutely aware of every gesture they made.

The customs officials were eager to chat, guessing our nationality - America? Germany? - until we finally said England. Their eyes lit up, ah, England. Nice country, they said and then they took time to assure us they embraced all of humankind, treating everyone equally.

Words I think they thought to be true.

That’s when it clicked: these charming hosts were Taliban. And no, we didn’t argue. Would you? But despite everything we thought we knew of the Taliban, they greeted us with charm - a reminder that even the Taliban can play host or play us for fools.

Kunduz: Celebrity and Razor Wire

From the border, we rattled on to Kunduz with the Guide, Kaiser taking our middle seat in the truck. First stop: a hotel carpark wrapped in razor wire.

That night we walked into the local town to the bazaar. It was chaos, electric. Traders shouting, friends embracing, everyone pushing, shouting, selling. Every few metres, we were stopped by crowds. People surrounded us, grinning, demanding to know our names, our story. They mostly ignored Charlotte, speaking only to me, yet at the same time, she was the centre of attention - eyes following her everywhere. Celebrity and invisibility rolled into one.

Despite being apprehensive about potential security issues, we were literally being surrounded; it was magical. We definitely (definitely) got our Mojo back.

Market guys making Afghanistan ice cream.

Street kids darted between stalls, pushing barrows taller than themselves. Five years old, hauling a stranger’s cabbages for a few coins. No barrow, no job. At five years old, I was still struggling with Lego. Jokes aside, it is so sad to see, you know, these poor children will never go to school. You know they will never make anything of a life. I guess Allah doesn’t provide, then?

After some time, we decided to head back… we felt it was a little foolish to be out in the dark. 

Back at the compound, we shuffled past the security guard. All very welcoming - nothing says “sweet dreams” like razor wire and a man with an AK-47, and as we settled in for the night, we had a knock on our door: the hotel manager was outside, and he said, “There are Government officials who wish to see you.”

Without being invited, two stocky men in white robes appeared in our room.

The government is the Taliban, so Charlotte can now say she’s had the Taliban in her bedroom. You can’t make this up.  They wanted to know how they could improve the visa process, and as we had been delayed, did we have any complaints we wished to make?

Imagine that - customer feedback, Taliban style. We assured them we had no complaints. Can you imagine making a complaint against the Taliban in Afghanistan? Not on your nelly!

One of the guards, happy to show us his gun. Just wish I had moved our bag of washing before the photo was taken.

Lessons in Kabul

The road south led us to Kabul. Again, we had to stay in hotels for security, and this one, a fortress rather than a hotel: steel doors, guards with rifles on the outside, piped chill-out music on the inside.

Charlotte was taken behind a curtain and searched by a woman, whilst I was frisked and a metal detector ran over me. Inside, it felt like any Western chain hotel - plush carpets, buffets, plate glass windows and a pool.We didnt use the pool, it was men only.

The inside was a whole new world compared to the exterior. Very strange.

The faces of the Manakins are covered, in line with the Taliban rules, as all females should not show their faces, and these are party dresses. For wearing inside your home only.

 The hotel guards were ex-special forces who’d once served with British and American armies. Now they lived in fear, families threatened.

One guard showed me a letter he had sent to the Canadian government asking for asylum. His pleas after 2 years, unanswered.

He told me his wife and children received regular threats by the Taliban for his part in the war.

On the streets, Kabul was a smog of diesel fumes. By the day’s end, after walking these fascinating streets, our faces were black.

As we paraded through the streets, Crowds gathered around us as before. Everyone wanted to shake hands, welcome us. And yet - almost no women in sight. It was a strange experience.

All the time I was looking at the faces staring back at me, wondering if one of them was about to pull a gun or a knife on us. Quite sureal.

Selling plastic watering cans. For the bathroom and cleaning the important bits.

A highlight of Kabul was visiting the bookshop that inspired the book, The Bookseller of Kabul. A book I enjoyed reading many years ago.

The book shop, raided by the Taliban endlessly, closed, reopened, and again and again.

As stubborn as the country itself. We bought a few books, including The Bookseller of Kabul, the book itself, as a keepsake. Quite a surreal moment for me.

One evening, we dined at Ziyfat, Kabul’s fanciest restaurant. Immaculate food, women serving (a rarity), plates that could have graced a London table. And then a man strode in with his entourage, his minder cradling a machine gun. It was a reminder that even fine dining in Kabul comes with a side of firepower.

The book shop.

Education kept surfacing in many conversations I had with our guide, Kaiser.

He told me some girls could sometimes study past age twelve, secretly.

Kaiser found a school willing to allow us access, unbelievable. What an opportunity to see the other side.

We found that the place was understated. A scruffy building, part of a myriad of derelict offices and storage units, the surroundings filthy and yet a ray of hope.

Upstairs, as we entered the classroom area where we were greeted by the head teacher, who told me that because of a lack of teachers, they taught boys and girls together. He said, if the Taliban found out, they would be closed immediately.

The conversation was fascinating as he explained education is and yet isn't allowed for girls.

He told me there are also Illegal radio broadcasts from Europe; they shift frequencies when blocked, which is often, teaching maths and reading in defiance. Whilst underground networks pass books hand to hand until the covers fall apart.

We met some women, taking German lessons as that was the ticket out, a way to join husbands working abroad, if they could master the German language.

Resilience smuggled in through pages and airwaves.

The school teaches boys and girls.

For the most part, the Taliban treated us with friendliness - tea, handshakes, even smiles. But travelling across the country meant being stopped by armed guards again and again, documents scrutinised, the odd flash of attitude reminding us there was always an undertone beneath the politeness, and when the guards, dressed in civilian clothing and no ID, stopped us (frequently) and had an AK-47 draped around their shoulders, you do get a little nervous.  Their hospitality was genuine in the moment, yet never free of its shadow.

When they took power, the Taliban closed beauty salons, makeup shops, and anything that hinted at women having public lives. Parents were encouraged to marry off daughters early, though officials insisted “childhood” lasted until puberty.

Many women found ways around the rules - private salons tucked away in their homes, small rebellions hidden behind ordinary doors.

Our guide told us Khabul was quite progressive, and the Taliban even allowed some women to go out shopping alone. Imagine that!

Looking through a window at Meat is being sold with no refrigeration and 40° heat, we didn't eat much.

Borders and Beggars

Afghanistan revealed its most challenging aspects on the way out of the country. We saw Women sitting in the middle of the road begging, babies swaddled and laid on the tarmac as cars swerved past to try and get a few coins for food.

At the border, an official refused us exit: “You need a stamp he said.” And sent us off to Jalalabad, one-and-a-half hours away by taxi. The minister we saw there shrugged - no stamp required, he said.

Hours of phone calls later, we were told it was all fine without the stamp. Border logic at its finest.

Kaiser explained that the Taliban don’t function as a national government. Often, changes are made at the drop of a hat at a regional level, leaving huge problems on a national basis when the two collide.

By the time we got back to the border, the Pakistan gate was shut for the night. We had to sleep beside it, awaiting its opening in the morning, surrounded by street urchins tapping on the truck, looking for a handout out and who can blame them. Our worlds are so far apart. We are in our fancy truck, and they with no food to fill their bellies. There are too many to help, and if we feed them today, who feeds them tomorrow?

Would we do it again?

After an hour of chasing kids and adults away from our truck, I went to the Taliban guards. They moved us beside their guard post and appointed an armed sentry to sit by our wheels all night. It stopped the intruders, but the presence of an armed guard didn’t make for a cosy night’s sleep. The Taliban insisted it was for our safety; I wasn’t so sure.

Afghanistan was, strangely, a highlight of our journey - biblical and raw, like stepping back in time. We couldn’t ignore the suppression of women or the human-rights abuses, yet much of what we saw was warm, welcoming, even generous. It was thought-provoking in ways we’re still processing.

We were scared the entire time, but exhilarated too. Here was a country held back emotionally and financially by decades of conflict, fifty years of war etched into every face and building. In our view, it won’t recover any time soon; it lags a world behind the developed nations.

Would I recommend it as a destination? Perhaps only to the truly prepared - it is bizarre, beautiful, and brutal in equal measure, but never safe. For us, though, it was unforgettable.

Our favourite country so far, though, a place we would love to revisit sometime, maybe?

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In case you’ve not seen these…

We didn’t have 1.25 million dollars in cash strangely?

The road out of Ethiopia turned into a mud bath of bribes, breakdowns, and flooded crossings. One minute it was dust and diesel, the next it was gangs, collapsed bridges and a demand for 1.25 million in “cash.” By the time we reached the border, Africa had stopped feeling like a map and started feeling like a trap.

Back in Saudi and heading for Iraq.

Tyres exploding at 120 kph, fuel bought from lads with AKs, and nights camped on dunes where no map dares show a road. Saudi was supposed to be a breeze — Iraq turned it into a shitstorm.

Iran.

Crossing into Iran, we expected hostility. What we found was smuggled vodka, quiet kindness, and engines running on fumes. The contradictions ran deeper than any desert track — and we were right in the middle of them.