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Wild Motorcycle Tales

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Jailed in Afghanistan

The Khyber Pass is the traditional route out of Afghanistan into Pakistan east of Kabul, the capital city. But the Bolan Pass is the alternative road in the south of the country running through the river valley winding towards the border to the east of Kandahar. I was conscious of the time since I had been told that the border post closed at 6 in the evening, and it was already past 5:45 when I drew up to the gatepost. Two men in traditional long loose Afghan shirts and trousers explained with hand language that it was too late to cross and I had to go back. It was well over an hour back to Kandahar so I explained that I was going to stay there if they did not let me through. They called over someone who spoke some English, and the arrangement was to be that I could stay, but the only bunk bed available was in the border jail behind metal bars. They agreed that it would be safe to leave my bike out front fully packed and the creaking iron door was duly opened and clanged shut behind me. I heard the big metal key turning in the lock, and there I was incarcerated voluntarily in Afghanistan. I had one inmate for company, and, as it turned out, he spoke very good English, and we ended up talking almost all through the night. Here is his story:

He was a Pakistani not too keen on some of the Islamic government outlooks and treatment of non-Moslems in the country. He had decided to get out of the country, and somehow work a scheme for getting over to Canada to join his brother who had settled there. Needless to say he was a non-Moslem himself. His problem was that the Afghan border authorities had bumped him off the passenger bus crossing into Afghanistan, and were going to bundle him back into Pakistan the next day. He was terrified that he would be tortured in Pakistan as had happened to a few of his compatriots so he told me. This was at the time of one of the Indo-Pakistan Wars that would later prevent me crossing the border into India. But for now, my inmate was very anxious and a very unhappy man. We schemed during the night and before the break of dawn I was back on my bike heading back to the town of Kandahar. We had decided that the only chance he had was to be declared an Indian citizen, by pleading with the Indian Consul based in Kandahar. I took with me a photo of him and copies of his signatures, and went out in earnest much to the surprise of the border personnel, as I turned the bike around and headed away from their border gate. I arrived in Kandahar and was soon guided to the right home, and knocked on the front wooden door at 8:30 in the morning. As it happened I got him out of his morning bath, but at least he had agreed to see me.

"Good Morning Sir, I understand that you are the Indian Consul here, and I have come on behalf of someone who needs your concerted assistance."

"What is this help this good man will be needing?" he asked, no doubt mystified by this dust ridden foreigner out on a limb far from home, and asking for help for someone else out here in the vast emptiness of Asia.

"He is a Pakistani who needs to be declared an Indian citizen so that he can go to Canada," I volunteered.

"I am not understanding, please enlighten me," the Consul said, looking somewhat puzzled.

I went through the entire background and rigmarole of this lonely man about to be sent back for possible torture. The Consul agreed that there was a lot of sense in the story, and it was a theme already known to him. He told me that he would keep the photo and signatures, and do what he could. The fact was that he expected that the authorities would first bring this man to Kandahar for processing before sending him back to Pakistan. In this case, the Consul assured me, he would hear about it, and step in to assist him as best he could. Outside his front door, I kick-started the bike, and his final words were:

"I will be looking out, and will step in and do the best I can for this friend of yours. Oh, have a safe journey." In all of this I sensed the diplomat in him, and knew that there would always be a part of bravado in all he said, in efforts to satisfy all who came before him with requests of all colours of the rainbow. But at the same time he did impart "hope" and I set off back to the border post, with only words and no documents for my inmate living in suspension in the jail.

I arrived, was re-jailed, and explained all that had been said, and what might happen, provided he was sent back to Kandahar before being bussed back to Pakistan.

What could I do? I bade him farewell, kick-started "Demeter," left him in a vacuum of hope, and set off in search of my own destiny, passing into no-man's land between the two borders.

I realised that I would never know what actually happened, and if my inmate would actually make it to his "freedom" and across the seas with an Indian passport, to be reunited with his brother in Canada.

And now, I'll relate my adventure that revolved around Playboy Magazine. It felt good but strange to be totally free to go on my way in what direction I chose. I headed for the Pakistani border post, and so began the entry formalities for my 9th country since I had left the home shores of England some seven months previously.

The Pakistani border guard was immaculately dressed in his uniform, with a waxed moustache that looked like the proverbial military officer fully in charge of all around him.

"And where, may I ask, have you come from on your motorbike?" he asked inquisitively.

"From England," I answered, still preoccupied with the fate of my inmate, abandoned in Afghanistan.

Then I could not quite believe my ears as the Immigration officer spoke with a softened voice, "I say, you don't happen to have a 'Playboy' magazine with you do you?"

Instantly I had visions of Islamic women embroiled in burkhas and black dowdy garb, deliberately designed, or so it seems, to dampen any spark of interest in a woman by any man in view. The Immigration officer looked very disappointed when I did not whip out six magazines all full of gorgeous buxom women scantily dressed in evocative dowdy garb aimed to send men to the edge of their desires. He faded back into his seat, stamped my passport with a grudging sweep, and wished me well on my continuing journeys.

There was just one rather important fact that he neglected to tell me, no doubt smothered by his own disappointment to be still "Playboy-less" deep within his own society. I had all the way since France driven through 8 countries on the right hand side of the road, and never on the left since leaving England. But here I was at the border of a country with a British Colonial past, and therefore a different road sense, where everything was in reverse, and driving on the left was the standard. I mounted "Demeter" and she started first time. I rode off down the road on the right hand side (as per usual) only to see a large passenger bus heading straight towards me. The bus was well crowded, with people even seated outside on the roof of the vehicle. Several people on top started pointing to their right, and in my ignorance, thinking them being friendly, was nodding my head to thank them for pointing out the fantastic scenery off to the right hand side of the road. I nodded again, but then as the bus bore down on me, I heard cries of anguish from atop the bus, and in an instant swung to the left, as I realised within a hair's breadth of disaster, that I was not supposed to be an admiring traveller, but a responsible driver clamped on the left hand side of the roadways. My heart jumped into my throat, my smile at the passengers was pathetic, and my fury at the immigration officer was unbounded. Such is the craving for sexuality! However, I thought better of going back, telling him of my plight, and possibly causing him job loss and another reason to blame "the West" for his predicament.

(Fast Forward - This tale reminds me of an incident that happened to me in the Philippines some 30 years later. I had been delighted to be invited to share the use of the clubhouse of the Mad Dogs Motorcycle Club in Manila. At the time they had a monthly Club magazine, and invited me to write about my motorcycle journeys. I duly obliged, and one weekend was approached by two of the club members. Dressed all in black, with black leather waistcoats sporting the club badge, they were both tattooed on their arms with their bulldog club emblem and club member number. They cornered me in a friendly manner, and told me they had enjoyed my tales to-date but were curious about any sexual encounters I might have had on my journeys. I promised to feed them a tale for the next issue.

I conjured up a tale to be remembered, and took a leaf of belief from my good friend, Hugo Wray, who is always reminding us to "never let the truth get in the way of a good story." The true truth was that I had remained entirely celibate throughout my trip in Asia on my bike. But a vision sprang to mind and I rolled out a tale of going wholeheartedly into a brothel in Kandahar, and dreamt up lucid lines of sexual encounters with two ravenous women, and me a foreigner in need of fulfilment and satisfaction. If half the story line had been real I would have been a happy man, but the real encounter was with the two Mad Dogs, who hailed my achievements at publication, and I became their best of buddies from then on. Such is the craving for sexuality! Ride well guys!

I rode on to Quetta, where a keen motorcyclist invited me to his family home for dinner, then on through Sukkur, and finally down into the coastal city of Karachi on the edge of the Arabian Sea that leads into the vastness of the Indian Ocean. On the way it was magical to be crossing the mighty Indus river, which flows majestically all the way down from the very north of the country from the mountain range that is the mother of them all, the Himalayas.

The plan had been to ride on into India with its remarkable history, but the onset of yet another Indo-Pakistan War put paid to that idea, since the border crossings were sealed.

I decided to disembark from Asia by booking a passenger ship with the Italian Lloyd Triestino line docking in Karachi and sailing to East Africa. But the wait was to be over six weeks till the next liner, and anyway I had run out of money, at a time when the War had somehow messed up money transfer transactions, and I sat in Karachi with no money to my name.

Asghar Zackria inadvertently came to my rescue. He was a Karachi bike fanatic who tracked me down to my hotel. He invited me to his home for dinner, and the next day introduced me to a group of bikers who met regularly in the evenings. They had only heard about my bike, a Norton Commando 750cc, but had never seen one till "Demeter" rolled into town with all her power and beauty.

The bike became an instant hit with the group, and being a big bike she was obliged to carry three people on the rides around town. This was a novelty for me, and I felt a bit like a preying mantis crouched up front guiding the bike with two passengers behind. Here was my instant route to friendship, and, as it happened, my rescue from my temporary moneyless state.

The bike group fed me, looked after me and essentially kept me alive. The hotel bills could stack up, and the money eventually came to put everything back on an even keel. Sardar, their local mechanic, was a genius, and although he had never seen a Commando he had been brought up with British manufactured bikes, new how they ticked, and was smart enough to fix one major problem with mine. He traced a disturbing knocking sound to a slightly shifted alternator inside the primary chain case, and after a riveting it behaved properly again.

Eventually my time was up, but there was one thing left that had to be sorted. Asghar had long admired a Triumph Bonneville that had sat abandoned at the British Embassy for two years. He dreamed of owning the bike, and I waltzed into the Embassy one day, made the right contact, and got the Australian address of the owner who had left the bike there when the crankshaft snapped. Correspondence by letters and a price negotiation resulted in Asghar becoming its proud owner.

Three months after I had moved on to Africa, Sardar rebuilt the bike, and Asghar did a 2000 mile trip around his own country of Pakistan. The bike and I were secured aboard the ship, and early one evening we left for East Africa. Asghar, Sardar, Mohammed Hussein and the rest of the Bike gang sat astride their bikes at the end of the dock and flashed their headlights as the ship pulled out to sea. It was a very emotional farewell and I shed a tear or three as Asia and the gang disappeared over the horizon. I recalled their friendship, the weeks together, including a 3-day trip on a 1942 Willy Jeep into the wilds of the Baluchistan desert, a swimming ride on the back of a sea turtle, and the charm that was the city of Karachi.

I slept soundly as the ship rolled away south on a gentle sea. Africa lay before me. -- Bruce Curran

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