British Airways

British Airways USA

Iraq. I remember desert pur. The truck that carried me along with wheel to Baghdad, not spurts. He drove just across the desert. Nearly 20 hours with the nothingness on a fixed ceiling of desert sand with broken lines. Our trucks donated the single shadow. As I drank the first tea in a room behind the Tigris bridge, I felt a strange mood. Everything was so different from Egypt. Almost magical. I had seen such pictures as a child in the fairy tale by Wilhelm Hauff. Strange shoes, turbans, hookahs, service. «In the tearooms served children, attracted colored and with beautiful turbans, like the» small muck «.»

Iran. I remember in beds. The Iranians had proper bed frames with white sheets and blankets. The Iranians built roads and bridges everywhere. The Iranians showed me real tiled bath temples, fine markets and mosques. The heart stopped before amazed me. Only the distances between the villages were great. Sometimes too far apart, so I stayed in abandoned huts along the way. I passed the towns of Kermanshah, Hamadan, Tehran, Qom, Isfahan, Kerman, BAM, Zahedan. It was November, and it was cool. Good to drive, less good at night.

In Karachi/Pakistan, I stayed at the guesthouse of the YMCA, a flat stone house with patio right on the shore of a Bay. There, I met the first Hitchhiker. A Swiss, a German and a Dutchman. All backpackers, very self-confident.

Across Pakistan appeared confident and organized. The people proud and balanced, clearly divided cities, close, but good roads to drive (because there was little traffic) and beautiful houses. Highlights were Quetta, Lahore, and some villages - with all its advantages and disadvantages. I was never alone. In the blink of an eye, a cluster of people surrounding me. It was only by rail by Pakistan after India. The jarring connection through the thar desert was thankfully short.

India. My goal from day one on this tour.

I was standing on the Jodhpur train station. On the one hand: I'm here. Finally and in General, arms raised. On the other hand: With a deplorable piece of bike I. My beautiful diamond machine was crap. Repaired hoses, tie yarn held together coats, wire kept the fenders in position, the bags were to the shame. Worse, I was missing the sense of movement for the bike.
Wheel after Baghdad carried, not spurts. He drove just across the desert. Nearly 20 hours with the nothingness on a fixed ceiling of desert sand with broken lines. Our trucks donated the single shadow. As I drank the first tea in a room behind the Tigris bridge, I felt a strange mood. Everything was so different from Egypt. Almost magical. I had seen such pictures as a child in the fairy tale by Wilhelm Hauff. Strange shoes, turbans, hookahs, service. «In the tearooms served children, attracted colored and with beautiful turbans, like the» small muck «.»

Iran. I remember in beds. The Iranians had proper bed frames with white sheets and blankets. The Iranians built roads and bridges everywhere. The Iranians showed me real tiled bath temples, fine markets and mosques. The heart stopped before amazed me. Only the distances between the villages were great. Sometimes too far apart, so I stayed in abandoned huts along the way. I passed the towns of Kermanshah, Hamadan, Tehran, Qom, Isfahan, Kerman, BAM, Zahedan. It was November, and it was cool. Good to drive, less good at night.