Wanderlogs
Balochistan at Night – Junaid Zahid Malik (JZ)
There are roads you plan for, and roads that make their own plans for you. The ride from Loralai to Ziarat is one of those.
We were meant to roll out at 4 p.m. sharp. But when you ride with Shiraz Sami (Khawaja), time bends around food and friendship. He’d convinced a friend to host us, and in Balochistan, hospitality is sacred. Out came the sajji — whole goat slow-cooked in the earth — followed by a roasted dumba, golden and fragrant.By the time we wiped the last traces of meat from our fingers, it was already 6:30 p.m. Two and a half hours gone, and ahead lay a stretch of road notorious for testing both man and machine.
Our crew — The Legendary Comrades (TLC) — fired up the bikes:
BMW GSs and Yamaha Super Ténérés, machines built for hardship, ridden by men who trusted one another completely.
The night belonged to us — or so we thought.
Not long after leaving Loralai, the first test arrived. Tariq’s front wheel buckled on the rugged tarmac. We stopped in the dead silence of rural Balochistan, stars overhead, cold desert air pressing in.
A local mechanic appeared, drawn by the sound of our engines. He’d never worked on bikes this large, but with a hammer, pliers, and instinct, he bent the rim back into shape. Every strike echoed into the darkness. Tariq mounted again, and we rode on.
In Balochistan, survival often comes down to resilience — and the kindness of strangers.
As the road tightened into the highlands, Colonel pulled us aside. His visor lifted, breath fogging in the cold.
“If we get ambushed and I’m up front,” he said calmly, “I’ll take the shot. Don’t stop. Ride as hard as you can to safety.”
The silence that followed was heavy. That was the spirit of TLC: no man left behind, yet every man ready to sacrifice.
He led from the front. I held the tail. Between us, the pack rode tighter than ever.
Then came the headlights.
Two 4x4s appeared behind us, creeping closer, matching every move. At the back, my nerves burned. I twisted the throttle, the BMW roared, and the group surged forward. For fifteen endless minutes, their lights clawed at our backs, the mountains swallowing sound until only engines and heartbeats remained.
Then, just as suddenly, the lights vanished. We didn’t stop to wonder why. We rode harder into the dark.
Higher up, the air sharpened, forests looming black against the stars. Colonel raised a hand.
“Ice.”
Khawaja grinned.
“Let’s see how bad it is.”
He rolled onto the patch — and disappeared. One second upright, the next sliding across the asphalt, his Yamaha spinning beside him. Before we could react, the ice claimed us all.
Seven riders. Seven bikes. All down.
Helmets struck tanks, crash bars screamed, voices shouted warnings. I tried lifting my GSA, but the ice dragged me down again and again. Bruised, dented, battered — but alive.
We picked each other up, breath steaming in the cold.
“Worth it for the dumba?” someone muttered.
“Always,” Khawaja replied, grinning.
By the time we reached Ziarat, dawn had begun to break and the Fajr Azan filled the air. The ancient juniper forests emerged from darkness as tea steamed in our hands outside a roadside dhaba.
It wasn’t comfort we had earned that night. It was something deeper. The road had tested us with hunger, fear, ice, and darkness — and still we stood together.
That was TLC — not just riders, but brothers forged by the road.
On the route from Loralai to Ziarat, asphalt had turned to ice — and we, by necessity, had turned to steel.
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Field guide
Traveling Through the Night
Plan in daylight:
Know your route, fuel stops, and exits before dark — night hides details.
Stay together:
Ride or move tight enough to stay visible, loose enough to react fast.
Read the surface:
Shiny patches mean danger — ice, water, or oil. Assume the worst.
Cold kills focus: Layer up early. Warmth keeps judgment sharp.
Patience over speed: Darkness rewards calm decisions, not rushed ones.
