Crossing into Nepal was one of the easiest border crossings so far. I entered from the far southeastern edge, near Bandasa. The "border," if you could even call it that, was barely a suggestion. I could have ridden straight in without anyone stopping me. No real guards, no barriers—just a small hut posing as an admin office, manned by visibly bored and possibly stoned officials.

It was mid-afternoon when I rolled across. I felt relief—maybe even a flicker of joy—to be riding alone again. The southeast of Nepal is flat compared to the Himalayan madness I’d just survived. There’s one main highway that runs the length of the country, and I latched onto it with purpose. The endless twists of India had frayed my nerves—I needed a break from the drama of the mountains.

The peace of Rishikesh was no match for the storm inside my head. Africa had opened a can of worms I wasn’t ready to eat from. Suddenly, I had money in my pocket and respect from men I once worshipped—rough, experienced professionals who liked me for what I brought to the table. I could sit in a room, speak their language, understand all the acronymic jargon. I was part of something bigger again.

Back in Rishikesh, stripped of mission and purpose, I floundered. I turned to alcohol. I hadn’t drunk in a long time. Rishikesh is a dry state—it had been easy to stay clean. But freedom weighed heavy, and the bottle was a fast escape hatch.

I returned to Rishikesh via the Jim Corbett National Park — the northernmost tiger reserve in India. Named after the British adventurer-turned-conservationist Jim Corbett, who once hunted big cats before dedicating his life to protecting them. The descent from the Himalayas into the jungle was mesmerising. I felt like I’d ridden straight into a Kipling novel — wild monkeys swung from the trees, and rustling rivers spilled into deep pools of crystal-clear water.

We lay on the marble floor of the ashram yoga hall, surrounded by candles, incense, singing bowls, strange stringed instruments. And something shifted. I dropped into a trance. Floating in that liminal space between wake and dream, a vision came: a towering, snow-capped mountain glowing electric blue. It stared back at me, silent and certain. Calling. I jolted awake. The image wouldn’t leave me. Maybe it was Nepal calling me.

Then  my old friend Lev messaged. He’d landed a commission from a British paper to cover the Maha Kumbh Mela — the once-in-a-lifetime planetary alignment that would draw millions to Prayagraj, at the confluence of the Ganga, Yamuna, and mythical Saraswati. A gathering only possible once every 144 years. According to astrologers and sages, this alignment would awaken something ancient. It was estimated that over 140 million people would pass through the city in a month — all for the chance to bathe at the Triveni Sangam and receive its rare blessing.

I surrendered to the myths and whispers about the river’s healing power. I sat by her edge for hours, letting the turquoise flow pass me by like time itself. I went to the gym. I ran in the jungle. I spent time with my odd cast of Indian friends. Everyone I met was drawn to this place for reasons they couldn’t quite name. A friend coined it “getting Rishikeshed.” You come for a few days. You stay for months.

I knew I wouldn’t make it to Southeast Asia for the winter as planned. But I made peace with that. I told myself I’d rest here a few weeks, then move on. Keep the body moving. Keep the mind occupied.

But at night, the doubts always returned.

“So she enticed and won our battle-hardened spirits over.” – The Odyssey, Homer

Nestled between large, luscious green mountains, where the Ganges flows down from the Himalayas to meet the plains, lies Rishikesh. Currently known as the yoga capital of the world, it was made famous to the West in the 1960s by The Beatles, who sought refuge and inspiration within the confines of one of the Ganga’s-facing ashrams. Historically, Rishikesh holds immense spiritual significance in Hindu culture, steeped in myth and tradition. It is a place of pilgrimage and theological practice, drawing sadhus (saints) and pilgrims alike from all over India. It is a haven of peace and tranquillity for any weary traveller seeking to escape the mad hustle and bustle of modern India’s mega cities.

As stimulating as Amritsar was, it remained a bustling, polluted, and noisy city. My nervous system was exhausted—I had been riding for nearly five months. The anguish of repeatedly altering my plans weighed on me. By my original itinerary, I should have been in Mexico . However, geopolitical events in Russia had forced me to divert my route. Given my background, I preferred to avoid lingering there too long. Instead, I took the southern Silk Road, abandoning the dream of riding into Mongolia and the lower Siberian flats.

Adding to my internal turmoil, an old flame I had met on the road wanted to reconnect. We had planned to meet in Kolkata, which meant I would have to cancel the last available crossing of Tibet and, consequently, my overland route into Southeast Asia. This left me with three options: ship the bike from Chennai to Kuala Lumpur, air freight it from Kathmandu to Thailand, or wait for the spring snowmelt and continue my overland journey, all costly and time consuming options.

Despite Lahore and Amritsar both being major Punjabi cities, the difference in wealth and affluence was a shock at first. Walking from the airport to the city center, I had to double-take when I saw a woman driving a scooter—without a veil! I almost caught myself shouting “Haram!” I was so accustomed to being in the Muslim world, where women are rarely seen driving, that it took me some time to acclimatize. The streets were busy and crowded like those in Pakistan; the air was still smoggy and rich with a mixture of exotic aromas and open sewers—but there was something different.

Arriving in Pakistan was a relief after Afghanistan. I had upheld my promise to ride one last time with the Sultans and, although I felt sad to leave my adopted tribe, I was relieved to be out of Afghanistan and into Pakistan.

Valentyn, the erudite and wild Ukrainian rider I had met in Kabul, joined me to ride into Pakistan. We were headed in the same directions a round the world, it made sense to share some tarmac together. We arrived at Torkham, the northeastern border crossing between Afghanistan and Pakistan, unsure of the security situation. Reports from the overlanders’ grapevine indicated that the border could shut down without warning due to rising tensions between the two countries. Just the week before, a Dutch traveller had been stranded in no-man’s land for a week after the Pakistani side closed due to rioting. The relationship between Pakistan and Afghanistan had always been fraught, often leading to violent clashes.

As I rode through the Tajikistan border, past desolate and abandoned coalition force buildings, a visceral fear churned in my stomach. What the hell was I doing returning to Afghanistan? The searing heat was confusing my thoughts, dragging my mind back to the harsh immediacy of the now.

We approached the bridge that divides Tajikistan and Afghanistan, a benign dictatorship on one side and the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan on the other. We rode slowly towards the bridge head, ducking under the overlapping arcs from an armoured vehicle on the Tajik side. Across the bridge, I could see white Taliban flags fluttering in the hot desert winds.

It was too late to turn back. The plan was already in motion. I could hear my heart pounding louder than Tara's thumping engine. A Taliban soldier in a US Humvee overlooked the bridge, a mounted UK or US Minimi tracking our approach.

I had dreamed about reaching this part of the journey for years. The pamir had a magnetic draw on me. Maybe it was its remoteness and famed natural beauty, maybe it was the challenge of taking the bike and myself to its limits. I didn’t know I was filled with nervous excitement at heading into what many had described as some of the hardest and most rewarding motorcycling in the world. Was I ready? Was the bike going to hold up with the altitude, did I have the skills to get through it, all these questions would soon be answered.

The Pamir highway, carved through mountains and mysteries, was more than just a road; it was a rite of passage for those seeking adventure and perhaps something deeper—solitude, challenge, or maybe a glimpse into ourselves.

I left Kazakhstan with a sense of trepidation, stepping out of the endless steppes into a land of high mountains and nomadic horsemen, Kyrgyzstan. Before this trip, my knowledge of the country was so minimal I could barely place it on a map. I crossed into Kyrgyzstan from the most eastern Kazakh border crossing, after camping a night in Charyn Canyon, a smaller version of the Grand Canyon. That morning, I woke up alone for the last time in the desert steppes of Kazakhstan, watching the sun slowly rise above the deep red canyon. At first, it was a bright orange sliver of light peeking on the horizon, burning away the last of the night sky. The sun rose majestically, becoming a golden orb not yet powerful enough to blind the human eye, warming the arid land as it claimed its place at the zenith.

Arrived in Kazakhstan partly shell shocked, relieved, and devoid of any money after being robbed by the police in Russia. After scrounging some Wi-Fi from a desolate shop in the middle of the steppe, I managed to book into a relatively fancy hotel in Atyrau, way over budget but needed to regroup, reorganize, and calm the nerves a little. A decent bed, some food, and finding a way to get some money were priorities. In the parking lot, as I was unloading my bike, I was accosted by a jovial and smiling Kazakh curious to find out where I had come from. As is often the way on long-distance solo travel, at first one is always cautious when approached by strangers, especially after my last encounters on the other side of the border. Paranoia can quickly settle in. Once one's guard is up, it's hard to let it down. So, as this strange little Kazakh man with round features, a stocky neck, and rotund countenance was asking me lots of questions about my bike, my journey, etc., I couldn’t help thinking what he was after—money? Information? I was on edge.

You might ask yourself what in the hell is an ex-British Army Officer with two passports doing crossing Russia on a motorbike? Who would be that stupid with that profile even think about doing something like that?

Questions I was asking myself as I was sat in the back of a police car on the border between Dagestan and Astrakhan. While being shouted at in a mix of Russian and broken English that I was going to jail and had lost all my rights. Flashes of BBC World Service announcing the news to my friends and family were running amok in my mind.

Emily left, Kiki was handed back, and Tara was meant to be collected to continue my journey. The parts—a set of spokes that had fallen off in Armenia, threatening the integrity of the wheel—ordered two weeks prior, had arrived. So, with bated breath, I returned to George's garage to pick Tara up, intent on leaving directly from there to the Georgia/Russia border to restart my journey eastwards across the desert plains of Kazakhstan, Tajikistan through Afghanistan, Pakistan, and India. The excitement of the night before was only matched by the disappointment of realising that George had ordered the wrong parts and hadn’t bothered telling me.

Returning to a familiar place when your heart is set on riding around the world can feel like a setback, or even a failure. The very word "set" becomes a problem on a long journey that has a direction but no defined path. Nothing is set in stone—from the gear you pack to the ideas you harbour. The impermanence of things is revealed the further you stray from your original plans.

I left Georgia with a vicious cold but a warm heart, as Shota is now undoubtedly a brother. Such kindness, generosity, and love—it’s a real privilege and an honor to be able to call him a friend.

Onwards from Tbilisi to Armenia for a long-awaited meeting with my old friends Kane, Lucy, and their newest addition, Max. Nate had advised me to avoid the eastern border crossing, as it’s the main transit route and often clogged with transport trucks and tourists. Instead, he recommended the less-used eastern border crossing in Guguti, sitting at 2000 meters in altitude—a forgotten road leading to a barren border crossing.

Recovering from the mountain is a multifaceted experience. Your body demands rest, and while the sense of accomplishment is uplifting, a subsequent deflation often sets in. What next? The adrenaline and high-risk intensity experienced during the climb aren't easily replicated, similar to the transition soldiers feel returning from operations—loss of purpose, fatigue, and a backlog of insights and experiences to process.

Thanks to my altercation at the border, I lost three hours on my initial plan to enter Georgia. There's a lesson here for any traveler crossing multiple borders: Start your crossing early. You never know what might happen—slow procedures, grumpy guards, lines of traffic, and sluggish administrations. Be the early bird and even dedicate a full day to the crossing. Make it an event rather than an inconvenience; it will alleviate any frustrations that may arise. Nonetheless, hindsight is great, but in my case, I still had 300 kilometers to cover to get to Tbilisi and finally reunite with my long-lost friend, Shota, whom I had last seen in the parking lot of Old College at Sandhurst 14 years ago, the day after our commissioning parade and officially becoming 2nd Lieutenants.