Lost With Purpose

Buildings are burning! Trees are blooming.

Iran is being bombed! Wheat fields are sprouting.

Afghan civilians are dying! The sun is shining.

World leaders were killed! Sheep spring through new grass.

Time to evacuate! Time to sow seeds.

It’s both surreal and admittedly serene to hide among spring’s breezy blossoms and slow internet signals in times like these. I don’t know whether to feel guilt or relief.

Anyone feeling the same?

(Welcome to join me in Ishkoman Valley if you’re looking for an escape from whatever tf world we’re living in.)

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Spring blossoms, existential crises, mountain life, Ghizer District, Chatorkhand, Dain, pink flowers, village scenes, travel in Gilgit-Baltistan, Coyote Den Ishkoman

The towering wooden gate is shut, but only for a moment. Our car waits outside, engine idling as motorcycles drone past us in the evening light.

A few words, a phone call, a reference dropped. Suddenly, the wooden gates creak open, revealing the crumbling opulence within.

Sadiq Garh palace.

125 acres of palatial grounds, a sprawling palace at its heart.

In its heyday, the $20 million palace (adjusted for inflation) was one of many playgrounds of the Nawabs of Bahawalpur, rulers of what was once one of the richest Muslim regions of South Asia.

In a town where people still cut crops by hand and camel carts ferry harvests in 2026, this palace had multiple elevators, private bank vaults, and telephone connections in the 1880s.

As we roamed Sadiq Garh’s grounds, kindly shown around by one of its caretakers, it was clear that time has caught up with it, as did its grandeur. Too large and elaborate to maintain through the ages—and generations of land disputes—the palace is now in a state of disarray.

Ballroom mirrors are coated with dust. Frescoes peel from the walls of a mosque older than the palace itself. A luxury car hides in a tired garage, guarded by a colony of cobras and thick overgrowth. Gold and fine furniture have long been pilfered from the palace’s depths.

Will it be restored? A big question when few in Pakistan have the resources to do so.

How about you? Do you think it’s better that monuments are restored to their former glory, or do you prefer the vibe when they’re abandoned like this?

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Abandoned buildings, South Asian palaces, Ahmedpur East, historical monuments, travel Pakistan, South Punjab

Dark clouds gathered in the distance as I wiped mud caked on my goggles, blurring my view. 

'Surely the rain won't come until the evening', I reassured myself... knowing that was absolute nonsense. Despite years of guiding in the mountains, I have a tendency to ignore my own advice when I'm determined to do something.

The day's mission? Ride up and across Son Kul Lake, one of Kyrgyzstan's crown jewels and a place I once visited almost 10 years before.

By the time I climbed the pass and reached the lake's edge, nature was already punishing my stubborn decision-making.

Pouring rain, bordering on freezing, battered my helmet and soaked through my many layers. My bike sputtered, struggling with the cold and 3,000m elevation. My hands ceased to function.

A girl from a nearby yurt camp ran over to me, beckoning me inside one of their tents. Over tea and biscuits, she and her mother slowly warmed up to me. They were equally hungry for a bit of business on a rainy day, and curious to know why a solo woman biker was waterlogged on their land that day.

Their father/husband soon made an appearance, eventually ignoring me after I resisted his attempts to feed me kymyz, alchoholic horse milk.

Warm as their tent was, fantasies of still-warmer temperatures of the lowlands drew me out the door when the rain's beat slowed.

I struck back out onto muddy washboard as the downpour resumed, dodging pothole puddles and cursing the very existence of Son Kul.

As I climbed the final pass to leave the lake's depression, the many cups of tea caught up with me. Parking my bike on the side of the dirt road—it spluttered to a stop by itself—I waddled over to a hillside to relieve myself.

I was soon reminded that opening motorcycle clothes with frozen hands is easy, but closing them requires a little more dexterity. To add insult to injury, as I fumbled with my trousers, the pouring rain transformed into thick, fluffy snow.

And that is how I ended up pantsless, defeated, frozen, and wet in the middle of nowhere in Kyrgyzstan.

Lesson learned? Of course not.

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Bike bits and gear from:

 
 


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Solo female travel, women bikers