As half expected Chinese police block our route. We make a 1,000 kilometre detour around their checkpoint, but in military areas along our way to the south-west garrison post of Lae we must still hide like children under rugs, amongst baggage to avoid arrest.
Lae is a trap. Stealing out each night we stamp for cold on a bridge with moonlight bright on the Indus; pale on Himal beyond. With no lift we return each dawn to hide, but eat well and shower in an unlit bunker, with water heated on exhausts from generator diesels.
But we’re spotted. Soldiers with guns up burst in on our nakedness. My mate, a wrestling champ, fearsome in the raw, rushes at them fists up. They wait outside, but take us to the police, where false papers forged in Lhasa satisfy slack officials, who let us go free again.
Heading south we enter the Trans-Himalayan Ranges (parallel to the main Himal) named in days of heroic geography by Sven Hedin, the ruthless hardy Swede who in 1900 strode on regardless to claim the Ganges’ source, forsaking his men who died in their tracks.