car. Boxes filled with 2-liter bottles of mineral water, a spare jerry can of petrol, an additional 100 liters of water in four large canisters, and a plastic bottle of distilled water for the batteries in case they dried out. On top of this we placed the toolbox, spare wheels, maps, and compass, taking care not to forget the pistol and tear gas sprayâhidden away but easy to get to. And, of course, we packed the camera cases and so on. After weâd finished our work, the hotel owner kindly let us use his kitchen to cook up some spaghetti and tomato sauce. We served it up with a bottle of red wine, which was light enough that we wouldnât have too much trouble getting up the next morning.
At six thirty a.m. we were ready to set off. The concierge of the Lourdes, a refined old Englishman whoâd been in the country for years, slammed the rear doors of the car shut and then stood there and waved, shouting out: âGood luck!â
I started up the motor and scoffed: âWell, Marc, letâs be going then! May Saint Christopher watch over us!â
âI donât know him. What does he do then?â asked Marc.
âHeavens above, lad! Where were you when you were supposed to be in religious instruction? Saint Christopher is one of the Fourteen Holy Helpers. He is the patron saint of sailors and waggonersâ¦and, hopefully, of people crossing deserts.â
Marc crossed himself, rather clumsily, as heâs not even catholic. âMay Saint Christopher forgive me!â But the saint must have been put out by Marcâs ignorance, as events were about to show.
After only half an hour on the road, we were already in the mountains. Not mountains like I know them from Switzerland, however. Here there were no plants or snow, no green blades of grass or mountain streamsâonly the railway track which runs from Sukkur to Zahedan. We saw three stations, but not a single train.
Every half hour we were stopped by military patrols. Officers checked our passports and after a few minutesâ palaver allowed us to continue on our way with an ironic âGood luck!â For about 60 kilometers, our route was accompanied by a telephone cable running along at ground level next to the road. It was comforting to know that we were somehow still connected to civilization. We were making good progress and by midday we had already covered a third of our journey when we were suddenly confronted by a roadblock constructed from large blocks of stone, which had been laid haphazardly across the road. Behind them stood one man in uniform accompanied by four others in civilian clothing, their machine pistols casually pointed at the floor.
The uniformed man ordered me to get out of the car, which was exactly what the brigadier had warned me not to do. Why were the other men not in uniforms? Were they no longer part of the Pakistani Army? The uniformed man pointed at the metal cases on the rear seat of the car. I knew that there were ignorant people around who liked opening up technical equipment, or pulling out the contents of exposed film rolls only then to exclaim that the films have nothing on them. My aluminum cases housed metal detectors, which were sensitive instruments, easily damaged by careless handling.
Suddenly, I had a bright idea. I smiled my best smile and reached deliberately with my right hand for the console in the middle of the car. My Polaroid camera was lying there. I slowly pointed it at Marc and pressed the button; then I aimed the lens at the uniformed man and smiled even more sweetly than before. Right after I pressed the button, the Polaroid picture whirred out of the cameraâs slit. Still smiling in an affable manner, I tore off the protective strip from the picture and waved it around, fanning myself in the process. When the uniformed man saw his own likeness appearing in full color about a minute later, he must have thought I was some kind of magician.
The turban-wearing civilians