One morning, in an attempt to avoid the scorching heat on the Indus plain, we set off from Dera Gazi Khan. As we had grown used to long rides, and the temperatures stayed on the bearable side, we both enjoyed the ride very much.

Early in the afternoon, the unthinkable happened: a man jumped out from the bushes and I hit him square on. The XT slid across the road with my right leg trapped underneath. The result was an open fracture of the two bones and cracks all around.

The horror of a scenario like this is hard to put into words: one person is in terrible pain and you have no idea for how long; the other, if there is one, has to take care of everything else. Having an accident in the West is bad enough; crashing in Pakistan makes the ground give way beneath your feet. There's no telephone, no one speaks English, no ambulance. A hospital? How will you get there, how close is it, how unprofessional and unequipped? Police? - all too willing to earn an extra dollar and a hundred witnesses ready to vouch you rode too fast. Your embassy? Probably shrugging their shoulders at a reckless adventure. Though ours had a happy ending, I still shudder when going through the details of the event. It's something you would never want to happen to anyone, ever.

After the accident, we were both taken care of extremely well. The doctors, local police, and Belgian embassy, which we thought would all be nightmares to deal with, all proved to be efficient, friendly and professional. I was brought to Khushab by private car and a few hours later we were taken by ambulance to Islamabad, to a hospital recom- mended by the embassy. By then the pain had been numbed by morphine, and to some extent I could even enjoy the full moon rising over the Salt Range. The surgeon in Islamabad proved to be one of the finest and most competent doctors we have ever met, explaining at length every single detail. Eventually the bones should heal completely, hopefully to a point of regaining the Incredible Kickstart Leg which my XT500 needs!

Of course our journey was over. It took a while to sink in, but thanks to all the heart-warming care, our morale quickly recovered. At the hospital we stayed in a private room too and a woman from the Embassy delivered three meals a day, brought Belgian newspapers and solved lots of issues, such as the recovery of our bikes and shipping them home. We ourselves flew back home two weeks later.

Of course we're still sad and confused and incredulous this really happened to us, but on the whole we're fine, and neither Iris nor I want to forget the wonderful journey we had. But we also learned a few things the hard way: mount crash bars and take a First-aid course before setting off on a venture like this.