Dennis brought the Rum. He knows.

We had the same problems again when we reached Tanglang La.

There was just no way that we were going to turn around again. So we went for for it regardless. The weather started off drizzly, but turned into a spectacular day - clear deep blue skies, and bright pillowy clouds.

We were still driving through a desert, with mountains and narrow roads. We passed several road workers - they all look the same, all tarred and dirty, wearing the same head scarves and rags - these anonymous nobodies picking away at some rock at the roadside, or shoveling out of a curve, or mixing hot tar in flames and smoke.

We eventually made it up Tanglang La - Sarita had to push the last twenty meters - even though it wasn't much of an incline. At almost 5400 meters - there was no more power inside the engine. On top was a roadsign saying "You have reached the top of Tanglang La. Wonderful isn't it?". It was windy and chilly and Tibetan prayer flags were flapping in the wind, sending out their prayers into the Wilderness below. Another Jeep arrived, and everybody was taking photos of themselves at the top. There were hundreds of used black tar barrels piled up into a wall with a large black and white sign saying "Urinal" pointing off the cliff.

At the bottom of the pass, we drove through a vast plain, with a thin road guiding us through the middle. The ground had feint hues of green. We stopped in the middle and switched off the engine, and it was so quiet. We sat at the side of the road and threw stones at a piece of wood.

We stopped next to two shepards who had made a fire and were drinking tea. They came over to us, and we greeted each other, and looked at each other.

In the afternoon, the plain abruptly cracked open and dropped into a deep canyon. We drove down, and there was Pang - a collection of tents in a secluded part between the mountains - a moon landscape with craters coming out of the rock faces like the folds on your knuckles, and Tibetan prayer flags strung out on the highest peaks.

As we arrived, I saw another Enfield arrive at one of the tents. The way he reversed the bike next to the entrance, made me think he was a pro. I approached him later in the day, asking him whether he knew what was wrong with my bike. Dennis was Danish, and had owned Enfields for the past seven years. He lives in Goa. He was forty-five. He had an accident working for the Royal Danish Navy (crate hit his back) when he was thrity-three. He was paralyzed for nine months, relearnt how to walk, and received two pensions and insurance money, enabling him to retire. He said his whole life is sorted, he know what he wants, doesn't ever have to worry about money. He was on his way back from Nepal - been travelling for eight months.

When I approached him, he stuck a joint into my mouth, and tuned my bike with a screwdriver and a bit of cardboard from a cigarette packet (exactly 0.8mm). Worked perfectly.

In the evening he and four others (also on bikes) joined us in our tents. We played Shithead and drank Rum and Chai. Dennis brought the Rum. He knows.

Each hotel/restaurant tent is a combination of two tents. In the back tent are blankets and pillows, and about eight people can sleep there on the ground. We were thankful the truckload of soldiers didn't spend the night in our tent, snuggling up to us.

I had to slip out of the tent during the night to go to the toilet. It was around zero degrees. And so many stars. Lighting up the mountains and the shadows creating all sorts of imaginary creatures.

The air was so thin here, that occasionally you just gasp for air.