For many, Pakistan is understood through the prism of politics, crises, elections and conflict. For journalist Mahwish Fakhar, however, the country revealed itself in an altogether different way, on winding mountain roads, at roadside tea stalls and through encounters with strangers whose generosity transformed a series of motorcycle journeys into a profound exploration of the nation and its people.
A media professional with more than 16 years of experience, the 40-year-old has spent most of her adult life living independently after leaving her hometown of Bahawalpur at the age of 16. Yet her introduction to motorcycle travel was born less out of adventure than necessity.
Frustrated by the discomfort and insecurity of public transport, and discouraged by frequent experiences of harassment during daily commutes, she began searching for an alternative means of mobility. The idea took root when she noticed two teenage girls confidently riding a motorcycle through Lahore’s old city and later met a lady health worker in Taxila who travelled independently on a scooty while conducting awareness campaigns. “If she can ride a scooty in Taxila, why can’t I ride one in Islamabad?” she recalls asking herself.
The decision was not without apprehension. A motorcycle accident during her teenage years had left her wary of riding. Nevertheless, she began cautiously, practising with friends and taking short journeys around Islamabad before gradually venturing farther afield. What started as rides to Pir Sohawa evolved into journeys to Murree and Nathia Gali. Those excursions were followed by longer intercity rides to Lahore and Bahawalpur before culminating in an ambitious solo expedition from Islamabad to the Pak-China border through Chitral, Shandur Pass, Hunza and the Karakoram Highway.
Preparation, she says, remains the cornerstone of safe travel. Every route is carefully planned, journeys are confined to daylight hours and accommodation is arranged through trusted contacts or established travel networks. The approach has enabled her to explore some of Pakistan’s most remote regions with confidence and independence. Yet it was not the dramatic landscapes that left the deepest impression on her. Travelling through northern Pakistan challenged many of her assumptions and introduced her to communities whose warmth and generosity far exceeded her expectations.
Chitral, in particular, left an indelible mark. During one Eid journey, local residents repeatedly stopped to exchange greetings, share meals and extend invitations to their homes. A tyre repairman refused payment after fixing her motorcycle, describing it as an Eid gift. On another occasion, when she suffered a puncture near Shandur Pass, a local resident helped her resume her journey without hesitation. “Never did I have to spend a penny in Chitral,” she says with a smile. Acts of kindness extended beyond practical assistance. Children invited her into their homes, while young girls insisted she should not spend Eid alone. Police officers stationed at checkpoints offered breakfast and ensured she felt comfortable travelling unaccompanied through unfamiliar terrain.
Not all encounters were free from scepticism. She recalls a policeman questioning why she was travelling alone and suggesting she should be accompanied by a man. “I asked him why,” she says. “He replied, ‘What if you fall down?’ I told him, ‘Can’t a man fall down too? We’ll get equally hurt.’” Experiences such as these reinforced her belief that resilience, capability and independence are not determined by gender. More importantly, they revealed a side of Pakistan that is rarely reflected in public discourse.
The road, she says, taught lessons that extended well beyond motorcycling. It challenged preconceived notions, fostered patience and highlighted values she believes often go unnoticed amid the noise of contemporary politics — civic responsibility, hospitality and a genuine willingness to help strangers. “Everywhere I went, people offered water, tea or food before providing any service,” she says.
Today, Mahwish rides a Suzuki JS150, which she regards as particularly well suited to Pakistan’s varied terrain. Before every journey, the motorcycle undergoes a thorough mechanical inspection, and she encourages riders to learn essential maintenance skills, including tyre repair, tuning and basic troubleshooting. Equally important, she stresses, is proper protective equipment, including a helmet, gloves, knee and elbow guards and sturdy riding footwear.
Her advice to aspiring travellers is straightforward: travel during daylight hours, avoid isolated camping locations when alone, respect local knowledge and never confuse recklessness with courage. “Don’t try to be a hero,” she says. “Use common sense and listen to your instincts.” For women contemplating solo travel, she recommends beginning with small acts of independence rather than immediately embarking on ambitious expeditions. “Eat alone at a restaurant, watch a movie by yourself or take a short trip,” she advises. “Build a relationship with yourself first.” She also believes meaningful travel requires curiosity rather than judgement. “It’s important to act like a tourist and not challenge local culture if you want to experience it fully,” she says.
Reflecting on her journeys, Mahwish argues that Pakistan’s media remains disproportionately focused on politics, parliament and courtrooms while overlooking the communities, traditions and everyday realities that shape the country’s identity. Pointing to coverage of Gilgit-Baltistan, she notes that political developments often dominate headlines while stories about local culture, seasonal livelihoods and community life receive comparatively little attention. “Gilgit-Baltistan is more than its politics,” she says. “Its people, culture and seasons are equally important to understanding the region and the essence of Pakistan itself.”
For Mahwish, the miles travelled between Bahawalpur and the Pak-China border ultimately became more than a personal adventure. They offered a rare perspective on a country frequently reduced to headlines and political narratives. What she discovered was a Pakistan defined not by division or discord, but by human connection, a nation whose greatest strength lies in the generosity, dignity and quiet kindness of its people.
