I remembered reading about Eric Newby and Hugh Carless having a similar experience in A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush. This was a place where death was commonplace. The old men were laughing, apparently unconcerned as to the fate of their former colleague, or perhaps he was an enemy. The head was covered by a blanket, presumably dead. Old men squatted at the roadside, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. A Soviet tank, burned out long ago, lay at the side of the road as a stark reminder that this was a country at war with itself.įurther along, a lorry, beautifully decorated, lay overturned with its unmarked cargo spilled across the road. Solitary shepherds guided their flocks to the meagre vegetation that every so often sprouted out of the barren sand. The high-walled adobe compounds concealed entire villages. Nevertheless, he smiled and pointed out villages, shouting out their names as we passed. It seemed like some of them were taxis, so I cautiously accepted a ride with a friendly young Afghan and we drove off towards Herat.Ībdullah spoke no English and I struggled to communicate with little Farsi. There were white Toyota cars, old ones, with all manner of stuff tied to their roofs. The brown wasteland continued to the horizon, where it rose faintly to disclose the faraway mountains. What the hell am I doing on my own in Afghanistan?
I am wearing beige trousers and a blue shirt with a green military rucksack. As I heaved my rucksack higher onto my shoulders, I suddenly felt very self-conscious and vulnerable. I had arrived inside one of the most war-torn countries on earth, but today the scene was peaceful – at least for the time being.
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