Kabul Virgin - Letters Home, Afghanistan

Eighteen years ago, wow, it doesn't feel that long ago. I was still in my twenties and eager to play a part in global affairs and make some money. I had left behind a role within humanitarian land mine clearance and headed East. 

This is one of the letters that I sent home to my friends.                  

“Aayaa hamraayat mawaad-e inflilaaqee daari?”  - Do you have any explosives?

Track 27 – Accent on Afghanistan – Dari. The language and culture of Afghanistan. www.pentonoverseas.com 2007.

Dear All,

Afghanistan is one of those countries where the senses are heightened and attacked from the moment that the cabin door of the aeroplane opens. The first breath of Afghan air I took was not one of mountain crispness but that of the overwhelming smell of burning rubbish. The false swagger of one who does not want to admit that they are slightly apprehensive sees me crossing the asphalt to the arrivals terminal. I pretend that I am not secretly scanning the place for snipers and insurgents, the sunglasses hide the apprehension in my eyes. I try to give the impression that I am not a Kabul virgin, that this is such old pat.

Its bedlam, Afghan army, police, and private security details stand shoulder to shoulder with the inevitable helpers, who all want a piece of your luggage action. Then the walk to the wagon, no sign of covert armour and no sign of a PSD not even a sniff of blacked out windows.  My ride is the battered old Prado, and thankfully not the shiny Ford Excursion which stands out with its various aerials and antennas. First hurdle passed and we are on the drive through the city. Even with the heightened security state, the greatest danger is the traffic. Rules of the road don’t seem to apply at all to anyone here. This is crazier than African roads any day. The drabness and universal grey of soviet apartment blocks give way to the newer concrete blast walls which saturate the town alongside the khaki of Hesco barriers.

Play it cool, look nonchalant, light up another Marlboro, try to ignore the guys crouching on their haunches seemingly tracking the vehicle movements. Relax. What a city, the roads are a mess, the shops are indistinguishable, and the Kalashnikovs are omnipresent. But what a view, the mountains that surround the city slowly emerge from the smog. The white caps show that there has been recent snow. What a place to get to, if it wasn’t for the landmines, armed insurgents and the coalition forces all battling it out for supremacy.

A week later and I am in Kandahar, where you cannot escape the dust, flies and that inevitable stench of burning shit.

I recall memories of an old billabong t-shirt I had as a teenager, “life is an adventure, live it” One can only try and follow those sage words of advice through.

All my best

D.