The Ill-Fated Start
Our convoy set off from Kabul at dawn, aiming to reach Bamyan by afternoon and proceed to Panjab the next day. The 7-8 hour drive promised treacherous terrain, including Taliban-controlled zones, but daytime travel was deemed safe. Optimism quickly faded when one of our Toyota Corollas suffered a blown tire barely outside Kabul. “Pratham grasse maxika!” (First problem already!), I muttered. Two hours later, we resumed the journey on a bone-rattling, dust-choked road that flung me against the roof with every pothole.
A Lunch of Chaos
Under strict orders to halt travel by 6:00 PM, I urged the drivers to speed up—a futile effort, given our language barrier (they spoke only Dari; I knew none). At a mud-walled roadside restaurant, we stopped for lunch. The floor was layered with faded Iranian carpets, and the “menu” was non-negotiable: gigantic naan (3ft x 2ft!), greasy mutton stew, and rice drenched in vegetable oil. As a vegetarian, I settled for naan and green tea, only to watch the server haul bread under his armpit before hurling it onto the floor for us to “catch.” Hygiene concerns? I vowed to erase the memory later.
The Locked Car Debacle
Post-lunch, disaster struck: the driver locked the keys inside the idling car. Blame flew—he accused me of insisting on locked doors; I blamed his negligence. For 15 minutes, we wrestled with windows until he resorted to punching a fist-sized hole in the windshield. Miraculously, the rest held. We drove onward, cold wind whipping through the fractured glass, as the engine guzzled fuel.
Nightmare on the Road
By 7:00 PM, Bamyan was still distant, violating security protocols. We halted at a village eatery—grimier than the last—where I skipped dinner, surviving on crumbly biscuits and stale milk creams. The drivers bunked inside; I opted for the car, cocooned in a sleeping bag, door locked. The night was bitingly cold, eerily silent, and punctuated by paranoia. I jerked awake hourly, scanning shadows for threats.
Dawn Relief in Bamyan
At 5:00 AM, bleary-eyed, we sipped bitter green tea and resumed the drive. By 7:00 AM, Bamyan’s iconic Buddha statues (since destroyed) loomed into view. At the CHF office, Ian, a New Zealander project manager, greeted me briefly before departing for Panjab. Terry Lancashire, an Australian colleague, offered a warmer welcome.
Recovery and Resupply
I scavenged the local market for almonds, cashews, and raisins—a vegetarian’s lifeline—while drivers repaired the battered cars. The journey had tested my patience, adaptability, and stomach, but Bamyan’s emerald valleys and snow-capped peaks hinted at the beauty beneath the chaos.
Lessons Learned:
Expect the absurd: From armpit-carried naan to self-locking cars, Afghanistan thrives on unpredictability.
Hunger is negotiable: When hygiene falters, nuts and raisins are sanity-savers.
Resilience is non-optional: Broken windshields, language barriers, and sleepless nights are mere footnotes in the Afghan field manual.
In Afghanistan, every journey is a saga—and surviving it is a badge of honor. 🚗💥🏔️
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