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09/11/2003: "Kandahar Chronicles #5 - 31/08/2003"

Afghanistan. After a ten-day break in Turkmenistan it was nice to get back. I did all the things there that I couldn’t do in Kandahar; went hiking in the mountains, swimming at a hotel pool, strolled around at night, visited restaurants, talked to pretty girls, but it was still nice to be back. This I only felt when I got to the border. Until that time I only thought of the restrictions I would live under again. I was going back to a life governed by curfews, limited movements, constant vigilance and security briefings. Trying to decipher a truck backfiring from a rifle shot used to be more exciting before complacency settled in. I was trying unsuccessfully to get back onto my toes but my mind couldn’t grasp the excitement of the work and only focused on the negatives.



Then I arrived at the border. Due to a pugilistic vodka drinking session between some Russian doorman and myself at a pub the night before I couldn’t focus on much more than the repetitive left right movements of my feet. It was bright and hot and I was in no mood for border formalities. I’ve crossed this border twice before and knew what to expect. The Turkmen authorities like to be as thorough but inefficient as possible. An hour and twenty minutes to get a stamp in my passport and the mandatory luggage search for the beautiful carpets that are illegally exported.

“Open.” Customs Officer Liana orders, gesturing at my ‘Travel-lite’ shower bag.
“What are you looking for?” I ask.
“Carpet. Open.”
“In my shower bag?”
“Open.”
“How small are these carpets?” I ask with my most winning smile.
She looks inside, checking under my toothpaste. She looks at me, her face angry like a bulldog licking piss off nettles. “Close.”

I had a relaxing time and met some fantastic people in Ashgabat but Turkmenistan Customs and Excise always cure any melancholy feelings for the place. I was met by a company land cruiser and taken to the Afghan side. Several large bearded soldiers gather around me, smiling and shaking my hand. They are happy to have foreigners come to Afghanistan to help their people, they tell my driver who translates. A quick look in my bag, now checking for alcohol, and then off to the passport office for a stamp and a chai. Fifteen minutes in and out including a free sugar rush from the tea. I sit back in the cruiser eating melon and watch the brown hills of Afghanistan slip past. A truck backfires, mishkil nesta, no problem.