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and minimal barriers. Yet it is the lifeline for goods and people between Pakistan and Afghanistan. The asphalt is new now, smooth and quiet. The checkpoints are gone.
As I crossed into Pakistan, I knew I would never forget Afghanistan— its vast landscapes, its ruins, its warmth. The endless tide of smiles and small kindnesses: dinners offered, water handed from passing cars, strangers who still write to ask if I am safe.
And yes, I will even remember the faces of the Taliban— those piercing eyes that sometimes seemed full of sadness more than menace.
People had advised me to blend in, to dress in local clothes like the Englishmen in Hopkirk’ s The Great Game. But I didn’ t. Riding a bright orange bike, pretending to be someone else would have made me look ridiculous— or suspicious.
If I wanted openness, I had to be open first.
So, I stayed as I was: visible, smiling, unhidden. It worked. I had nothing to conceal, and in that honesty, I felt safe.
Yes, being visible drew crowds, slowed me down— but it brought countless conversations and connections. At first, the stares were intimidating, but I decided to meet them head-on, smiling, saying Salam.
The reactions were always surprising— and beautiful.
It was what they wanted, and what I wanted too: contact.
Everywhere I went, I collected greetings, smiles, gestures of
friendship.
I know that the problems— women’ s rights, human rights— remain. But I’ m not here to argue, only to travel, to observe. To understand even a little of this land, so long misrepresented by the outside world.
And perhaps to remind myself that even in the places we fear most, humanity endures. RAC
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