Farida was of the generation that had never known peace. For all her twenty-three years, Afghanistan had been held to ransom by some conflict or another. First it was the guerrilla war against the Soviets, then the bloody factional fighting among the Mujahedeen themselves and finally the Taliban. She had become part of an underground movement trying to educate Afghan girls through a network of clandestine schools.

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Bodybuilding was the only form of recreation deemed acceptable by the Taliban. Playing football, a traditional favourite of Afghan youth, had virtually died out since playing in the traditional baggy shalwar-kameez as ordained by the Taliban for whom wearing shorts was seen as “un-Islamic”- had proved an impractical proposition for most players. Cheering or clapping at matches, other signs of Western corruption would also land spectators in jail, often suffering severe beatings. Matches, when they were played, would be regularly interrupted by the Matawan who would herd the crowds and players into mosques for prayers. Playing an uninterrupted ninety-minute match often proved impossible. But the local clubs really lost the will to play football, when the Taliban commandeered the stadium they used for matches to carry out the weekly public executions and amputations.  They somehow found it difficult to play football using goalposts that would have to double as gallows every Friday.

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Peshawar, the old garrison town near the border of Afghanistan, has been for centuries a centre for travellers, traders, smugglers and soldiers alike. The city of Alexander and of Rudyard Kipling’s Kim, with its history dating back as far as Buddhist times has been inextricably linked with the Khyber Pass and through the ages the city has played host to the silk route, spice route and more recently the opium route. The old city still remains a remnant of those bygone days, a mosaic of bustling bazaars of every kind imaginable. Buildings with intricately carved wooden doors and balconies line the narrow, winding streets and kebab stalls, spice shops and perfume sellers fill the dry air with fascinating aromas. Media reports describe the city as a breeding ground for terrorism, drug smuggling,

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It is true what they say, that you do see your life flash before you just before you die; I had definitely begun to see the first reel of mine as we hurtled towards what was imminent death. Then miraculously, with literally inches to spare, our driver bit the bullet, and swung our mini bus hard to the right, over the red rocks into the dusty field adjacent to the road. Over my shoulder, as I looked back I saw the slogan, “Trust in God” painted on the tailgate of one of the trucks as it rapidly receded, still racing, into the distance.  Then, I braced myself for the explosions. 

As the van careered to a halt, a good twenty feet into the minefield, there was silence, just deafening silence. 

As the dust began to settle around us, I just burst into nervous fits of laughter. 

“Welcome to Afghanistan, John!”

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When I mimed a fishing rod on the river’s edge, the penny finally seemed to drop, “No, no Mr Pasha, we do not fish like that, very slow and very boring. In Afghanistan we fish with grenade!” 

As he spoke, he took the pin out of a hand grenade that had appeared alarmingly in his hand, stood up and tossed it into the river. The explosion echoed around the rock walls of the deep river valley and as Manocher had promised, dozens of dead fish appeared, floating on the surface. 

“See, Mr Pasha, much better. Many fishes. You want to fish also?” 

With that he handed me a grenade. 

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Mission two began at Kabul Airport and not Bagram airbase, thus depriving us of the adventurous white-knuckle drive into town. This time the final approach of the small UN aircraft into Kabul Airport more than adequately compensated our lust for stomach churning thrills; flying over the mountains that surround the city, the pilot had to engage a missile aversion pattern, which basically involved putting the aircraft into a tight downward spiral and corkscrewing all the way down to the runway. The wingtips of the plane literally skimming the tops of mountains and buildings, combined with the “G” forces exerted by the fast spinning motion and the usual rough turbulence found over Kabul’s mountainous terrain, ensured that the experience was enough to give any theme-park ride a decent run for its money. As we reached for the sick-bags, John eloquently summed up my feelings, that the landing, however unpleasant, was “infinitely better than a SAM missile up the a**e!”

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I returned to Kabul one last time, ostensibly just to facilitate the MTV team who were scheduled to be coming to Afghanistan to shoot a feature on “Good Morning Afghanistan” to be used at the awards ceremony. Admittedly, I also had to tie up loose ends for the ultimate handover of the project to Abi and the rest of the Afghan team. 

To celebrate the MTV award, I decided to sacrifice my principals and do what I loathed the most; throw a party inviting the entire local ex-pat crowd.