Faizzullah

I need to go urgently to Islamabad from Kabul, and the planes are full. So it’s arranged that I should go with Faizzullah by road to Peshawar, near the Pakistani border, where I will take a bus to Islamabad. We have to go back on account of my having taken by mistake an invalid passport, and then the road is blocked by a damaged truck, both incidents that make our trip longer than expected.

 

So we agree with a taxi driver carrying people to Kabul, to takes us to Jalalabad, while our driver will take his people in turn to Kabul. In Jalalabad we take another taxi, and arrive at dusk to the border, just when the door is closing that allows for passing to the Pakistani side of the border.

It's winter, already dark, even if not very late, we have no car, and the satellite telephone’s battery is gone, so am worried, but not so Faizzullah, who as usual acts as if nothing could disturb him in the least way. Hundreds of Afghans are trying to push the door to be opened, and the Pakistani guards are hesitant to open it on account of the multitude they fear not to be able to control.

Finally they do, and soon we are on our way, with mandatory military protection, passing through the Khyber Pass. In the taxi I think of military expeditions, trading caravans, going by this famous passage since ages ago, while looking at the evening lights as the last rays of the sun fade away and disappears, enjoying every moment and not sure whether it’s real or a long cherished dream finally fulfilled. Then we arrive in Peshawar, and the bus leaves soon for Islamabad, late dinner, and a hot bath, after a long and unforgettable trip.