Return to Afghanistan: Chasing a Once-Impossible Dream

The Minaret of Jam and a New Chapter in a Beloved Land

August 2022 — After decades of war and turmoil, Afghanistan had unexpectedly opened its doors. The Taliban insurgents I once evaded were now in power, ironically welcoming foreign tourists, including Americans, as part of an effort to promote international legitimacy and revive the collapsing economy.

For the first time in living memory, vast regions of Afghanistan—its cultural heartlands, ancient wonders, and rugged landscapes—were accessible.

One site in particular, the Minaret of Jam in Ghor Province, had haunted my imagination for years. Until now, it had been too dangerous to visit. This ancient, isolated treasure—standing forgotten in a remote valley—had long seemed out of reach.

With no guarantee how long this fragile window of calm would last, I knew it was time. Afghanistan, a country I have grown to love and cherish as one of my top ten favorite travel destinations, was calling me back. And this time, I wouldn’t delay.

Weighing the Risks: Travel in Taliban-Controlled Afghanistan

A Land Open Again—but for How Long?

Before setting off for Afghanistan, I knew of only a handful of foreigners—and even fewer Americans—who had traveled there since the Taliban’s return to power. I relied heavily on the experiences of these few brave pioneers, who reported that while many were briefly detained, most were treated respectfully and came away with stories of unprecedented access to a country long hidden behind war and chaos.

Although Afghanistan today is less risky than during the height of conflict, traveling there still carries no guarantees.
The war may be over, but the country remains volatile.
Now that the Taliban are no longer insurgents but rulers, many past dangers—kidnappings, IED attacks, random ambushes—have significantly decreased. Banditry, once rampant, has been largely curbed by the Taliban’s harsh enforcement of Sharia law. Entire provinces once deemed impossible to enter have reopened to tourism.

However, cracks are beginning to show.

Even the Taliban, notorious for their strict ideology, are now considered too moderate by comparison to newer threats.

ISIS, an even more radical extremist group, has launched attacks targeting both Taliban forces and minority groups such as Shiites and Sufis.
While these attacks remain rare, their frequency is rising—and it’s clear that ISIS would not hesitate to capture or kill foreign tourists if given the chance.

Beyond ISIS, the Taliban themselves still pose logistical challenges.
Most Taliban fighters have never encountered tourists before and often struggle to grasp the concept. Decades of fighting against foreign forces have bred deep suspicion and paranoia, resulting in the routine detention and questioning of foreign travelers, myself included.

In an attempt to keep tabs on foreigners, the Taliban introduced a permit system, theoretically required for travel across the country. In practice, enforcement was often inconsistent—but when it was enforced, failure to present the proper paperwork could result in serious delays or detentions.

Afghanistan had reopened—but it was a country walking a tightrope between hospitality, suspicion, and instability.

And still, despite the risks, I knew it was worth it.

A 10-Day Journey Across Afghanistan

From Buddhist Ruins to the Heart of Taliban Territory

My friend John and I spent 10 intense days crossing central and southern Afghanistan, venturing into areas that just a year earlier would have been far too dangerous to visit.

Our journey wasn’t limited to just seeing the Minaret of Jam—it was about experiencing a newly accessible Afghanistan, including its once-hostile southern provinces.
Here’s a rough breakdown of our route:

• Islamabad, Pakistan – 1 Night

• Peshawar, Pakistan – 2 Nights
  (Secured our Afghanistan tourist visas and explored the city’s ancient bazaars and Buddhist ruins.)

• Kabul – 1 Night
  (Flew Kam Air from Islamabad into Kabul.)

• Bamiyan – 1 Night

• Chehel Burj – 1 Night (Village Stay)

• Chaghcharān – 1 Night
  (Visit to the remote Minaret of Jam.)

• Herat – 2 Nights

• Kandahar – 2 Nights

• Kabul – 1 Final Night

In just over a week, we crossed some of the most storied—and historically perilous—routes in Afghanistan, bearing witness to a country at a delicate crossroads between past and present.

The route

Entering Taliban-Controlled Afghanistan: A Journey Into the Unknown

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous about visiting Taliban-controlled Afghanistan. Of all my travels, this was the one that stirred the most anxiety. Just weeks before our departure, a CIA drone strike in Kabul killed senior al-Qaeda figure Ayman al-Zawahiri—one of the masterminds behind the 9/11 attacks. The timing couldn’t have been worse. Tensions were likely high, and I couldn’t help but wonder how welcome American tourists would really be, despite the Taliban’s official statements claiming openness.

Add to that the underlying resentment from a two-decade war, which claimed the lives of an estimated 50,000 Taliban fighters. Given the climate, I knew that traveling independently would be reckless. To maximize our safety, I arranged the trip through a local Afghan guide registered with the Taliban—one of the few who had worked under the previous government and hadn’t fled the country after the regime change. He had the credentials to obtain all the permits we’d need to travel legally and safely.

Sanctions and Survival: The Logistics of Travel in a Pariah State

Getting into Afghanistan wasn’t just a political risk—it was a logistical challenge. Due to the international sanctions imposed on the Taliban, all modern financial tools were effectively useless. There were no working ATMs, no credit cards accepted, and not even Western Union transfers. We had to bring every dollar we’d need in cash—and not just any cash. Bills had to be in pristine condition and, preferably, in $100 denominations to get a fair exchange rate.

Cultural Sensitivities and Digital Precautions

We were also careful not to pack anything that might be deemed offensive by Taliban authorities. For the first time in years of travel, I left behind the small Bible I usually carry. I took additional precautions with my phone—deleting any potentially anti-Taliban messages or photos that might raise suspicions if searched. Maybe it was overkill, but I wasn’t taking chances, especially since one of my friends had his phone searched during his visit.

Day 1: Back to Pakistan — Gateway to Afghanistan

The easiest and most affordable place to obtain an Afghan visa is Peshawar, Pakistan—a city that had long intrigued me. But beyond the logistical need, I genuinely wanted to return to Pakistan. This marked my second trip to the country. On a previous visit, I had explored the enchanting valleys of the Kalash people, trekked through the towering Karakoram Mountains, and wandered the haunting Desert Temples of Cholistan. I had come away from that journey with a deep appreciation for Pakistan’s diversity and warmth, so the idea of returning felt like reconnecting with a place I already knew I loved.

Peshawar itself is one of the oldest cities on the Silk Road—a chaotic crossroads of history, culture, and trade. Its ancient bazaars pulse with life: Pashtun men wrapped in flowing Islamic garb and colorful turbans fill the alleys, their shops overflowing with spices, carpets, and antiques. The air is thick with smoke, incense, and the occasional whiff of grilled kebabs. Amid the bustling streets lie remnants of older civilizations—weathered forts and the ruins of pre-Islamic Buddhist monasteries that echo the region’s layered past.

It was the perfect place to begin the journey. A place where the modern and the ancient crash together—just as I was about to step into one of the most uncertain and intense travel experiences of my life.

Arrival in Islamabad and the Road to Peshawar

First Impressions: Luxury Behind Barbed Wire

After a few days spent adjusting in Doha, Qatar, my friend John and I flew onward to Islamabad, where we met up with our third travel companion, Richard.

For our first night, Richard treated us to a stay at the Marriott Hotel—a lavish five-star property complete with grand marble lobbies, sparkling chandeliers, and an extravagant buffet.
But beneath all the luxury, security was unmissable:

• Armed guards patrolled the perimeter.

• Vehicles were thoroughly inspected before entering the grounds.

• Guests passed through metal detectors and bag scanners just to enter the lobby.

The caution wasn’t misplaced. In 2008, the very same hotel was the site of a devastating terrorist attack, when a truck bomb exploded at its gates, killing over 50 people.

Day 2: Into Peshawar and the Taliban Consulate Experience

The Road to Peshawar

The next morning, we hired a private vehicle and set off for Peshawar—an easy, three-hour drive via a modern toll highway.

The journey was smooth and orderly, almost deceptively so—until we hit the outskirts of Peshawar.
In an instant, the calm dissolved into the dusty chaos of old Pakistan:

• Motorbikes weaving between honking cars,

• Donkey carts competing with buses,

• A buzzing, gritty energy that felt like the Pakistan I remembered from an earlier trip.

We checked into the Pearl Continental, Peshawar’s grandest hotel—a colonial relic turned fortress, complete with checkpoints and routine bag searches.

But we weren’t here to relax.

We were in Peshawar for something very few Americans had attempted recently:

Apply for a tourist visa to Taliban-controlled Afghanistan.

Obtaining a Taliban-Issued Visa

Surprisingly, the process was quick and almost surreal.

At the Afghan consulate, a long line of visa applicants stretched out the gate.
But the moment staff spotted us—three Westerners—we were ushered to the front of the line.

A rare instance where being American sped things up.

Onlookers asked where we were from, disbelief etched on their faces.
One concerned man furrowed his brow and asked:

“Are you sure it’s wise for you to go to Afghanistan right now, considering who’s in charge?”

Inside the Taliban Consulate

Before entering, we surrendered our bags and phones at a security checkpoint.

Inside, the consulate was modest—a small air-conditioned office, a Taliban official seated behind a desk wrapped in black turban and thick beard, framed by the familiar black-and-white Taliban flag.

Beside him, a cheerful, clean-shaven translator handed us our visa applications with a smile.

We submitted two passport photos and $80 in cash each.
When we handed over $100 bills, the translator—surprisingly casual—offered to fetch change, which he promptly delivered.

There was a moment of unease when he asked if we were media, even jokingly pretending to recognize Richard as a famous YouTuber.
It felt like a subtle trap—one likely designed to root out content creators.
Since one foreign YouTuber had released mocking videos of Taliban rule, the group had grown deeply suspicious of outsiders with cameras.

Stamped and Ready

Within less than an hour, it was done.
Our passports were stamped—not with a new Taliban design, but with the same visa stamp once used by the previous Afghan government.

A strange relic of continuity in a country where almost everything else had changed.

As we exited, a previously stone-faced consulate clerk glanced up, caught my eye, and muttered in English:

“Good luck.”

It was a small phrase, but it landed heavily.

A Stark Contrast to the Past

Reflecting on it, this experience couldn’t have been more different from my previous attempt to get an Afghan visa years earlier—
Back then, wrangling with the **consulate staff of the previous Afghan government—a supposed American ally—**was a painful two-month ordeal, filled with bureaucratic indifference and constant delays.
My visa was finally approved just the day before my departure, forcing my passport to be overnighted to LAX hours before my flight.

In comparison, the Taliban made it almost too easy—

A reminder that in Afghanistan, “easy” often carries its own risks.

Ordinary Life Unfolding in Peshawar Bazaar

Day 3: Exploring Peshawar in the Grip of the Monsoon

Heat, Humidity, and the Call of the Old City

The Pakistani monsoon was in full force, and record-breaking rains had flooded vast parts of the country.
But during rare lulls between the downpours, we seized the chance to explore the storied heart of Peshawar.

The moment we stepped outside, we were swallowed by oppressive heat and humidity.
Within minutes, our clothes were soaked with sweat, and the air felt almost too thick to breathe.

But none of it mattered.

Peshawar was waiting.

Wandering the Winding Alleys

We wandered through the winding alleyways of the old city, happily getting lost among a tangle of history:

• Crumbling wooden facades leaning precariously over the narrow streets,

• Centuries-old mosques tucked between the chaos,

• Shops overflowing with exotic wares—silks, spices, handmade jewelry, and worn carpets.

The air was thick with life:
The scent of spices, burning incense, and sizzling street food mingled into a heady perfume.

The Bazaar’s Electric Pulse

Life in the bazaars pulsed with energy:

• Vendors shouted prices in a musical rhythm,

• Donkeys squeezed through the crowd, stubborn and unbothered,

• Children darted and weaved like tiny streaks of color between bodies.

It was chaotic, gritty, and absolutely mesmerizing—
A city too alive to be tamed by even the fiercest monsoon.

No space is wasted in public transportation

Mahabat Khan Mosque from the 17th Century buit by Moghuls

Old Wooden and Brick Buildings dating back hundreds of years in the Old City, Peshawar

Peshawar’s Gun Bazaar: A Glimpse into a Vanishing Trade

Just a short walk from our hotel, we found ourselves at the edge of a small gun market—once part of what was reportedly the largest black arms bazaar in the world. Today, the area feels quieter, almost subdued, but its history still lingers in the air.

Guns, Tea, and Stories

We were barely inside the market when a few shopkeepers invited us in for tea. This wasn’t just hospitality—it was a ritual, a way of building trust. As we sipped our chai, the men proudly explained their trade, showing off a variety of weapons, including handguns, hunting rifles, and ornate, locally crafted firearms.

All of the shops we visited were government-licensed, and every firearm required a legal permit to purchase. But business, they admitted, isn’t what it used to be.

The Post-War Decline

Peshawar’s gun market thrived during the NATO war in neighboring Afghanistan. With the war now over, many of the old shops have closed—either shut down by authorities or simply out of business due to falling demand.

One shopkeeper said bluntly, “The Taliban took the American bases. Now those weapons are here.”

Flood of NATO Weapons

He pulled out his phone to show us a video—Taliban fighters dragging sacks of American rifles out of abandoned bases. With a grin, he said that many of those weapons ended up in Pakistan, flooding the market with cheap, high-grade arms.

Officially, selling these weapons is illegal. But with a wink, he added, “Any shop that says they don’t have them is lying. Not mine, of course.”

Gun Shop

Day 4: Tracing the Ancient Buddhist Roots of Peshawar

Long before it became a crossroads of Islamic culture and modern geopolitics, the region around Peshawar was part of the ancient Gandhara civilization—a Buddhist kingdom that flourished over 2,000 years ago. On our way back to Islamabad to catch our flight to Kabul, we made a detour to visit one of its remnants: the Jamal Garhi Buddhist Monastery.

Jamal Garhi: A Forgotten Hilltop Sanctuary

Located near the town of Mardan, the ruins of Jamal Garhi sit atop a peaceful hillside with sweeping views of surrounding mountains and traditional Pashtun villages. Once a thriving monastic complex during the Kushan Empire, the site now lies mostly abandoned, its stone foundations still whispering stories of monks and pilgrims from centuries past.

Even with GPS, finding Jamal Garhi wasn’t easy. The road signs were scarce, and the route twisted through rural farmland and dusty backroads. We stopped often to ask for directions, and each time, locals greeted us warmly—some even hopping on their motorcycles to point the way.

A Peaceful Contrast

Reaching the monastery felt like stepping into another time. The chaos of Peshawar faded behind us, replaced by quiet winds, terraced hills, and the occasional call to prayer echoing from nearby villages. There were no other tourists—just us, the ruins, and the lingering presence of a forgotten spiritual past.

Me in my shalwar kameez at the 2000 year old Jamal Garhi Buddhist Monastery

Departure to Kabul: Waiting in Pakistan’s Ghost Town Airport

After our detour to Jamal Garhi, we returned to Islamabad and arrived at the city’s gleaming new international airport—only to find it nearly deserted. For a country of over 220 million people, the emptiness was surreal.

A Lounge with No One to Lounge With

We paid the $10 entry fee to access the VIP lounge, which, like the rest of the terminal, was eerily quiet. The polished floors gleamed, the seating areas were pristine, and we had the entire lounge to ourselves. We snacked on tea biscuits, sipped overly sweet chai, and stared out across the runways, which were just as silent as the terminal.

I couldn’t help but wonder—how could the capital’s international airport be so still in the middle of the afternoon? It felt like a dreamscape suspended in time.

A Flight We Half-Hoped Wouldn’t Arrive

Hours passed. Our flight was delayed. And though I had come all this way to visit Afghanistan, a small, anxious part of me almost hoped the plane wouldn’t arrive. Maybe fate would intervene and keep us from crossing that invisible line into the unknown.

But sure enough, the red and white Kam Air jet eventually touched down. It was here. Our plane to Kabul had arrived. And like it or not, this journey into Taliban-controlled Afghanistan was about to begin.

Arrival in Kabul: Stepping Into Taliban-Controlled Afghanistan

After a short, one-hour flight across the Hindu Kush, we touched down in Kabul. As the Kam Air jet taxied toward the terminal, I spotted familiar shapes in the distance—parked American military helicopters, now under new ownership. The base they once launched from, part of NATO’s vast military footprint, now flew the stark white flags of the Taliban, emblazoned with the black Islamic Shahada.

Kam Air, Afghanistan’s largest airline, had only recently resumed limited international service. For now, it’s one of the few carriers flying into the country at all. Our flight was the only one scheduled to arrive that night—a reminder of just how isolated Afghanistan had become since the Taliban takeover.

Through Immigration With a Whisper

Surprisingly, entering the country was simple and fast. Inside the near-empty terminal, we were met by immigration officials—men who seemed to be remnants of the previous government, not Taliban fighters. There were no interrogations, no suspicious glances.

We were asked to:

• Fill out a short immigration form

• Provide a passport photo (optional, really)

Bags were scanned, and within minutes we were officially inside the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan.

A Ghost of the Past, Erased

As we exited the terminal, I immediately noticed something was missing—the massive mural of Ahmad Shah Massoud, once the symbolic guardian of Afghanistan’s democratic hopes. Massoud, a legendary anti-Soviet and anti-Taliban resistance fighter, had been honored by the previous government and admired by the West. But now, his image was gone—erased from Kabul’s welcome mat.

Just one year earlier, the airport had been a scene of chaos and desperation. I couldn’t shake the thought that I, an American, was now casually walking into the very place where thousands had once clung to airplane wheels in a futile attempt to flee.

Meeting Our Guide: The Men Who Stayed

Outside, we were met by our guide Sardar and our driver, Sakhi.

• Sardar, just 28, had guided journalists and travelers during the former government. He was one of the few who hadn’t fled. Wise beyond his years, calm under pressure—he would soon prove himself to be one of the bravest people I’ve met.

• Sakhi, a former tank driver who fought the Soviets, greeted us with the most infectious laugh I’ve ever heard. It boomed through the silence of a city under curfew and became a strangely comforting soundtrack to our journey.

Kabul Under Curfew

As we drove to our hotel, The Cedar House, the streets of Kabul felt surreal—quiet, tense, and stripped of life. Taliban fighters stood on corners with AK-47s slung over their shoulders, dressed in camo vests and traditional shalwar kameez. Their long hair whipped in the wind as their flags fluttered on nearly every storefront—mandatory displays for the one-year anniversary of Kabul’s fall.

The city was silent under a strict 9 PM curfew. Officially, the curfew was meant to stop insurgent movement. Unofficially, it also kept unmarried couples from meeting in secret.

I had visited Kabul before, when the city pulsed with chaotic nightlife—shops open late, tea stalls packed, streets alive. Now it felt hollow. A shell of the Kabul I remembered.

Me In My Beard and Shalwar Kameez 

From the very start, I made a conscious effort to blend in as much as possible. I grew out my beard and wore the traditional Afghan shalwar kameez—not only to show respect for local customs but also for safety.

In most of Afghanistan, especially rural areas, almost no one wears Western clothes. A T-shirt and jeans would make you stand out like a neon sign. And standing out, in a country where foreigners—particularly Americans—are viewed by some as walking targets, just isn’t smart.

I had no doubt that if the wrong person recognized us for who we were, we could be in real danger. Being a foreigner was bad enough. Being American? That was the icing on the cake for someone looking to make a statement.

A Risky Route

The day’s plan was to reach Bamiyan by driving through West Kabul’s Shiite neighborhoods, which had recently been hit by ISIS suicide bombings during Ashura, and then continue through war-torn Wardak Province, once a fierce battleground between NATO forces and the Taliban. Tension still hung over both regions, making this one of the most precarious stretches of our journey.

Taliban soldier with his son in the back of pick-up truck. In the background is a ruined American base with Taliban flags planted in it.

Encounters at Taliban Checkpoints

As we drove through Kabul and beyond, Taliban presence was everywhere. Some patrolled in military uniforms, others blended into the streets in plainclothes, but all were armed—often with AK-47s or American-made rifles seized during the NATO withdrawal.

A Strange Mix of Power and Ritual

We passed dozens of checkpoints, often flanked by groups of street children. These kids would fan plumes of burning incense onto vehicles in exchange for a few Afghanis—a traditional practice meant to ward off the evil eye. After decades of roadside bombs and ambushes, even hardened Afghan drivers welcomed any superstition that offered protection.

Flags, Murals, and Curious Looks

Taliban flags fluttered from nearly every building, and we occasionally saw propaganda murals depicting a softer, more benevolent Taliban—images clearly aimed at public relations rather than reality.

At some checkpoints, the Taliban asked for our nationality. When we replied, “American,” their reactions ranged from smiles of disbelief to awkward attempts at English.

• One fighter cheerfully declared, “Mujahedeen good,” before shaking my hand.

• Others said, “Ahh, Canada/America,” lumping the two together—bad news for Canadians hoping their flag would buy them distance from U.S. foreign policy.

Despite the potential danger, we were rarely harassed. Most checkpoints waved us through. Only at provincial borders were inspections more serious—bags opened, bodies patted down, weapons checked.

Taliban Propoganda Billboard Trying to Show the Citizens their Sensitive Side by displaying a Taliban man holding hands of children to help them cross the road.

Boy Asking for tips in exchange for protection from the evil eye by blowing incense smoke on travelers

Crossing Into Wardak Province

Leaving Kabul behind, we entered Wardak Province, a rugged region primarily inhabited by Pashtuns, many of whom supported the Taliban during the war. Just a few years ago, this route would have been unthinkable for foreigners.

From No-Go Zone to Scenic Route

When I last visited Bamiyan in 2019, the road through Wardak was far too dangerous—riddled with Taliban ambushes and off-limits to most travelers. I had to fly in. Back then, flights were expensive but necessary.

Now, the landscape has shifted. With almost no foreign tourists visiting Bamiyan anymore, the flights have stopped—and the only way in is by road. What was once a war zone has become a peaceful and beautiful three-hour drive.

Typical Pashtun Village in Wardak Province

Through the Heart of Wardak

As we drove deeper into Wardak Province, we passed one Pashtun village after another—places marked by their deep conservatism and war-worn resilience. The villages, made up of stunning mudbrick homes, looked more like fortified compounds than family dwellings. But photographing them was out of the question.

Paranoia and Privacy in a Post-War Landscape

In these communities, photography is taboo, especially due to the belief that even a distant or accidental photo of a woman—no matter how covered—could bring dishonor to a family. Add to that decades of war and foreign occupation, and paranoia runs deep, particularly toward Americans.

Knowing this, we kept our stops brief and maintained a low profile. Our guide and driver, both Hazara Shiites, were equally cautious. As members of an ethnic and religious minority historically persecuted by Pashtuns, they were familiar with the region’s delicate dynamics.

Scars of Conflict Along the Road

Our guide, who had traveled this route with journalists during the war, shared harrowing stories—close calls with Taliban ambushes, villages emptied by violence, and friends lost to roadside bombs. The evidence of war was everywhere:

• Mudbrick homes showed signs of having doubled as Taliban sniper nests.

• Afghan military outposts—now abandoned—were scarred with bullet holes and RPG blasts.

• The road itself was rough and pitted from years of IED detonations and the weight of armored convoys.

We occasionally passed makeshift martyr flags, fluttering from sticks at the roadside—markers of where Taliban fighters had died, often while planting explosives. A haunting reminder of just how deadly this stretch of road once was.

Martyr Flags indicating where a Taliban died at the hands of NATO forces

Into the Highlands: From Pashtun Villages to Hazara Lands

After several hours on the road, we left the conservative Pashtun villages of Wardak behind and began ascending into the high mountain passes. The air grew cooler, the terrain more dramatic, and soon we entered the territories of the Hazara, a Shiite minority long marginalized in Afghan society.

Crossing Paths with the Kuchi Nomads

As we climbed, we encountered scattered Kuchi nomad encampments, their tents nestled against alpine slopes. The Kuchis, Sunni Pashtun pastoralists, roam throughout Afghanistan with their livestock and are known for their strict conservatism. According to our guide, they are especially wary of foreign men, particularly if women are nearby.

Kuchis have long been embroiled in land disputes with sedentary farmers and were widely believed to have supported the Taliban during the war. Many Taliban fighters, our guide explained, were recruited from Kuchi communities—an association that still causes tension between them and the Hazara.

A Moment with the Shepherds

We stopped to greet a group of young Kuchi shepherds tending their flocks in the hills. I snapped a few Polaroid photos of the boys, printed them on the spot, and handed them out. Their joy was infectious—laughter and smiles lit up the mountainside.

But our welcome only went so far. Our guide attempted to get permission to visit one of the nearby tents, but a man inside refused. Even the boys grew guarded when we pointed our cameras toward their encampment, worried a distant woman might be accidentally photographed, a cultural red line that could bring dishonor.

Small Kuchi Nomad Encampment on the Mountain Pass

Kuchi Sheperd-Elder Brother

Kuchi Sheperd

Kuchi Sheperd

A Close Call with the Taliban

In Afghanistan, photography draws attention, especially when using a large camera lens. Most people aren’t used to seeing cameras at all, let alone in the hands of foreigners. I tried to stay discreet, especially when photographing children—but I missed the approach of a Taliban truck until it was too late.

It pulled over suddenly. A group of armed, bearded men jumped off, staring at me with expressions that hovered between suspicion and disapproval. My heart sank. For a tense few seconds, I feared this might escalate.

Then, without a word, one of the men gestured to the others, and just like that, they climbed back into the truck and drove off. Whatever concern they had—curiosity, irritation, or both—they let it pass. We breathed a quiet sigh of relief and moved on.

Entering Bamiyan: A New Atmosphere

As we approached Bamiyan, the landscape opened into vast mountain valleys, home to the Hazara people, a Shiite minority believed to be descended from Genghis Khan’s Mongol armies. The cultural and ethnic tone shifted noticeably from the Pashtun-dominated regions we had come through.

An Invitation from a Stranger

Along the way, we stopped at a natural spring, reputed locally for its medicinal properties. There, we met a group of friendly men enjoying the water. One introduced himself as a professor of Islamic Studies from Kabul—very likely affiliated with the Taliban, though he never said so directly.

He greeted us warmly and surprised us by inviting us to stay at his home in Kabul. Sensing our hesitation, he reassured us with a hand over his heart:
“You are my honored guests. You have nothing to fear.”

We nodded politely and agreed to visit—though in truth, we had no intention of accepting the offer. In Afghanistan, refusing hospitality outright can be seen as rude, but accepting can lead to obligations you’re not prepared for. We chose the middle path: a respectful yes, followed by a quiet disappearance.

Islamic Studies Professor from kabul that Invited us to Stay in his Home

Arriving in Bamiyan: A Familiar Place, Changed Times

We entered the lofty altitudes of Bamiyan Province, perched at 8,000 feet—a landscape I remembered fondly from my visit in 2019. Back then, it had been one of my favorite places in Afghanistan. This time, though, things felt different.

A Land Scarred by Tragedy, Sheltered by Mountains

Bamiyan is home to the Hazara people, a Shiite ethnic minority who have long suffered persecution—massacred by the Taliban during their earlier rule, targeted for their faith and for their alliance with the Northern Alliance and the former government.

Yet because of its geographical isolation and fierce opposition to the Taliban, Bamiyan remained one of the safest provinces for travelers for many years. Its soaring peaks, ancient fortresses, massive Buddha niches, and emerald green lakes drew adventurous foreigners like myself. I absolutely loved it.

A New Chapter Under Taliban Rule

I was disheartened to learn that Bamiyan had fallen under Taliban control, but I was also curious—how had this peaceful, proud region changed?

It was summer now, and the agricultural valleys were lush and green, a stark contrast to the grim legacy of war. Bamiyan remained beautiful, but I knew this visit wouldn’t feel the same as the last.

Tpical Bamiyan Agricultural Field of lush greenery contrasted with start high altitude desert

Three Taliban fighters on motor cycle with their guns

A Changed Bamiyan: New Faces, New Tensions

It didn’t take long to notice a significant shift in Bamiyan’s population. Compared to my previous visit in 2019, there were far more Pashtun men on the streets—a visible reflection of the new power structure. Now that the Taliban control the country, Pashtuns from the hot, arid south have begun migrating north to Bamiyan’s cooler, fertile valleys. It’s a demographic change that many fear will eventually spark conflict over land with the local Hazara.

The Presence of Power

The Taliban presence in Bamiyan was heavy and highly visible. Patrols on motorcycles and pickup trucks—adorned with black-and-white Taliban flags—cruised the streets, often with heavily armed, bearded men standing in the back. I kept my camera low. Photographing Taliban fighters or checkpoints was a sure way to get into trouble.

When we entered the city, our vehicle was stopped at a checkpoint. A young Taliban guard in sunglasses and a military uniform inspected us. The uniform had once belonged to the defunct Afghan National Army, now repurposed to give the Taliban a more official look. Ironically, this sunglasses-wearing Taliban fighter was one of the only people I saw during my entire time in Afghanistan wearing shades—something oddly “modern” in an otherwise rigid environment.

Checkpoint Etiquette

We developed a quiet strategy for passing checkpoints: keep calm, look local, and draw no attention. Dressed in shalwar kameez with beards, John and I blended in just enough to sometimes be mistaken for Afghans. Most of the time, the Taliban barely looked into the car before waving us through.

But not always.

At one checkpoint, a Taliban guard asked our driver where we were headed, then approached my window. He said something in Pashto and extended his hand. Thinking he was greeting me, I shook it. He looked puzzled. Our guide chuckled and explained—he was asking for my passport, not a handshake.

When I handed it over and he realized we were American, he gasped and then broke into a wide grin. In Pashto, he said something that made both our guide and driver laugh. Later, they translated:

“Americans just don’t seem to want to leave Afghanistan, do they?”

A Strange Comfort in a Totalitarian State

Our first encounters with the Taliban were nerve-wracking. But the more interactions we had, the more we saw their human side—sometimes even friendly, always curious. Still, it was important not to forget: we were in a totalitarian state run by Islamist militants who had been at war with our country for two decades.

Any comfort we found was fragile—earned only by caution, humility, and a bit of luck.

Taliban guarding a rural intersection.

A Rare Portrait of a Taliban Fighter

The Taliban fighter I photographed was a Sunni Hazara, an unusual combination in a group largely composed of Pashtun Sunnis. Most Taliban were reluctant to be photographed, especially with their weapons. According to our guide, the leadership had issued orders banning such photos—concerned that images shared by foreign media could be used to mock or undermine their image.

Photos had already circulated online of Taliban fighters eating ice cream, riding swan boats, or grinning on amusement park rides—moments that humanized them but, in the eyes of the leadership, also made them look foolish.

Many Taliban fighters are illiterate, raised in isolated mountain villages, and had never stepped foot in a city before the war ended. When they first entered urban areas, their reactions were, as one observer put it, like “giddy schoolgirls”—astonished by a modern world they had only heard about.

Despite his stern demeanor, the fighter agreed to let me take a photo. I printed it instantly using my portable Polaroid printer and handed it to him. He didn’t smile, but he seemed quietly pleased.

Layers of Memory in Modern Bamiyan

As we drove through Bamiyan, reminders of both its past and present were everywhere. We passed a city square that had once been named after a revered Shiite cleric—now renamed by the Taliban to erase any sign of Hazara reverence.

We passed a marketplace where, just months after my 2019 visit, a Taliban suicide bombing killed 50 people. The streets looked calm now, but the trauma was still there—visible in the silences between conversations.

And then, strangely enough, we saw a volleyball court. In fact, we saw many of them throughout our journey. Though the Taliban have long criticized Western influences, volleyball—a sport introduced by Americans—is wildly popular, even among the fighters themselves.

The Empty Niches of Bamiyan’s Giant Buddhas

We stopped at one of Afghanistan’s most haunting landmarks—the empty mountain caves where Bamiyan’s giant Buddhas once stood, carved directly into the sandstone cliffs. Towering up to 150 feet tall, the statues were once the crown jewels of a thriving Buddhist civilization. Now, only the ragged outlines and remnants of one body remain, silent witnesses to centuries of change—and destruction.

A Kingdom Lost to Time

Carved nearly 1,500 years ago, these Buddhas were created when Bamiyan was a wealthy Buddhist kingdom, strategically placed along the Silk Road. Caravans, monks, merchants, and generations of invaders passed through this valley—including the Mongols, who laid waste to cities and people, yet spared the Buddhas.

It wasn’t until 2001, under the first Taliban regime, that these timeless statues met their end. Branded as symbols of idolatry, they were dynamited by Taliban forces, triggering global outrage and marking a tragic cultural loss.

The Irony of Preservation

The Taliban commander who ordered their destruction in 2001 is now the governor of Bamiyan—and tasked, ironically, with protecting what remains of the Buddhas for their tourism value. Our guide, who had recently met the governor, asked him a simple but powerful question:

“Do you regret destroying the Buddhas?”

The governor replied without hesitation:

“No. If ordered again, I would do it again—with no regrets.”

It was a sobering reminder that while the surface of Afghanistan may appear to change, the ideologies that shaped its darkest moments often remain just beneath.

Buddha Caves with Partial Remains of a Buddha inside One Cave

Tickets, Incense, and a Warm Welcome

We purchased our entry tickets to the Buddha site from armed Taliban fighters stationed at the gate—yet another surreal moment in a country full of contradictions. As soon as we entered, we were swarmed by smiling children, rushing toward us with hand-held cans of burning incense, eagerly waving the smoke around us.

In Afghanistan, this ritual is believed to bring good luck, and in exchange, the children gently pleaded for tips. We handed out a few small bills, and they cheerfully followed us, giggling, practicing their English, and guiding us all the way to the base of the empty Buddha niches.

Climbing Through History

We ascended the 160-foot climb through winding caves and carved passageways that spiraled around the ancient statue’s former footprint. Some of these caves are said to house the oldest known oil paintings in the world—but sadly, most have been peeled away by looters, sold piece by piece over the years.

The children climbed with us the entire way, their joy infectious despite the somber history around us.

A Pause in Preservation

At the largest Buddha niche, we entered the massive cave hollowed beneath it—its entrance now surrounded by scaffolding. Before the Taliban’s return, UNESCO had been working to preserve and restore the site. But like so much else in Afghanistan, those efforts have now stalled.

The Taliban guards seemed unconcerned as we stepped past “Do Not Enter” signs, walking straight into the heart of the niche. There, beneath centuries of stone and shadow, I captured one of my favorite photos from the trip—a quiet moment in the ruins of what once was.

One of the Local girls that followed us to the Buddha practicing their English 

One of the Local girls that followed us to the Buddha practicing their English 

John, our guide and a local man posing in front of what remains of the 170 foot tall Buddha

Me Inside of the Buddha Cave

Me standing 100 plus feet up on the top of one of the Buddha niches looking over the edge of a drop off 

From Destruction to Preservation—A Shift in Taliban Strategy

At the base of the giant Buddha niches lies the ruins of an ancient bazaar, once a thriving hub along the Silk Road. Now, the Taliban reportedly have grand plans to restore the bazaar and build new tourist hotels, hoping to attract visitors from abroad.

When History Becomes Profitable

After destroying the Buddhas in 2001 for being symbols of idolatry, it seems the Taliban have come full circle. They now appear to recognize that history—idolatrous or not—can equate to revenue. And for the moment, their mindset has shifted from one of erasure to preservation.

It’s a striking evolution, one I saw reflected in other parts of the country as well. While the motivations may be pragmatic rather than cultural, it’s undeniably a step in the right direction.

Checking in with the Taliban’s Minister of Culture

As required by the Taliban, we made an effort on our first day in Bamiyan to check in with the local Minister of Culture. Our goal was to get our travel permit stamped, a bureaucratic safeguard meant to keep us from falling under suspicion by Taliban intelligence, which could easily lead to detainment or worse.

But the minister wasn’t in. It turned out that it was a holiday—Afghanistan’s Independence Day from England—and his office was closed. We were told to return the following day.

Independence, Again and Again

The moment left me thinking: how many independence days does Afghanistan have? The following week, we learned, would mark yet another—Independence Day from NATO and the United States.

In a land with a long, painful legacy of foreign occupations, such commemorations are plentiful. The British, Soviets, Americans, and countless empires before them have all left their mark. It’s a history etched deep into the Afghan psyche—and never far from the minds of those who live here.

Remnants of Past Wars

Beyond the haunting Buddha niches, we explored other scars of Bamiyan’s long history of conflict. Rusting Soviet tanks, abandoned after the fierce battles of the 1980s Soviet invasion, still litter the landscape—a stark reminder that foreign armies have been trying, and failing, to conquer Afghanistan for centuries.

A Quiet Act of Resistance

We also had the privilege of visiting a Hazara woman who runs a school for refugee children inside a cave classroom. In defiance of Taliban restrictions, she continues to teach young girls, even those considered “too old” for education under current Taliban rules.

Her work is brave—and dangerous. Out of concern for her safety, I chose not to include her photo here. In today’s Afghanistan, even a classroom can be an act of quiet rebellion.

A Simple Evening in Bamiyan

That evening, we dined in a local kebab shop, seated cross-legged on traditional floor mats, savoring simple but hearty Afghan fare. We stayed overnight in one of Bamiyan’s modest but comfortable hotels—a fitting end to a day that captured both the tragedy and resilience woven into Afghanistan’s fabric.

Looking up the Barrel of a Russian Tank

Day 6: Checking In and Setting Out for Band-e-Amir

The next morning, we had a full day ahead. First, we needed to check in again with the Minister of Culture to have our permits officially stamped—a necessary step to avoid trouble with Taliban intelligence.

While we sat in the minister’s office, something caught my attention: traditional Afghan music sung by a woman quietly played from somewhere nearby. Under Taliban rule, all music—especially music featuring female singers—is officially banned unless it conforms to their narrow standards. Hearing it in a government building was both surprising and strangely hopeful.

Once our paperwork was sorted, we set off toward Band-e-Amir, Afghanistan’s first national park, famous for its high-altitude emerald lakes tucked into the Hindu Kush mountains.

Band-e-Amir Then and Now

I had first visited Band-e-Amir in the winter of 2019, when the lakes were frozen solid, the roads barely passable, and the park entirely deserted. Back then, our vehicle even became stuck in the snow, and we had the entire surreal landscape to ourselves.

Now, everything had changed. The war was over, the road was safe, and Afghans were coming in droves from Kabul to enjoy one of their country’s most beautiful natural wonders. It was heartwarming to see local tourists—families, children, and friends—finally able to experience their homeland’s beauty without fear.

Scenes of Peace and Contradiction

We wandered down to the lake, watching as Afghan families rode colorful duck boats across the shimmering water. A bamboo fence separated the men’s swimming area from the family section, where women and children could swim more privately.

Nearby, in another scene that perfectly captured today’s Afghanistan, a group of heavily armed Taliban fighters lounged on the ground in the family area, sharing slices of watermelon—their guns resting casually beside them.

It was a country suspended between conflict and normalcy, tradition and change—and Band-e-Amir reflected it all.

Me in Band-E-Amir Lakes in 2019 in Winter

Band-E-Amir Lakes During the Current Trip

Taliban Guards at Band-E-Amir eating watermelon

Crossing the Mountains Toward Chehelburj

After soaking in the scenes at Band-e-Amir, we set off on a 4WD track across the mountains, heading toward the ancient fortress of Chehelburj, known as the “40 Towers”, perched dramatically atop a remote peak.

Remnants of Past Wars and Wild Landscapes

The drive was spectacular. Along the way, we passed more rusting Soviet military vehicles, abandoned relics from the 1980s war. Scattered across the rugged terrain, they stood as silent witnesses to Afghanistan’s long struggle against invaders.

We also spotted pikas—small, furry mountain rodents—darting between the rocks. Their presence was one of the few signs of life in the otherwise barren, windswept landscape, a high-altitude wilderness that, at moments, resembled the empty plains of Wyoming.

Russian Abandoned Military Vehicle

A Scenic Drive Across Bamiyan

The drive across Bamiyan Province was stunning. The villages dotted along the way were full of turbaned old men and, occasionally, women wearing only headscarves instead of full burkas—a rare sight in most parts of Afghanistan. Life here felt noticeably more relaxed compared to the stricter provinces we had passed through.

A Warmer Welcome

Among the Hazara people, who historically have been more accepting of foreigners, we felt genuinely welcomed. It made stopping in villages less tense and more enjoyable. We often pulled into small roadside shops, stocking up on cookies and energy drinks for the long drives.

Interestingly, although the shelves were mostly devoid of Western products, there was one major exception: Monster energy drinks. Our driver, like many Afghans we met, was absolutely addicted to them, cracking open a can at almost every stop.

Nomadic Hazera Children Playing with Livestock

Arrival at Chehel Burj: Fortress of the 40 Towers

We finally reached Chehel Burj—the “Fortress of 40 Towers”—in the late afternoon. Rising from a remote ridgeline, the fortress is a blend of stone and mud, its weathered towers whispering of antiquity. The structure likely dates back to the pre-Islamic era, between the 2nd and 5th centuries, and may have been built by the Ghorid Dynasty, though little is definitively known.

Scrambling Up History

With no place arranged for the night, our guide set off to find a local willing to host us. In the meantime, I tackled the steep scree slopes that led up to the castle ruins. The climb was tough, loose rock shifting beneath each step—but nothing compared to the treacherous descent that awaited.

Tajik Hospitality in the High Desert

Before long, our guide returned with good news: a local Tajik man from the nearby village had generously offered to host us. He lived with his family on a lush plot of ancestral land, made fertile only by a life-giving river that cuts through the otherwise dry, high-altitude desert.

He told me, with a smile, that I had taken “the hard way up” to the fortress—and then pointed out a winding 4WD track that circled to the top, offering a far easier route.

Exploring the Fortress at Sunset

As the sun began to dip behind the mountains, we made our way up the alternate path and reached the top of the seldom-visited Chehel Burj. We explored the crumbling walls, peeked into mysterious stone chambers and tunnels, and stood in awe of the sweeping views that stretched for miles.

It’s likely that we were the first foreigners to visit the site since the Taliban takeover—a thought that made the moment even more surreal. In the golden light of sunset, surrounded by the whispers of ancient warriors and forgotten empires, we stood alone with history.

40 Towers Fortress-Chehel Burj to the right and the green irrigated village we stayed in to the left

Me Looking Out Over the Ruins of the Ancient castle

Some of the Remaining Towers of Chehel Burj

View of the Village We Stayed at from Chehel Burj

Our Driver at One of the Towers at Chehel Burj

Secrets Beneath the Fortress

As we explored the weathered ruins of Chehel Burj, our host from the village began pointing out the remnants of its forgotten past. Inside one of the dark tunnels beneath the castle, he explained that the king likely kept his harem here, once evidenced by wall paintings that had since been scraped away—either by looters or destroyed by the Taliban. Only faint traces remained, but the suggestion was enough to stir the imagination.

The Tunnel to the Spring

Seeing my fascination with the tunnels, the man told me about another one—a deep, narrow passage hidden within the mountain, descending by ancient stone steps to a secret spring-fed pool. His voice dropped slightly, adding to the mystery, as if sharing a local legend passed down through generations.

Even our driver, weary from the day’s long drive, became animated and curious. We had a grueling 10+ hour journey ahead the next day, but neither of us could resist the allure of this forgotten stairwell to an underground spring.

We agreed—we’d wake early the next morning to explore it, one last brush with mystery before rejoining the long, dusty road.

Inside a Tunnel Where the King Kept his Harems

A Night in the Village

That night, we slept in the communal guest room of our host’s home, resting on simple cushions laid out across the floor. It was humble, quiet, and deeply appreciated after a day of climbing and exploration.

Our host and his smiley teenage son prepared a warm meal of butter rice and freshly picked apples from their orchard. As is customary in much of Afghanistan, we never met the women of the household—his wife and daughters remained in a separate part of the home, out of sight, in keeping with tradition. Even in Bamiyan, known as one of the more tolerant regions, the cultural norms remained deeply conservative.

Rural Simplicity and Spotty Signals

Like most villages in rural Afghanistan, there was no central electricity. Instead, the family used a battery-powered system to light the room and charge phones in the evening.

Cell phone service was nearly nonexistent—a single spot in the window offered the only chance for a signal, and even then, it came and went like a passing wind.

Despite the simplicity—and perhaps because of it—our night in the village was one of the most peaceful moments of the journey. A reminder of the resilience and hospitality that endure, even in the remotest corners of a country long shaped by conflict.

The communal sleeping room where we stayed in the village

Day 7: The Elusive Cave Pool of Chehel Burj

That morning, I set out with a foolish sense of optimism, imagining a short, scenic hike to a hidden cave pool—perhaps once used by a king and his concubines for a refreshing mountain dip. I even wore my swim shorts, envisioning a peaceful plunge into cold, spring-fed waters.

Not So Easy After All

We assumed we’d take the easy route from the day before, driving to the top of the castle and strolling gently into the mountain. But instead, our Tajik host pointed us up the loose scree slope I had already suffered through the previous day.

Apparently, the tunnel started midway up the mountain, not at the top. So we climbed—again—legs burning, stones shifting beneath every step, until we reached a small, unassuming hole in the rock face.

A Precarious Descent

The tunnel entrance dropped 20 feet straight down, with barely any handholds, a steep and unstable shaft that looked more like a trap than a path to a secret pool. Inside, the tunnel split in two:

• One side, with carved stairs, led up to the fortress at the summit.

• The other, collapsed and treacherous, was said to lead to the pool.

Naturally, we followed the latter.

Tunnel of No Return

We crawled, scraped, and clung to crumbled rock and loose walls, inching deeper into the mountain. The air grew colder, and the floor more unstable. After 20 grueling minutes, I asked our guide if we were close.

His response:

“No. We just started.”

That was it. With time running out, a 10+ hour drive ahead, and my instincts screaming that this pool might never actually appear—or worse, might appear after a dangerous descent I couldn’t reverse—I made the call:

We turned back.

There would be no magical swim in a king’s secret spring that day. Just a good story, and a new respect for the relentless terrain of Afghanistan.

One of the better parts of the tunnel

Onward to Ghor Province

After climbing back down from the cave and saying our goodbyes to the kind Tajik man who had hosted us, we packed up and set off on the next leg of our journey—a long, rugged drive to Chaghcharan, the capital of Ghor Province.

The road was long and tiring, winding through stark, mountainous terrain, but the reward lay ahead. We would spend the night in Chaghcharan before heading out the next morning to visit one of Afghanistan’s most remote and remarkable historical sites: the Minaret of Jam.

High Mountain Pass leaving Bamiyan Province Behind us as We Entered Ghor Province

Villagers Hard at Work harvesting the Fields

Small Strip of Green in an Arid Mountain Desert

A Harsh Land Sustained by Rivers

Afghanistan is a country of extremes—parched deserts and windswept mountains, where water is life in the most literal sense. As we traveled across the country, it became clear that almost all agriculture depends entirely on rivers, which snake through narrow mountain valleys.

These rivers are the lifeblood of the land, their waters carefully diverted through centuries-old irrigation systems to create bursts of green in an otherwise lifeless landscape. Without them, the mountains and plains would remain dry, barren, and inhospitable.

Few Vehicles, Familiar Faces

Traffic was minimal. On long stretches of road, we often drove for miles without seeing another vehicle. Some sections of the route were barely passable—4WD territory at best, with rocky slopes and rough terrain.

But none of this seemed to matter to Afghanistan’s most iconic and resilient car: the Toyota Corolla.

No matter how bad the road, how steep the hill, or how flooded the riverbed, there was always a dust-covered Corolla bravely forging ahead, often overloaded with passengers and gear. In a country where reliability means survival, the Corolla is king.

John on one of our regular toilet stops on the main road through Ghor province

Toyota Nation

Along the dusty roads of Afghanistan, one vehicle ruled them all: the Toyota Corolla. No matter how remote the stretch, we were never surprised to see a Corolla barreling past us, jam-packed with passengers, gear piled high on the roof, and tires that looked ready to disintegrate.

These cars defied logic—suspensions sagging, doors rattling, sometimes missing bumpers altogether, but still tearing down mountain roads like rally cars. In a land of unpredictable terrain and minimal resources, the Corolla wasn’t just a car—it was a lifeline.

The Land Cruiser Assumption

We, on the other hand, were riding in a Toyota Land Cruiser with over 200,000 miles on it—a rugged, high-clearance beast built for exactly the kind of roads we were on. But in rural Afghanistan, vehicles like ours are rare and considered a luxury, almost entirely absent outside of major cities.

Our guide explained that most villagers—and even Taliban at checkpoints—assumed we were “Kabul Taliban” when they saw our ride.

“No one else would drive something that nice out here,” he said with a smirk.

It was a strange form of cover. The vehicle that marked us as outsiders to the Western eye was, to many locals, a sign of Taliban affiliation. In this land of paradoxes, even your car could tell a story.

Villagers cultivating the dry parched land to grow grass for livestock and wheat

Typical Village We Woud Pass

Islamic Graveyard, which most of the time would have graves identified by un-marked rocks that only families could identify

Ghor province Village

Traffic Jam in Ghor Province-At Times it seemed we were living in biblical times

Ancient watch towers overlooking villages that were used in the old days to alert villagers to encroaching enemies

A solo sheperd and his flock who let me photograph him

Entering One of Afghanistan’s Most Remote Regions

As we pushed deeper into Ghor Province, the terrain grew wilder, and the sense of isolation more profound. This part of Afghanistan is so remote that it was virtually impossible for the previous government to occupy, and for most of the war, it remained firmly under Taliban control.

With such limited exposure to foreigners, the villagers we encountered were understandably cautious. We were careful to show the utmost respect, particularly with our cameras, and took great care never to photograph women—a line that, if crossed, could lead to serious consequences.

A Kuchi Caravan and a Close Call

Then, as we rounded a bend in the road, we came across an incredible sight: a Kuchi nomad caravan, migrating across the highlands with camels, donkeys, sheep, and towering bundles of belongings strapped to their backs.

It was too perfect to resist. From the car window, I discreetly began snapping photos, enchanted by the timeless scene. But then I noticed—there were women visible in the caravan, and I had made a mistake.

I thought I had gone unnoticed, but as we passed, one of the women saw me. She shouted something loudly, alerting the men in their group that I had taken photos. A wave of tension swept over me.

We didn’t stop. We kept moving—Kuchi men are known to be fiercely protective, and many carry assault rifles. In a place like this, one misunderstood photo could lead to real danger.

It was a sobering reminder: in Afghanistan, the most captivating moments often come with layers of cultural complexity—and risk.

Kuchi Nomad Caravan Migration

Nomad Migration

Kuchi Nomads

Arrival in Chaghcharan: The Heart of Ghor Province

After more than 10 grueling hours of driving, we finally arrived in Chaghcharan, the capital of Ghor Province. It was a dusty, run-down town, clinging to life in the middle of Afghanistan’s barren interior.

We headed straight for one of the only habitable hotels in town and were fortunate to secure two of the last available rooms. A young ethnic Aimaq boy, no more than 12 years old, managed the check-in. Barefoot and shy, he led us to our rooms, navigating the dimly lit hallways.

The facilities were basic. The toilet and shower were shared among the men on our floor. But we didn’t care.

Rest and shelter were all we needed.

Unwanted Attention

No sooner had we entered our room than a group of loitering men gathered outside, striking up conversation in surprisingly good English. Under normal circumstances, I would have welcomed the chance to meet locals and exchange stories.

But something about these men felt wrong. Their questions were too direct, their interest in us too intense. Even our guide, who rarely showed concern, was visibly uneasy.

In Afghanistan, where suspicion and caution can mean the difference between safety and danger, we chose to trust our instincts.

Sometimes the wisest move is simply staying behind a locked door.

Day 8: The Road to the Minaret of Jam

We knew from the start: today would be the longest and hardest day of the trip. We had no idea what time we would finally roll into Herat, but we accepted that it would be well after dark.

It didn’t matter.

Today was the day we would behold the Minaret of Jam—one of the places I had dreamed of seeing for years.

As a bonus, we would end the day in a real hotel in Herat, with hot showers and clean beds—a reward after days of dust, mountains, and rough roads. We set out early, leaving Chaghcharan in darkness to give ourselves the best possible head start.

A Brutal and Beautiful Road

True to our driver’s warnings, the road was horrendous—barely deserving the name “road” at all. Many sections were rough enough that only a 4WD like ours could attempt them. And with the recent torrential rains, even our driver wasn’t sure if some river crossings would be passable.

It was a shame to rush through this part of Afghanistan, because the landscapes we crossed were some of the most breathtaking and haunting of the entire journey—rugged mountains, endless valleys, tiny mud villages clinging to life in the emptiness.

But the beauty hid danger too.
This stretch, isolated and slow-going, was once infamous for bandit attacks. Years ago, foreigners wouldn’t have dared drive this road.

Arrival at the Legendary Minaret

Five hours later—two more than expected—we finally arrived.

The Minaret of Jam revealed itself suddenly, standing at the bottom of a dramatic canyon, surrounded by towering mountains and a turquoise river snaking at its base.

There are few moments in travel that truly take your breath away—this was one of them.

Rising 206 feet into the sky, the minaret is a masterpiece of intricate brickwork, Quranic inscriptions, and fragments of turquoise tile.

It stands completely alone.
No mosque nearby, no city, no explanation. Only a few crumbled fortifications hint at what was once here—an ancient, fabled turquoise city, wiped from history, likely by the forces of Genghis Khan.

How this lonely, awe-inspiring tower survived when its city did not remains a mystery.

One of the Last Great Lost Monuments

Behind only the Qutb Minar in Delhi, the Minaret of Jam is the second tallest ancient minaret in the world. Yet unlike Qutb Minar, it remains isolated, largely unknown, and rarely seen by Westerners.

It’s partly because of its extreme remoteness—and partly because of the danger.

In decades past, visiting Jam was almost impossible. No real roads. Years of Taliban activity, banditry, and war made it far too risky.
Even after a crude road was built, few dared to come.

In 2017, the last known group of foreigners who attempted the journey were ambushed by the Taliban, their van hit by an RPG. Miraculously, they survived.

Today, though, the mountains were silent. No gunfire. No smoke. Only the rush of the river and the towering shadow of a lost civilization.

For a brief moment, it felt like we had stepped outside of time itself.

Turquoise Green River Feeding into the Minaret of Jam

Minaret of Jam Rising Out of Nowhere by Itself

Unexpected Company at the Minaret

I had assumed we’d be completely alone at the Minaret of Jam. For the most part, we were—but not entirely.

A Taliban guard was stationed at the site, tasked with watching over the monument. A few other Taliban fighters also arrived during our visit, rattling up the canyon road on motorbikes, their presence both eerie and oddly casual.

The official guardian approached us politely, checked our permits, and after confirming everything was in order, greeted us warmly with a firm handshake. It was surreal—standing at one of the most remote and historically significant sites in Central Asia, under the watch of men whose predecessors once made it impossible for anyone to visit.

Posing with the Past

To our surprise, the Taliban were friendly and even curious. They agreed to pose for photos in front of the minaret—something I hadn’t expected at all. One of them leaned in after the photo and muttered, half under his breath,

“I’ll probably get in trouble for this.”
A strange mix of defiance and pride in his voice.

It was a moment that captured so much of modern Afghanistan: a land of rigid control, yet full of individual contradictions, where even a Taliban fighter might want a picture in front of a monument their leadership once neglected—or even threatened.

Taliban man guarding the Minaret of Jam

Me at the base of the minaret

Closeup of me in contrast to the massive minaret

Taliban Soldier Visiting the Minaret

Taliban Man Posing in Front of Minaret of Jam

A Monument on the Brink

Sadly, entry into the Minaret of Jam is no longer allowed. The Taliban have sealed off its base, citing concerns for both the structure’s preservation and visitor safety. According to the site’s guardian, the internal staircase is crumbling, and the minaret itself is leaning, teetering dangerously after centuries of neglect and erosion.

It’s tragic to think that this ancient marvel—so beautifully intact in form—may be on the verge of collapse. There are efforts, at least on paper, to preserve it, but its remoteness and the instability of the region make true restoration unlikely any time soon.

A Place Worth Days, Not Hours

The minaret isn’t the only wonder in the valley. Scattered across the nearby mountaintops are other ancient ruins, remnants of a once-great city that vanished under the fury of Genghis Khan. The rugged, untouched landscapes, the turquoise river, and the ghosts of a forgotten kingdom made me wish we could have stayed longer.

This is the kind of place you camp by the river and stay for days.

But time wasn’t on our side. We had only a few hours to explore before needing to move on. The road ahead was long, difficult, and uncertain, and we still had a full day’s journey to reach Herat before nightfall.

Back on the Road

As we left the canyon behind, the minaret slowly disappeared from view—just a narrow column on the horizon, shrinking into the backdrop of timeless mountains. But the journey was far from over.

The drive to Herat may have been punishing, but the scenery never failed to captivate: remote villages clinging to cliffs, deep river gorges, and valleys where donkeys outnumbered cars.

Even in exhaustion, I couldn’t help but feel it—this road, this day, this monument—it was the heart of the trip.

Kuchi Nomad Camps with thousands of sheep

A village with beautiful backdrop of hills

A Brush with the Past—and a Close Call

As we continued our journey toward Herat, we passed through Chisti Sharif, a dusty, forgotten town where history clings stubbornly to the ruins.

On the outskirts, we came across a crumbling, ancient structure—what remains of a 1,000-year-old Sufi domed madrassa, once a center of learning and faith. Tragically, the building was partially destroyed by a Soviet tank shell during the brutal conflicts of the 1980s.

We stopped briefly to photograph the haunting ruin, admiring the ghost of its once-grand dome against the endless Afghan sky.

An APC and a Taliban Checkpoint

Just as I snapped a photo, we realized—too late—there was a Taliban checkpoint right around the corner.

Suddenly, an American-made armored personnel carrier (APC), now in Taliban hands, came bursting toward us, dust and gravel flying in its wake.

Instinct kicked in—we quickly climbed back into our vehicle, pulling back onto the road, trying to act casual, hoping we hadn’t drawn too much attention.

As we drove past the APC, it abruptly stopped, turned around, and started heading straight for us.
For a moment, we braced ourselves, convinced they were coming for us.

At the last second, the APC veered away, disappearing down another road.

The Rule of Survival: Stay Invisible

In a place like Chisti Sharif, any attention from the Taliban is the wrong kind of attention. We knew better than to linger or look suspicious.

Gripping the wheel a little tighter, our driver pressed on toward Herat—leaving the ruins, the checkpoint, and another brush with danger behind us.

Chisti Sharif 1000 year old domed madrassa damaged by Soviet tank

Three Hours from Herat… Or So We Thought

After a long day of remote roads, rugged terrain, and close calls, we thought the worst was behind us. Herat, with its promise of comfortable hotels and modern comforts, was only three hours away.

Then, without warning, the Land Cruiser came to a skidding halt on the side of a dusty, empty road. Something was wrong.

Our driver stepped out, checked the wheels, and confirmed the bad news:

The front tire had seized. We weren’t going anywhere.

Stranded at Nightfall

To make matters worse, we had broken down right outside a Pashtun village that, according to our guide, had a reputation for hostility toward outsiders—particularly foreigners.

The sun had already set, and darkness was quickly swallowing the barren landscape. The silence was heavy, and every distant bark of a dog or flicker of movement in the shadows felt amplified by the uncertainty.

We were exhausted, vulnerable, and stuck—far from help, far from safety, and far from Herat.

A Minivan and an Unexpected Rescue

Just as uncertainty began to settle over us like the night, a passing minivan appeared, its headlights dim behind a glow of flashing, colorful lights—the kind you’d see on a Christmas tree. Inside was a family returning from a wedding celebration, the women concealed in the back behind curtains, as is customary.

The men stepped out to help, curious and quick to lend a hand. It was a moment of unexpected Afghan hospitality, even in a place where tensions often run high.

Staying Silent, Staying Safe

John and I stood quietly off to the side, careful not to speak. In a remote Pashtun village with a reputation for hostility, our accents or language could give us away instantly—and not in a good way.

A few of the men tried talking to me, gesturing and speaking in Pashto. I smiled, nodded, and redirected them to our guide, who stood next to me crouched by the tire, focused on the repair. It was a delicate dance—staying friendly but invisible.

A Glimmer of Help in the Dark

Though we couldn’t understand their words, the gesture was clear: they wanted to help. In a moment of vulnerability on an uncertain road, it was the kindness of strangers—wrapped in blinking party lights—that got us moving again.

MacGyver Mechanics in the Dark

The men from the wedding jumped into action without hesitation. The driver of the minivan grabbed his tools, and within minutes, our vehicle was stripped down to its wheel and brake system. What followed was a display of Afghan ingenuity at its finest.

Using a mix of random items found in the minivan, they managed to release the seized brakes, reseat the system, and somehow get everything reassembled and functional. It was a masterclass in makeshift repair work, and to our amazement, it worked.

Back on the Road—But Not for Long

We were moving again, and just an hour later, we hit paved road—a milestone we thought would mark the beginning of an easy ride into Herat. Instead, it marked the start of a new nightmare.

We took a wrong turn and ended up on a road that was under construction—a project started under the previous government and now abandoned mid-completion. The road was torn apart, rougher than anything we had faced that day.

The final stretch—what we thought would be smooth—turned out to be the worst part of the journey.

Midnight in Herat

After six more punishing hours, we finally pulled into Herat around midnight—exhausted, filthy, and aching for sleep. The moment we reached our hotel, there was only one thing on our minds:

a shower and a bed.

And for the first time in days, we had both.

Day 9: A Room Worth the Journey

After days of dust, tension, and sleepless nights, no hotel room had ever felt better than this one in Herat. I had a spacious family suite, complete with a couch, functioning air conditioning, and—perhaps most importantly—a sense of safety.

That night, I slept more deeply than I had in weeks.

A Slow Morning in the City of Poetry and Kings

In the morning, breakfast was brought directly to our rooms—a simple gesture that felt almost luxurious after the past week. We had no choice but to relax, as the Ministry of Culture’s office was closed until noon. Without a stamped travel permit, we couldn’t begin exploring the city just yet.

Truth be told, we welcomed the downtime. After all we’d been through, sleeping in and lingering over a late breakfast was exactly what we needed.

By midday, once our permits were stamped, we were free to roam—finally ready to dive into the rich culture and storied streets of Herat.

Taliban Propoganda-Islamic Government is Result of Sacrafice of people and We Must protect It

The Minarets of Herat—Overshadowed by Jam

We began our exploration with a visit to Herat’s historic minarets, some of which now lean dangerously, their foundations weakened by time and neglect. Under different circumstances, I might have found them remarkable—but after seeing the Minaret of Jam, these lesser towers felt underwhelming by comparison.

Still, they stood as a testament to Herat’s former grandeur, a city once revered as a center of Islamic art, architecture, and learning.

The Citadel of Alexander the Great

Next, we visited Herat’s ancient citadel, a fortress originally built by Alexander the Great and later expanded by rulers over centuries. It has been destroyed and rebuilt countless times, caught in the crossfires of Afghanistan’s many wars.

At the entrance, as expected, we were greeted by a Taliban guard—turbaned, bearded, and clutching an assault rifle.

He checked our permits, then asked our guide,

“Are they Muslim?”

Our guide answered diplomatically:

“No, but they believe in God.”

The man paused, then said:

“Well, it is better they be Muslim—but at least it is good they believe in God.”

An Invitation to Convert—and a Brotherhood of Respect

Then, in a gesture equal parts sincere and surreal, the Taliban guard turned to me and said:

“I want you to become Muslim so you can go to heaven and be my brother.”

He added with a grin that, if I converted, he could show me “secret areas” of the citadel—off-limits to regular visitors.

I smiled and responded,

“I consider you my brother, even if I am not Muslim.”

His eyes softened. He placed one hand over his heart, shook my hand with the other, and said:

“Go with Allah.”

It was one of several gentle attempts by Taliban fighters throughout the trip to convert us. While rooted in ideology, these interactions also revealed a desire for connection—perhaps even validation—from men trying to reconcile their beliefs with a changing world.

Citadel of Alexander the Great

Almost Alone in a Castle of Empires

We were among the only visitors at the citadel that day—just us and a handful of local Afghan tourists wandering the ancient grounds.

The Taliban had placed restrictions on certain areas, including the roof of the castle, which was now off-limits.

According to our guide, the roof had once been a popular spot for young couples sneaking away for romantic dates, something the Taliban found unacceptable.

A Quiet Moment with the Keeper of History

Despite the new restrictions, the groundskeeper, an older Afghan man with kind, weathered features, unlocked a few sealed rooms for us. Inside, we found old decorative tiles, fragile remnants of the citadel’s rich past.

Curious, I asked him how long he had worked there.

“Twenty years,” he said with quiet pride.

But his story was far more complicated than it first appeared.

He explained that he had worked at the citadel before the Taliban’s original rise to power. When the Taliban first took over in the late 1990s, they beat him, tortured him, and fired him.
Years later, when the previous government reclaimed Herat, he was rehired and resumed his caretaking duties.

Now, with the Taliban back in power, most of his colleagues had been fired again—but strangely, he had been allowed to stay.

In a land where regimes fall as easily as ancient stones, his survival felt like a small miracle—and a heavy burden.

Me, John, Tourist Director and Artist

An Unexpected Escort: Meeting the Tourism Director

As we returned to the parking lot of the citadel, we were approached by the Tourism Minister of Herat himself.
Eager to welcome foreigners back to the city, he offered to give us a brief tour and asked if we would take a photo with him to mark the occasion.

In a country just barely reopening its doors to the world, even two American travelers were a major event.

Art Lessons… Taliban-Style

The minister first led us to a local art studio, where a prominent Herati painter displayed his intricate works. The paintings were beautiful—vivid scenes of Afghan landscapes and traditional life. I would have loved to buy one, but I hesitated, unsure if my cash reserves would survive the rest of the trip.

While admiring the artwork, I noticed something surreal:

Two young Taliban fighters, still wearing their AK-47s slung over their shoulders, were sitting among the easels, taking art lessons.

It was a scene that perfectly captured the contradictions of modern Afghanistan—fighters with a rifle in one hand, a paintbrush in the other.

A City of Survivors

We posed for a photo with the Tourism Director, who proudly told us that he had also served in the same role under the previous government.

This wasn’t the first time on the trip we had met someone who had kept their old job under Taliban rule.
In a country where regime changes often come with purges, it was a quiet reminder that life finds a way to adapt, even amid seismic political shifts.

Local Boys in Herat that Posed for My Photo

Blue Mosque

The Blue Mosque of Herat: Beauty and Tension

The most fascinating place we visited in Herat was the city’s Blue Mosque, a masterpiece of Ghurid architecture dating back to the 1200s.
Its intricate blue tilework, shimmering under the midday sun, was stunning—a testament to Herat’s golden age as a center of Islamic culture and learning.

But it wasn’t just the architecture that made it memorable.

Inside the courtyard, there were at least a hundred worshippers, and a good percentage were Taliban fighters, their AK-47s slung casually across their backs as they knelt in prayer.

Standing Out for the Wrong Reasons

I couldn’t help but feel out of place—not because of my presence at a place of worship, but because of my large DSLR camera, which instantly drew attention.

Before long, a group of irritated Taliban spotted us. They approached quickly, their expressions serious.
They asked our guide the usual pointed questions:

“What are they doing? Where are they from?”

Our guide stuck to the script he had used throughout the trip, explaining that we were foreign journalists.
In Afghanistan, especially under Taliban rule, few understand the concept of “tourist”, but “journalist” was a recognized—and somewhat respected—term.

Their next question was the one we had come to expect:

“Are they Muslim?”

When our guide answered honestly that we were not, the Taliban fighters grew even more irritated.
But lying, he reminded us later, could be even riskier if we were found out.

Keeping a Low Profile

After that encounter, I tucked my camera away.

Not only did I want to avoid further drawing attention from armed Taliban, but I also felt uncomfortable photographing worshippers during their prayers—a deeply personal moment, regardless of politics.

Most of the few photos I did take were from a quiet corner of the mosque, pretending to photograph my guide while discreetly capturing glimpses of the stunning tilework and atmosphere.

Armed Taliban at Blue Mosque

Blue Mosque

Taliban at Blue Mosque

More Armed Taliban at Blue Mosque

The Jihad Museum: Herat’s Other Face of History

If the Blue Mosque was the most beautiful place we visited in Herat, then the Jihad Museum was its most haunting rival—a stark window into Afghanistan’s long, bloody fight for survival.

Originally dedicated to celebrating the Islamic jihad of the mujahideen against Soviet forces in the 1980s, the museum is now being expanded by the Taliban to include the more recent American war as part of the same narrative.

Passing Through a City Marked by Conflict

On the way to the museum, we passed a chilling reminder of Taliban justice: a public square where the bodies of executed bandits—criminals who had kidnapped the children of Herat’s wealthy for ransom—had recently been hung in public display to send a brutal message.

Nearby, we drove past the old American consulate, a building previously attacked by Taliban suicide bombers.
I tried to snap a quick photo from the backseat, but a Taliban fighter at a checkpoint caught sight of my camera and stopped us.

Our guide, always quick on his feet, explained away my behavior with a smile:

“Foreigners just love taking photos of all kinds of random, senseless things.”
To our relief, the Taliban seemed to accept this logic, and waved us on.

Gaining Entry by Pretending to Be Locals

When we arrived at the Jihad Museum, we were initially denied entry. A new decree from the Taliban’s Ministry of Vice and Virtue had recently banned foreigners from visiting.

But after some negotiation, the staff agreed to let us in—if we pretended to be locals.
We kept a low profile, avoided using my DSLR camera (a clear giveaway of being foreign), and moved quietly through the empty halls of the museum.

Inside Afghanistan’s Memory of War

Outside, a grim collection of Soviet-era tanks, helicopters, and artillery—spoils of war—rusted under the sun.

Inside, the experience grew even more surreal.
We removed our shoes at the entrance and wandered through exhibits of mujahideen weaponry, homemade explosives, and battered rifles used to resist Soviet invasion.

On the second floor, we passed a wall of martyr portraits. Originally, these honored fighters from the Northern Alliance—the faction that had once fought against the Taliban.

Their portraits had all been removed.

In their place now hung new martyrs:

• Taliban commanders, killed fighting NATO forces.

• Figures like Mullah Mohammad Omar, the Taliban’s one-eyed founding cleric and once one of the most wanted men in the world.

In many exhibits, before-and-after battle photos of the martyrs were displayed—grinning, alive in one image, lifeless in the next.

The 360-Degree Battlefield

The most mind-blowing feature of the museum was a 360-degree diorama, a life-sized clay model of a Soviet-Afghan battle scene.

Dozens of detailed clay figures depicted mujahideen fighters ambushing Soviet forces, capturing the chaos, the triumph, and the agony of war with unsettling realism.

It was hard not to be impressed—and disturbed—by how vividly a society at war had chosen to remember itself.

Clay Figures of Mujahedeen  

Clay Figures of Mujahedeen  

Clay Figures of Mujahedeen  

The Final Stop: Guzargah Sufi Mosque

Before leaving Herat, we made one final visit—to the Guzargah Sufi Mosque, one of the city’s most photogenic and historic sites. Built nearly 1,000 years ago, the mosque is steeped in spiritual significance and architectural beauty.

But the history here is complicated.

A Mosque with a Darker Recent Legacy

The Guzargah Mosque was closely associated with Mujib Rahman Ansari, a firebrand cleric known for his extreme pro-Taliban views during the American war.
He became infamous for leading his own religious police, who terrorized women seen uncovered or improperly dressed in Herat’s streets—long before the Taliban officially returned to power.

A Quiet, Uneventful Visit

Despite its heavy past, our visit to Guzargah was brief and uneventful.
There were no Taliban fighters patrolling the grounds during our stop, and we were able to quietly admire the intricate blue tilework, the graceful arches, and the serene courtyard.

It was a peaceful way to end our time in Herat—a final glimpse of Afghanistan’s deep, tangled history before moving on.

Guzargah Sufi Mosque

A Chaotic Departure

As we tried to leave the Guzargah Sufi Mosque, we were suddenly mobbed by a swarm of children, desperate and pleading for money.
Their small hands pounded on the windows, tugged at our clothes, clinging to the car as we inched forward.

One child latched onto the vehicle, screaming and refusing to let go.
It wasn’t until a Taliban soldier, armed and shouting, stepped in to clear the children away that we were finally able to pull free and drive off.

Even in a country so accustomed to hardship, the scene was a reminder of the desperation simmering just beneath daily life.

A Tragedy Unfolds

A week after our visit, the news broke:

An ISIS suicide bomber had attacked the Guzargah Mosque.

The target was none other than Mujib Rahman Ansari, the firebrand cleric once so powerful in Herat.
The attacker approached during Friday prayers, kissed Ansari’s hand, and detonated a hidden bomb, killing Ansari and at least 50 others in the blast.

It was the third mosque attack in Afghanistan by ISIS in just a month—a grim reminder that even as wars formally end, violence and chaos continue to ripple through the country.

Day 10: Into Afghanistan’s Conservative South

With the brutal mountain roads of the Central Provinces finally behind us, we looked forward to smoother travel.
The highways leading south to Kandahar, passing through Nimruz and Helmand Provinces, and eventually back to Kabul, were paved and in far better condition than anything we had endured before.

But the challenge ahead was no longer the terrain—it was cultural.

Blending In for Safety

The south of Afghanistan is overwhelmingly Pashtun, and the culture there is far more conservative and insular.
The Taliban fighters in the south had been more deeply involved in the war and were known to be less forgiving toward foreigners.

Out of an abundance of caution, we adapted even the smallest details of our behavior:

• No sunglasses at checkpoints or in towns—wearing them could mark us as outsiders.

• When stopping by the roadside to urinate, we squatted in the Islamic manner, not standing up in the Western way.

• We were also careful to avoid facing Mecca while relieving ourselves—an offense that could be seen as deeply disrespectful.

Survival sometimes meant adapting at the most basic levels.

Landscapes of War and Opium

The landscape changed dramatically—hot, barren, and Martian, with dusty plains stretching to the horizon.

Along the highway, we passed the ghosts of American and NATO military bases, now occupied by Taliban forces.
The scars of war were everywhere:

• Craters from old IED explosions marred sections of the highway.

• Taliban martyr flags, simple white banners fluttering in the desert wind, marked places where fighters had died.

• We passed Kuchi nomad caravans, their camels and donkeys trudging through the sand, a timeless scene unchanged by the modern wars around them.

As we entered Helmand Province, once infamous as one of the world’s largest opium-producing regions, I scanned the roadside fields.
Normally, pink poppy flowers—the raw material for heroin—would blanket the countryside, but the crop was out of season, and the fields now lay barren.

Traditional desert houses

Pashtun House High Walls

Boy Selling Fruit on side of the road in desert

Kuchi Nomads Living in Ruins of a Desert Castle

Desert Nomads on the Move

Our Driver Standing on the Empty Highway

The Ghost Bases of Helmand Province

Driving through Helmand Province, it was impossible to ignore the scars of war that lined the highway.
This region saw some of the fiercest fighting during the American-led war, and abandoned NATO bases were scattered like forgotten relics along the roadside.

The bases bore heavy wounds:

• Bullet holes riddled the concrete walls and sentry towers.

• Explosive blasts had torn away entire sections of buildings.

• Taliban flags now fluttered where NATO banners once flew.
  Beyond the rusted barbed wire fences, we glimpsed abandoned Humvees and armored personnel carriers—now property of the Taliban.

It was unimaginable just how much military equipment had been left behind.

Photography on the Edge

Stopping to photograph these bases was out of the question.
Most were actively manned by Taliban fighters, and being caught with photos could easily lead to our arrest—or worse.

Instead, I snapped quick photos from the backseat, barely cracking the window open, my camera tucked low and discreet.

To be extra careful, I saved all photos of military bases on a separate memory card, immediately removed it from my camera after each shot.
Later, safely in a hotel room, I sent the images to my wife via WhatsApp and deleted them from all devices—a precaution against any checkpoint inspections.

A Dangerous Coincidence

Later that evening, after passing the ruins of Camp Bastion, once the largest British military base in Afghanistan, I saw alarming news reports:

A drone strike had allegedly hit Camp Bastion that very day, targeting suspected Al Qaeda operatives.

Whether true or not, it hardly mattered.

Any perceived connection between us, foreigners photographing bases, and drone strikes would have ended very, very badly.

In Afghanistan, even an innocent camera click can spin into suspicion, and suspicion can spiral into life-or-death consequences.

American Military Base

A Sandstorm on the Horizon

As we approached Kandahar, I noticed dark, ominous clouds looming on the horizon.
But as we drew nearer, it became clear—these weren’t clouds at all.

It was a sandstorm, gathering strength across the desert plain, whipped into a fury by violent winds.

Driving into the Storm

The wind howled and sheets of sand ripped across the road, reducing visibility to almost nothing.
The landscape disappeared into a swirling haze of dust, and our vehicle was battered by grit and debris carried by the gale.

As if the sandstorm wasn’t enough, heavy rain soon followed behind, lashing down in sheets and turning the desert floor into sudden rivers of mud.

The southeast of Afghanistan—along with neighboring Pakistan—had been enduring unseasonal storms for weeks.
Just days earlier, flash floods had washed out the main road to Kabul, killing dozens of villagers and leaving parts of the highway buried or destroyed.

Nature’s New Danger

In a country already shaped by decades of human conflict, nature itself now posed a new and unpredictable threat.

As we pushed toward Kandahar, we knew that even paved roads and careful planning couldn’t shield us from the forces of the wild Afghan landscape.

Sandstorm

Kandahar: An Oasis and a City of Shifting Power

Arriving in Kandahar, we found ourselves in a city very different from the stark desert landscapes we had crossed.
Green plantations of fruit trees and farmland surrounded the urban sprawl, making Kandahar feel like an oasis carved from dust.

We stayed inside a walled section of the city, a neighborhood once home to government officials and the wealthy elite under the previous administration.
When the Taliban returned, most residents were given only a few days to leave, and their luxurious homes were handed over to Taliban loyalists.

Our guesthouse, run by a friendly local family, had a beautiful shaded garden where we ate most of our meals.

To my surprise, one of the culinary highlights of Afghanistan revealed itself here:
Incredible pizza, delivered by motorbike from a nearby restaurant.

It was an unexpected discovery—Afghanistan’s big cities know how to make good pizza.

Day 11: Touring Kandahar with Caution

In the morning, our guide checked us in with the Ministry of Culture to get official approval for the day’s activities.
The Director of Tourism for Kandahar even offered to personally join us on our city tour—a gesture that added an extra layer of security we were grateful for.

This was no small matter.
Just a month prior, our guide, driver, and a group of foreign journalists had been detained by Taliban Intelligence in Kandahar, accused of improperly coordinating their visit.
They were held in a Taliban-run prison—a warning of how hypersensitive the authorities are here to the movements of foreigners.

We wanted to do everything possible to avoid drawing unwanted attention—or worse.

First Stop: The Sufi Mosque on the Hill

Following the lead of the Tourism Director, we made our first stop at a Sufi Mosque, perched on a hilltop next to the ruins of a luxury hotel bombed out during the war.

The mosque offered sweeping views of the city, but in Kandahar, photography comes with risk.

In places where rooftops overlook homes, taking photos can be extremely sensitive—especially if women might be captured in the frame.

Taliban fighters kept a close watch on us as we moved around the hill, and we were very careful about where—and what—we photographed.

Here, every click of the camera had to be calculated and cautious, a balancing act between curiosity and survival.

View of Kandahar

Interior of Bombed Out Luxury Hotel

A Risk Always Lurking

Before coming to Afghanistan, I knew from speaking with other travelers that getting detained by the Taliban was a real possibility.
I had mentally prepared for it—hoping for the best but quietly bracing for the worst.

Until now, despite our careful behavior, we had managed to avoid serious trouble.

But today, all of that changed.

An Invitation to Meet the Nomads

On our way down from the Sufi Mosque, we passed a large Kuchi nomad encampment—rows of black tents pitched surprisingly within the city limits of Kandahar.

Intrigued, I asked the Tourism Director, who spoke English, whether they were Kuchi.

“Yes,” he said.
“Would you like to meet them?”

Trying to contain my excitement—nomads are one of my favorite parts of any country—I replied calmly:

“Sure, if it’s okay.”

He smiled and assured me it would be no problem.

“I’ll speak to the chief and arrange it.”

A Meeting That Went Wrong

We pulled up alongside the encampment, and the Tourism Director disappeared into the tents.

After a few minutes, he returned with an elderly bearded man in a turban, the Kuchi chief, followed by about ten other nomads.

The chief inspected our travel permit, said little, and then pulled out his cellphone.

I watched uneasily as he made a call.

When I asked our guide if everything was alright, he looked stressed and muttered:

“He’s calling the Taliban governor.”

The chief, it seemed, saw an opportunity: reporting our presence to the new Taliban authorities could earn him favor and trust.

We quickly asked if we could just leave quietly, but it was too late—the call was already made.

The governor, suspicious of foreigners, had summoned us to his compound.

No Way Out

There was no escape.
Trying to flee would look like we had something to hide, and in Kandahar, the Taliban have eyes everywhere.

We had no choice but to comply and roll the dice with whatever fate awaited us.

I prayed it would be like our earlier ministry visits—brief, formal, and uneventful.
But the grim expression on our guide’s face told a different story.

This was Kandahar.
And the Taliban here are not known for their kindness to foreigners.

The Drive to the Governor’s Compound

It was a short, silent drive to the governor’s compound, a former U.S. or Afghan military fortification, now firmly in Taliban hands.

The Kuchi chief, whose call had triggered our predicament, rode quietly in the front seat.

 Detained by the Taliban: A Day in Kandahar’s Shadows

From Curiosity to Captivity

At the gate, armed Taliban fighters ordered us out of the vehicle, performed a rough pat-down search, and scrutinized our passports.
One fighter, younger than expected, casually asked:

“Did you fight in the war?”

We quickly replied no, but the tension was already rising.

Into the Governor’s War Council

They escorted us into a large hall filled with at least 30 heavily armed Taliban, rifles slung over their shoulders, long black beards and turbans, fierce battle-hardened faces.

Our guide leaned in and whispered:

“We are being detained.”

It felt less like a governor’s office and more like a Taliban war council.
Some of the men greeted us with handshakes, but many stared coldly.
A few looked like the very caricature of movie terrorists, and one, startlingly, could have passed for Osama bin Laden’s double.

We were seated on a couch adjacent to the governor, a stern, middle-aged man who shook our hands but offered no smile.

The Interrogation Begins

Even though a few spoke English, John and I stayed silent, allowing our guide and the Tourism Director to speak for us.

The governor briefly glanced at our permits and handed them back without interest.

Then a sinister-looking Taliban man with a sly smile sat before me, asking questions in English:
Our names, our purpose in Afghanistan.
We emphatically answered:

“Tourism.”

The man leaned in and said:

“We want tourism in this country, but no one coordinated your visit with us.”

Despite knowing our visit had been coordinated with the Ministry of Culture—and that the Tourism Director sat beside us—I knew arguing would be suicide.

A Taliban fighter with a cellphone snapped a photo of John and me, likely for propaganda purposes, but in our minds, these photos would be our P.O.W. photos, they would send to the international press to be circulated globally.
I tried to look strong and neutral, while John flashed a big smile, projecting confidence for the families and friends we feared might see it later.

Transferred to Taliban Intelligence

After more tense Pashtun exchanges, armed men escorted us outside to a small waiting vehicle.
Our guide whispered grimly:

“We are being transferred to Taliban Intelligence.”

At a nearby military compound, they led us into a small, hot room, sitting us on dusty cushions under a toy-like pink plastic fan wired to the ceiling.

Our guide now whispered:

“This is a jail.”

Inside Taliban Intelligence

A stern 50-something man—the Chief of Intelligence—entered.
He shook hands with each of us, sat cross-legged, and began a half-hour interrogation via discussion with our guide and Tourism Director.

Since our phones hadn’t been confiscated yet, I texted my wife the GPS coordinates and a brief message:

“We are detained.”

John texted a Navy SEAL friend, who responded:

“What the f* are you doing in Kandahar?”**

The Taliban’s Hospitality—or Mind Games

Throughout the ordeal, the Taliban offered us bottled water, and their demeanor was strange:
Hospitable yet suspicious, friendly yet unpredictable.

One burly fighter—clearly hardened by war—entered, glared at us, and began a stern conversation with our guide.

Later, our guide explained the fighter said:

“We are detained because Americans bombed our villages and killed our children.”

Yet strangely, the man also kept asking if John and I were “sportsmen”—fixated on our athletic builds.

A Parade of Characters

Next, a smiley, blond, blue-eyed Taliban fighter entered, eager to show off photos of his young daughter on his phone.
His warmth was genuine, and for a moment, the hard lines between “us” and “them” blurred.

Our guide remained cautious though, warning:

“They play mind games. Good cop, bad cop.”

Still, the friendly Taliban lifted our spirits.

Interrogation Continues: Lunch with Captors

The Chief returned and explained:

• We had been detained because Intelligence had not been notified.

• We were also held, they claimed, for our own safety, because visiting Kuchi nomads could provoke retaliation.

Before releasing us, they insisted we eat lunch.

Bread, okra-like stew, and a muddy yogurt drink (“doogh”) were served.
They watched us eat intently.
I forced down small bites under their gaze, doing my best to appear grateful.

At one point, a Taliban fighter joked that we might think they were poisoning us—half-laughing, half-testing.

Release and Strange Farewells

Finally, the Chief returned.

“You are free to go. Please don’t tell the media you were detained.”

We agreed.

As we left, the smiley Taliban fighter gave us a big thumbs up.
Others shook our hands, placing their palms on their hearts.

The burly fighter who accused us earlier gripped my hand, then tried to arm wrestle me, laughing:

“I knew they were sportsmen!”

Laughter rippled through the room.
It was bizarre, surreal, and strangely human all at once.

We walked to the gate—only to find it locked.
For a tense moment, we wondered if it was one final mind game.
Then someone ran over and opened it.

We were free.

After half a day detained by the Taliban, inside a former American military base in Kandahar, we drove back into the dusty city—still alive, still processing the absurdity of what had just unfolded.

I briefly thought about asking for a photo with them.
But in Afghanistan, knowing when not to push your luck is everything.

Resuming the Journey: Kandahar After Detention

The Temptation to Flee

After being released from Taliban custody, it was tempting to leave Kandahar immediately, to race toward Kabul before anything changed—before anyone could second-guess letting us go.

But reality set in:

• The drive to Kabul was too long to start late in the day.

• Fleeing immediately would look suspicious, potentially inviting new scrutiny or even worse consequences.

We decided it was safer to stay calm, act normal, and resume our tour with the few hours of daylight we had left.

Returning to Kandahar’s Historic Heart

We pressed on to visit Kandahar’s Old City, a weathered maze of mudbrick walls and history, and an ancient Sufi mosque, still standing through centuries of change.

Everywhere we went, young men approached us—often lower-level Taliban fighters, curious but friendly, asking:

“Where are you from?”

In a strange twist, the city that had once expelled foreigners now welcomed our presence cautiously, curiously.

At the Forty Steps: Wrestling with the Taliban

Our last stop was the 40 Steps Monument, an ancient chamber and staircase carved into a mountain by Babur, the Mughal king who once ruled Afghanistan in the 1500s.

A group of young Taliban fighters lingered there, smiling and playful.

They posed for photos with us, laughing, trying to wrestle us in a joking, boyish way—more roughhousing than hostility.
It was surreal:

One minute being detained as suspected spies, the next minute mock wrestling with Taliban fighters under a 500-year-old monument.

Respecting Boundaries

Photography was allowed—with limits:

• No photographing in the direction of houses to avoid capturing any images of women.

• No climbing the steps to avoid being able to look over into private courtyards.

We respected every rule, grateful just to be free, grateful to experience Kandahar’s history and humanity on its most complicated terms.

Young Taliban at 40 Steps Monument

Rainbow in the rain at the end of a long day

Young Taliban

John and I posing with Taliban at 40 Steps Monument

1000 Year Old Sufi Mosque

Interior Old 1000 Yer Old Sufi Mosque

Day 12: The Long Road Back to Kabul

A Calm Morning Before the Storm

After the intensity of the past few days, we welcomed a relaxing morning.
We ate breakfast in the garden of our guesthouse in Kandahar, savoring a few peaceful moments under the shade of fruit trees before setting off.

Ahead of us loomed a long, grueling drive back to Kabul—a journey through some of Afghanistan’s most battle-scarred provinces.

A Highway Built with Blood

The highway connecting Kandahar to Kabul is often referred to as one of the most expensive roads ever built, paid for with billions of U.S. taxpayer dollars—and fought for inch by inch.

Alongside the road stretched new transmission towers, ambitious relics of unfinished American infrastructure projects.
The lines remained empty, never strung with electrical wiring.

When it became clear the Taliban would reclaim the country, the work—and the funding—vanished, leaving hundreds of villages still without power.

The highway itself was pockmarked by the war:

• IED craters shattered sections of pavement.

• Blown-up bridges were replaced by rickety detour crossings or fording through riverbeds.

• Until just a year ago, traveling this road would have been suicide—with large sections controlled by Taliban fighters and riddled with bandits.

Crossing Afghanistan’s Bleeding Heart

Our drive took us through Kandahar, Zabul, Ghazni, and finally Wardak Province.

We crossed deserts and river valleys, the waterways now swollen and angry from the recent floods that had devastated villages throughout the south.

At one point, I spotted a desert tortoise struggling to cross the highway, narrowly missing the wheels of oncoming trucks.
I leapt out, scooped up the terrified creature, and carried it safely into the bushes on the far side of the road—a small act of mercy in a landscape battered by destruction.

Echoes of War and Fragile Life

We passed countless Kuchi nomad caravans, their camels trudging along dusty trails, their tents dotting the barren fields.

In the distance, we glimpsed the ancient minarets of Ghazni, battered but still standing against time’s assault.

But as we entered Wardak Province, the scars of war became unavoidable:

• Buildings were riddled with bullet holes or flattened entirely.

• Children on crutches or in wheelchairs lined the roads—living reminders of decades of violence.

• Towns looked worn down, battle-weary, and abandoned by hope.

Violence Still Lurks

In Ghazni, we came across a crowd gathered around a pickup truck.
Taliban fighters stood guard as they arrested a man—another man, already dead, lay sprawled in the back of the truck.

We didn’t linger to ask questions.

Later, outside Ghazni, we passed a Taliban wedding convoy, just in time to be startled by the crackle of gunfire—AK-47s discharged wildly into the air as part of the celebration.
The shots rang out only a few hundred feet from us, jolting us out of our exhaustion.

A Long, Haunting Journey

The drive was long, gritty, and utterly unforgettable.
Even after the war officially “ended,” the road to Kabul still pulsed with tension, ghosts, and moments of breathtaking resilience.

Kuchi Nomad Carrying One of His Sheep on the Side of the Road

Swollen Desert Rivers

Desert Tortoise I Rescued on the Road

Day 13: Departure from Kabul – A Bittersweet Goodbye

Final Arrival in Kabul

After an exhausting but unforgettable journey across southern Afghanistan, we finally rolled into Kabul.

The Taliban checkpoints along the way were surprisingly hassle-free—just curious glances, a few casual questions, and one soldier suspiciously inspecting John’s headphones, unsure what to make of the foreign device.

Compared to what we had just endured, it felt almost anticlimactic—and we welcomed the uneventful arrival.

A Last Day to Breathe

On our final morning, we relaxed in Kabul, soaking in the strange normalcy of the city.
We wandered down Chicken Street, the once-famous hub for travelers and traders, now far quieter but still clinging to its place in Kabul’s culture.

The city buzzed quietly, a strange mixture of resilience and uncertainty hanging in the air.

Our guide and driver, who had been with us through every tense checkpoint and chaotic roadside moment, dropped us off at the airport with warm goodbyes.

At the Airport: Echoes of the Past

Kabul’s airport felt far more subdued than when I had last been there in 2019.
But reminders of how much had changed were impossible to ignore:

• A few bullet holes still marked the terminal windows, scars from Taliban gunfire during the chaotic evacuation of August 2021.

• Across the tarmac, abandoned American Apache helicopters sat silently baking under the sun—a stark symbol of a war abruptly ended.

Our terminal was adjacent to the site of the ISIS suicide bombing, where over 200 civilians and 13 U.S. Marines tragically lost their lives just one year and one day ago.

We had carefully planned our departure to avoid the official anniversary of the Taliban’s return to power—just in case ISIS chose to “commemorate” it with more attacks.

A Bittersweet Farewell

Boarding our Kam Air flight to Dubai, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of bittersweet emotion.

Afghanistan had once again shown me its contradictions:

• Danger and hospitality,

• Beauty and devastation,

• Hope and heartbreak,

• Searing memories and unexpected friendships.

As our plane lifted off and the jagged mountains of Kabul faded into the distance, I silently promised myself:

“I hope I return again someday.”