Some time ago, @eco-alex, industrious driver of the ecoTrain, had this idea of some of us passengers writing a story and the readers would have to judge if it is true or false with the author clarifying after some time.
As it sometimes happens in life, nothing came of this great idea so far, @stillgideon who was sort of meant to start it off is probably too busy building the steemit travel guitar, and in a group with members spread around the globe it is sometimes difficult to get going on a certain project, so, without consulting any further with the driver or others, I decided to kick it off today with the first story, hopefully the others will get inspired and follow through too.
As Swami Vishnudevananda was fond of saying: “Nothing to it, but to do it!“

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Adventures in Afghanistan

"Russian, Russian!“ the young Mujahideen fighter at the road block yelled at me.
His Kalashnikov, which had been dangling nonchalantly by his side seconds before, came up in a menacing angle, the muzzle pointing at me.
Oh boy, maybe it wasn´t such a good idea after all, to venture into Afghanistan, just after the Mujahideen had ousted Najibullah.

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It all started when one of my crazy friends strolled into the headquarters of the Mujahideen in Peshawar and told them “Congratulations on your victory! Now, since you are in charge of Afghanistan, what about issueing some visa?“ After lots of discussion and even more tea the Mujahideen commanders started to like the idea that they were the proper representatives of Afghanistan in Pakistan and by the powers invested in them were able to issue visas to intrepid travellers. They told him to come back next week and bring his friends.
So a week later we were all given our visas and we all got some photocopied kind of letter of safe passage in Pashtoo, the guys seemed to get the hang of enjoying their new document issueing power.

It actually turned out to be much more difficult to get the Pakistani permits for travelling through the tribal areas towards the Afghani border and crossing via the famous Khyber pass than the actual Afghani visas but we managed also and started our Afghanistan adventure.

We were a wild bunch. An Englishman who had just finished film school in London and was carrying loads of film and sound equipment, an elderly Dutch hippie who was eager to make it to Mazar-i-Sharif to reestablish his pre-war contacts to the suppliers of the best Black Afghan ever, two crazy English girls whom we bought some burquas for in Peshawar market so they would blend in, my mate Thomas who had this crazy idea to ask the Mujahideen for visas and me, thirsting for some terra incognita.

At first all went well, incredible hospitality wherever we went, people rejoicing in the prospect of peace, welcoming us as ambassadors of normality, "Tourists, tourists!", amazing pictures for our aspiring director, iconic faces of proud fighters, the descendants of those who taught the British not to mess with Afghanistan´s warriors, now themselves having driven out global superpower number two, a landscape so beautiful it made you cry, but littered with the relicts of war, children in rags but happier than any kid I´ve ever seen in Germany, no guesthouses, no pancake trail, only private homes or the remains of it, our sleep guarded by warriors who would give their lives protecting their honored guests, the honor code of tribal law, but then one faithful day, we met another road block.

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„German, German“ I cried, trying to reach inside my jacket for my papers.
„Stop!“ the young Mujahideen shouted, making one quick step towards me, his Kalashnikov ready.
A barrage of Pashtoo leaped from his lips, his friends, all heavily armed, laughing menacingly.

Now, if you ever feel bored or think your life is dull and uneventful, just place yourself in front of some hostile teenagers with Kalashnikovs, you will be wide awake, guaranteed.

Not understanding a thing of what he had just said, I stammered “Dost, dost!“, the Urdu word for friend.
Apparently to no use because he kept advancing, his friends now encircling our whole group, making the rest of us freeze too.
Our two burqua girls fell silent for the first time since I met them, no more bubbly personalities, even our aspiring director could not get his camera up and my friend Thomas probably cursed the day he walked into the Mujahideen´s office in Peshawar.
When the young fighter stood so close to me the Kalashnikov almost touched my stomach, inside of which a certain sickness made itself comfortable, I thought, that´s it, goodbye you lovely world.

Suddenly the Kalashnikov slipped back to it´s former nonchalant position and the guy hugged me!
He was laughing so loud, my ears rang. His mates grapped my mates and slapped them on the back, reeling with laughter. The two burqua girls were of course spared any physical contact, anything else would have meant a deadly insult to us, their male protectors, who just a moment ago had been busy not to wet their pants, but now swam on a wave of male sympathy and camaraderie.

The young leader was basking in the glory of having played a cruel, but ultimately funny joke on us unsuspecting travellers, breaking up his men´s boring routine of road block guarding, proving that, wherever you go, boys will be boys and, facing the universal problem of juvenile boredom, will come up with something, guaranteed.

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