Part 5. Magical Afghanistan, A notable border crossing.

 Getting to the Iran/ Afghan border wasn’t allowed on foot, about a mile out of the nearest town and a place difficult to describe. Imagine a barren desert with the occasional dried scrub, an approach road of rippled concrete barely proud of the sand and a barbed wire enclosure big enough for a few plain concrete huts . The makeshift fencing stretched into the desert about a far as the eye could see on either side.

Two of the buildings created an entrance with a sign over it leading into a courtyard where you waited to be processed by smart, efficient Iranian soldiers. To the left was an enormous enclosure full of vehicles that had been confiscated on the way back from Afghanistan, notable were a large number of VW buses, with cheerful psychedelic paint jobs, some with their tyres off , engines out and furnishings in taters from what had obviously been a successful search for marijuana or other drugs and contraband. A lot of broken dreams and spoilt spiritual journeys rudely interrupted by spells in Iranian prisons for the hopeful young entrepreneurs.

In the glass-less windows of the buildings lounged brightly colours lizards sheltering from the daytime sunlight, a juxtaposition of careless laziness and strict authoritarianism. There was no built road between that enclosure and the Afghani border post several hundred meters away, just heavily trodden sand. We were the only travellers on foot, having caught a bus to the place and were viewed with some suspicion.

The sense of isolation, having been checked out of Iran and not yet checked into Afghanistan, was quite pronounced as we walked across the empty space to arrive at the Afghan check point. We felt oddly exposed and visible, wondering what would happen if they didn’t let us in.

The border post on the Afghan side was another thing altogether, whilst well armed, the military here had no laces in their boots, ill matching kit and a general air of being dishevelled. Their attention was focused on little more than the passport and visa details, while some minor errors would be fixed or ignored by the transfer of a few dollars, others were simply held up for hours if one of the bus passengers had the wrong dates or other queries. We were pleased to get waved through with no issues. There was a tea shop at a bus stop on the other side and we caught the bus going on to Herat, being our first stop and the place where I would part company with my current companion.

When I say “bus”, I m talking about an overloaded truck with windows and brightly decorated sides , some benches at the edges but primarily standing or squatting room only, shared with local villagers, tribesman and off duty soldiers along with well tied bundles of belongings and livestock including goats and chickens. Usually with children on the roof amongst the luggage.

Go To Part 6. Herat and a simple misunderstanding