Tea with the Taliban: An Overlander’s Passage Through Afghanistan

“Hospitality is making your guests feel at home, even if you wish they weren't.” — Anonymous Afghan proverb (commonly cited)

Before Afghanistan, the truck nearly gave up on us in Tajikistan. Lowering the rear lift that keeps the motorcycle and spare wheel aloft on a platform, we discovered the wire rope that lifts and lowers this, had almost sheared clean through.

After catching our breath, we flagged down a passing stranger who whisked me around the local town until we found enough bits to cobble together a repair. We paid him in the local hard currency: a few American dollars and a jerry can of diesel for his van. That’s the way forward, isn’t it?

With the fix holding, we crossed a border where rules blurred, passports disappeared into back rooms, and the Taliban themselves poured us tea. This was no ordinary leg of the journey.

The Border Ballet

Entry was easy enough. Kaiser, our guide, met us at the immigration point into Afghanistan, as passports were checked, stamped, and then quietly whisked away. Guards took a cursory glance inside the truck, looking for contraband, more for show than suspicion, and waved us through. What we hadn’t realised: the visa office closes on Fridays, and this was Friday. Our documents — passports and vehicle papers alike — vanished into back rooms, and we were shunted off to a “hotel” for the night to await the office opening the next day. We were told we weren't allowed to leave the border until the formalities were done.

Street markets are in abundance in Afghanistan

The hotel cost us £8 each, and we were robbed. The place stank; lorry drivers were stacked ten to a room, with one squat toilet and one hosepipe “shower", between us all. It was 40° inside and out, no air-con, no sleep.

We lay awake, sweating, asking ourselves yet again — why are we doing this?

Charlotte had packed a black Abaya for the occasion. Kaiser, our guide, told her not to bother, just cover your hair, Charlotte and that's it, done. The Abaya was ditched, replaced by a head scarf and a look of mild relief.

Lunch and dinner were brought to our hotel room whilst we sweated it out, and we set out the food on the floor, no cutlery in sight. Here, hands do the job, and I have to say, I enjoy it.

Eating with your hands feels like being at one with the food — somehow the flavours come through more directly. Less washing up too.

The next day stretched long. Officials drifted in, but not until late morning, and greeted us, telling us they would be with us after they were done on a two-hour lunch break. We waited and had time, and it was now getting really boring, and anticipation was growing.

This was Afghanistan, and we wanted to get in and see it, so we wandered into the local village. I guess we shouldn’t have done so as we had no passport and no right of entry, but hey, what the hell.

In the village, not a woman in sight, but men in robes squatting in doorways, children hammering toys out of wood, meat swinging from hooks in the sun, flies everywhere. Charcoal smoke. Grease. And yes — the same kebabs we’d eaten the night before. It was like something out of the Bible, complete with a miracle: No food poisoning did we suffer. How?  What are the chances?

A street food seller looking out at the white guys.

When the officials finally returned, they invited us into their living room (office) and sat us down. One guy asked if we were married and how many children we had. He then proceeded to tell us he had 4 wives and 42 children and wants more.  I nodded politely, trying to imagine Christmas morning in their house.

Meeting a fellow traveller, but he had two armed guards with him, we had Kaiser, our guide?

They gave us Black tea in a flask, raisins in a dish, and pistachio nuts, shells flicked casually onto the floor for the “boy” to sweep away. The boy moved silently around them, tidying their mess — invisible to them, though he was acutely aware of every gesture they made.

The customs officials were eager to chat, guessing our nationality — America? Germany? — until we finally said England. Their eyes lit up, ah, England. Nice country, they said and then they took time to assure us they embraced all of humankind, treating everyone equally.

Words I think they thought to be true.

That’s when it clicked: these charming hosts were Taliban. And no, we didn’t argue. Would you? But despite everything we thought we knew of the Taliban, they greeted us with charm — a reminder that even the Taliban can play host or play us for fools.

Kunduz: Celebrity and Razor Wire

From the border, we rattled on to Kunduz with the Guide, Kaiser taking our middle seat in the truck. First stop: a hotel carpark wrapped in razor wire.

That night we walked into the local town to the bazaar. It was chaos, electric. Traders shouting, friends embracing, everyone pushing, shouting, selling. Every few metres, we were stopped by crowds. People surrounded us, grinning, demanding to know our names, our story. They mostly ignored Charlotte, speaking only to me, yet at the same time, she was the centre of attention — eyes following her everywhere. Celebrity and invisibility rolled into one.

Despite being apprehensive about potential security issues, we were literally being surrounded; it was magical. We definitely (definitely) got our Mojo back.

Market guys making Afghanistan ice cream.

Street kids darted between stalls, pushing barrows taller than themselves. Five years old, hauling a stranger’s cabbages for a few coins. No barrow, no job. At five years old, I was still struggling with Lego. Jokes aside, it is so sad to see, you know, these poor children will never go to school. You know they will never make anything of a life. I guess Allah doesn’t provide, then?

After some time, we decided to head back… we felt it was a little foolish to be out in the dark. 

Back at the compound, we shuffled past the security guard. All very welcoming — nothing says “sweet dreams” like razor wire and a man with an AK-47, and as we settled in for the night, we had a knock on our door: the hotel manager was outside, and he said, “There are Government officials who wish to see you.”

Without being invited, two stocky men in white robes appeared in our room.

The government is the Taliban, so Charlotte can now say she’s had the Taliban in her bedroom. You can’t make this up.  They wanted to know how they could improve the visa process, and as we had been delayed, did we have any complaints we wished to make?

Imagine that — customer feedback, Taliban style. We assured them we had no complaints. Can you imagine making a complaint against the Taliban in Afghanistan? Not on your nelly!

One of the guards, happy to show us his gun. Just wish I had moved our bag of washing before the photo was taken.

Lessons in Kabul

The road south led us to Kabul. Again, we had to stay in hotels for security, and this one, a fortress rather than a hotel: steel doors, guards with rifles on the outside, piped chill-out music on the inside.

Charlotte was taken behind a curtain and searched by a woman, whilst I was frisked and a metal detector ran over me. Inside, it felt like any Western chain hotel — plush carpets, buffets, plate glass windows and a pool.We didnt use the pool, it was men only.

The inside was a whole new world compared to the exterior. Very strange.

The faces of the Manakins are covered, in line with the Taliban rules, as all females should not show their faces, and these are party dresses. For wearing inside your home only.

 The hotel guards were ex-special forces who’d once served with British and American armies. Now they lived in fear, families threatened.

One guard showed me a letter he had sent to the Canadian government asking for asylum. His pleas after 2 years, unanswered.

He told me his wife and children received regular threats by the Taliban for his part in the war.

On the streets, Kabul was a smog of diesel fumes. By the day’s end, after walking these fascinating streets, our faces were black.

As we paraded through the streets, Crowds gathered around us as before. Everyone wanted to shake hands, welcome us. And yet — almost no women in sight. It was a strange experience.

All the time I was looking at the faces staring back at me, wondering if one of them was about to pull a gun or a knife on us. Quite sureal.

Selling plastic watering cans. For the bathroom and cleaning the important bits.

A highlight of Kabul was visiting the bookshop that inspired the book, The Bookseller of Kabul. A book I enjoyed reading many years ago.

The book shop, raided by the Taliban endlessly, closed, reopened, and again and again.

As stubborn as the country itself. We bought a few books, including The Bookseller of Kabul, the book itself, as a keepsake. Quite a surreal moment for me.

One evening, we dined at Ziyfat, Kabul’s fanciest restaurant. Immaculate food, women serving (a rarity), plates that could have graced a London table. And then a man strode in with his entourage, his minder cradling a machine gun. It was a reminder that even fine dining in Kabul comes with a side of firepower.

The book shop.

Education kept surfacing in many conversations I had with our guide, Kaiser.

He told me some girls could sometimes study past age twelve, secretly.

Kaiser found a school willing to allow us access, unbelievable. What an opportunity to see the other side.

We found that the place was understated. A scruffy building, part of a myriad of derelict offices and storage units, the surroundings filthy and yet a ray of hope.

Upstairs, as we entered the classroom area where we were greeted by the head teacher, who told me that because of a lack of teachers, they taught boys and girls together. He said, if the Taliban found out, they would be closed immediately.

The conversation was fascinating as he explained education is and yet isn't allowed for girls.

He told me there are also Illegal radio broadcasts from Europe; they shift frequencies when blocked, which is often, teaching maths and reading in defiance. Whilst underground networks pass books hand to hand until the covers fall apart.

We met some women, taking German lessons as that was the ticket out, a way to join husbands working abroad, if they could master the German language.

Resilience smuggled in through pages and airwaves.

The school teaches boys and girls.

For the most part, the Taliban treated us with friendliness — tea, handshakes, even smiles. But travelling across the country meant being stopped by armed guards again and again, documents scrutinised, the odd flash of attitude reminding us there was always an undertone beneath the politeness, and when the guards, dressed in civilian clothing and no ID, stopped us (frequently) and had an AK-47 draped around their shoulders, you do get a little nervous.  Their hospitality was genuine in the moment, yet never free of its shadow.

When they took power, the Taliban closed beauty salons, makeup shops, and anything that hinted at women having public lives. Parents were encouraged to marry off daughters early, though officials insisted “childhood” lasted until puberty.

Many women found ways around the rules — private salons tucked away in their homes, small rebellions hidden behind ordinary doors.

Our guide told us Khabul was quite progressive, and the Taliban even allowed some women to go out shopping alone. Imagine that!

Looking through a window at Meat is being sold with no refrigeration and 40° heat, we didn't eat much.

Borders and Beggars

Afghanistan revealed its most challenging aspects on the way out of the country. We saw Women sitting in the middle of the road begging, babies swaddled and laid on the tarmac as cars swerved past to try and get a few coins for food.

At the border, an official refused us exit: “You need a stamp he said.” And sent us off to Jalalabad, one-and-a-half hours away by taxi. The minister we saw there shrugged — no stamp required, he said.

Hours of phone calls later, we were told it was all fine without the stamp. Border logic at its finest.

Kaiser explained that the Taliban don’t function as a national government. Often, changes are made at the drop of a hat at a regional level, leaving huge problems on a national basis when the two collide.

By the time we got back to the border, the Pakistan gate was shut for the night. We had to sleep beside it, awaiting its opening in the morning, surrounded by street urchins tapping on the truck, looking for a handout out and who can blame them. Our worlds are so far apart. We are in our fancy truck, and they with no food to fill their bellies. There are too many to help, and if we feed them today, who feeds them tomorrow?

Would we do it again?

After an hour of chasing kids and adults away from our truck, I went to the Taliban guards. They moved us beside their guard post and appointed an armed sentry to sit by our wheels all night. It stopped the intruders, but the presence of an armed guard didn’t make for a cosy night’s sleep. The Taliban insisted it was for our safety; I wasn’t so sure.

Afghanistan was, strangely, a highlight of our journey — biblical and raw, like stepping back in time. We couldn’t ignore the suppression of women or the human-rights abuses, yet much of what we saw was warm, welcoming, even generous. It was thought-provoking in ways we’re still processing.

We were scared the entire time, but exhilarated too. Here was a country held back emotionally and financially by decades of conflict, fifty years of war etched into every face and building. In our view, it won’t recover any time soon; it lags a world behind the developed nations.

Would I recommend it as a destination? Perhaps only to the truly prepared — it is bizarre, beautiful, and brutal in equal measure, but never safe. For us, though, it was unforgettable.

Our favourite country so far, though, a place we would love to revisit sometime, maybe?

In case you’ve not seen these…

We didn’t have 1.25 million dollars in cash strangely?

The road out of Ethiopia turned into a mud bath of bribes, breakdowns, and flooded crossings. One minute it was dust and diesel, the next it was gangs, collapsed bridges and a demand for 1.25 million in “cash.” By the time we reached the border, Africa had stopped feeling like a map and started feeling like a trap.

Back in Saudi and heading for Iraq.

Tyres exploding at 120 kph, fuel bought from lads with AKs, and nights camped on dunes where no map dares show a road. Saudi was supposed to be a breeze — Iraq turned it into a shitstorm.

Iran.

Crossing into Iran, we expected hostility. What we found was smuggled vodka, quiet kindness, and engines running on fumes. The contradictions ran deeper than any desert track — and we were right in the middle of them.

Tajikistan - On the roof of the world.

“The mountains are calling, and I must go.” — John Muir

A Border Miracle

The Tajikistan border was simple compared to others. We completed the usual truck inspections and stamped the papers, and we were through. I wanted to ask the guards to take their boots off before entering our truck habitation box, to inspect for contraband, as we do, but thought better of it. We completed all the formalities in an hour, which has to be a record, as many borders take many hours of stamping papers, paying bills, and generally being delayed.

The Pamir Highway Beckons

Crossing into Tajikistan, the difference was immediate. The country is made up of ninety per cent mountains, the roads are corrugated, which shook us to bits, but we are used to that and driving that felt like a crawl because of the further broken roads to add to the corrugated stretches. But the air cooled, and with it came a sense of relief. After weeks of heat, our brains could finally start working again. Well, as much as they are able at our ages!

Roads are either broken or corrugated like a washboard.

The Pamir Highway is breathtaking — once part of the Silk Road, it still feels like the “roof of the world” — remote, exposed, and shaped by centuries of traders and travellers who passed this same way, long before diesel engines sputtered at altitude along its path.

The air cooled quickly. Life got easier; we could think again. Valleys opened, waterfalls cut across the road, rock faces closed in — brutal and beautiful at once. We felt our souls return.

Broken or corrugated roads in the mountains.

Life at Altitude

Back in the truck, reality struck: we hadn’t touched preventative maintenance in the heat, and the water filter was overdue for a clean. We have a simple candle-type filter that allegedly cleans all water of impurities apart from metals and makes any water fit for us to drink. That is, if you clean it regularly.

I opened it up to find the candle filter caked in brown sludge, and the housing was no better.

No wonder we’d been ill. If the sludge didn’t kill us, the smell might have. Another lesson learnt.

We climbed to 4,500 metres, and everything changed. I had a constant headache; Charlotte couldn’t lie down without gasping for breath.

Even our sealed plastic bottles of sauces and cleaning products, all expanded, one cleaning product blew its top and deposited the contents of some acidic fluid all over the worktops in the truck. Bought somewhere along the road and way too toxic to be sold in the Western world. It etched marks into our stone countertops, completely ruining them. Not the best of looks and a permanent reminder to take more care.

The truck suffered too. At that altitude, gas wouldn’t burn properly, so tea-making became a lengthy undertaking. Worse, the engine refused to start in the mornings. One night, we set alarms every three hours to fire it up, just to keep the diesel from solidifying.

At 4,500 metres, the truck took more convincing than I did to get moving.

Fresh food soon vanished and wasn't available to replenish, so pasta became our new best friend. After a week of improvising sauces, I reckon we’re Michelin-starred in pasta monotony.

Villages on the Edge

Filling the water tanks was a chore too; it meant pulling into villages where the only supply was hand-pumped water from a well. We watched a man ahead of us come from his home to draw two buckets of water for his family while our “swanky” overland truck sat behind him, leaving us feeling guilty at the contrast in our two worlds.

Cow dung was burned for heat because there was nothing else. Trees didn’t grow and survive at this altitude and with such harsh conditions. The local houses were made from bricks hand-formed out of mud and straw.

Life at 4,000+ metres was survival stripped bare.

Getting water is not easy when you can't turn on the tap.

At one roadside stop for diesel, I gestured clumsily to a husband-and-wife team holding their baby that we wanted diesel.

The wife first spoke Russian. I bellowed back that I only spoke English, and she replied, in perfect English: “How much diesel do you want?” We laughed, but when we chatted, obviously, the weather was on my mind, and the lady explained winters hit minus 50°C, the smile dropped. Their resilience dwarfed our struggles.

The diesel was initially pumped into a Jerry can from a large tank where they had stored the diesel.

They didn’t have electricity or a gauge to tell how much diesel we had, and so it was measured by the Jerry can, 20 litres at a time. That’s a lot of diesel when you want 300+ litres.

Filling with diesel, 20 litres at a time.

Parallel Worlds Along the Panj

Descending from the Pamirs, we drove for days along the Panj River. Afghanistan sat just across the water — so close we could see men in long gowns, women covered head to toe in 40°C heat, and children splashing in the river. The memory stuck. Parallel worlds, separated only by the river.

The Afghan side had calm domestic scenes; the Tajik side had army patrols, bunkers, and soldiers checking our papers.

One morning, at dawn, after we had camped by the river, looking into Afghanistan over the river, soldiers came to our truck, hammering on the door, demanding we open up. We got scared. What had we done wrong?

Their reason for the early morning visit, a warning for us, never to camp so close to the river again. They told us the Afghans were terrible people and that it wasn’t safe. They could come over the river in the darkness and do to us …….., the soldiers never did explain?

It felt the opposite — the families across the river looked more at peace than the soldiers who scowled at us from our own side.

We will never know the truth, I guess?

Looking over the river into the parallel world of Afghanistan.

Khaki Clad Tourists & Pushbike Heroes

The Pamir Highway is a magnet for travellers of all shapes and sizes. Cyclists pedalled past, barely acknowledging us, probably thinking we were mad for dragging a truck through their terrain, whilst we thought the same of them.

Convoys of westerners in 4x4s rattled by, dressed in safari khaki as if filming a wildlife documentary — though the only wildlife around was a few confused cows.

People do the strangest things.

We have had worse parkups.

A guard post on the Pemir highway.

We felt equally cynical about them as they likely felt about us. We are paddling our own canoe whilst others are driven at speed between luxury resorts and are fed on an array of western buffet food at night.

But the truth is, every traveller chooses their own hardship — be it pedals, aircon, or diesel alarms at 3 am.

Visitors are always welcome.

Villages and markets as we descended from the Pamir highway.

Perspective at Altitude

At 4,500 metres, everything expands — bottles, engines, tempers, even doubts about what we’re doing. But what expanded most was perspective. Watching villagers haul water, burning dung to stay warm, or children laughing in Afghanistan while soldiers scowled on our side of the river — it all pressed the same truth: the Pamirs test not just your truck or your lungs, but how you measure yourself against others who endure with far less.

Bring on the next challenge

From paperwork to Pastures: A hard lesson in the road ahead.

“Adventure is just bad planning.” — Roald Amundsen

Checkpoint Roulette

Kazakhstan’s vast schlep lay behind us; Kyrgyzstan lay ahead, another line on the map, but a different rhythm entirely.

Crossing from Kazakhstan into Kyrgyzstan should have been routine by now. Another border, more paperwork, another search of the truck. But this crossing set the tone: chaos, separation, and the sharp reminder that overlanding never gives you all the answers.

I drove the truck through the usual checks — Guards reviewed the papers for the truck and motorbike, my passport, and searched for contraband. Charlotte was forced through another path, and we agreed to meet on the other side of the border checkpoint. She didn’t complain—she rarely does.

When I finally cleared no man’s land and entered Kyrgyzstan, there was no sign of Charlotte. I had Starlink, which provided me with internet, but Charlotte had no money, water, or food with her (a rookie mistake, which won’t happen again). I asked a guard if he’d seen her; it wasn’t a difficult question. Probably the only white, blonde to pass that day. He didn’t speak English and grew aggressive and telling me to leave. I’m not sure why?

It took twenty minutes of weaving through the chaotic mess of the border area to reunite. The scene was mayhem: So many people milling around, selling SIM cards, hawking food, shouting, meat grilling on skewers, and lorries barging through crowds of people doing what I have no idea. I was panicking. Where was she? Where was Charlotte? Those twenty minutes felt like twenty hours. Every scenario ran through my mind, none of them good. We found each other eventually, but the episode left me repeating the truth we’d muttered before: we don’t know everything.

Calm Fields, Closed Doors

Reunited, we drove out into Kyrgyzstan’s calm. Green pastures opened up before us, dotted with lakes. Simply stunning scenery.

In the countryside, farmers worked fields by hand while shepherds steered flocks of goats, sheep, and cattle with lazy dogs of no real assistance.  And in this region, the faces told their own story. Tall white Russians, squat Mongolians, Chinese-looking locals. Quite an array of different looks.

Since leaving the Middle East, we hadn’t seen Black, Caribbean, or African travellers at all — none. Stereotype or not, it was how the landscape of people struck me. Fascinating.

In the cities, the contrast was sharp: wide boulevards, modern layouts, a sense of order. People were laid-back, not rushing like in the West. Traffic was light, the streets clean. It was a pleasure to be there.

Bringing home animal fodder.

Yet beneath the calm, new problems surfaced for us. After the India–Pakistan spat, the Wagah border was closed, cutting off the only direct land route into India for us. A real issue is that we can no longer cross from Pakistan to India.

Our fallback meant heading into China, then Tibet and Nepal — but first, I had to secure a Chinese visa. Charlotte could enter with her Danish passport. I could not. Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan’s capital, gave us the bad news: no visas issued there. Options were thin. London was two flights away. The only real choice was a direct four-hour hop to Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia. Sunday-to-Sunday flights. So I left Charlotte with the truck and headed for Mongolia.

After the chaos of the border crossing, the decision felt heavier. Neither of us liked the idea of being separated again, but there wasn’t another option.

A Week in Ulaanbaatar

Ulaanbaatar was a collision of worlds. Sleek malls and international restaurants sat just beyond farmland where families lived in yurts. Winters hit -40°, and you could see it etched in faces hardened by survival. Traffic, though, was worse than anywhere I’d seen. My apartment host said her office was two miles away, but in winter, too cold to walk — two hours by car each way instead.

I hired a car and drove to see the colossal Chinggis Khaan equestrian statue — truly mega.

Even better was stumbling into the national archery championships. A thousand archers competing, all in traditional dress. Bows and arrows are handmade in the old style. The targets lay flat on the ground; when the arrows struck their target, a puff of dust rose to signify a hit. The crowd chanted in rhythm, rising in pitch with every release, cresting when arrows did indeed hit. It wasn’t a spectacle for tourists — it was heritage. Archery is one of Mongolia’s “Three Manly Skills,” alongside wrestling and horsemanship, and you could feel the weight of tradition.

Mongolia’s beauty was stark, but bureaucracy was harsher. At the Chinese visa office, I queued from dawn, only to be shoved aside, told my forms were wrong, sent back, and made to repeat the process. Hours stretched into eight. I was the only Westerner in the building. I felt like the idiot who hadn’t read the rulebook to a game everyone else had mastered. It felt less like paperwork and more like being tested. Eventually, the visa was in hand, and I counted down the days until I could return. After a week of Netflix, long walks, and sweltering heat, I boarded the flight back. A two-hour drive, a four-hour flight, and a three-hour haul later, I was back with Charlotte, visa ready.

Stamped, Sealed, and Squeezed Dry

From Kyrgyzstan, the road pointed towards Turkmenistan — a country you cannot enter without a guide and a prearranged letter of invitation. At the border, we met a group of Japanese tourists clinging together, pushing through like their lives depended on it. The officials charged us for everything they could imagine, each fee scribbled in triplicate receipt books and stamped to prove its authenticity. Wheels dunked in foul-smelling water for “sanitisation” — $30. Apparently, disease only travels by tyre tread. Who knew? Total cost: nearly $600, paid in a blur of meaningless slips.

Our guide suggested lunch. We asked for local food, nothing touristy. The restaurant he chose was packed with the same Japanese group we had encountered at the border. Not a promising start to our visit.

The desert roads afterwards were brutal: corrugated, broken, and slow. Twelve hours of jolting and we still had a hundred kilometres left to the first “attraction.” Our truck crawled at ten kilometres an hour while cars sped ahead. At that point, I pulled the plug. We’d camp in the desert instead. The guide panicked — tourists weren’t supposed to improvise — but we insisted. The night sky was worth it: zero light pollution, silence, and freedom. No Japanese. Just us.

The sights in Turkmenistan form a loop that you drive before exiting the country. A kind of theme park, but with huge drives between attractions. Great for tour buses and plenty of opportunities to stop and spend a little more money on cheap tourist souvenirs.

Turkmenistan’s tightly controlled system — receipt stamps, tour-bus routes, itineraries set in stone — wasn’t built for travellers who wanted to stray. We left and headed back into Uzbekistan.

Romance Meets Reality

Uzbekistan had the Silk Road romance we’d expected, but the heat and the roads were punishing. The truck’s air system failed from the constant vibration. The air pipe fittings gave up. I had spare fittings, but the wrong size. After five breakdowns, crawling under the truck in 40° heat beside a blazing diesel engine, I managed a bodge repair with tie wraps that seemed to hold just for a short time. Each time it blew apart, I slid under that furnace of an engine. Sweat didn’t drip — it hissed. Finally, It held.

Our fridge and freezer overheated, and inside our living box area, the temperature rose to 45°. In desperation, we switched off the fridge and freezer and fed stray dogs and cats with the thawing contents. Even then, it was unbearable. Hotels became our refuge.

Khiva should have been enchanting — Silk Road architecture, caravanserai echoes. Instead, it was crowded with souvenir stalls, pony rides, camel rides, carnival tat. Samarkand felt the same. The romance was buried under kitsch. I was turning off from the country.

By Tashkent, fatigue had us in its grip. The city itself was wealthy, modern, pulsing. The garage where we repaired the air system and prop shaft was a Mercedes dealership. The metro gleamed. But we were worn down, ill from the heat, buying antibiotics over the counter, unable to keep up with truck maintenance. Dust caked everything. The journey had shifted into attrition.

Roadside, eating out was practically a national sport, and we indulged, too weary to cook, and no fridge freezer meant fresh food was scarce. Shashlik everywhere, served with bread and onions, costing only a couple of pounds. Competition was fierce, and we sought out the best-looking spots. Plov was the national dish: rice, meat, carrots, onions, and garlic.

Vendors selling watermelons crowded every kilometer, as many as twenty at a stretch.

From Tashkent, we rolled on to the Tajikistan border. Another country, another turn in the road ahead.

Lessons in “Bad Planning”

No matter how many borders we’ve crossed, or how many repairs we’ve cobbled together under punishing heat, travel keeps finding ways to remind us of its contradictions. Unwanted separations, endless bureaucracy, and expectations that fall flat — the Silk Road wrapped in carnival tat, a breakdown instead of a vista. But just as often, the chaos brings something unexpected: archers chanting in unison, a desert sky blazing with stars, a moment of calm after the storm. Travel keeps reminding us we can’t plan for everything, nor should we.