The Devil's Road To Kathmandu

THE GATE AT THE END OF THE WORLD “This is it, guys. Bin your roaches, button your filthy shirts and wear your most respectable smiles. We’re only here for the views. We’re tourists, the first this year.” With a hard turn, Dan drove the battered old Bedford bus off the main road and stopped beneath an austere, solitary gate in the desolate Hindu Kush foothills. He was exhausted. The drive from Peshawar had taken longer than expected. He knew the road; they had already passed here on the way from Kabul. But the Bedford hadn’t really pulled today. The engine had responded sluggishly to his demands, even though they carried no more weight than usual. He wanted a break from driving. Not yet. Beyond the gate, the landscape, shorn largely of vegetation, stony, dusty, with patches of tough grasses, spread beneath a monochromatic gunmetal sky. Dan thought it absolutely hopeless, abandoned to the point of unearthly beauty. It was hot as hell. He didn’t mind. They were used to it. Being alone was all these hills were capable of. Glancing into the rear-view mirror, he caught his thin, wasted and sunburned face, crowned by black curly hair, black bags like small, crumpled bin-liners under his dark eyes, rough stubble, the razor several days overdue. Here and there, family homes, surrounded by high, solid mud and brick walls, sat in the dust like withered crumbling castles overlooking a worthless, tired realm. There wasn’t another soul in sight. The Agency guard, a tall man with weathered olive skin, blondish unkempt hair and piercing blue eyes, was as stylishly handsome as darkness itself. Dressed in dark blue paramilitary fatigues, a Kalashnikov slung casually across his broad shoulders, he looked dangerous. He shot Dan a black stare and waved the bus through the checkpoint. “Are they Pathan here, like?” Fred’s voice was a tad hoarse. Tim slapped him on the back and answered for all of them, “Yeah. Pathan, Baluchi, Afghani, what the f**k does it matter? We’re in one of the truly free places in the world, mate. Don’t worry Fred, it‘ll all be okay, we’re outside government control now.” Fred didn’t appear convinced. “God, I’m far too straight for this reality flash. Better grab a couple of pills.” Tim laughed, “I reckon the heavy in blue waved us through because we’re welcome and look so non-threatening. Otherwise we would’ve been turned away. As long as we don’t piss them off, we can do what we want here, buy what we need and get the f**k out again by nightfall. So, chill. It’s all in the script, man.” “Then why the f**k did you buy a gun in Kabul? If they see it, these guys will wipe us off this wasteland so fast no one would get here in time to count the bones, man.” Dan hit the brakes hard as the bullet whizzed past the driver’s window, narrowly missing the already cracked mirror. Fred and Thierry dropped to the deck of the Bedford. Tim slid deep into the seat next to Dan, dropping the map and a half-rolled joint onto the floor, saying nothing more. In the rear-view mirror, the guardsman slowly and deliberately re-shouldered his gun and stepped cautiously towards them through dust raised by the abrupt braking of the Bedford. “Is this in the script?” Dan mumbled to his co-pilot. He felt his hands slide off the steering wheel. Liquid fear, another word for sick sweat, flushed out of his pores and slicked his skin. “You’ve sunglasses? Give me sunglasses?” Dan did his best to look composed as he leaned out the window, his eyes immediately filling with the miniature sandstorm their abrupt halt had generated. “Salaam aleikum!” he shouted brightly. The guardsman answered, surprised, “Wa aleikum salaam, you are Muslim?” “No, English. But good friends of Muslims.” The man spat onto the ground before addressing Dan and Tim. “You have gun? No gun, no rifle allowed inside Agency. I look the bus.” He motioned for Dan to open the driver’s window further. “You have sunglasses?” Thierry threw his battered, steel-frame shades onto Dan’s lap as the door swung open. “Ah,” was all the man said, grabbing the sunglasses and stepping back from the vehicle to scan the travelers for signs of imminent resistance. “You go. Market is five kilometer. Stay on main road. Go, go. Ask Mr. Khan. Welcome, welcome.” He waved them away, turning back towards his post beside the gate. Dan shouted “Salaam,” as he pulled away briskly towards the featureless hills. “What do you think he’ll do when he finds out that they’re Thierry’s prescription specs, like? He’ll go completely off his f*****g head if he wears them for more than two minutes.” Fred’s anxious comment elicited no response. Thierry pulled himself up on one of the seats behind Dan and smiled sardonically. “That was in your script, mon ami?”