Kabul to Herat - Through the Dirty South

....after a small recovery and a couple of false alarms about the Pakistani border being open, we made a final decision to cross the country towards Iran through the dirty south. It wasn't what we wanted, but nobody could predict when the two siblings stop fighting.
So we rode down the Ring Road: Ghazni, Kandahar, into the empty lands, deep through the heartland of the Taliban. Here, few foreigners want to go and hence people are not used to power rangers on two wheeled rockets, as we noticed on the gathering and staring of the local population. While riding, several near-death experiences occur, as drivers look and film while passing by too close, with the typical "wwwwhatis THIS!?" hand spin (if you know, you know). When stopping to figure out a restaurant or hotel, not a minute passed by until eight, twelve, twenty or more people surrounded us, staring at us with open mouths. Occasionally, one English speaker would act as a mediator; in other times, intimidated locals would just call the Taliban on us, expecting then a reward for snitching. Really nice guys.
The authorities, in turn, would randomly look for us in a kebab shop to ask for our passports, or knock on our hotel door late at night to confirm that we are safe. A noble but annoying gesture, especially when equipped with Kalashnikov and no English.
In Kandahar we bump into familiar faces: our Catalan/Australian friends, who look also weary from the grind of this world. With relief we hug and spend the evening debriefing on the experiences.
Delaram, Farah Rud, from the desert to the hills. We sleep in stinky hotels and cheap chaikhanas, kilometers, kilometers, checkpoints and road side interrogations in the darkness, just ride, just arrive... Until the road turns north again toward Herat. Suddenly, the dream would switch, and the air is clean and the ride is good. We stop for a snack, and people are curious but not encapsulating us. Soldiers at checkpoints just do their job with a simple smile, or don't even stop us, until we reach Herat. The Persian influenced city has another, an endearing character - but by then, the weight of the past days is already heavy on our shoulders.

No cozyness, no charme in the south. Time to get out of here.

On the vibing, loud bazar, we find a hidden heaven where two girls give us peace with their intricate painting, and we get a piece of art. After months of riding like a clochard, Murghob gets a new seat cover and looks faster than ever. Two hours later, we are at the border with Iran - without having fully processed this one, we're ready to open a new chapter.Leggi altro