Ros Freeman travels across Afghanistan, from Kabul’s bustling markets to Bamyan’s empty Buddha niches and the turquoise lakes of Band-e Amir, discovering a country of extraordinary history, warm hospitality and daily life shaped by the Taliban.
All across the country, a dusty haze seemed to draw a veil over everything. Majestic mountains, historic wonders, trucks laden with pomegranates and a history that includes Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan and Timur: Afghanistan was not at all what I expected. It was so much more. And did I mention the world’s best-dressed men?
It’s generally a conversation killer to answer an enquiry about my next journey with “Afghanistan”. But here I was, one of a group of eight, travelling to far-flung corners of this remarkable country.
In the 1960s and ’70s, travelling between Europe and Australia by the overland route was popular. The so-called hippie trail threaded through Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, India, Nepal, Bangladesh and Thailand. But things change, and for decades Afghanistan was off everyone’s itinerary.
The country’s history has been turbulent. In recent years, war has seemed almost constant: the Anglo-Afghan wars, the Soviet invasion, civil wars and, in 2001, the US invasion. When the US withdrew in 2021, leaving the country in the hands of the Taliban, foreign tourists began to trickle back. There were 691 in 2021, rising to 10,000 in 2025. This year, the numbers have dropped because of the war in the Middle East.
My journey began at Dubai Airport. With flights to Islamic countries across Africa, Asia and the Middle East, people were dressed in all manner of Muslim clothing. But at Gate 20, the clothing became more exotic: children in vibrant colours, men wearing vests over their kurtas, scarves, turbans, sequined caps and Tajik caps. Their destination: Kabul.
On the plane, an Afghan man hesitated before sitting next to me. Seating is segregated, but there had been a mix-up. As we began chatting, I learned his brother lived in Sydney. I pointed out that every man on the flight had a beard. He indicated that the Taliban would beat you otherwise.
At Kabul’s duty-free shop there were energy drinks and chocolate biscuits. There is no alcohol in Afghanistan; caffeine and chocolate are as good as it gets.
As we approached our hotel, an armed security guard appeared with an extended mirror and carefully checked beneath the vehicle. I was ushered into a tiny curtained room and frisked. Within a few hours, I had experienced so much of Afghanistan: the gentleness and warmth of its people, and the high security of the Taliban.
There were eight of us, seven men and myself. Our first stop was to be outfitted appropriately. The men were measured for their garments; I bought an abaya off the rack to wear over my long dress. The sales assistant was a man and there were no fitting rooms. The abaya was for the more conservative parts of the country, but even my long-sleeved dress was not enough. I was told to cover up further because two small triangles of flesh showed. The triangles of shame!
Kabul is crazy and chaotic, like stepping back in time. Everyone seemed to be in traditional dress. Fresh-juice stalls sat beside rug shops and motorcycle repairs. Market stalls overflowed with fruit and vegetables. Apples were everywhere, as were grapes—which in Afghanistan means plenty of sultanas. Across the city, we heard the call to prayer.
The city is splashed with bedazzling wedding palaces. Weddings are a keystone of Afghan life. Thousands may be invited, with the groom and his family often taking out huge loans. Hopefully, the marriage lasts longer than the loan. Our guide, Omid, told us there were 800 guests at his wedding. Generally, women marry between 15 and 19, men between 22 and 26.
A visit to the Landmine Museum was sobering. Run by the Organization for Mine Clearance and Afghan Rehabilitation, the museum is also an educational centre. Redundant Russian helicopters have been repurposed as classrooms, with 70 children attending each day. We were told that 80 per cent of landmine casualties are children and 20 per cent elderly, and that 21 million unexploded mines remain. It was a powerful reminder of the challenges Afghanistan faces in rebuilding and keeping its people safe.
Leaving Kabul, we travelled west to Bamyan, home to the monumental statues carved directly into the cliffs around the sixth century. The three towering Buddhas stood as silent witnesses to centuries of changing empires and cultures. In March 2001, they were destroyed by the Taliban. All that remains are three empty niches and rubble stored in nearby sheds.
From Bamyan we drove to Band-e Amir. The freshwater lake was a stunning shade of turquoise—the Gold Coast of Afghanistan. Families and friends hired swan-shaped paddle boats. Except women. A guard nodded at me and sent me back to the bus. Instead, I wandered around the bazaar with our guide, Mustafa, where we met his friend’s family. It was a rare chance to speak with a woman. Hanifa spoke English well, worked at a call centre and had learned English from the internet. Later, when the Taliban guard had gone to lunch, Mustafa and I went up to the lake. Some Taliban are very misogynistic. Not all.
I was uncomfortably hot and thought it safe to remove my abaya inside the vehicle. No! Even my modest Kabul dress was deemed inappropriate. My ankles could be seen. I put on a pair of airline socks. I was just not cutting it. My scarf kept falling off, and even when it stayed on, my fringe was exposed. I would rather not have been so consumed with my appearance, but my frustration was a small price to pay for the privilege of being there. It was a tiny glimpse into the world of women in Afghanistan.
Conversations with women were a highlight. They welcomed me and sometimes invited me into their homes, but only when I was on my own, with no men about. They were warm and curious about my life, though we did not discuss the challenges they faced or the Taliban’s segregation rules. Apart from in the bazaar, it was rare to see women working. I saw no women drivers. Only men worked in the hotels, restaurants and shops.
We flew south to Kandahar, the Taliban’s de facto headquarters. The conservative city was clean, tidy and well laid out. Afghanistan’s second-largest city, it was founded by Alexander the Great in 330 BC. We were ushered into the Jihad Museum, dedicated to those who fought the US. During the US war, about 176,000 Afghans were killed directly. The number affected by loss of infrastructure, disease and malnutrition was estimated at about 150,000. Some 2,456 US soldiers and 41 Australians were killed.
By then, I was just getting the hang of wearing an abaya and scarf. Lunch posed another challenge: how to sit elegantly on the floor, keep my scarf in place and eat. Plates of Afghan staples arrived: lamb and chicken kebabs, naan, rice, beans, biryani and pulao, a rice dish with meat, carrot, sultanas, almonds and pistachios. There were also okra and dumplings. Curiously, knives were seldom provided. Instead, we spread bread with the handles of our spoons.
Afghan fruit is legendary. High altitude, fertile soil and hot, dry summers create perfect conditions. Fruit stalls overflowed with apples, melons, grapes and pomegranates. When Marco Polo first tasted Afghan fruit, he was rapturous. So were we.
Kabul may be the commercial centre, Kandahar the religious core, but Herat is the cultural heart of the country. Up on the hill, Herat Citadel looked resplendent against the blue sky, its golden bricks and geometric shapes casting deep shadows. It was founded by Alexander the Great.
The Great Mosque of Herat was majestic, its aqua and dark-blue tiles sparkling in the sunshine. Below it, tile-makers toiled. They were a friendly bunch. One showed me photos of his beautiful paintings, which he could no longer sell and could only display at home. Another showed me a photo of himself as a young, unbearded man. He indicated, with a finger drawn across his throat, what would happen if he did not have a beard these days. Later, though, we saw a number of men without beards. The bazaar held other surprises: groups of women painting crockery, doing calligraphy and carving tiny boxes. It was heartening to see so many enjoying something they loved.
Our group was a well-travelled bunch from six different countries, each with stories to tell. Our leader, Alistair, was a Scotsman living in Cuba who, as a side gig, took dance troupes from Cuba and Colombia on tour. Mild-mannered Anton’s UN career had taken him through five civil wars and one earthquake. He had once hitch-hiked from Peru to New York. Andrew had cycled from South Africa to Berlin. Helio, who lived in a favela in Rio de Janeiro, confessed he had not told his family he was going to Afghanistan. He said he was going to the US. Someone else had told their family they were going to Pakistan.
What we shared was a passion for adventure, ceaseless curiosity and a philosophical attitude to life. I often say it is more likely you’ll fall in the bathtub than be attacked by a terrorist. On our last evening in Afghanistan, that almost came to pass when Brendan got locked in the bathroom. His calls went unanswered, so he broke a hole in the door to get out. He never imagined that this would be the most challenging situation he faced in Afghanistan.
Once again, we left Kabul, this time driving north to Mazar-i-Sharif. Our 420-kilometre journey took us past road construction and through the desolate landscapes of the Hindu Kush. Thousands of trucks bound for Uzbekistan queued for nightfall; only small vehicles use the road during the day. We traversed the Salang Pass, at 3,878 metres, through tunnels built during the Soviet era. Beyond the pass, desert gave way to valley and rice paddies. The agriculture was remarkable. The land looked dry and barren, but water was plentiful. Tiny mosques dotted the roadsides.
A week into the trip, I thought I had finally mastered my Muslim clothing. I emerged from a squat toilet, arranged my scarf and gathered my dress and abaya, only to see Mustafa frantically waving at me. My dress had caught in my knickers, exposing my calves. Scandalous.
Thirteen hours after setting out, we arrived at Mazar-i-Sharif and a very strange hotel. My room had a diamante-studded bedhead, 40 ceiling lights—13 of them flickering—a lumpy mattress with protruding springs, a lime-green wardrobe and a patterned carpet where you could lose your shoes and never find them again. Afghanistan is famous for many things, but its hospitality industry could do with some tweaking. Some hotels provided no towels, soap or sometimes even water. We were an easy-going bunch, though, as long as the air-conditioning worked.
The Blue Mosque is one of the reputed burial places of Ali ibn Abi Talib, cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet Muhammad. Brilliant turquoise and lapis lazuli tiles covered the mosque, while hundreds of white doves fluttered overhead. Yet it was not the mosque or the doves that entranced many people. It was Brendan and me. We were repeatedly asked for photographs, shook hands with many and greeted many more. We discovered how exhausting being a celebrity would be. Thank heavens for obscurity.
We were in Afghanistan for only two weeks, yet it felt longer. We became immersed in the culture, history, food and clothing. Wherever we went, we were not merely observers; we became part of the scene. Children flocked to us, men shuffled up, and somehow, with a smile and a few words of the local language, there was bonhomie.
With the Taliban in power, only a handful of embassies remain in Afghanistan, including those of China, Pakistan, India, Japan, Russia and Turkey. There is no US embassy, but Coca-Cola has a bottling plant in Kabul. There is no British embassy, but cricket is Afghanistan’s most popular sport. Without broad international recognition, trade suffers and aid is reduced to a pittance. Yet the Taliban continue to do things their way. The country’s economy depends on mining, agriculture and exports to neighbouring countries, as well as rugs.
Beyond the headlines, Afghanistan is a fascinating country, rich in culture, historical wonders, rugged landscapes and warm, welcoming people. We were all sad to leave. It had made a special place in all our hearts.
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Disguised as a mild-mannered corporate employee, Ros lives a secret life as a world traveller and adventurer amassing a count of more than 150 UN-recognised countries. |
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