“My name is Afzel,” our guide said as we left Mohammad’s.
He turned his head to take a quick look at us in the back seat, then added, “Don’t worry. I have done this many times, and as you can see, I am still here.” Another young man in gebi and pakol sat next to Afzel, but didn’t speak. Afzel did not introduce him. The Toyota headed towards Pakistan. We passed the park by the Kabul Airport where Abbas and I had begun our escape. All that effort to arrive back at our starting point, I thought. An hour later, we turned onto a dirt road across which small streams ran, runoff from irrigated fields. After a long drive through farmland and orchards on rough dirt roads, our driver pulled over. “Get out,” Afzel said, opening the door. He got out as well, and we found ourselves standing by several small buildings containing bins overflowing with oranges, lemons, melons, and nuts. Farmers dropped off their produce to be stored here before it was transported to Jalalabad and Kabul. But there were no farmers now. I was startled by the sound of our blue Toyota spraying dirt and gravel as it sped…
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