The main route for overlanders was Herat - Kandahar - Kabul, or vice versa. Both the Russians and the Americans had built the roads. On the Russian section they had built a gray concrete hotel complete with swimming pool, but it had no water. It was used as a bus stop for passengers to get tea - no one actually stayed.  Mostly, the buses stopped at a "chaikana" or teahouse. I remember being on a bus with some Americans whose request for Coca-Cola was met with much derision. One girl asked, "Where is the toilet?" and was taken into the chaikana and shown a door. She went through it find herself in the desert. She asked again, "Where is the toilet?" The owner of the chaikana waved his hand at the vast expanse of desert and replied, "The whole world is a toilet!."

There was a certain etiquette observed in chaikanas. A customer would be bought an enamel pot of very hot tea and some glasses, usually not too clean, and the customer's first duty was to rinse glasses out with hot tea. I was to meet some interesting people in chaikanas.  I got talking to an American girl who told me that she and her husband and her two kids had been travelling for six months.

Changing money was a novel experience. Afghanistan (then) was the only place I have been to where the "black market" rate was actually lower than the bank rate. After India, where people constantly pulled at my sleeve muttering, "Change money, change money?" this was a surprise.

The reason for this was simple. To change money in a bank took a long time, with a lot of paperwork and running around, and ther is always a bank charge.

The process took so long that most travelers were prepared to accept less than the going bank rate by changing money on the street, just to get it over with. The last visit I'd made to Afghanistan was in early 1976, just a few months before the first military coup, which subsequently led to the Russian invasion.

I had traveled north from Karachi to Quetta in order to cross the border into Afghanistan over the Khojak Pass.

I arrived too late to cross and was forced to spend the night in a little hut near the border post. I froze that night and was up bright and early next morning. I had my passport stamped and, as there was no transport for another three hours, I walked five miles across the pass in the snow. It was very cold but there was bright sunshine. After negotiating the Afghan side of the border, it was on to Kandahar by bus

When I arrived, the usual hotels' touts met the bus and one guy came up to me saying "Welcome back - how's your leg?" I realized that I had stayed at this guy's hotel four years ago when I had twisted my knee. How he remembered me I'll never know.

After a day in Kandahar it was off to Kabul and "Chicken St" - the hangout for travelers. There were few foreigners there as it was winter and not too many wanted to brave the cold. After a couple of days, I went north to Mazar-i-Sharif. The route was through the Salang Pass and it was very cold on the bus, even with heater on.

I met three Americans and we took a room in the "hotel" when we arrived. A quilted blanket across the doorway was more efficient than a door, when it came to keeping in the pitiful amount of heat our stove radiated, and firewood was scarce and expensive.

We managed to survive the night mostly due to our choice of sleeping bags.

Next day, we wandered through town to "see the sights". There were many shops with signs in Russian Cyrillic script, which was not really surprising, as we were not too far from the Russian border. As throughout much of Afghanistan, the plight of women could be plainly seen

The practice of covering a woman from head to toe is Islam at it's extreme. The purpose serves to shield the women from the envious. Only close family members are allowed to see a woman unveiled at home.

Another rather sartling feature of Afghanistan street life are the hashish store vendors.  By chance, we heard that there was a buzkashi game that afternoon, so we all decided to go. I had heard of the game but, as it was played almost exclusively in the north, few travelers had actually seen it.

After some detours we eventually arrived after the game had started but managed to get a good position on top of a low bank - some good-natured pushing and shoving, plus our status as farang was a help. As the horsemen thundered by we managed to take quite a few photos and thought it would be a good idea to get some shots from ground level.

Not long after we jumped down off the bank the horsemen came back and milled around us. I shut my eyes and hoped that we would not be trampled but the horsemen were expert and charged off into the crowd. People ran in all directions and the horsemen eventually went back to the field without anyone getting hurt.

It was probably the most exiting sporting event I have ever been to - and had almost been a part of.  After the game we refused to pay what the "bandit" asked and eventually were given a lift with the military in their jeep. I was to part Company with the Americans and head for the heat of India. Sadly, the film of the buzkashi was later lost and only my memories remain.