The wall

We did “the wall”. At five AM we boarded the International School bus – picnic in the air despite the early hour. At six thirty we were on top of Sher Darwaza - enjoying the sunrise 400 metres above Kabul.

Centuries ago two powerful brothers decided to parcel up the city - agreed to disagree over some family matter – and constructed this immense barrier of stone dividing some very inhospitable mountainside. More than 200 labourers are rumoured to be buried in “the wall” - condemned for spilling the mud or stone they were transporting up the steep slopes.

I fear landmines – having been well indoctrinated about “keeping to the well trod path”. There are still two live mines for each of the Afghanistan's 30 million citizens. I also confront vertigo – always an issue for me on steep ground. Eyes on the track Peter – but occasionally I stop, ensure solid footing, and gaze out over the city. Three point five million and growing rapidly – testimony to both the entrepreneurial confidence of the wealthy, and the failure to develop livelihood opportunities outside of Kabul.

Wish me luck. Today I’m shopping for a rebob – the ubiquitous central Asian string instrument renowned for its sharp rapid melodies and energetic complement to the tabla. Everywhere I’ve lived music has proven a reliable door into local culture and society. And, like dressing “comme mujihadeen”, pickin with some of the locals may help make me less conspicuous – we are secure inversely proportional to our visibility.