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my best efforts to meet him been frustrated, despite snea Central Asian countries and one war zone (see Part One: Trespassing Tajikistan and Part Two: Riding the Rails in the last two issues). A few months later, I returned to Afghanista n. This time I intended to Taliban's southern front lines to reach Massoud's mountaintop fortress in north. But you can't just walk across Afghanistan's front lines. I was told that the people who are allowed to cross the front lines are de-miners or the Red Cross. order to get into northern Afghanistan, I'd have to learn about land mines and a lot of friends. My plan was to meet with the UN and various other de-mining agencies in Kabul and arrange a trip up north. I had a hastily-xeroxed visa from the Northern Alliance in London, issued personally by Shah Ahmed Massoud's younger brother, a hated enemy of the Taliban. Not exactly the best kind of visa with which to ente liban-held country. ON THE ROAD TO AFGHANISTAN The trip through the Khyber Pass that lies between the Hindu Kush and Pakistan i scenic and historic. This is the gateway to India. This is where Alexander's army decimated and where the British were slaughtered as they fled Kabul. It is now a main drug trade area and pales in comparison to the dramatic tank-strewn Kabul Go that lies ahead. On the border at Torkham the flow of dirty children from Afghanistan carrying burlap bags full of scrap turns into a flood. They dodge and weave between the tall Pakistani border guards who stand like brown-sweatered telephone poles. I sit pol itely while the Pakistani immigration clerk laboriously writes me in the book of the dead, then stroll casually through the crowd to the bo ing the officials won't look too closely at my visa. The Afghan side is guarded by two pimply-faced Taliban, not much older than the hit with their metal whips. Their small whips are made of chain wrapped red electrical tape. Sort of like fly whisks for humans. One of the smiling Tali smacks an urchin or two while asking me what I want. I smile and the direction of the gunfire and they wave me through. I change a small amount of money from Pakistani rupees to Afghanis ive a wad of bills the size of a brick. I am in luck: there is exactly one dented taxi Despite the Toyota's museum-like age, the cab is fairly comfortable. After ng on $25 for what will be a lO-hour trip, the driver happily shoves my pack k full of grease, water and spilled diesel and gives me the thumbs up. At I a driver who has both his eyes and all his fingers. Now all we need to do is Kabul before curfew. scenery from Torkham to lalalabad is spectacular. Snow-clad mountains contra reen hill s. Brightly dressed Kuchi nomads, lumbering camel caravans and Iy overloaded buses interrupt the valley scenery. But I am in pain because I been warned to pack away my cameras in preparation for a full Taliban pection. The Taliban control the road into Kabul and their ultra-orthodox vP,·,ir,n •• :.: Islam forbids taking pictures. If they find a camera they will not only smash it but the person who owns it. I decide to leave my Leica sloshing in the brown depths the trunk. The checkpoints are tense. They are decorated with streamers of tapes, pi les of scrap and electrical wiring and bits of tanks. They are usually by a handful of slack-jawed child fighters with weapons scattered all around. e driver is careful to hide his yiddly yaddly Afghan tape and look as pious possible. The chipped anti-aircraft rifles pointed at us aid our cheerful de Lucki ly, the Talibs inspect our vehicle by sticking their heads through our rolled-down ows. Like a low-budget celebrity, I just smile and wave. I have finally made it into we climb out of the Kabul Gorge, I can't stand it anymore: I see a picture I must The sun is setting, the hi lls are ringed by snow-capped mountains and, out on rolling fields, a bombed-out Russian T-55 tank is framed perfectly in the reground. Plus, I have to take a leak. As I jump out with my camera and start to take pictures, who should roll up but a convoy of heavily-armed Taliban fighters heading off to the front in gaudy double cab Toyota Hiluxes. The back bed of the chrome-roll-barred truck seats six but actual number of Talibs inside the cab is hidden by the black, tinted windows. The trucks screech to a stop, a black window zips down three inches and a rough-hewn fighter asks me-in that classic intonation that needs no tran';la1[IOI1-·_ the hell I'm doing. When in doubt, kiss ass. I point to the destroyed Northern Alliance tank and give them a thumbs up n. They laugh, roll up the window and roar away. As they disappear, I sudden I er what would have happened if it had been one of their destroyed tanks. We don't get into get into Kabul until dark, long after curfew.