Lost Photographs

I think that much of my experience here in Afghanistan will consist of lost photographs. I don't mean the ones I've taken, those can be seen here. I'm talking about all of those moments which could have been a perfect National Geographic picture, if only I'd been able to stop. If only I'd been able to get out of the truck as the image flew by. Like the girl standing on a mud wall, the desert contrasting with her purple dress and too-old eyes. Or the camel standing on the side of a hill doing a passable impression of an oak tree. The village nestled in a canyon with desert all around, but full of trees and water, looking much the same as it must have one thousand years ago. The narrow dirt trail, almost impassable for our trucks, with the musky scent of cannabis coming from acres and acres of fields on either side. The little kids waving-little kids always wave-while their more circumspect fathers and older brothers regard us cautiously, but not with real hostility. Beautiful young girls who will soon disappear into chadderi. The curious detritus of old wars, crumbling mud castles next to burned out T-55 tanks and BRDMs. Tunnels that the Germans dug in their precise, inexorable fashion through the Hindu Kush. There are many more, of course, but these are the ones I remember. The thing about this country is that we can be driving through absolute desolation, and then within a kilometer the most incredible scenes unfold in front of us. At the end of the day we return to what passes for civilization out here, and I almost wish I were still out there, camera in hand.