I came to Afghanistan to cover the first-ever democratic elections with an American documentary film team. In the weeks leading to the Afghan elections the Taliban vowed bombings and kidnappings. However, the only excitement over the month of campaigning and Election Day was that from the Afghan people rallying for their candidates.

    With a week left before I was to leave Afghanistan, I had planned a 3-day trek to Bamiyan with my colleague, John Monte, a cameraman. Kabul had become a fortress city where dwellings were not called homes or offices, but compounds with 2 to 3 guards holding AK-47s. There was a slight tension in the air. International security forces, ISAF, rumbled through the city in armored personnel carriers and Humvees swinging 70 caliber machine guns. And there was a constant buzz of Apache attack helicopters above.

    Only a few days before I was to leave on my trip, a week after the elections, the Taliban broke their silence. A suicide bomb ripped through Chicken Street, a shopping area famous for rugs and frequented by westerners. Two blocks from where I was staying, John and I walked over (We learned later that a common tactic is to attract a crowd with the first bomb so the second one can inflict mass casualties).

    At the scene we were told that a man with 6 grenades strapped to him started tossing his arsenal at ISAF soldiers. Beside himself, he killed 3, including a little girl begging on the street, and wounded 7. The carnage laid on the ground. In the days following the bombing, a soldier was shot in the park next to my guesthouse in Sharhe-Now, and a UN worker was critically wounded in a drive-by shooting. All UN and humanitarian workers in Kabul were locked down, forbidden to leave their compounds.

    After five weeks running all over Kabul I was burned out, and in serious need of a vacation. I needed to see another side of Afghanistan besides the chaos and dust of the city, and the latest incidents only added to this desire. John, who had traveled to Afghanistan two years earlier in 2002, kept telling me how there is an addictive charm to the country. I still hadn’t come to this conclusion.

    Bamiyan — the place where the Taliban destroyed the Buddhas — was a 10 hr. drive on brain bruising dirt roads that gave your neck permanent whiplash— but it is said to be some of the most beautiful country. We rented a 4 wheel drive van and hired a driver who we thought spoke English (but actually only knew the word “yes”) for $350, and we began our sightseeing tour.

    The only souls in the mountain passes, altitudes for which we could only find on Russian maps, were farmers on donkeys herding their sheep. In a barren country, this terrain sees snow-capped peaks rise from lush river valleys. Women in bright colored head scarves and men in turbans wrapped around their faces to protect from the harsh elements, separate wheat from its stalk. I was told these are the descendents of Genghis Khan, the Hazara people, and their elegant facial features look Mongolian. I felt I had traveled back 4 or 5 centuries in time.

    As men tossed the wheat in the air with wood shovels John and I filmed and took pictures. They could not believe the digital camera. Little laughs bellowed out as they looked at their image (maybe for the first time). Their look of surprise was priceless as they called their friends over to have a look—others started posing for the photo shoot. Women in burqas quickly scooted by, avoiding the cameras altogether.

    The Taliban’s destruction of the giant Buddhas is truly a shame. These enormous sculptures were carved between 400AD and 600AD and overlook the village of Bamiyan. Although they are now big holes, one still feels their immense presence. As Jake Sutton, a well-known cameraman in Afghanistan said, “they couldn’t have picked a more perfect place to overlook for eternity.” All around the Buddhas are caves etched into the side of the shear mountain where monks lived back the day, and now, many Afghans inhabit. There are ancient murals, caverns, stairs, and tunnels all throughout the mountain, reminiscent of Anasazi Native Americans in New Mexico. A UNESCO archeologist surveying the site said the plan is to preserve the Buddhas as they now stand.

    We found lodging for two nights at the UN guesthouse. Although our host had to leave on an urgent mission for the UN into another province, Afghans at the compound lined us up with sleeping accommodations and food. It was $10 a night per person. We ate the normal Afghan cuisine of rice, beans, a sauce with lamb chunks, and flat bread (Nan). Being the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, from Sun up to Sun down, no one ate, drank, or smoked. John covertly puffed his cigarettes, and I ducked down in the car to munch Pringles. Even our driver, Musa, who is a Muslim, snuck a cigarette. I think these indulgences are allowed when you travel, although the Afghan Supreme Court is trying to pass a law forbidding foreigners to eat in front of Afghans during Ramadan.

    Our 4-wheel drive trip continued to Band-i-Amir, another 3 hours, where pristine deep blue lakes are set in mountains shaped like the Grand Canyon. Losing our way (we were in the middle of nowhere), we asked a little boy with a huge dog for directions. He immediately dropped his large Afghan dog’s leash, and joined us in our trek. Who knows what happened to his dog in those rolling hills, but the kid, probably 11 years old, led our way for another hour unconcerned. We ended up leaving the kid at the lakes—I have no idea about his family, but he wanted to stay.

    The lakes were amazing. They were so aqua blue and clear you could throw a rock, and watch it hit the bottom. We hired a boat for $20 that took us across to three different lakes, one more beautiful than the first. I wondered how I happened to be standing in the middle of Afghanistan, staring at such breath taking views. In this secluded place there was no one, and only our loud echoes off the sand stone peaks disturbed the solitude.

    Leaving the lakes we passed several men riding donkeys. I am starting to think Afghanistan has been built partly, if not mostly, on the back of the donkey. Especially in this part of the country, they stack donkeys 6 feet tall with hulls of grain, wood, and people. Since arriving I had the urge to ride one.

    On our way back from Band-i-Amir we stopped to film some farmers herding sheep. I was slowly becoming a master at the one word translation with my Dari handbook (I needed a whole lot of hand gestures and some funny hops), but these farmers understood I wanted take a donkey ride. With huge toothless smiles, the farmers led the way to their donkey out in the field. Our driver gestured to me not to go because of landmines, but I figured the grazing sheep were pretty good guinea pigs.

    The tame little donkey stood there as I jumped on its back. John warned me it might buck, or race off with me. I gave it a kick. It put its ears back, and stood there. Another kick, and another. I started slapping its ass. With deep chuckles, the farmers started kicking it. Even my driver ran over and started pushing it. It stood there. Ten minutes and the damn ass wouldn’t move.

    We began the long trip back home, passing Soviet tank ruins, on our way to Kabul. It is interesting to see the faces change, from Hasara to Pashtun. It’s also interesting to notice how the bright smiles can change to dark stares. Afghanistan has many ethnic regions, and depending on the area, safety levels vary. The US military conducts operations throughout the country, and in a mountain valley we passed a 10 Humvee convoy of American troops fully geared and out on patrol.

    Admittedly my personal safety crossed my mind, as my western appearance was the source of a variety of stares. An hour outside of Kabul we heard on the car radio that three western UN election workers were taken hostage in the middle of a Kabul traffic jam in broad daylight. The BBC report said their images showed up in a fuzzy video on Al Jazeera. We drove through three check points on our way into the city as the Afghan National Army poked their heads into our van.

    With car horns honking, traffic jerking in and out, we moved into Kabul’s hectic flow. It is said that one day in Afghanistan, is like three days anywhere else—it is exhausting. I don’t believe I could have appreciated the beauty of this transitional democratic country if I hadn’t ventured outside the compound walls of Kabul. The chaotic side of Kabul can drive you nuts. But the infectious humor and endearing smiles of the people I met, and their hopeful outlooks for the future, pulled me in. After six weeks, despite the problems of the Taliban, warlords, poppies [the source of heroin production], and massive reconstruction facing Afghanistan, I boarded my plane wanting to return. I now have the mysterious addiction John calls, the Afghan bug.