This could have been made in 1877 rather than 1977.  Alleyways seemed to have changed little with the passing of centuries – shops, workshops, stalls, and warehouses were crammed together in earth-brown buildings and sprawling markets were piled high with wares of every kind, tradesmen shouting and gesturing, the noise and smell of animals mingled with herbs, spices, fruit, vegetables, raw meat and all manner of other products for sale. 

The alleyways of Kabul were an eye opener for a teenager from England: shops, workshops, stalls, and warehouses were crammed together in earth-brown buildings and sprawling markets were piled high with wares of every kind.  Trades were clustered in the same area: this tailor was in ‘Sewing Street’, where you could get any clothes repaired or made from a row of similar establishments, small open fronted huts with a sewing machine, cloth optional (you could buy it elsewhere) and more Afghans than seemed capable of squeezing into the space.  It made it easy for the customer and competitive for the tradesmen, but didn’t seem to affect their cheerful demeanour and the ever present ‘hey Mister, come to my shop..’ followed by an offer of tea.

We headed northeast from Kabul into the provinces of Kunar and then Nuristan, the ‘land of light’, previously known as Kafiristan.   The foothills of the Hindu Kush appeared in the distance and the tarmacced road was replaced by what was generously described as a ‘stabilised gravel surface’, producing a bumpy ride.  So bumpy that our truck battery short circuited and caught fire, causing an impromptu stop.  Sitting beside the road while repairing the damage and having a cup of tea we were regularly passed by these ubiquitous Toyota Land Cruisers, the workhorses of the region, covering us in dust while their passengers clung on like limpets, making maximum use of all space.

We arrived in Bargematal, the village at the end of the road into Nuristan, on 17 July, the day of celebrations marking the overthrow of the Afghan monarchy in 1973.   Our ex-Army Bedford truck was apparently the largest vehicle to ever make it up the road, which explained our average speed of five miles an hour and that we’d destroyed three of our four spare tyres.  We were surrounded by crowds of Nuristanis who had travelled to the village for a day of competition and festivities: our arrival added extra interest and excitement to the noise, flag waving, music and smells of roasting food.  These children were watching the celebrations from a good vantage point as they could keep an eye on us and the sporting events.

The village of Bargematal was at the end of the road into Nuristan in northeast Afghanistan.  We arrived on a public holiday and were greeted by crowds of Nuristanis who had travelled for a day of competition and festivities including dancing, putting the shot (in fact a rock) and wrestling, the wiry Nuristanis excelling with their strength and technique, surrounded by the crowd in Chitrali hats.   We entered the competition: our champion was swiftly defeated but his  opponent, the judge and the spectators admired the spirit and it helped us be accepted by the community.  Russia invaded Afghanistan a year later and many of these villagers would have become mujahideen, making Nuristan almost impregnable for the next 40 years.