The View From the Backseat

An endless dun colored panorama drifts by my window as we drive down the rutted track that passes for a highway here in Afghanistan. Khaki-colored hills dusted with tufts of green vegetation roll to the horizon. There, mountains spring forth from the ochre earth, range after range, each higher than the last, fading bit by bit to a shade just lighter than the dusty air. At times, the haze is such that only the tips of the mountains are visible, seemingly painted on the backdrop of the heavens. Black rounded shapes mark the location of nomad encampments, their flocks of goats darker spots on the hills. Now and then, sudden bursts of vibrant green denote the passing of oases and irrigation ditches. Clusters of rounded adobe huts mark the small villages that are sprinkled far across the landscape.

As we pass through villages, tiny bursts of color stream forth to line the roads, children, waving at the large strange men that have come to their country. They wave, shout, and dance as we approach. My heart leaps to see such joy and life in a land so harsh. They will talk of us, in later days. ‘Those strangers, those Americans, I remember when they came through our village.’ We smile and wave in return, if we stop, we bring candy, small toys and balls for them. Some of them may not remember us fondly, but most treat our presence with the joy of a child for something different than the routine of daily life.

The boys dress like miniature adult males, the long tunic and trousers that the Americans have nicknamed man-jamas. The girls are what stand out. When little they dress in bright vibrant colors, blues and pinks and greens. Brightly colored shawls cover their hair. Bright eyes and brighter smiles peek out from below. Before long, they will be covered in the ubiquitous blue burkhas or black cloaks that cover them from head-to-toe.

The children are the sights that I will most treasure from this year, and in my memory I shall always see them smiling back at me, in the back seat.