Return to Kabul

Returning to Afghanistan: Riding with the Sultans of Kabul

As I crossed the border from Tajikistan, past desolate, abandoned coalition force buildings, a visceral fear churned in my stomach. What was I doing returning to Afghanistan? The searing heat confused my thoughts, pulling my mind back to the harsh immediacy of the now.

We approached the bridge dividing Tajikistan and Afghanistan—on one side, a benign dictatorship, and on the other, the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan. We rode slowly toward the bridgehead, ducking under the overlapping arcs from an armored vehicle on the Tajik side. Across the bridge, white Taliban flags fluttered in the hot desert winds.

It was too late to turn back. The plan was already in motion. My heart pounded louder than Tara’s engine. A Taliban soldier in a US Humvee overlooked the bridge, his UK or US Minimi tracking our approach.

First Encounter with the Taliban:

Trying to maintain charm under pressure, I was nervous. Two Taliban guards manned the bridge—one, a long-bearded Pashtun dressed in a dishdasha; the other, sporting American MTP camo and wielding an M4 rifle. They appeared fierce, maybe a bit bored and beaten by the sun.

It was prayer time, and we were held at the border as the imam led prayers in the distance. The temperature soared to 34 degrees, turning my boots into mini ovens. Suddenly, we were surrounded by four Afghans filming videos for what seemed to be the Afghan tourist board. Despite the joviality, the atmosphere was tense. Why was I here?

We were ushered into a stuffy office after an extended prayer session—Friday prayers are always longer. More and more Taliban appeared, some armed with US-made M16s. The mood was watchful, not overtly aggressive. I tried to keep calm, even attempting to meditate while we waited.

In the office, a Pashtun with a voluminous beard and piercing blue eyes seemed stern yet oddly friendly. I chatted with an Uzbek engineer in broken Russian, joking about the nonexistent Uzbek roads. We laughed, and I noticed the Taliban guard commander suppressing a smile.

Masood then entered from the side of the office. Calm and friendly, with grey-flecked stubble and a finely tailored salwar and waistcoat, he took over the visa proceedings. His tall, bearded cousin stood beside him. We greeted each other warmly.

We were directed to another office to apply for visas. A young, sharp-looking Taliban, no older than 25, informed us we needed to visit a bank—a challenge since it was Friday and the banks were closed. With only a single entry visa for Tajikistan, returning was not an option. 

Duu suggested, through his broken English, that we might need to camp in the Taliban camp. "Temple, temple," he said, which I deciphered as "tent." I sighed, “Well, we might as well put the hammocks between the Taliban watchtower and their Humvee then…” 

Ready for a night in Afghan no man's land, we were fortunately allowed outside after agreeing to leave our passports and bikes with the Taliban overnight.

 Stepping out for a cigarette with Masood, we discovered shared acquaintances with Emily; he was a local documentary producer with credentials from HBO, NYT, and more. After negotiations, we were allowed out of the Taliban compound on the condition we would return the next morning for our visas. We drove a few minutes to a large container compound next to the customs office, where Masood's cousins welcomed us. Laying a carpet, we sat down to tea and started to relax. My body unclenched; I felt safer away from prying eyes.

 There, we settled for the night. Duu entertained us with his earnest and slightly mad stories. His wild personality, tattoos, and fearless solo rides through the Pamir at night marked him as a unique travel companion.

 We enjoyed kebabs and grilled fish from the Oxus River, talking and smoking local hash into the night. Being back in this land without a uniform or weapon was surreal, watching the Taliban flag over buildings we once fought to protect was oddly dispiriting.

 Masood and I talked until late. We prepared for an early rise to collect our visas and cross into Kabul, where he runs a guest house. His easy laughter and clever nature assured me of his competence as our fixer.

 Then, a call from Emily in Ukraine—she'd been shelled that day but seemed unfazed. I missed her more with each passing moment.

 Shir Khan Bandar Border to Khenjan

We woke up early, eager to retrieve our bikes from the Taliban border control and get our visas processed quickly so we could ride on to Kabul. As I was brushing my teeth, I heard the distinct whooshing sound of a helicopter overhead, instinctively raising my eyes to scan the skies. I couldn’t believe my eyes—a Taliban helicopter flew above our compound to land a few hundred meters away. In my wildest dreams, I never thought I’d see that.

Breakfast was modest—water, cigarettes, and energy drinks. Arriving at the border, we braced ourselves for a long day, watching an incredibly inefficient visa process unfold.

Initially, we were interviewed and given two carbon copies of a document that we needed to take to the local bank to pay for processing. After paying, we received receipts which we then had to take back to the border. With receipts in hand, the Taliban customs officials could issue our visas, which then needed to be stamped by Taliban immigration. This was just the first part of the ordeal. Afterward, it was a two-hour drive through the desert to Kunduz, the regional capital, where the Governor of Culture and Foreign Affairs would stamp our visas again, completing the process. MAybe the key to defeating the Taliban was simply to give them burreaucratic jobs they would have relinquished their desire to rule.

 The Taliban customs clerks and border officers—kids who seemed to be the only computer literates there—were an interesting trio. The first clerk, a pudgy, clueless local Taliban with a thin mustache, took a peculiar liking to Duu but not to me, perhaps reflective of the reverence the Taliban hold for the Chinese, who are helping “rebuild” their country. The second clerk was a friendly young man with a crooked nose and vacant eyes. The third, who carried a cat like a Taliban supervillain, was the smartest among them, fluent in English and Chinese, with a keen eye for detail. I could play dumb with the other two, but with the third, I had to keep my wits about me. Traveling with my French passport, as a cover, I was an English teacher in France, having been educated in the UK—a half-truth I felt I could uphold and manage.

The commanding officer of the base was an older Taliban, probably a fighter, who looked bored and probably frustrated at having been given this dreary posting. His aides were clearly the new Taliban. So it was clear there were now two types of Taliban in this new order: the old Taliban, the fighters, the mujahideen, the “heroes”; and the new Taliban, the young men who had stayed in the country and were to be its future.

The interview with the commander took some time; it felt like a parody of authority and command. He was clearly illiterate and cared little for the process that his young aides were trying to make him follow. He was more interested in appearing in command and showing us that he was the boss.

After six hours, we finally received our stamps. It was now 1400 hours. The ride to Kabul was eight hours, and we still needed to see the Taliban governor in Kunduz.

We set off across the desert, Masood leading in his Toyota Hilux, with Duu and I trailing. The air in Kunduz was a blend of kebab, sewers, and the cacophony of bustling streets. As foreigners, we drew immediate attention, and of course, there were the Taliban checkpoints.

 Kunduz is known as a radical hotspot, and riding through the intense traffic was both unnerving and exhilarating. The governor, a courteous, spectacled man in his mid-forties with a medium beard and an inquisitive look, processed us quickly, welcoming us to Afghanistan. Not without suggesting that we wear Afghan clothes to show respect to their culture.

At every stop, we were surrounded by curious Afghans that would just draw more attention and more people. Each checkpoint flagged us, more out of curiosity than suspicion, yet the process remained tense. At one checkpoint, a young, possibly high Taliban, trying to amuse his friends, asked if I was a Taliban. I feigned ignorance, smiling and saying I didn’t understand. In the corner of my eye, I could see a dark-looking Pashtun with masquerade eyes, a hazy look in his eyes wearing a dark shawl, making throat-slitting gestures to one of his friends. My heart rate increased. If they turned on us here, we were in deep trouble. Thankfully, Masood was there to translate, and we all laughed it off, though the commander, more serious, offered me a place in his home to become a mujahideen.

As we rode into the night, my principles of not riding after dark were abandoned. Driving through Afghan gravel roads in the darkness was madness. We reached Khenjan by 2200hrs, dodging murderous buses and navigating treacherous roads that would have been daunting even in daylight.

After a dinner of liver kebab and Kabul pilaf, where a Taliban officer subtly interrogated us, we headed to bed, my mind swirling with thoughts. Fear mingled with curiosity as my views were continuously challenged. I knew so little about this land, and still didn’t. We slept on the floor of the restaurant we had eaten in. The next day we would ride into Kabul.

 Khenjan to Kabul -ghosts of the past.

The ride from Khenjan to Kabul was quick and bumpy compared to the previous day. We had planned to ride during the day to reach Masood's guest house in the centre of what used to be the Green Zone in Kabul. Descending from the mountains onto the Kabul plateau, we passed through Bagram Airbase.

 Littering the roads were remnants of NATO forces: burned-out Humvees, bombed-out outposts. Old checkpoints, once manned by the Afghan National Army (ANA) — a force established by the US and its allies to secure Afghanistan — were now staffed by Taliban in full Western gear, wearing OpsCore helmets and balaclavas, sporting brand new US rifles. Their gear barely concealed their massive beards, spilling out from under this veneer of modernity. The checkpoints started to feel less intimidating; it's odd how the mind adapts to danger. The more one is exposed to what one would typically avoid, the less intimidating it seems, or perhaps we just lose perspective. As we approached Kabul, I saw the mountains and hills that had been so familiar from our base ten years ago. Memories of my time there began flooding back.

The boredom, the constant fear of being betrayed by those we trained. Just a few days before I had arrived there in 2014, a rogue Afghan soldier had turned his weapon on our guys, killing five and injuring seventeen. After that, relations soured between us and them. In the end, though, we betrayed them when we left, following President Biden's poorly managed withdrawal in 2021.

But the hardest memory to grapple with was Kate's. Almost ten years to that day, Major Kate had walked into my life and changed it forever. I was sitting next to my Gurkha mate Matt; at the time, we were both promiscuous, skirt-chasing young captains, bored with the lack of action. Matt had turned his attention to finding as many girls as possible on camp. He was telling me about this incredibly hot new doctor who had just flown in. I paid little attention to what he was saying, focusing instead on my food and the tasks I had to accomplish that afternoon. Then she walked in — tall, blonde, athletic, an Amazonian creature. We had been in Afghanistan for four months already on our nine-month tour. There was a distinct lack of women on camp, so when I saw her, my jaw just dropped. She recognized Matt and sat at our table. I fell instantly in love with her. Her grace, intelligence, beauty, and wit were overwhelming. Our conversation started at lunch and didn't end until late in the evening. I was under her spell.

 Amidst the dust, chaos, boredom, and heat, Kate and I fell in love. We exchanged hidden kisses under the Afghan stars, meeting at various airbases as we flew in and out of theatre. It was a romance like I had never experienced before. It lasted six years — a love that, in the end, brought us both to the edge. After Afghanistan, Kate tragically developed metastatic breast cancer. We did our best to keep our relationship going throughout her treatment, but in the end, I was too weak to care for her as she deserved. Our relationship ended terribly, all partly due to my inability to care for her properly.

Riding into Kabul, I was haunted by the places where we had once met, unleashing a torrent of ghosts and skeletons from my past. The main reason I hadn't settled for a conventional life in the UK after leaving the Army was largely due to the end of that relationship. My shame, guilt, and pain were still too overwhelming; I had to escape, yet here I was at the very place it all began, desperate to move on from a past that was vividly reemerging the closer we got to Kabul. I needed something, anything, to calm my nerves and block out the painful memories. The shame of those years, the guilt of having left her, my failures as a man—they all resurfaced on that road into Kabul. 

These memories still pursued me around the world, memories that on that day were right on my tail, compounding my bewilderment and confusion about being back in Afghanistan.

The traffic in Kabul was a chaotic mesh of congestion—six lanes of traffic pushing in opposite directions on what was meant to be a two-way road. Jingly trucks, horse-drawn carts, Toyota Hiluxes rigged with anti-aircraft guns, and despondent Taliban fighters all merged into the fray. Pickup trucks laden with heavily armed men carrying RPGs and AK-47s zoomed past. I was a long way from the safety of the armoured convoys I had once travelled in.

By mid-afternoon, we rolled into Masood’s guesthouse, exhausted and buzzing with adrenaline from navigating Kabul’s frantic streets.

 Afghania Guest House – An Oasis of Freedom

 Located in the centre of the old Green Zone, directly opposite the Iranian embassy, the Afghania guesthouse was a sanctuary for weary Westerners. Hidden from the street by robust blast walls, it provided a much-needed respite from the oppressive presence of the Taliban. Once a haven for journalists and a variety of eccentric contractors, it now served as a refuge for the few daring tourists retracing the old hippy trail, along with a handful of journalists still invested in Afghanistan's unfolding events—one of whom knew Emily. It really is a small world.

Upon our arrival, we met Valentina, the animated Italian journalist tattooed from head to toe. Fred and Astrid, a Swiss couple in their sixties on their second world tour, and Tomas, Andy, and Kamyar, three young neo-hippies clad in full Pashtun attire, traversing the Silk Road in their Toyota Hilux. At night, we would gather in the verdant garden secluded by the towering blast walls of 'Fortress Afghania' to share stories of the day. The women would unveil, and we would all sink into a narcotic haze of Afghan hashish. Massood and the Afghans from the compound would join us, exchanging tales and occasionally laughing at our naïve reactions to the everyday occurrences of violence, Taliban surveillance, and the starkly cheap value of life in this wild land.

It took me some time to accept that the Taliban had won, and to the victors go the spoils of war. I felt an overwhelming sense of hopelessness and shame for what had become of this beautiful, ancient land. My mother had travelled here in the 70s, long before it was ravaged by war and tragedy. Back then, women could walk around freely and unveiled; it was part of the hippie New Age Silk Road. Chicken Street was once a popular hangout for adventurous hippies to smoke hash and purchase exotic goods. Now, it was lined with shops that had once catered to wealthy NATO soldiers and diplomats, encircled by high blast walls. The Green Zone was now the central nerve centre for the new Taliban government, with the Ministry for Vice and Virtue setting up directly opposite Chicken Street, perhaps as a reminder to all collaborators that they were the new authority in town.

Afghanistan could be the pearl of Central Asia, a gateway to the sub-Indian continent, rich in culture at the crossroads of Islam and Buddhism, where hospitality and honour are sacred, and friendships are deep and protected by blood and honour. I felt profound sadness for all the Afghans I met, most of whom were desperate for a way out, still uncertain about their country's future under the renewed Taliban reign.

Most of the men I spoke to, particularly those with daughters, were desperately trying to find a way to secure a better future for their children outside Afghanistan.

The cult of the Mujahideen was still very much alive, as evidenced by one commander's attempt to recruit me to join the fight. "Against whom?" I had asked. "Ah, don't worry," he said, grinning half-jokingly, "we'll always have foreigners coming here trying to conquer us, maybe the Chinese next."

I had to conceal my identity from everyone, keen not to draw attention to my past here as a soldier. Caught in an emotional whirlwind, I was trying to remain somewhat undercover. The fear was palpable when surrounded by the Taliban, they were as  unpredictable as they were fierce. 

Viewing Afghanistan through any lens other than its tribal nature is a mistake—one that we, for 14 years, arrogantly tried to correct by attempting to build a nation from tribalism. The Taliban might be more adept at uniting the tribes under the banner of Islam rather than democracy, but tensions were brewing in the north. The minority Tajiks from the north were being oppressed by the Pashtuns from the south, who were now in power. In a likely publicity stunt to cleanse their image, the Taliban burned all the poppy fields in the north to demonstrate to the international community their commitment to combating drug production. However, they conveniently neglected to burn the southern fields under their control, thereby weakening the economic power of the northern Tajiks and simultaneously driving up global opium prices, likely profiting in the process. This move only fuelled the disenchantment of the Tajiks, some of whom started turning towards ISIS-K. This discontent was met with brutal reprisals from the new Taliban government, igniting fears of a looming civil war that many believed was just a matter of time before the warlords returned to fracture this land once again. The irony of the Taliban now fighting a counter insurgency war against ISIS was not lost of me.

Unfortunately, my next few days in Kabul were marred by a brutal stomach bug, which resulted in another session of hugging the toilet. During this time, things with Emily deteriorated further. She was in Ukraine covering the war, and under the stress of duress and Russian shelling, she couldn't handle the distance and abruptly ended our relationship. So there I was, sick, frightened, unsure of my life choices, and now heartbroken.

Duu, my Chinese riding companion, was going through his own heartache. Duu was a nouveau riche Chinese businessman who owned a factory in China that produced surveillance cameras and lighting equipment. His business was successful, so he had decided to travel the world on his motorcycle. He was married with one son, whom he had left in Lanzhou. The same night Emily left me, Duu's wife caught him having an affair with the local kung fu teacher, ten years his junior. Ironically, she had been reviewing their home CCTV footage—installed by Duu—and caught them frolicking in the garden. Duu, in typical macho style, refused to take responsibility and decided on the spot that he would not return to China for a while. We laughed at each other's misery and decided that we would head out the next day to fix our bikes and make a plan for what to do next.

 Meeting the Sultans of Kabul

The next day, Duu and I set off somewhat hopelessly to find a motorcycle mechanic capable of doing some maintenance work on our bikes. I thought that at best we would manage to change the oil if we were lucky. After some searching, a kind mechanic who seemed completely overwhelmed by our Western bikes told us he knew a place down the road that repaired "big bikes."

We arrived outside the garage mid-morning, where a few sports bikes—Yamaha R6s, Hayabusas—were parked, an incongruous sight amidst the swarms of single-cylinder Hondas that whizzed through Kabul.

 Intrigued, we walked into the garage, our curiosity only matched by the owner's astonishment at the sight of a Chinese man in full adventure gear and a tall blonde guy dressed in complete Afghan attire.

 Hetmtullah, the owner, greeted us with the warmest of smiles. A man in his early fifties originally from Herat, he looked more Persian than Pashtun. His calm, soothing demeanor commanded respect in his garage. He led not with overwhelming strength or charisma, but rather with a nurturing and caring approach, gentle, compassionate, and very detail-oriented. He couldn't help himself from listening to the sound of every bike that entered his shop, and when he heard something amiss, he would instantly set about checking and inspecting. His leadership was born out of his attention to detail and his focus on how the bikes worked. In the workshop, we were also greeted by Doc, a 25-year-old cardiologist who rode a souped-up Hayabusa. Of course, he wore no helmet, donned black Ray-Bans along with his white dishdasha and black waistcoat. He was gregarious and smart, spoke good English, and acted as our interpreter.

 Hetmtullah immediately invited us for tea. He served us delicious green tea mixed with saffron, making us feel instantly at home as his honoured guests. As we discussed travel, bikes, and adventure, we discovered that he was the leader of the Sultans of Kabul motorcycle club. I had no idea such a club existed, and it immediately piqued my curiosity. Who were they? How many were there? What did they do? How did they ride around Kabul under the new regime? What bikes did they have? I was fascinated that the Taliban allowed motorcycle clubs to exist. Motorcycling is such a symbol of freedom and escape; how could this be? I wanted to know more, I needed to know more. Despite my desire to leave the country as soon as possible, I was now compelled by the excitement to learn more about this club. We discussed for hours with them, and more and more characters from the club began appearing in the workshop. All were unique, passionate about motorcycling, and incredibly warm and welcoming towards us, two foreigners who had appeared out of nowhere.

There was Noorullah and Nasrullah, the leader's sons, who looked just like him, brimming with energy and banter.

There was Ghulam, the quiet 40-year-old humanitarian worker, calm, observant, fiercely intelligent, who acted somewhat as the second-in-command of the club. Ghulam would become a very close friend as the weeks unfolded in Afghanistan.

 There was also Brave Habib, a member of the GDI, an ex-British interpreter now turned new Taliban. He was described as part of the new Taliban, those who had either switched sides or joined after the war. In his early thirties, a proud Tajik, he wore a shawl around his neck, but I noticed a scar running from both his ears, looking very fresh and deep. I couldn't help noticing, so I asked him, "How did that happen, Habib?" "Ah, these fuckers," he replied, "they attacked me when I was walking home from work and tried to cut my throat. Lucky I had my scarf, they missed." I gasped. "I ran away, they tried to shoot me, but they missed." "Who were they?" I asked. "The GDI caught them, they said it's a case of mistaken identity, but I think they were ISIS," he replied. "That's why I always carry two guns on me now, my M4 and my pistol," which he proudly showed me.

 Brave was an intriguing character; he showed me all his pictures from his past and seemed to be very disparaging of the new Talibans, cursing them for their lack of education and literacy. He worked in their new finance department, as he had a background in business. There was something very edgy about him, and despite his openness about the regime, I couldn't quite let my guard down around him. It could have been a fatal mistake to get comfortable and reveal my background. Even though I was under their hospitality, I didn't want to endanger myself or them.

There were several more club members who appeared, the imam, Isham the Afghan-looking bear, Logar the joker, and many more.

 As the morning turned into afternoon and a copious amount of green tea and food, the Sultans invited us to go out for an afternoon ride through the city. By now, we were about 12 riders all eager to take Duu and me for a spin. How could we refuse, tearing up the streets of Kabul with the sultans on modified sports bikes? What could go wrong? 

City sight seeing tour with the sultans 

They took off like madmen, breaking traffic laws that didn’t even exist yet, without helmets, proper boots, or clothes, not because they didn’t want to but because they simply didn’t have them. We approached the first Taliban checkpoint, and I started to slow down, but they just sped up. Nasrullah, the leader's youngest son, rode past me with a beaming smile, laughing and nudging me to accelerate toward the checkpoint. This was madness, surely, they would stop us. I was in their care and, when in Rome… So, I opened up the throttle and charged forward, matching the speed of the wild horde of mad Afghans that had just taken me in. We burned through the checkpoint in a ruckus of blasting engines, wild shouts, and big waves at the confused Taliban guards. This went on all afternoon until we reached the heights of Kabul to take some pictures and enjoy the view of the city.

It struck me then that although this was the scariest place to ride, the state of the medical services was deplorable, there was no evac if I crashed, yet I felt the safest and freest I had ever felt for a while.  

I was convinced the fun would end and we would be arrested by an angry Taliban at the next checkpoint we ignored. As we descended from the heights we were held up at the checkpoint at the bottom of the hills that we had torn through on the way up. It appeared that the guys were in a heated exchange with one of the guards, all shouting over each other in Pashto. I started getting a bit nervous. One of the younger riders from the team, who spoke good English and was nicknamed Doc Amin (he was a cardiologist, that rode a Yamaha R6 with no helmet in sandals), rode up next to me.

 “Don’t worry,” he said, “we’re not in trouble. The Taliban commander of the checkpoint heard us ride through, and now wants to take one of the bikes to do wheelies.”

 I sighed with relief and amused disbelief, watching the scene unfold. A large Pashtun warrior in his mid-40s appeared from a guard tower, regally perusing which bike he thought he could use to perform his stunt.

 Doc leaned in. “The problem is, he has never done a wheelie on a big bike before, so we’ll convince him that if we do wheelies for him, he will let us go.”

 After some loud negotiations, he agreed, so one by one, we popped a wheelie for his amusement, and we were free to roam the streets again.

 When we returned to the garage after the ride, the guys invited us to go for a group ride two days later with the whole team, some 30 or 40 bikers. How could we refuse? We had some more tea, met some more guys from the team, and bid our farewells.

 Back at the guesthouse that night, we regaled the other guests with our stories while passing around some delicious joints of Afghan hash. I was in an emotional state; the intensity of the day, coupled with the heartbreak of losing Emily, led me to take refuge in the hashish that was so readily available. I lost myself in a narcotic haze to avoid thinking about what was going on outside and within. After all, this was still Afghanistan, where things could turn violent very quickly, and I was working hard to keep my identity hidden for fear of being labelled a spy or endangering my friends.

 Travelling to Afghanistan as a traveller was still unsafe for a multitude of reasons, not least because most European foreign ministries, including the FCDO and the Ministère des Affaires Étrangères, had issued an unambiguous warning to all travellers that they would not be rescued or extracted if things turned pear-shaped.

 But somehow, all this didn’t matter; maybe it was the hash dulling my senses, or maybe I just wanted to feel something more intense than the pain I carried in my heart. So I went to bed excited and a bit scared at the prospect of riding the notorious Jalalabad road to Surubi, a known opium production province controlled by some pretty gruesome warlords.

First Ride Out of Kabul with the Sultans

We met outside the Sultan’s garage at 0700 hours to set off on our ride. The air was still fresh from the night. Outside the garage, there was a mix of sports bikes and little Honda 125cc lined up. The Sultans had come out in numbers. An eclectic mix of fully armoured and armed riders with M4 rifles and pistols on one end of the spectrum and young, unequipped enthusiasts in sandals and dishdashas on their little Hondas.

We were given a warm Salaam Alaykum and big Afghan hugs. As we waited for the last riders to arrive, our morning tea was interrupted by a dragon-like roaring engine. I turned around to see a huge up-armoured, blacked-out Humvee V12 giant truck, with at least two men in the back both carrying AK-47s. Everyone cheered at the sound; it was Brave and his brother from the US who had come back to look after him post his assassination attempt. The monster truck was going to be our support wagon for the ride. So there we were, 30 or so sports bikes, one giant monster truck, all revving our engines in excitement. This, of course, attracted a huge crowd of onlookers, Taliban and civilians alike. I don’t think I’ve ever shaken so many Taliban hands in my life; it was surreal.

 Hetmtullah silenced all the engines and gathered the riders around him. He laid out the rules for the ride; we should all ride behind him on his black Triumph Tiger. The aim was to all come back in one piece, ride safely, and NOT RACE. A small unassuming young man then took centre stage; he had pale skin and blue eyes and wore conservative Muslim dress. He was the club’s imam. “We all prayed for Allah to guide us safely on the ride,” he said. The Imam led the prayer then jumped on the back of his friend’s small Honda 250 and took off on the back wheel, doing a wheelie into the oncoming traffic. The race had begun!

The Road to Jalalabad – Where Music Was Banned but Engines Sang

We took off like a marauding horde of wild horsemen on mechanical horses, the sound of the engines drowning the noise of the bustling city as we tore through the streets of Kabul. The spirit of Uzbek, Tajik, Pashtun, and Hazara wildmen was being channelled into us as we rode out of the city in a cloud of dust and fumes.

We regrouped on the edge of the city after passing a number of rundown checkpoints that had been manned by the very people I had trained 10 years ago. A quick check that we were all there, the monster truck closing the pack, and we were off again over the Khyber Pass on the road to Jalalabad. This road, pivotal during the British retreat in the First Anglo-Afghan War, remains crucial for Afghanistan's connectivity and has seen significant conflict and strategic use in more contemporary times.

The pace was relentless as we lost all road discipline and gave into our primal need for speed. It was a wild blur of speed, dodging oncoming traffic and the bombed-out remains of past conflicts. As the road ascended, the sheer cliffs beside us served as a vivid memento mori. We were alive, free from the heavy oppression of Kabul, flying above the city at top speed, screaming through our helmets, united in our exhilaration.

At a hairpin bend at the top of the pass, we all stopped for a regroup. There, the Sultans halted all traffic and started doing burnouts, to the unexpected joy and applause from all the traffic being held up. In any other place, the police might have arrested us, but here, the Taliban police joined in on the fun, raising their AKs and joining in the celebrations.

 Out of the traffic emerged a wedding party on its way to Kabul. The groom, a young, clean-shaven Pashtun, timidly approached the group of heavily armed bikers with his friends. After some selfies and discussion, the Sultans arranged their bikes in a semi-circle and started playing tunes with the engines. The young man jumped into the centre of the half-circle and began to dance. As if transported into a Sufi-like trance, the joy on his face was infectious, and everyone around started applauding and cheering him on. It suddenly hit me: music had been banned after the regime change, and having a ringtone on your phone could justify an arrest. I had heard about a wedding the day before where all the men had been arrested for playing music. So, in this moment, in the land where music was banned, the Sultans made their engines sing and this young man could dance freely on his wedding day under the jubilant eyes of the Taliban who, in that moment, lost their sternness and shared in his joy. I had to repress a tear of joy at the sight and knew there and then that I was in love with these wild and warm people.

The rest of the ride was as wild and freeing as the start.

We entered the province of Surobi, a region historically significant for its opium trade, which poses ongoing risks. There, we rode up to a local lake to enjoy some grilled fish and a respite from the sun.

After a formal interview by the local Taliban secret police, I was allowed to stay. There I got to meet more of the characters from the team. Ghulam, a forty-year-old Afghan, sat next to me. He rode a Kawasaki XSR, his large beard and kind, benevolent eyes contrasting with his soft manner and inquisitive mind. He had been a humanitarian worker in Afghanistan since he was sixteen, focusing on educating remote farmers about irrigation techniques, farming, and self-sustainability. His tales of remote villages were a stark reminder of how underdeveloped and uneducated the majority of the country was, still steeped in ignorance, superstition, and religious dogma. Ghulam had dedicated his entire life to the betterment of his country, and unlike many of his countrymen, he and his family had decided to stay and make a difference. I had nothing but admiration for this brave man, and over time, we would become good friends.

Later that afternoon, we rode back from Surobi to Kabul via a wild pomegranate garden. The sight must have seemed completely wild to the local farmers as a horde of bikers descended into their orchards fully leathered and carrying weapons, the latter probably less shocking for them than it was for me. After stuffing our faces with rich and juicy red pomegranates, we set back up the Jalalabad road. The speed was intoxicating; I lost all my riding inhibitions, probably taking way too much risk. Adapting to local driving styles is a must for survival in foreign lands, however, there is a limit. Doing double overtakes on blind corners with no safety barriers in a land where hospitals are still run by NGOs was somewhat out of my comfort zone. Nonetheless, we tore on, racing against the dusk to get back into Kabul by nightfall.

 It's hard to believe that no one had crashed yet. I had ridden with some pretty wild guys before, but the temerity of the sultans was bordering on foolhardiness. For the uninitiated, the idea of riding this fast in traffic, or even riding a motorcycle, is far beyond their tolerance for risk. However, as my motorcycle instructor, Mungo, once said to me in his thick Scottish accent, “It makes no sense to be sitting on an explosive rocket, launched at top speed with no seatbelt, but if I could capture the essence of it and inject it into those that don’t get it, we would be millionaires!” The sense of freedom and evasion is multiplied the higher one drives to the risk line, and in a country like Afghanistan, it's understandable that any means to evade the brutal reality of day-to-day life is going to be abused.

It wasn’t long, though, before the first crash happened. We had just crossed one of the main checkpoints guarding the city. The light was fading behind us, painting Kabul’s mountains in violent hues of pink and orange, while the tarmac became a river of darkness on which sailed all sorts of coloured and unregulated headlights—green, blue, red, yellow, stroboscopic, blinding everyone and everything. I had been separated from the pack, having had a few close shaves with oncoming traffic; I thought it prudent to stay alive.

Suddenly, there was a commotion up ahead—one of the riders had crashed into the back of a truck. It was Brave Habib. He had lost consciousness while riding and lost control of his bike. We all rushed to him to ensure he was okay. In Central Asia, when there is a crash, it becomes everyone’s affair; suddenly, there were hundreds of people surrounding the crash site, all shouting and getting more and more excited. I asked Brave's brother what had happened; he responded:

“Oh, he faints every now and again since he was tortured by the Taliban,” the same Brave who had his throat slit a month earlier.

“What? Why? Why the fuck is he riding?” I asked.

“After the government fell, Brave switched sides to the new Taliban, unsure of his loyalty they decided to torture him for a year with electroshock; since then, he keeps fainting.”

I gasped.

“We can't stop him from riding; we wish we could.”

Brave was okay, his bike, a black Hayabusa with his name “BRAVE” painted in bright white across, was totalled from the front.

 We were slowly getting lost in a sea of screaming Afghans, onlookers, Taliban, bikers, kids throwing stones—it was chaos. We managed to get Brave and his bike on our armoured support vehicle and pay off the person he had crashed into. There is no insurance in Afghanistan; if you hit someone or crash, the perpetrator of the crime must pay the victim's family, honour demands it. If it’s not done, it can spark a blood feud of revenge killings.

Duu and I made it back to the guest house that night, exhausted, elated, and completely surging with adrenaline. After a few joints, we managed to relax; I couldn’t sleep that night. I was hooked to these people, the risk, the freedom, the wilderness, the hospitality we were shown were overwhelming. I was in a dilemma; it was unsafe for me to be there, despite the apparent safety of being with the gang. I was still an ex-British army officer who had fought against those in power, not only that I was lying about my identity. If I was caught, I could be mistaken for a spy and be locked up for a long time, if not worse, and be executed. Yet, I had to stay and spend more time with the sultans; they were the embodiment of bravery to me. To still exercise their freedom on their bikes when everyone was fleeing and their world was going to shit meant that they were ALIVE.

Live TV, Gym and Paranoia.

We had been invited to go out with the sultans a week later to ride out to Bagram Airfield, a once American airfield I had flown into once in my past life as a soldier. Caught in my internal quandary of safety and adventure, I decided to stay despite my fears. The next week turned into a narcotic haze of hash-fueled decisions and adrenaline-driven responses. I settled into a strange routine of dressing in complete Nuristani clothes, pakol, full scarf, and green dishdash; my beard now almost chest-long, I must have cut a strange figure. In my not-so-subtle disguise, I would walk across town to the local gym, full of abandoned US gym gear, and work out with Assim and Mo, both ex-US LECs (locally employed contractors) now turned gym instructors. Assim was a steroided-up mountain of a man, covered in tattoos, atypical Afghan. He took a shining to me and would beast me and make videos for his Instagram. I indulged him and played along.

During this bizarre week of hash-filled paranoid dreams of capture and decapitation, intense testosterone-fueled workouts, and pantomime outfits, I met Omid.

Omid was a huge Pashtun wrestler from Kandahar, large shoulders, big beard, and massive hands. During the war, he had been ripped off by the CIA and lost all of his money. He was now trying to set up a tourist travel company. We were introduced by a mutual friend who had told him that I was keen to go to an Afghan wrestling gym. First, he invited me to go out with him and a friend to drive around Kabul and its surroundings for some tea and a smoke. We drove out to the Kabul heights in his banged-out Toyota Corolla. We sat on a hill, prayed, and smoked; his friend was once a rich man who had been robbed of all his belongings by a US-sponsored warlord in Helmand, now destitute he was trying his best to get me to invest in buying fist-sized emeralds. I politely refused, as appealing as the prospect of becoming an international diamond smuggler was at the time, that was one line I didn’t want to cross. Riding with the sultans was risky enough; I didn’t want to push my luck.

As the sun set, we went to the wrestling gym, in a dark basement, full of cauliflower-eared Afghan kids tearing each other apart on the wrestling mats. Not a little stoned, the place was surreal; their trainer, a seventy-year-old Osama bin Laden lookalike with a long white beard and a white pakol, was banging out press-ups and pull-ups in a corner. I politely turned down the invite to jump on the mats; too stoned to talk, wrestling now would have been a disaster.

On our way home, Omid asked if I would help one of his journalist friends. I didn’t see this as an issue and accepted without knowing what the offer was. “Oh don’t worry, just a live interview on national TV for the TOLO news morning show,” “Fuck!” now I was trapped I couldn’t refuse having said yes and equally, I didn’t want to raise his suspicions, despite him being introduced by a trusted friend he had connections running deep into the new government. I didn’t trust him with revealing my identity to him. In a weird logic, I rationalised my decision by accepting that this would be the equivalent of hiding in plain sight, no one with something to hide would be stupid enough to go on national TV for an interview? Well, it appeared that at that I was.

So the next day I rolled up to the TOLO news headquarters at 5 am on Tara, after riding through three bomb-proof checkpoints and high walls I was in the television production center. Western-dressed Afghans were scurrying around anxiously smoking, with armed guards everywhere and the occasional mullah walking around. What in the fuck was I doing here?

Omid appeared smiling “How do you feel?” “yeah fucking great….” The producers were all smartly dressed and stressed to sync the live show. So we hurriedly lifted Tara into the studio and onto set. The set was like being back in the early 2000s morning show, made to look like a vanilla living room, bright lights and pastels decors. Two green sofas and the 20-something-year presenter, Sulemani, looking like a cross between a teenager and a Fox News anchor. We were rushed onto the sofa “3,2,1 live..”

The interview lasted a few minutes only, the questions were pretty neutral, where are you from, how long did it take you to get here? Is it dangerous to ride alone, etc… However, Omid was translating and at one point I heard him say “security” which I hadn’t, he had put words in my mouth. Of course, I knew I was being used to whitewash the Taliban image and pretend it was a safe country. Nevertheless, it was that or risking blowing my cover. I played along anxious to leave. As the interview ended I noted a middle-aged, tall, long-bearded Pashtun in a blue fancy dishdash sitting in the shadows of the studio. He rose up, shook my hand, and praised me for the interview in near-perfect English. Then invited me later for lunch.

 “Who was that Omid? ” He looked back at me a little stunned “that’s the Mayor of Kabul”… Fuck me I thought now I’ve really screwed myself over. Omid explained that he had been Harvard educated in the US and was now back in Afghan after the fall of the government. The anchor and the team invited us for breakfast, were sadly despite their hospitality they all asked me if I could help them leave the country. Being a journalist in Afghanistan wasn’t safe and they had become the puppets of the Taliban. I felt sad and embarrassed to have been part of the charade. Nonetheless, now that I was hiding in plain sight, I had thrown the dice, hopefully, my gamble would pay off and I could leave the country alive.

The week continued paranoia rose, added to the heartbreak of losing Emily and not hearing a word from her. I had made a promise to the sultans that I was going to honor but I wanted to leave. The subterfuge was getting tiresome if not a bit intoxicating, I felt I was playing with fire.

Duu was in turmoil and anxious to leave, not least because he had to get back to China to try and reconstitute his broken marriage, however his strategy was somewhat doubtful. “What will you do when you get back?” I asked him “I real man, I never say sorry!” His mind was set on returning home like a bull in a china shop and just fix things…so much for Sun Tzu…

So just like that he set off to Iran, the mad china man carried on his journey. The same day a new biker rode into the guesthouse, intrigued by his Ukrainian number plates I sparked a conversation with him at breakfast.

Valytin was in his mid-thirties, long ponytailed hair, round Slavic face with high cheekbones, a discerning and intense look, both inquisitive and amused. I was curious about finding out more about this other mad man willing to cross into Afghanistan. After a conversation ranging from Sufism to AI and everything in between we decided he should meet the sultans.

Val was a unique character one that I would later count on as a true and good friend. In his previous life, he had been a hi-tech executive, who had lost a bit of his sense of purpose in the corporate world and decided he would leave it all behind get on a bike and go for a search for wisdom around the world. The most erudite and sharpest mind I had encountered on the trip so far, his sharp wit and intellect made him a great riding companion. His knowledge of Sufism and all things mystic and religious was astounding, a walking encyclopedia. Our routes around the world happened to be roughly the same so we tacitly decided to share some of the journey together, I couldn’t have asked for a better riding companion.

That afternoon I introduced him to the sultans and in an instant he fell in love with the same things I had seen a week before, so he decided to stay another week so that he could join our ride to Bagram.

I counted the days down to our ride out to Bagram, more gym, more joints more paranoia and more heartbreak, it was a strange cycle to be stuck in. Friday came round, it was time to head out with the sultans. We met outside the garage for what would be our final ride together. Valentyn and I were both getting a bit tired of being in Afghanistan, as much as being in a “risky” area can be intoxicating it slowly wears you down and we were eager to get away to a more permissive place, Pakistan.

The ride out to Bagram

 We tore out of Kabul in much the same noisy and exuberant manner, roaring engines propelling us forward in a cloud of dust. The sultans had taken over a part of the old American aviation base and turned it into their drag racing track. 10 years earlier I had flown into this same base aboard a US Black Hawk helicopter, now with the sultans on a motorcycle.

We all raced each other up and down the airfield, we even drew in a crowd of Taliban onlookers that drove up in their pickup truck curiously looking at us, some even cheering. To think that so many missions had been flown out of this base in the past and now here I was racing down the runways whilst being applauded by the Taliban.

 I got to ride one of their sports bikes in one of the races and fell in love with the speed. After a morning of speed and adrenaline, we pitched up on the runway, Ghulam had prepared a sumptuous meal of Kabuli Pilaf. We lay some carpets down and broke bread together for the last time. After our meal, the younger members of the team carried on racing and performing high-speed stunts along the runways.

 After the drag racing, we stormed back into Kabul to what had been described as a car show, curious we followed the pack. We arrived in a semi-commercial suburb of southern Kabul where at least a thousand Afghans were gathered in a parking lot to watch supped-up cars doing burnouts. The cars were spinning on themselves in a cacophony of engines screaming, crowds roaring and the occasional celebratory burst of automatic weapons. The closer the car got to running into the crowd the more the frenzy grew. In the midst of the madness, Ghulam came up to me and said we had to go, there was a security risk. Exhausted from the morning's drag racing and a little conscious that as the only three foreigners we agreed to head back to the garage.

Once there we had a few more cups of tea and said our goodbyes to the team, Hetmattulah, Noorhulla, Naserhullah, Doc, Zaki, Ghulam, Amin,…

 The warmth they had shown us over the two weeks with them had filled my heart with hope. That amidst the repression and violent changes Afghanistan was undergoing, these men had managed to find an escape, a community where they could feel free and just be. Despite the harshness of their world, they still found time to make their engines sing in the land where music was banned.

 The next day Val and I left for the Torkham border, back along the Jalalabad road, through Jalalabad and on to the Torkham border crossing with Pakistan. Heavy-hearted to leave the sultans but relieved to get away from the Taliban. We made it in a day, on arrival we were greeted by a smiling Pakistani Pashtun officer “Welcome to Pakistan, don’t worry here you are safe” As he greeted us from his office door I looked up and noticed an RPG impact blast just above the door…