The Border Crossing — 2012

The first time I crossed into Afghanistan was in 2012, overland from Tajikistan. I was alone, driving my own car. At the border, the Afghan officers looked confused — not suspicious, just surprised. A tourist? Driving alone?

They called someone who spoke English. A few minutes later an American soldier walked up. He looked at me and said: “Where are you from?” — “Portugal.” — “And what are you doing here?” — “I’m a tourist.” He stared at me. “You’re a what? What the hell are you doing here?”

After that, things relaxed. He actually helped me. Told me not to take the road I had planned — said it was dangerous — and suggested a longer route through the north. My journey into Afghanistan didn’t start with fear. It started with confusion and unexpected help.

Mistaken for an American in Kunduz

On that same trip, I had to stop in Kunduz — the city everyone told me to avoid. But I needed Afghan money. I walked into a bank in the center. The cashier spoke some English but couldn’t exchange euros. Without hesitation, he closed what he was doing and walked me personally to the money market.

When I stepped into the courtyard, everything went quiet. Then someone shouted “American! American!” I replied quickly: “No, no — Portugal.”

And just like that, everything changed. “Portugal?! Welcome!” Suddenly I was being offered tea. People were smiling, asking about football, talking about Ronaldo and Figo. I wasn’t a stranger anymore — I was just the guy from Portugal.

The SIM Card That Became a Dance Party

Another stop I was told not to make: Baghlan. But I needed a SIM card. Within minutes of entering a small phone shop, it felt like the whole street knew I was there. People came in, curious, smiling. Phones came out — photos, videos. We started joking around.

Then someone made a call, and a few minutes later, a guy showed up just to dance. Right there. In the shop. What was supposed to be a two-minute SIM card stop turned into music, laughter, and videos.

I still have those videos today. You’re told not to stop somewhere, and you end up at a dance party.

The Madrasa in the “Valley of Death” — Post-Taliban

Years later, after the Taliban had taken power, I was back in Afghanistan with my business partner. We were driving south toward Ghazni, through an area people used to call the “Valley of Death.” My driver and my partner are Hazara, so they were nervous — that region had a reputation, especially for them.

I saw a madrasa and said, let’s stop. Inside, Taliban members appeared almost immediately. My partner was tense. But the reaction was not what you’d expect. They were calm. Friendly. They called an English teacher. We started talking. My partner mentioned he had opened an English school in Bamiyan just months after the takeover. That changed everything — now the conversation was about education, books, learning English. They asked if we could send them books. They exchanged contacts. They’re still in touch today.

Meanwhile, our driver was outside the car, worried we’d been too long, thinking something had happened. But inside, we were just talking. Connecting.

And maybe that’s the most important part. Not what people expect — but what actually happens when you’re there.