It is difficult to know where to begin this. It is difficult to know where to start anything in Afghanistan. This was the 38th nation I have visited thus far in my life. I have lived in seven. There is an ambiance about this place that forces one to deeply examine the recesses of one’s soul.

Entering Afghanistan via Torkham and the Khyber Pass is an experience. As the road ascends prehistoric valleys—barren, ecru pikes jut into the sky, capped with antiquated fortifications. Massive palatial estates hide behind ten-foot brick walls, razor wire and AK-47 touting guards. 2500-year-old Buddhist stupas rest atop jagged outcrops. Shops selling AK-47s, RPGs, missiles, tanks and any other armament one could ever want intermingle with shops selling thousands of grams of opium, heroin and hashish like so much candy.

The border is a frenzy of dust, people, containers, wheelbarrows, mini-buses and AK-47s. The walk across the border is a short formality as passports are stamped. A myriad of Afghani taxi drivers wait at the immigration office to solicit passengers for the three-hour journey to Kabul via Jalalabad. Everything is negotiated in US dollars.

The border fades fast as hills of ochre, cinnamon and umber sprinkled with jade rise on either side of the newly paved road. Great slate and khaki mesas rise above the Kabul River as gentle, verdant valleys flourish in springtime.

The road to Kabul passes two distinct valleys. The first is a rafter and rock climber’s paradise. Constant rapids flow towards Pakistan as sheer rock walls rise hundreds of feet above the white water. Completely isolated and untamed, the area could someday be a brilliant adventure traveler’s destination.

The second valley is more dramatic. The river gushes violently down enormous jagged boulders as even taller rock cliffs rise from the banks. Caves dot the walls like windows overlooking a forgotten Eden. Spelunking, repelling, rafting, kayaking, rock climbing, trekking, cycling, and rolling down a river in one of those balls is all possible here. Of course, there is zero infrastructure for this, thereby making those whom pursue these pioneers in Afghani adventure sports and travel.

As the road skirts a rock wall, the Kabul plateau comes into view. The Hindu Kush (literally Hindu Killed {best name for a mountain range ever}) towers in great bistre, snow-capped walls to the north and south.

One’s introduction to Kabul from the east is a magnanimous military compound. The nicely paved road becomes a potholed nightmare as the infamous Kabul dust engulfs all.

Soviet-style tower-blocks, riddled with bullet holes, stand on crumbling asphalt as tree-lined avenues disappear into the horizon and dust. The snowy Hindu Kush appears ecru through the miasma of the city. 2000m high hills surround the immediate city with crumbling, bombed and dilapidated mud and brick structures clinging to the slopes.

Security checks are constant as Afghani police ride around the city in new, forest green Ford trucks. UN Land Cruisers alongside yellow and white taxis are the most prominent vehicles on the road. Kabul is comparatively quiet. There is no automatic rifle fire at night like in Pakistan. Almost everything closes at dusk as people hurry home to safety and security. The streets are dark, empty and silent all night, except for the occasional explosion and jet flying overhead.

Men whom have lost half of their bodies drag themselves around the streets begging for hand-outs alongside women adorned in cornflower blue burkhas. The ravages of nearly three decades of war are unavoidable. This is certainly not a place for tourists, yet. The only semblance of tourism is the famed Chicken Street. On this short block, one can buy most souvenirs associated with Afghanistan: from snow leopard pelts to Karakol hats to antiques from some forgotten yore to pounds of opium to any western treat to Lapis Lazuli.

The suburbs of Kabul are still largely in ruins from the Civil War. Entire neighborhoods have been reduced to ruble and reconstruction is always on hold as fatalistic Taliban members tend to blow themselves up near any site that is trying to advance in any way.

In general it is completely safe to walk around Kabul. The people are convivial. There are a plethora of juice bars and chaikhanas (tea houses selling kebabs and pulao) on every block. Clay ovens are housed in between selling huge, fresh and delicious naan. There are also a number of western-styled restaurants offering decent interpretations of pasta, pizza, hamburgers, etc. Clubs and bars are surfacing again and a cold beer is easy to find.

Kabul is only a shadow of Afghanistan. North of Kabul, one will find an amazing range of mountains. You can currently take a bus to Salang Pass at 3363m above sea level. Nearly untouched, snow-covered, jagged peaks rise from lush valleys, a trekker’s paradise. Again, there is absolutely no infrastructure in place for any outdoor sports, so a very good topographical map, compass, local (armed) guide, provisions, and real life experience in the mountains is essential in attempting these mountains. The scenic beauty and seclusion is paramount to the Himalayas.

In the northeast of Afghanistan lays the state of Badakhshan. I often read and hear about places on this earth that transcend space and time, metaphysically. Some expound the brilliance of the Indian and Nepali Himalayas, the mountains surrounding Rio, the Grand Canyon, the Dalmatian Coast, the Yangtze Valley, source of the Nile, the Sumatran jungle or the Outback. These places indeed have a charismatic charm. However, they are trumped by Badakhshan in their relative proximity to this side of the Axial Age.

A 14-hour mini-bus journey into the heart of this state is life changing. The ride itself is over probably the worst 217km one could imagine. The only other road I can compare it to is the Medan to Bukit Lawang road in northern Sumatra. For those who know it, this one is worse.

Metallic, verdant mountains pierce cobalt skies. Wild horses graze on gentle, lush slopes. Seas of crimson poppy blooms amble from mountain to mountain. Sheer rock plates explode from the ground and project hundreds of feet, at a 70 degree angle, skywards. Great rock walls form what could be the ruins of magnificent, mammoth palaces from a bygone era with great rock monoliths forming its turrets and black caves its windows.

Donkeys are the only mode of transportation. Shepherds and their sons mind their flock with deeply stoned eyes. All of the women, in villages, wear burkhas and turn away from men when they pass. The nomadic women tend to wear crimson shawls loosely over their heads. A hard, tattooed face on a stout body exemplifies their life’s work in the fields.

Rivers saunter gently as rock walls build canyons whilst barren and motley mountains rise above and huge, snowy peaks crown the scene. All the fields are still furrowed with a wooden peg attached to a log. Firewood is still chopped with a rock flake axe. Besides the odd, rusting Soviet tank and the mini-bus driving me to Faizabad, there is not a single aspect of this part of the world to have advanced to the Bronze Age.

The people living in the villages still tug buckets of water from the community well. Ablutions are taken in the river. Plumbing, electricity, telephone lines, television, radio, libraries, concrete are all non-existent. Most are nomads and herd their flock up and down the valley, unchanged for ten-thousand years.

Stares were normal from the locals. In fact, absolute bewilderment and shock crossed the faces of many when we wandered into some villages. Jaws were dropped and cheeks clasped between hands as staggered eyes gazed.

Mud and rock, single-story homes created small villages surrounded by mountains of such unique beauty that it was hard to take your eyes away for a second. It was an odd collusion of Tatoine and ancient history. The nomads set their yurts in the clefts of mountains surrounded by fields of lush wheat and crimson poppy. The loud call of the donkey echoed through the otherwise dead silent valleys.

Once more, this area offers a fantastic opportunity for adventure traveling. The astounding beauty of the Hindu Kush in Badakhshan tops anything I have seen. Every adventure sport you can imagine can be done here alongside an experience of authentic, antediluvian culture. There are no Mexican restaurants here. No one has a Bob Marley tape. These are not the Himalayas.

Faizabad is not in any way prepared for travelers and NOT recommended for tourists. There is still a tribal chieftain whom you must befriend. The police will insist on an armed escort the entire time you are there. The people are extremely welcoming, but there is no infrastructure.

Toilets, if you are lucky, are holes in the ground. Bathing takes place at the river. The little electricity there is, is produced by generators. There is no phone system besides cellular phones. And as the only foreigners some of these people have ever encountered, prices were inflated to ludicrous levels.

The berg is surrounded by the Hindu Kush and trekking will one day be some of the best on Earth. But, that will take a lot of time and people with balls the size of Tony Montana’s to go, live, train, educate and build.

Upon returning to Kunduz, we came across the local police 65km from our destination as the dusk settled over the plains. They implored us to stay in the police station as it is unsafe to travel after dark. Wanting a shower and bed we insisted on getting to Kunduz. And, as a rule, I never, under any circumstances, willingly enter a police station.

The police were genuinely worried and informed us that Al-Qaeda and the Taliban were in Kunduz and would shoot us and slit our throats. They were exaggerating. There was a suicide bombing a few days earlier, but the town is safer than most in the UK or US. After an hour of pleading in broken English and Russian, we convinced the police commissioner to drive us to a taxi.

Traveling Afghanistan is an adventure. Those whom come here will be cutting their own paths through deserts, plains, mountains, valleys and cultures.