I had begun to have serious doubts about actually getting in to Afghanistan. After the week's delay at the embassy and a succession of ominous noises from under the bonnet, e reached the border at Ishkashim only to be told that we could not leave Tajikistan - the emigration an customs officials had a nine-day holiday to celebrate 20 years of Tajik independence. Now, I respect everyone's right to a day off, and even a long weekend now and then, but there is not a customs official on earth who works hard enough to earn nine days at a stretch on vacation. I was extremely pissed.
For whatever reason, the gods decided they'd had their fun with us and made us sufficiently sweat. Half an hour or so of sitting at the border gate pretending not to understand a word of Russian or Tajik or to move the car to a less inconvenient spot came good: the two junior border guards called out their superior.
'Fatty' as he was affectionately referred to by those of us in the car fortunately took a shine to the ladies and, anxious to impress, summoned a customs official from his home to check the vehicle and stamp it out of Tajikistan. He himself processed our exit visa stamps, having happily ridden across the border bridge hanging on to the outsideof the car. The running board on which he stood is decidedly worse of wear as a result, but it was a small price to pay not to have to spend another week staring at our destination from the wrong side of the river.
Whilst waiting for Fatty to enter our details in his log book, I was allowed to sit on his swivel chair behind the emigration desk. Stuck up in front of me was a mugs' gallery,I assume of Tajikistan's most wanted. I question the seriousness with which the border officials take the apprehension of such criminals, however, as a significant number of the pictures had novelty facial hair, glasses and even horns, drawn on in blue Biro during a particularly monotonous shift.
Afghanistan begins half way across the bridge. The first thing you see are a pair of Soviet era tanks rotting away in the river bed. Having passed this border post in record time previously I was optimistic of a speedy transit, but it was sadly not to be.
We arrived at the immigration post to find the officials off-site on a two-hour lunch-break. They could not be hurried and so we settled down to our own picnic amongst the armed guards inside the barbed wire gate. When the officials did finally appear they demanded $100 for a permit that appeared to duplicate the one we had already had to pay and wait fo in Dushanbe. I was hot, tired and really not amused.
Customs officials the world over are a law unto themselves and, on this occasion as on many others, the had us in a vice: we could pay up, leave the car with them (and likely never see it again) or go back to Tajikistan. We paid up. My only compensation was that in their greed for cash they scarcely looked inside the car and so missed the three large jerry cans of fuel we were carrying. We had already been told that it was not allowed to carry extra fuel inside the car in Ishkashim and so we should give it to customs. I smiled a satisfied smile and drove through the gate to Afghanistan.
For whatever reason, the gods decided they'd had their fun with us and made us sufficiently sweat. Half an hour or so of sitting at the border gate pretending not to understand a word of Russian or Tajik or to move the car to a less inconvenient spot came good: the two junior border guards called out their superior.
'Fatty' as he was affectionately referred to by those of us in the car fortunately took a shine to the ladies and, anxious to impress, summoned a customs official from his home to check the vehicle and stamp it out of Tajikistan. He himself processed our exit visa stamps, having happily ridden across the border bridge hanging on to the outsideof the car. The running board on which he stood is decidedly worse of wear as a result, but it was a small price to pay not to have to spend another week staring at our destination from the wrong side of the river.
Whilst waiting for Fatty to enter our details in his log book, I was allowed to sit on his swivel chair behind the emigration desk. Stuck up in front of me was a mugs' gallery,I assume of Tajikistan's most wanted. I question the seriousness with which the border officials take the apprehension of such criminals, however, as a significant number of the pictures had novelty facial hair, glasses and even horns, drawn on in blue Biro during a particularly monotonous shift.
Afghanistan begins half way across the bridge. The first thing you see are a pair of Soviet era tanks rotting away in the river bed. Having passed this border post in record time previously I was optimistic of a speedy transit, but it was sadly not to be.
We arrived at the immigration post to find the officials off-site on a two-hour lunch-break. They could not be hurried and so we settled down to our own picnic amongst the armed guards inside the barbed wire gate. When the officials did finally appear they demanded $100 for a permit that appeared to duplicate the one we had already had to pay and wait fo in Dushanbe. I was hot, tired and really not amused.
Customs officials the world over are a law unto themselves and, on this occasion as on many others, the had us in a vice: we could pay up, leave the car with them (and likely never see it again) or go back to Tajikistan. We paid up. My only compensation was that in their greed for cash they scarcely looked inside the car and so missed the three large jerry cans of fuel we were carrying. We had already been told that it was not allowed to carry extra fuel inside the car in Ishkashim and so we should give it to customs. I smiled a satisfied smile and drove through the gate to Afghanistan.
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