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The Long Riders' Guild. Captured by Bandits on the Afghan Frontier. He warned us, aside, that by Royal Decree all Afghan horses ultimately belonged to King Zahir Shah of Afghanistan, and their export by anyone other than the King himself was banned.
This was perfectly normal. It is their own business, believe me. This is what they do. He laughed and embraced us. It was a fairly futile ploy, considering. We packed our gear, loaded up and gathered at the stables to saddle up and get moving. The rest of us followed suit. Five riders including Archimedes and Renato, two leading the two extra horses on a rope, trotted out and down the busy main road from Kabul to Jalalabad.
Twenty eight horseshoes clattered noisily. Once out of Kabul we crossed a plain heading for the first range of mountains. The Kabul River flowed alongside, deep and slow. We came to a narrow gap sliced deep into the mountain wall where the river plunges from sunshine into shadow and transforms into a raging, foaming torrent of white water rushing and crashing down over colossal boulders, from pool to pool. The road zigzags down alongside it until the river disappears into a deep gorge.
Below towering crags it takes a longer, tortuous descent with dizzying views, twisting and turning halfway down beetling cliff-faces, descending as if into the bowels of the earth. Suddenly it emerges onto a new plain. From here the river meanders lazily again towards Jalalabad as a series of lakes, blue as the sky.
