We came onto a vehicle track.
Tires had gouged a glutinous
dark brown strip, twenty feet
wide. My boots stuck to the
mud, so I walked on the ice
in the roadside ditches. This
was better, except when the
ice broke and my feet plunged
into cold water. Babur was now
coated in black mud. We had
been walking for nine hours.
Daulatyar was only fifteen
kilometers away and there were
probably two hours of daylight
left, but I had forgotten how
much deep mud and wet snow
slowed my pace. I felt muffled
in the snow-fog and imprisoned
by the rain hood I was wearing.
I threw back the hood. I could
hear and see again. The day was
very silent and the plain seem-
ed very large. The snow driving
into my eyes at a forty-five de-
gree angle made me feel much
freer, but my left foot seemed
frozen to a cold iron plate.
An immortal book? A certain
masterpiece, in the English
language; an act of inquiry
driven by the heart? I will
trade all majesty for words
into Aghanistan. Right now.
Rory Stewart
The Places in Between
Picador, 2004©
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