Lord Miles in Afghanistan E-Book

Lord Miles Routledge

• Herausgeber: Antelope Hill Publishing LLC
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

On August 15th, 2021, the nation of Afghanistan passed from West back to East. On that day the victorious Taliban insurgency retook the city of Kabul after twenty years of American occupation. The NATO-backed government had collapsed within days. Tens of thousands of people fled to the city to seek refuge and evacuation. And there in Kabul was a hitherto unknown British university student enjoying his holiday, suddenly caught up in history. 
 
Lord Miles Routledge was the last person issued a tourist visa by the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan. Miles began chronicling his travels in one of the most dangerous countries in the world on the online message board 4chan, where he found himself with a riveted global audience. When the Taliban reached Kabul, headlines around the world picked up his story and people watched to see if he would make it back home. Fortunately, he did, and through the process discovered his calling as a true modern adventurer, traveling over the following year to other places including the Kazakhstan protests, the frontlines of the Ukraine conflict, South Sudan, and eventually back to Afghanistan for some desert target practice with his new friends in the Taliban. This book is his first-hand account of his first and most infamous trip to Afghanistan. Miles experiences a fascinating kaleidoscope of natural beauty, war-torn desolation, poverty, humanity, courage, and generosity. He finds himself in many places off the beaten path and meets a colorful range of characters. Throughout it all, his eternal optimism and indomitable faith ensure an invigorating narration for this unique journey. 
 
Antelope Hill Publishing is proud to present Lord Miles Routledge’s autobiographical account,  Lord Miles in Afghanistan. This fantastic journey by a unique author showcases the best of the adventuring European spirit.

Leseprobe

Lord Miles in Afghanistan

The Travel Diary of a Modern-day British

Adventurer During the 2021 Taliban Takeover

LORD MILES

IN AFGHANISTAN

— L O R D M I L E S R O U T L E D G E —

A N T E L O P E H I L L P U B L I S H I N G

Copyright © 2022 Lord Miles Routledge

First edition 2022. First printing 2022.

All rights reserved.

Cover art by Swifty.

Literary development by Taylor Young.

Edited and formatted by Margaret Bauer.

Antelope Hill Publishing

www.antelopehillpublishing.com

Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-956887-53-2

EPUB ISBN-13: 978-1-956887-54-9

Contents

May 5th: The Embassy

August 12th: Leaving England

August 13th: Arriving in Afghanistan

August 14th: Adventure Awaits

August 15th: Taliban Takeover

August 15th: Continued in the Airport

August 16th and 17th: A Long Night

August 18th: Evacuation

Postscript

Additional Pictures

May 5thThe Embassy

HERE IT IS, I THOUGHT TO MYSELF. THE OFF-WHITE BUILDING, JUST A SHORT walk from the center of London, had been surprisingly hard to find, but there it was. It stood on the corner facing a side street, connected to a long row of other embassies looking toward the larger Kensington Road. The black, red, and green flag signaled that I was at the right place.

Having made it apparently right before closing, I searched for an entrance to the building. I had enough trouble locating places as it was—sadly I am a bit retarded—but in this case it didn’t help that it was also well hidden. It was as if it was conscious of the current ignominy of the land it represented and, unwilling to face the world boldly, it had concealed itself beneath the work of a construction crew. When I walked in, I discovered furthermore that the facility itself was actually underground on the building’s bottom floor, as though recessing itself even further in its attempted self-isolation. But it couldn’t hide from me.

“The Embassy of Afghanistan,” the sign read. What a lovely country. Surely nothing can go wrong from this point onward, I thought to myself, giggling a little. I paused to reconsider what I was about to do, but quickly steeled myself against any line of thought that might keep me from my current object. I had come with the intention of submitting a request to visit one of the most dangerous countries on earth and embark on what I hoped to be the first of many such adventures, and I intended to follow through. My brief reverie only lasted as long as it took me to realize that it couldn’t possibly be worse than Birmingham, the Detroit of the UK. At least Afghan food was bound to be better than British food, so if I died a miserable death, hopefully it would be on a full and happy stomach. Without a doubt, I am a British supremacist and willing to tell anyone about how much I miss the Empire, but there are some things not even a chauvinist can deny.

Steeling my resolve and stumbling down the stairs, impressed with my own courage, I entered a cramped room that had just enough space to fit the twelve seats arranged there. Not surprisingly, everyone already present was rather swarthier than myself, and all eyes turned to the one White guy who had surely wandered into the wrong room, if not the wrong building. I smiled at them politely before confidently walking across the ornate, traditional carpet and straight up to the COVID glass-covered front desk. Unlike for most countries, E-visas weren’t available for Afghanistan—I couldn’t imagine why—so if you wanted to go, you had to apply in person at the travel office in the embassy. The lady on the other side of the glass greeted me with a jolly attitude, much the same way you would a lost child.

“Good day, sir! This is the Embassy of Afghanistan. Are you looking for the Dubai Embassy? It’s just next door.” It sounded like a scenario she had rehearsed well.

“Oh no, I’m in the right place actually.” I smiled again with a mischievous twinkle in my eye and proudly laid down my application. “One visa, please.” I spoke as though ordering from McDonalds, not visiting the embassy of one of the world’s most dangerous nations.

She raised her eyebrows but went along with it. “Yes, sir, and is this a work or a media visa?”

I slid the paper across to her with my finger pointing to a spot on the top of the page with a confident little tap. “A tourism visa, Ma’am.”

A look of horror and slight amusement immediately manifested on her face, as well as those of the other staff members in the room who couldn’t help but overhear me. Out of the corner of my eye I could see them all look at each other. If facial expressions could speak in sentences, their collective utterance would have been, “This motherfucker is going to die.” I was also glad that I hadn’t acted on my earlier impulse to jokingly announce “shalom” to the Muslim occupants of this particular room.

Still, she was very kind and, once she got over the initial shock, clearly seemed quite happy with the idea that I wanted to visit her country, regardless of any concerns for my safety. I couldn’t help thinking again how ironic this was when I could travel a mere twenty miles south into London and be worried about getting stabbed while I walked down the street. Visiting Afghanistan would be just fine. How much worse than modern London, chock full of football hooligans and Somali migrants, could it be?

The lady hesitated suddenly mid paperwork and turned to inform me of a potential difficulty. Only a day or two earlier, it had been announced that Afghanistan was on the “red” list, meaning that no one should travel due to COVID-19 and if you did, you would have to fork over a couple grand to pay for a hotel to isolate in when you returned to the UK. I thought this was insane and a waste of my time, as COVID wasn’t a real concern for someone taking holiday in the Middle East. In any case, I had already found a work-around. Unperturbed, I informed her that my plan was to fly to Albania for ten days on the way back to “self-isolate” and then fly into the UK freely. She caught on, smiling with a wink as if to say “this sneaky bastard,” then returned to deciphering my sloppy penmanship.

“Are you going there just for tourism?” Her curiosity got the better of her and she clearly couldn’t believe that there was no other reason I would venture to her war-torn homeland. I think she must have fancied me to be an aspiring diplomat of some kind, trying to make a name forging peace deals or something. While I did in fact simply want to visit Afghanistan for my own enjoyment, I explained to her further that I would be doing charity work as a Catholic, which was also true. As a Catholic, I try to commit a tenth of my income to charity, and I didn’t want it going to some fake humanitarian corporation that would squander it instead of actually helping people. I had put aside the last month of pay from my two part-time jobs, which I kept while also being a full-time student, and wanted to donate that to help people struggling in Afghanistan. The sum came to just under £1,000, which wasn’t that much over here but could make a huge difference in that part of the world, I reasoned. Since I had received a generous scholarship to attend university, my two jobs provided me with more of a surplus than any real necessity; certainly the folks in Afghanistan were in a tougher spot than me.

What I wasn’t going to tell her was the perception, which I shared with most people in the West, that Afghanistan was a mysterious, far-off land of great curiosity, complete with an alien way of life and lands that no picture could fully explain, just begging to be explored—by me. I had looked at photos and videos while researching the nation for weeks and realized I had to see it with my own eyes. I had a hunch that it wasn’t just endless sand and RPGs, even though that would be plenty cool as well. There must be more to this distant place of such ill repute with the leaders of my own country—leaders who I felt so poorly represented me.

Eventually, we exchanged more paperwork, signed some documents, and I was told to wait while she continued her work behind the desk. As she continued opening and closing various filing cabinets and tapping away at her keyboard, I took the opportunity to sit down with the other Afghans in the room, trying to familiarize myself with the sensation of feeling out of place.

Days before, I had hired the cheapest tour guide in the country for about £600 to meet another visa requirement. Although I could have easily fabricated a guide or tour company—something I would do during later travels to other places—since the bureaucrats working at the embassies don’t usually verify these things, I had decided against that tactic, as I really wanted this trip to work out. And besides, having at least one face waiting for me when I landed in Kabul would surely be worth what I had paid.

The excitement of sitting silently in a room full of foreign strangers didn’t last long. After playing Clash of Clans for twenty minutes, I was called back up and told that I had all the documents required and could leave my passport there; they would mail it back to me with the tourist visa. Traveling to Afghanistan was turning out to be easier than buying a kitchen knife in my own country. I didn’t know it at the time, but I learned later that I was the last person ever issued a tourist visa by the US-backed government of Afghanistan.

It’s funny to note that the visa required “a personal statement explaining the reason for travel.” My response was simply an A4 sheet of paper with only the word “fun” written on it. It was accepted without question. I was ready for my very own White boy summer.

August 12thLeaving England

THE INTERVENING MONTH SINCE MY VISA APPLICATION PASSED QUICKLY.My visahad processed with no issue and they returned the passport to me as promised. Before I knew it, my departure date was upon me.

Before arriving at London Heathrow Airport, I hardly knew that a place could be so chaotic. I bumped and jostled my way through the double set of glass doors, feeling all around me that contradictory atmosphere of sterility and grime unique to massive hubs of public transportation. I wandered through the maze of corridors and lifts and the pantheon of airlines that promised to bear the teeming, anxious mass of humanity to farther corners of the world than anyone has a right to go. This included me, there on that day on the business of getting myself to probably the world’s most extreme vacation destination—Afghanistan.

I arrived four hours before my flight’s departure and to ease my own nerves told myself that this was more than enough time to go through security. I suppressed jitters as I prepared myself to be questioned about my trip. I couldn’t really blame anyone for being skeptical. “I’m going to Afghanistan for fun” might not cut it with the security and government intelligence.

Arriving at the front desk, I presented my passport and tried not to smile too obnoxiously as I watched the mortified staff member check over my Afghanistan visa as though I had just presented him with Willy Wonka’s Golden Ticket. An awkward space of five minutes with fake computer typing passed between us before he settled on an excuse to avoid this headache. He squinted deeply at the visa and then turned to me with a short exhale of self-satisfaction. “This visa isn’t valid for another day. Look at the start date; you can only travel from the twelfth of August onwards!”

I’m not sure what was going on with this guy, but I patiently informed him that it was indeed the twelfth of August. His eyes expanded as though he had just time traveled a day into the future. After grumbling and apologizing and making small talk for a few more moments, he gave me more bad news: regulations had been updated a night ago and currently every traveler needed to have a COVID-19 PCR test taken before the flight.

I didn’t feel like lying to him about this, and it wouldn’t have helped me anyway. Neither, I thought, would trying to explain that COVID and I have a mutual understanding where I won’t bother it if it doesn’t bother me, which had thus far worked out well. Twinges of disappointment grew in my stomach as I began to worry that my grand adventure might be over before it even started. One of the reasons I had picked glorious Afghanistan as a travel destination in the first place was because the country was open and free from COVID restrictions. I knew that these tests usually take twenty-four hours at minimum, and my flight was departing in only three and a half. The staff offered to move my flight to the next day, but compared to the thrill I had been anticipating of goofing off in Afghanistan that night, the idea felt like an eternity away, and moreover I had no backup plan for a place to stay. I had been homeless for a few months when I was eighteen, but at least on the streets the public benches weren’t made out of cold metal with dividers like the ones at the airport.

I considered my options and recalled seeing a poster on a bus on my way to the airport advertising rapid PCR tests. Surely there was a solution to my present crisis. I thanked the still-perturbed staffer for his “help” and rushed out, running through the airport while searching on my phone for nearby clinics. One popped up at a nearby hotel. As I jumped into a taxi flagged down just outside, I could feel my heart in my mouth and the adrenaline pumping in my veins in rhythm with the Doom soundtrack currently playing in my earphones. We came across roadwork blocking the entire street, and I inquired with the driver about the time cost of the diversion. It was far more than I could afford, so I decided I’m better off putting my fate on my own feet. I paid for the trip up to that point and hopped out into the crush of London’s pedestrian traffic. I was fully prepared to push aside old ladies and children if I had to—it’s the Afghanistan traveler grindset that non-Afghanistan visitors just can’t be expected to understand.

The roads and sidewalk ahead were blocked by setting concrete and heavy machinery with warning signs dotted around. Next to all of this, however, was a wall just shy of being taller than me, on the other side of which I needed to be. It had some barbed wire at the top but looked wide enough such that a good section of it could be walked on if someone was retarded enough to do so.

I was retarded enough to do so. I hastily clambered up with my leg brushing against the barbed wire. I then danced my way across the top as though I were on a tightrope at the circus, with concrete and asphalt setting on either side. The workmen, too surprised to react, looked on in amazement. I saw some of the more senior guys shaking their heads as though they endured this kind of stuff every day. A fall into drying concrete would get me in serious trouble with the workers as well as end the chances of a PCR test, but I was on a mission. Nothing and no one would stop me.

I made it to the other side with ease, cutting ten minutes off my trip with the clinic just around the corner. The cost of a few small cuts on my ankle was a small price for precious time. I ran around the back and encountered a large but sparsely occupied parking lot containing the clinic in question, one of those mobile stations that more closely resembled a food truck or moving trailer than a medical testing area. My heart still pounding from the exercise and the urgency of the situation, I gasped out a hurried explanation of why I needed my test to be done in two hours. I brutalized my sinuses with the swab and returned the sample to the attendant while still coughing from the nasal violation. The elderly Indian lady who checked me in smiled and reassured me that my swab would be moved to the front of the batch. I had no idea if this was true, but it seemed the best I could hope for, so after getting my nose raped, I thanked her profusely and then walked to the corner shop to buy her some chocolate, though honestly, she could have benefited from going on a diet. Maybe it was a bribe, maybe an act of kindness—the reader can make their own judgment—but it did help ensure that I got my PCR test put to the front, as she was surprised and grateful and called me a “kind young man.”

After a bit of waiting, I realized that there was no point in standing around the area and nothing really that I could do other than get myself back to the airport. The next two hours were a waiting game during which I unsuccessfully attempted to calm my dancing nerves, pulling down the screen on my phone every few seconds, watching my email inbox, as I walked intently. I nearly ran into several street lamps on my walk back to the airport, so desperate was I not to lose a second as I waited for the test outcome that would determine whether I would wake up the next day on a cold London bench or under the hot Afghan sun. I had no reason to believe the result wouldn’t be negative, but still, there was a lot at stake, and you never know with these things.

I popped in at a cafe and pulled out a tactic that I had learned in my homeless days: buy the cheapest drink on the menu and consume it at a pace slower than the rate of evaporation so that I can enjoy a comfortable seat in a cozy area. I leaned back and turned to Netflix to re-watch one of my favorite movies, American Psycho. I had to keep pausing this sacred male experience as a 30-something female backpacker occupying a seat at my table kept interrupting with attempts at striking up a conversation despite me politely declining. I realized eventually that it was no use, and I sat in increasing agitation as her endless jabbering clashed most disconcertingly with the ticking clock in my head counting down to my flight’s departure and reminding me that I still didn’t have that test. After hearing about her life story for almost an hour, I was nearly bored to tears and was becoming certain I’d miss the plane. Momentary relief came as I spotted a free space at a fast-food restaurant and politely excused myself, wishing her a pleasant holiday to the exotic and far-away destination of Spain where she was going to “find herself.”

At the fast-food restaurant, I was informed that I had to order something to sit down despite the place being empty, so I obliged by choosing the cheapest burger available and customizing it to be overly complex to make. When it arrived, I didn't take a bite and instead sat back to listen to the gentleman next to me bragging about his life over the phone to try to impress someone he was clearly flirting with. I noticed the ring on his finger and assumed the best, thinking that he probably got a promotion or something and was calling home to inform his better half, until the actual strain of the conversation interrupted to rudely shatter my mental generosity. “She won’t find out, babe; you know I love you instead; things have been over with her for years” was the most egregious line I heard. If your name is Margaret and you have a husband who’s five-foot-ten with brown hair and tanned white skin who was in Heathrow on August 12th, please use this book and my testimony in your divorce case. If there’s one type of person I dislike immensely, it’s a cheater.

This reminded me of a similar situation on a previous holiday when I was with a friend in Norway. There had been an obnoxious businessman bragging about his life loudly on the phone just like that guy, almost as if he was shouting it to the crowd for approval from strangers who, not knowing him, might actually believe he was important enough to justify being so publicly annoying. As it turned out, he was likely just compensating for insecurity about his status. My friend and I had the idea to gaslight him by doing the same thing behind him, trying to one-up what we heard with wild stories about getting paid a 200k bonus and complaining about how it was far beneath our expectations, repeating things that he would say and incorporating them into our own conversation to shut down his ego. We burst out laughing when the clerk at the front desk informed him that his card had been declined.

After a bit of daydreaming prompted by these reflections, I stole a glance at the tiny little time stamp in the top corner of my phone. There were only ten minutes remaining before boarding started and I still had not received the test result needed to get past the check-in desk and security. My heart sank, and I had almost lost hope and was in the midst of asking for Divine help when finally, with two minutes left, I got a notification from the testing center. I frantically unlocked my phone, scrambled to my email, in my haste scrolling past the link to view the results, and finally saw the word “NEGATIVE.”

Jamming my phone in my pocket and knocking over the chair I was sitting in, I grabbed my bag and jumped the little seating area fence, throwing my untouched “food” in the bin. The fast food was likely a greater danger to my health than any place I might be heading to—at least in Afghanistan everything didn’t have soy in it. I was to learn later that during their occupation, the US government had implemented a program costing millions of dollars to try to introduce soybeans to the Afghan diet. Like the fate of so many military campaigns in the region, the valiant efforts of the Americans were not successful. The wise Afghan people simply didn’t like the taste.

I had just ten minutes of boarding time to get to the gate of the plane before it took off without me. I returned to the check-in desk of my airline with a wide smile, enjoying the pure mortification on the face of the same man who thought he’d gotten rid of me. I informed him that I had gotten the test done in time. Once he rushed me through, I immediately ran to the airport security, which by some stroke of luck was nearly empty.

I had my bag searched and was informed by a female officer that my aftershave container was over 100 ml. I was not allowed to take it even though it was ninety percent empty. Stupid, but of course I didn’t want to cause issues for the staff—they were just doing their job after all and don’t make the rules—so I removed the cap in front of her and drenched myself in the remaining contents. I now smelled amazing if a little flammable. She laughed at the antic and struck up a conversation asking about my destination. I was wary of setting off alarm bells by stating that I’m on my way to the fun, family vacation hotspot of Afghanistan, but to my surprise she didn’t bat an eye and let me continue through, wishing me a pleasant holiday.

“Stay safe,” she joked.

“Thanks. If you see me on the news, it’s gone bad,” I replied with a smile, unaware at the time of the irony. Looking back, I hope she remembers that conversation.