Afghanistan Is One Lonely Planet

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In 2004, riding the wave of optimism about Afghanistan, Lonely Planet commissioned its first-ever guide to the country. By late 2007, when the book was finished, things had gotten so bad that Western countries were advising their citizens against non­essential travel. Lonely Planet ended up printing a guidebook to a place no normal tourist would ever visit.

In theory, the book could still be useful to the 7,000 abnormal tourists—aid workers, anthropologists, diplomats, and consultants—who already live here, but most of these people aren’t allowed very far from their compounds. In Afghanistan, one’s freedom of movement is tied to the kidnap insurance paid by one’s employer: The more you’re worth, the less you wander.

As a freelance journalist, I have no insurance whatsoever and can therefore go anywhere I want. So, on a sunny Saturday morning, I find myself standing outside my friend’s armed guesthouse, having made a deal. M—we’ll call her that, so she can keep her U.N. job—will let me borrow her copy of the Afghanistan Travel Guide, so long as I help her break her employer’s security guidelines. “Rule number one,” she whispers as we stroll out, stepping carefully around the sidewalk’s rock piles and open sewers. “No walking.”

A tattooed former punk rocker, M is now draped and shapeless, her curls tightly clamped under a black head scarf. Worse, she’s dating some British narcotics agent.

“Well, he’s got a car,” she explains. (Afghanistan is like high school: Mobility is a big problem, so a guy with a car is automatically hot.)

“Plus, he’s got a beard,” she adds.

“I have a beard,” I say.

“That’s true,” she says.

We spend the next hour browsing the jewelry and textile shops on the famous, and Lonely Planet recommended, Chicken Street. “U.N. rule number two,” she says, modeling a rough-hewn silver ring from Turkmenistan. “No Chicken Street.”

By noon, M and I are sweaty, asthmatic, and lost. Everywhere we go, we are objects of curiosity and also scrupulously ignored. The dust of the city sticks in our throats. M sighs as we double back again past the same row of tea shops, next to a river flowing with garbage.

Seeking help, we follow the Lonely Planet map to the Afghanistan Tourism Office, which turns out to be a corrugated tin shack perched on the roof of a government building. Inside, we find five men arranged among dented metal office furniture. The men smile at us, slightly alarmed. “Salaam alaikum,” I say, shaking each of their hands. “Do you have any pamphlets?” The smell of cooking rice wafts in through the window.

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