Wild Tulips

The road to Istalaf (not Istafan!) is lined with wild tulips and minefields. We passed several de-mining crews along the way, kneeling carefully in the overturned earth, blast shields lowered over their faces. Dirt paths lined with red and white-painted rocks wended through the fields, white facing the “safe” side and red on the “mined” side. I can’t shake my sense of eeriness when I pass these fields, and the men working in them

Also lining the road were small children in ragged tunics, their small hands overflowing with tulips. They cleverly posted themselves near the worst potholes, where the cars had to slow and there was greater opportunity for a sale. The children were so excited when we stopped that they hopped up and down on their bare feet, pressing around our open windows. The looks of glee on their faces as we paid them inspired us to stop over and over, until the back of our SUV was full of the flowers.

Children weren't the only ones selling tulips -- just the only ones we stopped for. There were plenty of adults along the roadside as well. The best picture I didn't take was of a small mudbrick police hut. The cops sat beneath an awning, their booted feet stretched out beside buckets of tulips, their machine guns propped against the containers.