The flight to Kunduz

They did finally re-open the airport, and we were swiftly bundled onto the waiting eight-seater plane. We had two stops en route to Kunduz -- first at Faisalbad, where we landed upon the Russian-built, metal and camoflaged runway. It felt a bit like taxing down a cattle grate. We only stopped for a short time in this quiet valley, then we were off to our next stop. I don't remember the town's name, but I do remember the landing.

We sharply corkscrewed until we were flying across a dried riverbed, our wingtips threatening to scrape the sides of the sheer banks. We passed over the runway, scaring off the sheep that were grazing upon the dirt runway, then swung up and around again to thread the needle for a second, successful attempt. We stopped only long enough to eject a passenger, left standing forlornely beside the lonely shack that made up the airport, then taxied away. A weedy little Afghan soldier, drowning in his over-sized black uniform, saluted us as we passed.

Ten more minutes and we were in Kunduz. Fortunately. All the spiraling and bumping had left me nauseous, and I was happy to land, even in as dusty and hot a place as Kunduz.