From the windows of the India Airlines Airbus A320 the barren dusty hills surrounding Kabul came into view. As I watched, the brown haze that I remembered from my last trip blocked a clear vista of the city. Kabul is a dirty city; Afghanistan a dry and unforgiving land that some how finds a kinship within your soul. It is a country that grows on you, offering its strange if not desolate beauty, amongst the war, the poverty, and its ancient ways, to every traveler that crosses its lands. What develops is a relationship of extremes, the proverbial love and hate, as if to emulate the culture of war that has found refuge for so many years within its borders. In an odd sense, I felt like I had returned to visit an old friend.

People and faces speak an unspoken language. The two Americans, husband and wife, I had met during my layover in Delhi were now sitting in the seats across from me. They were UN workers; as we got closer, she put a shall over her head to blend in more with local customs. In the seat in front of me was a young man, black hair greased back, wearing a black leather coat and a strong smelling cheap perfume, curled up in his seat, sound asleep. The stewardess tried to wake him for a snack and drink. He woke for a moment and waved her off. Ahead of the Americans were three men seated side by side. The plane had plenty of empty seats, but they remained in their assigned place, one asleep, the others sitting motionless for most of the flight. They each wore slacks, slip on leather shoes and long sleeve button up shirts with open collars. All images were of a collage called Afghanistan.

The first time I flew into Afghanistan I came with the soldiers on military aircraft. There were no customs, only in-briefs, threat advisories, and directions to the various things we would need on the base while we waited for transportation to Kabul. This time I entered like every other civilian. We exited the air plane greeted by both Afghan National Police and Afghan Army soldiers directing us all to a waiting bus. As we packed in, there was the normal verbal excitement of orders being giving, an argument with the bus driver and finally the bus began to move.

Afghanistan is a developing country trying to find itself. It reminds me of young boy who wants to be an adult, who then emulates his father by reading the paper that is nearly as big as he is, offering opinions as if backed by years of wisdom, or dressing up in his best clothes to leave the house for his day at the playground. As I sat on the bus I could see the terminal. It was so close that I figured that we were being taken to another location. Instead, we were driven a distance of no more than 25 meters. The Afghans were offering the service expected of any big country's international airport, even though Kabul International was neither big nor busy. The ride on the bus fulfilled the expectation regardless of the fact that I could have walked to the terminal with greater ease.

Once inside we waited while passports and visas were checked, and pictures taken. I then moved to the baggage area just behind the customs entry point. The airport has one baggage carousel surrounded by eager baggage handlers waiting with their carts. You don't rent a cart, you rent a handler, paying him enough to gain his loyalty to get you through the maze of gates, police, refuges and to the parking lot where my ride was waiting. In the end I paid two handlers $60 to do what I could have done in the US for $3. But then again, this was Afghanistan.

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