In transit: from Dushanbe to Afghanistan
The briefing note supplied at the start of my trip by the FT's security consultants contained plenty of pointedly ominous advice about Dushanbe. No walking around in the dark, no ummarked taxis, watch your wallet, all that sort of thing. . . more.

Khodja Bahauddin: Landing among the hack pack
All is forgiven. The waiting, the visa fees, even the lamb kebabs. I am in Afghanistan and it is magical. A donkey pads homeward carrying a woman wrapped from head to toe in a white Islamic burqa. If it is not John Simpson on that donkey, it is Mary herself. I have walked straight into the Bible. . . . more.

Cross-country in Faizabad
Ah, yes ... It is Tuesday, and we are strolling through the bazaar in Faizabad, provisional capital of the Northern Alliance, whiling away the sunny afternoon and waiting for the opportunity to interview President Rabbani of Afghanistan. Getting here from the village of Khodja, our previous stopping-place, involved a nine-hour ride by pick-up truck. It was $250 well spent, and an excellent advert for Toyota off-road vehicles. . . more.

Scrabbling to meet the President
Mmmmm. Rice again. Of all the problems I foresaw in Afghanistan, over-eating was not among them. But here I am, troughing down the communal plov twice a day and busting out of my all-weather suit. No, I need all my strength. I have some serious recent losses at Scrabble to make up. And besides, today is the day I interview the president. . . . more.

Still in one piece
We are leaving Faizabad for Dushanbe, Tajikistan, in a military plane older than the combined age of its passengers. The ladder is just about to be pulled up when cries erupt from the landing strip below. "Let us on! We're very thin! We haven't eaten in three days! We don't weigh anything at all!" . . . more.

Niche commerce in Dushanbe
Not that I am recommending the night-bar in the Hotel Tajikistan as a place to beguile away too many of one's evenings. But when you need a cold beer and the press of human contact it does have its uses. This Saturday night, October 27th, it is more than usually full of robust Russian-speaking girls with bleached hair and tight skirts. Their calling, I would guess, is something old-established. . . more.

Hurdles in Northern Afghanistan
My economic researches have revealed an important leading indicator in the bazaar. There is new money about: lots of it. Big, shiny, plastic-wrapped bundles of local Afghani notes on the stall of every money changer. . . more.

Manna from heaven
There appear to be only two ranks in the armed forces of the Northern Alliance: 'general', and 'other'. Who gets what is largely a matter of temperament. If you have the nerve, you call yourself 'general'. Otherwise, you fall in behind. . . more.

'Home' sweet home
Khodja Bahauddin, Saturday I am back from a few days' break in Dushanbe, and sitting in the yard of my house in northern Afghanistan. The dawn is barely up and the sky is an eggshell grey. We are early-sleeping, early-rising people here. The absence both of alcohol and of electric lights makes this an almost unavoidable option. . . more.

Taloqan's fall
I warmed to Daoud Khan, the military governor of Farkhar, when our pick-up truck ran into a drainage ditch while we were trying to view his front line this past Saturday. Dusk was just falling - not the time you want to be stuck in the desert, still less near anyone's front line. . . . more.

Make-do and mend
I still attract the occasional mocking greeting from a colleague for my habit of travelling around Afganistan in a two-piece blue suit of conventional cut, as though this were an FT or an English affectation. So let me explain my attachment to this tribal dress. . . more.

Battle for Konduz
Konduz is a big town and said to be a charming one, too. I would dearly like to see it, though I fear it may not be looking its best if and when I get the chance. All sorts of rumours are circulating about events there. It is said that Saudi mercenaries are shooting Afghans who want to defect. Some Chechen fighters are said to have committed suicide. I have no basis for judging ether rumour, but the first sounds marginally more plausible. . . more.

In transit: From Taloqan to Kabul
Was it an exploded car up ahead? Or an exploded cow? Even with two translators explaining the problem, we could not be sure which of the possibilities they were trying to enunciate. A visual inspection was needed. Even then, it was hard to say. . . more.

Social archaeology in Kabul
I am not sure what finally did for my throat. But as I hack and splutter my way through the day I give thanks I am not a radio journalist. It might have been the 25-hour journey here from Taloqan on Friday and Saturday, most of which I completed on the back of a pick-up truck. . . more.

Safe to travel
It was the first time, I think, that an international border had ever been opened especially for me. So my thanks for a memorable evening to the three sets of guards involved: the Tajiks, whose country I was leaving, the Afghans, whose country I was entering, and the Russians who patrol the border between the two. . . more.

A light at the end of the tunnel
Back in Kabul at last, only to find the city almost invisible under an evening blanket of smog. If it can produce this sort of pollution with almost no functioning industry, I fear to think what a post-war boom might do for the lungs of its inhabitants. . . more.