Living the life of an expat in Kabul can be somewhat restricting, so when given the opportunity to break free of the armed guards and barbed wire fence, one does with great gusto.

It was a Saturday and we decided that with summer upon us, a group of Brits would set off in a mini van and explore the Panjshir with a picnic.

Using the local tour guide company we drove towards Jabal Saraj, which was the front line of the war in Kabul in 2001. It was here, among ramshackle stands selling diet pepsi, dusty vegetables and meat carcasses buzzing with flies that we picked up our cook. He was a short elderly man who careened around the vegetable stands picking up the orders of the vegetables that we called out from the van so we would be ensured the local price. “Yak kilo limu (one kilo lemon, char kilo tomato (4 kilo tomato), gusht? (meat?) We better make that char kilo too.”

The cook with his pressure cooker and pots and pans crammed into the front seat and we made our way along the Panjshir river, scouting for the perfect place to picnic. When we thought we found it, the challenge lay in how to get to it. It sat idyllic but there were two rivers in its path, protecting the possible paradise.

“Mushkil nist (no problem)”, said the cook, and he jumped into the river, pressure cooker in hand and waded across. We followed suit and soaked with the icy water that flows from the Hindu Kush we found a clearing to set up camp.

Carpets were laid in a spot in the shade and the cooking adventure began. Our friend Jared decided to assemble his fly rod, as he was casting his bets on catching us lunch, if the picnic didn’t turn out. As he tied his fly to the line a man and boy emerged from the bushes. The man was wearing blue hipwaders and gumboots, and he was carrying a fish net. The young boy had a handful of fish on a stick. The fisherman took one look at Jared’s fly rod and commented, “khub best, (very good)” and then motioned for Jared to follow him to a place where he would be guaranteed to catch a fish.
The river was raging, and although the effort was there, the river bore no fish and we were left waiting for the cook to complete his culinary delight. When we returned to camp to see how the progress was, we witnessed the cook who was digging a hole in the ground to put the gas balloon. The wind had whipped up and kept snuffing out the propane flame, so he used his ingenuity to keep the pressure cooker hot.

Under swaying willows we tucked into our delicious traditional Afghan stew and ripe mangos whilst cows lazily looked on. As the light turned warm and started its downward descent we packed up camp, recrossed the rivers and made our way back to the dusty heat of Kabul.