Bumpy rides and rival tribes on Afghanistan's border

It's an instant lesson in the often confusing world of Afghan tribal politics, a world of limited resources and long memories of past wrongs, where the guest-host relationship is a matter of deepest honor. (Taliban supreme leader Mullah Mohammad Omar refused US demands to hand over Mr. bin Laden, calling him a "guest.")

"I'll tell you a story about the Pashtun people," says Sohail, a Pashtun from the Northwest Frontier Province of Pakistan. Like many Afghans, he uses only one name. A guest is spending the night with a tribe in Afghanistan. A rival tribe learns of the visit, and decides to attack and kill the guest. The guest, understandably concerned, asks if he will be safe.

"Don't worry," his hosts assure. "If they kill you, then we will kill two of their guests."

After telling his tale, Sohail laughs. Somehow, I am not encouraged.

At 6:00 a.m. the next morning, we have been on the road for an hour, having left the highway long ago for the dusty, gravel roads that wind up into the mountains.

The early-morning hours are when border crossings are most open, according to the Alizais. Our first checkpost on the Pakistani side appears to be an afterthought. A policeman in baggy black trousers and long, black kameez shirt runs out of his concrete office into the road as our guide's car passes, and simply stares as our second vehicle, a four-wheel drive SUV, follows behind.

Then the policeman rubs his eyes and returns to his office.

As I usually do in Afghanistan, I am wearing a woolen Pakistani salwar kameez, the same baggy outfit worn in Afghanistan. One of my colleagues is wrapped in a blanket. We make no other attempt at disguise.

A few minutes later, our car stops. It is time for prayers, a ritual performed five times each day by devout Muslims. Our guides, six Afghan Alizais, wash their hands and feet in the cold waters of an irrigation ditch, lay out their prayer shawls, and bow toward the holy city of Mecca as the gray, gathering light of dawn stretches over the frigid valley.

The closer we get to the Afghan border, the harder the terrain and rougher the roads become. At the wheel of our car, a Pakistani journalist asks an elderly Alizai in the back seat if the roads in Afghanistan are like this.

"Nope," he says. "They are much worse."

At 8:45 a.m., we reach the last checkpost, on a ridge overlooking the Afghan border.

It's a square, one-room building built of concrete, manned by two Pakistani militiamen. They are both members of the Alizai tribe.

Worried about a potential ambush by their tribal rivals, or other problems, our Alizai guides decide to make a trial run to the checkpost before attempting to bring the second vehicle ahead.

After a few tense minutes, the car returns in a billowing cloud of Central Asian dust, and we drive through the checkpoint without pausing to wave.

"Gentlemen, congratulations," says Sohail. "We are in Afghanistan."

Next, our arrival in Maruf, Afghanistan, where the 12th and 21st centuries meet.

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