Everything in Afghanistan has its own mixed-up logic, so a few hours after the first night of British and American bombardments, the United Front, the armed opposition to the Taliban regime, finally made good their promise to fly me into the northeastern enclave they hold. Little matter that Front officials had announced they were suspending all flights for four days. I was about to arrive in the Front's main city, the capital of "free Afghanistan".
Forty of us piled into the back of the creaky Soviet Antonov 26 troop transporter, which was painted in green camouflage. All airspace over Afghanistan was supposed to be closed, so I could only hope the Front had notified the US air force in neighbouring Uzbekistan that we were not a Taliban suicide mission. We passed the meandering Amu Dariya river that marks the Tajik-Afghan frontier. From the window of the Antonov I could see only grey and sand colour.
Three years of drought have left Afghanistan dry as a bone, its people on the verge of starvation - seven million, more than a third of the population, according to the UN.
Dominic McSorley and Phil Miller from the biggest Irish relief agency, Concern, shared my flight. Mr McSorley was unhappy about the bombardments. "It's disastrous," he said. "We've been trying to operate under the threat of airstrikes which already crippled deliveries." The World Food Programme was supposed to deliver 10,000 tonnes of food to Concern each week until the snow starts in November. But WFP withdrew its staff after the September 11th attacks on the US, and had delivered only 2,000 tonnes in the past month. Afghans at Concern's "work for food programme" at Pulibeghem have seized tools and stopped a dozen local employees from leaving the site until they receive the 200 tonnes of food owed to them.
US officials predict the airstrikes will be 'long and sustained'. "That means limited or no access for humanitarian relief," Mr McSorley said. The US strategy of bomb and bread air drops made it likely that the most vulnerable would be left out - and that Taliban fighters will get plenty to eat.
"The humanitarian operation on the ground has been completely compromised," Mr McSorley said. He showed me a Concern position paper issued the previous day. "Air drops of humanitarian aid should not be used as a pretext or a cover for military action," it says.
Below us, I could see only the same brown and grey, a few sand-coloured boxes that were houses, squatting in this inhospitable land. Not a sign of life. Had all Afghanistan gone to ground, like Osama bin Laden? Then the dunes started, immense, undulating forms, more dramatic than the Sahara desert. The riverbeds were dry and the desolation stretched to the horizon; valleys, canyons and mountains of sand. A dead star. The surface of Mars.
The Antonov crew asked us to crowd forward, to balance the weight of the aircraft. We were climbing to clear the outcroppings of the Hindu Kush, great tectonic plates that shifted thousands of years ago. The slightly orange beige colour never varied , only the size and shapes of the mountains. The pilot veered before a high peak and we came upon a valley, faded and dusty but green. The passengers applauded when the wheels touched down in a whirlwind of dust.
Although we had paid for the flight, the co-pilot took up a collection for the pilot.
"State of Afghanistan is committed to Strugle Against Caltivating Producing and Trafficing of Narcotic," said the hand-painted sign on the airport building, misspellings and all. The entire economy of the United Front enclave is based on opium poppies and relief aid. A photo portrait of Ahmed Shah Massoud, the Front's leader, hung below it, between broken windows filled with plywood. Massoud's assassination on September 9th is believed to have been a signal to the hijackers in the US to carry out their horrific mission.
Dozens of men and boys, barefoot or in sandals, wearing maroufi - baggy trousers with a long waistcoat over them - and cloth turbans or round kulla wool hats, stood on the dusty landing strip, staring, smiling, fingering their worry beads. In the capital of "free Afghanistan", seat of Badakshan province, home to President Burhannudin Rabbani, with a population 100,000, donkeys outnumber vehicles. There is not a single paved road; all buildings are made of mud brick. There is electricity three nights a week, no running water.
Except for the Kalashnikovs slung casually over shoulders, the battered jeeps and two fancy guesthouses belonging to President Rabbani, Faizabad has changed little in 1,000 years. Ten years of Soviet occupation and the mujahideen attacks from surrounding mountains barely fazed it.
The only structural change in nine years of United Front rule is a massive compound for the presidential guard on the outskirts of town, surrounded by a mud brick wall with medieval turrets at each corner. We passed the bouz kashi playing ground, with mud brick bleachers, where the national sport is played for ten days every spring. Horsemen bat a headless goat around with sticks; outside the United Front enclave, the game has been banned by the Taliban.
We passed a school being built by US Concern. "The teachers are given food for teaching, the students receive food for attending," Phil Miller, Concern's director in Faizabad explained. "The girls get a special bonus." We drove along the Kupcha River gorge to the old city, with its muddy paths and wood-shuttered stalls. It seemed odd that in a country at war, people could be so unconcerned and cheerful. "People were very worried after Massoud died," said Azam, an office manager. "Now they are happy because the Americans are fighting terrorism. The Taliban will be finished. Our commanders will take Mazar, Takhar and Kunduz (provinces)." Only the mullahs had reservations about the US bombardment, because they are susceptible to bin Laden's discourse on Islam, Azam said. "I talked to one of them today. He was afraid to say much, because he thought the people of Ahmed Shah Massoud might hear him and arrest him. In Afghanistan before, the mullahs were not very influential. They learned this in Pakistan. It's the Taliban who gave the mullahs this power."
The United Front style themselves as "moderate" Muslims, but as Mr Miller of Concern learned, they are extremely strict. "I had to obtain government permission to hire two women," he says. "We had to build a separate entrance for them, and employ an ugly old man to guard them. The government complained that I spoke to them three times in six months. I prefer the rural villages - they're more easy-going." In one of the muddy streets of the terraced old town, I approached a fleeting form, shrouded in a white burqa. "She doesn't want to talk to you," my interpreter kept repeating. I insisted that he translate for me. "I am not allowed to talk in the street," the woman answered before hurrying away. "She's afraid of the government people," the interpreter explained, gesturing at "No. 1 Guest House" - the seat of local government - on the incline above us.
Mohamed Nazir (26), President Rabbani's deputy, in charge of immigration, foreign relations and permits for the Panjshir Valley, sat in front of the guesthouse. He referred not to the United Front but to "Islamic State troops". "Ninety per cent of the people are very happy about the bombardments," he said.
Gen Pervez Musharaf, the President of Pakistan, said yesterday that the United Front must not benefit from the US bombardments. Mr Nazir laughed. "The Pakistanis are pretending to go along with the Americans," he said. "But they've still got their devious plans for Afghanistan. Pakistan is a founder of terrorism. Pakistan founded the Taliban."
But if the American onslaught continued, he predicted, "it won't take long. They'll smoke out the Taliban." But weren't the people of Faizabad afraid the Taliban might attack their idyllic valley in retaliation? Mr Nazir laughed again. "People know the Taliban are over-powered. We want the Islamic State troops to occupy all of Afghanistan." He looked across the old town, glowing in the late afternoon sun. The trees trembled in the breeze and the waters of the Kupcha roared beside us. Mr Nazir laughed softly. "You know, it's always been hard for our people to get visas to visit the US," he said, more to himself than to me. "Faizabad is a very safe place. Maybe the safest in the world."