Footloose in Kabul

I knew I was in for an adventure when I arrived in Kabul. But looking down at my foot hanging limp from my leg and exposing my arse in the middle of a crowded and dusty Afghan road wasn't the kind of adventure I had in mind. The day this all happened was the day world leaders including UN Secretary General Ban Ki Moon and US secretary of state Hillary Clinton were in town to map out the future of the war-riddled country. Security even more than usual was tight. The city on alert. The main arterial roads were closed and people advised to stay at home. It was mid-summer and I had just arrived in Kabul to work on an assignment with a friend and fellow journalist Travis Beard. I was captivated by the city. Families crowding into cars, burqa-clad women, sometimes five or six squeezed into the back, Kalashnikovs slung over the shoulder of every uniformed man surveying the dusty streets. Traffic at a standstill, held up by convoys of towering military tanks and SUVs travelling through the city. The tell-tale signs of Kabul, horns tooting, helicopters overhead and prayer music. Travis and I left the house on a motorbike to spend an afternoon exploring the city and picking up supplies. I heard the crash before I felt it. There was a loud howl, the bike spilt to the ground skidding several metres on the dusty road. I couldn't see what had struck us because my face was tangled in my headscarf. Confounded as to why pain was surging through my body, I began to wonder, if I'd been shot.
Maybe Travis had been shot. Still attached to the bike, he spun around to check on me. "Are you okay?"
"I'm okay," I lied. Shock was hiding the true extent of the pain. "We've been hit by a car," Travis said. A slight understatement given it was a four tonne armoured SUV, designed to resist roadside bombs. Our bike hadn't even made a scratch let along a dent. Travis and I soon realised that my foot, like the bike, had come off second best.