I traveled through Afghanistan in fall of 2000 during the Taliban era, and then returned in 2002 and 2003 to report for various publications and radio programs. These pictures are from the summer of 2002, when I took a cross-country road trip from Kabul, through Kandahar, and then to Herat, my hometown. This was before any roads were repaired, and during a time when many Afghans were still hopeful for change.

As a child, I lived in Kandahar, Helmand and Herat. Now with American and European journalists as my travel mates, I traced back memories from my childhood, visiting sites like the Helmand River and the Gazergah shrine. I went to schools, shrines, bazaars, and private homes, talking to Afghans from every background and age to gauge the mood of the country.

We took a taxi on the road from Kandahar to Herat. It was a nine-hour ride through a dangerous zone where three people had been killed three days before. Our driver was easy-going, almost fearless, speeding at 90 mph on the cracked roads. We stopped for lunch at a roadside restaurant and then our driver lit up his usual after-lunch joint. He smoked it as he drove.

My Spanish companion and I were not happy with his dessert. But our German photographer seemed amused. She was sitting in the front and taking photos of him.

"I can drive blind folded through these roads," he told us with confidence.

Meanwhile, a group of turbaned men with kalashnikovs jumped out from behind the small hills motioning us to stop with their guns. Our heartbeats accelerated as our car slowed to a stop. I had heard stories of road lootings but this would be worse. We were all women and foreign women with a lot of cash on hand. We told the driver to keep going. He didn't listen. I somehow felt responsible for these women because I was the Afghan. A thousand things went through my mind. Will they rape us, kills us and take our money? I clutched onto to the door handle as one of the men stuck his head in the window and asked the driver for something in Pashtu.

I can barely understand Pashtu, but I could tell it was about money. We sat motionless, hoping the driver could rescue us. The driver handed the man a 40,000 afghani note, $1 then, said goodbye and drove off. The women looked dumbfounded. I asked the driver what had happened.

"They were just collecting toll. This is how people in this area make their money."

I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

Join me in this journey.