By all accounts, my life should be ordinary. I’m a 37-year-old financial adviser based in Bath, England, with a steady income, a tidy apartment, and a calendar full of client meetings. But when the weekend rolls around, or annual leave starts ticking, I become someone else entirely — a thrill-seeker, a self-proclaimed “extreme tourist” who seeks out danger like others seek luxury resorts.
It all began as a coping mechanism after a rough breakup in 2018. I booked a last-minute trip to Mogadishu, Somalia, driven by curiosity and pain. I wanted to escape the safe confines of my middle-class life. I wanted risk. Since then, I’ve visited war zones, post-conflict areas, and countries many would never dream of entering, including Syria, North Korea, and Iraq. But nothing — absolutely nothing — compares to what happened in Afghanistan.
In late 2023, after the Taliban’s return to power and the ensuing clampdowns, I decided to go to Kabul. I arranged my visa through a gray-area travel agency specializing in high-risk destinations. Friends warned me it was suicide. But I couldn’t resist. There was something about the combination of beauty and terror, the sense that I could vanish into the unknown.
I kept a low profile in Kabul, staying in guesthouses, dressing modestly, and avoiding government buildings. That’s when I met him. I won’t name him for obvious reasons, but let’s call him Rahim. He was a translator for a local militia, ex-Taliban, and heavily armed. We met through a mutual contact who arranged motorcycle tours for journalists. His English was broken, but his presence was commanding. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp features and eyes that pierced through veils of fear.
We struck up a bond over tea and shisha. He was curious about the West, I was fascinated by his world. Days passed, then nights. One night, after a long ride through the mountains, we stopped near an abandoned checkpoint. We lit a small fire. He produced a bottle of contraband vodka and we drank in silence. The tension between us was undeniable.
What happened next was surreal. In a country where homosexuality is not only taboo but punishable by death, we shared an illicit moment that felt like a paradox — passion amid peril, tenderness against the backdrop of a world built on control and violence.
Was it love? No. It was raw, reckless, and brief. But it was also real.
I returned to the UK weeks later, forever changed. I’ve since resumed my job, advising clients on pension plans and investment portfolios. But my mind drifts. To the rugged cliffs of Afghanistan. To Rahim. To the smell of gunpowder and jasmine.
People ask me why I chase danger. The truth is, I’m not just chasing danger — I’m chasing freedom. A kind of emotional clarity that comes only when everything else is stripped away. In these places, I feel alive. I feel seen. Back home, life is structured, safe, numb.
I don’t know where I’ll go next. Maybe Yemen. Maybe the Congo. But I do know this: I’m not done chasing the edges of the world — or the strange, fleeting connections that live there. Even if they come armed and wrapped in danger.
Extreme tourism may seem like madness to many. But for me, it’s the only place I find truth — no matter how uncomfortable, unpredictable, or forbidden it may be.
