ON THE BAGRAM-KABUL HIGHWAY SHORTCUT–I am not an America-basher. I have immense respect for U.S. troops, for all soldiers doing their government's military bidding in distant lands.

But one day last week, I wanted to throttle a Yank-in-uniform and I think for a split-second he considered killing me too. He, however, had a machine gun.

We were on the highway, heavily congested with vehicles heading for Kabul in the late afternoon traffic.

I found myself directly behind an ambulance.

The queue of vehicles, ineffectually blasting their horns, had come to a dead stop. Afghans got out of their cars to see what was holding things up.

But Afghans, of course, have been repeatedly warned to stay at least 100 metres distant from military convoys, whether they're moving or stationary. This one had been stationary for an hour, no explanation given, and tempers were fraying.

Afghans are immensely patient people. They can squat, as still as marble statues, for hours, just watching the world go by.

But these were Afghan drivers, many with minivans jammed full with women, children, the elderly.

I went forward to have a peek inside the ambulance. Two men lay there, one with all manner of tubes emerging from chest and arm, clearly in a state of medical emergency. The other sat cross-legged, stunned but conscious.

The ambulance attendant said they'd just been in a motorcycle accident. The more severely injured was in need of immediate hospital attention. "They won't let us pass," the attendant complained. "I'm afraid this man will die."

Another motorist, at the head of the line, had already tried flagging the soldiers ahead, pointing repeatedly to the ambulance.

"Perhaps they will listen to you," he suggested, hopefully.

Aw geez.

I know not to approach a military convoy, especially when it's standing still. I've written stories about innocent civilians killed under these very circumstances.

Soldiers, leery of an environment that can explode violently at any moment, have often fired first and asked questions – if even that – later. And only 24 hours previously, not too distant, in the outskirts of Kabul, a suicide bomber had attacked an American convoy. The troops were unharmed but three civilians had been killed.

So I understand their wariness. But no explanation had been given for why we had all come to a standstill in the middle of nowhere, open desert on both sides of the road, or how long we might be there.

I went back to my car and blasted Eminen on the CD-player. I thought, perhaps stupidly, that would give them a clue that I was, more or less, one of them, not an Afghan to fear.

"You go first,'' the first driver had urged. "I'll walk behind you. We must make them listen."

Then, hands in the air, dangling my media credentials from my fingers, I forced one foot in front of the other. Clearly the troops should be able to see I was Western, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, not hiding a weapon or a suicide vest.

Fifty metres away, the air gunner in the rear vehicle lowered his machine gun at me threateningly.

"Don't shoot!" I croaked. "Just let the ambulance pass!"

The doors opened and two soldiers got out, clearly angry.

"You!" he hollered, pointing at me. "Get back where you were."

Then, stomping up to my Afghan colleague, the senior soldier got right in his face. "We've got a problem here," he spat out. "And you are creating an even bigger problem. Now go back to your car or we will have one REALLY REALLY BIG PROBLEM."

I felt the Afghan's humiliation and saw red.

"Don't you f----g talk to him like that. And don't you f----g talk to me like that. This is his country. Not yours, not mine."

The second soldier, a younger fellow who looked intensely embarrassed, whispered to me: "I'm sorry ma'am. It's just been a long day."

And right there, my own rage melted away. We were just two human beings, in an alien place, trying to communicate, to defuse the situation.

An open-bed truck, part of the convoy and carrying heavy munitions, had snapped its containing straps. Whole containers of munitions had broken open on the highway. That's what they were loading up and trying to secure again, halting the entire convoy.

Somebody could have said so sooner; could at least have come back to explain the situation to the motorists now idling as far back as the eye could see.

"This is why Afghans have come to hate Americans," said my driver, who works as an interpreter for ISAF and is a strong advocate of the NATO mission in Afghanistan.

"Afghanistan is not our country any more. They are our bosses. They treat us sometimes as if we are trespassing on our own land."

After more heated discussion, the ambulance at least was allowed to pass the convoy, racing off to the nearest hospital.

Back among the Afghans, someone produced a soccer ball. Men and boys played to while away the time. Then, in the distance and moving quickly towards us, we spotted a sand storm, roiling up a sepia miasma as it approached.

Everyone jumped back in their cars but it was suffocating inside. I wrapped a scarf around my face and took shelter beyond the open door.

The storm, with high buffeting winds, moved on as fast as it had come, but I was still left spitting sand out of my teeth and hacking.

Finally, the convoy was moving.

It was only a minor incident, a modest confrontation between Afghan civilians – and me – and weapons-bristling foreign troops.

But I suspect some more enemies were made on this afternoon, adding incrementally to the hostility that is rapidly replacing the warm welcome that most Afghans had originally given their "liberators."

The Americans did not have to be so aggressive. They did not have to treat Afghan men like boys.

No one among this group of drivers and passengers meant them any harm. But maybe some day, one of them might.

You never know when that line between courtesy and dishonour has been crossed.



