The queue for Safi Air flight #248 from Delhi to Kabul looks like something of a loya jirga in itself, businessmen and diplomats, village traders of lapis lazuli, scammers and schemers, all going back to the homeland for one reason or another, all with excess baggage—fridges toasters and microwaves, dreams hopes and expectations—all wearing long tunics baggy trousers and funny hats, all speaking strange tongues and whispering strange sighs, body odors wafting from overcoats whose histories likel
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No, mercenaries have not overrun the Chinese lines, and there are no soldiers from the Mersey or the Thames or the Thyme. No bombs have been launched; no shots have been fired. No casualties have been reported; the hospitals are not full. And if any negotiations have taken place, it's been within tourist (and drinking) circles, not political ones. You see, we're not talking about normal society here. We're talking about an alien life form—visa runners.
For those of you who don't know what a
