All language subtitles for Riverboom.2024.DOC.FRENCH.VOF.1080p.WEBRip.AC3.5.1.H264-LiHDL

If we work for Le Figaro
and don't pay expenses,

they'll say we paid their costs.

But they don't have access
to Le Figaro and their expenses.

What did Le Figaro pay for?

They paid for two nights,

it was very expensive,

we had to protect someone,

that's $100 per person.

That's it, simple as that.

You're making things complicated.

No, that's your Italian mindset.

The French are more precise.

- Not at all.
- Yes.

- You have the dates...
- Paolo, try to understand.

Your mathematical approach...

We're doing fake accounting.

- Of course.
- We need to do it right.

Yes, indeed.

You're obsessing,

thinking they feel
you're screwing them over.

- They don't think that...
- I think they do.

Not at all.

That's your guilty Protestant side,
it's stupid.

You're imagining things.

Just explain what we do
and it's fine.

We're in Afghanistan in 2002,

in Taliban territory,
shortly after the US intervention.

The hothead with big teeth is Paolo.

The guilt-ridden moralist is Serge.

As for the coward
under his Afghan blanket,

that's me, I'm Claude.

And at this moment, all I care about

is getting out of this car alive.

IT'S WAR

WAR ON AMERICA

THE NEW WAR

RIVERBOOM

This is the story
of three Protestants

driving to see where
the parachutes land.

But let's start from the beginning.

I was born in Lausanne, Switzerland.

Son of a left-wing lawyer

and a pacifist feminist
flight attendant.

I'm cautious,
but thanks to my wonderful family,

I have a joyful spirit.

In my family, we loved to laugh.

My super mom, of course,
but also my super dad,

my super big brother,
my super cousins,

and even my super dog Olaf.

At 12, my cultural background was
Gandhi's writings,

Yakari's adventures,
and Rondo Veneziano.

At 24, I got a typography degree.

I guess they'll take anyone
at Lausanne Art School.

So, I was set for a postcard life

in the Swiss Alps,
the epicenter of world peace.

But my world shattered
against a 25-ton truck.

My parents died
and Switzerland now felt

like a lost paradise.

PARADISE

In this comfortable
post-Berlin Wall world,

only focused on having fun,

my pain made me feel like an alien.

That's about where I was

when I got a call
from a distant acquaintance.

It was Serge Michel,
a rushed journalist

with a Band-Aid on his neck
from shaving too fast.

He was leaving for Afghanistan
the next day

and needed a copilot to go to Kabul.

But my specialty was microtypography.

"Don't worry, I made you a fake
Le Figaro Magazine press pass.

"You'll cross the Afghan border
as a war photographer."

And that day,
instead of jumping out the window,

I jumped into a Mitsubishi Pajero.

After ten uneventful days,

we arrived in Kabul.

A FILM BY CLAUDE BAECHTOLD

Kabul was both in ruins
and bustling with life.

At that time,
hope could be seen on every face.

The Taliban were gone,
people could finally breathe.

The peace promised
by the international coalition,

the Pax Americana,
was on everyone's lips.

The city was an
international anthill.

There were Americans, Germans, Poles,

French, Italians,
Danes, Romanians, Portuguese, Swedes,

Czechs, Turks, Armenians,
Norwegians, and even Swiss.

They said they were here

to rebuild a new,

prosperous, and democratic
Afghanistan.

Here, we met Paolo,
a war photographer

with whom Serge would work.

But Paolo was wary,

fearing competition
from another photographer.

Serge explained I was
just the co-pilot,

that my job was done,
and I was leaving.

Serge needed Paolo's photos.

Together, they'd produce
a series of articles

for the French newspaper Le Figaro.

"Afghanistan, Year Zero."

Their plan was ambitious.

To follow Ella Maillart's 1939 route.

A trip around the country to check
the promises of Pax Americana.

Their adventure began as mine ended.

Off to the airport to go home.

PAN AMERICAN

At the airport,
the Ariana Airlines chief manager

didn't understand what I wanted.

I pointed to his model plane
in the display case.

But he showed me the real plane
on the tarmac.

In front of the airport slogan,
he whispered in my ear:

"Have a nice trip
in Afghanistan, sir."

Sheepishly, I met Serge and Paolo
at the hotel.

Paolo wasn't happy to see me.

But Serge had the solution.

"Go buy a camcorder."

When I returned to the hotel
with my almost new Mini DV camera,

he handed me a fake press card.

"From now on, you're TSR's special
correspondent for Afghanistan."

In Switzerland, it takes ten years
to become a director.

At Babak's, the amazing
multi-tasking grocer

who runs the shop
across from the hotel,

it was done in ten minutes.

DAY 1

There's no sound,

since I'm using this video camera
for the first time.

I don't know yet that I need to press

the mic's ON button to make it work.

Afghanistan, in the early
21st century,

is the world's largest minefield.

White side of stones means
you're safe.

Red side means
you might get blown up.

Damn, it was off.

We've got 20 minutes, we're late.

Even in the middle of nowhere,
Serge is in a rush.

We're 20 kilometers from Bagram,

the largest US military base
in the country.

You're useless, Paolo.

And he doesn't want to miss

Colonel Davis's press conference
at 9:00.

We'll be 20 minutes late.

Serge, we spent ten minutes here,
it doesn't matter.

Yes it does, it was 8:40
and now it's 9:00.

Serge quickly established himself
as the group leader.

Born in Geneva to an architect father

and a feminist mother
from a good Protestant family,

a revolutionary Calvinist.

At 13,
he was already reading Jack London

and got his first wound
from Mrs. Rottenmayer,

a grumpy French teacher
who gave him 4 out of 10

for an adventure story
about a platypus,

while Martine got a perfect score
for her pony story.

Since that day, Serge's mission has
been to prove Mrs. Rottenmayer wrong

and everything else is wasted time.

It was 8:40,
we stayed here 20 minutes.

If you want to see Colonel Davis,
you must be on time.

There's only one entry per day,
at 9:00.

There isn't just one entry per day,

you need to be there at 9:00
to check in.

One entry per day at 9:00,
that's what we were told.

Meet at the base at 9:00.

At 9:20, the shuttle is gone.

What do you expect?

- Is Bagram still far?
- No, not very far.

Paolo is the second Protestant
in this car.

He speaks with an Italian accent
as he grew up in Florence.

His father is a Canadian pastor

and his mother
a Lutheran Dutch feminist.

Despite his Protestant upbringing,

Paolo grew up in
a Catholic countryside.

While studying art history
in Florence,

his father left the family
with a note:

"I'm going to Africa
to care for orphans."

In truth,
his father went to California.

He joined a curvaceous
real estate agent, drove a Mustang,

wore leather pants, and smoked weed.

Paolo's Renaissance world shattered.

He decided to become
a war photographer

to observe the world
through his Hasselblad.

Following the rule of those
who style with bullets,

tragedies are never told in color.

Was it in color, Paolo?

No, I didn't shoot in color.

I like these white and red spots.

But in black and white,
it might look even better.

- But how do you...
- What is here?

That? It's the base.

We're at the base already?
Should we just walk?

Is that the speaker?
Should I stop filming?

- It's right there, right?
- Yes.

Let's walk, no?

Go as much as you can,
then we'll walk.

I hope they don't see
your book title.

It's a nice book you're reading.
What is it?

"CIA and Jihad". You little...

Operation Mountain Resolve

is focused on securing
and stabilizing

the Nuristan and Kunar provinces

to promote freedom

of movement and commerce
in both regions.

The coalition uses appropriate force

to achieve clearly-defined
operational objectives.

Operation Mountain Resolve's
objectives are to

to destroy and disrupt

anti-coalition forces...

Colonel Davis looks like
a Hollywood actor.

He describes the offensive

against anti-coalition forces
in bureaucratic speak

that would put
a Canadian lumberjack to shame.

We have some specific objectives...

For its soldiers and diplomats,
the US Army

has set up a high-security area,
the Green Zone.

Complete with supermarkets,
leisure areas, and sports fields.

The Red Zone,
considered dangerous and hostile,

covers the rest of Afghanistan.

- Colonel Davis?
- Yes.

Serge Michel from Le Figaro.

When you speak about
anti-coalition groups,

would you tell us exactly
against whom you are fighting?

Fleeing Taliban, Al-Qaeda elements,

Pakistani mercenaries,

or Hekmatyar fighters?

It would be premature
for me to comment on that.

I'd rather not try to distinguish

between the various
anti-coalition elements.

As you know, at times,
they work together.

Other times, they don't.
It depends...

on their needs and requirements.

But right now, they are...

They are the enemy.

We're here to destroy them.

That's all that matters.

Thank you very much.
That will be all.

- Any casualties today?
- No more questions.

We knew the international coalition

led by the US was
out of touch with reality.

But what we would discover

was beyond anything we had imagined.

DAY 2

Leaving Kabul,
Serge briefs me on the basics.

Armored vehicles are
the ones getting shot at.

To gain Afghans' trust, no escort.

We're safer in our Toyota.

Only film people
who want to be filmed.

And if a woman agrees
to show her face,

you're lucky
if her husband doesn't shoot you.

I'm starting to realize

this journey means
crossing the red zone.

Fortunately, we're not alone.

Anyone want some Charms?

We'll have several drivers,
but only one translator, Najib.

This medical student
from Kabul speaks

both Tajik and Pashto.

He has a great sense of humor

and the courage to join us.

When you say something is good,
is there a sign?

Is the OK sign rude here?

- It also means "excellent".
- In Afghan?

It's not vulgar?

Doesn't it mean "up yours"?

No, but if you do this...

- Like this?
- Yeah.

And this? This means "I need to pee."

And this means "I have to shit."

This one's "I need a drink."

This means "I need to smoke hash."

You're teaching us a whole language!

How do you say "I am Junbish,
I was Jamiat,

"but now I'm gonne unite
with the Panjshiris"?

Is there a sign for that?

It would be better if
you were behind and I was in front.

It would make filming easier.

From time to time.

He found an excuse to stay in front.

- Are you less comfortable in front?
- No.

Perfect, you'll get
the least comfortable spot

for you and for me.

Our Protestant minds
won't suffer from it.

Stay at least 25 meters away
from the deminers.

It could explode.

Yes, but there's the white route.

Yes, but if they jump while working,

you could explode too.

Where are you going?

- This way.
- OK.

It's safer here than over there.

Can he come with me

to take pictures?

This idiot wants to
get close to the mines,

can you tell him no?

- No, they said no.
- No?

Even with a bulletproof vest?

In two years, he found 12 mines.

That kid we just interviewed.

One every two months.

Can you believe it?

How many mines are in this country?

They say 50 million mines.

How many Afghans are there?

- 20 million?
- 25 million.

Back then, they said
one mine per Afghan.

Numbers are good to know,
but there are mines

on every frontline

and one every 20 kilometers.

Show it with your camera.

Can we stop here?

I'd like to take
a photo of that tank.

The light is great
and the color's beautiful.

Can we stop here, please?

Stop. Perfect. Thanks.

If you want to film me, go ahead.

How did this country,
described for centuries

as paradise on Earth,
end up like this?

Let's go back to 1964.

Afghanistan borders the USSR,
Pakistan, and Iran.

It's a multi-ethnic kingdom

where Tajiks, Pashtuns,

Uzbeks, and Hazaras live in harmony.

It's called the Switzerland
of Central Asia.

Islam was moderate
and women's suffrage

was granted to Afghan women in 1919,

50 years before Swiss women,

who were denied voting rights

until 1971 to protect family harmony.

This constitutional monarchy was led
by King Zaher Shah,

whose reign brought
30 years of peace.

During the Cold War,
he maintained neutrality

between the US and USSR.

But this fragile balance
would soon shatter.

From 1973,

a series of coups threw
the country into chaos.

Civil war loomed.

In 1979, neighboring USSR,
fearing an Islamic revolution

like in Iran, launched Operation
Storm-333 and invaded Afghanistan.

They thought it would be over
in three weeks.

They secured the cities,

installed a socialist government,
and send girls to school.

But in rural areas,
tribal leaders rose up.

These resistance fighters were called
mujahideen.

The Americans provided
massive support.

The West didn't fight jihadism,
it funded it.

In Rambo 3, even Stallone fought
alongside jihadists.

Volunteers came from everywhere

to fight against the Soviets.

Including Osama Bin Laden.

For ten years,
they resisted the Russians

who killed hundreds of thousands.

But the USSR failed
to defeat the resistance.

In 1989,
the Red Army left Afghanistan.

They left behind
an Afghan socialist government

isolated among warlords.

Afghanistan was wounded
but not defeated.

Kabul had been spared
and its university

was still the best in Central Asia,

with 40% of professors being women.

More than at Lausanne University
in 2023.

We'll pause
this historical account here,

as a major obstacle stands
in our way.

This is the Hindu Kush range,

the last arm
of the Western Himalayas,

which we must cross
through the Salang tunnel

at 3,363 meters high.

It's higher than the Bertol hut,

considered a high mountain shelter
in Switzerland.

BERTOL HUT 3,311M
SALANG TUNNEL 3,363M

I'm already worried,
but when I see this sign,

I wish I'd stayed in Kabul.

The tunnel is in terrible condition.

A broken track covered
with ice patches

in an unventilated tube.

The line isn't that long.

The tunnel opens once a day,
at a specific time.

Everyone waits for the signal,

because being at the front

reduces the risk
of suffocating in the tunnel.

This is incredible, Najib.

- It's like a race.
- Or a violent movie.

Like a Jean Claude Van Damme movie.

Someone's coming
from the opposite direction.

People have died in this tunnel
from cold and suffocation.

Najib...

this isn't the best place to smoke.

Close the window.

There are debates about
tunnel safety in Switzerland...

Here, it's...

There's ice, we're on ice.

- Let's get out and push.
- Damn.

We need to push.

We're on ice.

Watch out.

Go ahead.

- Let's go!
- Tell him not to speed up.

Don't go too fast!

Don't speed up and don't shift gears.

- I don't have a clutch.
- It's automatic.

My camera has focus issues.

From there, I think.

No, that's really strange.

The image is stuck.

We're reaching the end of the tunnel.

I take a deep breath of fresh air.

And this was supposed
to be the easy part.

Stay calm, I focus on the click

of my Olympus Mju II and,
unlike Paolo,

I hold on to Afghanistan's
vibrant colors.

We reach Pol-e Khomri at dusk.

For the first time,
I eat on the floor in Afghanistan.

It's quite pleasant.
We're served delicious round bread.

I discover the subtle
Afghan courtesy.

They welcome you politely,
without questions.

Here, traveling is just
another activity,

as respected as driving a truck,

building roads, or healing people.

In Afghanistan, people trust

travelers more than neighbors.

Unlike Switzerland.

Another surprise,

here, even though the steamy scene

between DiCaprio and Kate Winslet

was cut from the Afghan version,

the film Titanic left such a mark

it became a lucky charm.

While to me,
it's the ultimate disaster.

Serge and Paolo seem quite
at ease with disaster.

They chat casually
as if we were returning

from a walk by Lake Geneva.

DAY 3

Serge is delighted
I decided to join them.

He thinks it would have been a waste

not to use the free back seat.

Same logic for the hotel.

According to Serge,
the golden age of reporters is over.

Newspapers have become stingy
with travel expenses.

We'll share the same room
throughout our journey.

- I like going in the middle.
- Serge goes in the middle?

- Yes, I go in the middle.
- That's great.

Paolo is so relaxed
because this morning,

I placed my little 123-gram Olympus

next to his 250-kilo Hasselblad.

"Is that a camera?

"Looks like an electric razor."

And when I showed him my photos,

a collection of failed shots

because I pressed the shutter
too late,

his face lit up.

From then on, we got along great.

I think we take two kinds of photos

that are different

and complementary,
as they're very different.

I don't think about...

Speak English.

My way of taking photos

isn't better.

On the contrary.

And I think

that the image of Afghanistan

is probably better reflected

in Claude's work

than in mine.

I'm looking for something different.

Look at this guy.

Paolo, this shot's for you.

With your flash.

Nice flash, I'll buy the same
when I'm back in Switzerland.

My dream

is those cameras with huge flashes

to take those black and white
news photos, like Chicago gangsters.

A flash giving off '60s lighting.

It's the first thing I do
when I get to Switzerland.

The Afghan road is
a world of its own.

It shelters and feeds nomads,
bandits, so-called road workers,

lost travelers, wild rhubarb sellers,

and of course, beggars.

Serge is already writing
his next article.

Abdul Karim Baran works
at the entrance of Samangan.

He has a gray beard,
a Soviet tank track

for a chair, and a way with words.

"I have only the sky above
and earth below."

"In the days of good
King Zaher, I was a farmer,

"but I can't work anymore."

"The generous give me money,

"the stingy let me die."

"Truck drivers pay well,
they're rich and honest folks."

"At night, I sleep in the mosque."

"When I have money, I buy flour

"and send half to my wife."

A car stops, the window rolls down.

A hand extends some bills.

"God bless you,"
says Abdul Karim Baran.

"But I don't take fake money."

Yes, there is counterfeit money
in Afghanistan.

Or rather,
some less real than others.

These counterfeit bills are called
junbish-e,

after General Dostum's party.

He got hold of
a national currency press

and printed bills.

You need to be an expert
to tell real afghanis

from fake junbish-e,
worth half as much.

The bankers are young

to sort through
astronomical amounts of bills.

I'll go alone if you don't mind.

No problem.

With Najib, Serge wants to explore
the bazaar to learn more

about this mysterious
counterfeiter general.

His strategy

is to gather information
from the streets.

He believes the least
important people

always give the most
interesting information.

Paolo and I take the opportunity
to go for a walk.

This city is beautiful.

It's stunning.

Paolo is the perfect
travel companion.

He's always in a good mood.

His motto is also his blood type:
"Be Positive".

He claims that with this tattoo
on the battlefield,

doctors will know
which blood to give him.

I think he's just
showing off to girls.

A spiritual son of Robert Capa,

Paolo became a war photographer

like taking holy orders.

Minus the abstinence.

I see things differently.

War scares me and to think about it
as little as possible,

I focus on everything
Paolo doesn't photograph.

Which is quite a lot.

These carrots are amazing.

A war photographer ignores
many things.

Put your hand next to it.

So cool.

I'll take a photo of this cowhide.

When I photograph Paolo,

I'm scared but take a happy photo.

When Paolo takes my portrait,

he's happy but takes a serious photo.

We're meant for each other.

It's the family of a commander
who was killed.

Why?

Just like that,
by killers from elsewhere.

Is it political?

It's not the commander,
it's his family.

- The commander isn't dead?
- No.

His wife, two sons, daughter,
cousin, and nephew.

I'm so happy to see you.

I know, but I can't change.

- Take off your scarf.
- Let's go.

Thanks. Goodbye.

To understand
what led to this family's murder,

we need to look back
at Afghanistan's history

since the Soviet army's withdrawal.

Without Russian support,

the socialist government
would only last two years.

In 1992,
the warlords emerged victorious.

Among them, the Uzbek Rashid Dostum,
head of Junbish-e Islami,

who printed counterfeit money,

and the Tajik Ahmad Shah Massoud,
leader of Jamiat-e Islami.

They clashed with other leaders.

Civil war broke out.

Afghanistan plunged into chaos.

Pakistan funded a new army
of fighters,

recruited from its Koranic schools.

These jihadists were called students

or, in Pashto, Taliban.

In two years, the Taliban,
led by Mullah Omar,

controlled the country
by enforcing Sharia law.

Women lost all their rights.

The warlords fled,
except Massoud who resisted

in his Panjshir Valley

where he'd be killed by Taliban
posing as journalists.

Mohamed Atta, known as the
Professor, was one of his successors.

The Taliban had won,

but let Bin Laden

set up an Al-Qaeda training camp
on their soil.

From there,
he orchestrated the 9/11 attacks

which shook the entire world.

In retaliation, the US led
an international coalition

launching Operation
"Infinite Justice"

and invaded Afghanistan.

They drove out the Taliban,
but Bin Laden

managed to escape
to the Pakistani mountains.

By 2002, the coalition found itself

in the same position as the USSR
20 years before.

A foreign army installing
a reformist government,

wanting to send girls to school,

facing jihadists
who went from Western heroes

to dangerous terrorists.

Atta and Dostum took advantage
of this.

Everyone wanted their share.

The Samangan murder was
a settling of scores

between their two factions.

And we're right here.

This is the front line dividing

Junbish and Jamiat troops.

DAY 6

Najib, are there any mines here?

You're kidding. If they say yes,

you'll kiss my feet
for the rest of the trip.

And yours.

- Hello.
- Hello.

The leader
of this outpost is Adan Khan.

He and his men are members of Jamiat.

They confirm.

It's all Junbish's fault.

They launched a major offensive
last month.

They took over a lot of territory.

Their position is right there,
behind those fields.

We know each other well.

Each morning, we take
the same road to the front line.

But since they joined Junbish,

we shoot at each other
during the day.

Have you killed many?

I can't tell you.

When a bullet leaves my gun,
I don't know where it goes.

- Can I sit in front?
- Yes, please.

Junbish took this territory
and they're Jamiat,

they remain Jamiat
in Junbish territory.

They don't want to argue.

They've had enough.

But it's their salary.

- Yes, it's their salary.
- Even if they're fed up.

Further along, on the other front,
we meet farmers.

Is this land Junbish or Jamiat?

Serge asks if Junbish collects
ashar from them,

the war tax.

It's extortion.

A real scourge
for an already destitute population.

No, not at all.

But we realize we're talking
to Junbish's local chief.

He's the one stealing from farmers.

He doesn't know what to say,
so he laughs

like a kid caught with his hand
in the cookie jar.

This is the village

taken over by Junbish.

Can he take us to the village chief?

He says: "We're a very poor village."

He says they have no blankets

to keep warm at night.

All he has left is this patu.

They even killed the cows.

- The Junbish?
- Yes.

In Babadjouri, Ahmed tells us

his village was looted
five times this year.

They beat the men,
and decency prevents me

from telling you
what they did to the women.

Curse Atta, Dostum, and their greed.

Ever been robbed on the road?

Please close your window,
I can't hear you.

Two gunmen were
pointing their weapons

at our car.

They made us get out.

When I stepped out,

they asked where we were going.

I said: "To Mazar-i-Sharif."

I looked at one of them,

his face seemed familiar.

Then he said: "Give me your jacket,

"I'll search the pockets."

So I told him: "I know you."

I brought him to the light,

near the car headlights,

and looked at him carefully.

And I recognized him.

- He was my classmate.
- Really?

Then he started hugging me.

- No way!
- I swear!

And...

He said he was sorry.

Sorry for not recognizing me.

This story is incredible.

DAY 10

Yes.

These eggs aren't cooked.

Look at these carrots, Claude.

Yes, very nice.

Wait. Let me take a picture.

- Shall we eat one?
- Yes.

Oh, thanks.

- Want a carrot?
- No.

It'll give me a stomachache.

You think?

- That's too bad.
- We have water here.

In Kabul, the UN office boasted
they had eradicated

opium cultivation
through an anti-drug campaign.

Paolo is too late for the photos

requested by French newspapers.

Look at that. Hash fields.

Cannabis fields.

I can't believe it.

This is insane.

It's hash.

Tons of hash. Miles of it.

What a nice smell!

Stop it, kids.

You're such kids.

Are there mines?

- Are there mines?
- No.

No.

Take my picture
in the middle of the field.

I'm not used to this.

I have an automatic camera.

I have a modern color camera.

It smells so good.

Since almost no journalist
has taken this road

in decades,

Afghanistan at that time

is like an open book to us.

Here, we meet Mohammed Salim,

who grows cannabis and poppies

for opium.

This Afghan farm

has very different farmhands
than ours.

"We're against opium farming,

"but we have no choice.

"It's the only thing we can sell.

"When the Americans came,
we thought things would improve.

"But where are the fixed roads,
infrastructure, security?

"Nothing has improved."

In the time of Ella Maillart
and Annemarie Schwarzenbach,

whose trail we're following,

Afghanistan produced saffron.

It was only in 1979
that opium cultivation began

to fund the war against the USSR.

As surprising as it may seem,

the Taliban managed
to eradicate it in 2001.

And with the coalition's
arrival in 2002,

they hoped it would disappear
from the country.

But the opposite is happening.

Production has skyrocketed.

This financial windfall exceeds
the country's annual budget

and funds the warlords' armies.

That's why they fight
for every piece of land.

Drugs are a good indicator

of Western intervention's failure.

By 2021,
when international forces leave,

Afghanistan will become

the world's leading heroin producer.

IN THE POPPY KINGDOM

But here we are, still in 2002.

After breathing cannabis pollen
for three hours,

everyone's in high spirits.

Do you think the Taliban are aliens?

It's good.

I'm going to die.

An Afghan banana.

An Afghan banana.

I only had 20 left.

20 afghanis.

DAY 15

The next day, we reach the
great city of Mazar-e Sharif.

These two guys fight
and share the provinces

It's insane.

This northern capital is the base
of two bloodthirsty warlords

Paolo and I will stay here,
then move.

Yes.

To show his importance

Mohamed Atta pretends not to

notice us.

Welcome.

Thank you. Here's my card.

Since Massoud's assassination,
he's wary of fake journalists.

Who's responsible

for the recent fighting?

The Balkh University Council

named me a man of peace.

Your research must have shown that

Dostum and his men

are behind the recent fighting.

I think they figured out

that I can't use this camera.

The more I try to move like a pro

from Swiss TV,
the worse my filming gets.

But all analyses show that

commanders are the main issue.

Good thing Paolo
and his flash are a distraction.

I only hear the last line
of the interview.

Serge asks if warlords

aren't Afghanistan's problem

and if he sees himself
as a man of the past.

Mohammed Atta looks
at him with contempt.

He, a man of the past,
in his perfectly tailored

Turkish suit -
they don't know him well.

This man of peace
will keep extorting the country

until he becomes
Afghanistan's richest man.

Only the Taliban's return in 2021
will stop becoming president.

Think Dostum knows we saw Atta?

You think Dostum's people know

we saw Atta?

I don't know.

I don't feel well.

Take a deep breath.

We need to be careful
with these guys, it's their turf.

Yes, let's take it easy.

He's the one
who started the offensive,

he shot at the mosque,

he didn't sign the weapons agreement,

the PRT guy told us.

Today, he's the most violent,

the most uncompromising one.

Relieved to have made it
out of Atta's place alive,

I learn that his rival,
General Dostum,

is known for his alcoholism
and cruelty.

He allegedly left hundreds

of Taliban prisoners
to suffocate in containers.

After a three-minute drive,
we arrive.

Though their soldiers fight
against each other,

both warlords' offices

are located in central
Mazar-e Sharif.

- Paolo, give him your card.
- Yeah.

At the Ministry of Foreign Affairs,

we're told the general isn't here,

but if we wait, his secretary,

who's also away, might see us.

When the secretary finally arrives,

he says he can't do anything
without his boss.

He asks us to come back
in the afternoon.

In the afternoon, same story,

except there's a Brezhnev lookalike
in the corner.

Could be a spy,

the secretary's secretary,

or just a neurotic uncle
who was given a chair.

I'm delighted.

We'll never get to meet
the psychopath general.

But they didn't know
how stubborn Serge was.

He managed to get
the private secretary's number,

who referred us to the spokesman
who'd call the secretary.

Serge finally got a meeting

with the general
at his country house.

This place is incredible.

Hello, everyone.

After two hours of waiting,
Dostum finally arrives.

I wasn't informed you were coming.

Zaki called me half an hour ago.

Dostum hates journalists,

but since I'm filming,
he puts on a good face.

I hope Serge takes it easy.

Take it from here.

He doesn't want to go? Fine.

I know you journalists...

"General, the population is fed up

"with your army's pillaging
in the field.

"A feud between factions led

"to the murder of an entire family.

"In Kabul,
they call you a new drug lord."

"What's your response?"

Let me show you the way out.

Can I take one more? No.

With such lack of diplomacy,

the interview ends abruptly.

- Please.
- OK, yes.

Is that what Serge calls
taking it easy?

I handled it well.

This guy is no journalist.

He's a suicidal mythomaniac
who escaped Geneva's administration.

As for the other idiot laughing,

he must be from a mental hospital.

I think their mothers got together

to plan this trip
and get rid of them.

There's no other explanation.

They must be celebrating right now.

And I'm the one stuck with them.

I should never have
gotten in this car.

- Are you in pain?
- Just a stomach ache, I'm fine.

- I have things, you too?
- Yeah, I'm good.

Thanks.

Serge and Paolo are
so caught up in their stories

they don't realize
their lives could be in danger.

IN THE POWDER KEG OF MAZAR-E SHARIF

Now that the warlords' crimes
will be read in Paris,

they want to unwind at an NGO party.

Serge, tomorrow,
we'll do something together,

we'll throw those socks in the trash.

You can't walk around in those socks.

You're not 14 anymore.

It's awful.

Plus, your pants are always too short

and it shows. I'm embarrassed.

Socks should be black.

I don't have enough black ones.

OK, we'll throw them away tomorrow

or give them to some imam

who can't afford to buy any.

And we'll buy black ones.

Everyone seems relaxed.

Maybe I worried for nothing.

This party is full of expats
who must know what they're doing.

Our feminist mothers taught us well.

For us, asking a girl for the time

is already sexual harassment.

Being uptight Protestants,

ashamed of our bodies,

our chances of talking
to a girl are...

For Paolo, with his Italian
Catholic background,

talking to girls is vital

and his odds are much better.

Serge turns to the
NGO's security officer.

I move closer to hear
the conversation.

Hello.

"You upset Dostum? Are you crazy?"

"We'll escort you
to your hotel, it's safer."

Against all common sense,
Serge declines the offer.

They offer to take us back,
we accept.

What did he mean by that gesture?

There are snipers.

Was he serious?

- There are armed guys...
- Wait, we can't...

Damn, we can't...

Let's find a car.

If there's a curfew,
there are no cars.

It's a 30-minute walk.

There's no curfew.

And if some guys want
to attack foreigners,

they'll be kept in front.

Stop it.

How to get into trouble.

They shoot at guys in white,
not in dark clothes.

There are no cars.

It's dark.

There's a car,
Taliban coming to kill us.

Well, in that case...

- Good evening.
- Good evening.

- Where are you going?
- To the Polo Hotel.

- Alright?
- Yes.

- Thank you.
- Great.

- Where's the Polo?
- Here, on the right.

No, left, left.

- Where's the hotel?
- Left. On the left.

- Is this your hotel?
- Right in front.

- Thank you so much.
- You're very kind.

You're welcome.

OK...

Thank you. You're very kind.

Night shot.

You're fooling around.

- Thank you.
- Thanks. Good night.

Serge and Paolo sleep like immortals,

untouchable and safe from harm.

No matter how hard I pretend,

I can't picture myself
as an adventurer.

I lost my sense of immortality

when I found myself in the front row
of that Gothic church

facing my parents' varnished coffins.

They whispered: "You're next."

Since then, these coffins haunt me,

and it's been 1,825 damn mornings
of waking up to these nightmares.

DAY 21

Watch your step. Stay on the...

No need to get closer.

And all that for a blurry photo.

His dream is to be on the cover

of the legendary
National Geographic magazine.

Still, as someone who
always expects the worst,

I'm starting to admire Paolo,
who only dreams big.

I think the rabbits are
on the minefields.

There are rabbits everywhere here.

Look at all the rabbit droppings.

This one was placed by the Americans.

They're in charge of setting up
a decent regime.

But it's not too bad.

Want to see me juggle?

You tell me:
"What are we doing wrong?"

We were looking
for something uninteresting.

I think we need to rethink
how we work.

You want weapons in the frame.

You're crazy.

A bit more that way.

I'm much better than you at framing.

Are you doing this just to make
a good film for Claude?

ENCOUNTERS ON THE TRAIL

THE GRASS EATERS OF BADGHIS

DAY 31

Serge and Paolo have
found their groove.

But having grown up
in a pacifist, feminist world,

I'm completely lost.

For a month,
all we've seen are men and AK-47s.

I must be the least qualified person

to film this country.

I'm like a runaway train carriage.

But I stick with Serge,

because he knows exactly
where he's going.

Even if he still has
some Calvinist quirks.

Like a proper lockdown

of his emotional center,

disdain for bodily pleasures,

which must suffer to serve the mind,

and an obsession
with the absolute truth.

Apart from a few quirks,

like his terrible taste in socks

and mixing up food with fuel,

Serge is an extraordinary storyteller

who exposes world injustices
every Thursday in Le Figaro.

LE FIGARO THURSDAY AUGUST 1, 2002

When it comes to food,
thank goodness for Najib.

He doesn't have Protestant baggage
to deal with and thanks to him,

we eat more than
just carrots and water.

Najib is our guardian angel.

As long as he's with us,
we'll be fine.

- Do you do egg fights?
- Do what?

- Egg fights, like that.
- Yes, of course.

And you?

We have kite fights...

And dog fights.

Cockfights.

Camel fights in Mazar.

- Camel fights?
- Yes.

Any non-violent sports?

No, not really.

- Chess, maybe?
- Chess?

Where you throw the king
in someone's eye?

At night,
Najib has terrible stomach pains.

- How are you feeling?
- My stomach just...

Hurts.

Oh God, I'm so sorry.

Could be food poisoning,
not appendicitis.

Should he go to the hospital?

I think that's best.

He needs to go back to Kabul
for surgery.

It's a week's journey on dirt roads

without any medical facilities.

Najib can't risk having
appendicitis here.

Tomorrow, he'll fly to Kabul.

Serge and Paolo decide
to continue the journey.

Serge will communicate in Farsi,
which he learned in Iran,

similar to Afghan Dari.

It'll be enough to get to Herat,
he says.

But not for me.

My journey ends here.

Tomorrow, I'll fly out with Najib.

OK.

DAY 35

In three hours, I'll be in Kabul.

International flights
should be running again

and I can go home.

Back to normal people,
alternative art galleries,

electro parties with young rebels,

or just the Alpine horn
in Vevey's market square,

where a swan hitting
a pigeon is big news.

That's when the
airline baggage handler

adds an unusually
emphatic "Inshallah."

It's Ariana Airlines'
last working aircraft.

An old Tupolev on its last legs.

Of course, only God decides
the fate of men and machines.

But between you and me,
technically speaking,

it's a miracle
this plane is still flying.

When we see it in the sky,
we sing to encourage it

and cross our fingers,
hoping it won't crash.

That's not a good image, you know?

My mother was a flight attendant.

I've never been afraid of planes.

It's safer than driving.

Afghans are masters of improvisation.

They could make a tank fly
if they wanted to.

Yet something holds me back
from boarding that plane.

DAY 36

When I was about to leave them,

I thought I heard
my mother's laughing voice.

"Stay with those two fools,
don't take the plane."

I hope I made the right choice.

Now there's no real road anymore.

We venture into the unknown.

Cars and people become scarce.

It feels like entering
the realm of the dead.

And this Russian tank is
the same color as my mother's car.

For me, a stuck car

turning back is a bad omen.

But Serge and Paolo teach me

not to trust in omens.

Otherwise, we'd go nowhere.

Two hours later, we meet merchants

who advise us to turn back.

The sky is heavy
and a storm is coming.

There's a river
we can't cross if flooded.

It's called the Boom River.

That name sounds ominous.

But Serge and Paolo keep telling me

never to listen to warnings,

or we'd never go anywhere.

They say the rain isn't coming yet.

When we finally reach
the Boom River, it's too late.

The water level is too high to cross.

We're trapped between the cliff
and flooding river.

No way to turn back.

We'll have to spend
the night in the car.

In Afghanistan,
the rule is that at night,

you must be under
a village chief's protection.

Alone, our lives belong to anyone.

Further ahead,
another car is stuck in the mud.

Inside it, a stolen sheep, a Colt 45,

a Kalashnikov,

and a small-time highway bandit

who suggests to our driver
to kill us,

split our money,

and dump our bodies
in the flooding river.

Luckily, I don't understand Pashto.

The bandit sleeps with
his sheep in the car.

Our driver tells me
it's because of wolves.

It would be dangerous
for the sheep outside.

Wolves? I think I'm losing it.

Everyone finally fell asleep.

Everyone except me, of course.

Outside, the storm intensifies

and the Boom River's waves rock
the car

like a tin can.

They're big waves
for such a small river.

Look.

A cargo ship?

On the Boom River?

Strange to see a cargo ship here.

Dad?

"Hey son,
pretty rough out there, huh?"

Dad? What are you doing here?

"Crossing the Atlantic."

Why do you have the same voice as me?

"You're the one who has my voice.

"So what's the problem, kiddo?"

We're lost, I'm stuck by this river.

I don't know if I can cross it.

I'm afraid of drowning.

"Drowning? Come on, kiddo,

"crossing this tiny little stream?

"Watch, you just take a run-up
and one, two, three, jump!

"I almost fell. No, I'm fine."

But Dad, I'll never make it.

"Honey, the little one needs
our help."

"What's going on here?

"Are you stuck?

"Want me to check the engine?"

"No, honey,
he's scared to cross the river."

"Come on, take my hand.

"Look, it's easy."

"Yes, but it's easy
because there's a bridge."

"Life is always full of surprises.

"In India, a fortune teller said
I'd have two girls.

"Then I had you
and your brother, two boys.

"And it was great anyway."

"Come on, jump in,
the water's great!"

Yes, it really is nice.

Here we go, splash!

Mom, Dad, are you coming?

"No, we're staying on this side."

But why?

"We're staying on
the dead side, honey."

But why?

"Because we're dead, sweetheart."

Will you be dead for long?

"Listen carefully,
my child, it's not easy,

"but you need to let us go now.

"Otherwise, you won't make it
to the other side."

But when will you come back?

"We won't come back, darling."

Never?

"Never."

My first morning without nightmares.

Those Swiss coffins
with their awful varnish

won't haunt me anymore.

They were swept away by the flood

and must be in Turkmenistan by now.

It took me so long
to cross this river.

On this 42nd day of my journey,

rescued from the shipwreck
by the villagers of Bala Morgab,

I return to the land of the living.

Do you understand Dari or Pashto?

I speak a little Dari.

After four days on dirt roads,
we reach Herat.

An ancient oasis,

five minarets remaining
from a legendary mosque.

Herat, crossroads of the Silk Road
and Indian routes,

the former Timurid capital
of the 15th century,

cradle of mystical brotherhoods,

Central Asia's most beautiful library

after Samarkand's.

Herat, where humanitarian aid drops

were surprisingly accurate.

One morning,
a pallet of 5,000 daily rations

crashed onto the mausoleum
of Khawadja Abdallah al-Ansari,

the great 15th-century poet.

Hard to describe the locals' shock

when they found
cholesterol-free rice, crackers,

and strawberry jam,
gifts from America,

scattered across the tombstone

carved around 1450

by Herat school's most famous master,

known worldwide
for his exquisite calligraphy.

Herat welcomes us with a smile.

A good omen for
the end of our journey.

But when he sees us enter his hotel,

the receptionist turns pale.

"There's not a Westerner left
between here and Kabul.

"Two foreigners were killed last week

"at a fake Taliban checkpoint."

For the first time,
I see Serge and Paolo hesitate.

These stories are incredible.

Two or three areas are known
to be dangerous.

And it's very hard to tell

who's Taliban and who's a bandit.

According to theories, if they burn
your car, they're Taliban,

if they steal it, they're bandits.

But it's not clear.

If I'm Taliban,
I won't take your wealth.

Taliban don't care about money.

And this time, they listen
to the receptionist's advice.

"I'll find you a guide
to take you to Kabul.

"Meanwhile, go to the bazaar
to buy normal clothes

"and please take a shower."

Here's your shawl.

That's beautiful, yeah.

One more, two, three,
four, five, six...

We could take pictures.

At the bazaar, we're congratulated
for our purchase by this merchant.

"With these clothes, I guarantee

"you'll blend right in."

- Serge, Marsud.
- Hello.

How are you?

Think it's riskier to travel now?

I'm ready. So is the driver.

The only issue is road safety.

- We bought Afghan clothes.
- OK.

We thought it was a good idea.

Not as nice as yours.

That's good.

Where's that phone?

Our guide impresses me

and the driver

is supposedly a distant cousin
of King Zaher Shah.

Hello?

Marsud? Just a moment.

I picture a shiny car
in royal colors.

But when we get there,
no one's around.

Just a beat-up taxi

with a drugged driver
who knows nothing.

He could slow down.

He was going 70, then 80.

We show him which way to go

and clench our teeth, hoping

we won't get attacked by bandits.

When the sandstorm finally lifts,

we see a village
that's inhabited by 40 thieves.

We got lost, and our driver led us

straight to Amanullah Khan,
the bandit of Zirkhu Valley.

Luckily, he's in a good mood,

since his men just captured
a Russian T-59 tank,

with its V-12 diesel engine
that produces 520 horsepower.

"With this, we can take out a bike
from ten kilometers away.

"Lucky the sandstorm kept you hidden.

"Are you journalists?

"Come with me, I'll take you fishing.

"You know,
our dream is to return to our land.

"We're simple farmers.

"Look how beautiful this valley is.

"When we're tired of fighting,

"we come to this river

"and fish to restore our souls.

"Now, I'll show you my treasure."

When Ali Baba's cave finally opens,

Amanullah Khan leaps like a gazelle

onto a pile
of thousands of projectiles.

Heavy machine gun cartridges,
AK-47 rounds,

grenades, mines,
hundreds of 120mm shells,

Vietnamese Katyushas,

and a surface-to-air missile.

"Let them try to come get me.

"I'll be waiting."

That's our Amanullah.

The international coalition's
disarmament campaign

seems as effective
as their anti-drug policy.

As for Serge and Paolo,
they're seriously

starting to wonder
if the dream of Pax Americana

isn't already fading away.

The next day, Amanullah takes us
to the edge of his kingdom.

His goodbye is
a bit more emphatic than usual.

"No journalist had
ever dared to visit me.

"You'll always be welcome on my land.

"But beyond these hills

"begins Taliban territory.

"There, only Allah can protect you."

- Slowly.
- God is great.

God is one,

and Muhammad is his prophet.

- I need to write it.
- No.

Let's do it this way.

Can I write it?

Our guide thinks it's a good idea

to learn the Islamic
conversion phrase.

In case of kidnapping,

he says it increases survival chances
for Westerners.

Maybe we're just being paranoid.

Only two Westerners
have died in six months.

Well, I mean...

If the Taliban catch us, we're dead.

But that's not true.

Not necessarily.

I'm more relaxed than you.

We're at the checkpoint.

- Is this the checkpoint?
- Yes.

I have two minutes of tape left.

Claude, hide the camera.

Time to look like sleeping Afghans.

If we pass this checkpoint,
the road to Kabul will be clear.

After all we've been through,

it would be stupid to die now.

Because if I have children one day,

I'd like to tell them this story.

The story of a wonderful country

trying to wake from a long nightmare.

The story of a Pashtun village

that saved three little Protestants
from disaster.

The story of an ordinary Swiss man

who never took risks
but feared everything.

Here, people risk it all
and fear nothing.

Up front, our guide risks his life
to save ours, without flinching.

"Where are you going?"

"To my brother's wedding in Kabul."

"Who are those three in back?
" "My cousins."

"They look suspicious.
What's he hiding?"

"It's a camera for the wedding."

Our guide tells me to show my camera.

I open my eyes
and take out my Olympus Mju II.

"That's a camera?
Looks like an electric razor."

I smile at the checkpoint chief,
my hand steady now.

And in the flash of my camera,

the monster I imagined
under my blanket

becomes human again.

I'll never know if he was a Taliban,

a bandit, or an honest
government agent.

The only thing I'm sure of

is that this country means me
no harm.

It saved my life a while ago.

We're in southern Afghanistan
in 2002,

in Taliban territory, shortly after
the US military intervention.

I wouldn't trade places with anyone.

This is the last image
on my final videotape.

I put it with the other 39

in a small case
and head back to Kabul.

Back in Switzerland, I give them
to a friend for digitizing.

He loses them right away.

20 years later, he calls me back.

"Hey, I found your video tapes.

"Want them back
or should I toss them?"

Najib will excel in his studies

and become a successful doctor.

When the Taliban returns in 2021,

he will flee to the US
with his family.

Serge will be appointed
editorial director

of Le Monde newspaper in Paris

and remains the only
Swiss person awarded

the prestigious Albert Londres Prize.

He's done better than Martine's pony.

Father of a wonderful little girl,

Serge gets his revenge
writing his French essay.

Sadly, it comes back
with a humiliating 4 out of 10.

Signed by Mrs. Rottenmayer.

Paolo will rediscover
Florentine Renaissance splendor

with his first color photograph

which will make
National Geographic's cover.

He'll reconcile with his father
and have two children

who, to his dismay,
will be extremely cautious.

Back in Switzerland,

Serge, Paolo, and I
will decide to team up.

We'll launch the Riverboom
publishing house.

As for me,

I'll publish the first travel guide

of post-Soviet Afghanistan.

Other books will follow,

some will be very successful,

others not at all.

I'll have two little boys
who, to my despair,

are exactly like Serge and Paolo.

They're never afraid of anything.

RIVERBOOM

Subtitling: TransPerfect Media