Bang!

An explosion temporarily blinds me. I see a guy sprawled up ahead, covered in blood and screaming hysterically in Arabic, part of his leg blown off. My heart beats out of control as I realize that I’m slap-bang in the middle of a minefield. F**k. There’s a place and a time for swearing, and it’s here and now. F**k, f**k, f**k.

    It hasn’t been the best of days: I’ve already been caught in a mortar bombardment, robbed at gunpoint and I’ve administered first aid to two blood-drenched women at the scene of a horrific car crash. To tell the truth, I’m no longer just scared, I’m really f**ked-off and scared, which is a rubbish combination. The adrenalin coursing through my bloodstream is supposed to create a Fight or Flight reaction, but instead

I seem to be struck dumb by clinical stupidity. I search my memory for

someone to blame for sending me to a place this absurdly dangerous,

but it’s my own stupid fault. My kids will have to say, ‘Daddy died writing a cookery book,’ as their mates suppress their giggles. I miss my

kids. I miss my wife. I miss my cat. I miss my coffee machine. I despise

myself for being here at all. I’m just a weedy, bookish food writer from

North London – I wasn’t built for war zones.

    The adrenalin recedes and I let out a deep sigh. I’m in a pyrotechnic

minefield in Herefordshire and the screaming Arab jumps to his feet,

right as rain, and berates me in a broad Welsh accent for failing to

notice the obvious signs of mines. He watches me go through the

motions of sticking my penknife in the ground at an angle as we playact

getting out of this sodding mud. Needless to say, I am by now

thoroughly humiliated and not a little miserable.

    I’m on a gruesome course called ‘How to Survive Hostile Environments’, which is supposed to prepare me for visiting Category 1 conflict zones like Afghanistan and rebel-held Burma. I’ve spent the morning with roughty-toughty ex-paras being pistol-whipped and bundled into carboots and watching scratchy video  of people having their fingers cut off by kidnappers. I am now feeling nervous, exhausted, nihilistic and, for some reason, a tad misanthropic. What have I got myself into?

I am about to embark on the craziest project of my life: two years of

travelling to the world’s most dangerous and complicated countries

using food to understand a world in crisis. I’ve always believed that food

gives us an extraordinary window into emotion, morality and society,

but I suspect that it can also reveal the intimate reality of how big issues

like war, disaster, religious conflict, hunger and climate change have a

tangible effect on real people.

    We rarely see more than a shallow, macro view of the world and its big

issues: we see Afghans on the news screaming and bloodied in front of

burning cars; Palestinians burning flags; refugees mournful and powerless. These people are often stripped of their personality and dignity by the needs of the media. I want to meet, talk and live with ordinary people in extraordinary situations to try to understand the world a little better. Perhaps if I sit down to eat with them I’ll find them a little more like me.

    Five days before I leave for Afghanistan, The Fear sets in. I’m in the

middle of presenting a chirpy food series called Food Uncut with

Housewives’ Favourite Jean Christophe Novelli flinging his silken locks

around and flambéing chops. It couldn’t be more different from the

project I’m about to start, but that makes it all the more attractive – the

coming two years will be a cycle of two weeks avoiding bullets in the

most godforsaken hellholes of the world, followed by two weeks in cosy

TV studios tackling autocues and making cheeky banter, then back to

the godforsaken hellholes again. I’m hoping it’s a way of staying sane.

    Anyway, here I am, about to reveal ‘What’s Hot and What’s Not in the

World of Food this Week’ (marmalade with gold flakes is in, but Asda

wet fish is out), when I get an urgent telephone call from my executive

producer Will Daws. His voice is unusually sombre, and he dances

around the point for a few brief seconds before breaking the news.

    ‘I don’t know how to say this, Stef, but the BBC high-risk security

team has intelligence that 38 would-be suicide bombers have just

entered Afghanistan from Pakistan. On top of that, there’s a specific

group that’s actively looking for a Western hostage and things are pretty hairy.  It’s entirely up to you. If you want to pull out, you can. Have a

think about it and call me back.’

    So an already crazy idea has become even crazier, and I stumble though the rest of the day’s filming barely paying attention to my script. That night, I sit down with my wife Georgia and break the news to her. Actually, I’m ashamed to say that I don’t give her all the details – in fact I’ve largely played down the danger of the whole project, so I just say that things are looking a bit rum out in Persia, but not to worry because I’ll be fine. I feel terrible. I’ve only just come to terms with the prospect of spending two weeks of every month away from her and my two little daughters. And now this.

    Perhaps I’m stupid, cavalier and selfish to even think about flying

around the world searching for danger when I’ve got two beautiful, brighteyed little girls who need me. Christ, I’m homesick and missing them like crazy, and I haven’t even left my front room. And to top that, I’m now enduring a prolonged, involuntary contraction of my sphincter. This is to become a familiar feeling over the next two years: this is:

The Fear.

    But the simple reality is that this project feels important and useful. 

I’m also an incurable optimist who believes that good things will happen

and that somehow or other things will end up fine. And yes, goddammit,

the little boy in me who always wanted to explore the world and do

dangerous stuff and get trapped on a desert island and use every tool on

his penknife is so excited that he can barely think straight.

    I call Will and tell him that I’m going.

    I visit the BBC Safety Stores – an extraordinary emporium that sells

everything from fluorescent tabards to flak jackets. It’s run by two young

ladies whose sense of humour is generally in inverse proportion to that

of their customers, who are always on a last-minute shopping expedition

to somewhere awful, looking for odd items that might help them survive.

    The ridiculousness and seriousness of the trip hits me as I look at my

reflection, wearing a bright blue flak jacket and matching bright blue

helmet – on paper it sounds kinda conflict cool, but the reality is I look and feel like a bright blue, dorky tit with a surprised, speccy look on its face.

    There’s all sorts of other kerfuffle involved with going to war zones:

security briefings, visas, endless injections, army accreditation, water

sterilization pills, press passes. There’s so much stuff to sort out that

before I know it, bugger me if I’m not in Kabul, stuck in the most

chaotic traffic I’ve ever seen. I mention to our driver that insurance

must be difficult to arrange in this country. He guffaws at my ignorance.

‘There’s no insurance here,’ he says, gunning the engine and mounting the mud kerb. Traffic jams are dangerous for Westerners – high danger

of kidnap, so it’s best not to get stuck. But our driver says, ‘You’re safe

with me – no-one’s ever been kidnapped from a car when I’ve been

driving.’ Then his brow furrows and he adds, ‘Actually, now that I think

about it, there was one. But just the one, so far.’

    My arse cheeks tighten once again as The Fear shivers through me.

Welcome to the Danger Zone.