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Everything seems to be not a dream because nothing has happened to me-nice since I was kidnapped, but for the beautiful landscape of peaks and mountains of Pakistan.

My friends should not know that I am in that geographic location. Neither Bobby. I sleep very few hours for continuous music. Not because it is unpleasant but because I'm not used to sleep with sounds of liturgical music, or lowing of cows.

Also get used to their food or the smell of cow manure that seeps through the cracks of the shed. Because it looks like a barn, much lighting I have, and it is very cold at night, "my colleagues have made a joke l recommend this hotel as best in town." Electricity in Pakistan is a luxury that few can access.

The song "Sufi" is the mystic music of Islam and is popular in Pakito. They hear it day and night. And the folk music called "qawwalli. For the dialect they speak, seem Sunni.

Today I woke up thinking about the day we went to Pakistan. After spending controls on the Iranian side, we arrive at a border post Taftan at 5pm. In the booth had three soldiers who knew no more than four words in English, only asked us a passport and a photo. En route there are no trucks or buses, and all was sand all around us. The control and then dismissed us radioed to the next because we were under way. I going to come from military jeeps reminded us that we are near the border with Afghanistan, and an area of refuge for Taliban groups.

Now I do this "mental tour" of what has happened to me, I think the mind has a lot of memory to store data, the computer is like a replica of the engineered cells to the neurons, which have not invented anything new to recreate or new meaning, but nothing more.

Still do not understand very well why they took the lapto if they let me just write. Already I was accustomed to giving orders to the keys. Write with a pencil brings me more memories, but of children. And Bobby's childhood when he helped do the homework. What site will be now, son?. Do not be angry with Dad because I was not looking to go to the stadium to watch the Tennessee Titans, one day I hope to explain why I have not gone. And to your mother I owe an explanation. Sometimes sleep with your sister Mariah, Bobby ... you and her playing in Central Park. And then I wake up sweaty and agitated, as if he'd run roads and streets to get there before .. and she runs in front of me and now and then turns to smile and re-run, with an outstretched arm waving, but without looking back. And in the morning when I wake up, I remember his face but the color of his eyes ... I know they are light blue, but after that dream, I can not remember that detail.

I think they'll come and get me something to eat.

For the clothes are ethnic Pasthú, cotton trousers, baggy, long shirt, with long flight and wool cap, plan, called pakol and a blanket over his shoulder to pray or shelter, depending on where you are at that time. Kalim dressed that way. The most spoken language is Hindi or Urdu. Kalim would the age of Bobby was the guy that came with my meal and with whom we spoke something in English, though they were not close to her father and his brothers. The food is not varied, beef curry with rice and potatoes. I once gave Karahi (beef) and biryani (meat and cabbage) once. Kalim had applied to join the group of the Muslim Brotherhood, a group of so-called moderates and accepting the system of government-nation, of democracy. But his family was not permitted because they were born with Pasthú tradition. The traditions are very important here.

The last time I brought Kalim hidden in his pants one day (Dawn), where a French colleague had published a note with a picture of me that I had taken with his cell phone before we parted in Iran, where he described his concern for my sudden disappearance 17 days ago.

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