Pashtun people live mostly in a long crescent that stretches from southern Afghanistan right through Peshawar in Pakistan. Rough country, dry valleys, sharp mountains, everywhere a two day walk is normal. They herd sheep, they trade, they keep their women in silver and indigo. Language is Pashto, sounds like gravel and honey. Men sit in circles with guns and green tea talking about honor. Women trade stories on the roof. Everyone knows who's cousin of who for fifteen generations. Clans are everything. A Yuzufzai won't marry a Safi. And jewelry is not fashion. It's passport. Cross the border with a good neck ring and no one's asking questions; that's your wealth, your bloodline, your dowry all in one. Today the kids watch Bollywood on mobile phones and still wrap their necks in the same old torque.