Fishing with my dad

I came across a series of images in our photo album that I actually have memories from.
It’s only fragments but I do remember happy faces, gibbering Afghans and again the colours. The amazing turquoise blue river floating through dusty, yellow gravel slopes. The river in the picture seems quite muddy though, I guess that’s what they really look like up front and not viewed from a distance.
It wasn’t only me and my dad fishing. The Afghans did too. And there was plenty to catch. I remember them pulling up flopping silvery fish hooked at the end of their rods in a constant pace and how they guttered and rinsed them on the river bank.
I can’t remember if my dad and I ever caught any fish, the images clearly suggest that we did but maybe it is someone else’s catch I’m carrying.

It must have been someone with us that took the photos. Surely it wasn’t my mother. I also find it hard to believe that my dad would take me on a trip only to fish. This must have been a part of his visits into the country inspecting something for his job, where I just tagged along.

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