"settling unfinished business... " a Afghanistan Travel Page by grunberg

Salam Hama,

Chotor asten ? Khub astom ! There's news from my arse: it's
decayed from tight nut to aching jelly. I've just sat 3 days on the
back-bench of a 4x4 Toyota Hiace, being rocked on the mountain tracks
from Chagcharan to Herat. So let me tell you a bit more about that
legendary middle route that unite East and West of Afghanistan, from
Kabul to Herat.

"Salawat li-Allah..." the driver mumbles when starting the engine; and
the devout passengers join in chorus: "..., Mohammed, ... aalihi wa
sahbih". Thus protected against the evil jinns of the road! Now,
having crossed ramshackle bridges, flirted with countless abysses,
survived landslides and forded flooding rivers, I am more than
convinced that Afghans have a direct connection to the providence!
Yesterday, while driving on a muddy track down a pass, with an abyss
behind every bend, the steering wheel was of no use to the driver; so
he closed his eyes and steered with his lips: "bism-Allah". And all
faithful muttered the same. Only the kafir in the car kept his eyes
open: I didn't want to miss that angel carrying our car on its wings.

I left the rubble of Kabul 12 days ago, to head for Bamian. A mere
200 km, I thought. And indeed, the first hour went rushing on the
comfy paved road from Kabul northwards. The landscape was lush in
this large and fertile valley, the orchards seemed endless. Then,
suddenly, the car and its 15 passengers (pressed as tinned sardines),
took a sharp turn left, into the Ghowrband valley. I was shocked by
the state of the beaten track: endless bumps. Little did I know it
was only going to be worse. The driver whipped his Toyota-horse
ruthlessly and rocked us mercilessly. It became clear why we took 10
hrs for that tiny bird flight.

And what a valley it was! You just can't stop muttering "subhan
Allah" (local version of "Jeez") at all that magic befalling you: the
green of the grass, the pink of the blossoms, the grey, blue and
yellow of the rocks, and far away, at the horizon, the white of the
massive barrier of the Hindu Kush. I was directly plunged into
wilderness, but one tamed by man, as the village succeeded each other
swiftly; and it was impressive to witness how man was subtly living
in harmony with all this mighty landscape. It was doubtless the best
season to discover that valley.

The mud houses are like a throw-away product: you never repair, but
simply build a new mud-house next to the old one. As a result, you
see more ruins than useful houses, sometimes remainders of genuine
fortresses, god knows how old. The scattering rate for ruined tanks
(Soviet or Taliban) is 1 per hour.

At sunset, it's time for Maghreb prayer, i.e. time for a wash: feet
and elbows into the icy torrent, then unwrap your turban and use it
as towel, then as a prayer rug. If you need to go to toilet, just
sit on your kneels anywhere, the shelwar kamiz will be long enough to
hide your parts. In other words, men don't pee standing. If the
women among the readership think this solves the problem of men
always making the loo dirty, then the solution is much simpler: there
are no toilets in Afghanistan. You just go to the backside of the
house. I let you imagine the stench in certain streets...

The Shebhar pass lies above 3000m, and was free of snow. Thus we
arrived in Bamian, the hotbed of NGOs. It seems they are competing
to get a grip on the few sensible projects here. Already on the way,
every village had either a school or a well or a bridge sponsored by
some NGO, some country. The most ridiculous was a red brick building,

The giant Buddhas of Bamian have gone with the Taliban, and are now
replaced by a guard who charges tourists an "entrance fee" to look at
the empty carved out rock. and this at a rate of 3 tourists per year!
He gets coarsely paid by some NGO "for the preservation of cultural
heritage". Same thing when you climb on the hilltop of Bamian: a
child sits on top and wants to sell you a ticket to enjoy the view.
As a result, all of Bamian works for NGOs, nobody cultivates the land,
and agriculture is fading away. Anyone willing to set up an NGO
monitoring the effects of NGOs ? so much for NGOcracy.

With a sharp eye, you notice a ruin on the hilltop of Bamian:
Shahr-i-Gholghola, or the city of noise, taking its name from the
pandemonium that followed Gengis Khan's vow to wipe out every living
being from that valley. Cities were a thorn in his eyes, and he
fervently redeemed the land to its one true purpose: grazing land!
The people that settle subsequently are the Hazara, of Mongolian
blood, and with fascinating faces. I can spend hours looking at faces
in Afghanistan. So Bamian is not Karzai-land, this is Mazari-land
(their hero, slaughtered by the Taliban 11 yrs ago).

From Bamian, I walk 1 day up the valley, sparing my bottom. The next
little town is Yakawlang (on your maps ?), 2 days walking, in a snowy
landscape but the track has been freed of snow (the villagers' job).
As they all speak of "the wolf", I finally get scared, thinking of
the poor means I'd have in fighting the hungry: only chlorine (water
purifier) to sprinkle in its eyes - a la Taliban. So I wait for the
next Toyota Hiace and jump in. Instead of a wolf, I see thousands
of lemmings, swiftly disappearing into their holes as the car rushes
by. Their huge number tells long about the wolf's retirement.

My 1977 guidebook claims there are wonderful burqa-blue lakes in
Band-e-Amir, but all I could see was the Big White: snow and ice like
on the arctic. The whispers run that these (natural) lakes are part
of the Herculean works of Hazrat Ali - the St George of the Muslim
world (cousin of the prophet), about whom the legends abound.
Whenever you see a huge cleft in a mountain, you say it's Hazrat Ali
who slashed it with his sword. When our car capsized into a ditch and
was back on its feet hours later, they all agreed it was thanks to
Hazrat Ali; though I'd swear I saw a crowd of men from the nearby
village pulling out the car.

The Moghul emperor Babur never forgot his journey from Chagcharan to
Yakawlang during the winter of 1506/7. Losing men and horses to the
cold, his arrival in Yakawlang was as sweet as honey: "to pass from
the cold and the snow into such a village and its warm houses, on
escaping from want and suffering, to find such plenty of good bread
and fat sheep as we did, is an enjoyment that can be conceived only by
such as have suffered similar hardships, or endured such heavy
distress". Well, I can't boast a similar distress, but I second his
remark about fresh bread and fat sheep. Only... where are the girls???

A propos girls, I can be very short: you never see them. The burqa
ratio is 50% in Kabul, 90% in the province. By non-burqa I don't mean
mini-skirts but the long black veil - like in Iran. Apart from that,
only 5% of people in the streets are women. In the mountain villages,
there are no burqas, but lassies quickly hide behind their veil
whenever a man comes into sight. Really well-tamed. Incredible
virtues of the stick! And that's got nothing to do with Talibanism.

Almost every village worthy of that name has a serail/khan/chaikhana:
a common dormitory for all the passers-by. You eat and sleep on the
carpet. Dinner is rice with boiled mutton, breakfast is tea and
bread. you get tea at any time of the day, always in 1 liter metallic
pots, with coloured candy next to it. Spittoons strewn on the floor.
Spitting here is like a sport. The Hazara are proud of winning the
national spitting competition with their memorable 3-loop spit: one
spits and ten blow in proper directions. In the cars, no spittoons,
so men just spit on the floor or on my feet. They even swallow a
green, disgusting powder to increase their spitting rate.

The toughest bit on the central route from Kabul to Herat is the
Kirman pass, the last one to be cleaned of snow. Cars couldn't pass,
so that earned me 2 days walking, half of it in the snow, sagging to
my knees. From that point of view, I could have chosen a better
season. But many other Afghans were doing the same. And don't worry
about the white wilderness: you don't walk more than 1 hr without
meeting a lost farm or a village, even though these people live several
months surrounded by snow. That guarantees as much tea as you want on
your way. Don't ask me how they manage with vitamins during the
winter, though! The doctors of Laal (IAM volunteers) told of 50%
infant mortality and 90% illiteracy.

After Laal comes Daulat-Yar, the first village in the Harirud valley,
a little torrent that will grow proudly till it flows through Herat
and then northwards into the Amu-Darya (northern border). This is no
Karzai-land either, and also no Mazari-land. This is Massoud-land!
The people are called Aimaq, and are related to Tadjiks. Again
fantastic faces, blue-eyed even. When I don't carry my pink rucksack,
they take me for a Tadjiks and speak to me in Dari. Surely due to my
muddy trousers and growing beard!

The hardest moment for our car was after Chagcharan, when it started
snowing and the track became a spaghetti of ruts. On steeper slopes,
the 4x4 wheels were wrestling with the mud - to no avail. That's
where Afghans are creative: jump out, sleeves up, dig under the snow,
rip out those precious herbs with their roots (bare hand), roll out
the harvest in the ruts and give the car a green carpet treatment.
With such a delay, you usually don't reach bigger villages at
nightfall, so you knock on the first humble door and soon all
passengers are granted hospitality - with fresh bread and milk for
dinner!

I froze the whole night, so getting up at 4 am to drive on wasn't
quite a torture. Trouble was the car's doors were frozen, and so was
the rear coupling axis. The former was treated with boiling water,
while the latter got a scary treatment with a wooden fire under the
car - with running engine. I wouldn't have minded the car to go
ablaze, given the glacial night around. I spare you the troubles we
had when the snow chains finally expired.

The real fun started when we went down that steep and narrow gorge to
fall back on the Harirud river. In the depth of wilderness, at the
crossroad of 3 canyons, stood proudly the Jaam minaret - perhaps the
highest in the world. It Went into oblivion several centuries ago,
only to be "rediscovered" in the fifties. My guide book would like me
to believe this was once a popular route for caravans on the silk
road, but I think it just wants to give me a good laugh.
As the river was flooding, we couldn't simply ford it with our 4x4; so
our car jumped on the back of a huge Kamaz (Soviet) truck that
happened to be waiting there (speak of a godsend!), and whose wheels
were just high enough to keep the engine above the water. Quite fun
to ford a river doggy-style! That gave an idea to the nearby male
donkey who suddenly remembered it was spring and ran to find his
sweetie.