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AFGHANISTAN DIARY 1970 ... Part 1Another Side of Afghanistan Images of Afghanistan and its people blaze daily across our TV screens. I watch, aware of two Afghanistans - the contemporary one that the world knows through images of degradation, bleakness, savagery and inhumanity, and the Afghanistan that completely captured my imagination 31 years ago. What follows is one individual’s attempt to balance the picture. I'm returning to my travel journals in order to share another face of Afghanistan and its people. It is my way of offering my care and concern for what is happening there by trying to reveal the Afghanistan that I remember - a country and people of warmth, harsh beauty, passion, rich culture and humor. * * * * * * * The early seventies was an era when young people flocked in all sorts of ways from London to Sydney and vice versa. I’d made my way from Australia to join up with Tim, a Peace Corps friend, in India. As we traveled, we’d learn from others what lay ahead. Like everyone else I read Michener’s Caravans and, like everyone else who read Caravans, I made up my mind to go to Afghanistan. July 16, 1970: Some God-Forsaken Wayside Village in the Punjab Just too simple for us to just get on a bus and simply slide out of India. The Indian system came through again and of course our jalopy bus has broken down. I suppose we’re lucky there is a relatively cool breeze amidst all the dust, while we await the next bus to happen along. Nothing for it, but to expect to stand or be squashed in the bus for the rest of the way to the Pakistani border. Such a layer of dust collecting on me and my clothes and gear. So uncomfortable being watched by the clustering, staring and sniggering children. July 17: Lahore Across the flat Punjab to Lahore, passing under craggy ranges and tall peaks of jagged rock, and alongside rugged, muddy gorges where gray sand deposits drift like icing. Past ancient castles projected on rock slabs, a 400 year old Mogul fort, mud-baked villages. It’s refreshing seeing green grasses and willows lining canals winding through fertile fields set against a brown, harsh-baked backdrop. Everywhere, we see the black and white flag of Pakistan, the crescent moon and a star. We ride luxuriously in mini-busses and I notice my improved attitude when I’m not crowded onto busses or waiting in lines. We share the bus with women wearing chardres (called burkas today) and Hollywood sunglasses. We smile at each other. Friendly. It’s such a different atmosphere from India - progressive. There are sleek petrol stations, clean and spacious new buildings, lots of private industry, a variety of cars. One could hitchhike here, there is enough traffic. July 17: Landi Kotal Bazar The scenic wonders of the storied Khybur Pass and its inhabitants. I’m able to savor it interminably, since we have continuous waits between busses and trucks or whatever. Stopping frequently without fail--time for tea. I get so bloody impatient after it happens for the 15000th time. Despite its exotic history, the landscape is barren and uninspiring. Terraces of dust and rock extend for miles, with occasional mud-packed walls and mud-colored houses hidden behind. I see no women. Just men. Wearing gold and/or white pillbox caps, long vests over long bush shirts, baggy pants, rifles in hand, cartridge belts slung over shoulders. Annoyance of being a woman in these countries where no facilities are provided for anyone. At last we trundle onward, stashed into an incredible vehicle - a decrepit truck (?) with a person hanging off every gripping place and squeezed into every corner, with packs between the feet of me and everyone. Two huge plastic bags of tomatoes are crammed under the gas pedal and clutch. July 18: Jalalabad Such bleak rocky, country with horizons obscured in dust. We cross countless wide, stony, dry river beds. Mud style is the only architecture. Night is falling as our valiant vehicle lurches into the tree-lined streets of Jallalabad. It’s a festive feeling. Music wafts out of shops and parks. Fruit vendors stand on corners. Savory smells assail our nostrils. Gaps in whitewashed walls hint at hidden gardens. There is a feeling of being in the Asian Soviet Union. The features of the people are not dark as in India, maybe it’s more Moghul or Persian. More Greek or Italian. My burning thirst is quenched only after five Sprites, Fantas and Shezans. We feast on pulau and fruit. It’s too late for a taxi or bus to Kabul, so we opt to spend the night sleeping in bunks on the cool veranda of a hotel with an open-air shower and public beds. July 18,1970: Kabul We catch the 6:30 am bus this morning having slept well despite car horns and music blaring. Once again we’re crammed into a dust-encrusted, colorfully painted over-full vehicle. It’s me, the one woman and an armada of men, all in their pillbox caps and with guns. All dipping incessantly into their little tin canisters of - what? Tobacco? Snuff? Hash? They chew or inhale it and then spit. Spit, spit, spit. Everywhere. Our bus climbs ever-upward through ever-bleaker country. I’m impressed, however, with the technical skill and efficiency shown in the dams and roads and tunnels we pass - all built by foreign nations. China, the Americans, the Russians, Iranians ... Kabul is a disappointing city upon first entering, like a Siberian border outpost. Wide streets and rough buildings, surprising us occasionally with some very modern complexes. Women in burkas in a variety of colors, some are knee-length, revealing mini-skirts. Men in thick-wound turbans like medieval merchants. Camels and sheep. Taxi fare is the same price as the bus ride up from Pakistan. We found the famous Khyber Restaurant. Nothing special. It’s meant for regulars, but the tourists flock here in shorts and beards and leave their VW busses lined up outside. Innumerable karakal coat and leather shops line the streets. Men in wool beret-type hats. Many women are western dressed but not quite with a western look. Stores display Soviet and other goods uncommon to my experience. A pleasant feeling walking amongst these people, easy to walk alone while Tim shops. There’s friendly banter. But not rude. Stalls. Photo stands. Fruit. Hard to find soft drinks and they are expensive. Am eating too much bready stuff. Congratulating ourselves on not having yet succumbed to the ravages of the food and water here. It’s like playing musical chairs from meal to meal. We’re still in the running after each meal, but we wonder if we’ll make it to the next one. Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8
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Copyright 2004-11 Barbara Brewster | Website by Sharyn Peacocke & RangeWeb |
