Yarkand
Active member
Something i just found on the web.
Enjoy & Peace
My First Time Overland
To & Through Afghanistan
By Tom Cole
Lemar-Aftaab
July - December 2000
[click on images to view larger photos]
TRAVELLING overland to Asia was the thing to do in the late 1960s and early 1970s, something which appealed to me after I had met two friends of my older brother who had returned to Berkeley from travels to Kathmandu and Cambodia.
But I did not have the nerve to take a break from college with the Vietnam war raging and every available kid who was either too stupid or too poor being picked out and chosen to serve. The impartial lottery system which did away with student deferments freed me, and in the fall of 1970, I was off to seek what would prove to be my life's fortune on the steppes of Central Asia.
I landed in London on my 19th birthday, not a bad present to myself, and briefly meandered through Europe en route to Istanbul, an ancient city standing at the crossroads of the East and West. At that time, Istanbul was a fairly inhospitable place, the populace resentful of the flock of travellers who passed through their narrow streets and alleys where an inordinate number of junkies and other abusers of the culture had lurked for years.
I was happy to leave Turkey, but Iran was not much different. Persian men went out their way to throw and elbow or shoulder at me and my other companions as we traversed the streets of then fashionable Tehran; our longish hair and loose Western ways were anathema in that bastion of Shiite Islam, caviar, wine and all the other accourtrements of an oil fueled economy. The Shah was not so bad for Iran, they prospered as neverbefore and maybe never again. In any case, the locals were not popualr with young Western travellers and undoubtedly, we were not their favorites either.
Having survived the absolutely awful dirt and stone track which ran most of the way from Tehran to Mashad, the final push to the Persian border town was easy. I remember we had no place to stay. There were no hotels per se in this small border outpost, so we stayed in a caraveserai where the principal patrons were itinerant Afghan traders and businessmen.
This was my first introduction to Afghan culture. We threw our sleeping bags down on the floor in one corner and proceeded to get comfortable for the night. The lights went out, but that was homegrown pleasures of their country. Numerous cigarettes were lit and the wafting fragrance of hashish reached us. A man leaned over, offering me his cigarette as well as assurances that the doors were locked and we were free and safe to partake in their pleasure. At this time, as well as currently, smuggling hashish into Iran is a huge offense, and I just assumed smoking it carried the same penalties. I quickly went to sleep, with anxious expectations of reaching Afghanistan the next day.
By the time we arose the next morning and finally hit the road, after some repairs on the bus which was transporting us and that driven by an Afghan, it was afternoon, and we could not expect to reach the frontier borderpost before dark. Sure enough, we finally rolled into Islam Qala after dark, had our passports stamped with an entry and were ceremoniously ushered into the customs hall. There, a young officer invited us to enjoy a water pipe, right there just behind the customs hall. A customs man giving us a plaque of hashish and a water pipe! Truly surreal.
But then we smoked and everything changed. The sky, brilliantly clear and studded with millions of stars, began to undulate, the desert surrounding us became a magical land, reeking with history and the spirits of the past flitting by in the flashing darkness.
And Afghanistan had a story of which I was virtually unaware at that tender age. I had no idea who the Baluch were, or Turkomans, Uzbeks or Tajiks. Or anything about this country. I did know Genghis Khan had rolled through here, laying waste to everyone and everything, but the cultural context in which all of this history had occured was truly beyond my understanding at that early time.
Thirty years later, I can say I have learned a few things over the course of my life and gained some experience. Guess this sort of life experience was what my own father had referred to much earlier in my life, but his experience seemed much more important than my own. He had volunteered to fight the fascists in Spain in the 1930s, a member of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade. And I was in a medieval, landlocked country in Central Asia, smoking hashish with government customs agents. Very different, indeed.
Herat was a beautiful city, the tinkling of bells from the horse carts filling the air, the sound of the hooves on the pavement of the main street disappearing into the night as I settled in at the hotel on that first night. It all seemed so magical, so different. And it was. And still is, I am told by recent travellers to that city. In spite of 20 years of war, Herat is still a nice place, especially when most of the cars migrated to Kabul during the war period, and it was left to the poorer inhabitants and the mujahideen.
The mosque there is wondrous, my first experience with real Islamic architecture that I could appreciate. (The Byzantine structures of Istanbul were too overwhelming for my formative mind, and Shiite Iran just was not very welcoming, hardly affording the time to digest and enjoy what one was seeing.) I could wander the gardens of the mosque in Herat, sit and enjoy the movie before my eyes, locales taken right out of an old travelogue.
All the people were dressed in native attire. Western attitude (nor the inevitable anti-Western bias) had not encroached upon this native scene, and all seemed as it had been for the last five hundred years or so. Scribes offered their services, fortune tellers teased passers by with a glimpse of the future, little boys played with sticks and stones. Completely medieval.
Wandering the back alleys of the city provided endlessly fascinating. The fabeled minarets of Herat were startling in the midst of this mud city. No one bothered me as I aimlessly wandered, stumbling through time and space in search of nothing in particular but a changing landscape before my thirsty eyes. Hungering for something different, I found more than I could possibly fathom. I saw a man drinking from a small stream while another man upstream urinated into the same water. I was astounded. No wonder disease was rampant in such countries, and I found myself afraid to even brush my teeth with the tap water much less drink it. I was amazed. And slightly horrified as well.
Kandahar was an entirely different scene. The Kandaharis were famous for their huge waterpipes and the ludicrous amounts of hashish with which they filled them. I stayed at a hotel in the main square of Kandahar which, I found out later, was run by a drug smuggler, a supplier of contraband for organized business (not crime, as the patrons were only criminals if they were caught. Otherwise, they just seemed like normal guys who like to smoke hashish. And sell it, apparently). It was Ramazan, a holiday to which I was totally oblivious, but the hotel keeper and stafff were busy partying on the eve of the first night of the holy month. I imagined this was how it was done all the time and really had no clue as to the significance of anything.
Kabul, on the other hand, was like an oasis in a sense. In Shar-e Nau (the new city), women sported French fashion, high heels, attractive hosiery, finely tailored dresses, and the like. Not every woman dressed like this, but after Herat and Kandahar, Kabul seemed to be a much more cosmopolitan city. But that was only a superficial observation.
For the most part, the city was a bit staid to my unfamiliar eye and mind, with little of the blatant charm of Herat nor the cowboy criminal aspects of Kandahar. This was the capital, the seat of power from where King Zahir Shah presided over his kingdom of disparate tribes and geography. His picture hung in every chai khanna, every restaurant and shop.
I believe he was loved at the time, as the rule of law did not seem to be enforced through a show of arms or strength. Army recruits were treated well, given free cups of tea as a mean of showing support for these dirt poor souls who found themselves in the bedraggled dress of the Afghan Army. Only upon the ascent of the first Communist power did the army uniforms become significantly upgraded.
I did not feel comfortable that first time in Afghanistan, finding it a bit disconcerting to be caught in a medieval environment, surrounded by people with whom I could not communicate and a culture of which I had no understanding.
I flew to Pakistan after only a few days in Kabul, anxious to flee that medieval and primitive land, finding the imprint of British colonialism firmly intact which provided a bit of solace for me, travelling alone in the heart of Asia. The sub-continent was a place of fantasy and the fantastic. Hindustan proved to be fascinating, replete with a temperate climate, incredible Hindu holy men and rituals, exotic spice and fantastic festivals. I did not return to Afghanistan for another two years when I finally fell in love with the arid steppe land, a relationship which changed my life forever.
I remember a lighting from an Indian train in Benares in the summer of 1973, the Hindu haven of death on the holy river Ganga, and perusing the screaming headlines of the Indian Express: "King Zahir Shah Overthrown in Bloodless Coup!"
I had no idea that this would mark the beginning of the end for a land to which I hand since become inexorably drawn. My attraction had not been so indefinite to be confined to just the land; I had even experienced a memorable infatuation with a pretty and charming Afghan college student, the daughter of a prominent UN employee whom I had met in a public call office in New Delhi subsequent to the Soviet invasion. But that is another story for another time.
Over the year, I have become a modest collector of art from the steppes and am considered an 'expert' by some, though my time of learning and quest for further knowledge is never ending. My fascination with the material culture of the Turkoman, Uzbeks and Baluch has been a satisfying experience, one from which I have derived much pleasure as well as a living, though not without very accomodating (sorry, this is a bit unclear) to those who find themselves dwelling upon and collecting artifacts from the past, surrounding themselves with antique textiles and rugs.
My trip to Mazar-i-Sharif in March 1997 was a wondrous, invigorating experience as I was able to gain perspective upon both my own past as well as that of Afghanistan itself. I can recall the quality of life there prior to the horrors of the last 10 years, the fresh clear air, the overflowing platters of fragrant fruits, the hearty palau and succulent lamb, snow capped peaks and bountiful orchards and vineyards, moonlit summer evenings relaxing outside in walled gardens listening to the sonorous rhythms of classical robab music on a small tape recorder.
At that time, we thought we were on top of the world in all respects and in a sense, we were. My memories are distinct and vivid. There was no place like Afghanistan at that time and perhaps, sadly, there never will be again.
Other Work by Tom Cole:
* The Texture of Time
(October-December 1998)
* Diamond in the Rough
(April-September 1999)
Related Links:
* Afghanistan Adventure
By Dennis B. Armstrong
(January-March 2000)
* Lessons in Growing up in Afghanistan
By Caryn Giles Lawson
(April-June 2000)
* Tremors on the Volcano: Afghanistan in Early 1979
By Terence Odlin
(January-March 1999)
* Reminiscences of Afghanistan
By Chuck Burress
(July-September 1997)
* Adventures of the Zelzelah Man in Farkhaar
By Steven Roecker
(April-June 1998)
* The First Slap of War: An Uncompleted Tour of My Homeland
By Daud Saba
(October-December 1999)
* Long Road Back to Afghanistan
By Farid Shah Karimi
(October-December 1997)
* Summer of 96 in Kabul
By Sayed Ehsan
(October-December 1997)
Enjoy & Peace
My First Time Overland
To & Through Afghanistan
By Tom Cole
Lemar-Aftaab
July - December 2000
[click on images to view larger photos]
TRAVELLING overland to Asia was the thing to do in the late 1960s and early 1970s, something which appealed to me after I had met two friends of my older brother who had returned to Berkeley from travels to Kathmandu and Cambodia.
But I did not have the nerve to take a break from college with the Vietnam war raging and every available kid who was either too stupid or too poor being picked out and chosen to serve. The impartial lottery system which did away with student deferments freed me, and in the fall of 1970, I was off to seek what would prove to be my life's fortune on the steppes of Central Asia.
I landed in London on my 19th birthday, not a bad present to myself, and briefly meandered through Europe en route to Istanbul, an ancient city standing at the crossroads of the East and West. At that time, Istanbul was a fairly inhospitable place, the populace resentful of the flock of travellers who passed through their narrow streets and alleys where an inordinate number of junkies and other abusers of the culture had lurked for years.
I was happy to leave Turkey, but Iran was not much different. Persian men went out their way to throw and elbow or shoulder at me and my other companions as we traversed the streets of then fashionable Tehran; our longish hair and loose Western ways were anathema in that bastion of Shiite Islam, caviar, wine and all the other accourtrements of an oil fueled economy. The Shah was not so bad for Iran, they prospered as neverbefore and maybe never again. In any case, the locals were not popualr with young Western travellers and undoubtedly, we were not their favorites either.
Having survived the absolutely awful dirt and stone track which ran most of the way from Tehran to Mashad, the final push to the Persian border town was easy. I remember we had no place to stay. There were no hotels per se in this small border outpost, so we stayed in a caraveserai where the principal patrons were itinerant Afghan traders and businessmen.
This was my first introduction to Afghan culture. We threw our sleeping bags down on the floor in one corner and proceeded to get comfortable for the night. The lights went out, but that was homegrown pleasures of their country. Numerous cigarettes were lit and the wafting fragrance of hashish reached us. A man leaned over, offering me his cigarette as well as assurances that the doors were locked and we were free and safe to partake in their pleasure. At this time, as well as currently, smuggling hashish into Iran is a huge offense, and I just assumed smoking it carried the same penalties. I quickly went to sleep, with anxious expectations of reaching Afghanistan the next day.
By the time we arose the next morning and finally hit the road, after some repairs on the bus which was transporting us and that driven by an Afghan, it was afternoon, and we could not expect to reach the frontier borderpost before dark. Sure enough, we finally rolled into Islam Qala after dark, had our passports stamped with an entry and were ceremoniously ushered into the customs hall. There, a young officer invited us to enjoy a water pipe, right there just behind the customs hall. A customs man giving us a plaque of hashish and a water pipe! Truly surreal.
But then we smoked and everything changed. The sky, brilliantly clear and studded with millions of stars, began to undulate, the desert surrounding us became a magical land, reeking with history and the spirits of the past flitting by in the flashing darkness.
And Afghanistan had a story of which I was virtually unaware at that tender age. I had no idea who the Baluch were, or Turkomans, Uzbeks or Tajiks. Or anything about this country. I did know Genghis Khan had rolled through here, laying waste to everyone and everything, but the cultural context in which all of this history had occured was truly beyond my understanding at that early time.
Thirty years later, I can say I have learned a few things over the course of my life and gained some experience. Guess this sort of life experience was what my own father had referred to much earlier in my life, but his experience seemed much more important than my own. He had volunteered to fight the fascists in Spain in the 1930s, a member of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade. And I was in a medieval, landlocked country in Central Asia, smoking hashish with government customs agents. Very different, indeed.
Herat was a beautiful city, the tinkling of bells from the horse carts filling the air, the sound of the hooves on the pavement of the main street disappearing into the night as I settled in at the hotel on that first night. It all seemed so magical, so different. And it was. And still is, I am told by recent travellers to that city. In spite of 20 years of war, Herat is still a nice place, especially when most of the cars migrated to Kabul during the war period, and it was left to the poorer inhabitants and the mujahideen.
The mosque there is wondrous, my first experience with real Islamic architecture that I could appreciate. (The Byzantine structures of Istanbul were too overwhelming for my formative mind, and Shiite Iran just was not very welcoming, hardly affording the time to digest and enjoy what one was seeing.) I could wander the gardens of the mosque in Herat, sit and enjoy the movie before my eyes, locales taken right out of an old travelogue.
All the people were dressed in native attire. Western attitude (nor the inevitable anti-Western bias) had not encroached upon this native scene, and all seemed as it had been for the last five hundred years or so. Scribes offered their services, fortune tellers teased passers by with a glimpse of the future, little boys played with sticks and stones. Completely medieval.
Wandering the back alleys of the city provided endlessly fascinating. The fabeled minarets of Herat were startling in the midst of this mud city. No one bothered me as I aimlessly wandered, stumbling through time and space in search of nothing in particular but a changing landscape before my thirsty eyes. Hungering for something different, I found more than I could possibly fathom. I saw a man drinking from a small stream while another man upstream urinated into the same water. I was astounded. No wonder disease was rampant in such countries, and I found myself afraid to even brush my teeth with the tap water much less drink it. I was amazed. And slightly horrified as well.
Kandahar was an entirely different scene. The Kandaharis were famous for their huge waterpipes and the ludicrous amounts of hashish with which they filled them. I stayed at a hotel in the main square of Kandahar which, I found out later, was run by a drug smuggler, a supplier of contraband for organized business (not crime, as the patrons were only criminals if they were caught. Otherwise, they just seemed like normal guys who like to smoke hashish. And sell it, apparently). It was Ramazan, a holiday to which I was totally oblivious, but the hotel keeper and stafff were busy partying on the eve of the first night of the holy month. I imagined this was how it was done all the time and really had no clue as to the significance of anything.
Kabul, on the other hand, was like an oasis in a sense. In Shar-e Nau (the new city), women sported French fashion, high heels, attractive hosiery, finely tailored dresses, and the like. Not every woman dressed like this, but after Herat and Kandahar, Kabul seemed to be a much more cosmopolitan city. But that was only a superficial observation.
For the most part, the city was a bit staid to my unfamiliar eye and mind, with little of the blatant charm of Herat nor the cowboy criminal aspects of Kandahar. This was the capital, the seat of power from where King Zahir Shah presided over his kingdom of disparate tribes and geography. His picture hung in every chai khanna, every restaurant and shop.
I believe he was loved at the time, as the rule of law did not seem to be enforced through a show of arms or strength. Army recruits were treated well, given free cups of tea as a mean of showing support for these dirt poor souls who found themselves in the bedraggled dress of the Afghan Army. Only upon the ascent of the first Communist power did the army uniforms become significantly upgraded.
I did not feel comfortable that first time in Afghanistan, finding it a bit disconcerting to be caught in a medieval environment, surrounded by people with whom I could not communicate and a culture of which I had no understanding.
I flew to Pakistan after only a few days in Kabul, anxious to flee that medieval and primitive land, finding the imprint of British colonialism firmly intact which provided a bit of solace for me, travelling alone in the heart of Asia. The sub-continent was a place of fantasy and the fantastic. Hindustan proved to be fascinating, replete with a temperate climate, incredible Hindu holy men and rituals, exotic spice and fantastic festivals. I did not return to Afghanistan for another two years when I finally fell in love with the arid steppe land, a relationship which changed my life forever.
I remember a lighting from an Indian train in Benares in the summer of 1973, the Hindu haven of death on the holy river Ganga, and perusing the screaming headlines of the Indian Express: "King Zahir Shah Overthrown in Bloodless Coup!"
I had no idea that this would mark the beginning of the end for a land to which I hand since become inexorably drawn. My attraction had not been so indefinite to be confined to just the land; I had even experienced a memorable infatuation with a pretty and charming Afghan college student, the daughter of a prominent UN employee whom I had met in a public call office in New Delhi subsequent to the Soviet invasion. But that is another story for another time.
Over the year, I have become a modest collector of art from the steppes and am considered an 'expert' by some, though my time of learning and quest for further knowledge is never ending. My fascination with the material culture of the Turkoman, Uzbeks and Baluch has been a satisfying experience, one from which I have derived much pleasure as well as a living, though not without very accomodating (sorry, this is a bit unclear) to those who find themselves dwelling upon and collecting artifacts from the past, surrounding themselves with antique textiles and rugs.
My trip to Mazar-i-Sharif in March 1997 was a wondrous, invigorating experience as I was able to gain perspective upon both my own past as well as that of Afghanistan itself. I can recall the quality of life there prior to the horrors of the last 10 years, the fresh clear air, the overflowing platters of fragrant fruits, the hearty palau and succulent lamb, snow capped peaks and bountiful orchards and vineyards, moonlit summer evenings relaxing outside in walled gardens listening to the sonorous rhythms of classical robab music on a small tape recorder.
At that time, we thought we were on top of the world in all respects and in a sense, we were. My memories are distinct and vivid. There was no place like Afghanistan at that time and perhaps, sadly, there never will be again.
Other Work by Tom Cole:
* The Texture of Time
(October-December 1998)
* Diamond in the Rough
(April-September 1999)
Related Links:
* Afghanistan Adventure
By Dennis B. Armstrong
(January-March 2000)
* Lessons in Growing up in Afghanistan
By Caryn Giles Lawson
(April-June 2000)
* Tremors on the Volcano: Afghanistan in Early 1979
By Terence Odlin
(January-March 1999)
* Reminiscences of Afghanistan
By Chuck Burress
(July-September 1997)
* Adventures of the Zelzelah Man in Farkhaar
By Steven Roecker
(April-June 1998)
* The First Slap of War: An Uncompleted Tour of My Homeland
By Daud Saba
(October-December 1999)
* Long Road Back to Afghanistan
By Farid Shah Karimi
(October-December 1997)
* Summer of 96 in Kabul
By Sayed Ehsan
(October-December 1997)
