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"Kabul, Afghanistan." ?Posted by devon on Friday, June 11, 2004
The embassy is closed for the muslim weekend (Thursday-Friday) and I'm still here with nothing to do. So without furthur adieu, lets move on to round two!
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I will start off by saying that the gunman was VERY necessary. Almost immediately after we entered the tribal areas, I absentmindedly watched scenes of life change in the blink of an eye . Concrete and pavement had given way to large, square mudbrick buildings with 20 foot high walls and often a small niche on the ground level to accomodate a shop or storage area. The shift happened so rapidly that in my absorption in my thoughts, I failed to recognize the buildings for what they were. Something must have passed that caught my eye and made me remember my camera. I snapped out of my reverie and dug quickly into my bag to start capturing what I now realized were quite unusual scenes. Before long, the road disintegrated into dirt. The landscape was a unform dusty, rocky brown. The colossal mudbrick forts that I mentioned seemed to be getting bigger, and a distant castle on a hill begged the question, what the hell WERE these things? It only took a few seconds of rational thought to put the peices together. They were houses built by pashtoon smugglers in the only fashion they knew: big, strong, and defendable. The gates were large enough to accomodate the largest truck and sat between rounded rectangular gaps in the thick mudbrick walls. Many of the forts had ramparts raised up on top of the 30 foot walls to guard the entrance.
I'd never seen anything like it. These buildings were owned by tribal profiteers playing a violent game that their ancestors had most likely been playing out for centuries. The goods had definitely changed. I found out later that many of those buildings house heroin production labs to deal with the raw opium that comes in from Afghanistan. Nearly all of Europes supply of Heroin and opium come directly out of Afghanistans poppies, which get smuggled into either Iran or Pakstan for shipment. But thats not all the smugglers push. Any profitable good you could imagine crosses that border. Weapons, Chinese manufactured goods, foodstuffs or whatever. Its part of a vast and lawless network of trading that makes the Pashtun belt between Pakistan and Afghanistan one of the most dangerous places on Earth. To make it painfully clear, Osama bin ladin is hiding somewhere in this area.
What struck me most strongly was the lack of law and the primitive structures that arose out of its absense. Basically each of these profiteers controlled their own small army to defend their assets, and everything they owned was under threat by rival smugglers. I could spend hours letting my imagination go wild thinking about the world of treachery and intrigue that they must live in. I have to say that I really wouldnt mind living in a fort. Yet if I did so, it would be an extravagence, a flamboyant expression to pay tribute to the romantic days when such things were necessary: The middle ages. I couldnt supress my giggles that such a lifestyle was playing itself out right before my eyes. Fuedal social structures brought to you by the pashtuns.
I watched it all go by with facination.
The landscape grew more and more impressive, with flaking cliffs erupting out of the barren hills, massive forts held by the "khyber rifles" (still dont know who they answer to) perched on spires that rose up hundreds of feet. I looked down into the valley floor to find mudbrick villages with people milling about. I kept snapping away untill the driver stopped the car at a narrow point and a sign indicated that we were at the most distinguishable stop in the Khyber pass. I hadnt realized untill I read the sign that the Khyber pass was actually 40 odd kilometers long. I also read about all the different emperors and peoples that had passed through during histories long anals. The first were the Aryan settlers a few thousand years before christ, Timurlane somewhere in the middle, and the last were the British. I took some pictures with me and the gunman and quicker than you can say "look out for the snipers" were were off again towards the border.
As we approached the hustle and bustle of the border the signs of poverty and misery became once again visible, and the driver stopped outside a blockade from where only authorised traffic was let through. I payed the driver the agreed amount and and refused to pay the gunman when he demanded some money. I had expected him to make some extortionate demand and pretended that I didnt have any money. I felt a little grim at the fufillment of my expectation.
I was stamped out quickly by the Pakistani Border guard and noticed how quiet the office seemed to be compared to the atmosphere of carnival madness that existed outside the doorway. I walked out amongst the seething throng of foot traffic that passed chaotically to and fro across the imaginary line dividing two of the worlds most netorious nations. I'd say about 90 % of them were just walking from one side to the other, completely ignoring the office I'd just come out of. There was a policemen here and there hassling people, but I dont think there was much order to the operation. Most of the people passing through were either refugees leaving afghanistan, or refugees who had left afghanistan previously and were now coming back to toss in their luck with the "restructuring" afghanistan.
I had shooed away most of the rundown wooden wheelbarrow kids who tried to grab my back and toss it down. But one little bastard kept following me, almost tripping me up with his wooden contraption on wheels. I took one look at the grease stained planks and decided that there was no way my bag was going anywhere near them. He followed me along anyway and ushered me into a small office where I recieved my stamp and a handshake from the chuffed man behind the desk. A man came in who spoke a little english and when I told him I was trying to get to Kabul he got me to folow him to the transport station up the road. He found a minibus for me almost immediately with three blue burka'd ladies in the back and a few young guys in the middle. When I was quoted the price, 300 afghani's (7 buckers) for the trip to Kabul, I playfully asked the ladies in the back if this was the right price.
"300 ..... Kabul?.... Yes??....."
I smiled at the three ghostly blue meshes of cloth covering their heads and recieved not even the slightest move in response. I tried again...... nothing. Absolute blankness out of the sky blue zombies. It was almost chilling to look at them and know they were staring at me from behind the cageish face meshes. I wondered if they were alive under there but didnt bother to shake them to find out. I accepted the price and tossed my bags in the back before tripping off to the line of shops opposite the transport hub and grabbing myself a strange patty type thing wrapped in bread and a large bottle of water. The Bus was ready to leave and rolled up behind me as I ran up and hopped hastily in the front.
With a flurry of dust we were off on the road to Kabul.
I was in Afghanistan and so far I was in good hands. A good driver, good company (the non-burka'd ones) and comfortable in my front seat with my pita thing to chew on.
My trip through the Khyber Pass was completed, and I had enjoyed every bizarre minute of it. I put on my headphones and now that the difficult parts of the day were over, and only an asscrunching 8 hours of passing scenery remained. Waking up in that hot, musty hotel room in Peshawar seemed like a lifetime away. But these are my days. So full of activity that I scarcely can keep up myself. By the time I arrived in Kabul later that night, my head was swimming with thoughts about the bizarre things I had seen pass by along the way.
I'll describe the ride in to Kabul in a short post later on today or tommorow.
TTFN
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