Afghanistan I saw in June/July 1977 (Second Part)

 

I felt great roaming the streets till late night and enjoying local delicacies. There were many Indian Tata busses plying on the local city routes, an unusual site for me. Many Russians were also using strange looking cars that I wasn’t familiar with. I noticed 2 peculiarities among most Russian men the first being that they were shabbily dressed and then wore a pot belly that now I know can be called Beer Belly. Most westerners were backpackers or probably hippies. Local women were wearing from most conservative to the most western and revealing dresses

 

Next day was a Friday (weekly holiday) and my friends had planned a trip to the lovely Paghman area where much of Kabul spends its weekends picnicking with families.

 

A minivan took us out of Kabul crossing many educational institutions in the outskirts of the city on the way. I still remember seeing a university and a medical college with many hostels. I was told that atheistic Russians who were enemies of Islam had built them and by spreading education they were taking the God fearing Afghans away from their beloved Islam. Along with my hosts I also cursed the communist Russians for their evil designs. Being anti communists was an integral part of our Islam, part of the fabulous work by the CIA.

 

Paghman was all orchards around a small stream where numerous families were enjoying their weekend in the shades of fruit trees. Kabul was hot in the sun but shades were fine with nice breeze.  People were friendly and kind. Ladies were mostly wearing modest dresses with confidence and composure freely interacting with men. Western clad ladies were also there carrying themselves equally comfortably and no one seemed to be bothered by other’s attires. Although we had packed food still were feasted by the neighboring families too. I loved the home cooked Kabuli food; once again meat.

The Lahori friends went to watch more Indian movies but I preferred to walk the streets.

 

I utilized the opportunity roaming in the chic part of Kabul enjoying the attention I was getting from the girls. It was nice to know that someone other than my mom thought I was attractive.  

 

A pretty, tall and slim girl with slight oriental features was having the bright red carrot juice from the same stall. She had straight hair dropping on her shoulders. A red shirt with a black skirt was looking nice on her. Despite her good height she was wearing high heel court shoes making her look taller. Somehow I felt that I was being noticed too closely, it wasn’t a very uncommon thing at that age and I started enjoying the experience. After finishing the glass I paid for two and she thanked me in Persian while offering to pay which I naturally refused. She tried to talk in Persian but I didn’t understand. I offered her a cup of tea which she accepted and we entered a fancy restaurant close by. After a bit of exchange of niceties mostly consisting of smiles because her English was as good as my Persian, the waiter came for the order. The lady probably familiar with the place started ordering generously. The computer in my mind was working fast and I realized I will never be able to pay this bill and go back home in one piece.

 

Ultimately I also ordered a few dishes and enjoyed the food. A bit later I excused myself and quietly went out and took a taxi to the hotel. I still feel guilty of this less than dignified act of mine. I have never been so unkind with women the way I had disappointed this lovely lady. If by chance she gets a chance to read these lines I apologize and owe her a dozen dinners. I hope she accepts it, nothing wrong in being over optimistic.

 

Nervous of running away I got my stuff from the hotel and went to the other part of city, the famous Shahr I Nau. With my western dress and carrying a rucksack salesmen or touts outside of different hotels welcomed me and I selected one. It had dormitories with 4 independent beds and I settled in one of them. Now came time for registration of passports and they were disappointed seeing the green Pakistani passport I was carrying. They told that this hotel was for Europeans and not Pakistanis but after a long discussion among themselves and my insistence they graciously allowed me to stay.   

 

The hotel was built like a typical upper middle class Pakistani bungalow with a lawn in front. Ahead of the lawn there was a temporary shade built with many chairs and tables beneath it.

 

There were quite a few rooms, or shall I say dormitories with 3-4 beds which were all occupied by different tourists. My 3 room mates here were from continental Europe in their early twenties. One of them was a German getting some technical training and had taken a year off to roam the world.

The one thing that I found strange, rather different in these roommates was that they would change their clothes openly infront of others without a hint of embarrassment. I got used to it but couldn’t do it myself.

 

In the evening nearly 20 of us sat under the lighted shade in the lawn and shared stories. Luckily most could communicate in English but other European languages were also used occasionally. Nearly half of the participants were young European girls and a few local Afghans, probably workers of the hotel. One of the girls brought an old glass bottle of wine with a hole in its bottom where a long hollow wooden piece was placed. She lighted the outer end and the transparent bottle was full of smoke and everyone celebrated it. A typical annoying smell spread around that I had smelled many times in Peshawar and I soon realized it was hashish.

 

I had forced myself by then to smoke tobacco in Hassanabdal as it was the manly thing to do and I had to prove to myself and others that I have grown up. I never liked it because it always caused cough and could never imagine that I could get hooked to it but hooked I did and it took 30 years and lots of coughing before I finally quit. A few years more of smoking and I would have been forced by a doctor to quit anyway.  Coming back to the story, the girl lighting the bottle had a few coughs but a happy satisfied look on her face and she gave it to the person sitting next.

 

This way the bottle with hash kept circulating till late night. Everyone was happy or maybe delighted but some were definitely ecstatic. There was loud singing and dancing. It was a new experience for me. Girls were as confident behaving naturally as men were. Some of us ordered food and openly ate without offering others, another anomaly for me. However I enjoyed the evening finding new things, rather a new and different world and went to sleep as early morning I had to visit a place I had dreamed of for a great hero of mine was buried there, Ghazni.

 

Since early childhood like most Pakistanis I had admired Mahmood of Ghazni who as I was told was a great Muslim and conqueror. Had heard of an Urdu verse,

Phir Somnath har soo tamer ho rahe hain

Ab muntazir hai alam Mahmood butshikan ka

 

His greatness lay in invading India 17 times and destroying temples and idols. The simple fact puzzled me that he went thousands of miles to Somnath for destroying idols but didn’t do anything about the huge Bamiyan statues in his neighborhood. The tragedy of 1947 was merely 30 years old and Hindu/Muslim competition was in the mind of the 18 years old. Interestingly it was the British who humiliated, looted and impoverished the subcontinent for 200 years but the Brits were not my enemy, the Hindus were. Being anti Hindu was part of patriotism of a Pakistani and Mahmood of Ghazni symbolized all this and then some extra macho.

 

At the bus station I saw many beautiful Mercedes Benz busses with German written on them. I figured out that Afghans import used MB busses from Germany at a big discount and enjoy the luxury cheaply. Always fascinated by automobiles I was excited to travel in them.

 

I got in a bus to Kandahar which would drop me at Ghazni 150 kms away. Pakistan was still using miles and metrics annoyed me, so it was 90 miles that would take 2-3 hours. The buss was plush but not air-conditioned and windows didn’t open either. There was a certain stink and I felt suffocated until the bus started moving and 2-3 vents on the roof brought fresh air. It was highly inadequate but made things tolerable. The bus was full of men and a few women with children. Women were all in a particular kind of veil, which we call “tent burqas” in Pakistan, and I had seen in certain remote areas of southern Punjab.

 

We reached the main highway and simultaneously all the men in bus took out small tins of naswar (chewing tobacco). My seat fellow also put some naswar between his gums and then saw himself in the mirror attached to the tin feeling gratified. He was a typical hospitable pashtun inviting me to have naswar and insisting on my refusal. There were small used cans of powdered milk below the seats and the passengers took them out and spit in them. So I found the main source of typical horrible smell in the bus.

 

There terrible stench of naswar and sweat made the bus ride a bit uncomfortable initially but luckily after some time this disgusting odor vanished, probably a bit like the horrific smell of the dissection hall which stopped bothering the students later.

 

 

I found the road strange without potholes; all Pakistani roads were full of then, but this road was made of concrete and not bitumen giving it a grey color. Then it had kind of concrete blocks attached to each other with a slight void creating a kind of a train like sound whenever the tires crossed them but without giving a jerk. I was told these were all made by the Russians and concrete roads cost a bit more but last much longer. In Pakistan I saw use of concrete in roads much later and that also only on vulnerable roads.

 

 

Luckily within a few hours we reached a kind of oasis with road having trees and then we crossed a familiar structure that I knew was the tomb of my hero Mahmood. A few kilometers further we were at the Ghazni stop and had to walk to the city.