With the fall of Afghanistan, I thought back to my 23-year journeys on the "hippie path" from Istanbul to Kathmandu. Yesterday and today, it is a poor but terrible country, misunderstood and underestimated by external forces.
In this diary entry in 1978, he left me as I drove 500 miles through Afghanistan and explored the capital, Kabul.
Tuesday, August 1, 1978: Herat to Kabul
We woke up at 4am and it was late at night. Nobody should be awake now, but I sat on the edge of the bed. We grabbed a watermelon and got on the Qadiri bus for Kabul at 5:00 am.
The bus was organized and on time and we left. Night was falling when those sleeping on the pavement began to wake up. Our bus rang loudly for the 800 kilometer journey ahead. The road was good and we kept a good pace, stopping all morning just to get some coke. The landscape was deserted, hot and humid. Herds of camels, homeless nomads or sheltered tents, mud ruins that have melted away like sandcastles after being hit by the waves, and an isolated power line along a narrow but well-paved road built by the United States and the USSR. Through the desert in Afghanistan. Sure, it wasn't a big trip, but at the end of the 14-hour trip, I felt great appreciation for a country of 10 million people.
There was a short lunch break where Gene and I ran around with supplies and peanuts and used my zoom lens a bit. It was the best trip of my life. Our driver wanted to have fun. The weather hasn't changed all day. The same lazy, lazy camels and sleepy castle towns of gray clay pass behind the rugged mountains of the desert. In the afternoon we made three prayer stops in Mecca and as soon as it got dark we entered Kabul. Jin wasn't feeling well, so we took a taxi to the touristy Chicken Street and found the best hotel we could find - not the best but hey, the Sinai Hotel.
I had a wonderful dinner with a friendly student from Philadelphia who came to learn the language, and Jean went straight to bed. After the Grand Hotel Herat I was spoiled.
Well, I'm in Kabul. Imagine - so close to my dream - the Khyber Pass and India. I feel like I've traveled more than half the world since Seattle. I have to check the globe. I hope Jean is better tomorrow morning - and I'm still fine.
Wednesday, August 2, 1978: Cabo
Sleeping without a clock is wrong. I slept well but got up very early. Jin was in such a miserable state that he stayed in bed. For breakfast, I ate a watermelon, a large carrot, two boiled eggs and tea in the courtyard of the Sinai Hotel. I was closed from the start today knowing that we had two days in Kabul and there wasn't really much excitement. I spoke to a German girl who was recovering from an eight-day battle with her "Tehran belly" and wanted to go home. The house is a great idea for traveling in India. It's even bluer when you're sick.
Coming to work on Friday morning, I went to Pakistan Bus Company and bought Khyber Pass tickets for Pakistan. Then I went to the Pakistani Embassy, escorted by a surprising number of shoe salesmen, and was delighted to learn that Americans do not need visas to travel to Pakistan. We are ready. Wow - Khyber Pass, Pakistan then India!
Back at the hotel, I checked in with Gene. He was still very nervous. I brought a special spelled tea and two hard boiled eggs and spent some time. His preference was for fasting and destruction.
It was very hot when I visited Kabul, an impossible task. I had no map or information. I could not immerse myself in this murky mud. The city looks like a huge village that stretches across narrow valleys. Very little water seems to like a miserably dry river with its wide stony channel. It was hot and dusty, shade was scarce, and it was obvious I was alone and in shorts. However, I visited a good part of Kabul.
I passed crowded rooms, searched in vain for tourist information and took a taxi to the Kabul Museum. It was a long trip and he strongly protested the 40 Afghans I paid him. He wanted 60, I thought 40 was very fair and ended up paying 50 only to lose it and then find that the museum I went to was closed. A little frustrated and thrown into the crowd around me, I got on the crowded bus and headed to the end where I wanted to be. This place was busy. It was the only real city in Afghanistan that had many great buildings and magnificent institutions. But family chaos takes over everything. Old men with tomato asses hang around the modern department store, little girls sell small lemons, a man sits on a pile of methamphetamine and smokes hashish.
I settled in a trendy hotel, sat in a trendy bar, drank a coke, ate a good girly sandwich, then I descended from the roof of the Afghan Shop, I entered a western department store and found a good restaurant. A fine view of dreadful Kabul.
The old man sat me down and said, "I'm Professor So-and-so." What is your name and reputation?" He was very happy to have dinner with the American, but I'm afraid I'm not in the mood or very talkative. From "Mr. Rick" I taught him what a radish is. The only thing that bothered me about the record. He left and finished my meal while the other customers stared at me and went home.
Evidence of the recent revolution is everywhere. Upon arrival in Kabul, our bus was searched (with a gun I believe), copies of the news were posted on the day of the shift, there was an 11am curfew, soldiers with bats. smile everywhere. I saw what was left of the tank in the street sniffling and gasping to remind me that the old regime was dead.
Later, we went to the courtyard of our Little Sinai hotel for a light dinner. I was working on Honey Dew and we were both drinking boiled eggs and tea. Jin drank a special Sinai tea for the sick. The rest of the night was lazy and boring. I wasn't expecting another day in Kabul, but there was no bus out front and it would have been better for Jin.
Thursday, August 3, 1978
Today was Malaria Pill Day and the end of our third week on the road. We were at India's gates, most of our work was behind us and most of our adventure was still ahead of us. Our health was very poor, but we were both determined that nothing could stop us. Before the walk, I swallow supervitamin tablets with zinc and black tea. I didn't have big plans for today - going out and having fun.
I walked through the "chicken hen" crowded with Afghan tourists, past countless "go to the shop, just look" and trash trying to see when I realized I was nothing.
After reading a bit, I hopped over to the American Center to hide from the midday sun and Gene joined me. It was the first time he had left the hotel for two days. We only read old news. Here, the new government censored the latest Time magazine. They censor all articles about the USSR. It allows us to read old messages. Not quite the same, but better than nothing. Reading American magazines on the go is like going to see an American movie on the go: as long as you don't commit, it will bring you home.
After a short stay at the hotel, I put on a bag of jeans, white afghans, grabbed my camera and took the bus to the end of town. It's good that you don't know or don't know where you are going. Now I got on an old bus, paid the Afghan and drove all I wanted - and that was the terminus. The bus driver invited me for tea, I accepted and the group gathered and looked at me. Boy, I must seem really weird to these people - they can stare at them forever. I wrote a poem called Afghan Eye about a little girl who stared at me for five hours on the bus from Herat last night.
I put on a magnifying glass and entered a group of tents where a whole community lived. Too bad they are shy with the camera. However, I managed to meet several Afghans who were very keen to photograph them and did my best to please them. Back on the bus, I was soon back in the world of Chicken Street sightseeing.
Geno was tired of the rescue and finally had an appetite. I had diarrhea myself and after a few rounds of each bathroom we slowly walked up the road to find lunch.
Steakhouse caught my attention when we arrived in Kabul and now we are trying it. I wasn't expecting anything spectacular - I was hoping. I actually ate a great steak and veggie dinner for under a dollar, with soup and a cup of tea. It shook both of our seats. After lunch we exchanged some money - got rid of our Iranian and Turkish money and got 50 Pakistani rupees.
After a good meal we felt good and went home. I spent an evening on campus reading this newspaper, adjusting the binding of a bundle, and enjoying tea and a Fleetwood Mac tape. It will be nice to be back on the streets tomorrow.
Being such a wealthy white person (even as a humble tourist) in this poor and suffering corner of the world puts me as a traveler in a strange situation that I am trying to change. It's sad, but today I realized that I tend to build walls between me and all my friends in this part of the world outside of Europe. I like talking to people in Europe and making friends. This is the main reason to go there, but there is something against it. I think it's largely due to doubt, ignorance and fatigue. Also, most people I meet here speak English, they only speak it to get money from tourists. I wish I could speak the local language, but I can't.
(This is diary entry #4 in a five-part series. Stay tuned for another look tomorrow when my 23-year-old friend travels from Kabul to Pakistan via the legendary Khyber Pass.)