Afghan Travels

Wagah border closing

2006-04-21T09:11:00.000-07:00

April 9, 2006

I had heard from many that I should really go see the border closing ceremony at Wagah. Wagah was on the India-Pakistan border, less than an hour away from Lahore. There is an elaborate ceremony every evening to accompany the lowering of the flags and closing of the border gates. Getting there was relatively easy. From in front of my hostel I caught the number 3 bus on The Mall to the train station. From there I caught the number 4 bus to Wagah. The fare was ridiculously cheap, 6 rupees (10¢) and 12 rupees (20¢) to Wagah. Like everything else in Pakistan the busses were gender segregated. The front of the bus was reserved for women, and there was a solid metal wall separating the women’s seating from the men’s.

The bus ride was unremarkable, but it did take me through the outskirts and countryside surrounding Lahore. It was the usual assortment of shoddy looking concrete buildings and rickety shacks, the same, as you will see in any developing country around the world. The car garages were interesting insomuch as the car ramps were just two wide parallel concrete ramps that cars were driven up onto which gave space for a mechanic to get under the car and work, a lot cheaper than a hydraulic lift. Every so often I would see a large painted billboard of a marching band in uniforms that were a very odd mix of traditional Punjabi costume and Scottish tartans.

Turns out the bus did not go all the way to the border. I was dropped at the bus station in what I presume was Wagah. While looking for a ride to the border the bus driver pointed to a van full of Pakistani men who were waiving me over. They were all headed to Wagah and said I should join them for the ride. I took their offer and hopped in the van. The large group were all Pashtuns from Peshawar. They worked for the government doing something I could not figure out, and they were all in Lahore for training. It was a rowdy group who were all laughing and joking, clearly in a holiday mood. One of the guys pulled out a bag of hash which he displayed proudly and said, "Pashtun culture!"

When we got to the actual border we all raced so as not to miss the beginning of the ceremony. There are large grandstands build on both sides of the borders. This is a big spectacle and draws capacity crowds everyday. Typical of Pashtun hospitality, when I went to pay for my ticket, the guys I rode with paid and would not hear of me paying. The grandstands were already full when we got there, but as a foreigner I got special treatment. I had to say good by to the guys I got a ride with as I was ushered forward to special seating for foreigners near the front with good views. Like the bus ride the seating was segregated by gender, the seating on the opposite side from where I was reserved for women.

The ceremony had not started yet, but patriotic songs were being blasted from loudspeakers and there were two cheerleader men in green uniforms carrying large Pakistani flags running up and down working the crowd, getting everyone riled up shouting patriotic slogans. Similar things were going on, on the India side of the border.

This ceremony dates from Partition in 1947. When British India gained its independence in 1947 it immediately split into two countries. It was a painful and bloody divorce, over a million people died in the sectarian violence that accompanied Independence and Partition. Since then Pakistan and India have fought three wars and came close to a fourth war just a few years ago. The border ceremony at Wagah is a peaceful ceremony that symbolizes the strong rivalry between the two countries.

The actual ceremony is just ludicrous. Soldiers from both sides march up and down making these huge silly goose-step marches, lots of dramatic arm waiving, glares, and shouts. It immediately brings to mind that old Monty Python sketch, The Ministry of Silly Walks. The crowd eats it up, and they shout enthusiastically in support of their soldiers. At the end the national flags are lowered in just such a way that one is never lower than the other at anytime. Finally the gates are banged shut and the soldiers march away solemnly carrying the flag of Pakistan, all the while being applauded by the audience.

It was crowded and hectic on the way out after the ceremony. I did not see the Pakistani guys I rode there with, but I did manage to hitch a ride with a Finish family back to Lahore. The father was in Pakistan working for the government highway department and his wife and teenage children had come out to visit. I was very happy to be able to hitch a ride back rather than have to figure out how to get back to Wagah.

Lahore

2006-04-14T10:42:00.000-07:00

April 7 to 11, 2006

Every Pakistani I have met has sung the praises of Lahore. I have been told over and over again that it is the cultural capitol of Pakistan and a must for any tourist. I had hoped to visit Lahore, but was not sure I would have enough time. Since I cut short my Afghanistan trip I did have some extra days that I could now spend in the city. It is not important to my novel, but it is part of the back-story of some of my Afghan characters, so it was nice to be able to visit Lahore.

Before I could start my day I had to get back the core city. I was still staying at Malik's house in the outskirts. It was Friday, the Muslim day of worship and everyone in the house was sleeping in. I wanted to get started on site seeing, but did not want to have to wake the sleeping household. Fortunately, one of Malik’s son’s was up so I was able to explain that I was heading into town for the Regale Internet Inn (and not just taking off without paying for my room). Taking an autorickshaw I made it back into town to the Internet Inn. The Regale Internet Inn was easy to miss (and hard to find). At ground level it was nothing more than an open doorway on an alleyway off The Mall (a major boulevard in the city). The hotel itself was at the top of two flights of stairs. The Regale itself is a small but cozy backpackers’ hotel with several dorm rooms and a couple private rooms. At the rooftop were a couple shaded lounge areas where travelers could relax, mingle, and share travel stories. It even had a tiny kitchen for use by the guests. This may not seem unusual to anyone who has budget traveled and stayed at youth hostels or other backpacker places in Europe or Australia, but in South Asia a place like this is rare and a welcome relief.

The major sightseeing attractions in Lahore are the Fort, the Badshahi Mosque, the old city, and the museum. My first day I was able to explore most of the first three. Lahore is a big, busy, crowded, and chaotic city, so I have to say the best thing about the Lahore Fort was that the park like atmosphere was a welcome relief from the city outside. The only thing that annoyed me was the steep sliding scale for admissions: 10 rupees for Pakistanis and 200 rupees for foreigners. There were a couple museums in the fort, but I did not get to see all of them. This being Friday everything shut at noon and I was kicked out of the museum so people could go to the mosque to pray.

Decided to take a break at a little café in the Fort for some Pakistani tea (similar to a chai latte, but way cheaper). It is never possible to sit alone in a public place in Pakistan so I was not surprised when a man with a long henna-stained beard wearing a black karakul cap approached my table and asked in excellent English if he could join me. He introduced himself as Aslam a professor of English at Punjab University. He then explained that he wanted to talk to me about Islam, that it was the duty of all Muslims to proselytize, and offered me a free copy of the Koran in English. I had to tell him honestly that I was unlikely to ever do more than skim it and that he should save the book for a more serious student. He took this well and chatted with me for a few more minutes before heading off to the mosque to pray. Having traveled in many Muslim countries I have become accustomed to having my ear talked off about Islam, but this was unusual because Aslam was the politest person who has ever talked to me about Islam. I dubbed him the "polite professor" as a result.

The mosque was impressive and I wanted to snap a lot of photos, but it was Friday and it was full of worshippers. I felt a little uncomfortable snapping photos of people praying, but nobody seemed to mind and a few people encouraged me to do so.

After the mosque I headed into the old city. Lahore’s old city is huge and I only scratched the surface. Wandering around the dark narrow winding streets of the old city I entered a very different world than the Lahore visible from the main boulevards like The Mall.

The deeper I went into the old city the less comfortable I felt. Not a place I really wanted to spend too much time in by myself. It was fascinating, but also a little intimidating; in some ways charming in an old-world way, in others gritty and threatening like a Pakistan Mean-streets.

Heading back to my hotel I passed a large brass cannon. This is the famous Zam-Zammah of Kipling’s Kim fame. It sits in the middle of The Mall road across from the Lahore museum, just as it did in the opening of the 1901 novel: He sat, in defiance of municipal orders, astride the gun Zam-Zammah on her brick platform opposite the old Ajaib-Gher - the Wonder House, as the natives call the Lahore Museum. Who hold Zam-Zammah, that fire-breathing dragon, hold the Punjab, a for the great green-bronze piece is always first of the conqueror's loot.

I felt safer in Pakistan than I did in Afghanistan, but this is not all that stable a country either. There are many seething currents of discontent that occationally boil over. Not more than a block from the Regale was the burnt out ruins of a Kentucky Fried Chicken that was torched during the Danish cartoon protests.

The fort, the mosque, and the old city were interesting, but they could only hold my attention for so long. If that were all there was to Lahore it would only be good for a day or two. That evening I got to see some of the cultural life that Lahore is so famous for. Early in the evening a group from the hotel went to see a play by a touring troop of Indian actors on a cultural exchange from Calcutta (attempting to foster better relations between India and Pakistan). It was all in Hindi so I had no idea what it was all about, but apparently it was a critique of the caste system in India. Later back at the hotel, I saw some Sufi drummers that the owner Malik had invited to perform. Gonga Sain and Mithu Sain were brothers and the sons of a famous Sufi drummer. They were great. One of the brothers, the one in polka dots was even deaf, but it apparently had no impact on his drumming. During the performance the same guy would start spinning so fast his drum would stand out at a 90-degree angle, all the while he was still playing it. After the performance at the hotel a large group of us followed the drumming brothers to a large Sufi music festival that was happening in the city that night. It was a large event and very interesting, unfortunately I did not get to see much of it. We had three women with us, a German and two Japanese gals, and all the men in our group had to form a wall around the women to keep the crowds of Pakistani men from rushing up and groping the ladies. It was shocking; I have never seen anything like it before. You would think they had never seen a real woman before.

That next day I visited the Lahore Museum. It’s a good-sized museum with a broad range of exhibits; the greatest portion of their collections is paintings and sculptures from the region. The most memorable artwork for me was the Gandharan Buddhas. Gandhara was an ancient Buddhist kingdom in what is now Pakistan. The Buddha statues were close to two thousand years old. The thing I noticed immediately about them is that they were all skinny and had mustaches. I think I am so used to seeing East Asian depictions of Buddha as a jolly bald fat Asian man, the serious thin Buddhas with mustaches surprised me. The next night we had another musical performance at the hostel from Sain Mohammad Ali and his band of Punjabi folk musicians. This was interesting, but did not hold my attention the way the Sufi drumming did.

My third day in Lahore I went out to see the border closing ceremony in Wagah (see the Wagah entry). When I got back I had a bowl of curry at one of the food stalls around the corner from my hotel. I had eaten there before, but this time I got violently ill. About an hour after dinner I came down with the worst case of food poisoning I have ever had. I was violently ill all night long. I have never in my life been so happy that a hotel I was staying at had a sit down toilet. For my forth day in Lahore I had planned to explore the old city, but the only part of Lahore I saw was the hallway between my dormitory and the bathroom.

Back to Pakistan

2006-04-13T15:31:00.000-07:00

April 6, 2006

It was time to go back to Pakistan. I had decided to cut short my stay in Afghanistan by about four days. I found that to live and travel safely in Afghanistan requires at least one of two things: money or connections. Having been in the country fewer than two weeks I was only just beginning to make connections. As for money, I did not have a large budget and Afghanistan was proving too expensive for me. Although Afghanistan is a developing country, unusual circumstances (i.e. war-ravaged country and lots of Western cash) have distorted costs. In Kabul I had been paying between $35 to $50 a night for my room. In neighboring Pakistan I would expect to pay, at most, between $6 to $10 a night for similar accommodations. Some of what you pay for in Kabul is reasonable; that extra cost buys you 24-hour security guards, diesel generators (that Kabul city electricity is none too reliable), and Western style toilets. Partly though the market is inflated by the large number of Western aid-workers needing accommodation and their aid-agency cash. At the guest house I stayed at I was the only patron paying for my room out of my own pocket. I had not really budgeted enough for Afghanistan. I expected costs to be higher than a typical developing country, but not by as much as I was spending.

I would have liked to visit the Panjshir Valley and Bamiyan before I left, but to do so in safety was beyond my means. Sure for less than $10 I could take a bus to Bamiyan, but I felt I had already pushed my luck enough taking the bus from Mazar. The only way to fly to Bamiyan was on a UN plane, but I didn’t know who to talk to about that. I looked into hiring a car for a day trip to the Panjshir. Hiring a car, driver, and guard from a reputable logistics company I would have run me between $120 to $150 a day. The Panjshir Valley is supposed to be beautiful, but will not feature in my novel, so I decided it was not worth the cost. Bamiyan very likely will be in my novel, so missing that was a more significant regret.

I had an afternoon flight back to Pakistan, so I had time enough for lunch at my favorite restaurant in Kabul. I never found out the name, neither the employees nor the owner spoke English. It was one of the zillion anonymous kebab shops in Kabul, but the quality was good. It was popular with the locals too; it was always packed at lunch. I have grumbled at the prices in Kabul, but food was not expensive at the kebab shops. My lunch of mantu (meat dumpling in yogurt sauce), bread, and tea was only 65 Afghani, that’s a buck-thirty.

My flight back was on Pakistan International Airlines. This is another local airline that has earned a bad reputation and a host of unflattering nicknames. My favorite was: Pakistan, Insha’Allah (Pakistan, God willing). Despite PIA’s reputation and amusing nicknames I had a fine flight on an older, but perfectly ok 737. During the flight it was great to look out my window and see the snowy Hindu Kush pass below eventually softening into hills and finally flattening into the vast plains and rolling hills of South Asia.

Back in Islamabad, Pakistan I caught a cab to the Daewoo bus station. From past experience of Islamabad, I did not want to waste anymore time there so I was making straight for the city Lahore. The Daewoo busses are the best of the many private bus companies operating in Pakistan. On the bus I sat next to an officer of the Pakistan Army. I was tired and really did not want to talk to anyone, but this being Pakistan if you are by yourself someone is going to start talking to you. At least this guy had some interesting stories. He had been a UN peacekeeper in Bosnia and had a lot of interesting stories from that time. When he found out I had been in Afghanistan he kept asking me if I was in the Army and if I was hunting for Taliban and Osama. I was flattered that anyone would think I could be in the Special Forces.

It was late, close to midnight when I rolled into Lahore. It’s a huge city of 10 million souls. Good thing I had called ahead about my accommodation. The Regale Internet Inn came highly recommended. They were full for the night, but the owner said he had another place he could put me up in. When my cab dropped me off on the Mall near Regal Chowk [street] Malik the Regale owner and his son were waiting for me with their car. Turns out the other place I could stay was Malik’s house. Malik lived a good ways away from the Regale, in a nicer area of the city. He had a guest bedroom with its own bathroom. I felt a little weird staying at the family home of someone I had just met 10 minutes before, but I was tired and was happy to call it a night.

Salang Pass

2006-04-05T11:50:00.000-07:00

April 5, 2006

One of the rules I had instilled into me early was don’t go out at night in Afghanistan. Well my bus back to Kabul departed at 5:30 am, so oh-dark-hundred I was out on the streets of Mazar looking for a cab to the bus depot. An unexpected bonus of being up so early was I got to see the Shrine of Harzat Ali all lit up.

If you were wondering about why if I was too worried about security to go to Balkh, but I decided that an 8 hour bus trip over the Salang Pass was OK it’s simple: crowds. The road to Kabul is well traveled during the day. Also, on a bus I would be surrounded by people. It is only when you are alone in Afghanistan that you really have to worry. Further notwithstanding the opinion of the Balkh police chief most experienced ex-pats I spoke to in Afghanistan were of the opinion that the road to Kabul was “safe” (once again this is Afghanistan, so I will always use quotes around the word safe). It should be said that one of the people who assured me that the road was safe was, this guy John, and old white-bearded Englishman who has lived in Afghanistan for 25 years, converted to Islam, speaks fluent Pashtu, and feels comfortable traveling to Waziristan (a Taliban stronghold) for his work as a BBC correspondent.

Getting to the bus was uneventful. I even saw the stationary shopkeeper there. He was dropping a relative off at the bus stop, so we talked for a few minutes. I had been worried that I was not going to have anything to eat for breakfast, but then in Afghanistan a parked bus is a public area and food vendors repeatedly boarded the bus. So I was able to pick up a loaf of bread and some juice for breakfast. Beggars also feel free to board the bus, before the bus departed around five beggars had worked the passengers.

Departure times are not fixed here, the bus did not leave until full. Closer to 6am we got underway. Right outside of Mazar I saw a first hand view of the corruption that plagues the country. At police checkpoint the bus was waived over. The driver got out and with little discussion got out his wallet and counted out bills which he handed to the two military officers that he was talking to. The baksheesh (bribe) payment appeared completely routine.

Not too much further out of town the road was under construction. There was a detour to the side of the road the bus and all other traffic had to pull out on to. This was not any sort of side road, just a dusty track through the fields parallel to the main road. It started raining too. It was getting muddy and I was seriously worried that we would be stuck in the mud. When we finally cleared the construction area there was a dirt ramp back to the main road. It was now slick and muddy. The bus nearly tipped over at the driver’s first attempt to regain the main road.

After that we at least would be on asphalt for the remainder of the journey. We were on the flat plains of Central Asia, less than a mile to the south was a solid wall of hills that rose abruptly from the flat ground. There was a small and oblivious gap in the wall of hills that the road followed to head south. We were now heading into that amazingly dramatic terrain that I had seen from the air the day before. This would be some of the most amazing scenery I had seen on the trip so far, yet sadly I have almost no photos of it. The window I had been seated next to was permanently fogged. The bus was full and I was not allowed to change seats. I was also still very nervous about this bus ride. I was not sure if flashing my expensive digital camera was a good idea; didn't want to give anyone another reason to rob me.

My big regret of this journey was that I had not hired a car instead of taking the bus. There was so much cool stuff to see on this drive. The scenery was unbelievably dramatic. We passed areas of gentry rolling eroded hills, past lush green fields, orchards in bloom, swiftly flowing mountain rivers swollen with the spring melt, and always in the background were the towering snow and ice capped peaks of the Hindu Kush mountains. There were too, many signs of the violent recent history of the region. All along the way the side of the road was littered with the rusting hulks of old Soviet Tanks and Armored Personnel Carriers. In many places I saw the fields marked of with rocks painted red and white which indicates a mine field. I couple of times I saw de-mining crews at work digging up unexploded mines. Many of the mountain villages were solidly build of stone or brick with sod-covered flat roofs that made me think more of Nepal than Afghanistan.

On the bus, a 23 year old student who spoke some English began chatting to me. I was not sure how he felt about Americans so when he asked where I was from I said Canada. He said that he was a student studying sharia, or Islamic law. After he graduated from his University in Kabul he would then go to Cairo, Egypt for further studies. He was friendly enough, but I did start to squirm a bit when he started asking what my religion was and what I thought of Islam, etc, etc. Still when the bus stopped for a break at a roadside chaikhana he invited me to join his friends for a meal. He asked me a lot of questions about Canada. Fortunately I grew up close to the Canadian boarder and could fake my way through it ok.

At the highest point of the road is the Salang tunnel, six miles of tunnel through the mountain. It was built by the Soviets in the 1960s. I had heard stories that occasionally cars break down in the tunnel and then all the traffic backs up and you get stuck in there. Close to the tunnel entrance the snow was deep and it was snowing hard, but fortunately the road was clear. We made it through the tunnel. It was an impressive feat of engineering, but it clearly looked like it could use some maintenance. The rest of the drive was uneventful (and the scenery remained amazing) until we reached the outskirts of Kabul. At a police check point two policewomen in dark green chadors and black veils boarded the bus and searched all the women on board. Seeing that I was a foreigner a policeman was called on board. He asked if I was a Russian and demanded to see my passport. I had to comply and produce my identification. All on the bus saw my passport and now knew I was an American-damn my cover was blown! So much for my double life as a Canadian. It was ok getting back into Kabul, but the young student did not talk to me anymore.

Mazar-e Sharif

2006-04-05T06:18:00.000-07:00

April 3 & 4, 2006

I finally had a chance to leave Kabul. I have decided to cut my time in Afghanistan short about four days. It is just too expensive to stay here and to travel safely to some of the areas I would like to visit it would cost more than I could afford ($120 to $150 per day). Before I left I wanted to see at least a little of the country outside of Kabul. The two safe options for travel are in the north of the country, either Herat or Mazar-e Sharif. Herat is supposed to be a great city to visit, but none of my novel will be set in Herat or the areas surrounding it. My other option, Mazar had a famous shrine and a side trip to the ruins of ancient Balkh. It will not likely feature in my novel either, but the areas along the road to Mazar could be used in my novel. Furthermore the general consensus was that the road to Mazar was “safe”. (NOTE: have to use quotes around the word safe when in reference to Afghanistan. I would never try to claim that anything about Afghanistan is 100% safe).

That settled it. I decided to go to Mazar-e Sharif. I only had a few days, so I decided to fly there and take a bus back. My ticket with Ariana airline was a surprisingly cheap $30. Ariana is Afghanistan’s national airline. Their current fleet is composed of decades old American and Russian planes, and among the ex-pat community in Afghanistan the airline has been nicknamed “Scariana”. My flight was on an Antonov 24, twin turbo prop. The plane was old, but looked well maintained. It was amusing to see all the instruction plaques in Russian.

Flying out of Kabul was great. It was a clear day so I got a good view of the city from the air. It was only a 50 minute flight, but in that time the landscape changed dramatically. Kabul lies in a valley on a high plateau. The landscape quickly transformed from flat dusty plains, to foot hills, to the towering snow and ice covered peaks of the Hindu Kush mountains. On the far side of the Hindu Kush the mountains gave way to the endless rolling plains of Central Asia. From my window, the Oxus River, which forms the Northern boarder of Afghanistan, was clearly visible.

On the flight I met an Afghan who had been living in Germany for the last 18 years. Sultan-Mahmood was back in Afghanistan to visit family. He thought I was a little crazy traveling in the country by myself. Even he was nervous about traveling here after living abroad for so long. After landing Sultan offered me a ride into town and recommended that I stay at his cousin’s hotel. Sounded like a plan. The Aria was his cousin’s hotel, it was dingy and the bathrooms were shocking, but at $10 a night it was the cheapest place I had stayed in Afghanistan. The only thing to recommend was that it was in the center of town and less than a block from the Shrine of Hazrat Ali, the premier and only tourist attraction in Mazar.

Before settling into the hotel and seeing the town, Sultan thought I should register with the tourism office and get the current status on the security situation. Sounded like a good idea, however locating the tourist office was a bit of a challenge. We went from one office to another; finally we were directed to the provincial police headquarters. Sultan’s cousin was the chief of police. The police headquarters was badly in need of a remodel. The paint was peeling inside and out, many windows were cracked, and it looked like no one had been through there with a vacuum cleaner in at least a decade. We had a meeting in his office and when I told him my plans to visit Balkh and take the bus back to Kabul the police chief tried to dissuade me from both plans. After awhile he decided that Balkh would be ok, they had a station there and he could guarantee my safety, but that driving back to Kabul was still a bad idea and that I should fly instead.

I wanted to hire a car to visit Balkh. When Sultan dropped me off at the hotel said he would stop by tomorrow morning with a car and driver that his family recommended. I was very grateful and went off to see the Shrine of Harzat Ali. The shrine is impressive, but it a way it was a little sad. This is one of the only intact pieces of Afghanistan’s physical cultural heritage to survive the last two decades of war.

Next day, I waited for Sultan to show up, but he never did. Sultan flaked out on me, so I was left with a choice. Do I risk traveling to Balkh on my own? It would have been easy enough to grab a taxi or minibus to Balkh, but the visit to the police office had left me a little less confident about the security situation in the North. One piece of advice I had been given about Afghanistan was that it is always bad to be alone. Crowds are usually good and you can feel safer, but when no one is around that’s usually when you can expect trouble. I decided not to go. It was a hard decision. Balkh was the city where Alexander the Great met and married Roxanne. For years it was one of the great cities of Central Asia until it was utterly destroyed by Genghis Khan. Today there is just a small village and little remains of its former glory except some of the city walls and a few arches. Still, it was a disappointment to miss visiting a site so steeped in history.

So, I had a day to kill in Mazar. Outside of the Shrine of Ali, there is nothing for a tourist to do there. Most of the people dress like in Kabul, except the dresses and scarves of the Uzbek women are made from bright floral prints and the burquas are white instead of blue. Beyond that the only other distinguishing feature of Mazar is that it is not ruined like Kabul. There are the usual carpet shops and you can buy chapans, a long robe popular in the North. In other words nothing that could really hold my attention. I did make the decision to take the bus back to Kabul (more on that later). When I bought my ticket none of the men at the office could speak English, so they brought some one over from a neighboring store who could translate. Abdul was a nice guy and very helpful. Typical of Afghans he invited me to have lunch with him and his brother. They ran a stationary shop. The Afghans are so hospitable that I often feel a little guilty. It’s a poor country so I hate taking a free meal from them, but I feel it would be rude to turn down such a polite gesture. After lunch I thought I would buy a pen from them as a way to pay back the lunch. That plan didn’t work so well, Abdul gave me the pen for free. He said that I was a guest and would not accept any money for the pen. I left the shop feeling even guiltier.

Kabul

2006-03-31T03:17:00.000-08:00

March 26 to April 2, 2006

When I left my hotel in for my first morning of exploring Kabul the thing that most surprised me about the city was the weather. It was a rainy misty morning, a chilly drizzle was falling on the city. All my images of Afghanistan were of a hot, dry, dusty country. With the rain it was a day very like a typical spring day in my hometown Seattle. Of course the similarities stopped there. All the traditionally dressed men with full beards, turbans, and shalwar kameez (the long baggy shirts, and pajama pants commonly worn all over Afghanistan and Pakistan) who looked like they just stepped out of National Geographic kept me from making any mistakes about where I was. Ok, I will admit, Kabul did have one other similarity to Seattle; the traffic was terrible.

I had very little Afghani, the local currency. So one of my first tasks in Kabul was to find a place where I could change some of my American Express traveler’s checks. At the hotel I was given the name and address of a bank. I caught a cab, but did not get far before we were mired in stop and go traffic. My cab driver was not typical of the cabbies I would meet in Kabul. He was young, clean-shaven, dressed in slacks and a sweater, spoke good English, was a university student, and drove a cab part time. He told me that the traffic in Kabul is always bad. Kabul is not actually all that large a city, but its population has swelled dramatically with the millions of refugees that have been returning since the fall of the Taliban. The population has swiftly overwhelmed the infrastructure. As a police cadet I would later meet put it, “Kabul is a city of three hundred thousand, with a population of three million.”

My cab driver had some difficulty locating the bank; he had to drive around the Wazir Akbar Khan neighborhood for a while before finding the correct street. There was no missing the bank when we did find it. It is not that the bank itself was distinctive; it was an unremarkable one-story building behind a high wall. It was all the concrete jersey barriers (for keeping cars from getting too close), barbed wire, and guards with assault rifles that suggested to me that there was something worth protecting, like a bank, here. Before entering the bank I had to pass through a metal detector, get patted down, and have the contents of my bag thoroughly searched. When I finally spoke to a teller it was only to be told that I could not exchange travelers checks without an account at the bank. The teller did offer that I could exchange my traveler’s check in the moneychangers’ bazaar in the old city.

Another cab ride and I was at Pul-e Khishti a, bridge on the outskirts of the old city. The old city lies to the south of the Kabul River. Here was the Kabul that is the exotic and foreign. Charahi Sadarat (the neighborhood where my hotel was) and Wazir Akbar Khan (where I was looking for the bank) are relatively sedate. They do not immediately seem so foreign. That is not true of Kabul’s old city. This is truly where Kabul belongs to the East. The intense throngs of people, bazaars of every variety, merchants shouting from all directions, the intense pulse of commerce. My interest was in the moneychangers’ bazaar. It was a little overwhelming and intimidating. I found a shop that would change traveler’s check, but I took a beating converting them to U.S. dollars. I had mostly $20 checks. The guy who exchanged my money said that lower denomination bills get a lower exchange. I do not know if I was getting screwed, but I did not feel comfortable spending too much time in the bazaar. Interesting, but I was glad to get out of there. This will be the last time I take travelers checks when I travel. In both Pakistan and Afghanistan they were difficult to exchange. Even in Afghanistan they have now have cash machines, so I no longer see the need to carry traveler’s checks.

Only in Kabul during daylight for a few hours I was zipping all over a city that I was not so sure I should be traveling around with such a cavalier attitude. I hated spending so much time on mundane chores like exchanging money. As I would find out of the next week I would waste a lot of time doing such mundane chores. I was being a little proud and trying to figure out everything on my own. Looking back, it would have been a far better use of my time to hire a local to drive me around and explain to me the ins and outs of the city.

I found this war-themed carpet on Chicken Street. Chicken street was a couple block of shops for tourists selling the usual crap: carpets, jewelry, and "antiques". Back in the 70's during the heyday of the hippie tourists, Chicken Street was a famous destination, but these days it seems a little sedate and never held much interest for me. Who these tourists are I have no clue. I was not sure who their customers were, I never saw any other westerners on Chicken Street. It was explained to me that all the major compounds (like the U.S. Embassy and ISAF) have bazaar day were the merchants are allowed to sell to Westerner within the safety of the compound walls.

It was on Chicken Street that I first gained some experience of Kabul beggars. There are quiet a few beggars in Kabul. Many are missing legs, which they lost to land mines. I saw some heart wrenching examples of destitution. One legless beggar is saw had to drag himself across the street on his belly, he did not even have one of those skateboard things I have seen a lot of legless beggars use. Some of the more fortunate ones had prosthetic limbs at least. There were a number of burqua-clad women with diseased or birth deformed children. Normally I do not like giving money to beggars, but in Kabul I am sure there is not any social safety net. However, giving money to a beggar has its risks. If others see you giving they will swarm you and you can be pursued down the street by close to a dozen beggars. I developed a quick donate technique, where I would give money to a beggar without stopping, hoping that others would not see me. I had mixed results with this.

Although much of Kabul is ruined there are parts of the city that were untouched. Along the Kabul River near the Pul-e Shah-Doh Shamshira Bridge is the Shah-Doh-Shamshira Mosque. This mosque and the houses that line the Kabul River are among the untouched remnants that suggest the former charms of Kabul before the city was ravaged by twenty years of war. Thirty years ago Kabul was a cosmopolitan city that was popular with those adventurous tourists who made it to the Afghan capitol. It was the Eastern end of the "hippie trail" (Marrakech in Morocco being the Western end).

Every so often when walking around Kabul I would have one of those "I can’t believe I am really here" moments. After years of work on my novel, it was surreal to actually be in Afghanistan. I first got the idea for my novel in 1999. Since then I have been working on it in my spare time doing research, writing ideas, and taking writing classes. Finally, last year I wrote a rough draft. I liked what I wrote, but something was missing. I had squeezed every drop of information about Afghanistan out of the research material I had, but I wanted more. I wanted what I wrote to have more truth. I was looking for verisimilitude. I needed to see Afghanistan first-hand, not just through the filter of second-hand accounts.

A lot of people have asked me, "Why Afghanistan?" The answer is I did not choose Afghanistan, it chose me. The more research I did and the more I worked on my novel, the more fascinated I became with Afghanistan and its people. It is a country that appeals to the romantic in me. A poor, dry, barren land at the cross roads of the Mid-East, Central Asia, and South Asia whose fiercely proud people have humbled two super powers—it captured my imagination. I did not really have a specific agenda. My goals were very general. What I really wanted was just to get the feel for the place, you know, see the sights, eat the food, and meet the people. In 2003 I spent three weeks traveling in Morocco. That trip had a big influence on me and I got a lot of ideas for my novel from that experience. I was hoping to repeat that experience in Afghanistan.

One experience I did not have was meeting any Afghan women. This was similar to Morocco, another conservative Muslim country where the sexes do not mix. The heroine of my novel is Soraya, the beautiful widow who my hero John falls for. I was hoping to meet some Afghan women and from them take some deeper insight into the character of Soraya. The majority of women in Afghanistan are veiled, but many of the younger women went unveiled (but still wearing at least a shawl over their head). About the limit of my contact with women in Afghanistan were those that I passed on the street. It would have been dangerous to stare, but occasionally I would steal a glimpse at a young woman. I would see a dark-haired, light-eyed, olive skinned beauty and think, "Yes, she could be Soraya."

I often took cabs around the city. It was cheap, usually between 50 and 100 Afghani ($1 to $2). I never had any problems, but I could not help thinking how vulnerable I was in a cab. Everyone in Kabul has a cell phone and it seemed like every cabbie I got a ride with was constantly talking on their phones. It always made me a little nervous, I could not help imagining that the conversations they were having were something like, "Hey, I’ve got an American in my cab! Where do you want to meet me so we can kidnap him!"

My third day in Kabul I finally swallowed my pride and paid for a tour of the city. I have always been a little stubborn about this. I rarely ever do guided tours and I usually have a bit of an attitude about this, which is really stupid. I think I miss a lot by not taking guided tours. I do like the experience of wandering around a city and discovering it at my own pace, but Kabul was not the best place for that sort of independent exploration. The tour was arranged through my hotel. My guide and driver was Actar Gul, a retired police officer who now worked for Mustafa's. Actar had lived in Kabul all his life except for a few years as a refugee in Pakistan during the Taliban era.

Our first stop was Darulaman Palace, once the home of the former Afghan king Zahir Shah. It lay on the outskirts of the city. The drive out there took us past many ruined city blocks. Actar shared some stories of harrowing trips to this part of the city during the civil war. He would have to take trips here with his son to buy food for the family. Darulaman palace was still standing, but was a gutted shell. Nearby was the former Canadian Army compound, which recently had been handed over to the Afghan army. The grounds of Darulaman were closed to the public because it had been used by terrorists to stage rocket attacks on the compound when the Canadians were still using it. Nearby the ubiquitous fat-tailed sheep were grazing on the grounds that were once the exclusive royal domains.

Following Darulaman we moved on to Babur's Garden. The drive took us through many more ramshackle neighborhoods, barely better than shantytowns. Despite the meanness of the buildings there were encouraging signs. There were many new schools and saw a lot of school children. Hopefully they can look forward to brighter future that the one their parents have known. Even during the better times in Afghanistan’s past this was a painfully poor country. Actar told me that when he was a boy his family was so poor that for food all they could afford to eat each day was a single piece of the large naan bread, which they would cut into six pieces, one for each member of the family.

Babur's Garden was actually still under construction when I visited. I am not even sure it was open to the public, but I was not going to have another chance to visit. Babur was the founder of the Mogul empire which would eventually encompass Afghanistan, eastern Iran, all of Pakistan and much of India. Although he ruled a vast Empire his heart was always in Kabul and he was buried here. The gardens were on the frontlines during the civil war and were totally destroyed. They are now being restored and by what I saw will be beautiful when fully restored.

The photo of the workmen is an attempt at selective photography gone awry. When I was taking photos in Afghanistan I was usually more interested in the traditional side of Afghanistan, ignoring the modern face of the country. The two old workmen saw my camera and wanted me to take a photo of them. I thought this was great, they were traditionally dressed and had these really interesting weathered faces, I expected a good photo. However before I could get a shot they called over a couple of the younger workmen who were dressed in more Western style clothes. Damn, there went my shot.

All around Kabul the lower reaches of the hill sides were covered with homes, of varying quality, but obviously the residences of the poorest citizens. Actar said that the poor live on the hills where there is no running water or sewage. He was surprised and amused when I told him that in America homes on the hill side are expensive an only the wealthy live there.

The next stop was the Bala Hissur; once a huge fortress and the home of the Amir, it was destroyed by the British and only a few sections of walls remain. Its location remains strategic and much of the site is used by the Afghan army and is off limits to tourists. Actar drove me around to a backside of the Bala Hissur, the only area where photos are allowed. He told me that the neighborhood is bad and it would be unwise to come here on my own. For me even seeing this small ruined bit was powerful. The Bala Hissur features prominently in my novel and is the setting of much of the events of the first half of my story. This was one of those places where I had an "I can’t believe I am here" moment. While taking photos of the fortress I saw a couple of women in blue burquas walking up a road that runs by the fortress. I thought it would make a great photo, the two women framed by the Bala Hissur on the right and a village on the left. I knew I was not supposed to take photos of women, but I thought I could be discreet about it and sneak a shot while appearing to take photos of the fortress. I was not fooling anyone. Actar gently reprimanded me in a fatherly tone. "No picture, woman," he said.

Following the Bala Hissur we moved on to the Mausoleum of Nadir Shah. On the drive up to the mausoleum we passed through some of the most devastated areas of the city. There was one gutted shell of a building after another.

The Mausoleum of Nadir Shah, a monument to a former Afghan king, was badly damaged, but still standing. Actar said that the monument was damaged during the civil war. It was situated on a hill with a commanding view of Kabul. During the civil war the warlord Dostum positioned his tanks up here facing north to the hill Bemaru on the other side of the city where the Commander Massoud had positioned his tanks. From these heights they shelled each other and the city below. To the south past the Bala Hissur Actar pointed out a hill where the Taliban and their Arab allies had taken up positions for their attack on Kabul.

Our last stop was not to any monuments, but to Actar’s favorite kebab shop, run by a childhood friend of his. I do not think they get any Westerners there. I got a lot of stares when I entered, but the food was good. We had mantu and kebab with the usual side of naan bread, all washed down with green tea. Lunch was on Actar, he would not hear of me paying.

Before I left home I often heard the suggestion that I grow my beard and go in disguise. At the time I scoffed at that idea, but it is not really that unreasonable a suggestion. For me it might be a stretch to think that I could disguise myself as an Afghan, but for a white person with dark hair, particularly someone with a Mediterranean complexion it is not at all impossible to affect a credible Afghan disguise. Many Afghans look European. On both sides of the border I met locals who at first looked European; some even with dark blondish hair, but for their shalwar kameez and obvious local mannerisms I would not know they were Pakistani or Afghan. An American freelance journalist, Caleb Schaber (of German ancestry), I met had grown a full beard and often went about in shalwar kameez. He told me that he often had trouble convincing people that he was not Afghan. Generally though this disguise will only fool native Afghans at a distance. However, this has the effect of lowering your profile as a target. As Caleb explained to me, "A lot of the attacks on Westerners are with IEDs [Improvised Explosive Devices]. They set them on busy roads and some guy is waiting around with a cell phone to set it off. If they only see a guy who looks like a Afghan in the car they’re going to hesitate long enough."

In the photo is Andrew, a graduate student from New Zealand, who was trying on his new shalwar kameez.

There is that question, "Is Afghanistan safe?" All I can say is I was able to travel safely, but my freedom of movement was limited. I did not go out at night and I did not travel anywhere without finding out information about the current security situation from reputable sources. There are some parts of the country that are absolute no-go areas like Kandahar and Helmund provinces and much of the mountainous boarder region between Afghanistan and Pakistan. These areas are still active war zones.

Going into this journey I viewed it like a mountaineering trip. You can climb mountains, nobody is going to stop you, but you have to accept that there are dangers. You can manage the risks and most likely you will be fine, but at anytime something could go horribly wrong. Also like a mountaineering trip you have to be willing to turn around at anytime. No matter how close you are to the summit you have to be willing to turn around if it is too dangerous. At any point in my trip I was prepared to turn around and call it quits if I felt it was too dangerous.

That said things are getting better in Afghanistan. Kabul is relatively safe, and by a large consensus the north of Afghanistan is safe. All my experiences with Afghans I met were positive. They are as friendly and hospitable as they were reputed to be. It will be years before Afghanistan is ready for mainstream tourism, but an adventure traveler who is willing to accept the risks can travel here in relative "safety".

Here are some extra photos about the food. This is the naan bread that everyone eats in Kabul. Where ever there are restaurants there is usually a bakery nearby. The bread is fresh. Many times the bread served to me was still warm by the time it reached my table.

This is a very typical kebab shop. In the case they have racks of premade skewers that the cook whips out on to the grill. The grill is a trough of charcol that the cook stokes with a small reed fan. The kebabs are straight from the grill when they are served.

This is Pilau, a dish of rice cooked in sheeps fat, with raisins and carrots. There is ususally some sort of meat with it too. At this restaurant I was also given a side of yougurt to dish onto the rice.

By the Khyber Pass to Kabul

2006-03-29T22:23:00.000-08:00

Saturday, March 25, 2006

It was finally time to go to Afghanistan. I was not sure how ready I was to go, but there was no putting it off anymore. I have been thinking about this journey for years. I was nervous, but the practical matter of getting to the border was keeping me busy enought to keep my mind off thoughts of the dangers of traveling in Afghanistan. My hotel offered tours to the Khyber Pass and Afghan border for 2500 rupees (over $40). Sara and Ali had done the tour with the "Prince of Peshawar" for little over 1000 rupees. Mahir Ullah Khan, the self-declaired Prince of Peshawar was a character ran into repeatedly around Peshawar. He ran an Internet cafe, offered tours to tourists, and claimed to be the executive director of a "registered non-profit". He could not be missed, he was always wearing a bright orange fisherman's hat. The Prince or one of his employees were always around pestering me for a tour. Of couse the one time I wanted to see him, he could not be found, either at his shop or on his cell phone. I ended up booking my trip to the pass with the hotel. My driver would be Shah Nawaz who works the front desk at Greens and runs a side business escorting tourists to the Khyber.

Before the trip could start we had to get permits to travel to the border and pick up an armed escort. The region to the west of Peshawar all the way to the border are the tribal areas where the government of Pakistan does not govern. The Khyber Pass is controled by the Afridi tribe and they are the law there. The Khyber Rifles, a regiment of the Pakistani army patrols the Kyber Pass road. An armed escort from the Khyber Rifles is required for all foriegners traveling on the Khyber road. The required permits had to be obtained at the Home and Political offices of the North-West Frontier Province (the provincial governemtn of the region). After being shuttled between the two offices and being presented to various officials the signatures were obtained and we picked up our escort, Wali Gul, from the Khyber Rifles.

On the drive out of town we passed the summuglers market. A huge market were anything you want can be found. Also and extremely dangerous area, not a good place for tourists to visit. As we passed into the tribal area all the home begin to look like small forts. All the houses are surrounded by 10 foot high mud walls. They usuall have some sort of tower at a corner. The Pastun tribal areas are a land of near constant blood-fueds. The fueds are usually over what they call zar, zam, zamin - land, gold, women.

The road was paved almost the whole way to the Afghan border and was in surprisingly good shape. Along the way were several forts manned by the Khyber Rifles. Occationaly there would be hillsides covered with plaques of all the regiments that had served on the Khyber Pass, some dating back to the days of the British Empire. There was once a railroad line that extended all the way to the Afghan boarder, but because of security concerns it fell out of use and in places only the tunnels remain. The drive to the border was uneventful. As we approached the boarder I started getting nervous for the first time. What was I getting myself into? Once I crossed the boarder I did not have any transport arranged. I would have to hire a cab or ride in a mini-bus. The boarder was busy and I was immediatly accosted by porters offering to carry my bag across the border. There were a lot of people and trucks and choas. At the Pakistani customs office where I got my exit stamp I had a very good stroke of very good luck. I met a group of German and Dutch aid workers headed to Kabul. I asked if I could ride with them and they said it would be ok. That was a huge wait off my mind. It would be a major understatement to say I was glad to meet them.

Crossing the border and getting my visa stamped was pure chaos, but I had a ride which was huge load off of my mind. As we pulled out of the border we had an immediate reminder that we were in Afghanistan and it is stil not a safe country. Not a quarter mile from the boarder we passed a still-buring tanker truck. The night before there had been a rocket attack, four RPG rounds had been lauched into the boarder area, one hit the tanker truck, destroying it.

The NGO (Non-governmental Organization) workers were with Shelter Now Afghanistan. They build housing in Afghanistan and Pakistan. Some of the guys have been working in Afghanistan since the 1980s and working in the country even during the Taliban times. One of the guys was even a prisoner of the Taliban and only manged to escape through extreme luck.

As we drove through Afghanistan the signs of war were everywhere. So many buildings we passed were runined or heavily pock-marked by bullets. There were also many encouraging signs. Everywhere we drove I saw people working. Building roads, building houses, tending their fields. What I saw on the drive in is a country activly rebuilding.

After Jellabad we had to take a detour. The main road to Kabul was under construction and was closed we had to take a long detour over the Surubi Pass. This would prove to be a harrowing drive, and added hours to our trip, but it was also the high light of the drive to Kabul. The landscape was incredibly rugged and dramatic. We passed through many small villages and camps of the Kuchi nomads. The pass itself was a white knuckel ride. The entire road was unpaved narrow and treaterous. On the road we passed a tanker truck that had rolled off the side.

Afghan Visa

2006-03-29T02:48:00.000-08:00

Friday, March 24, 2006

Went to get my Afghan visa today. The Afghan consulate is in a leafy quiet neighborhood of the Cantonment area of Peshawar. It was walking distance from my hotel. I knew I was getting close when I reached a street with a guardhouse and gate blocking the street. There were many soldiers idling about toting assault rifles. It was not just the Afghan consulate on this street, a number of Pakistani government offices could also be found here.

The simplicity of the Afghan Consulate office surprised me, but Afghanistan is one of the poorest countries in the world and probably does not have a lot of money to spare for government offices. The consulate was a collection of low buildings around a dusty courtyard. The visa office was a simple building with bare concrete floors with a dozen cheep plastic chairs in the waiting area. Getting my visa involved and odd back and forth ritual where I had to shuttle my visa application from the visa office to the consular officers office repeatedly. First I filled out an application at the at the visa office. I was then dispatched to the consular officers office; the consular officer reviewed it for a minute, scribbled something, and then sent me back to the visa office. At the visa office I was told I had to pay $30. Only they couldn't take the money there. I had to make a deposit at a bank nearby. I didn't know where the bank was so a guy from their office ran to the bank to make the deposit for me. After about 10 minutes he returned with the required deposit slip (but not my change). With the deposit slip I returned to the consular officers office. All the men at the Afghan consulate were traditionally dressed in shalwar kameez and turbans or white skill caps, except for the consular officer who was well dressed in a sharp suit. He spoke excellent English and seemed extremely bored with his job. I asked him if he saw many tourists. He said not many real tourists, but he did say many people apply for visas because since the international aid money has been pouring in everyone wants to go to Afghanistan to work. In fact there were a couple African men getting visas at the office when I was there. They were with a Russian guy (with a Kazakhstan passport) who was helping them through the process. Afghanistan seemed like a funny place for Africans to look for work, but as I would discover in Kabul, there are people from all over the world coming to Afghanistan to work. Anyways back to the visa. Now that I had the second signature from the consular officer I gave my application back to the visa desk. This only meant that I now had to wait a couple hours for my visa. I went out briefly to get my lunch, but I came back quickly. It was Friday, the Muslim day of prayer. I knew they would shut down in the afternoon to go to the Mosque. Good think I waited, because at noon they shut down the office and returned passports to those who were waiting (tough luck if you weren't there, they were off to the mosque). Outside the embassy I was approached by a man in a plain shalwar kameez who said he was a police officer and asked why I was visiting the Afghan consulate, what my name was, and what my passport number was. He was writing the information on scraps of paper. It seemed kind of shady, but I'm glad I complied. When the same man approached one of the African men, the African man got very upset, "Why do you want my passport!" and resisted any attempt to get his passport number. At this a couple uniformed Pakistani policemen with assault rifles came running to support the man I thought was a little shady. I guess the plain-clothes policeman was legit after all.

The American consulate was also in the neighborhood and I thought as long as I was close I should stop by to register myself. My plan was to cross the Afghan border Saturday, so it seemed like a good idea to let my government know. The American Consulate was significantly more fortified than the Afghan consulate. There was an armored car mounting a large machine gun parked in front of a network of jersey barriers blocking the approach. As usual there were many soldiers with assault rifles. At the guardhouse I was told to call and make an appointment. Because of security concerns "drop-ins" were not allowed.

That night returned to the old city with Ali and Sara for dinner at a really cool hotel restaurant. The Khan Klub is in a very cool building that has an amazing mix of Indian and Western architecture. The food was great too.

Peshawar, Pashtunistan

2006-03-26T22:07:00.000-08:00

Thursday, March 23, 2006

My first full day in Peshawar and I can say I am a little culture shocked. No one thing in particular is getting to me, just the whole experience is a little overwhelming. It is my own fault, I decided to immediately plunge into the old city without a second thought to acclimatizing myself to the real Pakistan (as opposed to the relatively sedate Islamabad). I've titled this post Peshawar, Pashtunistan because Peshawar is the first major city in the Pastun region of Pakistan. The Pashtuns are the major ethnic group in the region and their lands straddle the border of Afghanistan and Pakistan. In the past Peshawar was an Afghan city. The whole region where the Pashtuns live is known as Pashtunistan.

It was about a half hour walk to the old city from my hotel. I always like to walk in a new city whenever I can; you really experience the city that way. Hopping in a cab at the front of your hotel and being whisked to some tourist friendly site insulates you from the real experience of wherever you are. For example in a cab I would miss seeing the curbside food sellers. All over Peshawar are open-air restaurants that are little more than a cook stove and a few low stools arrayed on the sidewalk. This is where the poorest people eat. My Western stomach couldn't handle eating at these places, but I was tempted a few times by the appetizing smells wafting up as I walked by.

The chaikhana (tea shop) picture here is actually a more formal business than many I saw. Many chaikhanas are like the restaurants, little more than a guy on the street hunkered over a smoking samovar. Tea is to Peshawar what coffee is to Seattle, the universal beverage that can be found everywhere. Tea is usually delivered here and it is a common site to see boys dashing through the streets carrying trays loaded down with cups and steaming teapots.

In many countries I often feel uncomfortable, rude even, taking pictures of people going about their daily lives. Not in Peshawar, here all the men love having there photos taken. The group of school kids on the bus kept yelling at me until I took their photo. I have been able to take some really great photos in Peshawar because the people were so comfortable with me taking photos. That said you will not see any photos of women. That is strictly forbidden. As a fellow tourist at my hotel told me "After the satisfaction of getting a photo of some burqua clad woman here, the next thing you are going to feel is her husband's knife sliding between your ribs."

After a couple hours walking around I needed a break. Green's Hotel may have been more than I wanted to spend but the hotel's atrium was a nice refuge from the intensity of the city outside.

At my hotel I met Sara and Ali. Sara is a nurse from Canada and Ali is a Pakistani man from the Hunza region (in the Himalayas); he is a university lecturer during the school year and trekking guide during the summer. Sara and Ali met last summer when she was on a trek that passed through Hunza. They invited me to join them for a walk through the old city and dinner at popular BBQ restaurant.

I was very glad to have their company. I doubt I would have felt comfortable walking around Peshawar's old city at night by myself. Being Pakistani Ali of course spoke the national language Urdu, so was a bridge to the culture. The old city at night is everything you would hope for; a teeming and vibrant city straight out of Kipling.

The restaurant we ate at was known as the Sheesh Mahal. Ali said this place is famous in Pakistan and when Pakistani tourists visit Peshawar the Sheesh Mahal is top of their list. Apparently smoking hashish is popular here and the glazed expressions on many of the patrons of the Sheesh Mahal made it clear that many had smoked before dinner.

It is not common to see clean-shaven men in Peshawar. In the bigger cities and among the westernized young men you see the occasional clean shave. They have a saying in Pakistan, "No mustache, no man." Sara jokingly refers to Pakistan as "Mustache-istan".

By Train to Peshawar

2006-03-26T20:39:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

I decided to take the train to Peshawar. There is regular bus service to Peshawar and it is supposed to be good. Busses leave every hour, are new and comfortable, and cost only slightly more than the train. That said, I love trains, and I really wanted the experience of taking a train in Pakistan. The train station was in Rawalpindi ('Pindi to the locals) the next town over from and close enough to be a suburb of Islamabad. Got luck with my cab driver. Although he did not speak very much English he was good natured and eager to point out sites of interst along the way. The transition from Islamabad to Rawalpindi was amazing. The closer we got to 'Pindi the more it turned into the South Asian city you expect. Busses and trucks are brightly painted and ornameted with plastic flowers, wind chimes, and hammered tin ornaments. There are always too many people riding any given vehicle. Every bus is full to capacity. People are also clinging to the roofs and hanging of the backs and sides. A small Honda motorcycle will carry a family of four with a bag of groceries. Autorickshaws are every where (three wheel motorcycle taxis). There is no concept of lanes and about every minute my heart skips a beat as my taxi driver weaves in and out of traffic narrowly avoiding the other vehicles by a matter of inches. Typical of Asia, drivers use their horns instead of their breaks. The road is a busy highway, yet down the middle men labor pull hand drawn carts heavily laden with steel rebar. There is even the occational horse drawn cart from the country side piled high with vegitables for the market. 'Pindi itself is crowded claustraphobic and teeming with street life. By comparison Islamabad seems spacious and serene.

The train station turns out to be a real classic. The tan brick building was a real classic, clearly a legacy of the days of the British Empire. After buying my ticket I walked around the station to take in design and architecture. There was some cricket game going on and around every TV large groups of Pakistani men had congregated. While walking around the station I was approached by a young Pakistani man who immediatly after introducing himself proceeded to talk my ear off. Abdul was a 21 year old Pashtun medical student heading home for the upcoming holiday (March 23 is Pakistan Day). He was a Pashtun (one of Pakistan's ethnic groups) from the mountains outside of Peshawar. Abdul was earnest and nerdy; eager to tell me about every American movie and English book he has read, and show me a new video game he had bought. Just as eagerly he told me about how he hates all Jews and and that before 9/11 he wanted to go to Afghanistan to join an Al-Queda training camp to that he could go fight in Chechneya. This is when I started to feel a distinct sense of vertigo. I tried to explain that he shouldn't confuse the actions of governments with people as individuals, which he agreeed with.

The train station had a nice cafe with the cricket game on of course. I tried watching, but as an American I find cricket utterly mysterious. Abdul attempted to explain the rules to me, but his explainations only increased my confusion.

Abdul had a ticket in the same rail car as I did so I resigened myself to his company for the remainder of my journey to Peshawar. The train was a little creaky, but well maintained. Abdul said they were the same ones left by the British and that they had never been replaced. Pakistan is a very social society. On the trip to Peshawar people kept popping in to chat. The train conductor and serveral of the guards sat down to take breaks and converse. One of our fellow passegers was Sher Mohammad, a Punjabi law student who worked for the government of Pakistan as a GIS surveyer. He was a fan of John Grisham and had read nearly everyone of his novels. Later we were joined by another Pashtun man, who's name I don't recall. He was in his early thirties and fair enough to look European. However he had the hard look of a religious conservative (in the middle of a conversation he took a break to pray). He was initially a bit hostile, asking many questions about religion. He softened a bit as we talked about family (he was married with 3 children). They all had questions about dating in America. I asked Abdul if he had a girlfriend and he looked at me like I was crazy and blurted out, "I don't want to die!" In the conservative Pashtun society there is no opportunity to know a girl outside of marriage and to transgress these rules would bring down the wrath of her entire family.

Both Abdul and the other Pashtun man were taking turns reading a newspaper. It was in Pashtu so the Arabic script was completely unreadable to me. On the cover was a picture of a man heavily illustrated with flowers and on a pink background. I asked them who it was and they said it was a man who had stabbed someone who had insulted the Prophet. The headline on the paper as they explained to me was "We will kill anyone who insults the Prophet". A very uncomfortable moment, yet I didn't feel any hostility directed at me.

In Peshawar I ended up staying at Green's hotel. The chocie had been between the $20 a night Greens and the $8 per night Rose. The decicion was made for me when I got confused about which stop was for the Rose (there are two for Peshawar). I ended up at the Cantonment stop, so that meant Greens. It was after dark when I arrived and I did not want to explore this city at night. Abdul was kind enought to show me the way to my hotel. That's what's funny about this area. The Pashtuns have a legendary reputation for hospitality and once they get to know you will go a long way out of their way to be helpful.

First Stop: Islamabad, Pakistan

2006-03-26T11:02:00.000-08:00

March 20 & 21, 2006

My flight was scheduled for 8am Monday morning. There was a certain irony that my flight was scheduled early like that. Even though I was starting a one-month vacation I still had to get up at 5 am (my usual time for work) to get to the airport by six. Of course the weekend before I was to leave the weather was perfect, but I had no time for the sunshine; I was too busy with all my last-minute packing. At least there was a great view of Mt. Rainier as we flew out of Sea-Tac.

After nearly 40 hours of uneventful travel I arrived in Islamabad, the capitol of Pakistan. My flight arrived in the middle of the night (around 3am). Even though it was oh-dark-hundred in Pakistan my body was still on Seattle time, so it was late afternoon according to my circadian rhythm.

At that hour locating a hotel was a minor challenge. I had picked out a hotel from my Lonely Planet guidebook, but when my cab pulled up infrot of the Friends Hotel it was shuttered and I had my doubts if it was even still in business. My next choice, Hotel Ambassador, had a man working at the night desk, but he regretted to inform me they were full. My cabbie kept insisting that I stay at the hotel he pointed out intially, but the front of the building was covered in scaffolding and was clearly under contstruction. It looked pretty dodgy and I wanted nothing to do with it. However it was now 4am and I had no interest in being on the street in a city in Pakistan in the dark early hours of the morning.

The man at the desk wanted me to pay 2200 Pakistani rupees for a single (close to $40), but even if it wasn't under construction the hotel was not worth more than $10 a night. Could only haggle the guy down to 1200 rupees ($20), outrageous! I knew I was being robbed, but my options were limited and I was tired. At least the shower was hot, it was my only concillation. The toilet was a "squater" and there was no toilet paper (good thing I packed some).

Islamabad did not look like much at night and daylight did little to improve my opinion of it. It's a new city (founded 1960) and planned; as one Pakistani guy told me probably the only city in Asia that is laid out on a grid. It is too new to have any personality and the only thing in Islamabad of interest to tourists is a gigantic mosque built by the Saudis, but I didn't have time to see it.

Like most tourists my main interest in Islamabad was getting out of there. My first task was to change some travelers checks. Turns out there is only one place in the whole city travelers checks can be exchanged. The place was hard to find, the building had no signs, but I should have realized I had found the place by the number of armed guards around the building. Pakistan occationaly has a wild west feel by the number of armed guards infront of any buisiness with something worth stealing. The guards are usually armed with an assortment of rifles, pistol-grip pump shotguns, sub-machine guns, and assault rifles.

Travelers checks have turned out to be a major liability on this trip. In Pakistan there was only one place in Islamabad to exchange them, no place in Peshawar, and as I would discover in Kabul no bank would take them.

Ready to go

2006-03-19T18:30:00.000-08:00

Sunday, March 19, 2006

Well...getting close to my departure time. Today is the first time I’m excited about the trip. I’ve been so busy at work and getting ready for the trip that I haven’t had a chance to really think about it. I just finished packing and there is not much left to do now. This is my first ever blog entry and my last from Seattle for the next month.

A lot of people ask me what I’m taking for a trip like this. Answer: as little as possible. I made a brief inventory as I packed. Here’s what I’m taking:

A dozen books
A rough draft of my novel
“Old Blue” my old Camp Trails pack
Sleeping bag, 40 degree F Lafuma 800 Extreme
5 pairs of socks
5 boxers
Hiking boots
Teva sandals
Two nylon “stuff sacks”
3 Eagle Creek “Cube” organizers (for clothes)
1 long sleeve button-up shirt
1 short sleeve button-up shirt
3 T-shirts
“Old Yellow” travel towel
1 Sweater
2 pair North Face travel/hiking pants (the kind that convert to shorts)
1 pair blue jeans
Digital camera (Canon Power Shot A620)
Usual bathroom stuff (toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, soap, etc.)
Flashlight (mini-mag light)
Mosquito coils
Mosquito repellant
Potable Aqua brand water purification tablets
Daypack
1 roll toilet paper (very important!)
Notebooks, pens, highlighters
1 magazine (current issue of Outside)
Money belt

It all weighs in at just under 40 lbs. 40lbs is a little heavy. The usual travel rule for backpackers is to “travel light”. Right at the top of the list I’m violating that rule with the 12 books I’m bringing with me. Well, this is a research trip, so the books are needed, but when I picked up my fully loaded pack for the first time I was temped to chuck them.

A couple of the items on the list are veteran traveling companions of mine. “Old Yellow” is a small terry-cloth towel I found at a campground in Greece in 2001. When I found “Old Yellow” I had been traveling in Europe for about three weeks with out a towel. I had been using t-shirts to dry myself off so having an actual towel to use was a major step up. It has been with me on every trip I’ve been on since. “Old Blue is a backpack I brought out of retirement for this trip. These days my usual pack of choice for camping and travel is my Arc'teryx Bora 80, but for my trip to Afghanistan I didn’t want to take anything really nice with me because I have to be aware of the possibility of being robbed. I bought “Old Blue” back in 1991 for a nine-month trip to Australia and SE Asia. It was an OK bag at the time, but these days it’s two external aluminum stays and minimal padding it's not the first bag I normally reach for.