Day 9: Kabul to Bamyan

Kabul

Naeem Randhawa

July 12, 2008

Note: The name of the American has been changed for security reasons.

Meeting the Hazaras

The crew, including drivers, security and translator are waiting in the lobby at the Mustafa Hotel in downtown Kabul. My head filled with sleep, I briskly walk past them, not noticing the group. It's four-thirty in the morning, and I've only gotten three hours of sleep last night. I've been told that getting an early start will work to our advantage against the sun and heat of the day. I head up to Jefferson's room on the third floor, lugging a hardcase with my Sony HD cameras, a tripod, a backpack containing bare essentials - one change of clothes, toiletries, and my laptop. I get to his door, breathing heavy, his door's open, and he's finishing packing.

We move quickly. I call Imal, the photographer I hired, and he says he'll be here in 10 minutes - everyone's on time. Jefferson, asks if I bought a shalwar kameez, I tell him no. Between running interviews all day, every day this week, I just didn't make the time to buy anything. Jefferson snaps "I told you to buy it, you had all week!" He hands me an extra pair of his, and commands, "Put this on!" I tell him to relax, which only exasperates the situation. He replies, "If you don't put it on, I swear I'll leave you here!" At this point, we've only spent a few days together, and we've gotten along pretty good, but I don't respond well to demands or ultimatums. I do give in though, and change into the shalwar kameez, it seems a little over the top, but if he's been to the villages, I give him the benefit of doubt; he knows more about security than I do.

We finish organizing our gear, and head down. In the lobby, Jefferson introduces me to the crew I walked past, they look at me again, and I greet them realizing my absent mindedness. I need to be more alert, this trip requires it. The one looking like the leader of the pack is Chenghis, a Hazara, who's a spitting image of Genghis Khan, with a ferocious fu-man-chu mustache, over-sized turban, and an imposing demeanor. Even though, he's smaller than me in stature, he's not the kind of guy I'd want to face in any kind of altercation; he looks like he means serious business. His comrades include, Biani, another Hazara, who looks like a likeable guy, but serious enough under the friendly smile, and a third guy, Jawaal, a younger image of Genghis Khan again. He's Biani's younger brother, in his twenties, long, smooth hair down past his shoulders, and a thin mustache. The three Hazaras will drive us to our destination, into the province of Ghazni, to the villages where Jonathan is funding one school, and my family is funding a second.

With little sleep between us, Jefferson, Imal and I climb into the two Toyota Helix Surfs (off road SUVs sold in Japan and this part of the world). Jefferson, Chenghis and Biani in the first, and Jawaal, Imal and I in the second, the Hazaras look like they've slept all night, even though they've driven all night to get to us from the next province. Jonathan, Imal and I try to kill the rest of the sleep hanging on us. In the dark, with first light minutes away, we drive off.

Filming at Dawn

An hour later we're on the outskirts of Kabul, traffic's light, the early morning air's cool, I decide to do some filming. Chenghis decides it's safe, and allows me to film; I film through the windshield and out the passenger window of the second SUV. Fifteen minutes later, we pull over for water bottles for the long drive; I swap vehicles, and get into the first car. We start rolling again, and ironically the song blaring from the car sereo is Pink Floyd, "We don't need no education, we don't need no self control". Jefferson's a teacher, we're here to build two schools, and Jefferson bought this tape, which ends up as one of the first songs on the trip.

Pink Floyd finishes, and Jefferson pops in Billy Idol, we know the music is driving the Hazaras crazy, but soon enough they'll tire of our music, and we'll be stuck listening to their stuff. Throughout the trip, it's a running joke to see who gets to shove a new tape in, when the one playing ends. I open the sunroof, with one foot on the passenger seat, and one on the floorboard in the back, I stick myself out through the sunroof into the rushing air, and I pull the camera up, and start shooting film. The opportunity is too great, and I want the shot. The SUVs speed ahead on the paved road, pulling from behind big rigs, passenger vans, and other motorists. I see the surprised looks from the other cars - two SUVs, Hazara bearded men driving and speeding past them, and a crazy guy sticking half way out the sunroof, with a camera pointing at them and the road behind and ahead of the convoy.

Soon, the paved road ends, and we hit dirt. This country needs roads like a fish needs water, aside from some major roads in the larger cities, and the ring road outside Kabul, most of the roads are dirt, riddled with potholes, and every conceivable obstacle - rocks, detours, puddles, abandoned vehicles, and other surprises. The drive from Kabul to Bamyan would probably take a couple of hours in America or Europe, here we're optimistically hoping for six hours. From Bamyan, we'll drive on to Ghazni province - we're taking the longer route, because of recent battles in the villages on the more direct route. Villages fight and kill each other, and everyone pays the price.

Afghanistan doesn't just have some mountains, the country is mountains, no matter where you are, mountains surround you. Kabul is a bowl, in a ring of mountains; you see it from every part of the city. As we leave the city behind, the population of people and infrastructure become sparser. Stretches of brown and gray fields of low desert vegetation, dust, sand, and rocks cover the scenery on either side of us. Mountains and hills tower in the distance on the horizon. All along the highway, occasional mud huts, shops, and bazaars pop up at irregular intervals. Farms with fields of green crops line parts of the landscape, farmers dressed in traditional Afghan garb of shalwar kameez and turbans. Women in bright colors, with shawls or head covering tightly drawn around their faces gather the yield of the season, its harvest time. Nomads tend to sheep, grazing vegetation, and roaming the land. I observe all these sights, and soak in the apparent simplicity of the land, knowing that simple is furthest from what these people live through.

Driving to Bamyan

By early afternoon, the midday sun is out and we're hungry and getting hot. Bottled water is available; however finding anything to eat is usually a challenge for us outsiders. Our local crew can just pull up anywhere, and eat, but because we Westerners don't have the immunity of the locals, we avoid anything that might knock us out, including any meats and uncooked vegetables. The sanitary condition of food in third world countries is a big issue, although the quality of the food is actually better than we eat with much fewer pesticides and chemical treatments than our food. If you get food that is well washed, and prepared, a tasty meal in Afghanistan rivals any top tier restaurant meal in America. The problem is how the food is handled, it's a common sight to see big sides and chunks of beef and lamb hanging on hooks outside butcher shops, out in the open, exposed to exhaust from cars, dust, shoppers hands checking for quality, flies, and whatever else is passing by. Most outsiders end up eating at a dozen or so restaurants that cater specifically to them, with ex-pat adjusted pricing. So, while the locals might pay a few Afghanis for a burger, you'll easily pay four of five times the price, from the exclusive restaurants. Of course, some people who stay there for a while do build up their immunity, and have no issues with local fare, but most short-term visitors have a big issue eating outside of the big cities, as eating becomes a risky business. We end up skipping breakfast, lunch, and hope for a decent dinner, when we'll arrive at the hotel later in the day.

My mood's been getting worse since the morning, starting with the exchange with Jefferson in the morning. On top of that, I'm feeling more of an outsider than a part of the crew. It's expected, Jefferson has been working with these guys for almost seven years, and now I arrive out of the blue, it would be expected that some adjustment would need to be made. Still, I'm feeling out of place, and I express it every chance I get. Jawaal plays the radio too loud, I tell him to turn it down. Jawaal follows the first car too closely, and we're eating dust, I tell him to keep more distance between us. We stop for water, or bathroom breaks, I get out of the car, but am not interested in chatter with anyone. Jefferson comes over, checking up on us, I get into an argument with him about overpaying for the two cars. We're hungry, and tired after hours of driving and bouncing around, and I'm beginning to wonder if this trip was a good decision.

Jawaal pulls the car over, we've got a flat. The SUVs stop and the Hazaras look at the flat, and start fixing the tire. The cars may be old, and not in the best shape, but these guys are geniuses when it comes to car repairs. We're a couple of hours from our destination, when we come to another stop. A lone policeman tells us the road ahead is blocked, and we'll have to wait or try another route. On the route, some local tribes are warring, and anyone going through risks getting caught in gunfire from either side. Sunnis against Shias, Hazaras against Kuchis, village against village, Pashtuns against Hazaras, whatever it is - it doesn't take much to start a war. There's a running stream close by, we wash our dirt filled faces, and cool off a bit. Jefferson and I don't drink the water, not knowing the purity or what contaminants might be in the water. After some discussions with the locals, Chenghis decides we'll take the alternative route. The six hour ride just turned into a nine to ten hour drive. We were hoping to get into Bamyan in the early afternoon, it looks like we'll get there sometime in the evening now.

The alternate route is through more villages, and is used less frequently, it's bumpier, and slower going. Going off road for a few hours is fun, doing it all day, becomes tiring, and aggravating. When the car is dodging, potholes, mounting small hills, or dipping into a larger hole continuously, you can't pass the time by reading or writing. You can't sleep either, I close my eyes, and rest my head against the headrest, and a bump in the road will come along, whipping my head against the side of the car, or against the headrest itself. A few times I did bang my head against the inside of the car, and it isn't any fun. After a while, your head starts hurting, from your brain and entire body shaking for hours. Multiply that with six guys, who haven't eaten all day, are hot and sweating, and you begin to see how everyone can be edgy and nerves are frazzled.

Frenchmen Stuck in the Mud

A few more hours pass, the cars pull over again. Army vehicles are coming up the road, and they're pulling aside all traffic. We pull over, and get out, joining others, a passenger van, some Toyotas, and a couple of motorcycles. After some exchanges between our crew, and the army guys, we learn there's a French forces personal carrier stuck in the ditch up ahead, and they're trying to get it out. Until it’s out, everyone waits. It's too hot to stay in the car, everyone gets out. We hang out at the side of the road, we're in farmland. Our crew decides to walk ahead and see the commotion. Jefferson comes by to see Imal and me - and reminds us sternly that we shouldn't film anything, or take pictures. It's not so much what he's telling us to do, as it is, his presumption and ordering that I'm having real issues with. An American telling me what it's like in the villages of Afghanistan, just because he's been here a few summers? Or, him telling Imal, who's an Afghan and lives here? Seems like typical American behavior, and it's beginning to really grind into me.

We walk onwards a few hundred yards, and see the Renault military carrier stuck halfway into the ditch, with other military vehicles around it. There's chains tied to it, and the other vehicles are trying to pull it out. The scene gets a few chuckles from our crew, we can see why the French wouldn't want any pictures of this, I'm sure jokes about French driving and Afghan roads are going around in Dari. Imal has his camera, and sneaks in a few good pictures, Jefferson's not around. We sit around, and after a few hours of trials and errors, a surprised look as I speak French to one of the soldiers, and a few more incognito pictures by Imal - the carrier is finally out. All the cars load up, and we're off again, after losing another three hours. At this rate, I'm wondering if we'll get to Bamyan at all today.

More bumps, more sweating, more hunger, and more aggravation between the crew. I'm thinking about the differences between the two military forces we just crossed. The French forces were accompanying the Afghan national army; they had the latest gear in their vehicle, clothing, ammunition, guns, and looked to be in generally good health. By contrast, the Afghan soldiers had very basic vehicles, older models of guns, Kalashnikovs, trucks looked older, no personal or anti-tank carriers, and they looked weak and unfed. While we were waiting for the clearing, we spent some time with the Afghan soldiers, and struck up a conversation. Although, the commander wouldn't allow me an official interview, they were happy to have their picture taken. We chatted about our work, and their mission. One of the soldiers, Azizullah spoke Urdu, and became my go-between for conversations. After chatting for a while, he lay down, and fell into a small fever, he had diabetes, and hadn't eaten all day, he needed some treatment. Their medic came by, with a basic first-ad kit, and got an IV drip going for him. I handed him what water we had left, and a few crackers from our car.

I tried to put their life in perspective, but had a lot of trouble trying to understand it. The typical Afghan soldier made about a hundred dollars a month. Whenever we ate at one of the ex-pat restaurants, we could easily spend half of that on a single meal. Even spending money as a local, I couldn't see how these guys could survive on that little. On top of that, these guys had one of the riskiest jobs in the country, fighting the Taliban. Each one of them carried a thousand dollar price tag on their head. The Taliban had money, and set reward amounts for each position within the army, the higher your rank in the army, the more you were worth, alive or dead. In a country where, money is hard to come by, this was truly putting your life at risk everyday. Who knows when a Taliban sympathizer might decide than a thousand bucks for a soldier's head would be worth the trouble of an ambush? Azizullah finished the IV drip, ate a few cookies and passed the rest to his fellow soldiers. Of course being soldiers, everyone mercilessly started picking on each other, and we joined in. We got them to pose for some photos with us, and when the stuck vehicle cleared, we wished them luck, and went our way.

Colder Evening Drive and Making Washers

As evening arrives, we're riding further into rough country. The road passes through large plains, over mountain passes, mud hut villages and farms following the water paths between mountains. Life is more remote here, we pass time without seeing another vehicle or soul, and feel alone and vulnerable. We've been climbing to a higher elevation, over ten thousand feet, and the evening brings in cold air, from the open fields, we're all wearing shalwar kameez, and they are not much protection against the climate. We roll up the windows, the heat from the truck's engine, adds some warmth inside the cab. Every so often Jawaal lights up a smoke, and I crack my window open, the smoke doesn't seem to bother him, but I have trouble breathing. He smokes, and I freeze, with the window open, until he's done. At this point, he's been driving since five this morning, and I figure he can do whatever he wants, just so we can get there. My freezing for a few minutes is a minor inconvenience.

Coming down a steep hill, we stop at a passing creek, and the drivers need to take a break, we use the chance to stretch our sore legs. Mercifully, the constant bumping up-down and sideways motion comes to a stop for a few moments. We wash our faces; wipe the dust from our hair and clothes. Biani prays. I follow him, and offer the evening prayer, after washing in the stream. We're thirsty, and have no water, but hopefully that'll change when we reach Bamyan within a few more hours. At this point we hope to get in to the city in time to eat dinner and sleep. We've been on the road for more than fifteen hours, with a few unexpected stops.

An hour back on the road, and we're in the dark, the road ahead illuminated momentarily by the car headlights. Moonlight provides a ghostly light over the hills, and the stars are out. We continue to weave across the rough road, up and down over trails across the mountainous terrain. I'm in Chenghis' car now, we switched at the stream, and I needed a break from Jawaal's smoking and blaring radio. All of a sudden, Chenghis hits the brakes hard, and we come to a quick halt, the tires lock, as we skid a few feet. We're on a small hill, and the car is facing the edge, we're resting a few feet from the edge. The edge dips to a gentle slope, Chenghis has lost steering, and the steering wheel is completely free of the wheels. The other SUV comes to a stop behind us. Everyone gets out of the vehicles, Chenghis and Biani crawl under the first car, and start looking for the problem. They discover the problem, and find a small nail and bang it into a groove for the steering column. This somehow fixes the problem, and we pile back into the cars, gladly getting out of the cold. These guys really are geniuses with their cars. A hundred yards out, Chenghis loses steering control again, and we come to a skidding halt a second time. We're back out, and Chenghis and Biani are under the car again. The patch up job won't hold, and they decide the best way to fix the problem would be to replace one of the washers. I'm wondering how we're going to get out of this, stuck in the middle of a mountain range, no soul for miles. They decide to MacGyver the situation, by undoing a washer from one of the tire bolts, and use a rock to flatten and resize the washer to force-fit it into the steering column. This time, the fix holds, and we're back on our way. Geniuses!

By the time we finally make it in to Bamyan, it's close to midnight; we're all exhausted, and ready to hit the bed. The Hazaras decide to eat, I'm too tired, and the local food will probably make me sick anyways. Jefferson, Imal and I stick to naan and chai. We sleep at a local hotel on the main street, the bed sheets are dirty, but at this point no one complains, falling asleep is quick. I'm awoken at four in the morning, by drivers shouting for passengers, as they fill up their vans for Kabul and elsewhere. We're just outside of the local bus and van stop. I'm too tired to stay awake, I go back to sleep. An hour later the azan is heard, I stay asleep.