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AFGHANISTAN DIARY 1970 ... Part 8July 26, 1970 - Mazar-I-Sharif We leave Puli Kumri by bus after a lazy morning. A crowd of 400 men in the tea house listening to a harmonium all converge on the bus. The Afghanies have a talent for molding themselves into tiny corners and into the folds of each other’s bodies and always seem to fit ten comfortably into a space where three westerners would expire. It must simply be the course of things. None of them has ever sat on a bus or truck that was not cramped and stuffy, so they simply accept the whole journey of discomfort and smile and chat or doze all wedged in like pickles in a canning jar. But for us, who have been raised on the luxury of space, a bus or truck journey becomes a prolonged plunge into discomfort. We watch the clock and measure the hours to the half-way point, study the mile posts, daydream or read and try to make it come to an end by removing ourselves as much as possible. The country is magnificent in its harshness, as we pass through weathered rocky ranges that have seen eons of snow and sun. Irrigated special areas along a river or trickle of water look beautifully refreshing and soothing and abundant surrounded by the arid land and surveyed by blazing cliffs of twisted rock. Sundown, orange glow, and prayers. I admire how these people interweave their devotion into their daily lives, instead of trotting it out once a week or year, as is so common for westerners. Camels and yurts. The wide, empty desert - rich blue-black. Stars few, but brilliant. Orange and green lights inside the bus. Periodically mud walls loom along the sides of the road and we see shadows of men on donkeys, carts, and horses. The incredible isolation and loneliness of myself, of man, sweeps over me. July 27 - Mazar-I-Sharif A galloping ghody (horse cart), bells jangling, hooves clattering, whizzed us here to the Ariya Hotel in the dark. We dive under showers and then collapse blissfully into clean beds. We eat and sleep on mattresses moved outside, it’s so hot. Many French tourists. And just across the riverbed to the north, is Tajikistan—Russia! Today we drive the 7 kms out to Balkh, a storied place connected with Alexander the Great. Known as Bactria, "Mother of Cities", it flourished as Alexander’s Asian capital. Old crumbling sentries of eroded brick and mud stand mute. The Bala Hisar, a ruin overseeing these ancient heights, its eroded clay sides still thick and steep and cut by an ancient arch. The mosque, with patches of vivid turquoise tiles still clinging in their intricate patterns to its sides. The dome, still gleaming like a salvaged shell from an ancient ocean, in the midst of all the dust and decay of the present. Snowy pigeons coo, at home in the many choice spots provided by crumbling bricks, becoming brilliant contrasts to the patterns of blue. We clamber up the almost non-existent steps of a tower staircase and emerge standing in the rubble of ages accumulating on this little circular shelf. A camel train undulates below, jangling, colorful, well-balanced loads, led by a donkey. Intense heat, so dry, dusty. We truck back to town (cost is 5 Afghanies (about 25cents) Saved ourselves 580 Afghanies by not choosing the little man with his package tour. Home to cold melon and water and to rest, read and shower and enjoy the occasional breeze, warm and dry as it is. At sundown we visit Mazar- I-Sharif’s famous turquoise mosque. It’s prayer time. Rows upon rows of the faithful are bowing down and kneeling barefoot in the court yard facing the west. It’s questionable whether Ali, Mohammed’s son-in-law, in reality is entombed there, but that doubt doesn’t detract from the delightful effect of color and intricate design. All this glorious beauty and it’s only mud underneath. I resent a religion, a group of people, however, that discriminates against me, as a woman, so that I am not allowed to go in with the guys to see the inside. July 28 - Puli Kumri Here we are, back again, after extended hours of discomfort. While waiting to meet the bus at noon, we walked the streets of Mazar-I-Sharif, enjoying the carpet and camel bag shops and drinking chai with the shop men of last night. Smiles and glasses of tea, thick with a two inch residue of sugar, as we sit cross legged on the rich red and black plush of carpets, camel bags and tassels. Melon = "backsheesh", a gift from the carpet man, and later so nice to eat as we wait for the bus to get going. Wait and wait. Climb aboard. Wait. Drive around the road divider. Stop again and wait another 15 minutes. Load up again. Drive around the divider again. Wait again. Drive again. This time up to the mosque - then back. Wait. Load. 1:30, away. Within the first 100 meters, it’s plain this vehicle has water problems and an extremely overheating engine. People are crammed atop one another, and we’re lucky to have elbowed ourselves into the front seat. Even so, it’s HOT. Swiftly I’m overcome by chills and vaginal pains and feeling stifled by the fumes and heat of the engine. I trade places with Tim and am better by the window. Damn. Thinking never so much of having a journey quickly end, and of course we WOULD be on an old Russian crate on its last legs. It is virtually nursed along by the driver and his bacha (helper), along with a 40 gallon drum of water atop the roof connected by rubber hose to the engine. The drum is hand-filled and refilled from any muddy ditch. I take advantage of a radiator stop to make an awkward nature call. Miles of empty desert and not so much as a blade of grass, let alone shrubs or trees. No mud walls. Nothing to do but squat beside the bus in wide-eyed view of every passenger. The "four" hour trip that had been five hours before was nearly seven hours today. Wonderful to get a ghody and make for the hotel, there to sit in the cool grass of the garden drinking tea. To our favorite restaurant for Kobili and kofta and back for hot shower and back scrubs and laundry. Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8
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Copyright 2004-08 Barbara Brewster | Website by Shamarcom & RangeWeb |
