I’ll Have Another Guinness, Thanks – Kabul, Afghanistan

I’ll Have Another Guinness, Thanks
Kabul, Afghanistan

With millions of landmines littering the striking countryside and the Taliban still controlling nearly half its territory, Afghanistan is not one of the most stable or easiest of countries to travel through. A landlocked, mountainous country, sharing its borders with six other nations, this is not usually the first destination that comes to mind when planning a trip. As the Taliban gradually releases its powerful grip on the country, Western culture is slowly starting to creep back in. Through borders that are no longer a problem to cross, and the return of direct weekly flights from Europe, it didn’t take long for tourists to return as well.

In August 2003, I had been in Peshawar, Pakistan on my way overland to India from Europe when I had heard so many incredible stories regarding the superb hospitality and beauty of Afghanistan, not to mention rumours of Guinness on tap. Until then, I had been wary of traveling in the area due to reports of terrorism and a general uneasiness that prevails. After having traveled through so many Islamic republics where alcohol is either illegal, such as Iran, or recently outlawed, as is the case in areas of Pakistan, the fact that there was even a remote possibility of having Guinness solidified my decision to go, despite the risks still involved with travel.

Getting the visa for Afghanistan was no problem. The first step for me was to obtain a re-entry visa for Pakistan, which was quite unexpectedly, the easiest bureaucracy I had to deal with my entire trip. In a mob of confusion, I was spotted and taken directly to the administrator of foreign passports and given the visa on the spot. I was also given a three-month extension at no extra charge, though for US$65, I would hope so. Next it was on to the Afghan consulate. Again, with a minimum of fuss, after filling out a few forms and paying the US$30 fee, I was given a one-month visa. Now came the interesting part, getting to Afghanistan. Most enter the country by air, Dubai or Islamabad being the two most popular gateways in Asia, in addition to new weekly, direct flights operating from Düsseldorf. As I was so close, I decided to enter by road.

Entering Afghanistan from this area of Pakistan requires travel through a tribal area. Though technically in Pakistani territory, these tribal areas, which constitute roughly 25% of the NWFP’s (North-West Frontier Province) area, are internally governed. These are lawless regions where anything goes; Pakistani law or authority holds no power here. You want something, anything; you will find it here. Hashish, stolen goods, enough weapons to supply a medium sized country, laundered money, it’s all at your disposal.

Three others from the hostel in Peshawar were also traveling to Afghanistan that day, and having decided that it’s usually safer traveling in numbers, I left with them. After obtaining our free permit to travel through the tribal area, we were then assigned our armed escort, who would stay with us for the two hour drive to the border to guarantee our safe arrival. With Kalashnikov across our laps, hashish in his pocket (which was made readily available), arm casually draped over my shoulder, as is the custom here, we set off in our taxi.

Shooting a Kalashnikov in Pakistan

Weapons of all types are common in this region. I had earlier visited Darra Adam Khel, a small village in one of the tribal areas, where most weapons are produced. An estimated 700 per day are assembled and finished here. The gunsmiths are all too happy to let you sample their wares, for a price, of course. It’s not often one comes across this sort of opportunity and I took full advantage of it. I shot a clip from a Kalashnikov, for the that day’s rate of about US$15 per clip; got my hands on a sawed-off shotgun, $4 per shot, knocking my shoulder out of whack in the process, not to mention deafening myself for the next hour; and also had a go with a pistol, $5 for 10 shots. I had to draw the line with the RPG (rocket propelled grenade). Although I had held one before, I didn’t trust myself shooting one off with others standing so close at hand.

The border itself was no problem, though few foreigners cross this border there was no surprise at our presence; the only questions asked were how they could be of assistance. Changing money and hiring a car to Kabul, as with anything in Asia, had to be negotiated. We hired a taxi for Afghanis 300 each (about $5) instead of taking the bus; though the cost was less, timing was a factor in our decision, we were aiming to arrive in Kabul before sundown due to potential danger and it was already mid-afternoon. The 200 kilometre drive to Kabul was rough; the roads were in appalling condition due to years of neglect and war. What the trip lacked in comfort though, was more than made up for with its scenery, which was spectacular! Many say this country is one of the most beautiful on earth, and having traveled through quite a few of them, I had to agree. With picturesque valleys and poppy fields, rivers winding their way through lush, green fields, sharply contrasting with the featureless, brown mountains as a background in the late afternoon sun, it was truly magic!

We arrived in Kabul after the sun had set and attempted to negotiate our way around the city, armed only with a hand drawn map that had been circulating around our hostel in Peshawar. It was not the easiest of walks due to open sewers and crowds milling about us. As electricity is sporadic in Kabul to begin with, there were very few street lamps to guide our way. We found a nearby hotel, the Hotel Jamil, though with no running water and hospital beds from the 1960’s complete with their original bedsprings, at $5 each, this was no bargain. In neighbouring countries, for the same price, we would have been able to get a clean room with its own facilities. Afghanistan is another story; due to the presence of many foreign workers and diplomats, the prices are higher and the standards lower; to make matters worse for the budget traveller, more often than not, the prices are quoted in US dollars. While there are many willing to pay US$25 or more for a room in a guesthouse or nicer hotel here, for travelers on an extended trip, this is not a feasible option.

In the time it took us to put away our packs and return to the street, they had emptied. Not one person to be seen at 9 pm in the heart of the city. After two of my friends found out what falling into sewers really felt like, they decided to find something to eat; I decided getting a drink was a better idea. As soon as we parted ways, which they were wary of, leaving me alone in a dark empty city, I went looking for the Mustafa Hotel, where I had heard there was a bar. Eyes on the look out for more sewers, I found it.

“Guinness on tap? That’ll be on the second floor.” Music to my ears, I thought, as I ran up the stairs. The second floor of the hotel was something I was not prepared to see in Afghanistan. The bar was loaded with westerners, a sight I had not seen in months. They looked nothing like the type of traveler I had been meeting along the way though, not that there were many travelers in the Middle East at this time. I sat at the bar and ordered a Guinness, and thought that no matter the price, this was something that has to be done. As everyone in there must have been working with a foreign agency, it was sure to be expensive, and at $5 a pint, on my budget, it was.

The bar was full of nongovernmental organization workers (NGO’s), ex-pats, army personnel, reporters, filmmakers and photographers; not a backpacker in sight. Most of the conversations I heard had nothing to do with Afghanistan or traveling. I recalled a previous encounter I had with UN personnel, in Cambodia in 1992; there, as with here, all anyone would talk about is how much money they were making for doing next to nothing. I was told that some were making as much as $800 per day! One foreign newspaper journalist was even heard to say, “… if you’re living in a protected country, you don’t give a shit about other countries…” I did learn of some great bars to visit the next time I’m in Dubai and where to get alcohol in Saudi Arabia, if I needed to.

There was another spot in town for a drink, the UNICA (United Nations International Co-operative Alliance) guesthouse, but this was an invitation only bar, limited to UN workers and their guests. I spoke with some others at the bar who were very surprised to hear that I was “just a traveler”, and not working for any agency. Needless to say, I became a bit of an attraction and after planning on staying for just one or two, I left about five hours later, after smoking some strange Swiss cigars, and having all my drinks bought for me. Most had been “strongly advised” not to venture out of the capital, or even be on the streets after dark. Concerned for my safety, they drove me back to my hotel in one of their jeeps. The fact that I had walked to the Mustafa, and planned on walking back, was a liberty I took for granted. I hadn’t realized the risk I was taking, after all, there was still bombing in the area. At that point, I don’t think I would have been able to find it anyway, though I’m sure the sewers would have found me.

Kabul, a city of 1.5 million people, was a bit of a mess. Entire sections of the city, especially the western areas, were completely destroyed, totally bombed out and seemed impossible to repair. The National Gallery had just re-opened, but other sites, such as the Museum of Mines and the Tourist Office, were still closed. The Kabul River runs through the centre of the city, although these days it’s hardly a river, there is nothing but a trickle. Markets have been set up in the dry river bed, tempting fate, for that one day when the snow from higher elevations finally melts and washes it all away, as did happen a few years back. The Canadian contingent had recently arrived to oversee peace keeping duties and drove down the streets in their tanks with their flag swaying in the breeze. It seemed surreal, though the locals didn’t seem to notice.

The city was difficult to negotiate once again, this time because of numerous people asking for money, or just wanting to talk, and of course, the open sewers that could now be seen. It was obvious we were not foreign workers which brought a lot of attention to ourselves. My friends were wearing their shalwar qamiz, traditional clothing of the region, though when you stand 2 metres tall, it doesn’t matter what you wear, you’re going to be noticed.

In some countries I had recently traveled through, within a matter of minutes, the conversation would inevitably turn to sponsorship. I would be asked for my e-mail address with their intention of being sponsored by me sometime in the future. I was expecting more of the same here, but was pleasantly surprised to hear that this was not the case. Instead, the people I spoke with were more concerned with getting their country back on its feet and remaining there in order to return it to the peaceful, dignified country it once was. Many times over, I heard the same thing.

The park near the centre of Kabul was a great place to meet the locals; it was not a site for quiet meditation. It was impossible not to be noticed and I constantly had to put aside what I was doing to chat with everyone who approached me. I had innumerable discussions of every conceivable topic, ranging from President Bush’s foreign policy to life in North America to sports and of course, the favourite topic of every man in this part of the world; sex. I found myself getting sometimes embarrassed by their unabashed questions, but they were so curious to know everything. I was somewhat taken aback that most spoke very good English, though it was hardly surprising as many had been placed in refugee camps in Pakistan, where English is widely spoken. I was invited to schools to meet the principals and teachers and to talk to the students; I met directors of local newspapers, had lunch with them, and was invited into their homes.

Islam is renowned for its hospitality, and in Afghanistan it is encountered in abundance. This hospitality is shown to all visitors, regardless of religion, sex or nationality. People are genuinely pleased and honoured to have you in their homes and often go out of their way to ensure a lavish meal is prepared. To refuse an invitation into someone’s home is considered impolite, though with so many offers it was understandable that I couldn’t accept all.

I met one family in the park, and within a matter of minutes of meeting, was invited to their home for dinner. I accepted and we were soon off to their home, stopping at a store to buy some sweets for the family. Before going to their home, I was invited to try one of the regional desserts, faluda, a delicacy made from vermicelli, shaved ice and ice cream, which was delicious. On our way there, we stopped for tea while the arrangements were being made for dinner. After an hour or so of tea and conversation, we then left for my new friend’s home. As I stepped out of the house, I was surrounded by a throng of people; mainly children who had heard I was there as word of my appearance had quickly spread. I was quite embarrassed by their spontaneous applause, as it wasn’t often, if at all, that a westerner visited a home in their neighbourhood. As is also the custom in Islamic countries, foreign men are not allowed to see female members of the family; I was ushered into a room set aside for men and visitors. The only time I came close to seeing one of the female family members was when I glimpsed an arm pass food through the curtain. I also had to be escorted anywhere outside the room in case there was someone out there I was not supposed to see. We had an enjoyable feast, more than I was expecting, though when you’re invited to someone’s home, only the best will be offered, no matter the cost or expense to the family. They served a local Afghani dish, kabuli pulau, fried rice with sweet raisins and vegetables, as well as chapattis and yoghurt. There was also one dish that looked like macaroni in a spicy tomato sauce with aubergine. When asked what this was called, they simply responded, “Macaroni”.

The next day, I stumbled upon the legendary Chicken Street, which, in its heyday of the 1960’s and 1970’s, was the main stopping off point for overland travelers, full of hotels, restaurants, pipe shops and hippies. The street today is not nearly as interesting as I imagined it once was, but there were signs of rebuilding and a sense of vitality that I had not been expecting. The markets were busy, many new shops had recently opened; coffee houses, bookstores, internet cafes, Afghani souvenir shops and many restaurants could all be found. At an Italian/Chinese restaurant in a nearby park, which was full of foreigners and locals alike, I wasn’t surprised to see an army jeep pull up. What did surprise me however, were the four American soldiers in full gear, including their weapons, enter the restaurant. I thought trouble could be brewing until they calmly set their armaments on the table and ask for menus. Just another group of hungry men escaping the heat. Back on Chicken Street, I had a chance meeting with some members of the Canadian ISAF (International Security Assistance Force). I hadn’t met anyone from home in months and it was refreshing to hear one officer from Hamilton, Ontario end our conversation with; “…have a good, safe trip, eh?” With that sound advice, I left Kabul for Bamiyan.

It was a rough 165 kilometre ride over roads in worse condition than the road to Kabul, taking almost 11 hours to reach. The time passed quickly however, as my traveling companions and drivers bombarded me with questions, as they were eager to know more about life outside their country from a first hand view. They were curious to know all and again weren’t shy about asking me anything, though sometimes I pretended not to hear. I thought it was better not to discuss the law that had recently passed in Ontario allowing gay marriages that I had only just read about on the internet. No matter how curious they were, this is still a conservative Islamic country, and I didn’t want to be responsible for my driver having a heart attack. It was apple season in the country and we stopped a few times to compare the best prices for apples. Each time we stopped, I would be presented with at least one bag of apples, either by the fruit sellers or other customers. My fellow traveling companions soon caught on to this practice and at the next few stops would only buy a few apples, knowing that I would soon be presented with a bag of them. While passing through ranges of mountains varying in colours from purple to orange, looking like folds of velvet, and happily munching on our apples, I sang “Oh Canada” at their request, and they in turn sang me their anthem and other songs. Despite the time it took to reach Bamiyan, it was a most memorable and enjoyable day.

Bamiyan was, until recently, home of the two Giant Buddhas. Carved into the mountainside and towering 35m and 53m, they stood for more than 1500 years until the Taliban destroyed them in 2001 against the protests of the international community. All that remains of these once majestic statues, which can now only be seen on postcards, are their outlines and some rubble. The town of Bamiyan itself is just one dirt road, looking like something out of an old western movie. It has been moved a few kilometres down the road from its original location and is being rebuilt, as the village itself was also destroyed by the Taliban in their retreat. It is a very peaceful place with little to do but walk amongst the ruins, chat with the locals, watch their football matches during the day and star gaze at night; with only three hours of electricity each night, this is the perfect spot for doing so.

Of the two hotels in town, The Zohak Hotel seems to be the gathering place for visitors, as it is also the location of one of the few restaurants in town. With no electricity for refrigeration, however, having breakfast can be a bit of an ordeal if there are many people staying there. As each guest comes down and orders breakfast, usually some form of eggs, one of the men working at the hotel jumps on his bike to get the items needed. One morning while I was there, Hosein, the resident do-it-all man, went to get eggs seven times, always with a big smile on his face. The rooms are basic and good value at $15, with facilities down the hall. This was still beyond my budget but the owner let me stay in one of their unused “conference” rooms for $6. There was no hot water, but with a bit of notice, a hot bucket of water was easily arranged.

Kids playing on a tank in Bamiyan

There are UN and NGO contingents in the area, but they prefer to remain within their compounds on the hill. At one time there had been a lot of activity in the area, as is evident by the large number of discarded tanks and UXO’s (Unexploded Ordnance). Walking through the fields could be dangerous if it wasn’t for the efforts of local and foreign organizations. Fields that have been cleared are properly marked with white crosses and rocks, while those that still pose a threat are in red. Some villagers are now living in caves near the Buddhas, as their homes were also destroyed by the retreating Taliban. While sitting on a rock, contemplating life, near one of the Buddhas, I was taken to one of the caves by a little girl for some tea with her family. The caves, though simple and sparse, are surprisingly comfortable and inviting. Once again, my arrival was cause for a gathering and I spent most of the morning drinking more tea and eating biscuits.

On my last day in Bamiyan, I had quite a busy day planned, though actually it had been planned for me. After being there for five days, I think I had met half the people in town, and promised to go to a football match and then dinner at one of their homes with an Australian woman who was in Bamiyan opening the local radio station. I needed some time alone first, and borrowed a bike. While on my way to explore Shahr-i-Zohak (the Red City), an ancient citadel 17 kilometres from Bamiyan, I was stopped on the bumpy road and asked if I would like to have some tea. The man was riding in the opposite direction, yet when I accepted his invitation, he took me back to his village far up in the mountains, completely out of his way, to meet his family. For the next three hours, I was once again treated to Afghan hospitality at its best in a setting that was unparalleled. High in the mountains, trickling streams abounding, and a quietness not often heard, we had a picnic. Although I insisted I wasn’t hungry, lunch was prepared for me. I then had had the opportunity to try one of the local drinks I had, up until now, managed to avoid, dugh, carbonated sour goat’s milk. I managed to get most of it down, as all eyes were always on me, before I “accidentally” spilled the rest. It’s an acquired taste that was unfortunately sampled again on the hot, bumpy ride home.

The football match was entertaining, Bamiyan West playing against Bamiyan Central. How there were enough men in the village to divide into teams with names like this, I’ll never know. My friend Sally, the Australian woman opening the radio station, came with me. Some of the men were rather embarrassed to be seen in their shorts in front of Sally, but were quite amused by her cheerleading efforts from the sidelines. After the match, we were invited to one of her student’s apartment for dinner. We were looking forward to eating something that wasn’t prepared in the restaurant, as we had been eating at the same place the entire time we were there. We weren’t expecting to see smiling Hosein from our hotel carry large trays of food that had been made at the hotel into the small apartment. It seems the men didn’t want to cook for their guests; it was better to leave that for professionals.

I never ended up making it to the citadel, and due to time restraints, not to any other areas of the country. I will return some day soon, however, to travel all over when there are fewer restrictions. While sitting at the bar on my last night in Kabul, I reminisced about the time I had spent meeting the people in the country. It was encouraging to hear optimism in their voices and knew that one day, when peace finally arrives; more visitors will be able to experience this captivating country with its hospitable people and amazing scenery. One experience I’ll definitely pass on next time is the dugh. As for me? I’ll have another Guinness, thanks.