Before the Russians invaded, Afghanistan was a cou
Before the Russians invaded, Afghanistan was a country on the “overland trail”. Many travellers passed though on their way to India or Europe. It was a country which had not fully entered the twentieth century.
Entering the country from Iran meant using the border crossing between Mashad and Herat – at Islam Qala. This became notorious as it was a rip-off difficult to avoid. The local Customs officer owned the “hotel” in “no-man’s land” between the borders and all buses were forced to overnight there.
Entry from Pakistan was through the Khyber Pass – it was quite a trip riding on top of a truck. Landi Kotal was a “duty free” village on the way where drugs were freely available. It was also possible to enter from Pakistan through the Khojak Pass (between Quetta and Kandahar).
The main route for overlanders was Herat – Kandahar – Kabul (or vice versa). The roads had been built by both the Russians and the Americans. On the Russian section they had built a grey concrete hotel complete with swimming pool (but no water). It was used as a bus stop (for passengers to get tea) – no-one actually stayed there. Mostly the buses stopped at a “chaikana” or tea house. I remember being on a bus with some Americans whose request for Coca Cola was met with much derision. One girl asked, “Where is the toilet?” and was taken into the chaikana and shown a door. She went through it to find herself in the desert. She asked again, “Where is the toilet?” The owner of the chaikana waved his hand at the vast expanse of desert and replied, “The whole world is a toilet!” – quite profound really.
There was a certain etiquette observed in chaikanas. The customer would be bought an enamel pot of very hot tea and some glasses (usually not too clean) and the customer’s first duty was to rinse the glasses out with hot tea – makes sense to me.
I was to meet some interesting people in chaikanas – I got talking to an American girl who told me that she and her husband and her two kids had been travelling for six months. They had a limited budget, just like the rest of us. Her two kids were aged two and four. Her husband had calipers on both legs and used sticks to get around (the kind with elbow supports). Back home, I used to have people saying to me, “Aren’t you lucky to be able to travel?” and “If it wasn’t for the mortgage and the kids’ education, etc etc. I would like to travel.” Even after telling them of the American couple and their kids, I knew that they never would go anywhere. You either have the travel bug or you don’t.
I have only been to Afghanistan in winter time so my image of Kabul has always been small hotels with wood stoves in the rooms – the room rent usually did not include firewood. I usually stayed at Sigi’s in the area known as “Chicken St” – an area of small hotels and restaurants catering specifically for foreign travellers. When I say restaurants, my image is that of a small room crammed with people all talking at once about their experiences, an atmosphere thick with tobacco smoke and cooking smells, a quilted blanket across the door.
Most of the people who ate there did so because they had had their fill of curries or kebabs, depending on which direction they had come from. The favored food at the time was a kind of omelette with onions. Of course, if real Western food was required, the Khyber Restaurant was the place to go. They actually served hot dogs and hamburgers, Coca Cola and espresso coffee. This was not in the Chicken St area but worth the trip – just once, for it was usually outside the budget of most travellers.
Changing money was a novel experience. Afghanistan (then) was the only place I have been to where the “black market” rate was actually lower than the bank rate. After India, where people constantly pulled at my sleeve muttering, “Change money, change money?” this was a surprise. The reason for this was simple. To change money in a bank took a long time, with a lot of paperwork and running around (and a bank charge) – it took so long that most travellers were prepared to accept less than the going bank rate by changing money on the street – just to get it over with.
The last visit I made to Afghanistan was in early 1976 – just a few months before the first military coup which subsequently led to the Russian invasion. I had travelled north from Karachi to Quetta in order to cross the border into Afghanistan over the Khojak Pass. I arrived too late to cross and was forced to spend the night in a little hut near the border post – I froze my ass off that night and was up bright and early next morning – well, early at least! I had my passport stamped and, as there was no transport for another three hours, I walked five miles across the pass in the snow. It was very cold but there was bright sunshine.
After negotiating the Afghan side of the border, it was on to Kandahar by bus. When I arrived, the usual hotels’ touts met the bus and one guy came up to me saying “Welcome back – how’s your leg?” I realised that I had stayed at this guy’s hotel four years before when I had twisted my knee. How he remembered me I’ll never know.
After a day in Kandahar it was off to Kabul and “Chicken St” – the hangout for travellers. There were few foreigners there as it was winter and not too many wanted to brave the cold. After a couple of days I went north to Mazar-i-Sharif. The route was through the Salang Pass and it was very cold on the bus, even with heater on. I met three Americans on the bus and we took a room in the “hotel” together when we arrived. A quilted blanket across the doorway was more efficient than a door when it came to keeping in the pitiful amount of heat our stove radiated, and firewood was scarce – and expensive. We managed to survive the night mostly due to our choice of sleeping bags.
Next day, we wandered through town to “see the sights”. There were many shops with signs in Russian Cyrillic script which was not really surprising as we were not too far from the Russian border. By chance, we heard that there was a buzkashi game that afternoon so we all decided to go. I had heard of the game but, as it was played almost exclusively in the north, few travellers had actually seen it. We were unmercifully ripped off by a so-called taxi driver (bandit, more likely) – but the Americans were loaded so what did I care?
After some detours we eventually arrived after the game had started but managed to get a good position on top of a low bank – some good natured pushing and shoving, plus our status as farang were a help. As the horsemen thundered by we managed to take quite a few photos and thought it would be a good idea to get some shots from ground level. Not long after we jumped down off the bank the horsemen came back and milled around us. I shut my eyes and hoped that we would not be trampled but the horsemen were expert and charged off – into the crowd. People ran in all directions and the horsemen eventually went back to the field without anyone getting hurt. It was probably the most exiting sporting event I have ever been to – and had almost been a part of.
After the game we refused to pay what the “bandit” asked and eventually were given a lift with the military in their jeep. I was to part company with the Americans and head for the heat of India. Sadly, the film of the buzkashi was later lost and only my memories remain.