A Short Walk

Central Afghanistan and the Minaret of Jam, Band-e Amir and Bamiyan

Twenty minutes outside of Herat, we came to a junction where the
smooth, asphalt road we'd been driving on split into two. One side
remained beautifully paved, the other was a nasty, gnarly dirt road
littered with potholes and thick with dust. The driver smiled and
pointed down the paved road to where it disappeared into the horizon.
"Iran," he said. He wheeled the van down the dirt road and gestured,
"Afghanistan."

"Afghanistan," coupled with a shrugged sigh, would become a common
lament over the next week. When there's dust so thick that you drive
twenty feet and then wait for thirty seconds for the road to reappear
before driving another twenty feet, the only explanation that
transcends the language barrier is an exaggerated shrug and the
one-word excuse, "Afghanistan." Indeed, nobody ever claimed the roads
in this country were good and the Kabul Caravan guide site even goes
so far as to note that, "in a country of bad roads, those in Central
Afghanistan are possibly the worst."

I've spent the last week on these roads and the physical toll tells
the tale: Quads and glutes extremely sore from hours spent walking up
the sharp inclines of high passes that were too steep for the anemic
motorcycles or four-wheel drive HiAce's to climb. Forehead and nose
peeling from a nasty sunburn brought on by too many hours holding onto
the back of a motorcycle. Hip abductors knotted and radiating pain
from holding my legs akimbo on the motorcycles as we zipped across
rivers or through very rocky areas. Coccyx and both knees bruised from
10+ hour rides in padding-free minivans stuffed full with eighteen
people. Body reeking from six days without enough privacy to even
change your underwear and socks, never mind scrubbing yourself clean
at the river. Nose perpetually clogged by the fine dust that fills
vehicles and coats everything near the roads, sapping the color from
plants and lending them a death-like pallor.

The beige shalwar kameez that I wore all week is so saturated with
this dust that it's impossible to clean. A casualty of the trip, it'll
have to be thrown out.

To call this region "lacking amenities" is a gross understatement.
There're no hotels, there's no bottled water available, and there're
no bathrooms. You sleep on the floors of chaikhanas, drink expired
orange soda or chai, and when you ask where the bathroom is, you get a
sideways smile and a gesture to a nearby field or river. The same
river, of course, that they're drawing water for chai and cooking from
and which they'll point you to if you ask if they have purified water.

The food situation is equally dismal. The bread is dusty, hard, and
wholly unappetizing. The chunks of meat are cold and have likely been
sitting out for a day or two, since they were first cooked, waiting
for more travellers to happen by. The rice is no better and,
unfortunately, there're no other reasonable choices. The only other
way to take in calories here is to eat long-expired Chinese cookies
sold in the villages.

All of that said, the trip is definitely worth it for two reasons.
First, the simple beauty of the landscape is unmatched, and second,
the Minaret of Jam has got to be one of the most spectacular sights in
Central Asia.

It's only a few hours outside Herat that the landscape slowly begins
to morph from empty plains into hills and then mountains. By the time
you're fully in the mountains, the change is so radical that you feel
like you're on another planet. Metal oxides color the soil and each
mountain is a different color. Pastel green shifts into a blue-tinted
gunmetal grey which bleeds into a dark, rusty orange. Some look like
they swallowed too many boulders and bulge as if they're about to
burst, spilling their cargo down into the valley below. Some stand
tall and narrow, sharp and naked, cutting across the landscape like
the spine of a dragon. Erosion has sliced away whole sides of
mountains, exposing the tall rock spires inside, leaving them looking
like ancient cities uncovered after thousands of years by shifting
dunes.

The valleys between the mountains are empty at first but as you climb
in elevation they slowly shift from dust to green grass and are soon
filled with herds of fat-bottomed sheep and goats. By the time you
reach the area of Garmao and Jam, the now verdant valleys are home to
nomads who've created small, temporary villages out of tents made from
wicker and animal skins. The nomad women wear elaborate clothing with
bright colors and rarely, if ever, cover their faces. The children,
often with scabs across their cheeks and noses blamed on the cold
weather, stare at you from their mothers backs or from the grassy
fields where they're playing.

It's in this region that the Minaret of Jam is hidden at the end of a
rocky, winding path that criss-crosses a small river. The path
meanders past waterfalls, towering stone monoliths in every color, and
small fruit orchards. The metallic, earthy smells of wet rocks and
rotting logs fills the air. The sudden appearance of the tip of the
minaret in the distance tantalizes and at once reminds you of its
sheer size -- at sixty five meters tall, it's the second tallest
minaret in the world. As the path continues to wind with the river,
the minaret periodically disappears and reappears until finally, in a
blink, the hills give way and open onto flat land with the minaret
towering in front of you.

Standing on the curved bank of the Hari Rud river, the isolation of
the minaret in this remote corner of Central Asia plays a big part in
its awesome presence. Suddenly finding yourself standing before it,
with mountains towering on all sides, you feel as if you've come
across a long lost treasure, buried through the ages but once again
discovered by... you! The intrepid traveller, trekking through the
central mountains of Afghanistan. Indeed, the minaret was not
"discovered" until 1943 and its exact origins remain something of a
mystery.

It's from the Ghorid period and its surface proclaims its creator to
be "Ghiyasuddin Mohammad ibn Sam, Sultan Magnificent! King of Kings!"
Ghiyasuddin was a Ghorid ruler who died in 1202. Its tan surface is
covered with the complete text of the 19th sura of the Qu'ran.
Entitled "Maryam" (Mary), this sura "speaks of Mary and the Virgin
Birth, of Prophets Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, Aaron, Ishmael and
Enoch, and, of Adam and Noah. It relates how they were guided by the
revelations of the Merciful, warns unbelievers of the punishments of
Hell and promises those who embrace the Faith the glories of the
Garden of Eden." (Dupree) Whether the minaret marks the site of the
ancient city of Firozkoh, capital of the Ghorid Dynasty, is
unresolved. The presence of tablets carved with Hebrew, found by
Italian archaeologists 1962 and dating from 1149 to 1215, add to the
mystery and some contend that it's a victory tower proclaiming the
victory of Islam over the pre-Islamic religions of the area.

---------

By the time I reached Band-e Amir, I'd been on the road for five or
six days. I'd spent three days drinking two liters of orange soda per
day and two days drinking pump water that I'd treated with Katadyn --
one liter at a time and letting it sit for the required four hours.
Arriving at Band-e Amir, half of me was eager to see the lakes that
I'd heard so much about and a half of me was simply desperate to check
all the shops and see if anyone had a bottle of water for sale. After
five strike outs, I found someone who had a single bottle. I paid
twice the regular price and couldn't have been happier.

With my water in hand, I sat gazing out over the lake, marvelling at
the contrast between the pink cliffs and the water that shifted from a
glowing cerulean blue in the center to a light, airy turquoise close
to the shore. The other-worldly coloring of the water is due to high
concentrations of metal ions and the lake is so rich in lime that it
has formed a natural wall for itself out of these deposits. The lake,
perfectly flat, sits on a hill side with the top edge comprised of
towering cliffs and the lower edge formed, literally built up, by tall
walls of limestone.

By and large, Afghans cannot swim and those who do come up to Band-e
Amir tend to just sit on the edge of the lake and have picnics and the
like. The morning I was there, however, I saw one family playing in
the water. Five of them sat on shore while two waded out into the
water onto a natural shelf which dropped off suddenly. Both were fully
clothed and one held a length of rope that was tied around the other
person's waist. The person with their waist tied would jump off the
shelf and flail wildly in the water, seemingly drowning, for about
four or five seconds before the other person would reel them back in.
After much laughter, the episode would be repeated a few minutes
later.

After a few hours, I left for Bamiyan.

---------

Bamiyan is much larger than its reputation suggests. Most of the
guides and travelogues I've read make it sound like a tiny village
with a tourist hotel or two situated on a hilltop, overlooking the
non-Buddhas. I was alternatingly told that it did or didn't have
electricity and everyone agreed that it definitely didn't have
internet access.

In reality, it's a one-road town, but that main corridor road is
probably a kilometer long, or more, and crammed full of shops of every
variety. There's most definitely electricity and there's even internet
access on the "toward Kabul" end of the road at a place called the
Bamiyan Business Center. The UN/NGO presence feels heavy, both from
the obvious show of many white trucks and SUVs mounted with large
antennas, and the less obvious plentitude of shop signs that're
(mostly accurately) translated into English.

The Buddhas are, of course, completely gone. I think Bamiyan is still
definitely worth visiting, and not merely as a show of support for the
Hazara people who were ruthlessly persecuted by the Taliban and who
had their only foreign-money attractors (tourist attractions)
destroyed. It's large enough to have the amenities you'll want and
need, but the weather is cool and nice and the air is much clearer and
easier to breathe than the thick smog soup of Kabul.

---------

I'm back in Kabul now and trying to decide what I want to do.

Kandahar is intriguing and while the little boy in me wants to run in
a convoy and play with guns and hang out with a bunch of mujaheddin,
the safer route to Kandahar is likely me, alone, leaving my backpack
here at the Mustafa, and travelling in a regular taxi or bus.

Really the only thing I'm especially interested in seeing there is the
"Al Qaeda graveyard." I'm not sure if I've mentioned it before on this
blog. It's a grave area for foreign fighters who were martyred and are
considered heroes. The dirt of their graves is reputed to have healing
powers and the sick visit to take tablespoons of it, replacing the
dirt taken with a tablespoon of salt.

I definitely want to go to the Panjshir and visit Massoud's grave.
It's a day trip from Kabul but it'll have to wait until tomorrow.
Today, August 19th, is Afghan Independence Day. They're celebrating
their freedom from British rule in 1919. Consequently, it's not a good
day for shopping or travelling. Everything is closed.

---------

Snapshots from the overland trip from Herat to Bamiyan:

1) On the long drive from Herat to Garmao, our driver became very
sleepy and with mimed gestures asked me if I knew how to drive. When I
said yes, he pulled over and I slid into the drivers seat. The HiAce
was a right-hand drive car, but shifting with my left hand came
naturally and off we went, again zipping toward Garmao. I heartily
enjoyed having full range of the road, weaving and dodging the largest
holes in an effort to find the smoothest section. The novelty of (me!)
driving an AWD bus across Central Asia, with 15 swarthy Afghans in the
back, was immediate and I was grinning from ear to ear.

2) With only a single bus each morning going the direction I needed, I
realized I had an entire day to visit the Minaret of Jam. Instead of
spending an hour on the back of a motorcycle, I decided to rent a
horse. It was my first time on horseback in memory, but it's not
especially difficult and we were immediately underway, chugging up the
mountain pass that separates Garmao from Jam.

As we walked up the first real hill, the poor horse started farting
loudly with every step. I couldn't help but laugh. For the next hour
or so, every time we would start up another steep section, the farting
would start again. Even after the tenth steep section I couldn't help
but giggle and I thought to myself, "If this keeps up, by the time we
get to Jam the horse will be completely deflated and I won't have
anything to ride back."

Unfortunately, after much struggling on the last sections before the
top of the pass, the old bag finally gave up and absolutely refused to
go any further. I ended up walking back down to Garmao and hiring a
motorcycle.

3) On the road back from the Minaret of Jam, the motorcycle I was
riding on the back of hit a nasty spot and I bounced so high into the
air that I nearly flew completely off the bike. This caused the driver
to momentarily lose control and sent us right up against the road
edge, the back wheel of the bike slipping off into empty air above a
forty foot drop. I immediately jumped off the bike and onto solid
ground and we both roared with laughter. Thirty seconds later we're
back on the move. What else can you do but laugh?

4) At a chaikhana between Band-e Amir and Bamiyan I met an Australian
man who's been travelling for nine years. It started with an early
retirement and a plan to travel for three months. These days, he and
his wife travel for ten months of the year and then spend two months
back home in Australia visiting the family. He revealed to me the
second Golden Secret of Squat Toilets. The first I figured out on my
own, much to my delight, and it was later confirmed by locals.

Secret 1: Twist the top of your shalwar kameez to the side and tie the
front and back together. It may be slightly preferable to do this on
the right side so as to seal the pocket, but either side will work.
This tying will keep the top from "touching the ground" (euphemism for
"soaking up the urine and feces splattered around the edges of the
squat toilet").

Secret 2: Don't take your pants down all the way. Take them only as
far as needed -- ie, mid-thigh. It's so simple but it never occurred
to me or, apparently, to many other travellers that he's revealed this
to over the years. If you take your pants down all the way, your legs
are too close together for safe, easy, effective squatting. If you
take your pants down only to mid-thigh, you can keep your legs as far
apart as you want or need for both hygiene and balance.

With these two "golden keys," squat toilets go from being a nasty drag
that you loathe and seek to avoid to something you might come to
prefer because, ultimately, they're more hygienic than sitting on
something. Hooray for that.

posted by daviduri @ 10:56 PM