Panjshir Valley
Tuesday morning, I set my alarm for 5am and headed for the nearby
Panjshir Valley. It was nice to get out of the city and I was eager to
visit the grave of famed mujaheddin commander Ahmed Shah Massoud.
Massoud is a local hero here and his picture decorates billboards,
shop displays, and taxi windows. His image far, far outnumbers the
pictures of Hamid Karzai. Massoud held the Panjshir Valley against the
Russians and then against the Taliban, repelling numerous invasion
attemps from both. He was assassinated two days before 9/11 by a pair
of Arabs disguised as journalists.
I wanted to make a quick day-trip to the Panjshir to visit his grave.
I ran the trip by the driver at the hotel and after much non-commital
bullshit he finally settled on US$150. I laughed and instead went by
local transport. I ended up spending 240 Afs for the entire trip,
which is, mm... US$4.80 or so? Under five bucks.
The Panjshir River, which flows through the valley, is one of the only
(?) fast-flowing rivers in the country. The road into the valley
follows the river, twisting and turning, passing mountains of scrapped
Russian steel: tanks, armored personnel carriers, etc. Parts of tanks
have become bridges or diving platforms for kids in the river, but
most simply lie still on the side of the road, a testament to
Massoud's prowess as a tactician.
It takes approximately four hours to reach Massoud's grave (Qaber-e
Massoud). It's a small, simple green dome on a hill-top -- green being
the color of Islam and, consequently, the color of martyrs. There
were a few soldiers milling about and a small contingent of workers is
building brick platforms to transform the simple monument into
something more befitting the "Hero of the Afghan People." I was the
only tourist there.
I spent some time in the tomb itself, took some pictures, and signed
the guestbook. Afterward, the soldiers -- friends and former soldiers
under Massoud's command -- invited me to have lunch with them. It was
sort of surreal to sit with Massoud's soldiers in the husk of a
"liberated" Russian troop carrier. We ate pilau and drank tea,
struggling with the language barrier as they spoke no English beyond,
"No problem!" These men, seasoned mujaheddin, were the first truly
muscular Afghans I've seen in my time here. All of them were Tajiks,
as Massoud was.
After an hour or so a bus heading to Kabul passed by and I took the
opportunity to return to the city.
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