Kabul
Afghanistan had always been on my “list”. It was, in the early seventies, the gateway to Asia and an important stop on the legendary Silk Road. Images of crimson stained rugs, rugged men in oversized turbans, and long conversations held in Dari or Pashto amid bustling green tea Tea Shops played in my mind, as I thought of what went on, as groups of people from Asia, Europe, and Africa met and traded in this mountainous land. Romantic to say the least! Add to the mix – poets the likes of Rumi, who is actually Tajik but born in Balkh Afghanistan or even more recently books and movies such as The Kite Runner; how can a boy not swoon? Modern day Afghanistan still holds a lot of romance to it, but sadly the romance is overshadowed by one thought, “danger” – with good reason. I don’t want to get into any sort of political rant here – let’s focus on the travel.
I have a good friend, a pharmacist who one day decided, ‘Screw it, I want to help people’, He quit his job and ended up following a path of international development that eventually brought him to Kabul. You know, as you do.
One day he messaged me, while I was in Bangkok, saying that he and his friends were going on a bit of a road trip, not that you road trip in Afghanistan but you get my point, and invited me to come along from Kabul to Band-e Amir. I was not going to say, “no”. Not shockingly, however, a trip to Afghanistan requires a bit of preparation and I think I came about as close to doing this “off the cusp” as one possibly can. It worked out well though – oh so very well!
I told no one I was going. I have a rather, shall we say, overprotective and dramatic mother and decided that it was best not to alert her to me possibly putting myself in danger. I caught a flight to Dubai, (as the Afghan Embassy there was reputed to be the quickest in issuing visas), and began getting all my paperwork together for the application. There wasn’t anything really out of the ordinary, except for The Invitation Letter. Basically, that’s a letter from an official entity saying that if anything happens to you; they will be responsible. Luckily for me, my friend procured that for me easily from his NGO.
The Afghan Embassy in Dubai was a trip. A good trip? A bad trip? Not sure but definitely a trip. I got there early, as I thought it better to leave myself as much time as possible should there be any hold ups. The Embassy was quite efficient and everything I was told was going to happen – happened. As mentioned, the first thing they asked for was The Invitation Letter and as soon as I passed it over everything was clockwork. Go to this counter, take this form there, pay here, it was all very easy. What became quite awkward was the attention I was drawing being the only confused, high strung, white guy in the place
At one point, as I was waiting for my number to be called; I was pulled into a conversation with a couple of gentlemen. They were quite cordial and very interested in where I was from. I told them, “Canada” and one guy got very giddy telling me that his cousin just moved to Canada.
I said, ‘Oh yes’.
To which he loudly exclaimed, ‘He had no tickets and no papers’ – roaring laughter from the crowd. I looked at him confused for a second and then questioned him as to how his cousin had managed a move without any papers. That was when it dawned on me; he was a refugee. I was completely unaware of how to respond to this, as Ms. Manners didn’t cover displaced peoples.
I stammered and managed to get out a polite, ‘Well I’m sure he’ll find the winter’s quite cold’, before lowering my gaze and internally screaming at myself for sounding like a tit.
This guy was unfazed and carried on with ‘Well you know what happens in Canada, I heard?’
‘What?’ I questioned.
‘Afghan men go over there and they DRINK ALCOHOL!’
I managed a nervous smile
‘WITH GAYS!’
I managed a smile but was on the brink of a panic attack. As if the gods could hear me inwardly clutching my pearls, my number was called and I made my less-than-polite, exceedingly rushed, goodbyes. Drinking alcohol with gays pretty much makes up what I do outside of my sleeping and working hours. Thus, this was a conversation in which I wanted no part. I was given the visa and went about the arduous task of booking flights to Kabul, as everything was booked.
Upon arrival at Kabul International Airport, I discovered my luggage was lost. Thanks, FlyDubai. I won’t get into the flight, but I will say that I learned that all my friends are whores because I couldn’t even scroll through any of my social media without images of thousands of men, near-nude, coming up. I did not want that sort of attention as I headed towards Kabul! I was also smuggling in two large bottles of vodka, (I figured at some point soon I’d need a drink and Kabul is far removed from the Vegas Strip). Therefore I was not looking for any unwanted attention.
After I put in my notice that my luggage was lost, I followed a map given to me by my friend and tried to find the driver who had been sent to pick me up. I managed, after much confusion and running around, to figure out in which area of the airport I was to meet him. Yet when I arrived I had no idea where he was. I was also an hour and a half late. Thanks, Fly Dubai. Suddenly I heard someone behind me say in a voice (much too formidable for who I saw standing there) ‘Mark’. I jumped and turned around to see one of the most handsome gentlemen I have ever seen in my life. The driver was supposed to supply me with a code word given to him by my friend, to ensure I was safe to go with him. The code word was “Bangkok’, which my friend had shared with the drivers company in writing, texted the driver, and called him. When I trepidatiously asked the driver for the word he said Bang’. Ummmm close enough. Let’s go!
Forgetting where I was for a split second, I gave him the ol’ hair flip, a bit of a sideways glance and nodded coquettishly. He was a man of 26 with caramel skin, and dirty blonde hair. He had a boyish but rugged face, with a square jaw and strong nose. What I could not stop staring at, however, (I’m sure much to his discomfort), were his eyes. We’ve all seen that National Geographic photograph by, one of my all-time favorite photographers, Steve McCurry’s Afghan Girl. You know the one where the girl is seen staring at the camera with stunning green eyes. Well this boy had eyes like that except green yellow and hauntingly beautiful. I mean Tyra Banks would have had to put all that smizing crap to bed after seeing these. Using self-control, that I really do not possess, I managed to remain polite and divert my gaze
[ngg src=”galleries” ids=”15″ display=”basic_thumbnail” thumbnail_crop=”0″]I was driven into town and drank in the sites of Kabul’s streets. It’s a humble yet oddly beautiful city lying between many of the Hindu Kush peaks. The main city lies in the lowest parts of the valley, while shanty towns grow up the sides of the mountains, wherever space was made available. It had a look like I’ve never seen before. I might have said that I saw a little Mumbai in it, but upon reflection I don’t think so. Maybe if Mumbai and Dubai had a lovechild, then abandoned it, and left it to fend for itself, maybe, but even then. It had a quiet charm completely unto itself.
Being in a beat up four door, I often felt dwarfed by all the military vehicles that had a significant presence along many of the roads. I felt warmed, though, by the many bread bakeries, automotive repair shops, and wedding halls we saw along the way. There was nothing of wow about it but it was interesting and somehow calming -despite how everyone drove!
We made our way into town and eventually to the workplace of my friend, who came running out to greet me. Here came the first big shock of Kabul. The street was nondescript; it was dusty, the buildings were not anything I would distinctly remember. There were cedars lining the road but nothing so majestic. The second we went through the main entrance, however, to my friend’s work and through a tiny hallway, we entered into a surprisingly stunning courtyard. There were vines of some unknown foliage climbing up the walls of the interior. There were grape vines dripping fruit from lattice work above our heads. A young pomegranate tree learning to bare fruit found itself in a place of superb reverence, and roses. There were roses clinging to all the available space. This was my first glimpse into the Afghanistan I imagined … behind barricades and barbed wire.
That night’s dinner was in another courtyard, even more beautiful than the last, and I feasted on some local specialties like Mantoo. Again the entrance was not much, and there’s reason behind it, but once inside I had an opportunity to admire Afghan rugs hanging from all the walls inside the restaurant. I even enjoyed an aviary of songbirds prominently placed at the center of the garden, who sung out a quiet melody while we dined. The illusion that I was somewhere opulent and palatial (well I was) was only disturbed partially every time I looked up and saw guards patrolling the perimeter of the restaurant on raised platforms. That only made my surroundings all the more rare and real.
My first night was spent in the house of Ahmed, an Iranian refugee living in the US doing his PhD at Yale on Afghanistan. Now here’s a kick – I was driven to the house earlier to shower and change for the evening. I was actually staying in the owner’s (who was out of town on business) room, adjacent to the gorgeous garden. Ahmed acquired the house a year or so ago and it somewhat became a travellers’ lodge but more of a travelers’ speakeasy, with Afghans and foreigners alike frequenting it – artists, actors, activists, researchers, and film-makers, queers and poets, feminists and freethinkers. I honestly can’t think of another way of saying this. Allow me to explain. Ahmed has opened his house to travelers to Kabul; some short stay, some long stay, some foreign, some Afghan. It doesn’t matter. If you stay for a long time you share the rent. If you stay for a couple of days you don’t have to pay, or you make other contributions to the house. If you’re a long term resident and you find yourself integrating into the social family that surrounds this house, well, when you leave you get a key to the property so you can always return any time you’re back in Kabul. Stunning! What an absolutely gorgeous philosophy on how to treat guests as family and a perfect metaphor for how warm an Afghan welcome is. The house itself has a fascinating history, belonging to an artist in the early 1900’s Master Breshna, a poet, architect, painter and legend. Overtime the house was taken over by the Mujaheddin, Taliban, the Belgian consulate I believe, some secret services surely, and then became available for rent when the master artist’s Descendents took back the property…
Much to my surprise and a little bit to my dismay, the night before our very early flight to Band-e Amir there was to be a birthday party for Azyan, an Afghan woman who had many friends staying at this property. This house represents the center of a social world for a large group of twenty or thirty people living in Kabul and Azyan was very, very popular. I was delighted that I was invited; I mean I kind of had to be, but I was still delighted.
Stories, however, started to be told of how these parties tended to rage on into the morning and we had a 7 00 flight the next day. To be clear, I’m not the sort of gent who can party all night and get up the next day and push through it. Not since, let’s say, thirty- two, and since I was thrilled to be actually heading to Band-e Amir the next day I wanted to be reasonably fresh. I mentioned this to my friend who devised a plan for me. If the party got too crazy and I needed my sleep, I could simply go into the bunker of the house and pass out there- yes the bunker. This is a room designed to do exactly what a bunker does. So, if grandpa here needed to pass out he just popped into the room designed to withstand bomb blasts and pass out. Sorted
As it turns out, that wasn’t necessary. I’m not at all sure what I was expecting from a Kabul house party but this wasn’t it. One of the guests was apparently the cook of the crowd and she came over with many many delicious dishes both local and party standards. How thrilled was I to see a big bowl of potato salad front and center? Thrilled! She also made another salad with some type of leaf that tastes exactly like wasabi. If anyone knows what that is please let me know. She only spoke Farsi and German so I couldn’t get my question across. She was also an Iranian refugee and media journalist who was living in Germany and had fallen in love with Afghanistan. I became very popular with my contribution of the two bottles of Absolute; I had cautiously dragged across from Dubai. Making friends I was. Here’s the thing. The crowd was young, lively, intelligent, and fun. The music was killer, mixing both current local songs with Lady Gaga because apparently the entire world is her little monster. But most importantly, everyone was very open, liberal, forward-thinking and very cool with two homos dancing around in their club naughties.
I was heading to Taipei afterwards and definitely packed to go out. I talked very candidly with many Afghans about my husband and gay life in Bangkok, and everyone did not bat one eyelash, not in that house. This was not the welcome party errr birthday party of Azyan I was expecting. I couldn’t have been happier that night. Thankfully for my post party boy self the party dwindled early and I was able to get some good sleep before the flight. One of the girls at the party had her gentleman friend drag his hung over ass out of bed and drive us to the airport. This took about three minutes as this boy drove at breakneck speed and managed to weave the car between pedestrians, street vendors, and all the other vehicles on the road, getting us somewhat safely to the airport in plenty of time.
The flight was Kam Air and about an hour to Bamyan. The airplane was a barely put together old soviet vessel, looked after by two massive Russian guys who, instead of flight attending so much, spent the hour of travel eating several of the in-flight meals a piece. Upon landing in Bamyan, we easily made our way out of the airport and headed towards our hotel. The landing itself is beautiful, you can see the intricate caves and the large spots where the Buddhas of Bamyan once stood.
AFGHANISTAN
Bamyan
The first thing I noticed about Bamyan was how different the people looked. At first, I thought I was surrounded by tourists but, in fact, they were all from Afghanistan. Most of them could have been mistaken for Chinese, Mongolian, or maybe even Russian from the more Asian side of Russia. Everyone here definitely had a different look about them and quite a striking one at that. Bamyan is the heartland of Hazara people, who are typically Shi’ite Muslim and speak Dari, a dialect of Persian.
We made our way from the airport into a taxi very easily and within five minutes were on the road to our hotel. We got to the hotel after a thirty minute, very, very scenic drive through tree-lined streets in the foreground of rolling mountains of stunning colour. I’m not joking this place is beautiful. The hotel itself was modest but very comfortable. It, like a lot of buildings I was beginning to notice, had a walled circumference, with an inner courtyard and then the actual building. It wasn’t much to look at as it was the same colour as the dusty roads but the interior was charming. It opened to a central foyer that went up a six-levelled interior, with the rooms surrounding the center on all sides. The owner was an incredibly friendly man who met us at reception, engaged us all in witty banter, and then had us in our rooms in about four minutes. The room was simply a room but I will say if you’re ever staying at the Highland Hotel you will have the privilege of sleeping in the most comfortable bed I have ever slept on in my life. In my life – bar none – not joking. It was crazy comfortable.
The second major discovery I made about Bamyan was that it was very dry. Half of my lower lip had peeled off by this point and a sizeable chunk of my nose had just flaked away. Luckily, and here’s a little tip from me to you, I was travelling with my PawPaw ointment from Australia and you can mix that with just about anything or just slather it on any piece of skin that ails you and you’re healed in about twenty minutes. I wiped a mass amount of it onto my face and went down to the lobby to meet the crew for sightseeing
Okay. Here’s another tip from me to you. Bamyan is reputed throughout Afghanistan to be safe, and it is – relatively. But when we asked the hotel owner what would be appropriate to wear out, he exclaimed very proudly, anything. We then ventured further to ask if shorts would be okay, to which he said ‘yes, of course, this is Bamyan, no problem’. He lied. Never ever, ever, ever go out in shorts in Bamyan. -not good. -no. I was thrilled, however, to be able to throw on my loose jean shorts and tour in comfort, but very soon realized after continued stares and comments from the locals, that this was not a good idea. At one point in the market, my friend was called an ‘insolent donkey’ by one of the shop owners, to which I thought ‘meh, I’ve heard worse’ but that was enough for all of us to quickly jump into taxis and speed out of there so we did not get caught up in a scene. Apparently getting involved in any sort of conflict can escalate quickly.
Our first stop, after we skipped on down the street from the hotel, was the Buddhas of Bamyan, or the remains of them. The original Buddhas were, from the sixth century and encompassed two statues of Sidhartha Guatama carved into the limestone cliffs at over 115 feet and 170 feet. This was before Islam had made its way into Central Asia. In March of 2001, however, the Taliban used rocket launchers to destroy the Buddhas leaving them in ruins. The pieces of the Buddhas had been collected, organized, and housed at the site in secure boxes that you are allowed to view as a tourist. The guard at the site said that one day they would like to rebuild the Buddhas. Nowadays, however, some fancy lights have been installed to project images of the Buddhas, for spectators, in their original spot. I didn’t get to see those though as it’s a very recent addition.
What I did get to do though was climb stone cliffs surrounding the Buddhas. This was incredible. The limestone cliffs on either side of the Buddhas, had been equipped with stairs and several lookouts at various heights, all the way up to the top, where the head of the Buddhas would have been. I’m not super keen on heights and these stairways were perilous, to say the least, but the views afforded by our trek upwards became more and more stunning; leaving me no choice but to choke back my fear and get going. Many of the locals did not share my concerns for safety. Gentlemen wrapped in long robes and turbans, sat in crevices, dangling their feet off the edge hundreds of feet off the ground, as if they had not a worry. Several local boys took a liking to our group and followed us up the stairs, doing tricks for us along the way; which usually involved something acrobatic far too close to the edge of the cliff; leaving my heart to drop into my pants every time they tried showing off. I’m not a huge fan of kids but watching one fall to his death would have definitely put an awkward slant on the vacation.
As we made our way down from the top, Afghanistan gave me one of the nicest, rarest, and again surprising moments of my life. I huffed and puffed and quad strained my way up and down many, many flights of stairs, please bare in mind that Bamyan sits at an altitude of 2500 meters above sea level so it was a bit more of a workout than I had thought. We made it down to a plateau overlooking the fields in front of the Buddhas which were again in the center of a valley surrounded by mountain peaks. The sun was at the perfect spot in the sky giving everything that golden hue of dusk, when we heard the call to prayer start echoing through the valley. There were several mosques in the general vicinity and each one had its own melody which moved like water through the valley crevices and pooled in the fields directly in front of us. The sound was magical and it played through the wheat fields for many minutes making the moment absolutely perfect. I stood there stunned and silent staring at the flickering golden glint off the wheat, listening to the sound of the mullahs voices blending together to create one of those moments that make it all worth it. I know I’m being a little over dramatic here but this time it was absolutely warranted.
After we came down from the Buddhas, our juvenile friends found some structures made of metal poles and wooden boards to play on. I joined them, showing off a few of my pole dancing moves. Fully clothed thank you. And we headed back to the hotel for our dinner.
Our hotel owner made us a special dinner that evening and served us on the hotel balcony. We decided to ever so subtly ask if there was any wine about. Denied – damn. Other than that the scene was delightful. Even dessert, a parfait of something I could only describe as green was served and it was delightful.
Mark Scodellaro
Neo hippie, yoga non- guru, and man of mystery. Avid traveller but only recently started writing about it. Yoga enthusiast, activist, and teacher in Bangkok. Loving father of four fur babies.