Well I'm on my way to Kabul via Dubai and have met up with a lot of the rest of the gang. The only one I know at all well is my old friend Raymond Bird. At 81 years old and still travelling with avengance is one of my greatest inspirations. Also with us is his good friend Phillippa Treadwell. Phillippa is a tough, no-nonsense, retired diplomat, who smokes cigarettes from a short, black cigarette holder. More mutual friends of both Raymond and Phillippa’s are John and Penny Beverage, also past retirement age, who are delightfully well spoken and British. Also in this group is Lesley who, although a little more timid and less well travelled than the others, is engaging and pleasant to talk to. I’m enjoying the company of all our older companions very much. In contrast (in age, not amenability) is young Tom, who at 22 seems surprisingly undaunted at being guide to a collection of people so much older and more experienced than himself. He is a handsome, public school boy type who has a splendid Panama-type hat and has not travelled to Afghanistan before.
Our formal guide, Matthew Leeming, Tom's cousin, is already awaiting us in Kabul and Tom is in charge until we get there. At the airport we are also joined by Duncan, a pleasant Londoner who runs a photo library and who, in his 30's, also helps to balance out the average age. Everything has been so frantic this week that I really haven't absorbed the fact that I'm heading to Afghanistan today, even now, on the plane, it all feels a bit removed, at least l seem to be getting the hang of writing with the stylus on this PDA (that's a tiny hand held computer to the rest of us).
10.30pm
Well, we are finally in Kabul. During a short stopover in steaming Dubai we met up with yet another team member Mike Booth who is an English lawyer in his 40s and a lively Northerner to boot.
The skies above Kabul were full of America helicopters, but the thing I watched as we came in to land over the brown fields was a tiny tornado tearing unminded over the dry ground and lifting the dust into the sky.
Kabul is spectacularly placed being surrounded on three sides by mountains and on the third by desert plains. The city itself is less devastated by its recent history than I had expected. Although it is as grotty in detail as most Arab cities it is clear that there has been a lot of recent repair work. Sadly not all the reconstruction efforts have been a success, on the way to get final supplies in the busy chaos of Chicken Street and Flour Street with Matthew, we pass a devastated construction site. It had been the site of a new hospital being built with Chinese support. A few days ago, with such force that Matthew, feeling and hearing it round the corner, thought it was a bomb blast, the half finished building collapsed suddenly killing 45 construction workers. An event that is sadly representative of Afghan urban development standards.
In contrast the Kabul Lodge, where we will spend the night, is a clean and peaceful haven. It's green and geranium filled garden is peopled by an eclectic mixture of aid workers, industrial developers and journalists. They welcome us amiably into their quiet circles, and hail us specifically and respectfully as the first ambassadors of Afghanistan's new touristic age. What strikes me about these disparate pilgrims is their universal enthusiasm for this ravaged country; they know its flaws and short comings all too well and yet l sense a real affection there and an unshakable belief in its right to a future.
Anyway, I'm safe and well and looking forward to heading north tomorrow.
4th August 2004
Due to the unreliability of the internal flights in this country, Matthew has decided to abandon the idea of flying to Faiserbad and we will spend two days driving there instead. This is a mixed blessing; although I am frustrated by the idea of spending more time in the cars, I am delighted at seeing more of the country.
With our Afghan guide and drivers, we are now quite a large group and it is in a convoy of four cars that we eventually pull out of Kabul.
Raymond, Phillippa and Lesley go in one; the Beverages and Duncan in another; Tom goes alone in the rear car which is packed with all the petrol, equipment and supplies and I find myself in the lead car with Mike and our guide Haji. Matthew has been fighting off a kidney infection and is staying in Kabul for more tests. He will fly on and meet us in Faiserbad in two days.
Haji is the chief guide for the Afghani Ministry of Tourism and has been guiding people for the past 45 years. He has a good face; deeply lined yet without looking old; rich brown from decades in the wind and sun. I sit in the back with him and he tells me the story of the things we pass. Leaving the slums of Kabul behind us the landscape is devastated, the villages destroyed.
"All this land was beautiful vineyards, the best in Afghanistan, but the Taliban destroyed them." Says Haji, and further on, among shells of houses, "This village was once very beautiful, they made blue pottery." He points out at the passing fields to scattered rocks painted red. "The red rocks are landmines. Do not go near to red rocks."
Our driver is Moobin, a quiet smiling man. We see a young man in a wheelchair at the side of the road. The boy has lost both his legs, the victim of a mine unmarked by red rocks. "Poor fellow" says Haji shaking his head, "Poor fellow." Moobin pulls up beside him and hands him some money. Usually hardened to the beggars of the world, here I too am compelled to give. These people have been through so much and are fighting so hard, my heart is full of them.
On passing an American military base I ask Haji how the Afghanis feel about the American forces still in their country. He looks pained for a while before answering. "Of course we loved the Americans when they came and freed us from the Taliban, but 16 months ago they shot 3 Afghan officers outside the American embassy. Everyone heard about it and was very angry. Now they should go."
We follow the edge of the Hindu Kush, growing steadily on our left. We cross a low rise and in a rich explosion of green a wide valley opens up before us. A river tumbles out of a pass in the mountains; the Ghourband River and the pass is the road to Bamian. A little further on we come to a cheerful town nestled into the foot of another big valley. The town is Jebel Siraj and it is here we shall torn up into the mountains, the name means Glimmering Mountain, there was a romantic heart in these people once. The mountain road follows a second, bigger river, the Salang River, snaking up through the steep valley and the contrast to the plain is startling. The valley is rich with grass and willows, terraces of vines and rice and big mulberry trees growing wild. It is quite, quite beautiful. "On Fridays," Haji tells me, "the people come up here from the towns and city and they pick the mulberries and spend all day having big picnics." Everything up here is a relief after the plain. The people are smiling; the stone houses clinging to the hillsides are well built and homely looking; the hazy air starts to clear and the scenery grows more beautiful with every mile.
Mid morning we come to a just below the Salang Tunnel. For some reason I can't quite make out, vehicles are only allowed through the tunnel at night, but Matthew has managed to procure us a letter of permission to go through this morning. Unfortunately the officer at the checkpoint doesn't give two hoots about our letter and says we will have to wait until 6pm because construction work is happening on the tunnel.
In some ways the delay is a bit of a disaster, it throws our whole schedule out, potentially by a day, but after seven hours of relaxing in the green, pleasant fields by the road, the whole team is very laid back. The shady trees rustle overhead, we eat watermelon and rice and mutton carried up to the meadow from the tiny village below and Tom befriends a donkey grazing nearby. The Afghanis are hopelessly curious about us and we spend the day with a stream of people coming to look at us and shyly say hello.
At 6pm the tunnel is thankfully opened and we plunge upward literally into the mountains. The extremely long series of tunnels are my idea of hell. In unlit gloom the backlog of traffic thunders through the darkness raising such a dust that even with headlights we are driving blind. By the time we are belched forth from the far end, choked with exhaust fumes, we are high up on the far side of the mountains and it is almost dark. The long line of headlights and taillights snake their way slowly down, down the terrible pitted road. With no hope of making Kunza tonight we stop after 3 hours in a small town and try to settle into its guest house. The rooms have broken windows and feel about 100 degrees, but it's clean and they feed us royally on fresh kebabs.
Spirits are a bit low as we certainly won't make Faiserbad tomorrow, the tunnel delay has cost us a day as we feared, but there is no sense in worrying, we will see what tomorrow brings.
5th August 2004
It was one of the worst nights I have ever had. The heat and humidity were stifling and all I could do was lie watching the fan turning overhead in the gloom, shifting the hot air about the room.
We leave at 5.30am without delay or breakfast, just thankful to escape the claustrophobic little town, its oven of a guest house and it's very own set of staring men, who manage to gather in some force, even at this early hour. It's funny I've travelled in Muslim countries for years and, as individuals, I find the Afghanis charming, but I have never felt quite so uncomfortable in public anywhere as I do here.
We cover our heads and try to keep a low profile but in every town, within seconds we are surrounded by a crowd of unmoving, expressionless men staring at us and whispering to each other. When we stop in just such a town for breakfast we four women are ushered onto a curtained platform at the back of the eating shop and bread and kebabs are passed to us through the partition. It's an odd experience; I am both slightly put out at being separated from the group and enormously relieved to escape the owlish stares of the 50 men just outside.
After lunch, the landscape changes once more and this time in a most unexpected way. As we move north east away from the Hindu Kush the wide river laced plains grow almost tropical with the abundance of crops and vegetation. In among the fruit trees and rowans and willows are fields of cotton and corn and wheat and melons and barley and sugar beet; the animals are fat and contented. This is a rich land. Suddenly it is like passing through a prosperous part of southern Europe, but more beautiful and varied than any specific part I can think of.
Another segregated meal in another voyeuristic town and we move once more into a low mountainous region and the road, which has been, up until now, in terrible shape, destroyed by Russian tanks Haji tells me, finally disintegrates all together.
We bump forwards, painfully slowly through an increasingly beautiful landscape. The surface of the ground is covered in a uniform carpet of very short, tough, brown grass. The scored, folded shapes of the hills seem to have pushed themselves up beneath the skin of the earth like unabashed deformities and, for a moment, through a pass, we catch a glimpse of the, now snow-capped, Hindu Kush in the south.
Haji and I compare existences. As with all the Muslims I meet he is concerned at my single status at the age of thirty, but is open to my description of the social structure or, I should say, lack of social structure in England. He is most interested to hear that paying for weddings traditionally falls to the bride's father. "Here, it is the responsibility of the groom's father." He says jovially, "and I have five unmarried sons. We should all move to England!" I say, his wife must be very proud of such a brood of boys. He falls quiet and looks out of the window for a while. "My wife died one year and six days ago. I was away in the Wakan for two weeks, she was taken into hospital and when I returned they told my she was dead. It was cancer. She was very young, only 55 years old." he turns away again, his eyes shining just a little too brightly. "Haji. I'm so sorry." He nods. "Our youngest boy is three and a half, my oldest daughter is the mother at home now."
The road is now so bad that we are being flung about from second to second and it makes talking almost impossible, which is good, because I can't quite think of what to say to the grief stricken man struggling to hide his emotions beside me.
As always when travelling I scan the passing world for my personally interpreted portentous signs, the pictures I will carry away from the day with me. The first was a little boy sitting in front of his father's vegetable stall earnestly polishing aubergines; then a multicoloured patchwork tent by the river with three multicoloured patchwork dressed ladies squatting outside it washing multicoloured patchwork clothes; and tonight a tiny, snow white donkey running like a timid angel at it's laden mother's heels.
Driving totally off road now we struggle up a long boulder filled wadi and pass a small coal mine before crossing over the top into the valley beyond. The landscape is changing again. The big tumbling, green, opaque rivers become streams, then the streams become trickles and dry away stony to nothing. There are no houses in this region, we have reached the land of the first yurt dwelling Uzbeks. These are poor people, but their fields are bright with crops of sunflowers. Yellow against brown; brown against blue.
Checking my email there is news from Matthew. His kidney infection is no better and he is awaiting the advice of an English doctor. He isn't going to manage to meet us in Faiserbad but will try to catch us up on the way to the Wakan. This news does nothing to cheer our flagging spirits. I have loved seeing some of this country's wonderful landscape but after eight teeth-numbing, bone-shaking, dust-choking, spirit-breaking hours of snail-pace progress, I can't quite decide if it's been worth it. I'm starting to feel decidedly crotchety.
We have been lead to believe by the drivers that we will reach Faiserbad tonight, but it is clear to me that at our current rate of progress this is going to be impossible, certainly if there continues to be no road.
At 7pm we arrive in the tiny town of Keshem and the tired drivers turn into the only hotel. I look at it and laugh, thinking they must be stopping for tea or something, but they stop the engines and say "Here we sleep."
The building looks like it has been bombed, which isn't impossible I suppose. It has no doors or glass in its windows and the ground floor is completely derelict, the shells of rooms full of rubble and corrugated iron. Upstairs there is a large communal room with mats on the floor for the men and a small hot room with three iron beds in it for us girls. There is almost a mutiny; especially at the sight of the suidge pipe sticking out into the stream behind, but there is nowhere else to stay and the drivers are exhausted. Everyone is disgruntled, but there is nothing to do. Worst of all, in my head at least, the garden before the broken building is filling up with another crowd of sight-seeing men, many of whom follow me right round the house before I lose my patience. I appeal to one of our drivers Kayoum to ask everyone to leave who doesn't actually live here, he quickly takes my point and chases off the reluctant men.
In the dim light of a single light bulb in our men's room, we eat our third meal of kebabs and rice. Poor Tom takes the brunt of everyone's grievances with extraordinary good grace, but really there is nothing he or anyone else can do, we are victims of circumstance, that's all.
I try to be positive to ease the mood. At least we will have a good tale to tell on our return home!
6th August 2004
Oddly, the night spent in the derelict guest house produced the best night's sleep I have had. The cool night air drifted through the broken windows and the strange, shattered building had a feeling of benevolence. Lesley produced an insect repelling candle from her pack and the last thing I remember before drifting off was the sight of my three lady companions breathing softly on the floor around me in its warm, gentle light.
This morning, when I walk about in the cool dawn, I notice that the wild garden was once well loved. Here and there casting their shady branches over the long grass are apricot and walnut trees and tall clumps of purple flowered mallow. This poor old house is just one more victim of several too many wars.
In the village we pause to clean the air filters in the cars. The customary crowd begins to gather, but my attention is diverted by two young girls watching over a handful of cows. They watch me intently, their heads bent close together in deep discussion of our unexpected presence. I know these girls, I was one of them once and the other was my best friend Catherine, thick as thieves, curious about everything, inseparable. There is a little girl in me now who could slip down the slope and join them, look back at the others, now foreign to me, and whisper excitedly at the sight. But these little girls don't know that, they recognise nothing in me; to them I am a fabulous creature from another world, a tall, pale-skinned woman with yellow hair and jeans with legs in, and they don't return my shy wave.
I don't feel sad though, I am kept thoroughly entertained by the antics of one of their charges. This one extremely naughty black cow sidles off every time the girls' attention drifts and makes bold dashes off into the surrounding vendors and market stalls, its soul purpose seeming to be a bit of harmless fun. Each time, as the rumpus kicks off, the taller of the two girls gives a shout of annoyance and tears after the mischievous beast with her switch. The pair chase through the stalls, angry little fists slapping at big black rump until, each time, the bumptious bovine, tail twirling with delight, finally rejoins its friends.
The road from Keshum soon leads us down into a huge, flat bottomed river valley edged on either side by steep scree, mountain cliffs and fantastic rocky outcrops. The rubble road is cut into the right hand side of the slopes, varyingly between 30 and 100 metres up from the wide, fast-flowing torrent. This great river is the river Kowkcheli and we shall follow it now all the way to Faiserbad.
All day we follow the river, pretty much in silence. The road is as bad as it has ever been and the merciless pounding and jolting, the suffocating heat in the cars, and the bitterly slow progress soon take their toll on our energies. To add to the physical trials, Tom, Duncan and Penny have all been struck by a violent stomach upset and unpleasant as this journey feels to me, it can be nothing compared to how they are feeling.
Yet good things come with the river, with the river come river pictures. Ancient mud dwellings and yurts cling to narrow terraces; green meadows with brown skinned boys leaping and swimming in the racing currents; a black horse standing chest deep in the waves, staring, motionless at the far mountains, water running silver from its whiskered lips; a twisted tank at the foot of a landslide, rusting redundant in the shallows; bridges over ravines with great dizzy holes in them that pass with necessary precision beneath the bellies of the cars; a kingfisher swooping bright and blue at the bonnet as we pass. These are a river's stories.
The Russians were all over this area during their 1980-92 occupancy and near to their old camp spots serious figures work in pairs with metal detectors and pots of red paint, all around them the deadly ground is marked with crimson stones. Nothing is right. Nothing is right. This country is possibly more splendid and varied and beautiful than any I have seen; this land is productive, it's people good-hearted; it should be blossoming and full of visitors. But it's standing still, passed over, all but abandoned, the UN notices rusty and peeling. This country, that should be the jewel of southern Asia, badly needs more help and soon, before it loses its way all over again .
The slums on the outskirts of Faiserbad are a strange source of relief after three days on the road. I can't remember ever having felt quite so dirty and unpleasant as I do at this moment. We push our way through streets so narrowly packed with stalls and traders that the cars can hardly squeeze through and pop out over the river on the edge of a broad, low gorge. It's spectacular. Our simple but comfortable hotel is perched on a rocky outcrop overhead and is reached by a series of white concrete steps. Here the children are keen to find out all about us and a little girl called Gesu runs across to give me a high five. The balcony outside my room almost seems to hang right over the huge mass of water hurtling through the gorge. The sound of the water drowns out all else and everything starts to feel better. The shared shower only produces cold water, but nevertheless the water running black off my body, slowly restoring my humanity, feels like a religious experience.
Arriving here we were met by Daud who is to be our chief guide and has been here ahead of us making arrangements. I like him very much, he has an air of authority, tempered with patience and a western savvy which is missing from Haji. We were also supposed to meet up with a party of researchers wanting to travel to the Wakan on our permit. Gary Bowersox is a gem dealer looking to survey the rock in the Wakan for gemstones, and with him is his wife and a lady studying Marco Polo sheep. Sadly, Daud tells us that this morning they gave up waiting for us and returned to Kabul. This seems really odd and I'm sure there must be more to it, but there is no way of knowing. It's a great shame as Gary has been travelling in this area for decades and is a great authority on Afghanistan, it would have been very interesting to meet him.
At supper I have news for everyone from Matthew. He has sent a lengthy email with lots of bits and pieces in it, but the main news is that he isn't coming. Although his kidney condition probably isn't life threatening the doctor in England says there is no way of knowing for sure without more tests and that he shouldn't be far from a hospital. We all agree he has made the right decision, but this news is a blow. Matthew has organised this whole trip, he is our helmsman, his presence is a great loss. Brilliantly, Tom steps into the breach and sets about organising all the last minute odds and ends. I'm so impressed by him, but I hope he isn't being too put upon. The main problem is sorting out the details of our return to Kabul. The journey here has made us resolved in our desire to fly back, but we need to build in some contingency time to allow for more delays. It is all very frustrating.
After supper I sit in the dark on my balcony and let the river noise wash over me until my brain is peaceful again and I'm able to sleep.
8th August 2004
Had such a great night's sleep and lay in until 9 o' clock, cradled in the steady roar of the river. Was woken by Daud knocking politely on my door and saying that breakfast was nearly over. I trotted down to the deserted dining room and gathered tea, bread and cheese and carried them up to my room. The doors of everyone's rooms stand open out onto the big corridor and as I pass, clean, fed and rested, my friends are all in recovery mode, reading, writing, looking out at the river. Daud says we mustn't go out alone here, so we are a little confined until later, but I think we are all happy to spend some peaceful time alone in the fresh, sunny morning. Having dragged the big old armchair in my room out onto the balcony, I draw my legs up into it and tear into my breakfast. Everything feels relaxed this morning. Matthew has wired some money here for Daud to collect, and we have to pick up a permit from the governor before we can proceed, so, until these tasks are complete we are free to take it easy.
It's 12.30 by the time we descend the white steps with our bags to rejoin the cars. Gesu and her friends are waiting for us and she runs up to me chattering away in Persian and walks with me, holding my hand as I listen.
We have a fifth car joining us today, containing a cook and his assistant who will prepare our food once we get up into the Wakan, and two more men whose function I don't yet know.
However, true to the current form of this journey this next leg of the journey is also not destined to go smoothly. We are aiming to get to Ishkashim tonight where it is likely we will enjoy the hospitality of the king! This isn't quite as grand as it sounds, every region has a king who is answerable to the Aga Khan, and one of their roles is to welcome guests.
However, only 2 hours out of Faiserbad we stop at the large, grubby town of Baharak. This shanty town used to be the capital of the north until Faiserbad usurped it. Now it is a city of apples. The whole region of Baharak is famed for it's production of small, sweet, pink apples, and in the market everyone is selling them; sometimes a child with just a few in a metal bucket, sometimes a whole stall with baskets piled high with the pink fruit.
We climb a ladder up to an open-sided, first floor tea house and eat once more what it is now becoming clear is the only dish in Afghanistan, kebabs, rice and flat bread.
The drivers have disappeared with the cars and after we have finished eating we grow restless and decide to have a wander in the town. Tom very gallantly offers to accompany me as I have yet to successfully go anywhere in this country without causing a scene. Sure enough by the time we reach the middle of the town square and pause, we find ourselves surrounded by a crowd of some 200 men. They aren't doing anything, but it is nevertheless a little intimidating as they jostle closer for a better look; I am enormously grateful to have Tom standing by me as cool as a cucumber. Just when I'm starting to think twice about the whole venture, Mike muscles in with something even more intriguing than me, his little camcorder. The crowd's attention is diverted and I slip clear and amuse myself by walking round behind them all and staring in at Mike also.
Tom and I walk away up the street, leaving most of the crowd behind us. It is a huge relief to be able to walk unhampered and look at the stalls lining the street. Big shoppers that we are Tom buys a pen and I buy a pencil and some string.
Back in the square we are again besieged, but I at least get the mob to laugh when a little boy and his friends tweak my shirt tails and I spin round and send them scarpering by roaring like a lion. There is laughter and I think I might have made some progress to them realising I am actually a person, but no, in a moment they become owlish and unresponsive once more. The drivers have been gone without explanation for over an hour now, so Tom and I take refuge with Duncan on the raised opening of a carpet seller's stall. The crowd pack closely round. Mike joins us with the camcorder and we amuse ourselves trying to get the crowd to wave to the camera, but nothing doing, it is clear that we are the sideshow here and they aren't interested in interaction.
It is a great relief at 5pm when the cars finally reappear and we pick up our things to leave. The boys lead the way and I am the last one to push my way out through the crowd, as I go somebody pinches my bum. Surprising myself as much as anyone else, some animal instinct kicks in and I spin round swinging. My fist connects with a bearded jaw that, luckily for it and my knuckles, is already recoiling in alarm, rendering my punch more shocking than damaging. Half the crowd burst out laughing and the other half's jaws hit the floor. I don't wait around to see my victim's reaction and leg it for the cars.
It is a huge relief to be pulling out of Baharak and moving into the beautiful region of War Douch. As we climb the air gets cooler and the produce apparent beside the road changes with it. War Douch is a walnut growing region and all about us in springy, green turf are groves of huge walnut trees.
The delay in Baharak has set us back seriously and emotions are charged. It is felt that the drivers are dithering, but I try to explain that something had broken on the new car and had to be fixed. The drivers are doing their best for us, their only problem is that they don't communicate to us what is going on. Moobin who is the best of them all is mortified that we aren't happy and I reassure him that we are ok now we know what was going on, but they must keep us informed so we understand each situation that arises; something he proceeds to do with utter dedication from this moment on.
In their desire to please us the drivers offer to continue driving on to Ishkashim in the dark. There is some concern as to where we will find to stay if we arrive there late, but Daud says it will only take three hours, meaning we would arrive around 10, so we agree.
I am sad to be making this leg of the journey in Darkness, the top of the War Douch valley is one big opium poppy regions in Afghanistan. By the light of the headlights we skirt the edges of huge poppy fields, crops worth millions of dollars casually pass by without fence or guard. The many shaded pink, white and purple petals have nearly all fallen, but the few that remain hint at the fabulous beauty that must shine from a full field in bloom. It is almost impossible to connect this beauty with the ugly end it leads to. 90% of the heroin used on the streets of the UK is the produced in these peaceful, moonlit fields that we now pass. These lovely flowers will be directly responsible for the deaths of hundreds of addicts all over the world in the coming year.
Three hours pass and a forth, and we pass over 8,500' region of Zabak. Here we meet a fork in the river, one we will follow up into Ishkashim, the other rushes down to us through the darkness from Chittral in neighbouring Pakistan. After the fifth hour, a little after midnight, we arrive in the deserted streets of Ishkashim. Every wooden shop front is shuttered up, every window is dark, but before we lose all hope a figure appears with a machine gun and enters into a discussion with Daud and Haji.
Soon some big gates are unlocked and our vehicles are ushered into a large walled garden and courtyard. It would seem that this is some kind of town office, and there is a big empty, carpeted room at the end of the complex that we are offered to sleep in. We all rally round and settle down in our sleeping bags like boarders in a school dormitory. It's actually quite cosy and, unlike Tom who decamps in despair to the terrace, even the tremendous snoring of several of my companions doesn't keep me from sleep for long.
9th August 2004
I sleep really well in the crowded communal room and am woken by the morning sunshine streaming onto my face through the dusty window. Outside, almost everyone is up and the drivers have laid out some bread and cheese on a blanket in the lovely wild garden. In the brilliant light of day we can see that we have really ascended in the night and the mountains all around us are capped with snow. Everyone is smiling.
We pull out of the tiny village, now busy with curious residents, and into the surrounding countryside. It is breath-takingly beautiful. We climb up from Ishkashim through wonderful, shady woods with soft, green, grassy floors.
Through the big trees come bubbling perfect little mountain brooks, and children perch in the sun on neat dry stone walls along the road. Everything is neat and tidy and utterly romantic; these are fairy tale woods and hills, as enchanting as anywhere in the European alps.
We cross a small pass above the village and suddenly the landscape changes unrecognisably. We drop into a broad, flat river valley and follow the track along the right hand edge of its barren, stony floor. This hard valley with no substantial trees seems hard and Grey beside the idyllic haven we have so recently departed. The big, brown river running down its middle is the border between Afghanistan and Russian-occupied Tajikistan. Daud comes round and seriously explains that although we can take pictures of the border zone from the moving cars, but we must not under any circumstances do so on foot when out of them. The Russians have soldiers posted all along their side of the river and they won't think twice about shooting anyone who is seen taking pictures. To cement his serious instruction, the sight of the far bank lined with observation towers and tanks is a deeply sobering sight. In contrast, on the Afghani side there is no apparent military presence.
Mid-morning we pass a wild looking young woman walking on the stony bank beside the river, she has a tangled mass of hair, startled eyes, black teeth and torn clothes. We pause and Haji calls to her, she says something to him and strides away bare feet unflinching on the sharp stones. "What did she say?" I ask. Haji shakes his head, "I don't know. I couldn't understand her. She is always like that. She is a wild woman. When she was a little girl she changed suddenly and her mother claimed she wasn't her daughter. She wouldn't speak until she was 10 and when she was 15 she ran away to the plain and wouldn't live in the village. She looks after the flocks, but the people believe she is a djinn."
We stop for lunch in the shade of willows on a soft grassy bank. Now we are finally up into the Wakan Corridor the people have changed completely. The local tribe here is the Waki. The Waki are a far cry from the traditional Muslims we have seen elsewhere in the country; they seem much more influenced in appearance by the nomad occupants of north central Asia. Their women are thankfully unveiled and wear their long hair in twisted bunches either side of their faces. Their clothes, although dirty and holed, are fashioned of the brightest fabrics; reds and pinks embroidered with once fine work. The men dress in old brown jackets and shirts and invariably torn wellington boots, but on the top there is always some kind of brightly colored hat or turban. Everywhere we go they nod and smile and wave and their open friendly attitude is a breath of fresh air. Sitting on our grassy bank, a man appears from a nearby mud enclosure with three big bowls of yogurt and some bread for us. The yogurt is thick and creamy and he grins and nods at our obvious enjoyment. Soon a small crowd of men, women and children have gathered round our sunny picnic. I sit down with a gnarled old lady who turns out to be the old farmer's wife; her name is Bakhtbigum. We don't have a common word of language between us, but we chatter away amiably, I admiring her bangles, she my clothes. All her children and grandchildren gather round us and she slowly says their names for me to repeat. It is such a joy to be spending some time with some Afghanis, instead of being stuffed behind curtains.
We linger long with the hospitable Waki family and it's 3 o'clock before we set off back up the stony track. We spend some hours bumping over a bouldered plain, criss-crossed with glacial streams and rivers. The rivers are fast-flowing and turbulent, but for most of the afternoon prove no problem to cross. However, at around 5pm we come to one larger than we have yet encountered and it stops us in our tracks. We are supposed to be spending the night in the village of Kazdeh, a few hours further on, but with our watery defeat we focus ourselves on camping. The rivers on this plain swell with icy water through the day as the sun melts the snowy peaks on either side, in theory, if we get up early, the river will still be low and fordable.
A mile or so back down the valley we find a clear earth field and we stop to camp. It seems like an odd place to choose as it is corrugated with plow ruts and needs to be flattened out under the tents with a spade, but I am too tired to kick off a discussion about it. Sorting out this first camp is a bit of a shambles in that it was Matthew who packed the cars and of course he now isn't here to unpack them. Tom does a wonderful job of trying to keep everyone happy and find everything they need, but I can see he is nearly at his wit's end when it comes to sorting out the supper arrangements. He calls me over for some moral support and between us we manage to establish that the cook is all sorted for tonight, which is a huge relief. We peep into the boxes of supplies that Matthew has prepared and in amongst some, admittedly, quite sensible things, we fall about laughing over the discovery of dozens of tins of red salmon and a huge quantity of instant trifle.
As soon as everything seems a little settled, we slip away from the mayhem and walk out over the flat valley towards the river. It is immediately peaceful and the stale remnants of the long drive blow away on the mountain wind. The river is deep and wide and we sit on it's sheer sandy bank, looking across at the remote white cottages of Tajikistan.
Back at base we all settle down for a drink, respectfully concealed from our strict Muslim companions. The cook has prepared a small chicken stew and a giant pile of rice, which we eat from three communal bowls. It's very tasty, even if it is rather misjudged on quantities. The chaos of camping has exhausted me and after supper I retreat to my sleeping bag and my daily treat of retrieving my emails from the gang back home. It gives me such a thrill to know that people are reading my dispatches and sharing this journey with me and getting emails back every night, makes me feel like the most loved person in the world. So, thanks everyone, it's really appreciated!
10th August 2004
It wasn't the most restful night. The wind blew like a dervish and having been too lazy to properly flatten the ground under my tent, I lay in a plough rut all night. I very carefully explained to the cook last night that all he needed to do for breakfast this morning was to make up some milk and dig out the box of muesli. I thought the conversation had gone well, except that I crawl out of my tent to find everyone standing in a circle looking curiously at three big steaming bowls of custard, made up, it would seem from some of the trifle boxes!
After I have salvaged breakfast we strike camp and I set about trying to teach all of the Afghanis to dispose of rubbish. I collect all the camp rubbish and dig a hole and burn it, while they look on with clear amusement. Haji tries to helpfully explain that I don't have to do this, we can just throw it behind the hedge. I take a deep breath, and calmly explain for the second time that they are all trying to make a future for tourism in Afghanistan and that if they want people to enjoy visiting their country then they must start to look after it and keep it beautiful. He nods and concedes that this does make sense, but I wonder if he really thinks he can make a difference.
By 6.15am we are approaching the big river once more and find ourselves accompanied by half a dozen Waki villagers, up especially to assist us with crossing. The villagers wade into the racing water, unconcerned by the cold or the soaking of their clothes, and splash about looking for the shallowest place. The one at a time we gingerly follow them through the torrent of water washing up to the windows, it is a miracle and a credit to Toyota that we all get through unscathed.
The cheerful villagers wave goodbye, and we continue our way up the stony valley. We pause for a moment in Kazdeh to exchange pleasantries with the governor but otherwise make good progress into the mountains. Down in the valley it's hot in the fresh sunshine, but all along on either side of us the Hindu Kush and the mountains in Tajikistan are topped with brilliant crowns of snow.
Mid morning we come to a great fork in the valley in the middle of which is the beginning of the Great Pamirs, down the left fork comes the Pamir river which confusingly some of the locals also call the Oxus, down the right hand fork comes the Wakan River which is what we think of as the Oxus and certainly the waterway that George N Curzon claimed to be its source. This is the valley we take, up between the Hindu Kush and the big Pamir.
Mid morning we stop at a clear mountain spring to fill up with water and wash some apples. As we go to get back in the cars I say to Moobin, more as a joke than serious "Shall I drive." To my surprise Moobin is delighted with the suggestion and happily jumps into the back seat. I can't believe my luck, and for the rest of the morning have the time of my life driving as up the rough tracks and including a terrifying elevated section, where the road becomes little more than a narrow ledge, hundreds of feet above the valley on the Pamirs side. All the drivers are highly impressed by my driving ability, but to be fair it isn't hard really, they are just impressed because I am a girl. Mike and I have a great laugh in the front while Haji and Moobin chatter away in Persian in the back. Mike amuses himself by filming us all on his camcorder, including some very silly footage of me singing She'll Be Coming Round The Mountain and some Puccini.
We stop for a late lunch in the most beautiful spot I have seen yet. The flat valley floor is a plain of short cropped green turf; the river flows smooth and undisturbed in a blue gray snake down the middle and here and there, near and far on the grassland, herds of donkeys and flocks of sheep wander peacefully. We lie on the grass and a few Waki herdsmen join us with their children to share our chicken, bread and melon. We are now at 9,500' and we are all aware of the air being thinner. It's the oddest feeling, you feel fine for a patch and then suddenly for no apparent reason you will feel yourself sucking for a breath. The worst affected seems to be Raymond who is exhausted and has been sleeping all day. He can't be tempted by food and we are all a little concerned about our old friend.
Late in the afternoon we reach the high, remote village of Boroghil, and the old, wizened chief climbs into our car to guide us up to a good camp spot. We stop on a grassy hillside looking down on the river which has spread into a wide delta. Nearby there is a small mud building which Haji says contains a hot spring. The whole village, it seems, comes out to welcome us and see what we do. There is none of the discomfort of such a crowd in central Afghanistan. These people just mill about pleasantly, smiling and chatting as we set up our tents and begin to relax. We have a big mess tent with us, which gets put up for the first time here, and as darkness falls and the wind picks up it provides us with a cosy communal shelter to eat in.
We are all in good heart. This is the end of the road for the cars. Tomorrow the people of Boroghil will come with horses and donkeys and we shall follow the Wakan River on, up, over a high 13,000' pass and into the mountains beyond. After six days, the trek we all came here for is about to begin.
10th August 2004
The Waki told us last night that they would have to go to the mountains for more ponies, but that all the horses and donkeys will be here by 11am. None of us even begin to assume that this will be the case so we decide to have a late breakfast at 7.30 and enjoy a bit of a lie in. Tom promises to get up early and show our lovely cook, how to make porridge or 'brown tin' as it has become known in camp; I can't begin to explain why, you just had to be there, I can only say that there was so much linguistic confusion about porridge and the brown tin that I laughed to the point I cried and actually fell off my camp chair.
Tom and the cook make really wonderful 'brown tin' and after we have had our fill Penny, Lesley and I go to have a bath and do our laundry in the hot spring house.
Sunlight pours into the little mud house through an opening in the roof. Inside there is a deep square pool sunk into the floor into which tumbles the hot, sulphurous water from a pipe. In a bottom corner of the pool is a drain hole with a bung for changing the water, but it is almost half full and quite clear when we arrive. We strip off and take turns to wash our hair under the pipe, it is the most wonderful feeling. Then having slipped into clean clothes (ah! the decadence) we set to work washing our dirty shirts. I feel incredibly earthy scrubbing the linen with my two woman companions; laughing together as we help each other to wring out the water. It feels like finding something inside myself that was lost. Mind you I dare say it's easy to be romantic about it when I don't have to do it every day!
As the morning goes by, the odd donkey and horse turns up, but it is midday before we have a full complement. It is going to be quite an epic journey up the Wakan, we have no less than 15 donkeys, 14 horses, 18 handlers, Daud and Haji as guides, the cook and his assistant, Moobin as a general helper and the nine of us. So, just to be clear, for nine people wanting to go trekking in the Wakan Corridor, our numbers have swelled to 32 people and 29 pack animals!!
Not surprisingly it takes several hours to get this lot sorted out and a great deal of Persian shouting and milling around. By the time we leave at 2pm it is extremely hot and, although I am committed to walking as much as possible, I jump onto the lean gray horse I am handed thinking I will be lazy while it is hot. Haji gave me this horse saying "You have this one, he is a bit frightening sometimes and I know you are a good rider." He knows that I play polo back home in England and we have discussed its game of origin that is played here with a dead calf at length. Unfortunately, the only way this horse frightens me as the day goes on is by apparently being at death's door. The higher we go the slower the scrawny beast goes and the more it gasps for breath. One third of the way up the pass I can't bear its suffering any longer, and get down onto my feet.
We left camp at 10,800 feet and the top of the pass is 14,200 feet, so I am only ascending 3,000 foot or so, but the next three hours are the toughest climb of my life. I'm really cross about it because I've been in training for the South Pole all year and was starting to think I was quite fit, but this steep mountain trail turns my legs to jelly and has me gasping for each breath. Tom, brilliant as ever, manages to find a bright side as we stop for a moment to rest. He times our pulses and I'm delighted to say that mine at 104 is considerably slower than his at 180, and he certainly seems much fitter than me. I conclude that I am fit, so not to panic, I am just taking a while to adjust to the thin air. As I am puffing my way up a particularly steep section, one of the horse handlers stuffs a bundle of green leaves into my hand and gestures that eating them will help my breathing. Prepared to give anything a go I push them into my mouth and chew. The leaves are slightly sour, but not too bad and shortly after I've swallowed them my breathing definitely gets easier. I notice that all the Wakis are munching the shrub continuously as they climb and immediately start to do so myself; the effect is brilliant. Later, when I demand an explanation, Tom sensibly points out that the leaves must have a high oxygen content, thus giving a little boost every time they are chewed.
At the top of the pass I recover my strength quickly and stride down the other side with renewed vigour. At the bottom we slowly gather beside a noisy mountain stream on an exposed stony slope. The caravan is well strung out behind us and Daud announces that we will have to camp here as, by the time the donkeys have all caught up, it will be too late to cross over the next low pass to the best camp spot. It's a pretty forlorn place to be spending the night but we are all pretty tired and thankful to stop. I clear the biggest stones from a tent sized patch of reasonably flattish ground and, as the various donkeys carrying my kit arrive, I set up home.
Soon the last of the sun is only on the highest peaks, making them blaze pink and white in its dying rays and the temperature in our ravine starts to plummet. The horse handlers wrap up the horses and donkeys in thick blankets and tether them about the camp. The Afghanis themselves are almost indistinguishable under their layers of hats and gloves and coats and scarves. There is no doubt about it, it's going to be a cold, cold night.
The sad news of the day, before I sign off for the night, is that my little camera has just completely died, the automatic lens is jammed in, I guess it hasn't appreciated the dusty conditions out here. So sorry, everyone, no pictures from this point on. Luckily there are lots from up until now that you haven't seen, so I shall send you those instead.
11th August 2004
The night was terrifically cold, which is something I always feel a little uneasy saying considering I am going to the South Pole in November; nevertheless, by the early hours of the morning I was wearing 2 pairs of jeans, a jumper, my big coat and my towel was draped over the top of my sleeping bag. Despite this and the rough stones beneath and the incessant braying of two of the donkeys, I actually feel pretty well rested this morning.
It takes a while to break camp and load up the donkeys, but as soon as they are ready we mount up and set off across the river.
Just as I am almost across I hear a great commotion behind me and I turn to see Moobin, on a horse for the first time in his life, plunging sideways as his horse looses it's footing in the boulders of the river and the pair come crashing down into the water. Moobin drags himself out onto the bank and lies clutching his leg. For a few minutes it seems as though he might be seriously hurt, but when the shock subsides, he hobbles to his feet and nothing is broken.
I have optimistically mounted my thin grey horse this morning, hoping that a night's sleep will have helped him, but the moment we come to the first hill, just across the river, it becomes clear that he is still exhausted. I dismount and start to climb on foot, and it isn't long before everyone is forced to follow suit. The path is only about a foot wide and is little more than a scratch in the steep mountain side. The horses are led up the rocks by their unconcerned handlers and we follow on, gasping at the thin air. This is the format the day will continue to follow. The thread of path leads us along the course of the river ravine along a route I would have thought almost impossible to traverse with a horse. The sure footed creatures tread their way, over dizzying drops and treacherous slopes, hundreds of feet above the river's plunging rapids. Sometimes we zigzag our way up ravines I find difficult on foot; sometimes slither down, down into green valleys, and still the horses come as though clinging to the rocks with their hoofs.
The scenery is spectacular, the river is blue green in the bottom of the gorge, and the mountains crowd around as both brown below and snowy on top. In every ravine and gully white streams tumble down to meet the river and the lonely hillsides are scored with cracks and erosion. It is a wild place, but all along the way there are amazing flowers, like summer in the Alps, daisies and dog roses and countless varieties I can't name, purple, yellow, white and pink they pepper the brown slopes with colour.
My miserable horse struggles along, hardly able to put one hoof in front of the other and I walk as much as I can to save it. Its ignorant keeper says it is fine and keeps trying to make me mount, Haji says he says it is perfectly well, but even as he says it he has to flog it to make it move on up the hill. We make two really big climbs during the day, each lasting for a couple of hours and towards the end of each, in utter exhaustion, I mount the wretched animal in desperation. It spoils the day a little, I pity the creature, but I can't completely manage without it, so hard is the way.
We stop for lunch among shady bushes of willow on the banks of a tiny stream. The donkeys are all unloaded and let free to graze on the short green turf, for an hour both men and beasts rest in the peaceful sunshine.
Mid afternoon we come to a big river joining the Wakan from the north, its wild rapids cut across our path. We come down to the top of its sheer 80 foot cliffs and are faced with a wide but rickety looking wooden bridge. The walking surface is nothing more than close packed branches slung across the main supports and it seems impossible that the horses, let alone the donkeys with their tiny feet, could possibly cross, but cross they all do without hesitation.
I am utterly in love with the donkeys; packed high with what seems to be almost their own body mass in luggage, they trip-trap along halterless in front of their handlers, their long ears flicking back and forth at the sound of their master's voices. They have the sweetest tempers and beautiful, stoical faces and their tiny, dainty hoofs never seem to slip or slide. I could happily take every one of them home with me.
By early evening we come to a large level area of grass not far above the river and stop to make camp. It is a relief to be off the precarious mountain path and I fling myself down onto the flat ground to recover with Duncan, it's been a really tough day.
Once camp is set Tom, Duncan and I squeeze into the kitchen tent and spend a couple of hours with Moobin and the cook making fishcakes and baked beans for supper. It shouldn't take so long I suppose but there is lots of chatting and laughing and learning of Persian vocabulary and the cook wants to know all about how cooking is done in Britain. Moobin is thoroughly cheerful, his leg still hurts after his fall, which has made it a hard day for him, but now he is in his element, translating for us in the steamy tent.
In fact the fishcakes disintegrate when we try to fry them so we give up and serve it as a kind of fishy hash instead. It's a bit of an eccentric meal, but tasty enough and nothing is left.
After supper there is a long discussion about our itinerary for the rest of the trip, it is all a bit confusing because we are behind schedule and Mike and Duncan are leaving two days ahead of the rest of us, and it becomes more apparent to us by the day that everything here takes twice as long as you think it will. There is also some unresolved confusion about the day of our flights back to the UK so I agree to email Matthew to get some confirmation. I draw up an itinerary so we know exactly what will happen when, but the way this country is, I think we can probably expect everything other than that we might expect!
12th August 2004
We treat ourselves to a 'brown tin' breakfast this morning to make up for the 5am wake up call. The way ahead from camp looks fairly flat, so I mount up on the poor old grey along with all the others. We go along fairly well for about 20 minutes, until we reach a hairy cliff path dropping down against sheer rock to the river rapids, hurtling through a narrow canyon, below. We all dismount and the horses are lead down alone to the point where the water is lapping over their hoofs on the stone ledge. Some of us remount and some of us take piggy backs from the barefoot drivers, but slowly we are all ferried to the dry path beyond and make our way back up to the plateau.
Photo by Tom Leeming
By the time we reach the top it is clear that the grey is still in a really bad way. We come to a grassy meadow, and the horse handlers make us stop to let the horses graze a while, apparently there was very poor picking at the camp last night. I give my old horse his head to eat and he takes a few mouthfuls, clearly starving, then suddenly he gives a loud groaning sigh and his legs buckle underneath him and he collapses onto the ground. I step off unscathed but his ignorant handler grabs his bridle and flogs him to his feet. I'm incensed by the scene, and steam up to Daud in a filthy temper, "Did you see that? Did you see that? The animal is sick, it just collapsed while it was eating, is that what you call a healthy horse. I'm not happy Daud, it needs to go home, I'm really not happy."
"OK! OK! " He says. "I will sort it out, you take my horse." And I do, I don't want to think about the old grey any more; there is nothing I can do to help it.
My new horse is a little bright bay stallion called Durch, and I like him the moment I mount. He is little more than a pony really, but he is strong as an ox and pit-pats along with his perky pony stride. He reminds me of the gutsy welsh mountain ponies I used to ride when I was at university in Lampeter. Durch's owner Dusmaman is very keen to lead me and I am very keen that he doesn't. Haji wins him round by saying I am a very good rider and have horses at home, so Dusmaman reluctantly lets me go. Haji explains that Durch has the habit of trying to jump on unsuspecting mares, which is why his owner is worried, so I promise to keep him away from the other horses.
Suddenly Daud comes charging past on the grey, flogging it mercilessly. "I am lighter than you, so now it will be fine, see, it is a good horse." I watch its shaking, buckling legs as he goes and think it would be a great mercy to the poor creature if it just dropped dead under him.
We make a short but steep climb up the dry mountainside and as the river curls away from us, pop out onto a new, raised, valley floor; green rolling downs of such unexpected beauty that they stops us in our tracks with admiration. We make our way up over the mountain meadows to a prominent hilltop and stop for an early lunch.
To my delight, on the next little knoll are four traders taking tea and with them four, real, live yaks! We all head over and the traders welcome us amiably and we all gather round the yaks. Anyone who hasn't met a yak can't begin to imagine the impact of their enormous size. Their great shaggy bodies stand five feet at their huge humped shoulders, and their giant heads, resplendent with wide curling horns and baleful eyes, hang low to the ground. All over, their massive bodies and long tails are covered in thick, long hair, two black, two creamy. They are the most fantastic animals I have ever come across. They patiently tolerate our close inspection and don't even bother about us climbing on their backs to have our photos taken. The donkeys arrive and are turned loose to graze and soon the hilltop meadow is populated by contentedly munching beasts of burden. There is a peace I have not found in many places here; the blue sky against the high, green pasture looking out at the snowy mountains in the warm sunshine; as Tom says, it really doesn't get any better than this. Michael is especially pleased as two of the traders have very pale eyes and are prime targets for his first lot of DNA sampling. Michael is out here with support from the Red Cross to take samples for an ongoing piece of research looking to trace the paler inhabitants of the Wakan directly back to Alexander The Great and his men. Taking the samples involves swabbing the subject's mouth with a cotton wool bud, something that our mystified traders are reluctant to do. Eventually Haji comes and tells them it is an English tradition and that it will make their wives sleep with them more, which is enormously effective and soon everyone else wants it done too. It's all very funny for those of us on the sidelines. We spend two hours relaxing on the high haven before mounting up and heading up over the grassy plains once more.
Mid afternoon we meet some shepherds coming the other way and we stop. For the first time I notice that Daud is on foot. Turning back I see the grey standing motionless on the plain behind us, its head hanging by its knees. There is some short negotiation and Daud arranges for the shepherds to deliver the miserable beast back to Boroghil. Michael tells me that shortly after lunch it finally collapsed under Daud too, forcing him to face up to its condition. I'm hugely relieved and pray to god that it makes it home.
As the green valley floor gets bigger, we see that both the plain and the slopes on either side are peppered with large holes or burrows. We begin to hear odd squeaking cries here and there and soon catch sight of our first marmosets. These huge ginger rodents are absolutely everywhere in this section of the Wakan, and are hopelessly curious. All about us, little ginger faces pop in and out of their holes to catch a glimpse of us as we pass; they are really gorgeous.
We've been riding for seven hours in total and even my hard legs are starting to feel it. As dusk falls we make our way to an extra luscious looking patch of grass for the horses and stop to make camp. It is suddenly very cold in the evening shadows and, shivering to my bones, I actually wonder if I might be coming down with something. Duncan and Lesley have recovered from their upset stomachs only for Michael to be struck down with it; he hasn't eaten for three days and I hope to god I'm not getting the same thing.
Before supper I can see Tom is having a bit of a stressful time trying to solve everyone's problems and get the Afghanis in order, so I whisk him away for a walk over the valley, knowing that most things will have sorted themselves out by the time we get back.
However, by the time we do get back and Tom has started to relax, Daud takes him to one side and drops a bombshell. He claims that they have run out of cash and will need another $1000 to get us back to Faiserbad. He claims that the horses and donkeys have turned out to be much more expensive than usual. I smell a big fat rat, but there isn't much we can do to argue without Matthew. Tom agrees to sort it out and hot foots it to my tent to email our absent organiser.
The money is going to have to be borrowed from the group until Faiserbad and Tom has the unenviable task of breaking this news before supper. Everyone actually takes it very well considering and we have soon put the subject aside. Tonight is Duncan and Michael's last night with us as they are returning early due to work commitments and, to honour them, Phillippa and Penny produce a wonderful heavy fruit cake that they have managed to smuggle along. It's a wonderful treat.
P.S. A couple of footnotes...
- Susannah, Duncan emailed you today, but isn't sure he got the address right. Just letting you know in case you don't get it.
- I just want to say how incredible Tom an Andreas and David at ExplorersWeb have been and are continuing to be. I've been a real pain in the ass bothering them endlessly and they have the patience of angels!
- I am being hounded by one Mark Selway of Cork, Ireland to mention him in one of my dispatches. He claims to be the man I have run away 8000 miles to escape, which is utter rot. Although, he was indeed my first love at the tender age of 15, he disappeared 12 years ago without a word (no call, no flowers, no chocolates)! Well, I suspect all he really wants me to tell the world is that last week he and his team became the All Ireland Polo Champions, so, there you go! Thanks for the emails you old bugger, see you at the fabulous Inch International Beach Polo Tournament in September.
13th August 2004
It is a blisteringly cold night and once again I end wearing or lying under everything I have with me. I wake up at 4.45 and can hear that everyone else is moving too.
Even before I sit up I know that I am ill. I'm shivering with nausea and my stomach is wracked with cramps. Ever the optimist I decide that if I ignore it and carry on as normal, then I will probably be fine. I breeze into the mess tent and force down a bowl of 'brown tin'; every mouthful is exhausting. It turns out that Phillippa too is ill and hasn't even risen from her tent. Today will be the last day of our trek out, tonight we will camp as far up the Small Pamir as we can get, and the following day return to camp here again the night after. With this in mind Phillippa decides to stay put for a couple of days rather than exhaust herself further with two days riding. As it happens she won't be alone tonight because Duncan and Michael are only riding out for half a day with us, before returning to this camp in order to begin their early return tomorrow. The rest of us pack up camp, in an effort to achieve a 6am start. Just as I have packed up my tent the sun breaks out over the tops of the eastern mountains and its rich warmth immediately starts to soak into my cold, cold bones.
Photo by Tom Leeming
We have a toilet tent with us, which seems madness to me when there are plenty of perfectly good rocks everywhere to hide behind, but our older companions appreciate the principal. The tiny tent bends flat into a circular bag, and pops up out of it for the next use. The trouble is that it pops up with such enthusiasm that none of us have ever managed to see how it bends back down into the circle to go back in the bag. The first time we used it I managed to get it packed by pure chance, yesterday some of the horse boys squashed it down by force, causing it to go up strangely wonky last night and this morning no amount of persuading will make it submit. John, Tom and I spend a good 15 minutes struggling with it before tying it into a random bundle with its own guy ropes and shoving it onto a donkey.
Mike also decides to stay at this camp as he is only just recovering from his stomach upset and really hates being on a horse anyway. Sadly that means that now we must say our good-byes to him. It's going to seem really strange continuing without him. Our very own QC has been one of the biggest characters in the group, he talks for England, debates for the pure joy of it and has more technology with him than even me; but we've all grown very, very fond of this kind, genuine and big hearted man. I look forward to meeting up with him on my return to England.
We mount up and set off from camp. My little bay is full of beans after his night's rest and squeaks and whinnies at the mares and strikes out at them with his front legs when they come near. We are just crossing a big patch of sand when the cheeky monkey decides to get down for a roll. He drops down into the sand and for the second time in two days I find myself stepping off a horse on the ground. Dusmaman turns round and rushes over to get Durch up and then says that he is very tired, that is why he lay down. I laugh and say no, he was just having a roll, but I can see he is worried, so I tell him I will walk a while instead. Tom is on his feet too so together we walk out across the grassy plains of the Small Pamir the Oxus snaking its way, now, quite modestly beside us.
It is the most beautiful day, but the further we get into it the worse I feel and before long I keep having to dash off, mid-sentence, behind rocks for episodes of unspeakable horror. The only saving grace is that, everyone has already been through this, including Tom, and he greets my distressing and embarrassing state with sympathy, calm and total matter of factness.
After a few hours we reach a fork on the plain. The eastern root leads out to Pakistan and the area George Curzon claimed as the source of the Oxus. Had everything gone smoothly it is there we would have been heading, but running out of time and being without Matthew, we are all agreed that that adventure will have to wait for another day. At the junction we stop for lunch in the grass bend of the shallow yet fast flowing river. Always at lunch time we stop for two hours; one hour to let the horses cool off, one to let them graze. It would be a joy to stop here if it weren't for my feeble suffering. The other inhabitants of the Wakan are the Sunni Muslim, Kirghiz nomads and nearby there is a Kirghiz cemetery. Many of the old graves are little more than unmarked bumps on the ground, but the grandest one are small mud buildings with pointy dome roofs. Each of these tiny mausoleums has a window facing east, no doubt to allow the dead one a view towards Mecca but having the strange effect also of allowing a passer by to look in. I only peer into one and in the dim light see a pile of loose soil with a hat poking out from one end of it. The cemetery has an organic feel to it, apparently abandoned and untended it is as though it has grown up out of the dusty ground, but these are the only buildings in this otherwise wild landscape and seem oddly static resting places for bodies that wandered all their lives. Still, from dust we come and back to the dust we go, places, monuments are only of importance to those we leave behind.
Just before we leave we say goodbye to Duncan and Daud who are turning back to the last camp to start for home tomorrow. Tom and I are really going to miss Duncan. We have all got on really well as the youngest in the group and things just won't seem right without him. He has such a great combination or an earnest and serious view of the world and a wonderfully silly sense of humour; I am really going to miss his take on the things about us.
When the horses are rested we start up the north-eastern branch of the plain towards China. In this direction is one of the other disputed sources of the Oxus, Lake Chakmaktin, and we hope to get there by nightfall. When we come to leave I can see that the horsemen are concerned about which horse I ride. All the horses are ponies of between 12 and 14.2hh and I am really too big for them all over any distance. Seeing as I am supposed to be doing lots of exercise anyway, I solve the problem by opting to walk. The men are horrified that I must be unhappy, but we have a long way to go and it makes sense to save the horses; I promise them I will mount if I get tired.
Before he left Duncan fed me Imodium and paracetamol and as I stride along in the hot sun I begin to feel better. The plain shifts from straight grassland to grassy wetlands and the miles roll out under my feet. We make several river crossings, the men pull off their wellies and wade through finding the best route for the animals through the boulders. Sometimes they give each other piggybacks and laugh happily when they slip, there is a warmth between these Waki men, when they thank or greet each other they kiss each others knuckles, so open, so genuine. At the biggest river crossing I can't find a way across on foot and Moobin jumps off his chestnut mare to let me ride her over. On the other side I see that Dusmaman has turned up and he has mounted Durch to cross, so I stay on the mare and continue over the damp, grassy land. The mare I am riding is only four years old and this is such a long trek for such a baby horse, so I let her go at her own pace without rushing her and rest her after each hill. Soon we fall back from the horses in among what Tom calls the Donkey Express. The dainty little creatures pick their way busily over the ground, their great loads rattling with the rhythm of their stride and swaying improbably from side to side.
As the shadows grow long the river starts to widen until suddenly, from the top of a low rise we can see it open up into a great blue lake. Up here in the Small Pamir, the place the Afghans call the roof of the world, there is truly a little piece of heaven on earth. The green downs, the big lake reflecting the brilliant blue of the sky and the mountain rising purple all about us, their heads laced with white. Far ahead, at the end of the plain, the first mountains we can see only a few miles away, are in China. We have come to the far end of the Wakan corridor.
We move down to the lake's edge and set up camp on a low hilltop overlooking the water. the sun slowly sets and long after it's left us in cold and darkness in the valley, we can see its last light blazing on the mountain tops across the lake, staining the snow with pink and gold.
The horse and donkey men rug up their animals against the cold with enormous care and tenderness. Then fetch water for us from the lake. I give them a big bag of peanuts to share and they bring us tea. There is a real sense of togetherness this evening, in such places divides of culture and experience are unimportant, in such places life is a simple matter.
14th August 2004
Another bitter night and in addition, everything this morning is slightly damp. Nevertheless, it all seems worthwhile when I unzip the tent and am faced with the extraordinary sight of Lake Chakmaktin lying blue under a fine layer of morning mist. We pack up quickly in the chilly dawn air and set off, all too soon, away from the lake at the top of the world, but excited by the knowledge that we have seen a place that almost no other living westerners have ever seen. As we move away down the grassland, I glance at John's horse and see that she is hopping lame in her nearside foreleg. I gesture at it to her handler, but he just shrugs in a, I know but what can I do, sort of way. As I am wondering what to do, Raymond comes up beside me and his dear little mare is limping also, this time on the offside foreleg. This is really serious, we have 4 days of hard trekking ahead of us and it isn't going to happen if the horses aren't well. We have to get off these two and give them as easy a time as possible in the hope that they will be fit enough to get over the high passes in a few days.
I call out to Tom and explain the situation and suggest that as we know it is quite flat today, that he and I give our horses to John and Raymond for the day and we will walk. He immediately agrees and we explain what we are doing to the horsemen via Haji. Raymond gets onto Durch and John gets off his poor black mare, but decides to walk a while himself. We walk on a short distance, but when I look back the cook has mounted Raymond's horse. I swing round and let rip at Haji who is riding with him. "Get him off that horse! She is not fit to be ridden. I thought I just explained to you that I was going to walk all day and let Raymond have my horse so that she could be rested, so why do I turn round to find someone sitting on her?"
"It's fine, it's fine." He says. "It's not a problem."
"It is a problem, she needs to be rested. Get him off now. I don't want to see anyone on either of these horses all day, do you understand me." He looks a little shocked and surprised but nods mutely and the cook dismounts.
Tom and I walk ahead of the group out over the plain in the morning sun. This countryside is full of wildlife, much of which would be fantastic but unlikely to see. The yak traders confirmed to us that there are bears, common leopard, snow leopard and wolves in the mountains. The Kirghiz won't travel this way in smaller groups than four, for fear of attack by packs of wolves. We content ourselves with spotting several ginger marmosets peeping cheekily out at us and a hare running startled across the hillside.
It is a beautiful morning and we ford many rivers, sometimes having to hitch a lift on the injured horses over the deeper water. Both of them are still uncomfortable, but at least they aren't carrying any extra damaging weight. In a short rest stop I check out both mares and determine from the heat and swelling around the back of their slender lower legs that they have both strained either tendons or fetlocks. I wonder what we can do to help them out here and decide that at lunchtime we could at least stand them in the cold river for an hour.
At lunchtime we stop again in the grassy river bend near to the cemetery and I approach the handlers of the two horses and point at their legs and then at the river. They nod, but do nothing then to my horror the handler of John's horse lifts up the good foreleg and ties it by the fetlock firmly up to the creatures stomach from the saddle, so that its full weight is being supported on the bad leg. "No! No!" I shout, but he just smiles and gestures that it is fine. I call Haji over and the man tells him that the horse is lame because its shoulder is out of line and that standing on one leg will straighten it. I point furiously at the swollen tendon I say that even if the shoulder is out, standing on this leg is going to cripple her. Haji says that the man's father is a horse doctor and he knows what he is doing ad after a while I realise nothing I can say is going to make a difference and I walk away to sit on the grass with the others. As lunchtime passes I watch Raymond's mare also have her good foreleg tied up and her owner runs her round in circles, jumping on the bad leg. When he finally releases her and leaves her alone, she holds up her bad leg and can hardly put it to the ground. I have another go at Haji pointing at the suffering mare, who is now clearly much worse than she was, and he agrees but says he can't stop them doing what they think is right.
I am relieved when our rest is over and I can continue walking. I walk ahead where I won't have to look at the two limping horses and try to stop letting it spoil my day. Before long we leave the flatlands and the path takes us back up and down over the cliffs and hills beside the river. After a while Tom confesses that his legs are starting to be rubbed from today's walking and I encourage him to get back on his horse before it becomes bad. John hasn't yet taken up the offer of Tom's horse and has been walking also all day, so Tom mounts up and I walk on alone.
The only person ahead of me is the cook's boy who loves to march ahead. As I come over the brow of one hill I catch him running hell for leather over the stony ground only two paces behind a big, fat marmoset. Just as he makes his final dive to catch it, it plunges down a hole and he ends up with nothing but air in his hands. He rolls over and looks up at me laughing.
The way seems much further than it did yesterday morning when we set out from Phillippa and I find that the hills exhaust me very quickly. Watching the cook's boy I see that at the bottom of every hill he immediately slows his pace right down and literally ambles up to the top. Mimicking him I find my own bottom gear and, with the rhythm of a slow ticking grandfather clock, I walk without problem to the top of the next steep stretch of path. Although delighted with my new discovery the sun is incredibly strong, Raymond measured it at 80 in the shade at lunchtime, and as the afternoon unfolds I start to become very tired.
The party is strung out over the last few miles and even the beautiful scenery can no longer distract me from my weariness, I focus on the few feet in front of me and plod forwards. Oddly, although I am tired I am also pleased to note my underlying fitness, I'm plodding, but if necessary I could keep up this plodding for many hours. After 10 hours covering about 24 miles, Phillippa’s tent on the stony plateau finally comes into view.
We flop out onto the ground and lie still in the last of the evening sunshine. Tom and I watch Moobin and some of the horsemen trying to put up the mess tent, we can see that they have the poles in the wrong order but don't have the energy to get up and put them right.
Eventually we pull ourselves together and camp is established. Michael has left his sat phone number and a message to say that he will switch it on at 7pm, but though I try several times I am unable to get through to our friends, a day ahead of us up the mountains.
We agree to give the horses the morning off and not start until midday tomorrow. It is a great relief as my tired body drifts off to sleep, knowing that I can sleep in in the morning.
15th August 2004
This morning as we all take advantage of the morning off, I walk down the pasture to look at the two lame horses. John's black mare is still lame, but doesn't look any worse, but Raymond's little bay's tendon is up like a tennis ball and she's in a pretty bad way. For want of any better idea I rub in some strong muscle rub that Lesley has, then cut the toe off one of my thick walking socks and slip it onto the bay's leg as a pad and bandage the tendon tightly with a crepe bandage. It's not going to make her better, she needs rest, but at least it might give her some support. The horsemen seem a bit subdued that their medieval efforts yesterday have not helped and, watching me closely, they now nod their approval. To my surprise, When I am done they bring me another horse, this time Haji's which has gone lame this morning. This time it is her nearside back fetlock, between the fetlock and the hoof is thick with very hard swelling, there is no heat I have no idea what to do with it. I suspect it is ringbone and she's had it for years, but they say no, so I am flummoxed. I rub in some more heat rub and get Moobin to come and translate that tonight when we get back to the river all the three lame horses must be stood in the cold water for an hour. This time the horsemen nod obediently.
At midday we pack up camp and start off on the long road back to Boroghil. Thankfully, today is easy walking over the flat grassland that still fills the narrowing valley. It feels a little like we are the walking wounded, all morning Lesley has been tending to the ailments of the Waki men and, as well as the horses I have been tending to various sores on donkeys. It's a wonder to think that these people spend their lives travelling in these mountains, after five days the whole outfit seems to be falling apart.
Thankfully, our journey today isn't long. After about three hours we reach the end of the grass plains, the river starts to funnel down into a narrow canyon and we can see it snaking away between the encroaching mountains. Here at the end of the flatland we come to a last, high meadow and stop to make camp. It is a little corner of paradise. The long grass is laced with wild flowers and chamomile, filling the air with its heavy scent as the horses disturb it with their hoofs; two clear streams bubble down on either side of us to the big Wakan River below and the mountains surround us blue, green and purple in the evening light. There was never anywhere as peaceful as this high field tonight .
We settle down and I go to check on the worst of my equine invalids, Raymond's bay mare. I'm so sad about her, as is Raymond, she was by far the nicest of the horses, a real character with spirit and a spring in her step, it is heart-breaking to see her so crippled. Her Waki master, who had her trussed up and hopping round in agony yesterday has had a complete reform today and listens carefully as Moobin translated the little I know about equine leg injuries. One of his friends gets out a knife and goes to cut into her fetlock and squeaking with horror I manage to leap across and stay his hand. The mare's owner agrees to put her in the river for an hour and I help him to find a place deep enough and then sit with him watching the water running over the painful leg. I wish to goodness there was more we could do. After an hour we pull her out of the river, bandage her up again and lead her slowly back up the field. She seems no better.
I put up my tent and sit for a while thinking about the horses. Then I have a bright idea and reaching for the sat phone dial my veterinary surgeons back home in Newbury, O'Gorman, Slater and Maine. I am put through to the equine surgeon, Bruce, who seems delighted to be speaking to someone so remote and listens carefully to my three ponies' symptoms. He confirms my suspicions that Haji's mare is simply suffering from ringbone, and probably goes lame regularly; and he suggests that I could also explore the possibility of the other two having foot rather than tendon injuries. He tells me that sometimes with foot injuries the lower leg will fill up and such things are often mistaken for tendon problems. He says I must find a way of applying pressure all over the sole of the foot to see if there is a painful spot and then, if there is, to cut into it until I find pus. Failing that, he says, keep them standing in the cold water as much as possible, as it will help whatever the matter is. I grab Tom for moral support and go back down to see the mare. I pick up her foot and one look tells me it is as hard as rock, I push at it as hard as I can with the pliers of my Leatherman, but she takes no notice and I realise that without the proper tool I am never going to be able to apply sufficient pressure. I decide to leave it for now and give the matter some thought.
Walking back up the meadow Haji calls us over and thrusting binoculars into our hands points us in the direction of a small flock of Marco Polo sheep on the opposite mountainside. They are little more than tiny specks, but Tom can just make out their amazing curling horns. These rare animals are something we had all most particularly wanted to see, so this is a lucky sighting.
There is a lot of concern that the cook has been feeding much of our supplies to all the horse and donkey men, thus beginning to leave us rather short. Tonight, we eat pre-packed American army meals, which turn out pretty bland and nasty and nobody enjoys much except Raymond who tucks in with enthusiasm. Everyone is terrible polite about what they've eaten until I can't hold it in any longer and get the giggles about it and everyone joins in. The nice thing is that before supper each night someone brings a special treat that they have smuggled along. I brought a German Salami, Lesley two big pieces of cheese, the Beverages nuts and tonight tinned smoked oysters; so despite the odd supper there has still been a treat to enjoy.
Things are a little negative this evening. Everyone is worried about getting over the high passes of the next two days with injured animals and short supplies, but I am still enjoying being in this incredible part of the world and want people to be positive. Tom too is feeling frustrated I think as every question, observation and complaint comes his way, and I think it is as much of a relief to him as it is to me when we all go to bed. I'm sure everyone will be more positive after a good night's sleep.
16th August 2004
Waking up in the meadow with the smell of chamomile all about me is wonderful. For the first time in days it wasn't quite so cold and I actually slept quite well. The equine invalids look slightly improved today, but just before we set off I see the bay's bandage is off, her owner explains that we are going through water shortly and that he will put it on later and I agree.
Tom, John and I are all committed to walking to save the horses, but we are also enjoying the challenge of tackling these formidable mountains on foot.
Tom and I stride out ahead over the last of the high meadows and into the top of the steep river gorge. For five hours we follow the tiny, narrow path across the fearsome slopes of the gorge following the line of the great milky brown torrent. Sometimes the drop to my right is so steep that I daren't even look at it, I just fix my eyes on the path ahead and try not to think about stumbling. It is amazing to me now that I ever sat on a horse along here on the outward journey, it seems like suicide today. Of course in reality these paths are second nature to our horses and they are probably more sure footed than us, but if I'm going to trip and fall up here I would much rather it wasn't on the back of a horse.
We arrive back at the narrow stone ledge that goes along for some hundred metres at the level of the plunging water and at the section that goes under the water find ourselves temporarily brought up short with no horse nearby to ferry us over. Shortly the baby chestnut mare appears being ridden by the cook's boy and accompanied by her bright faced owner. The cook's lad offers her to us but we gesture that he should go first and send her back, but when he reaches the other side he just carries on his way. Her owner is grinning at us and signalling that he will piggyback us across. Neither of us is that keen, the water is deep, fast-flowing and bloody cold and our generous ferryman is not exactly large. Eventually Tom bravely agrees to go first and I watch my friend clinging on for dear life as the crossing is successfully made. In minutes the little Waki man is back and standing ready for me to mount. I am both taller and heavier than Tom and suddenly this all seems like a tremendously bad idea, but I can't back out now. I climb on to the little man's back and he wobbles forward into the water, it seems impossible that he should keep his feet but step by step, my raised feet still trailing in the water, we edge towards safety. With a cry of triumph my mount deposits me safely on dry ground and grins from ear to ear with his achievement.
Soon we are climbing back up high above the river and I introduce Tom to my slow plod bottom gear for getting up the hills and, although he could probably manage them quicker, he is happy to fall in with my pace. At lunchtime, we cross once more the rough log bridge crossing the blue water torrent from the north, and stop to rest in the same quiet willows that sheltered us on our second day out. Us walkers are exhausted, but even the riders have had a tough day and are all complaining of serious aches and pains. The cook drums up some of his excellent rice and potatoes in a tomatoey sauce and no sooner have I finished eating do I fall asleep.
We rest for several hours in the shade by the clear stream and slowly the strength comes back to me. There is good news and bad news about the next leg of the day's journey. The good news is that it is only an hour and a half to the spot we shall camp in, the bad news is that the route involves ascending the longest, steepest climb we have yet faced. Only 10 minutes or so into the climb Tom and I realise that despite our rest we are still physically exhausted from the morning's exertions. We slip into our very lowest and slowest rhythm and follow the donkeys up the merciless mountainside. We go pretty much straight up for 45 minutes and by the top we are all but on our knees. Tom admits to have been feeling actually physically sick for the last few hundred feet.
The flat top is a huge relief and we quickly drop back down into a big ravine that will be home tonight. There is a turbulent little river coming down through the gully which we ford by hopping from rock to rock, and then stumble up the last section of path to the rocky pasture of camp. We are in the valley at the bottom of the first of the two high passes between us and Boroghil and it is the valley full of pink dog roses that we passed through all too quickly on the way out. It is a huge relief to be here.
I'm cross because I realise that my invalid's owner hasn't had her support bandage on all day, but I am pleased to see that he takes her down to be tethered in the river for an hour as soon as we arrive here. When she comes out I go down to find him struggling to put the bandage on, and I show him what to do. The horsemen all watch attentively and then give me a bowl of their hot water to wash in. They are good men really, just a little backward in some of their thinking.
Some things they have got right when it comes to the horses; both at lunchtime and at the end of the day they tether them for an hour with their heads up to cool down before grazing. On this tiny pasture the horses are tethered in amongst the tents and the baby chestnut mare is standing sleepily just outside my door as I write. She is so tired that she flops down in front of me and dozes, with her nose resting on the ground, just beyond my feet. We are all glad to have stopped for the night.
17th August 2004
We wake early and are moving out of camp by 5.45am, eager to tackle the high passes while it is cool. There is no warm up today, we are straight into steep climbing the moment we start. Tom and I are left behind a bit to begin with as I stop to redo the bandages on the two mares. For the rest of the climb I can see our companions, tiny above us, giving horrifying perspective to the enormity of the slope.
I take tiny but regular steps and try to focus only on the path just ahead of me. I find that when I look up the task in hand suddenly seems too great and I am overtaken by a wave of despair, but that if I just look at the ground I can switch off and plod forwards indefinitely. The horsemen with the lame bay and Tom's healthy mare stay behind us and psychologically, the knowledge that at any time I could theoretically give up and get on the healthy horse, keeps me going.
The top of the first pass sees us back at 13,000ft and as I trudge over its brow I feel at the very end of my energy, but looking back over the beautiful snow capped Pamirs we pause to see the sunlight breaking through the clouds and kiss the mountains with dusty, golden beams and the weariness drains away.
After the first pass we drop down into the wet, rocky river ravine that we camped in the first night. It is heart breaking after such a hard climb to drop down so far knowing it is only to climb up again, but there is some comfort in the knowledge that this will be the last great ascent of the trek. Once more I trudge upwards, more tired than I can describe, but certain this time that I will succeed. At 14,500ft the top of this pass is the highest we will ever be, and as we mount its grassy summit Boroghil comes into sight and the great watery delta of the lower Wakan valley opens up far below us. We are elated by the climb and know that we have made it. In the last four days Tom, John and I have covered pretty much 60 miles from Lake Chakmaktin to Boroghil, we have walked the upper reaches of the Wakan Corridor and claimed it with our feet.
We stride down the mountainside into Boroghil and as we go the world around us becomes more and more tended, the grass is short and green, the streams neatly channelled into tidy beds; yaks and donkeys pause in their chewing to watch us as we pass and children run across the fields to greet us.
By 10am we are flopping down in the sun beside the cars and greeting Waed and Abdullah. The two boys have ha a very boring week in our absence. Mistakenly thinking Boroghil was a proper town they didn't even bring a book between them and have had nothing to do but look at the mountains and take several hot sulphur baths a day. Needless to say, they are very pleased to see us. One of the hospitable village elders joins us with a big tray of tea and fresh flat bread. The tea is served with salt in it rather than sugar, which Haji explains is a local specialty. Our old host nods and smiles, and through gritted teeth we nod and smile back as we desperately try to swallow and keep down the revolting liquid.
There has been much discussion all week as to what to tip the horse and donkey men. Tom and I are uninclined to tip much as we have had a string of disastrous horses resulting in us walking most of the way, but nevertheless we chip into the common pot all the same. The headman has asked that we give the pot as a whole to him to divvy out, rather than give sums to individuals and cause disputes.
Tom and Haji go over to the bath house where the headman is waiting with the crowd of men and with a few words Haji hands over the pot. They return and Tom comes and sits in the opening of my tent looking unhappy. "Something's wrong." He says. And sure enough there is an almighty rumpus kicking off. All our previously amiable Waki men have come marching back into camp and are heatedly disputing something with Haji, who is dismissively trying to wave them away. We automatically assume that we haven't given them a big enough tip and have offended them, so when the row shows no sign of dying down we all whip round and put in $10 a head more. Haji has disappeared so Tom approaches Moobin with the extra money, I watch intently from my tent. Moobin is explaining something earnestly to Tom. Moobin goes to gather all the horsemen together and Tom briefly comes over and whispers, "It's got nothing to do with the money apparently, Haji really offended them when he gave it to them." He goes off to stand by Moobin in the gathered circle of Wakis and I watch in fascination as Moobin gives a rousing speech. After each sentence there are nods and murmurs of agreement and at the end they is a huge cheer and they wave their arms in the air before quietly dispersing and going off to their homes. Tom comes back and sits down completely bemused, "That was the weirdest thing I have ever seen, we didn't even give them the extra money, the tip just needed to be given in a particular way." Moobin has just become the most valuable person on the trip and proved himself to be the most extraordinary public speaker; he has defused an ugly situation that, it would seem, was completely of Haji's making. I have to say that this is just one more in a growing number of examples of Haji's not so pleasant nature. Out in the mountains life has to be about working together and Haji has been consistently lazy and bossy and rather superior when it came to the Wakis, we suspect that this is because they are not what he considers to be proper Muslims. I'm so sorry my opinion of him is so deteriorating, as I really quite liked him on the first couple of days.
Once all the fuss has died down Phillippa and I go down to the hot spring house for a bath. We strip off and slip into the big square basin of water. My legs are black from four days walking and we soak in the hot, sulphurous liquid and let the layers of grime dissolve away. We take it in turns to lie under the pipe and let the water tumble over our dusty heads, it is absolute bliss. When we are both clean and have done our laundry, we climb out and drain the pool for its next user. The little, toothless man who looks after the spring smiles gumily as he excepts $1 apiece.
Back at camp Lesley has been invited to her horseman's house for tea and is looking for some company. The two of us are led over the grassland beyond the spring and into a mud built compound. Children start to appear round corners, peering shyly round the adults' legs at us. We are ushered through a low doorway into an intensely dark passage. Feeling slightly apprehensive we feel our way, quite blind, through a second door and a further passage and come out into a big dim space like a cave. The only light comes from a smoke hole in the low ceiling. As my eyes adjust I can see that the room is divided into many different dry, mud platforms, levels. The dark walls are crudely decorated with white painted hand prints and scratched animal shapes. From every dark corner figures watch us intently, but when we look at them they smile and come forward shyly to touch our hands. There are two women at the back on the highest level, which goes back into a further room beyond. Beneath layers and layers of grime and dirt they are dressed in bright coloured fabrics and beads and bangles adorn their wrists and necks. The old man of the house is clearly delighted to be entertaining us and instructs the younger of the two women to make us tea over a fire sunk deep in a hole in the floor. As we sit, more and more people arrive to greet us and the dark space fills up with blinking, welcoming eyes. There is one especially pretty little girl of about 8, who can't take her eyes off me and my yellow hair. Her mother distracts her by sending her off into a specially dark corner, which she returns from carrying a tiny, silent baby. The children pass the baby to and fro among them until it starts to creen with a thin pale voice. I climb up onto the high level among the women and children and gesture for them to give me the baby. The tiny little girl is only one month old and I can almost hold her in one hand. I start to jiggle her gently up and down and softly sing a lullaby and she stops crying and stares up at me with enormous brown eyes. Her cheeks and eyebrows are smeared with thick charcoal as is their way here to protect from dust and flies. The women and children crane their heads to hear me and nod their heads in approval. Thankfully these people are very far from starving, but they are living a ferociously tough life and it is hard to witness their poverty. I wish I could carry this little girl away and show her another life in another world.
It is a beautiful evening in the wide mountain valley and it feels good to relax and unwind after the trek. Tom goes off to spend the evening with Moobin, Waed and Haji at the chief's house, and after supper I escape to my tent to give an interview about the journey via my satellite phone to the World Service. It feels very strange to be chatting to the journalist in Boston from this remote windy hillside, but nevertheless I feel very at home tucked up in my cosy tent.
No GPS point today. But I am in exactly the same spot I was when we left Boroghil last week!
18th August 2004
As we pack up camp most of our Waki friends reappear to help us. I think they are keen to see what goodies they might glean from our departure, but they also seem genuinely sad to see us go. The owner of the bay mare in particular comes and grips my hand most solemnly. We are down to three cars now, so it is a bit of a squash to get us all in. I swap cars, hoping to avoid Haji and get into the front of Abdullah's car at the back. Tom climbs in the back and then, to my dismay, so does Haji. We set off, and so does Haji. For just over three hours Haji talks non stop in Persian, even Abdullah who understands what he is saying is obviously bored as his responses are limited to the most cursory grunts. I've never heard someone talk so much, I am almost ready to yell at him to shut up, but settle for demanding that we swap seats at a brief pause to cross a river. As I climb in the back and Haji picks up his flow again in the front, I catch Tom's eye who mouths the words 'Three days!" at me and grimaces. This is how long we are going to be stuck in a car with the incredible talking man. At least by swapping seats the noise is slightly contained to the front of the car and we can try to ignore it in the back.
For six hours we bump back down the Wakan valley, past the Great Pamirs and the junction of the Wakan and Pamir rivers and back onto the true Oxus or Amu Darya as it has become known in later years.
We stop for a late lunch in the tiny settlement of Panja and are greeted once more by the charming Dr Alex Duncan. Alex and his wife Eleanor are living up here with their three children, Jacob, Anna and Ruth, running a health program for ORA International (Orphans, Refugees and Aid). In addition to his work as a doctor Alex has assisted with the building of a school and advises the shah of the town on its development.
He advises us that the river ahead will be too deep to cross until morning and we set up camp on the luxuriously flat field beside the school. At 4pm we all go over to Alex and Eleanor's for tea and meet Lucy another doctor who is helping them to cover local training for women's health issues. All five of the Duncans and Lucy are currently living in chaotic conditions in a big two room mud built building. Outside, the compound is a building site as they race to complete a row of neat little rooms that will ultimately become Panja's first guest house, but more imminently, proper accommodation for Lucy and a laboratory for Alex. As an extra study Alex is about start work on a project looking at the Wakis' near unique status as a group who are totally unexposed to antibiotics.
The Duncans are wonderfully welcoming and their three delightful young children are beside themselves with excitement at the arrival of so many new guests. The oldest, five year old Jacob, takes me off to see his sunflowers in the garden and tells me in great detail the story of the Walrus and the Carpenter from Alice In Wonderland. I'm enchanted.
As we leave Lucy runs after us and asks if I could post a letter for her when I get back to England; there is no post out here and they have to rely on the infrequent supply lorries for everything. I'm totally inspired by this wonderful little group of people, I'm not sure I could live the life they have chosen, but I'm filled with admiration for it and feel truly honoured to have met them.
It's becoming extremely windy out on the field and Tom and I huddle in the entrance of my tent to have our evening whiskey and discuss the day's events. I like this time of day, because I can check my email and deliver various messages to my companions. Tonight my dad has reported news of the test cricket for John and Tom, and a mutual friend Kit has invited Raymond and I to dinner on our return. It's like being the camp social secretary - which reminds me, happy birthday Chris (Tom's dad)!
Haji is in a foul temper for some reason and orders us all out of our tents most ignobly at suppertime. Ignoring his mood we eat in the shelter of one of the rough, open, mud school rooms and are blessedly cosy huddled out of the wind round a tilly lamp.
19 August 04
We all get off to rather a grumpy start on account of Moobin getting us all up early. Alex told us that the optimum time to cross the big river is between 8am and 11am and that it is 40 minutes away. With this information in mind we were looking forward to a lie in and an 8am departure, however for some reason Moobin wakes us all up at 6am in a fret about the crossing and harries us into the cars without pausing even for some tea by 6.30.
Tom is in a real grump about it all. My, usually amiable friend in every way, has well and truly been got out of bed on the wrong side, and it's a little bit like spending the morning next to a sleepy bear.
At about 7.30 we draw close to the river, still thoroughly swollen with glacial melt water, it's a formidable mass of water. Just as we are wondering how to tackle it, a little man appears wearing one of Mike's Manchester United badges and bearing a letter from Daud saying they used him to cross the river yesterday and he is very good. Sure enough, in no time he finds a suitably shallow route and, rolling up his trouser legs, skips ahead of each car, guiding it through the icy torrent. In return we pay him 500afs and give him a lift to the next town.
The next town is where we have to check in with the governor of the area and show our permits. Haji goes off alone and takes forever, leading us to entertain uncharitable, hungry thoughts about him having breakfast with his chummy officials while they check our details. Tom and I go an investigate a tiny, makeshift shop behind some wooden shutters. The proprietor's few provisions are laid out on the floor, but after some investigation we manage to find some biscuits, which we buy and share amongst the group.
After about an hour Haji returns and we get under way. Around lunchtime we come to the lovely grassy bank outside Bahktbigum's house and stop once more. The kind old farmer Mohamed Nassar comes out to greet us as before and as we sit in the shade of his willows by the stream, his sons spread out a blanket and bring tea, both salty and sweet, bread and bowls of yogurt. Mohammed Nasser tells us how during the war he was forced to fight for the Russians for three years. Haji translates as he speaks and I am interested to see that there is no resentment towards this man who fought for the enemy and he seems surprised when I question it. "These people had no choice, they did what they had to do."
Mohammed Nasser complains of a sore eye where a stone chip hit him last year, I dig out some eye drops that I carry in my wash bag and he is delighted, slipping them into his inside pocket. It doesn't sound as if they will help at all, but they might relieve the discomfort and at least he feels loved.
Bakhtbigum appears with a little girl of about two and we greet each other with pleasure and I go and sit on a bank with her a little distance off. The little girl climbs onto my lap and looks up at me with big brown eyes and I admire her beads. She is wearing a grubby but embroidered waistcoat and when I investigate its pockets I find them full of apricot stones. "Did you eat all these little one?" I ask and her eyes sparkle. Bakhtbigum is smiling at us and says something to Moobin. "She says will you take her little grand daughter with you, back to England." I hug the child, but shake my head, "I can't Bakhtbigum. I'm so sorry." She nods stoically and the girl climbs back onto her lap.
It is a long afternoon spent bumping back down the arable plain between the mountains. I have to admit I don't have much to relate as Tom and I spent the entire time with an earphone each to my Ipod, taking it in turn to pick songs and escape into a little western music. But by early evening even we are distracted by the extraordinary light on the folded flanks of the mountains around us, the pale layers of grey in the air down the dusty valley before us, the dramatic clouds hanging about the hillsides and the muddy river roaring between us and Tajikistan in angry rapids. The valley seems more beautiful than ever tonight and as we enter the soft green fields and woods around Ishkashim it becomes even more so.
In the last light of day we stop once more in the garden compound of the town offices and this time pitch our tents on the grass. There is rain in the air, but we sit out on a low wall in our coats to drink some tea and celebrate John and Penny's 22nd wedding anniversary with a delicious fruit cake that is the last of Phillippa's smugglings.
Moobin and the cook disappear off to invade a local kitchen and return with rice and our favourite potatoes cooked in tomato sauce and even more exciting than this, fresh tomatoes, bread and onions. It is the most exciting meal we've had in days!
20th August 2004
Moobin has very proudly procured a rather curious breakfast of bread and what seems to be long life double cream in small cartons, but to be honest we will eat anything these days and polish it off without comment.
I am looking forward to this morning's part of the journey as it is the stretch that we drove at night on the way up and I am eager to see what we missed in the darkness.
Leaving Ishkashim is, in fact, to leave the Wakan Corridor but that is only apparent on the map. We continue down the steep mountain valley flanked by groves of apple, walnut and apricot trees and the river turns from glacial cloudy to clear, crystal blue. I think the valley today is more beautiful, more spectacular than it has ever been. The mountains on either side reach upwards like upflung wings and the cloud shadows mottle their sides like a woodland creature. Between the mountains the hillsides are terraced and planted patchwork with barley, cotton, blue alfalfa and dread poppies. All along the rough road as we pass, wheat is being harvested. Cattle are threshing it with their feet, driven in small circles by children and men are at work on great piles of chaff and grain, throwing it up into the wind to separate them.
Mid morning, Moobin's lead car swerves and he leaps out and picks up a rock and flings it at the ground. The other two drivers quickly follow and also start pelting the ground. We cautiously follow to investigate and on reaching the spot see a mangled snake gasping its last breath. "Very dangerous snake," says Haji, "this will kill you very fast."
As we pass by, the pleasant Wakis smile and nod to us and if we pause, they stop what they are doing and share whatever they have with us. One tears up an armful of pea plants from his field and pushes them in through the window for us to pick off the sweet pods and another brings a basket of tiny apricots from window to window for us to take handfuls. I am going to miss these generous and open people.
All too soon though we are approaching my least favourite town, Baharak, and entering the outskirts we see the women are fully veiled once more, the first we have seen since leaving here over a week ago. Dr Alex told us that this town has a particularly odd atmosphere because it is the opium centre of the whole area, not only from a dealing point of view but from an addiction angle also. Raymond in particular is keen that there should not be a repeat of last time's performance and speaks for the whole group when he says we are not to be left alone and I promise Phillippa not to start any fights this time also.
As it happens the stop is uneventful. Moobin and Haji usher us into an upstairs teahouse, where we are given a separate room away from the gawping looks of the towns men. And we are brought a meal of kebabs and rice and apples and melon. I find the room rather airless and claustrophobic after a week of being out in the mountains, and a strong odour of rotting meat makes me start to feel severely faint towards the end of the meal. Nevertheless things could be worse and we don't stay long. Haji makes a thoroughly rude and inappropriate scene of demanding money from Tom to pay at the end of the meal and I can see Tom struggling to keep his temper although he responds impeccably. We are all starting to become a little suspicious of Haji's financial integrity, but have no way of establishing what is going on, he certainly becomes very uncomfortable when pressed on the subject of money.
Tom has learnt a new phrase today which he is going to use back in England on his Persian speaking, Iranian hairdresser, it is basically 'I need a haircut.' Shortly after lunch Haji and the drivers stop to pray and we find ourselves surrounded by boys and while I plug my Ipod earphones into their eagerly proffered ears, Tom tells whoever will listen that he needs a haircut. All their expressions clearly say 'Why the heck are telling us?' which makes us roar with laughter and dispels the lunchtime tension.
For the rest of the afternoon we take it upon ourselves to educate Abdullah about Western music, and feed him a hand picked selection from the Ipod as he drives. To each song he either nods enthusiastically and gives a thumbs up or screws up his faces and says "Not good! Not good!" To our dismay what he likes best is the cheesiest stuff in my collection, the likes of Cher, Shania Twain and the Spice Girls anything more refined is quite lost on him. Oh well, Rome wasn't built in a day and it's a step up from the Bollywood songs I guess.
After a very long and hot day of in-car confinement we eventually reach the shanty town streets of Faiserbad. We squeeze the cars in through the chaotic mess of crowds and wooden huts all cramped together on the heaving mud streets of the city centre and eventually drop down to the relative peace of the river's edge and the long steps going up to the hotel.
There are some other guests staying in the hotel this time and we have to squash in and double up. I do get a room to myself, but the drawback is that there is no furniture in it. Moobin assures me that they will find a bed somewhere, and not to worry. I'm not worried, I'm happy to sleep on the floor if necessary, it's the cold but regardless wonderful shower I am excited about.
Gradually we all wash and settle and over the course of the evening a headboard appears, then a mattress and finally a whole bed is assembled in my room. Supper is a welcome mix of lamb knuckles and whole fried fish with fresh tomatoes and chips. Tom has been saying for days that he wants fish and chips and although I don't think this is quite what he had in mind, I do think it is the universe trying to do its best for him, goodness knows, he deserves it.
21st August 2004
I sleep really well. There is something so restful about this house above the roaring river. This time I am on the opposite side of the high white building and my concrete balcony looks out over the broad, dry mud bank where the children play. Going up from the river are tall poplar trees mixing into the first low huts of the town; the town seems to have grown up, organic, out of the dry hillsides.
At breakfast Tom explains that Matthew has transferred more funds to a money changer which he has to go and collect, but that he needs someone else to go to the KamAir office with Haji to collect our plane tickets to Kabul. I volunteer and Phillippa kindly offers to keep me company.
When we arrive at the tiny one room office there are five men behind the desk who shuffle our passports and bits of paper backwards and forwards fairly randomly between each other. Matthew has left them a list with our names on and it would seem all they really have to do is check our passports against the list and then write out a ticket, however they make a real meal of it and the whole business takes about 40 minutes. When I finally get the tickets I check them and find that there isn't one for Tom. I point this out and am told that he isn't on the list. I say that I don't care if he isn't on the list, I'm not leaving him in Faiserbad. Haji has a quick talk with the men behind the desk and then says that the plane is full and that there are no more tickets and that we are leaving now. In theory Tom could go back to Kabul with the three cars, but there are only two days in which to make the journey which is cutting it pretty fine with this country's ability for mishap, and besides I'm damned if we're leaving him behind after all we've been through. Very calmly I declare that we are not leaving Tom and that if there is no ticket then we will sit in their office for as long as it takes for them to find a ticket and I sit down, with what I hope is unmistakable resolve. Phillippa sits down with equal purpose beside me. Haji looks at us with alarm as do all the men behind the desk and an almighty hoo-ha breaks out. Phillippa and I look benignly out of the window and after 10 minutes a ticket for Tom miraculously appears.
On our way back through Faiserbad Haji says he needs to stop at the governor's office to give him a letter. We pull into a walled garden with green grass and tall trees and as we wait I amused to see that the place is full of pet rabbits skipping about in a rabbitish way.
Back at the hotel I relax for a couple of hours and Tom comes to tell me that he has been into town with Moobin and they went to an extraordinary ice cream seller. He promises to take me after lunch.
After lunch I borrow a bigger SS (Sodding Scarf - as they have been christened by Phillippa) and head into town with Tom, Penny and Lesley with Moobin as our guide. Walking up the busy, narrow we certainly attract a lot of attention but somehow there is none of the tension of the opium town. These men will nod and say hello and interact in all sorts of ways that the Baharak men would not.
We potter up the street buying tea and Afghani hats and I buy myself a splendid pressure cooker like our cook was using in the mountains. Moobin has been having a necklace made for his wife and we follow him up into a short street of jewellery makers to collect it. We are ushered into a tiny wooden shop and sit down on the floor in the intense heat at the back. The accommodating craftsmen make us tea over the blow torch they use to melt the silver and we admire the piles of lapis lazuli trinkets that they bring us. Lapis is one of the great precious products of Afghanistan and I am fascinated to watch the two boys twisting it into intricate bangles and necklaces. The temperature in the workshop is too much for me and I am relieved when Moobin has his necklace and we are able to leave.
On the way back through the bazaar we stop at the ice cream maker's and are ushered into the dark tables and benches of his shed. I watch in fascination as he scoops great dollops of white ice cream from a metal pot sitting inside a wooden barrel. Looking into the barrel I see that it is full of snow and Moobin explains to me that every morning the ice cream maker and his donkey make the four hour journey up to the snow line to fill his barrel. Then, back in the town he fills his tin with milk and sugar and scrunches it into the snow barrel where he bodily spins it back and forth until the mixture freezes. The result is absolutely delicious, never has an ice cream been more welcome or more perfect than in this humid oven of a town.
I'm exhausted after shopping and spend the last of the afternoon sitting on a blanket on my balcony replying to emails and waving to the children.
When we arrived yesterday, we happened to mention that we had not heard any live Afghani music since we have been here and as a result Moobin and the hotel owner have been scouring the city for a musician who will play for us. After supper, Lesley, Phillippa and Raymond go to bed, but Tom and I and the Beverages wait up to see if the musician will appear. At 10pm the deserted hotel is suddenly invaded by a cheerful band of men, they greet us enthusiastically and among them is an old man carrying a wooden box with a small keyboard on the side of it. We move into the big communal room and he begins to play. The single handed melodies that come tumbling out of the bellows operated instrument seem unstructured and chaotic until my ear starts to catch on them and the music draws together. The man sings in a nasal, creeling voice, and whether it is the look on his face or the response of the men around him, but I know the things he sings of, the love, the sadness, the bravery and the foolishness. One at a time the men get up to dance, stepping ceremonially up and down the room on their toes, swinging their outstretched arms in time with the clapping hands of their companions. A young boy plays a drum spectacularly with both hands and at one point Tom dazzles them all with his own brilliant display of drumming prowess. Everyone dances, even those who are clearly ill at ease with it, we laugh helplessly at the slightly camp style and the drivers Kayoum and Moobin in particular play up to it until the tears are rolling down my cheeks. Every so often one of the men dances down to the far end picks up one of the odd plastic flower arrangements on the table down there and dances back to place it before me, until soon I am watching the whole event from behind a forest of brightly coloured foliage. At the last even Tom gets up to mimic Moobin’s delicate movements beside him and when the music ends they all look expectantly at me. The Beverages have gone to bed and I am the only woman left in this company of men and I make it quite clear that there is no way that I am going to get up and dance for their pleasure. "But you must!" Says Moobin "Massoud said that whenever we gather like this then everyone must do something." I think about it for a minute and then say, "Alright, I won't dance, but I will sing you a song instead." They nod and clap happily and then fall silent. I'm shaking with terror but I sing them She Moves Through The Fair and when it is finished they stand up and clap and cheer. Then Tom whispers, "Sing them some opera, I so want to see their faces." Moobin explains to the group that this is a very old form of European singing, and I sing Puccini's O mio bambino caro, which is my standard easy fallback piece. The whole room stares, agog and once more goes mad when I finish.
As we climb the stairs to bed we can here the Afghani men below trying to mimic my soprano voice and we giggle helplessly on the landing. "I don't think they've ever heard anything like that in their lives." I chuckle.
22nd August 2004
Moobin taps on my door at 4.30 to wake me, and for many minutes I lie motionless in the dark, listening to the noisome river. Our flight is supposed to leave Faiserbad at 8am, so we have decided to leave the hotel at 5am. However, without having told us, Haji and the drivers have had other ideas; at 5.15am we are waiting in the hall downstairs, all ready to go, but there is no sign of anyone else. At 6am a couple of guys arrive with bread and eggs and shortly afterwards an apologetic Moobin who tells us not to worry, everything will be fine. Tom, who has been dreaming of eggs for about a week, impressively manages to impart the concept of soft boiled eggs and I must say it is the best breakfast we have had in weeks.
At 7am, still without any apparent urgency we load up the cars and head off, not to the airport, but to the KamAir office. It is clear that no one but us is at all interested in the time written on our tickets, this plane could leave just about any time. Moobin tells us quite seriously that the time on the ticket has to be early as Afghans are always at least two hours late for everything. At 10am we eventually make our way to the airport and unload our gear into the intense morning heat. Airport is a hugely inappropriate term for the Faiserbad roll-out metal military air strip. The site has clearly seen some of the worst fighting in this area and the terminal buildings' walls gape with mortar holes and its shattered roof beams hang like broken bones into its interior.
The ancient twin-engined, Russian-built passenger plane lands bumpily and we go through repeated rigorous searches by the uniformed personnel. Eventually, with sad farewells to Moobin, Kayoum, Abdullah and Waed on the hot tarmac, we board the plane. The only person we are thoroughly glad to see the back of is Haji. It's such a shame, as he knows such a lot and can be really interesting, but he is disliked even by the other Afghanis and it now seems almost certain that he has been ripping us off.
In an hour and a half we are back in Kabul and being driven through its busy streets by our new driver Aziz. The city seems unbelievably busy and sophisticated compared to what we have grown accustomed to. We are all really looking forward to settling into Kabul Lodge and getting clean and relaxed, but when we arrive there it is only to discover that only Tom will be staying there and the rest of us will be housed across town. A short drive later and we find ourselves finally housed in two basic but pleasant guest houses. Raymond and I are happy to be in what turns out to be the original Kabul Lodge. Our rooms are pleasantly furnished and there is a big grassy courtyard whose thick vines provide a lovely shady spot to relax in.
After meeting the others for lunch back at the other Kabul Lodge, Tom and I escape with Aziz to explore the tourist shopping strip, Chicken Street. When I say tourist obviously there aren't really any tourists, but Chicken Street is definitely the place to come for souvenirs, it is the centre for lapis lazuli and carpet dealers, fur traders, antique sellers and pretty much anything else you can think of. It's a great place to root about in and the friendly shopkeepers, although keen that you should enter their shops, are not yet aggressive and spoiled in the way of traders more used to mass commercial tourism; there is a delightful, friendly, naiveté to their attitude which I suspect will have disappeared by the time I visit Kabul next.
Aziz is a highly intelligent young Afghani who speaks excellent English and who discusses Afghan politics with us with great insight and intelligence. He discusses the forthcoming elections and the various candidates and is keen to know our perception of Al Quaida from outside Afghanistan. His own belief is that Al Quaida has simply become a brand name with which to label every Muslim terrorist group or action that doesn't fall obviously under another title. He feels that the name is a convenient tool for the West to simplify public perception of the 'enemy' in their war against terror. Although himself pro-American and UN he reminds us that we should not forget that it was in fact America who funded the Taliban before they broke away to ravage this country and that we are all capable of grave errors of judgement. I like Aziz enormously, as we quiz him he speaks thoughtfully, trying to explain to us the multiple points of view around our questions. He confesses that one day he would love to go into politics and I think with a few more Azizs around there really could be some light at the end of this country's tunnel.
We all meet once more for a late supper at Kabul Lodge and I am happy to meet up with our old friend from a couple of weeks back, Christian. He welcomes us warmly and we settle into the warm evening with gin and tonics and red wine.
Tom and I take the opportunity to sit down with Moobin's brother Muchim, Matthew's business partner, and go through the events of the last three weeks in detail. He is horrified to hear our assessment of Haji's conduct and behaviour, but not altogether surprised; it would seem that he has had suspicions about the old guide's trustworthiness for a while and his thoughts are cemented by our account.
By the time we have eaten I am really tired and the older members of the group are rather fractious, I think we will all benefit from a good night's sleep. Tom and I arrange to meet at my place in the morning and we all disperse in the cars to our various Kabul homes.
