Afghan Stories

11 days to birthday


It was 11 days to my 30 birthday when I entered Afghanistan.
I came to Afghanistan from Tajikistan through the Iskhoshim border crossing. The border crossing is situated on the banks of Wakhan river which is the natural border line dividing Afghanistan from Tajikistan and the Pamirs mountain ridge from the Hindukusch. The remote, mountainous location at the mouth of the Wakhan Corridor makes this border crossing the least frequented in whole Afghanistan. I was searched for pornography and alcohol and told I was only 13th non Afghani passing through that year. I was proud of the news. 

The walk from the border to the nearest village Iskhoshim took an hour on a dusty dirt track road. It was a good walk on which I was negotiating with stray dogs, irrigation canals, remains of tanks and rocket launchers and wild children while admiring the snow capped peaks of Hindukush in the background. Once in Iskhoshim I asked where I spend a night and was showed a little shabby looking house at the road side. It was a simple, one room eatery which turned into a sleeping place (sleeping on the floor) at night. There wasn't any toilet or bathroom but a small basin and an old jug with water in the corner and the only food served was pilaff. I thought it was a very good deal and stayed for couple of days. The surrounding vistas and nature were breathtaking but what I found the most impressive was the locals and the fellow occupants of the eatery.

Especially one eyed Khan Zada who sported an appearance of a dangerous pimp or a kind of a mad oriental looking Glasgow viagra back street dealer on a holiday. Anyway, I liked him and he showed me around and introduced me to couple of locals who could speak some english or Russian and tell me all about the Badakhshan province of Afghanistan I couldn't find on Wikipedia or books. It turned out that Knan Zada, in spite of his dubious looks, was a well respected visitor to this mountain village but still a real dealer. He wasn't into drugs though, he was dealing in precious stones, Lapis Lazuri and Ruby in particular which the whole area is well known for. 

It was 7 days to my 30th birthday when I left Iskhoshim with Khan Zada.
I fell in love with this place and longed to stay longer but I was explained that this was the first day of Ramadan and there might be barely any traffic in this God's forgotten corner of Afghanistan for the whole month. 

Now, the trouble wasn't only Khan Zada's wild west appearance but mine too. On the evening of our departure I went to the local bazaar and bought shalwar kameez (long tunic and baggy trousers) .I like black, so I bought it black. I then got black waist coat and black turban to complete my new look. I attracted a lot of attention on the first days in Iskhoshim with my western clothes and I thought I will distinguish my origins in my new outfit but I was wrong. I got in the car with Khan Zada, ready to depart when his driver became very agitated after seeing me. He said, pointing at me, he ain't be driving no Al-Qaeda fighter and left the car in a dramatic fashion.

On the way back to the bazaar Khan Zada explained to me that locals as well as anti Taliban mujahideen wear pakol hat (a pancake shaped hat as worn by the charismatic leader of the Soviet and Taliban resistance Ahmad Shah Masood). Taliban usually wear black shalwar kameez and white turban. 'But your outfit, he says, looking at me, sizing me up.. you look like some sort of Al-Qeada funeral attendant. I bought brown waistcoat and pakol hat at the bazaar and we set off.

It was 6 days to my 30th birthday when I parted with Khan Zada and arrived in Baharak.
I had chosen Baharak as my next destination because I had been told not to go there. Baharak was notorious as a home to different warlords of north Afghanistan, place of frequent unrest between local tribes and safe heaven to smugglers of whatever can be smuggled. I thought that was a perfect fit for me. I had to persuade Khan Zada first to drop me off in there, which he did reluctantly, shaking his head, claiming I am dead man. He told his driver to stop the Toyota car at a local eatery in the middle of the village by a dirt track road. He took me in, shouted something in Pashto to the slow looking local eatery worker and told me to wait before leaving somewhere with his driver. He reappeared after an hour, shouting Pashto at the slow eatery worker, then came to me, gave me a deep one eyed look, kissed me goodbye on the cheek and handed me a white rose. My one eyed dealer friend left and I suddenly felt alone and realised the unbearable heaviness of the situation.. standing in the middle of a warlords village, dressed like an Al-Qeada and holding a white rose.

Connected hearts found on the road from Baharak to Faizabad

The next 5 days were one of the most interesting days in my life. Ramadan was on full mode so I was fasting from dusk to down in support of the local warlords. During the day I was exploring the little winding streets of this mountain village, the slopped fields, and hill sides oasis’s. I came back to the eatery which filled in with the whole village at sundown for Maghrib, the fifth prayer of the day which marks the end of the day’s fast. The atmosphere after everybody ate was exhilarating and joyous and in spite of the fact that I didn’t speak much of Farsi, Dari, Tajik, Pashto or whatever tongue the locals spoke, I felt part of it.

It was 2 days to my 30th birthday when the Fairy man arrived.

He came after Maghrib, after everyone’s eaten and prayed. He called me out and showed me to sit down in the corner of the eatery, away from the merry warlords. He had very clean almost white Shalwar Kameez, beige turban and long white beard. He looked very old. He asked me if I speak Russian and I said I do. He then said in perfect Russian: ‘Your are our dear guest in the village and we have been happy you enjoining your time in our village. The Village elders sat down with the warlords and the taliban and agreed to give you protection for 5 days. We are Pathans and our ethical code the Pashtunwale tells us to treat a guest like a brother. This is the last night of our protection and we won’t be able to guarantee you safety anymore from tomorrow morning. I advise you to leave by 8am tomorrow morning.’ He paid the bill I had made in the eatery for last 4 days and left.

It was 8pm so I had 10 hours to leave, I thought. I went to the slow eatery worker and asked if he thinks I can get a lift tonight and he said he will keep an eye on any car passing and would stop the car and make the driver take me. I said ‘Tashakur’/thank you and hoped for a miracle. Then somebody called me out and indicated to go outside. Outside was another fairy old man with white long beard, this time shorter, shabbier and even older version of the first one. This one was also accompanied by a little and sorry looking donkey. After asking about my family and health he explained: ‘I am very sorry to hear about your regrettable situation. I have come to offer you my donkey for $100. It’s a good donkey, who will take you to Faizabad in 3 days.’ It seemed a genuine offer but I questioned the state and age of the donkey and voiced my doubts to the old man. He reassured me: ‘This donkey here is an old donkey now but only a couple of years ago he was able to carry 2 rocket launchers over those mountains whenever needed, he’s still a strong donkey and will take you to Faizabad in 3 days.’

Just when I was about to began the price negotiations, the slow eatery worker came out of the eatery building and said there will be a car leaving for Faizabad in about an hour time. In next 30 min I sat in a 30 years old sellotaped Toyota pick up with a miserable man called Allaludin. In next couple of minutes we were deep in the mountains of Hindukush and I fell asleep.

It was 1 day to my 30th birthday when I woke up in the middle of the night in a sellotaped Toyota pick up. I looked at my wrist watch and it was 3am in the morning. We were parked on the bank of a stream in a deep cut gorge. The mountains around us were lit by milky light of the nearly round moon. It was very still and dream like and Allaludin was heavily vomiting into the pristine water of the mountain stream. I fished out some stomach bug medication from my backpack and gave it to him and fell asleep again. 

The sun was rising from behind the mountains and the sound of Fajr (first prayer of the day) was still lingering in the dusty air when I was woken by Allaludin. We were in a small village on a mountain side, parked in front of a muddy house. Allaludin appeared in a changed mood. He wasn't miserable anymore he seemed calm, self-assured almost gracious when he showed me to follow him to his house. Here, if I carry on writing about what happened on the last day before my birthday, in this small village, in the mud house, I may regret that. There are things in our lives which are meant to stay with us forever. Things which could open gates to demons and, hand on heart, once I am telling a short story it should stay short. So I decided to keep the proceedings of the last night before my 30th birthday to myself, untold.

It was my 30th birthday when I arrived on a back of a Toyota pick up truck to Faizabad and had this photograph taken.




Photo backs

Some of the back sides of the found photographs I places in the Soviet Album. These photographs used to be send across the vast expanses of the former Soviet Union. The short texts are greetings to family members, friends or lovers.


Soviet children’s books

These are some of the old illustrated children books I found in old bookshops in Ukraine. The books used to tell stories of far away places like the taiga in Siberia or the steppes of Central Asia and the books were favorite reads among children and young people from mostly urban areas of the Soviet Union. 

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