The Complete Collection of Travel Literature

by Tahir Shah

  Four million Afghan refugees fled to the North West Frontier Province of Pakistan. With the end of the war against the communist forces, the refugee populace had begun to go back to Afghanistan. Yet their return was hampered by an abundance of mines, and total lack of food in rural areas resulting from the devastation of Brezhnev’s war.

  Peshawar, still a cocktail of people — thrown together because of the war — ran on its own lines.

  My sister, Saira, had come to Pakistan initially to report on the conflict for several western newspapers. Now she concentrated on the refugee repatriation question and the feuding of Afghan parties. A veteran reporter for newspapers and television of various wars, she had made her name from her front-page eye-witness accounts of the allied air strike on Baghdad in 1991.

  A blue and yellow rickshaw had taken me to Green’s Hotel where I hoped to meet my sister. Having flown from Delhi to Islamabad, the capital of Pakistan, I had traveled northwards to Peshawar.

  At Green’s I climbed to the reception desk over parcels and packages, which looked suspiciously like containers of explosive devices. Men with walkie-talkies crouched behind potted plants, chain-smoking American cigarettes. They watched each other through orange-tinted glasses, eyeing the bundles nervously.

  My sister had left no message, the receptionist had never heard of her. I took a room on the second floor and prepared to wait. The sound of the evening call to prayer radiated out over Peshawar.

  There was a knock at the door of room. I opened it to find a young boy holding a tray with a Coca-Cola already poured into a glass over ice. It made me remember the Chateau Windsor and the friendly army of obsequious servants. I took the drink and sipped, for the first time in many months, real Coca-Cola.

  Ten minutes later a harder thudding sound made the door bend inwards. I pulled it open, expecting to find the boy returning for the glass. But a huge Afghan filled the frame, a black bushy beard obscured his face. Bandoliers stretched from shoulder to shoulder, and what I made out to be a Russian Makarov handgun was thrust into his belt.

  “I am Akram,” he said.

  The voice roared from somewhere amongst the bristles. I was unsure what my reaction was supposed to be, I played along, hoping for some more information.

  “Peace upon you! Welcome, Akram Khan. I am Tahir Shah.”

  “I have been sent by your sister to look after you.” Akram boomed.

  “Excellent, come inside, out of the corridor.”

  Akram sat squarely on a chair, having drunk copiously from the cold water tap in the adjoining bathroom. He preferred to keep the bandoliers strapped tightly across his chest.

  “Tell me Akram Khan, where is Saira Jan?”

  “She said that she would be back in seven days from now. She has gone to Kabul to cover the feud between two warring clans.”

  Akram saw worry contort my face and he tried to comfort me. For Kabul was an extremely dangerous place to be.

  “She is with a very brave band of Mujahedin, Afghan Freedom Fighters, who have gone into the battle to try to bring peace to the factions. There is little danger.” He stroked at a clump of hairs growing from his beak-like nostrils, adding, “Until her return I am responsible for all your desires. We can go tomorrow morning to collect Saira’s jeep which has just been repaired.”

  “Very well, what time shall we leave?”

  “I’ll be here at nine.”

  He stood and strode from the door, his giant feet pounding out into the corridor. I sat on my bed, forcing myself not to worry. The next day would teach me more of the situation, and perhaps it would bring a clue to the great treasure which Saira had mentioned in her telex.

  The Danish relief worker, Adam, joined me for breakfast. A doctor at a relief clinic, his work in prosthesis was well known in Peshawar. A copy of The Muslim was stuffed under one arm together with an artificial hand which he fondled lovingly during the meal.

  “I’ve been making alterations to this hand for days,” said Adam enthusiastically. “It’s for an old Afghan woman whose left hand was amputated after a bullet wound became very infected.”

  “How is she coping with the loss?” I asked.

  “It’s astounding, people learn to adapt and survive if they have to: human beings fear potential disasters, but if a catastrophe occurs they learn to live with the consequences.”

  Peshawar’s bright morning sunshine broke through the tinted windows and Lala’s Grill lost its funereal air for a moment.

  Adam went off to fit the prosthesis and Akram and I took a rickshaw past the Qissa-Khwani Bazaar to find the jeep.

  Afghans strode about, chatting on street corners and embracing old friends. There was an air of confidence and sophistication amongst these men, a nobility which I had rarely seen before. A woman crouched outside the Post office, a burqa, a garment like an upside-down shuttlecock, covering her body. Two little children were playing together at her feet. Coins were sewn into their clothes and kohl was painted around their green eyes.

  The bazaar smelt of melons and leather. Rays of crisp white light streamed through holes in the canvas roofs. I bought a shalwar kameez — a baggy suit like pajamas — and a pair of leather chappals. The shoe seller soaked my chappals in water before I put them on, to soften the leather.

  The bazaar snaked on for miles. Melons as large as medicine balls were carried about by muscular stallholders. Dogs barked and chased black and white cats and we turned left into a scrapyard. Akram pointed to a once-red heap of nuts and bolts.

  “This is Saira’s jeep,” he said. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  His eyes shone as if he were witnessing a miracle. I muttered and urr-ed indistinct praise at what I saw. The wheels and engine had been removed and stacks of bricks were holding up the chassis. On the front right side a spent shellcase was propping up the wheel arch. Akram pulled the canvas back to reveal a nest of life. Two boys were curled up asleep, their bodies intertwined with a Htter of yellow puppies, around a large boiling pot.

  The third child was covered from head to toe in oil and grease: he was stirring a huge pot of soup with a spanner. He looked up and smiled so broadly that my resentment at the situation disappeared. The other boys woke and the soup was served from a set of grubby Ford hub caps.

  “These are Afghan boys; they are too proud to beg,” said Akram. “I managed to get them this place to work from. They will accept no money. Their father and mother were killed in Panjshir valley. An old uncle who is blind came with them; they look after him too.”

  In a few minutes a boy of about thirteen had fitted the engine back in place. As he wielded a spanner, as long as his forearm, his younger brother started her up. The yard was filled with a dense blue smoke that seemed almost too thick to enter one’s lungs. Cheers mixed with the smoke. The cauldron was lifted to the ground and a piece of broken glass was handed to Akram — a homemade key.

  An assortment of wheels were produced and fitted with some difficulty; I suspected that they were not those which had been removed from the vehicle when the work had begun. Akram handed a large bar of milk chocolate to the youngest of the boys.

  The elder brothers stared down at the infant, and nudged him. The boy stretched out both hands which were folded around the bar of chocolate, he tried to give it back to Akram. The eldest child spoke with shrill words in good English.

  “Baba, you have been kind already to my brothers and I, we cannot accept.”

  A set of miniature fingers caressed the shiny foil wrapper as Akram insisted that they take it. The smallest child put the chocolate down and held out a squirming ball of yellow fur: his gift in exchange.

  Akram took the puppy and held it tightly in his folded arms. We left the oily yard as the fumes filtered upwards. The dogs and family of brothers climbed up into another jeep, and the cauldron was filled with water again.

  * * *

  Green’s Hotel ran wild with rumours. Journalists slouched in Lala’s Grill nonchalantly, then ran off to file the bogus tale
s to editors around the world. Akram and I decided to play a practical joke: Afghans love jokes.

  When the foyer was at its busiest, we lounged about talking loudly.

  “Tahir, did you hear that the King of Saudi Arabia is coming on a secret visit tonight, to hand out funds to refugees?” shouted Akram as loudly as he could.

  “That’s amazing news, but where will he be staying?”

  “I heard from my cousin who is the receptionist at Dean’s Hotel that he will be resting there, but under a false name.”

  “What time is he expected?”

  “Oh, at about seven this evening.”

  “Where did you say he was staying?”

  “At Dean’s Hotel.”

  There was a rustle of palm leaves and men in white suits with gold bracelets stopped talking into their walkie-talkies and rushed for the door. One by one, the journalists caught the gossip and dashed out to hail rickshaws. Akram and I went into Lala’s Grill for tea.

  Akram slurped his tea, almost choking with enthusiasm at the immediate response. Then Adam surfaced, his face glowing with excitement.

  “Adam, what”re you all shaken up about?” asked Akram.

  “You”ll never guess who’s coming to Peshawar tonight!” Akram kicked me under the table and we gasped together:

  “Who? Tell us who!”

  “Fahad ibn Abdul-Aziz, the King of Saudi Arabia! He’d bringing his entourage on a secret mission to deliver Stinger missiles to the Mujahedin. It’s a great secret, and I don’t know if I should tell, but he’ll be staying at Dean’s Hotel, incognito of course.”

  “Oh, of course,” muttered Akram. There was no detail which Adam could not supply. People capered about, telephones rang and distraught journalists yelled down landline connections, to their editors. We decided to go down to Dean’s to see what chaos we had created.

  A camera crew were setting up high wattage lamps in front of Dean’s Hotel. In the reception area, the poor manager had given in to the bevy of journalists. Running nicotine-stained fingers down the list of guests, they searched for an Arab name.

  “Ahmed Hussain! It has to be him, room 302!” an American voice shouted and was trampled underfoot as the seething mass of pencils, hand-held tape-recorders and flashguns swarmed up to room 302.

  Akram and I had seen enough. We drove back to Green’s, both delighted. Akram moved his eyes from the road to the dozing yellow puppy on my lap, and said:

  “Beware little one, human beings are funny things.”

  * * *

  Waiting for my sister, and the treasure that she had promised, was almost too much to bear. I could not leave Peshawar in case she returned in my absence; and I could not sleep for the glorious images of a hidden hoard. So I forced Akram to take me to Saira’s house to see if there had been any news.

  We drove out from Green’s towards University Town, a suburb of Peshawar. The jeep hummed along, swerving to miss cattle and painted Afghan lorries.

  After some miles of ploughing through the frenzy of petrol tankers, cars, auto-rickshaws and buffalo carts laden high with rice, the road came to a sudden end. A single man, armed with a shiny silver whistle and a road worker’s helmet, held the frantic mob of fast-paced chaos back as if by a magic spell. Taking a lump of white chalk, he scratched a line at right angles across the road.

  A dozen petrol tankers with flashing lights and blaring horns revved their engines. A row of suicide bus drivers jolted their gargantuan wheels right up to the line. A thousand rickshaws, buffalo carts and cyclists, readied for motion. But still the worker, the whistle in his teeth, held his ground. Then, thrusting a solitary round-edged spade into the dirt, he began to dig.

  The raging mass of transport, animal and mechanic, looked on at fever pitch as the construction works began. But, just as the horde was about to explode across the official boundary, a cyclist veered from the paved track, cross country, to by-pass the line, the official and the shiny silver whistle.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, the swarm of vehicles and buffalo followed, releasing their brakes and careering off the tarmac road, and on through a graveyard. Akram pulled over to the side of the road. Instead of surging at breakneck speed through the dusty field of graves with the rest of the mob, he climbed out of the jeep consumed with fury.

  He marched down into the middle of the flow of vehicles heaving off the beaten track. Then, forcing the greatest of the petrol tankers into an emergency stop, he opened its door, and dragged out the driver by the throat. Showing no mercy, Akram threw punches at the poor wretch of a man, who was soon unable to stand.

  Rather surprised at Akram’s spontaneous rage, I asked him whether such a random display of force had indeed been necessary. Akram, who was still pulsating with anger, caught me in a cold stare and said, “That driver, whose blood now covers my hands, dared to drive over the grave of my own ancestor. He shall not do it again!”

  When we had overcome the area of road works, I asked Akram how he knew where to go, as the shops and stalls seemed very alike.

  “It’s very easy, Tahir Jan. You turn right at the ruined fort and left at the sheep-pens.”

  Opposite the sheeps’ billets, in a very rundown area, we came upon a huge mansion. Gates swung open and we were ushered inside. A servant informed us that nobody was in residence.

  After some argument, he gave me a local telephone number to try.

  I dialed the number from the foyer at Green’s. An Afghan voice at the other end of the line seemed to be very shaken. He said that they had heard nothing and, in any case, it was better if I came to his house the next day at two P.M. There was cause for concern, especially as reports from Kabul had announced that battles between warring Afghan factions had led to substantial casualties.

  We took an early lunch before the meeting at the Peshawar Club as Adam’s guest. The club was set deep in the military cantonment — an area which the British had developed for themselves. Everything was whitewashed, and box hedges were tended by doting gardeners.

  One of Adam’s young patients, Habib, came too. The son of a blacksmith, his father had died near the northern Afghan city of Mazar-i-Sharif. It had been there that Habib had learnt to speak good English. His right leg had been completely blown off in a midnight bombing raid; and his little sister had lost an eye. The parents had died shielding the children as the roof caved in.

  Habib’s prosthesis had been very complicated, mainly hampered by the size and shape of the replacement limb. It reached up to the bowels and was jointed in several places. Adam was pleased with the work and was thrilled to speak about the surgery.

  Habib ate slice after slice of chocolate cake which Akram ordered for him. Sug, the yellow ball of fur, sat under the table, his tiny black eyes shining from the fluff. He barked at the waiter who came on tiptoe to take our orders, hoping that the dog had fallen asleep. Habib petted Sug and let him chew his fingers.

  The waiter reappeared and walked across the gardens to our table. He staggered under the weight of an enormous tray of pilau rice and slices of beef. There was a gnashing of fangs and suddenly a yellow ball of fluff was charging at the man’s legs. With a rip of woolen cloth, the waiter cried out and ran up a tree. We sat staring in astonishment as he managed to scale the tree without spilling the contents of the tray. Sug sat beneath the boughs and revelled in victory.

  The Dane introduced me to Camilla, an elderly English lady with a strong Yorkshire accent.

  “You must come and see my class of little Afghans,” she said. “They”re usually as good as gold. But today they behaved very naughtily. I was telling them that in England we call our dogs names like Fido and Rover, just like in Afghanistan where they call their dogs Mohammed and Ali. You know what they did?” I shook my head in silence. “They all stood up together and walked out!”

  I explained to Camilla that in Afghanistan people never give the names of the Prophet or his family to animals or objects.

  “Oh,” she replied, “that must be why my d
river hit a tree when I nicknamed my station-wagon the “Allah-car”.”

  Akram stayed in the jeep and I pressed the buzzer on the wall precisely at two P.M. Two wrought-iron gates swung open and armed men escorted me inside a vast compound. Toyota Land Cruisers were being loaded up with rocket-propelled grenades and cases of ammunition. Rows of Kalashnikov AK-47’s stood lined up to be counted. All the Mujahedin were dressed in baggy pants and American army coats. Men crawled on their stomachs, others were climbing ropes or firing off heavy-calibre rounds into the air. I had never seen anything like it.

  Three guards — armed to the teeth — led me into a sitting room. I sat on a straight-backed chair for twenty minutes. My heart was pounding. Not only was I anxious for my sister, but for my own safety. No one had seen me enter except for Akram. There is no detail that I can remember of that room. I just recall my hands running with sweat and the pulse in my temples.

  It was then that a balding man with a few short strands of gray hair appeared. I waited for the words that my sister had been injured or killed. The old man looked deeply upset. He put out a hand and clenched my fingers in his.

  “Good afternoon. Please sit down.”

  He spoke with an English accent which surprised me, rather like a soldier from Sandhurst. Just as he was about to sit, a stout Afghan with a bear’s curved back and coal-black beard strode through the room. Mumbling a few words to the balding one in Pashtu, he left us alone.

  The old man, whom I later realized was a formidable hero of the resistance and a former brigadier of the Afghan army, seemed to be a little more confident. I broke the silence.

  “Sir, I am the brother of Saira Shah. I have come from India where I was living. My sister told to meet me her in Peshawar, but I understand that she is still away. Do you have any recent information about the expedition?”

  The Brigadier drew a very deep breath and nodded slowly. Then he spoke, “Come with me, we will go to talk somewhere a little more secure.”

  He stood up and walked to the door. The fortress which we were in seemed to be very secure indeed, but I decided to comply. Perspiration poured from my face; the heat outside was no help.