10 November 2008

This is a story that I wrote back in April 2008 but couldn't put in my public blog because I broke a lot of rules. We aren't supposed to travel outside of the Kabul area except on official business, aren't supposed to go to public places (only military/work-related destinations), and are always supposed to travel with at least two vehicles. I broke all those rules.

First, a little background. My driver Sherin is Tajik. There are basically four ethnic groups in Afghanistan: Tajiks, Pashtuns, Uzbeks, and Hazaras. Tajiks and Uzbeks are essentially pro-Western, anti-Taliban. The Taliban is primarily Pashtun. So Tajiks/Uzbeks and Pashtuns hate each other. Hazaras look Asian, and everyone hates them.

Sherin is from a small village called Rokha in the Tajik province of Panjshir Valley. Adjacent to Rokha is the village called Bazarak. Massoud, an Afghan national hero, aka the "Lion of Panjshir," is from Bazarak. Massoud defended the Panjshir Valley from the Soviets and fought the Taliban in the Panjshir Valley.

Sherin fought with Massoud. He was wounded four times—three bullet wounds and a piece of RPG (rocket-propelled grenade) shrapnel he still carries in his neck.

Sherin is always telling me about the Panjshir Valley, how beautiful it is, and how he wants to take me there. He assures me there are no Pashtun and/or Hazara in Panjshir. So this last Friday, our day off, I told him we'd go. I invited another MPRI mentor, Dennis, and another driver, Abdul, who speaks passable English.

At 0700 Dennis & I went to breakfast on Camp Eggers, hopped in our MPRI-issued Toyota SUV with Sherin and Abdul, and headed off to the Panjshir Valley.

The drive took about an hour after we left the Kabul city limits. As we traveled, the scenery got greener, the air got cleaner, and we saw less Afghan police and soldiers. We were only stopped at one checkpoint and they lazily waved us through. We stopped a couple times to take pictures, all of which are here. Driving through the valley, we got a play-by-play synopsis of the battle against the Taliban. Sherin pointed out the area in which he was injured.

One stop was a waterfall. Next to which was a cave. Sherin, through Abdul, told us the cave was used by Massoud's fighters as protection from Soviet bombs. I went in the cave but it was too dark to see much and I didn't have a flashlight.

One thing that really struck Dennis & I was the water. There was lots of running water. Most of the drive as we neared the valley was next to a rushing river. In Kabul there is a river that I see almost daily. It's polluted, shallow, and nasty. Once I saw a dead horse there and I was able to keep progress of it over several weeks as it decomposed. However, the water in the valley was clear, cool, and fast.

Another thing was the evidence of battle. Around every corner and in a lot of farmer's fields were rusting hulks of Soviet tanks, vehicles, and armored personnel carriers.

Our first stop was a restaurant in Rokha owned by Sherin's uncle. I'm not sure if Sherin is clear on the definition of "uncle" because he sure has a lot of them, but in a country where families typically have six to ten children I guess it's not unlikely to have dozens of uncles. The restaurant didn't look very inviting; just another junky hut on the side of the road. Sherin led us in where we met the uncle and a couple other men, then out through the back and down a small hill to the outside dining area. There was a large rug on the ground on the edge of a small cliff overlooking a soccer field next to the river. It was peaceful and beautiful. Cattle, goats, and donkeys were roaming free for the most part. In a field next to us was the remnants of a helicopter that crashed there years ago. We had dates and chai, then walked down to the river. I took a pic of some children playing by the river, and an Afghan duck blind. The duck blind was built from rocks into the side of the river bank, and there were decoys close by made from mud. Primitive, but effective. Shortly afterward we said goodbye and headed to Bazarak.

The first thing we saw when entering Bazarak was a map of Afghanistan comprised of farms cut into the landscape. Farm plots here are generally small, probably a quarter acre or so, bordered by mud or stone walls to contain water. Somebody designed a group of plots and borders to resemble Afghanistan. Plots were formed in the shapes of Kabul, Herat, Gardez, Kandahar, Mezar-e Sharif, and other Afghan cities and provinces. It was amazing. Here's a pic.

We pulled into Bazarak, met with another of Sherin's uncles, who we were told is 100 years old, then parked under a tree next to a large open area on the river bank. Sherin often told me about his uncle's horses. This uncle is a rich man—he owns four horses. I told Sherin that I rode horses when I was younger and I jokingly told him I'd like to ride an Afghan horse someday. As we're standing under the lone tree, chatting with Sherin's uncle/cousins/various other men/boys of different ages, here come two young men riding horses. One horse looked calm enough, but the other looked young and full of piss & vinegar. The experienced rider had him barely in control. They offered him to me to ride and as I held the reins preparing to mount, the horse reared up. I've never held the reins of a rearing horse before, nor have I had that sort of training, so I was a little unsure of the correct procedure. I held on as long as prudent under the circumstances, then let go. The horse bolted and one of the men chased him down.

I need to deviate here and tell you about the Afghan national pastime called Buzkashi. Buzkashi is a game where two opposing teams on horseback brawl over a goat's head. I'm a little fuzzy on the rules, but as far as I can tell it's an all out fight for a bag with a goat head in it. I only saw part of one game before, and one rider fell and was almost trampled to death. Well I learned later that this horse was obtained from the Pakistan Army for Buzkashi. Indeed, it had military branding. I also learned that Buzkashi horses are trained to control a little differently than western pleasure horses. Seems that when you pull back the reins, it doesn't mean "halt." It means "halt for a second and sprint like a demon stallion from hell."

Needless to say, my hosts failed to inform me of this tidbit of information. So picture a giant white guy (according to locals, I have huge bazo—arms) on a Pakistan war horse out of control on the rocky banks of the Panjshir river. I managed to stay aboard until the hell horse decided to shoot the gap between our SUV and tree. That's when I decided to bail. It can be debated whether I jumped, the horse threw me, or the horse brushed me off against the tree; but I maintain that I jumped. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Once some of the men caught and returned the horse, these jokers had the audacity to suggest I try again. Hey, I didn't just fall off the turnip wagon…horse…yesterday. That was a few moments ago. I graciously declined. I did have a little pride left, so I opted to ride the other horse for a little while.

My recreation finished for the day, we said khuda hafiz (goodbye) and headed back through Rokha. We stopped at the restaurant again for lunch. We had goat kabobs, naan, and chai. It was delicious. After a little relaxing and much laughter about my equestrian adventure, we started home.

Before reaching the Kabul city limit, we stopped at a little bazaar on the side of the road. Funny thing about the merchants here—they tend to group together. All the vegetable vendors are side by side, as are the wood vendors, auto-repair vendors, meat sellers, etc. This bazaar was all goat milk stands. Sherin dipped a ladle into a big pot and dished out glasses of goat milk for each of us. This milk had some sort of seasoning in it that I could see floating around, so I can't say what pure goat milk tastes like, but I didn't like this stuff. We also had something else I hadn't tried before. Abdul called it Afghan pizza. It was the same flat naan bread, but this had a layer of potato in the middle and was fried. It was quite tasty.

Back into dirty, crowded Kabul and safely to my quarters by 1500. I'm a little sore this morning, and there's a new dent in the SUV front bumper which Sherin blames on the horse.

Hope you enjoyed the story.