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Panjshir: In the Lion's Den | Dec 01, 2007 09:30

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So after two days in Ghor I flew back to Kabul, ready to drive to the Panjshir Valley. That morning a large blast had rocked the city, the suicide bomber detonating his car in the Wazir Akbar Khan District*, home to a number of embassies and international agencies. Two Afghans were killed. I spoke to a contractor at the airport, heading home to West Virginia, who felt the force of the blast over a kilometer away. "I've had enough of this place," he said, "I want to work somewhere I can bring my kids. Maybe France."

Of course it's nice to have that kind of choice. Most people here don't.

I don't want to overstate the danger in Afghanistan, but at the same time, bombs are occasionally going off, people are being shot at, people are dying. Drinking with some of the NGO workers in Kabul one night, it was clear that after a while 'in country' your concept of what is safe, changes. One young woman said she called her parents after today's bombing, knowing this one would probably make the news.

At the same time, people are getting on with their lives, and getting on with rebuilding this shattered country. Which is why I was headed to Panjshir, to look at a windfarm project being funded by the local US PRT (Provincial Reconstruction Team) and built by a New Zealand sustainable energy company.

Geographically, the Panjshir Valley couldn't be more different from Chaghcharan. While everywhere in Afghanistan seems dry and dusty, Panjshir is at the luscious end of the spectrum. Trees and green-ish fields, even at this time of year and a majestic (and presumably freezing cold) river bisecting the massive peaks of the valley.

The Panshir also holds a special place in Afghanistan's recent history. Because of its geographical advantages (and no doubt the ferocity of the Panjshir people – mostly ethnic Tajiks, who are still armed to the teeth by all accounts) the valley was never captured by the Russians despite numerous attempts – the Russians lost two-thirds of their total war casualties in that valley.

The 'Lion of Panjshir', Ahmad Shah Massoud led those forces, then brought the battle to Kabul as a commander for the Mujahideen. When the Taliban later took control, they too tried and failed to conquer the Panjshir Valley. Massoud was killed in 2001 by two Al-Qaeda suicide bombers. Seemingly every car in the Panjshir has a portrait of the Lionised Lion taped to its windshield. His portrait can be seen elsewhere in the country too, although his reputation outside of the Panjshir is mixed – as my driver noted, the Mujahideen also contributed much to the destruction of Kabul.

For the first time since I arrive in Afghanistan, I don't have the luxury of a hot shower. We're sleeping pretty rough, getting up in the morning, a splash of water and then up to the worksite, freezing cold and windblown, hundreds of metres over the already-elevated valley floor. Again, it's all relative, the labourers working on the site don't descend the hill at night – they sleep in tents, in what must be sub-zero conditions. Again the workers are happy to pose for photos – it seems impossible to get 'candid' shots; as soon as the camera's out the shovels go down and they stand at attention, staring defiantly down the lens. There are plenty of smiles here, but not for the camera, and I wonder why our default pose involves a stupid grin – at Dubai airport I even noticed a new Sony camera that takes photos automatically when the subject smiles. Not a big seller in Afghanistan, I'm thinking.

At night we drink vodka with the Afghan engineers. Being both alcoholic and Russian, the bottle is kept out of sight when not being poured from. We learn new games of cards and new phrases of Dari, both of which involve a lot of laughter.

After a few days in the beautiful Panjshir, I head back to Kabul. My driver picks up a six-pack of Heineken and some warm potato balani from a roadside stall in the middle of nowhere – beer is getting harder to find in Kabul these days, and drink happily as he weaves through the darkness. With the combination of checkpoints, potholes, speed bumps, no centre lanes, seatbelts or passing etiquette, a driver chugging a couple of beers seems like the most trivial thing in the world. Afghanistan certainly puts things in perspective.

I fly out the next day – my last night in Kabul consisted of a bar crawl around a few expat haunts, including a party in the concrete bunker of a house that doesn't officially exist, hosted by the Special Forces of a nation I won't divulge. All but one have beards, dyed black to act as a disguise, if a fleeting one. "How many of you live here?" I inquire innocently of one of the housemates. "I can't tell you that", he replies, offering me another beer.

The mountains I flew over a week ago are now covered in snow as I leave. Along with seemingly every other visitor here, I've been reading The Kite Runner while I've traveled. I finish the last pages as I look down at Afghanistan disappearing below and tears well in my eyes. Maybe it's the ending of a great book, but I suspect it has a lot more to do with leaving this incredible country.

*Those of you who have read The Kite Runner may recall the Wazir Akbar Khan District as the location of the house where Amir lives with his father.

Damian's travel is thanks to a grant from the Asia NZ Foundation. Not so much this bit, in Afghanistan, but the next bit I'm doing, in Pakistan. But I wouldn't be in Afghanistan if I wasn't going to Pakistan too, you know? So, thanks, Asia NZ.

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Chaghcharan: Three Little Pigs | Nov 27, 2007 00:04

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Turning up at Kabul "International" Airport for my flight to Chaghcharan in the remote province of Ghor, it's fair to say I wasn't super-stoked to discover a 12-seater plane waiting to take me and only three other passengers on the journey. Light aircraft unnerve me at the best of times, but in Afghanistan? Only two of us were disembarking at Chaghcharan. So of course the other one would be a New Zealander too (no, we didn't know each other, but this is how all those "New Zealand is a small place" rumours start).

The flight took an hour across a never-ending snowless mountain range, not a settlement in sight. Chaghcharan is so remote in fact that even people in Kabul had laughed at me for making this trip. Which is kind of like people in Dunedin mocking you for going to Southland. And yes, Ghor is pronounced much the same as its South Island counterpart, except without the retarded R.

Approaching Chagharan by road

As Chaghcharan came into site a wave of emotion came over me, a wave that took the form "what in God's name am I doing here?" Universally dust-coloured, the low buildings blend into the hills. I felt like I was landing on Tattooine (Luke Skywalker's desert-like home planet, for non Star Wars folk) and expected to see Jawas come running at the plane trying to sell me droids ("they are hard-working, and will serve you well"). Except there were no droids for sale (I know, not even a simple R2 model) only donkeys, and none of them could translate Dari to English, so I kept my wallet in my pocket.

I'm staying at the UNAMA (Assistance Mission to Afghanistan), the ostensible purpose for my visit is to see the work of Marianne Elliott, a New Zealander who has been in Afghanistan for two years, and in Ghor province for six months, working in the field of human rights and overseeing/training her local counterparts.

Livestock Market, Chaghcharan

If Kabul was an eye-opener, then Chaghcharan feels like I've just had surgery to remove cataracts. Almost every building and every wall (and they love their walls, the Afghans, understandably after decades of constant conflict) is made from a mud and straw combination. ). I'm reminded of a famous literary attempt by a few pigs that involved straw and can't help but wonder how these walls would withstand a VBIED (vehicle-borne improvised explosive device), or perhaps more likely here a DBIED (don't laugh – donkey-borne).

On arrival I'm given a security briefing. Things aren't as safe here as they were a few weeks ago. Last night was the latest in a series of attacks where hand-grenades have been lobbed into buildings at night. NGOs have been targeted, but last night's attack was on the local Women's Rights officer, whose outspoken views have obviously angered someone. I ask whether the suspect is Taliban, but nothing is clear here – the lines between Taliban, its sympathisers and Islamic conservatives is blurred at best.

Checking our vehicle for mines

Before I got here I'd thought the Taliban, like Al Qaeda, were hiding in the hills, waging guerilla attacks, but that's far from the case. One estimate now has the Taliban in control of 54 percent of Afghanistan, including Ghor's neighbouring provinces, but once again, 'control' in Afghanistan is a very loose concept. Here in Chaghcharan the Governor is controlled by a warlord, or 'commander', as the locals call them. Their influence is a lot more obvious. Certain roads can't be driven on without permission (an ISAF team was recently ambushed and captured after failing to obtain permission); one local commander even has his own court, arresting, trying, jailing and executing people for breaching moral codes. Like most wealth in Afghanistan, their money comes from opium. Not that many poppies grow in Ghor, but the warlords control trafficking of the drug through the province.

Livestock farmers, not Taliban

But to me all of these will remain – Insha'Allah – just stories. I'm hoping not to get ambushed, hit by a flying grenade or an exploding donkey. The locals I have met are warm and friendly, many hands are shaken and pictures taken. The relative sparseness makes it more relaxing than Kabul and I can happily take a walk to wrecks of Russian war machines by the river, talk to locals at the livestock market or visit our driver's village without constantly glancing over my shoulder.

Our driver's village, just out of Chaghcharan

For lunch we buy delicious fresh naan from town and eat it with jam. This afternoon Marianne will take me to the local human rights office, to discuss reports of widespread looting and raping in a nearby village. This country is beautiful, and so very fucked up.

Damian's travel is thanks to a grant from the Asia NZ Foundation. Not so much this bit, in Afghanistan, but the next bit I'm doing, in Pakistan. But I wouldn't be in Afghanistan if I wasn't going to Pakistan too, you know? So, thanks, Asia NZ.

This girl ran away and cried when I took her picture

This girl (our driver's daughter) didn't

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Kabul: A walk down the dairy | Nov 24, 2007 18:49

So I made it to Kabul. I was literally giggling and bouncing in my seat with excitement when we flew over the mountain ranges approaching the city.

The plane descended very suddenly, which I learned is standard – although apparently far worse is the semi-regular "corkscrew plummet" planes adopt to prevent missile lock. And I thought landing in Wellington was bad.

With this in mind, I wasn't too concerned when the passengers around me took seeing Kabul a thousand feet below as a sign to get out their cellphones and start calling friends on the ground. And I'd thought I was being a bit daring not turning my iPod off…

A laconic looking guard at the passport control brandished an antique Kalashnikov, leaning against the wall in an old Russian-inspired, grey woolen uniform, drawing on a cigarette. Sure he was probably just relaxing after a hard day, but somehow it all looked so corrupt. Too many bad movies perhaps.

"Who is this guy?" asked the customs official with a grin, pointing at my passport photo. Okay, a few years have passed, and it did take about 200 shots to get one I liked, but was this a serious inquiry, a request for a bribe, or just a universal joke about how age wearies us all? There was nothing in Lonely Planet about this. Fortunately a forced smile seemed to do the job.

It's hard to turn my first impressions of Kabul into adjectives. Dusty. Impoverished. Ruined. Incredible. Those will do for a start. Shacks, bombed out buildings, armed guards every 50 metres, both private and public. A swathe of cars and bicycles weaving across the road anarchically, signaling their approach and vaguist of intentions with blasts on the horn. Children everywhere but in school.

I checked in to my guest house, took a shower (I'm going to enjoy hot and cold running water before heading to the provinces in a couple of days) and bought some beer from a young boy, who obligingly interrupted his game of dusty street football to man the shack.

After a couple of hours of letting the 24 hours of airport/plane/airport/plane/airport/plane/airport fade away, I felt ready to hit the streets. But nothing is quite so simple in Kabul. UN workers, for example, aren't allowed to walk down the road. If they want to go to the store, a car drives them to the door and waits outside. Asking around the guesthouse I found a Nepalese NGO worker, Girish, willing to take a stroll with me. He keeps getting mistaken for a local, he said. Exactly what I needed.

We set off, a simple jaunt down the road. I felt happy to be amongst it all, the dust, the fumes from the diesel generators, the horns, the smell of sheep wandering the streets.

"Don't walk so close to the curb", Girish warned. "Dodgy drivers?" I asked. "No", he says, "it's in case a suicide bomber tries to run into you. And while we're at it, let's cross the road and face the oncoming traffic, so nothing can sneak up from behind."

Needless to say it wasn't the longest walk I've ever taken. But good to stretch the legs.

Damian's travel is thanks to a grant from the Asia NZ Foundation. Not so much this bit, in Afghanistan, but the next bit I'm doing, in Pakistan. But I wouldn't be in Afghanistan if I wasn't going to Pakistan too, you know? So, thanks, Asia NZ.

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