nostalgia
Another Kabul
Back in July 1975, three couples from Lahore board a sporty Fiat and a tiny Mazda and head towards the Afghan capital – for what turns out to be an adventure of a lifetime!
By Masood Hasan
It was another kind of Afghanistan, another kind of Kabul. It was 1975 and people in Pakistan veered in the general direction of the Khyber Pass, over-nighting at Jalalabad and then next day to Kabul. There were only two reasons that compelled the eager visitors. Indian films and shopping – both aplenty in Kabul. No body had heard of jihadis much less suicide bombers. Although Afghanistan was ridiculously poor and even the generals wore frayed uniforms, there was peace and lack of fear.
In the July of that year, three couples from Lahore decided that the time had come to check out the scene in Kabul. We had two cars – one a sporty Fiat 124 that carried Sardar Akbar Khan and his elegant young wife Faiza Begum, both from Bhopal, me and my wife Ira and about a million pillows without which Faiza Begum was unable to sleep. The other car, the smallest of Mazdas, the 606 carried our friends Zameer Syed (ZS) and his wife Zehra. They left 30 minutes after us and as per plan; we travelled at approximately the same speed and hoped at some point to catch up ‘visually’ en route.
Things went well till Gujranwala where Sardar Akbar had the urge to dig into some ice cream at a restaurant set a little back from the main road. As soon as we parked two long trailers parked cutting our view of the road. We were aware that soon enough ZS would catch up, but as a starter of what was to become the adventure of a lifetime, we missed him. On the other hand, ZS having a brand new car, thought that by Gujranwala he would catch up. When he could not spot us, thanks to the trailers, he simply stepped on the gas thinking we had gone further up.
Having polished off the ice cream and cursing ZS for still being far behind us, we hurried through Gujranwala – the dirty city (it still is!).
A few miles out and from the Fiat’s innards came the most dreadful shrieks. In a minute the engine was dead. We pulled up. It was 2pm on a hot July afternoon.
Looking at the engine, Sardar Akbar turned the ignition on and half the engine fell out. We looked around. There wasn’t a soul in sight and Gujranwala was four miles back. While I, in growing, desperation started scanning the cars flashing by, hoping to catch ZS, Sardar Akbar hailed a passing tractor trolley. The Fiat was tied up and we all got into the oven-interior and tried our best to maintain a dignified air as we were pulled back into town.
We then realised it was Sunday and Gujranwala was fast asleep. All workshops were closed but after an hour’s wandering, we spotted one, forced the owner to open it and handed the Fiat to him. He said the engine had ‘ceased’. Sardar Akbar gave him money and said to get all necessary parts from Lahore and get the car ready so that he could pick it up a week later.
With our suitcases and Faiza’s collection of pillows, we found a seedy hotel and deposited the ladies inside while we stood on either side of the road looking out for ZS. It was about 7pm when ZS returning from Rawalpindi or thereabouts spotted us. A council of war was summoned.
Sardar Akbar and Faiza said that because of them the entire programme was ruined and they would not accompany us to Kabul. In any case how could six people fit in a car designed for maximum four slim people? But the rest of us were adamant. We all go or we all return. By 11pm, after dinner and a drastic re-arranging of luggage, we were ready.
However Faiza threw a tantrum and said if her pillows were not going, neither was she. So the pillows stayed. We all had three each. We left but also realised that it had taken us approximately 10 hours to travel 45 miles. How were we ever going to make it to Kabul? But we drove in through the night with each one of us taking turns at the wheel and being replaced when the car veered crazily into ditches on the sides as sleep and the hot night got the better of us.
At about 6am, we descended into Jan’s in Peshawar where we took some rooms, had breakfast and a short nap. Then with the ladies still asleep, we went to change money and get the Red Card which was all you needed to travel to Afghanistan. In those days Pakistani currency when changed into Afghanis led to hiring a van to carry the money. We had more currency than we could handle.
By midday we were in a human condition to travel on and forked our way up to Torkham and across the border into Afghanistan. Driving on the right side of the road, we were constantly veering into the left side (as we were conditioned to) and struggled to avoid a head-on collision.
By early evening we could see the lights of Jalalabad – and since we had bookings here, we were quickly into our comfortable rooms. The men repaired to the well-stocked bar and we sat a while sipping beer as young Afghani girls in miniskirts served us with the stuff that cheers.
By 8pm we were in a cinema where a film starring Asha Parekh was already midway through. We found some seats and settled in but I was conscious of a strong foot odour to my right and left. As soon as the scene changed to boy-chasing-girl-around-tree, the theatre was briefly lit up and I found that the Pathan gent in the seat behind me had divested himself of his sweaty chappals and hoisted his feet on either side of my seat. At the risk of offending him, I prodded his foot and said ‘Makawana’ which loosely meant, “Don’t do this.” The feet disappeared and Asha Parekh appeared for yet another dance number – this one a dream scenario.
Next morning we were plunging towards Kabul only about 40 miles away. We arrived in the city and at our hotel was the Spinzer or some restaurant like that. I can’t swear to it but it was fine, centrally-located and had a sense of style.
By evening, we were eagerly wandering the streets and were struck that there were two Kabuls – one the old, decidedly poor and run down section and the other out of a European city. One had hovels, the other five floors of shopping served by heavily made up girls, self-service restaurants, classy boutiques, music stores, perfumery shops, restaurants, cafes, bars and all the touristy trimmings. It was a city alive and throbbing with vivacity. We sampled everything, even the legendary ‘naans’ and fresh cream cheese with mint leaves.
The five days passed in a flash although we had completely run out of money on Day 3. However, we had noticed that wherever we went and the minute Sardar Akbar put his hand on the counter, the Kabulis ceased to talk, their eyes transfixed on the huge green emerald rings that Akbar wore. The funny thing was that Akbar, who had over two dozen of these, didn’t care too much for them but it was obvious that the Kabulis thought otherwise. With starvation round the corner we arrived at a jeweller and casually looked around posing as bored customers. Akbar as per script had his be-ringed hand planted squarely on the counter. The old man pointed to the ring and said if he could see it. Akbar tossed it casually across the counter.
The old man took the ring as if it was the Holy Grail and held it up against the light. Putting on an eyeglass he examined the ring for well over 10 minutes. Hesitatingly, he returned the ring and asked if Akbar was interested in selling it. Akbar shrugged his shoulders meaning he couldn’t care less either way. The old man repeated his request. Akbar said, “How much?” He had earlier sold a ring in Lahore for about Rs12,000. The old man said Rs35,000. Akbar took the ring and said, “No”. “40,000,” said the desperate jeweller. Akbar motioned to us and on cue we sauntered out. The jeweller came out running. “50,000,” he said. “Please,” he implored. Akbar turned back and handed him the ring. Money changed hands and we were in a shopping plaza 15 minutes later, the loot having been divided in equal parts. We shopped bordering on insanity.
We now had three suitcases plus six more we had bought, each stuffed to the brim. The question of getting these back to Pakistan was now an issue. When we asked the hotel, they said it was not a problem. “Buy a ticket on the GTS bus, hoist the suitcases and follow the bus to Peshawar.” It sounded like a plan and we speedily did the business.
A day later, at 8am sharp we left Kabul a few yards behind the GTS bus. We were heading home and the spirits were high in the tiny Mazda. Soon enough we were in the great Kabul Gorge, the Kabul River on our left and dry peaks surrounding us from all sides. Coming round a bend, we heard a loud noise and knew we had a punctured tyre. This was no problem. The girls got out to stretch and chat and we emptied the boot and took out the spanking new spare. It was flat as a skinny teenager’s chest. The GTS bus was speeding away and we realised that there could not be a tyre repair shop within miles. Akbar and I got hold of both the tyres and waited. As planned I had to catch the bus before it reached Torkham. The GTS people had told us that if we weren’t there, they would simply leave the six suitcases on the roadside!
After an hour a black Merc pulled up with an Afghan official who spoke fluent English. We explained the situation and I got in. Later I was to find out that a tractor trolley arrived an hour later and Akbar mounted it and headed off for tyre repairs. I was in the Merc speeding to Jalalabad but as we got in, learnt that the GTS bus had left 10 minutes ago for the border. My kind hosts had a meeting so I dropped off, ran and jumped on board a wagon. When we pulled up at Torkham the GTS was pulling out past customs and six shining, tempting suitcases sat on the apron. I was stretched out on them in no time at all. All I had to do was wait for the gang to arrive and off we would go. A pickup had been arranged already.
By my calculations I thought that the party would be at Torkham give or take 90 minutes. It was about 3pm and I had some Afghanis so I had a makeshift lunch and a cold drink. I constantly scanned the road from Jalalabad but there was no sign of the Mazda. As it crossed 5pm I began to panic a little and soon the mind was playing games. They had been ambushed, the women raped, the men dead. They had not been able to get the tyres fixed or worse they had in their hurry, over sped and now lay dead or dying in the Kabul River.
By 7pm I was the solitary visitor at the border convinced that it was all over. I had no money and our air flight out of Peshawar for Lahore was now impossible to board.
It was about 8pm when the Mazda rolled up. It had taken them hours to get the two tyres fixed and there was nothing they could do about it. We crossed the border with the pickup and rushed to Peshawar Station. Plan B was now in operation. Basically my wife and I with the suitcases would board the Khyber Mail and travel to Lahore. The other four would drive next day and stop to pick up the Fiat. We would reconvene in two days in Lahore.
We made it by the skin of our teeth to the train and were still standing when it started to move. It was freezing inside the coupe and we asked for blankets but there were none. We asked for the temperature to be raised but were told that a general sahib was travelling and they were following his orders. So things were that way even then! Nearly turned into ice sculptures, we finally pulled in at Lahore Station 10 hours later.
As we were preparing to alight, a posse of cops arrived and said we were under arrest for smuggling goods from Kabul! We were marched off without dignity to the police station along with our loot.
It was time to put Plan C into motion.
The head cop said they had been tipped off by the customs check post at Jamrud and ordered that we open the suitcases. It so happened that all the suitcases except one of ours were locked and the keys were with ZS! We explained this as our suitcase was being rifled through. The cop didn’t believe us till we dropped the Collector Customs name – Chinese trick number 23. We said the stuff was his and the police were free to break the locks open except that tomorrow morning they would be looking for new jobs.
It had the desired effect and we were embraced like lost friends. Tea was ordered. We toasted the health and well being of the Collector, our stuff had already been placed in two cabs which had strict instructions not to charge a penny. In half an hour we were home, ending what was a great adventure.
So many years later I look back on it and wonder what madness possessed us to do this trip in the first place, but when you are young, the chancier it is the better. The Fiat never quite recovered the heart attack and the Mazda went its way. And Kabul just a few years later became the land of blood and death. A sad epitaph for a country that looked promising with a future to look forward to.
Re: Another Kabul
Great post, I like it.
Re: Another Kabul
I would love to see Kabul one day!