The roads were tarmacked, as promised by the Tourist Organisation. But not much is left of the tarmac. Plans for the ski centre remained on the drawing board.
‘That would have made for an explosive descent,’ Akbar laughs. ‘Or maybe the mines can be marked with slalom gates! Adventurous Travels! Or Afghan AdvenTours - for the world-weary.’
They all laugh. The tragic reality sometimes presents the appearance of a cartoon film, or rather a thriller. They visualise colourful snowboarders being blown to smithereens down the mountainside.
Tourism, once an important source of income for Afghanistan, belongs to a bygone era. They drive along what was once called ‘the hippie trail’. Here progressive and not so progressive youths came to enjoy beautiful scenery, a wild lifestyle and the cheapest hashish in the world. For the more experienced, opium. In the sixties and seventies several thousand hippies came to the mountain country every year, hired old Ladas and set off. Even women travelled alone around the mountain country. In those days bandits and highwaymen might attack them, but that only added to the thrill of the journey. Even the coup against Zahir Shah in 1973 failed to stem the flow. It was the Communist coup in 1978, and invasion the year after, which eventually put an end to the ‘hippie trailers’.
The three boys have been driving for a couple of hours when they catch up with the backlog of pilgrims. The queue is immovable. It has started to snow. Fog rolls in, the car starts to slide. Said is not carrying chains. ‘You don’t need chains with a four-wheel drive,’ he assures them.
An increasing number of cars start spinning in the deep, icy and snow-filled ruts. When one car stops they all stop. The road is too narrow to overtake. Today the traffic is all from south to north, from Kabul to Mazar. Next day it will be the opposite. The mountain road doesn’t have the capacity to take cars driving in both directions. The 450-kilometre road from Kabul to Mazar takes at least twelve hours to travel, sometimes twice or even four times as long.
‘Many of the cars that have been taken by snowstorms and avalanches are only dug out in the summer. Most of them disappear in the spring,’ Akbar teases.
They pass the bus that has caused the queue; it has been pushed right on to the side, while its passengers on their way to Ali’s tomb thumb lifts with cars that snail past. Mansur smiles when he sees what is written on the side of the bus: ‘“Hmbork-Frankfork-Landan-Kabal”,’ he reads, and shrieks with laughter when he sees the lettering on the windscreen: ‘Wellcam! Kaing of Road’ is written in fresh red paint. ‘What a regal tour,’ he screams. They do not pick up any passengers from the Kabal-express. Said, Mansur and Akbar are wrapped up in their own little world.
They drive into the first gallery - solid concrete pillars covered by a roof to protect the road from avalanches. But the galleries too are difficult to negotiate. Because they are open to the elements they are full of snow, which has blown in and turned to ice. Deep frozen ruts are a challenge to a car without chains.
The Salang tunnel, 3,400 metres above sea level, and the galleries, some of them up to 5,000 metres above sea level, were a gift to Afghanistan when the Soviet Union tried to turn the country into a satellite state. Work was started by Soviet engineers in 1956, and completed in 1964. The Russians also started tarmacking the first roads in the country in the fifties. During Zahir Shah’s reign Afghanistan was considered a friendly country. The liberal King was forced to turn to the Soviet Union, because neither the US nor Europe were interested in investing in his mountainous country. The King needed money and expertise and chose to ignore the fact that ties with the Communist superpower were becoming increasingly tighter.
The tunnel was strategically important in the resistance against the Taliban. At the end of the nineties it was blown up by the Mujahedeen hero Massoud, in a desperate bid to stop the Taliban’s advance to the north. They got so far, but no further.
It is completely dark, or completely grey. The car slides, gets stuck in the snow, wedged in the deep ruts. The wind whistles, nothing can be distinguished in the blizzard and Said can follow only what he thinks are tracks. They are driving on snow and black ice. Without chains only Ali can guarantee a safe outcome. I can’t die before I get to his grave, Mansur thinks. Ali has called me.
It brightens slightly. They are at the entrance to the Salang tunnel. A sign outside warns: ‘Caution. Danger of poisoning. If you are blocked in, turn the engine off and make for the nearest exit’. Mansur looks questioningly at Akbar.
‘Only a month ago fifty people were holed up inside the tunnel because of an avalanche,’ the well-informed Akbar tells them. ‘It was minus twenty and the driver left the engine running to keep warm. After several hours, when they had managed to shovel all the snow away, ten or twenty people had fallen asleep from the carbon monoxide and died. That happens all the time,’ says Akbar as they drive slowly into the tunnel.
The car stops, the queue is at a standstill.
‘I’m sure I’m just imagining it,’ says Akbar, ‘but I feel a headache coming on.’
‘I agree,’ says Mansur. ‘Shall we head for the nearest exit?’
‘No, let’s hope the queue will move soon,’ says Said. ‘Imagine if the queue starts moving and we have left the car, then we’ll be the ones causing the queue.’
‘Is this what it feels like to die of carbon monoxide poisoning? ’ asks Mansur. They sit behind closed windows. Said lights a cigarette. Mansur screams. ‘Are you mad?’ shouts Akbar and snatches the cigarette from his mouth and stubs it out. ‘Do you want to poison us even more?’
An irritable feeling of panic spreads. They are still not moving. Then something happens. The cars in front crawl forward. The three boys pick their way out of the tunnel and emerge with splitting headaches. When the fresh air hits them the headaches evaporate. They still see nothing; the fog is like a greyish, white, whirling porridge. They follow the ruts and the dim lights ahead. It would be impossible to turn. They drive on in a fellowship of destiny. Every pilgrim is following the same worn, icy ruts. Even Mansur has stopped munching biscuits. It is like driving into oblivion, but oblivion where precipices, mines, avalanches and other dangers might suddenly strike.
At last the fog lifts, but they are still driving along a precipice. It is worse now that they can see. They have started the descent. The car lurches from side to side. Suddenly it slides sideways down the road. Said has lost control and swears. Akbar and Mansur hold on tight, as if that might help if they go over the side. Nervous silence descends once again on the car. The car slides sideways, rights itself, slides sideways again, and then swerves from side to side. They pass a sign which puts the fear of daylight into them: ‘Warning! Mines!’ Immediately outside - even inside their skid-zone - there are mines. All the snow in the world can’t protect them from anti-tank mines. This is madness, thinks Mansur, but he says nothing. He does not want to gain a reputation as a coward. And anyhow, he is the youngest. He looks down on tanks that lie scattered about, snow-covered, together with cars that have not made it either. He prays. Ali can’t have called him just to see him plunge over a cliff. Although at times his behaviour has been contrary to Islam, he has come to cleanse himself, put evil thoughts behind him and become a good Muslim. That last part down the mountain he experiences as if in a trance.
They enter the snow-free plains after what seems like an eternity. The last hours of the journey to Mazar-i-Sharif are child’s play in comparison.
On the road into town they are overtaken by pick-ups laden with heavily armed men. Bearded soldiers sit in open lorries carrying Kalashnikovs pointing in all directions. They bump along at sixty miles per hour over the rutty roads. The scenery is desert, steppe and stony hills. Now and again they pass little green oases and villages with mud huts. At the entrance to town a road-post stops them. Gruff men wave them through the barrier, which is a piece of rope stretched between two rocket-shells.
They drive into town, tired and stiff. Amazingly they have made the trip in twelve hours. ‘So this was
an absolutely normal trip through the Salang tunnel,’ says Mansur. ‘What about those who take several days? Wow, we’ve made it. Ali, here I come.’
Soldiers with weapons at the ready stand on rooftops. Disturbances have been predicted for New Year’s Eve and there are no international peace-keepers here, just two or three opposing warlords. The soldiers on the rooftops belong to the governor, who is a Hazara. The soldiers in the pick-ups are the Tajik Atta Muhammad’s men. A particular uniform is the hallmark of the Uzbek Abdul Rashid Dostum. All the weapons are aimed at the ground, where thousands of pilgrims are wandering around, or sit in groups and talk: by the mosque, in the park and on the pavements.
The blue mosque is a revelation, shining in the dark. It is the most beautiful building Mansur has ever seen. The floodlight is a gift from the American Embassy, on the occasion of the ambassador’s New Year visit to the town. Red lanterns light up the park around the mosque, which is teeming with pilgrims.
This is where Mansur will ask for forgiveness for his sins. Here he will be cleansed. It makes him faint just looking at the large mosque. And hungry. Coke, and banana-and-kiwi-filled biscuits are scant fare for a traveller.
The restaurants are packed with pilgrims. Mansur, Said and Akbar find the corner of a carpet to sit on in a dark restaurant in Kebab Street. Permeating everything are the fumes of grilled mutton, served with bread and whole onions.
Mansur bites into the onion and feels drunk. He wants to shout for joy. But he sits quietly and stuffs himself with the food, like the others. He is no child, and he tries to keep the same façade as Akbar and Said: cool, relaxed, worldly-wise.
The next morning Mansur is awakened by the prayer call of the mullah. ‘Allahu akhbar’ - ‘God is great’ booms out as if someone had fastened enormous loudspeakers to his ears. He looks out of the window, straight on to the blue mosque, which is sparkling in the morning sunshine. Hundreds of white doves fly over the holy place. They live in two dovecotes by the tomb and it is alleged that if a grey dove joins the flight its colour will change within forty days. Also, every seventh dove is a holy soul.
Together with Akbar and Said Mansur pushes through the enclosure. It is about half-past seven. Aided by Akbar’s press card they shove their way up to the podium. Many have spent the night here to get as close as possible when Ali’s banner is raised by Hamid Karzai, Afghanistan’s new leader. The women sit on one side, some wearing the burka, some only a white veil. The men sit opposite. While the women sit quietly on the ground, amongst the men there is a lot of pushing and shoving. The trees outside are black with people. The police walk around wielding whips, but more and more pass through into the enclosure; they jump over the fence and avoid the whips. Security is tight as all the Government ministers are expected.
The Government enter, Hamid Karzai leading the way, wearing his characteristic blue and green striped silk cloak. He dresses so as to represent all of Afghanistan: lambskin cap from Kandahar in the south, cloak from the north and shirt from the western provinces bordering Iran.
Mansur strains his neck and tries to get closer. He has never seen Karzai before. Karzai, the Pashtoon from Kandahar, had himself for a short period supported the Taliban but later used his position as chief of the Popolzai tribe to win over supporters for the fight against the Taliban. When the Americans started their bombing campaign, he left on a suicidal motorcycle tour of Taliban strongholds to try and convince the oligarchy that the Taliban was finished. It is alleged they were more convinced by his courage than his arguments. Later he was nearly killed by American friendly fire. At the UN conference in Bonn, drawn together to map out Afghanistan’s future, he was chosen as the country’s new leader.
‘They tried to ruin our culture. They tried to crush our traditions. They tried to rob us of Islam,’ Karzai shouts to the crowd. ‘The Taliban tried to dirty Islam, pull us all down in the mud, fight the whole world. But we know what Islam stands for. Islam is peace. The New Year that starts today, the year 1381, is the year of renewal. That is the year in which it will be safe and secure to live in Afghanistan. We will safeguard peace and develop our society. Today we accept help from the whole world, one day, one day, we will be a country that helps the world,’ he cries and the multitude shout for joy.
‘Us?’ Mansur whispers. ‘Help the world?’
That is to him an absurd thought. Mansur has lived out his whole life in war. Afghanistan is a country that receives everything from the outside world, from food to weapons.
Following on from Karzai, ex-president Burhanuddin Rabbani takes to the podium. A man of great weight but little authority. A theologian and professor at Cairo University who formed the Jamiat-i-Islami party, which united a fraction of the Mujahedeen. He persuaded the military strategist Ahmed Shah Massoud to join him. Massoud was to emerge as the great hero in the war against the Soviet Union, the civil war and the resistance against the Taliban. He was a charismatic leader, deeply religious, but also pro-western. He spoke French and wanted to modernise the country. He was assassinated by two Tunisian suicide bombers two days before September 11, and has achieved mythical status. The Tunisians were in possession of Belgian passports and presented themselves as journalists. ‘Commander, what will you do with Osama bin Laden once you have conquered all of Afghanistan?’ was the last question he was supposed to hear. He managed a laugh before the terrorists triggered the bomb hidden in the camera. Even some Pashtoon now display pictures of Massoud, the lion of Panshir.
Rabbani dedicates his speech to Massoud, but Rabbani’s golden age was the holy war against the Soviet Union. ‘We forced the Communists out of our country, we can force all invaders out of our holy Afghanistan,’ he proclaims.
The Russian troops withdrew in 1989. A few months later the Berlin Wall fell, an event for which Rabbani takes the credit, in addition to the break-up of the Soviet Union.
‘Had it not been for jihad, the whole world would still be in the Communist grip. The Berlin Wall fell because of the wounds which we inflicted on the Soviet Union, and the inspiration we gave all oppressed people. We broke the Soviet Union up into fifteen parts. We liberated people from Communism. Jihad led to a freer world. We saved the world because Communism met its grave here in Afghanistan!’
Mansur is fumbling with his camera. He has pushed his way right up to the podium to get close-ups of those who are speaking. He is keen to get Karzai. He snaps and snaps pictures of the small, slim man. This will be something to show his father.
One after the other the men talk, pray, talk from the podium. A mullah thanks Allah, the Minister for Education portrays an Afghanistan where weapons give way to the Internet.
‘Exchange weapons for computers,’ he cries. He adds that Afghans must stop discriminating between ethnic groups. ‘Look at America, they live in one country, they are all Americans. They co-exist without problems.’
During the speeches the whips are continually in operation on the public. But nothing helps. An increasing number squeeze over the barriers and into the holy interior. The audience scream and shout and it is virtually impossible to hear the speeches. It all seems more like a ‘happening’ than a religious ceremony. Armed soldiers man the steps and rooftops surrounding the mosque. A dozen American Special Forces soldiers, carrying machine-guns and wearing sunglasses, have positioned themselves on the flat roof of the mosque to protect the pale-pink American ambassador. Others flank him. To many Afghans it is sacrilege that infidels should walk about on the mosque roof. No non-Muslims are allowed into the mosque. Guards make sure that non-believers are weeded out. But there are not many of them; western tourists do not exactly make a pilgrimage to Afghanistan the first spring following the fall of the Taliban. Only a relief worker or two has got lost in the New Year’s celebrations.
The town’s warring warlords, Atta Muhammad and General Abdul Rashid Dostum, both have a place on the podium. The Tajik Atta Muhammad rules the town; the Uzbek Dostum thinks he should. The two bitter enemies stand side by side and listen t
o the speeches, Atta Muhammad sporting a beard like a Taliban, Dostum with the authority of a has-been boxer. They co-operated grudgingly during the last offensive against the Taliban. Now the cold front between them has once again descended. Dostum is the most infamous member of the new Government, and was included for the simple reason that it might prevent him from sabotaging the others. The man who now squints into the sun, his arms peacefully folded over his large body, has more gruesome stories attached to his name than anyone else in Afghanistan. As punishment for a misdemeanour he would tie soldiers to one of his tanks - and drive until only bloody rags remained. On one occasion thousands of Taliban soldiers were driven out into the desert and put into containers. When the containers were opened several days later the prisoners were dead and their skin burnt to cinders by the heat. Dostum is also known as the master of deceit. He has served many masters and deceived them all in turn. He fought for the Russians when the Soviet Union attacked, was said to be an atheist and heavy vodka drinker. Now he presents a deferential air, praises Allah and preaches pacifism. ‘In 1381 no one has the right to distribute weapons that will lead to fighting and new conflicts. This is the year for gathering up weapons, not doling them out!’
Mansur laughs. Dostum is known as a virtual illiterate. He stutters his way through his script, reading it like a preschooler. Sometimes he comes to a complete halt, but makes up for it by roaring even louder.
The last mullah urges a campaign against terrorism. In today’s Afghanistan everything is a campaign against some pet hate, which varies according to who is speaking. ‘Only Islam’s holy book speaks out against terrorism. Terrorists have turned their faces towards Afghanistan - it is our duty to oppose them. No other holy book talks the same language. God said to Muhammad: “You must not pray in a mosque built by terrorists.” Real Muslims are not terrorists, because Islam is the most tolerant of religions. When Hitler killed Europe’s Jews, the Jews were safe in Muslim countries. Terrorists are false Muslims!’