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Along the Khyber Pass
©2006Mary McIntosh
I spent New Year's Eve 1977 in Kabul, Afghanistan, just before the Russians invaded, and later traveled down the Khyber Pass to Pakistan. Considered a remote are a not many tours included the Middle Eastern countries.
When I first thought about visiting this part of the world, I decided I wanted to take a first-class tour, and discovered a British one that suited my needs and my pocketbook.
Upon arrival in London I was required to check in with the company and obtain the necessary documents for my trip. The entrance to Bales Tours, a family-owned business located near Picadilly Circus, was a narrow doorway situated between a shop that sold pinball machines and a Wimpy's Hamburger. I climbed a steep flight of narrow stairs to the second floor and entered a small office, where I saw only a desk, two filing cabinets, and no place to sit.
A middle-aged man sat at the desk in front of me; he was talking on the phone. His hair was beginning to turn gray and his eyes crinkled as he smiled and nodded at me, acknowledging my presence. With no place to sit, I remained standing, and gazed around the small office at the many travel posters on the wall, while he continued talking.
He finished his call, put the phone down and said, ”Good afternoon, and you are?”
“Hello,” I said. ”I'm Mrs. McIntosh. I'm on your tour to the Middle East, and I came for my last-minute instructions.”
“Yes. I have your file right here. I'm pleased to see you. Come out on the landing where there are comfortable chairs, and I'll go over these details with you. My name is John Leland.” I learned later he was Mrs. Bales' brother-in-law. I found it odd that such an expensive company would seat their customers on a chair on the landing outside their office. I'd been in many travel agencies, and none were quite as sparse as this one. It did make me wonder what the trip would be like, though the brochures said we'd stay at first-class hotels, which was the main reason I'd chosen it. Normally I opted for tourist-type hotels, but since I would be going into a part of the world where I knew the standards of living were different from what I was used to, a more expensive journey than I normally took seemed important to me. I hoped this casual office meeting didn't portend a mixed-up trip.
On the morning of December 30th when we were staying in Delhi, we were awakened early and told to be ready in twenty minutes to depart for the airport for our flight to Kabul, Afghanistan. We ate a hasty breakfast of rolls and coffee before boarding a bus. When we arrived at the airport, we waited until 12:30 p.m. before were able to continue our journey. We were supposed to have left the previous day, but no one told us why we were stranded. Apparently Ariana Afghan Airlines fly their planes whenever they chose. Eventually the prop plane arrived and we boarded through the rear door. A representative from the American Embassy in Kabul was on board, and only three other Americans--a couple from Texas on the same tour, and myself.
Surrounded by the Hindu Kush mountains, at an elevation of 5,900 feet, Kabul stands as one of the highest elevations of any capital city in the world. The Kabul River, flowing through a narrow pass between two craggy mountain ranges that divide the city, meanders through the capital. Much of Kabul, a major city with tall buildings, still has many hovels. Even though Afghanistan has universities and colleges, the literacy rate is still low--51% of males, and only 21% of females can read and write.
The Hotel Intercontinental where we stayed, proved to be what Bales Tours had promised, a superb first-class hotel. From my room, all I could see were beautiful snow-covered mountains. Our tour guide told us the mountains have an ever-changing beauty - in the summer turning from deep purple to brilliant pink under the rising and setting sun. That must have been a lovely sight to see, but somehow I couldn't comprehend it being any more gorgeous than those I was now enjoying. It was so easy to overlook the poverty that crouched among the tall buildings and busy bazaars.
On a very cold and windy day we toured the Kabul Museum, in a building with no heat. Even though we couldn't read the signs, we were shown remnants from city walls dating back to the 5th century--artifacts from various sections of the country, some excavated from the site of the Kushan, capital of Kepisa, as well as frescoes and Islamic objects. I was glad to get out of that building, for I couldn't remember being quite so cold before
But the people were warm. A waiter at the Hotel Intercontinental practiced what little English he knew by talking with me. He told me his name was Gholam Sahki, and a little about his life. Many people I have encountered in the countries I've visited--for instance, a woman in Poland who chatted with me in her halting English for quite a long time--were eager to travel to the United States someday, and they delighted in being able to talk to an American and ask questions. Movies and television have opened the world to them. I often wonder how many of them accomplished their goal of visiting the U.S. or other countries. I doubt that Gholam did, for a few months after my stay in Afghanistan, the Russians invaded and war broke out.
While Gholam and I were chatting together that New Year's Eve, we stood beside one of the windows in the dimly-lit dining room of the hotel. All the guests and waiters had left by now. He pointed out the general area where he lived, and asked me if I would like to visit him in his home.
Part of the experience of traveling is to observe another person's culture and to foster good relations between nations. His request that I visit his home was a little too much “fostering” on my part, so I told him it would be impossible for me to go, but I did give him my address. I thought this might help him keep in touch with the country he so dearly wanted to visit someday. He promised to write but neither of us ever corresponded with each other.
This tour group was all British, except the couple from Texas and myself. Most of the members were affable, but there were two spinster friends, Louise and Anna, traveling together. As a former Britisher, I secretly labeled them 'Right Proper English Ladies.'
Basically, I try to be a good person, but occasionally a little devilishness comes upon me.
The day following my encounter with Gholam, I told these two ladies I'd been invited to visit an Afghani man's home. They frowned at me, and tut-tutted.
“Oh, my, ”Louise said, ”I do hope you didn't go.” The shocked look on their faces was worth all of my devilishness. How many people have had a similar invitation in such a remote part of the world? It was too good an opportunity to resist. I behaved myself for the rest of the trip.
The following day we were scheduled to go up 11,000 feet to the Salang Pass. Even though a blizzard was raging outside, we were comfortable in the warm bus. Sometimes the snow blew so hard it was difficult to see out the windows, but when the snow subsided I noticed we passed many squat brown houses scattered around the hillside. At the summit, we continued to the Pass through a two-mile long tunnel, built by the Russians. The hotel had given us our lunch of eggs, cold hamburger, cake and fruit, with the intention we would have a picnic by the side of the road. Our picnic was on the bus.
After our short stay in Kabul we headed toward Pakistan. Our lunch stop was at Jalabad, just across the border from Afghanistan, and the start of the thirty-three mile long Khyber Pass. Next stop Peshawar, where we'd spend the night.
In Afghanistan, cars drive on the right side of the road--in Pakistan, the left, so after lunch our driver made this switch. As time in Pakistan is one-half hour ahead of Afghanistan, we all had to adjust our watches.
We were now traveling in nomad country, where people lived in mud-brick houses. Clusters of squat brown homes clung to the mountainside; sheep and goats wandered around the pastures, and smiling children waved at us. Several caravans of camels and mules passed us carrying wood and other commodities. On very narrow parts of the road, the bus pulled over to let these caravans pass. Our driver carefully drove the bus over the rugged terrain.
I was excited about this part of our tour. The words Khyber Pass represented to me such an important part of the history of the British Empire. It became the best land route between Pakistan and India; conquering armies used it as an entry point for invasions, and it was a major trade route for centuries. Camel caravans, always traveling together for protection, brought goods over the Khyber Pass to trade such treasurers as silk and porcelain, between China and the Middle East.
Passing the Shagi Fort I could “see” the British soldiers of the Khyber Rifle Military Regiment defending the Pass for the glory of their Empire. As we descended into Pakistan I began to visualize Alexander the Great and his army in 326 B.C. marching toward India. It was so easy to picture these events unfolding as I snapped photos from the moving bus.
Our arrival in Peshawar in time for dinner brought me back to reality.
The following day we toured the city. We passed bazaars where brightly colored clothing, pots and pans, and rows of grains in shallow dishes were sold. Tiny gaily painted green and yellow taxis that couldn't have held more than three people, one of whom would have been the driver, weaved in and out of the traffic beeping their horns. We saw the beautiful Muhabat Ihan Mosque, though we didn't stop to go inside. Camels hauling wood and sacks of turnips on their backs ambled down the crowded streets. Racks of meat, probably sheep or goat hung in open shops by the side of the dusty roads, and chickens ran around everywhere.
In nearby Dara we visited a gun factory where replicas of all the guns in the world are made. I wondered who bought these replicas. No one told us. And I'm not sure anyone asked. Later we were taken to an unusual cemetery where the upright headstones facing each other belonged to men, and those flat on the ground were women. I never learned the reason for the difference, but I'm inclined to think that even in death, men were still thought to be the dominant gender.
The next day, January 2nd I left this remote part of the world and headed back to the bustle of London, and my onward journey back home. But I would long remember the Khyber Pass, Kabal, the Hindu Kush mountain range, the nomadic countryside, the Afghani people, and especially a man I met in Kabul.
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