Remembering a different Afghanistan: Scorpions, stars and startling proposals

The unmistakable scent of camel dung fires.

The Kabul shoe-shine boy.

Scorpions scattering from a pit fire in a desert caravanserai along the ancient Silk Road.

Mountains painted with colorful minerals.

Food bartering. Miles and miles of sand.

This mental slide-show of the sights, sounds and smells of Afghanistan clicks nonstop.

The news, changing by the hour, of the American withdrawal and the Taliban takeover won’t let it stop as my mind wonders backward to a different time, a different Afghanistan.

Steamy chai.

Hot chapatis from underground stone ovens.

An unexpected Kandahar bakery specializing in brownies.

The handsome Sikh men. The pretty un-burqaed Afghan woman.

The heat. The mountain nighttime cool.

A startling proposal of marriage.

Click. Click. Click go the memories.

Sleeping under giant desert skies.

The 3,000 year old Qala-e-Bost arch of James A. Michener book fame.

The two magnificent giant Buddhas carved in a Bamiyan cliff 1,500 years ago.

Adobe villages. A friendly people.

Click. Click. Click.

The Afghanistan of my memory is no more, the result of wars with Russia and the United States and tribal in-fighting that led the way for the first Taliban take-over, and now a second. Those who know the country’s history won’t question its old nickname, “Graveyard of Empires.”

From Genghis Khan through Alexander the Great, the Moguls and into the more recent attempted British, Russian and American takeovers, the nickname has stuck, partly through the pride of its people who want to maintain that reputation to influence those who might attempt another subversion. History proves the name partly true.

The challenges of the desert and mountainous terrains, severe winters, history and tribal loyalties historically make Afghanistan a difficult country to conquer. For a century those same “attributes” made it a desirable destination for those who call themselves travelers, not tourists but those who seek out different cultures, foods, histories and experiences in the rough.

I once wrote that the region “should still be safe if you don’t travel as an Ugly American, flaunting money and supposed wisdom, demanding luxuries and Western niceties.” Sadly I can no longer write that about Afghanistan and its neighboring Asian countries so caught up in extremisms. I hope another generation of travelers can one day do as I did.

In my late 20s and still considered a fledgling reporter, I announced to my Alexandria Gazette editors that I was leaving, sold everything I owned and headed to London to meet a group of international travelers who had signed up for the same Encounter Overland expedition.

I learned about the London-based Asian safari company during a newspaper interview of the founder of a Washington, D.C., adventure travel club. That assignment immediately changed my life and continues to feed a broader world view these decades later.

Encounter Overland supplied a lorry, a driver and lots of salient advice for trekking across Asia. Those who signed on traveled light, bartered for fresh food, did our own cooking, washing, dug out the Wombat (that’s what we called our war-vintage canvas-backed lorry) when we got stuck in mud or sand, set up our own tents or sleeping bags under the stars and generally kept ourselves informed and entertained for months on end.

We traveled through Europe quickly, then slower through Eurasia, then even slower once we reached Iran. Of the six Asian countries we explored, Afghanistan remains my favorite.

Shortly after I returned home and restarted a newspaper career at this Gulf Coast newspaper, the Russians invaded Afghanistan. My heart sank that December 1979 day and I said to self, “Don’t the Russians remember what happened to the British Empire’s attempts to subjugate Afghanistan?”

My heart sank farther in March 2001 when the Taliban dynamited the Buddhas of Bamiyan, proving they had no respect for culture or historic treasures that don’t fit into their narrow world view. They forced women and girls into purdah and refused them education and jobs.

My heart did a deep dive seven months later when the U.S. invaded Afghanistan to root out Al-Qaeda, the masterminds of America’s 9/11. As I write this, the violent, vengeful Taliban are back at it not only with women but forcing men to join their ranks.

Today’s missive, however, is not about the ongoing events 8,000 miles away in a country 15 times smaller than the U.S. The media, after all, is in overload on that topic. Today is about another side of the Afghan story — my side, long ago and far away. That said, I do not believe in living or dwelling in the past. Life is far too short for that.

Our past experience, however, adds perspective to today. Travelers often have broader world views and insight that can clarify, add humor, hope, even lay groundwork for the future by seeing how it was or can be.

Most Americans have a distorted, war-torn view of Afghanistan that begins with 9/11, instead of a country whose culture dates back three millennia. Most Americans could not pinpoint Afghanistan on a map before the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks when Taliban-supported Islamic extremists hijacked four airplanes to crash into the World Trade Center and other strategic locations.

My experiences pre-date 9/11 and help keep me grounded in Afghanistan’s on-going travails.

Sadly, only one photograph survives to prove I was there because the thieving Hurricane Katrina mermaids stole my travel diaries and all my photos.

Without debate, we all should mark this August weekend as the mid-way anniversary between the Coast’s two shape-shifter hurricanes: Camille in 1969 and Katrina in 2005. Although I experienced both killer storms, Afghanistan weighs heaviest right now.

I remember the day an elderly Afghan stood on the desert sand and pointed to the colorful Hindu Kush mountains tinged in purples, blues, golds and maroons. “You see that? That’s why the Russians want us. They want minerals from those mountains. Lots of minerals.”

Ironically, the Russians who would invade a year later never got to mine the minerals, nor did the feuding warlords who ruled after the Russians, nor the first-time Taliban that followed. Someday maybe the Afghan people will be able to profit from their colorful mountains.

Afghanistan was different from neighboring Asian countries where children surrounded most foreigners begging for baksheesh, a free handout. Not the young Afghans. They wanted a paying temporary job.

“Madam! Madam! I make your shoes look like new,” insisted one Kabul boy, about 8. The feat was impossible for after months of traveling across Asia, my shoes were holey beyond repair and darkened by desert dust. My wallet contained no extra money for a pair of shoes nor an impossible shoe shine.

I think of that shoeshine boy every time Afghanistan makes international news. Did he survive the wars and fundamental changes? Was he able to put his energy and ingenuity to work for himself?

Starkly different from other Asians I encountered, Afghans for the most part were respectful, proud, hard-working, interested in the world. That observation, however, was not enough for me to accept the offer of a marriage broker.

When the Wombat was in Kandahar, I met a baker who had learned to make Western sweets while connected to the British army. He told me he had a brother who owned a restaurant in Bamiyan and that I must eat at his restaurant. I passed that on to the others as we headed across the Kyber Pass to Bamiyan to see the mystical giant Buddhas carved in a cliff.

The first day I hiked up to the clifftop with three friends and spied an oddly placed door. My friends gasped as I reached for the handle, one of those stupid spur of the moment motions that could lead to anything.

I jumped back as the door opened. The vista of the head of the tallest Buddha greeted us, and a man walking on the ledge that surrounded ancient frescoes invited us in. This photographer for the National Geographic gave us a chance of a lifetime with our own cameras. Click. Click.

That night we visited the baker brother’s restaurant, a rare treat away from the Wombat’s tiny cook stove. The food was excellent and the brother regaled us with local stories. Several days later he approached me privately and asked, “Can I be your bride broker?” He offered to pay me today’s equivalent of $750,000 to let him be the negotiator.

He was so serious I had to stifle a laugh. “Why me?” I asked, for my constant companions were an attractive blonde Aussie and a svelte Swiss brunette.

“In our culture, red hair and fair skin is prized,” he explained. “Every once in awhile, a girl is born who looks like you. She is very special.”

I politely explained I was on a world trip and not ready to marry. I didn’t tell him I’d read Michener’s “Caravans,” which features an American woman who weds a culturally conscious Afghan. In our remaining time at Bamiyan I became more aware of the men, wondering if that one, or that one, or maybe that one, had approached the restaurateur.

Because Katrina claimed my travel diaries, you may wonder how I remember these stories so well.

They never left my mind. When a world event happens that returns my memory to one of the Asian countries I trekked, I write about it.

Every news-ravaged country is much more than what we journalists call “breaking news.” Those stories should be told, too.

Kat Bergeron, a veteran feature writer specializing in Gulf Coast history and sense of place, is retired from the Sun Herald. She writes the Mississippi Coast Chronicles column as a freelance correspondent. Reach her at BergeronKat@gmail.com or at Southern Possum Tales, P.O. Box 33, Barboursville, VA 22923