On the Go — 30 December 2011

This is an excerpt from the recently published book A Vanished Road by Veena

I loved Herat! It was a sleepy kind of place with plain buildings, wide streets and horse-drawn vehicles. The only strange thing was you couldn’t see any women because they were all covered from head to foot in the typical burkas. But from the body language you could see that the women were curious about us and I tried to see through the embroidered lattice-like opening in front of their eyes and convey some kind of greeting. I sensed equal curiosity from their side about me although they shied away from Pieter and Simon.

Afghani local transport

Afghani local transport

Herat

Herat

Buying a bag in Herat

Buying a bag in Herat

Boys in Herat

Boys in Herat

Lake at Band-e Amir

Lake at Band-e Amir

Band-e Amir lake where we camped

Band-e Amir lake where we camped

Bamiyan Buddha before it was destroyed

Bamiyan Buddha before it was destroyed

view from shoulder of the Buddha - Bamiyan down below

view from shoulder of the Buddha - Bamiyan down below

There was colour everywhere. And soft subtle colours, not the bright glaring colours we were later to see in Pakistan and India. The Afghanis favoured shades of olive green, subtle hues of blue and rich dark maroons. Everywhere we looked there were market stalls selling colourful bags and garments, many of which, I later found out, were made by the wandering nomadic tribes which criss-crossed the country on camels.

Within a few hours we were approached by a very good-looking young man who spoke surprisingly good English. He asked if he could practice his English on us and we quickly agreed because this gave us a chance to know what was going on with these intriguing people. His name was something that sounded like Ahman. He was seventeen years old and wanted to be an engineer. Being with him was amazing because wherever we went – and he was an adept tour guide – we were quickly surrounded by people who wanted to know all about us and took the chance to use his translating skills. Before leaving us he invited us to tea the next afternoon in the grounds of a mosque on the outskirts of the town.

This meeting proved to be another unforgettable experience in my many years of travelling around the world.

The next day, in the mid-afternoon, Pieter, Simon and I found our way to the mosque, guided by its four pillars which could be seen rising above the low buildings of the town. A deep blue cloudless sky and the yellow-brown desert formed the backdrop to the white and blue decorated minarets and domed structure of the mosque. The square inner courtyard was filled with curiously contorted palm trees which made us feel we were in a surreal fantasy garden, with an Alice-in-Wonderland kind of quality. The place was dead silent and there was nobody there.

We waited awhile for our young friend to materialise but finally decided we must have misunderstood or something and turned to leave. But we were stopped by a shout and turned to see Ahman appear from behind the mosque, gesturing us to come and join him. We followed him round the back of the building and were faced with a picturesque scene.

On the fine yellow sand, amongst the misshapen palm trees and some bushes covered in dark pink flowers, he had laid a gorgeous, thick, richly-coloured silk carpet scattered with coloured silk cushions. At one end of the carpet there was a big gleaming copper samovar for boiling water and in front of it was a tray of beautiful glasses for the tea and some plates of food. Two men, dressed in subtly coloured traditional garb, stood to greet us. We all sat down on the cushions and one of the men, our young friend’s uncle, I think, brewed the strong sweet tea and offered us little cakes to eat.

For an hour we sat there chatting, drinking tea and just absorbing the extraordinary scene.

We weren’t sure of Afghani protocol but decided that we should perhaps indicate it was time to go as we didn’t want to take up too much of their time. But it seemed we had made a good impression because, after a quick conference with the other two men, Ahman turned to us and said he and his family would like to invite us to their evening meal a few hours hence. We were very touched and of course agreed. After Ahman arranged to pick us up at our guest house, we expressed our profound thanks for this beautiful experience and slowly walked back into town.

 

Read Bhagawati’s Review on A Vanished Road by Veena and ways to buy it online.

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