Afghanistan: Reflections from a “Trip of a Lifetime” (Literally) in 1978
Even though I know otherwise, I often find myself wondering if the name “Afghanistan” comes from an ancient word for “tragedy.”
Afghanistan is in the headlines again — quickly, and with almost no resistance, taken over by Taliban overlords, who envision a medieval-style caliphate. For someone of my generation, this weekend’s events feel like the déjà vu of a lifetime in this troubled corner of the world. First, in a decade of war that spanned roughly the 1980s, Afghanistan held off the Soviet Union. And now — two decades, nearly a trillion dollars, and thousands of American lives later — the USA is learning the same lesson: It’s reluctant to rule the attractive land.
It’s easy to point fingers: Should George W. Bush have invaded the country in 2001? Should Donald Trump have made a deal with the Taliban in early 2020? Should Joe Biden have withdrawn American troops so quickly? But ultimately, no one has the answers…which is why we keep finding ourselves in the same place.
One thing is clear: the repeated failure of powerful nations to impose their will on the Afghan people reflects our racism…our failure to understand what motivates them. And using Afghanistan to score political points with American voters ignores the terrible human cost of the instability that has blighted the lives of everyday Afghans for generations.
In my case, witnessing this tragedy is even more difficult because I am deeply moved by the people-to-people connections I have enjoyed in Afghanistan. As the news unfolds, I find myself reminiscing about my trip there in 1978, as a 23-year-old, swimming the “hippie trail” from Istanbul to Kathmandu. It was a trip of a lifetime – one that just can’t happen anymore. Every border crossing was a drama, and every rest stop was a memory of a lifetime.
On the Iran-Afghanistan border – surrounded by abandoned VW vans picked up by guards looking for drugs, and looking at dusty glass displays that told the stories of European, Australian and American backpackers caught with drugs and serving time in Afghan jails – we held our packs on our laps (so no one could illegally check on our doctors). My travel partner, Jane, needed a shot, and I still remember bending the needle to break her skin.
Once on the road in Afghanistan, heading to Herat in our packed minibus, the driver stopped, pulled out a knife that glinted in the hot sun, and said, “Your tickets just got more expensive.” An Indian traveler calmed the virtuous commotion from us Americans, and we all paid a welcome addition to Afghanistan.
In Herat, the urban and cultural center of western Afghanistan, we stood on the roof of our hotel and watched the torch-lit chariots pass through the night. Every day was an odyssey—not sightseeing, but wandering through markets and gardens and random neighborhoods. This was shortly after the Soviet-backed communist coup. A Soviet tank stood in the main square, and restaurants had menus with literally slashed prices, and a note: “Thanks for Soviet freedom.”
Our bus ride across Afghanistan followed what was the only paved road in the country (a foreign aid project). The area looked like a wasteland. I remember the monotony of roadsides broken by cemeteries, dusty jungles of haggle-and-pegley graves in the desert. Even with 50 passengers, the toilet break lasted only a few minutes: the bus would stop nowhere in the middle, the men would go to the left side of the road, and the women would gather on the right side of the road. Tenting their large black robes, they would sit en masse.
It seems that the truck stops were designed to provide the bus driver with an opportunity to smoke marijuana. At one time, I remember a circle of men sitting on their hutches and passing around whatever they were smoking as they all watched the goats being skinned.
Kabul was the only real city in the country. It seemed to exist only because a county had to have an urban center to govern it – an urban necessity in a land that didn’t really know what to do with a city. I saw people in uniform who used to wear only tribal clothes until today.
As I sat down to eat in the backpackers’ cafeteria, a man appeared at my table. He said can I meet with you? “You already have,” I said. He asked, “Are you an American?” I said, “Yes.”
And then he went into a well-penned speech: “I’m a professor here in Afghanistan. And I want you to know that in this world, one-third of the people eat with a spoon and fork like you do. One-third of the people eat with chopsticks. And one-third of the people eat with their fingers. And we’re all equally civilized.”
This encounter proved to be one of the most influential of my life—like the rest of my visit to Afghanistan, it dismantled my ethnocentrism and rearranged my cultural furniture.
A highlight of any land trip to India was crossing the Khyber Pass to get out of Afghanistan. We little westerners were terrified, sitting on the bus, dutifully with our luggage on our laps, realizing that we were getting close to India – which felt strangely like coming home. Our bus ticket came with a “security supplement” to guarantee safe passage. These fees were paid to the autonomous tribes who “ruled” the area between the capital and its border with Pakistan. Wandering beneath their rocky forts, carrying vintage rifles with wind-torn flags (that had nothing to do with Afghanistan) and bearded oranges, I was more than happy to pay such an extra fee.
Out of the harsh and dry mountains of Afghanistan, a vast and humid plain opened up. Iran and Afghanistan were behind us. And a billion people spread further in Pakistan and India.
With this post, I’m starting a seven-day series featuring photos from my trip and excerpts from my 1978 journal Afghanistan. (I wrote this article from hazy memories; subsequent entries were diligently written each night, recounting the day’s adventures in this fascinating land) Stay tuned, and let’s keep the Afghan people in our thoughts and prayers.
