My 1978 “Hippie Trail” Journal: 500 Miles across Afghanistan, from Herat to Kabul
With Afghanistan in decline, I’m reflecting on my experiences traveling there as a 23-year-old backpacker on the “Hippie Trail” from Istanbul to Kathmandu. Yesterday and today, it is a poor but strong land that foreign powers misunderstand and insist on undermining.
In this journal entry from 1978, follow me as I travel 500 miles across Afghanistan and tour the capital, Kabul.
Tuesday, August 1, 1978: Herat to Kabul
At 4:00 am, we woke up and it was the dead of night. No one would wake up at that time, but I sat there on the edge of my bed. We had melon and caught the 5 o’clock Qadri bus to Kabul.
Just organized, punctual, and we were on our way. As dawn broke, the people sleeping on the footpath began to stir. Our bus honked loudly as if it was preparing itself for the 800 km ride that lay ahead. The road was good and we kept a good pace, stopping only for quick cokes all morning. The countryside was desolate, hot and foreboding. A herd of camels, a wandering nomad or a cluster of quiet tents, a mud-brick ruin like a sandcastle battered by a wave, and a lone power line along a narrow, but well-paved, US-Soviet-built road in the Afghan desert. It wasn’t exactly a scenic ride, but by the end of the 14-hour ride I had gained an appreciation for the vastness of this country of 10 million people.
We had a brief lunch stop where Jane and I had a Fanta and some peanuts and I got some use out of my zoom lens and then we hit the road. It was the greatest ride. Our driver actually wanted to keep a good tempo. The countryside remained unchanged throughout the day. The same lazy, stupid camels and sleepy gray-brown mud fort towns passed along the rugged mountains in the background. We had three stops to pray in Makkah during the afternoon and as darkness fell, we entered Kabul. Jane wasn’t feeling well so we took a cab to the touristy “chicken street” and found the nicest hotel – not great, but ok, the Sienna Hotel.
Jane fell asleep straight away while I dined with a student friend from Philadelphia who had come here to study the language. I am spoiled after our great Herat hotel.
Oh, I’m in Kabul. Imagine that – so close to my dream – the Khyber Pass and India. I believe I am more than half way around the world from Seattle. I have to check a globe. I hope Jane is better – and I’m still good – in the morning.
Wednesday August 2, 1978: Kabul
Going to bed without a watch is a mistake. I slept well but woke up early. Jain was in a rather depressed mood so he stayed in bed. For breakfast I had a melon, a large carrot, and two boiled eggs and tea in the courtyard of the Sinai Hotel. I was laid back from the start today because I knew we had two days left in Kabul and nothing to get excited about. I spoke to a German girl who was recovering from an eight-day bout with “Tehran Pete” and who wanted to go home. A homestay is a great idea when you’re traveling to India. It’s even more heavenly when you’re sick.
Getting down to business, I went to the Pakistan Bus Company and got a ticket for Friday morning to Pakistan via Khyber Pass. Then, along with several incredibly persistent shoe boys, I entered the Pakistani embassy and was delighted to learn that Americans do not need a visa to travel through Pakistan. We were set. Wow — Khyber Pass, Pakistan, and then India!
Back at the hotel, I checked on Jane. He still felt very uncomfortable. I brought her special magic tea and two boiled eggs and hung around for a while. His tendency was to go to sleep after fasting.
It was quite hot now when I went out to cover Kabul, what an unenviable job it was. I had no maps or information. I couldn’t really get oriented in this blobby, hodgepodge capital. The city is like a giant village spread over several valleys that intersect. He seems to be in love with his dried up river, a shallow water with a wide and rocky bed. It was hot and dusty, shade was rare, and I felt very conspicuous in my shorts and being alone. Nevertheless, I covered a good part of Kabul by walking.
I walked through some very dirty parts, searched in vain for a tourist information place, and took a taxi to the Kabul Museum. It was a long ride and he strongly resisted the 40 Afghanis I paid him. He wanted 60. I thought 40 was very reasonable and eventually, only to lose it, I paid 50. Then I found out that the museum I had come to see was closed. Feeling a little frustrated at the people huffing and puffing around me, I boarded a crowded bus and made my way to the end where I wanted to be. It was a busy place. The only real city in Afghanistan and it had a lot of big buildings and fancy establishments. But tribal chaos overshadows everything. Around a modern department store there are old men with tomatoes on their donkeys, little girls selling small limes, piles of honeydew melons on top of which a boy sits sleepily smoking a cigarette.
I checked out a wonderful hotel and sat at a cool bar sipping a Coke and eating a nice girl’s bread and then I walked over to the “Afghan Store”, the closest thing to a western department store, and found a nice restaurant with a beautiful view of ugly Kabul.
An old man made me sit next to him and said that I am such and such a professor, what is your name and reputation? He was very excited to dine with an American but I’m afraid I wasn’t really in the right mood and I wasn’t very talkative. He told me he would never forget his meal with “Mr. Rick.” I taught him the do-re-me scale and what molly is. It was the only thing on my plate that stumped him. He left and I finished my meal under the silent gaze of the other diners and then I headed home.
Evidence of the recent revolution is everywhere. On entering Kabul our bus is checked (for guns I think), copies of the Changeover Day headlines are posted, there is an 11:00 curfew and soldiers are everywhere with bayonets. On the road I saw what was left of a tank, blown to pieces and left as a reminder that the old regime was gone.
Later we entered the courtyard of our cozy little Sienna Hotel for a light meal. I worked on honeydew melon, we both had boiled eggs and tea. Jane drank the tea of a certain sick man in Sinai. The rest of the evening was dull and dull. I wasn’t looking forward to another day in Kabul but there was no bus earlier and it would be better for Jane.
Thursday, August 3, 1978: Kabul
Today was the day of the malaria shot and the end of our third week on the road. We were on India’s doorstep, most of our work behind, and most of the adventure ahead. Our health was quite fragile but we were both determined that nothing would stop us now. I swallowed my supervitamin zinc tablets with black tea and had toast and eggs before heading out for a walk. I had no big plans for today—just to pass the time and enjoy myself.
I walked down “Chicken Street,” Afghanistan’s tourist high-pressure point, oblivious to the countless “come to my shop, mister, just have a look” and realized that of all the junk everyone was trying to see, I really didn’t want anything.
I dropped by the American Center for a bit of reading and to escape the afternoon sun, and I later joined Jane. It was the first time he had left the hotel in almost two days. We rested and read old news. The latest Time magazine was censored by the new government here. They censor any issues with articles about the USSR. He has left us to read old news. It’s just not the same, but it’s better than nothing. Reading an American magazine on the road is like going to an American movie on the road – it brings you home as long as you’re immersed in it.
After lounging around the hotel for a while, I put on Jane’s baggy, white afghan pants, grabbed my camera, and caught a bus downtown. It’s good not to know or care where you’re going. I just boarded any old bus, paid an Afghani, and rode as long as I wanted – which was the end of the line. The bus driver invited me for tea, I accepted, and the group gathered to stare. Boy, I’d really like to be a weirdo friend to these guys – they can stare. Last night I wrote a poem called “Afghan Eyes” about a little girl who stared at me for five hours on our bus ride from Herat.
I put on my zoom lens and wandered into a group of tents where an entire community was living. It’s really a pity that he was camera shy. I did manage to find a lot of Afghans, however, who were dying to have their picture taken and I did my best to accommodate them. Boarding the bus, I soon returned to the touristy world of “Chicken Street”.
Jane was tired and finally hungry. I was having a bit of an intestinal upset myself and, after several alternate turns at the toilet, we slowly walked down the road to find dinner.
“Steakhouse” caught my eye when we first came to Kabul, and now we will try it. I wasn’t counting on anything fantastic – just hoping. In fact, I got a great steak and vegetable dinner for less than a dollar, complete with soup and a pot of tea. It hit both our spots amazingly. After dinner, we exchanged a little money — getting rid of our Iranian and Turkish money and getting 50 Pakistani rupees.
After this good meal we felt better and went back home. I spent the evening in the yard catching up on this journal, mending the straps on my pack, and enjoying tea and Fleetwood McTap. It will be great to be moving again tomorrow.
Being so rich (even as a lowly backpacker) and so white in this poor and struggling corner of our world puts me in a strange bind as a traveler that I wish I could change. It’s kind of sad, but I realized today that I tend to put up a wall between myself and any potential European friends outside of the world. In Europe I like to talk to people and make friends. That’s one of the main reasons I even travel there, but there’s something in the way here. I think a lot of it is doubt, lack of understanding and fatigue. Also, most of the people I meet around here who speak English seem to only talk to tourists to make money. I wish I spoke the local language, but I don’t.
(This is journal #4 of a five-part series. Stay tuned for another excerpt tomorrow, as I travel from Kabul to Pakistan via the Khyber Pass at 23.)
