My 1978 “Hippie Trail” Journal: Herat, Afghanistan
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, stick with me as I tour the iconic city of Herat in western Afghanistan.
Sunday, July 30, 1978: Herat
A dream woke me up at 7:30 and by 8:15 I had given up trying to sleep. At the restaurant below, I had two fried eggs, yogurt and a pot of black tea. After cleaning our camera lenses, Jane and I set out to explore Herat.
Earlier, we had two pieces of business — change money and get bus tickets. The bank was really something. It took about an hour to exchange my $100, but it was interesting to sit there and watch the Afghani banking process. I saw tattered Afghani suitcases, tribesmen carrying five or six $100 bills (I dread to think where they got them), a uniformed guard with a crossbow long enough for five or six bank robbers, and a building and environment. 3,858 Afghanis came to me. The first guy gave me 3000. I said “more” and he gave me 800. “More” and I got 50 more Afghanis, and then I asked for and got the last 8 Afghanis.
After that, Jane and I booked a bus to Kabul with the highly recommended Qadri Bus Company. The 800 km ride costs only $5 or 200 Afghanis. Hopefully we will get our seats and there will be no commotion.
We were free to roam. I had a Fanta, attached a zoom lens, and set off on a dreamy street full of colorful floral horse-drawn cabs, busy artisans, fruit stands, and dust. Every passer-by looked like something straight off a travel poster. Strong powerful eyes behind weather-beaten leathery faces. Poetic windswept beards, long and scraggly, and snake-like turbans wrapped protectively around the head. Old women were fully clad in baggy dresses, carrying children and, oddly enough, clamoring for photographs. I shot almost a whole roll and, with any luck, I should have some great shots.
We wandered away from the main center into a dusty residential area that buzzed with activity. People are very proud and no one is able to take their picture. Everyone was beckoning us to come, except those who were too proud to admit us. I really didn’t know how people accepted us weird, short pants, pale skinned, weak bellied, artsy people who came into their world to gawp, take pictures, and buy junk to bring home and tell everyone how cheap it was. I couldn’t help but feel as if we curious tourists grew old for these hard-working, proud people who work so hard and live so simply.
There were countless moments and scenes that flashed in my mind forever, the image of Afghanistan. We worked up a minor thirst and shared a watermelon in the shade before moving on.
A little tired, we headed back to our lovely hotel, grabbed a plate of potatoes, a bowl of soup, and some chai (tea) and headed upstairs for a shower and a short snooze. We are living really well now for a change. I cashed in that $100 and it feels so good to just spend money when you want and not worry.
Now we went back into the sun. The afternoon temperature was still boiling and every once in a while we soaked our heads under the faucet. After sending our postcards, we checked out a row of cloth weavers. Industrious men tirelessly ran these ingenious ancient looms. Quite interesting to witness. Then, making a wide circle, we arrived at the great mosque, checked it out, and found ourselves in a neighborhood with lots of shops.
A pseudo-friendly man took me by the hand and led me into his shop and before I knew it, I was wearing the wonderful white baggy pants and shirt and turban of the locals and was making a mad bargain. I was determined to work it down from 500 to 152 afghanis. I almost made it, but I was surprised when he let me go empty handed, a little sad too. I want those cool, baggy, low-profile clothes and maybe, if I can swallow my pride, I’ll go back tomorrow and get them.
Like running the gauntlet, we made our way back to our hotel, in and out of shops. I tried and failed to get a beautiful mink skin cheap. I offered 200 afghanis for an interesting Afghan fox hat and ended up buying it and I proudly talked a boy down from 600 afghanis to 40 rupees for three small embroidered pouches. I haven’t bought any gifts to speak of in two months of travel—now I’m afraid I’ve opened the floodgates.
Back at the hotel, Jane took out the hunk of marijuana she had bought and this, I decided, would be the time and place where I would lose my “marijuana virginity.” I’ve never even smoked and smoking pot has always turned me off, so to speak, because it always caused social pressure and I never felt comfortable doing it because everyone at the party was doing it and I was the only “square.” That kind of pressure and the normalcy surrounding pot smoking strengthened my resolve to stay away from bad weed. But this was different.
In Afghanistan, hashish is an integral part of the culture. It’s as innocent as wine with dinner in America. If I ever had to experience that high, it wouldn’t be in a dark dorm room at UW with people I didn’t respect. I could never feel better about it.
Jane and I talked about marijuana and hash for about three hours on the bus after we left Istanbul. I decided that if I liked the whole situation, I would like to smoke some hash in Afghanistan. Well, I am here in Herat, I feel great, and I love this city. We got about half a domino’s worth of pure hashish for 40 afghanis ($1). It was so smooth that it had to be cut with a knife.
In the living room, Jane mixed it with some tobacco and piled the product into an old straight wooden pipe we had picked up. He took a drag – promptly commented, “Good stuff”. I didn’t know what to expect and sucked hoping not to get a mouthful of ash. I don’t like smoke, but other than that, there was nothing about it. It didn’t even smell like cannabis. The only problem was that nothing happened. I smoked a lot, but virgin runs are usually unproductive. It felt good anyway – I did it.
We went for a walk. Going from shop to shop very casually. Mixing with people, popping into shops, and just walking around. This place is small, but it doesn’t matter because no street is ever the same if you pass it a second or third time.
For dinner we sat outside our restaurant as there was a special wedding tonight in the great room. We had a plate of lots of vegetables with tea-washed meat for $1.50 each.
Upstairs we smoked some more and took a cold shower. This time I noticed some change. Some colors and items were more complex. There was a dynamic edge to things that I didn’t realize was an option. I was so relaxed and our ceiling light fixture was breathing in and out like a giant candle. But I still wasn’t really high.
The big wedding had begun downstairs, and Jane and I were welcomed by the father of the bride with a proud shake of my hand, and we sat next to a small Afghan band listening to interesting music and watching the women dance. All were quite formal, the men in one room, the women in another, and a decorated carriage waiting outside.
Now we had a night walk. Chariots with torches in the dark, men carrying lanterns, shopkeepers and work boys sitting around soup and bread, many Afghans were high or getting there, it was cold, and as usual, windy. The night was a great experience and we wandered around.
After the mini-melon, one more marriage check, a cold shower with our sheets and a nice wet bed, we commented on how great today was and fell asleep wrapped in wet sheets while waiting for tomorrow.
(This is journal #2 of a five-part series. Stay tuned for another excerpt tomorrow, as 23-year-old me goes deeper into Herat.)
