Journey to the East, Afghanistan.

            

 It is amazing in retrospect that they survived the journey across Iran and Afghanistan. But this was the sixties. The Shah had Iran in a tight grip, Afghanistan was enjoying a brief lull in the Great Game, foreigners were a rarity in the region.

Thus it was they arrived in Qum, a most religious city, and being thirsty and noticing a public fountain they decided to avail themselves of some refreshment. A particularly devout mullah started screaming and it wasn’t long before a crowd gathered. ‘What’s the problem?’ Simon asked a group of student types who had been watching the incident. ‘You are unclean unbelievers.’ said one helpfully. The gist of it seemed to be the infidels had defiled a holy fountain specifically reserved for pilgrims. Fair enough. But how were they to know? More mullahs began to arrive. Clearly there was nothing to be gained from an extended interfaith discussion so, making profuse unfaithful apologies, they withdrew in the direction of Isfahan.

“Shitting in the squat position is more natural don’t you think,” Arthur observed one morning as they stood beside a thin strip of tarmac which shimmered in the heat haze, “Puts you in touch with things.”

Simon agreed but only up to a point. “The flies certainly prefer but it can’t be easy on the old folk. And there’s always the danger of stepping backwards into one’s own deposit.”

“Yes, but that’s just it don’t you see,” said Arthur, “you can’t separate shit from life. As for wiping, rocks seem to work just as inefficiently as paper.”

“True,”said Simon. “In fact I think I’m starting to prefer them. When we get home I may ask mother to put a bucket of rocks in the bathroom.”

“I may take mine a burqa. Wonder what colour she’d like?”

“You can’t go wrong with good old black.”

And so they made their way ever eastwards, young middle-class English pseudo-beatniks, in the footsteps of Alexander, not his exact footsteps obviously but more or less, surviving on flat bread, goat’s milk cheese and a barrage of sights, sounds and visions induced by fatigue and occasional encounters with the demon hashish.

Their first Afghans were a surprise. Ferocious looking fellows with big beards and turbans armed to the teeth with daggers and swords. Some of them carried old Lee Enfield rifles stolen from dead British soldiers in the Khyber Pass no doubt. But the tribesmen were not without their sensitive side. Some of them wore kohl and occasionally they would pull out little mirrors and start plucking their eyebrows. Very strange. They also had a copious appetite for hashish and sweet tea. The infidels were invited to share great cannon-shaped jhellums. Arthur was quite impressed. He thought the Afghans looked like something out of Kipling. Simon saw nothing very romantic about fly covered kids playing with dry goat droppings.

“They’re stuck in the bloody middle-ages,” said Simon, “nothing but lawless bandits.”

“They are free and unspoiled by Western consumerism,” said Arthur.

“Bloody religious fanatics.” said Simon.

“Their weakness consists in their want of organization, their tribal jealousies, and their impatience of regular habits and of the restraint necessary to render them good soldiers,” said Arthur quoting from ‘For Name and Fame, or Through Afghan Passes’ by G.A. Henty, “but, when led and organized by English officers, there are no better soldiers in the world; as is proved by the splendid services which have been rendered by the frontier force, which is composed almost entirely of Afghan tribesmen.

“Their history shows that defeat has little moral effect upon them. Crushed one day, they will rise again the next; scattered--it would seem hopelessly--they are ready to reassemble, and renew the conflict, at the first summons of their chiefs. Guided by British advice, led by British officers and, it may be, paid by British gold, Afghanistan is likely to prove an invaluable ally to us, when the day comes that Russia believes herself strong enough to move forward towards the goal of all her hopes and efforts, for the last fifty years--the conquest of India.”

“OK,” said Simon, “but they still look like a rough bunch to me.”

They arrived in Peshawar on the roof of a lavishly decorated multicoloured bus. The Khyber Pass had certainly been scenic but something of a disappointment. Or perhaps they’d just picked a bad day. Nobody took potshots at them and they didn’t notice any British subalterns pegged out on anthills at Gundamuk.