Afghan Memories

by Helen Krasner

A few years ago I was on a flight from Beijing to Tashkent in Uzbekistan. Landing on a hot summer’s night in Tashkent, my nostrils were assailed by a combination of odours – spicy food, sweat, and other aromas I could not have identified. Yet… somehow I recognised them. Smells can be extremely evocative, and these brought back memories, of many, many years earlier. But what was I remembering?

Kabul, 1969



 For a moment I had no idea, for I had never been in Uzbekistan before. And then it hit me. They were the smells of Afghanistan, just a few miles away. I had been there in 1969, when travel in that country was comparatively easy but Uzbekistan, part of the USSR, was impossible to get into. Now, around 40 years later, the Central Asian Republics were accessible and becoming popular tourist destinations, but Afghanistan… forget it. And yet they were so close, geographically, in terms of culture and scenery and… fragrances. I closed my eyes, and suddenly, there I was, mentally transported back to my overland trip to India so many years earlier….

1969 was a different world where travel was concerned. No cheap flights, few package holidays, no ‘Exodus’ and ‘Explore Worldwide’ and other so-called adventure travel companies. Young people who did not want to go straight from school to a job or university did voluntary work for a year, or if they were very adventurous they travelled in Europe for a few weeks. The term ‘gap year’ had not been invented. But a few of us went further afield, and that year I was on an extended overland trip to India.

Travelling by Bus in Afghanistan, 1969

 Although barely out of my teens, I had already travelled a lot, and I had been planning this trip for a couple of years. After hitch-hiking through Europe I had joined up with other travellers and crossed Turkey by bus, then spent some time in Iran. The Shah’s Iran was becoming westernised, and I had spent a happy time in Teheran, singing and playing the guitar in a local dive that fancied itself as a western folk club. I was the nearest thing they were likely to get to Joan Baez, so they paid me the princely sum of $2 a night, a meal, and all the beer I could drink. It was a fun interlude for a 20 year old adventurer, and I could have stayed longer, joining Teheran’s large and lively expatriate community. But I was keen to get on to India.

There were two main overland routes to India back then. One went from Teheran to Isfahan in Eastern Iran, then straight to Pakistan. But the more commonly used one went through Afghanistan. It was a shorter route, and said to be more interesting. So many of us were keen to go that way.

Contrary to what many people believed, Afghanistan had fairly good roads. Or rather, it had one good road, leading from the border to Herat, on to Kandahar, then to Kabul. The Americans and Russians had built it between them, keen to open up the country for travel. One half of this paved road was breaking up, or so we heard on the traveller’s grapevine. I think it was the American half, but I don’t actually remember after all these years.

Shop in Kabul, 1969

 In fact, I hate to confess it, but I don’t really remember that much about Afghanistan, overall. I never kept any diaries, being scornful of those who felt the need to write everything down. I had my memories, I told myself, not realising that memories fade after 40 years. I had my photos, but most of those have vanished in numerous house moves – the ones with this article are all I have left. So this article will be… merely impressions, but I’ll do my best.

I do remember that I loved Afghanistan right from the start. To say the people were friendly is something of a meaningless cliché, for the majority of people in most countries are companionable to strangers. But the rural Afghan people were friendly in a particular way. Simple and curious, they wanted to know about us as much as we longed to learn about their way of life, and they also had the country folk’s traditional hospitality to travellers.

So I have memories of friendly conversations without words, since no-one spoke anyone else’s language, of numerous cups of tea drunk unhurriedly in shops and bars, of people in strange garb posing good humouredly for photos. Some of the men from the hills looked warlike and strange, yet they turned out to be smiling and gentle. There was no hurry, and I never remember feeling unsafe in any way.

Travelling by Truck in Afghanistan, 1969

Travel in Afghanistan was either on overcrowded local buses or in trucks, the latter often packed with local people and animals. The Afghan trucks are particularly memorable, for they were painted all over in bright colours, with shiny tape and mirrorwork to add to the effect. Some might call them gaudy; I thought they were beautiful. The Afghan people seemed to love bright colours and intricate detail, and I soon acquired one of the highly embroidered Afghan sheepskin coats which were to become so popular in Europe and America a few years later. Mine was one of the first in England… and also one of the smelliest; I think the Afghans learned to cure them properly soon after that.

I remember that I was travelling in a loose-knit group of around a dozen westerners when I arrived in Herat. As a woman alone I was something of a novelty, and in fact I usually attached myself to one of the men in the group. The Afghans could not cope with a woman travelling alone; it was too much of a culture shock, they thought I must have a husband. So I obliged, and it made life considerably easier. We rarely saw any Afghan women, and when we did, they were swathed from head to foot in black, something none of us had seen before at that time. Unfortunately I know little of their life.

After a short stop in Herat we caught the bus to Kabul; a long, slow, overland trip. But it was worth it; Kabul was wonderful. There were wide streets, and shops selling colourful carpets, rugs, and coats. There were hotels, simple but with beautiful gardens and grounds. Friendly people thronged the streets on foot or bicycle. And there was the then well-known Khyber Restaurant, which sold European food, and after months in Asia, many of us had dreamed of a familiar meal which wouldn’t make us ill. I had an iron stomach in those days, but even I had got sick on local Afghan food, usually prepared without refrigeration in the height of summer.

Yes, overall Kabul was a friendly, laidback, exotic place, totally different from home, but with just enough western influence to make it a good place to rest. We may have considered ourselves to be adventurers, but Afghanistan in 1969 was a little too much of an adventure for many. I absolutely loved Kabul. I was sad to leave it, but I wanted to get on to India. And I was so sure, so absolutely certain, that one day I would go back to this lovely city.

But I never did, since new towns and countries beckoned. And now of course I doubt if I ever will. Even if I do, Kabul has changed beyond all recognition; I know that, even if only from news reports. I sometimes wonder what happened to the Noor Hotel where we stayed, with its peaceful garden, to the Khyber Restaurant, to those friendly shopkeepers with their colourful wares.

I will never know but, for me, what has happened to Afghanistan is especially poignant, for I knew it when it was so very different.

 First published in VISA 87 (Oct 2009)