When you find yourself in the desert, facing this endless sea of almost nothing, you realize again how small you are, what a ridiculously vulnerable human being is. And today is one of those days where we actually feel small and pretty much alone.
But first things first.
The total distance to Kabul exceeds 1000 kilometers, mostly across inhospitable surroundings, along dead straight roads, where the eye gets lost in the same thing over and over again, where one is seized by a strange tiredness.
We intend to divide the route into three sections. That this will turn out to be a bad idea, we do not yet know on this cool, autumn-tinged morning.
Refueling in Herat
But before we start, we have to fill the fuel tanks, who knows what surprises are waiting for us. And we don't want to have a problem due to a lack of gasoline.
However, that is easier said than done. Because you can't get the good Iranian petrol anywhere, only this stinking stuff from Russia, this Shurewy Petrol or whatever this thing is called.
And another difficulty arises, which no one expected (although we should have known that after our experiences at the bank, not to mention all the previous warnings).
Anyway, Ueli is the first victim and doesn't realize right away that he's being scammed. His example shows how the dirty tricks work. So – the bill is 210 Afghanis. So you pay with two hundreds and one ten. Unfortunately, the two notes look almost identical, so a template for every attempt at fraud.
The service station attendant collects the three bills, changes one of the two hundreds into a twenty at lightning speed and without anyone noticing. Then he complains in a friendly and almost bashful manner that he has only received 130 Afghanis. Oh sorry, you say apologetically, and obediently exchange the twenty for a hundred. And that's the end of the scam! After all, eighty Afghanis for the gas station attendant. With so many clueless tourists, it must be a good business.
And by the way – at the next gas station in the desert, exactly the same thing happens again, and then, only then, do we – and Ueli – see the light. But you never stop learning.
Driving through the endless desert
A look at the map shows the extent of the wasteland surrounding us.
To be precise, it is a so-called semi-desert, i.e. lots of stones and sand and occasionally a few dried-up camel thistles in between. One wonders how the camels manage to eat these prickly things. Another mystery, one of many that will accompany us in the course of the next few days and weeks.
Lawrence of Arabia
Can one think of the desert without Lawrence of Arabia arising in front of the inner eye? The Nefud, the misanthropic desert that Lawrence had to cross with his Bedouins to chase out the Turks in Aqaba? That's how it appears to us today, not quite as hostile to life as the Nefud, but frighteningly empty and forbidding.
A milestone in film history. An all-time favorite that still inspires. And yes, many years later a similar experience – in Vietnam .
Trucks and Caravans
The road runs for a long time dead straight towards the blurred horizon. A concrete runway of Russian design, very pleasant to drive, every few meters it makes a barely perceptible bounce. So that's how it is, the neighbor from the north is not only present with gasoline but also with roads. And yes, we know what this has resulted in the end. Just four years later, the Soviet Union made it clear who called the shots in the country and invaded the defenseless country.
However, like many enemies before and after, they forgot the country's incomparable capacity for resistance, which time and again managed to stand up to the conquerors. The fact that the mujaheddin were actively supported with many weapons by the Americans in their resistance against the Russians is another story. It shows how political influence coupled with a certain simplicity can lead to the opposite of what was actually intended (see Vietnam, see Iraq).
But that was back then, in the distant 1974, a story that played a minor role in driving through the Afghan desert.
Every now and then, a rare occurrence in the desert, a local truck, packed not only with equipment but also with passengers hanging like barnacles from the car. Public transport? No way. For the people living in the desert, these trucks are the only means to get from one place to another. For us it is simply unimaginable what it must be like to wait for hours in the burning sun at the roadside in order to find a ride at some point with a bit of luck.
And then, unexpectedly and like a slowly moving phantom, a caravan. Camels, donkeys, women fully veiled, men in their traditional clothes. And children. Their dark eyes stay on us, their expression seems to ask who we are, what we are doing here, where our path is leading us.
We probably don't know ourselves.
Obolus
The only change in the monotonous driving along seemingly endless tracks is provided by the road tolls. Every hundred kilometers or so, a toll has to be paid. So you are stopped by, as always, grim-looking soldiers, the car has to be parked and then it's a matter of looking for the cash register.
Which sounds easier than it is.
Because sometimes the "office" where you have to pay the fee is located in a dark cave. Hooded figures sitting on the floor, you can see little, understand even less, but at some point it becomes clear that you have to fill out a form that will probably be thrown away eventually.
And then you pay some money, different from place to place, probably it's the local head of town defining the amount. And of course you get ripped off here, too, but we've long since gotten used to that. What you can't change anyway, you had better accept. Everything else belongs to different worlds.
Girishk
In the late afternoon the sky becomes colourful, more yellow, the sun disappears at the other end of the horizon and leaves a warm trail of light and color in its wake, until these too dissolve and darkness spreads.
We arrive in Girishk a small inconspicuous town in the middle of the desert, and park our cars in front of a gate, hoping that a police station or something similar is behind it. The place seems as dead as the moon shining brightly down on the hazy landscape. But no light in the village, no sound, just a few scurrying figures that suddenly silently move around our cars.
Initially, it remains quiet, until then, however, a few men are willing to talk to us. A big palaver starts, some of them find it acceptable if we spend the night here, others are skeptical because they can't guarantee our safety. And so the discussion enters the next round, while our interlocutors are eating in peace and seem to enjoy the situation.
After seemingly endless discussions leading nowhere, we decide, unnerved, to drive the remaining 120 kilometers to Kandahar.
In Convoy to Kandahar
Our headlights break through the darkness, only the silent moon accompanies our way through the nocturnal desert. Sometimes a glimmer of light on the horizon, maybe a nomad's tent, a house, a stable, something animate in the inanimate world.
It seems to us as if we are rushing noiselessly through the night, and yet the night seems to be full of sounds. But they are imagination, there is nothing to produce a sound, there is no insect, no runaway donkey, not even the yelp of a dog. It's just us and our car and the desert. Nothing else. Just the night.
Kandahar, after all one of the three largest cities in the country, announces itself from afar. The city shines in the middle of the desert like a great flickering light in the darkness. And indeed, busy streets welcome us, lights and houses and people on the street.
At the second attempt we find a hotel with a garden and a shower and everything else. And then it's just a matter of celebrating the day in the hotel's garden restaurant.
All tension has gone, we are hanging in the ropes, happy to have survived the day.
Song from 1974: Eric Clapton - Let it grow
And here the trail continues... in Kandahar and to Kabul
