Mashhad stays behind, if everything works out well, we will see each other again in a few months on the way back. Maybe still euphoric, maybe disappointed, but certainly changed. Apparently, there is no other country able to captivate visitors in such a way - and change them forever in the process.
But right now there is no going back, only going forward, and now for the first time things are getting really exciting. Because Afghanistan is calling, it's very close. Afghanistan, an unknown land, wild, untamed, of incomparable beauty, inhabited by people who seem to remain in the Middle Ages.
Our emotions are ambivalent - full of anticipation and yet with a certain respect for what is waiting for us there in the untamed country.
We will see …
Turbans, flowing pants and veils
We drive relaxingly past the last Persian villages in the direction of the Afghan border. The route is long, longer than the longest stretch of Switzerland, and it leads once again through mountainous, parched landscape, and one wonders how people can exist in this hostile area.
The characteristic adobe houses now have a different shape than in western Iran. Now there are only domed round roofs, courtyards, and mud buildings. The men now wear ornate turbans and wide flowing pants, while the women - if they can be recognized as such - are no longer to be found on the street without a veil.
Different civilisations, different cultures meet here, which are sometimes better, sometimes worse able to coexist.
A wagon circle like in the Wild West
Fortunately there is one last Iranian gas station with super gasoline just short of the border. This is not really surprising, because after the border you can only get the extremely bad Afghan gasoline, actually of Russian origin, the "Shurevie" petrol. It will make life difficult for us for some time and cause additional problems for our already weak little engine.
The border is being closed at 19 p.m., as to why, the gods, or at least Mohammed or Allah himself, know. So it's time to spend another night at the Iranian border station. For this purpose (you never know) we form a genuine wagon fortress in Wild West style, set up our cars in a semicircle, three VW buses and a cute Döschwo.
A border policeman, just having finished work and apparently not yet in the mood to go home, sits down in the car with us. We play Joker, a game that I am unusually good at, and so after losing a few rounds, the policeman gives up quite angry and goes to sleep or wherever.
A memorable border crossing
It's not the first time that we've come into contact with the notorious Asian border rituals. Just think of the border between Türkiye and Iran which had already led to nervous unrest.
But this tops everything. On the Iranian side, things are still quite harmless. After a good hour we are dismissed by exceptionally friendly and courteous border officials with good wishes for the onward journey. Strangely enough, there are about seven kilometers of no man's land between the two border posts, but these few kilometers separate worlds.
Many years later I will experience this phenomenon many times, but never as blatantly as on the border between Vietnam and Cambodia. The chapter is therefore named "And suddenly this silence".
The differences between the two neighboring countries are striking (again, an example from later in life - Laos and China. On the Iranian side prosperity, progress, education (a cynical statement, considering today's circumstances), on the other side of the border an enormous visible poverty and underdevelopment, as we have encountered so far at most in Eastern Turkey.
On the Iranian side modern buildings, paved roads, Western-style offices, elegantly dressed customs officials, on the other side it is difficult to decide which of the half-ruined buildings might be the customs and border building.
The right officer
A soldier, if that's what he is, in a really gruesome uniform and a shaved, rather ugly skull (a blueprint for any real punk a few years later) directs us to one of the larger buildings off the street.
The track there can at best be driven at walking pace, if you don't want to be confronted with damaged joints at an early stage. The road, if it can be called one, consists essentially of ditches and holes, with hill-like bumps in between. Unsurprisingly, there are no paved roads away from the main ones in this country. We will experience this a little later for ourselves.
Somehow, grunting and groaning, we manage to drive our cars to the customs building, but there another problem arises - who belongs to the customs officials and who doesn't? Numerous figures dressed in turbans and wide skirts are standing around in the courtyard and inside the building, of which no one knows exactly what they are doing here or whether they have any function at all.
Well, Allah is great, and so one of the figures reveals himself as a customs officer and puts a piece of paper into our hands, whereby it should be noted that the piece of paper must first be obtained somewhere. Anyway, after successfully procuring the document, the gentleman, after a superficial inspection of our car, scribbles a few illegible characters on the piece of paper and leaves.
Kafka and the Castle
Unfortunately, this is the way it is, as we will experience many times in the coming weeks. What is clear at first glance is anything but clear. In connection with the border crossing to Afghanistan in particular.
We are now sent from Pontius to Pilate and back again. Nobody seems to know what to do, because our questions, slowly getting a bit indignant, are not answered, because unfortunately nobody speaks a word of English.
And it's lunchtime, so the first thing to do is to eat, and the second thing to rest. Or whatever the gentlemen do at that time. In any case, it takes two hours before the gentlemen feel at ease to return to their offices and deal with the impossible problems of a few long-haired tourists.
Well, you might say that the running of the gauntlet has no apparent reason, but it ultimately produces something like meaning in the whole pointless theater. Once again, Franz Kafka has created the blueprint for every kind of bureaucratic meaninglessness with his "Castle". Finally, with a quiet sigh of relief, we firmly believe that everything is now in order and head for the exit.
And no wonder, a soldier rejects us in a friendly but very firm manner, because the vaccination certificate has apparently not yet been checked.
A truly educated doctor
Now follows the third part of the tragedy.
The "physician" examining our vaccination certificates with his professional magnifying glass has hardly ever seen the inside of a doctor's office or a hospital. But he is convinced of his importance and lets us feel it with pleasure. This is also called the exercise of power.
Anyway, we will be encountering this phenomenon a few more times, and the most important thing to learn from it is humility. Don't get angry, don't freak out, don't display the infamous Western superiority. Just smile, even if it hurts, always nod servilely, then the situation usually relaxes.
This is true, but in today's case the display of humility causes more than just pain. The doctor takes the liberty of nagging at our vaccination cards, just as if he were the only authority capable of judging such things.
Of course, even clueless souls like us understand that he is out for a baksheesh. But since our patience has sunk to zero in the meantime - after all, we've been here for several hours - he's done the math without the host. We are so upset that we almost wring the good doctor's educated neck.
And back to the exit again, this time in the firm conviction that everything is now really in order. Well, we are in Asia, in one of the places where everything is possible, or everything is impossible.
In short - we are turned down yet another time, this time it's the liability insurance. This problem can also be solved with the very last remaining nerves - and eureka! The inconceivable happens and we are allowed to pass.
Herat in the desert
Despite the excessively long procedure at the border, we are indeed able to arrive at the first large city in Afghanistan, Herat, during daylight. The road is surprisingly asphalted, a first positive surprise. Hopefully not the last.
Herat, the capital of Herat province and the country's second largest city after Kabul, has a long history. Located in the middle of the desert, it used to be a lively trading town on the Silk Road from Europe to Asia.
Wiki comments:
Alexander the Great conquered the city in 330 BC and turned it into a military base called Alexandria in Aria. The famous citadel of the city was built during this period. The region around Herat was conquered by the native Parthians after the fall of the Seleucids - the foundation of the powerful Parthian Empire started from here.
With the fall of the Persian Sassanids, Herat became part of the Muslim Caliphate. The Samanids later made Herat a royal city and turned it into a center of Persian art, culture and literature
Witness of a glorious past
Today Herat has largely lost its former importance, but a mosque and a fort still bear witness to its glorious past. Much of this nearly obscures the wonders of Mashhad.
Herat is an ancient city with many historical monuments. Most of the buildings are made of mud bricks. The recently rebuilt citadel of Herat, built under Alexander the Great, dominates the view of the city. In the 15th to 17th centuries, Herat was also known as the Florence of Asia. (wiki)
Herat was apparently a center of the Persian-Muslim cultural world for a long time.
Did we know that? Of course not. We have to admit that once again we are clueless. Afghanistan is far away, farther than our historical and geographical lessons have covered. Who is interested in the rich past of an unknown country somewhere in deepest Asia when the battle of Näfels (deep in the heart of Switzerland) is much more important.
At least we get some details (many of them much later). For example, that the city is known for its important art and literary tradition. And that Herat has also gained some fame for its hand-knotted Persian carpets. Therefore, one speaks of the Herat Style, named after the city.It is one of the most expensive and well-known of its kind.
Car parking
As a tourist - who would have guessed - you have no problems finding accommodation. The Hippie Trail has also left its mark here. Everywhere there are billboards pointing to cheap car parking facilities or the like.
After all the peculiar overnight stays during the last weeks, we finally end up very satisfied in a huge park of a hotel in the middle of well-kept gardens and trees. We wonder, however, for whom this effort is being made, since we are the only guests. And that might be the reason why we are welcomed with exuberant friendliness, as if we were the kings of France.
Not surprisingly, we are enjoying the amenities in extremis. Warm water, no noisy neighbors or trucks thundering past, infrastructure for everything and everyone. That's the way we might put up with it. After an extremely pleasant night, the next morning it's time to conquer the unknown city. Which, not surprisingly, is done with a Gaudi (see below).
Gaudi and brightly decorated trucks
The city reminds of the car-free Sundays during the oil crisis. No cars on the street, but instead plenty of pedestrians. Very pleasant and very relaxing.
Apart from the colorfully decorated trucks, only the so-called Gaudis can be seen on the streets. These are two-wheeled vehicles pulled by a horse.
It's distantly reminiscent of old times not so long ago. But we will encounter this frequently over the next few weeks.
Later, many years later, I will think of this so-called discrony, in Ladakhwith the monasteries and their direct connection to heaven. It seems as if you have fallen out of time, as if you have landed in a time that has long since passed.
Sometimes it is irritating, even a bit frightening, but always surprising and of a pleasant otherness. One might say that here in Herat, for the first time, we are in a place that is beyond all previous imagination.
A very foreign country
We are now right in the heart of a very foreign country. One might have assumed that the two neighboring countries of Iran and Afghanistan would not differ all that much, but far from it. It is difficult for us outsiders to understand whether the different religious orientation - Sunnis here, Shiites there - or the very different economic status play a decisive role.
The fact is that the more extreme manifestations of the Islam are seen more often here. Women are consistently wearing the Burka, the garment designed to completely conceal the body.
Again a deep dive into the Wikipedia knowledge box:
The Afghan burqa (full body veil is called in Afghanistan as a چادرى Chaderi and the headscarf as chador Chadar) consists of a large cloth with a flat cap sewn onto the top. Sometimes an elastic band is sewn into the forehead area. A kind of grid made of fabric or horsehair is incorporated into the eye area as a viewing window. The face is completely covered in the Afghan burqa. The fabric throw either reaches to the floor in the back and to the hips in the front or falls to the floor all around. The garment was created by combining a body veil with a face veil.
The men wear their traditional garments, a turban, artfully wrapped, with long billowing pants and a kind of shirt reaching down to the knees. Depending on the mood or the weather, many men also wear a vest or jacket.
Of course, everything is worn with great dignity. It is not surprising that after a short time we already develop quite a respect.
The city of the rascals
The call of the muezzin wakes us from a deep sleep, we crawl up from the mud of unconsciousness. The first night in a foreign country. Irritating, somehow surreal. Birds greet the morning jubilantly, I hope for them that there is something to jubilate about.
Later, we cheerfully board one of the waiting Gaudis and let ourselves be driven through the city. Senses open, we let the foreign flavors, images, sounds of the city sink in. Basically, everything is brown. The houses. The streets, the alleys, the backyards. The dust that covers everything. Monochromatic.
But there are indeed colors. Surprising and yet not. Because the local trade has adapted to the demand of the tourists.
Walking Afghan Coats
At every corner, smaller and larger stores invite you to enter, to shop, to bargain. Their offer of local craftsmanship, some contemporary, others from the deepest past, perfectly aligns with the tastes of the young tourists: Fur rugs, carpets, jewelry, old weapons and other antiques, boots and, of course, Afghan coats in unmissable quantity and quality.
Our traveling companions, apparently full of respect for the expected cold in the northern realms of the country, allow themselves to be talked into dressing. One might think that we are making a trip to the Arctic.
After the trade has taken place, it is no exaggeration to say that there are six solid walking Afghan coats. However, they do not stand out much, because every second tourist looks the same.
It may well be that their caution will pay off, as the frosty nights in Kabul, of which returnees have been whispering, might yet hold some unpleasant surprises in store..
We will see. But it certainly looks nice, even if it takes a little time getting used to.
Towers and Mosques
A light breeze is blowing as we are approaching the city's true sights. Sometimes you get the impression that there are things beyond mundane reality. There are works of art and works of art, these here belong to the category of eternal legacies of human creativity.
The outer walls of the mosque alone are a feast for the eyes, and one wonders which artists were at work here. The eye can hardly get enough, and again and again the thought arises as to how much these works of art contrast with the profane everyday life of today.
But so we just stand there, amazed and open-mouthed, hardly believing what Islamic art has left to the world.
The strangers are guests
Something stands out immediately - unlike many Iranians, the locals in Herat are friendly and restrained. It seems that honor and tradition demand to treat the strangers, however strange they may seem, as guests.
But perhaps the reality is much more mundane: they simply don't give a damn about the strange people who have appeared in their city by chance. So they don't even pay attention, unless they want to do some business with them. And there are a number of them.
Including the money business.
Bank officials and other crooks
However, friendliness and restraint do not apply everywhere. For example, when inexperienced foreigners, who are apparently denied any intelligence, stand in front of the bank counter and want to change money.
So as a customer, you enter a bank to change dollars into Afghanis. In itself, this is a simple and familiar story. Not so here in Herat (and all future places in this country as well). The clerk, with a dismissive grim expression on his face, as if he had eaten something bad, calculates the appropriate amount and counts the bills in Afghani on the counter.
During the waiting time - the queue is long - you have the opportunity to watch his tricks, which could not be more clumsy, but still work. When counting the money out, he is mistaken and always in his favor.
In fact, the solution is quite simple. You take the packet of notes - there are many of them - and count them through again in front of the official's eyes, very slowly of course. The bank clerk's angry look tells everything. Because the amount is not correct. There are notes missing, not many, but nevertheless.
So you return the bundle of notes, he grimly counts a second time, adds a few notes. And this time it's right. At least almost. But the victory is so overwhelming that you generously overlook the small still lacking amount and can't help a triumphal grin.
So much for these unnecessary petty wars. You have to participate whether you want to or not.
Bargaining and drinking tea
But after all, we are here in the Orient, where no product, even if it is only a handful of apples, no service, has a fixed price. Where everything and anything must first be bargained for. And as a European, accustomed to fixed rules and prices, you have to get used to that first. In any case, it takes time to overcome the inner blockade and become a professional haggler yourself.
Of course, the street vendors are also shrews who never miss an opportunity to rip off a customer. But they do so with a certain mischievous nonchalance.
And so you suddenly find yourself sitting on the floor drinking tea as the oriental carpet trade moves on to the next phase. After all, when the traders realize that you're a tough negotiator and won't accept the first price that's set way too high, that's when the real game begins. The outcome of which is clear from the start.
The sly grin on his face shows that although the dealer always wins in the end, he wants to give the customer the impression that he has won. After all, he's supposed to come back.
This is probably what the psychology of everyday reality says
So the day passes, we would like to stay, to immerse ourselves in the soul of this strange place that evokes so much. But we have to go on, there are more than 1000 kilometers to Kabul through desert and wasteland. At least we are comforted by the thought that we will meet again on the way home.
Song from 1974: Supertramp - Crime of the Century
And here the trail continues… in the Afghan desert
