Back in Kabul

After a great break in the French Alps (La Clusaz and Chamonix), Katie and I are back in Kabul --- until our next break. Perhaps the next trip will be Thailand and the Philippines.

Here's the text of the Canoe and Kayak story:

By Jason Straziuso

Amir Shah pulls me out of Katie’s earshot and explains in a hurried whisper the sudden change of plans.

“Mr. Jason, I was thinking it’s safer to stay here than Ghorband. This is Hazara area--100 percent safe,” says Amir, my colleague, trusted guide, and an ethnic Hazara. “The district chief said don’t even drive through Ghorband at night. It’s Pashtun area, somebody could plant a mine.”

“This area 100 percent safe,” he says again, underscoring with deep emphasis the numerical portion of his prediction.

One hundred percent safe is a forecast few would ascribe to this Afghanistan adventure, a canoe trip on two remote waterways 10 bone-jarring hours northwest of Kabul. I work in Afghanistan as a writer for the Associated Press, but Katie, my fiancé and longtime paddling partner, has just arrived. Her strangest piece of luggage is a suitcase-sized bundle of telescoping poles and red canvas that, with an hour’s effort, will become a 15-foot Pakboat canoe.

Our paddling plan was hatched at a Halloween party in the Afghan capital a few months before. I masked myself in a Patagonia PFD, and, much to my surprise, I wasn’t the party’s only paddler. Aid worker and avid kayaker Will Van De Berg arrived in a PFD too, and he spent the evening extolling the virtues of Afghanistan’s rivers. I bought his pitch and began investigating where Katie and I might safely paddle. I settled on two remote rivers that likely hadn’t been canoed in years--if ever.

Amir Shah agreed to be our guide, and it’s no exaggeration to say that our lives are in his hands. The first region we visited, Bamiyan, is home to the Hazara people--an ethnic minority that suffered cruelly from Taliban massacres—and is therefore insulated from violence. But we also plan to paddle near Ghorband, an area populated by Pashtun, the ethnic group from which the Taliban draws its fighters. And camping anywhere in Afghanistan is beyond dangerous. In fall 2006, two German journalists were murdered while sleeping in a tent just north of Bamiyan. Their mistake: not securing permission from local powerbrokers, a capital offense we were determined not to repeat.

* * *

Children everywhere are drawn to spectacle. Standing beside a bubbly stream in Afghanistan’s arid central highlands, Katie and I clearly qualify as one: two Westerners snapping together long aluminum poles, the skeleton of our collapsible canoe. Quietly but steadily, pairs of muddy sneakers gather ‘round. We are in Bamiyan, the central mountain town known for two massive Buddhas carved into the valley’s sandstone cliffs sometime around the sixth century. The monuments still inspire awe, even after the Taliban dynamited them six months prior to the 2001 U.S. invasion. Three weeks of blasting rendered the Buddhas almost unrecognizable, satisfying the Taliban’s slavish devotion to the most radical reading of Islamic law and symbolizing the regime’s stubborn defiance.

Soon our canoe is ready. I grab the bow and step into the stream, a latte-colored mix of snowmelt. “Uh-oh,” I say aloud, as it hits me that the narrow waterway may be too shallow to paddle.

But in a remarkable display of mind-reading and English prowess, one of the 12-year-old boys milling about points downstream and says, “It’s deep, the water is deep.” The beta is reassuring; the fact he even knows that word floors me. As a reward for his guidance, we put him in the canoe and I gently ferry upstream. His death grip on the gunwales betrays his apprehension over this newfound adventure; his wide smile expresses his joy.

Katie and I take off down the narrow ribbon of water accompanied by a dozen of our new friends jogging on river right. Men in the fields, some behind ox-powered plows, greet us with stares of astonishment. But it’s neither the men nor the kids who seize my attention.

Our stream is a back alleyway through the hidden lives of Afghan women. With dishes and clothes at their side, they huddle in twos and threes along both banks the entire length of our route, scrubbing and talking. We see more women in our hour-long paddle than we have in two days in the streets of Bamiyan.

Ruled by a culture that doesn’t allow any interaction with males outside the family, the women, scarves covering their heads, stare at us shyly. Few say anything, and even when we get a short hello it is directed at Katie. After a year in Afghanistan, I know better than to wave or speak to an Afghan woman, especially in the conservative countryside. One of Will’s Halloween tales pops into my head: After he solo-kayaked a river to our south, Afghan men complained to U.S. troops that an American in a boat had been spying on their women.

Our stream bends in such a way that people hundreds of yards downriver see us coming. At one sharp corner a man in his 30s asks to get in, and we paddle him downstream 200 yards. The tight turns call for active bow work from Katie. The more cautious of us, she frequently scouts ahead. On one of those short missions a 60-year-old man with no teeth approaches with a big smile, shakes my hands and tells me, using some of the only words in Dari I know, that the “river is good.” I take this to mean it’s safe.

The Buddhas loom to our left, 180- and 121-foot ghosts from a time now past. Earlier in the day Katie, Amir Shah, and I toured the Buddhas with Ramin, a smiling 28-year-old with Afghanistan’s Ministry of Culture. While walking along the base of the cliffside carvings, we came upon a gully lined with red and white painted rocks--the international symbol for a minefield. Ramin crossed first and warned us to be careful, saying that mines may have migrated downhill. I told Katie to plant her feet exactly where he’s already stepped.

“They’re going to have to get rid of more of these mines before this becomes a tourist attraction,” Katie said with only a hint of irony in her voice.

We climbed the circular staircase that spirals up beside what’s left of the female Buddha. From the height of the Buddha’s head we took in the whole of Bamiyan’s wide valley--the yellow grasses covering its mud floor, the deep red clay streaks through the cliff-side walls, and the 14,000-foot snow-covered peaks that tower in the distance. Zigzagging through the middle of that serene portrait was the muddy waterway Katie and I would later paddle--our first canoe trip through a war zone.

* * *

Canoeing has been our bond from day one. Katie and I met at Camp Manito-wish, a northern Wisconsin summer camp whose traditions are rooted in long-distance canoe travel. I led campers on two-week trips through Canada’s Quetico Provincial Park. Katie solo-led the camp’s signature trip--35 days paddling through northern Saskatchewan with six high school girls. She spent 12 years at Manito-wish, and I’m not afraid to admit she’s the superior paddler.

Our first date was a daytrip down Wisconsin’s Wolf River; last summer I slipped a diamond ring on her left hand while on bended knee in an Old Town Tripper on Maine’s St. Croix. In between we paddled the Youghiogheny in Pennsylvania and the New River in West Virginia, but our trip through Bamiyan is our first whitewater run since an hour’s outing down Maine’s Sheepscot, a swift Class III that underscored our differences. With me in the stern--our usual arrangement--I aimed for every pillow and spray of water for maximum adrenaline. She preferred we execute pinpoint turns through the boulder fields to showcase our skill and leave our bottom scuff-free.

In Bamiyan, by contrast, we’re completely in sync. Katie crossbow draws on cue, or even without cue, to help us twist through the tributary’s tight turns. Our adrenaline is high, paddling in a foreign land on a pushy stream, and we’re extra cautious as we feel out our Pakcanoe, which, while a capable craft, doesn’t respond as quickly as a Royalex with a bit of rocker might.

It’s almost dinnertime, and we’ve hit the golden hour--a fading sun that bathes the surrounding cliffs in deep amber, the time of day that gives people a last burst of energy before nightfall. The Buddhas, on our left, add to the magic. To our right, the high peaks glow bright white, a sign of deep snow cover.

Though the scenery is amazing, gritty realities of Afghan life are ever-present. Milk containers, soda cans, and plastic bags decorate the branches of stream-side trees. And the smell—like that of a freshly fertilized field—reminds me that the human waste from the mud-home compounds we pass likely trickles into our tributary. On top of that, the farmers are spreading fertilizer of the human variety on their fields. We have plenty of incentive not to capsize.

Near the end of our hour-long run, two boys no older than six call us to river left where they eagerly climb in. We are directly in front of the female Buddha, and we’ve gathered a crowd. After 100 yards we deposit the boys on shore where we find a horde of others eager to climb in. We point the bow upstream and paddle in place to give some of our fans a short ride. The switch-outs are chaotic. Every time we pull up to the bank, five pairs of tiny hands grab the gunwale until I shout “Nay!”—“no” in Dari--as loud as I can. With help from Amir Shah we get the “only two at a time” message across, whereupon I immediately yell “Bishi! Bishi!” or “Sit! Sit!” It’s the closest we come to tipping.

The kids swarm around as we pack up. Amir Shah, who has been taking photos, continues to snap away, and he later shows me one of my favorite images of the trip: an Afghan boy of perhaps eight years sitting in our canoe on land, stroking a paddle through the air and smiling deliriously.

* * *

The next morning we leave Bamiyan and head toward Ghorband, driving away from our comfortable cliff-side hotel with an unparalleled view of the Buddhas. It remains unspoken, but we all also know we are leaving the safety net provided by this Hazara community.

On the road we pass groups of women wearing bright blue burqas, perhaps on their way to a funeral. The mud houses hugging the side of the valley look 1,000 years old—their only modern amenity is brightly painted windows. Rusted green Russian tanks lay on the roadside every 20 miles--remnants of the failed 1980s Soviet occupation.

I pull out my GPS unit and tell Amir Shah we’ve dropped 1,000 feet from Bamiyan’s 8,100-foot elevation, explaining to him how satellites pinpoint our position. A jolly 49-year-old with a graying beard, tightly cropped hair, and the hint of a potbelly, Amir Shah is a father figure for me. An ethnic Hazara, his face carries wisps of eastern Asia. He picked up his broken English as a taxi driver who quickly learned that visiting journalists pay well.

He eventually worked his way into a staff position for The Associated Press. Huddled in the basement of the AP’s Kabul office as American bombs fell around the city in 2001, Amir Shah used a digital camera and satellite phone to relay the story to the world—an illegal act that could have gotten him executed. The AP rewarded his bravery with its highest employee honor in 2002. Nonetheless, he still exudes wonder at my GPS. “Ooh, that is very high technology,” he says. “The satellites are staying in the sky by balloons or something? In all of Afghanistan we do not have technology like this.”

We take a fork in the road and start climbing again, topping out at 9,600 feet over a pass east of Bamiyan. Beside us is a trickle that will empty into our next river. As we hurtle down the mountain, Amir Shah first raises his doubts about sleeping in Ghorband village, the Pashtun enclave for which the Ghorband River is named. Before our trip Amir Shah told me we could safely stay with the top government administrator there. But now, at the final fork in the road, he lobbies for a right turn 15 miles up a side valley, to Lolange, the last Hazara village.

Amir Shah dances around the issue, but it soon becomes clear our Hazara friend has no interest in bedding down with Pashtuns. After a short debate, Katie and I agree to the change. The options—a mine being laid specifically for us (Ghorband) and “100 percent safe” (Lolange)—make for easy choosing.

Lolange’s 53-year-old district chief, Ali Jan Hashami, warmly welcomes us at his newly built government center, a U.S.-funded project. Hashami’s eyes smile a profound happiness, giving a comfort to Katie she rarely felt on our trip.
We sit on a floor of red pillows, drink tea, and talk about the recent flooding here. Hashami warns us that the Ghorband is very fast. Afghanistan is in the midst of the wettest spring in 50 years, which accounts for the wicked, half-mile-long sets of Class IV-V rapids we’d seen along the lower river. We explain to Hashami that we have PFDs and a lot of experience and that we would find a manageable section to paddle.

“Yes, but you can still hit your head on the rocks,” he says. Seeing our determination, he offers to drive us up the Lolange, a tributary of the Ghorband, to scout the river.
Lolange’s valley is lush green and spiced with flowering apricot, mulberry, and apple trees. Dusty mountain peaks tower overhead. Its river is swift and gnarly, and Katie and I immediately judge the gradient too steep. We continue upriver until we come upon a typical Afghan cemetery--dirt mounds marked by stones and colorful cloths tied to long sticks, the symbol for a martyr. Hashami stops the car. In 1997, he says, Taliban fighters invaded the region. Though the Hazaras put up resistance, eventually their front line broke and the Pashtun militants entered town. Some men fled, but the Taliban gave chase and killed them--32 in all, including Hashami’s younger brother. The story is a stark illustration of Amir Shah’s deep desire to avoid nightfall in Ghorband.
“My brother was so young, 22,” Hashami said with a sad sigh, the spark in his eyes fading.

* * *

The next morning, the news on the radio is of six Canadian soldiers killed by a roadside bomb in southern Afghanistan. An Afghan translator kidnapped along with an Italian journalist was executed in the same dangerous region, grim reminders that despite the appearance of normalcy—already at 7 a.m., young boys wearing identical backpacks crowd the door of a nearby schoolhouse—ours is no ordinary camping trip.

Soon we are driving alongside the Ghorband, looking for a paddleable section. This river, too, is a muddy brown, and whitewater curdles on its many curves. Eventually we find a decent stretch and reassemble our Pakcanoe, again gathering an eager audience. A man warns us of danger ahead, pointing downstream at a sub-Class I ripple.

Our paddling is smooth at the beginning and the wide waterway is a welcome change from yesterday’s narrow tributary.

We pass an Afghan walking on river left with a hunting rifle. I’m relieved it’s not an AK-47, the Taliban weapon of choice. Minutes later we pass a herd of goats 100 strong. Will claims a first descent of the Ghorband on a stretch downriver--the section now swamped in roiling whitewater. We are three to four hours up the valley--and upriver of Ghorband village.

Katie is clearly on edge, both because of the water level and ethnic concerns. We execute one eddy turn well, but on our second my sweep stroke is ineffective, and we hang up sideways for a few precious moments. The glitch adds to Katie’s anxiety.
We’re on a pushy, oversized river with no takeout points, limited scouting, in an unfamiliar soft-sided canoe, and surrounded by potentially hostile Pashtun tribesmen. And now she’s lost confidence in her sternman.

From our short scouting trip we know there is a vicious drop ahead that neither one of us wants to attempt. We’ve paddled less than an hour, drawing astonished gawkers from all sides, but we decide we’ve had enough, and carry our canoe out through a grove of trees.

Our mission even fails to charm the local children. While driving the river road Amir Shah invites three boys to ride in our boat, but the oldest responds: “No, they are infidels,” the kind of invective one might expect from an Osama bin Laden video.

We strap the red canoe on top of our SUV and head into Ghorband village, where we again are clearly a spectacle. Everyone whips their heads around to catch a look, and by everyone I mean the men and boys. The women of Pashtun societies--the most conservative of Afghanistan’s tribes--are sentenced to life behind mud compound walls, and as few women as we saw in Bamiyan, there are simply none here.

We stop at the town’s teahouse and climb the rickety wooden steps to the second floor balcony. An old man with freckles and wisps of red hair greets Katie with the most loathsome look I have seen one human being give another. I attempt to diffuse his anger by uttering every greeting I can remember in Dari. “How are you? How is your health? Is your body OK? Is everything going all right?” Finally he breaks out in a smile, the sign I’d been looking for. It’s almost certain he’s laughing at my ridiculous pronunciation, but I hope somewhere he’s laughing at the idiocy of Afghan traditions, which demand that, “Hello, how are you?” be said five different ways before the conversation can progress.

Once inside we sit with crossed legs on an elevated floor, and young boys serve plates of rice and meat. I brought a jar of peanut butter to spread on the delicious flat Afghan bread. The old man is mildly annoyed. “My food is very clean,” he tells us. I stick with the peanut butter anyway and even offer him a bite. His other customers tell him it will likely kill him, but he gamely tries some. His expression tells me he’s not a fan, but his attempt fills the restaurant with laughter and dusts off some of my worry from our encounter outside.

We leave the canoe on top of the SUV for the drive home, ensuring we will be greeted with pointing arms and long stares the rest of the trip. An old man scans the length of the boat in an obvious effort to figure out what it is. Then two boys cover their heads as we drive by, sending Amir Shah into a minute-long laughing fit. “They think it’s a coffin,” he sputters between gasps. “They think the canoe is a coffin.” It seems it is superstition among Afghan children to cover one’s head as a coffin passes, lest the spirit of the dead invade their body.

Perhaps that only makes sense. In a land still struggling through 30 years of war—beset by hunger, poor medical care, and horrific child mortality rates— even Afghans who have lived their whole lives beside a mountain-fed river mistake a canoe for a casket.