'UP THE PANJSHER 2'
September 2005
Well, 'Up the Panjsher 2'! was a great success. Lovely weather - in fact almost too hot at times - the Panjsher Valley in all its breathtaking beauty, snow-streaked mountain peaks soaring into the blue, the eponymous river's green, ice-melt water foaming and churning its way down irresistibly as it has done since the start of time.
But to start at the beginning. The main party of 18 sturdy walkers, mostly women, left London Heathrow aboard PIA on Wednesday, August 24, 2005, arriving in Kabul the next day, one of them, Stina, minus the bag containing her walking boots. It never turned up but being a resourceful Yorkshire lady she made light of the problem, borrowed an old pair from my daughter Fiona, SGAA's consultant in Kabul, and got on with it, never grumbling once.
Another walker, Lorraine, from Manchester, whose late husband had watched my documentaries about the mujahideen war against the Russians, lost her telescopic walking stick but triumphed over this setback in true stiff upper lip style, and when the going got a bit rough later, happily mounted a donkey and then a horse, both for the first time.
We spent a couple of days in Kabul acclimatising and sightseeing, with Nancy Dupree, the omniscient and charming American scholar as our guide. Thanks to Nancy we managed for the first time to get inside the Bala Hissar, the historic fortress with fabulous walls; from there we drove through the remains of the old city and ended up in Babur's Garden, the Light Garden of the Angel King, now being beautifully restored by an international team with a grant from the Aga Khan. Next day Nancy took us to the Kabul Museum to see the near-miraculous work of restoration there, above all of the famous statue of King Kanishka in the entrance hall. Nancy stood on the steps beside it and described with anguished word and gesture how the Taliban Minister of Culture - an oxymoron if ever there was one - arrived one day with a sledgehammer and smashed the 3rd century masterpiece into what he no doubt imagined would be oblivion. He failed. It has been so lovingly and skilfully put back together again from hundreds of tiny pieces by the Museum's Afghan staff and experts from the Louvre that it is almost impossible to see the repairs.
We started, as we did on the first walk in 2003, by bus from Kabul across the vineyards of the Shomali Plain, a victim of Taliban scorched earth policy but now blooming again. Then via Charikar and Jebel Seraj to the entrance of the Panjsher Valley, where the road and river run through a narrow gorge which Masud blocked to stop the Taliban. We stopped for a picnic among the trees at Pul-i-Feraj and then walked along the south bank of the river until we came to the riverside mansion of Dr Abdullah, the Foreign Minister and an old friend, at Dashtaq. Our plans to stay there fell through and instead Colonel Muslim, our security adviser, arranged for us to camp in a beautiful spot overlooking the river beneath two enormous chenars [plane trees]. It was a good start to the walk and next day we continued along the south bank to Rokha where we crossed back to the north side and pressed on to the tomb of Ahmed Shah Masud, the famous guerrilla leader known as the Lion of the Panjsher, whom I first met and filmed in 1982. Masud was assassinated by al-Qaeda in 2001, just before 9/ll.
The tomb was being rebuilt and the once peaceful hilltop was like a building site, so my plan to give a talk there had to be shelved until the evening when we camped at nearby Jangalak, Masuds village, on a wide shingly bend in the river.
Next morning we were entertained by the Governor of Panjsher, a large, friendly gentleman with an office in Paragh. We all crowded into his office and drank tea while he paraded two of his disabled staff and complained about how little support the government was giving veterans of the Russian war. Our destination that night was Astana, where the guesthouse proved as comfortable a stop as it was last time. The bridge however had been partly washed away by the spring floods and replaced by two wires which had to be negotiated hand-over-hand as Michaela, Louis and several other intrepids demonstrated. Victoria swam with the current down to a sandy spit which she said was wonderful.
Next day we went up the Darra, the side valley by which my TV team and I entered the Panjsher in 1982 and had a delightful picnic under the mulberry trees near the uluswal, [district office]. I managed to track down Gul Bas, who escorted us from the Pakistan border, now a policeman. I hoped we could have lunch together and reminisce, but he was busy paying his respects to a local worthy who had just died and was more concerned, I felt, about keeping in the good books of the wali [district chief] than reminiscing. Gul Bas's picture is on the cover of Behind Russian Lines, an account of that first trip, and he's still wraith-like - no wonder, he lives up a steep side valley two hours walk from the uluswal - so he walks four hours a day to and from the office!
When I asked the wali what people were worrying about in the forthcoming election, he said: 'They are very angry about the Chinese guest houses', meaning the Chinese brothels masquerading asg restaurants in Kabul. They had in fact been closed down by the government but that did not seem to have lessened popular discontent. As we walked back down the valley, Philippe and a couple of other walkers heard a local they passed say to his friends: 'I suppose these people have come here to set up a brothel'.
The idyllic rhythm of our progress was interrupted at our next stop, Safed Cher, a big village where two years before we had spent a pleasant night in the guest house [not Chinese] rented by Aide Medicale Internationale, a French NGO, but they had left and we had to find alternative accommodation at short notice. The local mujahideen commander - yes, they still have muj commanders in the Panjsher - when consulted by Col. Muslim said 'Oh, no problem [which usually means there will be a problem], this place is good', pointing at the grassy banks of a rushing mill stream where there was just enough room to pitch the tents and unroll our sleeping bags.
Now, I should have known better than agree to camp in the middle of a village, but I had already turned down another meadow because it was being irrigated and soaking wet and I knew people were impatient to rest after their five-hour hike. I also knew that Afghan villagers come top of the Guinness Book of Records for staring at strangers, particularly foreigners. These boys, however, did more than stare. They followed the ladies, like wasps round a honey pot, to our two long-drops in a corner of the meadow and even dared, as dusk fell, to indulge in the old Roman practice of goosing the more nubile walkers.
Anxious to nip the revolt in the bud, I sought out our four local policemen, all armed with AK47s, to find them lying on their backs. Luckily Muslim and the commander appeared at this point and managed to galvanise them into some sort of action. Shortly after surmounting this crisis, I found myself on the carpet before our senior officer, Brigadier Bill who hollered: 'Things are going from bad to worse. Someone's just thrown a broken light bulb into Catherine's tent'. He held the offending object under my nose and, indeed, you wouldn't have wanted to step on it in bare feet. Fortunately, Catherine, who had left the flap of her tent open to enjoy the evening breeze, was quite unfazed.
Eventually, as it grew darker, even the apparently insatiable curiosity of the men of Safed Cher, young and old, was satisfied - not a single local woman appeared to gawp, of course - and they drifted off to their respective khanas. When I complained to Isobel, an experienced traveller in these parts, she said 'Sandy, you must remember there is nothing to do in these villages: no telly, no cinema, no entertainment, nothing' and, she might have added, no pubs either. As always we went to bed early and next morning, at 4.30, four brave ladies set off to ride five or six miles to Do Ab [Two Rivers] where we left the main valley to climb up to the 12,000-foot Khawak Pass. I drove to Do Ab, where there is an extremely scruffy chaikhana [teahouse] which has been serving green tea in cracked cups for as long as I can remember. It did not seem to have changed one iota, except for the posters of election candidates on the flyblown walls.
At Do Ab, I changed to horseback and joined the four ladies on the three-hour ride up to the delightful hamlet of Chowni. We camped there and early next morning set off for the pass, but not early enough to avoid a great column of Kuchi nomads with hundreds of fat-tailed sheep and goats, their woolly Bactrian camels laden with their tents and all their worldly goods including chickens and even babies strapped on top of the other paraphernalia, as they came streaming down from the high pastures where they had spent the summer on their way to winter in the warm valleys of Jalalabad and even Pakistan. These bi-annual migrations have taken place since time immemorial and certainly since the time of Alexander the Great, in whose 329 BC footsteps we were now following. Unlike us, thank God, Alexander's Macedonians crossed the Khawak in winter, in deep snow, to catch Bessus on the hop, and nearly starved to death in the process, being forced to slaughter their pack animals and eat them raw, seasoned only with a few herbs from the mountain. We, au contraire were regaled with roast partridge and green tea [alas, no Chablis] in Chowni where Catherine, not content with having walked all the way up from Do Ab, hired the local mine host to take her on a swift trot up the hill above the village.
When I first climbed the Khawak in 1986, our horsemen, scared of being bombed by the Russians if we were spotted in daylight, insisted on travelling at night. They kept losing the way, sitting down and falling asleep to the fury of Andy Skrzypkowiak, one of my two cameramen, who assisted them up the pass with some well-judged kicks. We reached the top just as dawn was breaking - exactly what the horsemen had been trying to avoid, but luckily we saw no Russian jets that morning. This time we found a Russian T52 tank, hauled to the top by Masud in about 1998 to block an attempted Taliban attack. Masud had dug fortifications along the summit ridge and one of our guards who took part in the battle recalled how the great man ordered them to hold their fire until they saw the whites of the Taliban's eyes. 'We did and killed about 400 of them' he said, reliving the battle for us. After that the Taliban retreated, tails between their legs.
There remained only one great challenge left: the Anjuman Pass, c. 14,700 feet. This was the climax of our walk and Fiona and I wanted to get everyone to the top, on horseback, if necessary. Breaking the rules, you may say, but I think legitimately because it is an exceptionally long although not particularly steep climb from the base camp beside another brawling stream. It was a tough day. Up at 4.30, breakfast [porridge and chai szabs] at 5, depart 5.30, with horses, if desired. Late on parade was the horseman looking after one of our senior and pluckiest walkers, Jennifer, known affectionately as 'The Duchess'. He arrived in characteristically Afghan cowboy style, his horse rearing and plunging and frothing at the bit. Walking right up to the beast, which was still prancing dangerously, Jennifer grabbed the reins, commenting over her shoulder to me, a cautious pace or two behind: 'His bridle's over his eyes, that's why he's making such a fuss'. Immediately she straightened the bridle, the horse calmed down. Jennifer checked the stirrup leathers, made, as usual, of rope, not leather. 'They're too short,' she sniffed. The horseman, young and bolshy, tried to argue but was firmly put down. The stirrups were lengthened and Jennifer was in the saddle.
As I watched her ride off across the stream, Susanna, about to follow, applauded: 'Isn't Jennifer great? She really is the stuff of Empire'. I stayed behind, having climbed the Anjuman two years before, to sketch and relax. I had a wonderful day, washing my smalls in the ice-cold river, bird watching and sketching the view of the mountain from our camp, known as the Aylock, or bothy, where the shepherds camp with their flocks in the summer. A large flock of Alpine choughs [or their Asian equivalent] flew over at one point and later I was transfixed by the sight of a lammergeyer vulture, gepaetus barbatus, with its bright yellow chest and tufted beard, hence its Latin name, planing majestically down the valley on its eight-foot wings, king of the Hindu Kush.
At our farewell party in Kabul, Mark Scrase-Dickins, a member of the Committee, won first prize, a small carpet, for raising most funds: £16,000. And Ingrid, who 'could hardly walk to the shops two years ago', according to her husband Brigadier Bill, won Best Walker. The British Ambassadress came to our farewell dinner at Gandamack Lodge, once the home of one of Osama bin Laden's wives. Things have certainly changed for the better in Kabul.
Let me finish with the bottom line. Thanks to the generosity of all the donors who sponsored the sturdy walkers, including myself - although I was more of a rider - we have raised more than £120,000 and still counting. A terrific achievement! Congratulations to all concerned.
Sandy Gall, Chairman SGAA