By JSG
Kabul Afghanistan, 23 June 2007
I'm breathing heavy, eyes wide open, and watching every step I take. Since I'm the biggest among the 3 of us, I insisted on carrying the back pack, which has my camera, gear, 2 tall water bottles, and our lunch of Afghani burgers. I've already slipped a few times, and had to catch myself from falling off the cliff. I re-double my efforts, and focus on each step, one at a time, strategically placing feet on rocks that won't give under my weight. Huge boulders, too big to walk over without a climb, cut into our trail. I have to remove my backpack, sling it up to Masoud, then find hand holds, and climb up over the rock. I'm sweating, and breathing hard, partly from the exertion, and partly because Kabul is 5876 feet above sea-level. I'm enjoying each pang of effort, I'm feeling alive.
Masoud, the young Afghani I befriended, who works at our company house as a cook, and also goes to school at night, agreed to take me up the Qassaba Mountain. His older brother joins us. I'm wearing trekker gear, including trekking shoes, breathable clothing, and a baseball cap. Masoud is wearing a shalwar kameez, and running shoes. His brother's wearing knock off designer clothing, and slippers.
We parked at the base of the mountain, and are probably several hundred feet up now – the car looks tiny below us. On the way up, we pass kids herding goats along narrow passes. I'm in unfamiliar territory, and enjoying the mind body journey, they are at home, easily walking and climbing ahead of me. Masoud lives with his family in the apartment building complex near the base of the mountain, he's played here since he was a child, with his 5 brothers. Now, he's taking this foreigner from America, up the hill, where only the locals go.
As we get closer to a clearing, massive boulders are sitting together, creating a somewhat flattened area, we hear singing, and music. We get closer, and it's a friend of Masoud's brother. He's hanging out under the only tree on the hillside, a battery-operated radio is cranking out some Hindi songs, and he's crooning along. He sees us, recognizes Masoud and his brother, greets them, and then eagerly shakes my hand. He's talking Dari, Masoud translates, I talk back in English and Urdu. I ask him who's the girl that caused him such heartache – he laughs, and tells me, through Masoud, how he's the best Tai-Kwon-Do teacher in all of Kabul. We all laugh, I notice he's somewhat inebriated. Masoud tells me, he's upset over a financial transaction. He grabs a plastic cup, and offers me a drink from a bottle of Russian vodka. I refuse politely, we drink our water, and get ready to keep climbing. He wishes us well, continues crooning, and talks about Tai-Kwon-Do belt colors.
Bismillah on the Mountain
We climb for another half hour, and the sun sinks closer to the horizon, we decide to stop at another clearing, and have our lunch. I remove my back-pack, take the water out, and hand it out. I bought "Afghani" burgers from a street vendor for all of us. The sandwich is a thin slice of salami, with french fries, onions, boiled eggs, spices, all wrapped in a pita, and rolled in newspaper. We've worked up an appetite, we devour the sandwiches.
The view from up here is breathtaking. We're north of Kabul, and can see the entire city spread out like a big spread cloth of streets, buildings, houses and tiny cars. We can see airplanes landing and taking off, birds fly to and from their nests below us. We see sand storms, giant columns of sand engulfing buildings and houses, and disappearing as quickly as they appeared. It's calm up here, we hear the wind, birds, the far off din of the city, and our own voices.
With the sun setting, on cue, echoes of the Azhan break out from a half dozen mosques below us. Some in clear voices, others muffled by their distance from us, all reverberating in a beautiful chorus. I am compelled to answer the call. I pray. I kneel between the uneven bedrock, pebbles jab into my knees as I kneel, and I have to steady myself as I get back up. Near the top of the mountain, someone has painted on the side of a huge outcropping rock the words in Arabic, "Bismilla al Rahman al Rahim". Here on the edge of a mountain in the North of Kabul, overlooking the city, I pray.
The sunset colors of orange, pink, blue, purple come out, and settle in across the mountain range above the city. The sun turns a hazy orange, and city lights begin to dot the landscape. We decide to climb down, before we lose all daylight. On the way down, it's the same procession – the brothers clambering down the rocks, and me carefully picking my path down the mountain.
Masoud's Mother
We get to the car and climb in. Masoud drives a quarter mile from the foot of the mountain to his neighborhood of buildings. I take out my camera and continue filming, as I've done throughout the day. We walk through open grounds, families are out, kids are playing games, and goats are herded across dusty trails. Through the fields towards his house, we come to a dusty open field. There's a makeshift soccer net, a game is being played by kids who are probably not teenagers yet. I stop and look at them run around, kicking up dust as they race for the ball. Shalwar kameez, pants and shirts, muddy, and dirty from the game. I see their faces, the concentration, focus and glee in their expressions is the same as kids from Denver, Dallas or New York. They yell after the ball, the ball goes off field, and some younger kids race after it, their slippers flying off their feet. We walk on.
Past the soccer field, we walk into another smaller field, where younger kids are playing. I don't see the playthings I'm used to seeing, no jungle gyms, no see-saws, no monkey bars. There's a well for water in one corner, some kids are taking turns filling buckets with water. Others are playing their own games, as kids will do.
At the edge of the playground, 3 younger ones are sliding down a dirt hill on some kind of makeshift slide. As we get closer, I see that the makeshift devices they sit on, are crushed plastic bottles of pop. The little boy, playfully pushes the older girl in front of him, and she slides down, giggling loudly. I wonder if the two girls are his sisters. They ignore me, as I get closer to film their little game. They're lost in their world of play. I look at the little boy, I see his little dirty clothes, I see his little dirty hands, and his little dirty hair and face. I see him smile, and cackle with laughter. I'm frozen for a moment as I think of my little boy. We walk on.
We wind our way past some buildings. We get to Masoud's building, enter through the door, and start climbing the stairs. There are no lights on the first three floors we're climbing up, and we're passing people on their way down. I smell mold, and a smell like places get when they haven't been cleaned in a long time. At the fifth floor, Masoud's little niece is peaking at us through the open door. His mother comes to the door, and greets her sons, then stands back looking at me, with a smile. We enter, I'm led to the biggest of the three room apartment, the living room.
The room is furnished with floor pillows and carpet, Masoud's other brothers, some nephews and his mother all join us. His mother tells me, how she wishes she had time to prepare food for me, someone brings me a glass of juice. I take a few sips, and realize I may be drinking tap water, I don't want to offend, so I continue drinking. I tell his mother I'm honored to be in her home, Masoud translates my broken Urdu to Dari. We talk some more, she tells me how much she loves Masoud the most, as he's the youngest, and how he's told her about me. I tell her about Sonia and baby Zakaria. I thank her for her hospitality, and prepare to leave, she tells me one final thing, that will be hard to forget, "While you are in this country, I am your mother".
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