From Souk to Souk (11 page)

The derelict palace stands on a small rise in the middle of barren ground some sixteen kilometres from the city centre. Remaining patches of snow brighten up the otherwise drab surroundings of muddy earth and stick trees, the scene evoking the landscapes depicted in depressing paintings of First World War battlefields. At the base of the driveway leading up to the main entrance, we pass a large billboard with a photograph of two boys bearing weapons. Over their image a large diagonal cross is ‘daubed' in blood red as part of the poster. I cannot read the script, but Taimur confirms it is part of a campaign against child soldiers. At the top of the ramp we pull up and clamber out of the van. Only now do I notice an airship floating some distance away above the city, its silvery skin catching the sunlight. It is moored by a long cable that descends to earth like an umbilical cord before disappearing behind a cluster of buildings. Taimur says it is for aerial reconnaissance with its cameras watching what is happening on the ground. I am unsure whether to believe him, although, here, anything could be possible.

A couple of soldiers stand guard in front of the improvised fence of rolls of barbed and razor wire. They pick up their guns and walk towards us, the jackets of their green and brown uniforms open, revealing khaki T-shirts beneath. With his round face, green eyes and curly hair, the younger of the two looks very different to other Afghans I have seen. His somewhat thickset colleague sports a khaki
kepi
on his head and looks us up and down suspiciously. The two men seem impervious to the cold, which I find mercilessly pervades the multiple layers of clothing I am wearing. Taimur greets the soldiers and, after an increasingly jolly exchange, they part the spaghetti-like mix of steel wire and, like doormen at a plush hotel, smilingly wave us through.

Built in the 1920s, the 150-room, neo-classical building could be anywhere in Europe, perhaps Berlin in 1945: it was shelled by the Mujahadeen after the Soviets left and its walls are pockmarked with bullet holes. The metal girders that mark the outline of what was once the roof remind me of the Atomic Bomb Dome in Hiroshima. We make our way inside, picking our way over rubble, avoiding puddles and passing piles of plasterwork that has given up trying to cover the brick walls. We head up a curved concrete staircase without a banister to the first floor where icicles are dangling from the roof. A gaping hole the size of a car in the floor of the main corridor is surrounded by rubble and looks as if it could expand at any moment to wrench the ground from beneath us. I look out from a gap in the wall at a large, low building directly opposite a few hundred metres away.

‘It's the new parliament, ‘ says James.

Still under construction, like the palace, it is an empty shell. I wonder if it will one day be completed or if these two buildings will forever remain testimonials to failures of governance in this country riven by tribal and ethnic rivalries. Beyond the symmetrical architecture of the would-be legislature with its pointed, arched windows lie the snow-covered mountains of the Hindu Kush, their imposing beauty in stark contrast to the drabness and poverty of the rapidly growing Afghan capital, their serenity a foil to the underlying fear of violence that hangs in the city like an invisible gas.

We continue up to the top floor. An icy wind blows through the corridors where graffiti scribbled by Russian soldiers, complete with dates from the early 1980s, still marks the candy-pink and peach plasterwork. We enter what must once have been an elegant room with a view across the city. Now, it is mostly bare brickwork and open to the sky, a concave network of rusting iron hanging precariously above our heads. We crunch our way across the thin layer of snow to the half dozen or so arched windows and look out on the low-rise metropolis of four million. The hum of distant traffic, punctuated by car horns, drifts over the rooftops. I contemplate the urban sprawl that covers the valley floor and consider how it compares to the Kabul of the era when the British East India Company army under Elphinstone made its disastrous retreat in 1842. Of the 4,500 troops who tried to reach the British garrison in Jalalabad, only one officer survived. The rest, along with some 12,000 civilians and camp followers, fell at the hands of Afghan forces led by Akbar Khan, the country's Emir for just three years. Afghanistan, it seems, is a country nobody can subjugate. Even Alexander the Great, who founded numerous towns here, including Herat, Bagram and Kandahar, was unable to bring the fierce tribes under lasting control. Over the course of the last two hundred years, the British, the Soviets, the Americans and the British, again, have tried to hold sway over these tough people, seemingly unable to learn from past mistakes or the experience of others. I try to make sense of the mismatch between the reputation Afghans have for merciless ferocity when defending their country with the friendliness I have encountered so far.

James says we should be on our way, bringing me out of my daydream and making me suddenly aware of the cold wind blowing in my face. I take a couple of pictures, framed by what were once windows, before turning to follow James and Taimur back through the palace. As we make our way carefully down the stairs, I ask myself what Amanullah Khan, the country's modernising king who had the place erected during his ten-year reign, would think if he could see it today. And I wonder what my own house, built some four decades before this royal abode, will look like eighty years hence. Or if it will even be still standing.

Back outside, the guards are keen to know if we enjoyed the visit and willingly pose for photographs in front of the rolls of defensive wire, guns in their hands, broad smiles on their faces. We thank them and head back to the van where Aasif is listening to local music on the radio. We roll back down the raised driveway, the resilience of our tinny vehicle never ceasing to amaze me as we bounce in and out of yet more potholes. Taking a swig from a bottle of water, James says we still have time to go to the Nadir Shah hill to see the kite-flying. He asks if I have read the novel
The Kite Runner
; I am ashamed to admit that I have not. We make our way through the city's chaotic traffic, a mixture of small Asian cars filled with Afghans and Toyota Land Cruisers chauffeuring expats, who, I imagine, work for NGOs or donor country development agencies and are on the way to their next important meeting. Occasionally, a Hummer ploughs past, its loud horn impatiently demanding that the slow-moving mass of vehicles let it through.

Eventually, we leave the muddy urban streets and join a line of traffic climbing a road lined by grassy embankments and a few trees with vestiges of green. It seems almost bucolic in comparison to the turmoil of the city. Soon, we are at the top of the hill where crowds are wandering past a handful of roadside stalls selling drinks and nuts. Aasif drops us off and then parks up a little further on. The greenery of the ascent has given way to an arid hilltop where boys and men are busy flying kites of various shapes and sizes. A constant fluttering fills the air as the paper and bamboo kites soar and dive. I duck to avoid a purple and orange shape that swoops towards me, a shiver running down my spine as it brushes past my head with a gush of cold air before climbing skywards again. I look up, trying to see where it has gone, but it is lost among the colourful quadrilaterals that are hovering and diving like origami seagulls. Others are so high I can hardly see them. I am amazed: as a child, I struggled to get my kite even to leave the ground, a frustration that quickly killed my interest in the whole exercise.

Taimur tells me
gudiparan bazi
, or kite-flying, is very popular in Afghanistan.
Gudiparan
means ‘flying doll', he smiles, explaining that operating each kite requires two people: the leader who actually flies it and the second person who holds the
charkha
, a wooden drum on a stick around which the wire is wrapped. As our eyes follow the paper shapes darting about the sky above us, he describes how the strings, or
tars
, are covered with tiny bits of glass glued in place, the aim being to try to sever the cord of the other kites. We watch for a while until I am distracted by a man galloping towards us on a palomino horse. It is tetchy and resists his attempts to keep it under control, even though he is clearly an accomplished rider, finally managing to bring it to a halt a short distance away. The snorting beast paces backwards on the hard ground while the man pulls tightly on the reins. It looks as if it is performing a dance. I wonder if it can see the ruts that are chiselled into the compacted earth and if it is the kites that are making it nervous: at home, even a flapping bag is enough to strike fear into the equine heart. As I watch the man sitting astride colourful blankets, his legs gripping the agitated animal, my thoughts turn to the horsemen of central Asia who, under Genghis Khan and others, used battle techniques based on their mastery of these animals to conquer vast swathes of Eurasia. Surrounding their foe, they rode round and round whilst constantly attacking, picking them off one by one until victory was theirs. For no obvious reason, the man suddenly gains full control of the horse and steers it in a calm trot across the flat hill, weaving a way between the kite flyers.

‘Under the Taliban, kite-flying was banned,' sighs James, as a group of youngsters dash past on their way to claim one that has been cut down in battle. My attention is once again focused on the
gudiparan bazi
. ‘They considered it un-Islamic,' he tells me.

We wander over to a stall where a couple of men in
tumbaans
and suit jackets are selling kites and string. A throng of boys watches intently as a couple of lanky teenagers choose a kite; its turquoise-blue colour reminds me of the domes of the mosques I saw in neighbouring Uzbekistan the year before. Despite the competition between the kite flyers, the atmosphere is jovial, almost festive. The two slim youths walk off a short distance with their
gudiparan
and
charkha
and, after a few minutes' laughing and arguing while they tie them together, are finally ready to launch their new acquisition. The taller of the pair takes charge of the kite, leaving his apparently younger companion to hold the large bobbin. He lifts up the
gudiparan
, waiting for a gust of wind, the thinness of his arms obvious in his ribbed burgundy pullover which has risen up to expose his midriff to the chilly air. He talks excitedly to his friend, but his gaze is fixed on the kite. As if fulfilling a wish granted by some invisible genie, a blast of cold wind from far across the Hindu Kush arrives on our hill top. The boy throws the kite into the air and we watch as it soars upwards into the wide sky. Like a bird released from a cage, it flutters freely, dropping for a heart-stopping moment before again gracefully making its way aloft. I look at the two youths: their entire concentration is on the
gudiparan
, the elder of the two giving instructions to his friend with the
charkha
, a sense of urgency in his voice. Now, others around us are raising their eyes to the sky to follow the kite's progress. A small boy pulls excitedly at his father's jacket sleeve while the kite vendors take a break from chatting to their customers to watch their fragile creation weave its way through the sharp spring air. I look around me: all eyes are on the blue kite. Suddenly, a murmuring begins, turning quickly to shouting. Hands point skyward. I look up to see a plain white
gudiparan
flying below the one belonging to the two adolescents. It darts back and forth, up and down, before quickly encircling the
tar
of their kite and closing in. It is all over in an instant: to gasps from those around us, the string is cut. The two youths cry out as their kite flies free for a second and then hovers before plummeting towards the ground as the wind suddenly drops. A band of small boys charges off in the direction of the falling paper-covered frame, followed a moment later by the two shouting teenagers. James and Taimur watch the scene, hands in their jacket pockets, heads tucked deep into their thick collars. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Instead, I find myself tasting cold air. The two kite sellers are once again busying themselves with potential customers, interest in the blue
gudiparan
has dropped as quickly as the wind, and the crowd has melted away. I try to see who is flying the white kite, but, when I look up again, it is nowhere to be seen. Now, only a few
gudiparans
float, almost hesitantly, in the bright sky above and, in the distance, motionless, is the silver airship.

Barren, brown, dry: an inhospitable landscape of the sort that appears in science-fiction films rose before us, its jagged mountains uninviting and hinting at danger. Only the parallel lines crossing the sedimentary rock at a steep angle told of other epochs millions of years ago when, in their youth, these giants lay beneath the sea. Now rugged masses, they stood lifeless, yet still exuded a strange majesty and beauty. Ahead, a square, flat-roofed building roughly garnished with thorn scrub told us we were nearing the point to turn off. Approaching the V-junction, we saw two old Mercedes parked at the side of the road, three bearded men and a few children standing around them. As we slowed down, the men, one much older than the other two, began waving. Unsure as to their motives, we smiled weakly and gave a single, cursory wave as we drove past and headed on to the dirt track, leaving the smooth tarmac of the main road and an ephemeral veil of dust behind us.

The route began to climb, the rough way quickly turning into a rocky and potholed ascent with hairpin bends. Frédéric wrestled with the steering wheel as it pulled this way and that. We lurched to the right and I banged my head on the window, despite being strapped into my seat.

‘Sorry,' said Frédéric absently, as we bounced around.

My French friend had asked me if I wanted to join him on a trip to Oman and Dubai over the Easter break, an invitation I had accepted without hesitation. Now, with my head aching, I wondered how I could so easily have forgotten his rather particular driving style. I held on tight as the 4x4 dipped and rolled on the bumpy road, its engine revving gruffly. Soon, between the gaps in the rocky embankment at the road's edge we began to get glimpses of the parched valley below; sometimes there was nothing at all separating us and stomach-churning drops into the abyss. As we turned a corner, we were suddenly confronted by two young boys at the roadside, one slightly taller than the other, large bags on their backs. They stepped aside to let us by, our Land Cruiser reducing its voice to a low growl as we rumbled past. They waved, small hands at the end of slender arms, and grinned broken smiles. We continued a little further. And then we stopped. Frédéric yanked the handbrake on and I opened the car door.

‘
Merhaba!
Do you want a lift?' I called back.

They appeared to understand and came scampering to the vehicle. In an instant they had clambered inside and were giggling with excitement as we set off up the steep hill. They wiggled and danced to the Arabic music on the radio and told us of their favourite songs, they laughed at their own jokes and asked us where we were from. At least that is what I imagined they were saying: in fact, we understood nothing other than that they were called Ali and Sayyid. And, in a similar vein, I do not think they grasped much of what we said, except when, tapping our chests, we told them our names. They kept repeating them, laughing when they realised they could not pronounce the words properly, but showing a keenness to learn by trying again and again. They seemed impressed by the smart interior of the vehicle, big brown eyes sparkling with the fun of the unexpected adventure as they explored the seatback pockets and moved the central armrest up and down.

As the Land Cruiser dropped a gear, I imagined its mechanical roar reverberating across the valley, where the calls of wild animals could once be heard. Frédéric knows I think he always drives one gear lower than necessary, but I have given up passing comment: I sense he likes the noise the extra revs make. The road, such as it was, became even steeper, the occasional feathery, wild almond tree providing a welcome touch of green. My thoughts turned to the soldiers who would have worked in the searing heat to dig and shovel the switchback up the seemingly endless climb through the Hajar Mountains and of the pittance they would have been handed at the end of their labours. But, rather selfishly, I was grateful that their toil meant we could explore the remote Omani enclave of Musandam with relative ease. Ali pulled something out of his bag. It was a school book, battered round the edges. He tried to lean forward to show it to us, but we had made them fasten their seatbelts before setting off. Only now did we realise why the men standing next to the two Mercedes had been waving: they had wanted us to take the children along as we headed up the road towards Jebel al Harim – the Mountain of Women. I remembered reading that many of the pupils attending the school in Musandam's diminutive capital Khasab live so far away that they spend the entire week there only returning to their families at the weekend. The two boys we had picked up had been on the long march home; the others we had passed, giving them nothing more than a suspicious wave, had not been so lucky.

We turned a corner and were surprised to be confronted by a lush meadow no bigger than a bowling green. Beyond it was a simple concrete house and a short washing line from which a few T-shirts hung limply in the heat. We slowed down to drop the boys off, but they bombarded us with cries of ‘
La! La!
', Arabic for no, and waved enthusiastically for us to continue. We carried on, passing half a dozen similar farmsteads, each with a square tank outside to which the government delivers water to supplement that from the winter rains stored in the traditional cisterns or
birka
. Eventually, we arrived at a broad, single-storey building. It stood surrounded by dry stone walls and grass, together with a couple of wizened trees under the patchy shade of which a donkey, not much bigger than a large dog, stood tethered, motionless. Ali and Sayyid began shouting and un-clicked their seatbelts. We pulled up and they jumped out, calling ‘
Shukran!
' as they skipped away, their bulging bags on their shoulders. We waved goodbye and continued across the Sayh Plateau, a fleeting oasis of green alfalfa and wheat, and a few small palm trees and donkeys amidst the brown, grey and mustard-coloured mountains. We wondered how long the walk would have taken the boys if we had not given them a lift and felt bad about the other children we had driven past. As we carried on towards Jebel al Harim, at over 2,000 metres the highest peak on the peninsula, I contemplated the lengths to which our two passengers and others like them in this impoverished part of the Sultanate went to get an education. When Oman's current ruler, Sultan Qaboos bin Said, came to the throne in 1970 the country had only one school. In the course of his reign, he has built countless more as part of the celebrated ‘Renaissance' and modernisation of the realm, but Ali and Sayyid still had to trek up and down the mountain every week. I compared the boys' situation to that of their peers back in Europe who often seem ignorant of their good fortune and are ferried the short distance back and forth to school like little princes and princesses. I wondered what sort of schooling Ali and Sayyid would get and how long they would be able to continue studying until economic pressure perhaps forced them to go to work if, indeed, there was any to be had in this isolated corner of Arabia.

Our Land Cruiser took us ever higher along the Jabal Sayh Road, the quality of which suddenly improved, potholes giving way to smooth dust. The emptiness of the rock-strewn landscape around us reminded me that, for all its burgeoning population of seven billion, vast tracts of this globe are empty and virtually devoid of human habitation. We skirted Jebel al Harim and, after following the zigzag road a couple of kilometres further, stopped and got out to admire the view. I took a few photographs of the mountains and a couple with Frédéric in the foreground, smiling, his hands in the pockets of his perfectly pressed trousers. I am always amazed by people who are able to strike a pose and suddenly light up their faces with a convincing grin as easily as flicking a switch. As Frédéric wandered off a short distance, I retreated to a large rock and contemplated the panorama that extended before us, rugged rocks side by side with pillow-shaped folds. Above, a lone raptor circled slowly on the thermals. Here, silence, a rare commodity at home, surrounded us so completely that after a few minutes I was convinced I could even hear my own pulse. It would be difficult to think of a greater contrast with the glittering, noisy metropolis of Dubai in the United Arab Emirates – the UAE – from where I had driven us the day before: the hi-tech oasis of wealth and luxury at the edge of the Arabian desert might as well have been on another world. The desolate scene in front of us, now a palette of terracotta, russet and cinnamon and looking as if it had been sculpted with a knife, could be Mars, I thought, but then, with no sense of disappointment, remembered that mountains on the Red Planet dwarf those on Earth. The sun burning the nape of my neck, my binoculars scanned the landscape for a glimpse of a Tahr, a sort of stocky mountain goat that lives in these parts. The optimist in me hoped I might even see an Arabian leopard – a profile on a distant outcrop perhaps, or a spotted form slinking through the valley below – but I knew the chances of seeing one were very remote. Hope is the greatest incentive, but, after staring through the lenses for some time, I realised I would have to content myself with simply knowing that there might be one out there in the barren wilderness, perhaps sleeping in a cave, maybe silently watching from afar.

***

The next day, back in Khasab, we decided to take an excursion on a
dhow
and, our swimming gear packed, drove, once again in an irritatingly low gear, over to the harbour where we parked up. Passing rows of orange and yellow fibreglass skiffs floating lifelessly, their outboard motors lifted out of the water, we strolled towards a picturesque dhow moored at the quayside. As we contemplated the hand-written sign propped in front of it advertising trips through the fjords of Musandam with lunch and drinks included, a man, perhaps in his early forties, sprang from the boat and came marching towards us, beaming a salesman's smile, marred slightly by a missing tooth.

‘
Salam alaykum
!' he exclaimed, opening his arms. ‘How are you?' As he approached us, I noticed a long scar, perhaps from an old knife wound, running along his lower cheek. With a palm on his chest, he introduced himself as Ahmed and in excellent English proceeded to list all the sights we would see were we to take a tour on his vessel.

He was both enthusiastic and persuasive and so we counted out our
rials
, clambered aboard and, after taking our shoes off, made ourselves comfortable on the carpets and the red, black and white striped
majlis
cushions arranged along the gunwales. A couple of scrawny sailors in turbans and folds of white cloth, their skin almost the same colour as the teak of the high-sided
dhow
, walked around the boat, nimbly climbing barefoot along the bulwarks with almost prehensile toes and pulling at ropes with hands older than their years. Ahmed barked a few orders at them before heading towards the stern where a man in a white crocheted
taqiyah
cap was quietly singing. He was busying himself with trays covered in aluminium foil and an assortment of blue plastic bags in which, by craning my neck, I could just see lemons, oranges and Omani flatbread. The dhow was of traditional design and looked as I imagined boats in this part of the world had done for centuries, so I was surprised when a diesel engine suddenly spluttered to life. As we chugged slowly out from the harbour, lying under the shade of the canvas awning that stretched the length of the deck, I looked back towards Khasab as it gradually shrank until it was no more than a strip of cream and white punctuated with green before finally slipping from view.

Once away from the coast, the
dhow
began gently rocking as it ploughed its way east across the jade sea towards the Khor as Sham, one of the impressive fjords which nature has gouged into this remote peninsula that separates the Persian Gulf from the Gulf of Oman. The salty smell of the sea ebbed back and forth on the light breeze that floated over the boat and which occasionally taunted us with the aroma of spices and onions from the makeshift galley at the stern.

‘Is this your first time in Oman?' asked Ahmed, coming barefoot across the carpet towards us.

‘It is for me,' I answered, glancing towards the helm and relieved to see that one of the other sailors was at the wheel, ‘but Frédéric has been here before, in Muscat.'

‘Today we will sail to a very nice place,' smiled our captain, sitting down cross-legged in front of us. Only now did I notice his curiously large ears, which, with the light behind them, were almost translucent.

‘What about the smugglers?' asked Frédéric, lifting himself into a more upright position, a glint in his eye. During the drive from Dubai he had shown a strange fascination, bordering on the obsessive, with the illicit activities of the Musandam and was clearly keen to find out more.

‘We will not see any where we are going!' laughed our host as he picked at one of his toes. ‘They only work at night.'

‘What do they smuggle?' I asked, trying not to stare at his ears.

‘They bring sheep and goats from Iran,' said Ahmed after a long pause. ‘It's only forty kilometres from here on the other side of the Strait of Hormuz. They are sent to the UAE. On the way back they take televisions, cigarettes, mobile phones, whatever people bring from Dubai. It's big business here: the town could not survive without it. If you go to the harbour at night you'll find it's very busy, lots of people. Did you see all those little boats?'

‘You mean the orange ones?'

‘Yes,' Ahmed nodded. ‘Those are the boats people use for smuggling. They are very full when they leave Khasab!' He made an arc in the air with his hands as if showing how high the piles of illicit goods were stacked in the skiffs. ‘Sometimes people make two or three crossings in a night: they are young so they have a lot of energy and enthusiasm!' he smiled, eyes widening. ‘But it's dangerous.'

With his scar and missing tooth, I suddenly felt Ahmed bore an unsettling resemblance to a pirate – or perhaps a smuggler.