Survivor: The Autobiography (54 page)

Soon the track we were following petered out, and several mujahedeen with torches were dispatched to find it again in the darkness ahead. This was done amid several arguments about the relative correctness of the route we’d chosen. We made slow progress, but soon it became evident that the route was impassable.

But impassable or not, there was no turning back now. We all left the vehicles to walk. Maybe with no load, the drivers could coax the jeeps through the slippery uphill scree. This they did, but we had to gather rocks to build some kind of grippable surface for the tyres ahead, and progress became agonisingly slow. Sometimes a jeep would get stuck and we would have to construct a winch to haul it forwards – a process that took several hours. Our hands and feet were bleeding from the rocks, and we were covered with dust.

This went on for two despairing days, but just as our water was running out, the terrain eased. We made a relatively trouble-free descent to a dry river bed, gratefully climbed into the jeeps again and roared off. The river bed was as good as a motorway after what we’d been through, but still better was to come: a village had been sighted ahead.

‘Afghanistan! Afghanistan!’ my companions all shouted in relieved triumph.

The only obligatory halts were those made for prayers, though even then only a few people descended – most of us were too impatient. Our driver took ages, and grated on everyone’s nerves.

‘Do it later,’ people shouted at him. ‘We’re nearly there!’

Placidly, he completed his prayers. Then and not before did we head off again. We were the last jeep. The others had already disappeared from view and we were on our way at speed to catch up. It was dawn, and soon we could be easily spotted by enemy aircraft.

‘Never mind – we’ll be in Pakistan in an hour,’ someone said confidently.

I was still doubtful, but the mujahedeen could hardly contain their jubilation. Another village had appeared on the horizon. Could it be that that village was in Pakistan? It seemed likely, people thought. Closer and closer we came to it. Then our engine seized.

The order was quickly given to make a run for the village, while the driver and mechanic stayed with the vehicle to see what was wrong. The village was soon reached. No, this wasn’t Pakistan, they told us. Pakistan was an hour away.

At least we were sheltered and reunited with the other two vehicles. Ours limped into the village soon after, and all three were covered to prevent them from being spotted from the air. There was nothing to do now but kill time until nightfall, so we spent the day either in prayer or eating pomegranates. I’d never eaten one in my life before I travelled to Afghanistan. Now I was developing quite a taste for them. Kandahar airport was to our west, and we could see in the distance the ominous roving of helicopters and MiGs. The area we were in, however, seemed to have been untouched by the violence of the war. This may have been due to the policies of the local Russian commander.

As usual, estimates varied about how long it would actually take us to reach the border. One hour was the most optimistic, six hours the most pessimistic, but the general consensus was that we would have to spend an hour and a half driving through a narrow gorge, mined by the Russians, and here an additional danger existed. Here indeed the Russians sometimes landed heli-borne troops to ambush those entering or leaving the country by the strip of road that threaded it.

A village scout had been sent ahead to spy out the land but by late afternoon he still hadn’t returned.

‘He’ll be back,’ Abdul Rahman said.

‘I hope so. If he doesn’t return, it’ll mean he’s been either killed or captured – and both those things mean the enemy is around,’ I said. I thought about what Rahman had said to me when I’d broached the possibility of walking across – ‘They’ll either catch you in the open or you’ll die of thirst’ – he was probably right. I had better stick with the jeep, come what may, I thought.

We were all exhausted by now, after all the struggles and dashed hopes, but we still felt anxious and everyone prayed vigorously. Dusk fell, and there was still no sign of the scout. They decided to leave it in God’s hands – ‘
Insha Allah
’ – and piled into the jeeps.

Our jeep hadn’t gone a hundred yards before the engine stalled again. They’d obviously made a botched job of the repair – what was needed was a new starter motor, of which we carried a spare – and now – when we had least time – they would have to do the job properly.

As they worked I watched them in exasperation. Then an old man appeared wraith-like out of the darkness.

‘The tanks are coming,’ he announced.

My heart stopped. But he had spoken Pashtu, of which I only understood a little, and perhaps I had misheard him.

‘Did he say the tanks are coming?’ I asked Abdul Rahman.

‘No,’ replied Rahman. ‘He said the tanks
aren’t
coming.’ But it seemed to me unlikely that the old man would have gone to the effort of following us out into the darkness to impart such non-news. Besides, one of the drivers’ little boys had started to wail bitterly.

‘How’s the starter motor going?’

‘Nearly there,’ came a muffled and frantic reply, which might have meant anything.

I looked around desperately. I couldn’t believe our bad luck. Everyone was crowding round the open bonnet to conceal as far as possible the torchlight which was illuminating the mechanic’s work. Our armed escort, bringing his rifle to the ready, ordered some of our men to prime the grenades for the RPG, but then it transpired that no one knew how to. What a way to perish, I thought bitterly. By now we could hear the ominous rumble of tanks quite clearly. The little boy whimpered. The rest of us were silent, gazing fearfully into the night behind us.

And then the engine fired. I think that the noise of that engine will remain the sweetest sound I shall ever hear. We piled in before you could say ‘Allah’ and, praying that nothing else would go wrong, bolted down the road after our companion jeeps.

Incredibly, the other jeeps had waited for us. Irrespective of danger and the possibility of escaping, I noticed that no one was ever abandoned. A frenzied search now began among the other mechanics to find the requisite nuts and bolts from their own toolkits to bolt our new starter motor securely into place. We were in open desert, and a kilometre away we could see the faint glimmer of the lights of the tanks. Oh, God, I thought . . . so near and yet so far . . . please don’t let them get us now . . . All at once I found myself repeating the
kalimeh
, and it comforted me.

The two little boys clung to each other and wept, while the mujahedeen awkwardly tried to comfort them. I watched the tanks. Surely they could see us with their nightsights?

And then I realised that they were not heading towards us, but away from us. The patrol hadn’t seen us. All of a sudden a red tracer bullet soared high into the air to the south. We couldn’t make out what was going on, but one thing was certain: the Russians’ attention was focused elsewhere.

An hour later we reached the mouth of the gorge. We switched our headlights off, and the jeeps filled with the murmur of prayers. I, too, cupped my hands and repeated ‘
Bismillah Rahman-i-Rahim
. . .’ once again. The tension was overpowering as we gazed up at the looming sides of the gorge, soon lost in the thick darkness.

Allah must have been with us. This last part of the journey was a kind of summation of all that was Afghanistan for me: whether the scout had actually come this far, whether he had returned or gone off somewhere else, I would never know. We had allies though: the goats and sheep gently foraging for food, and with them – a shepherd. Where the terrain was so rough that apart from this strip of road the only access troops could find to it was by helicopter, a shepherd stood alone somewhere above us on the walls of the gorge. We could not see him – indeed, we never saw him – but his voice drifted down to us like a god’s – and it provided, as all Afghans do, information. After the usual formal exchange of greetings, he told us that another vehicle had passed safely through not two hours earlier. There had been no activity since. Therefore there were probably no mines, and there could be no ambush. Our hearts leapt.

Further on there was a grim reminder that others had not been so lucky. The wreck of a burnt-out jeep lay by the side of the road.

We emerged from the gorge feeling that truly nothing could stop us now. And as if to confirm our confidence, there on the horizon we could see the twinkling electric lights of Chaman, just inside the Pakistan border. It had been two months since I had seen electric light, and even at this distance it seemed strangely miraculous, and bright.

The second week in June [1873] we left the high lands of Kan-su and crossed the threshold of the desert of Ala-shan. The sand drifts now lay before us like a boundless sea, and it was not without sundry misgivings that we entered this forbidding realm.

Without sufficient means to enable us to hire a guide, we went alone, risking all dangers and difficulties, the more imminent because the year before, while travelling with the Tangutan caravan, I could only note down by stealth, and often at haphazard, the landmarks and direction of the route. This itinerary was of course inaccurate, but now it served as our only guide.

We were fifteen days marching from Tajing to Din-yuan-ing, and safely accomplished this difficult journey, only once nearly losing ourselves in the desert. This happened on 21 June between Lake Serik-dolon and the well of Shangin-dalai. Having left Serik-dolon early in the morning, we marched through miles of loose sands, and at last came to an expanse of clay where the track divided. We had not noticed this spot on the outward journey, and had therefore to guess which of the two roads would lead to our destination. What made it worse was that the angle of bifurcation being acute, we could not decide, even with the aid of a compass, which we ought to take. The track to the right being more beaten, we determined to follow it, but after all we were mistaken, for having gone a few miles a number of other tracks crossed ours. This fairly puzzled us; however, we still pressed forward, till at length a well-beaten road joined the one we had first chosen. This we durst not follow, for it went we knew not whither, nor could we return to the place where the roads first branched off. Choosing the lesser of two evils, we resolved to persevere in our first route, hoping soon to see the group of hills at whose foot lies the well of Shangin-dalai. But it was midday, and the intense heat obliged us to halt for two or three hours. On resuming our march, with the aid of the compass we steered in the same direction as before, till at length we discerned a small group of hills to our right. These we supposed to be the landmark of the Shangin-dalai, but they were still a long way off, and the dust which pervaded the atmosphere the whole day prevented our seeing their outline distinctly even with a glass.

Evening fell and we halted for the night, fully confident that these hills were indeed those we were in search of. But on projecting our line of march on the map, I became aware how far we had diverged to the right of our proper course, and doubts arose as to whether we were really on the right road or not. In the meanwhile only five gallons of water were left for the night; our horses had had none, and were suffering such agonies of thirst that they could hardly move their legs. The question of finding the well on the morrow became one of life and death. How can I describe our feelings as we lay down to rest! Fortunately the wind fell and the dust in the air cleared off. In the morning, with the first glimmer of light, I climbed on to the top of the pile of boxes containing our collections, and carefully scanned the horizon with a glass. I could see distinctly the group of hills we had remarked the previous day, but in a direction due north of our halting-place: I could also distinguish the summit of another, which might perhaps be that of Shangin-dalai. Towards which should we direct our steps? Having taken careful bearings of the latter, and having compared its position on the map with that noted down last year, we decided to march in that direction.

In doubt and anxiety we loaded our camels and started, the hill now and then visible above the low ridges, and now and again hidden from sight. In vain we strained our eyes through the glass to see the cairn of stones (‘obo’) piled upon its summit; the distance was still too great to distinguish anything so small. At length, after having gone nearly seven miles from the halting-place, we descried what we sought; with strength renewed by hope we pressed onwards; and in a few more hours we stood by the side of the well, to which our animals, tortured with thirst, rushed eagerly forward.

On one of the marches through Southern Ala-shan we met a caravan of Mongol pilgrims on their way from Urga to Lhassa . . . The pilgrims were marching in echelons, some distance apart, having agreed to rendezvous at Koko-nor. As the foremost files met us, they exclaimed, ‘See where our brave fellows have got to!’ and could hardly believe at first that we four had actually penetrated into Tibet. But what must have been the appearance of the Russian
molodtsi
? Exhausted with fatigue, half starved, unkempt, with ragged clothes and boots worn into holes, we were regular tatterdemalions! So completely had we lost the European aspect that when we arrived at Din-yuan-ing the natives remarked that we were the very image of their own people! – i.e. of the Mongols . . .