The North

On Friday I began my 400 km (8 hour) voyage to northern Afghanistan.

I'm not going to lie and say it was extremely dangerous, nor will I say it was ride in the park. It was what it was - a trip to northern Afghanistan. One thing I've learned about traveling is that it best to co-opt the help of local individuals who are native to the area where one is traveling. If a native of the area gives one save passage, then one can be assured one will be safe amongst that group (and the rest is in God's hands).

My driver and his son, Amed, were friends of one of my co-workers, and they were truly traditional Afghanis to the bone. They had been to Mazar Sharif (the city in the north) a number of times and were fully acquainted with the terrain. Our journey began at 6am in the morning twilight. As we left Kabul and entered into the surrounding mountainous areas, civilization very quickly disappeared. It is hear beyond the walls of the city that Afghanistan's true character begins to show. The mountains are treacherous region, mostly because of the harsh (and freezing) living conditions, and only secondarily because of fighting warlords. The mountains are dotted with dilapidated mud houses, sheltering the rural families within. Every few kilometers, the men and children gather around the roadside in search of any work available from the passing traffic. It is in these regions where the government laws of Afghanistan scarcely reach.

As we tunneled our way out of the mountainous region, we reached more pleasant terrain resembling fields of muddy and rock, occasionally hosting the odd remains of Soviet tanks and heavy artillery. Along the way, we crossed hosts of Afghani villages with their mud houses, the women (some wearing the burqa and some not) occasionally making their presences. The rural areas are far poorer off then the city centers, not unlike most underdeveloped countries. Every few hours, we would pass a convoy of international force with "ISAF" (International Security Assistance Force) draw clearly on their side of the vehicles. I thought it someone amusing that both of us (myself and those in the ISAF vehicles) were internationals; however, their convoy really stuck out like a soar thumb in the rural Afghan terrain.

The city of Mazar Sharif (our northern destination) was not particularly impressive, but I guess everything is relative. One word describes it all - COLD (in our $50 USD room we still had to sleep with our winter jackets on at night). The city has a rich history and is a major center of the country's folklore. In the middle of the city is a mosque like structure which claims to be the burial site of "Hazrat Ali" (whereas the rest of the world views Ali, the fourth caliph of Islam, to be buried somewhere in Iraq, Afghan folklore hold him to be buried in Mazar Sharif). And asking around, the people firmly believed so. Perhaps with all the unrest, believing created a sense of relief (and in any case, I wasn't interested in a heated discussion but rather decided to give tolerance the upper hand). I have to admit that at every step of my trip, the Afghanis I encountered (perhaps with the exception of some of the security forces) where very hospitable people, regardless of the ethnic group from which they hailed from.