The dramatic events in Afghanistan inevitably sparked memories of my own brief experiences of the country more than 50 years ago while on an overland trip from London to New Delhi and beyond.
In my book The Long Winding Road To Nakhon Nowhere I observed: "Afghanistan was so different to anywhere I had experienced before or since. It felt like entering a time warp." Hardly a profound observation admittedly. Rudyard Kipling had a better take on it than me and his poem The Young British Soldier still sends shivers up my spine.
It was a February morning in 1969 and we had spent the night aboard our ancient bus in a sort of no man's land at the Iran/Afghan border. The snow-bound landscape was as bleak a place as you could possibly imagine.
We had no idea what awaited us in Afghanistan. As it turned out it was a very welcome omelette breakfast served from a kitchen in what appeared to be a cave. The omelette was so tasty the place should have been the first cave to be awarded a Michelin star.
Although it was in the days long before the Taliban and a decade before the Russians invaded, there were plenty of tribal conflicts going on and one seasoned traveller advised us to "keep your heads down". In fact one of first things I noticed was that just about every other Afghan carried a rifle and more to the point, looked quite capable of using it. As we entered Herat that afternoon it was snowing heavily and with the horse-drawn carts and their quaint bells it was very different from the hot and dusty Afghanistan I had imagined. But we were to experience plenty of the hot and dusty stuff later.
The Desert Cup
Heading south from Herat to Kandahar the temperatures rose dramatically and after months of grappling with ice and snow our elderly buses failed to handle the heat and dust of the desert. The ancient vehicles finally expired in the middle of the desert in Helmand province and we were abandoned, left to make our own way. From now on it was the delights of local Afghan buses with chickens and goats for company.
As we were all about to go our separate ways, we had a farewell football match in the desert, using backpacks as goalposts. It was great fun, particularly as none of us had a clue where we would be in a couple of days. That night we slept under the stars and watched meteors racing across the clear desert sky.
The Hippie Trail
Another night I won't forget was in Girishk, a small town 122 kilometres from Kandahar. We spent an uncomfortable evening in what claimed to be a hotel, but was one large unfurnished room already occupied by a dozen armed Afghan tribesmen. They just stared at us all night while we smiled nervously at them. How strange we must have looked to them, suddenly appearing on their patch.
As a gesture of friendship we gave them some Western cigarettes which seemed to be appreciated. Unfortunately one of the elders suffered an extended coughing fit after taking a deep drag.
Up the Khyber
Possibly the most significant moment in my Afghan adventure came when the bus from Kandahar to Kabul stopped for roadside refreshments. I consumed a dodgy curry, which was probably to blame for my subsequent disintegration in Kabul. The only entry in my diary on my first night in Kabul reads "very ill all night" which was repeated the next two nights. I was suffering from extreme food poisoning and have never felt so ill.
A few days later my travelling companions desperately wanted to leave Kabul, so despite the fact I could only just about stand up, there I was on the 8 a.m. bus bound for Peshawar in Pakistan. That stretch of the journey included the magnificent Khyber Pass and the Hindu Kush although I wasn't in the best of shape to fully appreciate the stunning views. It was admittedly a rather inglorious way of saying goodbye to Afghanistan.
Farewell Sonchai
A sad year got a whole lot worse last week when former Post colleague Sonchai Nokeplub passed away at the age of 67 after a long battle with cancer. Sonchai was a good friend and a top-class journalist.
I can't add much to the moving obituary in Thursday's Post by his long-time friend and colleague Pichai Chuensuksawadi. I remember one of Sonchai's early assignments in 1982 when he was sent to the Cambodian border at Si Sa Ket to track down a kouprey, a wild ox believed to be extinct. Sonchai was unfortunately caught in an almighty thunderstorm and the next day the Post carried a wonderful picture of him absolutely drenched and no sign of a kouprey. Later he had to put up with my silly jokes enquiring about whether had had caught the kouprey yet and he would always respond with a chuckle, recalling he had never been so wet in all his life.
Above all he was the nicest person you could wish to meet. RIP Sonchai.
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