Truce with the Taliban: What Price for Peace in Pakistan?

April 13^th 2009 was a dark day for Pakistan. After 18 months of violence in the Swat Valley, the Pakistani government approved a ceasefire agreement that ceded control of the district in the North West Frontier Province (NWFP) to Taliban militants and allowed them to impose Sharia (Islamic law). The inability of the army to control militancy in the region, an estimated thousand civilian deaths from army shelling and Taliban beheadings, and high-profile suicide attacks in Lahore and Islamabad have made both local people and politicians desperate for peace. However, if the government expected Taliban fighters to lay down their arms, they will be sorely disappointed: within hours of the legislation being passed, Taliban militants had raided the neighbouring district of Buner, giving them a foothold just 60 miles from Islamabad. 

The US invasion of Afghanistan in 2001 should have spelled the end for the Taliban, a terrorist group that combined militant Islam with Pashtun tribal codes. However, a variety of factors have enabled Taliban resurgence both sides of the Afghanistan-Pakistan border. Firstly, Al Qaeda sponsored and trained not only Taliban fighters but also those engaged in jihad (holy war) in Kashmir. Keen for a constant supply of militants for this proxy war with India, Pakistan’s army and intelligence services (the ISI) provided refuge to Al Qaeda and Taliban officers fleeing Afghanistan. Rather than handing them over to the US for interrogation, militants were allowed to re-establish their training camps in Pakistan’s tribal areas. They were provided with weapons and finance, and shared intelligence with the ISI. 

America’s failure to reconstruct Afghanistan after the invasion was also to blame in the Taliban’s revival. In 2001, expectations were high that US troops would stay in Afghanistan to help rebuild the country’s infrastructure and state institutions, in particular the police, army and judiciary. When this did not occur and Afghanistan fell instead to warlord control, disillusionment amongst ordinary people was rife. Caught between the warring warlord factions, their corruption and extortion on one side, and the Taliban on the other, many people began to support the Taliban in the belief that they could at least restore law and order. The Taliban was able to offer regular salaries to men in regions with no alternative employment and, in the absence of state-run schools, madrassas often provided the only source of education. 

The influence of Taliban control in NWFP is inevitably felt most by people on the ground. In January 2009 alone, 400 girls’ schools were closed in the Swat Valley. Women have been banned from the markets and public places, music shops and barbers have been closed, and street floggings, one of the most abhorrent images of Taliban-era Afghanistan, have made their reappearance. Perhaps of most concern to the international community is that citizens no longer have the right of appeal to Pakistan’s supreme court; the religious police squads have, in many cases literally, become judge, jury and executioner. 

Taliban resurgence in Pakistan also impacts on the stability of the region as a whole. Suicide attacks and the shift of power within Pakistan threatens the viability of the national government, showing it to be weak and ineffective. This apparent power vacuum offers extreme political parties the opportunity to gain legitimate power in Pakistan through elections. The security situation in Afghanistan cannot improve whilst militants train across the border and travel back and forth freely with the assistance of the ISI. Taliban camps are training militants not only for localised attacks but also for jihad in Kashmir, Uzbekistan and further afield. Suicide attacks in Bali, Madrid, London and Mumbai can all be linked back to groups training under the protection of Al Qaeda and the Taliban within Pakistan.

Perhaps the greatest threat of the Taliban’s rise in Pakistan is not, however, conventional suicide bombings but the possibility of nuclear attack. As early as 1998, bin Laden stated that the acquisition of nuclear weapons was “a religious duty”. He met with Abdul Qadeer Khan, the founder of Pakistan’s nuclear weapons program, prior to 9/11, and in 2004 Khan was found guilty of selling nuclear plans to Libya, Iran and North Korea. The nuclear development programme in Pakistan may theoretically be controlled by the military, but they are either unable or unwilling to prevent the selling of information and technology to the highest bidder. The consequence of losing Pakistan to the Taliban, therefore, is of great concern to us all. 

The solutions to Pakistan’s problems are far from straightforward; they will inevitably be expensive, complicated and take years to achieve measurable success. The first thing needed is substantial, ongoing investment. Whilst the economy fails in Afghanistan or Pakistan, the salaries offered by militant groups will continue to look attractive. Nothing beats poverty as a breeding ground for extremism, and those living in refugee camps along the border among the poorest on earth. Investment in infrastructure projects, especially road building, electricity and water supplies, demonstrates that foreign powers are taking a long-term interest in the region. The Taliban has no capacity or interest in community development, and so by investing in these areas alongside local governments, influence can be gained in the battle for hearts and minds. 

Improved security is also essential for stability. Both during the 1990s and in this latest revival, the Taliban gained ground offering stability; in communities ravished by war, corruption and exploitation, this is a vital card to play. A greater presence of UN personnel on both sides of the border, providing Islamabad can be convinced to co-operate, would stem the flow of militants and raise local confidence. Troop presence musts go hand in hand with ongoing training of both Pakistan and Afghanistan’s armies and their police forces so that they build on their skills and are better able to protect their citizens from militancy. 

Finally, the international community needs to simultaneously put pressure on, and offer support to, the Pakistani government to clamp down on extremism. Constructive dialogue with India must be sold as the only path for Kashmir, economic policy must focus on job creation, and the ISI must be brought under control of parliament so it is accountable. Lastly, Pakistan’s moderate parties need to be built up so that they can offer viable alternatives to the extremists at election time. Winning elections within a democratic system gives militants political legitimacy and enables them to use the institutions of state to further their radical goals. As long as we fail to encourage and support a capable, moderate opposition to give voters genuine choice in elections, we are all complicit in Pakistan’s truce with the Taliban.

Timeline

December 2001 US declares victory over Taliban in Afghanistan.

September 2007 Fighting begins in Swat Valley between Taliban militants and the Pakistani army

September 2008 Suicide bombing kills 54 at the Marriott hotel in Islamabad

December 2008 Swat Valley captured by the Taliban

January 2009 Taliban closes 400 schools for girls in the Swat Valley

March 2009 Militants attacks in Lahore and Islamabad

April 2009 Parliament approves ceding control of Swat Valley to Taliban; Taliban militants move into Buner.

This article originally appeared in the Taboo issue of Asian Geographic (www.asiangeo.com)

The Mughals at Home: Architecture and Imperial Ideology in the Indian Subcontinent

What links Bill Gates and the Indian ruler, Akbar the Great? Put simply, whilst the first is the leading mogul of today, the Mughal ruler Akbar, with his expansive, wealthy empire and monopoly on power, gave later moguls their name. The Mughal kings ruled an empire that stretched from Afghanistan to Bengal. They first came to power in the 16^th century and their golden age ended with the death of Emperor Aurangzeb in 1707. The Mughals’ familial lands were in Fergana (now in Kyrgyzstan) and so they had no direct claim to the empire they forged; their conquests in the Subcontinent began only after attempts to control Samarkhand had been thwarted.

The Mughal emperors held court in five cities: Kabul in Afghanistan, Lahore in Pakistan, and Delhi, Agra and Fatehpur Sikri in India. These cities’ buildings were designed to be physical manifestations of the Mughals’ power over landscape and subjects alike, deliberately espousing through their structures the Mughals’ imperial ideology. Genuine connoisseurship ran hand in hand with clever propaganda, reminding us of the Mughal emperors’ innovative techniques for drawing together under one crown  the diverse peoples of the Indian Subcontinent.

The Mughals were patrilineal descendants of the Central Asian ruler Amir Timur. They believed that their right to rule the subcontinent derived both from Timur’s 14^th century conquests and their own military gains. The Mughals’ Timurid heritage influenced their architectural style in a number of ways. Like their ancestors, the early Mughals were constantly on campaign so a peripatetic court was in order. Courtyards and walled gardens were favoured as tented cities could be erected within their confines. The entire imperial household moved en-masse around the country so that no part of the imperial structure was left vulnerable to seizure.  

The first Mughal emperor, Babur (r.1526-30), deplored India, describing it in the Baburnama as “charmless and disorderly”. Attempting to recreate his beloved gardens in Kabul, one of his first acts was to construct a walled garden in Agra. The garden gave Babur peace of mind as he was able to demonstrate his capacity to establish order in a seemingly wild and uncivilized land. Mughal gardens were designed to evoke the Garden of Paradise described in the Old Testament and in the Koran. Areas within the garden were divided by paved walkways, fruit trees provided shade and sustenance, and fountains were filled with water.

The Timurids’ other major contribution to Mughal architecture was invocations of the legendary King Solomon. In Delhi and Agra, the Mughals constructed multi-columned halls reminiscent of Solomon’s, and the image of Solomon’s throne, which the Bible describes as being multi-stepped and carved with numerous mechanical birds and beasts, was replicated by the Mughals. Emperors Jahangir (r.1605-27) and Shah Jahan (r.1628-58) constructed their own throne of Solomon, invoking his memory through emulation of his court so that subjects would equate Solomon’s just rule with that of their own Mughal monarch.

The majority of Mughal subjects were, unlike their rulers, non-Muslim and had little previous connection with the Timurids. In order to ensure the long term survival of their empire, the Mughals had to integrate the indigenous elite, show religious tolerance towards the wider populace, and to portray their right to rule as absolute. 

Akbar the Great (r.1556-1605) brought nobles and local rulers from across his empire to court and gave them posts within the administration. They included Persian nobles, Rajput princes, and other Muslim rulers with whom he wished to form alliances. Akbar created a strict hierarchy where everyone was ultimately answerable to him. He developed elaborate court rituals, necessitating the construction of separate audience halls for public and private affairs, a multitude of courtyards, and wide, straight streets for processions of elephants and horses. 

In Hindu kingdoms,  it was believed that devotees were blessed by the mere sight of religious idols and monarchs. The Mughals adopted darshan (‘viewing’) and appeared on ornate balconies before crowds gathered in the courtyard below. The position of the balcony was reminiscent of the qibla in a mosque, so the emperor was able to draw simultaneously on both Hindu and Muslim religious traditions in his self-deification. The scope of Akbar’s religious appeal widened further when he constructed the debating hall at Fatehpur Sikri. The building was designed as a multi-faith meeting place where all religious leaders could meet to discuss theological matters. Symbols representing each religion were incorporated into the hall’s stonework. Akbar believed himself to be an intermediary between men and God, and clear demonstration of his understanding of all different theological doctrines was integral to this.

The reputation of the Mughal court attracted influential visitors from across the globe. Travelers, traders, physicians and missionaries were entranced by the Mughals’ legendary wealth and brought with them knowledge and customs from Europe, Persia and China. Among the most important gifts from Europe was an illustrated copy of the 1569 Polyglot Bible and engravings of biblical scenes. They were presented to Akbar by Jesuit missionaries in an attempt to convert him to Christianity.

The Jesuits’ gifts engendered in the Mughals a taste for western art. Inspired by European works, Mughal artists began to incorporate images of Christ and Mary in their wall paintings, carvings and manuscripts. Symbols such as the halo, the lion and the lamb, the globe and the hour glass all made their way into Mughal design to show both the emperors’ religious legitimacy but also their temporal power. Use of Christian iconography demonstrated the emperors’ semi-divine status, their cosmopolitanism, and their ability to subordinate Christian Europe beneath their imperial power and personal religion.

Mughal capitals were reflected the change in priority from military conquest to the stable governance of a diverse population. Whilst early capitals required outdoor space for tents, later architects replaced these designs with permanent, highly decorative structures for courtly ceremonies. The Mughals’ Timurid heritage merged with indigenous traditions to deify the emperor in the minds of his subjects and to give him political and cultural legitimacy. Christian iconography was manipulated by Mughal artists, gaining political connotations that further enhanced state propaganda of the divine emperor and his inalienable right to rule. 

If you are interested in Mughal political ideology and art, please check out my E-book http://www.amazon.co.uk/Painting-Development-Portraiture-1526-1707-ebook/dp/B005CJLAOO/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1334337521&sr=8-1

The Last Day

In the course of our 8-day trek I have no idea how far we have walked - the never ending cycle of ascents and descents and paths that twist and turn on the mountainside has completely blown any guesses I might have made. These same changes in elevation have proved the greatest physical challenge, and none were more grueling than those on the final day of the trek.

Given that we came back a similar route to the way we'd gone, day eight should not have been more challenging than day one. If anything, I'd have expected it to be easier as we were now amply acclimatised to the altitude. I couldn't have been more wrong.

We started early, rising at six, to maximise our chances of getting to a guesthouse before dark. The day began with a long, slow ascent from our riverside campsite, and I struggled from the outset. My legs, not a problem until now, ached; my toes rubbed in my boots; and my lungs felt permanently as through someone were sitting on my chest. When I walked I could not draw in enough breath to continue, but when I stood still to catch my breath I inevitably broke the momentum of walking. It was both agonising and infuriating.

I lost count of how many times we climbed to a breathtaking height, only to descend again to river level. The Dahliz Pass, colder than the week before, was thankfully not yet under snow, but although this was the highest point to climb, it was by no means downhill all the way home. I trudged on, willing my body to keep going for those last few hours back to Sarhad.

Whilst we stopped for lunch, two donkeys came to join us. They had seemingly become separated from the animal train with with they traveled, but neither the donkeys nor their owners seemed worried. We walked along in convoy, our guide riding on the back of one of these docile beasts from time to time.

Half an hour outside Sarhad and either seeing that I was on my last legs or sensing an entertaining photo opportunity, the donkey was passed on to me. It's been 15 years since I regularly rode ponies and I have never before ridden a donkey. Not even on the beach. I climbed on with some trepidation, despite the fact that my feet hung barely a foot from the floor, and clung on for dear life as the guide belted the animal's rump. The donkey wore a blanket and a piece of rope for a bridle, but there was neither saddle nor stirrups. I gripped on with my thighs as best I could and, as the donkey shot off down the hill, I wondered if I might have been better finishing the trek on foot after all.

Afghan Yurt Stay

Amongst Afghanistan's numerous ethnic groups are a small number of Kyrgyz herders who purportedly fled Stalin's purges in the early 20th century and became trapped in the Wakhan Corridor once international borders closed. Fewer than 1400 of these nomads remain, eking out an existence with their flocks in the remotest mountain valleys.

Bozai Gumbaz is the furthest point on our trek. It is a Kyrgyz yurt settlement and as far from civilisation as I have ever been. The wind whips icily around the felt yurts as I sit shivering in the last few rays of sunlight. Within a few days the Kyrgyz themselves will have left the mountains, retreating to lower ground during the bitterly cold winter months.

Our shelter tonight is a traditional felt bozui or yurt. We were initially offered room in a brand new plastic yurt but had to decline - it had the insulating properties of a bin bag. Felt is much warmer and the natural oils in the wool make it largely waterproof.

We were shown instead to what normally serves as a storage yurt. There is a dirt floor, partially covered with a plastic tarpaulin. Light enters the yurt through an open cartwheel in the roof known, as in Kyrgyzstan, as a tunduk. This hole also lets out smoke from the fire. Three breeze blocks hold in place dried yak dung cakes and a coarse, fragrant bush whilst they burn. The dung is surprisingly odourless and the small amount of smoke is a small price to pay for the warmth.

*****

Building and maintaining a smoke-free yurt is an art form and, sadly, not a skill that I have acquired.  Once our army of small boys had satisfied their curiosity and departed for bed, we were left to our own devices. Within fifteen minutes we may as well have been sitting inside a bonfire, only without the advantage of being toasty warm. The heat managed to escape through the tunduk and also through the now-evident holes in the wall and roof. Thick, slightly acrid smoke lingered in the air, burning our eyes and catching in our throats. We buried down in our sleeping bags, scarves across our faces, to spend a cold and not very restful night in the yurt.

Trekking in the Afghan Pamir

A few hours walk out of Sarhad is the Dahliz Pass. I should add this is a few hours' walk steeply up hill, as the Pass is over 3000' higher than the village. The swift ascent and the resultant need to acclimatise at speed is a physical challenge. The effort, unusually, is worth it.

The Pamirs are sometimes referred to as the "Roof of the World" and indeed, the history of the RSAA is called Strolling about on the Roof of the World in reference to the Great Game. Standing atop the Dahliz Pass, wheezing erratically, the term could not feel more right: you stand with the world quite literally at your feet - peak after peak unveiled before you. I felt humbled by the scale and unspoilt beauty of this most epic landscape.

******

Waking up to find your socks actually frozen to the side of the tent is not an ideal way to start the morning. When further inspection also reveals a layer of ice on your boots and the lower half of your hiking trousers to be stiff, it hardly endears you to the weather.

We camped last night at a summer pasture some three days hard walk east of Sarhad. The snow is slowly creeping down the surrounding peaks and even once we reach our destination late this afternoon, we still have to hope the weather holds out long enough to complete the four days' trek back again. The Dahliz Pass was spectacular in bright sunshine but would undoubtedly be treacherous under a foot of snow.

Guesthouses in the Wakhan Corridor

All along the Wakhan Corridor the Norwegian government has funded small guesthouses to aid the nascent tourism industry and give NGO workers somewhere safe and comfortable to stay. The guesthouses are, by western standards, rather basic but they provide a welcome change from camping and the chance to get a hot meal.

Each guesthouse is of more or less the same design: there is a large, square living room with a skylight and bright rugs laid out on the floor; 2-3 dormitory rooms with single beds or a pile of rugs and carpets; and a simple washroom with a squat toilet and a tank of water that may or may not be heated from below by a fire. In every guesthouse we visited we were the only guests, curiosities that attracted an assortment of local residents as the evening drew in.

Guesthouses are an excellent source of revenue for their owners: guests pay $25 per person for bed and an evening meal, which is a huge sum of money by local standards. The hosts are genial  and exceptionally helpful, chattering away at length even when you share not a word in common. On the guesthouse wall you'll inevitably find a picture or two of your smiling host with a local dignitary or receiving an award for tourism promotion or local wildlife conservation.

One of the key attractions of the guesthouses is the food. Standards differ, as you might expect, but fresh bread and hot tea are always plentiful and much appreciated after a long day on difficult roads. Those hosts with a culinary flare (or rather their wives) may also serve up tasty potato or mutton soup, copious pilau rice, dal and yoghurt. There is little variety in the type of food (ingredients are hard to come by in the Wakhan), but it is wholesome and reflects the local diet.

Sarhad e Broghil: The end of the road

Sarhad e Broghil is quite literally the end of the road: the rock-strewn track peters out amongst this small cluster of mud houses and from there the only way onwards is on horseback or on foot. The buildings are well camouflaged against the hillsides and a heavy rainfall would probably wash them away entirely. Small children with weather-beaten faces wander here and there; I see a small girl towing a bottle on a string behind her as a toy.

In Sarhad the harvest is mostly in - it gets colder here earlier than further down the valley and the snow is already falling on the passes. A creamy yellow stubble colours the fields, accented occasionally with hand-tied ears of grain in orderly piles.

From my perch on the hill I can see two families threshing their crops. In each case half a dozen small donkeys are roped side by side and marched round in circles, crushing the grain beneath their feet. It is time consuming but seemingly effective; even the smallest child can keep the donkey team in check, leaving other people to fork more straw into the threshing circle.

Into the Wakhan Corridor

The Wakhan Corridor seems to begin in earnest after leaving the village of Qazideh. The gravel track that serves as a road mirrors each twist and turn of the Oxus and as the evening draws on, houses on the Tajik border twinkle with light. Afghanistan is cloaked in darkness.

Every few miles the landscape of the corridor changes, often dramatically. The whim of the rives dictates where is fertile and where is barren, and where rocks, sand and morrain fall. We drove through boulder-strewn plains, rocky riverbeds interlaced with streams, dustbowls, and patchworks of lush, irrigated fields. Even in a 4x4 we could move at little more than walking pace and so there was ample time to take in the views.

September is harvest time in the Wakhan. The women's shawls and dresses are a passionate riot of colour against the golden grain and burnt brown stubble in the fields. In the distance, framing each scene, are barren grey slopes with scattered snow tips: the peaks of the Afghan Pamir.

Driving the so-called road is draining; the surface is incredibly poor and often non-existent. In the course of a morning we waded through two rivers, checking their depths and holding our breath that the water would not flood the car or carry us away downstream. In one area, a short distance past Qala e Panj, a torrent of water has swept away the road entirely and you must pay a $15-20 toll (a truly exhorbitant sum, especially by local standards) to a local farmer to cross his deeply rutted field. Once out of the mud you must then take your chances on the steep gravel ramp hacked in to the base of a decidedly unstable cliff.

Progress along the corridor is slow: 10mph is a respectable pace for the few people passing this way. You are unlikely to see another vehicle from one day to the next: the other road users come by donkey or on foot.
We stopped for lunch in an idyllic location close to the confluence of the Panj and Wakhan rivers. The valley there is wide and flat. Animals grazed on the grass and I ate my own weight in pistachio nuts whilst soaking up the sense of serenity.

Noshaq 2

I expected to reach Noshaq base camp (4450m) and to feel such an overwhelming sense of achievement that it made the gruelling climb worthwhile. It didn't. The shortness of breath, sweat and fatigue were omnipresent, so much so that I felt almost resentful. What on earth was I doing struggling up a mountain no one has heard of in the absolute back of beyond? What was the point?

As we descended, retracing our steps along the rocky ledges and mine-littered scree, my mood began to change. Perhaps it was the renewed thickness of the air, the lower temperature of a cloudy day, or simply that the going is less tough downhill. Everything around me seemed a little brighter and, for the first time, I could appreciate my epic surroundings.

During the ascent I put my slow progress, sweat and pain down to a lack of fitness and lingering food poisoning. On the retreat I realised I'd been overly harsh on myself - the track was in fact incredibly steep and some of the climbs exceptionally long. We had completed what is advertised as a 5-6 day trek in four days and so, although it felt awful, we must have been moving at quite a pace.

Lastly, having not trekked before, I took the trek's guidebook rating of "moderate" as read. However, having later discussed this with Bill, a keen mountaineer and our party's most seasoned trekker, it appears that although the duration and change in elevation put our trek firmly in the moderate category, the condition under foot was quite the worst he had seen. Looking back at my sweaty scrambles across rockfalls, slipping and sliding on slopes of gravel and sand, and hoping feverishly my foothold would stand, I realised that finishing the trek was a challenge but also an achievement. I won't be attempting to climb Noshaq again, but I'm glad I tried it once. 

Playing Doctors and Nurses

My brother is the doctor in the family. The thought of me doing anything more than applying plasters and handing around paracetamol would probably make him laugh - I go green at the sight of blood and, if it is my own blood, have been known to pass out entirely. Needs must, however, and as the person with the First Aid certificate and the largest First Aid kit, I have been designated team doctor.

Caring for our trekkers is a relatively straightforward affair: they can communicate their symptoms and know the advantages (and limitations) of living on a diet of Immodium and electrolyte solution. They keep themselves relatively clean and drink plenty of water. My greatest challenge, therefore, was with the seven porters and guide.

One tiny, spartanly equipped medical clinic covers the whole of the Wakahn Corridor. The nearest hospital is at least two days drive away in Faizabad. Maternal mortality is the highest in the world, life expectancy at birth is just 44 years, and most people have never set eyes on a qualified doctor. Anyone who carries a bag of davai (medicine), therefore, is not only an extreme curiosity but also up there with the gods.

The first two sets of symptoms presented to me on the trip were, not surprisingly, upset stomachs and headaches. These resulted almost certainly from a) drinking dirty water and b) getting dehydrated. It was rather a catch 22 situation but I felt the latter to be more pressing, particularly given that even in the villages the water tends to come straight from the river. Having heard on the grape vine the miracles of davai, the porters in question were keen to simply pop a pill and wait for the effects. They seemed rather disappointed when I explained they needed to increase their water intake by a couple of litres a day. It was only when I offered a couple of paracetamol along with the water that they cheered up.

Of more concern to me were the infected cuts. Nobody had explained to these men the link between dirt and infections, so simple cuts and grazes quickly turn in to abscesses. Not only is this painful but here, where there are no antibiotics, it can be life-threatening.

I started by making each porter clean his own cut thoroughly with boiled water and then antiseptic, and became increasingly fierce as they cleaned around the wound but avoided the bit that actually hurt. In one case I actually got out the latex gloves and cleaned the wound myself as unless the dirt was removed it wasn't going to get any better.

Once cleaned I applied Savlon spray or a topical antibiotic cream to the wound. The non-comprehension of the importance of cleanliness was reinforced when one porter went to use his finger, black with dirt, to rub in the cream. I explained as best I could why this was a bad idea, but I think the lesson will take a while to learn.

To keep the newly clean cuts clean, I dug out giant plasters and surgical tape. They're both fantastic inventions. The porters could also show their plasters off proudly - proof they had indeed seen the doctor. Where appropriate I made sure that each man had sufficient sterile wipes and replacement plasters for the days to come. There was no point undoing the good work they'd done so far. In one case where the wound had already swollen nastily - the one in fact I'd cleaned myself - I dug out a course of broad spectrum antibiotics and explained in a hotch-potch of languages how often he needed to take them. Had we been in reach of a proper hospital it'd probably have been better to lance the wound, give him an injection of antibiotics and stick him on a drip for a few days, but there are no such luxuries here. You can only use what you have to hand.

Sometimes I become infuriated when I travel. The lack of access to basic healthcare and education always chafe most of all. It costs next to nothing to teach people basic things to help them keep healthy: boil dirty water before drinking it; wash your hands after you've been to the toilet; clean any cuts and keep them clean and dry if you want them to heal. It's not rocket science but if no one ever tells you whey you get an upset stomach, a headache or a skin infection, you can't prevent it happening next time. In parts of the world where the doctors don't reach, prevention is undoubtedly your best chance of survival.

Noshaq

I am truly in the back of beyond. As I write this evening I am three days walk from the nearest track (calling it a road would be overly generous) and most of the way to Noshaq, Afghanistan's highest mountain. The peak, some 7600m tall if I recall correctly, straddles the Afghanistan-Pakistan border and is similarly inaccessible from both countries. The call of the wild has a certain appeal, however, and so here I am.

Trekking in this terrain is hard. September is a good itime to visit as the rivers are no longer in spate and the first snow is yet to fall, but still the barely visible path is steep and incredibly loose under foot. I half stumble and half crawl across hundreds of yards of last year's avalanches and wonder quite what I'm doing here. You need confidence and good balance in equal measure but whenever I run low on blood sugar, I fear I am short on both. The bruises on my knees certainly attest to that and I have twice ended up in the river. Wet boots are somewhat less than pleasurable and I am at the very limit of what my body can physically manage. I am not sure this is exactly fun.

The one positive thing to have come out of the trek so far is that I have seen a Lammergeier, a bearded vulture with a wingspan 9' long. It is one of the largest birds on earth and yet manages to soar and circle over the valley quite effortlessly. Bill spotted this particular bird not long after the start of the trek, adopted a most comfortable bird watching position (see below!) and the bird fortunately hung around long enough for us all to get a good view through the binoculars.

A Wakhi Family and a Wakhi Home

It is commonly understood that men and women live largely separately in homes across Afghanistan. A western woman may, on occasions, be allowed in both areas of the house as she is seen almost as a third sex, but even this is relatively rare. It was therefore with some surprise that our entire trekking party, both men and women, were invited into the home of Malang and his extended family in Qazideh, a village a few miles east of Ishkashim at the western end of Afghanistan's Wakhan Corridor.

We were ushered from the street through a wooden door and into the courtyard of the family's mud-wall compound. The grandmother, a wrinkled lady of almost 80, was minding two of her grandchildren in the corner, and a straggly chicken pecked at the dirt floor. We were happy to await our host here whilst he arranged his belongings inside, but instead were promptly summoned through a low-lintelled doorway and into the pitch-black corridor beyond.

Inside everything was black. This was not just from a lack of light but also from a dense, pervasive soot that coated every surface. The floor had been swept clean - this was a house maintained with pride - but it was if the floor, walls and ceiling had first been painted with a black paint.

The corridor soon opened out into a large, square kitchen and this is where the family gathered. The cooking fire was buried in a pit a foot below the floor and the smoke it emitted rose up through the room and escaped through a square hole in the roof. The same hole also let in the room's only light. A kettle boiled over the fire and within a few minutes we were served hot black tea and hunks torn from a large, round flat-bread.

The darkness and the smoke from the fire made it difficult to see how far the room stretched or if indeed there was another room beyond it. I think probably there was not, in which case this kitchen was the core living space for more than a dozen people. Everyone was dark-skinned from the soot and bleary-eyed from the smoke but the whole family had turned out to greet the visitors. I couldn't count the number of children, nor identify who they belonged to: babies were passed from arm to arm and small children bounced off the seating area and central block that served as a kitchen unit.

Seeing this home and this family was an eye-opener. At first glance they had nothing: a soot-blackened mud hut home with neither electric nor running water. There were few material possessions and it would not have looked out of place in a reconstruction of a Viking or Anglo-Saxon village. The longer I sat there, however, the more I understood that they had everything they needed. They were, by local standards, relatively wealthy. The house was large enough for the extended family to live together, meaning that a number of incomes contributed to its upkeep and the feeding of the family. The house was warm, dry and, although inevitably sooty and dusty, otherwise clean. The children were everybody's responsibility, and so were the guests. The family were proud of what they had, and I felt humbled.

Brief thoughts on photography in the Wakhan

In some countries you feel self-conscious about photographing local people and either have to do it surreptitiously or not at all. Stopping to ask permission to take a photo, although polite, often breaks the moment - people look different when they know they're being watched or have been told to "look natural".

The Wakhan Corridor, fortunately, is a place where one can photograph quite freely. Subjects seem perpetually keen to pose, even volunteering themselves and their families on the street, and this includes both men and women of all ages. All you need to do after taking the photo is to show the image on the camera screen - more often than not this is met with peals of laughter as the person realises how serious they look.We were never once asked for baksheesh (a tip) for taking a photo - the most anyone wants is a copy of the picture next time you pass their way.

There is, however, another challenge for photographers in the area, and this is dust. Dust storms appear from nowhere in the bottom of the valley and the camera seems to be caked in dirt the moment you retrieve it from the bag. Whether the dust is on the lens or inside the camera it is infuriating, so its necessary to keep cleaning your kit with a cloth, brush or can of air throughout the day. Looking back at my pictures there are a number with dust spots. Of course this can be rectified in Photoshop but it's irritating nonetheless.

Ishkashim

Ishkashim, the fist town in Afghanistan, is a rather more welcoming place than I remembered it. On my first visit a year ago I had been traveling with Afghanaid and their staff, though no doubt well meaning, had instilled an unnecessary level of paranoia in our group: the women were told not to drive, not to visit the bazaar, and were generally encouraged to stay out of sight and within the walls of the guesthouse compound. I consequently saw very little.

This time it was different. Tom, my co-driver, was struck down with food poisoning so severe he could barely sit upright and so it fell to me to drive. I attracted a few curious glances but none that were unpleasant. Most people grinned and waved.

A shortage of passport photos necessitated a trip in to the bazaar and again I was met with smiles and friendly conversation. Children and young men were keen to stop and practise their English and were were asked on a number of occasions if we would take people's photos: men and women of all ages were keen to pose and then see their image on the camera screen.

From outside the photo shop looked so unprepossessing that I initially thought I as in the wrong place. It was little more than a wooden shack and the plywood door was padlocked shut. From seemingly nowhere its turbanned and bearded owner appeared to open up and, once inside, he had to dislodge two small boys who had been asleep on the desk. I stood with my back to a blue sheet as he too my photo and then watched pleasantly surprised as he switched on the generator from which he could run his PC, scanner and printer. Appearances can certainly be deceiving - I would never have guessed this was a high-tech hut!

Across the street from the photo shop is the Aga Khan guesthouse - my previous home in Ishkashim. On our last visit Max inadvertently left his suit behind and so I popped in on the off-chance it was still there. I didn't hold out a great hope for this given that more than a year had passed, but I felt it was worth a try nonetheless. I was to be pleasantly surprised.

Half a dozen men amassed as I passed into the compound, all keen to find out what I was doing. They summoned the guesthouse administrator from a non-descript hut and I was chivvied along into the central building and a bathroom-come-storeroom piled high with cleaning utensils and lost property. Amongst the single shoes, bottles of shampoo and woolly jumpers was Max's suit, still wrapped in its dry cleaner´s plastic. I was asked a few questions, told that normally only Afghans wear suits (the national dress of Europeans, it seems, is comprised of North Face coats and bobble hats) and asked to write down my details to confirm collection of the goods. I was told that even a pen left in the guesthouse would still be there three years on, such is the honesty of the Aga Khan's staff.

As we were not in Ishkashim for development work, we stayed this time at the Juma Guesthouse, a pleasant compound a quarter of an hour's walk from the bazaar. Unusually for this part of the world the owner, Samad, is a keen gardener and has planted the guesthouse grounds with vegetables, fruit trees and flowers including bright orange marigolds and blooms in all shades of pink. Even in September the garden was a riot of colour and a stark contrast to the grey-green hills around.

Mid afternoon we decided to take a walk around the town. Many of the shops in the bazaar had already closed up for the day but there was plenty of people-watching to do. At the upper end of the town where there are fewer buildings we saw a pair of gun turrets wedged into the bank of a stream, the grass growing around them as they slowly rusted away. Just the other side of the road were the remains of two armoured personnel carriers, debris of the Soviet invasion, still making their presence felt more than 30 years on.

The wreckage is a substitute playground for the local children, and at times we felt like the Pied Piper of Hamlin. Enjoying the short period that was given over neither to school or to chores, the children took particular interest in both our cameras and my sunglasses - a real novelty as they only ever seem to be worn by foreigners. Their curiosity was genuine and their warmth palpable: as a visitor I was most definitely welcome.

Afghanistan: history of a land of culture and anarchy

"Afghan history is a morass of empires and dynasties, conquest and collapse, creativity and decay."

Bijan Omrani, author of Afghanistan: A Companion and Guide, unravels the past of this turbulent land at the heart of Asia, and traces its story from ancient times to the modern era. Listen to his most recent lecture at the British Museum by following the link below:

http://www.britishmuseum.org/whats_on/events_calendar/recorded_events/afghanistan_history_of_a_land.aspx