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.
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.
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