A Short walk in the Hindu Kush

Seven of us ex-pats working at Wazir Akbar Khan left the hospital early last Thursday afternoon for Istalif to spend the night in the mountains at The Lodge, (www.remotehydrolight.com).

The exuberant, spring-green of the Shomali Plain north of Kabul was surrounded by mountains of cold, pure white lofty peaks. Having only passed through this area in the fall and winter when the landscape was a contracted dry monochrome, I was surprised at the inviting lushness, the expansive openness. But spring is fleeting in Afghanistan, and all will soon desiccate and melt into shades of brown.

About 40 kms north of Kabul we turned west toward the mountains, traveling a rutted dirt road alongside walled fields; walled living compounds, some looking quite prosperous with a fresh, outer layer of mud, dung, and straw; and walled vineyards. Many of the walls had been damaged during the Taliban wars and remain unrepaired. Others have fallen under the weight of weather and time. Walls define Afghanistan's cultural architecture; falling from walls and collapsing walls define common Afghan orthopaedic injuries.

Besides green, the fields and walls were dotted with the orange of single poppies and the blue-purple of a 6 petaled delicate, open-cupped flower. Young boys wantonly pull them up from the fields to sell along the road to Afghan tourists.

The road followed the plain for about 4 kms then climbed into the mountains, through picturesque villages of huddled mud houses, reminiscent of Italian hill towns in appearance and raison d'être. Orchards of blossoming apricot and almond, interspersed with groves of willowy poplars, balanced the horizontal green of terraced fields. Redbud, in thick bushy form, with branches lavishly covered in pink-red buds, lined the road and dotted the hillsides. Yellow gorse-like shrubs complemented this exquisite medieval pastoral picture.

The track through the villages or hamlets was flanked on both sides by the high, windowless walls of fortified houses or the shorter walls of terraced fields and meticulously tended small groves of mature walnut and mulberry trees in various stages of early leafing. Each switchback we traversed, skirted a stream of rushing water or an irrigation canal, opening to a clearing where people and animals could rest in the cool shade. Magnificent spreading chenars (oriental sycamores) graced shadowed glades. A short alley of deodars in one picnic area gave an idea of the more abundant beauty that in the past lured the wealthy of Kabul to Istalif as a summer refuge.

We stopped at the village at the end of the road, Mazar-e-Mitalam, 6 km from Istalif Bazaar to began the 2 km walk to the lodge. While parking the vehicle an official approached the members of the group requesting a clinic. The nearest medical clinic is a long walk and gives limited care. We had not advertised ourselves as other than ex-pats on a weekend outing, yet it was assumed we had the power to DO something.

The sound of water was the background music to the walk, but my thoughts were crowded with the most wonderful realization that I was walking unescorted, among Afghans who were going about their daily work. I was part of the picture, walking with a purpose to a destination. Though we all have different ideas of Afghanistan, the one of mud and rock architecture perched on the side of mountains, a rushing river below, intense blue sky supported by snow-white peaks, and red-cheeked children herding baby goats, is, I believe, universal. I was finally in the "real" Afghanistan--rooted in a distant Kiplingesque past, traversed on foot, interpreted in free-form. I never thought I would have the chance for such an unfettered short walk in the Hindu Kush.

It was a glorious walk along the chaotic Istalif River, the mica and pyrite of the wet rock glistening in the sun. A chenar at a bend in the river fluttered with strips of glittery cloth in supplication. For what? I assume the usual: fertility, protection from the vicissitudes of poverty, maybe a medical clinic.

After an hour and half dawdling walk with no photo-op left untaken, we entered the small garden of the unpretentious lodge. Two large sleeping rooms strewn with thin mattresses and bolsters around their periphery occupied the top floor with a small kitchen between. Three unisex hot-water shower; seated, flush toilet; and sink enclosures satisfied all other needs on the first floor. I sat on the roof listening to the river, absorbing the view of mountains, snow, green terraced fields tucked into every crevice high above, when the smell of sautéing garlic rose from the kitchen, followed by fragrant cinnamon and the yeasty smell of bread fresh from the oven. What a welcome!

The seven of us polished off the chicken, rice, and bread about sunset then some of us watched the stars from the roof and talked. Light from the quarter moon obscured the stellar display, so I woke at 02:30 to view the Milky Way and was rewarded with the head of Scorpio rising over the southeast mountains--the first sighting of my favorite summer constellation. I rose to sunshine at 05:30 and did a full workout of tai chi on the roof as the morning warmed.

Oatmeal, eggs, toast, and tea prepared us for an 8:00 hiking departure. My idea was a nice ramble in the hills, an alpine frolic. I soon realized I was in for a much different outing. After crossing the river we worked our way up through a green, irrigated valley plaited with water channels among terraced fields and groves of poplars. Tom led the way, picking our path over boulders, up and down, along scree and dirt, and around huge overhanging outcrops. Up we climbed, past the running water into a landscape of brittle dryness.

Wild mint and penny royal grew along the streams and when crushed underfoot gave off a heady fragrance. I found a small patch of tiny-flowered ground orchids. At the high, drier elevations, small yellow tulips, fritillaries, ranunculus, yellow "star lilies," the furry basal rosettes of mullein, and the red, phallic shoots of a spurge emerging from a bulbous root grew among the rocks. Bordering a boggy rivulet at snow line, a profusion of 3" high pink primulas grew in a patch of mossy grass, looking like a Persian carpet. Each stage of the climb brought us better views of the mountains, a greater expanse of snow, and best: the feeling of solitary achievement.

After a snowball fight we descended an adjacent canyon, gingerly picking our way on the steep slope to the stream that led us back to the river and the lodge. Seven hours of very unexpected climbing and worse--descending--had extracted all my energy.

I had not conquered any peaks, made no daring ice field traverses, or braved avalanches. I was scratched, pricked with thorns, sunburned, and exhausted. Yet walking out of the valley I felt a sense of belonging, as if I had earned my temporary presence in this strange and beguiling country, simply by walking in it.