Afghanistan & Iran
Return Journey

As far as I know, this article was never published

Soon after the long descent from the Pass we crossed the border into Afghanistan, and into Kabul, the Capital. Due to the delays we had experienced, we could not linger very long in Kabul, but we spent one morning strolling round the antique shops, which are numerous. The main attraction in Kabul, as far as bargains are concerned, is old fire-arms. We bought several, both to keep as souvenirs, and also to sell as collectors’ pieces on our return, to try and defray a little of the costs. Most of the guns are ornate, with inlaid mother-of-pearl butts; some were sawn-off shotguns, and we learnt that the Afghans had done this to enable them to hide the guns down their trouser legs to avoid detection. We subsequently learnt that most of the guns are in fact probably North African in origin, but most of them had had British locks fitted to them. Most of the locks bore dates, generally early to mid-nineteenth century.

Kabul was full of European travellers, most of them heading East – we appear to have been the only gluttons for punishment to have done the trip by road both ways, most people having had their fill of a complete lack of creature comforts on a one way ticket. The Afghans are fast learning that they have many articles of value to the Westerner, but are open to any amount of bargaining. The price we paid for the guns, Afghan knife and pistol were very fair, as was borne out on our return, when we sold them for 250% profit – the old blunderbuss which we decided to keep ourselves as a souvenir, and without knowing at the time that it was, in fact, the most valuable of our loot, has since been valued at ten times the price we paid. I also bought, very cheaply, an original charcoal drawing of an Afghan tribesman. Many of the Afghans have the typical Mongolian features, but the Tribesmen, on the outskirts of the town, have rugged, strong faces. They are bearded, carry guns, but appear very friendly.

In Kabul we picked up a young American who was hitch-hiking home from Australia. We agreed to take him as far as he wanted to travel with us, and he took over some of the driving, and put up with our interminable screech from the rear, which was becoming worse with every mile. I think he wondered just how long we would last; the same thought was in our minds. I cured Jerry’s chronic tummy upset with which he seemed happy enough to travel, then fed him on Enterovioform and boiled water, and I think we left him in better shape than we had found him.

We had to get to Kandahar, south of Kabul, and a 320 mile run, before dark the following evening, as we had been warned that there was no secure place for a night stop between the two towns, so we made an early start the following morning. We need not have worried about the early start as it happened, as the road stretched for miles, dead straight, and with a perfect surface, so that we kept up a good average all the way. This unexpected road in the wilds has been built – not by the Romans – but quite recently, and is part American, part Russian in construction. On the rare occasions when the surface deteriorated very slightly, Jerry would announce that that was obviously one of the Russian sections. It stretches from Kabul, south-west to Kandahar, and then takes a sharp north-west turn up to Herat. There is hardly any traffic on it, and the only travellers we saw were overlanders heading east, travel-stained and dirty, and enjoying their first taste of a really good road for some miles.

Apart from our tinned meats, spaghetti and rice, we lived almost entirely on water melon throughout Afghanistan. They were very plentiful and cheap, and most refreshing, especially as we had no way of cooling water for a cold drink, and the heat was extreme. We passed field after field of water melons, but still marvelled that for 2d we could buy one to keep three of us going for a whole day. Our usual stand-by for breakfast being eggs, we were somewhat non-plussed to find that it was apparently impossible to buy fresh eggs – each one exploding nauseatingly as I broke it in preparation for our usual brew-up of scrambled eggs, and finally our breakfast was limited to coffee and water melon.

Our exit from Herat was a memorable one – few men will sink their pride sufficiently to ask the way, and my son was no exception. I admit, we did appear to be heading in the right direction, but about five mile along we spotted a signpost informing us that we were on the road for Moscow. We turned round smartly and tried the only other road out of Herat, which took us on our way to the Persian border and Mashad.

Once through Herat and safely on the right road, we soon encountered our familiar dust roads once more. They were, however, not nearly as badly surfaced as those we had experienced on the way out, and we only had to contend with them for a mere 300 miles.

The dust, however, worried us a great deal more, if that were possible. By this time the van had been shaken about, all joints loosened, and the dust belched up through the floor and in at the doors, which no longer fitted as well as they once had done. We were soon enveloped in a grey pall of dust and grit and could barely see the interior of the van. As our shrill screech was drowning all other sound, and we had had to resort to a form of lip-reading, any communication was now impossible, as we could hardly see one another. Each evening found us, once again, bent double with our heads in a bucket of water, attempting to get rid of the worst of the dust from our hair.

Crossing the border into Persia caused the inevitable endless delays. On this occasion it was their lunch hour, which lasted four hours, after which work was resumed in a desultory fashion for a brief spell before they closed for the night. We filled in the time with one or two minor repairs to the van, and changed the headlamp bulbs so they dipped the correct way for Continental driving. When our turn finally came, we were forced to swallow, on the spot, four white pills, closely resembling ping-pong balls in size, to ensure that we did not develop cholera while driving through Persia, in spite of the fact that our health certificates were in order. I was cross that after all my security efforts to ensure that we drank only boiled water in the more unhealthy areas, to be given a glass of very green and unwholesome looking water with which to wash down their pills. They also insisted in tying up and sealing our fire-arms from Afghanistan – we could have done little damage, having omitted to carry flints, powder or shot with us.

We had Jerry with us for three nights. We offered him the shelter of the floor of the van at night, but he insisted that he liked the open air, so, with our sleeping bags underneath him  and a sheet in which he wrapped himself like a cocoon to keep off the worst of the flying dust, he braved the hard ground. We said goodbye to him at Mashad, and later, as we were parked near the road for the night, saw his bus, bound overnight for Teheran, and gave him a farewell wave. He was obviously going to get home a lot quicker on his own!

With the “Mysterious East” and the wilds of Afghanistan behind us, we turned our faces rather reluctantly to the Middle East, still determined to travel by fresh routes and see new places.

Journeying on through Persia on our return trip, we deviated north from the direct route to have a swim in the Caspian Sea, which we found to be almost fresh water, before heading for Teheran, after a delightful run along the coast road beside the Caspian. We spent the next two nights camping in idyllic spots in Persia; the first, manoeuvring the van down to a sandy stretch by a stream, in the midst of the mountains. Here we serviced the van and rid ourselves of some of the dust in the river. Amongst all the memorable spots that we sought for night stops during our entire trip, this particular one was to remain in both our minds with greatest clarity; it was a lonely, peaceful wilderness. The second night found us again beside a stream down a disused side road , and, hoping that the dust was a thing of the past, we set to and gave the van a thorough spring-clean – curtains and all came down. We also dunked our dust-laden tins of food in a bucket of water – only to find that all the labels had soaked off. From then on, each meal was a surprise, as we had no idea whether the tin we had selected would contain fish, mince, or maybe sausages.

In one particularly wild and arid part of Persia I picked a bunch of dried thistles, which I was determined to take home with me as a souvenir. Scratched and bleeding, I produced my decoration, only to be told by Peter that either they went, or he did. I doggedly stuck to them, however, but even with their lethal thorns carved off the stems, the petals remained needle-sharp, and made their presence felt – painfully – for the remainder or the journey. Now, although not of particular beauty by themselves, they make an addition to a winter decoration, and to me, are of more interest than other dried foliage I have collected.