Remnants of the dust storm hung in the parched sky as we hurtled along the near-deserted streets of Kabul. Our two drivers, Akhtar and Hashmat, spoke little English but managed to express their disdain for having to work Friday, the Muslim holiday, which explained the ease with which we navigated the narrow, heaving streets. On any other day, the city’s arteries would be clogged with pedestrians, small yellow taxis, vans, scores of hard-shell armoured vehicles, bicycles, the telltale white UN vehicles, and countless fruit, vegetable and firewood carts pulled by sad-looking donkeys and wiry, bearded men.
I had been in Kabul for about 11 days. It was August 2007.
After several days of stressful and circus-like meetings with our customer over safety and security issues that should probably have been resolved years before we arrived with our $3 million helicopter, this was the first opportunity we’d had to be “tourists.” We needed a break so for a relaxing diversion we all jumped into the two small Toyota minivans and said to the drivers, “Take us to the pool.”
Although we had the entire day for sightseeing, our drivers developed lead feet and we roared along Chicken Street, passing small and colourful formal dress shops, a shopping complex, narrow hole-in-the-wall bakeries and restaurants with western names like “Chief Burger” and “The Grill.” Pungent aromas of freshly baked naan (a flat bread), rotting garbage and sewage assaulted our senses as we rushed through the near-deserted streets, and we all leaned into the turn as the van screeched around a corner, turning south to link up with the primary Kabul-Kandahar Highway — a route we hadn’t intended to take.
“Akhtar, to the pool,” said John, our Country Manager, and he pointed behind us to indicate the direction we should be going. “The swimming pool, on the hill.”
Akhtar nodded and carved intricate designs in the air with his hands as he spoke aloud in Pashtun, clearly not understanding a word John had said.
John was in charge of six young fixed wing pilots flying two King Airs on a United Nations contract, myself, the First Officer and the engineer with our helicopter, a local staff of accountants, operations assistants, four drivers, two cooks, a laundry lady and half a dozen maintenance workers and security guards. He took obvious delight in being our guide and host on this sightseeing venture.
“I think he’s taking us to the Intercontinental pool,” said John. “You just never know with all the one-way streets, and the way these guys drive.”
The Intercontinental Hotel had been one of the first landmarks I committed to memory for our approach to the airport from the south. The multi-story white building and blue swimming pool encased in a cement and grass patio stood out in stark contrast to the surrounding dust-coloured hills. Even in poor visibility, I knew if we overflew the Hotel, we would be well clear of any approaching or departing jets and we could be cleared direct to our landing pad. Strangely enough, the Kabul International Airport was one of the busiest airports I had ever operated from, and with the various accents of the controllers — Dutch, Bosnian, Afghan — following ATC instructions was often hit and miss. So we developed our own procedures to help.
We travelled a few more blocks and then pointed to the other mini-van that had pulled over to the side of the road. “Pull over, Akhtar. Pull over. Yes, that’s it, thank you. Tashakoor.”
Hashmat, the younger of the two drivers, was dressed in a long waist-length button-less shirt and billowing pantaloons, all in an off-white cream colour. He stood next to Akhtar’s door and they both began gesticulating wildly and pointing to the five of us in the back — four Canadians and one American. With six more Americans in the other van, we could have been enroute to meet a small enclave of Taliban insurgents, kidnappers, or thieves, any one of which would have profited greatly by our capture.
John reassured us that confusion dominated most days in the country. “I once asked Akhtar to drive me to the United Nation HQ and found myself at the soccer stadium. They’re good men,” he said. Trusted employees. “They just have to attend the ESL classes I set up for them a bit more often.”
Akhtar stepped out of the van and stroked his grey, wiry beard. His teeth were stained with tobacco. He too dressed in the traditional loose-fitting clothes in a pale blue and yellow. We had slid open the van door to ease the stuffiness inside—it was 39 degrees Celsius outside with no sign of wind and the van lacked anything that resembled air conditioning. John leaned out the sliding door and kept saying, “The pool hill, the big hill, the big pool.”
Akhtar nodded his head, spoke to Hashmat and then looked up and down the street for inspiration before dialing a number on his cell phone. I would have been surprised had there been an information hotline for directions — but I wasn’t sure. I had been surprised far too many times since my arrival, and not many of these surprises were pleasant. How anyone found a residence or business on these streets was truly a mystery. The address of our crew house was not a number and street name as expected. Rather, it consisted of a long description of where it was located. “Near Parki Shahr-i-Naw, one block off Chicken Street next to the Sufi Restaurant.” And mail and packages arrived within seven days of being sent from Canada!
Without local drivers we would be lost. We were convinced that only a local Afghan could navigate along the congested streets of this city. After surviving a quarter century of war, or perhaps centuries of war, the people of this “Graveyard of Empires” had an uncanny ability to sense trouble ahead on the road. While we would interpret a slow down or complete halt in traffic as normal for this part of the world, they seemed to know when to take an alternative route to avoid potential dangers. So far they had proven that theory right — or perhaps they were just impatient drivers and knew the city so well that an alley that looked impassable to us was a well-known shortcut to them.
In Third World countries one is never entirely sure.
Photo Credits
“Kabul Downtown” Brian Hillegas @ Flickr.com. Creative Commons. Some Rights Reserved.
“Ladies Downtown” Brian Hillegas @ Flickr.com. Creative Commons. Some Rights Reserved.
“Pictures Afghanistan” Cordelia_Persen @ Flickr.com. Creative Commons. Some Rights Reserved.
“Intercontinental Hotel in Kabul” courtesy of Intercontinental Hotel
[…] This is Part 2 of the series “Welcome to Kabul: Home of the Taliban Swimming Pool” by Allan Cram. To read Part 1, click here. […]