Bamyan – A Day in Bamyan

From a tailor in the second floor of a wooden simple building in the bazaar of Sharh-e-Nao, I heard an interesting story from a man named Ramazan. When I told him where I came from, he said, “ooo Indonesia,” then he named some Indonesian islands: Java, Bali, Roti. He suprised me in two ways. First, it was already surprising that an Afghan in this little village of Central Afghanistan, where some people still thought that Indonesia was somewhere near London. The second thing was Roti. Roti is a small island, with such far flung location even most of Indonesians don’t know whee it is exactly.

So how Ramazan knew about Roti? There is an interesting story behind this. In fact he had lived in Roti for fourteen months between 2001 and 2002. Besides Roti, he has been to Jakarta and Bali also, and attempted to get into Australia by risking his life on boat with other 240 fellow refugees, trying to get a new better life in ‘modern’ countries, escaping the rule of Taliban administration. It cost them 5000 Af to get to Karachi, where then they got the boat with ticket price 700$ per person to get them to Malaysia. Then from Malaysia they found illegal ways to enter the loose Indonesian sea borders.

Roti, seen by un-informed Indonesians like me as far away poor island, but for Ramazan it was a nice play to stay. It had shops, many people from different religions, beautiful girls scattered everywhere, Chinese refugees (???), and electricity – which is in scarcity in his own country. But he couldnt bear the food and he felt happy that he went back to Afghanistan. He didn’t like eating rice, he said. He stayed long time in Indonesia but he barely spoke the language further than ‘berapa?’. He didnt speak English either. The language problem prevented him from getting a job. Luckily he had a relative in Australia – another successful Afghan refugee – who transfered him money for his life in Indonesia.

About the recent Afghanistan, he said that he hated Russians, he disliked Mujahiddin, and he never fell in love with any of General Massud, Dostum, Taliban, and neither the recent president, Hamid Karzai. I said to him that now Bamiyan had more shops and businesses compared to three years ago. He said, “it was all from ourselves. Karzai never does anything for us. See, we still don’t have electricity here!”

My life in a teahouse. Teapots and bread are my new company.

Living in chaikhana (tea shop) as a musafer is a new life for me. Observing how knowledge to be shared in this community hall, see how the cups of tea accompanying the people enjoying the flowing of time, see how the air is filled with atmosphere of friendship and enjoyment. The proverb said that there was almost nothing that you could not hear or learn from a chaikhana, where people eating, sipping tea, sharing stories, and laying on matrass. Now the atmosphere of chaikhana has been enriched by the arrival of new technology: tape recorder, radio, TV and DVD playing Indian songs (with many very sexy kissing scenes, bellies of women, bare chest men, etc). There was even a carambol table for the men to play after the food. The exhausted musafers (travelers) may take a deep nap on the matress after sipping the endless flow of chai sabz (green tea) and Kabuli palao. The Persian common way of taking tea is by putting a piece of candy in mouth, hold it in the mouth when the tea water pouring in, so that the sweetness of the candy mix with the plain tea.

Taking shower in public bath is another genuine teahouse experience

At the afternoon I went to Kakrak. I read that there were Small Buddhas in the valley from the Nancy Dupree’s Historical Guide to Afghanistan guide book, a guide book on Afghanistan in the hippie era in 1970s. When I was trying to find the pathway, I was approached by a Tajik man. Actually he was asking for money to be my guide, and laughed about my ‘poverty’ of not having my own car. I talked with him about the meaning of ‘mehmannawazi’ (hospitality). He giggled, and decided to accompany me.

Soldiers in Bamiyan

First we passed the Shahr-e-Gholghola, the City of Scream. This is the rubble of the fort of King Jalaluddin which was flattened by the the hordes of Genghiz Khan, who killed everybody in the city. The area is heavily mined at this moment.

Not far in Saidabad there is another fort, Qila e Dokhtar, or the Daughter’s Fort. The daughter here is the king’s daughter. This is a story of betrayal. The king’s daughter refused his father’s will to be married to a handsome prince from Ghazni. She moved to this castle and she hated her father so much, despite the fact that her father provided anything she wanted. She was thinking of betraying her father, by telling the Mongols the secret of the father’s palace. The Mongols successfully destroyed the father’s fort, and that was the story of the Shahr-e-Gholghola, the City of Scream. She was waiting to be rewarded by the Genghiz Khan, by wearing her most beautiful wardrobes. But Genghiz Khan decided that her life was also to be ended by sword.

Kakrak is located after steep decrease to a river valley and another climb to the hill. There were only niches left as the Buddha statues and frescos were all destroyed by the Taliban. Almost nothing left. But it was the walk through traditional Hazara villages which was most rewarding.

A picnic to the City of Scream

The Tajik man who was with me, Saboor, took me to his dormitory. Actually he is a driver of a de-mining NGO, MDC (Mine Dog Center). His chat was always not far from ‘jigjig’ conversation. ‘Jigjig’ is an onomatophoea for ‘sex’ (comparable with ‘esek-esek’ in Indonesian), probably introduced by the Russians, and most people understand the meaning of it. He said that he never had sex with boys, but the fact that he knew that Vaseline is helpful for that business made me more suspicious. Gayish jokes are very common among Afghan guys, even the men who never stop clicking the tazbih chains also may come into sexual jokes like this. But I do really need to make confirmation whether it just stops only in jokes or goes further.

Saboor prepared mango juice for me, made just by screwing the mango with his both hands until it became so soft. Jamil, his Pashtun friend, prepared a glass of milk. He said I should see him working and shee how the dogs to detect mine to be blasted by the mine. He said it would be very gorgeus.

Dog to be blasted by mine? Hmmm…