Lal o Sar Jangal – Coach Day

Cheragh was his nickname, literally means ‘lamp’. I don’t really know why he was called like that. He was a fat Hazara truck driver whom I talked with yesterday. He was agree to give me a lift up till Panjao, in Bamiyan province. Cheragh had interesting history. He spent 2 weeks in an island near Jakarta, of which he ever didn’t know the name. North of Jakarta, there are hundreds of small islands which are called as ‘thousand islands’. He, together with other 400 Afghans, was in a ship to Australia from Malaysia, their adventure for getting a better life, a dream from their warring country, 6 years ago.

“The Indonesian government didn’t give us permission. Australia also didn’t give us permission,” They failed to get refugee visas even from Indonesia, and the archipelago government just allowed them to stay in an isolated island for two months. The government provided them food anyway, and the Indonesians they saw were only army who sent the food to the island. Thus Cheragh had not much other impression of Indonesia but its good weather and abundant water.

Cheragh was a truck driver, who got a task to transport sheep from Chekhcheran to Kabul. He, together with his Hazara colleagues, would drive 3 big Kamaz trucks to the capital, a journey of 3 days with the big vehicles. He promised to take me to Panjao, about 300 km away.

Cheragh told me to come at 4 in the morning near the trucks.

Freezing morning

Chekhcheran at 4 o’clock was freezing. I came to the trucks, but it seemed nobody was about to start the trucks. I stood around for half an hour and I couldn’t stand the cold. I was sleepy also to wake up that early. I found a sofa at the road side, and slept there.

I didn’t sleep long though. Life in Chekhcheran started as early as the sun rises. Men came from all directions, with a pot of water to an open field used as open toilet, to perform morning routine, and then ablution for prayers. A man, a town-cryer, was marching along the town’s roads singing the holy sentences to call the people to pray. His voice was very beautiful though, if not melancholy.

I was waiting for Cheragh and friends to come. But not until 7 they came around the truck. Making appointment at 4 and appeared at 7 was not a good sign. They were busy discussing something, and suddenly at 8 all of them were inside the trucks and started the engine. I was not inside any of the trucks. They didn’t take me and the appointment evaporated like fart.

“People here are not at all trustworthy,” said Khaliq, a local who was also promised by those Hazara drivers for a lift. I remembered one of the drivers noticed I didn’t wash my face, thus I didn’t perform my morning prayers. He accused me not a good Muslim. But in turn, he was also among those untrustworthy drivers. For him, performing the prayers was more important than being trustworthy.

Honesty is expensive here.

Waiting for the next transport in the middle of nowhere

Transport was also expensive. Suddenly I was dragged by Khaliq into a Falan coach to Daulatyar. “No worry, the coach is free. In Daulatyar I have many trucks. You can go to Panjao easily with one of my trucks.” I know he was big mouthed. In fact he dragged me down not to Daulatyar but to Shinia, his own village. He didn’t have any trucks at all, of course, and here it was much more difficult to find any forward transport. The coach fare was not free either, it was 100 Af.

Khaliq insisted to take me to his home for lunch. On the way the 3 Kamaz truck parade of the Hazara drivers, passed. None of them was willing to take me. “We don’t have space,” said Azizullah, who spoke English. Another driver, Ibrahim, even didn’t bother to stop nor look at me. I felt very disappointed. The same men made me waiting since 4 in the morning. I was shocked that none of them bothered to take me to the trucks. They made me chased them with a passenger coach to Shinia, and now I was being ignored like a fool. For sure they had so much space in the trucks as the seats were empty. Just 2 minutes after, another coach came. This coach was full of sheep, and a dog. The ownere of the sheep, a big bearded Pashtun man, surprised that I was not inside the trucks. “Poor boy,” said he while touching my cheek,” for sure I would love to take you. But you see here, my car is full of sheep. And there is a dog. Nobody can be there, as the dog will bite,” I didn’t attempt to insist as the dog was indeed impossible to befriend with.

The busiest part of Shinia

I went back to the bazaar of Shinia. This little village had a street with several shops. The shop owners took pity on me, and condemned the untrustworthy people. “The people of Chekhcheran are famous to be bad (jahil),” said one of the shop owners.

Stucked in Shinia, what to do? I was very touched by the hospitality of the people of Shinia. I was waiting for transport here .This was not a good place to wait for vehicles. Cares were very few, and there was even no place to stay.
“Don’t worry, if you don’t get any car today, you can stay in my house,” said the shop owner.

The village of Shinia was another poor village of Ghor province. The life passed slowly without much event happening. The shops were no way good businesses. It was very quiet here. I was waiting here for 4 hours, and every single machine as far as 1 km can be heard from here.

Maybe I need to take donkey instead?

The villagers helped me to stop all passing vehicles to request them to take me eastward. It was not easy. Most of the cars had no space, and there were only 3 cars, in 4 hours. At last, there was a Falan coach full of furniture, agreed to take me as far as Lal o Sar Jangal for 400 Af fare. The villagers, who sympathized me, came around the driver, and protested. The fare was too much, and in fact I had to be stuffed together with the furniture on the back seat of the car, said them. It was not a good seat at all. The driver then agreed to make the fare down to 200 Af.

The journey to Lal o Sar Jangal was a long, dusty journey. WE passed the Daulatyar district center. In other villages it seemed that harvest time for the wheat had come, and the farmers were busy in the fields.

Finally, Lal!

Lal o Sar Jangal is actually a district with two important villages: Lal and Sar Jangal, both separated as far as 1 hour car journey. I arrived at Lal at 8, and was too exhausted to notice anything else.