Strolling over the friendship bridge in no man’s land between Uzbekistan and Afghanistan I reflect back to the Russian invasion in the 1980s. They built this almost 1 km long bridge over the Amu Darya River in 1985. How many Russian tanks rumbled across this bridge? How many US tanks rumbled across from Uzbekistan to liberate Mazar e Sharif from the Taliban in 2001? I gaze across to Afghanistan and the bizarre US army spy blimp that floats across the border village of Hairattan.
I have with me on the long hot walk a Kazakh of Afghan extraction who I met on my long wait at the Uzbek border controls. He speaks a little English but he does speak Uzbek and, bonus, Afghan. He cruises through the border formalities before me but waits in the heat on the other side and he is the key to the smooth running of my time in Afghanistan.
The bridge is in good whitewashed nick until we cross the red line painted halfway along marking our passage into Afghanistan. Beyond this the paintwork has been unkempt and rust is breaking through. Nonetheless I am feeling mildly euphoric to actually be here as the anxieties and apprehensions leading up to this day have disappeared. The two Afghan flags at the end of the bridge are small and fraying in contrarst to the race of sparkling new Uzbek flags behind me.
Veering right off the bridge I am stratled by the sight of two American soldiers, bullet proof vests carrying machine guns. I can,t resist to say hi and ask where they are from. In a broad southern drawl one repies “I’m from Texas” It is pleasant to hear a western voice. He continues with a hint of sarcasm says “Now you enjoy your touring through Afghanistan!” I retort that I will be back and out of here this very afternoon after I have taken a few pictures and he breaks out a broad grin. I then pick my way through three parked US tanks, engines running manned with soldiers stationed with machine guns at the ready on the top.
By comparison with the Uzbek side customs takes only 10 minutes and my minder, Bashir, finds an Afghan official who speaks perfect English. I promise I will see him later this afternoon. We jump into a Taxi and Bashir does the rest.
It is a 45 minute drive from the border to Mazar e Sharif through desert. Mountains loom on the southern horizon. We pass by a US military base and I am intrigued to see the same anti suicide bomb protections on the outside that I have seen in recent Hollywood movies. The little villages along the way are few and far between but look much the same as any subcontinental road stops. The women in burkhas evoke images of dark blue ghosts.
Mazar itself is a surprise. It is Afghanistan,s 4th largest city and there is lots of sprawl and traffic. In the centre we reach my destination the shrine of Hazrat Ali and my new friend Bashir leaves me but not before paying for the taxi ride himself in a typical show of Afghan hospitality. Not only that he sets me up with the driver for the rest of my day. The driver follows me around the shrine as my “minder” and drives me the long 45 minutes back all for $20 US. It is such a godsend I do not haggle and accept immediately.
The shrine of Hazrat Ali marks the burial place of the son in law of the prophet Mohammed. The present construction dates back to the 15 th century and it is absolutely sublime! The mosque is huge and clad in stunning blue mosaics. The surrounds are all brilliant white marble and the effect is dazzling. I am so glad that I pushed through all the negative vibe and came here. The photographs promise to be absolutely stunning albeit the harsh midday sunlight will not fully do it justice. I take time to sit on the white tile ground and take pictures of the people parade passing by. Men, women and children all captured with ease. In fact the kids went out of their way to pose for me and asking some of the bearded older men they nodded and posed for me. I was refused entry into the mosque but not because I was a foreigner, the attendant asked me if I was Muslim. Tempted to lie, I don’t think I could have effectively convinced them if I was to have to perform any prayers or devotions inside.
I bought lunch for myself and my driver and we sat down to a bowl of chips, bread and some sort of vegetarian pakoras seated at an impromptu table in the shade. A beer would have gone down very nicely in the heat. Couldn’t find one so an apple juice sufficed. As I sat and relaxed I reflected on how surreal this was. The people were lovely and friendly. Unsurprisingly I was the only foreigner there.
Back at Afghan customs, my English speaking friend wanted to see my photos before stamping my passport perfunctorily. Even the Uzbek side was quick this time and as I exited the Uzbek side a local bus pulled up as if at my bidding and it is back to Termiz.
Sitting here now and looking at my people pix I cannot but wonder. All foreign troops will be out next year. If, as many analysts and Afghan history suggests the country descends into tribal violence again how many of these people will still be alive in a year or two? For the happy kids playing andd posing for my camera today the future is truly clouded.