PART 1 (INDIA)

This was to be one of the most planned and "prepared", yet unexpected journeys I had ever done. Together with Iosif, a friend, I started thinking about going to Pakistan and Afghanistan as a sequel of the trip we had done from Kathmandu to Jaipur. Once we decided on the area we wanted to visit, Afghanistan slowly became, step by step, an obsession, a mirage. It was maybe because I began seeing the country and especially its people through the eyes of travelers which had got deep in its heart, whether they did so at peace time, like Peter Levi, or at history's turn points, like Peregrine Hodson. It was not, or not only about the Minaret of Jam or the heritage in Herat that drew me to this country, it was the Afghani sun, the warmth and vibration of the people living there. Reading book after book with an obsessive hunger for others' experience, the country turned for me into a life goal as a whole rather than into an amount of places to see or an itinerary. Maybe the best term that can describe what Afghanistan was for me at that moment is a dream; it was a dream. And I had to start pursuing it.

Everyone kept on telling me about the safety issues. The South Korean hostages' crisis, the German woman's abduction in Kabul, these made up the headlines when talking about Afghanistan to most people. However the question that got me speechless was a colleague's asking "Why do you want to go there? Is there anything (at all) to see?", or another one saying Afghans were an Arab people. Then there was a whole rhetoric and a debate on the Lonely Planet travel forum on whether anyone (but those that really had to go there for official business) should go to Afghanistan, as he/she would create problems for those that had to go or were already there (such as Kabul's gates being closed to foreigners for a few days after the Korean hostages' crisis in mid 2007). There can be a lot of debate on whether we buy fast food junk or not, and the results of the two on humanity. Or on whether a war, of any nature and between any given countries / peoples could ever be justified for any side. But I believe that any such approach has a different answer at the individual level of any human being. We cannot judge without being there and a book is just an author's story; for the rest it can be a dream at most. Furthermore, there is no first hand experience that implies no risks. Life is about getting out of the house in the morning, as crazy, dangerous, dry, hot, wet or cold that might sound.

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Technicalities were not an easy deal. The only convenient airlines flying both into New Delhi and from a Central Asian country neighbouring Afghanistan were Turkish Airlines and Aeroflot, but neither of them provided a daily service from their respective hubs. Turkish Airlines had a convenient and interesting flight to Karachi with a return from Tashkent, but the coming Pakistani elections, as well as Nawaz Sharif and Benazir Bhutto's planned return to the country from exile slowly wiped Karachi off the board of options, especially as we were more interested in the North of the country. Eventually we opted for an Aeroflot flight from Sofia to Delhi (via Moscow), and a return from Tashkent to Sofia, as there was no weekend service to and from Bucharest to Moscow for the connection. Visas were, as always, a saga of their own. While the Pakistani visa was the easiest to get from their embassy in Bucharest, the others were not as straight-forward. With no embassy of Afghanistan at home, we contacted the embassy in Paris, a clerk of which replied promptly. It was easy to send our passports to Paris, but not as easy to get them back, as the UPS had banned all business with the Afghan government and no longer wanted to pick them up after delivering them there. Of course there was the possibility of having the visa done in Peshawar on the way, but we wanted to have it beforehand and otherwise the story would not have been the same. The Uzbeki visa was easier, done in Brussels, with the "traditional" letter of invitation provided by Stantours in Berlin. Lastly, we applied for the Indian visa in Bucharest, 15 days prior to departure, as we had got it before in 24 hours. With a dramatic lack of staff (as both the ambassador and the consul had terminated their mandates and had gone back to Delhi), the embassy now required exactly 15 days for the visa formalities. Furthermore, they asked for more documents and the very day we were to depart from Bucharest to Sofia, the attache nowadays handling visas informed us that we were suspect, as "we had traveled too much in <<that part of the world>>" (by which he meant the Middle East). Plan B was rapidly grabbed from under the carpet, dusted and checked again: Turkish Airlines still had places available on the flight to Karachi, directly into Pakistan and without the need of an Indian visa. Luckily there was no need for Plan B which would have meant a significant last minute cancelation fee imposed by Aeroflot. The attache eventually understood our point and we got the visa at 4.30 PM, to board the overnight train to Sofia departing at 7.30 PM.

Reaching the Bulgarian capital at 6.30 AM, we walked through the city in a steady drizzle, finding shelter in a church vibrating from the mass singing every now and then. Shortly after noon, we took off, destination Moscow. Terminal Sherementyevo 2 had obviously been designed at a time when commercial Intourist shops were much more restrictive and smaller than today's capitalist trade boom, and when transit areas were wider. Nowadays the main transit floor was made of a bazaar-like boutique quarter, with rather narrow halls, but frequent facilities. The "lounge" lay upstairs, and it was divided in two: on one hand there was the first class lounge, while on the other hand there were rather empty halls, where dozens of long haul passengers were waiting for their connection flights, sleeping on the floor, reading, taking pictures, eating. Luggage was spread around, there were people in sleeping bags or simply stretched on top or under their backpacks; some of them seemed to have lived there for days. It was a fascinating, lively place, through its being simple and "natural" rather than overstandardized. Time passed and, a couple of hours later, we got on a fat Ilyushin destination Delhi. We reached the city at around 4 AM, to find the airport halls with a surrealist atmosphere, as, because of refurbishing works, there were wires and pipes hanging from the ceiling. India proper was not there however, it was rather waiting for the newly arrived at the airport's gates, with its lively atmosphere, noise and traffic, with its pleyade of motorickshaws and taxis, with its large families, colourfully dressed women and the cosy haircut of men.

We went straight to New Delhi Station and, writing down a fictive ticket number to be allowed to use it, got rid of our backpacks at the cloak room. At around 7 AM, we were heaving breakfast in the first small, typical Paharganj cafeteria that opened for early comers: I realized how much I had missed the cheese na’an, the masala chai, the noisy, heartful laughter of these people. After walking a little, we decided to go and visit Qutb Minar, located at a good distance from Paharganj. Bus #505 that was supposed to leave from near the Ajmer Gate side of the railway station, was not that easy to find. There was a sort of bus station with two platforms, but only a few buses would stop there; others would stop at random places in the nearby streets. After locating several ad-hoc bus stops serving some score buses, we got on a packed 505 and half an hour later we reached Qutb Minar. Buses were just as active in the Delhi traffic as motorickshaws or taxis were. Drivers seemed to be in a continuous competition, a race against time. Passengers were drifted in or out of the bus almost without the bus' completely stopping, while the bus attendant was often half out of the window, calling for more passengers. The whole bus, a quite old Tata, was shaking and leaning to the sides almost turning over when the driver speeded up at tight turns.

The site at Qutb Minar was a very interesting place to us, especially as it provided a great introduction to the other pieces of architecture we had planned to see, yes, including the Minaret of Jam in Western Afghanistan. The intricate, red stone or marble carving of the minaret itself, the whole setting or the fine and different patterns on the columns nearby, all these made it for an excellent visit, despite our being tired after a busy week at work, after being suspect for traveling too much, spending two nights on trains and planes, respectively after pretending to have train tickets we did not. Back to Paharganj, while having some biryani with vegetables, it was impossible not to notice the very high influx of foreign tourists in the quarter. It was so different from December when we had last visited New Delhi. People from all over the world were filling the small cafeterias, the shops selling everything from books and antiques to bus tickets and waffles... The captivating buzz of the city was in a way overshaded by the so many foreigners however. Time passed by and we got on the 4.35 PM train to Sirhind, as we wanted to get closer to the Pakistani border. Crossing Punjab without stopping, at a fast pace and in a cold wagon (both in reality, because of the air conditioning, and as a matter of speech), I could not regret more not having bought tickets for an ordinary train, that would at least get real air from the outside and transport local people, stopping here and there...

Getting off at Sirhind, we found yet another India, lacking the mass tourism in other parts of the North. People which were not used to foreigners and that steadily went on with their lives, made a whole difference from New Delhi. We crossed the town in a rickshaw, in the cool, pleasant evening air. Half an hour later we were in Patiala, with the dark, almost empty streets filled in by Sikh singing played through a multitude of loudspeakers spread across the city. While having a chai in a shop serving a variety of sweet pastry, we met the owner, a man in his 60s, and his son which was leaving for Australia in a few days. Very proud of his traditions and culture, the old man had an omnipresent smile on his face that seemed to add more light on his already white hair and beard. He insisted to present us all his employees and the dough or pastry every of them was preparing. His kind smile would vanish the second he turned from the customer towards the merchandise he was selling, inspecting with a concerned face every little detail, as if he was selling diamonds and not sweets.

The following day we went to walk in the city, in search of a large temple local people had been telling us about. The Sikhs seemed to me as very purist and universalist people, at least through their faith and concept of life. With imposing, rather elegant and definitely well taken care of beards, most times wearing exquisitely arranged turbans they also assorted with the colour of their shirt, Sikh men imposed respect in the same time where they smiled at the stranger. Their elegance met the shining jewelery of their wives and the general obsession for hairstyle most Indian men shared. We found the temple after walking for a while, and we were shown around by some helpful and cheering young men. Following basic Mughal patterns, the main building of the Guruduara was covered in white marble, bearing many decorations and carvings, some of which seemed copied from the Taj Mahal. As we arrived there shortly before noon, pilgrims were offered lunch, while some of them were having the ritual bath in a large pool surrounded by an extensive marble covered archway. People were very eager to talk to us, especially younger people.

In the early afternoon, we crossed the old part of the city, to find Qila Mubarak. Built in several stages by local maharaja's family, the surrounding walls, as well as the buildings hosted inside reminded one of the palace in Jaipur, but here everything was in an advanced state of ruin and decay. The once elaborate decorations on columns or around the windows were now delapidated or destroyed by the elements, with parts of the plaster fallen off, or almost collapsing ceilings being sustained on basic, square columns made of bricks and concrete. In a sad, but nevertheless fascinating way, this underlined the temporary nature of the human being and of its actions, and from that point of view I really liked Qila Mubarak. For, if it had been properly restored, it would have been just another palace, just another Taj Mahal: whipped cream, vanilla topping and a strawberry on the top.

Back at Sirhind, we got another train to Amritsar, this time a 2nd class wagon, back in the noisy, natural crowd, back at normality and breathing real, fresh air instead of the conditioned variant of a CC wagon. Sitting on a backpack down the hall, with two wagon doors open and with many people around, as the train was packed, we reached Amritsar after the fall of night. An army of rickshaws, motorickshaws and taxi drivers was waiting in and in front of the station, clustering on any newly arrived foreigner. After walking for a while in the opposite direction from the city centre, we took a rickshaw and got to a guesthouse near the Golden Temple. We had the chance to visit the temple both at around midnight, and the following day in the morning, when it was full of pilgrims. Even though I enjoyed the temple grounds at night, with their being quiet and serene, I personally did not like it just as I did not like the Taj Mahal. Too large and too imposing buildings that contrasted too sharply with the cities they had been built in, both of them were too shiny to express an eternal truth.

Leaving Amritsar towards Attari on a crowded bus, we crossed a rather flat area with a few villages on the way. The rickshaw ride from the village towards the Pakistani border seemed similar to crossing from Nepal to India less than a year before. An army of porters and children inviting us to sit at one of the few terraces there, was waiting at the entrance towards the several buildings hosting the bureaucratic system of the Indian border crossing post. It took us 30-40 minutes to finish with border crossing formalities on both sides, even though we never had to wait in line. There were two amphiteatre-like structures overlooking the road that made the junction between the two countries. Two sets of gates (a taller one on the Indian side, respectively a wider one on the Pakistani side) separated the two countries. After completing formalities on the Indian side, we proceeded on the other side, where the first registration was done by some soldiers in an ad-hoc office formed by a table, an antiquated phone and two sets of chairs in the pleasant shade of a tree.

Completing formalities, we left our luggage with the tourism office... (click here for the sequel)

THE INDIAN SECTION (you are here)

THE PAKISTANI SECTION

THE AFGHAN SECTION

THE UZBEK SECTION