Why travel?

I could, as I have done before, list a dozen reasons: the destination, the exoticism, the adventure, the money (ha! - this one makes me laugh the most), the insufficiency, the career (whatever that might mean)….

I could say so and lie, as I have done before.

There is no reason to travel. There is a cause, many of them, any lie would do. Traveling is a drive to set everything on movement. Oneself, in the first place.

The voyage is something created deep inside the core far before the emergence of the thought or the circumstances that beckon travel.

Traveling is an invisible but real stroke of movement between two inner poles of the being. The tension between them is the strength with which the bow of being launches the traveler amidst the distances.

Often this string trembles without the person consciously sensing it. He believes, “I want to be there,” and this rational belief makes it easier for him to stretch himself across the strained abyss of the being. He starts, but after the first uncertain step, the bow in him lets go: he resounds and the sound dazzles him. The arrow never hits the target, as there is no target. There is dissolution of the outer peels of the being, consumed by the deterrent of the inessentials. The resistance of the slow faith in permanence, in perpetuity, in promises and necessities.

Once the arrow dissolves its body, the sound remains, below hearing and shattering, to tremble through space, in the mind’s core.

There is no arrival.

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Aging. I do not have a feeling of lost time; no youthful age is dearer than the peace, the harmony and the exercised, skilled life-fulness of these years. This is experience: the art of living, both visible and invisible.

As we make a difference between ‘to love’ and ‘to be in love’, so we should make a difference between ‘to live’ and ‘to be in life.’ To live and to be in life is not only a qualitative change, but a change of perspective as well: in love and in life, to observe the world from within and experience from under the gush of love and life. However, to love and to live is to have these as attributes of another existence, whose essence is neither love nor life. There is something beyond which escapes speech.

So, aging? I lived, I was alive, I was not so much “in life” then, and certainly I was more naïve and more unaware. More fundamentally ignorant… Time passed more quickly then, it fleeted. Now I can stop it and dwell within a single moment. Wonder within it.

Sometimes I watch the reflection in the mirror, especially when I lack sleep or have passed through a number of time zones all too quickly. It looks as if the wind of time had been blowing straight into that face and it had been lashing it with streams of sand. Yes, the freshness of transience is here, it makes the eyes water and these may wash themselves in the reflection of the dawns passing us by, the dissipating ones. But the sand trail remains as streams rutted around the eyes. They call them “raven claw prints”. I have them, some from laughter, some from the sun, some from the habit to check what the sky is doing, to look into some shining imaginary or real arch.

Somebody stands still, a dark silhouette amidst the streams of time; mild is the stream so long as he stands facing it. When he averts his gaze, the stream strikes at his knees, breaks them, he may even fall. But he gets up, out of habit. His figure has become sharper, bruised and faceted by the flowing sands. Dust gathers in the folds of his sleeves, and he brushes it off, but new waves arrive. Here they are, these words, grains of incessant dust. Fertility or futility, what are they?

I know we stand thus, weightless in the world of sand and time. The sand glimmers golden under the eyelashes. To age, to mature, to face up, to pass by, to let go and to let oneself go. Humbleness in the midst of time.

We shall all become sand and wind one ordinary, mortal day.

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All of us here are alone. Each carries a lack that drives away from home, and an superfluousness that demands to be passed on. We have all been fractured and, this way or another, put together again. It is dubious if we are wiser or better hardened for that. Perhaps because of the broken shape we manage more smoothly in this fractured, scattered world of shapelessness. The true face of the world is rugged and ruffled.

The fractured and the broken people are not the same. Partially kindred, the prior carry the basic experience that breakdowns are survivable. It is an illusion that the human being is whole and solid. Breakdown is closer to the essence of living, to the heart of Life, both soft and ruthless. The way we are, we can flow over. But we are all alone, unwhole, incomplete, and useless and clumsy in the world of the “wholesome” people, of the perfectly rounded up, of the socially desirable, of the maintainers of order. We are outside and beside every order – at the margins, under water, above the waves, all at once. But we never resemble the perfect squares of sunlight on the surface.

We resemble life, dirty, strong, vulnerable, worn out, overflowing, from day to day, from hour to hour, we roll on without a destination, as if not by our own will. We let the waves to roll us, kick us, leave us sometimes immobile for years in the forgotten straits of the world. We live with the invisibility of existence. We do not strive to emerge into daylight. We belong not. We sink and rise as if by some alien watery hand. We are not good at staying.

We cannot remain, not without losing our essence, our single, useless, untranslatable knowing. Simply, we are not good at it. From the fractures, however, and from the healing, rarely, something that remains is born.

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It is one of those rare moments, when all have left and stayed away so long that solitude solidifies. I desired it so during these work-worn months. Now that I can finally approach it, I find my soul in a more dreadful state than the last time I paid a visit to it.

It gurgles, it boils. Dark tentacles swirl beneath the heaving surface. Solitude is so full of, oh… unpromises.

There is no grandeur, no scales to measure the dark space inside. No broom and no carpet to swipe the unwanted desires beneath. Barren hands, pale and fragile.

But ride one can and ride one does. Every fear, every pain, every malice and shame desire to be lived throughout. With no return. With no witnesses to the reckless ecstasy of brimming restlessness. This desperate explosion of no end or effect. This uselessness, these life twitches and turns, this gamelessness, this praylessness, this victory-free courage… to be… on one’s own.

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October 11, 2007

In the circle of our madness bound by a chain, we mock the others’ chains of madness. In the shackles of our desires, we long for others’ desires. In sixes and twelves bound, as an ill-boding tarot-sowing with senseless murmur lowly rising.

It is a lie that the roads bifurcate endlessly. There is only one road – the one that happens. A mild heresy against will and freedom. Not against imagination though.

What will happen is the road that can concentrate in itself the strongest, most narrowly will run through the stalagmites of pathlessness. The most secret one will burst forth as the front face of the Worm called future.

All our entwined unsatisfied desires and terrors carry together that face wrapped inside in an embryo. The Worm has nearly childlike features, with a mouth cramped from unutterable pain, or joy.

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Landing in Kabul again, a view from the air over the scattered roads of this two-million city that dully boils. Dearness and terror simultaneously. The scent of the desert seems to be penetrating the airplane already. Dear, dear dry scent. My heart lies close to the heart of the desert.

I am more at home here than at any other place in the world. And not a few places have been home: Prague, Budapest, Skopje – oh, that city, such a false promise, shamelessly blaming me from failing to belong. But Afghanistan – this is a different home. A mobile home, through Kabul, Gardez and now Lashkar Gah: my two backpacks are my home. The view over the familiar dusty roads is home. Recognizing, meddling, belonging – these are home.

In Lashkar Gah, in the South of the country, in the Helmand Province, where we are encircled by the Taliban, enclosed in a translucent membrane of a small Western world whose existence is paid by weapons, cut off by land from the world, here I set up my next home. The gaze lays upon shapes that become familiar so soon. That is establishment of home. Daily rituals of greeting, of recognizable faces, that is home. Familiar waking up, rhythmical movement of the day, the familiar fatigue at the end of the day, nights of familiar presence of isolation, silence and solitude, when the entrance of the unknown opens toward the dace of the night and that step becomes close. Opening of a piece of time in which the night rhythmically breathes and penetrates. Home.

In this campus area, wild and free sky beyond us: the treetops wave above the high walls surrounding this little fortress – golden-green on blazingly blue background. A sigh of freedom and movement that we do not posses but in the gaze. That is home too.

The bright sun of autumn blasting across the dusty concrete and everything melts together in the monotonous clay whiteness. Number of Afghans flow and pass by with a greeting – the right hand on the chest – incessantly, inside and out, smiles, eyes meet, small bow, incessantly, inside and out. Gates and doors open and close, eyes open and close. Silence – click – silence – clack – pause; silence – click – silence – clack. Silence.

Here time is colorless and uncountable. Days so much alike flow, while brimming with little human events: battles, explosives, sad news, malicious rumors, petty arguments. Questions of budget and sustainability, practicality, accuracy and measurability – all this in the face of a unforeseeable disaster of unknown nature that each day can gently descend on us and cover us in the golden veil of unchangeability.

Loss of a friend, eyes shut, a tiny beam of life and love is walled in. We are transient here as undramatically as the sand.

The Afghans will remain doubtlessly. They are made to survive everything or to disappear without complaint or record. War. Peace. Famine. Illness. It is all right. Weddings. Festivals. Meetings. Happiness. It is all right. It is all right.

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Do you recall those fascinating eyes of the girl from the cover page of National Geographic that became the aesthetical emblem of Afghanistan? How the wind and the time in the desert affected the same visage twenty years later:

How did the long months of work there affect me ? I crossed certain inner borders. It was not planned or intended.

I spent the first few weeks in the UNICA Compound, in the UN Guesthouse - the first job I got in 2004 was with the UN volunteers (no, we didn’t work for free, far from that, but anyway that was the first and the last time I ever had to do anything with that organization). Each evening we’d gather at the guesthouse entrance stairs, blown by the dry desert wind, we sipped, smoked strong cigarettes, chatted. UNVs from all around Afghanistan would come to stay a while in the capital. They told stories about life outside Kabul; some were horrifying. The talk about incidents, attacks, explosions, of which no media made any mention, rolled on in a relaxed manner.

I listened to these strange people and shivered. How could they persist for months alone in the desert, in small compounds with only 3-4 internationals, where the accommodation and the offices were merely different entrances in the same house, where a high fence divided the world inside from the world outside, and outside was a no-go zone, for the most part? A prison-style life, isolated and restricted. Little I knew then that a year later I’d not only become one of those “strange” people, but I’d enjoy it as well.

Never mind that. After the first three weeks of scare and wondering what the devil made me go to such a frightening country, the security situation relaxed to a degree, and we were allowed to travel outside Kabul. The province I was assigned to that year, Logar, is south-southwest of Kabul, and the road leads through areas which, mildly put, are not always or quite friendly toward foreigners or governmental officers.

It was then that I saw for the first time the deserts of Afghanistan. They engulfed my eyes. Immeasurable, solid… void. So void that the absence in them pounded the eyes more powerfully than any presence could. Something could be sensed in the air, right above the horizon; as if the earth’s consciousness was rising unobstructed right there, in the desert. I went speechless and something inside moved toward a voiceless summit, almost a joy, but without a smile, almost recognition, but I could not say what inside me recognized that above the horizon.

So, we went our way, from day to day, journey through dangerous area; the Presidential Elections of Afghanistan were coming closer with immense expectations, for us with desperate expectations, the work accelerated, the days were growing shorter, suddenly, on a slightly dangerous road toward slightly more dangerous place, in a car, tired and underslept for days, the carnal convulsion of continual fear wore out. I simply had no more strength to fear. And thus the wave of death rolled over me, leaving me quiet to enjoy the desert. Ever since, it is possible to die. This world allows that. Death is something pure. A sunset, it does not change the sun. The day is what we have to learn to face.

Alongside time and habit, the very Afghans unconsciously helped me get used to the danger. It is simply a shame to feel fear before them, people born in more horrific times, where everyone has several dead or invalidated cousins, a life in which death is a natural occurance, it comes and it goes, not needing or heeding questions, only grief and farewells, and then again life and joy. “If they, Afghans, can live so naturally in this environment, I must be able to do that too,” I said to myself I continued saying to myself, a precarious presupposition that relaxed me sufficiently to allow myself to be touched by the strange beauty of the land.

It wasn’t courage. Honestly, I’ve never felt courageous. Acceptance. Perhaps the fear of death is a habit which one can grow out of, one can forget it, like one forgets the habit of gazing into one’s palms, like one forgets to be fond of only one street, to love a special human being, and similar things, which all seemed once unchangeable and unique, and then they are gone. Life after that appears quite alright and then, the sky is gently white, while the night is the time for blessed rest. From the past loves, time and person gain a special gleam that layers and thickens over time, it quiesces and simplifies the being. In such way, silence is made.

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There are two ways to maximize security: to maintain either a high or a low profile. Both are far from perfect, nevertheless. The high profile means exhibition of fire power. The low profile is to attempt invisiibility and to present yourself as vulenrable, therefore non-threat presence.

If you travel with armed accompaniment and hard skin vehicle, for example, with ISAF convoys that exhibit high profile, everybody with a chip on his shoulder will know who to shoot at. The better option, imo, is low profile. This was practiced with unusual success by the then-unarmed field staff of the Global private security company which provided security advice to the UNAMA in 2004:

Immediately buy common Afghan clothes, change your clothes according to the region you travel if customs require so (it’s inexpensive goods, anyhow) and – grow a beard and mustaches. The aim, obviously, is to look Afghan. In one word, make yourself imperceptible, travel just like everyone else travels, move in the same manner, and do not open our mouth – let your translator do the talking.

- high profile, ‘think twice before attacking’

- low profile, ‘Who? Me? Nooo… ‘

-Watch out, not so well masked foreigner

- extremely low profile. Prize question: ‘Which one is the man in the picture?’ Although this strategy has been practiced in critical situations by Afghans and foreigners alike, let’s not exaggerate…

Because of the (in)security pressure, you might feel a bit disoriented and as if in the middle of a war zone upon arrival. No wonder – you will be n a middle of a war zone, although it won’t always seem so. Incidents happen on beautiful sunny days when everything seems to be in God-blessed order, basking in loving peace. Still, the stress from being continually under threat stabilizes in time – one gets used to it to a point where it stops interfering with absolutely normal functioning. Give yourself three weeks and you’ll feel home. Do not make any rush or critical decisions within these first three weeks.

The North is safer than the south of the country, but do not think that it is really safe, it’s only less probable to have an incident. There are regional and provincial offices of the UN and various international development companies and NGOs throughout the country. Feel free to drop by for a visit, they’d love to see a new face, but don’t expect them to be capable of offering you accommodation – it is often against their regulations. But they may be able to assist you and offer you at least Internet access, company, beer and information.

It’s good to learn everything possible about security procedures, what to do, who to call (I hope you’ll have a satellite telephone, but do not rely on it – it’s generally useless, no signal), etc. Most of teh country has mobile network coverage, so buy yourself a local SIM card. A first aid kit and knowledge how to use it is a good precaution.

There is no way to avoid landmines and IEDs (Improvised Explosive Devices – IEDs) on the road. Don’t stray away from the road into the desert unless you are sure that there are no mine fileds there, or deminers have demarkated the field as clean. But mines are planted again on the roads. You’d have to simply accept this and get sleep while you travel. But stay alert and ready.

The Taliban usually ride motorbikes. If bikers follow you, it’s time to panick (alhtough there is practically nothing you can do but try to escape in such case). If you cannot get awat, surrender and do what you are requested. I won’t get into detials here, it sounds a bit morbid. Do what is necessary to survive.

- Talibs on a motorbike -

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After the translator, the second issue you’d need to decide upon is the means of travel: either a local taxi or a rented car.

A taxi will take you wherever you want to in the country – for a price. If you rent out a car, see that your translator can drive. In a country without much traffic police, a driver’s license is redundant, but a true art of driving is not – the roads are deteriorated, going across vertiginous curves and cliffs, there are no recognizable traffic regulations and traffic accidents are the second cause of death in the country.

– this is a way to fall -

– and then….

If you are renting a car, choose the most ordinary type on the market, nothing new, and certainly not technologically perfect or gleaming. If possible, something old, whitish (the most common colour there), scratched and dusty. This due to security, read further please.

Illustrated transport options:

– not too fast, not too comfortable

– a bit faster, similarly uncomfortable

– medium slow, medium uncomfortable, skilfully spitting

– A bit bulky, rings, raises dust, cheers one up

– taxiiiiii! It drives indeed!

– slightly too perceptible

– ’shoot me’ – rather uncomfortable

– ‘I’m loaded, rob me and abduct me’ – not too desirable

– fast, noisy, falls, good for ground-air missiles

– haughty folks, in convoys, do not let anyone join them

So, in my opinion, the option ‘old, dusty, ordinary’ is the most desirable one. So decide for yourself!

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Dear Pieter Jan

Unfortunately, I left Belgium last weekend and we did not meet. Our friend Dorian mentioned that you would be travelling to Afghanistan, so I gladly accepted to offer any kind of observation I may have, which would help you enjoy your journey – and even survive it.

I am only partially joking about survival. Security is always the first and the last theme of the everyday work and life there. At this period of time, it is much worse, especially for a foreigner travelling alone.

I’m glad you’ve been to Palestine for three months, so you already have some experience in living and working outside Europe. However, Afghanistan is slightly different, a bit harder – until you get the hang of it.

The first thing you’d need to do is to find yourself a translator (man) wiling to travel with you. The rest of this email will elaborate why the translator is of key value for your journey. Seek a translator from the region where you would be heading:

Dari and Pashto are the two main languages spoken there, but it is not wise to take a Dari-speaker to a Pashtoon area, or vice versa. It is a heterogeneous people, with numerous ethnic groups: Pashtoons, Tadjiks, Uzbeks, Hazaras, Nooristanis, Baloochis, Turkmen, Kuchis, and more. Although nearly entire Afghanistan is Muslim, there are small enclaves of Sikhs, Hindus and Jews.

- Hazara women -

The Kuchis are nomads – fascinating folks. They travel on a north-south route, crossing the borders with Pakistan to the south and Uzbekistan to the north, and are renown smugglers of illegal goods, arms, opium and people.

- Kuchi caravan -

It is said, if you want to disappear, to hide in Afghanistan, join a Kuchi caravan. This concealment/transport service is paid. Although the country also offers other options how to disappear without a trace, unfortunately, most of them are irreversibly unsurvivable.

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