Nan o pyaz, peshani waz (15)

18th May 2007

Today is Friday, a day off in the Muslim world, but the people involved with the reforestation under KRBP agreed to show me the area where small pistachio trees have been planted. I met with Engineer Rabi Amaj (16), a smiling and chatty person. When he left our car in Khanabad for a moment the driver uttered his first sentence: ”Rabi Amaj bessjar gap mezana”. (17)

As a matter of fact, it was interesting to follow Rabi Amaj’s stories about his life: three college-degrees and hard times in Pakistan while the family was in Afghanistan. This was followed by a period when the whole family was together in Pakistan and now they are back again in their homeland. Rabi Amaj was proud of his children. His daughter, for example, has won a good career as a TV correspondent for political news. At this time nothing predicts that his daugter, Shakiba Sanga Amaj, will be killed and Rabi Amaj will quit his job soon.

On this occasion we travelled accompanied by a second car carrying Hosang, Mohammed and Assadullah (18), workers of reforestation organizations, and we kept in touch using walkie-talkies.

First we drove to the east where bright green fields of newborn rice are a common sight. From Khanabad we turned towards the sloping hills area. I requested a stop and everyone stepped out of the car to enjoy the height of the horizon and the various shades of the landscape to the south.

We followed a dry valley up to the village of Ab Khurdak (19). Where do the villages get water? It was my first question. It seemed that farmers dug big holes to collect snow during the winter and the snow was later covered with straw and soil – for a while it was enough to keep the collected snow from melting, but for the rest of the time the villagers’ only hope was a single well.

We drove upwards and parked our cars close to the well. There was a quite long journey up the hillside to where small trees had been planted some months ago. The slope was not too steep; walking up was quite peasant, and weather conditions were splendid. Considering the cool and hazy weather, I felt lucky. I remembered the hellish heat from a year ago.

One farmer brought his horse along for me and, as a beginner jockey, I refused. But grey bearded Mohammad, who looked like a well-meaning Santa Claus, did not miss the chance. He followed us, riding skilfully along a narrow path.
Different crops are cultivated on tiny plots of land. Compared to the farmers living in river valleys the villagers here are under severe conditions. The hills are rain fed and only one crop a year is produced – compared to two or even three crops in lower parts of this region.

There were deep gullies on the slopes caused by erosion. Sometimes it seemed that the carefully cultivated farmland was ready to slide down. There weren’t any trees left to stop erosion.
A long time ago all these hills were covered with pistachio forests, now one can see only some lonely trees far away on the very top of the hills. Historically, North-Afghanistan had been famous for its pistachio forests. Pistachio was the main export crop during the 17th century. According to satellite photos, there are 70% less pistachio forests compared to those of the 1970s (20). Now organisations like PEEP (21) are dealing with reforestation, but it takes a human generation before a pistachio tree will start bearing fruits.

We clambered up the steep hillside where 400 young pistachio trees in plastic bags had been planted. At first I couldn’t see the trees – grass reached my chest and small trees were invisible.

Transplants from Farkhar nursery are donated by NGOs and the villagers are committed to taking care of them – this is not so easy as it seems as, firstly, sheep and goats are always ready to feast on young fresh sprouts and, secondly, the budding forest needs water.

Irrigation is necessary for at least the first year when the plants are growing up to 20-30 cm. During the next year growth may add another meter. Water reaches the hilltops on the backs of donkeys and the farmers are worried about the pistachios because water from the only well is a little bit salty. Rabi Amaj cajoled the villagers that it was much cheaper to transport water up the hills by plastic pipes. The farmers seemed thoughtful, though not very enthusiastic.

We walked around the hill and on the other side we saw a farmer ploughing with oxen. He was preparing the land for growing melons. Would he sell the crop in Khanabad? No, they would eat them locally. Local melon is sweet, but is small because of the shortage of water, explained Rabi Amaj. Together with the farmer we climbed up to a hill overlooking his land. He had planted 160 pistachios here. Grass was not tall here so the small trees were visible. Again, irrigation was discussed. Farmers have an idea to use empty water bottles for watering. They wanted to place the filled bottles next to the trees, then they would make small holes in them so that the water would irrigate the soil. It was a good idea and it also made sense as a recycling project, judged the listeners.

We walked back to the village where we were asked to sit down in a nice guestroom. There were pistachio nuts painted on the colourful walls. I had been seated at the most distant place from the door under a window. It made me feel quite unsure. There was a tradition that this place was reserved for the most respected and honoured guest. You are our honoured guest today, the Afghans said to reassure me.

The villagers offered their best food to guests. There was yoghurt, scrambled eggs, rice and bread. Hospitality towards strangers is a touching tradition in Afghanistan. Next to me there was a jug of water melted from snow, its colour was yellow like straw. I was not brave enough to try it; so I asked for tea.

I talked to villagers about their life. They told me an awful story of the Soviet invasion times when a helicopter landed next to the village. The soviet troops were looking for mudjahedins from the Ab Hurdak. The Soviets took eight farmers off with them and made them dig a deep hole. All the farmers were buried alive. After hearing this tale I felt spasms inside. Sometimes I think that I am not supposed to ask anything.

Our departure from the village was quite different from our arrival. From the start I felt mistrust in the air but the situation improved after a long walk while experimenting with basic Dari language. In the end some of them even offered me a hand.

In the evening I got a call from a hospitable Tadjik, Turamurod. He invited me to dinner where we drank wine, ate chicken legs and chatted about life in foreign lands. Besides the construction of Aqtepa canal, the Tadjik company was responsible for two more projects in this region. I thought that, as a Tadjik, it would be quite easy to work in Afghanistan, because the cultural background and language are similar. This it seems is not the case as the company has not yet built the trust of the Afghans.


(15) If there is only bread and onions, still have a happy face. Meaning: be content with such things as you have (proverb in Dari language)
(16) M.Rabi Amaj – KRBP national consultant, M&E, Forestry & Soil Conservation
(17) Rabi Amadj is talking a lot in Dari Language.
(18) Hoshang Schiwa is working for PIN organisation, Mohammad Assef and Assadullah are working for PEEP (People for Environment; Environment for People).
(19) Ab khurdak – sounds like water eaters in Dari language.
(20) Watershed Atlas of Afghanistan, AIMS.
(21) People for Environment, Environment for People