Sabr talkh as, laken bar-e shirin dora (28)

18th May 2007

Next morning “white city” (29) was announced as a result of the last day’s events. Jelle’s colleagues had been assured that there was no danger outside Kunduz however. So we headed off with Rabi Amadj to the small town Taloqan. I liked Taloqan very much: it was quiet and green. Old large trees border all streets and provide good shade. Old photographs of most towns in Afghanistan look similar to Taloqan.

We stopped for a moment in Taloqan to visit the KRBP branch office. I chatted in Russian to two local engineers who had studied in the Soviet Union. Rabi Amaj knew Russian as well. We were waiting for our guide for today, Dastagir (30). Surprise! Because of his studies in Bulgaria, Dastagir spoke Russian as well. And he looked like the twin brother of movie star Kris Kristofferson.

First we drove towards the most eastern province of Afghanistan, Badakshan. We turned towards Farkhar River and I stared at the bridge ahead. The look of this high, narrow bridge made me feel uneasy. I called a halt and walked over the bridge.

There, between hills was Kajdara village. Houses were densely squeezed together and the moment we arrived we were surrounded by children. The village did not have access to the river. It was a poor place; they had only water during snowmelt. Drinking water had to come from spring 2010 steps away the villagers told us.

Next to the village there was a steeply sloped hill with lonely pistachio trees on top. On this slope – around 1,2 hectares – 100 pistachio trees, had been planted. Also 16 kilograms of pistachio seeds had been sowed. They had put three seeds into one hole – assuming that some of them would not survive.

Snowmelt water had created a deep gully in the slope. Villagers were busy building small dams along the way hoping to slow the water down. Down below big stones were being broken into smaller pieces using pickaxes, then the stones were carried manually up the hill. If this work was not done properly then water would carry all the young pistachio trees and seeds away.

A barbed wire fence had been constructed around the area. Rabi was unhappy about the cost of it. He thought that it was not necessary as the village was nearby and animals were looked after. But some of the plants had been damaged and insects were suspected as the culprits.

We climbed up the slope and reached the first row of plants. This time the slope was so steep that I was forced to move upwards in a serpentine-fashion. On the way down I was helped by Abdul. He took my wrist with an iron grip and dragged me like a sack of potatoes after him. I was worried about the interpretation of this by villagers. Afghan men are not supposed to touch women outside of their families.

How do they bring water here? It turned out that a small pool had been dug uphill from the plants. Water dripped down from there. Now the pool was dry and water had to be carried on their backs. Engineer Rabi tried to promote mechanised irrigation – water should be piped up through pipes. I was not sure if the villagers agreed with the usefulness of this idea.
The village children who gathered to look at us suddenly ran away. Food aid had arrived in the form of a big truck full of sacks of flour. Everybody rushed towards the truck to greet the driver.

We left Kajdara village and drove to the river at Shingan village. The village looked wealthier – they did not suffer from lack of water. There was a group of men waiting for us. Dostigih and Rabi had a long discussion with them which took some time. We were taken to look at the well cared for miracle of grafting: the local resilient plant has been merged with grapes.

At the next moment we were climbing up a hill in the company of retired soldier Jermon. Here the plantation area was bigger (around 2 hectares) and different kinds of trees had been planted. Junipers, pistachios, almond trees, mulberry trees and others were there.

I was concerned about the dry looking junipers – were they going to survive in such conditions? Jermon explained that the plants had been sufficiently watered and showed us a newly built water reservoir next to the plantation. Higher up we saw both young and mature pistachio trees.

This was the first time I had seen a pistachio tree from close up. The trees looked beautiful and their branches were full of reddish fruits. How old is this tree I asked Jermon. ‘I do not remember the age of it but when I was a child the tree was already here. Probably it is around forty years old’, replied the man. I got the impression that every single tree was taken account of and highly valued.

Jermon told us that there were pistachio forests all around here but warlords cut them down. The villagers tried to intervene and some of them got killed, recalled Jermon. Now there were still around ten trees remaining and they were being watched carefully – it is quite a profitable product.

We left the trees and headed for a village where Ajatulla and Dastagir were waiting for us on a carpet. A bowl of mast was there and naan (31) was offered to us. This was the best yoghurt I have tasted in the whole of Afghanistan.

Although it was now afternoon we headed along the river towards the town of Farhkar, where a tree nursery was. I was mesmerised by the tree nursery: it was a huge garden full of young and full-grown plants and trees. This was the first time in Afghanistan that I had seen so much greenery. Half of the garden belonged to the Afghanistan government and the remaining half to an international consortium. That half was the source of all the plants I had seen in villages.

While walking in the garden we met a small group of women who hid themselves under burqas. A local employee, Bibi Gul, had brought her family here for a picnic. I was invited to approach and the women took their burqas off. I discovered under the burqas two ladies dressed in western style and they both spoke some English. It turned out that they are teachers. I talked in Dari and for a while everybody was having a good time, then my companions shouted to remind me that it was is already quite late and that it was a long trip back to Kunduz.

I took some photos of my companions who happily posed among the flowers. I have always been astonished about the sentimentality of Afghan men. They have a tendency to love flowers. Nowhere in the western world have I seen the same passion. Obviously it is an old tradition: in the 14th century Babur wrote in his diary about the beauty of tulips and roses in this country.

Before we left we were presented with a bunch of flowers. I expressed gratitude towards Rabi and Dastagir for showing me the tree nursery. It was a stunning farewell to Takhar province.


(28) Patience is bitter, but it has a sweet fruit (proverb in Dari).
(29) White city means there is no movement prohibited inside the city.
(30) Dastagir – NSP (National Solidarity Program) Officer for Concern Wersij and Farkhar distrcits of Takhar Province
(31) Yoghurt and bread in Dari language.