Tower and Town, October 2021 (view the full edition)Afghanistan 1977I was fortunate enough to visit Afghanistan with my stepmother (Amina Shah, the front cover photographer of this edition of Tower and Town) in the spring of 1977. On arrival we stayed with Afghan friends in Kabul, exploring its busy streets, colourful bazaars and the picturesque nearby village of Isalif with its delicately glazed blue pottery. Travelling on local buses we crisscrossed the country, seeing a wonderful variety of people and spectacular landscapes. In my mind I still picture brightly colored carpets put out in the streets to be "seasoned" as we walked or drove over them; children everywhere wanting to practise English greetings; women in brightly coloured clothes; shops with an abundance of grapes and melons; beautiful gardens full of flowers We visited the famous mosques of Herat and Mazar i Sharif; the valley of Bamiyan with its (then) magnificent statues of the Buddha. In the ruins of the ancient city of Kandahar we climbed the forty steps carved out of a solid piece of rock by the emperor Babur. We visited Jalalabad and nearby Hadda which had been a major centre of Graeco-Buddhist culture. More remote areas could be reached only by jeep the majestic blue lakes of Bande Amir; and the isolated mountain villages of Nuristan with its fast-running streams and rivers, mountainside houses on stilts. Even more than the astonishing beauty of the country, my memories are of the warmth, welcome and deep hospitality of its people. Passengers on the buses were eager to share their food. Everywhere tea, frequently flavoured with cardamom, was graciously served by the host, always accompanied by sweets or dried mulberries. At shop doors or on market stalls, small boys mimicking their elders' old world charm greeted us with salutations and Afghan pleasantries. In Nuristan, where one encountered many people with green eyes and pale skin (the descendants of Alexander the Great, perhaps) and roses in such abundance that men often wore them behind the ear as everyday adornment, we were each offered a rose upon entering a village headman's house. On the long, hot drive across semi-desert between Herat and Kandahar our bus was stopped by an old man and a boy. Without a word, they proffered a small, aluminium jug to our driver, and he, as silently, filled it with water. Then we drove away. I hope that Afghan refugees arriving here will meet a welcome as generous as the one offered visitors in their country. Clare Maxwell-Hudson |