Bamiyan - Day Four (Bande D'Amir)

I woke up in bed and felt that I had been run over by a tractor – no, a semi-truck, or elephant. Every joint felt loose in its socket, muscles bruised (where I had been thrown against the side of the Cruiser like a raggedy doll), and neck crooked and tight. Tariq, on the other hand, woke in high spirits, ready for our trip to Bande D’Amir. I must admit, as we trekked out of our compound I could only think about the road to the Bande – would it be as rough as the one we had traveled yesterday? Despite the warm morning air, I shuddered. Zabi’s toothy smile greeted us at the road, and we settled a massive watermelon and ourselves into the Surf. I brought along crackers and cheese, determined not to let any other food pass my lips; remarkably I woke up with no stomach problems whatsoever. We set off into a completely different landscape of rolling grasslands and small villages cut into the hillsides and rock outcroppings. This was Kuchi (gypsy) territory, and prime grazing land for sheep, goats, and donkeys. Luckily, calving season must have been a month or so ago, and we saw the cutest baby animals one can imagine. I don’t think there’s anything more adorable than a baby donkey. Zabi drove with reason and temperance and, relatively speaking, it was a relaxing ride. As we descended into the first Bande, we were stunned by the azure blue of the water. The glacial lake was actually elevated on one side on a small cliff, with waterfalls running down to the land below. We jumped out of the car into the cool mountain air, sweet with sage, and ran around photographing each other against the majestic backdrop. At the banks of the lake there is a mud-brick shrine dedicated to heroic Ali, the cousin of Prophet Mohammed. As the legend has it, Ali struck his two fingers into the towering cliffs of the Bande, and since then from it water now pours out both hot and cold. The waters of Bande d’Amir are thought to have healing properties: at the lakeside, I saw a fully clothed Afghan woman tied to a tree with blue nylon rope and submerging herself to obtain water’s benefits.

Almost as soon as we reached the lakeside, rain clouds swept in and a veritable downfall began. We found shelter in a tent-come-restaurant at the lakeside and everyone (except me) ate lamb kebabs for lunch. I peacefully ate my crackers and cheese and hoped that the rain wouldn’t last long. It didn’t. An eagle soared into the fresh sky, and we trekked to the lake and negotiated a deal with the sole boat-owner for a boat trip around the lake. It was fabulous to motor slowly through the crystal clear blue water, past rough shelves of stone, waterfalls, and among silvery fish. The water was cool but not too cold, and I felt quite frustrated that I could not slip off my clothes and dive in. Of course, as a woman being in a bathing suit in a village area of a strict Islamic country was completely out of the question. After the boat ride, we hopped back into the Surf and made for the Bande de Paneerak, a smaller, green-colored glacial lake a few miles away. We would have to make the hike into the lake, and in preparation Zabi hoisted the massive watermelon (it must have been 8-10 kgs) on his shoulder and danced off like a sprite. The second Bande was the most beautiful natural place I have ever seen, including all the places I have seen in northern BC. The buttes and rockforms, the gurgling natural springs and pools, the color of the water, were breathtaking. Much of the land was covered in water, and 60+ year old Zabi, still packing the watermelon, with gentlemanly insistence donated his plastic flip-flops to me. I could not believe this person: if I had any doubts before, I am now completely convinced that Afghans are the toughest people on earth. That watermelon, which we ate in large chunks (since we had forgotten to bring more than a small penknife), was the best I’ve ever tasted. While everyone was still eating, I snuck off and took a private bath in one of the small pools: cold and exhilarating!

Reluctantly, we had to leave to make the three hour drive back to Bamiyan. It’s Afghanistan, and not safe to be out after dark. There were a few memorable mentions on the return trip. We passed many gypsy camps, and at one point two gypsy boys who were tending sheep threw rocks at our Surf as we passed. Zabi stopped the car, grabbed a handful of stones, and flailed them at the boys – who were high-tailing it away as fast as their legs could carry them. I think anywhere else the sight of a grown man hucking rocks at kids would be disturbing but in context, Tariq and I found this hilarious. On another occasion, I was gazing out the window when I saw a large rock on the roadside glittering with what I thought to be red precious stones. I yelled, “Bas, Bas!!” to Zabi and was out the Surf door like greased lightning, pounding up the hill as though I’d just won the lottery. When I saw the rock, it was nothing more than a stone painted red. Later, sitting in the PACTEC flight home and reading a UN Fact Sheet, I realized that rocks painted red at roadside in remote areas are used to denote areas that have not been cleaned of mines or other unexploded ordinance and are dangerous. Good grief!! Much to our delight, we also picked up a humungous bag of crut on the way home, which is a salty mound of dried lamb’s yogurt.

Safe and sound back in Bamiyan, we pulled up to the “best” hotel for dinner, not sure what to expect. The hotel compound was painted a light green, and co-owned by a Japanese woman married to a local Afghan. Jokingly, we dubbed it the wasabi palace and filed in for dinner. It was delicious, and we enjoyed dish after dish of chicken teriyaki, sushi, eggplant, and other delights and a nice bottle of Italian white wine. As Eli gleefully intoned: “mushi mushi!” (apparently this means “hello” in Japanese but I’m not sure.) The hotel also boasted excellent displays of handmade carpets and Nooristani furniture – it was a nice ambiance to end a spectacular day.