Wakhan wanderer

Himal Southasia/May 2008

text By : Aunohita Mojumdar
Photographs by : anne feenstra

Even in Afghanistan – residence of which often carries a level of fascination for those outside – going to the Wakhan corridor is considered considerably exotic. This small strip of land, making its wayward way eastward, appears distinctly disjointed from the rest of the Afghan landmass. A relief map reveals the continuities of contour, a swathe of brown that begins in the central part of Afghanistan narrowing towards the east, before then broadening out again, layered with that distinctive white colour that mapmakers use to indicate high altitude. Indeed, by the beginning of the corridor, the map is almost completely white, with the Pamir, Hindukush and Karakoram forming one of the most formidable of mountain stretches.

On a political map, however, the area forms a perfect barrier: a sliver of territory that once separated Tsarist Russia from Britain’s Indian empire. But Wakhan’s politically expedient location also comes at a cost. Though its position made it a natural route for traders travelling on Bactrian camels, yaks, donkeys and horses, modern motorised transport could not make use of this rugged route. As such, the region became progressively isolated in modern times.

Writing in the 1970s, the intrepid chronicler of Afghanistan’s heritage, Nancy Dupree, had much advice for those setting out for Badakshan, the province where Wakhan is located. “This is an exciting trip through some of Afghanistan’s most thrilling scenery,” she noted, “enjoyable only, however, if you have a strong car, spare parts, sleeping bags and an extra cache of food and petrol.” These words ring true even today. Also to be heeded is Dupree’s subsequent recommendations on securing a special permit to enter the Wakhan Corridor.

The current dispenser of permits is Commander Waheed, who fought in the force of the legendary Northern Alliance guerrilla fighter Ahmad Shah Masood. For Masood’s forces, the area, impregnable to the Taliban due to its difficult geography, was one of the few safe havens left when the Taliban took over. This was, perhaps, the sole reason that the locals were saved from the horrific ravages visited on the country’s other minority sects, such as the Shia of Hazarajat, in central Afghanistan.

To reach Wakhan today, one first has to drive or fly to Faizabad, the provincial capital. From there it takes another two days on the road, when the weather allows passage. As during Dupree’s time, the road here remains little more than a mud-and-stone track, necessitating a sturdy four-wheel-drive vehicle that can also ford the numerous streams, many without bridges. Add to this the inaccessibility of petrol and spare parts, and you have several good reasons why Wakhan remains off the map for most people.

Largely untouched
In earlier times, this area attracted empire-builders and adventurers. Chronicles of the former (those available in the Subcontinent are mainly British) are dotted with tales of low intrigue in the high mountain passes, as the armies and proxies of tsars and governor-generals fought each other. For explorers, there was a different kind of intrigue: the fascination of the unknown, such as the legendary Oxus River, the source of which had yet to be identified by the Western world. This mighty waterway, which winds its way more than 2400 km northwards before meeting the Aral Sea, is locally known as the Amu Darya, the ‘mother river’. Indeed, an ancient heritage can today be found in the many petroglyphs, thought to have been created eons ago, on boulders along the sparkling blue-grey waters of the Kokcha River en route to Wakhan.

The remoteness of Wakhan has meant that the distinct culture and language of the peoples of this area has remained essentially intact, largely untouched by the influences and cultures of the lower mainland. In the lower altitudes are the Wakhis, a community that relies on subsistence agriculture, growing mainly potatoes and wheat. They speak the Wakhi language, derived from several Iranian languages, and are Ismaili Shia, followers of the Aga Khan. In the higher altitudes are the pastoral Kyrghyz, who are generally Sunni and who speak Kyrghyz, of Turkic origin. Their large, well-fed herds of cattle are a draw for traders who arrive on Russian Kamaz trucks, exchanging cheap goods – synthetic clothes, furniture, plasticware and ugly, machine-made carpets. The traders also bring opium, which locals use as a painkiller in the absence of pharmaceutical drugs. Once addicted, the locals sell off much of their cattle to feed their habit. In turn, this forces them to breed more and more cattle, which conservationists worry could result in land degradation in the not-so-long term – an interesting study on how human addiction can affect ecology.

Whether due to or despite this isolation, the people of the Wakhan corridor are much more open to the outsider than are their counterparts in the mainland. In many other parts of Afghanistan, there tends to be significant suspicion of outsiders; the women are also cloistered, shying away from strangers even when working in the fields. In Wakhan, however, full families will turn curious, friendly gazes towards the visitor, with women in the larger villages even coming forward to talk.

Difficult development
In the middle of the village of Qala-e-Panja, roughly midway through the Wakhan, is the old hunting lodge of Zahir Shah, the last monarch of Afghanistan. Directly opposite this is the new visitor’s centre for the Pamir National Park. Today, on top of the centre’s roof, stands master mason Afiyat Khan. He lost his father at a young age, and later joined the mujahideen. Now, he makes a living constructing buildings. But Afiyat says that this one is different. The new visitor’s centre, he hopes, marks the advent of more visitors to the area, something that would enable him to live by his real passion: mountain climbing. Afiyat has already attended training courses under the Italian mountaineer Carlo Alberto Pinelli, a pioneer in what can be called ‘post-conflict mountaineering’ in Afghanistan. In 2007, Pinelli released a book in the hopes of exciting mountaineers to the possibilities of Wakhan’s peaks, which have not been climbed in three decades.

For the less adventurous, a drive through Wakhan is just as memorable. Long, sandy stretches give way to rock faces, which give way to boulder-strewn lunar landscapes, to the greens of spring and the bright colours of autumn – all of which is pleasantly interrupted by the clear, sparkling waters of the tumbling joi, as the mountain streams are called. Surrounding each vivid palette are the mountains, each distinct in colour, texture and shape. There is a feeling of security here in Wakhan, which allows for a sense of freedom unusual in the rest of Afghanistan.

Potatoes cooked in oil are the staple diet in these parts, accompanied by thick, dry flatbread – very different from the naan of the Subcontinent, though it still goes by this name. The locals have proved remarkably resistant to moving beyond this subsistence diet. Efforts by the Aga Khan Development Network (AKDN) to introduce vegetables and fruits in the area have been slow to catch on. At one point in our visit, we benefited from a chance encounter with an AKDN team by receiving, as a gift, an unbelievably large cabbage. Despite its eye-popping size, however, most of the villagers had no idea that the vegetable had been grown on an experimental farm in their very own village.

Amongst other things, the AKDN has been focusing on the local ecotourism potential. The training of guesthouse owners and guides has now brought about a number of guesthouses in the area, strewn along the road up to the last motorable point. In Qala-e-Panja, it is the Shah himself who owns the only guesthouse. Unfortunately, this writer discovered the requisite toilet only at the end of the trip (it turned out to be one of the carefully locked rooms), after having spent a week squatting in the outfield in the back. These new guesthouses have become focal points for curious villagers. During our visit, we met two young girls, Barfaq and the stunningly beautiful Daulatmand. Perhaps 15 years old, Daulatmand already has a young child, but nonetheless continues to go to school every day. For some reason, this writer was drawn to her, and the bond appeared to be mutual – a small space reaching out across the divides of culture, religion and language, with a few words and many smiles.

Daulatmand reflects the positive trend of a large number of school-goers, children who come stumbling down from the mountainside villages twice a day, sunburnt and rosy-cheeked, to attend class. Hopefully, some of these children will be able to reach high school, and further on to college in Kabul and elsewhere. Wakhan badly needs its skilled workers, teachers and doctors included. The high altitude, coupled with scarce medical facilities, meagre utilities, low nutrition and lack of awareness, contributes to a sparse health network. This inevitably takes a heavy toll, especially on maternal health.

There is always a fear about whether one would be able to see someone like Daulatmand again. If she has a second child soon, will she survive the odds stacked against young mothers in the wilderness of Wakhan?