KABUL RUN

Nothing takes your breath away like Afghanistan in the soft early morning. The colors are vivid, the sky is blindingly blue, and the mountains seem friendly and distant. In Afghanistan, that’s normally how you’d like the mountains to be. They roll and curve beautifully like waves in the sea, but you would never want to climb them or live in them. Several times, we simply had to stop to take some video or photos. When a herd of innocent looking sheep and evil looking goats crossed the road, we jumped off the van and posed in the middle of the herd.
If the journey from the border to Jalalabad was long, the journey from Jalalabad to Kabul was agonizingly longer. When we first entered Afghanistan, we were still in awe with the sights. But by the next day, much of the novelty had already worn off. Kabul was supposed to be only 90 miles away, but the bad roads and the treacherous mountains made sure that it would take us some eight hours.
By this time, we had become confident enough to stop every time we felt like it and shoot video. Sometimes, we wouldn’t even bother to stop anymore, and just hang the camera out the window and roll. But I remember one village we passed very vividly. We rattled along the dusty road, and one man glared at us. As we passed, I remember seeing him wag his finger at us, like a warning. Just after that incident, a sedan sidled up beside us. Inside were a pair of Japanese journalists, driven by a Pakistani who knew the King’s English.
The Pakistani leaned out his window and bellowed at us to stop shooting video all around, and to not stop for anyone along the way. This is a dangerous place, and these people are crazy, he said. With that, he sped off.
We became a little more cautious, but the monotony of the trip soon had us dropping our guard. Hours into the journey, we came upon a magnificent lake, and what looked like a small hydroelectric dam. We didn’t stop there to take footage, even though it was very tempting. Part of the reason was the large number of armed men we saw in the adjacent town. For some reason that was hard to explain, the town looked... dangerous.
Later, I would learn that this was the town of Sarobi, and the lake was, of course, Sarobi lake. Unknown to us at that time, this was a hideout of one of the most notorious warlords and bandits in this part of Afghanistan. From 1987 to 1995, this was a stronghold of the Hezc-I-Islami, or the Islamic Party, a mujahideen faction allied with Gulbuddin Hekmatyar. Three years after we would pass this town, a former Sarobi warlord Faryadi Sarwar Zardad, would be tried for kidnapping and torture before a London court. Prosecutors told the court that Zardad was particularly imaginative in devising new ways of torturing or killing people passing through Sarobi. One time, the court was told, Zardad even kept a "human dog" in a hole, and set him free to bite and attack passersby on certain occasions.
Curiously, the BBC reported that Zardad had moved to Britain in 1998 and was operating a pizza restaurant in South London when he was arrested for the crimes he allegedly committed while being the local deity in Sarobi.
Of course we knew none of Sarobi’s history, not even the town’s name, as we passed this place. Once we were past the town, we skirted around the lake, edging up a mountain road. At the top of a rise, tensions eased somewhat, and we stopped for some footage. By this time, Dennis had mastered the art of the TV spiel, and cracked more jokes for the camera: "Limang oras ng pagiging pulburon, espasol na kami. Ang bilis pa ng driver namin. Speedy bagal ang tawag namin sa kanya."
After that, we got back into the van, and sped on up the mountain road. It was after a left turn on that mountain road when a lone gunman stepped onto the road and waved us to a stop. The rest is history. Welcome to sunny Sarobi. Hope you come back again.
-------------------
After the incident in Sarobi, we approached each bend of the road with dread. We knew we were incredibly unlucky, yet lucky to still be alive, in a country where dying comes easy, and disappearing, even more so. After Sarobi, the terrain changed dramatically. We crept up steep roads and edged through mountain gorges. The Kabul river thundered underneath, a virtual deluge in a place where people pray for every drop of water. On the roadsides, especially near quick turns of the mountain road, were scattered the burned hulks of soviet-made armored vehicles and tanks. These roads were a guerilla’s wet dream; once an ambush was launched, there is virtually no place for a victim to run, except perhaps to jump into the gorge and pray for the kindness of a raging river. The twisted wreckage were the rusted legacies of a decade of Soviet influence in Afghanistan, no different from the bleaching bones encountered by the so-called British army of retribution a century before.
It was the longest drive for all of us, especially with all the twists and turns of the road after that robbery. In our minds, we were reliving every moment on that mountain, wondering if things would have been different if we hadn’t stopped; or if we offered any resistance; or if someone had simply coughed at the wrong time. This is the punishment of all survivors – to be condemned to relive a nightmare over and over again.
Once past the gorge, we entered a flat plain ringed by mountain ranges all around. We had the inkling that this was the plateau on which Kabul was built. It was late afternoon, and hopefully, we were finally on the home stretch.
A few kilometers into the plain, we were stopped by another group of armed men. For a fleeting moment, the terror returned. But we were comforted by the fact that this appeared to be a real army or police checkpoint, manned by professional soldiers or professional rebels. They were even wearing uniforms. A brief look into our van, and the men manning the checkpoint let us through.
After a few more kilometers, we came across a walled compound that appeared to have been flattened by bombs. Overcoming our fear, we leapt off the van and started shooting inside. The compound was empty of people, but destroyed buildings and warehouses were all around. It looked as if there was nothing left standing inside this compound except for the walls. It appeared to be an old military or government camp, now abandoned by the Taliban.
Outside, I spotted a russian-style helmet on the ground. I was tempted to pick it up as a souvenir, until I noticed that there was something reddish, sticky, and lumpy inside the helmet. I couldn’t tell what it was, and part of me didn’t really want to know. Also, this was the kind of place one has to be mindful of mines and booby traps. So the helmet stayed where I saw it.
Further on, we saw a gaggle of tanks and armored personnel carriers parked by the roadway. These were the old T-54s and T-55s, a russian tank built in the 1950s and 60s, but still widely used in the third world. Their barrels were muzzled with canvas covers, but they were obviously still operational, and bristling with machine guns mounted on the commanders’ cupolas. The tanks were probably used by the northern alliance in capturing Kabul, although no one stopped or approached us as we took photos and footage of the armor display. It was a weird feeling, standing on top of a tank, and no one appeared to care if I crawled all over it or tried to drive one away.
When we finally entered Kabul proper in the late afternoon we were already emotionally drained. The Afghan capital was abuzz, still giddy four days after the fall of the Taliban. People had a sense of newfound freedoms, that they were slowly exploring. The capital was also beginning to crawl with vehicles from Pakistan and Iran. With no interpreter, we were unsure where to go or who to talk to. The logical thing was to stop at the first person of apparent authority, and ask for directions. The first guy we saw was dressed, quite unusually, in the dark gloomy rain camouflage of the old East German Army. I couldn’t help stare at his uniform while we tried to ask for directions. Here was a soldier wearing the camouflage meant for the dark rainy weather of Eastern Europe in a country where rain was a virtual miracle. Of course there was another reason for my stare – I collect camouflage patterns as a hobby.
Unfortunately, despite his impressive uniform, the soldier spoke no English either. Somehow, we found ourselves on a hilltop, in front of the Kabul Intercontinental, where most foreign journalists were billeted.
Names can be very misleading. At the time, Kabul Intercon was not connected with the Intercon international chain of hotels; if it did have any connection, that must have been ages ago, long before the time of the Soviets, the shifty mujahideen alliances, and the Taliban. Now, it sits on an imposing hilltop, a large block of dark concrete that reminds people how unimaginative some architects can be when they feel like it. As if that were not bad enough, over the decades, the Intercon had fallen into disrepair. During the Soviet era, the only people who would use the Intercon were Eastern European contractors brought in by the Soviets. By the time the Taliban swept into power, the Intercon was already an anachronism. The Taliban basically wanted to bring back the way of life of the 6th century, when the Prophet and his disciples were leading lives much simpler and pure; virtually anything else was considered frivolous, and therefore banned. One can just imagine the Taliban’s spiritual leader, Mullah Omar, staring at the Intercon, and saying tut-tut-tut, it’s the devil’s lair. No wonder Mullah Omar preferred staying in Kandahar than in the more cosmopolitan environment of Kabul. [Cosmopolitan? Well, everything is relative.]
So the Intercon stayed the course by being the shining beacon of fine living and fine dining [see remark on everything being relative] all throughout three austere regimes. And now, Iltaf shut down his engine, and we looked up and stared in awe and incredulity at the signage and wondered how the hell could they have an Intercon in Kabul. Perhaps they also have a sauna?
Again, we piled out of Iltaf’s little red van, hoping to heavens that it would be the last time for the day. The lobby of the Intercon was abuzz with foreign journalists hanging around, sleeping on the fake leather couches, or bugging the front desk. When we finally got our turn, we were told up front that there were no more rooms available, and if we insisted on waiting for one, get in line. So that’s why there were so many foreign journos camped out in the lobby of the Intercon.
Stymied at finding five star lodgings, we decided to go, well, native. Iltaf seemed to understand our predicament, because we didn’t have to explain too hard for him to get the idea that we still didn’t have a place for the night. We bounced around the capital, looking for an apartment or a cheap hotel that could take us in. Thankfully, some Afghans seemed to know a lot more English than our driver. We found one such hotel in a major Kabul intersection, standing over a teeming market. The room they offered us was cheap, dirt cheap. And it looked the price. That the room was in the fifth floor of the elevator-less hotel was of little concern to people who are in severe cost-cutting mode. I was ready to jump in, but the rest of the gang was a little more concerned that we were too vulnerable here. Imagine, five asians without a word of Pashto among them, camped out in a fleabitten hotel in downtown Kabul at a time when the Taliban and every angry armed goon is looking for payback. Thoroughly vetoed, we decided to head back to the Intercon to see if we could charm our way in.
Which was just as well. As soon as we got back into the van, a crowd of curious Afghans had gathered around our vehicle, and were peering inside. So this is what it’s like to be the only goldfish in a cat convention. It was all fine for a while, until someone started pounding on the doors and windows. We couldn’t understand a word, but we didn’t have to. For some reason, they were getting upset. Soon, the van was shaking. Iltaf started the vehicle, and gingerly put it in gear. I hoped that Iltaf would be extra careful in dealing with this. If he runs over anyone at this point, the crowd would tear us apart. Iltaf leaned on his horn and stepped gingerly on the gas, and the Afghans eventually let us go.
Thankfully, we found ourselves back in the Intercon in one piece. This time, we decided we couldn’t afford to take no for an answer. We sought out the hotel manager and pleaded for a room, any room. In the end, he offered his own – his basement office. For $100 a day, he was willing to pay the ultimate sacrifice by letting us sleep on the floor of his small office. It wouldn’t have been so bad if we hadn’t found out later that the going rate for the regular hotel room, when one was available, was $60 a night.
Having survived the day, we were not about to argue. We voted on the room, and started hauling out the manager’s table and chairs. This left only the ratty carpet to sleep on.
With sleeping arrangements set, we all went back outside to Iltaf’s van. The sun had set while we were hauling our stuff to the basement office, and the wind had picked up. For the first time we got a real taste of Afghanistan’s weather. It was biting cold, even under layers of cloth and nylon. The wind was picking up, and any exposed skin was soon numb with cold. At times we had to turn away from the wind because the cold dry wind would make the eyes water so much.
We decided to set-up our live broadcast equipment, and tell Manila what had happened to us. We certainly didn’t want our loved ones to learn of the robbery incident from someone else. Not that there was any real danger of that. When we arrived at the hotel, everything seemed normal, and no one had any inkling what had happened. And, we thought wrongly, no one would care.
Because of problems with line-of-sight, we had to scout the parking lot for the right place to setup our satellite dishes. We found the perfect spot in an elevated parking lot off to the side of the Intercon. From the spot, there were no obstructions between the satellite and the antennae. Unfortunately, this also meant there were no obstructions between the wind and us. The night was so cold that we stood on that hilltop with teeth clenched to keep them from chattering.
While Val setup the videophone, I took out a can of tuna. We were all hungry, having skipped meals most of the day. I also took out a bar of hexamine heating fuel. Years ago I had come across several bars of ration heaters in Dau town, near the former US Air Force Base in Clark, Pampanga. These were really solid alcohol bars, that you simply put under a can of food to light. The alcohol smelled terrible, and made your eyes water when the wind blew the wrong way. But it was certainly a fast and surefire way of heating food and frozen fingers. Whenever I brought a can of food on coverages, I would always bring a couple of bars of hexamine for good measure. Now, i thought, this day had been bad enough, and I had no plans of eating a cold can of tuna, at least not if I could help it.
I took out a Swiss knife, dug a small hole in the earth, and put a piece of hexamine in the middle. Then I got a few rocks, piled them around, and set the opened can of tuna on top. A few minutes after lighting the hexamine, the tuna was bubbling in its own spicy sauce, and everyone crowded around for a quick bite.
When Val was ready with the satellite phone, we took our turn calling our loved ones first to tell them we were okay. Again, memory fades here, but I do recall that the first thing I told my wife was that she should not worry and that we were fine and in Kabul, but we had run into a little problem along the way. That, we decided, was the best way to break the news to our families. Start off on the wrong foot, and you get panic on one side of the line, and lengthy explanations from the other. If you immediately say "we were robbed at gunpoint", the questions will come faster than the answers. By stressing that we were okay first, then explaining what happened, we downplayed the event and helped calm the nervousness at home.
I think we all tried to downplay the incident while talking to our families, although that was understandably a little difficult. We were detained by a bunch of armed men on a mountain, and they cocked their guns and shouted at us and ripped us off, but don’t worry, it’s all bright and sunny here with no cloud in sight for the next fifty years. Plus, we’re booked in the glitzy ritzy Kabul Intercon. Beat that.
After the satellite phone had done the rounds, that was the only time we called the office for our update. Again, there was a difference in points of view here. From our end, Kabul was the prize that was almost unreachable just days ago. It was like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. But for the guy at the other end of the line, it was simply a destination. Something like: "Oh you’re in Kabul? Okay..."
I remember telling them about our money situation, and we told them that we probably had enough money for food, and that was it. But don't worry guys, it’s Ramadan, the Muslim month of fasting, so we won’t get to eat anyway. What would give us nightmares was the problem of how to get home.
I remember I still had six or seven hundred dollars with me, and among the rest of the guys, there was probably an equal amount. That may sound like a tidy sum in Manila, but not in the middle of Afghanistan, where you don’t have any banks or ATMs.
Still, the office was gracious enough to ask us for a live update from Kabul. We decided that the story was the dangerous road to Kabul, and the terrifying moments on that mountain road after Sarobi. For this story, we decided that Patrick would do the live reportage, while every one of us stood with him in the frame. It was our way of showing our families that, yes, we were robbed, but we are still alright.
It was one of the rare occasions where you have all four correspondents appearing live in a single screen. While Patrick gave the report on the bandit incident and our entry into Kabul, we stood around him. I guess it was our way of assuring everyone in Manila that we still had all fingers and toes intact.
I would see that live shot weeks later, back in Manila. We all stood facing the camera, bathed in light, the lights of Kabul twinkling behind us. Most of us were wrapped heavily in the earth-colored blankets called partou by Afghans. Everyone wore a hat or a pakul because of the cold. And at our feet – a can of tuna perched precariously on a pile of rocks.
"Sari saring armadong grupo ang nagkalat ngayon," Patrick reported on air. "Katunayan, Tinigil kami ng mga kalalakihan na armado ng AK-47. Kinasahan kami ng baril, kinuhanan kami ng pera."
[All sorts of armed groups are scattered now. In fact, we were stopped by a group of men armed with AK-47s. They cocked their rifles at us, and robbed us of our money.]
After the live report, we continued unloading our stuff in the hotel. While we were doing that, there were ugly rumors going around that the newly installed Afghan authorities were picking up Pakistani citizens and placing them under arrest.
Relations between Afghans and Pakistanis have been strained ever since Pakistan threw its support behind the brutal Taliban. It is also said that the more brutal Taliban troops were not really the Afghans, but the Pakistani and Arab volunteers who traveled to this country to export their own brand of Islam. In places where the Northern Alliance overran the Taliban, the victorious rebels just let the Afghan Taliban go back home. It was a different story for their Pakistani and Arab supporters though. The lucky ones were immediately executed. Others, it was discovered later, were crowded into the ubiquitous container vans and locked inside with no ventilation. It was a brutal and cruel way to die.
I had come back up to the hotel entrance to pick up another load of equipment and baggage when I was confronted by a noisy gaggle of young men. One of them, a lanky guy in a leather jacket, pointedly asked me if we were the ones who were oppressing this poor guy Iltaf. I was taken aback at the accusation; we had been a little nasty to the guy after the bandit incident, but other than that, I would think we had been quite nice. But the young man wouldn’t have any of it, and proceeded to berate me in halting English. First thing I thought was, hey this guy speaks relatively good English! Nevertheless, his accusations got my goat, and I started arguing back heatedly that we had not done anything wrong to Iltaf. Nothing makes for a more colorful argument than a language barrier. Soon, there was a crowd around us.
I think at this point, we dragged Iltaf in. We may not have been able to understand the guy, but we didn’t really think he was the type that would sell us out, or lie about us. What Iltaf told the young man appeared to settle him , because to his credit, the man suddenly apologized, and said that he had misunderstood the story going around. It turned out that a group of Afghan plainclothes policemen had noticed Iltaf’s Pakistani license plates, and had been harassing him. I thanked the man for his honesty, and left it at that. Little did we know that in the coming days, we would place our lives in the hands of this same man.
A few minutes later, while we were in the lobby, a severe and officious looking Afghan with a five o’clock shadow and wearing a leather jacket approached us. Behind him were Iltaf and several other Afghans, some of them dressed in Northern Alliance uniforms. Do you know this man, the Afghan official asked. Yes, he’s our driver, we replied. The man then asked for our passports, which we handed over grudgingly. After going through the documents and giving us a once over, he seemed determined to give us a hard time. You have no Afghan visa, he said. Afghan visa, we stuttered? What Afghan visa? There is no more Taliban government to give anyone a visa. Then you have no Northern Alliance visa, he replied. But there are no Northern Alliance embassies to give out that visa, we countered. Still, he argued. To get inside our country, you must have a visa. That left us stumped. The conversation went along that vein for several minutes, with the man insisting that we entered his country illegally. The conversation bordered on the ridiculous. It seemed to us, after getting robbed at gunpoint, that visa-less journalists were the least of his country’s problems. Besides, with the Taliban’s seats still warm from their last occupants, the new government hadn’t even been formed yet. Then the man issued a chilling warning. Get your papers in order immediately, he said. Or face arrest.
Having given us due warning, he asked if we knew that our driver Iltaf was Pakistani. Of course, we said, we came from Pakistan, and we got him there. He has no permit to enter our country. But there is no one to give such a permit in Pakistan, we said. That is no excuse. We were going around and around, and it was clear that these policemen were looking for an excuse to make an arrest, and Iltaf was the one they had in their sights.
To be honest about it, we were probably relieved that they had chosen to pick on Iltaf than on us. At the very least they could understand each other. They hauled off Iltaf, who was already jabbering in fright. Poor Iltaf looked as frightened as a mouse. His eyes darted left and right, his shoulders slumped and he seemed to shrink in front of the overbearing new symbols of authority. We decided we weren’t going to let them take Iltaf without a fight. Much as we were angry at Iltaf for getting us into trouble in the road from Jalalabad, we felt responsible for him. In this very foreign land, he was one of ours.
Surprisingly, they weren’t hauling him out of the hotel. Instead, they brought him downstairs to the hotel basement, and deeper into a corridor. Iltaf was not the only captive; there were other Pakistani drivers hauled off with him. But after being browbeaten and threatened by Mr. Charming, the foreign journalists who hired these drivers had simply washed their hands of the whole deal and left them to fend for themselves. We were the only journalists who trailed the group down the stairs, arguing with Mr. Charming the whole time and pleading Iltaf’s case.
The policeman would have none of it. In fact he seemed irritated and baffled that these foreigners would still hang on to their Pakistani driver with such persistence.
But you cannot take him, I argued, he has not done anything wrong. He comes to Kabul often. He is not armed. He is just a driver. We just hired him. He did not violate any law. There is no law! At least, not yet. Finally, as his men dragged Iltaf down a dark hallway in the basement, Mr. Charming, with his five-o’clock stubble and leather jacket giving him a much more conspiratorial air in the dark tunnel, turned to me, and says, menacingly, This is his problem. I advise you, as foreigners in my country, not to make it yours too.
With that warning ringing in our ears, we simply had to let go. But that incident weighed heavily in our minds, especially because we felt that we had let Iltaf down. We really tried, as much as we could, to protect him. But it turned out that even our presence was iffy. We thought all along that the Northern Alliance would welcome journalists with open arms, since they appeared to have the sympathy of much of the western world. Tonight’s incident was a reality check for us The people friendliest to you are usually the underdogs. Once they get the upper hand, things, and friendships, can change in an instant.
Someone said Iltaf would just be held for questioning. But the circumstances behind his arrest, the veiled threat, and the act of dragging him down to the dungeon-like basement left such a bad taste in the mouth that colored our view of the New and Improved Afghanistan.
We rushed back upstairs to the parking lot, and found Iltaf’s van still parked, screaming with its emptiness. On the ground, near the tires, we found one of the photos Iltaf had pasted on the ceiling of his van. It was a photo of a smiling Iltaf and a friend. Whoever had arrested Iltaf had also searched the van, torn the photo from the van’s ceiling, and ripped it to pieces. It takes a special kind of hatred to do something like that. It was, sadly, a time of retribution.