American Taliban (23 page)

It is summer, it is brown, with only a patch of green here. Another one there, the driver says, pointing toward a corner of the dusty windshield. They are headed to the makeshift camp pitched beside a stream. He hopes the camp will be in the shade, though shade up here is rare. The hills, he knows, cool off at night, it is already cool, and he rubs his brown, goosebumped arms. It is only late afternoon and already he’s chilled or perhaps it’s his body adapting to the mountain climate, to extreme heat followed by extreme cold, to the large round flat cardboard cutout sun dropping fast off the Margalla Hills, reddening the ridge in the east as it drops west. So he feels cold already, though he shouldn’t, having grown rugged. So he is on his way to becoming a soldier. Four weeks of predawn workouts; four weeks of unsweetened diluted mint tea and target practice; four weeks and he is strong and he is proud of his new strength. So he rubs the new knots on his biceps. So he is beginning to feel like a soldier. So he will spend the next weeks in Ta’sisia. Ta’sisia: the making of a Muslim foot soldier. He will fight corruption and bribery and tribal violence. He will unite the tribes under the banner of Islam. He will do what the Prophet had done.

THE LORRY FINALLY PULLED UP
to what appeared to John as a makeshift camp in the process of decamping. He counted ten, no eleven, young men about his age, and they all seemed in a hurry, breaking down tents, pulling stakes, packing bags, strapping bags.

John looked at the driver, Faqir, who served as camp teacher, driver, cook, adviser, whatever was needed.

You won’t need to unpack. Faqir shrugged and got out of the lorry.

Someone approached. Amin, Faqir said, and they shook hands.

Amin raised one thick eyebrow in John’s direction. So this is Jalal’s American protégé? he asked.

Attar, John said, shaking Amin’s outstretched hand.

Jalal got you up here just in time, Amin said.

In time for what?

For our journey to Kabul.

John swallowed. He’d wanted to see Kabul, and now he was somehow really headed there. Which should please him. He’d finally have his adventure, his experience of becoming, but he found he was a little afraid. He knew no one here, he’d be traveling with total strangers, fighting a stranger’s war. But Richard Burton was also a stranger, he reminded himself. So he worked alongside Amin and Faqir, unloading supplies, which they then broke up into smaller parcels. Every soldier carries his own supplies, Amin explained.

John asked about passes and visas. His passport was at the bottom of his backpack, but he’d never applied for a pass.

No problem, Amin said. We travel during the night, dar tariki, tari-quat. In darkness, the path. Once we cross the Khyber, we’ll make our way to Hadda.

Where all the Buddhist stupas are?

Were, Amin said. Bombed by the Soviets in the seventies. It’s all rubble now.

Someone sounded the early evening call to prayer, and they paused, washed their hands and faces at the nearby stream, and, with rounded backs and bowed heads, prayed. And prayer, it turned out, was precisely what John needed. Though he welcomed every opportunity to perform the salaat, he found himself especially eager for it here and now, in this far-flung place among strangers. He prayed for the success of his journey to becoming. He prayed for Barbara and Bill. He prayed for Katie and Sylvie. He prayed for Jilly. And Noor. He whispered the la illaha with extra fervency, rocked back on his heels, turned his head right, turned his head left, and ended on the as salaamu. And beside him and in front of him the others greeted him: as salaamu aleykum, aleykum as salaam. Though strangers, though he’d never met them before, they wished him peace.

They finished packing and loading, then stopped for a dinner of spicy tandoori chicken with minted chickpeas and naan.

Eat plenty, Amin advised, because you won’t get another hot meal for a while.

JOHN HIKED
beside Amin, who introduced him to some of the others: Jamal, Ishmael, Kamel, Abdul, Sayed.

Attar, they said in greeting, and shook hands.

Welcome to our unit, someone named Tameel said. He introduced himself as their leader, though he could not be more than twenty-three, John thought.

Tameel suggested John spend some hours walking beside each of the others, getting to know them, allowing them to know him. This way, by the time we arrive at Hadda, you’ll be one of us.

John wondered how long a hike it was. According to his guidebook, you could go from Peshawar to Kabul by car in eight hours, but they weren’t going all the way to Kabul.

From the mouth of the pass at Jamrud, the road’s about forty-eight
kilometers long, Amin said, but we’re on the footpath, which is somewhat shorter. We’ll keep moving through the night, rest at dawn, then continue on. At Torkham we’ll find transportation to Hadda. Im’sh’allah.

About thirty miles, John calculated. All on foot. Good thing he’d brought very little.

We don’t want to attract notice, Amin explained. Without horses or donkeys, we can move quickly, enter and leave villages easily, make no impression.

John wondered whom they were trying to avoid.

Everyone and no one in particular, Amin said. As foreigners we have no right to fight in Afghanistan’s civil war. And the Northern Alliance generals like to murder captured foreign fighters rather than trade them for their own soldiers. So we’ll avoid the official highway and all its checkpoints. Which also means no fees and bribes and paperwork. Anyway, the highway is for vehicles. It’s easier to cross on foot.

IN THE FIRST HOURS
of their hike, in the day’s waning light, the jagged mountain peaks grew dark and darker, and when the path narrowed to single file, he came to think of them as watchful ancient elders looking over his shoulder, ushering him forward into this journey.

They began their climb as a talkative group, and he was glad they all spoke some English. He learned details about each of the hikers’ lives, about where in Pakistan they were from, which madrassah they’d attended, how long they’d trained. And the training exercises.

Kamel teased Abdul about the time he got lost, and then Abdul got Kamel back with a story about one exercise in which he forgot which side he was on.

Just be sure you don’t end up fighting for the Alliance, Abdul warned, or I’ll have to shoot you.

Jamal reminded Abdul of his own early deficiencies. He couldn’t hit the target for weeks, Jamal revealed.

Jamal and Amin had already fulfilled one tour of duty. Tameel was the most experienced of the group, having served three times.

Keep Khyber Road always in sight and on your left, Tameel advised. If for some reason we’re separated, continue forward, keeping the road on your left, and you’ll be moving in the right direction.

This turned out to be easy enough while they had light, but then it grew dark, and it was difficult staying on the narrow, winding path. John found himself stumbling over outcroppings, stones, shrubs—he
didn’t always know what they were. He found it impossible to see Khyber Road and was glad to have Amin behind him and Tameel ahead, glad not to be at the end of the line, where, if delayed, he might lose sight of the others.

They walked in silence for what seemed hours. And then finally a sliver of moon rose and he could once again see where he was going.

Traveling with a full moon’s foolhardy, Tameel explained. Anyone could shoot us from miles away.

Toward dawn, John felt a blister on his left heel, but they were stopping soon. They would rest in a cave through the morning hours. Tameel informed them they were more than halfway there.

IT WAS MIDMORNING
when he awoke. After prayers and a bite—they found pita and olives and water in their packs—they gathered for instructions.

We have to walk this final stretch in daylight, Tameel explained, because the footpath into the valley is narrow and steep, too difficult to navigate in the dark. Split up in groups of three, and we’ll meet on the Afghan side of Torkham.

Now, listen closely. Loti Kotal’s about five kilometers from the border. Before you get there, begin traveling alone with enough distance between each other so that no one on the path has reason to think you are companions. Exchange pleasantries with any Afridi merchant you meet, and if he welcomes conversation, stay with him, give him a hand if he needs it, so that at the pass itself you’ll appear as a father and son traveling together. Attar, you should probably not try conversation. Get by with a smile and a helping hand.

Tameel made certain that everyone had enough change for tea and something to eat. John was glad he’d packed protein bars for emergencies.

He teamed up with Amin and Iksander, named, Iksander said, for Alexander the Great.

Cool, John said. I read somewhere that the year he died, children all over the world were named for him. Alexander, Alexandrine, Alexandra.

They were the second team to get going, having given the first team
a twenty-minute head start. Before they left, Tameel advised John to darken his face and the back of his hands with dirt to avoid standing out. Though he was tanned and had something of a beard—he’d stopped shaving his second week at Tangi—he was still paler than most Pakistanis.

They walked single file on a well-trodden footpath that led steeply up the face of the mountain. They would have to make their way up before finally descending into Torkham. Deep below to his left was the pass, which looked like a gap in a wall of mountains, but he had to avoid looking that way because the steep incline made him dizzy, and he felt himself falling.

It’s vertigo, Amin explained. Keep your eyes straight ahead, on the path. The valley below is known as the Zorzai, but look up ahead rather than down. See, up there is an Afridi village with its high walls and watchtowers. And there, thirty-five hundred feet above the pass, is the village of Loti Kotal. It has a smugglers’ bazaar, where you can get everything illegal: from opium to DVDs.

They soon shared the footpath with Afridi villagers leading donkeys and camels laden with fruit and vegetables, and with no signs anywhere of the twenty-first or even the twentieth century, John felt himself transported to ancient days. Surrounded by this bare brown landscape, by the sounds of Pashto and Dari, by the hardships of premodern life, he felt as far from the English language and the West as Alexander the Great must have been from George W. Bush.

Where are they going? John asked.

They sell their produce in Torkham or on the road to Jalalabad, Amin explained. For them, this walk is a daily journey.

It was slow going, and then they saw Loti Kotal ahead, which, at least from where he was, didn’t look like much. They split up. John kept an eye out for someone friendly. Rather than hurry ahead and attract notice, he slowed down and dropped behind. And then up ahead, he saw what he thought might be a slender young woman. She was riding sidesaddle for one thing. And she kept her hair covered. Her feet were bare and brown, slender ankles exposed. For an adventure with her, he knew, he’d give up this journey. For now at least.

He caught up to her. Her donkey was loaded with sacks of peaches and plums. As salaam, he greeted. Today, at least, he joked in Pashto, you won’t go hungry.

As salaamu aleykum, a voice replied, but it was definitely not a girl’s voice.

Ta la kuom hiwad na raghelay yi? the boy asked.

John paused. He’d done what Tameel had told him not to do. He’d given himself away in one breath. Za la deyr lirey na raghelay yem, he answered. Za la gharb lirey.

Gharb? the boy echoed, gesturing west.

Hoo. John nodded. Wa u? he asked, hoping to distract him.

Te pe angrezai pohegy? the boy persisted.

John nodded.

Then welcome to my country, he said in impressive English, after which he went on to tell John in a mix of English and Pashto that he lived with his mother and sisters and uncles and cousins in the hills, where they had orchards and goats. My name, the boy said, is for my father, Sayeed al Kuchi. He mimed a cut throat. When I am grown tall—the boy indicated a foot above his head—I must make badal, and John understood that this boy’s father had been murdered. They were making their way down a steep grade with difficulty. The donkey worked hard to keep its weight on its hind legs, and Sayeed helped by sitting farther behind the vertical, throwing his shoulders back, and he did it intuitively, without much thinking or planning. John, too, found himself leaning away from the incline, to keep from tumbling down. And throughout their three-mile descent, Sayeed kept up an English-Pashto–mime conversation. John worried at first that they might attract notice, but the terrain was difficult and narrow, and people kept a good distance, seven to ten donkey lengths. After they passed what turned out to be Fort Maude and then the Ali Masjid, the canyon narrowed to only about nineteen yards wide, and their walking path ran right alongside the road, which was heavily trafficked with steaming, hissing, spitting vehicles, shifting down and down and down all the way to the gate at Torkham. Walking these three miles, John came to appreciate Tameel’s strategy. Beside Sayeed and his donkey, he appeared as just another villager on his way to sell his daily crop, and though the cars stopped to unload, he walked through the gates with Sayeed chattering all the way.

I to Jalalabad, Sayeed said, pointing.

But before he took off, John wanted to give him something, but what? Money might not be appropriate. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a Zone bar.

Candy? Sayeed asked.

John nodded. He wished he could do more for the kid, but Sayeed was all business. As salaam, he shouted, and kicked his donkey toward Jalalabad.

TORKHAM WAS A RUNDOWN OUTDOOR VERSION
of airport customs, with money changers, bus depots, and shabby teahouses in what amounted to a giant dusty parking lot. Lines of travelers with packs and sacks waited to show their papers, answer questions, pay fees. Customs officials and armed guards moved stiffly between the lines. A lorry pulled up and spilled forth more guards in uniform. Afternoon was turning toward early evening, and everywhere minibuses, vans, and taxis hawked rides: Jalalabad, Kabul, Kandahar, Wazir, Hadda, Pahshad, drivers shouted.