“My name is Afzel,” our guide said as we left Mohammad’s.
He turned his head to take a quick look at us in the back seat, then added, “Don’t worry. I have done this many times, and as you can see, I am still here.” Another young man in gebi and pakol sat next to Afzel, but didn’t speak. Afzel did not introduce him. The Toyota headed towards Pakistan. We passed the park by the Kabul Airport where Abbas and I had begun our escape. All that effort to arrive back at our starting point, I thought. An hour later, we turned onto a dirt road across which small streams ran, runoff from irrigated fields. After a long drive through farmland and orchards on rough dirt roads, our driver pulled over. “Get out,” Afzel said, opening the door. He got out as well, and we found ourselves standing by several small buildings containing bins overflowing with oranges, lemons, melons, and nuts. Farmers dropped off their produce to be stored here before it was transported to Jalalabad and Kabul. But there were no farmers now. I was startled by the sound of our blue Toyota spraying dirt and gravel as it sped off back towards Jalalabad.
“The Toyota would look suspicious here,” Afzel said. “We will use the van taken by the farmers.” A half-hour later a large white van pulled up. Six men were already inside. To my relief no one greeted us or asked where we were going. I feared that they would recognise my Kabul accent. We drove along the rutted, dusty roads, trailing a small sandstorm behind us, fields of grain and sugarcane on either side.
Every now and then a lone line of trees in a field revealed the presence of a farmhouse. We stopped at several small villages, each indistinguishable from the last – mud brick buildings amid a few trees planted for shade against the harsh summer heat. One by one, the other passengers exited until we were the only passengers left at the end of the van’s route. We got out. The van made a U-turn and headed back down the road. Abbas and I followed Afzel as he led us into the countryside. The farms grew fewer and fewer until we were in a barren landscape of dry, sandy soil. In the hazy distance, tall, thin poplar trees appeared. We knew there would be a farm, meaning shade and water, both necessary to survive in this heat. “Not much farther,” Afzel said, pointing in the direction of the poplars.
We came upon an abandoned farmhouse, a vision of poverty and disrepair. Only one wall remained, jagged from decay. The other walls had collapsed into a heap of rubble from age and neglect. No one had the money, or the will, to fix them. Time and the elements had returned them to the soil. We walked a bit farther and came to another farmhouse, this one decrepit but with walls more or less intact. The boundary walls were not very high because few ventured out this far. Afzel knocked loudly and waited. He knocked again, louder still. The door opened. There stood a tall, rail-thin man wearing a gebi the same tan colour as the soil, his white turban frayed with age. He looked us up and down until he recognised Afzel. I breathed a sigh of relief.
The farmer did not introduce himself but led us through his sad garden of withered plants and thirsty fruit trees to his tiny farmhouse. The only furniture in the entrance room was two mattresses sitting on a rug-covered dirt floor. The walls had once been whitewashed, but the paint had yellowed and fallen off in places, revealing the mud beneath. As Afzel gave the farmer his money, the farmer regarded us with contempt. It was clear from the expression on his face that he despised us for leaving Afghanistan. I thought he had no right to judge us. He was making money helping us escape.
After the farmer retreated to the back of the house, where the women stayed out of sight of strangers like us, Afzel said to us, “It’s a six-hour walk to the border, so be prepared for a long journey tomorrow. But you will be happy to hear that the real danger is behind us. I must leave you now. But wait for me here. I’ll be back at midnight. We must walk in the dark.” We lay down on the mattresses, but could not sleep. The sound of children’s voices from the back rooms reminded me of my own children. I was saddened by the thought. Always the worrier, I said to Abbas, “Abbas, I am afraid. We don’t know this farmer. If he turned us over to the Russians, he could make a lot of money. He has a big family. Where did Afzel go? Maybe he would do the same.” Abbas sighed, but did not answer.
Just as I fell asleep, the creak of an opening door startled me awake. It was Afzel. We followed him outside. Two men in grey gebis stood waiting, one older, with the long beard of the countryside and a white turban of the farmer. The other, much younger wore a dark brown turban the colour of his beard. “Before we start,” Afzel said addressing all of us, “there are a few things you need to know. There are thieves on this route. If you see anyone or hear anything, hide quickly. There are also Russian helicopters. You will hear them long before you see them. When you hear one, dive for shelter. There are landmines everywhere along the escape routes, so walk behind me in a single file. And absolutely no talking.” I was first in line to fall behind him as we started walking along a narrow dirt path. Abbas was right behind me, then the younger stranger, and the old man at the rear. We walked silently for miles beneath the moon and stars, constantly forced to leap across irrigation ditches that crisscrossed the land.
Each time I saw Afzel make the short hop, I followed his lead, fearing a sprained ankle would put an end to my escape. The closer we came to the Kabul River, more and more farmhouses appeared. I longed for a mattress to lie on. But we could not stop. Afzel broke the silence for the first time. “Is everyone okay?” he asked. “Keep up with me.” I tripped, bumping his back. “Not so close.” he said.
The farmland gave way to a hard, sandy, rock-strewn landscape. We had left the irrigation ditches behind. Afzel quickened his pace. Ahead of us the mountains loomed like sleeping giants. Somewhere between two of these giants was our path to safety in Pakistan, the Khyber Pass. “Anyone need a rest?” “Nay,” we all lied. We were cold and tired but afraid to stop. “Good. Let’s keep going.” Afzel increased his pace again, then quickly changed directions across an open field. I struggled to keep up. Beyond the field, where the landscape started rising, I thought I could see a faint trail. The way to the Khyber Pass? For the first time since we’d left Kabul, I felt at ease.
Excerpted with permission from Red Sky Over Kabul: A Memoir of a Father and Son in Afghanistan, Baryalai Popalzai and Kevin McLean, Speaking Tiger Books.
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