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Afghan memoirs: A traveler's tale

By CNN's Donna Liu

(CNN) -- The landscape of Afghanistan is so striking, that I once met a man who traveled it on horseback, ostensibly, in search of a location to set up a resort for the luxury Club Med chain.

That was three decades ago, in Mazar-e Sharif, when the city was better known for its mosque than its casualties of battle. It was a time when world travelers could pass freely through most Afghan borders -- and a Club Med resort, while highly improbable, would not have been entirely out of the question.

Afghanistan in the 1970's was poor, but peaceful. The only visible interference from outside came in the form of strategic aid projects: highways from America; rice from China; airstrips from the Soviet Union. The Cold War was on, and everyone wanted Afghanistan on its side, if only for geopolitical advantage.

Yet most of the Western travelers I met in Afghanistan at that time were drawn there, not by geopolitics, but by the lure of adventure in a far-off land. It was an exotic stopover on the overland route from Western Europe to India, at a time when most of the international borders along the way were open and free of warfare.

A cross-section of these travelers could be found in our hotel in Mazar.

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There was a New York rug merchant, who hooked up with Kuchi nomad traders, to smuggle hand-made carpets across the border from Tajikistan. There was the Club Med scout, who was determined to ride through the country on a white stallion that had just been retired from the fierce Afghan version of polo, in which horsemen score goals with the carcass of a goat.

There was an American drug dealer, who had logged a dozen trips to traffic in Afghanistan's famous hashish -- this particular trip would later land him in a Kabul prison. And there were my traveling companions, two French documentary filmmakers who drove all the way from Toulouse, across the Salang Pass, and up to Mazar in a rickety Citroen Deux-Chevaux that refused to go any further.

Tireprints in the sand

But you didn't need a car to get through Afghanistan in those days.

Trucks piled high with goods were perfectly willing to pack extra passengers on top, as long as those passengers were willing to jump off the truck and help push it up the hills. As these vehicles passed through the crossroads at the center of a town, a young man was usually hanging off the back, chanting the name of the next destinations. You had only to shout back and climb on board.

The famous Standing Buddhas of Bamiyan (R) were destroyed earlier this year (R)

In those days, the paved road ended not far out of Mazar, and only tireprints in the sand marked the rest of the way to Maimana.

Travel through the Northern plains was subject to the vagaries of the weather. A one-day trip toward the town of Shebergan, for example, became a three-day detour on the way back… because while we were gone, the desert ground had filled up with the spring's melting snows, and formed a desert lake, or "wadi", which had to be completely circumvented on the way back.

But we were not in a hurry, and the spring rains had brought the desert into bloom.

In such a harsh landscape, it was difficult for the average Afghan to travel around, much less to appreciate the beauty of his country's scenery.

But as visitors we had the luxury of renting a jeep to take us into the mountains, to gape at the Standing Buddhas of Bamiyan, and marvel at the luminescent lakes of Band-I-Amir ("Jewels of the King").

Tourist potential

More than one enterprising Afghan recognized the tourist potential. On the shores of Band-I-Amir, a Kuchi nomad rented his tents out to visitors, and charged a nominal fee to ride his horses across the plateau.

Still, much of the hospitality we encountered along the way was not commercial, and it was all the more moving because of how little our Afghan hosts had to offer, in a material sense.

Fresh, warm bread is a staple food as winter approaches

So rare was a traveling band of foreigners, that in one town the mayor insisted we join the town council for dinner, after which they delighted in our amateurish rendition of songs from overseas.

In another community, we were invited into the family compound of a local holy man. There in the women's quarters, the wives could toss off their head-to-toe coverings, and let down their guard, to share with a stranger their hopes and frustrations.

Their hopes were much like those of mothers anywhere. Their frustrations, far greater than most. There was very little education or opportunity available to women even before the Taliban's extremism.

For the men, a sheep's head dinner was followed by a gathering of the men of the town, in a long room off the central courtyard, with the holy man sitting importantly at the head.

Perhaps our presence put a damper on the evening's exchange. Or maybe it was common for very few words to pass between the assembled group. Either way, more attention was devoted to the courtyard, where a chillum, or water-pipe, full of fragrant hashish, was shared throughout the evening by those present.

Some of these aspects of life in Afghanistan no doubt endure today. But looking back on that time, I cannot explain why the window of peace was so short-lived. Or whether, if the people of Afghanistan find peace again, their lives would ever be the same.