I spent hours poring over the book trying to comprehend a few meanings.
On the fifth day, Black Wolf came to see us in the morning, clearly troubled by something. ‘I can’t make contact with the agent in Turkey. He’s supposed to be meeting you there.’
Abdul was the first to speak: ‘So, what does mean for us?’
‘I can’t make my arrangements to get you safely over the border until he makes contact. This has never happened before. I’ve only been paid to have you here for three days.’
I was beginning to learn that everything came down to money with these people.
Black Wolf must have read my thoughts because he looked straight at me. ‘I’m not a greedy man. You can continue to stay here. And you will be taken care of. But, understand, this is causing me inconvenience. I have various meetings with business associates over the next few days. I need you to stay out of sight. After breakfast, you will stay in the furthest back orchards until it is dark. One of my men will bring your food there, and you will not return to this room until you are given instructions to do so.’
We sat listening in silence. I supposed it could have been worse.
For the first day it wasn’t so bad. The late autumn sun still carried warmth, the trees offered dappled shade and they had laid out a large, woven-plastic mat for us to sleep on. Whenever my stomach started to rumble in the afternoon, Mehran and I took turns to pluck fruit from the trees.
Black Wolf entrusted me to collect our food from the women in the kitchen. I didn’t mind in the least – it felt special to be trusted by the family, and the women insisted on doting on me in a way that made my insides bloom with butterflies.
By now we’d been there ten days, and our relaxed routine was beginning to feel like a prison. We wanted to move on as much as Black Wolf clearly wanted us out of there – and it only got worse with the arrival of another five migrants. They were also Afghans, but mostly older men from the north.
The room was already squashed with the six of us; with five more bodies it became impossible to sleep without having to lie on someone’s legs or end up with a foot in your face. I didn’t like the newcomers, while my friends were growing more sullen and angry by the day. I tried to avoid everyone by going to the furthest reaches of the orchard where I could be alone.
It was a heavy dusk when Baryalai came running through the orchard to find me. ‘Let’s go. Get your stuff. We’re going.’
‘We’re really going?’ I asked, not quite believing my ears.
‘What did I just say? Now, get your stuff, little man.’
I jumped to my feet.
The whole thing was like a military operation: within minutes, all eleven of us were crammed into the back of a high-sided pick-up truck. Black Wolf told us he’d sent two of his men ahead on horseback to check the way was clear.
‘Stay down and shut up. And don’t move for anything.’
Chapter Seven
The pick-up rattled on to the road. For most of the journey we drove with the headlights off. I was convinced we were going to crash but I could tell that Black Wolf was a skilled driver. The sky was carpeted with stars, giving enough light to see the splintered rocks that studded the dim contours of the surrounding hills. We were heading into a terrifying blackness along mountain roads, towards the crossing into Turkey.
It was cold on the back of the truck – the slipstream rushed down my back and made me shiver. But the air smelled sweet with the scent of wild grasses and herbs.
Before long, the truck slowed. ‘Keep calm. We are coming to the police checkpoint,’ Black Wolf called back to us softly.
The eleven of us were squashed together tightly, but I pressed myself down to be even smaller.
The driver’s window squeaked indignantly as Black Wolf wound it down. Then, the scorching beam of a torch swept into the truck.
I can only guess that this policeman – whoever he was – had been paid off by Black Wolf in advance: there would have been no mistaking the eleven cowering bodies in the back. But he shook Black Wolf’s hand and simply acted as if we weren’t there.
A sudden metallic clicking sent my heart to my throat: I was convinced it was the guard moving the safety catch on his rifle. Instead, Black Wolf made a low curse as he wrestled with the gear lever, before over-revving the engine and lurching us forward with a roar of tyres spinning on gravel.
I must have nodded off because my next memory is of waking up with the truck bouncing violently over broken ground.
‘We are here.’
Waiting for us were the two horsemen who had been sent on ahead. As we got out of the pick-up, I looked curiously at the oil drums hanging on each side of their saddles.
One turned his horse towards the mountains. ‘Follow me. Stay close. And don’t fall back.’
As we prepared to follow them I turned to say goodbye to Black Wolf. To my disappointment he was already in his truck, pulling away without so much as a backward glance in our direction. It hurt me.
We started walking, the second horseman bringing up the rear. I could make out the shapes of other horses and people walking parallel to us in the distance. Coming from the other direction, we passed a group of sad-faced donkeys pulling rickety carts piled high with goods: boxes, crates, sacks. As we continued further up the slopes we saw yet more people going back and forth, some with horses slipping and straining beneath heavy loads.
We stopped to drink from a little brook. The night air was so still, the mountains acted like an echo chamber. The unmistakable sounds of people singing folk songs drifted over to us.
I was amazed by the scene. Was this a border? It reminded me of the lands I’d travelled through to reach Waziristan. I had thought of Black Wolf as a tenth-century merchant, and this sight was even more fittingly incredible. It was like an ancient caravan of traders.
A familiar voice rang out: ‘It as if King Darius himself is assembling his army tonight, yes?’
Black Wolf’s lanky nephew, Rizgar, was walking towards us, leading a horse. It struggled beneath bulging saddle bags. Whatever was inside them, I assumed, was in exchange for the oil Black Wolf was so clearly smuggling into Turkey.
‘All of humanity is here,’ he said, as he high-fived me. ‘We have cheap labour, cheap fuel’ – he knocked theatrically on one of the oil drums – ‘and let’s not forget cheap thrills – how much of your famous Afghan opium can a camel carry, do you think? This, my friends, is where the real business of the capitalist world is done.’
And with that he was gone.
We walked the whole night. I’d never walked that far or on such rough terrain. I was exhausted. It was made worse by not knowing how much longer we’d be walking for, or where exactly we were going. I knew we were walking towards Turkey, but no more than that.
Just before dawn we clambered across some stones that bridged a little river bed, and rounded a bend. My stomach went into little fits as heavenly wafts of chargrilled meat floated through the air, while the strained notes of Turkish pop music competed with a growing hubbub of voices and the sound of braying donkeys.
On a small flood plain at the bottom of a mountain was a makeshift bazaar. It was alive with hundreds of people and their pack horses, while battered trucks honked their way through the crowds. Everything was being sold in bulk, like an open air warehouse: cooking oil in drums, flour by the sack, raw wool, hessian bags of corn and beans. Some meat was for sale – mutton, mostly – and all still on the hoof. Men haggled, waving fists of grubby notes at each other with an intensity that suggested a punch might be thrown at any moment. A woman was busy loading a goat into a truck as her husband yelled instructions at her.
Our horse-riding guides led us to a small guest house that was built into a stone cliff. They told us to wait inside, then left us.
A Kurdish woman with a face as crinkled as a walnut shell directed customers w
ith the no-nonsense manner of my beloved grandmother. She too spoke the local Kurdish dialect, and she kept trying to talk to us even though it was obvious none of us could understand a word. Eventually she worked this out and, using sign language, told us to follow her. We were delighted when she showed us a small bathroom where we could wash.
When we came back she had produced a large platter of bread, olives and a type of feta cheese. Happy to be clean, I set about the food. I had never tasted such sweet bread, while the olives and cheese were salty and rich. I could feel my body thanking my mouth, expanding in gratitude.
After we’d eaten, our guides came back and told us to follow them outside. The horsemen walked us a little way up a hill, then simply trotted off. ‘We leave you here,’ one called over his shoulder. ‘God be with you.’
We stood there perplexed, not knowing what to do next. Thankfully, a small red pick-up truck was waiting nearby, and the driver gestured us over: ‘You. Qubat people. Get in please.’
The back of the vehicle was packed with rolled-up carpets – he tried to squash the eleven of us in too. I was thinking how stupid it was. With such a heavy load I couldn’t see how it would go anywhere. Somehow we crammed inside and the driver put blankets over our head. It was torture. The pick-up grumbled along slowly and painfully.
From my vantage point I could see some of the road and my heart was in my mouth as we passed a roundabout. A man in uniform, I think a local militia, was directing traffic. He had a rocket propelled grenade launcher strapped to his back.
It was as we began trundling down a rocky valley that we, unsurprisingly, broke down. We all got out while the driver tried to fix it. There was so much dust on the road; on my feet, it felt like walking through snow, only warmer. Even in the desert landscape of my home I hadn’t seen anything quite like this.
We suddenly became aware of the sound of a car approaching. Further along the valley, we could see a vehicle snaking towards us.
‘It’s a police car. What shall we do?’ Faizal yelled in panic. ‘We have to get out of here.’
We tried to push the pick-up, but it was too heavy due to the carpets. We pushed and pushed with all our might until finally it spluttered into life. Trying to squeeze ourselves in a second time, this time with real urgency, was even harder.
After driving for a few more miles we arrived at a small guest house. There was a group of six other Afghans there already. They didn’t speak to us much other than to tell us they were all from the province of Kandahar.
All I really remember about that stay was that my feet were so hot from being half-smothered by blankets, that I almost expected steam to come off them when I rinsed them under the outside tap. I was so grateful for the water – the way it cooled my body and helped settle my mind. As I sank into sleep, I didn’t care that the tiny room I was in was cramped or that the mattresses were alive with fleas.
We were rudely awoken less than thirty minutes later by the guest-house owner. He was carrying a handful of disposable razors, while with his other hand he gestured to his chin, making a shaving motion.
The men were on their feet in a flash.
‘You can’t be serious,’ said one of the guys from the other group, pulling at his thick grey beard to emphasize its length. ‘I have grown this since I was his age,’ he said, pointing at me.
The manager didn’t understood his Pashtu; he just continued to make the same shaving motion.
The old man turned to the rest of us. ‘He cannot be serious. What if we are caught and I am sent home? How can I stand in front of my family with a shaven face?’
I was much too young to shave, although I could sympathize. All of my male relatives were proud of their facial hair. A long and full beard had not only been the law in Taliban-controlled Afghanistan, for many it is a key aspect of what it means to be an Muslim man.
They soon returned from the bathroom with faces like plucked chickens.
‘Don’t you dare laugh,’ said Faizal, holding his fist to my nose. Abdul couldn’t stop giggling. ‘I’m serious. One more laugh and I’ll cave your heads in with a brick.’
A turbaned old man sat in silence, running his fingers over his smooth chin. Silent tears dripped down his face.
There was nothing I could do for him. I decided to go back to sleep.
The next day, a face peered around the door and spoke to us in a mixture of Kurdish, Arabic and Farsi: ‘Good morning. I’m glad you arrived safely.’ He looked around the room. ‘Ah, that’s good,’ he exclaimed. ‘Before, they were only Afghan goat herders – now, they are taxi drivers.’
I seethed inside. Not only was he disrespecting the elders, he was making offensive comments about shepherds. Hadn’t my grandfather been one?
‘Now,’ he continued, holding out a battered Polaroid camera. ‘Let’s capture that beauty for the ages. You need new documents.’
The rude camera operator told us he was an agent working for Qubat, and that he would be responsible for the next leg of our journey. He explained we were in the first small Turkish town in the Kurdish region, literally just over the border.
According to him, there were two different ways to a place called Van, which was the nearest city. Neither option sounded very appealing. The first was to walk – it was less risky but much longer and more difficult. The second option was to go by car. This was obviously much easier – but the risk of arrest was much higher. If we wanted to take the second option, which he intended for us to do, that required new fake passports.
It took another day to get the documents made but it was, we all agreed, worth it. No one had wanted to walk.
I was ordered into a red Toyota Corolla along with Baryalai, Mehran and Abdul. I made sure I held Baryalai’s hand. The others, including Faizal and Shah, got into different vehicles, which drove off in different directions.
‘I have a feeling that is the last we’ll see of them,’ said Baryalai sadly.
We drove a few miles around the town before swapping to yet another car. The agent had told us secrecy was necessary because in a small town like that one, outsiders were easy to spot and people were inclined to talk.
The driver of the second car was a bit cocky. I felt uncomfortable the moment we got in.
‘My car is fast,’ he said, stroking the carpeted dashboard. ‘We will arrive soon, In’shallah.’ By now I had picked up a few words of Kurdish and could make out most of what he said. Invoking the will of Allah was normal in such conversations; his sales patter was less orthodox: ‘Pay and pray. That’s the way to make your stay,’ he sang to us, as if it were a radio jingle.
It didn’t really make sense to me. But then we were only paying for his car, not his conversation.
The scenery was wild and beautiful. Jagged ridgelines of the steep hills plunged into wooded pockets in the narrow valleys and gorges. I was very pleased we weren’t walking.
The winding road had a constant military presence – we passed a long convoy of armoured vehicles and earth-moving machinery atop trucks, all heading towards the border. Turkish infantry marched along the road, too. I recognized the uniforms from home, where Turkish troops were part of the NATO mission.
As we rounded a bend, suddenly, on the road ahead, was a manned roadblock. Cars were being pulled over to the side and searched by soldiers.
‘Say nothing,’ the driver ordered, staring at us in the rear-view mirror.
An officer stood in the middle of the road, directing traffic towards his waiting men. An AK-47 hung around his neck, its muzzle tracking at windscreen height. He signalled to us to pull over.
The car slowed, coming to a rest in front of a sandbagged machine-gun position. Our driver lowered his window and volunteered our passports, speaking in Turkish.
My heart thundered in my ears. I knew that if the officer spoke to me then the game would be up. I put my hand over my mouth to stop myself bl
urting out something in fear.
The officer took his time, reading each one and staring into the car. We hadn’t seen the fake passports until this moment. I was surprised to see they weren’t Turkish, as we had assumed, but the familiar Afghan blue. Why would they give us Afghan passports again, when they had taken away from us the ones we already had in Iran? And how would an Afghan passport work here? None of it made sense.
More exchanges.
And then the soldier handed the passports back. He smiled into the back seat. ‘Enjoy your holiday.’
‘Praise to Allah,’ the driver shouted with a laugh as we gathered speed away from the roadblock. He held out one of the passports and pointed at what looked like an entry stamp. ‘Potato. We make with potato. It’s visa aloo.’
He thought this was hilarious.
But it seemed the potato stamp had fooled the soldier into believing we’d entered Turkey legally.
‘Two more checkpoints,’ said the driver happily. And then he put out his hand, gesturing that he wanted money. ‘Pay, please pay.’
‘The agent has already paid,’ Baryalai protested.
‘You’ve paid me? No. Not me.’
‘We paid Qubat. He paid the agent. You’ve been paid.’
‘Really? Maybe you think of my cousin? People say we look the same.’
We all knew this guy was just trying to scam us, but we were resigned to the fact that we had to give him something.
One by one we pulled a few dollars from our pockets. I had spent most of my Iranian currency on snacks and drinks in Iran, but I still had the US$200 my mother had given me.
I took a couple of my smallest notes from my wallet – the most rumpled and filthy ones – and added them to the little stack on the driver’s elbow rest.
The Lightless Sky Page 8