by Roland Smith
“Odd first name.”
I nodded at my sleeping mother. “Odd parents.”
“That’s your mother?”
“Yep, that’s Mom.”
“She doesn’t look old enough to have a son your age.”
“When she wakes up, tell her that. It will make her happy.”
“I will.”
“So do you know what we’re doing here?”
“Not specifically, but I gather from the equipment onboard that you are climbers.” Rob looked at his watch. “I better get going. You’re welcome to go back and talk to Tony.”
“He looks busy. I don’t want to bug him.”
“I’m sure he’d be happy to talk to you. Unlike me, he’s been all over the Stans.”
“The Stans?”
“Kazakhstan, Tajikistan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Turkmenistan, Pakistan, and Afghanistan. The word stan means ‘place of.’ Tony’s parents were British diplomats. He grew up in the Stans.”
Rob wandered back up to the galley to start cooking crepes. I wandered to the back of the jet like I was going to use the lavatory, pausing when I got to Tony’s seat. He looked up from his laptop and smiled.
“Is everything well, Peak?” he said with a British accent.
“Everything is fine, thanks. Relaxing flight. But probably not for you. You look busy.”
Tony laughed. “Don’t tell anyone,” his whispered, “but I’m playing League of Legends.”
“What’s that?”
He laughed again. “I take it you are not a gamer.”
“Not even a little.”
“Smart boy. League of Legends is an online game that is very addictive and a bloody waste of time, but flying around like this, I have nothing but time to waste.”
“Well, I’ll let you get back to—”
“I was just bludgeoned to death. Take a seat.”
I took a seat across from him.
“I hear you’re responsible for making sure we get into Afghanistan without any hassles.”
“Yes I am. You are all set. The only small glitch we are going to have is that it appears we will be landing just before afternoon prayers, which could certainly delay things, but only slightly.”
I’d just read about these prayers in one of Mom’s books. Devout Muslims pray five times a day. Fajr, just before dawn. Zuhr, noon. Asr, afternoon. Maghrib, sunset. Isha, evening.
“I also understand you were raised in the Stans.”
“Indeed I was, but I spent most of my childhood in Afghanistan. My parents worked for the British government.”
“Diplomats.”
“Not exactly. Mother and Father—long retired, so it is safe to tell you now—were spies.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I am not. And don’t be deceived. A spy is nothing like how it is portrayed in novels and films. Their job was to make friends and gather information from them. I’m afraid there wasn’t much cloak and dagger to it. They threw dinners and parties, and went to dinners and parties, and I usually accompanied them, along with my sister and brothers. It was a wonderful life. Most of my best friends live in the Stans.”
“Do you work full-time for Sebastian Plank?”
“Good lord, no. I’m an independent consultant. I’ve worked for him six or seven times. Most of my work is for governmental agencies, especially the Stan governments, which have a very short shelf life in that many of them are overthrown on a regular basis. Business has been booming, as you would say in the States, for the last decade.”
“I don’t know anything about Afghanistan.”
“That is nothing to feel bad about. Most of the so-called experts, and I include myself in this small group, know very little about Afghanistan. All you need to know is that the country has been in a state of war for thousands of years. Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great, the British, the Soviet Union, Al-Qaeda, the Americans, the Taliban, and several others, have all attempted to take over Afghanistan.”
“Why?”
“Genghis Khan and Alexander the Great wanted the country because of the trade route through the Khyber Pass. The Soviet Union and the British wanted the country as a geographical buffer zone against the Chinese. Al-Qaeda wanted the country as a hideout and training ground for terrorists. The Americans wanted to punish Al-Qaeda for what happened on 9/11. The Taliban wanted, and still want, to turn Afghanistan into a religious state.”
“What do the Afghan people want?”
“Most of them want to be left alone, especially in the tribal areas, or frontier, which I assume is where you will be. The frontier is not much different from your Wild West, except that your Wild West lasted only a few decades. The Afghan frontier has been in place several millennia, and I doubt any group, or any country, is ever going to tame it. They have their own ways of doing things, and the people who live there resent outside interference. Afghans are an independent lot. Cantankerous. Tough. Completely loyal to their friends. Utterly ruthless to their enemies. Unfortunately, the only time the tribes and rural villages come together as a people is when someone from the outside tries to interfere with their way of life. When the invaders leave, they go back to warring with one another.”
“We’re on a Peace Climb,” I said.
“So I understand. What does that mean?”
“I don’t really know.”
“It’s been so long since the Afghans have had peace, I’m not sure they know what the word means either. But they are goodhearted people. Like most of the one point six billion Muslims in the world, the Afghans are trying to live a good life, raise their families, and get by. Ninety-five percent of them are great people. The other five percent have a strange take on the Koran. I suspect this percentage holds true for Christians and their Bible as well.”
“I read that Afghanistan grows more opium than any other country in the world,” I said.
“That’s part of getting by. It’s a four-billion-dollars-a-year industry with about twenty-five percent of that money going to the farmer and the rest divided between district officials, insurgents, warlords, and drug traffickers. Afghans are poor. Seventy percent of the people in Afghanistan work in agriculture, and the average income is less than five hundred dollars a year. It’s not surprising they’ve turned to growing poppies, but it’s ruining the country. Where you’re going, you probably won’t run into any fields, and if you do, get out of there as quickly as possible. Where there are poppies, there are problems.”
“I don’t know where we’re going,” I said. “But I’ll be sure to stay clear of poppy fields. Do you know where we’re climbing?”
Tony shook his head. “Afraid not. All I know is there will be a helicopter waiting for you at the airport. You’ll be flown in to wherever you’re going.”
Call to Prayer
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, our jet touched down in Kabul. I put my Afghanistan books away as we taxied toward a small private hangar. Rob walked down the aisle for one last check.
“The crepes were outstanding,” I told him.
“In ten days I’ll make you another batch. You taking those books with you?”
“I was just thinking about that,” I answered. The books were heavy, and I doubted we’d have much reading time. “I don’t know what else to do with them.”
“If you want, you can leave them here. Same crew, same jet will be picking you up.”
“That’s great. Thanks.”
I handed them over and looked out the window. Heat waves shimmered across the tarmac. The jet came to a stop and a ground crew got to work. There was a helicopter parked outside the hangar being refueled. We unbuckled and got up from our seats. Rob popped the door open. A blast of hot air filled the interior like he had opened a furnace door. A man wearing a khaki uniform stepped aboard with a big smile and sweat stains under his arms.
“Asalaam alaikum!” He embraced Tony.
“Wa’alaikum asalaam!” Tony returned the embrace, then turned back to us. “This is my very good friend Is
kandar. A direct descendent of Alexander the Great.”
“Do not listen to this foolish man. I am no such thing. If I were from the loins of Alexander, would I be but a humble immigration police officer? I think not. But we must hurry. Asr begins soon.”
Tony looked through the doorway. “The afternoon prayer starts when the shadow of an object is the same length as the object itself and lasts till sunset. Asr can be split into two sections; the preferred time is before the sun starts to turn orange, while the time of necessity is from when the sun turns orange until sunset. Imams don’t look at clocks to calculate prayer times, they look at the sky.”
“Tony the Islamic scholar,” Iskandar said.
Tony smiled. “Hardly, but I do think we will have time to conduct our business before the call arrives. The paperwork is in perfect order as you will see. All you have to do is sign off on it.” He took a folder out of his briefcase and handed it to Iskandar, who made himself comfortable in one of the leather seats.
For all his cheerfulness, Iskandar seemed to take his job very seriously. He examined each passport and attached visas in minute detail. He pointed to JR, Will, Jack, and me. “You were all in Nepal and Tibet at the same time.”
“We were filming on Everest,” JR said.
“Did you reach the top?”
“One of our climbing party did.”
“But he is not here?”
“No,” JR answered.
Iskandar looked at Mom, then at me, then back at Mom. “Is this possible?”
“Is what possible?” Mom asked.
“That you have a son so old. You look far too young. Perhaps you are brother and sister.”
Mom smiled. “Thank you, Iskandar. You are too kind.”
Iskandar looked back at me. “Peak? Is that truly your given name?”
“Truly,” I said.
He looked back at Mom for confirmation. She nodded.
“Everything appears to be in perfect order.” Iskandar handed everyone their passports. “There is a helicopter waiting outside, but I must caution you. There has been some trouble in the Hindu Kush. Some groups have been operating in the area this past week. I doubt they will cause you any problem because I understand that you will have security in place. Again, it is nothing to worry about, but I would be remiss if I didn’t at least mention it to you.”
Now we knew where we were going, sort of.
“Thank you for letting us know,” JR said. “We’ll keep our eyes open.”
A sound came from somewhere outside. A mysterious sound. A beautiful sound. We filed out of the jet onto the blistering tarmac. Our gear was being quickly transferred to a battered helicopter that looked like it had barely survived the most recent war, or maybe the war before that. The wonderful sound was the call to prayer. It seemed to come from all around on the hot, dry air.
Tony pointed at a tall minaret, not far from the hangar. “The airport has its own mosque, or the mosque has its own airport. However you put it, the faithful don’t have far to travel to pray together five times a day.”
Someone shouted something, and the gear transfer came to an abrupt halt as the ground crew jumped into the back of trucks and took off across the tarmac in the direction of the mosque. Tony and Iskandar headed toward Iskandar’s official-looking car with police lights and whip antennas.
“Where are you going?” I shouted after them.
“To pray, of course,” Tony shouted back. “I am one of those one point six billon Muslims I was telling you about, as are my sister and two brothers. My parents are Protestants. All of you stay where you are. We will be back soon.”
“What’s that about?” Mom asked as we watched them drive away.
“I was talking to him about Afghanistan while you were sleeping. His parents were stationed here and in the other Stans when he was growing up.” I didn’t bother to tell her that they had been spies.
JR joined us. “I was just talking to the helicopter pilot. He’s flying us to the Wakhan Corridor. Looks like we’re climbing in the Pamirs.” He spread a map out on the hood of a truck and pointed.
The Wakhan Corridor is a spit of land in the northeast corner of Afghanistan. It’s bordered by Tajikistan to the north, China to the east, and Pakistan to the south. I knew about the Pamirs from my climbing books and magazines. Most of the articles were nostalgic pieces about how great it was in the Pamirs before the most recent war.
“The name comes from the word pomir,” Mom said. “It means either ‘roof of the world’ or ‘feet of the sun,’ which, depending on your perspective, means pretty much the same thing.”
“Where did you learn that?” Mom was always surprising me with bits of arcane info like this.
“Books,” she answered. “When they said we were climbing in Afghanistan, I figured it was probably the Pamirs. It’s an iconic climbing area, or was, before the war. Where’s base camp?”
“Roughly right here.” JR pointed at a spot next to what looked like a good-size river. “The pilot doesn’t speak very good English, and my Pashtun, if that’s what he speaks, is nonexistent. But I gathered that we’re the last of the climbers to arrive. He flew another group in early this morning.”
I looked at Mom, and she returned the look as if she knew what I was thinking, which was Rolf was wrong. If we were the last group of climbers, Plank didn’t tell everyone about his Peace Climb at the exact same moment. We were on our way to Afghanistan less than twenty-four hours after we were told. It was unlikely—correction: impossible—that two hundred other climbers beat us to base camp.
“What do you think?” I asked her.
“Something’s not right.”
“What are you talking about?” JR asked.
“Are you sure there are two hundred climbers?”
“That’s what they told me.”
“And they didn’t tell you we were climbing in the Pamirs?”
JR shook his head. “All they said is that we were climbing in Afghanistan. That when we got to base camp, the film director and climb master would give us further instructions. The secrecy was to keep, and I quote, ‘the rumors at bay and the media away.’ Sebastian Plank doesn’t like getting scooped.”
“And I don’t like heading into the mountains blind,” Mom said, which was a little ridiculous, because we had all agreed to go without knowing exactly where we were going.
“It’s not ideal,” JR agreed.
“And do you have any idea who the director is?” Mom asked.
“No. But I’m guessing it’s someone with a big name. Plank hangs with Hollywood’s A list. Now that we know where we’re climbing, I’d guess that the climb master is a local, or someone from the outside with a lot of climbing experience in the Pamirs.”
Afternoon prayers must have ended, because the pickup truck with the crew was heading back across the tarmac led by Iskandar with his emergency lights flashing.
JR looked at his watch. “I guess all our questions will be answered in about three hours.”
The crew got the rest of the gear loaded into the helicopter quickly. As they crammed the equipment into the small cargo hold and behind the seats, Mom grilled Tony about the climb. He knew less than JR, which I already was aware of, but he did pass her questions on to the pilot in Pashtun. All the pilot knew was where he was dropping us off and picking us up. He was in a hurry to take off. He wanted to get back to Kabul before dark.
We piled into the cramped helicopter. The rotors began to spin. Tony backed away, his red tie waving in the artificial breeze.
Base Camp
The Hindu Kush. Killer of Hindus. Or so I have read. From two thousand feet, it looks dangerous, stark, beautiful. Desert colors. Browns, tans, rust, with spots of green where water runs . . .
JR WAS BUCKLED into the copilot seat, filming every rise and curve as the helicopter snaked its way up the steep, narrow valleys toward the snowcapped Pamirs. Mom and Will were glued to the right-hand window. Ethan and I were gawking out the left-hand wind
ow. Jack was squeezed behind us on a jump seat with his digital recorder going, holding a boom mike, whacking us in the head every time the helicopter turned. I wasn’t sure why he had it out. No one was speaking.
I was looking forward to climbing again on a real mountain with real rocks instead of on the brightly colored plastic hand- and footholds at the climbing gym. I was picking out climbing routes up every crag we flew over.
JR twisted around and pointed the camera at me.
Crap.
Ethan leaned away from me to get out of the frame. Jack swung the mike boom and dangled it above my head.
“What do you think?” JR shouted above the roar of the rotors.
My pulse raced. My mouth went dry. I’d forgotten how I was with a camera in front of my face. Tongue-tied. Terrified. Dumb.
“Uh.”
Uh? Say something, you moron! Think about how smooth and relaxed Sun-jo was in front of the lens up on Everest.
“Uh. Well. Uh.”
For crying out loud!
“It’s rugged and spare, but it has its own stark beauty. I look forward to getting down there to feel the rock under my feet and hands and smell the dust and dirt in the cool mountain air.”
Stilted. Doesn’t sound like me. Which might be a good thing.
“Perfect!” JR shouted. “Now can you say the same thing with your eyes open?”
My eyes were closed? I glanced over at Mom. She was smiling. It had been bad enough blowing every interview on Everest, but to fail in front of your mother over Afghanistan was worse.
“We’re still rolling!” JR shouted. “Battery’s getting low. Again. Hurry. Eyes open.”
I stared at the lens. My eyes felt like owl eyes.
“It’s rugged and spare . . .”
I managed to get through it without a stumble. When I finished, I turned my head to look out the window so I didn’t have to look at the lens.
“You couldn’t have done that better!” JR shouted.
“Bravo,” Mom said.
“You’ve gotten a lot better since we were on Everest,” Jack said.
I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was pleased with the compliments, but I couldn’t make myself turn around. I was too embarrassed. I didn’t want them to see the flush on my burning face. How could I have forgotten this part of the climbing deal? I just hoped that when we got to base camp, there were better faces to film and more articulate mouths to record than mine. I was certain there would be. My plan was to hide among the other climbers. I wanted to be a climbing body, not a talking face.