Since this series began in January 2018 there have been over 1000 Posts from Your Archives where bloggers have taken the opportunity to share posts to a new audience… mine. The topics have ranged from travel, childhood, recipes, history, family and the most recent series was #PotLuck where I shared a random selection of different topics.
In this series I will be sharing posts from the last six months of 2020
It is an opportunity to showcase your writing skill to my readers and also to share on my social media. Which combined is around the 46,000 mark. If you are an author your books will be mentioned too, along with their buy links and your other social media contacts. Head over to find out how to participate: Posts from Your Archives 2021
This is the second post from author Mary Smith and I have enjoyed all her adventures in Afghanistan and Pakistan over the last couple of years but there were a couple I missed and I am going to share those in this series. I highly recommend that you head over to Mary’s to read the others in this wonderful series.
Winter Travel Afghanistan, December 1989, Day Mirdad
The delay meant we were a long way from our destination, when darkness fell. At the next check post the mujahid guarding the chain, tried to persuade us not to continue our journey. Jon thanked him, but said we must ensure our patients reached the clinic in Day Mirdad. The mujahid played the beam of his torch into the back of the vehicle. When he spotlighted Zahir, without his turban, he jumped back hastily and waved us on. Poor Zahir, for once, we were grateful for the terrified reaction he provoked.
At the next check post Jon tried the same story. The mujahid peered into the back, saw Zahir and said calmly, ‘Oh, a leprosy patient. Never mind, we can give you a separate room for him.’ Jon requested permission to speak to the Commander who opened the window of his office a grudging few inches. We watched as Jon talked, gesticulating occasionally towards the vehicle. We saw the Commander shake his head and give a brief reply. Jon tried again – the Commander slammed the window shut. We were not going to reach Day Mirdad that night.
We were directed through a gateway into a large, bleak compound. Crunching over the frozen snow, we reached our room, unwilling guests of the Nasre Party for the night. The room was frigid, my head was hurting and we were all cold and cross. A man came in to light the bukhari around which we huddled, morosely sipping tea. We had to ask twice for food before we were eventually served a quantity of greasy, grey liquid with a few pieces of very stringy, dried up meat. Not even Zahir could find anything to laugh about.
When I awoke in the morning I discovered I’d lain on, and broken, my glasses, my head was throbbing worse than ever and, when I learned, despite the fact we’d not exactly been willing guests, we were expected to pay for our board and lodgings I was furious. Determined to tell the Commander exactly what I thought of his shabby treatment of us I headed across the compound towards his office. Rahimy talked me down – otherwise we might still be there. With bad grace I climbed into our vehicle.
At least the day was crisp and sunny, which helped lighten the mood, as we headed towards Day Mirdad. We left the snow behind us, but it would soon catch up with us again, and we would have to complete the work in Arif’s clinic as quickly as possible. For Jon, it meant examining the accounts and handing over the money required for the running of the project through the winter months. For me, it meant interviews with Arif to collect information, statistics and stories about his work, to be included in reports.
Day Mirdad is situated between Pashto and Hazara lands. Arif was Pashto. Before the Soviet invasion had forced him to abandon his studies, he’d completed two years in medical college in Kabul. Arriving in Pakistan as a refugee, he somehow heard about the leprosy centre in Karachi, and was accepted as a candidate in the training programme. Arif and Jon had been class fellows in Karachi but were not close friends. As a Pashto, Arif could never accept coming second to anyone in anything, while Jon, south-of-England-born, had a similar arrogance. Somehow or other at the end of the training, each was able to feel he had done better than the other, and honours were even.
As we approached the clinic the landscape became more desolate and barren. Grey, naked mountains rose on every side until it seemed there was no level ground anywhere. Everything was on a slope; the buildings, the fields – tiny handkerchief sized patches of brown – the few trees growing sparsely here and there. Houses were hidden behind very high mud walls in which heavy gates were set. Occasionally we had a glimpse, through an open gateway, of the mud built homes, constructed like fortresses. Pashto women are even more jealously guarded than Hazara women who, by comparison, are allowed tremendous freedom.
We drove through an imposing entrance into a large compound, on three sides of which was a two storey building. Arif came bounding down the steps to meet us, arms outstretched to embrace Jon in a welcoming hug.
Many are the tales of encounters between the soldiers of the British Raj and the fiery tribes from the Frontier Province, depicting the Pashto as tall, swarthy tribal chiefs, tangled black curls escaping from beneath their turbans, dark eyes flashing in challenge. Arif is nothing like those romantic heroes. Standing at barely five foot four he is stocky, has brown eyes which don’t flash particularly challengingly (well, maybe when angered) and a fair complexion. He is restless, excitable, unable to sit still for more than five minutes, and given to generous arm gestures when talking – which he does at great length and speed.
After embracing Jon he clasped my hand warmly, grinning, ‘Welcome, sister. I have many stories to tell you, but first we will drink tea.’ We followed him upstairs to the guest room which was large and sparsely furnished – a gilim which barely covered the floor and a pile of bedding. A Kalashnikov stood in one corner of the room, and when Arif saw me eyeing it, he rushed to give an explanation, ‘For protection, sister, for protection. When I go on tour Ashraf, you know Ashraf? My field assistant. He carries the Kalash – just in case. There are many thieves about, and maybe they think Arif has a lot of money because he works for a foreign organisation.’
We had stipulated weapons should not be kept on clinic premises by staff, a rule we suspected was frequently broken, although usually they had the sense to hide the thing before we appeared. I knew Hassan kept a Kalashnikov in Sheikh Ali, despite having made a big drama once about returning it to the local Commander. Now, he ensured we didn’t see it, but occasionally forgot, as when telling a story of being attacked by a wolf, which ran away when he fired his gun. He’d suddenly stopped talking as he realised he’d given himself away – then made matters worse by trying to say that he was just taking the gun home for a friend.
If Arif felt he needed the protection of a Kalashnikov while on tour, often on foot, I felt there was little we could say against it but I could never really see the justification in having one in the clinic itself. If thieves broke in to steal the medicines, they would surely be well armed. There would be a bloody shoot out which would most likely result in our staff being seriously injured, or killed – and the medicines would still be stolen. In this part of the world, however, men, from when they were still young boys, carried guns. It was expected. Only it used to be an old Lee Enfield which somehow seemed less of a killing machine than an AK-47 assault rifle.
©Mary Smith 2020
About Mary Smith
Mary Smith has always loved writing. As a child she wrote stories in homemade books made from wallpaper trimmings – but she never thought people could grow up and become real writers. She spent a year working in a bank, which she hated – all numbers, very few words – ten years with Oxfam in the UK, followed by ten years working in Pakistan and Afghanistan. She wanted others to share her amazing, life-changing experiences so she wrote about them – fiction, non-fiction, poetry and journalism. And she discovered the little girl who wrote stories had become a real writer after all.
Drunk Chickens and Burnt Macaroni: Real Stories of Afghan Women is an account of her time in Afghanistan and her debut novel No More Mulberries is also set in Afghanistan.
Mary loves interacting with her readers on her website.
Books by Mary Smith
A recent review No More Mulberries (I can highly recommend the book too)
I really enjoyed No more Mulberries. The story’s strength lies in its cultural detail, and in its great variety of characters. The tale transports you away to Afghanistan to a country we all have heard a lot about, but few have ever been there. It doesn’t shy away from mentioning the truth of living in Afghanistan where losing face and a woman’s place and freedoms are far different than in the west. It also touches upon the stigma of leprosy. And yet, with all the trials and tribulations there is a sense of how much Miriam loves this adoptive country, so much so, that she decides to convert her faith and become a muslim.
It is a slow burn of a story, with much detail in the beginning explaining the path that took Miriam from Scotland to living in Afghanistan. It is also a love story, and in some ways a love triangle between the ghost of her dearly departed first love, who was killed, and her new husband Iqbal with tensions apparent especially towards the end of the story.
The ending was emotionally powerful and brought all the threads of the story to a satisfying conclusion. I began to understand Miriam’s motivations.
A well-written, engaging story which I would highly recommend especially to those who appreciate cultural stories about family, marriage, love and honour.
Read the reviews and buy the books: Amazon US – and:Amazon UK – Blog: Mary Smith’s Place – Goodreads: Goodreads – Twitter: @marysmithwriter
Thanks for visiting today and I know that Mary would love to receive your feedback.. thanks Sally.
Love the pictures of Afghanistan. It’s such a beautiful country, and if it can one day find peace again I’d love to go back and visit.
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Thank you, Peter. You might just have to bite the bullet (metaphorically) and go back as the peace is a long time coming.
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Thank you for sharing this tip to the other side of the world!
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Thanks Dorothy.. an amazing series by Mary…hugsx
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So pleased you enjoyed it, Dorothy.
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Mary, you and your husband are amazing. The privations you suffered on your journey, and the fear. I do not have an adventurous spirit – I can only read and admire. I have your book but I had to put it down for a while, the way women have to live there makes me so angry; it’s a wonderful book all the same.
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Thanks Elizabeth.. I agree with you about Mary and her husband.. it is the work Mary did and her colleagues that has helped change so much for the women and the health services in the region..and it is a lovely book…hugsx
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Do you know, Elizabeth, there are times when I wonder if I really did all that adventuring! I don’t feel I have an adventurous spirit. I hope you will finish the book. Life for women has improved since my time there.
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That a rugged countryside. I love the photos. Mary does such a wonderful job of sharing her experiences and fleshing out the people she encounters along the way. Her writing is mesmerizing. Another wonderful share, Sally. And great review from Marje. I can’t recommend that book enough. 🙂
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Thanks Diana.. and adding your recommendation.. fabulous book and would make a wonderful film.. hugsx♥
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Oh, I agree with that!
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♥
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Thanks so much, Diana. I do enjoy sharing those experiences and am happy when people enjoy reading them. It is a great review from Marje – and thank you for your recommendation..
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Thank you for remembering on Mary’s wonderful postings about her past journey. She has done a great job, and beside the traditional culture of Afghanistan i think one can see, women are also getting their respect. Michael
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I agree Michael and Mary would have been a breath of fresh air in their communities..hugsx
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Thank you, Michael. I have enjoyed sharing my experiences of my time in Afghanistan. I am very pleased you enjoyed them.
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Thank you so much, Mary! A very wonderful journey you had done, beside all the help you had given the people. I hope you are well, and you enjoy the fast arriving spring. Best wishes, Michael
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Good pick, Sally. I have enjoyed Mary’s adventures and would recommend the book No More Mulberrys too.
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Thanks John.. lovely book.. very memorable..hugsx
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Thanks, John. It was great to have you along on my journey – and I was delighted with your review of No More Mulberries 🙂 Thanks for recommending it again here.
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🤗
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Thank you, Sally, for picking this post to share. My friend Jawad messaged me yesterday from Kabul to say they have no snow and it is not so cold (I think he said only -5 or 6!).
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Lol my toes have gone cold just thinking about -6.. but they must find it a lot easier for many reasons not having snow.. delighted to share as always..hugsx
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Just about to reply to your email but got side tracked responding to comments here – which is a joy to do :).
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Your posts are always very much enjoyed Mary ♥
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Mary’s journey is stunning. It’s like she was living in an ancient history book. ❤
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I couldn’t do it then and I couldn’t do it now.. Even 50 years ago I always checked out where the loos were on arrival… I guess my pioneer spirit is sadly lacking.. Mary is amazing..♥♥
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See my reply to Debby – luxury hotels in Bamyan. We’d have to fly from Kabul, though, as there’s one small part of the road still under Taliban control which makes road travel a bit risky.
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Lol.. thanks Mary… I bet they don’t put that on the tourist posters… ♥
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Omg, stop it. Exactly me! Lol, we are a pair ❤ xx
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♥♥
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Thanks, Debby. I couldn’t do it now. My friend Jawad sent me a photo of a luxury hotel in Bamyan (and said there are five others) so maybe going back wouldn’t be so bad 🙂
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Well, that’s a horse of a different color! LOL 🙂 x
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A story of adventure, adversity, and anxiety and exploration of other culture and world. So baffling and interesting!
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Mary’s adventures during the ten years she worked in Afghanistan and Pakistan 30 years ago is an amazing series.. and she has us awe-struck.. thanks Henry
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I agree with you. Thanks and keep on keeping on.
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Glad you enjoyed it. Thank you.
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Another compelling installment of Mary’s Afghanistan adventures. The photos illustrate it particularly well.
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I agree Liz.. thank goodness she took so many photos.. they add so much to the story..xx
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Yes, they do. The landscape of Afghanistan is very, very different from anything I’ve ever seen.
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Thanks, Liz. Glad you enjoyed the instalment and the photos.
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You’re welcome, Mary.
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This is a ‘travelogue’ like no other. The descriptions, the wry humour, the living conditions all combine into one compelling whole! xx
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It is brilliant and have loved all the adventures.. xxx
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Thanks so much. I really enjoyed sharing my travels, Trish.
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