Footloose Scot by Jim Glendinning

Author:Jim Glendinning
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mill City Press

GALATA BRIDGE, ISTANBUL

HIGHWAY, EASTERN TURKEY

DESERTED CITY OF BAM, IRAN

MOSQUE, ISFAHAN, IRAN

Eventually we reached the Pakistan border, and the road improved. At a place called Nok Kundi we saw a sign saying Dak Bungalow and I said "Let's spend a night there." I had heard about Dak bungalows from an uncle who in prewar days had been an officer in the Indian Army. He had used this accommodation frequently when travelling. Dak bungalows, he said, pronouncing them "Dawk," were inexpensive and clean Government-run rest houses, open to the public. We checked in and it proved to be just as described forty years previously. After a few days of worry travelling across southern Iran, we felt we deserved this comfort.

We next arrived at Quetta, the capital of Baluchistan province. At 5,400 feet, with a population of over half a million and strategically located close to southern Afghanistan, Quetta had long been an important military base. A hotel keeper said he had no rooms available, and there were none free in the whole town. A regional political conference was about to take place, and feelings were running high There was tension in the air, and many police on the streets. He suggested we move on and head for the Afghan border at Spin Baldak. Leaving Pakistan we showed our documents to a policeman who was examining the contents of his nose with a finger. With the same hand he reached out for our passports. "Yuck," said Christine with disgust.

From Kandahar, our first town in Afghanistan, we turned northeast along an American-built highway towards Kabul, 320 miles distant. Herds of sheep and goats grazed on either side of the road, and a mountain range loomed in the background. We passed through small towns, stared at by ancient bearded men with lined faces. Compared to Iran, Afghanistan looked poor and as if nothing changed much: lots of hand pulled carts, run­down buildings, old vehicles on the roads, the women in veils, grubby kids dashing around and men wearing the wool berets called pakols. Everything looked weathered and worn; this was a very ancient world.

Our Trailfinders guidebook warned against the dangers of driving in this dirt-poor country, in particular the risk of being involved in any accident when a bag of sheep's blood might be thrown at our vehicle to prove injury to an Afghani, with a resultant heavy fine. We didn't have any traffic scares and duly arrived in Kabul where the guide recommended "Mustafa Hotel, near the Green Door Bazar, Rooms 120 Afghanis. Hot Showers. Restaurant downstairs".

We were eating lamb kebabs in a Kabul restaurant the next day when we noticed two policemen inspecting Bedford. Thinking nothing of it, we finished our coffee and went out to the street to find all four of Bedford's tires had been deflated, but not completely, and we were able to drive to a gas station for air. Was this a warning or a joke? We had no one to ask and it remained a mystery. There was

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