By: Sharon Bazant
Chapter 7—A Trip Back in Time
Was I dreaming? I was standing in a picturesque mountain meadow filled with brilliant red flowers surrounded by Pakistani men in loose white and beige shalwar kameez. One of them bent over a scarlet bloom, reached in, and scored the seed pod with a curved knife. A thick sap oozed from each cut—raw opium. Although this could be the stuff of a fever dream, it was all too real. My husband, Wayne had been hired as an expert in drug demand reduction. Poppy growing was alive and well in the mountainous tribal areas outside of Islamabad.
An official trip had been organized to the Swat Valley, a five-hour drive, nestled in the foothills of the Hindu Kush mountain range—an opportunity for a close-up view of the origins of opium, morphine, and heroin. Did I want to join? Absolutely! I donned my brand new shalwar kameez, threw a dupatta over my head, stuffed several more of these outfits in a suitcase, and off we went.
Historically, poppies have been grown in a narrow 4500 mile stretch of mountains extending across Asia from Turkey through Pakistan and Afghanistan as far as Laos. These days heroin is increasingly becoming an export from Latin America as well, but back in 1991, the Pashtun tribes of Pakistan and Afghanistan were the world leaders in opium production.
Fields of poppies tended by poor, humble farmers in the remote mountains of the lawless North-West Frontier Province generated millions of dollars, as derivatives of raw opium passed through the supply chain. This excursion into a world we had never known turned out to be a defining experience for both Wayne and me, creating a tectonic shift in our perspectives.
With Nisar behind the wheel, we started out on wide paved roads that passed through pastoral countryside.
After a few hours, we stopped by the side of the road, ate some sandwiches from home, and watched a group of young children slip out of their clothing and dive into the roadside canal. Soon after this, the driving conditions became more challenging as we wound our way up through the steep Malakand Pass then down into the Swat Valley. Exhausted from a full day of travel, we were invited to spend the night at the Mingora home of Mr. Janssen, a regional technical advisor from Holland.
The next day we ascended further into Dir District, closer to the Afghan border and a conservative tribal area that posed a few dangers. There had been kidnappings and they weren’t fond of outsiders nosing around the poppy fields. For these reasons, we were provided some protection—a local driver and a couple of Janssen’s office staff. One of them, Aftab, knew his way around communal customs.
The Swat Valley and Dir District were truly the Swiss Alps of Pakistan with lush forests and green alpine meadows. The scenery was breathtaking. We were surrounded by rugged mountains, rocky cliffs, and sloping foothills with fields planted in geometrical terracing. We drove through and over babbling streams and rivers as we observed biblical scenes of shepherds tending sheep, goats, and even a few water buffalo. Ancient trees cast shadows over crops of sugar cane and rice. This was Malala country a few years before the birth of the girl who was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 2014.
Janssen’s staff had decided to take us to an area with large poppy fields.
After travelling a few kilometers up a narrow mountain road, we were abruptly confronted with a significant roadblock—trucks, buses, and a large crowd. A couple of men with Kalashnikov rifles walked up to our driver and told him that there had been a murder. A community-wide search had been organized to find and punish the perpetrator. All roads to the area were blocked, and we must turn around. Wayne and I were trembling as we scrutinized the menacing rifles hanging from the men’s shoulders and we tried to imagine what punishment they were meting out.
Just then, a throng of people jumped down from the road just above us and surrounded the Land Cruiser, pressing their noses up against the windows. Oh my God! Was this where our lives ended— on a road in a lawless frontier where no one would ever find us? Aftab saw the blood drain from our faces and promptly attempted to calm us, “Don’t worry. They are only curious about you.” Still, we breathed a sigh of relief as the driver made a hasty U-turn.
As a result of this little snarl in our plans, we changed course to a less-travelled route at a higher altitude. We were on a narrow, rutted road, washed out in places, on the edge of a cutaway that fell hundreds of feet down. We drove for about 20 kilometers like that and sometimes had to stop, reverse, and hug the side of the mountain as another vehicle bore down on us. My nerves were frayed to the last fiber.
I was struggling to calm myself when we suddenly caught sight of terraced fields of delicate poppies innocently dancing in the breeze.
Their virtuous beauty was belied by the fierce-looking men with AK-47’s standing guard over them. Nevertheless, we snapped a few photos while standing amongst the bobbing red petals. The gun wielding farmers greeted us with smiles, but had they known the nature of Wayne’s work, I don’t think they would have welcomed photo-ops.
We hopped back into our vehicle—mission accomplished. My satisfied smile instantly turned into a grimace of terror as I realized that our driver was preparing to turn around on the sliver of road carved into the side of the mountain. I swear the tires were partly over the edge of that deadly drop just before the car regained its balance on the road. White knuckles and palpitations seemed to be the order of the day.
Just as my breathing returned to normal, Aftab turned to me and asked, “Would you like to visit a family home up here?”
I immediately let go of my fears and reservations and answered, “Absolutely, yes!”
Aftab offered me his arm and we went slipping and sliding down the mountain until we reached the first house. As we approached, Aftab told me that women in this area lived in purdah. In the case of this village, that meant that, after puberty, females were physically segregated from males—except for their husbands or males of their immediate families. Therefore, I would be able to enter this woman’s home, but he would not.
We were nearing the first of a series of mud huts built into the side of the mountain.
Standing at the entrance between rough-hewn wooden posts was a shy young woman in a worn green shalwar kameez, a soft pink dupatta wrapped around her head and shoulders. Behind her stood six or seven giggling children staring at me in wide-eyed curiosity. She indicated for me to enter and started to speak in a continuous stream of Pashto. At the same time, more women and children were showing up, seemingly out of nowhere.
The only thing I had understood up to that point was the name of my hostess—Fatima. She was fair-skinned, characteristic of Pashtun people, with a round open face, a bashful smile, and striking green eyes. As more and more people entered the tiny space, I realized that they were expecting something from me. But I didn’t know what that could be.
Suddenly Aftab appeared at my side. I whispered, “I thought you weren’t allowed in here.”
He gave me a little smile and said, “They are desperate for an interpreter and I’m the only one available. They have many questions for you.”
They indicated for the two of us to sit on the quilt-covered charpoy in the corner and Fatima started again with a barrage of Pashto. At the same time, she was touching her head, her stomach, her back. Aftab told me that she was asking what medicine to take for headaches, dizziness, stomach pain, and back pain. I looked at him in dismay. How could I answer these questions? I wasn’t a doctor?
Then he explained, “These women are mostly confined to their village homes.”
They perform backbreaking tasks beginning at dawn every day, hauling water up the mountain from the river below, washing, cooking, sweeping, and tending to all the children. They bear many children, as you can see, and they’re likely beaten by their husbands. They know almost nothing of the outside world and aren’t even able to accompany their men to the local bazaar. “Since they have no knowledge of pharmaceutical medicine, just give them the names of pain relievers for headaches, ointments for back pain, and perhaps Pepto Bismol for the stomach. Their husbands can buy these items at the market.”
And so, the medical conversation began with Aftab’s assistance. The women were hanging on every word. Clearly, they had never seen anyone like me. I’m sure they were all young women but their tired eyes and lined faces bespoke hard lives. I didn’t see one clean face among the many children and there was an abundance of snotty noses, but they all seemed happy and content. A kind of magical exchange was taking place in this translated conversation.
I turned to look at the view from the terrace, a sublime mountain landscape for which many Canadians would spend hundreds of thousands of dollars.
“This is beautiful. This place where you live is beautiful.”
That provoked much laughter and they countered, “It’s only a mountain, nothing more. If you like it so much, then stay with us for one month.”
Rattled by this response, I declared, “My husband wouldn’t like that. He wants me to be with him.”
This prompted a lot of giggles and a quick entreaty, “Bring your husband here!”
Immediately someone was dispatched to bring him into the house. Purdah went out the window that day—a once in a lifetime interaction with foreigners was just too important.
Once Wayne arrived, Fatima bashfully offered us tea in keeping with the first principle of the Pashtun code, hospitality. We diplomatically wriggled out of this obligation as we had already experienced enough diarrhea for a lifetime. Maybe it would have been fine, but we just couldn’t take the chance. Instead, we were given a tour of the house.
On the terrace, an area for a cooking fire and a charpoy functioned as the kitchen. Fatima led the way into the dark, unventilated interior. It was like walking into a cave. Bedding, blankets, and charpoys along with a prominently displayed wedding decoration were the sole furnishings of the first room. A second room on the other side housed a couple of goats and some chickens along with some rudimentary cabinets. The family didn’t need much as they were either working or sleeping. Plus, most rural Pakistanis ate sitting cross-legged on carpets or blankets laid out on the floor.
Soon, Aftab indicated that it was time to go. We exchanged fond goodbyes and expressed our gratitude for the generous hospitality Fatima had extended to us. Alone with our thoughts, we trudged back up the mountain, settled heavily into the vehicle, and prepared for the long drive back.
I stared out the window at the pastoral scenery and thought about the extraordinary events of the day, especially Fatima and her friends.
It was 1991 and I felt like I had just time-travelled to AD 25. It was as if I’d walked into one of those drawings in the Bible stories I was shown at Sunday school as a child.
Aftab had informed me that Fatima and her friends could never imagine the life I lived, the freedoms that I had. She and I had connected for a few brief moments and our lives had again diverged.
I still think about her and wonder, “Is she still alive? Has she found some peace and happiness in her life?”
The memory of that time with her lives in my heart.
Author Bio
Sharon Bazant is a retired teacher living in the Fraser Valley near Vancouver, Canada. Geckos and Guns is her second memoir. Sharon has donned a variety of professional and personal hats as a seasoned world traveler and long-term expatriate. Some of her greatest adventures occurred during her years in Pakistan and Thailand.
Readers can follow her ongoing exploits at https://thebazantblog.com/
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