“Finally, at 3:30 in the afternoon we set off again. From then on it’s drive 10 minutes wait
half an hour. It’s still snowing. Periodically police cars somehow clear out a lane for
oncoming traffic to inch by us. Could this whole thing just be a traffic jam? Some time
around 10:30 we get into the tunnel and we’re moving pretty well and then we stop. It’s
smoky in the bus from all the musicians’ cigarettes and smoky in the tunnel form all the
exhaust.
We’re stopped again inexplicably for an hour, and then as if by magic we start moving.
Coming out of the tunnel the roadway has only been cleared for one lane and the snow has
been cut so the drifts are 20 feet high towering over our bus. As we start down the other
side, suddenly the snow stops and the stars come out. We stop for dinner I’m sitting cross
legged with a bunch of musicians who don’t speak English. The waiter looks at me like I’m
dumb, a Haji who can’t speak. I yell to Assif across the room. “Help.” “You want fish,” he
yells back. I nod and he yells something to the waiter. Everyone speaks 3 or 4 languages.
Assifs’ mother tongue is from some tribe in North Central India. His family are refugees
half an hour. It’s still snowing. Periodically police cars somehow clear out a lane for
oncoming traffic to inch by us. Could this whole thing just be a traffic jam? Some time
around 10:30 we get into the tunnel and we’re moving pretty well and then we stop. It’s
smoky in the bus from all the musicians’ cigarettes and smoky in the tunnel form all the
exhaust.
We’re stopped again inexplicably for an hour, and then as if by magic we start moving.
Coming out of the tunnel the roadway has only been cleared for one lane and the snow has
been cut so the drifts are 20 feet high towering over our bus. As we start down the other
side, suddenly the snow stops and the stars come out. We stop for dinner I’m sitting cross
legged with a bunch of musicians who don’t speak English. The waiter looks at me like I’m
dumb, a Haji who can’t speak. I yell to Assif across the room. “Help.” “You want fish,” he
yells back. I nod and he yells something to the waiter. Everyone speaks 3 or 4 languages.
Assifs’ mother tongue is from some tribe in North Central India. His family are refugees
At 4:30 in the morning my old friend Shamart from FCCS picked me up in
a van. I was surprised that he was on time, but you never know. The two
busses with all the musicians left at 6:00, also a surprise. I had a joyful
reunion with my friends, the band from Pakistan; the two boys Assif and
Shamsaab, who both want to be my sons, and the amazing singer and
showman Shahid. Assif told me that whenever they went to KFC or even
saw the picture of the Colonel they remembered me. Is that a compliment
or an insult? Anyway, I was glad they remembered me. All the hurry to be
on time turns out for nought as traffic completely stops, all lanes. The two
busses manage to snake off the road to a restaurant, and we all have
breakfast. Eight hours later we’re still there. The Solang tunnel is closed,
there’s been rockfall and avalanches, and cars have been covered and
people have died and rumors are flying. The lines of cars, trucks and buses
must stretch nearly back to Kabul, because half the country is trying to get
to Mazar e Sharif for the New Years’ festival; Sharmat is on the phone,
distraught. “The people are waiting for music. They have waited all year.
a van. I was surprised that he was on time, but you never know. The two
busses with all the musicians left at 6:00, also a surprise. I had a joyful
reunion with my friends, the band from Pakistan; the two boys Assif and
Shamsaab, who both want to be my sons, and the amazing singer and
showman Shahid. Assif told me that whenever they went to KFC or even
saw the picture of the Colonel they remembered me. Is that a compliment
or an insult? Anyway, I was glad they remembered me. All the hurry to be
on time turns out for nought as traffic completely stops, all lanes. The two
busses manage to snake off the road to a restaurant, and we all have
breakfast. Eight hours later we’re still there. The Solang tunnel is closed,
there’s been rockfall and avalanches, and cars have been covered and
people have died and rumors are flying. The lines of cars, trucks and buses
must stretch nearly back to Kabul, because half the country is trying to get
to Mazar e Sharif for the New Years’ festival; Sharmat is on the phone,
distraught. “The people are waiting for music. They have waited all year.
| Traffic Jam |
from the partition of 48. He also speaks Urdu and Pashtu and his English is quite amazing
considering he has never studied it. “I left school because all I wanted was play keyboard,”
he explained. When we get back on the bus it’s midnight and we have 6 hours left to
Mazar. It’s taken us 18 hours to cover about 2 hour's drive. I find out later that the
governor of the province promised to get the tunnel open that night just for us. I slept all
the way to Mazar under my white blanket, and wake in time to see the sun rising over the
blue mosque. While I was waiting in the tunnel my show was broadcast on Shamshat TV.
They estimate that 15 million people saw it.
considering he has never studied it. “I left school because all I wanted was play keyboard,”
he explained. When we get back on the bus it’s midnight and we have 6 hours left to
Mazar. It’s taken us 18 hours to cover about 2 hour's drive. I find out later that the
governor of the province promised to get the tunnel open that night just for us. I slept all
the way to Mazar under my white blanket, and wake in time to see the sun rising over the
blue mosque. While I was waiting in the tunnel my show was broadcast on Shamshat TV.
They estimate that 15 million people saw it.
| Road to Mazar |
| Buskashi |
My two performances at the fesitval were a
disappointment, (especially after the
success of last year), because both times
the sound system screwed up and the
audience couldn’t hear the bass. The
highlight for me was an evening when I
played some of the Arabic music I learned
in Palestine, with Jogi, the Pakistani tabla
player. We played in the lobby of the hotel
and most of the musicians and some other
guests gathered. He is a phenomenal player
and will perform in Italy and Norway in the
coming months. He was planning to come
and play with me at the University but he
returned late from somewhere and all the
vans were somewhere else. His apology
was abject and everyone felt horrible. “We
will play again”,I said. “Yes”, he said. “You
won’t forget?” “No, it is written in my
heart.”
disappointment, (especially after the
success of last year), because both times
the sound system screwed up and the
audience couldn’t hear the bass. The
highlight for me was an evening when I
played some of the Arabic music I learned
in Palestine, with Jogi, the Pakistani tabla
player. We played in the lobby of the hotel
and most of the musicians and some other
guests gathered. He is a phenomenal player
and will perform in Italy and Norway in the
coming months. He was planning to come
and play with me at the University but he
returned late from somewhere and all the
vans were somewhere else. His apology
was abject and everyone felt horrible. “We
will play again”,I said. “Yes”, he said. “You
won’t forget?” “No, it is written in my
heart.”
| The Blue Mosque |
| Balk University |
| Buskashi |
| In The Blue Mosque |
| Camel Wrestling |
| Road Back From Mazar |
I heard a lot of great music at the
festival and made a lot of friends. I
was however the only one of the
foreign musicians to return on the
bus. Everyone else flew. It was a
fabulously clear and beautiful day
and the countryside is magnificent.
We left before dawn and as we
rolled through the tunnel, and it was
clear we were going to make it, a
boy who has some kind of disability
but is one of the most beloved
singers in the country began
singing. Others joined in with
various drums and then a
saxophone. All the way to Kabul,
the session lasted. I could tell that
many of the songs were the kind
where you make up your own
verses and there was lots of
laughter. We had way more fun
than the people who flew.
festival and made a lot of friends. I
was however the only one of the
foreign musicians to return on the
bus. Everyone else flew. It was a
fabulously clear and beautiful day
and the countryside is magnificent.
We left before dawn and as we
rolled through the tunnel, and it was
clear we were going to make it, a
boy who has some kind of disability
but is one of the most beloved
singers in the country began
singing. Others joined in with
various drums and then a
saxophone. All the way to Kabul,
the session lasted. I could tell that
many of the songs were the kind
where you make up your own
verses and there was lots of
laughter. We had way more fun
than the people who flew.
| Road From Mazar |
| Singer in the Tunnel |
| Breakfast Stop |
| Road to Mazar |
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Making up somewhat for the unsatisfying performances was the fact that I got to see
Buskashi, the centuries old national game where horsemen try to pick up a dead calf,
carry it, and drop it into a white circle. There may be teams, but it looked like every man
for himself. We had just arrived and a pack of 30 or so horses, snorting and stamping,
slammed into the bleachers. The horsemen held the reins in their teeth and leaned down
into the fray to try and grab the calf. The smell of horseflesh was visceral. No wonder
no one has ever conquered these people; not the Russians, not the British, not Alexander
or Ghengis Khan. I also saw camel wrestling, perhaps the weirdest event I have ever
seen- and I’ve been to the Cheshire Fair. The camels get riled up by their trainers and
poked by boys running behind there huge hooves. They begin to froth at the mouth and
then they try to get a head or a leg under the other camel and they actually trip them and
wrestle them to the ground. As soon as they are in a clinch they’re surrounded by
hundreds of boys. One time the camel broke free and tore off though the crowd
scattering boys like leaves. Amazingly, no one was crushed.
Buskashi, the centuries old national game where horsemen try to pick up a dead calf,
carry it, and drop it into a white circle. There may be teams, but it looked like every man
for himself. We had just arrived and a pack of 30 or so horses, snorting and stamping,
slammed into the bleachers. The horsemen held the reins in their teeth and leaned down
into the fray to try and grab the calf. The smell of horseflesh was visceral. No wonder
no one has ever conquered these people; not the Russians, not the British, not Alexander
or Ghengis Khan. I also saw camel wrestling, perhaps the weirdest event I have ever
seen- and I’ve been to the Cheshire Fair. The camels get riled up by their trainers and
poked by boys running behind there huge hooves. They begin to froth at the mouth and
then they try to get a head or a leg under the other camel and they actually trip them and
wrestle them to the ground. As soon as they are in a clinch they’re surrounded by
hundreds of boys. One time the camel broke free and tore off though the crowd
scattering boys like leaves. Amazingly, no one was crushed.