The nomads of Afghanistan

Press, 7 November 1978, Page 24

The nomads of Afghanistan

By BARBARA REED TAYLOR, of Sinnuer

From Kabul to Herat is a two-day journey through the wild and mountainous grasslands of the Kochi. No-one is sure how many Kochis there are, but estimates range between three and 11 million. These nomadic people have wandered for many centuries between West Pakistan and Iran, moving from mountains to lowlands with the seasons to pasture their sheep and goats.

Their distinctive black woollen tents dot the barren landscape. Now and then

we passed a Kochi family on the move. The men led camels and donkeys piled high with tents, bedding, cooking utensils, and children. As one laden camel passed, we saw the bright curious eyes of two baby Kochis and two baby goats peeping over the edge oi a pile of blankets. A camel may not be pretty, but a good . one in Afghanistan can cost the equivalent of $5OOO. A Kochi family with a herd of

10 or perhaps 20 camels is not poor in anyone’s language. The shepherd walks in front of his flock of fat-tailed sheep and goats. They follow obediently. No dogs; no shouting. Unless you are very close, it is difficult to tell them apart, and for the first time I understood the biblical references to separating the sheep from the goats.

The women I saw rode proudly and flashed smiles as they passed. They were striking figures in their long black smocks with heavy multicoloured embroidered bodices worn over brightly coloured voluminous trousers. Around their necks were massive silver necklaces. Their black, hair was tied at the back and looped in many plaits. The children wore blue beads around their necks to ward off evil and I was told that inale babies were often dressed as girls to confuse any marauding spirits. In contrast to the veiled and submissive Muslim women of Kabul, the Kochi women appear to have some status. The female population is said to be smaller than the male and consequently there is some competition to secure a wife. A feature of the lavish wedding celebrations is the tussle between the female relatives of the bride and those of the groom to see which of the two secures the first morsel of food. If the bride takes the first bite, then she will be the dominant partner, but if not, her husband will be master of the household.

Kochi economy is mainly dependent upon the crafts of the women. The best wool from the sheep is woven into much-prized rugs and carpets, expensive even in Afghanistan. Thick, home-spun socks, caps, and mittens are knitted and sold in the neighbouring towns. Felt is made from wool not good enough to market. The fleeces are sprinkled with water, combed, laid out on a mat, and left outside in the dew overnight. They are then trampled by the women and children, left outside for another night, rolled, and dampened. This procedure is repeated until thick, strong felt is produced for blankets and winter overcoats for the men. Food is mainly meat, milk, and cheese provided by the sheep and goats. Flour for bread, dried fruit, and tea are bought and stored. Their openair life and this spartan diet make the Kochis the healthiest of the Afghans, with smooth olive skins, glossy hair and strong, white teeth. Those who become ill and die are buried at the camp-site. We stopped to rest at a caravanserai, a vast collection of crumbling walls and arches standing forlornly in the desert. Here, long ago, the camel caravans had rested at night. Secure from robbers, men and animals slept behind the high walls and guarded gates. 1 remembered the story of the mandariall, or witch vampire, who rises from her tomb and waits in ruins and deserted buildings to jump

on her victims, dig in her claws and kill them. With feet on backwards and eyes set vertically, I felt that she would not be hard to recognise. Our last stop in Afghanistan was Herat, sometimes called the western capital and influenced by its proximity to Iran. Herat is famous for its antiquity, the blue-green painted domes of its great mosque, and a bazaar full of the widest of wide boys. All along the streets the jewellers were busy setting imitation rubies into imitation gold and silver, and dipping the finished articles into antiquing solutions, or threading long strings of

blue-glass beads like the eyes of grandmother’s china dolls. The resulting rings, bracelets and necklaces fetch prices from $5O down to $l, depending on the innocence and eyesight of the traveller.

The leather workers make bags, belts, and sandals from goatskin which tans to a soft honey colour. The soles of the sandals are cut from old tyres, attached with a few well-placed nails, and guaranteed to last to the border. The old men gossip on the roof-tops and the taxi drivers wait below, their carts and horses decorated with jingling bells and hundreds of bright red woollen pompons. Passengers sit facing each other in the two-wheeled cart, gripping the sides as they bounce along the stony roads. Our Herat version of the Hilton did not include plumbing, but it did have a touring Turkish pop singer who more than compensated. With the voice of Ivan Rebroff. the teeth of Donny Osmond, and the hips <)f Elvis Presley, he belted out the old sad songs of unrequited love — I think. He may, of course, have been a gospel revivalist. During the day, he’ practised for his performance which began at eight each evening on a sort of mezzanine floor. His audience of teenagers — all males — flowed out to pack the stairway and the street outside. What his voice lacked in tonal variation, it made up for in volume and stamina.

After five days we put on our travelling sandals, checked our supplies of water and toilet paper, and departed with the strains of an old Turkish love song ringing in our ears.