Abdul, who crawled his way into my memory

August 16, 1971

I awoke in Kabul having travelled from Kandahar by bus the day before.

I was travelling alone among thousands of similarly outfitted backpackers on the road that had been carved out between Sydney in the far far east to London at the western end of Europe. People travelled thru countries where a peaceful stay was available. So Europe was popular. Vietnam was avoided by all but the most adventuresome. I had started out in Lisbon expecting to end up on a socialist kibbutz in Israel but was now headed to Nepal and its ‘I had never heard of it three months ago’ capital Kathmandu.

Generally when I arrived in a new city I tried to find a place to stay near the train or bus station. There was always lots available and the prices were low.

  

In Kabul I chose a relatively modern six story hotel. Very crowded. I had a cot on the flat roof among way more than a dozen other adventurers. To make it livable the floor of the roof was gravel rather than tar. Our room resembled a big hospital ward but without the nurses or a roof or walls or windows or running water or privacy curtains.

There were two long rows of single bed cots. We stowed our knapsacks under our beds when we went out. It was reasonable to fear that our stuff would be stolen. My sleeping bag had been taken in a hostel in Seville. I hadn’t replaced it yet although I had needed it a couple of times; firstly when I had had to sleep rough on the border of Greece & Turkey and then in the tiny border town of Islam Qala after I crossed the border on foot from Iran into Afghanistan.

No one had any valuables that weren’t attached to them all the time. Everything else could be replaced if you chose to and could afford it. My pack was getting lighter and lighter. I doubt I had two of anything by this point in my travels. Except socks.

My ward mates included people I had met for the first time as far back as Spain and others who came from the other direction, the south east; India, Thailand, like that. A woman from Montreal was in the cot next to mine. She was a nurse there but just another vagabond in Afghanistan. I mostly travelled solo between places, so I could follow any shiny object that appealed to me. It was quite easy to meet new people anywhere I settled. I could be part of a pack when I wanted to.

The hotel abutted the intersection of three roads. There was a small circular park inside the roundabout in the middle. The park featured a monolith in the centre. I think it was the Independence Column originally erected in the 1880s to celebrate an early victory over the  British occupiers. It had been updated in the 1930s after the Brits were finally vanquished.

The one other business I remember on the circle were the rather generous offices of Czechoslovakian Airlines. Kabul was one of their 50 international destinations. Czechoslovakia was a relatively small country but in airlines it punched above its weight. In those days I always got a buzz when I saw the offices of an airliner from a very foreign country like Japan or Argentina or Egypt. At the time most airlines were a national carrier. Not like now when there are dozens of narrow focused airlines.

Behind the circle was a typical Arab souk. Because this was Afghanistan the souk was somewhat less modern than those I had seen in Istanbul and Tehran. This one was entirely made of mud buildings. So it was from the 7th century rather than the 17th. There were streets and streets of the mud buildings. They had roofs but walls were in short supply usually only waist high. Many were restaurants or bakeries or other food places. I often ate a basic meal in one of them. Something like scrambled eggs was a delicacy and affordable on my dollar a day budget.

There was a more modern souk elsewhere in the city. I remember buying an afghan dashiki. The merchant wanted 300 Afghanis. I offered 60. After much haggling I got if for 60. I’m sure he was happy to see the backside of me. . . . So he could celebrate his victory.

I had nothing to do in Kabul except hang out and wander. That was different than other big cities. In Tehran I had spent one half day getting a Cholera vaccination and another half day trying to call this British girl I had met on the bus from Istanbul. I had spent a half day in Rome failing to get a visa for Iraq and another half getting my visa to Iran.

One wander in Kabul took me to the Ghazi Stadium near the centre of town. It was the biggest in the country. I just walked in and happened upon a university soccer team practicing. They were totally the happiest people, gregarious to a fault and they invited me to join them to run around for a bit. Great fun. But I lasted only a few minutes in the intense summer heat.

During the time of the Taliban rule of Afghanistan in the 90s that same Ghazi Stadium was famous as the locale of many gruesome executions for crimes like adultery and listening to music.  Apparently soccer games would follow a bloody execution with the players doing their Austin Matthews like moves on the bloody field.

I wonder if any of my university soccer team friends were among the Taliban or their victims.

One other significant wander was in search of an ice cold Coca-Cola. There weren’t any street vendors who could give me a fix so I went into the biggest hotel I could find. This hotel was exactly what it was like when Brits were in charge I imagine. I’ve always enjoyed hotel lobbies. And this one measured up. I sauntered into a side room featuring oversized Victorian furniture and massive paintings of the English countryside. I ordered my ice cold Coca Cola from a waiter resplendent in a most formal afghan get-up including a funny green hat. I settled in to enjoy my Coke and a cigarette.  What the waiter brought didn’t measure up. Not the real thing. Just some cola syrup and water. The last ice cold Coca Cola I had had was in Istanbul. The next it turned out would be in Peshawar, Pakistan days later.

I spent a lot of time around the busy intersection in front of our hotel. And that is where I spotted, let’s call him Abdul, because I never got his name. I spoke to him, but never with him, in conversation.

I don’t know where Abdul lived. I assume it had to be nearby because his only way of getting around was to crawl. I could say he was the most down on his luck person I’ve seen but that’s not true. I was on my way to India and I saw many people in equally bad and worse shape begging on the streets of New Delhi. Begging is more formal in India. Someone like Abdul with no use of his legs may have been in the employ of a beggar master who would supply an oversized skateboard to help get Abdul to the best locations to beg in New Delhi. The master would get 50% of the take, of course. But in Afghanistan, backward as it was, there were no skateboards for beggars.

The image of Abdul lives on in my memory.

I think he was a tall man. I’d say six feet. That was tall for an Afghani. I couldn’t tell for sure as he was always prone to the ground lying on his side when I saw him. He had a long narrow beard which added to the perception that he was tall. His head was bare and his hair was long.  He hadn’t the money for personal grooming. He wore normal Pashtu clothing. His robe was prematurely old and worn so it looked more like a washed out grey caftan. I’d be surprised if he ever changed his clothing.

He travelled by crawling on his side. Think of doing the sidestroke in your swimming pool without using your legs to do the scissor kick or the water to buoy you up. Just your arms to crawl. That’s how Abdul got around.

He moved slowly. With good reason. He was probably ill nourished. It was extremely hot. His path was the concrete hard sidewalk surrounding the park in the centre of the circle. He could take a few strokes to go about five feet and then he would rest.

I was pretty used to beggars by this point in my journey. I had semi compassion burnout. I didn’t have very much money but enough to be relatively generous with some people in need especially kids. I saw Abdul every day I was in Kabul. A couple of times I ventured across the traffic to where he was and gave him 10 or 20 Afghanis which I hoped would  ease his burden. I doubt that it did.

I tried to imagine what Abdul’s life had been. Was he always disabled? Was it a degenerative disease? Maybe a war injury or he'd been hit by a car. I couldn't tell. Was he ever married? Was he married now? Kids? Did he sleep indoors? No way to know.

What I could tell was that he had some thirst for life. He came back every day for another go.

I’ve seen too much of real world real life in places like Northern India and Northern Ontario to let someone like Abdul rent too much space in my mind.

But there's no doubt that the crawling man was unforgettable and I haven't.