My duty station was in Peshawar, two to three hours away by road and I thought I needed to get there as soon as possible. By the end of the week I was informed that my new day-to-day employer, Afghan Technical Consultants (ATC), would send a driver to collect Jude and me and drive us to Peshawar. This was exciting and most welcomed, as a week in a hotel really is about enough. Interestingly, the Holiday Inn eventually became known as the Marriot hotel and was bombed nearly twenty years later by Al-Qaeda in 2008, when large numbers of victims were injured or killed.
I finally said farewell to all the staff I had met at the headquarters in Islamabad and early that last afternoon I headed back to the hotel. On my arrival, Jude was just walking into the lobby after shopping with some ladies she had met at the hotel. One was a Dutch woman and the other a Pakistani lady who was, interestingly, from Peshawar. They had taken Jude out to buy the ‘necessities of life’, which, of course, included a number of bags full of new clothes. Jude had so many bags she looked like a kid at the Royal Melbourne Show. But Peshawar was far more traditional and austere than Islamabad and Jude would need all the comforts she could carry.
The next morning we were up and ready at 8.30 am after finishing an early breakfast and packing our bags. I had paid the hotel bill and we were ready to be picked up, though no-one had given us an exact time. By 9.30, I was a little concerned and rang the OCHA headquarters. They called back and said ATC had dispatched a driver and he should be with us shortly. By 10, I went down to the lobby to check that we didn’t have a driver sitting down there waiting for us, but no-one was there. I rang OCHA again at 11 but before they could call me back, my telephone rang and it was the reception saying our driver from ATC was here. I got the bell boys to collect our bags and down we went, all expectant. I was ready to receive another Mr Danesh when a young, pimply faced Afghan in baggy jeans and a padded denim jacket stood up and came towards me. He said his name was ‘Ridiculous’ or something similar and he grabbed some of our bags. I looked at Jude and she just smiled and we followed our man Ridiculous to the car. I scanned the car park for the expected UN Toyota Land Cruiser for our long journey to Peshawar. But none were apparent as Ridiculous approached an old, small and beaten up Toyota Corolla. Obviously this was to be our new vehicle. The bags wouldn’t all fit into the boot so we loaded the front passenger seat and squashed another into the rear with Jude and me. Ridiculous seemed embarrassed and was really very nervous even as I tried to calm him through a few jokes and a soft tone. But he never really did calm down that day and our trip from Islamabad to Peshawar was a frightful, if not adventurous, trip that deserves a special chapter, perhaps in another book, but not now.
Although somewhat expected but never really coming true previously, our adventures in the ‘wilds of Pakistan’ and of course Afghanistan, had really just begun.
ooOoo
After arriving in Peshawar following our stressful journey along the Grand Trunk road, we were taken to a large house in the outskirts of an area known as Hyatterbad. Hyatterbad was a new and partially under construction suburb of Peshawar that the very wealthy Pushtun folk and the international community were moving to. It was at the outer limits of Peshawar city though only 15–20 minutes from shopping areas. The house we were allocated to was the former communal house for the Canadian Special Forces troops assigned to the demining program. They had now all left along with the Americans, the French and the Brits, as the Gulf War had started and they were recalled back home.
This house was almost standing alone with only some partially built structures around it and a lot of nearly completed houses some 200–300 metres away. It was a good spot and large enough for a big Canadian team, but far too big and far too remote for me and my heavily pregnant wife. Although this was only our temporary accommodation, it still had the seven household staff, a driver, three gardeners and three more ‘external’ workers at the house all day and with many remaining during the night. Most slept in a small set of rooms at the rear of the property and were there 24/7. Now that’s ok once you’re used to it, but coming from Australia where really no-one has domestic staff, it’s a culture shock. Every meal was watched by someone who would hover around waiting to take empty plates and bring more food. Every activity was viewed and some form of assistance, whether an added hand or equipment, would be offered. And every rest period was monitored to ensure you were well and comfortable. I really found this hard to take and it frankly annoyed me greatly. But all this was free for us during the first weeks before we could find suitable accommodation.
This house was fully furnished and had all manner of accessories that we thought the Canadians had left when they pulled out, in a hurry. Most obvious were the 40 huge boxes containing countless packets of Cornflakes, at least 30 boxes full of peanut butter jars and about another 30 boxes full of the chocolate drink Ovaltine. All these were stacked up like a secondary wall. This overburden of foodstuffs was amazing. The actual food we did eat was either bought by us in the local shops and markets or by the staff who we gave money to. We had a cook who prepared our meals and he was a lovely man, but things were just not right. The bread was flavoured with sugar to be extremely sweet, the tea was boiled black and gooey, the milk was only UHT and tasted vile, the meat was too tough to chew and the eggs were cooked in deep animal fat, or Ghee. The reality was that the food actually tasted good, but in those first few weeks, the difference from home cooking Australian style to that of suburban Peshawar was just too much to absorb all at once.
The first few nights in this remote and fairly isolated place were difficult as there were no street lights and we had to use a generator for electricity. We were for sure, not yet comfortable in north-west Pakistan and with the Gulf War battling in Kuwait and Iraq, it really was a serious security issue we had to contend with. I recall sitting outside after dinner talking to the main chowkidar, or home guard, as flashes erupted in the distance and were followed by muffled explosive sounds. What these were and what they were for, I don’t remember ever finding out, but at the time they were disconcerting. Rifle fire into the air, particularly with tracer rounds, was everywhere but came mainly from out west in the tribal areas. Our house almost bordered the tribal areas and so this was seen later to have been not so uncommon. But in those first few days it was unnerving.
One night, at perhaps 2 or 3 am, I woke up to the feeling of a gentle rocking. This seemed to accelerate and become more violent. It was an earthquake tremor but I couldn’t tell, just then, how bad it would get. I sat up and this woke Judy. She too sat there for a moment and then said in a strong and authoritative tone, “Tanks.” I said “What?” and asked her what she meant. “Tanks, there are army tanks coming along the road”, she said convincingly. I looked at her and said, “Are you joking. It’s an earthquake. Quick, let’s get outside.” So we pulled on a jacket and a bath robe and rushed outside to avoid falling items or a roof collapse. As we did, the tremors slowed and eventually ceased. I looked at Jude’s distorted and worried face and just had to laugh. She was not impressed and said to me in a convivial tone, “Well it could very well have been tanks,” then marched off up to bed. I haven’t raised that conversation very much in the past years and I remain a little concerned about writing it here now.
After about a week in Hyatterbad, I went to sleep in good spirits after playing some cards with Judy as there was no real television to watch except that from the region, meaning Pakistani and Indian films, or CNN. Incidentally, I won the card game that night so my spirits were high when I fell into a deep sleep, or so I thought. During the night I began to have small and very violent nightmares that woke me up several times. The last nightmare I remember was something being burnt onto my face, like a hot iron, in some macabre torture story. It was still dark but I remember waking and feeling hot and choked. I felt like someone was strangling me or that I had something tied around my throat. As I regained full consciousness