Khyber Dreams: Chapter 1 - The Journey from Hell

Afghanistan has been on my personal "bucket list" for years. Reading Caravans: A Novel of Afghanistan by James Michener created a longing for that wild land that time has failed to erase. Afghanistan has become incredibly dangerous now, so there's little chance that dream will be realized in this lifetime.

I came close, 41 years ago. A step . . . a heartbeat . . . away.

Getting to that place was the adventure of my life.

***

In 1968 my husband, Abid, and I, along with our toddler daughter, Farida, flew halfway across the world to spend three months in Pakistan visiting his family.

For my part, I had no idea how I would be received. Would his family hate me because they perceived I'd kept their son/brother away from them? Would they accept me because I'd helped bring him back? Until this trip I'd never met any member of his family, and they were a great unknown, to him as well as to me. He hadn't been back to Pakistan in nearly 20 years, since he'd come to the United States as a young student and, until recently, he had barely communicated with them . . . afraid of how they'd react to his marriage to an American. His misgivings were as great as mine. Not exactly reassuring.

In order to make the journey I quit my job at TRW Systems and Abid closed his TV repair business. This would be Abid's first return to his homeland. In many ways his family thought he'd been lost to the West; now he was coming home with an American wife and a young child.

A big part of my ex-husband's life, then and now, is the game of cricket, so our trip to Pakistan began with a stopover in London, England, as part of a cricket tournament. We boarded our charter flight via Sudflug, an affiliate of Lufthansa Airlines. In order to maximize their profits Sudflug jammed as many seats as possible into the available space. No elbow room, no leg room—and a 1-1/2 year-old on our laps—it wasn't the flight of our dreams, to say the least. It lasted a grueling thirteen hours, with one stop somewhere in between, Ottawa, I think, before disembarking at Gatwick Airport.

Within minutes we discovered that the London of 1968 was no place for a couple with a young child. The Britain of that era believed that children should be kept out of public view. We searched for kid-friendly venues without success. The final straw was the match Abid was scheduled to play at Lords Cricket Ground, one of the world's premier cricket venues. He'd looked forward to the opportunity as the culmination of his own lifelong dream.

The hosting club scheduled a reception at a local pub, and when we inquired about bringing Farida, we were told “absolutely not.” Although other families in our group traveled with children, they were mostly British citizens who had family available to care for them. Even if someone had come forward to offer to care for Farida, it wouldn't have worked. She absolutely refused to have anything to do with anyone other than Abid and me.

We felt decidedly unwelcome.

“Let's see if we can get an earlier flight to Karachi,” Abid suggested.

“All right,” I agreed, although I wasn't sure which was the lesser of the evils: staying in London or finally facing Abid's family. I didn't express my misgivings to him, but I was very nervous.

After three days we cut our losses, abandoned the cricket tour and booked seats on the first flight we could get. The stopovers on that flight read like a “where's-where” of Middle East hotspots: Damascus, Tehran, Baghdad. How I wished we'd had time to tour any one of those cities, but all we could do was observe their fabled skylines as we landed and took off.

As we taxied to a stop at Karachi airport, my nerves mounted even further. I think Abid felt much the same, although he hid it well, wondering what sort of reception awaited us.

In London our experience with British Customs had been minimal. We'd been ushered through with no baggage inspection and a cursory glance at my U S passport and Abid's Pakistani one.

Abid had assured me his family would make our Pakistani Customs passage even easier. Baksheesh is a magic word in the Middle East, and Abid's family was well-connected besides. We shoved our suitcases along the line toward the Customs agent, juggling hand luggage, my purse. I gripped Farida's hand, as she struggled to be carried. She hadn't adapted well to all the new sights, sounds and smells that had surrounded her since leaving our Huntington Beach home, and now she was engulfed in conversations carried on in Urdu.

The customs agent reached for our passports and studied each page. Minutes passed.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Visiting my family,” Abid replied, as if the answer should be obvious.

He kept glancing around for a familiar face, but no one came up to greet us. Of course the customs area was closed except to agents and arriving passengers, but in Pakistan rules are made to be broken, or so Abid had assured me. The agent opened our luggage and rifled through every inch of it. He picked up our movie camera and then examined our Pentax 35 mm. He asked about purchase papers for the Pentax. Abid tried to explain that we'd brought the camera with us from the States, so we hadn't known we needed to bring a sales receipt along.

Reaching for the camera, the customs agent shook his head in the inimitable Pakistani way. “I am very sorry, but we must confiscate this until you can provide a proof of purchase.”

We knew as well as the customs agent did that he coveted the camera. If we released it to him, we'd never see it again. I could read Abid's mind as he struggled with the alternatives. Should he give in to the agent? Should he offer a bribe. If so, how much?

Suddenly, Abid raised the camera above his head . . .


Next episode: Welcome Home