by Tim Lynch
Major Dalton Thomas clenched as the Ford Ranger made its way up the steep mountain road. The American was uncharacteristically nervous, peering into the near-whiteout conditions outside. It was early June, but the wind-driven snow was so dense that he couldn’t see anything with his night vision goggles.
He turned to the Afghan driver beside him. “I’ve got a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore, Colonel,” Dalton said..
The Afghan looked at him and smiled. “You don’t get snow in Kansas?”
“We get lots of snow in Kansas, but don’t drive in it when it’s this heavy. Not prudent.”
The Colonel shook his head. “Chasing infidels onto the roof of the world isn’t prudent either, but as you know, Allah protects the faithful when driving through snowstorms. Infidels are on their own.”
Dalton thought about the recent accident on Route 606. “Why didn’t Allah protect that busload of pilgrims who plowed into one of those drifting arrowhead-shaped sand mountains?”
“They were unlucky, Dalton. Allah didn’t will them into that pile of sand, but they got lucky because we showed up and could help the survivors. There are no coincidences, my friend. Allah always provides. It’s the Jinn driving those dunes across the desert. They move fast like the devil.”
Dalton stared out of the windshield for a few more minutes before spotting an area of flat land to the left. “Hey, Colonel, there’s that open field we’re looking for. We can pull in and get the horses out of the trailers. They’ve taken a beating climbing up here.”
As they tended the horses, Dalton reflected on their peculiar mission. He thought he had seen it all as this was his fifth Afghanistan rotation, yet this mission was unlike anything he’d experienced. They were hunting down a British citizen named Tim, a YouTuber who had decided to explore Central Asia on a motorcycle. The groundswell of international interest generated by Tim’s videos had forced the global media to report on the trip, much to the chagrin of ISAF.
Dalton had been told President Karzai had personally ordered this mission, promoting Lieutenant Colonel Daud Azizi to full Colonel before sending him north to escort Tim back to Kabul. It was an unusual situation, the kind that typified his latest tour
Dalton was raised on a cattle ranch and had spent a year on the Pro Rodeo circuit before he joined the army. His familiarity with horses, extensive Afghan experience, and reputation for quiet competence made him the perfect candidate for this unusual mission. He was the operations officer for the Embedded Training Team (ETT) From the Kansas National Guard. The Afghan National Army had assigned them to the 1st Brigade, 207 Corps in Farah Province. The province was kinetic but far from the flagpole, so there was minimal supervision from his higher headquarters in Kabul, which suited Dalton. He needed these repeated deployments and tax-free money that came with combat tours to keep the family ranch from going under.
As dawn broke, Dalton heard the call to prayer issued over a brand new USAID-donated speaker system. He closed his eyes to listen, the familiar sounds washing over him. “Allahu akbar…. ashadu an la ilaha illa Llah.”
Shortly after the prayer call, an old man with a three-fist long white beard walked resolutely out to greet the soldiers. He greeted him by asking if his foreigner was a Russian. The Colonel replied the foreigner was an American, not Russian, which caused the old man to break into a wide smile; “Good! We will not have to kill him then. Please come for tea and breakfast. It is cold out at this hour.” The American spoke Dari well but thanked the old man in Russian; his late wife had been Russian, and he was fluent in the language. The old man complimented the army Colonel on the good manners of his infidel.
The breakfast was typical for the region: strong chai sabs, runny fried eggs, piping hot, oven-fresh nan bread. The hosts served the meal on communal plates atop a plastic mat spread in the middle of a large public room of his Qalat. Multiple rugs covered the floor, and large pillows were available to lounge about after eating. Dalton and the men ate quietly with their fingers, a skill that had taken him time to master. He pondered the complex mixture of cultures and peoples that made up this remote region as they sat down to breakfast. The Wakhan Corridor, a thin peninsula of Afghan land jutting to the northeast, was home to a diverse mix of Tajiks, Wahki, and Kyrgyz. The normal homicidal animosity between Sunni and Shia (the Wahki were Shia) was absent, replaced by a spirit of cooperation that was vital to their survival. It was a wild place, closed by winter snows for five months every year.
Their first stop after they departed the next morning was Tim’s last known location, the BORNA Institute of Higher Education in Faizabad, the capital of Badakhshan Province. He had been there to coach the bowlers of the school’s Cricket Club. Dalton asked in Russian if Tim spoke Dari, knowing all educated adult Afghans were fluent Russian speakers. The coach responded in English, “You’re Russian is awful, barely understandable.”
Dalton smiled,”What did you say? Are you trying to speak English”?
The coach caught on instantly and chuckled.
“Forgive me, As-salaam alaikum; I am Mohamad Zamir, the coach of the Badakhshan Provincial Cricket Team.”
Dalton replied, “Wa alaikum as-salaam. I’m Major Dalton Thomas of the United States Army. President Karzai has sent us to find Mr. Tim.”
Coach Zamir frowned, “What are your intentions once you find this Englishman, Major Thomas”?
Dalton didn’t hesitate: “Our orders are to shoot him on sight.”
The coach stared at Dalton with wide eyes, but the soldiers behind him started to giggle before exploding in laughter. Coach Zamir recovered adroitly quickly, smiling warmly. He insisted the men stay for chai before telling them young Mr. Tim was on a trek to Chaqmaqtin Lake in the Wakhan Corridor.
The patrol left Faizabad and drove through the night to reach the hamlet of Sarhad-e Broghil, twenty kilometers inside the corridor. The hamlet comprised Tajik, Kyrgyz, and Wahki families, a few stores, and a radio station, typical in rural Afghanistan, where 90% of the population was illiterate and got their news and information from the radio. The arrival of an Afghan National Army patrol in the small town required a shura to explain why they were there.
Dalton had learned through the years to avoid shura’s whenever possible as they could be long, drawn-out, contentious affairs. He spent the morning with two soldiers who wanted to improve their farrier skills. They went over each mount, trimming hooves and replacing horseshoes as needed. Dalton worked slowly, explaining to the men that the key to being a good farrier was getting each horse to relax, which was easy when they sensed that you knew what you were doing. Young boys surrounded the men, watching in silent fascination as they cared for the horses. After the men finished, Dalton retrieved a box of notebooks and qalams (pens) and handed one to each boy, causing them to squeal in delight.
After the shura, Colonel Aziz sat down with his patrol and six town elders on the deck of a wooden platform built next to the Wakhan River for chai sabs and nan. The spring snowmelt was booming through the narrow river gorge, creating spectacular cataracts and making conversation difficult. Dalton listened as Colonel Azizi conversed with the local elders, gathering information about Tim’s whereabouts. When asked for his thoughts, Dalton shared his suspicion.
“Colonel, I don’t believe the Brit is heading to Chaqmaqtin Lake.”
“Where do you think he’s going?” the Colonel asked.
“The Wakhjir Pass,” Dalton replied.
“Why would a YouTuber go there instead of Chaqmaqtin Lake? The lake is beautiful, and all the tourists here go to Chaqmaqtin”.
“Which is why he won’t be heading there, Colonel. The Swiss go to great lengths to visit obscure alpine lakes that are difficult to get to. Brits are drawn to ancient sites last seen by famous Brit explorers, and according to the internet, the last Westerner to transit the Wakhjir was the British explorer George Nathaniel Curzon, who came through the pass in 1894. That is why our Brit is heading to the pass.”
Colonel Azizi discussed his options with the elders, but they spoke Pamiri, a language unique to Badakhshan province, where the Colonel was born and raised. When their talk concluded, the Colonel announced they would drive to the village of Bozal Gumbaz, which was only fifty kilometers east but another six-thousand feet in elevation.
The drive was slow and tedious, with the convoy frequently stuck on the single-track road behind young boys guiding donkeys hauling firewood. A large caravan of Kyrgyz halted their progress ten kilometers west of Bozal Gumbaz. The travelers carried their women, spring lambs, and household goods on the backs of large yaks. Dalton noted that many men carried bolt action rifles in leather scabbards strapped to their backs. Meeting a large group in such a remote place required a shura, as usual, the Kyrgyz correctly assuming the soldiers would provide hot Chai, sugar, and food.
The Kyrgyz men said they had been driven out of their summer pastures by large packs of aggressive wolves, which had decimated their flocks, and there were still families from their clan stuck in the mountains searching for their scattered animals. The men praised Allah for sparing their teenage shepherds, though wolves had injured several of their boys in the melee and killed most of their guard dogs. The soldiers had a medic with them and asked if they wanted him to treat the boy’s wounds, but the Kyrgyz men said a Russian they ran into had done that already. Asked about the Russian, they said he was delightful company and a talented medic but unable to speak actual Russian, which perplexed them.
The patrol spent the night on the ground beside their vehicles outside Bozal Gumbaz. They were up at dawn and ate their morning meal in the town teahouse, telling the village elders they would return for a shura after checking the pass on horseback for their missing Brit. It was a beautiful morning as the sun appeared behind the Pamir Mountains, almost blinding them. Fortunately, they all had dukhtar-kash (lady killer) sunglasses. The single-track road pass was hemmed in by frothing white water rapids on their right and near vertical cliffs on their left. The sound of the rapids was deafening; the altitude was just shy of 16,000 feet, the air crystal clear, making it easy to see their target about five miles ahead of them, surrounded by The Peoples Armed Police Border Security Force of China. They stopped, and Colonel Aziz studied the scene through binoculars before handing them to Dalton. Colonel Aziz paused to allow his men to dress their lines; looking back at them, he yelled, “Forward.”
The men started in a canter, moving into a fast trot that turned into a full-on gallop as they thundered down the track toward the Chinese vehicles, yipping and yelling like Native Americans. The Chinese were watching them through binoculars too, and seeing them form up for a charge, they moved their vehicles off the track and broke out flags that they enthusiastically waved in the air. With Colonel Aziz in the lead, the Afghans arrived in a cloud of icy dust and the enthusiastic applause of the Chinese soldiers who welcomed them with invitations to parley and drink Chai. There, in the middle of the Chinese people’s police, sat a blond, affable-looking man with a bright smile who greeted Dalton with, “Cheers mate, what’s a Yank doing up here”?
The American looked him over; he was a blond, average-sized guy in apparent good health and replied, “Where did you learn to speak Chinese?”
“I was born in Hong Kong, mate, and have a facility with languages, but why are you up here?”
“The President of Afghanistan has sent us to bring you back to Kabul, where he will award you the Ghazi Mir Bacha Khan Medal for being a good bloke and friend of the Afghan people.”
The Brit studied him with narrowed eyes, while the Chinese soldiers cheered the good news after Tim translated for them.
That afternoon, one of the loneliest spots on the planet was the scene of a spontaneous afternoon party as the Chinese spread out a large tarp on the valley floor. The men sat around sharing their provisions, fresh chai, and a large jug of rice wine the border police had brought along for use in just such an emergency. Colonel Aziz observed that as bad as things were on the roof of the world, it would be the safest place in the country after the Americans left. The Chinese looked at the American, who nodded in agreement before adding, “It’s just a matter of time.”
That focused all the attention on the Chinese; their ranking soldier answered with a smile, “You Americans are lucky. Even up here on the roof of the world, we could never speak honestly about our government.” The Afghans applauded the clever retort, calling for another round of rice wine.
Sitting beside Dalton, Tim asked if President Karzai was really going to give him a medal, causing Dalton to smile when he answered, “fFck no, YouTubers don’t get medals from Central Asian warlords.” Seeing Tim was a bit deflated by his harsh words, he added, “I saw the Jamm minaret in 2003.”
“Did you mate? I bet that was phenomenal.”
“The Afghan soldiers I was with told me I was the first foreigner to see the minaret, so I spent hours photographing the site and surrounding ruins.”
“But you weren’t the first mate; my friend Rory Stewart walked there in 2002 from Herat with just a dog to accompany him”.
“I know that, and here I am in the famous ancient Wahijar Pass, but again, I’ve been beaten here by a Brit. Do you know how much I hate you fuckers for beating me to the best ancient historical sites in this country”?
“Aw, come on, mate, hate is a harsh word, and you seem a straight marksman.”
“Straight shooter, Tim. The term is shooter, not marksman.”
“Cheer up, mate; you’re in the Wakhjir Pass. It may be a hundred more years before another American visits again. How many times have you drunk rice wine with Chinese soldiers? This is a straight-up awesome day.” Smiling broadly, he asked, “Can I film you for my YouTube channel?”
“If you do, I’ll shoot you.”
“Yanks and their guns, you people are a mystery to me, mate.”
As the afternoon waned, the men broke camp to head their separate ways. The Afghans rode into the setting sun while the Brit and Americans trailed behind on foot, chatting amiably about regional history, third-world countries, and how cool it would be to see a snow leopard.
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Tim Lynch retired for the United States Marine Corps in 2000 after 22 years of active service. His first six years of military service was spent in the navy as a hospital corpsman, the remainder of his active duty time was as an infantry officer. He went on to spend seven years living and working outside the wire in Afghanistan. His blog about Afghanistan, Free Range International, garnered thousands of unique page views daily from 2008 through 2012. He is now retired and lives in South Texas with his wife Rebecca.
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