- The Guardian,
- Monday November 6 2000
Two years ago an Ariana 727 ploughed into a mountainside, reducing the fleet to three. Then in February, an internal flight to Mazar-i-Sharif was hijacked. The plane ended up at Stansted airport, where most of the passengers promptly claimed asylum. Seeking to calm my nerves, I had asked a pilot the night before departure how safe the remaining two Russian-built Antonov 24 planes were. "Completely unsafe," he replied. "The pilots are themselves too scared to fly. If I were you I'd throw your ticket in the bin."
Gradually more passengers emerged into the chilly Kabul morning from yellow and black taxis. Four wraith-like women dressed in faded blue burkas moved among them, begging. Though it has been four years since the Taliban swept into Kabul, Ariana is still issuing the same pre-revolutionary tickets. They carry a picture of Afghanistan's most famous tourist attraction - a giant Buddha statue - on the back. Or at least they did - someone in a back office spends all day scrubbing out the Buddha's face with a black pen.
There is no x-ray machine at Kabul airport, which perhaps explains last February's hijack. Instead, a security guard rummages briefly through your luggage. After half an hour we trooped on to the mortar-damaged runway, and climbed aboard. The six burka-clad women on the flight all sat together at the back. And then the engines started - not with the spluttering I had expected but with a confident purr. The plane even took off, rising into the mountains above a shattered city of bombed out houses.
I started chatting to Abdul Hakim as we passed over the immense Hindu Kush mountains. Mr Hakim, it transpired, had been Afghanistan's minister for the interior until the Russians invaded in 1979, when he lost his job. He was also friends with Mohammad Daoud, the prime minister, who was murdered in a communist coup. "The 70s was a marvellous period for Afghanistan. Lots of tourists came here." I asked him what he thought of the Taliban. His face fell. "They have brought peace," he said. Mrs Hakim sat silently. With her face still concealed, she discreetly lifted her burka to peer out of the window.
About halfway through our two-hour flight, a man carrying a Kalashnikov sauntered down the aisle. He was clearly not the Ariana steward, busy doling out Iranian cherry juice and cake. Sensing my alarm, Mr Hakim explained that since the hijack the Taliban had decreed that two armed guards should travel with every Ariana plane to prevent further mischief. Below us, the undulating Hindu Kush was giving way to a flat, dry landscape. We were nearly at Herat. The wheels popped down. Things were looking up. One of the two tyres on my side of the plane even had tread on it.
Herat was the capital of medieval Islam. The city has long been famed for its learning and liberal traditions. All this changed when the Taliban arrived in 1995, closing down the girls' schools and the public baths. But Herat is still a long way from Kabul. Five years on there are signs that its inhabitants are making their own accommodation with the Taliban's edicts. You can secretly buy TV sets here. During the World Cup, rumour has it that five Taliban knocked on the door of someone who had one - not to smash it up, but because they wanted to watch the football.
