Mosques, mortars and ice cream: archaeology in Afghanistan

Marcello Fantoni shares his experience in the Middle East

The cry of Malalai of Maiwand; the unforgiving mountains of the Hindu-Kush; and the luscious plains of Bactria: its history is one of grief and beauty, the graveyard of empires, and the crossroads of the world. A place which had captivated my imagination from a young age.

In July, I had the chance to visit the country by volunteering for two weeks with the French Archaeological Delegation in Afghanistan (DAFA) at their offices in Kabul.

The first week I spent in Kabul, which was one of most curious juxtapositions, for the most part I spent it wondering around their library compiling a reference list on Central Asian exploration and a dictionary of archaeological terms for the excavation of Buddhist monasteries with all the luxuries one would not expect in Afghanistan.

I had been told on my first morning, over a peaceful breakfast, that should we come under mortar fire at night the sirens would give five seconds warning and that I should run to the shelter, 11 seconds away. Alternatively, I could choose to accept fate and die comfortably in bed. The laid-back attitude and casual manner of some was surprising and amusing.

Fortunately, for the most part, Cerberus’s bark was distant and faint, chained in some far off neighbour’s yard. But the occasional staccato clatter and dull crash reminded everyone just how to strain the chains were that restrained him.

For the second week, I helped to excavate the oldest mosque so far found in Afghanistan, Hadji Pijada/ Noh Gonbad (collapsed c. 891CE), in Balkh province in the north not far from the border with Uzbekistan. Of fundamental importance in understanding the early spread and acceptance of Islam which reached Kabul in 667CE before spreading to the provinces of Khorasan.

4am is never a pleasant time to be doing anything, but the serenity of the hour rewards those compelled to see it. The dawns first light bathed the city of Mazar-e-Sharif with a cold and yet forgiving light, reflecting off the blue Timurid tiles and erasing the craters before settling slowly in the poppy fields; then scorching them with its midday fury — seemingly pre-empting the addict’s actions.

Throughout my time in the country, the Director was always on hand to offer suggestions of questionable logic which promised a smile and an “are you serious?”. We were told we could stop for ice-cream on the way home from our work and 12 hours under the Bactrian sun, but so too would the local Taliban. In fairness, it was good ice-cream.

Of my whole experience, one moment stays with me more than any.

In the Babur gardens, the former sanctuary of the Shahs, a student sat beneath a silver poplar with the searing sun soliciting a smile, but in the shadow and the sky spectres scanned, scoped, and spotted. Surveillance and the suspension of seclusion are the stipulated sacrifices for a semblance of serenity, but then such is the settlement to substitute semtex with sorbets. The combination of history, beauty and the sense of somewhat impending danger reflecting what has always attracted me to that most unique of nations.