Memories of my second day in Herat, woven within the pages of my worn-out, dusty 1978 “Hippie Trail” journal, draw me back to a dreamy landscape, tinted by hints of the exotic east. The earthy scent of the marketplace, filled with the aroma of spices, lentils, and honeyed sweets, unfurls in my mind like an old carpet. Silver ornaments glimmer in the sunlight, tempting trinkets that twinkle suspended amidst the chants of the tradesmen and the ceaseless murmur of negotiation; a symphony of life and culture that has been playing on repeat.
I recall standing near the ancient mosque’s azure mosaic façade, its intricate designs etched against a clear cerulean sky. The midday call to prayer echoed throughout the city, folding itself into the everyday rhythms of Herat. The legacy of Persian poets and philosophers is tangible here. The place is a symphony of colours: rain-washed cobalt, mint green, hues of sun-scorched terracotta blended with the mellow gold of the desert sand. ‘Herat’ I inked in my journal with a trailing end-note, drenched in a profound sense of admiration for the dramatic, mesmerizing, and eloquent desolation of Afghanistan in the late seventies.
