Travelling along the storied “Hippie Trail” in 1978, I encountered mesmerising landscapes, rich cultures and captivating tales worth a lifetime. The pinnacle of the journey unfolded in Herat, Afghanistan – a place so steeped in history, it felt like peering through a keyhole into the annals of human civilization. The city, despite weathering the storms of time and conflict, stood there in all its splendid antiquity, a bustling reminder of the passionate mixture of Persian, Greek, and Islamic cultures it had sheltered for centuries.
The streets were a flush of colour, with women draped in vibrant Burqas and vendors selling everything, from intricately woven rugs to sizzling kabobs. It was a sensory overload, from the enticing aroma of Afghan bread to the soft rhythmic notes of rubab music wafting through the markets. Yet it was the local’s veneration for the past, the countless tales of powerful empires and resilient inhabitants, that gave Herat a profound sense of time’s continuum. In one of the world’s oldest cities, every stone felt like a frozen echo of yesteryears. Scribbled across the pages of my “Hippie Trail” journal, Herat, Afghanistan impressed itself as an unparalleled chapter of history, humanity and enduring spirit.
