Mahdani Lojward (Lapis Lazuli Mines), District of Keron Wa Manjon, Province of Badakhshan, Afghanistan (October 2016)
The fabric of the awning over the narrow veranda of the small stone hut is torn to shreds and the void space between the wooden sticks that form the frame allows a stunning view on a majestic mountain of pure rock that gleams in the sunlight against the steel blue sky. The rags flapping slightly in a hardly perceptible breeze in the almost deserted mining settlement in a remote valley of the Hindu Kush in Afghanistan’s northeastern province of Badakhshan certainly give the feeling of being close to the end of the world.
On maps the settlement in the district of Keron Wa Manjon in southern Badakhshan is marked as Sar-i Sang, but locals call the place simply Mahdani Lojward – „lapis lazuli mines“ in Dari. The namesake mines lie in the nearly perpendicular rocky slopes of the mountains above the encampment. There, people mine for lapis lazuli – a deep blue semi-precious stone that already thousands of years ago found its way to such far away places like Ancient Egypt, where the polished lapis was used, amongst others, to decorate the world famous funeral mask of child pharaoh Tutankhamun and is up to this date still found in lesser jewellery than Tutankhamun’s mask around the world.
Reaching Keron Wa Manjon and the lapis lazuli mines has become more tricky recently. Some years ago, it was possible to take a rather easy route from the provincial capital of Fayzabad upstreams along the Kukcha river through several districts until the mining settlement that lies just a few kilometres below the convergence of the Manjon and Anjumon rivers that form the Kukcha. However, nowadays certain areas along this road, the southern part of the district of Jurm and the whole district of Yamgon, are under firm Taliban control. But there is another way – over the mountains.
The alternative route goes via Panjshir, a valley to the northeast of the Afghan capital Kabul, which is renown as a fortress of resistance not only against the Soviet invasion, but also the Taliban when they tried to take over the whole of Afghanistan before the US-led toppling of their regime in 2001. Entering Panjshir, it is easily imaginable why the place never fell to the Taliban: the rocks of the mountains at the mouth of the valley are shaped like giant shields protecting the gates to Panjshir. Once entered, the tarmac road follows the icy blue gushing water of the river that is also called Panjshir between the steep, now in autumn mostly bleak slopes of the valley, passing through village after village of traditional mud houses between still green trees and fields. Seemingly oversized mosques with bright paint coat and gleaming metallic cupolas as well as quite a number of huge mansions protected by high walls topped with shiny barbed wire are a clear sign that some residents have made a fortune after being swept to power in the wake of the US-led overthrow of the Taliban.
By the time I reach the last tiny village in the district of Paryan high up at the end of the valley it is after nightfall and the pitch black silhouettes of the mountains seem to make the valley even narrower. The reason for my late arrival was not the length of the journey from Kabul, but the fact that the uniformed and secret police of Panjshir held me up for hours. Obviously, they were suspicious of a foreigner travelling to Keron Wa Manjon on his own like a local. In addition, and for reasons unbeknownst to me, they also did their best to scare me away with lurid, made-up tales of Taliban and Daesh, also known as the self-declared Islamic State, on the way to the mines. After a lot of heated discussions and being more or less detained, I somehow managed to pass though.
Early in the next morning, I find a ride over the Anjumon Pass to Keron Wa Manjon – one of the in Afghanistan ubiquitous battered Toyota HiAce vans; this one bringing loads of goods as well as some passengers to a shop in the village of Anjumon just on the other side of the pass. Accounts on how difficult – or if at all possible – it would be to cross the at an altitude of reportedly 4,430 metres above sea level high Anjumon Pass differed widely in Kabul. In the end, it is quite easy. The ascent from Paryan is gentle and – albeit the tarmac ends before the pass and the dusty dirt road over stone-strewn plains between the barren slopes and mountains framing the valley is bumpy and washed out in some places – it is fine enough; even for a far from optimal vehicle such as the weathered Toyota HiAce.
Shortly before arriving at the highest point of the pass, a turn offers a magnificent sight – a tiny flat stretch of land gives the view free to the east, over Keron Wa Manjon, where at the far away horizon thrones a mighty snow capped mountain with small shreds of clouds around its peak that look like they got entangled in its craggy rocks. „There is no higher mountain in the whole world than Banda Kuh“, one of the passengers, a grey-bearded man with a silk turban, wrongly insists.
The highest point of the pass itself is surrounded by other, much closer, but smaller peaks of bare rock, peppered by some tiny snow fields. On my way back, it will snow here with snowflakes being blown over the windswept ridges in layers of ghostly white haze. Locals will tell me that the pass will soon be closed for months for any vehicle, virtually sealing off Keron Wa Manjon from the outside world.
Directly after the highest point comes the only real difficult part of the pass: a steep slope of loose rubble. Moving slowly down the hairpin bends of the serpentine road that was somehow built through the shingle, the wrecked chassis of two cars at the bottom are a silent reminder of what could happen, if the driver does not pay attention. However, steadily driving, we make it safely down without any troubles.
Driving further down, some stone huts are visible in the distance at the floor of the valley. Despite their seemingly derelict state at least some are apparently still used as ayloqs – temporary settlements for spending the summer with the cattle on the high pastures – as a tiny caravan of a few donkeys slowly makes its way down the valley, literally dwarfed by the breathtaking mountain scenery. Before the final descent to the village of Anjumon, the road and the donkey caravan pass the deep blue waters of Anjumon lake that sparkingly reflect the rays of bright sunlight, adding yet another delightful facet to the sublime landscape.
The village of Anjumon itself lies in a gentle valley between dry meads, that are sometimes surrounded by low walls of piled natural stones. At the very beginning of the village, and in a stark contrast to all the other traditional mud houses, a commander of a local irregular armed group is building himself a modern, flat-roofed three-storey mansion – a sign that at least some have profited not badly from Keron Wa Manjon’s deep blue treasures. This is the final destination of my current ride. But another Toyota HiAce is swiftly found; this time it drives straight to the mines where the few men in the van want to try their luck.
Driving further down the valley towards Iskazer, the effective centre of the district of Keron Wa Manjon, the road several time crosses the splashing Anjumon river. The wooden bridges appear to be relatively new and are solidly built – reportedly financed à la Robin Hood by the irregular local armed group that overtook the lapis mines in January 2014 and, since then also takes its share of the revenues. But in the end, the bridges are still wooden patchwork rather than real development and certainly fade against the commander’s concrete villa in Anjumon.
Reaching Iskazer, the valley widens up. The village itself sits on top of a small plateau, mostly hidden by green trees on the other side of the river, but the road on this side crosses the main bazaar of Iskazer and Keron Wa Manjon. Nothing more than a short dusty street lined by small wooden shacks that house the very few shops, it oozes frontier atmosphere. As does the Mazda Titan pick-up with countless empty jerrycans strapped to its roof; and the lonely Kamaz, a Russian-made lorry, standing idly in the bazaar, half-loaded with white bags, presumably containing chunks of lapis lazuli – the only valuable thing that this godforsaken land offers. Oddly enough and anything but fitting in, at the end of the bazaar is a small petrol station with two quite new pumps. The burnt out, wheelless car sitting on stones right next to it then again better matches the forlorn scenery.
Leaving the bazaar behind, the valley floor soon becomes a wide plain with countless islands between the meandering arms of the river whose lush green provides grazing for the meagre local cattle. A little bit further on, before the Anjumon river joins its waters with the Manjon, forming the lightly turquoise hued Kukcha, the road turns away from the green plain towards the brown hills and mountains into the Kukcha valley running north.
In the Kukcha valley, the road passes two tiny villages – Parwara and Lojwardshoo – where some new or renovated houses painted in lurid pink and light blue further hint at profits from the trade with the lapis lazuli. Between the villages, the valley is a desert of rock and dust framed by huge cliffs with large cones of rubble at their feet. And the cliffs are indeed awe-inspiring – walls of pure rock that seem to reach literally to the sky. Sometimes, the road clings to the bare face of the rock high above the river, halfway resting on walls which have been neatly piled with stones into the crevasses. It makes you wonder, how people were able to build them in the first place. Below, the broad Kukcha river is still sprayed, albeit with fewer islands, sometimes covered in shrubberies that the locals exaggeratory call jangal, which translates to „forest“.
Finally after a long jolty ride, the lapis lazuli mines come in sight. My travel companions point out small holes, nothing more than tiny dots in the rock face in front of us. It does not look like much. But then, it is evident that the treasures are hidden deep inside the mountains. And the locals, like most of their fellow countrymen, are obsessed with the – real and perceived – treasures of their land. In fact, some are so obsessed that they assert that whole mountains of the towering range forming the valley consist of pure lapis lazuli, just waiting to be extracted.
Passing a stocky two-storey watchtower in the architectural style of post-2001 international aid, the van reaches its destination: the mining settlement of Mahdani Lojward. The settlement lies on the other side of the river, but is easily accessible by a solid concrete bridge – this as well as other concrete bridges in the Kukcha valley are not owed to the lapis lazuli though, but to the charity of the Aga Khan Foundation’s development projects that date back years. At the other side of the bridge, another watchtower, an exact clone of the first one, stands silently guard. The black smoke stains on its side as well as the few car wrecks strewn around it create a desolate atmosphere; just as a large steel-grey, deserted factory hall does that contrasts the surrounding, very rudimentary and slowly crumbling stone huts. However, a HMMWV resting idly on a patch of green grass with windows cracked, but not shattered, where bullets once hit them is a reminder that people deem this forsaken place – or rather the treasures hidden in the mountains above – worth fighting for.
Still, large parts of the mining settlement appear to be deserted. Even what you probably could call the main street – a simple narrow dirt track going slightly up the side valley, passing the whole encampment – looks bleak. The makeshift awnings resting on slim and shaky wooden beams are more often then not torn and the double doors on the verandas below are tightly shut. Only the mostly new padlocks on the doors are a small hint that people hope to return and that it will be again like in the old days.
Before and also some time after the takeover of the mines by irregular local forces in January 2014, Mahdani Lojward was reportedly thriving with thousands of miners and traders, whose various needs also drew an array of shopkeepers, bakers, pharmacists and others to the place. They even built a quite large white mosque on a concrete terrace roughly in the middle of the settlement; and there are allegedly additional mosques in other corners of the encampment.
But then, the government clamped down on the unregulated, illegal trade of lapis lazuli, incrementally blocking its transport – first on the easy route to Fayzabad and later, reportedly somewhen in the first half of 2016, also the route over the Anjumon Pass via which traders thought to be able to outwit the government. Since then, most people have left the once bustling place. Mahdani Lojward was always only a mining encampment: a place to stay for work, but not to live permanently.
No one knows, how many remained. At best a very few hundreds, most of them strolling or sitting aimlessly around between the mainly deserted interlaced stone huts. Many are shopkeepers claiming to stay to prevent their places from being looted. Some of the miners still go to the tunnels, but they allege that they are only checking or doing maintenance work, but no actual mining. They probably hide that some lapis is still mined and somehow smuggled through the government blockade. But it can’t be in large amounts – it simply seems impossible that anyone in Keron Wa Manjon would be capable of creating such an inversed Potemkin scenery of desolation just to trick me.
The next morning, my way finally brings me to one of the mines itself – Junduk. People warn me of the tough ascent. Up the side valley, just after the settlement, a small footpath mounts a very steep slope in countless of small serpentines. On the other slope of the side valley, framed by the brown rocks of the mountains, another mine is visible – Pitawuk. The several tunnels of Pitawuk look like simple black caves in the craggy cliff. But more than the fine paths leading to them, the most clearly visible sign of their nature are the huge cones of grey-white debris just below them that don’t match the surrounding brown rubble. These tons of grey-white rubble are what miners were and are willing to quarry and carry away from inside the tunnels to get to the real price – the blue lapis lazuli.
At the top of the slope, the pathway to Junduk leads over bare rocks. Almost invisibly, the miners have „built“ a trail through and over them – nothing special; just a hint of the more easily to traverse parts along which some stepping stones that have been put in place to create a very rudimentary kind of stair so that no one has to climb. Actually climbing would in any event be next to impossible for the men that carry down heavy bags of lapis lazuli on their backs, that have been long ago curved by this arduous task.
Up on the rocks, the trail crosses a jagged ridge and finds itself on a spot high above the main Kukcha valley. From here, the last part of the ascent leads to the mine of Junduk – just below the peak that still conceals the late morning sun. Junduk, once reached, is an array of a few dozen stone huts, even more crude than the ones in Mahdani Lojward, that cling to the steep side of the mountain like an eagle’s nest, creating a breathtaking view – the surrounding phalanx of bleak, unforgiving huge walls and craggy peaks of bare rock is only sometimes interrupted by cones of debris at their feet and, from above here, the river and the very few green things it gives life to virtually disappear in the vastness of stone and dust under a cloudless blue sky.
The huts are mere shelters for the miners that stay a few nights in Junduk. Before, due to their work, but nowadays, they claim mostly to keep an eye on the jackhammers and other equipment – albeit the danger of theft seems quite unlikely given the difficulty to reach the place. The reportedly three separate tunnels of the mine themselves are hidden somewhere between the alleyways of this extraordinary encampment.
Going into one of the tunnels, a few makeshift steps carved out of the stone on the ground descend into the darkness. The tunnel – albeit allegedly the largest of Junduk – is rather underwhelming. It is no elaborately built underground maze, as one might imagine; just one single shaft into the mountain. On several stretches, the tunnel narrows down so much that one has to squat and crawl until the next wider part. The air is hot and sticky. Certainly nothing for claustrophobics. But even for someone that is not, but still not used to such an environment, there is a slightly unnerving feeling about the tightness and the millions of tons of rock that, with every minute inside the tunnel, seem to weigh heavier and heavier on one’s mind. In addition, without the small flashlights of the miners and myself, the darkness would be complete – an all engulfing black, threatening to trigger another primeval fear. At some point there is a small chamber where miners built a rudimentary plateau of piled stones. Blankets lying on it, mark it as some kind of camp inside the mine. Going further, the end of the mine is reached; another oval chamber, this time a little bit larger.
And here it finally is. The massive rock that forms the ceiling is streaked with veins of lapis lazuli that shine deep blue in the flash of the torches – like shards of the azure sky entrapped in the very heart of the mountain. In some places, sprinkles of pyrite – fool’s gold – look like sparkling stars on the firmament of lapis lazuli. As if this would really be a place, where the sky once touched the earth…
There is not much time to marvel at the wonderful sight though. For some reason, the miners very soon press to get again out of the tunnel. Under other circumstances, I would have minded; but not today. Most unfortunately, the strains of the ascent have apparently given an infection or virus the chance to fully break out and I already felt like hell when entering the mine. And the stifling shaft did not make it better at all. So we hurry back through the dark tunnel to the very literal light at its end.
Once out, at the brink of exhaustion I suck in the clear mountain air. It does not help much though. In fact, I have gotten so weak that I am barely able to make the descent. However, somehow I manage to get down the mountain and to the mining settlement. But after lying around feverishly in my quarters in Mahdani Lojward for the next two days without getting any better, I have to bury my hopes to explore the other mines.
So I have to leave the lapis lazuli mines and Keron Wa Manjon without having been able to venture much around. However, I am quite sure that my Shangri-La does not lie at the lapis lazuli mines. While it might indeed be a place where the sky has once met the earth, there are simply too many people willing to scheme and fight for the lapis lazuli – those shards of the sky – than it could ever be a place forgotten by the world.
(For my additional news reports on the lapis lazuli mines see:
„The Personal Feud That’s Strangling Afghanistan’s Precious Mineral Trade“, published in The National Interest on 26th of November 2016;
“Afghanistan’s Lapis Lazuli Trade at a Standstill“, published on ChinaDialogue.net on 2nd of December 2016;
“Das blaue Wunder“, published in Die Weltwoche on 22nd of March 2017)
(Interested in pictures from the lapis lazuli mines? Visit SOPA Images or my 500px account.)
