From: Bill -------------------- Have luck, will travel Afghanistan's airline -------------------- The Tribune's E.A. Torriero swallows his fear and embarks on a trip by air and by prayer. Tribune staff reporter E.A. Torriero was on assignment recently in Afghanistan February 18, 2002 KABUL, Afghanistan -- In the reservation control office at dingy Ariana Airlines, the national airline of Afghanistan, there are neither reservations nor control. Customers are directed instead by a sleepy security guard to a dark lobby where a man in a light blue suit sits behind a desk and licks an unlit cigarette like a lollipop. "Where do you want to go?" he asks, twirling the wet cigarette between his fingers. Where do you go? "Not very far and not very often," he replies. Ariana, the ticket clerk explains, is an airline in distress. The U.S. bombing raids last fall have given new meaning to the expression "business in receivership." "Look, we used to have three Boeing 727s and five Russian Antonovs," he said. "But you [Americans] bombed us. One bomb fell on three planes at once. Now we have one 727 and one Antonov." How did those two survive? "I don't know," he says. "It was a miracle." Ariana was the airline of choice for the frequent fliers of the Taliban and Al Qaeda. It flew to destinations in Afghanistan but did not fly abroad because of international sanctions against the Taliban. "We gave the Taliban wonderful service and we will do the same for you," the clerk said. Ariana began flying again in recent weeks after bomb craters that pocked the runway at Kabul International Airport were filled in. The airline's lone 727 made an inaugural trip to New Delhi with 11 passengers in January. It was supposed be the start of twice-weekly service. But the plane has been chartered to ferry Muslim pilgrims to Mecca this month. Even so, many of the flights to Mecca have failed to materialize, leading to scenes of chaos. On Sunday, a crowd surged toward the departure terminal, shattering a large window. Last week, the government's aviation minister, Abdul Rahman, was killed at the airport. Initial reports said he was attacked by a mob of angry travelers, but interim Afghan leader Hamid Karzai has blamed the attack on conspirators within the government. Meanwhile, the Antonov--an admirable crate of metal that dates to the time of the deepest freeze in the Cold War--is the airline's workhorse. It flies on Mondays and Fridays, or on Saturdays if not enough people sign up to fly on Fridays. However, it flies only to and from the trading city of Herat. The one-way fare: $96 for Afghans and $200 for foreigners. "Foreigners have money," the clerk explains. The agent pulls out a blank ticket. On the ticket's back, the faces of native Afghans have been scribbled over in ink because the Taliban did not allow the public display of human likenesses. "Good luck," the clerk says, handing over the ticket. "The plane leaves at 8 [a.m.], or maybe 8:30, God willing." At the war-scarred airport the next morning, passengers fling their luggage through the broken windows of a terminal building that has no lights, no heat and is riddled with bullet holes and damage from mortar blasts. The terminal is as dark as a cave. Passengers are asked to identify their luggage, if they can see it, and then pass security where soldiers search them for weapons. In one computer bag, a soldier finds a grave security threat: AA batteries. After much debate, the soldier decides to hand the batteries to a pilot for safekeeping until the plane lands. After 10, two hours behind schedule, passengers are escorted onto the tarmac--foreigners in one line and Afghans in another. They are told to turn and face the armed soldiers. "Are they the firing squad?" one passenger wonders aloud. The Antonov looks as if it belongs in a museum. The cabin is painted drab yellow. The lights don't work. The seats are worn. Baggage is stacked in the back of the plane near the dank bathroom, and in the front of the plane near the cockpit. As passengers settle into their seats, a maintenance man prowls the aisles and bangs at parts inside the plane with his hand. He seems concerned. An elderly man in an olive military jacket strolls into the cockpit. Apparently, he is the pilot. He starts the engines, the plane lurches forward, and after a brief delay on the runway, the Antonov is airborne. As the plane drones above mountains, a uniformed male flight attendant offers passengers cookies made in Iran and a mango drink from Pakistan. About an hour into the flight, the wheels are lowered, causing a thud that shakes the plane. Passengers jump out of their seats and look nervously out the windows. A few minutes later, the Antonov bounces onto the Herat runway, slowing with a slight fishtail movement. On the return flight, delayed a day by snow in Kabul, a nervous Iranian businessman engages some American passengers in conversation about the Bush administration's view of Iran as part of an "axis of evil." "So tell me," he asks "are you going to bomb Tehran?" "Not with this Antonov," one American replies. Copyright (c) 2002, Chicago Tribune -------------------- Improved archives! Searching Chicagotribune.com archives back to 1985 is cheaper and easier than ever. New prices for multiple articles can bring your cost down to as low as 30 cents an article: http://chicagotribune.com/archives