Minaret of Jam

Article by: Paul Clammer, January 2007

And then, in an unexpected and magical moment, we arrived. The constant switches of the road and the steep valley walls meant that the object of our quest was shielded from us until the last minute, but suddenly there it was: the Minaret of Jam. Over 65m high, it was so close that we could almost have driven into it without realising. The aches of the road instantly dissolved in a fit of laughter. It was the holy grail of travel in Afghanistan, and I'd made it.

The minaret is a strange beast. It stands as a lonely sentinel at the confluence of two rivers, about as far from civilisation as it's possible to get. It's an almost forgotten testament to the Ghorid empire - a grand but short-lived dynasty who ruled Afghanistan in the 12th century. At the time of its construction, the minaret was the tallest in the world, and until the 20th century only the Qutb Minar in Delhi was taller. Not that anyone really knew it, as the minaret's existence was forgotten by the outside world until its 'discovery' in 1943. For years afterwards, archaeologists were mystified about its purpose. Its isolated location begs the same question from every visitor: why here?

The minaret isn't some hastily thrown-up affair either. It's a proud example of Islamic brick architecture. Three tapering cylindrical storeys rise from a vast octagonal base, the whole completely covered in intricate raised café-au-lait brick decoration. Interlocking chains, polygons and medallions wind delicately around the shaft, interspersed with text from the Quran. At the neck of the first section, a band of glazed turquoise text spells out the name of Ghiyasuddin, the sultan who erected it. Above this are spars from the original wooden scaffold and brick buttresses that would once have supported a balcony. The second and third shafts are more restrained in their decoration, surmounted with a final lantern gallery of pinched and pointed arches. Few muezzins have ever had such a stage for their call to prayer.

It stands as a lonely sentinel at the confluence of two rivers, about as far from civilisation as it's possible to get.

The view from the top allows a better understanding of the site. On one side of the minaret a rickety ladder allowed me to climb through a small entrance hole 5m above the ground. Unusually there were two staircases, winding around each other like a DNA double-helix. Trying not to stumble on the dark, narrow steps, I cursed myself for leaving my torch in my rucksack. Eventually the stairs opened out into a wide chamber, pierced with windows. Rather nervously I stuck my head out, and lost my breath. The view was dizzying. Two blue-grey ribbons of water ran worryingly close to the base of the minaret, bound by the narrowest strip of green. My vehicle far below looked like a toy car; the mountains were the real masters of the scene.

Above me, a second staircase continued to just below the lantern gallery. It was frighteningly precarious. The site caretaker, who had accompanied me up, laughed at my hesitancy and bounded up like a mountain goat. Imagining myself tumbling to my doom a hundred miles from any help, I decided to stay where I was and enjoy the view instead.

From my vantage point I could pick out a host of small pits and trenches dug farther along the river banks. They were robber holes. After the fall of the Taliban the area around the minaret was looted by antiques dealers. In doing so they confirmed a long-held theory that the site was that of Firuzkoh, the fabled lost city of the Ghorids, trashed by Genghis Khan in the 13th century. The floor plans of several large buildings were exposed, and artefacts - carved doors, coins, pottery from as far afield as China - were dug up (and instantly sold on the private market).

Few muezzins have ever had such a stage for their call to prayer.

In 2003, the Minaret of Jam became Afghanistan's first World Heritage Site, and UNESCO have been working with other archaeologists to consolidate the site and excavate it further. They've also rebuilt the old guesthouse next to the minaret. After two nights of sleeping on the floors of teahouses, a mattress felt like a rare treasure. There was another epic drive the following day, to the city of Herat, but that could wait. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow, dreaming of minarets stretching all the way to the stars.

Photos by Stephen Shucart