After testing my homemade solar ovens on the balcony of the atrium, I was ready for a demonstration. I had been invited by the Romanian MOT to join them on a day trip to Marmol, a small village in the foothills of the Hindu Kush. It was only thirty miles from Mazār-i-Sharīf, but a bone-crunching three-hour drive up a winding, rocky, dry riverbed.
This was my second day-trip to Marmol with the Romanians. In late March, their young captain, his interpreter, and I had sipped tea for two hours and listened patiently in a chilly room while the Marmol district chief explained his village’s need for a new road, shortwave radios, and motorcycles for his policemen. When our meeting ended, the bearded and bespectacled young chief took us on a walking tour of his village. It was still dusted with snow and as silent as only a place free of machinery can be.
Each footstep, each scrape of boot on rock, even the soft rustling of our host’s woolen robes was magnified as we climbed toward the upper village. He led us along a steep trail and around melting clumps of snow to a cliff overlooking a tiny stand of cedar trees in a narrow canyon above the village.
“Here is our forest,” he announced proudly. “It used to fill the entire canyon, but this is all that remains.” It was less than an acre.
“The Russians destroyed part of it with their bombs, but wood thieves have tried to take the rest. Two men must stand guard here every night. If someone cuts down the remaining trees, our village will be washed away in the next big storm.
“Marmol has been here for more than two hundred years. I will not allow it to be destroyed,” he said defiantly. At this altitude, we could see for miles in every direction. There was not another tree in sight.
The Romanians and I followed the chief back down the trail until he stopped before a rough wooden door surrounded by high earthen walls. He turned to our interpreter. “Ask the woman if she would like to visit one of our families.”
I waited patiently for his translation, and quickly nodded my agreement. The chief rapped hard on the door. An elderly man with a gray beard cracked it open and peered out. As soon as he saw the chief, he swung the door wide and bowed his head. A rough mud partition directly behind him shielded the rest of his family from prying eyes. The chief motioned for me to enter and the man stood aside.
“Only the woman and I may go in,” the chief said to the soldiers when they tried to follow us.
Inside the compound, two women squatted in the dirt before a smoking pile of twigs, fanning it rapidly as they cooked a pot of rice. Their children, who had just returned from a foraging trip, were stacking a large pile of reeds and bushes against the far wall. The chief said nothing, but his message was clear. His village was running out of fuel.
When we arrived in Marmol on our return trip, the district chief greeted us like old friends. Just before we went in for our meeting, I poured a liter of water into a black pot and put it inside my homemade solar oven. Placing it on a patch of dirt in front of the chief’s compound, I rotated the oven to face the sun and left it to heat the water. The chief and a few men loitering nearby watched me with great interest, but did not ask for an explanation. They all stayed far away from the strange device.
When the Romanians and I stepped outside with the chief an hour later, the pot was boiling and the crowd of men had grown to more than forty. They had formed a circle around the box and were craning their necks to locate the hidden fire they believed was making the water boil.
I stood next to the chief and with the help of the Romanian’s interpreter explained to the incredulous men how this box was able to trap the heat of the sun. “It is not magic,” I assured them.
“Sahib, can this box make water hot enough for tea?” asked a heavyset man tugging on his thick black beard. “There is no fire.” The water was steaming, but he and the others still couldn’t believe what they were seeing.
The chief nodded. “Yes, and your women could cook food with this box,” he added, motioning for the man to approach.
I lifted the glass lid and invited the man to touch the steaming pot. When it burned his fingers, he shook them dramatically in the air and laughed in surprise.
After the chief had taken his turn touching the pot, the rest of the men stepped forward one by one to scald their fingers and prove to themselves that neither their eyes nor I were deceiving them.
“We have cardboard,” said a young man, “but where do we get that shiny paper? ”
“Madam Angela,” said the Romanian’s terp, who was also astounded to see water boiling inside a piece of cardboard, “these people do not have aluminum foil. What can they use to make such an oven?” He was right about the foil. In my excitement, I hadn’t thought that far ahead.
I was searching for a reply, when the chief reached into the pocket of his
shalwar kameez
and extracted a pack of cigarettes. He tore off a strip of the thin foil wrapper and waved it aloft like an offering to the gods.
“We can use this for our shiny paper,” he announced triumphantly as other men removed their own cigarette packs and flashed slivers of sunlight at each other with the small foil squares.
When we left the village that afternoon, I gave the box to the district chief and promised to send him rolls of foil so the men in his village wouldn’t have to smoke themselves to death to build their own solar ovens.
My report to the embassy on my solar cooking demonstration received no response, but I was hooked.
A few weeks later, I wrote up a proposal for a U.S.-funded solar oven project in a displaced persons camp a few miles from Mazār. I handed a copy directly to the ambassador when he came up for a two-hour meeting with Governor Daoud. The only reply I received from the embassy that time was a reprimand for jumping the chain of command by giving my proposal to the ambassador. If I did anything more with these solar ovens, it would have to be on my own.
The morning after my triumphant demo in Marmol, I was making a cup of tea in the soldiers’ dining hall when Mark appeared behind me to draw his own hot water from the urn.
“I hear the locals thought you were a sorceress yesterday when they saw you boiling water with a piece of cardboard.”
“They did have a little trouble believing what they were seeing,” I said, laughing, “but after they’d all burned their fingers on the pot they got it.”
“So will they be setting up a solar oven factory in Marmol any time soon? ”
“Not likely, Mark, but I would love to get out and show these to some women’s groups.”
“I doubt that will be possible,” he replied. “Other than weddings, I don’t believe there are any occasions when grown women are allowed to gather in public.”
“There must be someplace I can demonstrate them,” I argued.
“Even if there were, Angela, you aren’t at liberty to go off organizing ladies’ groups without a military escort,” he said with a shrug as he headed back to the ops room with his tea.
“Thanks for your support,” I muttered as he left the room.
TWENTY-EIGHT
April 16, 2005
It had seemed like a joke when I first read Plawner’s message. Citing my knowledge of Russian and my driving skills, he wanted to know if I was willing to make a six-hundred-mile round-trip by road with a U.S. cotton expert to a meeting in Tashkent, Uzbekistan—in the Beast, with no military escort. Just the two of us! I had accepted immediately, of course, but now, strapped into the cavernous, vibrating hold of a C-130 military flight on my way to meet the cotton expert in Kabul, my old insecurities came creeping back.
The United States and the UK were desperate to find replacement crops for the burgeoning fields of opium poppies that were spreading across the country like an out-of-control virus. Several senior Uzbek cotton experts, who had worked with Afghan farmers during the Soviet era, were apparently anxious to return to Afghanistan and share their knowledge. The U.S. agricultural expert who wanted to meet with them in their capital city of Tashkent had to be back in the States in less than three weeks. According to Plawner, the fastest way to get him to and from Uzbekistan was by road.
By late afternoon, I was settled into my temporary hooch on the embassy compound in Kabul. I confirmed my meetings with the ag official and called Jeef at the museum to arrange for the tour of the Bactrian gold collection he and Fazli had promised me. As soon as I hung up, my phone rang again.
“Angela, I found you at last,” said a familiar voice.
“Hello, Stefan. I didn’t know you were looking for me.”
“I heard you were flying down for meetings at the Ministry of Agriculture and thought we could get together for drinks tomorrow evening. I have an appointment with an old Bulgarian friend of mine at NATO headquarters at five. I could join you in the bar around six. What do you say? ”
It was wonderful to hear his voice, but tiny alarm bells started to ring in my head. Why was Stefan tracking my movements so closely? Should I be flattered or concerned? I decided to be a bit of both.
“I’d say that’s the best invitation I’ve had in months, Stefan. I’d love to join you, but my schedule the next few days is pretty packed. Who told you I was coming to Kabul? ”
“My dear, we are all working together to help the Afghans,” said Stefan, gently reproaching me. “You must remember that those Uzbek cotton experts you are going to meet in Tashkent were trained in Moscow and sent to Afghanistan thirty years ago by my former government, the late great Soviet Union. Your embassy’s agricultural representative and ours have been discussing the need to coordinate with the Uzbeks for the past several weeks.”
So far, his story seemed completely plausible.
“When I learned from one of your colleagues that you spoke fluent Russian—naughty girl for keeping that little detail from me,” he chided, “I suggested that you and your USDA man drive up to Tashkent for the meetings. Your British military escort will have to abandon you at the border, but you’ll be quite safe driving on your own in Uzbekistan.”
Although he seemed to be making light of the fact I had not told him about my fluency in Russian, I cringed when Stefan mentioned it, and said nothing while he continued with his story.
“We passed the idea to your embassy and apparently they liked it. I also thought you would appreciate the opportunity to see how we have restored the great Timurid monuments of Samarkand, which is on your route to Tashkent.”
This made sense and seemed completely aboveboard. In my relief, I sighed a bit too heavily into the phone.
“Angela?”
“Yes, Stefan, I’m fine, and I suppose I do owe you a big thank-you. I’ve always wanted to see Samarkand. Why don’t we meet for drinks the next time I’m in Kabul. I’ll give you a call when I get back.”
“Why do I have to wait that long? You can at least have one drink with me while you’re in town. No? ”
After another pause, I replied, “
Da
. . . sure, I’d love to join you.”
Stefan switched immediately to Russian, “My dearest little Angela, it will be a delight to see you.”
“You, too, Stefan.”
“Don’t hang up yet. I’m not finished,” he said suddenly. “When will you be taking your R and R? I’ll be coming up to the consulate in Mazār a few times this summer, and I don’t want to miss seeing you.”
I hadn’t thought about taking any time off. I was busy and starting to enjoy myself. “I don’t really know, Stefan. It depends on my father’s health, but you’ll be the first to know when I decide.”
“Excellent. Until tomorrow evening, then.”
I reluctantly admitted to myself that I was anxious to see Stefan, perhaps too anxious. His sharp intelligence and sardonic wit made him fun to be around, and I couldn’t deny that I found him attractive. I stretched out on the bed in my hooch and reviewed the details of that one delightful evening we’d spent together in Dubai. Too bad I couldn’t wear my little black dress to the NATO bar tomorrow night. It would have to be my usual trousers, tunic, and long-sleeved shirt.
TWENTY-NINE
April 17, 2005
✦ KABUL
Wednesday afternoon, an armored embassy vehicle dropped me at the heavily guarded Kabul Museum compound where the Bactrian gold and other treasures from Afghanistan’s distant past were being cleaned, restored, and catalogued for eventual display. Jeef bounded down the steps and wrapped his weathered fingers around mine.
“Angela, what a delight to see you. I’m so sorry Rahim couldn’t join us. How is my star pupil doing? ”
“He’s reading everything he can get his hands on about the ancient history of Afghanistan,” I said, smiling at the sight of this energetic Frenchman. “I fear you may yet convince him to run off and join your dig.”
Jeef led me through the dim, musty corridors of the museum and into a brightly lit but windowless room filled with Afghans and foreigners in white lab coats working quietly over trays of gold ornaments.
Fazli waved us over to his table. Speaking in French, he began to explain the history of the delicate silver-and-gilt ceremonial plate he was cleaning. It would be so much easier to converse with him in Dari, but I waited patiently while Jeef translated his French into English.
Fazli placed the fragile, two-thousand-year-old plate into my outstretched hands. It was less than ten inches in diameter. Carved in bas-relief were two women wearing flowing gowns and riding a gilt chariot pulled by a matched pair of black lions with thick golden manes. A robed guard held a feather canopy to shelter the women from the glare of the sun god, who stared down from his perch in the sky.
“Who do these figures represent?” I asked.
Fazli nodded at Jeef, who proceeded to respond to my question.
“Cybele, the Greek goddess of nature, is the main figure in this plate. She greatly resembles the goddess Artemis on your pin,” he said, glancing at the tiny Scythian princess on Tom’s brooch, which I wore almost every day.