The Afghan Queen: A True Story of an American Woman in Afghanistan (21 page)

Whirling Sufi Dervishes perform in the Galata Mevlevihane (Mevlevi Lodge), Istanbul
*

The old mullah kept his promise. His English was barely understandable; nevertheless, he tore our hearts out with his story. The murder of 10,000 mullahs, families, and followers was described. This act of genocide occurred nearly 1,000 years ago at the hands of Christian crusaders near Jerusalem.

The Topkapi Mosque was originally built as a memorial by the survivors. He described the suffering of the Dervish community and their new persecution at the hands of modern day despots who dared to call themselves Children of Allah, “May they suffer an eternity of hells, as we did.” Once he got started there was no stopping him, nor would we have wished to stop him even if we could.

“Why should we suffer so? We dance for God. We dance for the immortality of our souls. We dance to know the celestial heavens, and toward this goal the Koran directs us.” After saying all this, the old man was so exhausted with emotional fatigue that we helped him close up for the night.

“It was terrible to think,” He said, “that foreigners showed more concern than our fellow Turks.” We took him to a small café nearby. It was decrepit, but he said he could rest peacefully there. He said he hoped to see us again before he passed on.

By that time it was late and there were only the six of us with the old mullah. Before leaving, he reached into his robe and brought out some old photos. The way he looked around the nearly empty café I thought they might be porno photos. But no, these were the forbidden pictures of Dervishes in full regalia doing their forbidden dances.

They wore their traditionally large felt fezzes, huge billowy sleeves, and tunics with small vests. The Dervishes stood poised as if on the brink of paradise. In the photos they danced with their right thumb raised at eye level and arm straight out in front, spinning into a celestial ecstasy.

This was a moving experience, and we were in tears. After taking the old Mullah home, we retreated to our campsite. I can’t remember if I slept that night, but the memory of the Mullah’s story was still indelibly etched in my mind.

After three days of searching, I found the contact I was seeking in a little copper stall outside the covered bazaar. An old man who spoke no English read the note given by my contact. The note was written in Pashtu. He then motioned me to follow a young boy that he instructed. The boy led me to a lovely inner courtyard, up some stairs and into a clean, neatly arranged shop. A distinguished old gentleman was helping two people from Ireland. From his turban and prayer beads, it appeared he was also a hajji.

I spent some time talking with the people from Ireland. They too were tribal art dealers. Amazingly, the old hajji was fluent in English. He seemed well-off as he took us into his elegant office.

Lunch was brought in for all of us, and afterwards, an assistant, his grandson, brought in some ancient artifacts. From past experience, I knew it would be impossible to take any of these out of the country legally. Since we were all well aware of Turkish laws and prisons, I was not going to chance these items. No doubt, they were national treasures.

Carefully, with the utmost diplomacy, I explained that I could only purchase artifacts if they were complete with national museum stamp, release form and export certificate. To my surprise the hajji smiled coyly and immediately produced the necessary papers, complete with official stamps on photos of the items. I was able to legally purchase some at a reasonable price.

Some of the pieces were genuine Amlash artifacts. Amlash refers to tribal habitats on the south shore of the Caspian Sea, now part of Iran. One small bronze deer was later examined and certified as a 3,000 year-old artifact. One of the artifacts was a rare Amlash bull. Everything the Amlash created is highly stylized with beautiful pure curvature.

Rare Amlash bull, Malik Teppe
*

My host also showed me some ancient hand guns with rich mother-of-pearl inlay. For these he could not produce export seals so I had to refuse them. I was able to purchase some beautiful old pocket watches of silver with elaborate gold engraving quite reasonably. Similar watches were sold by New York antique dealers at five-times the price.

Quality amber is also difficult to export from Turkey. If it is extremely old by carbon dating, it cannot leave the country. Quite rightly, it is felt that Turkey, like Greece, has been ripped-off enough by foreigners. Artifact smugglers are dealt with much as are drug smugglers.

The Elgin Marbles were in the news again. Turkish officials and antique dealers would bring up this issue whenever I showed interest in anything that might be considered an antique.

From the sublime to the ridiculous, that same evening I went with my caravan friends, Dharma, Versant, Satya, and Bern to a dumpy disco. They played a lot of old rock and roll, which was fun. After a few hours I asked a waiter if there were any other discos in Istanbul. He said there were many, but they were worse than this one. A bouncer overheard this and threw us out of the club.

We had danced for a couple of hours before getting bounced. My mood was blue because after an evening spent dancing back home, Paul and I would end with great loving and that wasn’t going to happen here. The next morning I played some old dubbed over Beatles tape cassettes and was able to
get-off
listening to Paul’s voice on the tapes.

Mike’s contact put me in touch with an entire network of dealers. From these, I was able to locate some beautiful old ebony black and flamingo pink coral. The coral consisted of large thick pieces, not the more common branch-coral. Another dealer had antique pistols to show me. They were made to look antique. Although the workmanship was excellent with fine silver inlay; the pistols lacked an overall look of antiquity. I passed on these.

Half a day’s travel from Istanbul is the ancient site of Side, Gennet Sehir Antolya, as it is now called. Some of the ruins of this old Phoenician trading colony are over 3,000 years old. We camped near the ruins and a bright full moon lit the way for a night stroll. As I walked among the ruins, I offered up a prayer to the Moon Goddess.

I was all alone here enjoying the rare solitude as I rambled through the huge stone seaside amphitheater. Out of nowhere, a huge mastiff dog gently walked up to me. Before I thought about being frightened, the dog licked my hand.

After we got better acquainted, I noticed she had recently had a litter of pups. She had huge red eyes and seemed to be suffering. The dog didn’t make a sound but kept nuzzling my hand. Every time I sat down, she nuzzled me on to keep walking. We walked on together, side by side.

The next time I stopped, she sat at my feet. I removed my shoes to feel the fine grass growing between the stones, and the old dog-mother curled up on my feet as if to warm them. Again I studied the moon and closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them it was to find dog-mother had disappeared.

I stood on top of the stone stairs, looking in all directions. My newfound friend had completely vanished. All at once a great sense of peace enveloped me like a blanket. From my feet, where the dog-mother had warmed me, a comforting warmth rose throughout my body.

Dog-mother was with me for only a few minutes, but the warmth and peace of her presence remained with me for days. The next day, a museum guide told us that the stones I’d encountered were remnants of what was once a Phoenician temple dedicated to the Moon Goddess as represented by Dog-Mother. The stone I sat on last night was the center of a moon phase calculator for observing the heavens.

With the people who joined our caravan in Istanbul, we became 21 travelers. We were Australians, Americans, English, Swiss, Swedish, and French. The slow meandering pace of our caravan permitted time for reading, between shifts of bus driving, repairs, and cooking.

It was a great adventure for all of us. Even the hours lost at campgrounds while our repair team rotated tires or reinforced axles were accepted without complaints. We took these opportunities for writing and photographing our experiences. Except for me, I doubt if anyone else had any plans for the future.

Our slow meandering pace through the expanding countryside gave our minds a chance to expand as well. I had just finished Elizabeth Gould Davis’s
The First Sex
. At our evening campfire supper, I began spouting-off about the disgusting macho attitude of the men in our caravan:

The women in the majority cheered me on, while the men laughed it off with lingering smirks. They saw me as some kind of feminist comic. I grabbed a fry-pan and told them, “If you don’t wipe the smirk off your faces, I’ll wipe’em off for you with this frying pan. While we were all laughing, they immediately stopped smirking.

“If you think it’s so funny, you guys can start cleaning up the supper mess.” They started to sneak away from the camp site. As I howled at them and began chasing after, Versant and Satya picked up empty pots and followed me.

We knew the guys were heading for the bar. We rushed up behind them and smacked them in the behind with our pots. The guys fell down in fits of hilarity. We gals were also laughing as we grabbed their ears and dragged them back to camp.

Finally, caravan rules were imposed. Everyone must agree to help with caravan chores or else leave the caravan; after some discussion and whining, all agreed and the work load was shared by all. These guys, boys really, needed a mother, and I had plenty of practice with my teenage sons. I became ‘Mother Fury’ with three willing acolytes: Dharma, Versant, and Satya.

Dharma, as bus owner, announced to all the bus passengers, “All jobs will be assigned as needed. Any hesitation or refusal to do an assigned job, and you will be asked to leave the bus.”

Usually I’m the last person to get fired up about anything. While I have strong views, I prefer to remain in the background when there is someone around who is more assertive. At times my posture may lead people to believe I’m self-effacing. But when my temper is fired up, I become an unrelenting demon, along the lines of Ibsen’s
Demoniac
. For this reason, Dharma dubbed me Mother Fury.

I’d been reading by the campfire after the confrontation between gals and guys over the division of work. We’d resolved the issue of job assignments, at least for the time being. Essentially these were the same jobs that any household faces: shopping, cooking, cleaning up, minding the kids, maintenance, and repairs.

It was about midnight when Dharma returned from a nearby garage. She was working on the bus transmission again. She insisted that I fix her a late supper. I told her that I put some warm food aside for her. She asked me to bring her a plate of food. I said that my day’s work was done and she would have finished much earlier if she had let me help with the transmission.

Dharma insisted that it was her bus and no one knew the transmission as well as she. “That’s true,” I said, “but I helped in the past and it sped up the work. Besides, you get easily frustrated and I can take a fresh look at the problem and often come up with a fix. But you look so worn out, sit down by the fire and I’ll get you some food.”

She relaxed a bit and ate every scrap on the plate I fixed for her. I got her a glass of
Retsina,
and she apologized for her hot temper. She began cursing herself in Swiss-German, which I understood. I leaned over and hugged her, at which point she began crying. I cried along with her.

The next day, after a campfire breakfast, we finalized assigning jobs to everyone. Dharma and I finished our work on the bus transmission. Versant and Satya checked the bus underside for oil leaks, exhaust and tire pressure. The others were asked to clean the bus windows, inside and outside, as well as clean the seats and mop the floor with disinfectant.

After a couple of hours all the bus work was complete. Everyone was free for the remainder of the day until seven in the evening for supper prep and campsite chores. Dharma, Versant, Satya, and Mother Fury (me) toured Istanbul and purchased provisions in the bazaar. I continued the pursuit of tribal crafts, especially jewelry and textiles.

Jewelry with amber, copal, lapis or turquoise sold rapidly, so these were my primary objectives. Embroidered clothing and dresses with coin silver were also in demand, and tent and camel decorative textiles were sought by museums.

Each tribe and clan ‘owned’ specific designs, patterns, songs, and dances, much as do Native Americans and most tribal people throughout the world.

Camel bags were beautifully woven and usually large. They were often made from kilems (thin woven rugs). In Europe and the States camel bags became wall hangings and handbags.

On the way back to camp we four stopped at the bar at the edge of the campgrounds for cold beer. As we sat drinking and talking, we overheard our bus guys in the far corner wrapped up in an orgy of cursing and whining about “Lela and her Furies.” We listened for about fifteen minutes. They were obviously drunk and feeling sorry for themselves.

The four of us had worn scarfs around our heads most of the day to avoid attention. We became increasingly angry at the loud indecent and drunken bluster in the corner of the bar. We were now hot under the collar, literally and figuratively. I lowered my head scarf and my ‘sisters’ did the same.

I could feel my temples pounding and nostrils flaring. Finally, it all spilled out. I walked over to our ‘bus-boys’ in their corner. While they cowered like beaten dogs, Mother Fury gave them the scolding they deserved.

“Sorry to interrupt your verbal masturbation, but you’re shouting is rattling the bar glasses and the patrons are complaining. You fascist pigs are about to get an English lesson you’ll never forget,” and I began cursing them in American street vernacular. Dharma, Versant, and Satya joined me.

“You want mothering? Mother Fury and the Furies will give you mothering,” I said. One of the boys replied, “That sounds like a rock band, Mother Fury and the Furies.” Dharma pulled him out of his seat and said, “You bunch of slacker leeches, take these provisions back to the bus and prepare for supper. We’ll join you in a few minutes, and you’d better be busy when we get there.”

The guys were so stunned and shaken by our eruption into their day dreams that they allowed themselves to be moved like zombies. We hustled them out of the bar and pushed them toward the bus. This time they were not laughing. Back in the bar we hugged and kissed each other and roared with laughter.

“Do you think they’ll start supper?” I asked the others. Dharma said, “Well, if they act like drones when we get back I’m going to invite them to leave the bus in the morning.” I was sure Dharma was deadly serious.

The guys were busy little beavers when we arrived back at camp. They had the charcoal well lit and pots, pans, dishes, and provisions neatly laid out ready for cooking. We four women then did our job, cooked supper and for the most part, ate cheerfully with the rest of the bus people.

After supper I was still angry. I didn’t know what to do next so I grabbed the (feminist) Germaine Greer book I was reading, flipped it open, and spoke the words like bullets. All the bus people looked expectant, but not in a good way.

I began reading:

One of the men was on his knees, white as a sheet, paralyzed by what must have been a combination of utter surprise and anger. His mouth was quivering with saliva dripping from the lips. My first impulse was to wipe his mouth, but instead I shouted again:

“Can you hear me? Was my English clear? Did you understand?” He whispered, “Yes.” I continued holding up the book as a preacher might hold up the Bible, “You should understand this better than anyone. This book calls for a holy war, a final solution to the male problem. We need to look at how the Amazons and Lysistrata dealt with male violence.”

The women cheered and hugged me. The men did not. Finally, I got control of my fury. Dan was sweating and blubbering. I thought he might go into shock. We threw a blanket over his shoulders and walked him to one of the vans. Versant spent the night looking after him.

In the morning we all tended to our chores and greeted each other, but little else was said. I noticed that the men were doing their chores briskly. I had not seen this before. To my knowledge the incident of the night before was not discussed again. We women encountered no further abuse or slacker attitude. From then on, everyone pitched in without being asked twice.

That morning after was lovely. Soft golden sunlight mellowed all the sharp edges of the rocky beach, including my own. A demon fury had possessed me last night but I was now at rest and I was at peace. Everyone and everything seemed to take on a beatific glow.

I recall sitting in the shadow of a large beach rock while most of the caravan people were sunning or swimming. It was an idyllic scene. I enjoyed it, knowing it could not last. An hour later it would become cloudy. Looking out to sea, I noticed some of our crew perched like seals on the large rocks that jutted out of the seashore.

One of the people floated about with a snorkel trying to see the not so interesting fish below the clear calm water. I was tempted to do the same and borrowed a mask and snorkel. Soon the idea became contagious. A sense of frolic spread, and everyone began to grab masks and snorkels from each other. While the water was clear, there was little to see. After all, we were snorkeling in what is the world’s major sea lane for shipping. There were a few fish responding to the food crumbs we sprinkled, but nothing worth getting excited about.

There was only one sour note in what was an otherwise idyllic day. The one German in the caravan had been torturing a ukulele again. Her musical ability was rock bottom, but she certainly was persistent. Her array of songs consisted of old hum-drum American folk tunes of the “Carry Me Back to Old Virginey” variety.

The music was bad enough, but her voice was worse. Her amazingly inept Blue Ridge American accent was embarrassingly painful. Her plunking of the ukulele strings reminded me of fingernails on a slate blackboard. In my most sincere and polite voice I said to her, “There’s a baby trying to sleep and every time you play she starts crying again, so if you would please stop playing, we would all be grateful.”

She was quite embarrassed, but she stopped playing and handed the borrowed ukulele back to her boyfriend. As soon as she stopped playing, a muffled cheer was heard throughout the camp grounds.