The Afghan Queen: A True Story of an American Woman in Afghanistan (24 page)

Outside, with some of the other routed Afghan guests, Mike said the noise was to frighten away evil jinn’s (spirits). “Looks like they succeeded,” I said. “It now looks like more guests are frightened onto the street than remain in the ballroom.”

By the time everyone had vacated the ballroom, the noise suddenly ceased. Gentle, pleasing Afghan folk music was now calling the guests back to the ballroom. Evidently, angelic jiins were once more in possession of the wedding, having routed Iblis and the fire-jiins.

It was after midnight when the bride and groom were ushered into the ballroom. A beautiful shawl embroidered with phrases from the Koran was held over the bride and groom. The Imam then painted their palms red. The ceremony was brief, rings were exchanged, the couple fed each other dates (fruit from the tree of life), and the wedding formalities were completed.

Chai, tea and juice were set out, along with a great variety of cookies, baklava, fruit and small cakes. The bride and groom cut the wedding cake and fed each other to the cheers of all the guests. There was no public kissing or any other show of affection.

A few days after the wedding, I began my flight back to the States by way of Frankfurt to Newark. This had been the best of years and, without a doubt, the most memorable year of my life, except for the year I was married. Never before or since was so much accomplished in so short a time. This was the year I built a lucrative international art enterprise.

I’d met more people, learned more, and built stronger social-business links to important families, clans, and tribes, than in any year before or since.

Most importantly, Paul and I have matured and expanded the breadth and depth of our marriage by means of his loving, financial and household support. If “absence makes the heart grow fonder,” we could easily be the poster children for that time-worn cliché.

Having securely established myself as an international art dealer, I felt compelled by customer and supplier demand to return to Afghanistan at least twice a year. This was especially the case since the demand for tribal and Islamic art objects was growing increasingly strong.

A year or so earlier, I’d been at a party in Kabul given by my business partner’s clan. They were politically well connected. Mike was now an important government minister and this was a clan celebration of sorts. The smartest business decision I made was to partner with Mike.

When in Kabul, I had dinner and party invitations almost every night, either from business contacts or friends. Now that I was contributing a noticeable amount of U.S. currency, my business partner had requests for meetings with me from other government officials.

Most of the meetings with officials of the government were at business clan gatherings. I was told that the meetings were arranged this way so as not to attract undue attention. One official said I was now the principal exporter of Afghan art and that the Afghan government would like to expand the global market for Afghan art as much as possible.

Most government officials were also merchants and some of these built profitable business ties with me. My Afghan friends made certain I was invited to most embassy functions. As I met many embassy representatives at marriage and other gatherings of business associates, the groundwork for my embassy hopping was well established.

In the past, Kabul had not exactly been the focal point of global events. As Kabul was not the most exciting capital on the world scene, embassy staff on their way up (or down) were often posted to Kabul. In the late 1960’s this began to change as Soviet and American officials took a greater interest in Afghanistan.

The Vietnam War had much to do with the growing interest in Afghanistan. An Italian legate suggested that the U.S. was retreating from Indo China to the Middle East. The Italian Embassy staff impressed me as keen observers of the world scene.

On a number of occasions I asked embassy staffers, when I noticed they had too much to drink, “Why are the major powers suddenly so interested in Afghanistan? Somehow, I don’t think it’s the Afghan art that brings them here.”

Whenever I injected this in a conversation, my tipsy embassy friends would burst out laughing. Repeatedly they suggested, as if part of a comedy routine, “Lela, everyone suspects that Afghanistan is floating on an ocean of oil.”

I heard this refrain so often, from so many different sources that I started to believe it. I thought: Could they possibly think I’m sniffing around for the same thing they are? They must believe I’m seriously into tribal art. Maybe some think the search for tribal art is a clever ruse covering a search for something else?

With this in mind, I was becoming a fixture at embassy as well as business clan functions. I was on first name basis with Italian, Indian, Pakistani, French, German, Swiss, British, Soviet, American, and even Chinese embassy staff, in that order of frequency. These embassies were all interested in purchasing Afghan art, for exhibits in their cities.

The notion seemed so obvious to me. It was not my tribal art they were after. Was it my charming intelligent wit? None of these seemed likely. What were they after? Why, of course, it was information. They suspected I was somehow involved in the hunt for oil.

It dawned on me that everyone suspected everyone else. Mike encouraged me to attend most of the embassy receptions. Did he think it was important for business that I be seen at these shindigs?

“Lela, these embassy people think we know something that we’re not sharing. For that matter, everyone invited to these receptions is suspected of harboring hidden knowledge. I realize you would prefer to be the hunter rather than the hunted at these gatherings. If you don’t make an appearance, they will be even more suspicious.

“Please say nothing about our trips. Talk about our search for tribal art until they turn blue in the face. I talk solely about my work at the transport ministry. Kit speaks only about the new health system. These embassy people are information vultures; be extra cautious.”

“Mike, like you and Kit, I don’t drink. I move around with a glass of mineral water, hunting for drunken embassy staff. On a good day, I get them to spill their guts. When I hear them slur out my name, I suggestively ask ‘How’s your love-life?’

“They answer that it would be better if I were part of it. I tell them I have all I can handle. They ask me what I can handle. I respond ’tribal art of course, and what are you seeking? A drunken Russian said he was looking for the Afghan ocean.

“But Afghanistan is land-locked. There are no oceans here.” He replied, “Yes, if you look in the right place.” Still smirking coyly, I asked, “And where is the right place? He said, “We’re probably standing on it.” He burst out laughing at that point and raced to the rest-room.”

This game of cat and mouse was quite entertaining. It became a diplomatic game of bait and switch. I was the bait to trap those with loose lips. Many took the bait, but never did I hear anything but innuendos.

The last two years in Afghanistan, oil was on everyone’s mind. It became a fixation. I considered it a big joke. My tribal art business occupied my activities solely. I told Mike, “Let the diplomats act like idiots. It’s entertaining, but none of our business. They can drown in their imaginary ocean for all I care.”

At first, the embassy staff purchased tribal art through me. Later, they purchased directly from Afghan officials who were in the Afghan art business. I was not at all surprised or upset by this, as my business contacts explained repeatedly that this would happen.

What surprised me was that Soviet, Chinese, and American officials continued to purchase directly from me long after the other embassies purchased direct. I asked Kit, the Australian nurse, why these three embassies continued to buy from me. She said it was to minimize attention by reducing contact with Afghan officials.

These three embassies were far more interested in each other than in Afghanistan. At the same time they needed to demonstrate an interest in Afghan culture. So I was the go between for token purchases of Afghan art, and that was fine with me.

When invited to embassy functions, there was usually one embassy woman official, the trade delegate, who approached me straight away. She would escort me to a noticeable table, and we would chat for about an hour, always about business and trade. We would both be seen scribbling notes on our pads.

At the conclusion of our business meeting, the trade delegate would introduce me to the guests for a polite hello and goodbye. I would then leave the gathering.

I much preferred family clan gatherings with business related people. Most of the family clan gatherings were loving and often as cloyingly warm as my immediate family. I loved this aspect of business the most as I got to spend some time with the women and children.

With the business clans that I was close to, I asked the women and children what gifts they wanted me to bring them from the States. Since I was considered a member of the clan, this was necessary. Usually they wanted T-shirts, jeans, and sneakers, so I measured them, hugging them all before leaving. They called me Auntie Lela and I melted when I heard that.

Although Afghan women and children are small by American standards, they always requested large sizes. When I returned with their gifts, the clothes and sneakers were usually too big. The women were expert at sewing and showed me how they would put drop stitches in the jeans and elastic bands inside the waists.

Felt slippers and thick colorful Afghan wool socks would allow the sneakers to fit nicely until the kid’s feet grew. I sold many gross of the beautiful Afghan sock-boot liners. Afghan socks and Mujahideen hats continued to be major sales items for years.

The women and kids loved to wear baggy American T-shirts, especially the Grateful Dead shirts with the skull and red roses. I explained ‘we are a Deadhead family.’ We are fans of the Grateful Dead. Me and my big mouth! Now they insisted that I bring Grateful Dead records (vinyl LPs) and a phonograph to play them on.

All these requests I fulfilled, along with a small phonograph that worked on batteries and plug. Also, I supplied extra batteries and adapter plugs. After all, what are families for? My Afghan families seemed far more charming at times than my own. It was the exotic newness, especially of the younger kids, that I found most endearing.

While I was enchanted by my business partner Mike’s clan (and the cash flow they provided), I realized that I was becoming a fashionable centerpiece in Afghan business society. I felt genuine affection toward me as I felt toward them, but there were other factors as well.

If I say so myself, it was quite a novelty to find a competent Western businesswoman in Afghanistan, and an attractive, charming one at that or so I was told repeatedly. From the first contact, I strove to maintain impeccable business relations, along with strong social ties. This, along with paying cash on the spot, contributed to my business success.

One merchant told me that I was better than having flowers on the table. I asked him to please explain. He said, “You are more entertaining and better business than any amount of blooms.” I smiled sweetly at this, feeling like a blooming idiot.

Today our caravan drove around Lake Van in northeast Turkey. By late afternoon we reached within a few miles of the Iranian border. We camped at the last Turkish campsite before once again crossing the border into Iran. Much as we disliked the idea, to reach Kabul in Afghanistan, we had no choice but to cross the northern region of Iran.

We spent the next day preparing for the crossing. All the vehicles were carefully checked and maintained. Our clothes were washed and dried at the camp laundry. We stocked up on provisions. The larger vehicles had second gasoline tanks, and these we filled. Camping gear was aired and cleaned.

Dharma insisted on checking that all had clothing to fully cover the body, including hats and head scarves. A drug check was the final procedure done the night before leaving. Any questionable items were burnt in the campfire or stored in public lockers.

There was time to write and post some aerograms before crossing into Iran. Every time I wrote letters such as these, I realized that they took a week or more to reach the States. One must continually keep in mind this lag time and attempt to inject a sense of duration and continuity into these delayed communications.

Paul and I were well aware of this lag and had agreed to keep writing every couple of days. In this way we kept up a constant stream of aerograms. Our letters were long newsy chronicles of daily events. Lines of thought ran in untimely parallel, and rarely were we able to deal with the same subjects, except belatedly.

It reminded me of a big family gathering where everyone talks at once without really connecting. For me, there is a sense of satisfaction communicating this way. I get the feeling of venting, catharsis. It’s like having the last word without interruption.

I read a science fiction story about a space probe planned for the planet Pluto. The big problem was dealing with the ever-lengthening communication gap. Finally, one of the travelers came up with a solution. Sender and receiver would keep talking without a break, since that was what would provide a constant communication link.

Family, friends, gossip, business, and news events were all exchanged between Paul and me. Paul wrote about orders he filled and shipped for my customers. I detailed my latest merchandise acquisitions, when and how they were likely to arrive. Mostly, my shipments were sent by brokers at Kabul airport and received by my brokers at Kennedy or Newark airport.

Airport brokers handled all international shipments, including insurance, official inspections, clearances, taxes, and, of course, baksheesh, or gifts when needed. These shipments might consist of a dozen large aluminum coffin-size trunks. Often, large rugs, kilems, and wall hangings were shipped in heavy canvas or burlap bags, like military duffle bags.

As we neared the Iranian border, the beautiful Mediterranean climate gave way to cool mountain air. That last night in Turkey was spent camping beside Lake Van. It was strange how the temperature had dropped causing the whole caravan to put on sweaters and heavy socks.

After a few days, the caravan took on a timeless quality. People would go out of their way to avoid asking the time or being pinned down to a specific hour. We would say, “Let’s get started right after breakfast. We’ll meet at noon or sunset at the ruins,” but seldom was a specific time mentioned.

Each day began to roll gently by with new
timeless
vistas, new
timeless
friends, a little business, some loving, and much partying. Always, the time flowed more or less pleasantly and we went with the flow. Each overland trip became more pleasant in terms of everyone getting along.

With each trip we’ve gathered more women power. After these years of caravan trekking, we women insist that the men take more responsibility for our ever larger communal meals and sanitation. These responsibilities are written into our travel agreements, and all trekkers must sign these agreements before the trip.

One of the Swiss came up with a truly innovative way to clean food utensils: first, everything was covered or scrubbed with sand to get off most of the grime; then, sand and ash from the campfire were rubbed on everything. Finally, a little soapy water and a rinse got everything squeaky clean. This was a satisfying method as it lent itself to production line cheer.

By the end of last September, we were more careful in sharing both work and food. A few in our caravan had not learned the fine art of scrounging food when on short rations. This became an important skill when Ramadan daily fasting was in effect in the Muslim world and when food became less available as we traveled in rural areas.

In what was to be the last year of my Afghan adventure, checklists were carefully maintained and little was left to chance. Our ‘old girl,’ the bus, performed admirably considering all the mileage, wear and tear she survived. Dharma thought this would be her last year; the last year of the bus. At the end of the year she planned on getting a new vehicle.

Even the most laid back in the caravan worked with a will to earn a place in our communal meals. Most food shops in rural Turkey displayed little variety. Nevertheless, we learned to live adequately on eggplant, tomatoes, onions, yogurt, olives and rice. These became staples together with local bread and eggs.

At first we made stews, but how much stewed veggies could we eat? Then we roasted tomatoes and eggplant stuffed with cooked rice, onions, and spices. Great omelets were concocted almost daily.

As we approached Iran, the Turks seemed to act more like Iranians. Near the Iran border we found the people increasingly unpleasant. There was a cold welcome in Iran, to say the least, which was expected, but not in Turkey.

The next day, still in Turkey, a couple of our men were filling water jugs from a stream when an elderly villager shouted at us with rage in his voice. We could not understand what was bothering him until he sent over a boy on a bicycle.

The boy explained that his grandfather did not approve of the water bearers being shirtless. The boy was obviously embarrassed. He went on to say that the old folks considered it disrespectful to show bare skin or smoke in public, especially during this holy time of the year. Dharma listened and nodded as the boy explained.

Dharma was furious and turned red as a beet. She smiled at the boy and pointed out that everyone else milling about wore proper attire. Then she picked up a broom and led the boy to the stream where the two men were sunbathing with only their shorts on. Without a word, Dharma began beating them with the broom.

The men were shocked out of their reverie. “Was gibt?” What’s up? They shouted curses as Dharma chased them back to camp, swatting them with the broom all the way. The boy followed on his bike. She asked the boy to tell his grandfather that the men had been punished and would be more respectful. By this time the other caravaners had gathered to see the commotion.

Both men were cowering under the bus as Dharma began shouting at them.

“How many times were you told to cover your body in Muslim areas? You’re lucky it was just one old man who objected. You could have been stoned like you were in Iran last spring. You endanger yourselves and everyone in the caravan. If you ever step off the bus unclothed again, you will be dropped off at the nearest bus stop.”

She wasn’t finished. “You damn bankers’ sons; son-ofbitches are what you are. Such arrogant disregard could get us killed. I bet you learned this attitude from your fathers, if you bastards had fathers, that is. I’m not going to allow you to endanger us. Get fully dressed with hats and go fetch the water jugs. I’m not finished with you!”

When they returned with the water jugs she told them, “The next incident you cause, I’ll dump you, baggage and all right at that spot. It’s time you grew up. I’m not your mother.”

These hints of trouble were just a prelude of what was to come traveling through Iran. A deep expression of hostility to Westerners was spreading throughout Iran. Primarily, this hostility was centered in the rural Muslim centers, spreading among older, poorer, and farming people. Much of the hostility was attributed to the Shah’s draconian westernization.

It must be said that the spearhead of the Shah’s whims were the not-so-secret police, Savak. The police terrorized the Iranian people for decades in the name of progress and westernization. Unfortunately, police terror had come down especially hard on Muslim hardliners.

We in the caravan understood this and tried to rush through Iran showing a minimum profile. But, how can you minimize a caravan of strange vehicles? We encountered minor incidents of insults and occasional rock throwing. We acquiesced in all these events, smiling as much as possible and saying as little as we could.

A few times we were stopped at road blocks. As our papers were checked, we casually mentioned the hostility we encountered. The guards were apologetic, explaining the instability. The officials insisted that Iran welcomed visitors who were respectful of their nation. Once they sent along a vehicle escort, the stoning became worse.

When we were free of the officials, our caravan was largely ignored. It became obvious that while our caravan was seen as an unwelcome symbol of western imperialism, the most virulent anger was directed at the police.

Western excess was not tolerated. Iranians were especially incensed by uncovered flesh. We dared not leave our vehicles in shorts or short sleeves. All the women wore scarfs wrapped around their heads and necks when stepping off our vehicles. The men wore baseball caps or other head covers. Some draped colored towels over their heads and shoulders.

Before leaving Istanbul, a married couple from Atlanta joined our caravan. They had purchased their VW camper in Germany and spent a few months exploring Europe. I was immediately attracted to Tom and Julie. They spoke English, and that was enough for me. Also, being from Atlanta provided a living link to my husband, also from Atlanta. They had the same accent.

In many ways the couple was like Paul and me. Most appealing was the low key care and affection they displayed for each other. They had been together for ten years, having met at the Communicable Disease center where they both worked.

Of course, there were some loving relationships in the caravan, but, by my standards, these were shallow hippy posturing. I disliked the show of gushy exhibitionism, typical of some of the Sannyasins. Such dramas did not play well in the Middle East and that presented a danger for us all. Most Sannyasins acted out more as takers than givers.

The only other North American in our caravan was Mack, a lean, almost handsome, fortyish, ex-psychotherapist who had ‘dropped out of the system’ a few years earlier. He was constantly smiling, laughing and joking.

Mack traveled around the world on a ‘search for meaning,’ as he put it. To me, he seemed like an actor passing through a constantly changing world stage. He was searching for his authenticity, as he often reminded us. As far as I was concerned, the only authentic part of him was the real world scenery around his posturing.

For a time, it was mildly entertaining to talk with Mack. His only serious pursuit was sex, and that was what he was selling; I was not buying. This guy was essentially a teenager in his forties. He was quite wealthy; at least he acted that way. Often he insisted on buying the camp provisions or gas for the bus, and the generosity was much appreciated and praised.

Mack propositioned most of the women in the caravan, including the married women. Dharma and Versant were royally annoyed with Mack. He had made passes at all four of us. We talked about Mack’s ludicrous approach to us. Dharma slammed him beautifully. She told him that he sounded like her ten-year-old, when he wanted something he couldn’t have.

She said to him, “Look, we appreciate your cash contributions, but that does not mean you have bought our bodies. I can’t understand how you managed as a psychotherapist, but I’m starting to understand why you left the profession. If anyone complains about your absurd advances, I will be forced to throw you off the bus, understood?”

Angelic, beautiful Versant, with her incredible talent of always being herself, reacted most intelligently to Mack’s advances. We asked what happened.

“I had just finished replacing an outer bus window when he grabbed me about the waist, “To help you off the ladder,” said he. I turned my head, shaking it furiously and said, “Remove yourself, now and forever.” He bolted backwards, fell down, and I walked away.”

That was sad, but funny. I told the women about my one and only reaction to his approach. “For some reason, he came on to me while I was writing an aerogram. Most of the caravan people seemed to straddle the real world, with one foot in reality and the other in Never-Never Land. Except for a few business types, they came off like Wendy’s and Peter Pans on a road trip.

There had been too many trips with these people; it was enough. From that point on, I would fly to Kabul. I know I kept saying this but kept on coming back. It was like being with a family on wheels; repelled and attracted at the same time. They kept saying they needed and loved me and I was a sucker for their soft soap approach. It must have been the eternal mom in me.

How could we feel a part of the real world, when we seldom stayed more than a couple of days in one place? Camping grounds were just an hippie oasis on the road to nowhere. Traveling through Iran provided some grounding in the real world, as much as we would have preferred to avoid it. Iran was just plain scary and dangerous. We traveled through as rapidly as possible.

It amused me to think about my husband complaining about how little change there was in our lives. Of course, Paul meant his life, not mine. There was always plenty of diversion in my life, and still I craved more; but Iran was one diversion I could live without.

I don’t know why, but I had a vivid daydream about babies swimming in the womb, in the amniotic mother sea, and then as toddlers drawn to the sea, yet cautiously retreating as each wave tickled their toes. I was reminded of how Paul and I would watch our boys at the shore, gleefully running back and forth as small waves chased them and retreated, laughing in primal delight with each new wave.