The Afghan Queen: A True Story of an American Woman in Afghanistan
Author: Paul Meinhardt
Date: 2013-06-02 00:00:00-07:00
Description: Lela Meinhardt, a tribal art trader in Afghanistan, traveled and traded with migratory Afghan tribes from 1975 to 1980, a time when Americans, and their money, were welcomed by the Afghan people. Lela's adventures, recorded in the letters she sent to her husband, Paul, are more the stuff of legend than a modern journey. To the people who knew her, Lela was heroic, gentle, caring, and a brilliant business woman. Her five years of travel provided not only self-discovery, but the museums and art world gained spectacular insight into the tribal art and culture of the Afghan people. She aided the m
Publisher: Turn the Page Publishing
Rights: Copyright © 2013 Paul Meinhardt

The

Afghan

Queen

A True Story of an
American Woman in Afghanistan
by Paul Meinhardt

Published by Turn the Page Publishing LLC
P. O. Box 3179
Upper Montclair, NJ 07043
www.turnthepagepublishing.com

Copyright © 2013 Paul Meinhardt

All Rights Reserved.
Though inspired by true events, persons described herein are characterizations as described by Lela Meinhardt in her letters and stories. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including printed or electronic versions now known or hereinafter devised, without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Turn the Page Publishing, P. O. Box 3179, Upper Montclair, NJ 07043.

ISBN-13: 978-1-938501-22-7

ISBN ebook-13: 978-1-938501-23-4

The Afghan Queen
A True Story of an American Woman in Afghanistan
Library of Congress Control Number 2012950545

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Editor Ingrid Davidsen
Original Photographs by Lela Meinhardt
Cover Design by Robin McGeever, McB Design

Dedicated to
Lela, my dream maker,
Joan, my reality maker, and
the many players in this saga

Special thanks to Kirk Meinhardt
For contributing his personal journal to The Afghan Queen

PREFACE

It has taken nearly 40 years to write the Afghan Queen. While Lela, the Afghan Queen, traveled in Afghanistan between 1975 and 1979, her life in the world of tribal art began years before and continued until her passing in 2000.

Lela made fifteen trips to Afghanistan during this five year period, spending half the year with her Afghan families and half with her family in New Jersey. Typically, her flights took her to London, Frankfurt, Zurich and Basle where she developed substantial business with museums and boutiques.

Switzerland became a lucrative outlet for Lela’s tribal art purchases, second only to the U.S. market. Early in her travels she connected with a group of Swiss Sannyasins. This Hindu sect made a pilgrimage to an ashram near Delhi every six months. The leader of this group, Dharma, befriended Lela in the first year of her Afghan business.

Dharma owned a prominent boutique in Zurich and became the first of Lela’s Swiss customers. Dharma organized the Sannyasin caravan at her boutique. The caravan began and ended at Dharma’s family farm outside of Zurich.

Lela was recruited as a passenger on Dharma’s bus as a way of making business contacts along the route to Kabul, Afghanistan. The bus led a caravan usually consisting of six vehicles. The caravan stopped at campsites near major cities along the route. Athens and Istanbul were major business stops for Lela and others in the caravan.

On each caravan trek, a week or more was spent in Athens and Istanbul both for business and at the insistence of local friends. Satya and Versant were Dharma’s close university friends, also from Zurich. On their caravan treks, Lela, Dharma, Satya and Versant became a sisterhood insuring the safety, logistics and behavior of passengers.

To her many Afghan families and to her family in the U.S. she was truly the Afghan Queen. Lela helped popularize Afghan tribal art in the museums of the U.S., England, Germany and Switzerland, as well as other areas of the world.

In the 1970s, tribal and Islamic art was in great demand, especially handcrafted jewelry. Afghan jewelry and clothing provided the politically savvy and fashion-conscious with an awareness of a larger world.

Wearing tribal art allowed people, women in particular, to feel and look like they were part of the global village. In addition to providing substantial employment and cash flow to many Afghan families, Lela’s international enterprise raised the global consciousness of thousands of influential leaders throughout the world.

The Afghan Queen is a complex fabric of romance, sensuality, travel, enterprise, politics, global economics, familyclan-tribal practices, and the hunger for oil. The following true life story is a labor of love weaving a colorful and engaging tapestry of all of the topics touched on above.

Map of Afghanistan

CONTENTS

Preface

Contents

1 ~ Introduction

2 ~ How it Ends, December 1979

3 ~ How it Begins, Spring, 1975

4 ~ First Trip

5 ~ Foreign Intrigue

6 ~ Reflections

7 ~ Afghan Reality

8 ~ Travel Like the Wind

9 ~ Silk Road

10 ~ Mating Road

11 ~ Road Feast

12 ~ Rhine

13 ~ Trader Queen

14 ~ Fateful Trip

15 ~ Forests

16 ~ Into Iran

17 ~ Herät to Kabul

18 ~ Revolution

19 ~ Caravan Through Turkey

20 ~ Demoniac

21 ~ Digs

22 ~ Business

23 ~ Crossing

24 ~ Chinese Diplomat

25 ~ Changes

26 ~ Son of Afghan Queen

27 ~ Great Game

28 ~ Ending, November-December

29 ~ Author Commentary

30 ~ End Notes

1
INTRODUCTION

This is the love story of Lela Meinhardt, an American tribal art trader in Afghanistan. She traveled and traded with migrating Afghan tribes from 1975 to 1980 at a time when Americans, and their money, were welcomed by the Afghan people and when America had a no military presence in Afghanistan. Lela’s adventures are recorded in the letters she sent to her husband, Paul.

To the people who knew her, Lela was a heroic, gentle, caring and brilliant business woman. To her husband, she was a loving spouse, as well as his best friend. She survived and prospered through five years of war and revolution, but in the end could not resist Mother Nature’s call. She was married for 41 years before she passed on in 2000, the result of lymphoma cancer.

Lela’s adventures in Afghanistan are more the stuff of legend than a modern journey. Her five years of travel provided self-discovery and were an inspiration to all who knew her. Through Lela’s efforts, the museums and art world were presented with a spectacular insight into the tribal art and culture of the Afghan people.

The Afghan Queen portrays Lela’s experiences in the alternating voices of the author and Lela herself. There has been no attempt made to dramatize these experiences, as everything that has been written reflects things that really happened.

The story begins by telling how it ends.

2
HOW IT ENDS - DECEMBER 1979

When the Russian tank fired into the hotel lobby, just below their second floor room, Lela and Kit were ready. They had prepared for the oncoming mayhem as soon as they heard the tank rumbling down Chicken Street toward their hotel. Hanging sheets over the windows, and placing a large Soviet flag in the window, Kit opened the door and then she and Lela hunkered down in a tent of mattresses.

Like an earthquake, the tank slammed a cannon shell into the lobby, as Lela and Kit remained covered by mattresses until the vibrations and shattering stopped. They had been warned this might happen by Mike, Lela’s business partner.

When the roar of the tank engine stopped, they threw off the mattresses and ran to the window to see the war zone below. Kit, an Australian nurse who seemed to know what to do, grabbed Lela and pulled her down, warning that snipers might shoot at the windows. They used their cosmetic mirrors to see what was happening outside.

When it was safe, they cautiously peeked out the window. The tank was quiet and still. What looked like the tank crew of five was standing at rigid attention next to the tank. An officer’s car pulled in front of the tank, followed by three ambulances. Two female officers loudly berated the tank crew.

One of the women ordered the crew back in the tank then walked to the car and turned the engine. She drove slowly with the tank following. The other officer ordered ambulance crews to follow her into the lobby with their gurneys.

Lela and Kit raced downstairs to greet the Russian officer. Kit had her Australian Communist Party card in her hand. The officer noticed them immediately and Kit offered her Party card as she addressed the “Comrade Major” in what sounded like tortured Russian. Lela frowned and glanced at Kit, wondering how she knew any Russian at all. After five years of working together, she thought it curious that Kit never divulged this bit of information.

Comrade Major smiled and vigorously shook hands with Kit and Lela. “My English is excellent, no need to strain yourself with Russian,” said the major.

“I’m a nurse practitioner, willing and able to aid you as needed,” replied Kit.

“Excellent,” said the Major as she jotted some notes on her clip-board. “My three medical teams have checked the first floor, but other than a few minor cuts and bruises, no serious casualties were found.

“Structural damage appears minimal, except for broken glass and plaster. Fortunately, the shell passed through the lobby without exploding. There’s Russian technology for you, slovenly on a good day, disastrous on a bad day.”

The Major continued, “I’m here to offer our regrets for the careless attack on this hotel. It is particularly embarrassing as my cousin is the tank commander. No attack orders were given. The tank commander took it upon himself to turn a patrol exercise into an attack.

“The tank crew claims shots were fired from the hotel roof. They admit they were quite nervous and may be mistaken. This is their first duty assignment, punishment will be light. I’ll recommend they be sent to the Chinese-Siberian border for retraining.

“If you would be so kind, please lead the medical teams on each floor. Knock gently on each door. Ask the occupants to open the door so we can check for injuries and damage,” explained the Major. “Here are pass-keys. Use the keys if there is no response. I have ordered the medics to stay out of sight until you call them. It will go better if guests do not see military uniforms.”

Kit led one team to the second floor, while Lela accompanied a team to the third floor. Lela went door to door, knocking and calling in her most sympathetic voice, “Please open the door. We need to check for injuries and damage.” She did this three times before using the pass keys. Most rooms were vacant. A few were occupied by guests from Pakistan.

On the third floor there were neither injuries nor broken windows. Some plaster littered the hall. The few occupants said they stayed under the bed when they felt the rumbling. At first it was thought to be an earthquake, as quakes are common in Afghanistan.

The medical teams checked each guest, following a checklist. The guests were requested to sign release forms after each examination.

As a final gesture of friendship, the medics invited the guests to the lobby where they were given vouchers for their stay at the hotel. The major assured the guests that the Soviet army would pay the hotel bill for each voucher. Smiles appeared on the faces of the guests when they realized that they would not be troubled with paying for their stay.

Lela asked if she could send a telex to her family. The major smiled and said, “Yes, certainly, I will accompany all of you across the street to the telex office. You may all telex and the Soviet army will bear the cost. We must also telex your embassies about this incident and your state of health. That is an international requirement.”

Just as they started for the front door, a round little man emerged from the basement alternately shouting, weeping and whining. “Look what you did to my beautiful hotel. It was just redecorated. Who will pay for all the damage? What about the dead and wounded?”

The major turned to the noisy, red-faced landlord and replied, “There are no dead or wounded. The few cuts and bruises were treated by our medical teams. I’m ordering a medical team to check you also, especially your blood pressure and heart rate. Here is a voucher for all necessary repairs.

“You may hire any workers needed for the repairs. The damage is limited to broken windows and plaster, I believe. You will itemize all costs, number of workers, the hours worked, rate of pay, their names and addresses. Don’t forget receipts for all repairs. I will station two women officers in plain clothes to remain in the hotel. They will help you manage all issues related to this incident.”

The landlord replied, “Well, that’s fine, but how long do I have to entertain the Russian army and why do they send women?”

The major laughed replying, “The Russian army sends women soldiers because we are trained to be more observant than men. Women soldiers are not easily distracted or compromised as are men. Women soldiers would not tolerate a single Pakistan border incursion. We would teach the invaders a lesson they would never forget. I guarantee there would be no second incursion.

“The two Russian officers will monitor the progress of the repairs and remain at the hotel until the repairs are completed. Let them share a first-floor room, which you may also include on the repair bill. They will phone my office daily, as to the progress.”

“But they will frighten my guests,” he replied.

“On the contrary; they will act as greeters helping your guests and you with any services needed. It’s in your interest to complete the repairs as rapidly as you can so my soldiers can move on to other duties.

“If you delay the repairs, I will request Soviet army Mongolian engineers to speed the work. I assure you the Mongolians will do things their own way. You will not be happy with the Mongolians. This too, I can guarantee,” replied the major. [i]

Lela’s telex said she had a ticket on Lufthansa non-stop to Frankfurt in two days. It was the earliest flight she could get. She had shipped 25 metal trunks to Newark airport two weeks before. The trunks were loaded with tribal kilems, clothes, jewelry and artifacts.

After the messages were wired, Lela and Kit spoke with the major. They explained their business in Afghanistan. Lela told the major that her business was concluded and she wanted to fly back to the U.S. It was mid December 1979, and the Afghan political pot was about to boil over.

Lela explained that her business partners were Kalq party officials. She felt anxious for her Afghan friends and business associates. She asked the major for her advice. Both Lela and Kit were visibly upset. The major provided some blunt advice.

“You’ve heard the rumors, I presume? The Soviet Union is pulling out. We started the withdrawal a month ago. I can’t tell you exactly when we’ll be gone, but we are well along in our planned withdrawal. Since we entered at the request of the Kalq government, most of the Kalq officials will be leaving with their families.” ii

The Kalq and the Soviets were determined to clear all foreign nationals out of Afghanistan by December, voluntarily if possible, forcibly if necessary. Special permits were issued for approved foreign business representatives. iii

Outside the telex office, Lela overheard the officer explaining to one of her Comrades, “The only reason we have not been overrun is because Kalq and the Mujahideen leaders are negotiating a transitional government. Kalq hopes to remain in the new government, but once our military presence is gone there’s nothing to prevent the Mujahideen from ousting the Kalq. Up to this point our withdrawal has been peaceful, but I fear the worst in the final weeks.

“The CIA is arming Mujahideen by way of Pakistan. The Brits have arranged for Chinese silk-worm hand held missiles for the Mujahideen. That is why we are losing so many helicopters. At the same time the tribal warlords are attacking the government and they are settling old scores with each other.”

Lela told the officer she was surprised to hear conditions had become so serious. Lela mentioned that, until the tank incident everything had seemed peaceful. Everywhere she traveled, she was well received. She did excellent business and was treated like a daughter and a sister. She saw no trouble anywhere—no hint of anything unusual. Lela wondered how she could have missed all this.

The major answered, “I don’t doubt what you’ve experienced. But conditions are worsening rapidly. I advise that you leave the country as soon as you can. Tell your friends and business contacts the same thing. That’s all I can tell you.

“It’s dangerous to be seen talking to us or any Russian soldiers for that matter. Get that Soviet flag out of your hotel window before we all become targets. In a short time we will no longer be able to protect ourselves, let alone visitors. You must leave as soon as possible. I wish you well, comrades.”

Walking back to the hotel, the major explained, “Kit and I are well acquainted, but I’m curious about your background, Lela. You appear to be a progressive minded person. May I ask your political affiliation, if any?”

Lela replied, “My husband and I are progressives and internationalists. As students in 1960, we were invited to tour Revolutionary Cuba at the time of the first “July 26” anniversary celebration. That was the Year of Education.

“We’ve supported the Cuban Revolution ever since our visit. We often talked about joining the Party, but we lack the temperament to accept Party discipline. This is a weakness we have learned to accept and work with.”

The major responded, “Lela, I appreciate your honesty. We can only do what we are capable of. The important thing is to be realistic about our strengths and weaknesses. There are millions of progressives throughout the world. Most have no formal party affiliations. But they do the best they can, supporting progressive ideals and objectives.”

Kit said she had to go with a Soviet convoy to Kandahar in the morning, so they said their goodbyes laughing at how often their paths had crossed in the past five years and hoping they would do so again.

Lela wrote about the tank attack and conversations with the officer in her last aerogram to reach home before she arrived in Frankfurt. During her flight home, Lela learned that Kit was the Soviet KGB field officer responsible for Kabul, Afghanistan. Feeling betrayed and only wanting to be involved in family, people and business, Lela saw no need to remain in touch with Kit. After leaving Kabul, they had no further contact. iv

Buskaschi Polo with a leather-wrapped goat head as a ball*

3
HOW IT BEGINS - SPRING, 1975

Trained at the Fashion Institute of Technology and The Parsons New School for Design, Lela was a skilled painter, sculptor, and photographer. With her business skills in bookkeeping and accounting, as well as her interest in the arts, some high school friends invited her to sell for their tribal arts business, Primitive Artisans.

Lela had the effervescent and charismatic personality of a natural born sales representative. Once she got her teeth into something of interest, she held on like a bull dog. Selling was her oxygen. Lela thrived in the sale of art objects, especially tribal art.

After she got the customer list from Primitive Artisans, she was off and running. In addition to tribal art from Africa and Latin America, Lela took on a line of Afghan tribal jewelry for a New Jersey importer.

Within the first year, Lela developed her sales accounts to the point where she was selling all she could get. In fact, that was the problem. The more she sold of a popular item, the more difficult it became to get supplies. As demand increased, tribal artisans increased their prices and reduced the quality of their crafts to the point of destroying demand.

In the early 1970s, Lela represented six tribal art importers. Tribal art was imported from Africa, Latin America, South Pacific and Middle East. It was a time when Islamic art was becoming popular in American and European museums.

Most of Lela’s customers were museum shops and exhibits, as well as retail venues. She represented importers providing one-of-a-kind tribal art. These provided her with 33% to 50% commission. Of the hundreds of items in her inventory, Afghan jewelry was the best seller, even though it only provided a 33% commission.

Lela’s main problem was an unreliable supplier, a one man operation Lela called Flake. There were also problems with the other importers, in addition to the diminishing quality.

In an effort to avoid poor quality and drug entrapment, Lela examined all imports with great care, especially Afghan jewelry. Lapis and turquoise stones were sometimes replaced with thin flakes backed with jeweler’s gum or lacquered gem stone grinding dust composites.

For these reasons, Lela realized she must deal with the artisan sources directly—no more distributors. She gathered information and took courses in jewelry making and gem stones. She was determined that the only mistakes made would be her own.

Her Afghan jewelry importer devoted less and less time to tribal art imports. As his main priorities were rugby and drugs, Flake became a rugby drug-addict. Half the time he was recovering from rugby injuries. During recovery, he was on drugs to deal with the pain, or so he said, so mostly he lived in a drug induced haze.

The only time he gave to his import business was during periods of injury recovery. The injuries became so severe that he was on crutches a good deal of the time. Lela was forced to go to his apartment to pick out jewelry and she took her husband, Paul, with her as protection.

The jewelry inventory that remained in old chests of drawers was of such low quality that Lela refused to sell it. Her supplier declared he was going back to Afghanistan for ‘better stuff.’

Lela insisted on going with him to help pick out saleable tribal art. The importer absolutely refused to take her with him. That ended their questionable business relationship. She suspected him of other business interests, and later she learned that he financed opium poppy farmers in Afghanistan.

Finally, Lela decided she would go to Afghanistan alone. She and Paul began to make plans. This was frightening for Paul. A woman alone in a tribal Muslim country seemed self-destructive; however, Paul knew that Lela was far more adventurous and enterprising than he.

Lela was a bookkeeper and accountant with a Gypsy temperament. She grew up on the Red Hook waterfront in Brooklyn. She was a Red Hook tough.[v] Her uncles were union organizers, providing Lela with part-time accounting jobs with that other Family.

Lela and Afghan friends with kilems and brass (in background)

Lela carried a switchblade, even during 41 years of marriage. Yet, to those she cared about, and cared about her, Lela was a beautiful, graceful, soft spoken, gentle, kind, and brilliant woman.

Lela and Paul were constantly talking about Gypsies. From the point of view of Paul’s economic specialty, Economics of Tribe, Clan, Family and Household, Gypsies held a fascination for both of them.

Paul could not figure out exactly what it was, but he believed Gypsy tribes provided a bridge between ancient and modern households. Gypsy clans were living anthropology, he theorized. Gypsy migration was a survival skill maintained over thousands of years. Perhaps constant migration had become a genetic trait contributing to human survival, or so Paul speculated.

Lela usually found Paul’s theories entertaining, but she had a more romantic notion of Gypsies.

They each read everything they could find about Gypsies. They found a book about a twelve year-old Dutch boy, who with his parent’s consent, spent four years traveling with a German Gypsy clan in the 1940s. The boy related Gypsy customs, observing that the clan passed easily through European borders in the Soviet bloc. He believed the Gypsies were couriers to and from border guards throughout Europe.

The boy noted Gypsies received money from border guards for the packets they delivered. Perhaps their role as underground messengers provided income. The boy wrote down all his observations and experiences in a diary, which was the only condition his parents made before he departed with the Gypsies.

Lela’s interest in Gypsies ended abruptly on a Saturday night in New York City. She and Paul had gone to a Broadway film premier with a couple of high school friends from Red Hook. After the film, walking with the theatre crowds on Broadway, a woman too well dressed to be a hippie or street person, approached them.

Lela knew that pickpockets tended to be well dressed and this woman wore a beautiful new tan leather long skirt, matching leather pumps and long open leather jacket. Peeking out of the open jacket, Lela saw a lovely Russian peasant blouse. With her well-developed skills at observation, Lela also noted that the woman had no handbag. A well-dressed woman always carried a handbag; a pickpocket would not.

When the woman took out a pair of scissors to cut Paul’s back pocket to take his wallet, Lela reacted. Paul was not aware of what was happening until he saw Lela’s high heel on the pickpocket’s neck. With her switchblade, Lela cut off one of the woman’s pigtails, then grabbed the woman’s scissors, pulled her up, jabbed her lightly in the rear end with her own scissor, and shoved her into the gutter. The woman ran away as fast as she could, howling.

Paul was awestruck as Lela’s friends, Gin and Bob, laughed and patted her on the back. None of the Broadway crowd took any notice as Lela then led them into a café. The Red Hook friends explained that this was nothing compared to the things that happened growing up on the Brooklyn waterfront. Paul’s background growing up in the South was genteel compared with Lela’s early years.

Thinking about this experience, Paul realized that Lela was better equipped for Afghanistan than he imagined, but were the Afghans ready for her? This was a woman who still insisted on wearing her red satin Red Sharks gang jacket years after high school.

When they got home that night, Paul had other questions to ask Lela about their Broadway experience. He had been walking a few feet ahead talking to Bob and was curious to know why Lela and Gin were walking behind them in the first place. Lela replied that it was because Broadway was so crowded but also because she had some personal things to discuss with Gin.

Lela went on to explain that they were exchanging information about their erotic preferences. As she told him what these were, she and Paul became quite flushed as they remained fixed on each other’s eyes. Lela said that she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Paul told her he was quite happy with their sex life. She loved to have her feet and back massaged and so did he. They both studied Murphy Massage and were keen on mutual practice.

He knew from the look on her face what was coming next. “OK,” she said, “I told you all the girl talk; now you tell me the guy talk. You can massage my feet while you tell me. He massaged her feet while telling her what Bob and he had talked about.

“After describing his preferences, Bob launched into an erotic description of how some classical music, especially Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony, affected him and Gin. They liked to make love as the intense base decibels washed over them. He had told Paul that he loved the firm, springy feel of Gin’s flesh, especially her legs.”

Paul told Lela that guys rarely talk about such things, but he was sure women were far more open with each other. Lela kissed him passionately and said, “Paul my love, you are definitely learning more about gals than about guys.”

His eyes glazed over as he launched into another epiphany:

“I suggest that sex stimulates and shifts the human mind into over drive. Without male and female hormones, would people think and plan any enterprise? Does human activity depend on the prospect of sexual satisfaction?

“The prospect of finding hidden knowledge, especially about sex, leads us on interminably. We cannot help ourselves. Just as the planets revolve around the Sun, males revolve around females. Women are our stars. Women energize us; they light our sexual fires. Sex drive, I believe, drives the human mind and intellect.

“You’ve heard it said, ‘I had to light a fire under him before he did such and such.’ And you, Lela, love of my life, have lit a fire under me. You are my star, around whom I will rotate until our fire burns out.”

“Paul, that’s beautiful. I’m touched by your poetry. I know how much we need each other and understand your sexual craving and mine. That’s why I need this upcoming Afghan adventure. It’s sexual, I’m sure, this craving for adventure. I’m certain it’s something I need to do. We both need this solo adventure. The search for hidden knowledge will be an adventure for us both.”

Lela and Paul discussed resolving their sexual needs while she was away in Afghanistan, and they came up with a solution they could both agree on. Lela would choose lovers exclusively outside the U.S. Paul would do the same in the U.S., but outside the home. When she returned to their home in New Jersey, they would resume spousal sex exclusively. They agreed to exchange details of their sexual adventures in letters.

Paul was also concerned about their teenage sons. They solved the problem by finding Dan, a teaching student at Montclair State University. He needed a room and Lela needed a housekeeper and big brother for the boys as Paul did a lot of corporate traveling and was in the process of completing an economics doctorate at the New School in New York.

The deal they arrived at worked for everyone. Dan received room and board, plus $25 per week in exchange for minding the teenage sons and the house. The men and boys all shared the house cleaning on weekends.

LELA AND PAUL – FIRST MEETING:

Lela’s and Paul’s practical experience with family formation began in September 1958, with a train ride from Forest Hills to Manhattan.

Paul was on his way to NYU Medical College. He and Lela were a few feet away from each other on the train. She was seated reading the Times, and he was standing reading a book.

They happened to look at each other in the same instant. She stared at him, smiling invitingly. He immediately took advantage of the suggested invitation, enraptured by her smile. Making his way toward her, he asked what she was reading. Giving him a sensual smile, Lela replied that she was looking for a job.

As Paul looked down at her ample cleavage, she looked up at him and smiled erotically. Observing the bulge in his pants, she gave him the old Mae West line, “Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?”

He happily took the bait. “I’m wildly glad to see you. How soon can we get together? Lela replied, “What time can you meet me at the café by the train entrance?” He immediately suggested, “I’ll leave early, be there at 5:30 this evening. Does that work for you?” She said, “That’s fine.”

“By the way, what were you reading so intensely?” she asked. “Well, I’m reading Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling and Sickness unto Death, for a course in Existentialism.” “How cheerful,” Lela said. ”Let’s talk about that this evening. See you about 5:30. This is my stop.”

Paul thought about this encounter until his stop at 34th Street. For a change, he was looking forward to the long walk to the medical college on First Avenue. The walk gave him plenty of time to think about regarding this encounter.

When they met for dinner that evening the first thing Lela asked was, “Now, first tell me what motivated Kierkegaard to write such depressing books?”

Looking into her eyes, Paul replied, “Well, he and his fiancé were deeply in love, but, because of his increasing despair and melancholy, Kierkegaard broke the engagement. He was so depressed that he wrote the books grieving for his lost love. I believe he eventually died of a broken heart.”

“That is so 19th Century romantic,” she continued, “What is it about Kierkegaard that is of interest to a class in Existentialism?” Paul pondered Lela’s question. He replied, laughing, “Well, that’s a great question. Let’s see. Existentialism is an examination of human experience from the viewpoint of the raw events of our lives.”

Lela questioned further, “Yes, that’s clear enough, but why are philosophers so taken with such dismal writings?”

Paul was getting hooked on her sharp, aggressive intelligence. “Kierkegaard’s writing is a unique self-examination. He explores the depth of his depression in great detail. Critics say he was the first thinker to throw open his spiritual being to self-examination. Today, he would be called clinically depressed.

“Some say he was relating, in painful detail, his narcissistic suffering. He integrated his intellectual, emotional and physical suffering in the form of a torture log. He searched for the ultimate hidden knowledge. It was his torturous search to know his soul. Depressed writers are rarely so persistently explicit about their feelings.

“His writings created a Kabalistic map leading to the core of his being. Kierkegaard was not at all mystical. His mental journey was quite realistic but so intimately personal as to almost seem like a descent into mysticism.

“Freud and Jung would have had a field day with Kierkegaard,” Lela responded.

“In fact, they did extensive analysis,” Paul added. “Freud considered the broken engagement in terms of Kierkegaard’s subconscious perspective as rejection by his mother.

“But Jung’s analysis seems more perceptive. In Jung’s analysis the broken engagement triggered a deep sense and realization that Kierkegaard’s mating prospects were seriously in jeopardy. In other words, Kierkegaard sensed his primal failure as a human being.”

Lela said, “Yes, given the character of Victorian social standards in the 1800s, I can understand that his prospects for marriage and children were greatly reduced, and this struck him to the quick. But in the 20th century it’s considered romantic excess, terminal narcissism.”

“I agree with you; his self pity reads like a Wagnerian soap opera. But it is the trail of his intellectual ruminations, like a psychoanalytic log, that fascinates. Reading Kierkegaard makes me think of the Trail of Tears, the forced relocation of Native Americans.”

“So, can you explain the fact that we both looked at each other smiling suggestively at exactly the same moment?”

“It must be pheromones, those hormones we give off to find a genetic match for mating. Speculation holds that airborne mating hormones behave like a lock and key. When my hormone key finds your receptive hormone lock, both our senses are released to facilitate courtship.

“It’s thought that my key will release your lock only if your genetic pattern is sufficiently different from mine, in terms of complementary immunity genes.”

“Well, I guess your explanation proves you really are in medical school. Believe it or not, I actually understand what you’re saying. We both have different immunity to disease that can complement each other by providing stronger children. That’s a real turn-on—real sexy. Please go on. I saw something about that on a recent public TV show.”

“You’ve got the idea. We were both getting positive feedback from our hormone spotters. Pheromones are chemical messengers sending out mating signals and probing for a good match,” Paul replied.

“I hope you think we’re a good match, because at this point I’m boiling over,” Lela replied.

Paul took the hint, “Well, I’m ready right now.”

“Let’s go to my place,” Lela said.

These talks continued through the evening, becoming more erotically suggestive as the night wore on, finally ending with heavy necking, just short of intercourse. Lela and Paul married in June, nine months later.

MARRIED LIFE:

By the late 1960s, Lela and Paul had two young sons, and Paul had moved from the research labs into marketing research and marketing management. They lived in a middlemanagement-mafia town close to Newark. A friendly neighbor happened to be a rising capo in that ‘other Family.’

The neighbor and his wife were the same age as Lela and Paul and also had two young sons. They continually asked Paul for medical advice. While he happily provided the advice they sought, for which they were excessively grateful, Paul always pressed them to check with their family physician, insisting that he was not a medical doctor.

Paul repeatedly told them, “I can’t practice medicine, nor do I want to. I’m not a doctor. I’m a medical researcher. It’s the lure of hidden knowledge that draws me on, and medical practice does not provide enough of that.”

His neighbors would laugh saying they trusted Paul more than any doctor they knew. Paul would reply, “I appreciate your confidence in me, but you should not trust me. I don’t know enough and haven’t kept up with medical literature.”

The neighbor managed a dyeing and finishing fabric company in Passaic and desperately needed a trustworthy bookkeeper. He begged Lela to take the job at any pay she wanted and any hours she could manage. Lela agreed to take the job for $10 an hour. The neighbor insisted on paying her $20 per hour in cash. Because of the children, Lela wanted to go into the office no more than 20 hours a week.

Her new neighbor-boss insisted she could come into the office ten hours a week and do the books at home for any extra work needed. He provided a car and chauffeur at Lela’s disposal, to and from the office. Amazingly, the job and friendship lasted over ten years, with never a hitch.

The strangest part of the deal was the huge new coffin style freezer the boss asked Lela to keep in her basement. He insisted on paying $100 a month rental for the freezer and kept the freezer filled with food, leaving just enough room for the company records. The company books were always locked in the freezer when not in use, and only Lela and the chauffeur had keys to open it.

The mortgage and friendship ended abruptly. One day the neighbors took them to dinner. They had important news. The neighbors told them, “We need to close the dyeing and finishing business. We’re leaving the country. That’s all we can tell you. It’s been a beautiful friendship and business relationship, but now it must come to an end. That’s all we can say. Please don’t ask any questions.

“As a parting bonus, we want you to accept this cash. It will pay off your mortgage and then some. Lela, it will help you start your new business. We and the kids are happy and proud to know you guys. Oh yes, we will remove the books in the morning.”

MOVING ON AND UP:

As recreation, Lela and Paul occasionally went on long walks through the charming residential streets of their town. If Lela saw a home she liked, she boldly walked up to the front door and told the residents how much she admired the house. She explained that she was not a real estate person, but if they ever consider selling to please phone her. Most people were flattered by her inquiry.

Eventually, Lela found an old ten-room brick home she particularly liked. It turned out that the owners were anxious to sell. They were tennis pros and had invested heavily in a northwest New Jersey resort. They asked for $50K and said they needed to sell fast. Paul suggested offering $40K. Actually, Paul thought that low-balling the price would end this latest disruption of their lives.

In most ways Lela was quite canny when it came to financial matters. She was, after all, a bookkeeper-accountant. One thing Paul had learned living with Lela was not to say no outright. He therefore tried finessing Lela’s latest impulse.

She was a Gypsy rover at heart, always on the move with some new venture or adventure. This was a charming, exciting, and ultimately, a prosperous aspect of their marriage. But with so many changes in their lives, Paul craved stability, at least at home.

Hours were spent with the prospective sellers watching the tennis pros’ videos. After a week of viewing tennis backhand and service strategies, they agreed on $41.5K for their house. Lela was ecstatic, and Paul learned some useful tennis tactics.

Paul’s boss got him a mortgage with his brother who had just opened a bank in Cedar Grove. The inflation of the 1970’s was affecting the economy, and they were able to obtain a 7% mortgage, which was a bargain for that period in time. It was workable, and they were happy with this rate. The new ten-room home would be spacious enough for Lela’s new business, and she was delighted with the new arrangement.

The 1970s were prosperous times for Lela, Paul, and the nation. The pharmaceutical company employing Paul paid for his MBA and Economics doctorate, and Lela’s business was booming. She had many lucrative museum contracts to gather tribal art for exhibits and gift shops, and by the mid-70s would be spending half her time in Europe and the Middle East.

NYC Coliseum Show, 1974

4
FIRST TRIP - SPRING, 1975

Lela’s first solo trip to Afghanistan took place in the spring of 1975 and lasted three months. On that first trip to Kabul, Lela was ticketed on the same flight as Flake. Up to the point of boarding the Pan Am flight, Flake tried to talk her out of the trip. She would not be dissuaded. Lela was certain Flake was hiding something, and it had nothing to do with artifacts, rugby, or his injuries.

Lela and Paul spent time detailing worst case scenarios. They wrote out strategies for dealing with each. Before the trip, Lela and Paul discussed their fears. They agreed that the most dangerous aspect would be accidental entanglement in drug trafficking. For this reason, her destination was Frankfurt.

Flake planned to transfer in Frankfurt for an Arianna airlines flight to Kabul. After the flight to Frankfurt, she lost track of Flake. (In Kabul, no information as to Flake’s whereabouts ever surfaced. Lela and Paul were quite content that Lela would be able to pursue her tribal art search and acquisition trip without him.)

Lela spent time in Germany and Switzerland before moving on to her ultimate destination of Kabul and was able to persuade a few museums to commission her to bring back tribal artifacts from Afghanistan. As there was increasing interest in Islamic art, Lela’s persuasive skills were quite effective.

Lela thought Zurich one of the most beautiful cities in Europe and spent a week there. She made contacts with museums, art dealers and boutique venues. Many were interested in Islamic art and doing business with Americans.

That first week Paul wrote an aerogram to Lela: “My love, you are sorely missed. I must get used to sleeping alone. That is the most difficult part for me. As the German poet Goethe wrote, “The eternal feminine drives us onward.” I believe this is true for women as well as men. Both our pursuits are driven by the eternal feminine.

“To put it another way, Mother Nature drives us onward. The eternal feminine is coded in our genes, in our DNA. Of that I’m certain. In the final analysis, people strive for family, household and children. Striving to secure one’s family is natural, but insane striving for wealth and power, exceeding family need endangers society.”

Lela, front with sunglasses, on bus to Afghanistan

Before she flew to Frankfurt, Lela left a sealed letter for Paul, to be opened after her first week of absence. She wrote:

“You know that I’m driven to search out what’s needed for the success of our business. Partly, it’s a pursuit of personal pride, but also my pride in our family drives me on. I could no longer depend on Flake. Not that I didn’t try, but we argued constantly. Each time he went to Afghanistan, he returned with more junk and less for me to sell.

“I insisted that his buying was seriously hurting my family income and reputation with customers. By the time I built a substantial following in the trade, Flake was about to trash it. As you know, my customers are mostly women, carving out a tenuous niche in the business world. I view Flake as just another selfish, self-centered man keeping women down.

“On the other hand, you, my love, are the ideal marriage partner. Even with all the discussions and challenges to my inclinations, you have always supported me in the end. Especially, I am proud that you recognize our sexual needs and will support our joint decision on this point.

“We both recognize that our sexual needs are natural and deserve to be satisfied. We are sexual beings and Mother Nature made us that way. Know that the most unpleasant part of this trip is not having you to retreat to at the end of the day. I will miss you and the kids, but be assured that our desire for each other will increase each day we are apart. I love you and the boys and think about you constantly.”

After a few days in Frankfort, and a week in Geneva, Lela took a bullet train to Basel. She compiled a list of other possible sales venues for Basel while in Geneva and also had success in Zurich. She had a Euro Pass which provided unlimited travel rights anywhere in Europe for up to 90 days.

After visiting some museums in England, Germany and Switzerland, she discovered a hippie bus that made a three-month trip from Zurich to Kabul, with a final destination in Delhi, and then back again to Zurich. Most of the passengers were European Sannyasins (a Hindu sect). Lela booked passage and began her first Afghanistan adventure.

The bus had a large false bottom to hide trade goods. In preparation for the trip, it was filled with brand-name blue jeans, a much sought after currency throughout the world in the 1970s. The bus traveled from Zurich through Italy, Yugoslavia, Greece, Turkey, Iran, Pakistan and finally to Kabul in Afghanistan before journeying on to Delhi. Lela left the bus in Kabul.

The bus trip provided an extraordinary insight into the land and people from Zurich to Kabul. The Sannyasins had friends in most major cities along the route, and Lela and the bus people spent a day or so at most urban stops. While she was able to have pleasant conversations with people in the countries along the way, Iran was the only hostile exception.

Over the border in Iran, the bus stopped at a pastoral stream so that everyone could get out and wash up. There were a few local people observing them. As soon as the Sannyasins bared their arms and legs to wash, the locals threw rocks at them. Having made the circuit through Iran before without incident, the Sannyasins immediately realized that things had changed in Iran.

This time the caravan was forced to backtrack to the border. They explained their about-face to the border guards. The guards explained that Iran was going through a revolution; foreigners could no longer expect a welcome. They told the Sannyasins to come back when conditions become normal. Of course, things only got worse.

Lela wrote to Paul, saying, “Every few days the bus needs more repairs. Not that the bus was in such bad shape; rather, the roads were typically disaster zones. Some roads were cratered from bombing, especially in Northern Afghanistan. Even where there were no bombings, the potholes were big enough to serve as bathtubs. These road pools provided a welcome relief from the hot, sticky air following frequent cloudbursts.

Dharma smiling with Sannyasins

RADIO INTERVIEW:

After her first business trip to Afghanistan, Lela described the start of her new enterprise on a radio interview.

Lela: “My first trip to Afghanistan came about as a result of my American importer’s abrasive and downright abusive treatment of me and other women. I was determined to locate the source of the Afghan jewelry and free myself from dependency on that bozo.”

Interviewer: “What made you think you could do it?”

Lela: “I had already developed a strong sense of what sells based on my initial two years of selling Afghan jewelry and other tribal art. My flaky importer was increasingly involved in rugby, his injuries from that brutal sport, and other stuff I didn’t want to know about, forced me to act on my own.”

Interviewer: “You mentioned a need for a great adventure. What did you mean by that?”

Lela: “Well, I meant exactly what I said. Every few years I have a craving for a great adventure. The Aussies call it a walkabout. The term walkabout refers to a need for escape from the hum-drum world. People say, “S/he went walkabout.” It generally means taking off into the wild unknown in pursuit of adventure and hidden knowledge.

“My spouse goes walkabout in his head, with ideas, writing or a new project of some kind. Sometimes his mind at home is farther removed than I was when I was in the Middle East.”

Interviewer: “That’s fascinating; I guess a lot of people do that. I know I do. You two have been married 15 years. Is this your first walkabout?

Lela: “A year after we were married, we were both working and in graduate school. Graduate students received free plane tickets and an invitation to visit the new Revolutionary Cuba. It was six weeks before the 26th of July Celebration, the first year of the Revolution, the Year of Education.

“We were both active socialists. I was a photographer, painter, and sculptor. My husband, Paul, was a diabetic clinician and part-time reporter for a cooperative of leftist media. In the 1960s they were called stringers. These were reporters who were paid to cover specific events.”

Interviewer: “That must have been a great adventure for you both.”

Lela: “In many ways it was a decisive experience for both of us. Mainly, the Cuban adventure strengthened our marriage by persuading us to live in the real world.”

Interviewer: “What happened?”

Lela: “It was much more eventful than I expected. First, we attended a press conference at the Revolutionary Assembly as soon as we landed in Havana. There were over a thousand journalists from all over the world, mostly representing leftist media.

“We were wined and dined too well. I never realized what lushes our comrade reporters turned out to be. The exceptions were Communist Party people. They remained sober, smiling, and helpful ‘good scouts’ throughout the events.

“We were assigned rooms in the penthouse of the Colonia Hotel at $4 a day. Then, we were taken to a cooperative hostel in Zone H-5, which was formerly the mansion of ex-dictator Batista’s mistress. It was there, after a few days of morning sickness, that I realized I was pregnant with our first child.

“We toured a number of cooperatives for new housing, schools and industries (expanding from cottage crafts). Paul filled hundreds of pages of notebooks, and I took hundreds of 35-mm color photos. Any time I ran out of film or Paul ran out of writing material, our tour guides provided all we needed. They were anxious for the press to carry a positive image to the world.

“The real crisis occurred towards the last few days of our visit. Paul was considering a revolutionary expedition to Guatemala. I told Paul he had to choose between his new family and what I was afraid would be a death trip.

“What saved us was the recruiter. She told us that we were needed back in the States, supporting the Cuban Revolution and that only experienced revolutionaries could make the expedition work. She said that people like us were needed to work within the belly of the beast.

Two weeks after returning to New York we learned that the six ships that traveled to Guatemala were bombed, with no survivors.”

Interviewer: “Yes, I would consider your Cuban adventure quite eventful. What was next?”

Lela: “Back in New York we continued developing our careers and supporting the Cuban Revolution. Paul and I became leaders of the “Cuba Si” faction in YPSL (Young People’s Socialist League).

“We argued that the Cuban Revolution, like marriage, is seldom ideal, but, like a new marriage, we needed to persevere rather than do the liberal thing of divorcing when the going gets tough. Our faction was defeated, and we were considered adventurist divisive elements. It was strongly suggested that we work with other groups, such as the CYO (Communist Youth Organization).

“From that point on, we worked independently of any political organization. We continued to provide slide presentations and narratives wherever we could but did not join any political organizations. The truth was that we could not accept party discipline.

“By the early 1960s, every leftist organization enjoyed a substantial increase in funding and membership. The FBI virtually kept these organizations afloat, especially the Communist Party. Without FBI and U.S. taxpayer support, many leftist groups would have wound up on the trash heap of history.”

5
FOREIGN INTRIGUE

Spring, 1975—The Sannyasin overland caravan to Kabul was a marvelous adventure for Lela. The caravan consisted of six vehicles: a bus carrying Lela and most of the travelers, four large off-road campers, and a strange tiger-striped duplex camper. A young Sannyasin couple built the Tiger Bahn (road tiger) on their farm outside of Zurich.

Tiger Bahn, Tiger-striped duplex camper at Swiss Farm Starting Point

It was the most unique of the six vehicles in the caravan and was the show-stopper throughout the trip. Most of the travelers were from wealthy European families. The exceptions were Lela and Kit.

Lela and Kit were closer to each other than to any other travelers. Most of the others were Sannyasin. They acted like hippie flower children. Lela and Kit were the only serious business travelers as well as politically savvy leftists. They were like den mothers to the happy campers.

Kit said little about herself. In addition to being a nurse-practitioner, she was also a journalist and consultant to the Kalq government on health issues. After completing her training as a registered nurse, Kit went on to medical college completing her doctorate in Public Health.

The ministry of health planned hundreds of store-front clinics throughout Afghanistan, starting with a 100-mile radius around Kabul. Her medical team was Afghan, except for Kit. The team would visit each of 50 towns to negotiate with their leaders and administrators.

The team planned to establish combination medicalnursing-dental-public health clinics, as well as a national health sciences university and research center in Kabul. Kit was in the process of writing a series of articles and books on this experience, “Afghan Public Health, Past, Present and Future.” She had already written a number of newspaper and magazine articles on related subjects.

IN LELA’S WORDS:

One day while waiting for another bus repair, I went to a real Turkish bath, my first. It was in the provincial town of Site, on the southwest coast of Turkey. The bathhouse had a tour marker outside the doorway. It said something about it being an ancient Greek temple of Poseidon, refitted by the Romans into the Temple of Neptune. Romans were so practical, combining religion with a bathhouse.

Bath chamber walls, floors and pools were lined with pastel marble. The marble floors were worn to extremes, with large shallow melts, filled in with beautiful flower planters. The entire bathhouse-temple was covered with a great dome, dotted with thick portholes of colored glass, admitting great shafts of tinted sunlight. Rooms were, in actuality, six-foot partitions.

The multicolored light shafts filtered through the bathhouse steam to create an extraordinary rainbow effect, suggesting a heavenly light-show. A number of marble basins lined the walls with hot and cold running water. The water in the basins and pools provided magical light reflections.

The staff and bathers were little more than four-feet tall. In the baths, we were all completely naked. These little pear-shaped women looked like their bodies were stunted, with bloated stomachs and floppy pancake breasts.

Bath attendants covered their bottoms with ragged towels and beckoned me to undress and follow them into a prepping partition. They let me luxuriate in a warm, perfumed pool for 15 minutes and then motioned me out. An assistant helped me onto a warm marble slab, rubbing my entire body with her palms and almond-scented gel soap. It was wonderfully relaxing.

While my body felt like silly putty, they rubbed me with pumice, and then rinsed me with large sponges and warm water from copper watering cans. I imagined myself on a bed of marigolds watered by a warm spring rain. I glowed cherry pink from head to toe. Another attendant shampooed my head and all my other hairy body parts.

The stress and strain, as well as the dirt from the trip was washed, steamed and rubbed out of me. Bath attendants were divided into different guilds, based on their skills. For each bath function there was another pair of skilled hands.

After the pumicing, soap massaging and shampooing, other attendants rinsed me again, then another dip for ten minutes in a warmer pool. This was followed by a lie-down on a cool marble slab, and more gel soap massaging. This time it was a cooling mint gel. Had I really been that dirt-encrusted? How much more mellow could I get?

Another little pear-person scrubbed me all over, yet again, but gave me the towel to wash my genitals. This was the weekly bath ritual for Muslim women. The ritual bath is thorough, and, actually, it felt exhaustive to me as a newbie. It is mercifully infrequent, as our skin just does not grow back that fast.

I had brought my razor to shave my legs, and an attendant motioned me to shave off all my pubic hair as Muslim women do. Our bathhouse communications were mostly hand signals and a few phrases my Turkish relatives taught me. My complexion looked great, and I felt like I was in a new body for almost a week after this first Turkish bath. The entire bath experience cost $3.

As did the Turkish women, I covered my head with a silk scarf, at least until I reached the security of the bus. While Turkey is a secular nation, in the outlying areas body covering varies according to tribal custom. In the metropolitan areas, such as Istanbul and Ankara, the established practice is to look and dress in the European style. Turkey strives for recognition as a European nation.

Weeks before in Iran, we learned about following the local customs and covering up the hard way. One of the Englishmen on the bus waded into a village stream and was stoned for wearing shorts. We bus people learned to keep bodies, arms and legs fully covered when not on the bus. That meant no shorts, halters, tank tops, T-shirts, or anything that did not cover arms and legs.

My bus buddy, Kit, insisted that all caravan women wear head and face scarves in public. She suggested that we walk in groups of two or more with one man in each group. She said that among Islamic people it would be safer if we just conformed to their customs, and that, otherwise, we would be asking for trouble.

KABUL ARRIVAL:

It felt great to finally reach my destination, and I shared a second floor hotel room with Kit. We both felt as if the hundreds of miles of road grime had tattooed our bodies, from head to toe.

Kit suggested an excellent Turkish bath at the corner of Chicken Street. “I guarantee we will feel reborn when they finish with us.” It was a women only bath. The men’s bath was at the other end of the street. I loved the idea of another Turkish bath. It had been weeks since my first bath experience, and I felt the need of another body rebirth.

We had an early supper at a café Kit suggested. That first meal in Afghanistan featured deboned chicken baked in yogurt, cumin and garlic, topped with scallions and spinach between layers of phyla crust. Similar dishes were available with lamb or goat meat. Large bowls of curried rice, humus and locally grown melon were served along with Afghan chi.

Kit said the chicken was disjointed and boiled in saltwater first before deboning. After deboning, the chicken was cubed and mixed with crushed olives, onions, garlic cloves, lemon slices, cumin and curry, to cure overnight. The mix could then be combined with beaten eggs to make pancakes, omelets or quiches. I took notes to try this at home.

After the meal, Kit introduced me to a merchant friend on Chicken Street, and then excused herself to attend to her own commitments. Mike, the merchant, was also an Afghan civil engineer and government official with a vast network of tribal relations.

Mike spoke excellent English and had studied economics at Cambridge and civil engineering in Moscow. He and I became fast friends. Mike had two wives and children, with the first wife living in a distant town. Gen, his second wife, was a government minister in Kabul.vi

Mike introduced me to his cousin Nick, who managed the engineer’s shop when Mike was away. Mike explained that in two days he was going on an extended engineering trip. He needed to plot new roads between major towns and link them to Kabul. I was invited to come with him, and he told me we would be staying with relatives who were also merchants.

I asked Mike to meet me for breakfast in the morning back at the hotel, as he had business to attend that evening. I then remained with his cousin, picking out jewelry and other collectibles. In the back of the barn-sized storage building, Mike’s cousin showed me stacks of large metal coffin-size containers. He explained that it was customary to ship goods all over the world in such trunks, and that if I wished; he could do that for me.

Nick added that wherever I went in Afghanistan, I could address my purchases to the shop and he would store my goods in trunks in preparation for shipping. I agreed and thought this was an excellent arrangement. That day I nearly filled one trunk with all the goods I selected in the shop. These were mostly coin silver jewelry with lapis or turquoise stone settings.

I also picked out hand painted and beautiful embroidered wall hangings, as well as some hand worked brass bowls. Nick said he would wrap the jewelry in paper and nest it in the brass bowls and wall hangings. When I asked about the prices of the goods I’d selected, Nick advised waiting for Mike to give the prices and terms. He added, “In any case, you will be happy with the prices, I promise you.”

The hand-painted wall hangings held a special charm. These were crafted by tribal artisans using brilliant water-based inks. The artisans were not Muslim as the paintings depicted animals, trees and even helicopters. There was a certain artful naivety about the paintings.

Muslim artisans would only craft geometric designs as they do on rugs and kilems. Occasionally, rugs might have goats or sheep woven in a distinctly geometric form. As handcrafted weaving does not lend itself easily to curves, all the patterns are geometrical. It was the perspective, or lack of it, that held something of a spiritual quality, somewhat like ancient church icons. The paintings had a medieval look, an appealing one dimensional quality.

The objects on the paintings looked like they were ironed on. The background was the light tan of the unembellished cloth. For some strange reason, the painted objects had an insect-like quality. Helicopters resembled dragon flies and kangaroos had a grass-hopper quality. Perhaps the objects they painted were relatively new to the tribal artisans. Their mind’seye may have reflected on the artists’ closest experience, perhaps with insects or a traveling carnival. The urban cloth paintings were more sophisticated but lacked charm.

I spent the next two days visiting local merchants and was able to locate some beautiful tribal crafts. Talking to Kabul merchants over endless cups of tea, each contact led to another. Each merchant set aside my selections, mostly jewelry of far better quality than anything my American supplier had ever provided in the States.

Before the trip with Mike, I asked if he could help me get a good price on the goods I’d selected with the various merchants. He was willing and haggled artfully with the merchants while I smiled coyly. They all knew him as a Kalq government official and he gave me excellent prices.

All the purchased items were stored in trunks at Mike’s shop, and I paid for all my purchases with American dollars. This would make me a welcome guest wherever I went.

The next day, we started the trip through the countryside in Mike’s all-terrain Lynx vehicle. Mike explained, “This is a resilient vehicle, supplied by the Russian Army for the terrible roads we will travel. The Lynx is built for terrain without roads.

The underside is one-half-inch carbon steel coated with latex and tar. The axles are laminated double sized spring steel, and the tires are wide and steel-belted, filled with soft latex, rather than air. The motor is air cooled rather than water cooled. It’s a reliable vehicle for the terrain through which we will be traveling.

For that first trip, we would spend three months visiting Mike’s various clans. Each clan treated me as an honored guest, insisting that I remain with them for days at a time before accompanying me to the next clan.

Sometimes I helped Mike sight new roads, suggesting scenic road stops with privies. Most Afghan privies were two flat stones over a pit. For privacy, woven reed enclosures might be included.

At each clan stop, I acquired traditional jewelry, kilems, antique bronzes and a great assortment of artifacts. I noted the price and origin of each piece, numbering and dating each in a note book. Each piece was tagged with a corresponding sticker.

The only dilemma I encountered was my role as a guest and trader. My hosts called me sister and daughter, but insisted that I have my meals with the men. I wanted to keep with their tradition, and as a mother and woman, eat with the women and children.

The men told me that business traders and guests traditionally had their meals with the men. Only women kinfolk had meals with women and children. I tried to reason that, since they called me sister and daughter, I should have my meals with the women and children, but they just laughed.

I finally suggested the following: “Since I am a business trader, please permit me to have the business meal with the business men, but as a mother and sister other meals with the women and children.” To this compromise they all agreed, while continuing to laugh uproariously.

The head of the clan told me I had the wisdom of a Sufi, and I told him that some of my kin were Sufi Dervishes, forced out of Turkey by the Ataturk government in 1910. A great “Ahhhh!” arose from all in attendance. They now understood what they had perceived as my sagacity.

Sufi is a Muslim sect that is often rejected by other Muslims since the Sufis reject blind orthodoxy. Sufis are an easy-going sect. They are soft like wool, and, as a matter of fact suuf is the Arabic word for wool. Sufis are poets, philosophers, and mystics and work easily and well with all other people and religions.

Some describe Sufis as the Unitarians of Islam. Famous Sufis include the poet Rumi, as well as the philosophers Averroes, Avicenna and Moses Maimonides. Yes, there continue to be Jewish Sufis.

AUTHOR COMMENTARY:

Thus, was an interesting trio of interests combined and merged. While in Afghanistan, Lela was hunting for tribal art, Kit was ostensibly seeking public health clinics, and Mike, the civil engineer, was working on creating a new system of roads.

In reality, as would come to light at a later time, Kit and Mike had a higher priority than clinics and roads. Both were KGB agents, and their primary job was to hunt for new energy sources. As far as Lela was concerned, tribal art was and would continue to be the objective. The KGB was the Soviet equivalent of the American CIA.

Mike, Kit, and Lela became close friends as well as business and political associates. The three traveled together much of the time. Each kept notes wherever they went. At most towns on their itinerary, the first stop would be with Mike’s relations, many of whom were tribal leaders.

Lela and Mike would continue to travel the same 100-mile radius around Kabul as did Kit. Their paths crossed a number of times. When they met, they often had meals together. Mike would explain that new health clinics worked best on new roads. He, Lela, and Kit were all fellow travelers on the way to a new progressive world, as Kit repeatedly suggested.

[NOTE: The Soviet Union backed the new Kalq government in Kabul, and would continue to do so until 1991. By that time the Soviet bloc of nations transformed into “independent” allies. Under the trappings of a market economy, the old Soviet KGB secret police took control of a new Russian federation.

The cement for this new world order was the huge Russian expansion of oil and gas production. By the 21st Century, the Russian union became the energy supplier to most of Europe.

A new world order was in the making. In the West, the European economy was floundering from the extremes of wealth, debt and poverty. At the same time Europe was becoming increasingly dependent on cheap energy from the Russian Union.

Interest in Afghanistan grew as a result of the expectation of locating an ocean of oil in the Afghan lowlands. As petroleum technology improved, oil supplies in North America and North Europe increased, but were not likely to match the low cost of near-surface Arabian oil.]

An established routine would be created with the visits to Mike’s tribal relations. First, introductions would be made to all family members. Then, the inevitable tea talk would commence and continue for a couple of hours before any business was transacted. Most towns had permanent bazaars and artisans specializing in various market crafts.

The women and children were quite affectionate with Lela and Kit. After a short time with Mike’s relatives, the two women were easily adopted as Auntie Lela and Auntie Kit. Continual hugs and kisses among all the women and children were almost a ritual. Adult men were excluded from this circle of affection, at least in public.

Lela and Kit spent much of the early mornings and evenings with the women and children of the household. Most of Mike’s relations knew some English or were learning. The public schools now taught English and Russian. The children especially were keen to practice their school lessons with Lela and Kit.

The kids sang some riddle songs in Pashtu, gesturing and dancing like in the Bollywood films they viewed on TV. The aunties, recognizing some of the tunes, sang them in English, to the great amusement of the women and children.

The aunties were pulled into an Afghan version of “Ring-Around-the-Rosie”. When the ‘all fall down’ was sung, the entire ring collapsed into giggles and hugging. The aunties next did an English version of “Peas Porridge Hot” with the palm slapping included, and the women and children went wild with their rhythmic palm slapping version.

These lessons were accompanied with much laughter and affection. The women and children loved to do cat’s cradle, a game in which a string looped in a pattern like a cradle on the fingers of one person’s hands is transferred to the hands of another so as to form a different figure, in amazingly complex string patterns.

They tried teaching these string games to Lela and Kit. Kit picked it up easily, but Lela’s hilarious efforts had everyone in tears of laughter. The kids laughed until they cried. They rolled on top of each other hugging the aunties and each other.

The new aunties also played games with the women and children, and a gentle form of football (soccer) was popular. But rope-jumping was even more popular. Women and children jumped in complex patterns while singing riddle-songs.

They showed the aunties how they used thin colored silk and split bamboo to fashion elaborate kites. Making and flying kites is more a passion than sport throughout Afghanistan. Especially, they loved to make cylinder kites. Lela was fascinated with their homespun kite craft.

After laying out the bamboo frames, knotted together with black nylon thread, they cut the silk to fit the frame. They pressed plastic eye holes to lock on both sides of the silk, like shirt snaps. The point of a scissor provided a neat opening through the eye holes. Lela wrote that no glue or fiber string was ever used.

In kite competitions, fighting kites with razor blades tied to the upper portion of the string battle each other, attempting to cut an opponent’s kite string. The youngest children fly kites competitively, gaining local accolades and many captive kites.

Lela wrote about nimble little fingers rapidly knotting rubber bands through the silk eye holes and around the bamboo frames. The finished kites were attached to spools of black nylon that revolved on beautifully hand-carved kite reels. Many of these kites decorated household walls and ceilings.

Beautiful kites were sold in the bazaars. Some merchants only sold kites made by kite artists with reputations for their kite artistry. These artistic kites were stamped with the artist’s symbolic prayers, intending to send a message on the wind straight to heaven.

Artistic kite calligraphy included variations of Great is the Father, (Allah Akbar). Kit could read some Arabic and told Lela that a few were engraved on the bamboo with Al-Lat Akbar, meaning Great is the Mother. There appeared to be a revival of the Great Mother—probably from India.

Kit explained to Lela that in the original version of the Arabian Nights, some of the tales are set at the time when Islam was replacing Great Mother Lat—blessed be Her name with the Great Father Allah—blessed be His name. She went on to explain that The Afghans consisted of many migrating tribes among the majority of settled people.

Some tribes and clans were still animist or believers in the Great Mother, Lat, or Mother Nature, but these were a minority in a nation with a Muslim majority. Prior to Islam, Afghanistan had been a global center of Buddhism, but that was at least two thousand years-ago.

Other visits would combine similar opportunities for play and learning, along with the main objective for Lela of finding and buying tribal art and artifacts to import to the U.S. and her European customers.

The traveling threesome: Kit, Mike, and Lela typically spent at least three days at the various crafters, bazaars, and homes that had a relationship with each of Mike’s kin groups. Most of the homes were provided with modern furnishings from Delhi or Afghan handmade furniture. All the rugs, kilems, decorations, jewelry, clothing, leather and metal ware were Afghan, although much of the cloth was from Russia, India, and China.

Usually the three visited the crafters and bazaars together, but sometimes a family member took Lela to various craft people, usually relatives, for jewelry, tribal crafts and art objects. Each time they met a new business prospect, the tea ritual was repeated.

When they returned for the mandatory evening family meal, the host would greet them, showing them around the gardens, plantings, livestock, and buildings. Mike and Kit were most interested in the tar used to fill chinks in walls and roofing, and they took note of fresh applications of tar.

In her aerograms to Paul, Lela mentioned that at many of these meals the conversation turned to complements about the food, family, and, especially the host home. Kit admired the decor—the warmth and comfort of the home; making a point of admiring the use of tar to seal openings against the wet and cold.

Mike translated these comments, asking if the tar was obtained nearby. On more than one occasion, the host proudly mentioned that they had their own tar and petroleum source or that there was an open pit in the area available to all, just like the water.

Some used the crude petroleum in household lamps. Mike mentioned that the crude was widely used as a dressing for wounds. On livestock, the sticky tar works best, as animals will not tear it off as they do with bandages; the putrid taste and smell discourages them.

Many merchants with access to crude sold it at bazaars. Lela noted that she often noticed large quantities of plastic jugs filled with the foul stuff sold at most bazaars. The crude merchants needed no advertising as the stink was advertising enough. Buyers had only to follow their nose to the crude seller. There were a number of gasoline filling stations throughout Kabul with at least one in most towns. But these only serviced gasoline and kerosene engines.

Kit said the crude had been used for thousands of years for medication, lighting, heating, and even as an effective sun screen. She was quite knowledgeable and did not hesitate to share her knowledge with Lela and Mike. vii

For global trade, tar sealed the planks of ships for Sumerians, Egyptians, Greeks, Vikings, and even the British navy. That’s why British sailors were called tars.

Kit explained that this knowledge was all acquired as part of her university education. She went on to say that for external injuries and skin ailments, crude serves as a useful anti-infective. Until 1970, pharmacies sold it as carbolated petroleum jelly. The carbolic acid or phenol naturally occurs in crude and coal tar. The toxicity of phenol forced it out of petrolatum products.

Later Kit mentioned that Australian interests were keen to help Afghanistan develop its petroleum industry. She and Mike were motivated by these economic interests as well as their professional objectives, that is, coordinating road building with health clinics.

Lela wrote to Paul about her good fortune in befriending Mike and Kit. She copied most of her daily log to the aerograms she sent Paul, often two to three a week. Similarly, Paul sent aerograms to Lela, describing the events of family household, as well as the interactions of Kirk, Erik, Dan and himself.

In one of her early aerograms, Lela mentioned that as soon as they drove away from a host, they would stop along the road where Kit and Mike would unfold their map and, with a red pencil, circle the areas where natural petroleum was reported.

6
REFLECTIONS - SPRING, 1975

The altitude and landscape in Kabul is reminiscent of Denver, Colorado. For a few weeks in fall and spring the heavens open and turn Kabul into a huge mud slide. The rains came a week after I arrived. Within the first few hours my jeans were mud splattered to the waist.

During the first few weeks I was so involved in business activities continually, there was no time to give the weather much thought. The merchants I dealt with were urban extensions of their tribes. As I familiarized myself with the shopkeepers, their commercial sophistication was evident. I was delighted with the variety and quality of the objects in the shops and bazaars.

I learned that every transaction required a complex social exchange. A feature and fault of these dealings required that most of my meals be with merchant families. It took some getting used to, but I began to realize that social exchange was as important as business exchange. Merchant families stressed that social links paved the way to business success.

Social links are not taken lightly. Once adopted into the extended merchant family, I was treated as kin to all their tribal kin. The tribal connections often extended outside of Afghanistan, into Turkey, Pakistan, India, Iran, Russia, China and Western Europe.

Some of the merchants and traders I encountered along the way were crafty, patronizing, and wary. On the other hand, those who I did business with were friendly, kind, and exuberantly helpful. Once money changed hands, the Afghans insisted on adopting me into their families. This was usually a pleasant and warm experience, especially with the women and children of the clan.

The hospitality was especially warm with Mike’s clan. As we followed Mike’s engineering itinerary, all the families we visited had something to sell or trade. After five years in Afghanistan, it would seem as if buying selling-trading was the principle occupation and pastime.

Over the years, I’ve become kin to many merchants. Each trade, gift, meeting, meal, wedding, and birth strengthens our ties. Typically, I spend two months or so trading in Afghanistan and Europe and two months in the States, selling my tribal treasures.

Lately, I’ve taken some of my business associates back to the States. They live with my family at our ranch in New Jersey, much as I live with them when we return to Afghanistan. Our ranch has become a wait-station for refugees. Some are referred to us by the Unitarians and Quakers in our area, but most are Afghan political refugees.

When I stay with my Afghan family they treat me like a daughter. There was a time when I offered to pay for my room and board, and they laughed at me saying:

“Would we charge our daughter Fatima? We are all family. When we stayed with your family in New Jersey, we were treated like your own family, and we felt at home. Why spoil what we have so rewardingly built? We have all benefited and prospered. Why should we disrupt that?”

ON THE ROAD AGAIN:

This time we were en route to Kandahar when the back right tire rolled off the axle after hitting a rock on the other side of a blind curve. Mike was prepared for this. He jacked up the rear right axle by pulling one of four knobs below the dash.

The knob released a pneumatic jack that slowly raised the rear-right of the vehicle. It was the first time I’d seen an automatic jack, marvelous, I thought. It was Russian military technology that worked for a change.

We recovered the wheel with the hub cap intact; the four large bolts had all worked free. I helped Mike mount the heavy tire back on the axle, holding the wheel steady as he tightened the bolts.

There was no damage. The hub caps have a strong vise-like attachment to the wheel hub. Hubcaps were secured in vise grips with a built-in lock. Mike had to unlock the large hubcap. The lose bolts nested securely, as these were magnetically held against the inner concave hubcap. The magnetic hold was so strong that it took a screw-driver to pry them lose.

Once we wrestled the wheel back on the axle and bolted the nuts securely, I noticed that the axle protruded about an inch from the bolted wheel base. The end of the axle had a screw hole. “Mike, what’s this hole for?” I asked. He replied, “Now I’m going to show you something I neglected.” He went to the glove compartment and took out a small case with screw bolts. He gave me one of the screws and asked me to screw it through the end of the axle.

Road-Side Mosque outside of Kandahar

Nearing Kandahar, Mike pulled over at a lovely kiosk-size mosque. He asked if I wanted to learn to drive the vehicle. “Sure,” I said, “You must get tired on these long drives. I love to drive, and it seems like you need some relief.” He replied, “Yes, it would be nice to have some relief.”

Manual shifting is something I’ve done for many years, first on an old Ford Falcon. Mike’s vehicle was easy to learn. I persuaded him to let me drive into Kandahar. This, I enjoyed greatly. The mountainous landscape was breathtaking and the drive down to the foot-hills of Kandahar was no less exciting.

Everywhere I go with my 35-mm Lica, I take a lot of photos. The photo above was taken ten miles outside of Kandahar as we were descending the mountain road. The air was so clear that the city seemed much closer.

Mike said, “Lela, I think you like driving and traveling.” I replied that I love driving and travel. “It must be the Gypsy in me or my Turcoman heritage.” Mike replied, “We are all of Turcoman origins, I believe. It means endless trekking and trading. In this respect we are much like Gypsies; but we don’t see Gypsy caravans in Afghanistan. With all the migrating groups in Afghanistan, I believe Gypsies would be redundant.”

“Why don’t Gypsies travel here?” I asked. He replied that probably Afghanistan was too poor and mountainous for them. “Afghans are hospitable to visitors that want to buy and sell, but not to those with questionable ways,” he added.

The trip from Kabul to Kandahar on the A-1, according to the guide books, was 296 miles or 494 km. In most places the A-1 was paved and not bad at all. But mountain roads are subject to wash-outs, mud slides, rock slides and small earthquakes. All in all, other than some minor rock slides; we had no serious trouble on the trip.

Every time we passed a rock slide Mike mentioned that the Kalq government would be installing heavy wire fencing over the rock slide areas—like in the States. At quake zones there would be bins of gravel and sand to fill road cracks.

Local Kalq officials are paid for road maintenance, “Just as are local New Jersey towns,” he repeated frequently. Mike spoke with me in great detail about his transportation plans. “If we were a rich country, we could afford railroads. Possibly barges could move heavy loads over parts of the rivers, but cargo would need to be off loaded to trucks, and that is not economic.

I believe an extensive system of trucks and buses over well-maintained roads is the best solution, possibly supplemented with heavy-duty helicopters. River-linking canals could be of value.”

Mike directed me to a fueling garage just outside of Kandahar. There, he introduced me to his brother-in-law Al. Mike had two wives at the time. The first lived in Kandahar, and Al, his brother-in-law from this marriage, owned the garage.

He asked Al to balance and rotate the tires and put in the screws at the end of each axle before securing the hubcaps. “We also need petrol, motor and fluids check, especially the breaks,” requested Mike.

Al had his mechanic do this and took us to lunch at a nearby café. Mike asked about his wife and son before visiting them. The boy was ten, and Mike thought about taking him to America with him. He expressed these thoughts to Al. Al said that would not work as the clan would not allow the boy or his mother to leave.

“If the Mujahedeen force the Kalq out of the country, my son would be safer with me in America,” declared Mike.

Al replied that the boy and his mother would be safer in Kandahar as her tribe, while powerful, was not political. In any case, her people would not allow the removal of the boy.

“Thanks to you Mike, the boy is getting a good education at the British school here. And will probably get a scholarship to the University in Islamabad,” Al said all this to Mike in a kind and affectionate way.

Mike said that his new wife could not have children and would love to care for his son. After a long discussion, Al finally convinced Mike that his plans would not work. The boy would remain with his mother’s clan.

We were at the café at least an hour before Kit walked in with her aide. Why wasn’t I surprised to see her? She said that they had arranged for six clinics between Kabul and Kandahar. They were negotiating for another six, to be spaced about 25 miles apart. “When this is done, we will set up clinics between Kabul and Jalalabad, Herät, as well as Mazar-e-Sherif at the northern border,” Kit added.

“How is the trek working out for you two?” Kit asked. I said, “Mike and I are coordinating our objectives quite well, and I have found enough tribal art for this trip. Mike does his road surveys, and I bargain with the local merchants. Everyone wants to sell me something. If I get the feeling that a merchant is holding out on me, I give him a pair of blue jeans as baksheesh and the flood gates open.”

Mike added, “On this trip I’m mainly surveying rock slide and earthquake zones, tracking these, and contacting local Kalq people to maintain those danger zones. Road work will create many jobs, and these will be Kalq Party jobs. Our aim is to pave all roads from main highways to towns of 1,000 or more.

“By providing thousands of road-work jobs, we help to build local income and Kalq infrastructure. We pay special bonuses for information concerning natural tar deposits—so the incentives are abundant. It’s vital to show how Kalq cares for all Afghans.”

Kit remarked, “That’s an excellent strategy. We are working similarly on establishing public health clinics, renting existing buildings when possible, and contracting with local builders to construct and refurbish clinics.

“Our aim is a clinic of some sort in every town. Local healers are being hired to staff the clinics. We are paying local families for the use of their homes, when no other facilities are available.

“Local teachers and leaders are paid to set up technical and paramedic schools in conjunction with clinics. Each clinic will add storage space for food and household necessities to families in need. We consider that part of public health.

“Where clean water is a problem, we will have local water tanker trucks provide water to those in need until adequate wells are built. Similarly, we plan to have local transportation provided on a scheduled basis. Buses and cars will be used as available. Even trucks can be used if needed.”

These plans were designed to provide for basic family needs while building a broad base of Kalq Party support.

AUTHOR COMMENTARY:

Lela was impressed with these plans. She wrote to Paul, “The plans for the Afghans are not at all Utopian. They seem practical and efficient. The problem is domination by outsiders such as Pakistan, Iran, Soviet Union, China, India and the U.S.”

In her aerograms Lela repeatedly commented on the energy issue. No one inside Afghanistan uses the word oil, but much talk, too much I think, about the energy issue. The “O” word is now considered politically incorrect.

“When we search for tribal crafts, most visits are to Mike’s people or friends of his relatives. While I find wonderful craft items, the subject of tar pits is always discussed. I’ve seen the map kept by Mike and Kit. The red circles correspond closely with my craft purchases.”

LELA:

After traveling with Mike and Kit for so long, most every low-land town is either circled in red or shows a red question mark. Are they mapping an ocean of energy? I wonder. In the Kabul cafés, we constantly run into embassy staff and journalists. These are such friendly people; they are all smiles and handshakes.

We are at the top of every embassy list of invitees. The receptions and press conferences are virtually non-stop. Endless messages and engraved invitations are sent to us, and they send their cars for us; however Mike, Kit, and I know what they’re sniffing around for.

The three of us are the stars of the embassy social season. When in Kabul, we three attend at least three events each week. Mike puts the squeeze on them for road funds, and Kit is quite persuasive about contributions to the new Afghan health system. The embassies are intensely interested in commissioning me for redecorating their premises with Afghan tribal art.

I never realized that I had such powerful social skills. We three do not drink alcoholic beverages, but the embassy people are terrible lushes. Actually, they are quite entertaining with their funny stories and jokes. We greet everyone, laugh at the funny stories, eat and drink nothing, and excuse ourselves after twenty minutes of social glad-handing.

7
AFGHAN REALITY - FALL, 1975

LELA:

Paul and the boys are in my thoughts. Paul’s body is central to my fantasies, especially at night. He is my anchor, my link to the real world. After weeks with the Sannyasins, lotus land on wheels, it’s almost refreshing to travel among the Afghan people. Most of all, I miss Paul’s sweet loving.

Traveling with Mike and visiting with his clan families, dealing with business and political realities, remind me of the bus people. The Sannyasin bus people seem to have let go of the real world. They live in a world of sweetness and light, that extends no further than their caravan.

They had only the foggiest understanding of why the Iranians threw rocks at them. They wondered why they were so violent. Kit repeatedly explained the political situation: a revolution was in progress; westerners were symbols of western decadence and should not take it personally, especially as no one was hurt. The bus people could not or would not understand.

The Sannyasins seemed to drift from day to day, mishap to mishap, and from fantasy to fantasy. They thought of Kit and me as den-mothers, and it seemed as if they were truly sad when we left the caravan in Kabul.

Some of the Sannyasins were children of Swiss bankers. They were determined to distance themselves from what they described as a dehumanizing environment. Who should know better about the dehumanizing influence of Swiss bankers than their children?

The progress, if one could call it that, was from one dusty town to the next, from one drug to the next. Most of the drugs were hash and grass. At least, I hoped that was all. One couple was into smoking raw opium. That made me extremely fearful.

When I realized the drug culture was taking the grand tour of this world’s most dangerous places, I was glad and relieved to leave lotus land in Kabul. I vowed to avoid the caravan people as much as possible. They could bring only trouble.

I felt ambivalent though. In spite of my fears, a sense of romantic attraction persisted. Superficially, the caravan people had the charm of a 1930’s Preston Sturgis road film. On a deeper level I felt that I was being sucked-in. But I was here for business and determined to exit the caravan with Kit as soon as we arrived in Kabul.

Some of the caravan people began, like me, trying to grow a business in spite of the endless challenges. After each trip home, the restlessness would set in again. They would be off on the next caravan. They sold enough to support their lifestyle. I did not know what they sold and did not want to know. My rule was “see-hear-speak no evil.”

My own contraband was blue jeans for baksheesh (definition: gratuity, tip or bribe paid to expedite service, especially in some Near Eastern countries). In the 1970s blue jeans were international currency. Most clans that I did business with accepted blue jeans as gifts. Every clan I visited had at least one sewing machine, and no matter the size of the blue jeans offered, the Afghans made everything fit.

Afghans obtained bolts of denim, bogus labels and rivets from Pakistan and India. They fit local customers with personally tailored blue jeans. Blue jean labels were sewed in according to customer request.

Handcrafted blue jeans were often of excellent quality. These were bartered with local merchants for fuel, food and other supplies. Most home crafters were more intent on trading than cash sales, and the social exchange seemed of the utmost importance.

Afghan women and men were skilled at sewing and tailoring. In the last years of business with the Afghans, I brought them fashionable clothes or just magazine pictures, and they were able to produce knockoffs within just a few days. These were of such high quality and low cost that I was able to sell them at a fraction of the retail price back in the States.

Many Afghan families enjoyed a substantial boost in income from their tailoring skills. This was especially true of the migratory clans. These itinerant tribes eventually became my major source of tribal art objects, especially tribal jewelry.

I was less interested in selling knock-offs, than tribal art, but did the knockoffs trade more to benefit the Afghans than myself. My main supplier was a tribe that made a circuit through Pakistan, India, China, Tajikistan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan (the origin of my family), Turkey, Iran, and back to Afghanistan.

This circuit tribe used dilapidated trucks and vans. Out of necessity, they became mechanically adept at keeping these vehicles running. The tribe made the circuit two or three times a year. They pay a toll by providing a courier service at border crossings—delivering materials and messages that cannot be trusted to established delivery services.

AUTHOR COMMENTARY:

Lela’s aerograms described her difficulty flying home after her second trip. There would be no more lotus eater caravans for her. After six months establishing her import business, she was ready to fly home before the holidays at the end of 1975.

LELA:

Getting to Istanbul from Kabul was disturbing enough. I could continue on Arianna Airlines (or ‘Scariana’, as it was known to many). As the airline’s nickname implies, the challenging flight from Kabul to Istanbul convinced me to seek alternatives. This must be why road traffic persists in and out of Afghanistan.

The problem of flights out of Istanbul seemed endless. Kit and I arrived at the ticket office too late. We had to wait until the next morning. Rising early, we took a public bus to the opposite side of Istanbul where the Hilton and major airline offices were located. Another holy day meant that all offices were closed. However, it turned out to be a great tour of Istanbul.

I hungered for the general post office and mail from home, but we would have to wait for a work day and play at being tourists in the meantime. It could be two weeks before aerograms to and from home would arrive. We hated the tourist role and covered ourselves from head to foot, including head scarves.

Thankfully, the next morning was a work day. We went back to the Hilton. Kit had no trouble getting a flight to Sidney and back to Kabul. She had some sort of diplomatic passport that seemed to open all doors. She had to return to Kabul by the end of January, and I did not ask why. I’m learning not to ask the wrong questions.

Topkapi taken from the open window of a parked bus

I went to the Pan Am office for a flight to NYC or Newark. As it turned out, I needed permission from ‘Scariana’ as the airline of origin. Since ‘Scariana’ flew me from Frankfort to Kabul, they insisted it had to be the same way back to Frankfort. For some reason, I didn’t believe I would survive another ‘Scariana’ flight. Maybe I’m getting overly cautious.

The Middle East officials I dealt with seemed unrelentingly pompous until I began flirting with them. I told the ‘Scariana’ agent that I would love to take him to lunch. At that, he smiled broadly, immediately put an off duty sign on his desk, motioned to an assistant to take over, and we were off. I was learning that in the Middle East little gets done without some form of baksheesh.

The agent took me across the boulevard to a wonderful little café. He told me Turkish food is the best in the world, and after lunch I believed him. I still can’t believe how inexpensive this meal was. The agent apologized for the airline rules and also for the union rules that determined his actions. A small gift here and there certainly greases the wheels of commerce.

“There are alternatives,” he said as we sipped Turkish coffee. He continued, “I’m going to save you a week of running around and endless phone calls. Here are the options: you can continue on to Frankfort via ‘Scariana’ at no extra cost, or pay $283 for a Frankfort flight on another airline. A flight to London is $203.” I said I was afraid to fly ‘Scariana’, and he said he was also fearful of flying ‘Scariana’.

Kit and I toured Istanbul for a couple of days, after which she flew home and I was about to book on the Orient Express to Athens, when I ran into an English couple who had been on the bus with us to Kabul. They said they were about to do the same when they passed an auto rental kiosk and decided to rent a car instead. I was surprised how cheap car rental was.

The English journalists were driving to Frankfort by way of Athens, Bucharest, Budapest, Zagreb and Milano. If I joined them I would only pay one-third of the costs. They told me I could fly out of any of these destination cities if I changed my mind. After my turbulent flight to Istanbul, I decided to stay on the ground for a while and gladly accepted their offer.

We began our car trip and when we arrived at the Greek-Turkish border, it looked like a war zone. The couple told me to wait in the car as they rushed out with cameras and press credentials. It was too good a story for journalists to pass up. They came back ten minutes later flush with success. Their photos would pay for ten trips to the Middle East; they said and added that I wouldn’t need to pay anything for this trip.

My journalists went on to say, “It’s Cyprus again. They were about to shoot it out on the border when UN and NATO peacekeepers arrived by helicopter. The border has been like this for almost a week. Since both Greece and Turkey are members of NATO, everything possible is being done to cool the situation. Now there’s a larger UN-NATO presence than that of belligerents.

Slowly we cruised to the Turkish border Where a Turkish officer stopped us saying, “It is impossible to cross the border; it’s much too dangerous to cross into Greece.” I then produced a brown bag with a pair of blue jeans at which point the officer smiled and slowly led the way to the border crossing.

On the Greek side, I produced another bag of blue jeans, and we were waved on our way without any request for papers. My drivers said I was more effective than any passport.

Looking back, it was a happy day when I decided to buy the Afghan-made jeans. They were a fraction of the cost I paid for American-made jeans and worked just as well as gifts. Being from a fiercely pro-union family, I experienced some pangs of guilt, but reasoned that the Afghans needed the money more than the overfed Americans.

I have come to understand that the word impossible is only a euphemism for baksheesh and blue jeans were the baksheesh of choice. I was quickly learning the meaning and power of those words.

Baksheesh is the exact opposite of impossible, and anything was possible with baksheesh. Throughout most of the world of the 1970’s, blue jeans were the global currency. Dollars, on the other hand, were too easily forged. No one cared about knockoff jeans as long as they passed inspection by the discerning eye.

I told the journalists about my previous adventures with the bus caravan and migrating tribe. They said that migrating people had long ago perfected the art of border crossing with gifts for border guards. They said that Gypsy caravans routinely crossed Soviet borders with gifts of liquor. Like the circuit tribe, Gypsies were also unofficial messengers.

On the long drive, my journalist friends told me their personal Gypsy story. They were commissioned by a London tabloid to do a really wild travel story. There was but one lead, a phone number for “Travel like the Wind Gypsy Tours.” The tabloid had them sign a contract and they were given a substantial advance, with the directive to get the most lurid photos possible.

The tour agency phone was answered by a recorded message: “Now you can travel the world with the Gypsies. We travel like the wind. We do not recognize borders, and borders do not recognize us. We practice the art of creating a world without borders. If you would like to travel like the wind, leave your phone number at the sound of the tambourine.”

8
TRAVEL LIKE THE WIND - FALL, 1975

LELA:

On the trip to Athens, the journalist couple continued to relate their story about their experiences traveling with a Gypsy band. They spent four months on their tabloid assignment, and the story appeared as a series. In Britain, it was titled “Travel like the Wind.” In Australia it was “A World without Borders.”

The first article in the series introduced the idea that over the last million years, Neanderthal and other humans were forced to migrate continually in search of mates, food and shelter. The preferred meat was grazing animals.

Early people followed migrating herds as grazers led the way to grassland and waterways. Some of the Sami (formerly known as Laps, which is now considered derogatory) still live this way with reindeer at the Arctic Circle. The couple staged photos of fur-clad hunters stalking Aurochs, deer, mammoths and horses in mating poses. Aurochs were the source of domesticated bovine cattle.

Last Auroch female died in 1627*

Traveling with a German Gypsy clan, the journalists were shown pictures of Aurochs pulling caravans over 500 years ago. At that time they staged Auroch bull jumping shows at fairs. Aurochs and people lived together quite well, unless they were teased or hunted. Then Aurochs became extremely aggressive and fast. Fighting bulls are close relatives of the Auroch.

Up to 10,000 years ago there were probably no more than 15,000 humans throughout the world. Bands of people seldom exceeded 50 to 100 due to the limited resources along the route of migration. Therefore, mating was far more haphazard than today. If the first tribal rule practiced exogamy, or mating outside the clan, then finding suitable mates became even more difficult.

True or not, I was fascinated by the journalists’ Gypsy stories. Soviet bloc nations were far more tolerant of Gypsies than Western Europe. While Gypsies transferred messages, they were compensated by having a blind eye turned to the contraband they transported.

On approaching certain border crossings, Gypsies would dress and act like an elaborate wedding party, just as if they stepped out of an 18th Century painting. The bride and groom led the way, followed by a liveried wedding band. Bringing up the rear were servants with bottles of vodka and baskets of fruit. Those not costumed, wore their best clothes. All were exuberantly strutting fashion-plates.

The journalists showed their photos of the so called wedding party with themselves decked out as classic Perrot and Harlequin clowns and continued their story.

Bottles of vodka were passed around to the border guards first. The wedding dance started while packets were exchanged between a border guard and the Gypsy chief.

Pierrot and Harlequin, Paul Cézanne 1888 Pushkin Museum, Moscow*

Fire eating and sword swallowing clowns on stilts greeted the border guards. The sword swallower did an act that had everyone howling with laughter. She was a tall, attractive middle-aged woman in a medieval mummer’s outfit. As soon as the fire eater in the group did his routine, he introduced his wife, the sword swallower, with a wild pantomime, but no words.

The sword swallower began by handing around, to the guards first, a long, straight sword. When they returned the sword to her, she walked her stilts over to some low-hanging branches, followed by a helper, and hacked off one of them in a single blow. She then had the helper retrieve the hacked tree branch and pass it to her while she passed the sword to the helper.

She stilted back to the crowd and made a big show of handing the hacked branch around for inspection. Her helper then passed her what looked like the same sword. The band played an elaborate fanfare as she slowly waved the sword around her head. The helper dramatically oiled the blade with a bottle labeled Extra Virgin Olive Oil, handing the bottle around for all to see.

As the sword swallower was about to go into her act, the helper waved a pair of metal mesh meat cutter’s gloves to the crowd. This was intended to further impress everyone with the danger of sword swallowing. The helper then put on the gloves, and the sword swallower threw him the sword. One by one, he took off each glove and tossed the gloves to her.

The sword swallower adjusted her stance and bent her head back a few times, as if to loosen the neck muscles. She gave out a short whistle and held out her hand for the sword. The helper then unscrewed the sword hilt and carefully handed the naked blade up to her. A short drum roll followed. Slowly, she upended the sword, point toward her mouth.

Tambourines gently accompanied the movement of the sword as she tilted her head back, opened her mouth wide, and slowly lowered the sword point into her mouth. It took her a few minutes as she carefully rotated her neck and body as if to ease the passage of the sword.

Onlookers clapped rhythmically along with the tambourines. As the sword swallower held the last of the sword in her mouth, the helper handed her a large white bandanna. This she took with her empty hand, waved it around her head, and covered her sword hand as she extracted the blade a few inches.

Seeming to change her mind, she lowered the sword again completely into her mouth. At the same time the kerchief hand slowly descended to her rear end. The kerchief hand slowly eased the sword point and the entire sword out of her posterior. The border guards cheered hysterically, and everyone applauded wildly.

The sword appeared to have a small amount of blood on it. The sword swallower took the kerchief and carefully wiped off the blood, while some of the Gypsy women screamed as if on cue. The helper took the naked sword blade and screwed the hilt back on, lifting the point toward the sword swallower. She then draped the bloodied kerchief over the sword point as the helper circled the crowd with it as if it were a battle flag.

The sword swallower immediately opened her mouth revealing a compressed sword blade as a cleverly compressed bogus sword. She then lifted the back of her tunic as the helper inserted the real blade into the leather case strapped to her back. Everyone applauded with sighs of relief and admiration.

The border guards were especially pleased and laughed heartily. They understood the false pathos was solely for them and that revealing the technology behind the show was meant to convince them that they were privy to Gypsy secrets.

The Gypsies wanted to assure the border guards that they could be trusted. The wedding party performance was captured on film with a spoken narrative added later.

The journalists were convinced that the wedding party performance alone was worth the four months “traveling like the wind.”

9
SILK ROAD - FALL, 1975

AUTHOR COMMENTARY:

Lela wrote extensively about the stories she heard from the journalist couple. They met while studying anthropology at Oxford. She was a cultural anthropologist specializing in human migration. Her thesis was “Silk Road, Pathway of Humanity.” He was into physical anthropology. Both did two years of doctoral work at Çatal Hüyük, the prehistoric city on the Anatolian plain near the south-central Turkish coast.

They were traveling on a branch of the Silk Road to Athens. Lela’s travels in Afghanistan, Middle East and Europe followed the Silk Road too. The Silk Road was a network of land, sea, and now air routes throughout the world. Its focal point seems to have been Çatal Hüyük.

The Silk Road may have begun with the first human migrations out of Africa. By the time of the Roman Empire, the Silk Road extended from the cod fisheries of the Newfoundland Grand Banks, in the northwest Atlantic, to China, Japan, and Peru in the east. All branches crossed through Çatal Hüyük.

Silk Road*

LELA:

I hoped to get a flight to Newark when we got to Athens. The airline brochures indicated daily flights to Newark with one stop at Frankfort, and this was going to be fine as I had business with museums and art galleries in the Frankfort area. There are direct flights to Kennedy from Frankfort, but it’s a hassle getting from Kennedy to Newark, and I prefer the stopover.

The only mishap on the car trip with the journalists was a tire blowout just as we got to Athens. We easily put on the spare and had the tire repaired at a nearby garage. The garage owner turned out to have lived in New York for 25-years, developed a successful restaurant in lower Manhattan, and then sold everything to retire to his home in Athens.

His English was perfect, and we spent an hour or so talking. During this time the journalist couple took photos and taped conversations with some of the Greek people they met. We tried to pay him for the tire and gas fill, but he would not take any payment.

I gave him an Afghan tribal necklace, set with turquoise and lapis, for the “woman in your life,” and he was thrilled with such a fine gift. He told us that his wife managed the restaurant and that we three must be their guests.

The garage owner had realized his dream of an American style bistro, sports tavern, and garage, all within a mile of each other. He insisted on taking the three of us to dinner at his huge stainless steel bistro that looked like some sort of futuristic diner.

While the bistro featured Greek food, American dishes were prominently displayed in florescent lettering on black Lucite signs. Our host ordered wonderful appetizers. The main course was fresh tuna filets, slow roasted in parchment with fresh fennel, garlic, lemon, chalets in a yogurt sauce.

Retzina, a wonderful dry resin wine, was served with the appetizers and main course. Fresh fruit and goat cheese followed with Mavrodafni, a black grape wine from the Ionian Islands. Our host’s beautiful wife joined us for dessert and coffee.

As soon as she sat down, he put the necklace around her neck. She was a work of art without the necklace, but with the necklace she could have been Aphrodite herself. She was American born, of Greek descent. She managed the restaurant, and it was as lovely as she was.

She said that they met at the NYU library twenty years ago. She was working on her doctorate in philosophy, “Elements of Pre-Socratic Thought in Quantum Physics.” He was doing post-doctoral research in genetic technology.

It was a lovely dinner, and the next morning we strolled over to the garage. The garage owner was so grateful for his wife’s necklace that he insisted on doing an oil change before we returned the car to the rental agency.

On my first caravan trip in 1975, we experienced at least one bus breakdown in every nation on our itinerary from Zurich to Kabul. The flat tire in Athens turned out to be more of a happy adventure than an adversity.

The European roads were fine except for some parts of Yugoslavia. Travel through Yugoslavia to Greece, the roads worsened as we continued south to the Greek border. (Yugoslavia is now Slovenia, Croatia, Serbia and Macedonia.)

Throughout Yugoslavia, most of the roads were mountainous with muddy bypasses and the danger of potential rock slides. In the six-vehicle caravan, vehicles experienced tire blow outs, broken windshields, and three axle replacements. Falling rocks and rock throwing in Iran gave the vehicles what I called carpox, and once, in Iran a vehicle was broken into.

Returning home after nearly three months of travel was pleasant compared to traveling to Kabul. Now, in a rented car, we were being treated like welcomed guests, especially in Greece.

Road travel between Zurich and Kabul*

I was fascinated with the journalists’ experiences. As we traveled the Silk Road to Athens, I was entertained with additional stories of the Silk Road as we drove through appropriate regions. These journalists sure got around.

One journalist spoke about the site of Troy, on the west central coast of Turkey, south of the Bosporus, and on a latitude with the adjacent Greek Isles. The archaeological site of Troy was not found until the early 1900s. Previously, Troy was the stuff of myth, but 4,000 years ago, Troy was a thriving city-state, probably of Greek origin.

At that time a brisk far flung sea trade flourished throughout the world. Sharing the Mediterranean Sea trade with Troy were Crete; Sumer, on the Tigris-Euphrates; Phoenicia, on the coast of Syria; Egypt; India, and China. Athens was not a major sea trader until perhaps 3,500 years ago. That was when Athens grew into a major player in Mediterranean Sea trade, rivaled by Troy in control of the sea lanes.

It was not Helen’s face that launched 1,000 Greek ships, but a trade war between Troy and the Greek city states. It did not take ten years to build a Trojan horse, but it did take ten years of raiding Trojan ports to end Trojan power.

As the two journalists discussed travel and trade through the ages, an argument of sorts took place. I sat in the back seat jotting notes in my travel journal as the hours passed. She, the cultural anthropologist, insisted that the Silk Road was the overland and sea route first used to trade Chinese silk to Europe.

The Chinese expanded the Silk Road as they wanted to expand silk export and trade to spread Chinese influence. Similarly, the Roman Empire expanded trade roads and sea lanes as a means of exporting Roman power.

She insisted that Chinese and Roman dominions defined the extent of the Silk Road. He, the physical anthropologist, declared that she was too narrow in defining the Silk Road within those limits.

The debate continued on and off for days, while I wrote as much as I could. When they were pleased with each other, they talked about other issues. But when they were peeved, they started in again about the Silk Road. Each succeeding Silk Road discussion became a little more strained, especially when they were hungry or tired of driving.

Stopping for a meal or when I took the wheel, it was all light hearted banter. Within a few hours, as soon as the trip became tiresome, they started in again.

“OK, so explain why my view of the Silk Road is too narrow. After all, it’s my specialty, not yours,” she said.

“Yes, it’s certainly your field, and you’re doing outstanding research in that limited area,” he replied. “In my view, and, admittedly, I’m speaking from my bias in physical anthropology, the silk trade is merely one limited aspect of trade since a few hundred humans migrated out of Africa,” he continued.

“You make me feel as if I’ve buried my head in the academic sand all this time. Just come right out with it; enlighten us. I’m sure Lela is as interested in your revelations as I am,” she added sarcastically.

When they referred to me, I found myself shrinking down in my seat more and more. Why drag me into their family argument? Sure, I was quite interested in their discussions, but I certainly resisted the idea of refereeing their arguments.

“You’ve had me review and critique all your research, as you’ve done with mine, and I’ve said repeatedly that your work is excellent, flawless, within the narrow confines of your academic specialty. So what I’m suggesting is outside the realm of academic peer review,” he stressed.

When he said that, I noticed her face getting red.

“Well, don’t stop there. We need to hear your complete thesis,” she replied. At that point, I was glad to be driving with her sitting next to me, patting my leg after each of her verbal assaults.

He took a loud deep breath and began, “In my non-academic view, speaking from my research in physical anthropology, especially our joint work at Çatal Hüyük, we have seen the results of at least 18 levels of settlement and trade, over at least 10,000 years. Fortunately, each level is built on top of the remains of the previous level.

“It’s as if a time machine were left for us. We peel the levels like an onion. At the earliest level we’ve seen evidence of flint tool and weapon manufacture, and we assume trade. Again, there’s no clear evidence of trade. At a later level obsidian became a dominant artifact.

“We know the obsidian originated from the black volcanic glass at the dormant volcanos some miles to the north. Later we find glass beads and jewelry. At a later level, there is some scant evidence of textiles and decorated pottery. Still later we find copper, iron and tin, distinctly analyzed as originating from Ireland, Whales, Scotland and Britain. Even codfish bone fragments were found.

“The nearest codfish is the Grand Banks, off the coast of Newfoundland and Nova Scotia. The Basques of northern Spain are known to have fished North American coastal waters for thousands of years. These discoveries point to an extensive global trade network passing through Çatal Hüyük. I believe Çatal Hüyük is the earliest focal point of world trade, as well as the axis of the Silk Road.”

Abruptly, his wife interrupted, “All speculation—not one bit of solid data to support your conjecture. Cod fish traded in the middle of Turkey? Give me a break. Sturgeon maybe, but certainly not cod fish. You wouldn’t dare publish such speculation, not even in a tabloid. In any case cod are fished off the coast of Europe.

“What are you, some kind of seer? All they found was less than a millimeter of petrified calcium vertebra. The radio isotope readings suggested some kind of fish, something like cod. DNA comparisons would be needed for positive identity, and that’s decades away. Even if it is cod bones they could easily have been of Iberian coastal origin.

“You can’t possibly believe the bones are from the Grand Banks of North America, please? Basques routinely fish cod off Newfoundland, for trade in North Europe. Trading salted cod as far as the Silk Road? My love, try your hand at science fiction. You’ll have a better future in fiction than in Anthropology.”

She leaned over the back seat, laughing and kissing him passionately. They were both laughing. I joined in, giggling with tears in my eyes. Once they came up for air, though, I knew the great debate would continue.

Sure enough, as soon as the hilarity ended, the husband began his rebuttal, “Histories of Basqueland repeatedly refer to fishing the Grand Banks. They write of filling their ship bulkheads with rock salt as ballast. They used hemp nets and winches to dump cod in the ship’s hold, shoveling salt between each layer of cod.

“On the voyage back to Bilbao, they packed the salted cod in oak barrels from the forests east of Bilbao. Their books note that Bilbao is on the same latitude with the Grand Banks. They claim to have learned from Egyptians the art of potting fish, water fowl, and other foods preserved in salt, honey and herbs packed in clay-sealed pottery.

“Long before the seafaring Sumerians, Phoenicians and Greeks, Basques were using lode-stones and it was long before compasses were developed. Open ocean travel and trade were closely guarded secret skills. Basques were highly paid navigators on most early sea explorations.

“You are correct. Cod is fished off the Iberian Coast, but the quality and quantity of European coastal cod is inferior to the vast supply of cod fished off the Grand Banks.

“The most important trade from the beginning of humanity was the trade in mates. I’m speaking of mating privileges. From the time of the first European settlements and migrations, the need for mates was imperative. At that time perhaps 40,000 years-ago there are estimated to be only a few thousand humans on Earth.

“Exogamy, or mating outside the band-kinship group, was demanded by matriarchs early on. Since there were so few people available outside the kinship group, exogamous mating was difficult.

“Because of these mating limitations, mating between modern and Neanderthal humans may have occurred.” (Recent bone DNA suggests that 2% of current human DNA, including red hair, may be part of our Neanderthal legacy.)

While listening to this conversation, I said little, trying to concentrate on the road and beautiful countryside with its classic look of vineyards, grazing sheep and goats, and rocky mountainous landscape.

The woman anthropologist initiated a new round of discussion:

“Yes, my love, I agree with you about exogamy and mating limitations. Except for a few bone fragments, sparse data exists relating to actual mating practices. All we have at this point in time is some logical speculation.

“From our observations at Çatal Hüyük, we noted and photographed many wall reliefs of women, especially pregnant women. These depictions suggest that fertility was a central theme. While there were some statues of women, men, and children joined together, suggesting a family, we found no figures of men or children alone. Women were portrayed alone, but not men.

[By 2010, ten times more depictions of equal numbers of women and men were found. But still most of the artifacts were animal figures, especially wall reliefs of bull horns.]

“Did you notice the emphasis on huge hips and breasts? Of course you did. How could anyone miss it? The obvious conclusion is a major emphasis on fertility. Compare the female frescoes and statues with the Venus of Willendorf. The similarity is unmistakable. Missing hands and feet suggest that figures such as these could be stuck into the ground or in food supplies.

Venus of Willendorf ca. 26,000 year old*

“Comparing the better known, much older, Venus of Willendorf with the lesser known Çatal Hüyük Seated Goddess, certain similarities are seen. The feet and hands in both are gone or intentionally left out. Not that those women actually looked like these Venuses, but it seems to be an idealized form.

“The Seated Goddess was found in a grain bin. Both appear to be fertility figures designed to increase the productivity of people and the Earth. Also, there are hints of fashion in the hair arrangement and bands around the breasts.”

Seated goddess on throne flanked by two lioness ca. 9,500 year old*

10
MATING ROAD - FALL, 1975

The discussion between the anthropologists-journalists got me thinking about discussions with Paul. Paul approached the subject of human communications from the viewpoint of economics, computer networking, and mating, his areas of expertise. Sex is an important part of my husband’s life, both physically and intellectually.

Paul’s viewpoint is that all communication is ultimately about mating and perpetuating ourselves in one form or another. The objective of all life is to survive and hopefully prosper. There are a number of ways the human animal communicates. Communication by touch and heat are two sensory modes, but there are also sound, sight, taste, and smell, as well as chemical messengers, such as hormones and pheromones.

There is, of course, hunger as well as magnetic and electrical communication. All forms of communication are essentially electromagnetic, signifying that all forms of communication are based on electron motion. Everything, from atoms to zebras and even stars and black holes appear to depend on electron transfer.

This is why people and most all things migrate. Migration, at least for people, primates, and herd animals, is driven by the environment. If an environment, such as a jungle or forest, offers plenty of everything, then everyone and everything will stay put, at least until scarcity sets in.

Paul and I talked about this so often and in so many different ways that these theories were indelibly etched in my memory.

I would eventually enter into the lively discussion my travel companions were having, and for which they were coaxing my input. I was intensely interested in their discussion at this point but initially felt at a loss to contribute. After a time, though, my thoughts turned to the most important issues in my life, namely my husband, sons, and family.

After all, it was sex, mating, and family that had motivated my enterprise in Afghanistan and on the Silk Road. I was journeying along the Silk Road to provide for my family, as well as to satisfy my need for adventure. It was my own personal walkabout.

Finally I broke my silence adding, “The Silk Road is also the Mating Road. It’s the drive for survival that gets us going anywhere. That’s why the three of us are traveling this road. You two travel for adventure, the stories you can sell, and academic success that will ultimately translate into income for you both. With adequate income, you may decide to have a family of your own.

“I’m here for similar reasons. My husband and I met on a rush hour train. We exchanged a smile, and that was all it took. The subway train was our Silk Road, our Mating Road. Why do we go on adventures, work, study, shop, or go after anything in life? I suggest that once we peel back the layers of culture and civilization, we reveal the Mating Road.

“That exchange of smiles on the train created a lasting family. Likely, there was a pheromone chemical hormone network created even before the smile. This started our juices flowing. I suspect you two set up a similar network. We are all on the Mating Road, like it or not, and, personally, I love it.”

The couple laughed and heartily agreed with my emotion-packed contribution. The wife replied:

“Lela, that’s absolutely brilliant. You provided a golden moment in anthropology with your insight. Certainly there can be no doubt that the sex urge, the mating drive, is the primary instinct, the dominant genetic push and shove for all life.

“Some cultural anthropologists are convinced that mental development in primates, especially in humans, proceeded from the conscious awareness of the sex drive as distinct from mating instincts. The increase and growing complexity of brain neurons may be the result of the sex drive focusing attention on finding mates as well as finding food, shelter and safety.

“More than likely, we learned to think about cooperating, planning, and hunting to get the meat, in order to get mating privileges. The first human mothers realized the connection between eating bloody meat and restoring lost iron from menstrual bleeding and childbirth.

“Eons ago women might have said, “If you want to mate, bring me meat.” Today, mates might say, “If you want some honey, come home with the money, a job.” The prospect of sex, like the prospect of death, focuses the mind wonderfully.”

From the back seat the husband added, “If you are suggesting that sex drives human intellect and brain development, I agree. But it’s not simple. Perhaps this explains why insulin, testosterone, estrogen, follicle stimulating hormone, oxytocin, and other hormones are chemically identical in most animals.

Vulture and Bull Horn Shrine at Çatal Hüyük (Cinderella’s Housework Dialectics)

“Hormones, plus species-specific pheromones, may account for both sex storms as well as brainstorms. It’s suspected that testosterone in both males and females can positively affect mental activity. Sex drive is high when ovulation and testosterone levels are high. At such times we usually think of sex and how to get more of it.”

The Vulture Shrine, is repeated many times at Çatal Hüyük. Dead bodies were left in the open for vultures to clean the bones. Cleaned bones were then buried under the bed-steads. Vultures were religious symbols, along with bull horns, both representing the cycles of life.

People migrated to Çatal Hüyük to trade, to worship at the site of the Great Mother, and especially to find mates. In a world with few people, Çatal Hüyük could accommodate 10,000 and 10,000 years ago it was probably the largest population center on Earth. To date, no earlier site was found with such a large variety of trade goods and artifacts.

Jericho, on the west bank of the Jordan River, is perhaps the oldest continually occupied human settlement on Earth. It was settled at least 12,000 years ago and 20 levels of settlement are documented. The site of Jericho is still inhabited and archaeological exploration continues. The ancient site of Çatal Hüyük was long ago deserted, but exploration continues beyond the eighteen excavated levels.

Both Çatal Hüyük and Jericho show evidence of grain cultivation. Crop culture is necessary to support more than a few hundred people. Even in abundant environments of forests, tribes-clans-bands of more than 200 people, excess population is forced to migrate to new hunting-gathering areas. This was certainly the case with the earliest migrations out of Africa.

Çatal Hüyük may have had a larger population than Jericho, 10,000 years ago, suggesting that more extensive crop growing and grain storage developed at Çatal Hüyük. The growth of large civilizations, 4,000 to 5,000 years ago along the Tigris-Euphrates Rivers is well documented by vast grain growing and extensive canal systems.

As important as growing vast grain crops is the ability to distribute and store food. A theocratic communal society grew up in Sumerian, Babylonian and other Tigris-Euphrates cultures. The basis of early civilizations was first bartering food for labor. Later as populations and grain cultivation expanded, war between neighboring settlements resulted in slave labor.

“I keep thinking of clichés such as getting horny or taking the bull by the horns,” added the husband. “Remember all the depictions of bull horns at Çatal Hüyük? Of all the wall reliefs, bull horns were a dominant theme. Then and now, we are hell bent and practically foaming at the mouth for the Mating Road.”

The wife continued on this theme, “True, long before the Silk Road there was a Mating Road. Early humans out of Africa probably followed the herds of horned ruminants. The herds were hunted for food, hides and bones. Herds of bison, aurochs, ibex, and other herding creatures followed grazing and water ways. It seems natural that our ancestors would migrate following the herds.

“Typically, we would expect them to hunt the old, weak and injured stragglers, rather than disrupt the main herd. This they could learn by observing the large cats, as they picked off the stragglers. The large cats were the main human competitors for meat.

“The big cats may have been our first teachers. Early humans may have learned to hunt by watching the large cats. It may be that the cats did not like the taste of human flesh. More likely, grazing herds provided an easier prey, with more meat for the effort. It’s all speculation.

“Eventually, early people learned to lead the herds, as do the Sami at the Arctic Circle. This is the supposition about the first modern humans migrating out of Northeast Africa, perhaps 100,000 years ago. The hot, dry climate forced our ancestors to follow the herds and that was an early mating road.

Bull’s Head Shrine*

“Over thousands of years, following herds and water ways, human generations would leap frog each other along the Mating Road. It was a road to survival, as well as the road to finding mates. This is why new generations were forced to leap frog prior settlements, to find mates.”

This Fertility Glyph is thought to represent the uterine horns, with the male represented as a small star between the horns. Found in caves, on stones and pottery shards, this glyph appears to be a fertility symbol, perhaps even an artist’s signature.

Bull-jumping (Cinderella’s Housework Dialectics)

The wife continued:

“It may be that as our ancestors migrated out of Africa, they settled at Jericho as an early source of trade, food, water, and mates. Çatal Hüyük may have been a later settlement by some of the people living in Jericho. An important link for both settlements is that they shared similar burial rites. That is, both buried their dead under their dwellings.”

AUTHOR COMMENTARY:

Lela noted that she knew I would be interested in these conversations. She sent me all the notes she took, not just about the anthropologist couple, but also about all the people she traveled with. She supported my intention of writing a book about her experiences.

She was sure I would love the Gypsy stories and the ideas about the Silk Road and Mating Road. She related her travel experiences with the Afghans and especially with Mike, her Afghan business partner.

Lela realized that Afghan men were constantly searching for mating opportunities. Mike had recently married a second wife and was keen on marrying two more wives. During their long drives seeking art objects, she asked Mike, “Why do you want more wives? Aren’t two enough?”

Mike laughed and explained, “Yes, of course, in the West one wife is plenty, given the nature of western society. In this country and most of the Middle East, however, the more wives we have, the better. It’s not so much for mating, although that’s important, but more for extending social, trade, and kinship connections.

“I’m rich not so much because of my wealth in the western sense of wealth; rather, my real wealth is through all my family and tribal connections. I owe my successful trade connections to my parent’s tribe, and my political connections are the result of my first wife’s people. In fact, it was my first wife that suggested I take a second wife with Kalq Party links.

“My first wife’s cousin was active in Kalq politics in Kabul. The cousin introduced me to my second wife, a Kalq Party official in Kabul. She sought extensive links to my tribal connections for political purposes. The Kalq Party can arrange other strategic marriages when I’m ready.

I expect these marriages will benefit me, my wives and children, as well as our entire kinship network.

“All these family connections increase the security and wealth for all of us, including you, Lela.”

Mike continued, “Lela, you are a good person. You care about people. All the people, the families you buy from. You treat everyone like family. You see how we care for our own. The old, the young, the sick, all are lovingly cared for.”

11
ROAD FEAST - FALL, 1975

It was Sunday in the Greek countryside and most of the shops were closed. By mid-day we found a shop selling excellent spinach pie and fresh sweet goat’s milk. That night at the garage where the bus transmission was repaired, a marvelous banquet developed.

The mechanics sent-out for some local specialties: chicken roasted in yogurt and garlic, a uniquely delicious potato salad with fresh cut lemon, chives and cilantro as well as fresh baked buckwheat pita bread, all washed down with ouzo. This dry anise flavored local brew packs an incredible wallop. Everyone in the garage joined in singing folk-rock songs.

20-Greek Style Potato Salad*

The favorites were “American woman, stay away from me,” also that great anti-war song: “And it’s one, two, three, what are we fighting for, don’t ask me, I don’t give a damn, next stop is Vee-et-nam, and it’s five, six, seven, open up the pearly gates, don’t ask me, ah don’t know why, whoopee, were all gonna die.”

The Greeks love chicken fat. Many chickens are free-range in fenced-off olive groves. The birds eat the fallen olives and fertilize the olive trees. The result is lovely fat chickens, harvested at three to four months. The birds eat grass and weeds; also they keep the insects down. Chickens share the olive groves with sheep. Similarly, chickens glean grape arbors.

One of our hosts said that chickens do too much damage to grape arbors. The others argued this point excitedly as more and more ouzo was downed. I learned that poultry will roost in grape arbors, unless old crates are provided. Another said that the value provided by insect control more than offset the roosting problem.

Our hosts asked about poultry growing in the States. I related that small growers—such as my family ranch in New Jersey let the birds range free. But large commercial growers will have broiler-chicken houses with as many as 10,000 birds in a long enclosed chicken coop. Less than one-square foot of space is allotted to each bird.

Red light bulbs must be on continuously to calm the birds and prevent cannibalism. They can grow broilers to three pounds in four weeks. Feed is augured into each chicken house through long troughs. Similarly water is piped in.

Sanitation is carefully maintained. Workers and visitors entering chicken “ranches” must enter and exit a sanitation room. Disposable antiseptic paper suits, caps and boots must be worn at all times. When exiting, the suits and boots are disposed of in special high temperature furnaces. In this way the incidence of disease is greatly reduced.

Even with the most rigorous nutrition and sanitation there are disease problems. Coccidiosis, a type of microscopic protozoan, mostly affects weight gains and feed efficiency. Most poultry feed contain small amounts of coccidiostat drugs to minimize this problem.

A single chicken ranch can produce millions of birds each year. As chicken is the most popular and cheapest source of protein in America, billions are produced yearly. The typical American consumes over 100 pounds of poultry each year.

I told them that my husband grew up on a cattle ranch in south Florida and now is a biochemist doing research for an international drug company. He tells me all about his research. What sticks in my mind are some of the more dramatic research projects.

For a long time the poultry industry used small amounts of arsenilic acid (arsenic) to speed chicken growth and give the birds a golden skin color. Even the skin and egg color is “fine-tuned” in the poultry industry. Now a safer and cheaper poultry pigmenter is marigold meal.

I explained that Americans have color preferences for poultry as well as people. This, my hosts did not understand, until I explained that most Americans from the Mediterranean and Middle East regions of the world, preferred a “golden-skin” chicken, and also egg-yolks.

People of Latin origin prefer a deeply pigmented, almost red colored bird. Americans of North European origin prefer lighter, nearly white, chickens. So we have the North Europe, Mediterranean and Latin group color preferences, as the main markets.

Now my hosts understood the idea of marketing chickens and other food according to ethnic color preferences. In this area of Greece a light-skinned chicken is preferred. The restaurant keeper mentioned that cooked greens develop a beautiful bright green when steamed with a small amount of baking soda. The baking soda tenderizes vegetables and slightly sweetens them.

We were talking about our most unusual food experience. I mentioned a visit to a squab ranch on Long Island. At the time my husband was researching poultry diseases that crossed into people. A customer raising squab was referred to Paul.

My husband dealt successfully with the squab-grower’s problems. The grower invited Paul and me to dinner. The elderly man was a retired successful Wall Street stockbroker. He bought the squab ranch from an Asian family, as a retirement pastime.

No one at the garage knew about squab. Some thought it was a ball-game like squash. I explained: as with pigeons, squabs are doves. They knew about pigeons. Some raised pigeons for sport racing and eating.

Essentially squab are young pigeons grown until pinfeathers appear. Then they are shipped live to Asian restaurants and markets. The demand is quite high; squab fetches $5 to $10 a pound.

The owner took us on a tour of his squab ranch. It was attractive and sanitary with a mild poultry smell. It looked more like an elaborate zoo aviary than a commercial operation. A screened auger moved bird seed slowly through the aviary. The squab leisurely pecked at the seed and drank from a narrow open trough of circulating water.

Although the nearest neighbor is a half-mile away, odor and sanitation must be carefully controlled. Feed and management are relatively inexpensive compared to sanitation, insect and odor control.

The squab aviary was long and wide with a rounded wire covered roof. The flooring was wire, allowing bird-droppings to fall onto a wide conveyor below. At the end of the aviary a wide brush meshed with the long looping bird manure belt emptying into a manure-spreader truck below.

The ranch owner was proud of the sanitary system he devised. In the distance he pointed out his five-acre hemp field. Hemp is related to marijuana and produces excellent bird seed. His main problem at the time of our visit was flies. He had been using an expensive synthetic pyrethrum with only moderate effectiveness.

My husband studied the aviary as well as the feed and water formulations. At dinner that evening he recommended adding natural Dalmatian daisy powder (pyrethrum) along with marigold meal to the feed. Adding small amounts of baking soda to the overhead water-sprinklers also helped to repel insects, reduce mold-fungus and deodorize the aviary.

The dinner featured roasted squab. The meat was dark and as soft as chicken liver. Our host showed us how he cooked the squab in covered roasting pots with chicken stock. Squab were prepared by splitting and degutting the birds and laying them in an inch of chicken stock.

The opened birds were coated with lemon zest, kosher salt, fresh garlic, strips of fresh fennel and extra virgin olive oil. Small multi-colored Peruvian potatoes were added and all were roasted at 500 degrees for thirty minutes in large closed roasting pots. Five minutes before completion, a cup of Pinot Noir was added to each roasting pot.

The squab tasted wonderful—almost with a chicken liver taste. Our host served the same Pinot Noir with the dinner. The bones were thin and soft as rice noodles. We were encouraged to suck the small amount of marrow from the bones and chew them. The bones were a tasty soft cartilage texture, softer than the bones in canned salmon. All the flavors blended marvelously.

In this particular region north of Athens, the main crops are olives, grapes, figs and sheep. Chicken is not yet a large-scale commercial crop, though they are starting to supply an excellent chicken soup stock and jarred chicken fat with garlic. They spread this on bread and toast it. Also, chicken fat with garlic is used in cooking just as we use butter.

Chicken fat and garlic are considered medicinal as well as a savory food.

They have a small cannery for processing roast chicken in yogurt, with garlic and olives. The total production is contracted to a gourmet food chain in Athens. A type of scampi is made with garlic chicken fat, fresh lemon, thin-sliced tomatoes, and pitted green olives, all sautéed in a hot skillet for a few minutes before adding shrimp, calamari or other seafood.

It was the fresh-roasted chicken in garlic, yogurt and olives that cured my head cold. I’m sure the ouzo was a potent part of the cure. I asked how the chicken was processed. We were all well-lubricated with ouzo so the information flowed, along with the ouzo.

Olive Grove without chickens*

The range-fed chickens are allowed to graze olive groves and grape arbors. After a few months on “free-range,” they are herded into large cages that are stacked in refrigerator trucks. Red lights in the truck calm the birds, before blocks of dry ice (carbon dioxide) gently lull the chickens into a permanent sleep. This is considered the most humane way to process the birds.

Producers are keen on minimizing trauma, as violent death releases “fear” chemicals that reduce the flavor of chicken. Birds are defeathered in a caustic bath and rinsed thoroughly. The birds are then degutted, hacked into quarters and put in boiling “soup stock” cookers.

After degutting, all parts of the chicken are used in the soup stock. Chicken feet, bone marrow, crop and head are especially flavorful. The soup stock is finally strained. The solids are dried for animal feed. The soup stock is vacuum-dried to the consistency of a paste. The paste is jarred for consumers. A teaspoon of the chicken paste in a cup of boiled water makes superb bullion. I purchased a case of twelve small jars to send home.

LELA:

Anticipating my flight home, the drive in and around Athens reminded me of my previous bus trip through what was then Yugoslavia. Marshall Tito’s political power still united the separate nations in a fragile Serbian-dominated federation. But even in the 1970s, it was evident by the poor roads that the Yugoslav federation was literally and figuratively disintegrating under our vehicle tires.

I bring up this aspect of my trip since my journalist friends and our garage hosts were nervous about the expected dismantling of Yugoslavia. How would this effect Greece and other neighboring nations? The journalists speculated that Serbian nationalism would attempt to dominate the fragmented Yugoslavia.

[As we now know, that is exactly what occurred. A disastrous war of “ethnic cleansing” involved the UN, NATO and especially the United States. Fortunately, President Clinton brought the war to a conclusion in the 1990s.]

In more pleasant days, before Yugoslavia was disemboweled, we approached the Yugoslav border, as the afternoon sun blazed down gloriously on our caravan. We were fourteen travelers approaching the Yugoslav border, as our little caravan proceeded to pass through Macedonia, Serbia, Croatia and Slovenia.

Just as things were looking up, a road-stone cracked the bus windshield. I related this event to my journalist friends as a small piece of gravel etched another pit at the edge of our rented car windshield. But we were “old-hands” at this sort of thing.

At the time on the caravan bus we gambled on getting to Zurich with the tapped and cracked windshield. It was the second windshield in a week. We unanimously voted not to spend the time and money on another windshield replacement. The service stations along the road were well stocked with rolls of heavy-clear repair tape.

The attendant we talked with said that after fuel, the repair tape was the next best seller. She told us that most vehicles suffer such damage. Some vehicles get fuel tank ruptures from road stones. They do a brisk business replacing fuel tanks.

In one of Paul’s aerograms, he noted that road repairs in the States were agonizingly slow. He wrote that while we are in the Space Age off the Earth, we are in the Stone Age when it comes to road maintenance on Earth.

Various bus “underside” exhaust parts were reinforced with heat-resistant duct-tape and bailing-wire. Wire connects loose parts. Duct-tape is then put on top of the wire for a secure patch. At the same time the windshield crack continued to spread. At the end of each day, the underside and windshield tapes were replaced and reinforced. Duct-tape was developed in the 1940s for the war effort. Now it has a pivotal role in holding the world together.

Now we talk about the fearfully narrow, rocky mountain roads in Yugoslavia, and how good it felt to be on the excellent Austrian and Swiss roads. The scenery in mountainous Yugoslavia is extraordinary—so much so that from moment to moment I forgot the rotten roads.

Changing time zones severely affected us. I for one was worn out. I could hear and feel my joints creaking, but then I was at least ten years older than my companions. They also complained about back ache and lack of sleep. The cold-rainy weather did not help. But the Austrian-Swiss country-side was lush and looked almost manicured.

Looking at the country-side haze as our rental car sped along, I thought about the caravan bus windows, the previous spring. The bus windows were so dirty that everything looked hazy-distorted. I was determined that we would have a window-cleaning party when we reached the farm. As “bus-mother” it was my duty.

Roads in Northern Europe, especially the German Autobahn, have the look of the New Jersey Garden State Parkway, but much wider, cleaner and better maintained. It must be said that the Autobahn is vastly superior to any American road I experienced.

Autobahn roads are toll-free, have no speed limit and are well appointed with frequent rest stops that provide excellent but costly food. The lack of tolls is more than compensated by the cost of fuel, which is double the U.S. cost.

Driving on the Autobahn felt like riding on velvet. Autobahn drivers were cautious and gas-conscious. Happily, we experienced no crazy drivers. Our speed rarely exceeded 50 mph as we kept up with traffic. Compared to New Jersey driving, the Autobahn was like travel heaven.

The luxury of driving in a car had me thinking about the previous spring with the bus caravan. The bus caravan vehicles and people required endless repairing and cleaning. Whenever the six caravan vehicles stopped at a campground a circle was formed. My standing joke was, “Do you expect an Indian attack?” My car companions laughed at this story.

I mentioned that the bus caravan circled the vehicles fearing bear attacks. I asked my car companions if forest animals were a problem on the Autobahn as we too have brown bears in our New Jersey woodlands. We must put our garbage in metal cans with tight fitting lids. The bears rip-through the strongest plastic garbage pails.

My car companions mentioned that invisible electronic fencing and professional forest stewardship reduced animal problems to a minimum. Constant Autobahn patrols inspected the roads for any problems. Repairs were made in a matter of hours.

12
WATCH ON THE RHINE - SPRING, 1976

LELA:

I was back with the bus caravan traveling to Kabul. We had a few days to explore the Rhineland and slowly drove along the Rhine River. I could see the paintings of the German Romantic period by looking at the banks of the Rhine as our bus made its way along the tour road.

From mile to mile, the sun would alternate with dark vertical clouds. Each time sun or clouds appeared the Rhine Valley changed radically. From light to dark, it was like being in another country. I could well imagine a landscape painter driven to distraction by these rapid shifts from light to dark and back again. Photographers would relish such but not painters.

I’m normally a happy, cheerful person, but when the clouds darkened the Rhine, I experienced a consuming melancholy. When the sun appeared again, my cheery disposition returned almost magically. I never had such rapid mood shifts anywhere else in the world.

Rhine River*

I always thought the use of dark earth tones was excessive. Certainly such paintings were intended to convey the melancholy of the artist. But the pervasive cloud cover along the Rhine could hardly be represented any other way. The reality of the landscape is a dominant influence on our outlook and, never more so than on the Rhine.

After the last round-trip to Afghanistan I decided to take the train from Geneva along the Rhine to Amsterdam. I would like to take a similar trip from Amsterdam down the Rhine and east along the Danube.

Paul is not a great one for travel, but perhaps I can convince him to go to Afghanistan with me and travel back through Istanbul using Europass along the Danube to Belgrade, Budapest and Vienna. It’s going to require a major incentive to talk Paul into such a trip.

Rhine in sunny disposition

Watching one’s diet is easy in Europe. Food quality is high, even along the roads. People learn quickly about their own care and feeding when food is sold by the weight of your plate. Most roadside eateries are attractive buffets.

The more you pile on, the more you pay. Buffet lines provide an incentive for minimalist plate decoration. The buffets reminded me of Judy Chicago’s “The Dinner Party.” People in the buffet line arranged their food like pallets of textured paint.

Judy Chicago “The Dinner Party”*

The extraordinary variety, quality and beauty of the food were exceeded only by the prices. I found myself arranging my plate with teaspoon size portions. Desserts, I avoided entirely. At each roadside buffet we were greeted with posters of master chiefs and nutritionists responsible for the buffet plan. The food was at least twice as costly as in the States.

Except for the older Germans, most Europeans were on the slim side. As a whole, American tourists looked overfed and overweight. I felt embarrassed by the ridiculous way Americans dressed, looking like troops of circus clowns. When American chartered buses emptied, it looked as if the circus had come to town.

On this, my third trip to Afghanistan, I had decided to travel once again with the bus commune on their semi-annual pilgrimage to Delhi. While I had originally promised myself not to travel this way again, Dharma had written to me begging for my motherly services. Besides, she needed another bus driver/mechanic. I found that I could not refuse these loving entreaties.

Travel preparations began at the same farm outside Zurich where Dharma, my friend and Zurich boutique owner, lived. One potential problem was avoided. Dharma parked her nineyear-old son with her parents at the farm. This is mandatory, as Swiss law prevents moving a child out of the country after the school session begins. As a parent, I thought it a good law. Dharma prepared for the trip weeks in advance, and everyone seemed content with this arrangement.

Lela-Versant-Dan in Istanbul, Bosporus in the background

I didn’t notice any whispered conversations. Everyone remained in high spirits for the three days prior to our travel, including the son and grandparents. Dharma’s son did not like traveling and was especially excited that the grandparents were going to pay him to do farm chores.

Our trip began in Zurich. We sat in a beautiful flowered courtyard listening to live jazz at ten in the morning. Everyone and everything took on a honey glow from the brilliant morning sun, and all the bus passengers and crew assembled for photos.

The range of dress could have been the setting of a Beatles album cover. My bus companions, while charming, were too damn flaky and vaporous. The caravan people were getting to be a tiresome group of hippie jumping jacks.

The two Australian nurses on the bus, one of whom was my friend Kit, were chatty with me. They persisted in talking about their love life, perhaps because their lovers were half way around the world. The gist of their experience was that they were tired of one night stands, although they thought that was better than nothing. Their experience interested me and helped to pass the time.

Kit explained that at first one-nighters were exciting. But it didn’t take long for it to become tiresome. The insufferable macho attitudes encountered seemed to kill it. Once you made it with a guy, they acted like they owned you. Their attempts at control were clumsy and manipulative at best, and violent at worst. The break off point occurred when constricting possessiveness eclipsed loving attention.

One such conversation came to an abrupt end when they asked about my love life. I knew this was bound to happen and maneuvered the discussion so it would end. All I had to do was mention that I’d only met one loving non-possessive man, and I married him. How lucky is that?

The subject of shopping and buying was often discussed, as most everyone in the caravan was buying and selling something. Before leaving Europe, a few of us went to a most unusual shopping center on the Zurich beltway. I found some jewelry and antique shops interested in tribal art. Dinner was at the central Fresco Café, where a marvelous buffet was the main attraction.

The quality and presentation of the food surpassed anything in the States. We selected our meals with tactical deliberation from a tantalizing 50-foot tapestry of hot and cold tables. Looking at the regulars, I noticed that they placed many small portions in artistic arrangements on their oversized plates, each plate becoming a colorful mosaic. Patrons such as me took photos of the plates before eating.

A large number of color blow-up photos of food plates lined the walls. In fact, patrons competed for the most pleasing visual effect. Finally, we submitted our entry plates to the cashier. The plates were placed on a scale attached to the cash register. Weight and price were automatically calculated at $10 per pound. This was similar to the Autobahn buffet, but far more elaborate.

Suspended above the weighing scale was a camera. As the weight of the plate registered, it triggered a bird’s eye view photo of the plate. Before leaving we presented our numbered receipt at the exit gift shop counter and received a postcard with a color photo of our plate with a caption under the photo: “Provenance #134722-76, Fresco Café, Zurich, Schweitz (Switzerland).”

Following this remarkable meal, we visited some of Dharma’s friends. These were artists working in steel, iron, bronze, and wood. The work resembled a more vibrant and dramatic version of Alexander Calder’s mobiles. The farm was an artist and farmer cooperative, a combination foundry, museum, and dairy.

All three areas were open to the public and, given the number of visitors, seemed quite lucrative. The artists rented space from the dairy farmer, also a sculptor. Foundry and studios were in a huge enclosed shed connecting the farmhouse kitchen to the barn.

In most of Europe, barn and home are connected for mutual heating and convenience. Living quarters were traditionally built above barns to benefit from the body heat of livestock. Many old farmsteads are still like this.

The foundry and studios comprised a cavernous room with post and beam partitions. We were given the warmest and driest corner of the foundry as sleeping quarters. It was between the furnace and the barn. I rapidly got used to the aroma of livestock.

At one time, the foundry shed must have been part of the barn, as both had the same connecting flagstone floor. Separating the foundry from the barn and outside yard were two large sliding doors. Half of the foundry shed had a system of sliding roof partitions controlled by pulley chains which were enlarged versions of sliding hatches on sailing ships.

After a tour of the farm, we settled down to a late supper of goat cheddar cheese, crusty fresh bread, and dry white wine. The comforting glow of the nearby furnace and muffled chimes of cow bells lulled me to sleep. Perhaps it was the strong lingering odor of the fresh goat cheese, but with each ring of the cow bells, the smell of the barn grew stronger.

As I dozed off, some ultra-cool jazz floated through from the stereo in the kitchen. It sounded like Ron Carter playing the base. Mixed with the jazz were some soft German phrases. In my dreamy half sleep, I understood most of it:

“She’s holding up quite well for the amount of traveling; she’s really dead on her feet.”

“Well shit, we all are. We should have fixed her a nicer sleeping space, but it’s the warmest spot in the whole farm. Anyway, the rest of the place is a filthy pig sty. Do you think she’s as horny as me?”

“Shut up! She’ll hear you.”

“She’s dead to the world; can’t hear a thing; not this dialect.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

Dozing off, I smiled to myself. They mixed so much English with their German that they were hardly aware of their strange mix of hip-Swiss-German-English. They call it Swisslish.

My dreams were so vivid I wrote them in my journal as soon as I awoke: I dreamed about the forbidden province of Nuristan where banditry is the major occupation. I was a bandit queen in this sparsely populated Himalayan foothill region. The few dwellings were built of rough-hewn stone and wood. My troop of bandits had a fortress camp in an isolated forest.

Fortress-home somewhere in Nuristan

Nuristan clan dwellings resembled medieval fortresses built on craggy hilltops. These reminded me of bandit fortresses in the old American west. Mike said that the best of Nuristan culture was for sale in the Nuristan shops in Kabul.

Nuristan crafts were great sellers; especially “V” shaped wall hanging in the window

I slept until nine the next morning while the sun burnt off the mountain mist. Satya promised me another driving lesson in the old diesel Mercedes. After grabbing some breakfast with Versant, we helped pack the six-vehicle caravan. The Mercedes manual shift took a fair amount of upper body strength, which I had plenty of.

As mentioned, it was necessary that I drive the Mercedes bus since Dharma had pronounced me the most reliable person in the caravan, and also because my passport and driving papers were in order. I obtained a Euro license on my first trip. So far, my driving record was clean, unlike my fellow travelers. Since there were a number of border crossings, my rapport with people would have to be trusted.

For some reason driving to border crossings gave me images of Kabul rooftops; I’ve no idea why. Repeatedly I had these flash images appearing and disappearing.

Life on the rooftops of Kabul

Border crossing is no light hearted romp. Papers must be flawlessly clean, and an absolutely sober, yet pleasantly calm smiling demeanor, is essential. No one else on the bus had the self-confidence to pull it off.

We had practiced with Dharma’s granddad playing a border guard, and I was the only one who could remain calm and talk soberly, while smiling pleasantly. Somewhere I had read about people who spoke to Josef Stalin, face-to-face. Stalin was so paranoid that if the person did not look directly into Stalin’s eyes or shifted their glance, Stalin suspected that the person had something to hide. Although Stalin was in awe of intellectuals, those who did not look him in the eye faced a short future.

Whenever we came to a border check-point, I pretended I was meeting comrade Stalin. We had no problem crossing any border.

Caravan at a border crossing

Satya and Versant, Dharma’s close university friends, drove the truck while Dharma and I drove the bus. After being met at Frankfort airport, I had to drive the bus over the Swiss border since Dharma, a Swiss national, could not drive a foreign vehicle across the border. Some of the driving laws at that time seemed weird while others appeared to make good sense; however, as in the U.S., there were too many laws.

My earlier driving lessons at the farm, after the first trip in the spring of 1975, allowed me to feel comfortable driving the Mercedes bus. The border crossing was uneventful, and we spent the night at Dharma’s farm outside of Zurich.

Zurich is a charming medieval city with circular cobblestone streets and lovely little shops. The look and feel is genuinely old world. There’s little of the plastic cuteness of American shopping centers.

Walking through the crowds of shoppers, I sensed stony gazes of disapproval. The sour-faced Swiss burghers made me feel self-conscious even though I intentionally dressed as matronly as possible. I felt more comfortable in Kabul than on the streets of Zurich.

My little band of hippies seemed oblivious to the stares of passersby. Since the hippies were also Swiss, with just a touch of Swiss arrogance, they acted perfectly at home. As we strolled leisurely through the old part of town, Dharma and Satya pointed out various parts of the city that were parts of their family estate.

The comments about family property were quite funny and not at all prideful. Dharma and Satya were the offspring of Swiss bankers. They spoke disparagingly about their parents. Dharma said Swiss bankers were war criminals, refusing to return the money stolen by the Nazis and parked in Swiss bank vaults since the 1940s.

We drove into a sun-drenched and dusty Kabul at midday, which was a pleasant change from the cold drizzle of Europe. I decided to wear only long jeans, long-sleeved blouses, and headscarves covering neck, shoulders, head, and most of my face. I was comfortable wearing my large dark glasses as these are worn throughout the Middle East, since eye problems are common.

I hammered away at my troop of hippies not to expose any skin while traveling in Muslim areas. After our experience last year traveling through Iran, it should have been crystal clear, even to the Swiss, that we would all be well advised to respect the customs of the nations that host guests such as ourselves.

As an American business woman, I insisted on decorum. After all, we already learned that our safety depended on adhering to Islamic dress codes. The Swiss seemed to carry their pride like a crown of thorns. The Swiss describe their arrogance as “stolzigheit,” pridefulness.

As I mentioned earlier, my primary social and business connections were with my business partner, Mike and his people. This limited my approach to other tribal merchants, as Mike’s people, while quite pleasant, stuck to me like the Kabul mud.

After a time I realized that Mike’s political and tribal links extended throughout the world. In fact, I owe my business success largely to Mike’s efforts. Within the network of Mike’s tribe I gained the status of a “wise” sister. My “family” likened me to Mohammed’s merchant wife, Khadija. As I am of Sufi Dervish ancestry, I felt honored by such a comparison.

The decorations on the gifts of clothes provided me with the necessary marks of clan and tribal identity. Without these identity marks, I could easily disappear outside the urban enclave. Now that I was no longer a stranger, I quite enjoyed my new status, both the benefits and the responsibilities.

The best part of the tribal-patron arrangement is that a solo woman trader can enjoy the advantages of a daughter or sister, minus most of the disadvantages. It’s a great comfort to have the company of these warm people, wonderful home-cooked meals, plus the advantage of numerous business contacts.

Certainly my patrons were wise enough to appreciate the prospect of a sizable injection of American dollars. I’m convinced that much of the attention and affection was genuine on both our parts. It didn’t take long, however, for this commerce-motivated attention to start cramping my business activities. Every few days I had to do a disappearing act, but I always left a note saying when I expected to return.

The most difficult part of tribal trading was that every face to-face meeting had to include lots of socializing, small talk, and endless little cups of strong sweet tea, chi. A deal seemed to be incomplete until the tea or your bladder called it quits.

If you were not willing to devote the better part of a day to such transactions, the local merchant assumed you were not a serious trader. The merchant would then hold back the best objects and politely dismiss you. I soon realized the necessity of allowing myself to be absorbed into this culture. Once I understood and felt comfortable with the rituals, I began to enjoy them.

As absorbed with daily buying as I was, a free home cooked meal was most welcome. Early in these transactions I was invited to dine with a family that made “one-of-a-kind” tribal necklaces. The next day, another family that made coin necklaces provided a feast.

The word got around. Each family insisted that I live with them during my stay. Afghan merchants do their best to “capture” customers. The real challenge is to excuse yourself gracefully without offending or ruining trade relations.

The spring and fall colors of the Kabul countryside were uniformly mud grey. Even with all the rain, the distant mountains remained massive and snow covered. Between rains, the air remained clear enough to see houses dotting the mountains miles away. Trees were few, and that’s what I missed most about this landscape.

Fresh flowers at dinner provided a lovely surprise after a dreary day of rain and mud. This was a much needed morale boost. The flowers displayed brilliant colors, ranging from scarlet red and burnt-umber orange, to sunny yellow. They looked like a cross between overgrown tulips and mums. No one knew the English names of these flowers.

It rained for a week on and off, but mostly on. This put a damper on locals and travelers. Muddy rivers of grey ran down hillsides and streets. This must be how deserts are formed. Was I witnessing a Sahara in the making?

Mud does not discriminate. It covers rich and poor, children and adults and traveling fools like me. Warned in advance, I brought simple, durable and washable clothes, such as jeans. Host families allowed me to do my wash alongside the women of the house on wash days.

The wash was done with “washing machines” resembling butter churns. These worked with the same up-and-down churning motion as butter churns. These washers actually did a decent cleaning job and I certainly needed the exercise.

The mud was bad enough. To add to the mess, much of Kabul was under construction with half-paved roads, and potholes you could bath in. By comparison, the worst of New York and New Jersey roads seemed idyllic. Since the 1978 revolution, much has been done to improve the appearance of Kabul.

Other than my clothes taking on muddy earth tones, I experienced no real mud trauma in my years of Afghan travel. There were no serious falls, slips or other memorable events, until my last trip in 1979. At that time a Russian tank fired a shell harmlessly through the hotel lobby, just below my second floor room.

Oh yes, there was one mishap. The Mud Goddess would have a waist-deep hole waiting for me in Kabul during the fall of 1979. The embarrassing thing about it was that my sixteen-year old son, Kirk, who was with me for that particular business trip, was able to jump the hole with no difficulty prior to my undignified leap.

In proper Laurel and Hardy style, Kirk played the foggy-headed, Perrot clown, Stan Laurel part and sailed effortlessly over the hole, while I played Oliver Hardy, destined to take the cosmic pratfall, and landed right in it. That may be the most famous of all comedy routines.

It had looked like a shallow harmless pot hole. My instincts in business are usually sharp, but in that instance, just like Oliver Hardy, I had my eyes on the stars instead of on the ground. The waist deep mud hole was just waiting for me, and I would become the punch line of every joke in Kabul for years. I had become an urban legend in my time.

Only my pride was hurt, though. The mud bath provided a continuing flow of business dividends. New contacts usually began with one merchant asking another, in Pashtu, which I understood by now, “Isn’t she the one?” At that, everyone would burst out laughing, including me. One merchant offered to pay me to repeat the stunt on a scheduled basis, which I politely declined.

Regardless of the weather, Muslims arise by five for morning prayers. I had been getting up at four with the damn roosters because my biological clock was all screwed up from crossing time zones. Most people adapt rapidly to zone changes. I did not.

After a few days I discovered an open window to let in the morning call to prayer. This relieved my morning stress. The daily calls to prayer helped to ground me, providing a welcome relief from the challenges of the day. In the evening, I could look out my window and watch the people on their adjoining roofs.

13
TRADER QUEEN - FALL, 1976

In case I haven’t said this already, let me state here and now that in Afghanistan commerce is really a man’s trade. A lone woman trader really blew their minds. The reality of American dollars, by far, however, outweighed my gender, and the Afghans consistently showed me respect and even admiration.

At first I considered it would help if I named myself Khadija, the first benefactor of Islam and Mohammed’s first wife. Now that I reflect, that would have been ridiculously pretentious. Being Lela has worked just fine.

Initially, I was clearly patronized with suspicion, but as the days and weeks of my first trading venture passed, I felt real affection develop. The merchants and their families warned about ‘bad men’ merchants, lechers, where to eat, and what to avoid.

During my first trading venture, I bought dozens of beautiful antique wall hangings, tent and camel decorations, rugs, kilems, embroideries, brass and copper-ware, and hundreds of tribal necklaces. More than one bargaining session was usually needed before completing a large purchase.

Buyer and seller matched cup for cup of tea. Bargaining was punctuated by relating our trading experiences. Tea cups were constantly refilled. Good bladders made good bargains or so they said.

In this society, every aspect of life involves socializing and holding your water is an important business skill. After visiting a public convenience once, you will need no further incentive to hold your water. In this sense, trading with the Afghans is truly a ‘pissing contest.’

The typical backcountry outhouse consists of two flat stones or tiles, about two feet apart, placed astride a pit next to a back wall. The idea is to place your feet on the tiles, brace yourself against the wall as you squat, and unload. Of course it’s always easier for men.

During my first trading trip, I acquired some wonderful Nuristan ceremonial dance-wear. These were full-skirted, ankle-length dresses with unique silk embroidery. Each tribe, clan, and family had unique designs. Sleeves and bodice often have coins and buttons sewn in the fabric. Occasionally, matching cloth slippers were sown in at the heels of accompanying dress pants.

Nuristan dress decorations combined the sublime with the ridiculous. It wasn’t unusual to see junky looking plastic buttons sewn in with the most beautiful silks, velvets, and gold thread. After some initial frustration, I realized that such tribal art reflected a cultural clash rather than some crude copy. Our junk became their gems.

Tribal Afghans react to our plastic culture with something similar to our wonder and delight on discovering their dazzling tribal art. Some Afghan artisans react to plastic as archaeologists react to stone-age pot shards tossed on a trash heap thousands of years ago.

Early October in Kabul, daytime temperatures reached into the 60s, with nights cooling to the 30s. The air is still clear enough to permit blinding, brilliant sunshine. After a few weeks of wall-to-wall hospitality, I mastered the art of going out on my own for meals. I was determined to do some solo hunting in the many bazaars.

Food in the bazaar is good and inexpensive. Citrus fruit and especially fresh-squeezed orange juice is the best I’ve tasted. Breakfast at a café includes a heavy, excellent carrot jam with tea and flat crusty bread for about 3 afs (6 cents). A robust breakfast pie, sort of a cheese omelet, is 25 cents. Always, there is a choice of chi, green, or black teas.

Any merchant I happened to be dealing with at mealtime insisted on including me, regardless of plans. In fact, there are no firm plans here. The primary daily meal was always a command performance. Families with substantial merchandise orders from me sent a young child to tag along or search me out for dinner if I had somehow managed to give them the slip.

There were serious problems with my first purchases of antique bronzes. I had to go to the national museum twice to clear over 200 pieces for export. The authorities noticed that all were older than 50 years. In fact, some were closer to 5,000 years old. They gave me a list of complex, contradictory regulations, and I was at a dead end.

I had the feeling they made up the rules as they went along. Of course, I had not yet mastered the fine art of baksheesh back then. That first time, I was lucky enough to get a refund from the merchant who sold these to me. Mike, my partner and an influential government official, made easy what would have been difficult.

Much later, I learned from other merchants that a complaint from me would have immediately brought the police, as well as a beating and jail for the merchant. I was forced to go to the police for one early swindle. They immediately drove me back to the swindler. After he resisted returning my money, two policemen beat him, took the money, gave it back to me, and jailed him for two days.

Thanks to Mike, my experience with the police involved no forms to fill out. Later, I avoided most export problems, thanks to Abdul, a charming university instructor. He was related to key local suppliers and provided his insight about unscrupulous merchants. In Kabul, everyone seems related to everyone. Privacy and secrets are difficult in this social setting.

It was hard to believe that there are some first rate German, French, Italian, and Asian restaurants in Kabul. A sizable number of westerners attempt to do retail business in the main towns, Kabul in particular. I’m partial to a small Chinese café serving a wonderful lunch.

Usually, I can count on meeting young European regulars here. They typically start the day on hash. By mid-day they are wrecked and famished. Inexpensive hash of the highest quality is available on the streets of every Afghan town and is as acceptable as tobacco.

By far, the worst damage affects those who start smoking or eating opium, also widely available. Opium freaks walk around like zombies, when they can walk. Some of the hotels have problems with zoned-out guests falling down stairs. For all the good it does, they post crudely lettered signs, “Please do not use hash or opium.”

Abdul explained how hash was produced. A closed cone-shaped tent is erected and lined with sheets of clear Mylar, including the floor. One white thick plastic plumbing tube of about six feet is erected in the center of the tent. A large round metal tray is centered on top of the plumbing tube and fit snuggly under the tent top. Similarly, a metal tray is anchored between the pole and the Mylar flooring.

Sheaves of ripe marijuana hemp, tied as if they were sheaves of wheat, are passed in to ‘beaters’ through a slit in the tent. The beaters are dressed entirely in white cotton and wear goggles. Every part of their body is covered.

The beaters strike the ends of the sheaves against the center pole, synchronizing their swings to strike the center pole from opposite sides at the same time. Once the pollen dust settles, the spent sheaves are exchanged for fresh sheaves.

When all the sheaves are dusted-out, the sticky hash dust is collected. The topmost hash pollen is the best quality. Lesser quality hash is collected from the tent walls and pole on down to the plastic tent floor. After all the tent hash is secured, the outside of the tent is carefully beaten with wire rug beaters.

Finally, the plastic liners and flooring are rolled up around the plastic pole, together with the beaters’ outerwear and taken to a place with electricity to Shop-Vac every inch of plastic and cloth. The hash is then packed into plastic-lined molds, graded, and marketed.

This is the primary reason so many westerners are attracted to Kabul. Drugs are easily accessible, unregulated, and cheap. As long as usage remains in Afghanistan, there are few problems. Getting drugs out of Afghanistan is, of course, another story, and often a sad story.

Hotel managers are mostly old hajis (pronounced, hahgees,). These are the faithful who have completed their pilgrimage to Mecca. Because they are outspokenly hostile to drug use, they discourage the drug addicts, or shit heads as they are called, from frequenting their hotels. I found the hajis to be delightful, wise, and warm hearted. In their presence, I felt serene and secure.

When in town, I went to the bazaars daily. This required a walk through the center of town. It’s a pleasant walk, except for the filthy streets. Most disturbing were the streets and waterways through the towns. These were used as public toilets by men and children, fouling the more frequented parts of the towns. The 1978 revolution would make a substantial improvement in public hygiene, but much would still remain to be done.

14
FATEFUL TRIP - SPRING, 1977

In March 1977, I began planning trip number eight to Afghanistan. Since the spring of 1975, I had made two to three trips each year. Each buying trip lasted a month or two, and business was getting better with each trip. At that time I had a few Afghan partners trading with the tribes. This freed me to develop American and European museum markets.

A well-known photographer, specializing in tribal fashions and crafts, persuaded me to travel with her. In museum circles she was an internationally recognized photo journalist. She convinced me that we would both benefit from exchanging my knowledge for her photographs and contacts.

I had the feeling she was a government ‘spook’ (CIA agent). While her professional credentials were valid, something about her was strange. She seemed forced and uneasy even though she made a grand attempt at friendliness. As my husband Paul would say in his Atlanta accent, “Tha gal jes ain raht.” (That gal just ain’t right.) I should have trusted my instincts.

In spite of my misgivings I went along with the deal. On a deeper level, I disliked the woman. Her constant nervous over-reaching made me wary. I told myself that journalists were just that way and that this was an occupational attitude. I discovered too late that trading on her fame would yield nothing but trouble, but also, that if she were a government agent, she was a lame one.

On our stay over in Frankfurt, halfway to Afghanistan, she woke to find a lump in her breast. We frantically searched for and found a German specialist who confirmed her worst fear. I tried to convince her that German health service was far superior and free as well, but she would have none of it. By the afternoon of her diagnosis, she was on a flight back to the States.

I was sad for her but glad to be free of the anxiety. Trying my best to help her, I kept thinking: ‘There but for the grace of providence, go I’; this was not good for business. The woman was by far the worst distraction I’d encountered so far.

Making the rounds with her for a week of medical visits completely exhausted my nerves. She did not deal with it well, nor did I. Trying to comfort and reassure her did neither of us any good. Interspersed with her whining were endless questions and prying which embittered and exhausted me.

It was a major relief when I put her on a flight back to the States. While I sympathized, it was a load off my shoulders to be able to carry on as planned, without her constant questions and self-pity. I wrote to her a few weeks later, but the aerogram was returned as undeliverable. That put an end to it.

Thinking about this unfortunate woman troubled me deeply for months. Back in the States, I would arrive at the same fateful point one morning, six months later when I also found a lump in my breast. After the initial shock and realization plus some crying, a deliberate numbness set in.

The first doctor didn’t think the lump was malignant and had me go get a mammogram at his hospital. He seemed unsure of himself. The bluster and flippancy were too obvious, reminding me of a vacuum cleaner salesman. He was more nervous than me.

Why was I not surprised when the technician screwed up the mammogram? Somehow the mammogram got stuck in the machine. After finally extracting the jammed plate, another plate was needed. Another dose of “harmless” radiation, “just to make sure we’ve got it right this time,” was not exactly what I needed.

“How often do you get it right the first time?” I asked, but got no answer. Before leaving, I told the radiologist that he would hear from my lawyer. My lawyer said that exposing me to repeated radiation constituted malpractice. That ended the first clown show.

Doctor #2 went right into my breast with a needle probe. He explained, “If it’s just a cyst, we’ll see clear cystic fluid come out when the needle is removed.” No such fluid came out. Up to this point I was anxious, but with this new drama I was petrified.

“Well, we can do another mammogram or go right in for a biopsy,” the doctor said. I replied angrily, “No, you won’t.” He had made it sound like he was about to take out the garbage. I told him to find another profession. Needless to say, I walked out on Clown #2. He did not even have the courage to bill me.

After discussing these ‘alien encounters of the worst kind’ with Paul and close friends, I decided to learn all I could from women with similar experiences. Reading some books about breast cancer put me in control again. From that point on, I took possession of my own body.

My first impulse was to have it all cut out as fast as possible, as the medical ‘cut-ups’ advised. But I soon realized that I was experiencing a doctor-inspired panic attack. Fortunately, I took the time to consider other alternatives.

Talking to experienced patients and reading about alternatives, made me suspicious of surgery. Now I’m convinced that surgery, radiation, and, especially chemo, do more harm than good.

The so-called War on Cancer was really a war on women. Cancer specialists were hell bent on killing the body to kill the cancer. It seemed to me that doctors were killing people to save their own professional pride.

How much time could I afford to take? A biopsy might reveal the extent of my condition, I thought. I began to make arrangements for a biopsy. The long consent form described biopsy as a form of surgery. At the bottom of the form, in fine print, was a clause stating that a mastectomy would immediately be performed if the growth appeared malignant.

The inquisition is subtle. It leads you to your destruction by a series of small, seemingly innocuous steps. The inquisition persuades; it does not force. You find yourself drawn willingly by the magnet of fear to your own destruction.

One can avoid the medical inquisition simply by not taking the first step. The callousness and patronizing attitude of the medical staff finally crystallized my distrust. I tore up the biopsy form and walked out on that option.

One book contained a survey of doctors. The overwhelming preference was to perform biopsy and mastectomy together, as it’s considered a major source of cash flow. “The patient must be made to believe that it’s better not to take chances.” That sentence was from a prominent medical journal.

Paul’s close friend and business associate referred me to Emanuel Rivici, MD, a Swiss practitioner in Manhattan. Dr. Rivici has treated thousands of cancer patients since the 1920s with considerable success.

The method he used is called: Biologically Guided Therapy (BGT). BGT evolved over 50 years of research practice in Switzerland and America. BGT analyzes the patient’s specific condition and attempts to harness the body’s natural immune system, non-destructively. It treats cancer and other biological imbalances by a series of body fluid tests.

BGT therapy is designed around the person’s specific biology. In my case, a series of organic buffered selenium treatments, along with diet (no meat) and exercise (yoga), cleared up my condition in six weeks. The lump disappeared with no ill effects, never to return.

Dr. Rivici charged $35 for the first visit and $15 for each of four subsequent visits. He was by this time in his 80s with a staff of MD’s to assist him. He gave us a number of reprints of his research.

Paul and I were greatly impressed with this biochemical approach that worked so well. The good doctor was head of Oncology at a major New York hospital, until he was ‘retired’ because of his unorthodox treatments.

With his medical-biochemical background, Paul understood the biological treatment approach better than me, and he explained it to me so that I came to understand it. Here’s my understanding of Biologically Guided Therapy:

It was a biological approach, treating cancer as a multitude of biochemical cellular injuries. For various reasons, normal oxygen metabolizing cells become anaerobic (poisoned by oxygen). The anaerobic cells become acidic and cancerous.

Restoring biological balance is the treatment objective. Except for digestive acids, the body is mildly alkaline. When the normally alkaline tide of the cellular environment shifts to an acid tide, biochemical imbalances make good cells go bad. Thus, alkaline cells become acidic and cancerous.

It’s comparable to the environment. When lakes or fields become acidic, they can be restored to normal alkalinity balance by adding a combination of buffers. Land can be restored by adding limestone. Lakes are restored by adding mixtures of baking soda, limestone, and caustic soda.

A similar approach is taken with body chemistry. The human body has similar levels of alkalinity as sea water. As life on Earth evolved from the sea, it stands to reason that our blood has a similar buffer system with the same composition of buffers as sea water.

Similarly, the trace metals in our body are in the same proportion as in sea water. When we came onto land, we brought the ocean with us in our blood and body fluids. The main buffer in sea water and our body is sodium bicarbonate, or baking soda.

The lump in my breast provided a flirtation with fate, as well as a whole new level of awareness. My knowledge and interest in my body greatly expanded, and now I paid more attention to Paul’s research and his writing.

In the past, if his aerograms got too technical, I’d skip those parts. Now I read everything he wrote and found, with some effort, the understanding that I’d missed before. I saved all his old aerograms and re-read them when I get home. No longer did I laugh at his ideas and theories—well I laughed at them at first, but now I pestered Paul until he explained so that I could understand.

Paul has a cyst on his back that I was aware of since we were intimate. He has consistently ignored the lump—joking, “It’s all behind me, on my back, get it, ha, ha.” The last time I came home, one of the first things I did was scheduled an appointment with the Stockton Family Clinic.

Since we’ve been together, Paul habitually ignored all his skin issues. His skin is light and quite sensitive to the sun and fungus. For this reason he needed to leave the South. This is a great contradiction since he is quite health conscious as far as “body-building” and nutrition are concerned.

He is attentive to me and the boys, but not with himself. In the past I usually let it slide. But since coming face-to-face with my own mortality, I no longer tolerate his dangerous habit.

The doctors examined the lump and pronounced it a harmless lipoma (fat deposit). They assured us it’s never malignant, but if it becomes annoying or painful it can be cutout in the office. I vowed never to let Paul ignore stuff like this again.

With my health restored, I was ready to devote my attention to the Afghan trade. Prior to my next trip, aerograms were sent back and forth every few days by my Afghan partners. My friends in Kabul were busy collecting the items and contacts I needed. A few days before flying to Kabul, ten large metal trunks and burlap bales arrived. Most of the consignment was pre-sold. My clients, especially the museums, knew that it was getting difficult to obtain Afghan tribal artifacts.

Again, landing at Frankfurt, the Mercedes bus took us to Dharma’s farm outside of Zurich. We were once again a caravan of six vehicles preparing for an overland trip to Kabul. In addition to the Mercedes bus, we were joined by a tiger-striped double-deck VW Microbus, a large Overland and three other VW campers.

Altogether, we numbered 30 travelers, mostly Sannyasins, but also business travelers such as me. I was the only American. Our little band of pilgrims consisted of Japanese, Germans, Swiss, Australians, Brits, Dutch and Canadians, mostly young couples.

Along with Dharma, Versant and Satya, the caravan organizers, most were heading for the ashram outside of Delhi. There, they planned to dedicate their lives to their spiritual guide. They hoped to continue the great work of saving thousands, perhaps millions of souls.

They actually didn’t save souls; they ‘recycled’ souls. That’s what reincarnation is all about, recycling soul energy. At least that’s my understanding, or as Einstein said about quantum physics theory, ‘It’s not wrong, just incomplete.’ This was Paul’s contribution to my expanding knowledge.

In addition to the spiritual purpose of our journey, there were the not-so-laudable business interests that had to remain in the background. Even the most spiritual had their bread and butter interests, which often included hash or grass.

One couple, deeply into opium, smoked and ate it to the point of opium becoming their primary ashram (temple). During the weeks of our trip, the faces of the opium eaters reflected the peculiar patina of vacuous eyes and moist alabaster skin. They began to look more like statues than people. Cocteau would have loved these living statues for his film sets.

Compared with the unplanned buying of my first year in Afghanistan, each succeeding year sharpened my perspective. From an artsy-craftsy dilettante, I transformed into an internationally recognized dealer in tribal art. By 1977, my trade associates referred to me as Tycoon Lela. My family called me Typhoon Lela. I, however, considered myself a cocoon morphed into a butterfly.

The process of transformation was clearly defined, at least in my mind. There had been a series of distinct events, and it had been far from a gradual process. I was affected by changes that were rapid, distinct, and largely accidental—or were they? In the hundreds of aerograms that I exchanged with Paul, a pattern was discernible.

Essentially, a pattern of spreading tribal networking became clear. Meeting Kit, the politically savvy Australian nurse, provided the first meeting with Mike, the civil engineer and government minister. From that point on, it was like a stone dropped in a pond. The waves of contacts spread out.

Not that I forgot about the Afghan jewelry importer, my first supplier. I credited him with stimulating my interest in the Afghan trade. Beginning as a sales rep for my friends at Primitive Artisans, I acquired at least six different tribal art importers, before meeting-up with the Afghan jewelry importer.

Soon after starting as a sales rep, I bought a large Chevy van and filled it with samples, like a museum on wheels, building a sales route and refining my knowledge of tribal art along the way.

In time, I realized I could do much better on my own. All I needed was the self-confidence.

As I mentioned earlier, I called my jewelry supplier Flake because he ran a flaky business, and I would become increasingly anxious about getting involved in his suspected drug business. Most of all, I wanted to capitalize on my artistic taste and the customer following I built.

Noting the motivation for my first trip to Kabul, highlighted my extreme fear then, compared to the relative calm that developed as my business became successful. An important factor contributing to my success was that I never got involved with drugs. Most importantly, I avoided known druggies or shit-heads, as they were called.

I had to laugh as the ‘shit-head’ designation became a common part of the Pashtu language. My Afghan contacts continually warned me about the various merchants to avoid. The westerners sporting hippie gear were virtual walking drug advertisements.

While there were many hippies in Kabul on my first trip, by the second trip a few months later there were far fewer.

As I mentioned, my friend, Kit advised me to dress like an Afghan professional and business women. Blue jeans were quite common among Afghan men and increasingly so with Afghan women government workers.

I always wore Afghan women’s long sleeved tunics over my jeans. These usually had high collars covering the neck. Also, in public I made certain to wear a scarf covering my head and neck. As cosmetics were frowned upon, I wore none in the Middle East.

Most families, hotels, and eateries had at least one hajji proprietor. I got in the habit of pointedly establishing a respectful dialog with every hajji I met. For one dollar, I could request a hajji blessing. The hajji would put his hand on my head, say a short prayer, and, with his thumb, smear a rouge streak on my forehead. Thus, I was blessed, and so were my business dealings.

Hajji with rose

Without exception, all business contacts, new and old, told me that they felt blessed by doing business with a person so blessed by a hajji. Often I was asked, “What is your tribe?” I would smile and say, “I was born in America, but my mother was Turcoman, of the Osman-Ataturk clan.”

Some of the hajjis knew of this clan. A few mentioned that Osman Ataturks were Sufi Dervishes. “That’s true,” I replied, “For that reason my mother’s clan was expelled from Turkey in 1910.” Hajjis had great respect for Sufis.

[NOTE: Fundamentalist Muslims do not consider Sufis true Muslims.]

Now, two years after my first trip to Kabul, I was comfortable with my Afghan associates. I spent many hours with the same seller, sometimes days, haggling over kilems, jewelry, brass and copperware, as well as artifacts. Artifacts were antique art objects, often bogus.

The only problem I had on my first trip to Kabul had been with ‘artifacts.’ Most artifacts were forgeries, processed to look old. Whether they were genuine or bogus, they needed to have a museum stamp in order to leave Afghanistan. Rather than go through another hassle with officials, I avoided anything vaguely resembling an antique artifact.

Primarily, I was seeking unusual one-of-a-kind quality tribal art at a reasonable price. When it was made didn’t concern me. Once an agreement was reached, I paid cash on the spot. Most items were sold to boutiques and museums for their tribal art exhibits. A few items I could not bear to part with, and these I kept to display in our new home gallery.

After a few trips to Afghanistan, I was no longer dependent on the kindness of Mike, and at times I traveled with migrating tribes. Sometimes I met tribal clans in the towns they were passing through. If their textiles or decorative designs seemed uniquely appealing, I would ask my interpreter to negotiate travel with the tribe for a few days which would give me time to socialize.

Most of the migrating tribal clans had pickup trucks and motor vans, along with camels, donkeys, sheep, and goats. Different clans had unique textile patterns, much as Scottish clans do. The unique designs extended to clan camels. Camel decorations were often captivating, especially the eye protection.

Camel eye-glasses were handmade and leather-stitched to enclose dark blue glass and designed to fit snugly to protect from blowing sand and dust. In many ways they provided elaborate care for their camels. Light passing through dark blue glass calmed the camels. Camels with bruised foot pads were fit with heavy leather boots.

Camels provided camel-wool, still highly prized and priced. The finest paint brushes are still made with camel-hair. Camel milk is so rich that in Israel, camel milk ice cream has become an important specialty industry.

The migrating tribes would camp for days or weeks outside a town to sell, trade, and auction handcrafts and decorative textiles, as well as handmade jewelry. This was where I came into the picture.

Dyed and raw camel, sheep, and goat wool was mostly used by tribal artisans. Wool was seldom sold in bulk, keeping the price of quality wool high. The rocky land does not lend itself to wool ranching or any other type of large-scale ranching.

While I socialized for days with the clan families, once it seemed proper, I drove a hard bargain. By this time, with more than a few trips under my belt, I was a skilled trader. Haggling or bargaining was a necessary ritual in most of the Middle East, and especially in Afghanistan.

Hanging out with the women for a few days usually provided me with a sense of what they would sell and what areas to avoid. I learned that one clan had quality turquoise, but would sell it only after the purchaser bought lots of other items. I knew enough Pashtu to understand that I should not mention jewel stones until they were first offered to me.

I began trading by offering some gifts from America, mostly jeans, but also cheap calculators and beef jerky. Then I would look around and point to something I liked saying, “My husband would love a prayer rug like yours.” My host would then insist on giving it to me as a gift, which I graciously accepted.

We would then sip some more tea, and I would say, “If you have older prayer rugs that are no longer used, I’d be happy to take them off your hands and pay you for your trouble.” We would dicker with price for half an hour. The host would ultimately sigh and whine, “I’m too old and tired for an energetic woman like you. Name your price so we can discuss other things.”

At that point I would offer a price halfway between my price and his. He would then smile and say, “Yes, you are too generous. How many dozen can you use?” For smaller items, such as camel bangles, I would take many hundreds, if available, at twenty-five cents each. For larger, more costly items, such as uniquely patterned saddle bags, I might take only a few dozen.

Textiles, brassware and jewelry were discussed last. If I spent over one hundred dollars, my host would show me the better jewelry and stones, mostly green turquoise and dark blue lapis. Some of the most highly prized lapis had thin gold veins running through it. Of these stones, I purchased as many as I could. They were popular jewelry items and rapidly sold out.

The initial baksheesh developed into a proper, ritually correct exchange of gifts. Each gift exchange, meeting, wedding, or birth that I was involved in cemented our relations more tightly.

My “Mike-Family” would think nothing of asking me for a gear cam to fit a fifteen-year-old Falcon. They gave me the old cracked gear-cam to match, which I eventually found in a New Jersey automobile junk yard. I sent it via the Afghan trade mission diplomatic pouch. Two weeks later I got a post card saying that ‘the gear-cam works fine, see you soon.’

One business associate owned a hotel in Kabul and wanted a small refrigerator and some waterbeds. These I found in Zurich. My delighted family more than made up for these gifts with the business advantages they provided.

There was no real competition for the business I developed. There were archaeologists, civil engineers, museum acquisition representatives, and many journalists from all over the world in Afghanistan, as well as mining engineers and oil geologists. They were hell-bent on exploiting Afghanistan in every possible way. The rumors of an ocean of oil under Afghanistan persisted.

Those of us involved in global trade were more interested in gold, ivory, precious stones, and art objects. But the diplomatic missions were in Afghanistan long before we were. Long before Americans could join the looting, Russian, British and French diplomats drained the Middle East of their precious heritage via the infamous diplomatic pouch, the diplomat’s swag bag.

Americans, Europeans, Pakistanis, Indians, Chinese, and especially the Russians, were anxious to develop Afghan resources “for the benefit of the Afghan people.” Swiss museums offered to reconstruct the destroyed Buddha next to the original, but what they wanted in exchange, no one talked about.

Buddha in Bamian Provence, Afghanistan*

[The Buddha was dynamited and destroyed in March, 2001 by the Taliban. Since 2006, a rebuilding program continues.]

15
FORESTS - FALL, 1977

The farm serving as the staging base for our next trip to Kabul was at the edge of a magnificent forest. It was the deepest, darkest forest I had ever experienced. Europeans, and especially the Swiss, go to amazing lengths to preserve their forests.

A sense of mystery and awe overcame me every time I peered across the road that separated the farm from the forest. Such exquisitely impenetrable darkness set the hair on the back of my neck tingling.

Those dark woods continued to forbid and beckon, as they have for thousands of years. The day before we were all to leave, I finally resolved to walk across the road into the tangled woods. Walking the narrow path into the forest, the trees seemed like towering goddesses.

I told Dharma that I was going for a stroll into the forest. She said she would go with me and grabbed an old pillowcase. “We can pick mushrooms and fix omelets for breakfast.” We walked about half a mile down a forest foot-path paved with a thick layer of pine needles.

The intense musty pine scent and narrow shafts of sunlight provided an overpowering sense of mystery. On that day the attraction of the Wood Goddess was more powerful than my childhood fears. I expected to see Pan or at least a Naiad, but instead we came upon a stand of hardwood oaks.

Dharma walked carefully through the hardwoods, prodding the dried leaves and uncovering large amounts of coprinus mushrooms. She got down on all fours, snapping the groups of young mushrooms at the base. Dharma showed me what to look for and I crawled around the base of other trees, uncovering groups of mushrooms.

She instructed me to avoid any mushrooms that were turning black or liquefying. In ten minutes we filled the pillow case with young coprinus mushrooms. Back at the farm, we gathered a dozen eggs from the hen house. She informed me that we were going to make mushroom omelets.

Coprinus comatus close to liquefying*

With soft brushes we cleaned and cut off the stems without washing the mushrooms. We chopped the mushrooms coarsely, adding freshly picked garlic, chives, and cilantro. The eggs were beaten with black and red pepper. Small chunks of Swiss Gruyère cheese were mixed into the egg batter. The mushroom mix was added to the egg batter.

To the final mix, Dharma shaved in black truffle and began heating four great cast iron skillets on top of the huge old farm stove. Each skillet was generously lined with extra virgin olive oil.

Most Europeans drown everything in butter; even though olive oil cannot take excessive heat, Dharma preferred the flavor-enhancing quality of extra virgin olive oil, EVOO.

Dharma was going to prove the superiority of EVOO. She took a small skillet, put it on the hot burner, and dropped in a large chunk of her own farm butter. After the butter completely liquefied, she ladled in some omelet mix. She cautioned me to allow the pans to heat, just short of smoking, the oil. There were chalk marks on the black stove to guide the heat-knobs.

She told me to try a forkful of the EVOO omelet first, which I washed down with a mouthful of green tea. Then she pushed some of the butter omelet into my mouth. Dharma then asked me, “What’s your verdict, Lela? Tell me what you really think.”

“We use butter at home. My taste buds tell me that the EVOO omelet is tastier and the taste of the mushrooms is more developed. The butter omelet tastes great, but the butter flavor overwhelms everything else in the omelet. It’s more like a butter omelet than a mushroom omelet.”

Five of us spent part of the morning rolling dozens of omelets in wax paper, twisting the ends and stacking these in a large zipper insulated picnic bag. All we needed was fresh bread and wine for instant meals. This was Dharma’s idea of ‘mealson-wheels.’

The old fairy tales took on a new meaning as we ventured into the dark forest. I imagined Red Riding Hood around the next turn. Walking into that forest was like a stroll through some unrealized dream. The dark tangled mystery of the forest seemed to reflect my innermost feelings.

Switzerland, at least the rural areas, was just a super place for people like us. Some of the caravan people smoked what they called ‘alpine green.’ Many farmers grew this type of marijuana as an income enhancer for struggling traditional farms. The high altitude, cool damp air, and thin mountainous soil permitted a scrawny proliferation of a rather weak form of cannabis.

Americans who pass through these alpine forests call it a “Rocky Mountain” high. It leaves you breathless but elated, like traveling through the Colorado Rockies. Growing marijuana had provided a new vitality to many farms throughout Europe. Many believe that marijuana was the major income generator on European farms. The underground economy was alive and well in Europe.

The Swiss countryside seemed to be teaming with young volatile Marxists. For some reason Switzerland was a breeding ground for Marxists, ranging from the most sublime university theorists to the most ridiculous hippie communes.

On my travels through Europe and the Middle East, Marxists ranged from gentle hippies to obnoxious Stalinists. Most of my business contacts were leftists of one shade or another. These ranged from the gentle Greens of the ecocommunes and farms, to wild-eyed Trotskyists and Trotskyites.

The followers of Trotsky Marxism or Trots, as they were sarcastically called, confused me. The difference between the ‘-ists’ and ‘-ites’ warranted a fine distinction. The first, I was told, were the true believers. The second were reformed versions of the original.

After being active in various leftist causes, the Swiss Marxists were just plain fun to pal around with. It sure brought back some great memories. Switzerland was a sort of way station for the revolutionaries of Europe, the most famous of which were Lenin and Trotsky at the turn of the 20th Century.

Revolutionaries spent months and years making contacts, gathering funds, and plugging into the most promising movements in their native lands. When they were ready, they returned to their homeland to do what had to be done. Switzerland was still the primary staging area for European radicals and revolutionaries. All parts of Europe were seething with unrest in the 1970s.

The most prominent groups in the struggle were the Palestinians, Ethiopians, Eritreans, Irish, and Germans. We discussed the Pan Celtic Liberation Front, organized by Cornwall and Scottish nationalists. These had some success for a time with their offshore pirate radio.

At times, they broadcast in Cornwall and Scottish languages. They referred to themselves as the other BBC, Buccaneer Broadcast Conspiracy. Inspired by the Israeli success reviving ancient Hebrew and the Irish success reviving old Irish, similar attempts were underway with the old Celtic tongues: Cornish, Welsh, Manx, Scottish, Normandy, as well as Brittany and Orkney.

Revival of ancient languages was quite the fashion in Europe in the 1970s. Dharma spoke about possible revival of ancient Helvetian, the Celtic language spoken by Helvetians (Swiss) at the time Caesar fought the Gallic Wars. The great Swiss national hero is Orgetorix who troubled Caesar for many years before he was routed by Roman Legions.

ON WITH THE TRIP:

Finally, the caravan was loaded and ready to go. On this trip, the bus carried fourteen passengers, plus a driving maintenance crew of four, including me. The baggage compartment contained trunks of tools and repair materials. The repair materials included special bus jacks, solid foam replacement tires, aluminum patch plates with special rivets, window-windshield repair kits, extra spark plugs, paint, and much more.

All these maintenance materials were itemized on the bus manifest papers. This was necessary to avoid being stopped as smugglers. The European Value Added Tax, VAT, encourages a lot of smuggling and we did not want to take any chances with the border guards.

A few days before the trip, Dharma and I cooked up a batch of chicken oregano and were subsequently voted expedition cooks as well as members of the crew. In fact, two more people joined our little band of travelers after dinning with us. The chicken oregano consisted of old spent hens. Dharma had a huge old electric crock pot, which we used to slow cook the chicken parts with fresh garden greens and yogurt. Fresh honey was added in the old Roman Empire style.

We started at six in the morning going south, but I soon dozed off. I woke up just before we approached the Italian border when it was necessary that I drive the bus to the checkpoint crossing. I held out my passport and bus papers, and a smiling border guard waved us through without further inspection.

High in the Italian Alps, our muffler fell off. We rigged the muffler on with wire and duct tape until we found the nearest service station. The fun was just starting. Between bouts of oohing and ahhing at the spectacular scenery, I was fast becoming an adept mechanic.

Alpine scenes*

It was amazing how fast cracks developed on the Mercedes bus. I must have been cracked to take yet another trip in the same worn out bus. Towering ice-cream cone mountain peaks were separated only by hairline thin roads, looking narrower than our bus.

Continuing on, driving through Zagreb, Yugoslavia would have been a lot more interesting if it had not rained so much. Since leaving Milano, it had been rainy and foggy for three days. I was beginning to worry about how long the drive to Kabul would take. We had estimates of four to six weeks. Taking it easy on this trip was considered necessary for our well-being and that of the bus.

Between driving the bus, overseeing vehicle maintenance, and cooking, Dharma and I worried less about other issues. Parts of the traveling costs were paid by the passengers for petrol, oil, food, and other supplies.

When we stopped at various camp grounds, Dharma and I provided the passenger teams with lists of supplies they were to procure at their own expense. As the travel arrangements were made clear to all passengers signing travel agreements before the trip, there was no grumbling. We were all a happy, generally cheerful group. Except for the foul weather, we would have been positively joyful.

The cooking and bus maintenance work allowed me to get to know some of the local population wherever our caravan stopped, as cooks and mechanics have to deal with local market and garage people. As I was the senior member of the caravan and an established business person, I was considered the caravan mother.

As we traveled east, haggling in small town markets became more acceptable. Multi language information exchange was welcomed by local and caravan people. Mostly, I talked about local handcrafts with art and antique dealers.

Turkey was an especially rich trading center. This made sense as Turkey, and the Bosporus in particular, was the main link in Silk Road trade between the east and west. Handcrafts and tribal art from all parts of the world were displayed in abundance in many local bazaars, shops and stalls.

As I surveyed the markets between Milano and Kabul, my faculty for picking up and understanding local phrases and sign language became invaluable. I got tired of pointing, pantomiming, and grunting.

Most market people have some English. My ear for marketplace talk prompted me to feed back various phrases that worked. As I clumsily stumbled over their language, some of the locals tried some of their English. Actually, they were trying to speak TV American. Often market people had spent some time in America, England, or Germany.

If trade negotiations hit a snag, I would ask, “Auf Deutsch? Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” and the conversation would often proceed nicely. The more I tried the local language, the more they struggled with mine. The best known American market phrase was, “Got jeans to sell?” and, of course, I always had brand name jeans with me, even if they were made in Afghanistan.

TRIP REVERIE, ABOUT PAUL:

One night on the road, I was thinking about Paul again, and a curious feeling came over me. A deep and painful longing enveloped me that was much more than just being horny. As I reached across the sleeping bag, I could feel his coarse wiry hair and hear his deep breath, like a southern breeze in midsummer.

It was funny about my sensing Paul so close as to be next to my sleeping bag. Was I dreaming or not? He will often try to spook me in his aerograms by writing, “When I’m about to fall asleep, I send my doppelganger (ghostly counterpart of a living person) searching for you.”

At times Paul wrote about this with such intensity that I could almost believe him, and why not? After all he is a great put-on artist. He will start a story with a smirk on his face, and in a joyful voice, talk as if one of the great revelations of heaven is about to descend.

Once he has your attention, he shifts his mode of speaking. He becomes increasingly earnest and intense. Finally, he becomes deadly serious, to the point where you dare not doubt the importance of what he is about to say.

When he has you firmly in his grasp, and at times he can be mesmerizing, he will launch into an impassioned tirade, with evangelical zeal to convert you to some ludicrous belief.

Among Paul’s favorites are:

Why cannibalism is a humane institution;

There are people alive today who will never die and you might be one of them;

Women are the true human species, men are a degenerate, devolving subspecies;

To save the Earth, we must trust in the Great Celestial Mother, She who creates all;

We must return to that old-time natural religion of Mother Nature, The Great Mother;

Male Judaic Christian Islamic religions are destroying humanity and the Earth;

How the great cats created humanity.

Most people will enjoy the put on and laugh right along with Paul. Even though we all know we’ve been had, there remains a part of us that is still bothered by reason that the joke succeeded so well. Was there a nagging truth behind the sham? That’s what he calls the Cosmic Joke. Then he will say, “If you want to see the Cosmic Joke, look in the mirror. We are the Cosmic Joke.”

I want to believe that Paul can transmit his dream double like radio waves or the natural electromagnetic realities he mentions that are not yet fully understood. While it sounds like some sort of magic or miracle, perhaps our miraculous magic is merely technology that we do not yet understand.

When I got back to the States, between trips, Paul and I would talk about this. He would insist that he would never do anything to harm me, and I believed him. He would say, “Our love is so intense that the electromagnetic energy that radiates may sometimes go astray and manifest as the events you experience halfway around the world.” He’s an incurable romantic, and I love it.

I sometimes think that Paul’s energy projections, intentional or not, caused all the little mishaps on our travels: endless flats, cracked windshields, muffler faults and other annoying non-injurious road events. Can we create traveling poltergeists?

Paul insists that he is my protector and is with me all the time. Sometimes he is the coyote trickster of Native American folklore, but only to provide challenges to what might become a tiresome trip. In fact, throughout the five years of travel, to and from Afghanistan, none of us suffered any serious injury.

He does not know how it happens. “I think of you all the time, especially when I go to sleep. At least on a conscious level, I wish you all the best. I have no conscious control in the matter of radio wave projection. Certainly, I wish you no harm and sure don’t want to cause you any problems. I want only happiness and success for you, and it seems you are getting these.”

Paul thinks of all the minor travel mishaps as “bleed-off negative energy that would ordinarily build up to a serious accident.”

Then his eyes twinkle, and he bursts out laughing and I could kill him for his pranks, real or imagined. If he is a brujo (sorcerer), he’s MY brujo. He’s there for me. I don’t think he really believes in it. He just pretends to believe, to tease me. I love-hate it and love-hate him for it.

BACK ON THE ROAD:

The mountain roads of Yugoslavia are so bad that a person dare not spend more than a two-hour shift at the wheel. It became necessary for the licensed drivers among us to take turns driving as we continued on.

Dalmatian Coast, the new Riviera*

When I drove, my attention was divided between negotiating the grueling terrain and taking in the breathtaking beauty of the drive south along the treacherous Dalmatian coast. Dalmatia was a Roman province. On the left were towering black mountain forests. To the right was the blinding glare of the Adriatic sun.

Most days we drove all day and on through the night for as long as possible. When we started to have too many close calls with other vehicles, we would stop and sleep. The mountain roads had been doing as much damage to us as to the vehicles. After a few days of this torture, we decided to make camp at Split, a beautiful Croatian beach resort on the Adriatic.

Our first night at the campgrounds, we arrived very late, and it was after three in the morning before we finally got to sleep. It was a cold, foggy night and we all crowded in the front of the bus, devouring the food so we could ‘crash’ as soon as possible into our sleeping bags.

The town of Split, on the coast of Croatia was the last place on our trip east where a decent shower was available. This was really ironic since all the European campsites had had excellent showers, but it had been so cold and damp in the west that we had not relished this luxury at the time. As we drove into Eastern Europe and crossed the Bosporus into Turkey, the weather became warmer and the camp showers fewer.

The next morning, our first at this excellent campsite, some young Croats came to talk with us. They remembered our caravan from a trip the year before. That was not as farfetched as it sounds since our caravan was quite distinctive. The Unimark camper van, sort of a two-decker modified VW microbus, was painted with tiger stripes, and the decrepit Mercedes bus was also unusual.

Our visitors were cheerful and pleasant companions. For a change, English was the common language. Their enthusiasm was contagious. This, they explained, was their favorite pastime, practicing their English and angering the campground officials. The officials took a dim view of such unofficial contacts with foreigners, especially since we looked like hippie Gypsies.

Later in the day, we walked to a local grocery store for our daily provisions. The little shop was loads of fun. While the store was small compared to those in the West, it had an amazing variety of items, including an international selection of wines, beer, and liquor. The only problem was that no bags were provided, except for our own.

On the way back to the camp grounds, I slipped down a sandy dune and broke some of my eggs. Fortunately, the broken eggs were in a small plastic sack with some crumpled loaves of bread. When we got back to camp, I squashed the eggs and bread together, removing most of the shell beforehand.

The camp-fire was burning nicely when we got back to camp. I jerked out the communal fry pans, poured plenty of olive oil in the hot pans, shaped the egg and bread mess into burgers, and pan-fried some lovely “bregg” burgers, mixing in some local finely cut sausage.

The campers gobbled these up so fast that they didn’t realize what they were eating until after I told them. As a result of this and many little nurturing tricks, people started referring to me as the Earth Mother.

A few days later, after crossing into Greece, we reached a campground outside of Thessalonica. The nicest part of those days was in the evening at the campgrounds, especially sitting around the campfire after supper.

One soon discovers how much alike the middle class is in all countries. This became especially clear during the lengthy fireside bull sessions. We all seemed to be thinking along similar lines. Naturally enough, our main interests were: love, experiencing life, people with ‘good heads,’ drugs, the freaky ways of caravan life, and, of course, rock music and our various business ventures.

The first evening in Thessalonica, we talked about organic food, the idea of eating whole food, solar energy, and what some perceived as the coming Aquarian Age of Peace.

We tend to place an incredible faith in the long shot salvation aspect of technology. Our faith in the future seems based on quick-and-dirty cures, magic-bullets, or some form of amazing grace. I can’t help but feel that this attitude reflects a lazy intellect.

With the Swiss campers, fireside chats also included ethnic jokes, mostly about the Turks. I guess this is the result of the thousands of guest workers or, immigrating groups, such as the Turks, who wound up doing the drudgery and dirty work that the Swiss seemingly ignored.

One popular Turkish joke making the rounds was about two poor Turkish farm workers who saved some money and went to town to buy a car. The used car salesman told them that they didn’t have enough money for a car, but that he had a camel he could let them have.

In fact, he would do them a big favor since the camel was special. The camel had two ass-holes, but the salesman would only charge them for one camel. The two farmers buy the camel. As they ride down the road on the camel, some kids shout, “Look at those two ass-holes on the camel.” One farmer turns to the other and says, “By golly, that salesman was telling the truth.”

On one of my trips to Kabul I brought a copy of the original Arabian Nights in English. Somewhere in the book, there is a story, nested within two or three other stories, about two brothers on a dying donkey, etc. So this story is at least one-thousand years old.

In northern Italy, the jokes are about Sicilians. In Yugoslavia, the jokes are about Albanians. The caravan people especially loved jokes about Californians. “Why does it take five Californians to change one light bulb? The answer is, one to change the bulb and four to share the experience.”

That was the first time I heard Californians treated like a separate ethnic group. Anyone who has spent time in California will recognize the germ of truth in that particular joke. It was hard to explain to Europeans the peculiar character of the American West, especially California.

And what is the special character of Californians that make them the object of our jokes? I suggest that it is the pretense of New Age openness. I’ve spoken with young Europeans who have asked me if California is a separate nation. My stock response is, “Yes, but only on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The rest of the week they’re Americans.”

At one campfire supper, some California jokes led to a discussion of Ernest Callenbach’s book, Ecotopia. The book is considered an underground classic, a future documentary that takes place after the secession of the Western states from the USA.

The narrative is done by the first U.S. reporter admitted into a place called Ecotopia following the great Helicopter War. In an attempt to suppress the world’s first ecological utopia, the U.S. stages a surprise invasion with 8,000 helicopters.

The Ecotopians crush the U.S. invasion by electronically downing all the helicopters and planting briefcase-sized nuclear mines throughout the urban Eastern seaboard. These mines are electronically controlled on the West Coast.

My caravan companions considered this a ridiculous scenario, but I tried to explain that the American West, especially the Pacific Coast, is independent minded to an extreme. This was the only part of my trip that was a total failure; trying to explain California.

We spent more time at the lovely beach camp at Thessalonica than we had planned. The bus had a flat the night before, and some rubber cushioning around the axle came off. While we repaired the mishap at a nearby garage, the other campers did the dishes and cleaned up the caravan. We were trying to raise the consciousness level of the caravan, especially of the men.

Looking back over the years, I see my early business efforts as clumsy steps along my path. Yet, I can’t think of anything I could or would have done differently. On the first overland trip every minor mishap was inflated by my naiveté and inexperience into major disasters. I laugh now when I think how upset I got over every near collision on a mountain road, a blow-out on a rainy night or the recurring cracked windshield.

16
INTO IRAN - FALL, 1977

We made better time after crossing the Iran border. Only a few minor repairs were needed, so little time was lost. We were all intent on getting our act together and wanted to get out of Iran as rapidly as possible.

We entered Miraneh, Iran in the morning just as the sun was coming up. Pushing harder, we reached a campsite at the edge of Tehran the same evening. Now I understood why Dharma was pushing the caravan so hard. The Tehran campgrounds had hot showers and modern washing machines, a rarity in this part of the world. It is one of the few modernizations by the Shah that we appreciated.

There was a shower on the Unimark van, and the day before I had traded a copy of Paul’s new book for a shower, using the last of the shower water. The Unimark people were not happy about this trade and told me so. I said that they will be happy when they read the book. Besides, I filled their water tank again when we got to the camp grounds, so all was forgiven.

I figured I would be so sparkling clean that my fellow trekkers would discover the shower thief and heap their wrath upon me, but no one seemed to notice or at least say anything.

Most of our group has not properly showered since Istanbul, and we were quite ripe by the time we reached Tehran. Smelling bad does not seem to bother Middle Easterners as much as Europeans and Americans. Probably this is the result of water being in such short supply in the Middle East.

As each fellow traveler walked by, the odor made me side step a bit. We all became so rancid that only I, the shower traitor, could smell the difference. Not that I was that clean, but in the land of the odorous, the least odorous is queen. A week later I told this story around the campfire. The women howled with laughter, and Dharma began calling me the Afghan Queen.

We were a sticky, gritty lot by the time we reached the showers at the Tehran campgrounds. Having had little else but jam, honey, and flatbread for three days added to our general discomfort. Everything we touched got smeared and sticky. The bus windows looked like the targets of a food fight.

There were no napkins on board so people used their clothes, sleeves, or whatever was handy to wipe the goo off, much as my kids do. The food had gotten into our hair, clothes, and just about everything. We wound up spending an entire day washing clothes, vehicles, and ourselves. The bus windows took the most time. Inside and outside windows needed multiple cleanings.

The Shah was attempting to transform Iran into an American colony as rapidly as possible. This included the transformation of family farms into cash crop farming factories. Some of the produce that would ordinarily be available locally was transported to large urban centers. The bulk of farming produce was shipped abroad where prices were much higher.

We heard stories of fishing cooperatives that could not afford to eat their own fish, of livestock growers who could not eat their own meat. This led to a vast scheme of bribing produce inspectors to declare a substantial amount of farm produce as unfit for human consumption. This resulted in a black market that raised prices far beyond the grasp of most families.

As might be expected, sturgeon production was all but destroyed by overfishing. Fortunately, the Soviet Union, sharing the sturgeon fisheries with Iran, imposed military discipline on sturgeon fishing in the Caspian Sea. Most importantly, 90% of the world’s sturgeon and caviar is produced in the Caspian.

Since the early 1970s these developments had severely stressed the Iranians, and, as their anger grew, they acted out against Westerners with increasing hostility, unfortunately for us. Few deprivations are as anger provoking as food, or the lack thereof.

One particular assault greatly heightened my awareness. Four of us went into Tehran to search the bazaars for unique crafts and stopped at a busy little café suggested by a friendly merchant. It was midday, and it was crowded with local merchants.

After we were seated, an arrogant waiter took our order. As he served us, his hands passed my place setting and he abruptly fondled my breasts and started to walk away with a smirk on his face. At first I was so shocked that I could not believe this had really happened. The three other women howled in rage, while I was speechless.

From the corner of my eye I could see a couple of other waiters in the alcove grandly celebrating their comrade’s triumph as he slowly swaggered back in that direction. I realized immediately that this little scenario had been planned.

They were about to suffer the wrath of a Red Hook Shark. My rage grew so strong and so fast that before the little rat had strutted halfway across the dining room, I popped out of my chair, raced behind him, and pounded with all my strength on his neck. My attacker fell flat on his face at the feet of his shocked conspirators.

They looked like deer caught in the headlights as they dragged him into the kitchen. By this time my companions had raced to my side, and I somehow managed to push them out the front door, the four of us running as fast as we could.

The shouting behind us was frightening. As I herded my lambs before me, I thought we would be cut down by knives. Fortunately, we melted into the bazaar crowd without further problem. From what we learned later, this type of assault was to be expected in Iran.

That was my last ‘up close’ encounter with Iranians. After that assault, we were much more cautious in our dealings. The few remaining outings in Iran were for provisions only. We all, women and men both, were sure to cover ourselves from head to foot.

The events of the late 1970s have since proven that behind the Iranian revolution and the Islamic Republic were decades of suffering and repressed anger. Much of the hatred was directed at the Shah, as the creature of American corporate interests.

It’s as if every nation forced to endure rapid and rabid corporate modernization ends in revolution. The global corporate cabal must expand or perish, like a cancer. Corporate greed acts like a social-economic cancer infecting the entire world.

My anger is not with revolution, but with the virulent hostility toward women. Our experience with Iranian hostility made us far less venturesome in Iran. As a result, we spent most of our time close to campsites and exited Iran as rapidly as possible.

As a result of our stressful experience in Iran, we were getting more edgy with each other. Most of our caravan had experienced some type of unpleasantness. Fortunately, we had avoided serious injuries. The further east we traveled, the more obvious grew the stress outside and inside the caravan.

Each day, though, we made a greater effort to be pleasant and kind to each other. We anticipated the Afghan border with increasing anxiety. One morning I suggested a game to the bus travelers. I’d been driving for two hours and we pulled over so Versant could take the next shift as bus driver.

Someone found a bag of blank lottery slips. After some discussion we hit on a typically French game. Everyone on the bus would write their most secret fantasy regarding someone in the caravan. No names were included. Later that evening at the campgrounds, each person would draw one lottery slip from a hat and follow the directions. This game and the preparations it entailed managed to distract us from the reality we were rapidly leaving behind.

That evening everyone insisted that I pick the first slip, since it was I who had organized the game. My instructions directed me to pick two others for a raw egg race on all fours, with spoons in our mouths holding the eggs. What could be more innocent? The winner could decide the penalty. The need for distraction brought our secret desires anonymously to light.

The same night we met another bus at the campgrounds. A dozen people from Finland were aboard and invited us in to see how they had arranged their living space. It was an inviting and comfortable arrangement. The seats were replaced with wall-to-wall mattresses. The interior décor was in soft gold and orange, providing a warm and mellow womb.

The Finns traveled with a beautiful three-year-old girl. The child was a delight to watch and her angelic antics easily upstaged the adults. She was the focal point of attention and affection. Rosette was the first child I’d seen in the Middle East who acted like a child, and she was a delight.

Most of the children I’d seen acted like little old people. I’d learned that, from an early age, Middle East children are apprenticed to merchants in the bazaars or assist artisans, if they are fortunate. People, especially children, seem to age faster. Is it the stress, the environment, or what?

We spent a few hours with the Finns in their bus. They’d gotten together through a newspaper ad and had been strangers prior to this trip. It was a large bus with two toilet closets in the back corners. Lots of pillows were arranged against the walls. Every few feet mesh net bags were attached to the bus walls with Velcro. As with our bus, there were large bins under the bus.

After passing some joints, a sense of gemütlichkeit (wellbeing) set in. It was like hanging out with old friends. After this visit, our tension evaporated. The Finns were just the tonic I needed, since the night before a migraine had denied me sleep. I had been irritable all day until the Finns rescued us.

The campground outside of Tehran was our home for a few days. We had some medical problems among us that needed attention. Satya had a bad leg infection and needed antibiotics and Doris’s uterine coil was causing her pain. I promised to find medical help for them.

Migraine headaches have been a periodic problem for me ever since my periods began. Philip, the Englishman, I’ll call him “English,” kept me distracted from my pounding head while I sipped valerian and chamomile tea. Philip devised an alphabetic psychological code that enabled him to project the personality of an individual from the letters in the person’s name.

English worked with all the names in our family, mine, Paul’s and the boys. These psycho-alphabetic projections were provocative. One projection concerned our oldest son who was seventeen at the time. English suggested that Erik preferred his second name “Josef.” That’s because he couldn’t live up to the strength and power of a name like Erik, the ‘Er’ and ‘k’ sounds being much too harsh for him to handle comfortably. Our last name was also strong.

Josef was a preferable name for him because it sounded softer and came across more gently. English thought it interesting that I had taken the name Lela as it suited my personality better than my American name, Beverly. The name Beverly, he suggested, was a terrible jumble of consonants, providing an almost haughty and pretentious sound.

Lela, on the other hand, had a melodic and earthy quality much better suited to my nature. English told me that I couldn’t escape being an Earth Mother or, in fact, being the mother of everyone on the bus. He suggested that it was a natural role for me to assume.

October 7th was my birthday and English was in charge of birthday celebrations. In fact, every event required a celebration. That was one of the caravan rules. Whenever we got the blues, which were rampant in Iran, someone would look for an excuse to celebrate something or other. English was the most persistent of these promoters.

My birthday celebration began on our return from an opera in Tehran. It was a pathetic parody of western culture providing a ludicrous rendition of the Barber of Seville. Nine of us packed into the Unimark like sardines. We returned to camp near midnight and sang an obscene rendition of Happy Birthday in my honor.

Every time I think about how muddled and off the wall we are in today’s world, I just recall the people on the bus and still feel they were the most wasted of any people I’ve met. A celebration could, and often did, start anytime day or night, and any excuse would do.

I realize these “sparks of life,” as Satya called them, were really desperate, last-ditch efforts to ward off tediousness, restlessness and depression. One 4 a.m. I awoke to one of these sparks of life, and, after some back-and-forth bitching, called it a mini riot without spark or life, just noise. That hurt English. It took two days to make it up with him.

A few days later, we made camp outside of Sari, near the Caspian Sea. The road followed the border, with Soviet Turkmenistan, a couple of days from Mashhad, and then into Herät, Afghanistan.

This place was supposed to be the world caviar capital, but I doubted that we would dig down and shell out the $50 per eight ounces that was the local price. After all, $50 could just about feed the whole caravan for a week.

It was a seaside resort and we spent some time swimming in the Caspian Sea, just to say we swam with the sturgeon. I expected to taste fresh water, but it was brackish. Some Iranian teens said it had one-third the salt of sea water. They said that millions of years ago, the Caspian linked the Atlantic to the Pacific. Imagine that!

Tehran-Sari-Mashhad-Herät*

Kit and I rested at the campsite talking about this strange place. Since entering Iran, we’d been traveling along the south shore of the Caspian Sea. Our caravan drove from the southwest shore, with the Azerbaijan oil fields to the north, to the south-east corner of the Caspian bordering Turkmenistan. We talked about the oil dilemma:

“Kit, I’m glad to be rid of the damn oil smoke and odor. It was really intense when we neared the Azerbaijan area to the west. It was like the Caspian Sea was on fire with all that burn-off gas. Do you think oil production will spread to the south-east Caspian?”

“Possibly Lela, but now most of the oil field development is around the south-west shore. Development is now proceeding in the north. Geologists believe the largest oil basin is in the south-east and there’s been little exploration there.

“Again this raises the specter of an ocean of oil. There may be an ocean of oil under the Eurasian land mass from West Africa and the North Sea, through the Arabian-Middle East, on to Iraq-Iran, the Caspian Sea and into Afghanistan. Soviet aerial surveys suggest the possibility of a ‘continent’ of oil the size of the Atlantic Ocean.

“I was told that a new type of magnetic radar was used in the aerial survey. My hope is some other energy source will be found before the oil madness gets worse. Oil production is doing more damage to the Earth than the nukes.”

“Kit, is it likely a more efficient energy form will be found? You sound like “pie-in-the-sky.” There may be trillions invested in oil and the global-politics of oil. Even if a more plentiful, economic and cleaner energy source were found, it’s most likely to cause global disaster rather than salvation.”

“Yes, it’s true. As the major world powers, including the Soviets, consider oil a global life-support—like people need oxygen—any transition to a replacement energy source would precipitate a global political-economic cataclysm.

“But sooner or later such a wrenching change will occur. And what will that change be? Well, of course solar and wind energy is developing slowly, but there is a less obvious energy source right under our feet and it’s not oil.

“I mentioned aerial surveys using magnetic radar. Such technology is feasible because the whole Earth is one huge powerful magnet. Like the solar energy of the Sun, the potential magnetic energy of the Earth is incalculable.

“It’s not like drilling into the Earth for magnetic energy, as is done for oil. I don’t know how it works, but I’m told to drop the oil model entirely. There’s little more to say about magnetic energy except to express the hope that it’s a vast improvement over petroleum.”

“When I think about those hellish oil fields compared to this idyllic campsite, I can easily hope for salvation from magnetic energy or something else. Perhaps a breakthrough in solar technology will eclipse the need for petroleum.”

“Lela, whatever direction the search for energy takes, we’ll need to come to grips with the energy power brokers. Their greed is boundless, poisoning the Earth and human society. The greed machine will go to any lengths to preserve their power. If it comes to that, the current energy brokers and their enforcing agents will take control of any new energy source.

“We live in a world where the power-brokers are able to corrupt, negate or ‘disappear’ all serious opposition. In this male-dominated world, even women leaders such as Indira Ghandi and Golda Meyer, as sainted as they may be, could only function with the tacit support of the male power establishment.

“Both the Soviet system and the global market economy may wither away, but the enforcers: CIA, KGB, MI-5 and the rest of the global bullies will stay in power. You can count on it.”

“I suppose you’re correct Kit, but I’m hopeful for a better world.”

“Certainly, that’s all we have are hopes and dreams. Our small personal endeavors and enterprises help point the way to a more humane future. Whether it’s preserving the Afghan culture, building their income, liberating women, initiating health services or roadways and communication links, it all helps. We must strive to carry on the good work. We progressives must never give up.”

Too many temptations were here, so we went on to Mashhad. We stayed in Mashhad just long enough to get Afghan visas and buy some turquoise. Except for our headlights, the camp was dark when we arrived that night. In the morning I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the place, lush greenery, white-water river, and intoxicating air.

The only faults marring the features were the trucks whizzing by on the American-built road. The diesel noise and fumes were an abomination in what would otherwise have been a pristine place. At times like this I thought of Paul talking about electric power replacing all the combustion farting engines. Come on, Paul, hurry it up!

At Mashhad, our caravan broke up because the Atlanta folks didn’t get their VW camper back from the repair shop. But we picked up some new people. Dharma was watching me like a hawk with the new men. She was overprotective when it came to me and men. We were both strong women and could take care of ourselves, but there was a strong sense of sisterhood between us.

While flirting with an attractive Swede, I could see Dharma giving me the ‘hairy-eyeball.’ Later, she told him to leave me alone or there would be trouble. He asked if we were gay, and she said that as far as he was concerned, we were. She and I walked off hugging and laughing.

I explained to Dharma that flirting is our favorite sport back in the States. She replied that back in Zurich, she too was a flirt, but that here in the caravan we must ’keep a lid on it’ or it would become disruptive and demoralizing. She said, “Lela, you are our Earth Mother; people look up to you; please be careful.”

This was too absurd. As much as I loved Dharma and the trekkers, I’d be glad to be free of them in Kabul. The caravan had become family, and we women were like sisters. If we stopped smiling, we thought there was a problem. We were getting too close. We couldn’t get to Kabul fast enough for me.

One of the few nice events in Iran occurred at a new campsite outside of Mashhad, close to the Afghan border. I thought we ought to at least rest a bit and get supplies before the usual border crossing hassle.

Part of the campsite was not yet opened, but looked inviting. We stopped to inquire about water and supplies from an old man at the gate who turned out to be the owner. He was so anxious to spread the word to other campers that he persuaded us to spend the night at the camp as his guests.

We had the place all to ourselves and promised to pass out the flyers he gave us. In addition, he gave us loads of fresh melons and vegetables from his adjacent farm. We invited him to join us at our meals. As we got to know him, we learned that he spoke fluent English, German, French, Spanish, and Russian.

He explained that he had been all over the world and spent most of his life in other countries. He was an oil broker and most of his family lived in New York. I asked how old he was and he said he was close to 100. “You could tell me you were 65 and I’d believe it,” I said. He laughed and said, “Mashhadies are long-lived.”

I asked what was different about people from Mashhad. “No,” he corrected, “We are Mashhadies, not people from Mashhad.” He continued, “Mashhadies are Persian Jews who were persecuted and forced to become Muslims. In public we are Muslims, but in secret we remain practicing Jews, like Spanish Jews, forced to be Catholics by day, yet remaining secret Jews.”

He came home to Mashhad to retire and be near thousands of relatives. He continued, “We are merchants and business people until the day we die, it is part of our tradition, almost a religious ritual. Most of us left Mashhad long ago. Those, like me, remaining are more Muslim than Jew. Unlike Christians, many Muslims accept Muslim Jews as children of Abraham.”

Electricity seemed to spark from his eyes when he laughed, which was often. He was the happiest person I’d seen in Iran. He asked that we call him Hajji, as he had been to Mecca many times on business. Quite the promoter, he gave us some of the postcards he used as business cards. One photo of him as a younger man with his favorite horse was especially striking.

Hajji Mashhadi

As we had arrived early in the evening, there was time for a leisurely dinner and stroll afterward. It was a pleasant change, since most days we didn’t make camp until late at night. After dinner we were all supposed to listen to a tape of Dharma’s Indian guru. But the evening was so beautiful that I just had to go for a walk.

The campsite owner, the old Hajji, had created springs and small waterfalls with charming colored stepping stones across waterways. I almost expected to see a miniature golf course but mercifully did not. The camp ground was well lit and inviting for strollers.

Beyond the waterfalls I discovered a tall building with an open terrace that looked as if it had a ping pong table on it. It turned out to be a plain old rickety table. Looking toward the building, I noticed French doors with one ajar. Peeking inside, I realized it was a meditation temple and quite different from any mosque I’ve seen.

I wrapped my scarf around my face, removed my shoes, and glided in the open door. Toward the end of the room was a large altar as high as my eye level. On the altar were many Korans. Some seemed quite old and falling apart. Others were new with decorative gold scrollwork.

The altar floor was covered with a few small rugs and the ceiling was pitched upward, like a tent with four sides, forming a pyramid-like dome. On the altar was an electric candelabra, and a lovely but simple chandelier hung from the peak of the pyramid dome.

Also on the altar were some stones incised with geometric shapes and Arabic script. I counted six stones in all, each in fabric nests that reminded me of cupcake holders. One stone was partly covered in what looked like a small prayer shawl. Another stone rested on a hand printed kerchief, again with beautiful Arabic script probably from the Koran.

As I handled the stones, and with trepidation I might add, a shiver went through me. I wanted to speak with someone about them but there was no one around. The whole atmosphere was magical, and I took some time to just sit on a rug looking through one of the Korans which I could not understand.

When I got back to camp the tape lecture was just ending. We drank some tea and talked a bit about following a master. Bern, Satya’s brother and I agreed. We seemed to be the only ones opting for finding one’s self from within.

I do not believe that some anointed one with the word can make me see the light. I am of the opinion that our light shines from within or not. Only I can turn on my own light. I’m sure that the old Hajji who invited us into his camp was an enlightened one.

That night I slept wonderfully, even though we were wakened by an early morning wedding party. They insisted on waking everyone, beckoning us to dance with them. Dharma and I were the only caravan dancers. We put on Ike and Tina Turner and a dozen men and the bride danced.

The women in the wedding party stood around giggling and gawking as we freakish foreigners danced. The bride party spoke only Pashtu, but my limited understanding was not enough to bridge the language barrier. In any case, good vibes dominated the dancing.

17
HERÄT TO KABUL - FALL, 1977

The sigh of relief was audible when we crossed the border into Afghanistan. We were stuck in Herät for three days, just inside Afghanistan. Fuel and oil lines were stuck for a change. This time Satya and Versant began the engine disassembly, while Dharma and I cleaned the lines and reassembled the engine. These repairs were routine by now.

I hadn’t written to Paul in nearly a week. Usually I write every couple of days. The flow of letters was important as a source of impressions about the trip. My lassitude was partly a result of the tedium of travel and the sense of ill-will projected by the Iranians. Except for the old Hajji, Iran had been a depressing experience.

The moodiness was infectious and seemed to sweep over us in waves. Each experience, affecting one or two of us, managed to infect the atmosphere further. Our games and diversions were helpful in taking the edge off, but the tension continued to build. In spite of all our efforts to the contrary, the dark atmosphere grew heavier.

We blamed the Iranians for this. Actually, we knew the real cause of Iranian hostility was the kiss-of-death western incursions in Iran. The quest for cheap oil was, of course, the ultimate poison. The insanity of western culture reflected a cancerous economic invasion.

Every aspect of Iranian society was degraded by Western presence. The Iranian people would not roll over and play dead. They had spirit and fight, even if it was misdirected against us. We understood their resentment. Occasionally, we spoke with young Iranians who explained that every aspect of Iranian society was degraded by Western capitalism and the Shah.

We explained our rejection of the corporate stranglehold and that we fought it each in our own way. While our sympathies were well received, there was little more we could do other than express our support. Our hope was that the contagion of ill will had not spread to Afghanistan.

Once we crossed the Afghan border to Herät, we all felt better and I was writing again. It was as if a plug had been pulled out of a bucket of stagnant water. As I poured myself onto paper my ugly feelings began to subside.

In Herät my attention was focused on business again. I shopped for large quantities of tribal objects, but found that the merchants were too difficult to deal with. After a few days of futile haggling, I realized it was a mistake to bring other bus people with me, which I had been doing up to that point.

When we went in groups, the Afghans were not cordial to the women. I’d seen some excellent silver perfume vials. These were marvelous examples of the old Turkmen crafts, but prices were unreal. Clearly, this was their way or refusing to do business with me.

In another part of Herät I made a deal to buy a dozen unusual primitive fabric paintings. These displayed a fresh, ingenuous medieval perspective. Animals, people, airplanes, helicopters, and autos were painted in vegetable dyes. These were inexpensive and made great wall hangings.

Seeing modern technology for the first time had provided a fresh point of view. The people who painted the cars and planes saw them as bigger than life. A helicopter would fill an entire painting fabric, looking as much like a dragon fly as a copter.

A certain charm presented itself in these fabric paintings. Planes, cars, helicopters and even animals were portrayed with a peculiar lopsidedness, with certain features favored over others. The helicopter seemed to be all rotor blades; cars emphasized windows. Animals and people had huge heads with little shrunken bodies. They reminded me of Salvador Dali prints.

Sometimes young children, seeing the world with new eyes, will draw the sky as if it is one big smiling sun. Kids often draw a house emphasizing windows or doors. Young kids draw large smiling faces for people that impress them and small stick figures for those who don’t impress them. These fabric paintings had this childlike charm.

Venuses: Lespugue-Dolní Věstonice-Venus Roumanie-Venus Moravany-Mal’ta Venus*

[The five “Venuses” above emphasize fertility and are about 40,000 years old. The major focus of that age was fertility, successful mating. The attributes of motherhood are exaggerated to the point of being religious fetishes. Hands, feet and heads are missing or greatly reduced.]*

Fabric paintings are also votives emphasizing the most impressive features viewed by the artist. Viewing new technology initiated a desire to obtain some degree of control over it. This, I believed, was the objective of these fabric paintings. Artistically representing vital concerns provided a first step in controlling them, be they fertility or helicopters.

The major problem with these fabric paintings, I later discovered to my dismay, was that the plant dyes were water-based, and I lost at least half the paintings from water damage. I should have inquired further why they were so inexpensive. I paid only one dollar each, however, and recovered more than the costs of those that were ruined.

I would describe as the people who painted the fabric art as primal rather than primitive. I imagine these primal artists saw animals, plants, and even technology for the first time, as bigger than life, without confining dimensions. The objects floated free without a confining frame.

Seeing the essence of an object with neither framing, boxing, anchoring nor horizon confinement is what I call a primal viewpoint. A camel is painted in the middle of a fabric, without road, horizon or anything else. It just floats there as if nothing else exists in the world.

It was the primal seeing of their tribal reality that remained of great value in those fabric paintings and in all original tribal art. I knew my education at Parsons and The Fashion Institute would come in handy someday.

At the conclusion of my dealings with this merchant, he tried to give me the wrong change and so I took back all my money, ending the bargaining entirely. Perhaps we were still too close to Iran. I had no illusions, but I hoped business would be better in Herät.

The next stop was Kandahar, requiring two days of travel over bad roads. Some of the people in our caravan needed to pick up visas to Pakistan. I had some business in Kandahar so this stop worked for many of us.

By the time we left Herät, we had gathered another four vehicles. I was getting homesick as we started out for Kandahar. To deal with the loneliness I hung out with our little caravan sisterhood. We saw ourselves as protectors for each other. After the deal in Herät soured, however, I realized that the sisterhood was unintentionally messing up my dealings with merchants.

Having anyone just hovering around was enough to put me and the merchants off our trade. From that point on, I visited the bazaars solo. Of course we all wanted to explore the bazaars, but when I noticed interesting merchandise I split from the group, pursuing the goods on my own.

In spite of the coldness of the people bordering Iran, I felt safer than on the streets of New York City. A few of the trekkers were French and knew little English. They needed to learn more English before going to India, so they talked with me as often as they could.

The Frenchmen were of upper middle class families. Two were brothers and one a friend. They worked at one of the Club Meds for a time so they were just the sort of social clowns for me. My caravan sisters, together with the French clowns, kept the blues away.

The Frenchmen were constantly laughing, smiling, and clowning. They were perfect for our little group of lonely, stressed business women. Yet, they brought their marriage troubles with them. Like most of us, they had their load of emotional baggage.

Fortunately, Herät was not a complete loss. The day before leaving, I ventured on my own into a different bazaar and obtained some amber of fine quality at a reasonable price. The world supply of quality amber was rapidly dwindling so I was happy about my luck. There were no merchant hassles this time, although the bargaining was lengthy.

Before going to the bazaar, I had my sisters confirm that I was fully clothed from head to foot. Except for the small facial oval, a beige silk shawl covered my hair and wrapped around my neck and shoulders. Also, I wore large sunglasses—commonly worn by the Afghans. I wore proper shoes and socks and a tent-like Nuristan dress covered arms, legs and body down to my shoes.

As usual, my business manner was polite, direct, and to the point. The result was immediate. There was not the least bit of standoffishness. Two dozen excellent coin silver necklaces were my objective. These contained outstanding green turquoise mounted without backing so the stones were completely visible. The bargaining was intense, but we agreed on a fair price.

Since I always paid in dollars, the merchants throw in extra goods as business gifts. In this case, the merchant gave me a bag of uncut and off-color turquoise gem stones. Before leaving the merchant, some small beautifully carved amber animals on silver chains caught my eye. There were a dozen of these, and I asked, “How much?” He smiled and gave them to me, gratis.

On reaching Kandahar, I decided to splurge on a hotel room. It was inexpensive and clean, but best of all, it was near the bazaars. I figured the bus people and I could use a break from each other. The real treat was a hot shower, a rare luxury in this country.

The room was great for partying as it had four beds, freshly painted walls, and a mirror hung in such an out-of-the-way corner that no one could possibly see one’s reflection. That is one of the charming features of this Islamic nation. The orthodox Muslim abhors the use of photography, mirrors, or pictures of people.

‘Thou shalt not make graven images’ and ‘to capture a person’s image is to diminish their soul,’ appear in both tribal and Koranic strictures: I believe this is all part of focusing attention on ‘The Unseen One.’

My prayer is, “The Earth is my Mother. She permits me green pastures, surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life.”

The first evening in Kandahar was spent shopping for cookies, of all things. I’d been really good about not eating junk food, but now that the trek was dragging on, my willpower was at an all-time low.

The nearer we got to Kabul the more homesick I became. I was impatient to get to Kabul so that I could finalize my purchasing for this trip. So far I hadn’t bought enough to fill the orders I had arrived with. I had thought I would find enough goods between Istanbul and Kabul to justify the overland trek, but I’d found much attitude and little merchandise.

I could kick myself for all the time I spent in bazaar stalls sipping endless cups of chai as there was far too little to show for it. That’s the fault and feature of having one’s own business. The fault is that I’m responsible for the results. The feature is that I have no boss to give me hell.

One antique shop in Kandahar supplied me with a number of small stone fetishes, somewhat resembling the Venuses illustrated above. They looked ancient, but the seller insisted they were recent copies of museum displays.

The seller provided a document with the museum director’s statement naming the photographer and artisans involved. These were quite inexpensive and I would sell them with photocopies of the documentation.

Our stay in Kandahar was longer than expected. There were problems involving visas for those going directly to India. The red tape was daunting for everything involving government officials. Just to cash one traveler check at a bank required over an hour of waiting to see the proper person. By comparison, western banks are blazingly fast and efficient.

The day before leaving Kandahar, I came across some unusual artifacts and bought nine for $67, plus a pair of old leather shoes and some prayer beads made of serpentine were thrown in as a gift. The merchant was a delightful little old dwarf of a man. He took me to the little craft stalls where the prayer beads are made.

They were the same beads I had sold before going to Afghanistan on my own. Most surprising, a master craftsman invited me to take photos of the process. Since I had an old $20 Polaroid, in addition to my professional photo gear, I offered to provide the crafts people with pictures of themselves. This was chancy as I knew full well the attitude about photos.

People are full of surprises. The crafts people were enthusiastic about the photos. It was probably the first time they had had their picture taken. First I took some work photos of the young boys. They looked 9 or 10, but I was told they ranged from 15 to 18.

Using my high-speed 35-mm Lica, I machinegun filmed the process of little fingers and feet drilling little yellow serpentine beads. They sang as they worked the little bow drills. They posed for Polaroid pictures, and I gave them a dozen of these as gifts. The kids were overjoyed. The shop master said that never had the boys seen such kindness. Wish I had recorded their songs.

We had tears in our eyes at this exchange. I purchased 25 strands of the lovely, soft, yellow serpentine and sha-mak-sud prayer beads at $5 each. Later I learned that this was a good price since they were going for $10 to $15 in other bazaars. In future years such prayer beads would be nearly unobtainable at any price.

From left to right: golden serpentine, shah-mak-sud, Afhan amber, and black coral*

Later that day, I treated the old man to a delightful lunch at a nearby café that I let him pick. He said the one he chose was the best café in Kandahar. After a substantial lunch, the bill came to 75 afs, a little under $2 with tip. Like a typical American clod, I wanted to give more of a tip, but the old man would not allow it. He explained that it would embarrass him and the café staff.

He ordered the usual Afghan lunch of kabob, ahshok, pilaf and tea. The ahshok was unusual, sort of like an Afghan calzone with sesame, onions, leeks, ground lamb, peppers and whatever takes the cook’s fancy. These were pan fried in sesame oil and most delectable.

In his excellent English, he explained that his first work in Europe had been to support his sisters, brothers, and step mother. At age seventeen, he had worked in Paris as a café cleaner. It was located in an enclave of American and English writers and artists. There he learned English while learning French. He jotted down the words he heard during the day and studied his grammar at night.

The next morning I brought him, from the bus, the five books in Arabic that no one could read. It was early in the day and the bazaar was beginning to stir after morning prayers. The old man was copying passages from the Koran when I arrived. He said he did this to sharpen his mind for the day.

This was the only merchant who didn’t offer me hash to smoke as was the custom in most of Central Asia. Merchants treated hash as a social lubricant, much like alcohol in the West. Supposedly it takes the edge off hard bargaining and predisposes negotiators toward conciliation. For this reason, I drank their endless cups of chai and enmeshed myself with their families whenever the opportunity presented itself instead.

The last few days in Kandahar I was in high spirits due to the old merchant and the great purchases. I think the story of his life was as enriching as the items I bought from him.

Originally, I came to his leather stall because the Swedish clogs were hurting my feet. I traded the almost new clogs for a comfortable pair of leather sandals on display. Finding comfortable footwear was hard for me. The old man did not want my clogs.

There were many merchants that deal in old clothes, and most were pathetic lechers wanting more than a pair of clogs. The offers were unbelievable in Herät. I was glad to be out of that city. For five minutes of ‘laughing,’ as they put it, I could have a pair of the finest boots or anything else in the shop. The old man gave me the sandals as a gift, and that’s how we began our business friendship.

The further from Iran, the less I encountered these indignities. There were two ways of handling these offers: I could storm at these people and vent my spleen or just burst out laughing at the farce. I chose to treat these as the burlesques they really were. My impulse was always to laugh them down and move on. This approach salvaged both my self-respect and business prospects.

It was late October when we rolled into Kabul, Gateway to the Silk Road East. Kabul is the foot stool of the Himalayas, as they say. It is also the watering hole and staging point for thousands of years of assorted invaders and traveling merchants. Everyone from Cyrus the Great to Alexander, including Genghis Khan and Tamerlane, to mention a few, refreshed and relieved themselves in this general vicinity.

My first letter from Kabul was written while at a Buzkashi game. Buzkashi is the national sport of Afghanistan, and I use the word sport advisedly. My initial reaction to attending this orgy of mayhem was less than enthusiastic.

Buzkhazi is the ancestor of polo, some say. Instead of a ball, a calf or goat carcass is used. In place of mallets, riders use riding crops to fend off other horsemen. Riders attempt to grab the carcass off the ground and toss it into a central circle goal to score.

This is far more difficult than it sounds. Players spend most of their time trying to stop other riders from grabbing the carcass. If a rider is unfortunate enough to grab the carcass, he becomes the target of other riders. Come to think of it, buzkhazi is as much like polo as cricket is like baseball.

As long as a rider holds the carcass or attempts to grab it, other riders will pile into him with their horses and whip the rider with their crop until the rider lets go. This is injurious to the point of deadly for both horse and rider. Fortunately, women are not yet sufficiently emancipated to play Buzkashi.

The logic of Buzkashi involves endless pursuit and battering of horses and riders. While only one toss of the carcass into the central circle is required to win and end the game, scoring is so difficult that some Buzkashi meets can last an entire day or go on for days.

While an entire clan or tribe may play against others, there is less cooperation between kinsmen and more of a fierce rivalry to achieve a single score. The ridding crop is not used so much on the horse as it is to repel other riders.

My Afghan partner, Mike, insisted I witness ‘the real Afghanistan.’ I hope not, I said to myself as I reluctantly watched. Since I usually try to resist violence and the madness of crowds, I was reluctant to attend. But I let myself be talked into attending. My friend and valued business partner insisted. I should have known it would be revolting since this was one meeting Kit did not attend.

“It will be a once-in-a-lifetime experience,” Mike said. “Let’s make sure of that,” I said to myself. Some of the caravan people went with us to the stadium. We were seated in the European section for our own protection or so we were told. That did not sound good.

What looked even worse were the fierce Mongolian soldiers policing the crowds. I don’t believe one soldier was less than six feet. The giants in Soviet uniform were lent as a ‘friendly’ gesture to the Afghan people.

We had heard plenty of nasty things about Mongolian soldiers. With friends like these, enemies were not needed. Talk about gallows humor; their presence had not a single element of humor. I was petrified just looking at them and tried not to.

Mike showed his official credentials and was allowed to sit with me in the European section. With the exception of our group, the Afghans were roughly treated as they were pushed into the grandstands. The European section demarcation sounded to me like 19th Century British Colonialism.

Buzkashi (mercifully not a clear photo)*

Mike insisted that the segregation was necessary as the Afghan spectators were mostly related to the players and took an active and violent part in the Buzkashi meet. We could easily become victims of their enthusiasm, he insisted. I soon had reason to share his viewpoint.

A cousin of Mike’s spotted him and pushed toward us. The ‘friends’ of the Afghan people unslung their Kalashnikovs (rifles), and with the flat side violently pushed the cousin into the grandstands. My partner was quite upset and spoke with an officer. The officer angrily raised the palms of his hands, making it clear that my partner must not interfere.

I pulled Mike toward our seats, insisting that he stop arguing and that was the end of it. This demonstration of friendship really angered us. “They acted like we were rioters,” I said. Mike didn’t appear at all upset. Does anything ever upset him? what’s he on?, I wondered.

He replied, “The soldiers know what to expect. These games are a substitute for incessant tribal warfare. The opposing players are often bitter rivals for women or status. But I was assured there will be no violence today since both teams hail from two clans of the same tribe.” So much for assurances, I thought.

“I feel so much better knowing that,” I replied, with a touch of sarcasm. Mike laughed and explained the finer points of Bushkhazi. “The sport of polo is based on Bushkhazi, you know?” I added, “So I understand, but in their squeamish disrespect for tribal tradition, westerners use a ball in place of a carcass.”

Mike laughed, replying, “Lela, that’s your loss. Westerners lack respect for the finer old world traditions. Headless carcasses have replaced human heads, so you see we have made some concessions to modernity.” We were now both laughing as I said, “That’s a great relief, but I suggest that Afghans consider carefully before turning their back on tradition.”

As expected, both players and crowds became unruly. In their excitement, spectators left the stands and cheered their team on the field, along with TV and other media. It wasn’t unusual for players on horseback to pursue the game into the crowds, particularly when the spectators spilled onto the playing field.

Spectators often ran onto the field to grab horses and players, but not in a good way. I was told that it is a tradition for at least one rider to rush the spectators in reprisal.

As if on cue, that is exactly what happened. A horseman almost ran into the European area but was stopped by the fans on the field in front of our stand. The crowd cheered the rider wildly. The soldiers became furious, advancing in a phalanx on those spectators still on the field. Those not moving back to the stands fast enough were brutalized with rifle butts.

An hour later, a horse at full gallop dropped dead on top of the rider. The rider was leaning over to grab the goat carcass as the horse’s heart just gave out. Ambulances raced onto the playing field while the horsemen galloped around them. Again, spectators cheered wildly.

One ambulance crew was trampled as they loaded the injured player. There were as many casualties in the stands as on the fields when an out of control rider plowed into the crowd. After two hours of this mayhem, I had had enough. I told my group about my migraine and caught a cab back to the hotel.

The next morning, Mike explained what I had (thankfully) missed. He told me that before the game was over, at sunset, virtually every rider’s face showed gashes and bruises. Nearly half the players had to be carried off the field by ambulance crews. My friend insisted, for the umpteenth time that Buzkashi was a substantial improvement over the old inter-tribal warfare.

I explained that Native American Plains people have a similar release activity. They call it ‘counting-coup.’ Rivals attack each other as in a war party but use their war clubs merely to touch their enemy. No injury is involved except to one’s pride or status. If a rider touches an enemy without being touched, then he has counted coup and increased his tribal status. This practice is calculated to vent hostility without injury or death.

Mike had some trouble understanding the practice of counting coup so I explained the game of touch football, a favorite stress release for President Kennedy. The similarity to English football made sense to him, and so, I made my point.

18
REVOLUTION - SPRING, 1978

Compared to past mishaps, my flight into Kabul in April, 1978, hardly moistened my armpits. As usual, the flight from London was on ‘Scariana’ (Arianna) Airlines, the mom and pop airline of pre-revolutionary Afghanistan.

We didn’t know it at the time, but the revolution was fated to begin just as our plane landed at Kabul airport. As I later discovered, the airport, most of the planes, and the facilities were bombed about fifteen minutes after my taxi left the airport. The MIG’s used by the revolution did a thorough job, and it took over a week to make the airport usable again.

Just as I checked into my friend’s hotel, near the old bazaar, all hell broke loose. We could hear the airport being blown apart. In Kabul, the ground vibrated in muffled blasts toward the direction of the National Palace.

My first reaction was that a film was being made with Dolby sound. It was like the sense-around sound used in theaters when the film “Earthquake” was shown. It didn’t take long to realize that this was not a spectator sport.

From the hotel lobby, we could see smoke rising as near as the building across the boulevard. Soon, continuous crackling sounds and repeated thuds were heard. We knew what was happening. We were about to experience a confrontation with impending destruction.

For us, a real war had become a personal experience. The little band of merchant adventurers was about to age ten years in ten days. The first day of the revolution was hard to take seriously. I was sitting in the lobby writing letters during the first hours of the battle for Kabul.

I was a war correspondent writing on-the-spot bulletins in my aerograms back home. Hopefully, the letters and I would get home safely. The experience of those first few hours of the battle was both frightening and thrilling. To distract myself, I made lists of the items I planned to purchase on this trip.

Somehow, our middle class faith in business-as-usual remained intact, at least for the first few days. That first day was my wake-up-call, as the revolution passed through the hotel neighborhood without serious incident.

As the hotel owner rushed to bar the doors, I helped her. “What flag should we hang from the balcony?” I asked. “Damned if I know,” she replied.

As we ran around baring doors and draping windows, I reflected on the caravan mishaps over the last few years. How could I get so upset over nothing then, and now be so calm in the face of the exploding battle taking place just down the road?

We knew that the fun and games were over when at sundown the lights didn’t go on. Had the MIG’s knocked out the power station, the transmission lines, or had the power been shut down as a precaution? The dozen or so guests and staff spent the night in the basement.

MIG-17*

The next morning all was quiet except for some MIG’s and helicopters on their dawn patrol. We were cautioned by the block-militia not to bring any photo equipment when we traveled for the remainder of the week. Otherwise, it was safe to travel as long as we had all our papers with us. By midmorning, there were no more flights or fighting, just an eerie silence.

By early evening, the bazaar was open. The militia, with rapid deliberation, encouraged and helped the merchants open their shops and stalls. Shops and stalls remaining closed were forcibly opened by neighboring merchants. Militia women acted as proprietors until the owners returned.

My business partner Mike’s import shop was one of the first to open. His new wife minded the shop while Mike met me for breakfast at the hotel. Mike was now an important party official in the new revolutionary council.

He asked me to accompany him to those shops and stalls that resisted opening. “Lela, it will be much easier to persuade them to open if you tell them you are shopping today. The merchants have great respect for you,” he said. I agreed to accompany him to avoid forced openings. I told Mike, “I’ll help you, but I think they have more respect for my money than for me.”

Smiling as always, Mike told me, “Those foreigners who aid the revolution are considered friends of the Afghan people. Those who do not cooperate will be promptly expelled. Lela, you have proved repeatedly that you are a friend of the Afghan people. Now, more than ever, please continue your progressive actions.” I smiled back at Mike and agreed.

I thought to myself: The success of my business is largely the result of Mike’s contacts. I’m a progressive internationalist and support ‘the people’s revolution’ including this one. I’m a guest and have received the warm embrace of kinship from Mike’s people. Finally I reflected: there was no real choice as the option of refusal would likely put an end to my business.

As Paul said, “A revolution is like a marriage. Once the passion cools, we accept it and make it work, or not. For better or worse, we resist all challenges. If there are problems, and there will always be problems, we strive to resolve and fix the faults. For liberals, divorce is an easy option, but for progressives, the only divorce is from life.”

Pauls’ attitude about revolution was one we shared. I resolved to do whatever it took to aid our comrades.

A few days after the revolution succeeded, Mike took me on a walking tour of Kabul. Little damage was apparent. Virtually all venues, including the airport, were open for business. The revolutionary forces were intent on a quick victory with as little destruction as possible. Apparently they succeeded on both accounts, but for how long? That was the question.

The guardians of the old order fled into Iran, Pakistan and India.

[NOTE: Within a few years they would return, first as Mujahideen, and later as Taliban.]

The population seemed well prepared for this revolution. Oil lamps and candles appeared as if on cue. Charcoal heated brass samovars were brought out of storage and brightly polished. By the time this stuff appeared in the bazaar stalls, the electricity was fully restored. By the end of the week, Kabul was back to normal, at least normal for Kabul.

During the first few days of the revolution, we had a great campout in the well protected stone mausoleum of the hotel lobby. Mike and the militia were keen on restoring normalcy and we foreign guests soon learned what was expected of us: it was to return to our various endeavors as soon as possible— normalcy was the order of the day.

It must have been about five in the morning of the third day when we heard a tremendous whooshing sound. It was like a vacuum cleaner in my ears. The relative quiet of the last two days had not prepared us for this new intrusion of our senses.

Following the whooshing, we experienced a nerve-shattering scraping sound, with stone and plaster crashing down all around us. Finally, an earsplitting boom and bursting sound was heard just outside the hotel entrance. Miraculously, other than a few cuts, no one was seriously hurt.

As we learned from Mike, the MIG was on a training flight when flying geese were sucked into the intake jet. The pilots ejected safely as the MIG was on course for a deserted airport landing strip. For some reason the MIG crashed into a deserted warehouse that was slated for demolition. Before demolishing the warehouse, the MIG bounced off the hotel roof.

We were ensconced in the basement for an hour after the noise ended. By the next morning military trucks arrived with cherry-pickers, scaffolding and stone workers. Within a day, they had the roof and stone lattice work restored to its former glory, and that was the last near miss for this trip.

By early evening, the hotel manager provided supper for us. Mike explained to the group that tomorrow there would be a celebration in Kabul to mark the success of the revolution. In less than a week, the revolution, or coup d’état, was over. I was exhausted. The Evening Call to Prayer sounded for the first time in almost a week. It was my call to sweet, thankful sleep.

I must have slept for twelve hours. When I awoke to the first call to Morning Prayer, the sun was just peaking over the horizon. A half hour later, music was blaring from loudspeakers outside the hotel. As I was dressing, I heard a great deal of shouting from the street.

The sounds of celebration, mostly western rock music, could be heard even with the shower running. I dressed and went down to the lobby. The hotel staff was jubilant. They were shouting, “The revolution is won; death to Daoud and his tribe of pigs.”

As in many Middle East nations, one tribe dominates the others. Those who oppose are not tolerated. This was the case in Afghanistan. Political parties were usually along tribal lines. As far as we could see, the whole city was in motion. The entire nation was celebrating, except for Daoud’s tribe. Soldiers, merchants and everyone was milling about, singing, dancing, shouting and hugging each other.

A dozen huge Soviet tanks decked with garlands of flowers were parked all over the main boulevard. Ecstatically happy young people, as many women as men, were putting flowers in all the gun barrels they could find while the soldiers smiled and laughed. They were pelted with so many blooms that they seemed buried in flowers.

One old man in tears of joy climbed with some help onto a tank. With great care, he tried to insert a large flower bouquet onto the cannon muzzle while the crowd cheered. The cannon was lowered as the old man was held high so he could place the bouquet. Once this gesture was completed, everyone applauded him.

This happy state of affairs continued for days during which I did business with the merchants as usual. I dealt with the merchants I knew from previous trips. Mostly, I was reordering items that sold well. Also, I was able to arrange for air shipments via cable orders from the States. My merchant friends were extremely generous in the sales terms they gave me.

I believe Mike, a high government official now, made some arrangements with my merchant friends. They treated me as a beloved friend of Afghanistan. Often I was referred to as the ‘Afghan Queen of Merchants.’

Everyone seemed overjoyed that the Daoud regime was gone. One merchant told me that, “He stole too much from the people, everyone takes a little and that’s how business gets done, but he took the bread from our mouths.” This seemed to be the consensus.

Business was back to normal; actually it was better than normal. We did not expect to see this business climate again. I was delighted and sent a wire to Paul as soon as I could. He was more than worried. Knowing him, he would be anxious to an extreme, and I wanted to relieve his anxiety as rapidly as possible.

By week’s end, the new government opened Daoud’s palace to the people. Previously, no one had been able to get within a half mile of the palace perimeter. Now, for the first time, thousands of people were admitted to the palace. Hundreds of journalists were taken on separate tours by the militia.

I too stood on line talking to merchants, students, and travelers. We were all in a giddy holiday frame of mind. I had caught the victory fever as well as the others.

Daoud’s brief dalliance with the West had cost him his life. Afghanistan was once again aligned with her primary trading partner, the Soviet Union. The Kalq party had won the day.

The impressive, no nonsense Soviet-style uniforms of the soldiers were a welcome sight to leftists such as me. After hours of partying on the palace waiting-line with dozens of friends and merchants, we were finally taken through the palace.

The display of palace opulence had our eyes popping out of our heads. It was like some luxurious Hollywood set except that it was all genuine. Antique oriental rugs were so huge that they seemed like wall-to-wall carpeting. The carpet pile was so thick that we would be forced to remove our shoes, if it had not already been requested. It was like walking on a cloud.

Walls were inlaid with lapis and malachite in the same way we might use wall paper. Gold and silver wall fixtures dazzled the eye. The main entrance chandelier was bigger than my living room, sparkling with gold and crystal pendants.

More incredible than the palace were the reactions of the Afghans. Tribal people, ragged street vendors, soldiers, students, merchants in caftans, women covered from head to toe in chadors, old hajjis in turbans caressing prayer beads, and many Westerners, all had that glazed look of astonishment that comes from a once-in-a-lifetime glimpse of the incredible.

Kings Palace outside of Kabul BEFORE it was looted and gutted*

One old Turcoman in full tribal dress was bug-eyed staring at the central chandelier. He stood rooted to the spot with his head tilted back. He clutched a small boy in each hand. The impatient boys pulled him forward. He laughed as he let the boys lead him to another room of treasures.

A soldier and my friend Kit tried to help the old hajji who looked like he was about to topple over. I was more interested in the old man than the glittering chandelier. The boys led him away, more gently. We all watched as the boys in Beatles T-shirts, jeans, and sneakers, tried to coax the old man out of his trance.

Kit said, “All these glittering prizes were taken out of the backs of the Afghan people. While this place should be a People’s Museum or Palace of the Revolution, the new revolutionary council will allow the people to loot and gut the palace. You’ll see.”

A year later, I saw what remained of the palace and cried. The wrecked palace was cordoned off with razor wire, but there didn’t seem to be anything left to loot. Knowing the people, however, I realized they would dismantle the remains, carrying it off, stone by stone to sell in the marketplace.

Kings Palace outside of Kabul AFTER it was looted and gutted*

Some of the soldier guides tried to explain that all this wealth was stolen from the Afghan people. That was true, I thought; it belonged to the people. It was their heritage, their wealth. As one guide explained, “Look around you. This is the food that Daoud’s tribe took from your children’s mouths.”

A few old men were openly crying while they exited the palace. A woman from Nuristan sat outside the palace wailing at the top of her lungs while relatives tried to console her. One of my merchant friends told me that she kept repeating that her sons had died for this wealth.

Little did I realize, three years earlier, that my petty traveling inconveniences would be a source of embarrassment compared to the April days of the revolution. These thoughts ran through my mind constantly.

19
CARAVAN THROUGH TURKEY - SPRING, 1978

Traveling back and forth to Afghanistan with the caravan, I continually ran into many of the people who sat with me during those campfire talks. Most were on their semiannual pilgrimage to their ashram near Delhi.

We all got along splendidly. Michel and Monica were Swiss, as was Doris. Philip was the lone Englishman, in our little bus group and the only person with whom I could talk easily. Everyone else spoke German which was something of a chore for me. They spoke some English but were no more comfortable with English than I was with German.

As we traveled, my German improved considerably, but never enough for relaxed conversation. It was like my Pashtu language skills, adequate for trading with merchants, but conversationally limited.

The driving schedule was taking a lot out of us. We drove from sun-up until midnight. While there were four of us taking two-hour driving shifts, it was still exhausting, snacking all day, with only pit stops every two hours. Midnight meals gave many of us fitful sleep.

I was losing weight from this daily routine, and the weight loss delighted me. My jeans kept falling off, until Philip, gave me a pair of his suspenders. I hoped to be able to buy some jeans with elastic waistbands, if I could find them. Eventually, my Afghan suppliers would make some jeans with elastic waist bands.

In Greece, we learned that many foods in Yugoslavia were rationed or hard to get. We were accustomed to buying fresh food along the road, but in the Balkans, we would have to settle for meager rations. Milk was rationed and cheese was of poor quality, when we could find it.

There were plenty of overpriced imported foods, but we were unable to barter for these and did not have enough money.

[NOTE: The Cold War and Soviet power would be in effect until 1990.]

We pooled our funds and stocked up on food in Thessalonica. Here food was plentiful. We stocked up on canned foods, yogurt, cheese, olives, fruit and wine. Jarred fish-roe spread, teramosalata, was a great favorite, especially on fresh crusty bread. Also, we had laid in a good supply of superb Turkish coffee before crossing the Bosporus.

Teramosalata is easily made using any salted fish roe. The fish roe is mixed with bread crumbs mashed potatoes or rice. Paul makes it at home with brown rice and unflavored yogurt. Lemon juice, balsamic vinegar and extra virgin olive oil are added. Sometimes, chopped black olives, fresh fennel, and cilantro are also added. The mix is a matter of taste.

I dragged a small plug-in battery-operated radio along and we were able to sample some local music. Hard rock, heavy metal was the common denominator music throughout Europe at the time, which served to lift our mood. Also, the bus had a collection of acid rock and anti-Vietnam rock. Usually I acted as disk-jockey.

The bus had a fair library of tape cassettes, some of which I contributed, such as: Ike and Tina Turner, Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Grateful Dead, Dylan, Janis Joplin, Chicago, Who’s Tommy and Jeff Starship. Mozart’s Magic Flute was the most popular of all the classical tapes, along with Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony and Stravinsky’s Alexander Nevsky Cantata.

Before crossing into Greece, we spent a week in Istanbul to repair the caravan and especially the bus. Most of us had business of various sorts in Istanbul. I found a number of tribal art merchants; one in particular specialized in tribal dance and musical instruments.

This merchant displayed a variety of instruments and played many for me. I purchased a dozen different instruments. These she packed in special, burlap-wrapped Styrofoam crates with official export permits and shipping addresses sewn on the burlap. The crates were picked up by airline messenger while I was at the shop, and these arrived in New Jersey before I did.

I was curious to know how she learned to play all these instruments. She showed me pictures of her folk dance group. Some she had made into postcards. She was of Turcoman background. My favorite photo is of her taken 25 years earlier. In this photo she is a teenager singing in a family folk group.

Turcoman Singer-Drummer

During our week in Istanbul, we did all we could to prepare our caravan for the hard trek to Thessalonica, Belgrade, and then to Zagreb, Croatia. While still in Zurich, the bus had acquired new tires, and the old had been kept as spares. A new rock-proof windshield and heat-resistant Kevlar coated exhaust system was installed, along with new and improved shock absorbers.

We worked out a system to change flats in under 30-minutes. Axles were reinforced with special bracing and spare axles were on board. The bus was like an old woman, full of strange noise and creaking, but still tough as nails. As a driver and mechanic, I’d become quite fond of old-lady-bus.

At some major cities, I had business contacts. Mainly, these were state museums. I did museum business in Istanbul, Athens, Thessalonica, Belgrade, Zagreb, as well as cities in Switzerland, and Germany. For the last two years I maintained a loose-leaf sales catalog with removable photos of my updated selection of tribal offerings.

With this versatile catalog, I could provide photocopies of the items that interested my clients. Also, I mailed printed catalogs to key prospects. For reasons I could not fathom, there was no business for me in France or Italy; however, I was completely selling out my acquisitions between buyers in Switzerland, Germany, and the States.

A business associate in New York, married to a French diplomat, explained that museum-related purchasing in France was controlled by government cultural departments. Paul and I had dinner with the couple one night, and the husband explained that the French government was “ballistic” about preserving French culture. All cultural purchases were restricted to government buyers.

Paul asked if he knew anything about museum purchasing in Italy. He replied, “Ah, Italy, I can tell you a little something on that subject. In Italy, I’m not aware of any formal government purchasing policy, but there is a firmly established unofficial buying network.

“As museum and government officials are not well paid in Italy, they must be ‘back door agents.’ That is the term they use. By means of family networks, officials have museum buying fully controlled, including the gift shops. Sicily is semi-autonomous, but I’m sure you can guess who controls all business there.”

Musical Folk Instruments became major collector items

My first day in Istanbul and my first stop was the general post office. Some letters from home had finally caught up to me. That first morning I left the post office with three aerograms from Paul. I was ecstatic. They were three of the best, funniest letters I’d ever received.

We then went shopping in a huge covered Turkish bazaar. There were merchants in shops and stalls from all over the world. The signs contained flags of the various nations represented. Finding my contacts was not as simple as I hoped.

The Copal amber merchant I dealt with so profitably in the past was gone. Copal amber was now $20 a necklace, untouchable at that price. Copal is a cloudy type of amber; far less valuable but popular all the same.

At the bazaar, I tried to find other contacts that Mike had given in Kabul. He said that the Istanbul bazaar was the grandest in the world. I asked around, but had no luck. The bazaar was like a city, divided into avenues and streets. It was much bigger than I imagined. There were even merchants selling tribal art from Polynesia and New Guinea.

After we got new visa photos and took care of some womanly shopping, we returned to the campsite. I had a chance to spend the night in the Unimark. This vehicle had joined our caravan in Milan. It was a house on wheels, with a shower, sink, stove, and even a sofa. The shower was most prized, since few campsites permitted a hook up to their water system.

Since leaving the Balkans, we campers had had only two shower opportunities. By the time we reached the outstanding Istanbul campsite, we were all fairly ripe. One of the first things on our minds was a shower. We queued up for the co-ed showers. There were six separated shower stalls, so the decontamination process was fairly rapid.

It was hot and humid when we reached Istanbul. The old stone public buildings, museums, churches and mosques provided cool, meditative relief. Everyone’s favorite point of spiritual renewal was the Topkapi Museum.

Topkapi is one of the great human accomplishments. Early in the Christian era, Topkapi was the site of the Saint Sofia church complex. With the Islamic conquests, Topkapi became the most magnificent mosque in the world. Since the success of the Turkish revolution in 1910, Turkey has remained an officially secular republic with Topkapi as the jewel in the crown of the new Turkish republic.

Topkapi Palace Museum Seraglio Point overlooking Marmara and Bosporus*

Topkapi displays the treasures of the old sultans. While the Topkapi jewelry is nothing less than spectacular, it is widely copied throughout the world, especially in the Turkish bazaars. Many of the jewelry stalls feature not-so-cheap imitations of the Topkapi treasures, all of the same uniformly miserable quality.

Near our campsite was an old mosque where, on certain nights, an old mullah performed beautiful light shows while telling the story of the mosque and that particular Muslim sect. Originally the mosque was the center of a Dervish sect. The dervishes were all but outlawed by the current Turkish government. While the mullah told his story in Turkish, the light show was so beautiful and his voice so full of emotion, that I hung on every word. I recall the goose bumps I felt.

Most of the narrative was a cry, and he was shedding copious tears while he spoke. I was so moved by his story that I went to talk to him after his presentation. On my mother’s side, her family name was originally Osman-Ataturk, so I knew a little of the language. I recognized some of the old mullah’s words but not enough to understand his story.

The old mullah apologized for not telling the story in English, but promised to do so if I returned the next night. We brought the entire caravan the next night.

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.

[NOTE: While Sufi religious practice is forbidden, Dervish dancing is permitted for the entertainment of tourists. Dervish means one who opens the door to heaven.]

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.

[NOTE: Greece has gone to the International Court with their suit against British and French governments and museums. Britain has a larger collection of ancient Greek marble statuary than Greece. Greece claims it was pilfered by British government officials since the 1800’s.]

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.

20
DEMONIAC - FALL, 1978

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:

Elizabeth Gould Davis aimed to show that early human society consisted of matriarchal queendoms worshiping the “Great Goddess” and characterized by pacifism and democracy. She argued that the early matriarchal societies attained a high level of civilization, which was largely wiped out as a result of the “patriarchal revolution.” She asserted that patriarchy introduced a new system of society, based on property rights rather than human rights, and worshipping a stern and vengeful male deity instead of the caring and nurturing Mother Goddess.*

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.

[NOTE: In academic circles ‘natives’ are referred to as First Nation People.]

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:

The ages of masculism are now drawing to a close. Their dying days are lit up by a final flare of universal violence and despair such as the world has seldom before seen. Men of good will turn in every direction seeking cures for their perishing society, but to no avail. Any and all social reforms super-imposed upon our sick civilization can be no more effective than a bandage on a gaping and putrefying wound. Only the complete and total demolition of the social body will cure the fatal sickness. Only the overthrow of the three-thousand-yearold beast of masculist materialism will save the race.

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.

21
DIGS - FALL, 1978

We were on the road again after a long and badly needed rest. This time we continued along the southern coast of Turkey to Erdem, near the Syrian border. The days continued sunny with golden sunlight warming us.

Dharma said everyone looked to me for comfort and sustenance. Satya called me Earth Mother but I asked her to please drop it. “It’s embarrassing and patronizing,” I insisted. “Please call me Lela.”

The Earth Mother designation was the result of the dinner I cooked last night based on the random supplies we’d been able to purchase along the road. These included eggplant, tomatoes, onions, and green beans. Each time I cooked these, the meal came out differently. We had ample supplies of yogurt, garlic, herbs, lemon and spices, and these made the crucial difference.

It was a beautiful Sunday and I had successfully passed through the danger zone. I thought of it in this way as it was the same small Turkish town where I had fallen for a dark eyed Turk six months earlier. When our bus rolled into town, I got excited and felt a thrill as we passed the little restaurant where I first met him.

The restaurant overlooked the Mediterranean. From where we had sat, six months earlier, I could see the ferry to Cyprus. We parked at the outdoor tables for an hour, talking to waiters and staff who might remember us. I tried, as subtly as I could, to find where my Turk was, but no luck or good luck, depending on one’s viewpoint. An old waiter thought he had gone out with a petroleum survey team from the university.

It was better this way. As it was, I had a full plate with no room for another ‘friend’ in my life. My memories of this place and of my beautiful Turk brought me to a fevered pitch. But after an hour of siting around, I knew I wouldn’t see him. While I was excited, I was also relieved. My life was complicated enough.

I thought about the play by Berthold Brecht, The Caucasian Chalk Circle. It’s the story of two women fighting over a child. In the Biblical story, the women appeal to Solomon for judgment. Brecht’s drama takes place in the Caucuses and is modeled on an old Chinese tale. A chalk circle is drawn. The child is placed in the middle. The women are on opposite sides outside the circle but they can reach the child.

The judge tells them that whoever pulls the child outside the circle will be declared the fit and proper mother. Both women grab an arm and begin a fierce tug-of-war, with the child as the rope. The contest is painful for the child, and she begins to cry. At this point, one of the women releases her hold on the child, much to the satisfaction of the other woman, who pulls the child out of the circle.

The judge asks the woman why she released her hold on the child. The woman replies that rather than harm the child, she preferred to let go. The judge then declares the woman who released the child as the fit and proper mother. “The woman who cares the most will not allow a child to come to harm,” declares the judge.

The moral of the story is that sometimes the kindest thing to do is to let go. This is what I did with my beautiful Turk. I unloaded him from my emotional burden.

TURK STORY:

He was a geology professor at the local university, on vacation when we first met. We had all been scrounging around an old rock outcropping near the ferry landing where there were some old stone ruins.

Ruins near the site of Troy, Turkey

The site was not well known except for a few archaeologists and geologists. We had discovered it during out first trip. One of our vehicles broke down along a lovely deserted cliff-side back road. The day was sunny and mild, so we were in no hurry to move on.

Usually anything more than a flat would eat up most of a day. That breakdown involved a clogged fuel line, and, considering the filthy fuel stations we had to rely on, it was a wonder that it was the only time we had to clean the fuel line.

On a Mercedes bus it was a long tedious job to dismantle the diesel engine to the point where the fuel line and filter could be reamed clean or replaced. The large storage area under the bus had a separate tools and parts section that was well stocked.

We worked as teams of two, spending about two hours dismantling to gain fuel line access. Dharma had a detailed repair ring binder keyed to the various parts and problems. Each step was numbered with accompanying illustration, simplifying most repairs.

Once the fuel line was cleaned, the second team back tracked using the manual to reassemble the fuel line. Versant and I walked away as soon as the second team with Dharma began the reassembly. Dharma was easily frustrated, and I was determined that we were not going to be called back after working on the engine for two hours.

A half mile from the caravan, along a little-used dirt road, we discovered an easy rising rocky slope that trailed away from the road toward the sea. The dense brush hid the path to the sea. We found a path in the shoulder-high brush that led to a large stony beach bordering the Aegean Sea.

Site of Ancient Troy on the Aegean Sea*

Walking beyond the brush, we noticed piles of stone and debris as far as we could see along the shore. The caravan and the archaeological site of Troy were off the E-87 Road in eastern Turkey. As we approached, the Aegean Sea was visible. In front of us, some of the area of grass-covered earth was cleared and marked off in neat cordoned squares.

Working the digs was a group of a dozen people. One of the diggers approached us. He was in charge of the digs. He showed us around, explaining that this site was but a small portion of the Trojan seaport. Troy encompasses many square miles along the western shore. They were not sure exactly how extensive was the original site of Troy.

[This particular site was likely a minor port facility. Troy has been explored since the 1860’s and only a small portion has been unearthed. There were, in fact, nine cities built on top of each other. The earliest is dated about 5,000 years ago and was the Hittite city of Wilusa. The political-economic importance 3,300 years ago put Troy in a position to control merchant shipping through the Dardanelles and the Black Sea.]

As the digs manager showed us the site, he noted that there was little to see. The site had only recently been funded, and dig plans were in the first phase of mapping the site, as we could see. He offered us some coffee and conversation. His tone of voice was friendly but serious.

“We’re trying desperately not to publicize these digs. The last thing we need are troops of people stomping through this site. If the public comes streaming in before we get funds to secure this site, then much will be lost. We will probably put up radiation danger signs in the meantime.”

He explained slowly with great care and emotion that this site might be older than Troy. It was possibly older than Hacilar or Çatal Hüyük in Central Anatolia. This might be a settlement over 10,000 years old, he explained. “That’s why I’m begging you to say nothing about this to anyone.”

The site archaeologist, I’ll call him Jim, was extremely attractive. Jim spoke with us in a sincere and charming manner about the difficulty getting funded, the hassle with local officials and payment for an antiquities observer to be on the site during the digs. All these preparations had stressed him greatly.

As Jim spoke, we campers nodded compliantly like school girls called before the principal. I assured Jim that we would comply with his request, but we wanted to know more about these digs. He would be working with his students the remainder of the afternoon but would be delighted to join us for supper at six by the ferry dock café. We agreed, delighted with our secret and returned to the campsite.

We were only gone a short time but Dharma was already cursing. Before we left the bus, the fuel line was carefully reamed out with a long wire brush and rinsed with kerosene. It was amazing the amount of crap we removed from the fuel line and filters. We saved it in a bucket to show Dharma. She thought all the dirt was in the diesel fuel we bought.

The four of us had the diesel engine reassembled by three in the afternoon. This was the most difficult repair job so far. I’d been involved in all the bus repairs except for the rear assembly. While Versant loved to tinker with machinery, Dharma and I did not. Beautiful Versant now looked like the Venus of the grease pits.

Before she cleaned herself, I insisted on a few photos. After the four of us showered the grease off we drove the bus into town and settled in at a grander campgrounds near the ferry landing and the café where Jim would meet us. We let the other caravan people know where to join us.

I explored a number of shops near the ferry and café. Many were junky tourist shops pushing the Trojan horse theme to a sickening extent. A few boutiques were designed for tourists. The most exotic items were made in American Samoa. What a disappointment, I thought. I should stick to the bazaars from now on and not waste time in tourist traps.

It was almost six. As the repair crew strolled over to the café, I could see Jim heading in the same direction. Over supper Jim explained that we had walked into a promising but untested site. I asked what led his team to this site. He said they had spent three years at a site a mile north. The most interesting artifact was a stone road leading to this new site.

Jim mentioned that a few of the stone ruins had been excavated with nothing of great significance revealed to date. Apparently, they were working at the edge of a large public market. A few stone buildings were found with carvings of bull horns.

The structures were simple, clean-lined boxes, or perhaps market stalls. The few artifacts found consisted mostly of crude bull horns and female figures in stone relief. Jim thought the stone reliefs appeared intentionally crude or abstract as they might have been displayed on market signs.

A few female figures showed pregnant abdomens, without head or limbs. Perhaps these were fertility symbols advertising fertility charms. Jim noted, “Where some of my associates saw bull horns ending in a narrow bull mouth at the bottom of a “Y,” I saw the uterine horns ending in a vagina, but that’s just me. We often see what we want to see.”

Versant mentioned that we had visited the museum site of Çatal Hüyük, on a previous trip. Jim said, “Please do not compare this site with Çatal Hüyük. This site may be a little earlier since coastal areas are usually settled first. Carbon dating of fish bones at about 20,000 years means little. Coast-lines change repeatedly, and this area may have been under water or further inland many times.

The fish may have died a natural death. There’s no indication that people were involved. So there you have it; hardly worth talking about. But we record everything we find. We may add speculative notes but do not guess. In context with other finds, a picture may emerge.

“A university specialist thinks it may be a sturgeon bone. While sturgeon have been around for millions of years and are extremely old, they are bottom feeders and quite hardy. Even now, sturgeon is fished in and around the Bosporus. They even do well in pollution. Sturgeon has a distinctively prehistoric archaic look.

“A single sturgeon bone tells us little, except that the fish have been in this region a long time, and we already knew this.”

Sturgeon (Acipenser brevirostrum)*

Once in a while I buy some sliced smoked sturgeon. At home I have bought quarter pounds for serving to special guests. It is an appetizer served with smoked salmon, lemon wedges and cheeses. Sturgeon is the most delicious of any fish or meat, in my opinion.

Sturgeon is purchased in the thinnest possible slices, always sliced by hand. A special blade is used and the cutter must have the skill of a surgeon. I have never seen anyone eat more than half a slice, served with thinly sliced black bread, pumpernickel or Bauernbrot (farmer’s bread). The memory is even more remarkable when followed by thimble-sized slugs of Aquavit.

I have been served authentic caviar only twice by Afghan tribal chiefs intent on impressing me, and they succeeded. Never have I or my husband been accused of gourmet taste. We both prefer fish and salads. And, as far as cheese, wine, and special deserts go, we are partial to those. But, I digress.

Paul assures me there is no such thing as digression in a book. So why do people go bonkers over sturgeon, lox (smoked salmon, not liquid oxygen) and real caviar? Paul and I had talked about this repeatedly. Could it be that these sea foods contain large amounts of monosodium glutamate, MSG and that this is the stuff that made Chinese food taste so great? Paul’s background in biochemistry had taught me a few things.

[NOTE: Some fish are natural sources of MSG. The premier source of natural MSG is truffles, the fungus that pigs root out at the base of certain oak trees. MSG is a natural nerve cell enhancer. If you are a thinker you may seek out MSG. I don’t want to get started on MSG. I already have a full plate.]

Back to Jim, he considered the likelihood that they were staking out a garbage dump. Jim added, “A garbage dump would be perfect. Most archaeologists prefer garbage dumps. At other sites we first look for large mounds. Often these consist of broken pottery, waste from carvings, and wall reliefs, mixed in with food, animal excretions (coprolites), and wall plaster.”

Jim explained that work on this site was less than six months old. Most of that time had been spent mapping and obtaining official permits. He said, “We started lightly raking and brushing the surface a few days ago. We note the usual coastal detritus like the fish bone, but all the soil contents is bagged, labeled and sent to the University labs for further study. We may do this for the first foot, depending on what we find.”

Jim continued his commentary over baklava and Turkish coffee. I thought to myself: ‘With all this Turkish coffee mud, I’ll never get to sleep, but, what the hell, this is fascinating.’

“The smallest particle of dust might be a coprolite, providing insight into diet and nutrition. By examining petrified animal waste we begin to form a picture of what life was like in this region at a particular time. Garbage does not seem exciting, but consider that everything people produce and consume eventually winds up in a garbage dump.

“What you call crap I see as brown gold. What people throw away may reveal more of their nature than what they preserve. People may preserve and venerate illusions, but invariably it is reality that they discard and bury. So, your crap is my reality. The human spirit may be etched in stone and illuminated in sunlight, but the human core is buried in darkness, in garbage.

“The great thing about garbage dumps is that they don’t attract looters, just archaeologists. Think about it. The pyramids tell us little compared with the garbage dumps of those who built them. From the garbage we know that most of the pyramid workers were free workers, paid daily in grain or produce which they traded at local markets for other provisions.

“Pyramid workers were organized into guilds of stone cutters, stone trimmers, carters, water bearers, and others. They worked in two hour shifts, resting twenty minutes before the next shift. Most of the heavy work was carried out between dusk and dawn. They lived with their families in towns surrounding the pyramids.

“As the population and granaries grew, so did the pyramids. Garbage dumps suggest that the pyramids were a Works Progress Administration (WPA) project, designed more to support the living than the dead.”

At that point I had to put a stop to him. The more he talked about garbage, the more excited he got. His face reddened and beads of sweat ran down his face. Versant tried to give him some cold water to drink, but he waved her aside. She poured water on some towels and wiped his face. This he did not object to. Finally, she put her hand over his mouth.

There was no stopping Jim. We thought he was going to have a stroke, but maybe it was all those hours in the sun at the digs. We finally got him to sit back and drink some water. I told him that I had something to say on the subject of garbage that he would appreciate. Jim nodded slowly, and I began.

“I’ve lived in the New York-New Jersey metropolitan area all my life. New York City is separated from the New Jersey Meadowlands, a large wet-land bordering the Hudson River. On both sides of the river there are thousands of eateries, food markets and millions of people wasting more than they eat.

“For over 100 years, millions of pigs were raised in the Meadowlands. Pigs fed on the raw garbage dumped there from New York and New Jersey. So much garbage and pig waste accumulated in the Meadowlands that dozens of fires, geysers of flaming gas constantly burned, fueled by the methane emitted from the fermenting organic waste of decades.

“The Meadowlands was no small place. It was a tidal wetland delta the size of Manhattan. River estuaries and creeks provided a web of waterways through tall marsh grass, garbage dumps and pig farms. These waterways formed more avenues, streets, and alleys than there were in Manhattan.

“By the early 1900s, the Meadowlands became the largest insect and disease infestation in America. It was, however, a bird lover’s paradise or hell, depending on one’s viewpoint. Not only did the Hudson River separate New York from New Jersey, but a dark cloud of birds and the near-toxic odor of rotten eggs (hydrogen sulfide) marked this pestilential area.

“As strange as it may seem, some people actually lived in the midst of the Meadowlands, and not all of them were pig growers. Writings about the Meadowlands deal with human and nonhuman wildlife.”

By this time, Jim seemed in full control of himself. We were all relaxed now. I realized that while Jim sparked my interest in garbage, I was becoming more interested in him for other reasons. Jim said he thought that the Meadowlands would make a wonderful dig, in a thousand years.

Meadow Lands, south-west view, Archeological Site in 1,000 years?*

I explained that in the late 1950s, health, environment, and NJ Turnpike authorities began a massive effort to ‘remediate’ the Meadowlands. Many of my relatives lived near the Meadowlands and I spent a great deal of time with them so I witnessed the changes.

The first change was that all food waste had to pass through state sterilizers before dumping into authorized Meadowlands dump sites. This ended the Meadowlands pig industry. It was low cost food waste that underwrote pig production. The economic advantage was gone. In the late 1950s, an epidemic wiped out the pigs, and the pig farmers were out of business.

As the Meadowlands was cleaned up, the dumps were gradually closed, wildlife preserves were established; an extensive park was maintained; and a huge sports complex was built, with shopping centers, hotels, housing, light industry, roads, and parking areas all invading the Meadowlands.

Major trucking, warehousing, and transportation hubs were built and extended around the Meadowlands. I told Jim that I was only scratching the surface in talking about this. In spite of news coverage, I had only a superficial idea of the extent of changes taking place.

I explained that we lived only ten miles from the Meadowlands and often went to the cinemas and restaurants that replaced the pig farms. The point I was trying to make was that in 1,000 years, the Meadowlands would resemble most other archaeological sites.

I asked Jim what kind of garbage he found. He said it would be easier to explain if we could first play a little game.

“Let’s look at our plates first and notice what’s left: bits of lamb gristle, fish bones, chunks of fat, fish heads, skin, rice grains, bread crumbs, and seeds. In some countries these wastes would be fed to beggars or animals. But in more prosperous regions, these wastes would be thrown out along with broken plates, glass, ruined cloth, and paper, along with all the other café discards.

“That’s our initial analysis. Proper procedure suggests that we photograph the table and list all the stuff on it, before bagging the individual items. We would also measure the items and the relative position of each to the other. It’s slow tedious work. Without graduate students and volunteers it would be impossible.

“What we saw in other digs and on our plates were that those discovered bits read like a diary of daily life. These tell us more about daily life than scrolls, tablets, or stones. Consider that the wastes on our plates do not lie or distort reality. Getting back to the coprolites, or fossilized excrement, fecal waste can preserve the story of daily life in societies thousands of years-old.

“So, what we’ve deciphered of this Trojan civilization may not be so mysterious after all. Packeted waste tells us this was a prosperous society, if only because fragments of sesame, wheat, and rice seeds were found in close proximity.

“We must be cautious in our analysis since, contrary to instinct, fine lighter particles such as sand, seed, and pollen sink, while larger heavier items, such as rocks and shells rise. I know that is counter-intuitive but it’s true. By proximity, I refer to strata where charred remains of fish bones, pottery, and pine cones are found at the same level close together.

“These may provide detectable radioactive carbon isotopes that can be dated back 30,000 years. Since everything decays, even atoms, radioactivity is the form energy takes as carbon atoms are transformed into high energy radioactivity. Similar dates from other research centers confirm the site of Troy to be at least 10,000 years old and probably older.”

This explanation I did not follow too well, so I asked that he explain further. In fact, the more he talked, the more I became sexually aroused. Was I anticipating a sexual fling, I wondered?

“Much of our carbon dating is based on the coprolites we discovered, most of which we think is human. First, our labs gave us a reading of about 8,000 years. To verify, we sent samples to other labs in Europe and the U.S.

“Physical Archaeologists in California worked out a dating standard based on a type of yew tree that lives for thousands of years. One specimen tree was found to exceed 8,000 years of age. They bored out a small core of wood, and, with electronic optical devices, counted over 8,000 tightly packed tree rings.

“A sample of the tree core is then carbon dated, and the reading was compared to that of our coprolite sample. In this case, the test data indicated that our coprolites were 30% older.”

By the time the discussion got around to the bristle cone pines, my two companions had walked back to the caravan. Jim and I were now alone, sitting at an outside café table. Early in the day, I had had the foresight of renting a room with a bath above the café. I was dying for a long soaking bath after working on the bus engine. I felt as if the grease had soaked into my blood.

The bath would be the right size for both of us. Our talk, the supper, wine, and hot bath provided ample stimulation for other explorations. I’m sure his penetration of stone and earth was not nearly as thorough or deep as the probing that night.

We explored the same site repeatedly, in different ways, over and over again, from different points of entry, all through the night. Passing the café again, that magical night was as vivid in my mind as it was six months before.

As we previously agreed, Paul and I described the details of our love affairs when I got back to the States. These descriptions were so arousing that for weeks, each short description served as foreplay for passionate lovemaking. Paul and I agreed that it didn’t matter if these were fantasy or actual love affairs; both had the same delightful effect.

22
BUSINESS - FALL, 1978

It was late October, and business was better than ever. I finally had a chance to sit down with Mike, my business partner, and go over the items he had gathered for me.

We spent hours looking at an array of crafts I gathered when I developed a bad migraine. At that point, I set aside all articles of interest, broke off the bargaining, and retreated to my bed hoping to out-sleep the worst of it.

The next morning I returned to Mike’s warehouse to scrutinize the merchandise. This included kilems, carpets, tapestries, tent bands, wall hangings, camel-horse decorative saddle-bags, brass-copperware, tribal coin jewelry, and tribal clothing, as well as other odds and ends, such as opium molds.

Kilems Textiles (The colors are all earth-tones from vegetable dyes)

Hundreds of items were selected. Mike allowed me to pay for most of the items as I sold them. Dozens of large metal trunks were required for air shipping to the States. Another week involved packing the trunks, contacting the shipping agents, and obtaining official permits.

Again, I had bought some exciting antiquities. Why was I such a slow learner? This time I was a little smarter. I insisted that the dealer pay for the photos and museum permits. Also, I refused to give him any money until the necessary official shipping permits were in my hand.

After the deal was finally concluded, with requisite permits, the old antique dealer invited me to his home in Istalif. My purchases included rare (I hoped) bronze animal figures. As it later turned out, some of these were 3,000 years old but hardly rare. Thousands were found in digs throughout Europe and Asia. These were small bronze deer used as currency.

Most of the bronze deer were covered with blue green patina. They looked as old as they were. These were about two inches and made lovely necklaces. Back in the States I sold out within a month. I found a small book picturing Amlash deer of exactly the same design. I provided photocopies with each sale.

After the first week of easy sales, Paul had suggested going to the Metropolitan Museum of Art (Met) for an authentication. Sure enough, the bronze deer were confirmed as genuine. The antiquities curator had never seen anything quite like these bronzes.

Out of the 112 pieces I showed, only five were recent fabrications. I donated five genuine pieces to the Met. In return, I received a certificate of authentication stating that the bronze deer were Amlash bronzes from Luristan and 3,000 years old (plus or minus 100 years). For tax purposes, I received a signed form verifying a $10,000 donation.

With these selling tools from the Met I was able to sell all that I had at substantially higher prices; not bad for a bumbling art amateur. Returning to the old merchant in Kabul on each trip, we built a firm business relationship.

The old merchant was a Hajji and a scholar. I mentioned my Sufi-Dervish family origin and he was delighted, as he also was a Sufi. Over a five-year period, he would provide the art instruction I craved.

In many ways the first invitation to the merchant’s home was the high point of the trip. In addition to my business associates, the Sufi merchant provided social, intellectual, religious, as well as business enrichment.

On the first visit I was with beautiful Versant. The merchant’s two sons accompanied us to their home where the merchant met us at the door. As we made the 90-minute drive to Istalif, the sons stopped along the road to buy melons and kabob. They loved having their picture taken with Versant and me, so unlike most Muslim men. The Polaroid’s were for the sons; the 35-mm shots were for me.

At dinner the sons asked my permission to join me at the meal and, of course, I was delighted. I wondered, ‘How else would they dine, not with the women and children?’ As the main meal was laid out, the old merchant entered the room, followed by the other male relations. The old man introduced each of them to us.

The meal was served in the large living-room on the second floor of this three-story home. One side of the room held a large picture window looking out to the mountains. A kilem that was almost the length of the room was unrolled. On top of the kilem, a long partitioned serving board was unfolded. Large cushions were placed all around the central board.

The old merchant, the clan patriarch, sat on the largest central cushion facing the window. He motioned me to sit on his right and Versant on his left. The two sons sat opposite their father. The remaining males sat on the other cushions. The sons passed the Polaroid photos around and each man smiled, chuckled and passed the photos around to me.

When I showed the photos to the father, he burst out laughing and affectionately pinched my cheek, then passed them to Versant and pinched her cheek. She passed the photos to the rest of the men and all began chattering with huge smiles.

While we were looking at the photos, the meal was served. First, fragrant rose petals were passed around. Each person ate a few petals and scattered some in front on the serving board. Large porcelain pitchers of chi were placed on the serving board while small matching porcelain cups were passed around.

Platters of cut melon were placed on the serving board. The melon was a Crenshaw type and delicious. Platters of Delhi-type flat crisp cumin-bread were then passed around. Traditional pilafs and kabobs followed. At the end of the meal, strong black Russian tea was served with dates, figs, apricots, and nuts.

Throughout the meal we discussed business mostly, but some of the others talked about tribal politics and the government in Kabul. Outside the Kabul region, tribal power reigned supreme. The Kabul government could do little in the provinces without the cooperation of local tribal chiefs and war lords.

Later in the day, after taking some photos of local village weaving, we drove back to Kabul. Less than a kilometer from the village, our car broke down and we were forced to return by bus. It was a strange feeling to have all the bus people staring at Versant and me. As always in public, we were covered from head to foot, including a head scarf covering head, neck, and most of our faces.

Rug Weavers

The bus back to Kabul was filled with veiled women, bug-eyed children, and squinting men, all staring at me. Local weavers filled the bus rack with small prayer rugs for the Kabul bazaars. At the insistence of three old men, we made an evening prayer stop. One of my companions insisted they did this to impress the Westerners with their religious zeal.

I was one week away from returning to the States when some lovely antique jewelry came to my attention. After some telexing, Paul wired me another $2,000. This required another few hours at the bank for the transaction and conversion to travelers checks.

A few days before my flight to Frankfort, I was invited to a wedding by one of my business agents. I arrived at the groom’s shop early in the evening, but he was busy with customers, of which I was the last. In Afghanistan, as with most of the world, business comes before almost everything else, even weddings.

Between the other customers and me, it was another two hours before he closed the shop, with me in tow. His bride-to-be was quite anxious and phoned the shop twice before he finally locked up for the day. She was concerned about him as last minute ‘cold-feet’ are quite common.

As the groom was locking the doors, a guest from the Italian Embassy drove up in an old van and we were all driven to the groom’s home. As soon as we got to his home, a bus-load of women and children arrived. All were singing and clapping to the beat of tambourines, suggesting a Gypsy wedding.

Confident Groom & Anxious Bride

The groom’s sisters supervised the parceling of wedding guests between his and her vehicles. An hour later, we all arrived at the Kabul Press Club for the wedding. Another two hours were spent talking shop with the merchants. It was like a grade school prom, with the men on one side of the press room and the women on the other, except for me.

It was a slow week for the press media. They needed the two hours to set up photos and separate interviews; female interviewers for bride and women relatives; male interviewers for the groom and male relatives.

I asked one of the Italian officials why the wedding party allowed photos and interviews. He said it was a trade. The press ballroom and food were provided gratis in exchange for unhindered photos and interviews.

By the time the hundred or so guests filed into the ballroom, food tables were groaning with the banquet accoutrements, and the wedding ceremonies were ready to begin. After the banquet, the bride was ushered to a room upstairs. There she sat all alone while all the guests, including me, visited her separately to present their wedding gifts.

After these rituals were complete, the music started. It was not the traditional Afghan music that we Westerners preferred. Electric organ and guitars began blasting away with ‘amplifiers from hell.’ The deafening noise framed popular Indian Bollywood themes. The only way to describe it would be ‘Lead Zep clashes with Metalica in an ear-drum puncturing contest.’

After signaling my respects and goodbyes to my hosts, I exited as fast as possible while my hearing and sanity were still intact. Signaling was all we could do as speaking and hearing were impossible with that catastrophic noise. They were hell bent on copying a typically distasteful American wedding.

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.

[NOTE: In Afghanistan and much of the Middle East, families are less separate entities and, more so, are integral parts of clans and tribes.]

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.

23
CROSSING - SPRING, 1979

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.

Similarly, I saw myself stepping into a zone of danger and then attempting to retreat. I’m getting to be like my husband, generalizing as to the human condition, embracing the new and exciting, but retreating from the threat. Life is not confusing, but we surely are.

Paul is still like that; chasing adventure, but retreating when it might change his life. Early on, he considered immigrating to New Zealand, Australia, revolutionary Cuba, and then back to medical practice in the U.S. These and other adventures he chased, then retreated. On the other hand, he stands rooted like an oak to the family, the kids and me.

There is a polarity between Paul and me. He refers to it as a loving dialectic. While he is happy for my success and is my staunchest admirer and supporter, he envies what he calls my “special courage, practical enterprise intelligence and soft toughness.”

Most important is the strong passion we have for each other. Each time I return home from business in Afghanistan, it’s better than our first honeymoon. The great thing is that I can laugh at him and we can laugh at each other and love it.

He persists in a number of different pursuits, especially graduate studies and writing. Over the twenty years we’ve been together, he has never taken a step backwards.

The only thing I worry about is his impatience with himself. He grows increasingly reluctant to accept the status quo. I believe this impulse will finally push him over the edge to find his own path, while preserving our relationship. But there’s not much I can do to support him. He’s the type of person who must do these things on his own, at his own pace.

While I work my business, it’s a fascinating struggle I see Paul going through. Tenaciously he builds his business stature while becoming more of his own person. Using our aerograms to each other, he’s begun drafting a book about my Afghan travels. I feel proud that he is doing this. In addition to the aerograms, I put as much of my life and thoughts into my travel journal.

He works daily on bodybuilding and keeps-up his work as house husband. It’s his many pursuits that make him exciting to me. He’s built a greenhouse attached to our back porch and raises rabbits for meat in the garage. Paul makes sure he takes the boys out on weekends.

Dan, our student family caretaker, has become like a third son. He plays the big brother to the boys, two or three nights a week while Paul travels throughout North America on corporate business. Paul fancies himself a partisan fighter within the belly of the corporate beast, as he puts it, propagandizing and agitating for progressive change.

While encouraging and supporting me in his aerograms, he also tests his theories and writings for my reaction. In his writing, Paul is striving to do for women what the civil rights movement is doing for racial equality. He views the struggle for family and household as an economic campaign to free families and especially women from the serfdom imposed by the market economy.

In a recent aerogram he wrote, “They occupy our minds, our culture, our humanity, as well as our families, in the same way Nazi propaganda occupied Europe.” So much of what he says is posturing and pontification. I have trouble sorting out what he believes from his “put-ons.”

The fantasy world he creates in his writings is enlightening, entertaining, and exciting bullshit. These creations of his make me wonder if he sees any difference between nonfiction and fiction. His immersion in German literature is influenced by “Till Eulenspiegel and His Merry Pranks.”

Most difficult for me, and for him, is dealing with his efforts at building a commune. The crux of this is his attempts at establishing sexual links with women he’s attracted to. On the other hand, he is loving and constant with me and the boys. Paul insists that I should feel free to do whatever pleases me, as long as we remain together.

This is easily the most difficult part of our marriage, his effort to build a tribal society based on sexual relations between people. His goal is to build a network of loving friends. Paul has spent years studying ancient and prehistoric society and convinces himself that those primal societies achieved the golden age that Greek philosophers (all men) recorded.

Now, his pet project is to rediscover our tribal heritage. He argues that the only real links between people are bonds of blood kinship and sexual bonds. Paul believes that loving relationships can renew the golden age of bands, clans, tribes, and tribal confederations. The key is to start by loving your neighbor, both literally and figuratively; fat chance of that.

His ideas trouble me. “What must we give up?” I ask? He says, “Can we learn to cast out jealousy, owning each other? I believe love means caring about people, like you care about our kids, your mother, and me, just as I care about you and our family. But love must also include a degree of freedom. How this works out in reality, I’m not quite sure.”

He wants us to be free, which is nice, but I’m jealous of him. I have affairs, but they are short and sweet. Never have I prolonged these to the detriment of our family. Long affairs are nothing but trouble. “If we really care about each other, then we care about our freedom and independence,” says he. “Marriage provides enough freedom as it is,” I say.

You cannot love someone as a real and free person while controlling their sexual needs. Only the perfect person can be perfectly satisfied and satisfying, sexually or otherwise. And none of us are perfect. Paul and I love each other and still have brief affairs. I think it’s like an escape valve on a steam iron. We need to escape occasionally to keep the iron hot.

We still don’t know ‘what comes naturally,’ if anything. It takes nature and nurture, mothers and society to produce us. Paul talks about one of the earliest household rules, mating outside the kinship group, or exogamy, to seek a diversity of genes. That may explain why women and men seek diverse, multiple mates.

In the beginning, women and children were the center of the human household, with men outside providing support and protection, in exchange for mating rights. This was the case with most primates and persists with people. This is the extent of my feminism.

Typically, men provide support by means of an outside job. Increasingly, women are assuming the role of family support and protection, as well as mother, outside and inside the household.

We’re not a typical family. At this time, my husband and I spend lots of time supporting the family outside the home. However, Paul provides most of the household nurturing and upkeep.

The countless times Paul has talked with me and written about building a new tribal society, out of the communal families that now exist, is etched in my mind. “After all, most families are basically communal, sharing the features and faults of life. Each person in a family takes what s/he needs (or tries to), while each gives what s/he can (or tries to),” so says Master Paul, the Philosopher King.

Along with my rage and frustration with Paul’s ideas, there is also admiration and stimulation. It’s all part of the package. This is what makes him a Gemini and me a Libra. I am definitely a water spirit, a libation bearer, and an ocean of mothering love for all who know me.

On the other hand, Paul embodies the Gemini twins, with dual, often opposing spirits. He juggles opposing ideas, making the case for both. It’s like he’s constantly playing chess with himself or at least playing mind games with himself and everyone around him. He views it as Einstein thought about experiments; the pursuit of hidden knowledge.

He assures me that, “The pursuit of ideas and sex is as much a compulsion as an intention. Einstein had the same drive, in pursuit of ideas and sex. His life was a beautiful fabric woven with seminal ideas and sex. His love life was the fabric on which his great ideas were embroidered. Neither sex nor intelligence can exist without each other.”

We talked about this often, by ourselves and with friends. Rather he pontificated and we genuflected. I must admit, as much as I love Paul, he angers me. So I asked, “Why are you so convinced that sex and intelligence depend on each other? To me it sounds like an excuse for womanizing; not that I don’t satisfy an occasional lust for another man.”

In his book, Cinderella’s Housework Dialectics, Paul talks about primate mating, ten million years ago, when great apes, chimpanzees, bonobos, and hominids, branched out separately on the primate tree of life. From decades of study, it’s known that most primates, including humans, form a household or family circle consisting of mothers, offspring, and siblings at the core.

Outside, or at the edge of the family circle, are mature males providing food, resources and protection in exchange for mating privileges. To put it bluntly, monkeys and men exchange food for sex, and healthy creatures are more inclined toward mating success than the unhealthy.

Is this because males and females have freely chosen this arrangement? Not on your life; you can’t see them; you can’t hear them; and you can’t touch them; but you sure as hell can feel them. Up until the last century, these ephemeral rogues were called demons, devils, and imps. Unseen they inhabited body, mind and soul.

We have learned enough to know that the real demon culprits are hormones and neurotransmitters. These are testosterone, growth hormone, estrogen, progesterone, oxytocin, pheromones, serotonin, dopamine, epinephrine, adrenalin, insulin, and hundreds of other natural, normal biological agents, as well as genes. These are the demons that are always with us.

These are the angels and devils of our better and worse nature. How much of this human body, this flesh and blood ‘commune’ allows human freedom? To what extent are we programmed like a computer? One thing we know is our intention to follow the lure of hidden knowledge, to ‘follow our bliss.’

When on the road, as I am, there’s an ample amount of time for reflection. I take copies of Paul’s book with me to peruse and give to business associates. On these long drives, the book has become my bible of ideas.

They still enrage and stimulate me, but now I scribble rebuttals in the margins and include these in my aerograms and travel journal, along with other news. Occasionally, when we are exchanging stories around the evening meal, I read some of his book to my fellow trekkers.

The love-hate feelings for Paul and, to a lesser extreme, the caravan people, fermented as I traveled along the old Silk Road. In a sense, we trekkers were a kind of family feeling affection and the opposite as each day progressed. We women felt increasingly good about each other as each day went by, while the men-boys seemed to incur our wrath whenever they opened their mouths.

Toward the end of the trip I became conscious of time again. It dawned on me that I had better get home soon or I would drown in this Gypsy lifestyle. More and more the bus breakdown delays frustrated me. It helped that I was one of the four mechanics servicing the bus, as that provided some sense of control.

Our travels through Iran, while rapid, were far from uneventful. Eventually, I reached Kabul and my business associate, Mike, in time for Afghanistan Day.

Afghans dressed for Afghanistan Day

24
CHINESE DIPLOMAT - FALL, 1979

My business partner Mike, insisted on meeting me for breakfast. I had flown in from Zurich the day before and jet lag had gotten the best of me. On my way to Kabul, I had stopped over in London, and then taken the night boat train to France, followed by a train to Frankfurt, Basle, Geneva and finally, Zurich.

Over breakfast, I told Mike about our success with the museums in London, Frankfurt, Geneva, Basel and Zurich, but that in France I’d gotten a cool reception. “Lela, you know about the French. All purchases must be through French nationals. Why did you even bother?”

“Mike, I was taking the night boat-train to France anyway, and while I was there, figured I’d give it another try. At least they spoke with me this time. The last time they would not even speak with me. Maybe I’m making progress, do you think?”

“Lela, you are an excellent business person, and you may wear them down to the point of politeness, but don’t expect to make a dent there. You are wasting your time. Let’s concentrate our efforts where they will be most productive.”

“When I meet with the French trade mission woman in Kabul, she is always encouraging.” Mike’s smile looked a little sour when he replied, “Lela, Ahhhh, she’s just being polite. Don’t be so stubborn; let’s move on to better prospects.”

“OK Mike, what do you have in mind?”

“That’s what I want to speak with you about. Yesterday, a member of the Chinese Embassy staff visited my shop, purchased a few things on his list and invited both of us to their Embassy reception this evening at eight. How do they know you are in Kabul?”

“Mike, they must have access to airport passenger lists, I certainly did not notify them. In any case, this is interesting. I’ll meet you at your shop about seven this evening.”

We talked about the purchase orders I received in Europe and how we would fill these orders. I asked Mike what he thought the Chinese wanted. He thought they might do some token business with us, but suspected they wanted access to information about Soviet intentions in Afghanistan, via our friend Kit.

I thought: ‘Yes, of course, after all China shares a border with Afghanistan, as does the Soviet Union. It’s no secret that Mike is a government minister working closely with Kit to set up a network of roads and medical clinics. They must know that the three of us are quite chummy.’

That evening I was introduced to the Chinese Ambassador and his lovely wife. They were a handsome elderly couple, quite stately and graceful, not at all what I expected Maoist diplomats to look like. They looked more like fashionable Italians than Chinese.

The wife wore a beautiful, long-sleeved, red silk evening dress with matching scarf wrapped around her neck and hanging down to the waist. Her hair was pulled back in a sort of diplomatic bun. She was my height, about five-foot-six, and greeted me with an engaging smile.

I wore my newly tailored green, silk cocktail dress covering arms and legs to my ankles. I wore long white silk gloves and matching white silk scarf covering head and neck, in the Turkish style. All the men wore black tie tuxes. There were no military uniforms in sight.

The diplomat’s wife greeted me with outstretched hand. When I took her hand, her two hands grasped mine warmly. Her English was better than mine. “Lela, may I call you that? Please call me Kim. Let’s get to know one-another.”

She took my arm and guided me to a small table at the side of the salon. As soon as we sat down, an aid set glasses of what looked like orange juice. “I hope you don’t mind, but I requested champagne cocktails for us, I know we should not be drinking alcohol, but I took the liberty anyway.”

I smiled warmly and took a small sip. “Lela, there are many reasons why we should become friends. We can help each other. First, I should say that I was born and educated in the LA-Berkeley area, as my parents were Chinese diplomats in the 1930s. Next, I believe we may have common business interests. We are in Kabul officially as U.N. Advisors.”

“Kim, what does U.N. Advisor mean?” I asked with a sweet innocent smile. “We observe the living conditions of women and children wherever we are and submit quarterly reports,” she replied. I never did figure out what that really meant.

In any case, Kim and I became fast friends. While we chatted, her husband would come over to our table every few minutes, smile and pass a few polite words with us. He also passed a note to his wife. Then, after a brief exchange of words in Chinese he would excuse himself.

After another twenty minutes of family and children small talk, I got the distinct impression that Kim wanted to get into more weighty matters, when her husband came to our table a final time and asked to borrow his wife. Before she left, she made me promise to meet her for lunch at noon the next day at a favorite café.

As I remained seated nursing my cocktail, Mike sat next to me, smiling broadly and began pumping me. “Lela, what were you two talking about?” I patted his arm and said, “Look at those two. Are they smiling in conversation with the two Soviet attaches or am I hallucinating?”

“Lela, that is certainly surprising, first because the Soviets are at this reception and second, because it looks like they are having a cordial discussion. What do you think is going on?”

I read lips, but did not want Mike to know this. Mike and I were both watching the four-way conversation between the two Chinese and two Soviets. I strained my eyes to see what was being said. Another surprise; they were speaking German. They were smiling, even chuckling from time to time. It certainly seemed out of character.

Mike turned to me and asked what I thought was going on. I told him the truth (sort of). “Mike, I can’t hear them, but if you asked me to guess, I’d say they were trying to set up ground rules.”

Actually, Kim was doing most of the talking, and, since her German was just barely adequate, she used the simplest words she could. Surprise, surprise, my German was better than hers, and that was not saying much. Kim was using her status as a U.N. Advisor to gain some leverage with the Soviets. The gist of the discussion, as best I could glean, went something like this:

“We Chinese are in this (country?) as U.N. advisors and observers of family (health?) conditions, nothing more. We are as (visitors?) interacting and observing as caring people, and to answer your question, we welcome your kind offer of an Afghan guide, that is most, (helpful or cordial?).

“We understand fully that you’re influence in this (region or area?) is great and in no way will we interfere. To demonstrate our good intentions, we welcome any guides you may wish to provide for our (tours?) outside this embassy.”

This is what I related to Mike. Actually, the conversations between Soviets and Chinese seemed quite civil, even cordial from what I observed. But who can say what is behind appearances of civility?

Kim, my hostess, and I talked in the garden toward the end of the evening. “Two things about this evening are unique,” she said. “How so?” I asked. “Well, it’s rare that both Chinese and Soviet ambassadors would attend the same event, especially a small reception like this. Also, it is an innovation that Chinese and Soviets decided to show a united front, at least in public.”

Reflecting on the rather lengthy and cordial conversation, I then remarked as Kim took my arm, “You seemed to have quite a civil conversation, and, while I don’t pretend to understand diplomacy or the ins and outs of Chinese Soviet relations, your ‘performance,’ if I may use that term, seemed friendly and even newsworthy.”

“Lela, believe me when I say that your lack of pretense is an advantage. It’s well known that China and the Soviet Union are taking separate but parallel roads. We are still comrades in the pursuit of a more peaceful and progressive world. Also, we recognize the reality of strong Soviet influence here and have little choice but to cooperate, to the extent permitted.”

“That is understandable,” I said, adding that, “My husband and I see ourselves as progressives and internationalists. We are in the international art trade as much to extend the hand of friendship as to realize profitable trade.”

“Lela, that’s why you and Mike are here this evening. The Chinese cultural ministry wishes to set up museum exhibits throughout our nation. We suggested to the Soviets that you and Mike be our guides, art consultants and suppliers. The Soviets agreed to this arrangement. How do you two feel about this arrangement?”

Mike was smiling broadly and nodding in agreement. Needless to say, we were both delighted with this new opportunity.

There were fewer than 100 people invited to the Chinese reception, including press and media. The event received international attention. Paul sent me a telex the next day, “Saw you on TV. Looking great. Love.”

The Chinese Russian reception was well planned for public consumption. Kim and Mike agreed to meet me for breakfast at my hotel the next morning. We all exited the reception at two in the morning. In fact, Mike and I did a substantial amount of business with the Chinese.

Mike and the Italian Charge de’Affairs walked with me to the hotel. It was a beautiful night for a walk. The Italian asked us about the purpose of the reception. I laughed and replied, “Well it was obvious, don’t you think? There must be some sort of agreement between the Chinese and Russians, at least in Afghanistan. They made that quite clear.”

Kim and I became close companions. Increasingly, our paths crossed with Kit, the Australian nurse. This was no great surprise to me. The four of us, including Mike, got along quite well.

Kit was anxious to show Kim the health clinics, and Mike pointed out the roadwork in progress connecting all the clinics to Kabul. We made certain that each day-trip included an introduction to tribal artisans. Mike arranged for various folk groups to exhibit their skills. This was the extent of my foreign intrigue with the Chinese.

Folk Performers

After much negotiation, my big chance finally came to buy 50 strands of ancient gold and lapis beads. Government archaeologists dated these Greco-Persian strands at about 4,500 years. There was, of course, further negotiation with Kabul museum officials but, after donating five of the strands to the museum, I received my export permits.

The archaeologists provided some information about my beads. While they were quite old, many hundreds were found together with obsidian tools at sites thought to be fabrication centers. In fact, they had many poor quality strands for sale at lower prices.

Putting two and two together, I realized that getting my stuff out of the country would be much easier if I purchased some of their artifacts. I purchased all they had for an excellent price. This purchase, together with my museum donation facilitated efficient shipping to the States.

Mike’s second wife and I were good friends by now. She asked me to go with her to a graduation exercise at a girl’s school. Thinking this would be another unique Afghan experience, I happily agreed. After the ceremony of receiving their diplomas, an army band played Mozart’s Turkish March as the graduates slowly paraded out of the school to a playing field wearing their long green hooded school shifts.

The field was decorated with Afghan banners and dozens of table-tennis set-ups. We all played table tennis for an hour or so. This was considered an appropriate sport for Afghan women belonging to important tribes. Refreshments were served, but many of the graduates preferred to continue with the table-tennis.

My friend introduced me to the head master and some of the faculty. The Russians had built the school; the Chinese provided the playing field and table-tennis equipment. Other embassies provided faculty pay and student scholarships, as well as other resources. A friendship wall filled with brass plaques documented these contributions.

Graduates

Most of the embassies were represented at the graduation. Kim represented the Chinese and was included in our little group. Representatives from Russia, India, Pakistan, and Iran were also present. All were quite cordial and chatted politely together. Mostly, they were keen on greeting the Afghan delegation, of which Mike, my partner, was now the bridge between Afghanistan, Russia and China.

Kim and I were playing table tennis when she said, “Notice how carefully the Russians keep track of the Chinese?” I replied, “Yes, Afghanistan is now a world stage where nations monitor each other more or less openly. Thankfully, it is a civil and peaceful interaction.”

“That’s a wise observation, Lela. Afghanistan provides a small convenient conversation pit for all the bordering neighbors. We get important tidbits of information from each other. You might say that Afghanistan is the front-line in the East-West information dialog.”

At the juice bar, Mike confided that he heard gossip about recent meetings between Russian, Chinese and Iranian representatives. He thought they were cooperating to topple the Shah. I commented that the gossip did not surprise me. The West seemed to support the worst tyrants, providing short-term profits and long-term enemies.

It seemed obvious, at least to me, that Russia and China were both jockeying for the inside track, but for what? If there were an ocean of oil under Afghanistan, Russia and China seemed determined to control it. Might they actually share it, I wondered?

[NOTE: The Shah of Iran was widely despised. Plots were constantly hatched to depose him. It was just a matter of time before one succeeded. While a revolution deposed the Shah in 1979, few anticipated an Islamic revolution.]

25
CHANGES - FALL, 1979

On my return to Afghanistan after the April, 1978s revolution, I discovered some changes for the better. It was late September, 1979, six months after the revolution, and the entire city of Kabul looked like it was being renovated. All run-down hotels and guest residences were forced to close until required repairs were completed.

By the fall of 1979, changes in Afghanistan, especially Kabul, were well along. Together with numerous public and private improvements throughout the country, a surge in employment, income, and the overall economy was in the works.

Once again, various global interests were eager to contribute to a new progressive Afghanistan. This time the U.S. was a major “player” along with the usual neighboring influence peddlers.

As soon as I landed, the people seemed more tense than usual. My partner Mike met me at the arrival gate and ushered me through the red tape in record time. The gatekeepers were tense but far more efficient compared to previous visits. This was the first time they actually checked baggage tickets.

Mike had a golf cart waiting for us but, after sitting on the plane for so many hours, I insisted on walking. As to my baggage, Mike already had stowed my bags in his Russian all-terrain vehicle. He took me directly to his hotel, updating me on the way.

He explained that great strides were being made throughout the nation. “Lela, everyone who wants to work can now have a job, but you know we Afghans are not accustomed to rapid change and so people are tense. People are getting more suspicious of foreigners and are less likely to extend invitations unless they know you.”

There was a general apprehension that social contacts with foreigners might cause difficulties. “But you, Lela, need not be concerned. You are well known as a friend and benefactor of the Afghans. You are part of my family and a friend of our government. Everywhere, doors are open to you. Business will improve greatly; you will see.”

Mike explained that all embassy and government functions would extend invitations to me. “Why the glad hand?” I asked. He explained that he and I were now part of a ring of suspicion.

“The Americans think we are Russian agents; the Russians think we are CIA agents; and the Chinese believe we are double agents. They all want to access the ocean of oil if it exists, and if there is no oil each nation is determined to have its own sphereof-influence.”

I asked Mike about the opinion of the Afghan government. He said it depended on each Afghan ministry. “They all know you are the source of substantial amounts of commercial dollars. That is quite obvious. As many of us in the government are also active in this nation’s commerce, we benefit from your business.”

He again told me what I already knew: in Afghanistan what mattered most was money. Political deals become the principle unifying interest in Afghanistan and everywhere else.

As crass as it sounds, it was understandable. I could live with the money arrangement and I’d done well by it. Political power play was another matter entirely. The ambiguity of political infighting did not suit me. I was ill at ease in the halls of power even though I put on a good-face.

Mike added: “Lela, you and I could be triple agents for Russia, China, and America. It wouldn’t matter as long as the cash flow continues. In fact, many in the Afghan government credit you with much of the foreign aid we now get.”

“How do they figure that?” I asked.

Mike said, “Except for earthquake relief, the fact that you have increased commercial interest in Afghan art provides a pretext for governments to support tribal art trade, as well as provide substantial aid as public relations on the global stage.

“Their oil addiction plays into our hands. The Afghan government is keen on feeding the rumor mill. We are encouraged to hint at the “ocean of oil” under our feet, and to even encourage oil exploration if it comes to that.

“It does not matter if there is oil or not. Merely the possibility keeps the money flowing, even if the oil does not. The hundreds of tar pits throughout Afghanistan are enough to heat the embassy fires, literally and figuratively.

“You’ve seen the map Kit and I made. Whenever and wherever we find samples of tar oil, it becomes a red circle on our map. We should start hinting about the map. Such hints will stimulate the oil frenzy and more money will flow into Afghanistan.”

I said I would spread the rumor; but I also thought they were asking for trouble. “Mike, I worry. Oil lust is likely to turn Afghanistan into a war zone. You see what happens in the oil producing regions. Interference by the western powers set the stage for world conflict.

“The Iranian Revolution is just the beginning. Iraq and the entire Middle East are likely to follow. Don’t think Afghanistan is immune. Yes, money will flow in. How much money will go to bribe various factions? Will the inflow of cash fuel an inflow of armaments?

“See how Israel has suffered. Millions of people murdered and, finally, a new nation emerges like a phoenix from the Holocaust ashes. And what is the price Israel now pays? They are forced for their survival to act as the Middle East police force.

“Western powers guarantee the survival of Israel as long cheap oil is available. Since oil is so close to the surface it’s the cheapest in the world. The cost of oil in the Middle East is less than $10 per 42 gallon barrel. If they are to survive, Israel must help maintain the oil status quo.

“This is why the open tar pits in Afghanistan are more a liability than an asset. I believe that by teasing the tiger, we’re inviting a deadly guest to our banquet. By our action, more blood will flow than oil.”

“Lela, you are a true Sufi. You are the wisest person I know. But let’s stick to tribal art. We both know there’s no ocean of oil. They can prospect all they want while pouring money into Afghanistan. The only ocean they’ll find is in their dreams.

“What you say is true, Lela. There’s an ocean of greed, if not oil. We did not create the greed, but we can profit from it. Yes, we have a tiger by the tail, but if no oil is found, the tiger will have neither claws nor fangs.

“Believe me when I tell you there is no ocean of oil here. Scandinavian geologists performed advanced testing procedures throughout the country. The tar oil pools are purely a surface anomaly. These pools are shallow inorganic mineral deposits and not organic. These are only limited deposits of mineral oil. There’s barely enough for apothecary use, let alone fuel oil.

“True, we see this stuff sold in most of the bazaars, but the source pools are no more than a few inches in depth. There are no deep veins. The tar pools result from stone grinding stone for millions of years. Why are we so certain? We’re certain because the only methane gas found is in sewage and garbage treatment facilities.”

“Mike, does this mean that we are part of an Afghan con game?”

“Don’t look at it that way, Lela. Marxists view it as turning capitalist greed to our advantage. It’s economic jujitsu. Capitalist greed is like opium addiction. They want to believe the next oil fix is in Afghanistan. We feed their greed with imaginary oil.”

By the end of 1978, the dollar had fallen in value by about 30%, and a major global inflation was in the works. Some European banks were selling bonds that paid 20% interest. The value of the AF stood at 36 AFs to a dollar. Prices had also risen around the world. Now, a year later, the global inflation was getting scary.

It became increasingly difficult to buy goods for my business and even harder to buy for clients, such as museums commissioning me to buy for them. The result was that I could barely afford to buy for my own business unless I raised my prices accordingly. This I was forced to do, resulting in a drop in sales volume.

I became increasingly wary of offers that seemed too good to be true and consulted with Mike and other trusted business associates about each of these golden opportunities, most of which turned out to be bogus.

The next invitation I received was for a Thanksgiving reception at the U.S. Embassy. All the Afghan ministers were invited, and so I was escorted by Mike. Entering the reception room, Kim, the Chinese delegate, and Kit, the Afghan health advisor, both waved at me to join them.

The usual embassy crowd attended. The Italian delegate was leering at me as usual, making me feel as if I were at home with my family and Paul’s suggestive leering. If ever there were a sex addict, it’s my husband. He may be a sex addict, but he’s my sex addict and I love it. He may wear me out at home, but I recover in Afghanistan.

As we entered the ball room, a marine brass band was playing a medley of American rock tunes. Just as I was heading over to Kim and Kit, someone came up behind me and put hands over my eyes. “Bev, guess who?”

The voice was unmistakable. It was the deep voice of the tallest girl in my high school graduating class. “Rosy!” I gasped. We had been good friends at the all-girls high school in Red Hook, Brooklyn. “Rosy, what are you doing here?” She replied, “I could ask you the same question; in fact I will.”

We burst out laughing, Rosy with her foghorn laugh caused heads to turn in our direction. “Bev, let’s go to the ladies’ lounge.” We sat down and hugged each other and began chattering away like magpies. “Lela, is it now? What’s wrong with Bev?”

“Well, ‘Lela’ is now my professional name in the international art world. It’s more musical.” Rosy laughed and said, “I should talk. Do you know what my professional name is? It’s not Rosy Garcia anymore. That was too ethnic for a cultural attaché. I’m now Rose Gavalt, Cultural Attaché U.S. Embassy, Kabul, Afghanistan. Here’s my card.”

“That sounds like ‘oy-ga-valt.’ Isn’t that Yiddish or Polish for ‘here comes trouble’ or something like that? Why did you pick a name like that?”

“Well, I didn’t pick it, my supervisor did. It was her idea of a joke. The name refers to my Sephardic-Jewish background. I protested that it was an ethnic slur, and she just laughed explaining that the name conveys a sense of ethnic authenticity, rather than a cover name, and besides no one would know what it means.

“So I shut my big mouth and discovered that when people see my card, they immediately smile trustingly and knowingly. Besides, I have degrees testifying to my ability as an art historian.”

“Rosy, it’s great to see you, but I have a feeling that our accidental meeting is no accident.” Rosy just smiled and said, “Well Lela, I might say that the U.S. Embassy is interested in Afghan tribal art and your expert consultation on the subject, but you are savvy enough to know there’s more to it than that. Actually, I’d like to meet your friends, especially Kim, Kit, and Mike.”

“And so you shall.” I said, attempting to mimic Tallulah Bankhead’s fog horn voice and poor grammar. I was sure Rosy was heading in that direction and I was more or less prepared. All these new faces and surprise meetings. It felt like some weird TV show where all your lost friends and relatives emerge from nowhere.

“Rosy, I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am to see you again, but you must know that my main interest is growing my business. If you want to meet my acquaintances that’s fine. We are all business associates first and friends second. It’s business that brings us all together. I want to make that clear.

And so, Rosy became part of our little group of ‘watchers,’ each keeping a close eye on the others.

AFGHAN CON:

I’d been in the Tashkagon region three days, the guest of a wealthy trader, and was being treated like a queen. While hospitality is the rule, something about this lavish reception aroused my suspicion. In short, I smelled a rat.

My first evening with this clan, the table was set with a sparkling white embroidered silk cloth. To top it off, a beautiful rose was placed in a polished carnelian urn as a centerpiece. The chair they led me to looked more like a throne, covered with silver and gold embroideries.

Was I being set up as a queen or a patsy? I’d been cultivated in other business encounters that were not to my advantage, but never as elaborately as this extraordinary scene. A truly lavish dinner ended with ashak, a type of leek-filled dumpling appetizer topped with smoked sturgeon and caviar.

Immediately after the feasting, the purpose of this elaborate ruse became apparent. They led me to the courtyard garden and there it was: eight camels were decked out in eight complete sets of camel trappings, complete with saddles, saddlebags made of fine goat wool, and a variety of beautiful ceremonial camel décor.

The final blow hit me like a bolt out of the blue: “Beautiful lady, all this is yours for only 49,000 AFs.” This was about $1,000 at the time. I replied, “If your offer includes the eight camels, I might consider 25,000 AFs as a fair price.”

The merchant was visibly flustered with my counter offer. “Surely you are joking,” he said. “Surely I’m not joking,” I replied. “No, no, the beautiful lady misunderstands, only what is on the camels, not the camels.”

I was not willing to dish out another $1,000 for more camel decorations. However, I did buy some lovely tapestries, embroideries, and camel bags for about $150. Certainly, he spent more on my elaborate reception.

Returning to Tashkagon the same evening, I stayed at a newly rebuilt government hotel, complete with the largest hotel pool I’d ever seen. As an ardent swimmer, this was for me a gift from the Great Mother.

Paul is forever telling everyone how I swam the Bosporus after swimming the English Channel. He explains lewdly how he massaged five pounds of butter into every pore of my body. Every time he tells that bogus story at parties I nod affirming his “put-on” with a lascivious smirk and silently nod my head in agreement.

“Now she wants to swim from Key West to Havana, 90 miles. I keep telling her it’s too dangerous. Great white sharks frequent those waters. But does she listen? No, she laughs at me. Talk about over-confidence, she has it in spades. She thinks citronella will repel all predators.”

“Look, my love, it’s not at all as dangerous as you suggest. The media agreed to accompany my swim with two large cabin-cruisers on either side of me. The Cuban government will provide specially equipped “spotter” boats at the half-way point. It’s an entire protective fleet running interference. What could be safer?” The game ended when one or both of us burst out laughing.

The Tashkagon region was devastated by a major earthquake last year. Many countries contributed to restoring this region, principally U.S., Russia, China, India, Iran and Pakistan, in that order. While in the area, there were daily after-shock rumbles for a week. Hotel guests were requested to sleep in the comfortable cabanas surrounding the pool.

I almost forgot to mention Japanese architects donated plans for an earthquake-resistant hotel. The desk clerk provided handouts to guests explaining the safety features. The hotel was built on a granite outcropping. All hotel buildings were single story, supported on rotating ball pivots. All windows and doors were made of pop-out Lucite. No glass was used in the entire hotel.

Electric power was provided by large arrays of solar devices (gifts from Germany) and wind generators (gifts from Denmark). The wind towers were cleverly anchored to dozens of large tree trunks in the hotel park (a Canadian innovation).

Wind rotors caped each tree, reminding me of ornaments on the top of Christmas trees, actually quite attractive. Six months after completion, the hotel power was functioning independent of the power grid, mostly from wind power. The hotel was spread out like a network of cottages, Los Angeles style.

I picked a pool cabana since I took an early morning swim as well as an evening swim. This way I was close to the pool. It felt like I was in California, surrounded by gardens, splendid trees (topped with wind ornaments), and snow-capped mountains to the north. It felt more secure and comforting in the cabana than in the hotel.

It was incredibly hot for October. At various times of the day the flies were so thick they were like little black clouds. Water rationing would begin two days later and there would soon be no showers. The pool was continually re-filtered and most of the guests would spend time there.

The next morning at the Tashkagon bazaar, I bought ten sets of camel decorations for $15 each, complete with silver bells; so much for one of the more elaborate merchant hypes I’d seen the day before. It was not the first and not the last, but certainly the most overreaching I experienced.

Mike, Kit, Kim, and I explored some of the tribal settlements near Mazar-al-Sharif. Kit, now the official Health Planning Advisor to the Health Ministry, was checking the health conditions in the new tribal settlements.

She was planning additional clinics oriented to the specific needs of the tribes in that region. Kim, the Chinese Embassy U.N. Advisor, agreed to share the costs between Russian and Chinese benefactors. Now that Rosy was part of our little team, she insisted that the U.S. would pay for anything else that’s needed for the clinics, like infant formula and food.

Rosy had been slim, attractive, and athletic in high school and now, twenty years later she was more attractive than ever. While driving, I asked if she still played basketball. She mentioned that she had organized co-ed basketball teams among the embassy staff.

In high school we had fun baiting each other about boys. Now I began baiting Rosy again, only on a different topic “Rosy, I’ll bet you have some background in geology.”

“Jeez, Lela, how in hell did you know that?”

“Come off it, Rosy. Everyone in an embassy position is hunting for that mythical ocean under our feet. Don’t pretend innocence. We know each other too well. Friendship aside, you’re here for that reason, yes?” She gave me an affirming look but said nothing.

Kim said the Chinese played basketball also, but that table tennis was their main sport. Kim invited Rosy, Kit, Mike and me to a table tennis afternoon at the Chinese Embassy, and Rosy did the same for basketball and a swim meet at the U.S. Embassy. It was all sweetness and light among us. Too bad embassy women don’t run their nations.

Mike was now the Interior Minister. His main job was road planning and implementation, especially to link health facilities to key towns and cities. My interest was finding tribal art. Merchants would get to these tribal settlements before me however, and I would have little in the way of purchases to show for the week roaming the region.

The main business of Kit and Kim was ‘monitoring’ (Kim’s word) Chinese and Russian activities. In reality, they were ordered to keep an eye on each other. Toward this end, a cooperating agreement was in effect.

All four of us kept notebooks and made frequent entries, each for her own purpose. Now my school chum Rosy, U.S. Cultural Attaché (rhymes with CIA), had joined the ‘watchers daisy chain’, with my assistance, of course.

NURISTAN VISIT:

I’d been negotiating for days to get a government pass to visit Nuristan, the northeastern province of Afghanistan. This province had been closed for years because of widespread banditry and warlord control, or so I was told repeatedly. I had attempted to get into Nuristan every six months since doing business in Afghanistan and received the same response.

Noor, a good friend and business associate from Nuristan, said the official entry denials were not true. He said they wanted to seal off the province to isolate a growing Maoist revolution fueled by China. He also believed the Chinese were developing oil fields in Nuristan.

Sealing off Nuristan was virtually impossible as it shared a border with the People’s Republic of China and the Soviet Union. Most feared was a proxy clash between China and Russia in Nuristan. As China was desperate for oil, such a conflict was a distinct possibility.

Via the influence of Kim at the Chinese embassy, as well as Kit and Mike, I was at last granted a pass, but only if I traveled with a security convoy. Mike was not going to Nuristan, though. He made that quite clear and tried, unsuccessfully, to talk me out of going.

So, here we were again, our watchers’ daisy chain gang of four (Kit, Kim, Rosy, and me) was off on another adventure. I was sure we would be safer traveling in a single vehicle, but my three companions overruled me, and Kit arranged for us to travel with a military convoy.

Nuristan, as expected, was an armed camp. The Afghan government, with the aid of Soviet Mongolian troops, controlled the main roads and towns. While the convoy remained outside the town, touring the countryside, Noor took our jolly group to his home.

I was able to find and purchase some unusual small chairs and little round folding tables, all hand carved and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. There were also reasonably priced irresistible embroideries and kilems that I could not live without. All in all, this had been a supremely profitable trip, as well as a great education. Now I was playing on the world stage.

A few days later, my friends and I were swimming at the Tashkagon hotel pool when a messenger said an old man was waiting to talk with me in the lobby. I left Rosy, Kim, and Kit while they were trading information. (Where else could American, Russian, and Chinese officials trade information so easily? From a distance it looked like a group of gossiping women.)

I’d been expecting a trader from the Tashkagon region to contact me, but this was not the man Noor had told me about. The little old man was talking with Noor in the lobby when I got there. The old man said he was a lampshade maker. Noor said that the man had come to his shop in Kabul a month ago with Hadad, the merchant we were expecting.

The lampshade maker had a large canvas bag with beautiful luminous silk shades. He pulled one shade out by a center loop, and it opened into a hemisphere of glorious color. These were items I knew I must have.

The old man spoke little English and Noor spoke with him in Pashtu for a while before explaining to me that the old man made the lampshades for his cousin Hadad. I thought to myself, ‘This country is one big family enterprise.’

Noor said that the old man wanted to sell the lampshades to me for less than Hadad would charge. It seemed that the old man and his cousin Hadad had a falling-out. The old man said he could not talk any longer, but asked that we meet him at the India Café at six that evening. This gave me time to discuss the situation with Noor.

Noor told me a story about the little old lampshade maker from Tashkagon. It seemed that he was in all kinds of trouble with the government and other merchants. We went to meet with him anyway. Noor immediately explained that we were reluctant to do business with him because of the stories we had heard.

The old man explained that it was his cousin Hadad, and not him who was the problem. That was why he had split with Hadad. The old fox began to cry, and I felt for him, but Noor was not fooled. Noor told him that we would check out the story at the police station; at that, the old trader was gone in a flash.

We then went to the police station. Two desk clerks looked at us knowingly. One of them asked, “Are you here about the lampshade maker?” Noor replied that he was. The clerk laughed and said we were the fifth complainants today and that the old fraud really got around.

The police clerk expressed the hope that we did not give him a lot of money. Noor replied that we’d been suspicious and wanted to check the old man’s story before proceeding further.

The police clerk said, “You were quite wise to check first. I could tell you stories about that ‘poor helpless old trickster’ that you would not believe. Old Ibrahim can document his age at 102 years, but the age documents are phony. He’s in his 80’s, that much we know from his daughter; she tries to smooth things over whenever her father gets in trouble.

“Not only did he cheat his cousin, but he continually tries to horn in on established traders with all sorts of underhanded schemes. No one will sign a complaint against him because of his age and out of a misguided sense of charity, so he remains out there carrying on, probably until the day Allah, blessed be his name, takes him from us.”

I was pleased with the traders I’d been dealing with over the years and did not want to jeopardize my pristine business reputation by dealing with the old fraud, no matter how appealing his lampshades were. I was salivating over those lampshades, though. Never had I seen anything like them.

Fortunately, most of my trading contacts remained intact. These people supported the revolution early in the struggle. Most were Kalq party members of long standing. My main trading partner was victimized by the old regime for his political views.

Mike and his wife had been forced by unhappy events to take refuge in the States with me for months prior to the 1978 revolution. It seems that her father, some years before, attended the funeral of a cousin killed by the Daoud regime. At the funeral, the police took pictures of all the attendees—instructed by the CIA, I was told.

Her father was followed and badgered for months then arrested. He was held in prison four years and released with the tuberculosis he contracted in prison. A few months later he died. I didn’t know any of this until she was safely in the States.

Her political sympathies were known among her relatives and friends. Political sentiments, together with our business relations, a rare combination for Western traders, paved the way for what I hoped would be a long and fruitful business relationship.

Stamps of the Afghan Revolution (Wikipedia)

26
SON OF AFGHAN QUEEN - FALL, 1979

Why does it take forever to get things done? The flight from Pan Am, Kennedy Airport, due to leave at 8:30 had been changed to 9:10, and due to no open seats in the passenger boarding area, I was sitting on the floor writing in my journal about amazing America.

The talking heads had finally confirmed the news that was over a week old: ‘Radiation leaks from Three Mile Island, Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, were confirmed, but posed no threat at this time.’

[The Three Mile Island accident was a partial nuclear meltdown which occurred at the Three Mile Island power plant in Dauphin County, Pennsylvania, United States on March 28, 1979. It was the worst accident in U.S. commercial nuclear power plant history. It resulted in the release of small amounts of radioactive gases and radioactive iodine into the environment.]*

The media speculated about a meltdown. I had my sixteen year old son, Kirk, with me for this trip. Three Mile Island was close enough to metro NYC to pose a real threat, I thought. I was anxious to leave this lunacy and fly to the lunacy in Kabul. That was so weird: trading one type of insanity for another.

Over the past few days I’d been going in circles, shuffling and reshuffling our bags. My son Kirk had his sheet music in an overnight bag, and his tapes and guitars were checked in. My business bags were checked thru to Kabul. My son seemed delighted to be in the midst of this airport chaos. Of course, it was all new to him and the excitement of this trip was contagious.

Kirk was acting as if we would not return to the States. He was mostly hyped about the trip but was getting maudlin about missing friends and family. We had all discussed the situation about a possible nuclear meltdown at some point. We agreed that since I needed to get back to Kabul for business, I’d take Kirk with me on this trip while Paul would take our son Erik with him on a business trip out west.

Both boys relished travel like their Gypsy mother and realized that a worst case scenario would prevent us returning to New Jersey. Our contingency plan was to meet in Las Vegas where I had kin.

We had quite a load of luggage and at first thought we could take a helicopter to JFK Airport, but high wind forced us to take a limo. After all the waiting, we finally boarded, with Kirk at a window seat and me on the aisle. The nervous tension left me exhausted, but once I started writing it relaxed me, and I was reluctant to stop, until sleep decided for me.

After seven hours of fitful sleep in the icy cabin, I woke about six a.m., wondering why I was so hungry. My bug-eyed son, with eyes almost as big as the plane window, had the foresight to save my wonderful chicken dinner. The dinner had arrived hours ago, buried in aluminum foil. I was so famished I thought I just might eat the foil also. How wonderful that my dear, dear boy thought of mom for a change.

At eight in the morning, the steward brought us each a warm sweet roll, an apple, and a pear. Kirk was scrunched up with a pillow between his head and the window. The steward brought a blanket, and I draped it over him. Kirk slept like the dead, and I looked at him every few minutes to check if he was still breathing. At times he drove me nuts, and that was a short drive.

My son has always been a deep sleeper. The hardest part of everyday was waking him for school. Paul and I took turns doing this when we were home. When we were away Dan, our house helper, would get him up by holding scrambled eggs and apples, which Kirk hates, under his nose. Kirk would then pop out of bed and chase Dan around the house cursing him, while Dan laughed.

We arrived at Heathrow, London not too gently, but it was enough of a jolt to wake Sleeping Beauty. He asked, “Are we someplace yet? How did we get here? Where’s here?” His eyes were still closed while I told him, “When you open your eyes, you’ll see the thousands of colored butterflies that carried us here.” He replied, “You’re not gonna trick me into opening my eyes.”

“It doesn’t matter now; they’re all gone.” I gathered all the carry-ons, “We’re the last passengers. Grab some of your gear and let’s vamoose, before the cleaners sweep us out with the garbage.”

We breezed through the red tape despite my son’s unfunny jokes. The passport clerk said to me, “A real joker ain’t he, ma’am; should be on a stage?” I replied, “And I’ll put him on the first stage back to the States.” Kirk was a bright, inquisitive teen and I loved him dearly; but he was consistently a royal pain in the ass.

After getting a porter and tow-cart, we changed dollars to pounds. Fortunately, the money-changers provided “scorecards” itemizing the exchange rates, with a caution to check the rates daily at any bank or post office.

It was suggested that we save our money for the outdoor second-hand markets, where virtually anything may be found at bargain prices. Is England becoming a second-hand nation? It seemed that way, with unbelievable retail prices, the secondhand markets became a necessity for most people.

Hotels were especially pricey. Luckily we learned about the YMCA and got a room for about $38 per night, per couple, any couple. On the whole, most everything in London is costly, while some important things are cheap. The underground, for example, is a beautiful smooth riding subway. We rode the underground from the airport to London for about sixty cents, a 45-minute ride. Shorter rides cost less.

The pool and sauna were major attractions for me. Kirk was like a kid in a candy shop; his favorite pastimes were the trampolines and chasing the young ‘lovelies.’ The Y café was less expensive than other eateries, but that wasn’t saying much.

Today we walked to the old British Museum. They featured a huge display of 1600-1900 gold, plates, jewelry, stemware and clocks. The clock exhibit was separate and included current Lucite clocks with complex but visible Lucite gears, fascinating.

While the Lucite clock attracted a crowd, with Kirk up front, the display of grand-father clocks caught my attention. Some of the clocks were nine feet tall with elaborate gold inlay scroll work. There were clocks powered by marbles rolling back and forth, functioning like a pendulum. At four in the afternoon they all chimed, but we were in the reading room by then.

In the reading room there was a small exhibit of a desk and chair that Karl Marx used while writing Capital in the late 1800s. On the table the original three handwritten volumes of Capital were opened but enclosed in Lucite with external page turners for each volume, viewed on an electronic screen. The exhibit was funded by the British Labor Party.

An almost 180-degree view of the British Museum Reading Room*

Like parking meters, visitors could insert a shilling in the slot and activate the page turners for ten minutes. A number dispenser provided numbered tickets, while the user’s number was flashed on a light board. I took number 71, while user 60 was at the screen. That amounts to 110 minutes to stroll other exhibits before my number came up.

I had my 35-mm Lica hoping to take photos of some exhibits. Instead I had to check my camera at the entrance. A booklet of exhibit numbers was provided so that I could check those exhibits I desired photos of and they would be provided at a small price, along with my camera when I was ready to leave. This is a pleasant and most efficient system. Leave it to the Brits.

At night we went to a Chinese restaurant in Piccadilly Circus. The food was excellent and reasonably priced. The mummy exhibit at the British Museum was far more impressive than Madam Toussard’s wax works, but I’m comparing apples and oranges.

Kirk’s View:

Our first day in London was great, but was ‘dust’ compared to our second day. We took our gear and switched to the Bedford Corner Hotel in Totingham Road after breakfast. Mom and I got to see the Toussard Wax Works today. To our surprise it was updated with likenesses of Jimmy Carter, Anwar Sadat, Ella Fitzgerald, Agatha Christie, Elton John, and others.

Lela Again:

After viewing the torture chambers, Kirk’s favorite, we visited the planetarium next door. The planetarium displays utilized lasers to demonstrate the aurora borealis and the “Jupiter effect” predicted for 1982, four planets in conjunction.

Predictions were made of major electrical, electronic and radio interference; but earthquakes and stuff falling from the heavens were thought unlikely. I can’t wait for 1982. The line-up of planets is between the Sun, Earth, Mars, Venus and Jupiter.

[Major problems did not occur from the predicted planetary alignment—unless we are all dead as a result. In any case, how would we know the difference between life and death?]

According to the lecturer, the Sun will make an oval orbit and the other planets will line-up in a linear configuration for a possibly strong gravitational pull on the Earth. After that cheery bit of news we dined on fish and chips, to drown our sorrows in grease.

Next day I woke early and took breakfast while Kirk insisted on sleeping-in. I sent a continental breakfast to him. He later told me the breakfast consisted of two stale buns, sugary white tea and some jam and butter. We then decided to move back to the Y, until our flight out on Sunday.

Over the next few days I took Kirk with me to various business appointments, but that was too tedious for him, so I parked him at the British Museum while I took care of business. I insisted that we meet in front of the main entrance each day at five in the afternoon. He kept this appointment each day which pleased me.

My interest was in ancient jewelry. I was able to view and purchase a selection of beautiful jewelry photos from ancient Sumer, Babylon, Egypt, and other areas of the Middle East. My business associates in Kabul will produce “knockoffs” from these photos.

It was amazing how much interest there was in Islamic and tribal art. Museums and boutiques in London provided requests for entire exhibits, and filling these purchase orders was a challenge. Since the revolutions in Afghanistan and Iran, business had been great, and I was selling everything I had acquired.

By the end of the week I had more purchase orders than I could fill. That made me a little anxious as I also had commitments in Frankfurt, Basel, and Zurich before flying to Kabul. After meeting Kirk at the Museum and shopping at a magic shop, Kirk’s passion, we took a bus to Chelsea for my last boutique appointment of the day and received a large order for jewelry and a gross of Afghan slipper socks.

We followed the news about Three Mile Island. This time it was a nuclear disaster in our back yard, what next? I believe we did the right thing, to split the family, with Paul and Erik out west, and Kirk and me going halfway around the world.

Most days in London were cloudy and drizzly. The morning of departure, we woke early and took the underground back to Heathrow Airport.

We spent a couple of days in Frankfurt, Basel and Zurich. While I promoted some purchase orders from museums and boutiques, Kirk bought items for gifts, barter, and trade. These included cheap calculators, cigarettes, pens, flashlights, and other small items. My standard gift was blue-jeans. All these gifts were forwarded to Kabul airport and held for us.

The final leg of the flight from Istanbul to Kabul, on ‘Scariana’ (Arianna) Airlines, featured a dreadful breakfast of sloppy powdered eggs, buns and jam. As we were famished, we ate it all. As we ‘inhaled’ breakfast, the blackness of early morning was lit by the gas fires over the vast oil fields of Iran. This spectacular sight was grander than the lights over Metro New York.

The huge patches of light from the Iranian and Azerbaijani (Baku) oil refinery ‘burn-off’ gas gradually gave way to the snow-capped mountains of Afghanistan. The south-western Caspian Sea shoreline was outlined by the reflection of the refinery ‘burn-off gas.’

A clear morning sunrise provided details of the massive mountains in northern Afghanistan. This was an amazing sight. Snow cover glistened on the northern slopes, while on the southern slopes fortress-like buildings were visible. These sights became clear as the 747 began its southerly descent toward Kabul.

Kirk asked me if Kabul was a collection of stone fortresses and mud huts like on the mountainsides. I told him, “Kabul is the capital of Afghanistan; it’s full of palaces, museums, government buildings, and bazaars. You’re going to love Kabul, especially the bazaars.

“You can wander the bazaars for days, and I know you will, but still not see everything. Things from all over the world are on display or under the counter. After a few hours of wandering through the bazaars, you’ll get the feeling that just around the next corner is something that’ll ‘knock-your-socks-off.’ Often, that’s exactly what happens, and it’s exciting.

“I get that feeling whenever I’m in the bazaar. Of course, I am looking for items to sell, but I expect that will be your motivation as well. The type of things that will appeal to you, I shudder to think, is likely to be much different.

“Everywhere, there are bake shops, drink stands, bread stands, food stalls, musicians, artists, and craft vendors, even magicians and fakirs demonstrating and selling their magic.” At the mention of music and magic, Kirk’s attention sharpened, noticeably.

Martin Heemskerck’s16th-century engraving, “Hanging Gardens of Babylon” with Tower of Babel*

The one postcard from the British Museum that I found most intriguing, I took with me on the flight to Kabul. I looked at the postcard as we flew over Iran and Afghanistan. Crazy as it seemed, I almost expected to see the ‘Hanging Gardens” visible off the wing of the 747.

[We lost the postcard but I was able to find the painting again on Wikipedia.]

The approach to Kabul revealed huts, roads, and terrace farms. We learned that while these terrace farms were rocky they were also quite fertile, producing substantial crops on tiny plots of land.

Fruit trees and grape arbors anchored the terrace soil. It was said that the inspiration for these terraced farms was Alexander the Great, who persuaded his army and local farmers to rebuild the Hanging Gardens of Babylon on the terraced mountains.

Terraced Afghan farms

I told Kirk that the streets had open ditches for sewers when I first arrived in Kabul. The Revolution’s first priority was public sanitation and health. Most of the open ditches were eliminated and replaced with a modern sewer system. Health clinics were popping up all over Afghanistan, even if they began in shops and rural homes.

Of course, my son was more interested in music and magic than public health. But I felt he needed to be aware of real human needs outside his own juvenile cravings. I told Kirk about the medical volunteers from all over the world.

He needed to be aware of the competition between America, Russia, and China, as well as India, Pakistan, Iran, and other nations. Fortunately, competing nations built and supplied the clinics and schools. Nations that were usually at each other’s throats competed by providing funds and technicians for roads and sanitation.

Our hotel was called Neptune’s Inn. The Inn featured hot showers, baths, carpets, a café bar, the inevitable gift stall, and now waterbeds. I had previously provided the waterbeds as gifts to the Inn owner, who was a business associate. In return, I was not allowed to pay for our stay.

Of course the Inn must provide the water, but I included adjustable fittings and hoses to fill the water-beds. The water-beds also needed heating pads under them. I still can’t believe it but we found suitable electric heating pads at the bazaar. The bazaars continue to surprise and delight me.

Like all of Afghanistan, except the foreign embassies, no alcoholic drinks were served at the Inn; however, if requested, drinks could be laced with khat, a mild euphoric. I preferred khat to alcohol as it left me clear-headed and physically in full control, while allowing me to feel good. The only problem with khat is that overdoing it may leave a person with insomnia and sleep paralysis.

I put the word out that my son was not to have any khat in any form. My government minister-partner, Mike, sent notices with Kirk’s picture to all the food and beverage sellers in Kabul. I thought it was best for Kirk and me if we avoided both khat and alcohol, and this I was resolved to do.

Noor fixed us an Afghan feast with moshak, a type of ravioli with pungent yogurt and tomatoes as the appetizer. Tandoori chicken and lamb covered with curry rice followed, pickled raisins and passion fruit in the rice was a touch of genius. Noor, Kirk and I talked until midnight about business, the revolution and what I needed to buy for my customers.

For my son, Kabul was a culture shock. He couldn’t run from the pizza parlor to the mall anymore. Even with the noisy, colorful bazaars, Kabul was peaceful in comparison with New Jersey. The big difference, I thought, was that there was little media impact and much less road traffic.

Kirk was a bit surprised at how friendly people were in Kabul. Everyone was open and chatty. While we couldn’t understand most of what they were saying, they would smile and so would we, nodding pleasantly. Mostly, Pashto was spoken here. More and more English was spoken each time I returned to Kabul, however, and with the new schools, and young women attending, English was going to spread.

Women’s education was the most gratifying change credited to the Revolution. At least that was my take on it. The schools taught Russian, Chinese, and German, in addition to English. The language programs were largely the result of funding from various nations.

As women, girls really, are coerced into early marriage they teach their children. Mike told me that mothers with children were paid a family subsidy to bring their kids to family schools. This had become a popular pursuit for progressive families. The Kalq Party, with Soviet advisors, had moved into every portion of Afghan culture.

I knew a little of the language at this point, like “Peace be with you; blessed be the name of Allah; what is the cost? Would you deceive a poor woman making her living as did Khadija the Great (Mohamed’s first wife and the first champion of Islam)?” That last phrase has helped me more than once!

After breakfast, we walked to Mike’s shop, and I gave him the list of objects that had been ordered over the last few weeks. Mike and Noor discussed the list, each noting what they could supply. I needed twenty gross of the slipper socks and Noor could get these, as well as saddle bags and kilems.

Mike took Kirk and me with him on his road travels which included stops for tribal jewelry and other art objects. As usual, Kim from the Chinese Embassy, and Kit the Australian health adviser, traveled with us in the large Russian vehicle.

The first stop was a few miles south of Kabul where roads and a clinic had just been completed last year. It was a poor town of small farmers and many vendors. While not a bazaar by Kabul standards, it provided me with some lovely handmade crafts, mostly beautifully embroidered children’s clothes. We also found some wonderful fresh melons and locally grown fruit.

Kit and Kim spent some time at the clinic, which had become a busy health center and a rare triumph of international aid. Brass plaques were everywhere, crediting the various donor nations. Most conspicuous were Russian, Chinese, American, and Swiss donations. So many nations wanted to get their foot in the door of this fiercely independent country.

Dinner at the hotel café was bright and cheerful. Here we were: American, Australian, Russian, Chinese, and Afghan friends, rivals and business associates, chatting and feasting like a happy family. Scenes like that were rare, and I was not allowed to photograph such gatherings.

While we talked, Kirk jammed on his guitar in the corner of the café. He was quite pleased with himself, having sold $30 worth of old T-shirts at the bazaar. Most of all, Kirk was aglow from the applause each time he finished a song. He was relishing the attention sorely missed in the States.

Kirk had brought some Frisbees along and played in the courtyard garden with Noor and some of his staff. The Frisbees were so popular that they now played daily for an hour or so. Within a week, Frisbees became quite the rage. The Afghans were wild for them.

I was not aware of this at the time, but Kirk had packed dozens of Frisbees that were sent ahead to Kabul Airport. He asked me how much he should sell them for, and I suggested that he give Mike and Noor each one as gifts. I told Kirk he would do much better by trading then by selling them.

For once Kirk took my advice and traded his Frisbees for Afghan hats and socks. When we returned to the States, Kirk sold these to friends and at flea markets. He became quite an enterprising guy and loved to buy and sell at garage sales and flea markets. I encouraged him to “Take it easy, but take it.”

My son became quite popular among our circle of Afghans and embassy people. With his guitar, magic tricks, and card playing, he was constantly invited to gatherings, ping pong at the Chinese Embassy; poker games, swimming, and gym at the U.S. Embassy; basketball and horse-back riding with the Russians. I suspect they find Kirk a convenient information source.

Kirk was especially happy that he kept winning at poker. For that reason I was suspicious about embassy staff pumping him for information. My son was delighted that they laughed at his awful jokes and encouraged him to tell more. I knew his jokes to be tiresome, though, and that’s why I believe he was popular as an information source.

He was having such a glorious time, getting lots of attention, and was so consistently happy that I did not want to break the news to him. I kept telling myself: ‘There’s little he can say. What tidbits of information can he provide? Let everyone fuss over him. What does it matter?’

Not that any of this was any great surprise. I had learned that we were all part of the great game of trading information. Sometimes I thought that all the merchants, traders, business, and embassy people are in the great game first, and other pursuits second.

On one of our road trips with Kim, she spoke openly of the great game, adding, “We might as well be open about it. That’s why we’re really here. All we want is information. Is there oil or not? And, does it really matter?

“I mean, really do you think our leaders care more about oil or just maintaining the power balance? I believe the balance of power, equilibrium, and global stability are their primary concerns. What do you think?”

At that, Kit burst out laughing, “OK, there’s no denying that, but we are truly friends also. We like each other and there is much information we can safely share. Kim, you’re absolutely right. Global stability is what everyone wants.”

After a few days, I registered Kirk at the American School. Here also he was popular and loved it. The students were mostly embassy kids, but there were some other European and Afghan children also. I was delighted, since he had had a difficult time socializing back in the States. I was thinking that perhaps he should remain in Kabul, but then again, I didn’t believe that would work in the long run.

Early one morning a lovely woman American Embassy staffer took Kirk horseback riding. He met me for breakfast and then dragged me to an American Embassy students’ league baseball game. While Noor and I spoke with some of the embassy people, Kirk talked to the embassy kids, especially the young ‘lovelies’ from the American school.

My son was enjoying his popularity among the American School students, especially the girls. He took his guitar with him much of the time and was delighted to play when asked. Guitar music seemed a common language among all the people we encountered. Something about the way Kirk played Blackbird made that song a particular favorite.

This was baseball season, but they played basketball, soccer which they called football, and also cricket, a favorite with British Commonwealth people such as the Australians, Indians, and Pakistanis. Of course football was the great international favorite.

Kirk brought me over to meet some of his classmates. I was mostly interested in what they were wearing. The common fashion seemed to be jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers. This seemed to be the extent of American fashion influence throughout the Middle East. They favored the heavy Afghan socks and hats, and the socks were worn especially for protection when playing football.

After the baseball game, some of the girls took Kirk to an American “Teen-center.” They spent time there dancing, singing, practicing plays for school and playing games, mostly ping-pong. One of the girls Kirk got friendly with was captain of a football team, that had won a game that day, so she was the center of attention along with Kirk and his guitar.

The American school and all schools in Kabul hold class from Sunday to Thursday, with Friday and Saturday off. Since Friday is the Muslim Sabbath and Sunday has been kind of a “downer” day, the Muslim school week works well for us.

The American kids favor football and few like cricket. They say it’s too slow, complicated and boring. I asked if there was any interest in American football, but there was little interest among the kids. They did say that the American Embassy staffers sometimes played touch football, but not often.

Strolling through a nearby bazaar, we found an embroidery stall, with beautiful embroidered silk hangings and cloth. I purchased some of these along with turquoise and lapis beads.

Kirk complained about carrying my purchases and began nagging: “Why do I have to tag along with you?” I explained repeatedly that if he wants a career in this business, he must pay attention to what I buy and what to look for.

I keep explaining that I want him to have fun, and he does every day, but he must spend time learning my business as the basis for any enterprise he might develop later on. On the whole, he’s been pretty good about all this—that is to say he has some genuine interest in my business. But occasionally he gets cranky when I’m too demanding. I think that’s normal.

Kirk spent much of his spare time hanging out at the Teen Center when not with me and my business group. He was happy with his popularity with the girls and even some of the guys. “It’s my guitar playing they like the most, I think, but when we talk they ask lots of questions, some about my family and relatives, but mostly about you, Mom.”

27
THE GREAT GAME - FALL, 1979

Our little group drove to Istalif, an ancient town about 20 miles northwest of Kabul. It’s famous for its glazed pottery and this is what we came to see. Mike and his wife were visiting family as they were both from this town.

Mike’s family had business interests in Istalif pottery and wanted me to see if any of the small decorative pottery would appeal to my clientele. The smaller blue turquoise ceramics were definitely appealing. While the cost was reasonable, shipping was my main concern, and it was difficult to visualize these lovely ceramics arriving intact.

They showed me the Styrofoam form fit packing, and I ordered a dozen pieces to see the initial reception in the States. I picked out some bowls and pitchers. They paid for special handling, insurance, and shipping. Seeing the shipping-labeling arrangements made me think that this could work, but we would see.

Istalif ceramics

Thinking that the turquoise ceramics would be an attractive addition to my displays and shows, I was less concerned about selling them than displaying them. In any case, I believed the museums would find that the ceramics added a fine touch to their Islamic art exhibits.

Mike arranged for a dinner at his cousin’s here in Istalif. He said that Kit and Kim would also be at the dinner. This did not surprise me in the least. Those two “observers” have been like ‘white on rice,’ studying the Afghans, the health clinics, foreign visitors, but mostly each other.

This is my first experience with professional “observers.” Like me, they constantly take copious notes and photos. Gathering information is what we are all about. Admittedly, I have a journalist inclination, perhaps newspaper and magazine articles, even a book.

Mainly I gather information for my business, buying and selling, making friends in both business-family and political circles. Speaking of which, I’ve gotten quite friendly with the Australian nurse and the Chinese U.N. observer.

So we all gather information, I for business and my two women friends are constantly sniffing around for information concerning what? Well it’s best we don’t go there again. While my time in Afghanistan is purely business, I’m also part of the ‘Great Game,’ there’s no avoiding it.

The Great Game is all about information. We gather it, trade it, buy it and sell it. Even my son at the American school, at the teen-center, at embassy recreations, at film and information centers; even teens chasing each other; it’s all part of the Great Game. In my years in Afghanistan I have never heard the words “spook” or “spy” used.

Today my son returned from the American information center after seeing a Disney film. He experienced the disappointment of seeing a girl he liked go off with her boyfriend.

Kirk returned to the hotel to help Noor paint a huge sign. The sign has a large picture of Neptune with a trident and in English: “Neptune’s Inn, Food, Lodging, Water Beds and Garden.”

Neptune’s Inn is almost complete, except for installing six more water beds. Kirk’s first installation filled a water bed with water before setting an electric heating pad under it. Now he follows a checklist before each step and all the water beds are properly installed.

The huge sign had to be completely redone as human depictions such as Neptune are discouraged by Islamic custom. Noor’s two hajji uncles advised him to redo the sign without Neptune. My wise-ass son remarked that Neptune is not human, but a god.

The hajjis laughed good-naturedly and hugged Kirk saying, “There is but one God and that is Allah, and Mohammed is His messenger, blessed be his name.” Remarkably, my son was respectful and thanked the hajjis for the lesson. Often he’s snotty about such things, but I warned him repeatedly to show the greatest respect for anything to do with Islam.

Now the sign has a large trident with, “Neptune’s Inn, Good Food, Lodging, Water Beds, Camping, Garden and Parking.” It took Kirk and five guys to lift the sign to an eight-foot high platform above the hotel entrance.

My son wrote something in his journal that he wants to share with the world:

Chicken Street is a long market place with lots of shops along the way, sort of a bazaar really. When Mom checked-out the copper-ware, brass pots, clothing, carpets and other things of interest, she thought the prices were too costly, maybe that’s why the crowds are at the bazaars and not on Chicken Street.

Most tourists were scared of Kabul when the fighting, really just a small riot, was in Mazar-a-Sharif, a few hundred kilometers away. That’s starting to affect business in Kabul. Now the government is dividing the huge estates among poor farmers. Mom says, “It’s about time.”

TV is only a year old and the picture is piss-poor. All they show on TV is news in Pashtun which I can’t understand. Lately there’s ear-splitting music from East Gabib, wherever the hell that is. I keep asking people where is East Gabib, but no one seems to know.

The TV was blaring in the lobby when I came down for breakfast and I made a bee-line for the café. Mom and another woman were sipping coffee when I joined them. Mom introduced me to Rosy as I stood by the table. Rosy, all beautiful six feet six of her, stood to shake hands. I felt like a midget next to her.

“Your mom and I were in high school together. I’m now on the American Embassy staff, to advertise American women’s basketball, I think. But not really, I’m officially the Cultural Attaché,” said Rosy.

We sat down and I ordered breakfast. I asked, “Excuse me for asking, but what does a cultural attaché do?” She replied, “These days I’m supposed to keep an eye on your mother and you, to keep you out of trouble.” We all burst out laughing.

Rosy continued, “Seriously, my field of study is Middle East tribal art and I’m employed to implement U.S. support for Afghan tribal art, that is, when I’m not shooting baskets. By the way we have a basketball game at eleven and need a tenth player. Lela volunteered you. If you’re willing I’ll buy you lunch at the embassy and introduce you to some cute girls, what do you say?”

Well, that was an offer I couldn’t refuse and it turned out to be one of my best days in Kabul.

I wrote Paul an air-gram about these events. I emphasized my part in the Great Game and asked him what he thought of all this. Ten days later I got a wordy air-gram from Paul. His writing philosophy is ‘Why use one sentence when a paragraph will serve?’ It was so wonderful and tediously typical of him that I am compelled to include the full text:

My dearest love, my morning and evening star, I miss you so much, my right hand aches, and I have many wonderful dreams in which you have a starring role.

Your information about the Great Game is more significant than you may realize, at least to me. It relates to my interest in ‘energy transfer systems.’ Some researchers actually use that term, the Great Game, in reference to cosmic information transfer.

The Great Cosmic Game refers to the perpetual recycling of all energy-code-information in the Cosmos. Many in the scientific community believe that the Cosmos consists of energy in a multitude of geometries and forms.

I suggest that when your group plays the Great Game, you exchange energy in the form of information. People can’t help it. We are programed, by our genetic code, to transmit-exchange-transfer energy-information as spoken words, facial expressions, body gestures, written text, pictures, music—all of which are forms of electromagnetic vibrations, radiating waves of energy.

My favorite energy source is a woman’s smile, especially yours. When you smile at me, I experience a surge of energy coursing through my mind and body. I believe photons of light from your eyes to mine switch on nerve impulses and hormones, providing a surge of energy, sexual and otherwise.

The Great Cosmic Game is how we participate in Mother Nature’s energy game. While you folks confine your understanding to a quest for the hidden knowledge underlying business and political action, you are, in fact, playing the Great Cosmic Game.

We are all players and essential parts in the cosmic energy game. In the Information sciences, words such as: energy, code, data, information, knowledge, intelligence and program are all forms of energy. Quite literally, knowledge is power or energy.

All forms of energy contain an underlying code or program, something like a computer program. It is written, “In the beginning was the word,” suggesting that in the beginning was the code, the program. I believe that all forms of energy possess an underlying code.

The Cosmos seems to have an underlying geometric “curvature” code. The Earth “spins” on its axis, “revolves” around the sun in an “elliptical” “orbit.” Our solar system makes an elliptical “circuit” “around” our “spiral” Milky Way galaxy. Our galaxy does a circuit around our system of galaxies, which in turn circuits the Cosmos.

I placed quotation marks around words indicating cosmic geometry. The fact that most galaxies are “spiral” and “hexagonal,” “pentagonal,” geometries is part of our genetic double “helix” DNA—all of which underlie our human star shape.

Is it an accident that the human body has two arms, two legs and a head, five appendages, and there are five digits on our arms and legs, as well as five sense organs on our head, two ears, two eyes and one mouth-nose for taste-smell?

Wheels are nested within “wheels,” ellipses are networked within “ellipses.” There is a basic code at the root of all these energy systems. All curved energy motion begins with Pi, the circumference of a “circle” divided by its diameter. But many other codes are involved such as Phi the Golden Ratio for “spirals” and most all cosmic energy geometry.

The human body is a massive assembly of 100 trillion cells. Each cell contains about 25,000 genes. Each gene is a set of chemical codes, programs for transferring energy between and within cells. Within all the cells are chemical molecules and atoms. Within atoms are subatomic particles, such as electrons, protons, neutrons and quarks.

All these energy geometries are in perpetual “curved” motion, because curved motion accelerates-speeds particles, renewing its energy, like a car wheel revolving to renew battery energy. Giving rise to subatomic particles are energy “strings” that are so small it would take a trillion-trilliontrillion strings to measure one meter.

It is said that “Life begins on the sun.” And, for people who can see no further than the sun, this is true. But, radio telescopes in orbit will “see” much of the Cosmos. Formations of energy will be found that also play the Great Cosmic Game.

The Great Game of Cosmic Energy Recycling

I suggest that the entire Cosmos is alive, because all forms of energy are alive, from the smallest energy string to the Cosmos itself, IT’S ALIVE! What does it mean to be alive? No real agreement exists on defining life, so my theory is as good as any other. For an energy particle to be alive it must move, reproduce and have some degree of intelligence or code.

The Great Cosmic Game is the story of recycling energy in the Cosmos. In my view, the Cosmos is a perpetually recycling, living, totality of energy:

The Cosmos expands from a compact, unstable singularity (consisting of all weakened energy) into a new cosmos at 0° curving, cooling and expanding over a 14-billion year cycle. We are now at about 180° or 7-billion years, half-way through the current cosmic cycle.

At 360° or about 14-billion years, black holes attract all weakened energy and each other, like big fish consuming smaller fish, until there’s only one “singularity,” super-concentrated Cosmos without space-time or dimension. The singularity remains in an extremely unstable geometry.

Like a tanker of gasoline compressed into a thimble, the singularity expands instantly at trillions of degrees of heat, cooling rapidly and expanding until the point of the next cosmic singularity, 14-billion years later. This is all speculation, of course.

The point is that we are all part of the Great Game of information-energy exchange. Your Great Game in Afghanistan is a real part of the Cosmic Great Game. At least that’s my take on it. Yours in horniness, Love, Paul

In February, 1979, the U.S. ambassador was murdered while a swat team stormed his kidnappers’ hideout. Since then all sorts of changes had taken place. My son brought a notice from school. The American school grades nine through twelve were going to be moved to Pakistan, probably just over the border, in Islamabad. It would be a boarding school, but the students would be bused back to Kabul on weekends. Lower grades would be moved out of Kabul.

My Afghan friends thought the shooting would initiate some type of military action. Looking across Chicken Street, I saw dozens of soldiers with rifles and bayonets. Rosy, Kim, Kit and I met for breakfast at the Neptune café. They assured me that there would be no military response and that it would all be settled diplomatically.

[After the April, 1978 coup, relations deteriorated. In February, 1979, U.S. Ambassador Adolph “Spike” Dubs was murdered in Kabul after security forces burst in on his kidnappers. The U.S. then reduced bilateral assistance and terminated a small military training program. All remaining assistance agreements were ended after the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan.

Before the 1980’s Soviet war, Afghanistan pursued a policy of neutrality and nonalignment in its foreign relations, being one of a few independent nations to stay neutral in both World War I and World War II. In international forums, Afghanistan generally followed the voting patterns of Asian and African non-aligned countries. During the 1950s and 60s, Afghanistan was able to use the Russian and American need for allies during the Cold War as a way to receive economic assistance from both countries.

However, unlike Russia, America refused to give extensive military aid to the country as the government of Daoud Khan developed warmer ties with the USSR, while officially remaining non-aligned. Following the Marxist coup of April, 1978, the government, under Nur Muhammad Taraki, developed significantly closer ties with the Soviet Union and its communist satellites.

After the December, 1979 Soviet invasion, Afghanistan’s foreign policy mirrored that of the Soviet Union. Afghan foreign policymakers attempted, with little success, to increase their regime’s low standing in the noncommunist world. With the signing of the Geneva Accords, President Najibullah unsuccessfully sought to end the Democratic Republic of Afghanistan’s isolation within the Islamic world and in the Non-Aligned Movement.]*

My sixteen year old son Kirk, told us about his day. The Americans, and especially the students, had been strongly cautioned about kidnapping. They were told to stay in groups, to go only to public places, no solo dates, and they had been drilled about avoiding kidnappers or giving out information as to their goings and comings.

I suspected they were cautious about Kirk, since he and I had many Afghan friends. For my information, Kirk wrote the following in my journal:

Boy-o-boy, everyone is going mad. To start my exciting story, I’ll tell you how I rushed to school even though it was closed. The International School for American Students was closed for the preparation of a government festival tomorrow. They were closed late this morning. Even the baseball game was canceled at Newman field.

The pathetic thing is there wasn’t even school support for the festival and Mom gave me 100 AFs ($2.25) for a taxi so that I could attend school. It wasn’t so bad since I called Rachelle, a girl from school, to go out tonight. She said at 7 p.m. her friends and I could go somewhere.

I heard that she went to see Twilight’s Last Gleaming, at least that’s what her brother said, but she never showed.

This is life in Kabul, no schedules, no sense of time. People here just come and go when the mood takes them. They are taught to be suspicious of Afghans and each other.

The Americans are kind of paranoid of military, pickets, demonstrations, and Afghans in general. The American kids say the Afghans in the bazaars always try to rip them off. But, I am always well treated. Of course, they know I’m the son of the ‘Afghan Queen,’ as they call Mom.

The Afghan merchants say, ‘Oh, I’m just happy to be a poor man, just look into my shop.’ I begin to realize that life goes on here and these merchants are the privileged class. But, outside the cities and towns, most Afghans are impoverished serfs. My Afghan friends tell me they are trying to liberate the serfs by giving them possession of the land.

I phoned Sherry once again, she’s my American connection. I now realize that she has given me many wrong numbers. I don’t know if it’s accidental or intentional. After 30 minutes on the phone, I told her I wanted Jenny’s number not Rachel’s or Lisa’s. She claims not to know who I’m talking about, until I pointed Jenny out at the baseball game.

At the game I learned that my friends would go to Marco Polo’s tonight for spirits. So without warning I showed up as the stalker. Laurie says to me, “How did you know we were going here?” I replied that she spelled it out at the game: “See you all at Marco Polo’s tonight.”

Later that evening we went to the American teen center next to the Datsun place. We danced to a disco. The place was full of big lighting effects, revolving mirrored ball and lit dance floor. I danced with some gals I met for the first time. They were from Germany and Denmark, in their twenties, I think, and really sexy.

On the bus to the hotel I talked with Jenny’s boyfriend Chris. The stupid Hercules movies were fun, we both agreed. Films like the Sinbad series give kids a magical view of the Middle East and that is about as far from reality as you can get.

Chris told me that the embassy kids were given lessons almost daily on avoiding kidnapping. He and the other embassy kids were frightened and lived with an increasing sense of fear. I told Chris that I just finished reading the Amityville Horror. I said that I would bring it to school for him. It might take your mind off the kidnapping stuff, I said.

Here in Kabul, the Afghans and the kids at the American School have no sense of the threat of pollution and nukes. At school, we learn about feudalism and serfs in Europe, but no mention is made of serfs in present day Afghanistan.

At the end of the lesson, big mouth me told the teacher that a few miles outside of Kabul we could study serfs first-hand. The teacher, a Mormon, said that we must avoid insulting the Afghan government, and that means avoiding the Afghan issue of serfs.

I told the teacher that the Afghan government is trying to end serfdom. He agreed. We are all aware of the Afghan effort, but bringing up the subject in class might be considered interference by a foreign nation, he said.

As we walked out of class, he offered me a ride to the hotel and said, “The kidnapping and murder changed everything. Now, with the Russian presence, it’s a whole new ballgame, and the U.S. will be kicked off the playing field, I suspect.

“The new Afghan government called in the Russians, and the Kalq party leans toward the Russians more and more. Since your Mom is in business with some of the Kalq ministers, she is suspect. That’s why we are cautious with you, Kirk. We fear that you are passing information about the school to your Mom, and it’s natural for students to keep parents posted about school.”

Kirk told me about this and he told his teacher that he talked with me only about the school work and ball games. He did not provide specific information about students or staff. He explained to his teacher that he was aware of his awkward position as a student and understood why he was not fully trusted by other students.

Today I was a baseball hero. I got a triple and a homer at the game this morning. I was hitting better than I ever thought I would. The next game in the early afternoon was so slow that I was able to play some tapes on my battery tape cassette player. It got so hot and the game became so tiresome that we ended it at mid-afternoon.

I was still hyped by the morning game and got a lift back to the hotel. Noor, Mike, Kit and Mom just finished their afternoon tea when I walked in with my Frisbee. Kit suggested we all play Frisbee in the cool-shaded garden. They were all quite pleased with the changes in the political landscape and said so openly.

My son is doing well at the American school. His main interest is making friends. Due to my business dependency on Kalq party officials, Kirk is only in contact with other teens at school and not after, except at an occasional movie.

I didn’t realize that I would be putting Kirk in such a position that he would receive a cool reception from American teens. Embassy staffers continued to invite my son to go riding and for basketball and ping pong. But, it was the same old story. American, Russian, and Chinese staffers continued to pump him for information or plant information for him to transfer.

The Italians and Afghans seemed to genuinely enjoy Kirk’s company. My friends at the embassies were kind to my son, but were pressured to patronize him. They viewed my son as an information conduit, and this I regretted.

Embassy staffers paid a great deal of attention to Kirk and I was grateful for that. Kirk realized what was happening, but didn’t let it bother him. In this regard he was getting quite savvy. He happily took each invitation in stride and mostly enjoyed himself in the process.

My son was reading and writing much more than he did in the States. The situation in Kabul encourages Kirk toward a more contemplative and reflective lifestyle. He was maturing noticeably and for that I was grateful. Yet, he remained a typical teen whose reading preferences included Amityville Horror and Things that Go Bump in the Night.

School events are easy to get accustomed to. Gym is now 2:15 each day and I played at grinding a softball 200 feet diagonally toward third base. I reached first base but did not get batted home. After the game I checked out an electrical transformer to amplify my electric guitar, my ax. I jammed about thirty minutes, drawing a dozen or so people.

My secret admirer phoned today. Jan and I agreed to meet at AID, a local Kabul theatre. AID is showing the film Network. Jan did not show up, it’s the kidnapping fear, I guess. Now that I have a clearer picture of the American fear of kidnapping, I don’t feel “stood-up” and I’m not angry or hurt. As Mom says, “It’s all part of the Great Game here in Kabul.”

Events of this sort provide incentive to practice guitar and spend more time with my Afghan friends. I play cards with Noor, Mike and their kids. I teach them to “count cards” in black-jack and poker, deal from the bottom of the deck and other American gaming techniques.

I told my Afghan buddies the W. C. Fields story that dad is so fond of. In one of Field’s films he’s on a train and, to pass the time, offers to play cards with a traveling salesman. The salesman asks “Is this a game of chance” and Field says, “No, not the way I play it.”

Of course, the Afghans never heard of Fields and did not understand any part of the story. First, Noor asked, “What’s a traveling salesman?” I said, “He’s a merchant who travels from town to town selling goods and bads.” Then he asked, “What’s a game of chance?” So I told him, “It’s like a gambling card game where you take a chance to win or lose.”

Now the conversation really got funny and I began to see that no matter how good their English is, the special meaning of jokes completely escapes them. Noor asked, “What are goods and bads?” I began to think how my teachers must feel with my questions in class. I replied that goods and bads refer to good merchandise and bad merchandise.

I was about to use the word “bogus” to describe bad merchandise, but decided to use “bad” instead. I thought that I’d finally explained an American joke when Mike asks, “What does he mean when he says “No, not the way I play it?”

So I tried to be patient and explained slowly that the ‘way Fields plays it,’ other card players have no chance of winning. Now my friends laugh politely. I tell them that if they were to tell me an Afghan joke I would probably have similar problems understanding.”

My son and I were getting homesick, especially Kirk. While my Afghan business associates and friends put on a great show of cheerful friendliness, to other Americans my son and I were treated with noticeable reserve. The embassy staff knew I’d been in business here going on five years, but they were suspicious of my ties to Afghan Kalq party officials.

It was obvious, at least to me, that Afghan cheerfulness was increasingly forced. My friends never missed an opportunity to praise the government, and it began to sound like some sort of political mantra. My mantra was to reply, “Yes, new clinics are wonderful. More schools, better roads, women’s rights, and ending serfdom; all are great improvements.”

I’m a progressive-internationalist, but it was becoming increasingly apparent that the freedom to speak, act, and travel out of the country was evaporating. All the bazaars, shops and stalls had to display a picture of the new president.

Red banners everywhere were at first comforting, but now it was getting tiresome and Kabul was looking as bloodshot as my eyes. It was getting to be just plain sickening. Kirk told me one day that after his last class some classmates told him that “Tonight we’re going to kill their flags on top of the hill and add blue and white lights to the red ones. Want to come along?”

Kirk replied “sure” but had no intention of showing up. I suggested to Mike that armed soldiers be planted to guard the lights as mischief was afoot. We didn’t need any more diplomatic trouble, and I certainly did not want a bunch of stupid kids getting hurt. Amazingly, no one asked me about my source of information, and it would turn out that no one was hurt or embarrassed that night, which was a relief.

School here is a new event each day, mostly triggered by the political changes taking place. None of the kids at school asked me why I didn’t show up for their “light-show.” One girl told me that they were all “grounded” last night. “Me too,” I added. She figured that parents were alerted to keep their kids at home.

Mom and I had lunch with Nazur, one of her dealers. The red banners in the café and all over Kabul now had gold lettering that translated to “Peace, Bread and Land.” Mom said that was the motto Lenin used in the Russian revolution.

Nazur gave me a large copper plate that was beautifully embossed. At his shop, Mom told me to buy an antique oil lamp that looked really ancient. The lamp is unusual and eye-catching. I never saw anything like it before.

I should have been at school today, so I excused myself from Mom and Nazur and rushed to the school library to complete my Chemistry homework. When any of us miss school the teachers only say that they missed us and ask if everything is OK, that’s the extent of punishment for absence and tardiness. Later in the day we had a game of baseball and I got two runs.

Being sweaty and tired from the ball game, I took a shower and checked out an ax for group guitar practice. After fifteen minutes of practice the music instructor made me give up the ax to another kid that signed the list after I did. This angered me and I had a long face all the way to the hotel.

That night Rosy phoned from the American Embassy asking if I wanted to go riding with her in the morning, I replied, “Great, can I have that roan appaloosa mare, Lucy?” The next morning, just as the sun rose, we rode up the mountains and onto an ancient burial site. I gave Lucy an apple and a carrot before we started and she nuzzled me every chance she got.

From the top of the mountain (the Afghans call it a hill) we could see all of Kabul. It was beautiful with the sun rising over the light-colored buildings. Ridding up the hill required pains taking zigzagging up to the peak.

As we watched the sun rise, Rosy thanked me for tipping-off Mom about the planned prank. “You saved us a lot of trouble, Kirk, and we are truly grateful to you and Lela. I guess it pays to have friends with a foot in both camps,” she told me.

We descended the mountain slowly and carefully, especially around the hair-pin curves. It was far scarier going down than going up. I kept scratching Lucy’s ears since the deer-flies began pestering the poor mare as well as us. Rosy sprayed her horse’s head and herself; then handed me the spray to do the same. Lucy snorted what sounded like a thank you.

As we trotted through small villages on the way down the dusty mountain trail, kids ran alongside our horses, screaming and waving, patting the horses flanks as we waved to them. Rosy reached into her saddle bags, tossing out candy and gum. She always seems well prepared and, in my view, she’s an awesome Greek goddess.

Passing a small army post, we waved and cheerfully wished them good morning in Pashto. Rosy stopped and gave them a bag of candy. The soldiers were delighted; they seemed about my age and were happy for the gift. Continuing on, Rosy said, “That candy is probably their breakfast.” The way they rushed at the candy, I think she was right.

My inner thighs and upper leg muscles were sore for days afterwards. Rosy said I grasped the horse too tightly with my legs; I should relax more to relieve the muscle strain. So I asked her, “How can I stay on my horse going down those steep trails?” She told me to press my heels forward in the stirrups for better control. That’s enough cowboys and Indians for a while.

Rosy took me for breakfast after returning the horses to the stable. She paid the stable boy 200 AFs (less than $5) and he returned 50 AFs, so she gave him a bag of candy and he was delighted.

I joked with Rosy, “If you’re giving out so much candy, you should provide dentists along with the candy.” She laughed and leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. She rides so well and is really agile in the saddle. Maybe she can teach me.

Later that day Rosy took me to the AID center to watch another American film, Bell, Book and Candle—it’s about witchcraft and magic, which I love. As far as I’m concerned, Ernie Kovacs and Jack Lemon are the stars of that film. James Steward is boring in that film. I think he’s supposed to be that way. Kim Novak is a delicious witch, just my type.

Perhaps the whole point of the film is that witches, by comparison, make ordinary people seem like they’re made of wood. Maybe that’s what makes witchery and magic so popular; drawing us away from the hum-drum into a temporary world we want to believe is real. Well I do anyway. On the other hand, Kabul is exciting enough for now.

I asked Rosy what Bell, Book and Candle refer to. She explained, “To start a witch coven conclave a two ring circle must be cast, usually with white chalk. In the circle a five-pointed star is drawn with each star-point reaching the border of the inner circle ring. The five star points represent the human head, arms and legs, as well as the geometry of the Cosmos.”

I think I really started something because she continued, “To summon cosmic power, celebrants must be sky-clad, naked and exposed to moonlight, preferably a full or glabrous fat moon. When all is ready, the celebrants step into the circle. Then the coven mistress becomes the Moon Goddess, Diana the Huntress. She represents the spirit of Mother Nature.

“Usually there is a horned god representing Great Pan, the nature spirit, disguised as a stag, white bull or some other horned critter. Next one must ring the bell, open the Book of Shadows and light the candle, to summon the power. The Book is read aloud according to the season and the powers to be invoked.

“Often there’s a ritual mime in which the Huntress stalks horned Pan. The pantomime ends when Diana snares Pan and a celestial marriage occurs. In the celestial marriage, Huntress and Pan are often lovers. They may couple as part of the ceremony, ending the ‘marriage’ by holding crossed hands and kissing crossed cheeks.

“The conclave ends in reverse order. The Candle is snuffed, the Book is closed and the Bell is rung. Often the circle and star are pre-drawn on a large blue bed-sheet. The circle may contain a square to represent the four elements: Earth, Air, Fire and Water. Every coven handwrites their own unique Book of Shadows. These may be similar, but no two are exactly alike.”

“Rosy, that’s beautiful. It sounds like a religious ceremony. You know so much.”

“Yes, I read a lot. What I described is a religious ceremony. It’s a nature religion, showing respect for the forces of nature. Nature worshippers believe that the Great Cosmic Mother perpetually recreates the Cosmos, all energy, all stuff, including us. That’s what we mean when we refer to Mother Nature.”

Looking at the refrigerators in the cafés of Kabul reminds me of home. Noor’s new fridge in his hotel bar set him back a bundle. It’s the centerpiece of the bar. The fridge is brushed stainless steel, decked out with flowers, more like a religious shrine. It gives the impression that everything is cleaner and fresher; at least that’s my sense of it.

I took one of the new hotel business cards, with the address: Neptune’s Inn, Chari Sedarat, Shari Nau, Kabul, Afghanistan. The card has a small embossed trident, as well as phone and telex numbers. These cards are like little reminders of Kabul.

Hot showers helped relax my tense, aching muscles, but I continued to feel the effects of horsing-around up and down that mountain. My back was throbbing days after ridding. After halfan-hour rest I was able to complete my Chemistry assignment.

The only part of school that interests me today is playing the electric guitar. I know it’s reserved for scheduled group practice, so without the guitar and not feeling well enough to play baseball or chase girls I figured I might as well skip school and feel sorry for myself.

My mind goes at about 3,000 rpm whenever I read another book about ghosts. I’m really suckered into Things that Go Bump in the Night. I’m thinking that dead people may leave some kind of energy behind. Mom and Noor saw me reading in the garden.

Mom asked what’s got me hypnotized this time. I showed the book cover and they started laughing. She said, “Come on, take a break, let’s play some poker before dinner. John is waiting in the game room so we will be a foursome.”

I replied, “Always glad to take your money.” John is mom’s Uzbek jewelry maker. His name is really Nobby Uz-Gaheer Ali, so I don’t know how the name John fits in. The poker lasted about an hour when we all folded for dinner. I was ahead $10, not bad for an hour’s work.

Noor brought in a large tray with spiced rice and pieces of lamb. They all cracked-up laughing when I asked, “Is this sheep meat?” Nobby said, “The word you want is mutton.” I asked if that was like lamb. Mom said mutton is an adult sheep. The meal was excellent, especially with the flat-crisp cumin bread.

We ate Afghan style, sitting cross-leg on a thick rug with the food tray in the middle. We took turns taking rice and meat with our right hand, eating it, and then taking some watercress from a bowl of mint-vinegar. After we ate our fill watermelon provided a perfect ending. The custom is to take food with your right hand and with your left hand—I’ll leave that to your imagination.

Nobby wanted to win back his money, so we played poker again for about an hour, while sipping chi. He won back a few dollars and was happy. By that time I was dozing off and Mom walked me to my room and bed. She was determined that I get to school the next day.

Nobby’s Wall Hanging

28
ENDINGS - NOVEMBER - DECEMBER, 1979

Rosy met me for breakfast at the hotel café one morning and told me one of the embassy staff was flying back to New York on compassionate leave, as her mother was dying of cancer. It was embassy practice to send a travel companion with the person. Rosy asked if I would consider sending Kirk with the young woman.

“Lela, as the Soviets consolidate their occupation it’s going to get increasingly difficult for you and Kirk to function freely in this country. Now that school is out for the year, why not think about sending Kirk back home? The embassy will pay all travel expenses. What do you think?”

“I was thinking the same way, Rosy. I’ve got a lot more business to attend to and Kirk is getting homesick. You’re right. It feels like the walls are closing in. I think he’s had enough of Kabul, and Kabul has certainly had enough of him. Let’s do it!”

While we talked, Kirk came down to breakfast. As he sat between us, I nodded to Rosy and she explained the situation to him. Not only did he accept the proposal, he was enthusiastic and joyful about it.

“Kirk, I explained the situation to your mom just a few minutes ago. We all agree it’s a good idea. When would you be ready to leave?”

“Rosy, I can be ready in an hour.”

“That’s great, Kirk, but we’ll need a couple of days to make arrangements. I told Lela that the embassy will pay all your travel expenses and provide you with some spending money also.”

“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! That’ll work for me.”

The travel arrangements were completed in one day. As soon as we had firm data, I telexed Paul to meet Kirk’s flight. Paul sent me an acknowledgement by late afternoon. We took Kirk to the airport two days later with his embassy travel companion and watched as their Lufthansa flight left the runway.

Prior to his flight home, our friends showered Kirk with gifts and a going away party. Kirk was ecstatic with all the attention and I told him to enjoy it while he could, since he wasn’t likely to get this kind of attention back in the States.

“I know that, Mom. I may be a little dense, but I’m not stupid. It was great while it lasted, but enough is enough. I really want to get back to my life in New Jersey. It’s getting scary around here, and I want out. Mom, you should come with us. You may be in danger.”

We all assured Kirk that I’d be fine and would be home for the holidays. I promised him that I would finalize business in a week or so and would then be right behind him.

Before leaving, we talked about his plans once he was home. My son figured he could sell film and TV rights to his experiences in Kabul.

I told him not to count on it, but give it a try; it’s up to him. I won’t have the time to help him. Certainly he has commanded a great deal of my time already.

When I got back to the States, I planned to give most of my time to Paul, Erik, of course, Kirk, and my business, in that order. I also wanted to shape all our aerograms, photos, journals and letters into a book. I was hoping Paul would take on this project as he loves to write and I didn’t expect to have much time.

With the political situation ripening daily, I expected that my Afghan business was entering a countdown phase. I asked business associates Nobby and Mike what they expected our business prospects would be if Afghanistan became fully Sovietized.

Nobby planned to move his family and business to Istanbul. Mike expected to remain as long as his export business was viable, perhaps a year or so. I asked about Noor. Mike thought Noor would return to Nuristan and his clan.

My business associates believed that whoever was in power would want to keep the flow of foreign income intact. I hoped that was the case, but I needed to prepare for other possibilities.

The night of Kirk’s going away party we had a great time at Neptune’s Inn Café. My son played guitar for us and Nobby did a hilarious dance to Kirk’s folk rock tunes. Nobby was a funny man, as well as a savvy businessman, and we all enjoyed his antics.

Nobby’s crazy dance

It’s great that we were discussing business plans and having a wonderful time, as there was no way of knowing how many more of these evenings we would have, and we were all well aware of the uncertainty.

From government gossip, Mike believed that Westerners might be expelled within the next year, with Americans the first to go.

Mike said, “Lela, at this point in our business you need not be in Afghanistan. We have excellent contacts in Istanbul, and you can travel there or have them ship your orders directly to the States.”

Istanbul and Turkey were probably the most stable areas in the Middle East. Mike expected that most of the tribal art business would relocate to Istanbul, and much of the Middle East trade was already based in Istanbul. The Iranian Revolution had accelerated this process, and conditions in Afghanistan might add to the exodus.

As Mike, Noor, Nobby, and I were discussing business plans, my son played guitar in the background. Nobby showed us a cigarette trick and then a match trick where five matches are balanced between five finger tips, he’s quite an entertainer.

My son took a guitar break and joined us for Nobby’s finger magic. Rosy, from the U.S. Embassy, joined us at eight that evening. She told us that the Afghan government had given the U.S. a year to close its embassy, but that the Indian Embassy had agreed to house a U.S. Legation on their embassy grounds.

Conditions in Kabul were rapidly coming to a head. On the last day of school, my son told me the night before that he was determined to get everything in. He got up early of his own accord, ate a quick breakfast and took a taxi to school.

He finished all his course work and handed it all in. His school record will be mailed to his school in New Jersey. After his classes were completed, he played basketball with some school chums, completing the school day with a baseball game in which he scored a homer and a run.

Kirk finally got his chance at the electric guitar (axe) after the scheduled band session broke up. He was in his glory playing for a group of girls jumping on the trampoline while he played. Then he took a taxi back to the hotel, played Frisbee and ended the day at the teen center.

My son invited me to see a film with him and that’s a first. They were showing Mastermind with Charles Bronson and Vincent Price, king of the grade B films. The film was a real “schlepper,” with Price as the misguided genius in his giant space ship. Price was determined to end war by dropping bombs on all warring nations. Why didn’t I think of that?

At the last minute, with Price about to press the bomb release, the hostages led by Bronson stop the bombing, allowing the warring nations to continue warring. While the plot and dialog seem written by five-year olds, Bronson’s charisma shines through in this ridiculous film. The kids in the theatre were jeering and providing sound effects throughout the film and that turned out to be the most entertaining part of the film.

Today was yet another holy day and foreign visitors were advised to stay off the streets and out of the bazaars during the military parade scheduled between two and five this afternoon. The parade route was posted a few days ago. The parade would march down Chari Sedarat in front of our hotel, Neptune’s Inn.

With increasing Soviet support, the Kabul government was venting its nationalistic voice. We heard that Chinese Embassy recognition was going to be withdrawn by the Afghan government and thought the Russians had instigated this. The Chinese would be permitted a Trade Mission at the Pakistan Embassy.

It turned out that other western embassies would continue unchanged. Mike told us that a thousand Cuban medical volunteers would add their optical skills to the new clinics. Afghans suffered greatly from eye ailments, especially cataracts, and this was going to be helpful as the Cuban medical community had gained a world-wide reputation for innovations in eye care.

The Cubans perfected a five-minute cataract removal procedure that was nearly 100% successful, or so they said. Cuban medics restored the sight of thousands of people in Africa and the Middle East. The Cubans made a video Seeing the World with new Eyes shown daily on Kabul TV.

One of Mike’s cousins, Hedayat, was in town with a beautiful array of embroidered tribal clothing. In particular, I believe the vests were the star attractions. These are in varied designs and reasonably priced. Below is a photo of a vest modeled by my neighbor’s son, Colin. These vests are in varying sizes and are popular with my women customers in the States.

I’m showing this vest as it became one of my best sellers. One reason this vest sold so well was that there were seams at the shoulders and arm-pits. The vests were easily disassembled in three parts and sewn onto simple shift dresses or tunic blouses. I wore a cream tunic with the vest sewn on at shows. In six months back in the States I sold over 500 of these vests.

Afghan Vests

Some of the light-weight silk festive dresses, shadries and scarfs had similar embroideries and were also quite popular. Hedayat’s clothing was like the ‘cherry-on-the-sundae’ for my business. I think it was my last major purchase before Afghanistan was closed to me.

Marxists say that when it comes time to hang all the capitalists, the capitalists will fight with each other for the right to sell the rope. I think they had me in mind when they said that. During my last days in Kabul, the thrill and fear of impending danger became real enough to touch it.

After the military parade my son had the urge to go horse-back riding on the same mountain that was so painful for him—as they say, ‘hair of the dog.’ Kirk would fly home tomorrow. Mike and Noor finally persuaded him not to go as it is far too dangerous, no kidding.

Mike said, “Believe me, you don’t want to find out what happens when Mongolian troops get angry and they’ve set up check-points at all approaches to Kabul. Travel security is now in the hands of the Soviet Mongolians. As Minister, I had to issue documents putting all ground travel under Soviet control; I had no choice in the matter.”

Early the next day, Noor appeared at the hotel leading two horses. He woke my son, telling him he got the appaloosa mare Lucy for him and that they could ride inside Kabul for a couple of hours. The riding was limited to a few streets around the hotel. There were Afghan soldiers on all street corners, smiling and waving to the early morning riders, who happily waved back.

Noor and my son, sensing the friendly atmosphere, decided to race back to the hotel. As they galloped down Chicken Street the soldiers motioned them to slow down. They stopped to talk to a soldier at a street crossing. Rather Noor spoke in Pashto while my son listened and smiled politely. After a few minutes of friendly banter, Noor gave the soldier a pack of cigarettes and they returned the horses to the stable and walked back to the hotel.

At breakfast one morning before Kirk had left, Noor had shared some new information with us. He said that Afghan soldiers were on every street corner and they all carried Kalashnikovs, not the old standard issue bayonet rifles. The soldier Noor spoke with told him that they were warned that Pakistan militants were infiltrating the Kabul area from Islamabad and were entering as merchants.

We were told that Mongolian troops were stopping every vehicle approaching Kabul and searching every inch of the vehicles, baggage, and passengers. So far, six vehicles with grenades and bomb equipment had been stopped, and two of the vehicles were occupied with women only, as drivers and passengers.

I asked Noor what happened to the people with the grenades and bombs. “Lela, believe me you don’t want to know, and neither do I. The official I spoke with suggested that they would be ‘persuaded’ to map their route back to the source. The culprits will be photographed and publicized in the international media.”

My heart went out to the women captives. I wanted to help them, but could not think how. That same evening I was invited to the Italian Embassy reception, my last before leaving Kabul. Then, at the reception, I had an idea. My buddy, the Italian legate greeted me with a glass of champagne.

By now, all the embassies were buzzing with the news of the Pakistani captives. I asked my Italian buddy if the Italian Embassy could intervene on behalf of the women captives. They were obvious dupes, and someone had set them up. It would be great publicity for Italy to push this humanitarian effort. I prodded him with tears in my eyes.

“Lela, I will try; I too am sad about these women, but they are not the innocents you imagine. They were caught before smuggling currency into Kabul. Pakistan has paid for their release from the Afghans before.

“But this time they were attempting to smuggle deadly weapons. They had the misfortune of getting caught by Soviet Mongolians and not more amenable Afghans. Let us see what we can do. I’ll let you know as soon as I have news.”

My Italian buddy mentioned that he too was a progressive-internationalist, as were most of the Italian Embassy people. He suggested it was less the Pakistanis and more the Agency (CIA) stirring up the border clashes.

Of course, we all understood that Pakistan was well paid. They were merely the bagmen in the Cold War. It was a proxy war between the Soviets and the Agency. As leftists became more powerful in the Middle East and South Asia, the Cold War was bound to heat up, as in Vietnam.

What we didn’t understand was why the arms smugglers used the main highway into Kabul. Most smuggling was not over major roads. It was an obvious setup. These women smugglers were meant to be caught.

It could just as easily been arranged by the Soviet KGB as the CIA or Pakistanis.

The day before I flew out of Kabul, after Russian tanks entered Afghanistan days earlier, a press conference was held by the Afghan Trade Ministry. Media and press from the international community crowded into a large auditorium. It was featured on TV. We all watched the media extravaganza on the café TV.

Doctor Wali, the Afghan spokeswoman, introduced the event with a short statement. In effect, she summarized the events of the last week. She noted that six women had been stopped at a border crossing and were found to be smuggling explosives into Afghanistan.

The spokeswoman mentioned, “In exchange for their cooperation and public statements, they will be released at twelve noon tomorrow at the Afghan-Pakistan border. The press conference is now open to questions for the next two hours. You may address your questions directly to the prisoners or to our staff.”

The TV scene was exciting. The six prisoners were seated at the edge of the stage with women guards behind each one. I could almost see the press salivating in anticipation.

I counted 28 TV cameras. The stage lighting was painfully bright; but after a few minutes the lighting was reduced to a comfortable level. There was no shouting match from the press. One by one, with the utmost dignity, they addressed their questions to the women captives.

Translators related each question and answer slowly and clearly. The Q & A’s were repeated loudly by translators. The captives appeared unharmed and comfortably seated. They even smiled when a question was addressed to them.

We, in the café, hung on every word. The Q & A’s proceeded slowly enough so I could jot-down most of it in my journal. In general, the women prisoners answered to the point. There was no beating-around-the-bush. They seemed well rehearsed.

The first questioner asked how they were treated. The prisoners replied they were well treated. Then they were asked if they were tortured, abused or coerced. Again, they stressed that they were well treated.

When asked why they tried to smuggle explosives, they replied angrily that they had no idea what the sealed containers held. They were each paid $100 American in advance to drive the six vans across the border into Afghanistan. They were told it was jewelry.

Each van crossed two hours apart. The prisoners admitted smuggling cash and jewels numerous times before. When asked if they thought it strange they were directed to use the main road, the prisoners said that they were assured the border guards were paid-off and would let them pass without trouble.

All the prisoners insisted they were not political, but had to support large families. All admitted they were smugglers, but had never been stopped before and thought this was a routine operation. They insisted they would have refused if they had any idea explosives were packed under the jewelry.

An American reporter asked if they considered this might be a trap. They responded that they were recruited by the same elderly woman that hired them numerous times before. It all seemed as it did many times before—they all agreed. They insisted that they had no way of knowing it was different this time.

Asked if they were promised anything by the authorities for their cooperation, they replied that they were promised a quick release and that they could keep the money they had, if they told the truth as they knew it.

Similar questions and answers were elaborated with variations for two hours. During the last few minutes of the Q & A’s, the prisoners became noticeably agitated and angry. They insisted that the media interrogation was far more stressful than that of the authorities.

The prisoners assured the media they had told the truth, repeatedly, and would answer no further inquiries. The spokeswoman for the authorities affirmed that they were quite satisfied that the prisoners told the truth as they knew it.

The spokes-woman was asked if the Afghan authorities suspected any group behind this event. She replied, “Yes, we have more than suspicions, but cannot elaborate at this time. As soon as we have gathered definitive evidence, we will release it to the world. Thank you all for attending. This ends the press conference.”

The remainder of the day I spent with my business partners in and around the bazaars. Business in the Bazaars was booming. With the appearance of armed troops, everyone was stocking up, not knowing what will happen next. Back at the hotel, Hajji’s kids played Frisbee and climbed the Apricot trees in the garden. We had fresh apricots with afternoon tea.

I still found unusual odds and ends, purchasing what I could and telling the merchants that I hoped to return in the spring. But we all had our doubts. My merchant friends insisted on “gifting” me. They tell me, “Lela, my sister, we all pray for your return to Kabul, but if it is not to be, please accept these small gifts as tokens of our esteem and love.”

I’m scheduled to fly out at 10 p.m. this Saturday, so Noor and his hotel staff planned a grand departure party. Kit, the Australian nurse, arrived with her woman friend, a Russian Major. Kim, from the Chinese Embassy, and Rosy, the American Cultural Attaché, walked in together chatting amiably.

Rosy towered above all of us, women and men. She told me about a conversation with Kirk after they saw Bell, Book and Candle. He wanted to know how come she knew so much about magic and witchcraft.

As Rosy told me the story, I became embarrassed. He often does stuff like that, but all heads turned toward Rosy expectantly. Rosy was prepared and smiled broadly:

“I told him, after we saw the film that I expected a question of this sort sooner or later. But I’m surprised that he waited this long. I explained that I have a degree in Anthropology and did my doctoral work in Cultural Anthropology.

“My specialty was Nature Religion or Natural Religion, as I prefer to call it. My thesis dealt with the ‘Manifestations of Nature in Religion.’ In the process of devoting years to my research, I’ve become a believer in Natural Religion. So that was the short answer to his question.

“Natural Religion, Why we are All Believers is my most recent book and has become something of a best seller. The Embassy recruited me because of my research into tribal societies, as well as my background in geology. The Afghan effort to become part of the global political scene has not been without difficulties for other nations.

“Afghanistan has long been a magical place, mainly because this nation is so poorly understood, even by the Afghans. If we consider magic as that which is not yet understood, then Afghanistan remains a truly magical place. Calling Afghanistan a nation is a “stretch;” more nearly it’s a hodge-podge of tribes. The Afghan tribes need little excuse to battle each other.

“Specifically, what makes this nation so magical is the fact that it has been, along with Turkey, the pivotal point on the Silk Road for thousands of years. More significant from a global perspective, Afghanistan shares borders with Iran, Pakistan, and the Soviet Republics of Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, as well as China and India.

“In a sense, it’s strange that a landlocked nation is the gateway to both the East and the West. Stranger still is Afghanistan independence through the ages even though the nation is strongly influenced by all its neighbors. And the neighbor nations are just as strongly influenced by Afghanistan.

“Afghanistan shares many cultural influences with India, Iran, and Pakistan. Turkmen, Uzbek and Tajik influence is strong in the north, as is China’s influence in the northeast. Pakistan and India provide a major influence in the south and east.”

Even with the short lectures by the various embassy representatives, the party was great fun. Kit pledged eternal friendship and support from “our Soviet friends.” Mike added that support and expansion of international commerce remained a primary goal of the new Afghan government. Other embassy staff offered similar promises of support—promises, promises.

My merchant partners were well represented. Principally, Mike and Noor, Hedayat, Nobby, and John, the Uzbek jeweler, were also present. Mike’s brother Hyder attended with samples of embroidered silk wall hangings. My Italian admirer, now a world-renown artist, stopped by, as did Razzi, my copper and brass supplier.

I wore a beautiful green silk dress with a light, diaphanous hood and neck scarf. Kim had given me this dress since I admired it so much on her. Kim wore a gold embroidered vest I’d given her.

Laughter was in the air, as was hash and Bamiyan Green. Nobby’s dancing inspired many of us to dance. Toward the end of the evening, we were all like teens, joking and singing old songs. The gathering broke up after two in the morning as the guests said their goodbyes and we all wished each other well.

As I sat down exhausted, Kit sat next to me. She assured me that I was welcome to return to Kabul whenever I liked. I told her that it was my understanding that foreigners and especially Americans would no longer be welcome.

Kit assured me that she and the Russian Major had prevailed on the Ministry of Trade and Commerce to provide visas for selected merchant friends of Afghanistan, and that I was at the top of that list. I was flattered and said so.

I told Kit that I thought this would be my last trip to Kabul, but now that I was officially a merchant friend, I would like to return in the spring. Kit was happy about my decision and kissed me on both cheeks.

My son wrote in his journal about his last day in Kabul:

“Sentimentalities come and go. It’s hard to choose if I prefer living in Kabul, in the face of the dangers or to return to the States and the radiation hazards.”

Mike and Noor assure me that the violence will grow as Mujahideen from Pakistan continue to infiltrate. They tell me that no one is safe. Foreigners, and especially Americans, are becoming prime targets.

That settles it for me. Mom knows what’s coming and wants me out of the way. Mom says she will return to Kabul in the spring and that is likely to be her last trip to Kabul. Every time she comes home she says that, “For sure, that was my last trip.”

Mom believes the present government will last through this year at least. But she insists that the Islamic radicals are more of a threat then the Afghans realize. Kim, the Chinese U.N. observer, said that the Russians will either invade in full force or pull out entirely by the end of the year.

Kim thinks that American support for the radical Muslims will grow as long as Russian presence grows. Mom asked Kim what China will do. Kim believes China will sit this one out. China will continue to supply humanitarian aid, but will sit on the sidelines, as far as taking political sides. She insists that China is now fully independent of Soviet influence.

Yes, I want to go back to the States, but Dad’s latest aerogram informed us that he’s going to Atlanta on business for a week or so. Dad considers Atlanta his home town and has many friends and kin there. That doesn’t bother me. By now I’m kind of used to Dad’s weekly business trips. In fact, I’m somewhat relieved that Dad will not need to question me.

I will provide Dad with my Afghan diary. This will give him a daily account of my life in Kabul. Mom and Dad insisted that I keep a detailed daily diary and I’m glad I did. Like Dad, I enjoy writing and it relieves much of my nervousness.

Mom prepared me for the reality that my vacation is over and I will no longer be the “star” of Kabul. I’ll no longer be the center of attention. I’ve listed my friend’s addresses in my journal and plan to write often.

The morning of our departure, I emerged from my room all packed from the night before. Noor was standing at the café entrance, greeting me with his usual salute and bow, his morning comedy act, which always cracked me up. After I stopped laughing, I asked for corn-pops and chi for my last breakfast at Neptune’s Inn.

Noor told me that Nobby is staring in the first Afghan comedy film and that he will also be in the film as Nobby’s side-kick. Noor asked if it was OK to use some of the jokes and tricks I gave him in the film. I’d be honored, I replied. He will try to send me a copy of the film. The title is “Two Fools.”

Noor sat down with me, bringing a glass of juice and a parting gift of posters for my walls at home. In return, I gave Noor all the tricks I had left, including the stink bombs and farting pillow. Our farewells complete, we piled into Jaloni’s VW and drove to the airport. It seemed like everyone on Chicken Street was waving, and I was half-way out the window waving back.

The U.S. Embassy woman I was accompanying back to the States was waiting for me in the airport lounge when we arrived. Some of the embassy staff was there to see her off. Between her friends and mine, we were quite a large group.

We zipped through the red tape in record time. I jokingly asked Mom if they were trying to get rid of us. She said, “Yes, they’re in a hurry to get rid of you—pain in the ass.” Ma kissed and hugged me then we both burst out laughing.

LELA: I remained in Kabul until the last week in December. Leaving Kabul for the last time, my first stop was Tehran, then Istanbul, Frankfurt and London. I did one day of business in the last three cities. At Heathrow I stayed at the Skyways Hotel. The Afghan Ambassador to England took me to dinner that night.

For me, the Skyway Hotel was a palace. The hotel had legal slot machines, as well as soda and liquor machines. There was also a bazaar of shops, cafés, movie theaters, a bowling alley and an excellent swimming pool. I didn’t have time to explore all those, but I did get in a swim at the hotel pool. Thankfully, they didn’t make a chlorine bath out of it as does the Y.

The photo below shows me arranging a museum display of Afghan crafts. Since there was only a small space allotted for the display, everything looks crowded. I was pissed at the space limitations, but did the best I could in arranging and tagging things.

London Museum Display

The next day, after five phone calls and another business dinner, I finally caught a flight to Newark. After two days at home, Paul and I attended a cousin’s wedding.

Lela and Paul at a Wedding Dance

You can read about my war experiences and last days in Afghanistan in the first chapter, How It Ends.

29
AUTHOR COMMENTARY

In 1978, with the start of the Afghan revolution, Lela and her business partners realized their enterprise was drawing to a close. Over the next two years, when Lela returned to the States, it would be with Afghan ‘tourists.’ The ‘tourists’ were her business partners who needed to seek residency in the States while making preparations to immigrate to other nations.

During the 1978 to 1980 period, Lela helped her business friends relocate their assets to the States, resolve their health issues, and apply for immigration status at various consulates. It seemed only fitting that, just as Lela had been the guest of Afghan families in their country, they would be her guests in the States.

By 1978, it was evident Russian support for Afghanistan was less a threat than tribal rivalry. Russian presence was merely an excuse for tribal war lords to renew their endless attempts at gaining the upper hand.

At that time, tribal war lords adopted the guise of sectarian Islam. Tribal wars became jihads, wars against unbelievers, and jihadists aligned with tribal war lords. Few understood the overall situation, least of all the war lords and jihadists. The international community suspected each other of instigating the violence. What did they all want?

With Lela’s last exit from Kabul in December, 1979, it was no longer safe for Westerners in Afghanistan. As the Russians became increasingly entrenched in Afghanistan over the next decade, tribal warfare increased, and Russians and their Afghan allies became targets.

Support for tribal religious antagonists arrived from the recently successful Iranian Islamic Revolution, Pakistan, China, and covert sources. During the 1980s, Afghan business people began to leave Afghanistan, mostly for Turkey where they could live in relative peace.

Those associated with Lela’s tribal art business trickled into the States on established visas, staying at our ranch in New Jersey. These Afghan visitors would remain at the ranch for weeks or months, until they were allowed to immigrate to various nations.

One question remains: Is there an ocean of oil under the Afghans? As of this writing, there’s still a war going on in Afghanistan. Why are they fighting? The belief persists: Afghanistan floats on an ocean of oil. Are there still people who believe this? You bet.

As the book describes, Lela and I communicated often while she was in Afghanistan and I in New Jersey. Our aerograms dealt with: her business on the Middle East Silk Road; love on the Mating Road; the human need for adventure; pursuit of hidden knowledge; and going walkabout.

Some go walkabout physically like Lela. Some, like me, do it in their head. In any case, we all journey on the great cosmic road, in one form or another.

I believe the creative nurturing of feminine energy is the prime cosmic mover. Fortunately, in most families women are not only the creative force, but also the ultimate decision makers. To the extent humanity survives and progresses, credit must be given to the women and mothers creating families and recreating humanity.

Perhaps this is why The Afghan Queen is about powerful, loving women. Lela created this story, and the bold brilliance of many women and a few men have fleshed it out. I, the stay-at-home writer-husband, fashioned what she provided into a story that is about one woman, but is meant to inspire many. It is the power of love that wrote Lela’s story.

I imagine the Cosmos as the Great Mother, creating and nurturing all her offspring. I can hear Lela say, for the umpteenth time, “Now honey-love, don’t go mental on me. You’ve got a lot of work to do before we meet again.”

I hear her voice in my dreams singing her favorite song: “We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when, but I know we’ll meet again someday.”

I’m still here and working, but Lela has moved on. I believe she is watching, and I hope her story is an inspiration. Lela would say, ‘Follow your dreams, quests, walkabouts, whatever and wherever they may be.’

Paul Meinhardt, March 6, 2013

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END NOTES

* Photo / text from Wikipedia.org.

[i] The cruel indifference of Soviet Mongolian soldiers, providing crowd control at Afghan Buzkhazi games, exceeded the excesses of the Buzkhazi players and that was saying a lot. Given the prospect of Mongolian ’engineers,’ the landlord completed all repairs in three days using local Afghan craftsmen.

ii Rather than pull out, the Soviet Union occupied Afghanistan in full late in December, 1979, and did not completely withdraw until 1991. The major was most likely not informed or was providing a cover story for public consumption.

iii http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soviet_war_in_Afghanistan.

iv Historical note: Soviet Mongolian soldiers, while officially regular army, functioned as mercenaries. They were brought into situations of a severe or threatening nature and given free reign. They rarely knew the host language or customs and were seldom concerned or sympathetic to host people.

[v] An important part of Paul Meinhardt’s family research involved in-depth examination of mating rituals. The basic purpose of the family household formation, he believed, was to produce offspring. Lela and her gang friends, although married, continued wearing the Red Hook Sharks jacket at social gettogethers. It reminded Paul of a grand display of peacock feathers. In fact, there was no denying that sporting the Red Hook Sharks jacket gave the women an aura of exciting sex appeal. He realized that the jacket was part mating ritual as well as self-protection.

vi Real names have not been used in order to protect all those involved.

vii Petroleum has greased humanity since the first people found surface petroleum tar pits. It didn’t take long for primal people to discover that the waxy petrolatum kept their skin warm and also the skins they wore. About the same time people discovered that wounds healed faster with the waxy-stuff.