Afghanistan1, Herat > Mazar Herat, October 29, 1970 Thursday [71]

We woke and dressed quickly – Pat wriggling inside her bag to avoid watchful eyes of turbaned roommates. The place looked very gray under morning light, but didn’t stink as I thought it might. I trotted up to the post office after finishing letters over watery cocoa and reading the sad news in Iran propaganda rag. I posted a card to Roberto [Laneri], letters home, Sohrab, Jawad in Qom, Esmail. I spoke to perky little (5’0”) green­eyed brunette from Seattle with a nice smile; she and a friend has stayed 7 months working in Hong Kong after a few months in Japan. Now they are hurrying with two blokes to Europe. They nearly had their pants down in Pakistan. Naïve and with that ineffable American west­coast twang, she was spunky and determined. I carted their heavy Samsonite suitcases up the back of their bus to Mashhad. The road to the border was real Iran – flat, bleak, brown, telephone poles without number, [hawks on every pole], squiggles of whirlwinds and tumbleweeds. Little brown birds with exclamation points on their heads [larks?] Lots of tourists began accumulating at the border: there were 12 in a Willys Jeep on the Mashhad <> Herat milk run! And the steering was bad, and another bloke worked the shift. We were surprised to find newly made [tarmac] road all the way from Mashhad to the border, except for a couple of washed out bridges (over wadis?) I can’t say I’ll miss Iran much. But these English blokes are telling us that a steak and chips costs the same in good hotels as kebab and rice does in tea­shops – 50 rials. I’m incredulous, but excited! Herat, cut the beef for us!

Many turbaned heads crowded at the Afghan border, which required four stages – initial check, personal declarations, carnet OK, insurance check. The Iran border took two hours, mostly a wait for the carnet man to arrive; the Afghan border took 2 hours of solid pressure. I withdrew with Proust, finishing Madame Swann at Home – ominous feeling of insidious backgrounds emerging.

The first impression of Afghan men is one of proud poverty – they wear their tatty, dirty clothes with aplomb and noble air. Pat remarked how their eyes were soft and luminous. There were no women about to my knowledge except a few foreigners – a chubby dark­eyed French girl with two Jap[anese].

Some buses passed by us (coming) – what buses! Sawed­off post­War Chevvies with body and cabs built­on bought chassis, seamed cabs with wooden doors, box­like, decorated with elaborate painting and scrollery. What a howl! And stuffed to the brim with turbans! Sometimes 5 in the cab and 2 (even threee!) layers of people in the back, luggage piled dizzily on roof and tied with string and hope. We must have seen more than a few with 100 people at least in them; none were not­packed, nor did we see any private vehicles other than the odd jeep. What a change from Iran, surfeited with taxicabs and public transport and buzzing, buzzing.

There were large herds of camels munching nonchalantly on either side of the road, more as we approached Herat, a few in caravan formation tied nose to tail. This certainly looks more Arab. American road pretty good, not over­wide

because so little traffic (half foreIgn, half local buses). When it dips to allow freshet crossings, it changes to concrete slabs caulked tightly rather than grainy asphalt – bridges hardly worth [the] bother except over less seasonal streams. Brownish grass already seems more common and full.

We arrived at Herat mid­afternoon, nearly missing it around a sharp curve where a London­Pakistani new Fiat was sideswiped by lorry and 75 people were standing around looking sad and helpless. Down a dirt road beautifully lined with maritime pines and huge crumbling brick minarets, 2 each side. No cars to speak of, all dirt road, surprisingly small town, maybe 25,000 at a guess (third largest city in Afghanistan!) Cabs are horse carts with back seat, huge wheels, much decoration of harness and whip (red balls of wool) and fine pinstriping and ‘chromework’ on the wagons, not to mention bells. Very snazzy, must have a ride!

The whole place seems very cheerful and relaxed, not driven like Iranis by some vaguely dissatisfied new Western strivings. After we spoke to Hashim, a very garrulous and demonstrative student of 20 who ran a tiny contraband shop next to our hotel, we spread out our towels in the room (with a view) and Pat and I took off to explore the town.

[Beyond the border, lunch was rice, a hunk of meat, a tiny bowl of meat and orange potatoes, bread – 13 Afghanis (Af)! Less than ½ of Iran’s price. A pot of tea with finely granulated sugar (requiring spoon, eliminating melting on tongue) holding about 3 ½ glasses is served up for 2 Af. [Rials 75 to $1, Afs 83 to $1.] The meat was wholesome and tasty, the rice somewhat less fine than Iran’s, and a bit less of it. This fee, unlike just over the Turkish/Irani border, was a fair, cheap price. That says a lot.]

We strolled along and stopped for shoelaces – weak red ones or skinny black ones, no white. These blokes sold all kinds of stuff. If they didn’t carry it – razor bladz, pomade, elastic – their buddies did. It was the case, as always, of adapting one’s services to suit the customer. “I’ve got you now,” they seem to say, “sit down and I’ll bring you whatever you want.” We had overlong teas which we left in wooden, rickety, poor tea­shop­eatery, blokes working [there] very tatty indeed. Only clean thing they tend all to wear is the turban, often with a long piece tailing down back (to cover face in dust storms?) No older men walk bareheaded in the streets, some younger men wear caps indoors or out, children bareheaded. The women wear elaborate pleated chadore with screen over face so they’re completely covered. These are either slate blue or green and have embroidery on the front [bodice?] Old women wear plain shawls, their beauty has faded. We were greeted cheerfully by kids, who gravitated around us, but older people were civil but left us alone. Pat is pleased because the men don’t ‘undress’ her. We circled around behind the hotel to catch a glimpse of huge old crumbling castle [fortress] – unidentified, what a pleasant change to know nothing of a town! A few small kids came over like timid animals, very grotty. One little girl had big green eyes, another little boy held hand out for “$10 baksheesh.” We distributed pine nuts to those wanting them.

We climbed the steps to the rather low, unimposing but pleasantly tiled

mosque. [tiny floor plan drawn] The main iwan faced south, but men in courtyard near a ground­level scalloped pool faced west while praying. What’s going on here? The tiles were very finely done, in soft blues and greens. Some kids came over, two beautiful intense sisters, MALIKEH (Connie Botvin) and LOTIFEH, carrying funny anvil­headed little brother wearing turquoise earrings. They were dying to talk to us and were very friendly, learning our names and repeating them. Another bold little vixen kept demanding pine nuts, I gave them her three times. Then an old geezer with a big stick chased us out of the mosque area, and we gradually lost our entourage. We smelled pine wood in a lumber stall, I pulled the tail of a sheep, we watched a man weaving chadore material with a nimble shuttle and bells and creak all very musical, and had other nice brief impressions.

We priced a cart at 50 Af per hour but decided to put it off. Every student we spoke to was well­mannered, polite, genteel, affable, and could speak English a hell of a lot better than the average Irani. The method makes all the difference: here they encourage speaking English in the classroom and a good deal of the teachers are not Afghans, but [troops?] supplied by the American Field Service. Must check that. The Americans know they have Iran economically by the balls, so they lavish their teaching staff farther East, where there is much alignment with Russia and China. Very goddam crafty.

At the tourist hotels were nothing but tourists, nor were they to be found anywhere else but the tourist hotels, practically. We ate at one and spoke to two large, dumb, naïve, affable English blokes on their unusual road to Australia. The one from South Africa reminded me of Barry MacKenzie in Private Eye [magazine]; being a bit high on the hash we smoked before leaving the hotel, I couldn’t take them at all seriously and effectually ignored them. Pat said I was being ‘aggressive’ which means ‘loud’. I certainly felt ‘no pain’. We had spicy roast lamb in big chunks and brown rice for the high fee of 25 Af (at least 50R in Iran). They don’t put onions with it here. The tea is weaker, but a whole pot gives at least 3 glasses for 2 Af (6R). I spoke to a few American kids, one law student from NYC who dropped out.

We discussed why so many came here and what their purpose was – to clean out their heads from over­population, over­industrialization, mass media, traffic noise, pollution, coercion, inhumanity. And to refill it with relaxation, kindness, hasheesh, and natural living. An inexpensive and necessary respite from the ills of Western Society. In a country that is effectually pre­tourist, in that bargaining is not only possible but encouraged, English seems to be more fluently spoken; but [it is] used for real communication and compliment not for hard­selling; the population is gracious and neither oblivious nor overbearing toward the visitor, but exceedingly cordial.

We looked at coats after dinner for 2 hours. They are sheep or lambskin, embroidered in triangles around edges, but more arbitrarily on the surface (to cover blemishes) with varying thicknesses of wool, color combinations, collar optional but rare. We found that they were overpriced here at $15­20, and were recommended to look at Karsahar and Qazni. Maybe, maybe not. I’d like one, but one that fits (difficult enough) and fits my specifications.

Retired with visions of sugarplums. Herat, October 30, Friday [80]

Pat and I got off to a late start by cuddling in bed a long while, but the town beckoned, and we were off. Split a tea with rose­petal biscuits and a piece of sesame crunch, grabbed camera, and headed for minarets. The pine­covered street was so wide, restful, pleasant, that I didn’t mind dust kicked up by rare passing vehicles. Everybody under 25 greeted us; the older men would give us a pleasant nod if stared at, as with their seedy clothes, superb turbans, silky beards, and deep eyes they frequently were. There were several men sitting in light in small shop around galion with rolls of bright cloth behind, whom, with their permission and a slight flouncing into order and attentive gazes, Pat snapped.

At the traffic circle was a bread shop with underground oven, getting same effect as clay (not stone) ovens in walls of Iran. Good reaction from crew—bought half a loaf for 1 Af. I get the impression that the money is really of secondary importance here – that enjoyment and satisfaction of the customer is paramount and the money, well, that’s almost just a gesture of the customer’s pleasure. This may not be at all the case, but it’s a credit to the Afghans graciousness that it even appears so at first glance. (The man who sold us sweets insisted that we try them first.) We passed a large, green grassy area behind mud walls, shortly thereafter we came to a large park of pine trees with some apparently untended grass and flowers laid out near the Sultan Hossein Mosque. Within three minutes there were 6 or 7 young students squatting around us, asking questions about English, with none of the lackadaisical nonchalance of Irani students, who speak badly and rarely want to know about grammar. Before we knew it, a joint (hash) was rolled and lit and I was buzzing my dome with one or two of the lads. I felt like Socrates sitting in the Agora surrounded by associates asking questions or discussing philosophy.

Then we ambled toward the mosque, and a young tousled lad with square face and deep eyes said “hallo” and showed us he knew English. He had the tiny wizened ragged old man give us the key and we went to the top where we had a fine view over the pine tops to the minarets – worn, faded, points of blue and white left, looking eroded from about 20’ down as if by heavy flood­tides. He asked me about America, and I gave it to him straight: some good, some bad. Wine and hasheesh are not all bad, either, but too much of either is bad, at least for Christians. The old man asked us later if we wanted to go inside, so we did, along with 30­ish German couple we saw buying coats last night. He expected no money, and was quite content with the 1 Af we gave him and a couple more from the Germans. Compare with Sultaniyeh, where the man pressured us for 10 rials each, after fleecing a sardine­tin of Germans for God­knows­how­much. It just doesn’t seem to matter here so much. Avarice is an acquired taste, and these people are unused to it.

When we went to the minarets, 50 guys were clambering into an old truck with 3 head of cattle. With the crumbly brown minarets as a backdrop, that was

too good a picture to miss (Pat.) An old man came up and asked us how we felt. My immediate reaction was to ask Latif if he wanted a handout! And, not too good himself, the wizened leathery old bloke wanted to know how we felt! We rested in the shade of the minaret as the truck hooted off, waving.

Behind some mud huts I heard shawm and tambour, so we headed to hear the music. As we walked along the shady side of the green stream, with mud walls either side (suburbs), Latif hailed a lad who said a baby had been born. As we crossed the shady stream, the band looked up, and the 20 kids who’d been chanting around them came roaring over with a cheer toward us, with a chorus of high “hello” and “goodbye” in rapid, alternating chanting. I was overjoyed at the sight. The musicians were extremely tatty and all looked character parts out of Ingmar Bergman medieval scene. The leader/drummer struck up a tune. Their intense looks and quizzical [expressions] again struck me as the expectancy when money is a question. It was not here. They went thru a couple of lively tunes (one in 12/8), less than a minute each, and the kids cheered. I got a solo from the reed­man – a wood small oboe, double reed, brass fittings at neck and bell [see tiny drawing], thumb hole in back. Played it covering holes with second knuckles. All turbaned, dark, clownish, and the camel­faced dancer prancing and mincing with raised veil looked initially like he was ‘putting on’ a woman, but apparently it is a very straight and graceful dance step for a man. Music frenzied like final celebration in Boris Godunov [Prince Igor?]

We walked back into town after Pat petted doggy and I noticed one or two pretty little girls and one lad who waggled his finger by his nose as he said “goodbye­hello.” Latif asked questions about America, if he could go there. Little boy had a wasp on a glued string. Kites were very popular here, but not a one did we see in Iran. Says something about mentality, aspirations, and temperament.

Latif’s house was in a double courtyard which ­­ with 11 brothers and sisters, and some nieces and nephews ­­ the family may have occupied all of it. He surprised me by saying that many people owned the detached gardened square­cut houses. It was clean, neat, with a large central garden, the little nieces were not snotty and dirty, if barefooted, his brother was a commercial court judge (balancing civil and Moslem law) and his father had been governor of Herat (his distinguished face was in an oil portrait in the posh living room – a dignified, intelligent administrator). Latif brought us excellent winey tea with hel in it, like rose­petal water, strong green buds of something, also flavoring most sweets, candies, and the ice­cream in Teheran (ecch).

One of his nieces looked like a small Mopsy Matthews, with long face and sad eyes, but a smile. A couple of tiny brown­eyed ones were very bashful, and Moslem influenced, were hiding their faces when looked at even at [age] three or four. An unfortunate cultural discipline, the chadore. We stayed a while; the elder brother seemed to dominate with his enduring presence despite his inability to speak English. But – a judge at 30! Well.

We ate lunch with the tourists ­­ a necessity, as Ramazan has begun – at the Super Behzad and talked with Ed, a New York Jew with frilly hair sticking out like Arabic inscriptions, large fish mouth with droopy eyes, pleasant easy

disposition, like so many, traveling alone by public transport. Pat and I exchanged $5 with him and after a light lunch, grabbed a horsecart for half an hour. It was pre­bargained at 20 [afs] and the guy later tried to strongarm us out of 10 more, but we flatly refused, and he seemed to appreciate our determination as a show of strength against his unfair intimidation, for he smiled. It was bouncy, Pat up­front, me looking at what we passed, a long swing down by the cinema, shining like a Chelsea Georgian house, by the Great Mosque gardens blue and green, palely beautiful in full afternoon sun, waving at everybody just a bit or smiling, though the bazaar, whose every shop front was an idyll to be remembered (photographed), distinctive, specialized, down­to­earth, all wood­framed, set a foot above the dirt path and that above the dirt road and trickling gutter. A large shoe area, dry goods sellers (beans, nuts, soap, milk balls, raisins), and an enormous street perpendicular to the glorious W. iwan of mosque, filled with second­hand clothes – racks of American sports jackets from 10­20 years ago, from San Diego, Bloomfield, Far Rockaway, Harris Tweeds, Fifth Avenue. Not to mention Army jackets. I was enthralled at such memories of Cambridge’s River Street emporiums.

The mosque, which we examined but briefly, was not very big by Isfahan standards, but seemed huge in this small town. It was one of the most elegant and beautiful I have seen, with very intricate, harmonious tile patches – like carpets, but not like Afghan carpets (coarse and uninspired design) with delicate blues and greens interwoven exquisitely. There was nothing crass or hard about it, as in some places, like the Madressah at Shiraz. A very transcendent beauty it was, and eclipsed only by the personal involvements at Herat, for we spoke to Fred in the great courtyard, sitting by the east iwan, discussing points of grammar and the beauties of Herat, etc. Pat remarked how the boys parrot English: immediately repeat phrases, words, whether for their own memory files, or to appear alert, or what, I don’t know, I didn’t even notice it. (Probably because I talk too much.)

We must have had a look at some coats later in the afternoon, because I spent so much time agonizing over prices, places, types, etc. After I tried on Wolf of huge proportions, I decided to try to knock it down to $30, but wasn’t sure if it was right [to do so.] Rarely am I plagued by such indecision regarding clothes, but the investment seemed an important one because of outlay and necessity. The shops were colorful, with scraps of skins on floor and maybe a workman or two, with a few entrepreneur­interpreters running the show. Far more and better English spoken here than in Mashhad. We had a liver kabob for 1 each at the chaharbahr and went to the hotel, where Richard was ensconced among Hashim’s tinned meats.

At Latif’s house that night we ate with him in the living room unattended – he brought in a huge tray of rice, tomato­garlic ratatouille, spinach and some very awful pieces of goat, tongues and some unidentifiable black, split piece, which smelt very gamey and was all fat and gristle. The rest was good, we ate in silence, he with big eyes, [me] picking up rice in my fingers as he did. (The music, suggested by me in the afternoon, was less successful.) When I

expressed surprise [and appreciation] at eating at his house, he replied, with polite force, “But I told you that you would be my guests.” He brought out a nasty little Indian squeezebox called an armonia, which was a table­model accordion made of wood, played with one finger, and a tambur, a long sitar­like instrument [drawing inserted] with four drone strings in bad tune, one missing. The melody strings were tuned in unison, and Latif could make but a feeble twang on it. He was obviously embarrassed. His brother noodled aimlessly on the armonia, and, apart from a few simple vocals (one on the 1­3­4­5 of the C scale plus trills) there were few points of contact and really nothing for me [on clarinet] to bite into.

But Pat enjoyed herself, and the little girls provided some amusement, one banging with coy rhythmic abandon on the tambur when Latif had a turn at the armonia. We gave up after a while and made some talk. I tried to sound out the brother on the discrepancies between Muslim and civil law, but apparently there are few. Stop. Near ten, I decided it was late enough. Ramazan had started at 5am. The Muslims cannot take any nourishment, water, smoke, or sex between sunrise and sunset for a month – this closes all tea­shops and restaurants (except tourist places.) They rise at 4:30 if they want to eat and touch nothing until 5:45 or so at night. So Latif and his family would have to be up before dawn for breakfast. We bade goodnight to his brother (30ish, handsome, bespectacled, rare), his daughter (5, pig­tailed, big­eyed, shy), their niece (12, sallow, pretty, with deep squinty eyes, practical chick, graceful, mother­ish, annoyed Latif when she told him to hush playing), another niece (9, pretty, sharp, warm­looking).

We walked back in the clear, chill night air. The town seemed in a mist from the hanging dust, but the sky was bright. It’s hard to imagine this as the second city of Afghanistan – a dirt­paved town of 25,000 maximum – where Mashhad was several times larger, newer, faster, richer, and maybe the fifth city of Iran. But Herat has an endearing charm about it which we could find nowhere in Iran. A few beggars and dogs huddled in the dark. A few horse carts with side lamps on the right passed jingling. Herat, October 31, Saturday [90]

A day when impressions and surprises taper off, and one simply begins to live the city. It takes a few days in any new town, a week or more in the country, [to absorb the rhythms and sounds and pace.] You accept the things you see more, take them almost for granted, but appreciate the quality of them.

I had a haircut. A long wait in the first barber shop while a boy scalped his friend, had goldfish in the central pond kiss his finger. A barber shop without water! Shave you with 3 cold drops and lather. Later – sun on white shop, two cahirs back to back facing mirrors. One turbaned old man with long gray beard, bare feet, long white gown carefully clipping young man in pure white with pale, Irish face, short silky black hair. Much quiet chatter, pausing, no hurry. Half an hour for me in the chair. As I read The Fabulous Concubine (purchased for the exorbitant price of 20, as Hashim reported, near Mosque yesterday for Pat) mounds of short, thick hairs pile up in my lap. My barber was taller than I, thin,

yellow, long bean head like Negro, piercing but kind eyes, slow, careful motions, huge feet. I paid double without a tremor – 10 afghans!

It reminded me of waiting in Grandpa’s shop, a comforting nostalgic feeling, in the sunlight, carefree, occupied with good reading. I know why [Dr.?] Miller raves about this book: direct, full, rich characters, vivid not stereotypical, slightly epic in form and size, but succinct and powerfully (and not overbearingly) written. Pat wanted to go somewhere, so I opted out on the shave.

She bought a bright blue blouse with an embroidered bodice ­­­ liking four, narrowing to 2, but not being able to chat down the price from $4.50 to $3.50, she bought only one. I said it was nice with her eyes. The proprietor had smallpox scars on his face, as many younger men did, looking precisely like the stone­oven Irani bread, waffly textured, not terribly ugly because so regular. I offered my striped green beach shirt as a trade. He said he’d bought his wool red­check hunting shirt at the Clothes Mart by the Mosque for 50 afs. The label: Twin Falls, Minn. No market for my shirts in Afghanistan, I see. But people were hounding Pat for her camera, and me for my watch, though they seem plentiful enough hereabout.

[Note at top of page in capital letters: Spitting on floors and walls encouraged. Carpeted areas treated rough – not investments but utilitarian.]

The price enters into the discussion of things with people from whom one buys coats, but does not take precedence or importance paramount, at least in polite bargaining. As more and more tourists insist on closing sales immediately, however, the proprietors will become more hardened, peremptory, and less congenial. To some already bargaining is a pain, and they’d rather not bother. The fellow Arif from whom I nearly bought a plain green­collared karikol lamb coat the first night was an amiable, funny sort, a friend of Hashim who steered us to him, garrulous, insistent, with a soft streak, genuinely affectionate, business after friendship. The chap I finally did buy my coat from was not a bargainer, but gave a good price immediately and would not come down. I liked a puma breast coat that was too small for me; he said he’d enlarge it by tomorrow when we wanted to leave. That meant cutting up another coat. I hemmed. I hawed. I wanted more clips; I wanted good stitching. Okay. I wanted to drop the price. $30 was too much, though I didn’t believe it. He was firm and looked me in the eye and challenged me to find such a coat cheaper in Herat. [spell check will not let me write anything but Herat!] (But what about Kandehar, what about Qazni?) Fuck it, I said, fix it and I’ll be here in the morning. Pat and Richard gave tacit approval. Pat I think liked the coat on me.

We kept running into that German crowd (Shaharabad­Kord) in the yellow Mercedes. That skinny chick with the page­boy was pretty, and that soft­eyed blond fellow was very affable. The Swedes across the hall form us at the Jami Hotel kept asking us if we wanted to smoke some stuff with them. I had a few puffs the first night, but we didn’t get together again. Faces of young tourists kept appearing and reappearing in only two hotels along the main drag, and rarely elsewhere. Most did not have cars, but there were plenty around town – Rovers, Minbice [sic] mostly, for the hard trek. Richard met Phil and Lynn again (Isfahan

camping) and they and others were taking the rough, long, but beautiful northern route which Richard surprisingly decided to take. Mazar­I­Sharif was 4 days over hard roads, at least. But Gaspar and Noelle had approved of it strongly, and it seems more adventuresome that taking the American­Russian autobahn to Kabul.

Herat had few fruits (anar, grapes, beh) and poor bazaars without precious gems or gold. The opulence of Iran was really gone. Tins and packages of foreign goods, however, were to be had though sometimes dear. Tins of Argentine corned beef (20), Dutch pork meat (25), Coke (30!), Canada tonic, quinine, mixer (all 26), Droste Cocoa (50), Hashim’s Italian wine (200), Carlsberg beer (60), Russian tinned milk (20).

JAMA GUL’S SHOP (across from Gulshen Barber) NEW CITY HERAT AFGHANISTAN

Amladek, November 1, Sunday [95]

A hammam was scheduled, but I opted out to smoke some Nepalese shit (1st quality!) with an outspoken New York head. Funny how American kids refuse to say where they’re from. They want to deny or negate their past so bad, or have been on the move for a long time. Smoking to forget is not the answer, but to relate past to present to future. You don’t wipe out the first 20 years of your life – you have to account for it, accept it and make it work for you. America can be approached more profitably once a soul can move away from it for a year or two and cleanse the heart and mind and get perspective. Inside, the rat race sucks one into compromise after compromise, until life itself seems rented, temporary, second­rate, like moving from flat to flat, paying the dues.

This guy thought Katmandu was the greatest, and Buddhists from Tibet and Nepal the world’s greatest, most human people, who breathe understanding and peace. I hope so. He also said that food of all kinds was available because of large numbers of foreign nationals (who indulge themselves wearing native dress: Italians doing Julius Caesar, Spanish conquistadores, French salonistes, sombrero­heads, Kaisers, etc.) He said 25c a day is sufficient for good living. He and his curly­headed French boy lit up a chillum, a clay French horn/tuba mouthpiece filled with two weeds and a healthy lump of dark, subtly spiced hash. It hit me right away, and rose to my brain, disengaging my clutch and unhooking my head. I walked back to the hotel like this, high and mighty fine.

Then I spent 2 ½ hours at the bank with half the other youths in town. No wonder Jomehgol doesn’t like Travelers Cheques. I had a non­rap with a chubby, ethereal­faced Marylander, and a superb crap (bicolored) perhaps precipitated by fading hash. Nobody talked to each other in the bank, a large, new, empty, vapid, silly­looking place. One typist took 15 minutes with each form. I cashed $30 for the coat and $30 for the kitty. The square had gardens and a four­horse fountain

like a tiny Trevi, but looked pretty nice with all the turban­heads sitting around it. Note: the turbans are sometimes shiny bright, sometimes raggy. In smaller

towns, even small boys wear them. They make a pin­head look very noble and fine.

Richard got himself a cheap ($12) coat and wild fuzzy hat. We’ll need them. My coat fit good and looked good. All I can do is trust and hope. I took his address and told Jomeghol (“Friday Flower”) that I’d let him know how it was. He seemed a bit hasty this morning, but it had taken a lot of redoing. I had no complaints, just the ever­resent[ful?] qualms as I paid him 2500 afghans. I appreciate the good work. If I could get it for $5 less, I wouldn’t care; it was custom­made and I think a fair deal. Time will tell (I wasn’t happy to learn last night from a sour­grapes competitor that lynx was finer, softer, and scarcely more money.)

After a false start, we went out of town on the bank road. The going was quite slow and we saw camels. More tomorrow. As it got dark (3 hours) we pulled off the road to the south where there were several mud huts hunched together from the north winds whipping over the plain from the reddish hills. [At one point we were disoriented and lost in the sandstorm, but a few locals happening by on foot and camelback led us into a mud village.] We were quickly invited into the 1

domed mud hut of the local teacher, distinguished by his height, long face, lean frame, Persian lamb hat among a laundry of turbans, and his ability to twang the dutor.

We were watched from road and rooftop as, in the thickening dusk, we fried onions and meat, made soup, and goats passed into the town by the narrow place left by the river, little girls already shy and shawled giggled overhead. They watched every move we made with utmost fascination. When we had eaten inside, tea was after a while brought with lemon drops. The room was crowded (12­14) and we were on display. Not a woman or girl was seen nearby. But giggles and peeks came through the 2” hole behind our heads as we undressed later about 10pm.

They came with a radio for a while, then the teacher reappeared, greeted us, with a one­eyed young fellow and a dutor, a smaller, flatter version of the tambur. Both of them played it quite well, the teacher with real nervous gusto and stern concentration, but with an ear for what I played, and an appreciation. After most pieces, begun and dictated by them, he laughed and shook my hand. They took turns, the one­eyed fellow singing huskily sometimes over Kingston­Trio like drone, in a rather broad 4/4, sing two bars, play two; the teacher attempting faster, more intricate stuff, sometimes in 6/8, or I think 7/8, and singing rather more sharply and nasally.

We had only our candles, which dro[i]pped hopelessly on the rugs they had laid for us, and a Feuerhand German lamp. There were two little boys, one with large, frank eyes and a button­nose, very pretty, and one with arched, mischievous deviltry­bent eyes and a longer nose. Someone had brought a tray

1 Inserted June, 2016; I‘m surprised the unusual circumstances didn’t make it into the journal. fb

of anar and skin was chucked into the dark corners as these were eaten greedily. Snuff was passed, bad green snuff, strong and hot, even a few kids took it, and later spat it on the walls. When Richard produced 6­af cigarettes, they leapt on them and cleaned him out. There were long silences before and after the music, and a good deal of trouble clearing the place out when it was deemed proper for us to retire. In fact, they were more tired than we, up at 4:30 for Ramazan breakfast.

The music by me and either of the men on dutor and one or the other (or the English student, who, looking at me and pointing to the teacher, kept saying “You are a teacher!” ­­ no more English!) playing our plastic water carrier (empty, top off) as a drum, was the most satisfying session I’ve had in a long time, certainly better than most of George Adie’s narrow little sessions in West Kensington or at 49 Bury Walk. I jived better with this strange music than with his. Most things were tuned to D (my ©) but the young chap tuned one of two to F# (my E) which was a bit trying, since I’m so out of shape. We slept warm and quiet, though there were suspicions of bedbugs, Pat being bit.

Idereboh, November 2, Monday [101]

Eggs were readily procured for a nice onion omelette to see us off. Tea

was duly brought. As soon as the door was opened, ten turbans crowded in to watch us dress. I had to shoo everybody out so Pat could dress decorously without shimmying into her trousers in the bag while all ogled. They readily complied, understanding teacher ushering all out with alacrity. All eyes were upon our activities without. The fire was difficult because of the strong north wind whipping down from the stark silent hills far across the road. Dust puffs billowed up from nowhere like tube steam in the city from culverts. The same faces appeared, the same dogs barked, I guess the same donkeys brayed, little girls stared from the low rooftops and hid immediately when their presence was acknowledged. When I cleaned out after the party – dust, pomegranate rinds (no pips), spat snuff –the worn raggy rugs fairly flew in the strong but not really cold wind. When Richard drove the teacher up the road towards his school, Pat and I walked eastward without ceremony, over hill and gully, waving behind us over the dusty plain. (I don’t think waving is an accepted form of salutation here, though a small salute gets response; frequently they’re just so surprised, they don’t react quickly. Smiles are rarely returned, too, just intent, sizing­up stares. Maybe they find little to smile at in this rugged, difficult land.)

We huddled by a mud wall because the cold went through Pat. The old patrician who’d sat with us last night (and had the authority or gumption to ask to handle my clarinet) wandered out of his magnificent white blanket­cape with enormously long sleeves. He looked kind, thoughtful and scholarly, like a wizard might, with a suggestion of a twinkle in his creased eyes and a philosophical tug of his gray beard. He gave Pat his long quilted undercoat and told us to relax. Richard was gone a good half hour; it turned out it was 6 miles, not one or 4km. We saw his dust across the hilly plain long before he rattled into view. I was a bit

relieved; thought he might have been asked to preside over our English lessons. We went through some interesting and engrossing country – first the

irrigated village with trees and with fresh channel weaving under the road. Then big hills stained green and violet with large chunks of rocks, an odd assortment of strewn stones. Later we came upon a huge gray valley spotted with dusty green firs, gnarled as olive trees with blasted bark. There were mixtures of two types of terrain: long parallel lines of strata, mainly horizontal (but sometimes dizzily oblique or even occasionally chevroned) or with increasing frequency – smooth conical half­pyramids emerging from the cliffs, at first under the strata, later lowering into rolling mud hills.

The slowness of the going imprinted the memory more – the road itself was constantly engrossing to all of us, except when I shut it out, as I frequently did, reading Fabulous Concubine. At one point I remember a roman candle of red gorse flaming and sputtering down a hillside steeply. There were soaring short­beaked crows and perpetual ubiquitous [house?] sparrows. (are they everyplace in the inhabited world?) There were also gopher holes (one or two showed his head) and the pointed­headed road runners (?) I remember a huge rectilinear section of a Chinese great wall, beetling out of a hillside, then sharply truncated. It looked to me more like a ruin than a natural thing. I weaved a narrow dusty track between mud hills of smooth, curiously curving shapes, veined in crossing grooves by wind and dust.

We pulled into a tchai­khaneba – the first we’d identified since the border – just before Ramazan went off; a mat was brought out and tea served right away, just as we like it, hot and muddy. Inside was like the great underground city of Nevsehir – narrow brown passages dimly lit and windy, with a deep kitchen. The salon was long, narrow, and dim, with caged kavuk at one end and bed rolls at the other. A few tiny panes of glass served as windows, like in our town the night before, just enough to serve. There were several truckers sitting about (indistinguishable in turbans) whose brightly decorated vehicles blocked the road outside. Some were cooking their own grub – fine, brown chunks of lamb, bread, and other things, supplied with own bag of cookies and Afghan tea candies (Sugar and hel in shell shape) both of which they doled out freely to us.

We were stared at as we ate (chicken lumps and meat broth with our bread), as we had tea, as Richard nosed me at Greek pinochle. I wrote my truant diary by the dark of an oil­lamp for an hour or more, stared at all the time, even after everyone apparently retired. The bloke nearest me had his blanket lifted and was surreptitiously watching every flourish of my biro. What amazing patience and concentration of these people to be able to watch me write so long! Can they hope to learn anything? Could they better use their time in discussion? Perhaps they don’t in fact use time but just let it flow, take its course. We found stopping for directions annoying in that people don’t seem to respond in words, but in affirmative or encouraging monosyllables whatever we may be asking them. Misapprehensions are common – misunderstanding orders in restaurants, requests in shops, this on the most basic levels of communication. If we could only sit and stare at these people, and absorb some of their peacefulness! I think

we have more to come to understand than they do.

Qaisar, November 3, Tuesday [106] We were the last ones out except the kavuk. There were large poplar

beams covered with branches for a roof. Richard had a pre­Ramazan cup with the truckers, two of whom slept in superb heavy bedrolls. Leaving, they bashed our right front mesh lightbox [Land Rover?], not a very kind gesture. We were off before full daylight broke over the hills. The early scenery was impressively grand and unusual. After rounding a bend we came on a sharply sunken Great Wall, and another like this [see drawing].

Then a long sloping rocky river gorge, suntopped, with a layer or two near the top. We spotted a lone eagle, black by the high bank who, upon spotting us, flapped slowly to a higher perch. There were wild diagonal zigzag strata before it all opened out onto a split­level, hilly plateau. Another high straight­strata gorge had a fast rocky stream which we crossed several times and then stopped while R & P washed, I continued to write. While we moved I read FC, an engrossing clearly written book. Then suddenly a village tucked against the bare anatomical mounds, with spidery spined tents sprawling with long guy ropes and the cubical domed huts. We came to a wide, blue plain’s edge with the Murghab running swiftly – there stood a single Fairy Chimney solitary beetling over the hill. Maybe after many thousand years this top­layered cliff area will be[come] like Telve or Urgup. A small village by the river – red cotton stalks standing crazily, stripped or being hewn with sickles and tied onto donkeys. Trees on both sides of the river; camels grazing with apparent disdain, but extremely skittish near the car if led or tied.

NOTE: Another day when Beatles’ “Because” (among other music, like the Scherzo of Beethoven’s Eighth) ran through my head.

Drawing: River and mushroom like fairy chimneys. The better part of the afternoon we wound through a very dusty track tight

between smooth mud hills, very dry and crackly with a tailwind whipping [dust] into the windows and our noses. I tried reading with a hanky over my nose. We saw one or two of the gaily painted trucks and climbed the hillside to make room for them. We stopped as Phil and Lynn passed and arranged to meet them at Qaisar. There were about 25km of constant villages (scattered mud huts) and long leafy lines of autumnal trees in greens, yellows, and browns. The road was scattered with the leaves, one or two blew into the car. It was very reminiscent of New England, and I half expected to see a white frame Congregational Church with a steeple instead of turbaned blokes on donkeys.

In Qaisar, a nondescript little berg with six lorries sitting in front of a spanking­new white­front tchai­khaneba, the road to the large white deceptively posh­looking hoitel was the same. The garden and surroundings were large shade trees, all furiously shedding their leaves in windgusts. Phil was there working on his gray/cream petrol Rover. They are an enviably efficient pair, who have made admirable food provisions (butter, cheese) and are careful not to miss

interesting things as they go along. In Herat they saw the mosaic ‘factory’ at the Great Mosque, a small group of talented old­timers who bashed old tiles, plates, glasses into pieces to make the gorgeous flowers, vase, bird, abstract designs which cover the entire mosque. They started from near­scratch some 35 years ago. Pat and I noticed the carpet­like designs on the W. iwan were done in [Irani / Arabic numerals, 1960­1.] A truly beautiful and harmonious enterprise. How sorry I was to have missed it. They also saw a place near Urgup not only in better shape but less touristicated than Goreme. (Ilhara, west of Nevsehir). For future reference, next time doing Turkey.

We shot the bull with them, Richard in his furious P.W.E. cleaned the car, why I cannot tell; we pumped water out back for various things; I extracted Turkish slippers for padding about; we fixed thin stew from the few bits Pat and I got at Murghab (waspy mutton, ruby onions, chicken cube) where they hacked mercilessly at the carcass; no finesse or sense of cutting cuts.) Our host was skinny, dark, and a bit sinister young chap. It took 1½ hours to produce tea, run in from the village. No lights of course; we used Phil’s hurricane lamp for a while. The chat was the usual: road, destinations, observations. Phil has a very droll turn of phrase, made some hilarious remarks. We split a good tot of brandy (Phil mentioned it and I pulled it out) and retired early, Pat and I on the cold floor. I had a bad itch from the flea powder we put in at the tchai­shop this morning and suspects of nibbles last night. I often sleep less than ideally, but I think it’s the continental change of location and floor contours.

NOTE: Afghan bills with underworldy Muhammed­Reza Shah (?) on the front. After Zeto, Ataturk & Shah, it’s nice to find a [truly, openly] unpopular monarch! 1000 = grey. 500 = brown or gold. 100 = red. 50 = green. 20 = blue. 10 = rust. 5, 2, 1 = aluminum.

MYAKHAN = PADABABA = DOWLATABAD = FARYAB = AFGHANISTAN = Signed : Gol Sahib

Padababa, Dowlatabad, November 4, Wednesday [110] We had coffee on our back­end [tailgate] while Phil and Lynn tucked into

eggs and fried bread and cocoa at table and chair! Too bad Richard got to plan it all and was not a breakfaster. Oh well, we’ve had our chances to buy things, and don’t.

We got to Maimana without incident, and I spotted a shoeshop, where I went over and tried some heavy leather clogs on. They felt great after three months of tennis shoes. They were obviously sturdy and well­made, and I liked the color (red and brown) and the pointed toes. But he wanted 200, which I thought excessive. Pat and I tried to buy fruit, but we were shut off with raisins. I came back, and a competitor offered a similar pair for 150. I tried them on and

walked back to the other shop, only a few doors away. I had gathered a crowd of a few older men and several young students.

NOTE: What is an ‘afghan’ in the west? In our worry to bargain a ‘good

price’ and to buy­and­run, we forego the joy of the exchange relationship, and may poison these simple, straightforward people with raw acquisitiveness and ‘doing others.’ Or they can teach us, again.

The fellow still kept at 200, but then the guv’nor came by and said OK at

160, which I wrote on his door for confirmation. Richard and Pat had driven off to find food, so I had no bread, and the man had me write my name on the heels to be sure of his sale. Then I got one of the students to write his name (Olamnabi) inside one of the shoes, a signed artifact. It was all very jolly, sitting down with the man, middleaged, white dirty turban, black stubble, humongous eyes, triangular face, and all the kids around. The cobblers sat about 3 feet above the street surface, so I sat just a little way onto their doorstep. The shoes felt free and airy, despite their weight, and they were far better made. I brought the others back to his competitor and with my smile, nod, and hand­on­breast, I refused them. When friends returned, he changed 500 as all watched. I asked if it were a fair price, durust? which might of course mean it was what we had agreed on, and everybody nodded. Passers­by on donkeys smiled at the transaction. I leaped into the car with hard stomps.

We ate little thick round wheat breads (7” diameter) and corned beef and tomatoes, while dust whipped round the car. The terrain was more dust hills, quick bending mounds, veined and covered with short gorse. We passed several camel vans of various sizes – donkey­led, nose­to­tail, 5­6, even 10 maybe. Camels are large and supercilious­looking (that’s been said) with long hanging lower lip, crooked yellowed teeth, a long circular munch, two­toed padded feet, large frowsy hump, short and very curly brown hair (one beige adult), bad breath, B.O. (heresay), knobby knees, deep sad eyes, long dusty lashes which droop halfway to make a blasé look, long nostrils (but not hooked like donkeys’), a horrible grumbling groan, or mournful singing moan. Their trot goes from side to side, a rather awkward sway; their gallop throws back feet out askew, while the front two paw for mileage (Lynn’s report.) I think they’re rather comical and relaxing to watch.

After we paused at a crossroad to determine the road to Ankhoy, it really started to blow up. I guess you could call it a summer blizzard, for it behaved in some ways like snow. The sand made little eddying drifts, powdered the windshield, bogged the car, obliterating the road. The sky was brown all around, vaguely white overhead, visibility as little as a couple of feet, but you could make out vague outlines of tents, camels, men swathed in fluttering rags.

NOTE: Rain days en­route: Ljubljana, Larisa, Űrgűp, Caspian Coast. We decided we could hardly go on shortly after we examined a stuck truck

in the howling gale. We hailed a few blokes with camels, and one of them indicated backwards for a place to sleep. We followed him (a kind­faced delicate fellow) for about 10 minutes at a walking pace, when he indicated we go off to the right. We went, expecting him to follow across a gully but we lost him. We then doubled back to find him, it was weird tracking him through that thick fog of fine dust particles. He came on with us, carrying a long, thick white stick and wearing a long, khaki officer’s coat with varied gold and 1 Afghan buttons (so many have a bit of solder on them). He was like Virgil leading Dante through terrible parts.

Near Mazar­I­Sharif A 7’ wall enclosed caravansaray emerged shortly, and a few windswept

forms came out to look (not one woman.) A tall 6’3” well­built graceful man with blue flight suit and snowy turban and piercing eyes greeted us; he was our chief host, Myakhan. A shorter, handsome dark fellow with very regular features smiled at us, dressed in casual frockcoat. He was Solimahmet, and since he appeared to understand our few words of Turkish, we communicated primarily with him. Our guide (Muhirrim?) was far more poorly dressed and did not appear to know our hosts very well, but since he had brought us to them, he was a guest for the night as well. We were ushered ceremoniously into a long narrow building (perhaps 20’ x 10’ x 10’) with poplar beams and woven mat ceiling. The floor was covered with thick mats – one was very thick white wool blanket nearest the far wall; a few small panes of glass let in darkling light, and the sand crackled against them. Attached at the entrance of the courtyard (where camels stuck their heads in a mountain of cut furze, and dogs lay), this building must have been a standard guest house.

Solimahmet unfolded and spread thick mattresses of bright flowery patterns and indicated we should sleep there. We were profuse with ‘grateful noises’. Then we sat in a small patient circle, gradually discussing in a tentative, shy manner our birthplace, nationality, destination, cities in A. we’d visited, one utilizing gesture and analogy as felicitously as possible. Water came in milled metal Pakistani goblets in a holder for six. It was vaguely muddy, but we drank, as we thirsted. They gave us tea, muddy and yellow, but possessed of a marvelous subtle flavour, and knobbly sugar candies with almonds within! Pat downed a pot and a half within moments.

We sat and looked at each other with calm peace, I hope. I smiled too readily perhaps in my own uncertainty and this makes people quizzical or amused at times. Pat keeps her deadpan aimed at the floor in her shyness, but observes quite a lot I miss. Richard peers about, smiling a bit myopically in general good will. Slowly each group began to talk among itself, but with reference and occasional question to the other. In fact, we did most of the asking; they perhaps felt it was impolite, extraneous to real considerations of absorbing by vibrations and eyes, or maybe they found it difficult to get things in edgewise or express ideas adequately across language barrier[s].

Dinner arrived; we really felt more like honoured guests than ever – the hand washing ceremony performed by Golsahib (young lad with large nose, quick smile, huge wrinkly turban) and we tucked into three bowls (we 3 on one) with tasty chunks of good roast meat [sheep?] and wheat bread in wet, hot stuffing­like sauce, not as nice. We were very surprised and pleased, and they enjoyed our reaction.

Later came the village radio to entertain us. I’m sorry it was not dutor and tambur, but Radio Peking was rather diverting with blatant anti­Japan, ­Russia, ­Formosa, ­America propaganda, pro­Chinese horn­blowing about being over quota on tractors, and blood­thirsty marches, meticulously translated and replayed! I registered horrified amusement which got chuckles from men. We noodled with the fine tuning and Radio Kabul flitted in and out. There was the Pushtu hour (emanating from Kandehar). All these people were bilingual, and understood things like tesekkur ederim, pure Turkish [for thank you]. (I heard it later from a corn­hawker at Balkh.) Farsi is spoken and understood, but Pushtu even more. It uses Arabic characters, but (I think) Russian (or Persian?) forms, morphology. We learned no new words again, never having got the minimal amount of Farsi that would leaven increased knowledge.

The crowd tapered gradually, a small dormouse of a boy with large eyes being the first to be shoved [off] to bed. When the last of them (Solimahmet) had shaken our hands goodnight, we three crept under our heavy covers and slept solidly. Our guide slept by the door, a respectful distance. We had given him a tube of Anthisan when he showed us huge raw sixpence [dime­sized] welts from hornet bites. Pat remembered Gaspar and Joelle had said they’d given away all their medicines. I can understand it. We felt very good at such a tremendous presentation of hospitality. I think Solimahmet understood what I meant when I said, “çok misapirpervir.”

Fresh re­edits, fb, 6­15­16; words = 9370.