The Afghan Queen: A True Story of an American Woman in Afghanistan (12 page)

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.