The Afghan Queen: A True Story of an American Woman in Afghanistan (23 page)

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.

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.

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.