Sunrise with Seamonsters

by Paul Theroux

  "The cheapest country in the world," said a French boy. "Hah! It is not so!"

  "Someone said he got fifty-two."

  "You call that good?"

  The conversation continues; it is circular, studded with rumors, and inconclusive. The oddest thing about it is that it is taking place in the wildest part of Afghanistan, where only thistles grow. Money is the unlikeliest subject here, but it is the only subject, because it seems as if the hippies are being priced out of the country, and like restless speculators in a time of crisis they find they are being driven to different places, to Pakistan where the rate is fairer, and to India, where at the Mohan Singh Bazaar you still get (so one fellow remarks with a touch of confidence) eight and a half rupees for a dollar.

  An Asylum in Kabul

  On September 7, 1973, a Dutchman, an Englishman and a Canadian entered Afghanistan from Pakistan. They had come from India and were driving what might have been a stolen Volkswagen. Their knapsacks were in the back seat. Outside Kabul they picked up an Indian hitchhiker. They drove to Kandahar and then to Herat, where they dropped the Indian and found a hotel for themselves.

  Herat is a good contact point: it is safe and changeless. When the hippy is confused he refers to Herat's Message Board: "Patrick it's behind the mirror", "Je reste à I'hôtel Yaquin depuis Le 12—Chambre No. 1, t'attends", "Couldn't go Northern Route. Left for Kandahar Mon Sept. 24th. We'll be waiting...", "Estoy en el Hotel Shaib", "Dying to see you. Peace, Judy", "if we are not there on the second look for note at Mustapha Hotel", "Hope you don't look like this from your dysentery [postcard with skull on it]. Get well soon and—contact me in London to hitchhike Scotland." And there is the occasional telegram, such as the following, which I eventually decided was a birth announcement: "TRUE HAS SOON BOTH WELL NUM."

  Sometime on the evening of the 10th, the travelers looked for their knapsacks and discovered that the Canadian's was gone. Concluding that the Indian had stolen it for the money and passport, the three went to the. Herat Police Station.

  It is not clear what happened then. The police would not say later what exactly took place. What is certain is that when the police asked for identification none of the three could produce it. The Canadian, whose name was Peter, grew violent and attacked the policeman who told him he was under arrest. They were handcuffed, and because Peter was especially violent, he had leg-irons as well as manacles.

  After being held for three days at Herat Police Station, they were taken in the back of a truck, handcuffed and lying on the floor, the bumpy six hundred miles to Kabul. This is at least a twenty-hour ride and must have taken two days. The Englishman and the Dutchman were released with a warning; Peter was held. "And we could hear him yelling," the Dutchman said.

  About a week later the Dutchman was walking down a back road in Kabul and saw, quite by chance, Peter shambling in the sun, still in his handcuffs and manacles. He was being transferred from one prison to another, though at the time the Dutchman thought he was just being allowed some fresh air. He was surprised that Peter had not been released. He felt it had something to do with Peter's bad temper. He told the British Embassy.

  The embassy official who saw Peter a few days later said that he was certain Peter was insane, either from the ordeal of the Afghan prison or else an imbalance of long-standing. Peter was raving, and he showed signs of having been badly beaten. The embassy official secured Peter's release on the understanding that he would be committed to the insane asylum in Kabul, Sanai Hospital, a crumbling wreck of what looks to have been a mission hospital; it is on the far side of Kabul, behind one of the rocky hills that ring the city. The British official cabled the Canadians in Islamabad.

  It was from the Canadian Third Secretary, a man I shall call Albert, that I heard this story. We were in the Kabul Hotel, a marble mausoleum built by the Russians in the 1950s. Albert was nervous. The police had not given him any help, but had said Peter had assaulted them. And there was a further problem: assuming the legal tangle could be unraveled, how was it possible to get Peter out of the country if he was raving mad?

  "I hate going up to that nut house," said Albert. "I get depressed."

  "I'd like to have a look at it," I said.

  "You'd have to be crazy to want to go there," said Albert. He realized he had made a joke and gave an embarrassed honk of laughter.

  We parked in the shade of the asylum to keep the car out of the hot sun, and posted the driver nearby. Albert had been warned that patients sometimes tried to hijack visitors' cars. The building was a low one-storey affair with a corrugated iron roof and thick bars on the windows on which patients clung, staring out with large eyes. Their heads were shaven, their faces were grey, and some—clutching and balancing like monkeys—yelled to us as we passed by.

  We were admitted by a fat sad-looking guard in a faded blue smock and skullcap. He shut the door after us, and secured it with two bolts and a padlock. I took one step and the stink hit me, a high stinging reek of putrescence, piss, dampness, mold and stale food. The chattering patients, all in dirty striped pajamas, flocked over to us. They were skinny, many were old, but although their eyes were wild and their teeth rotted to fangs, they did not appear to be violent. Then it was easy to see why: the guard, I noticed, was carrying a heavy truncheon. He paddled his palm with it as the lunatics frisked about us.

  "Hello mister!"

  "Goo' morning sir!"

  They knew more English and used it with greater fluency than most Afghans I had met so far.

  One put out his dirty hand, and so as not to offend him I shook it. The others were encouraged. They gathered, wagging their hands at me until the guard raised his truncheon, making them cower. I counted the men as we walked into the ward; there were twenty-six men, but only seventeen beds. It would have been impossible to fit more beds in the room—they were less than a foot apart—but I wondered where the others slept.

  "What did I tell you?" asked Albert. "Ever see anything like it?"

  Under a filthy blanket, in a bed jammed against the wall, Peter was sleeping. His feet protruded from the blanket, and I could see sores on his ankles from the leg-irons, some scabs the size of quarters. He was tall; even sleeping in a crouched position his head butted the top of the bed and his feet were against the bars at the bottom end. His skin was yellow-grey, his cheeks sunken and my first thought was that he was dead; he was covered with flies—on his face, on the blanket, on his open sores. Albert touched his shoulder and shook him slightly. He did not wake; briefly the flies left him, then returned.

  "He sleep," said one of the lunatics. "No sleep at night—all talking and—" He made fluttering gestures with his hands to indicate excitement.

  Albert said, "I think he's been up all night. We should let him sleep."

  "What about the food?" I asked. Albert had brought a bag of bread, chocolate, cheese and ginger ale, because Peter had complained about the hospital food.

  "If I leave it they'll steal it," he said.

  We left, and returned in the afternoon about five o'clock. Peter was still sleeping, but he woke up and raised his head when Albert called his name.

  "Hi," he said drowsily. "What have you got?"

  "Some food," said Albert. "How're you feeling?"

  "Okay. I want to go," he said. The blue-smocked guard was standing behind Albert. Peter said to him, "I'm going with my friends. Let's go."

  "In a few days," said Albert. "Here." He opened the bag and took out a can of ginger ale.

  "Freedom," said Peter when Albert popped the opener.

  Albert took out a bar of Toblerone chocolate and tore off the wrapper.

  "Freedom," said Peter, and he began to eat it. He had spoken the word languidly; he repeated it, chanting in a deadened voice.

  "There's some bread in the bag, and cheese, and another can of ginger ale. You'll be okay."

  "English." A lunatic stood several feet away, hugging himself. "English iss goot."

  "Get me out of here, man," said Peter.
"Let me come with you." He spoke softly, not moving his head, still eating the chocolate. His hands were large, and I could see the sores on his wrists. The manacles must have been huge: he wore a six-inch cuff of sores.

  "You've been sleeping a lot," said Albert. "That's good."

  "I love candy bars."

  "Do you sleep at night?"

  "No." Peter put his hands over his eyes. "The past three nights they tied me up."

  The guard smiled and played with his truncheon. He didn't understand English. He was a big man. It was a lunatic asylum: he had been chosen for his size.

  "I want to go. Get me out of here."

  "We'll be sending you back to Canada pretty soon."

  "No, I'd rather stay here."

  I said, "In the hospital?"

  "Afghanistan. I love Afghanistan." He saw I was looking at his sores. He lifted his hand and kissed the largest sore.

  Most of the lunatics were gathered near the bed, watching the proceedings, scratching themselves and giggling at Peter. By comparison they were much healthier than Peter, more alert and attentive.

  "They tied me up," said Peter, again in that low careless voice. "Is that fair? Is that right? No, man."

  "Who tied you up?" asked Albert.

  "Give me another candy bar."

  "Hey, there's some cheese in the bag. Why don't you—"

  "Hay is for horses." Peter raised his arms and punched the air. The blanket slipped down, and I could see his starved chest. "Oh, man, I can do it. I'm tough. Look, Muhammad Ali."

  One lunatic heard. "Muhammad Ali iss boxer ... boxer iss goot."

  "Sophie—Sophie, where are you, man?"

  "Still have diarrhoea?" Albert asked gently.

  "Coming out," said Peter. "Pouring out! Sophie Tucker!" He started to rave. The lunatics were delighted. The guard muttered something and smacked the truncheon against his palm. The lunatics ran out of the room.

  "We'll get you to Canada, don't worry," said Albert.

  "Afghanistan!" howled Peter. He saw us leaving. "Don't go!"

  "I'll be back tomorrow," said Albert.

  Peter rolled onto his side and pulled the blanket over his head.

  In the outer corridor, the rest of the lunatics crouched against the wall, squatting on their heels. It was such a show of obedience I was certain they were beaten often and hard. They were waiting for their supper. We saw the cauldron of stew being carried up the stony path by two men.

  Albert said, "Want to hear something funny? There's a swimming pool on the compound at 'Pindi. I had this party. Everyone jumps in with his clothes on. I decided to have another party, a pool party—everyone in bathing suits. Guess what? No one goes into the pool. Funny."

  The Pathan Camp

  The center of Kabul is not the bazaar, but the river. It is black and seems bottomless, but it is only one-foot deep. Some people drink from it, others shit beside it or do their washing in it. Bathers can be seen soaping themselves not far from where two buses have been driven into it to be washed. Garbage, sewage and dirt go in; drinking water comes out. The Afghans don't mind dying this way; it's no trouble. Near the bus depot on the south bank bearded Afghans crouch at the side of a cart, three abreast, their faces against metal binoculars. This is a peep show. For about a penny they watch 8mm movies of Indian dancers.

  Further up the Kabul River, in the rocky outskirts of the city, I found a Pathan camp. It was large, perhaps thirty ragged white tents, many goats and donkeys and a number of camels. Cooking fires were smoldering and children were running between the tents. I was eager to snap a picture of the place, and had raised my camera, when a stone thudded a few feet away. An old woman had thrown it. She made a threatening gesture and picked up another stone. But she did not throw it. She turned and looked behind her.

  A great commotion had started in the center of the camp. A camel had collapsed; it was lying in the dust, kicking its legs and trying to raise its head. The children gave up their game, the women left their cooking pots, men crept out of tents, and all of them ran in the direction of the camel. The old woman ran, too, but when she saw I was following, she stopped and threw her stone at me.

  There were shouts. A tall robed figure, brandishing a knife, ran into the crowd. The crowd made way for him and stood some distance from the camel, giving him room and allowing him to see the man raise his knife over the neck of the struggling camel and bring it down hard, making three slashes in the camel's neck. It was as if he had punctured a large toy. Immediately, the camel's head dropped to the ground, his legs ceased to kick and blood poured out, covering a large triangle of ground and flowing five or six feet from the body, draining into the sand.

  I went closer. The old woman screamed, and a half a dozen people ran towards her. They had knives and baskets. The old woman pointed at me, but I did not pause. I sprinted away in the direction of the road, and when I felt I was safe I looked back. No one had chased me. The people with the knives surrounded the camel—the whole camp had descended on it—and they had already started cutting and skinning the poor beast.

  The Night Ferry to Paris

  [1975]

  The idea was that, after England had been crushed with German rockets and overrun by stormtroopers, Adolf Hitler would board his luxurious Schlafwagen in Paris and order the engineer to proceed to London. Then, with his mad staring eyes closed, and slumbering in his plush berth, he would make his triumphant entry into the conquered country, arriving at Victoria Station to find the surrendering British on their knees. It happened otherwise, but the plan was well-known: Hitler wanted to arrive in England on the Night Ferry via Dunkirk.

  It is not surprising. The Night Ferry—a train, not a boat—is the best way from London to Paris, the cheapest luxury route, convenient, comfortable and great fun. It is preferred by ambassadors, royalty, heads of state and my whole family. The Queen of England used it for her state visit to Paris, and it has most recently been recommended by E. M. Frimbo, "the world's greatest railroad traveler", who says in All Aboard, "My favourite way of traveling between London and Paris is, need I say, the train known rather ambiguously as The Night Ferry." In one sense, it is the lazy man's route, moving from one great city to another in your pajamas. But it is dignified, too: you are hidden, you travel with your bed, and after dinner, while the train rolls through Kent, you can go to sleep and don't have to stir until the conductor rouses you. Snapping up the window shade you find you are yawning at Montmartre.

  Since October, 1936, when it made its first trip, it has run almost continuously, interrupted only by the war. It leaves Victoria every night except Christmas Eve, on the dot of nine; it is very rarely canceled. Michael Barsley writes in his history of The Orient Express, "There is something solid and permanent and imperturbable about the Night Ferry." Solid in a British way, imperturbable in a French way: it is a combined effort—British Rail, French National Railways and the sonorously-named Compagnie Internationale des Wagon-Lits et des Grands Express Européens. "Bon soir," says the French conductor in London, "Evening, sir," says the waiter in the dining car as Clapham flashes past, and the train continues through the southeast corner of England. At Dover the sleeping cars are loaded on the ferry—there is room for ten of them—and chained to the deck in its hollow interior; iron stanchions are put in place under the body of the carriage to prevent it from being derailed in a storm (there are tracks fixed to the deck like many parallel sidings). At Dunkirk the carriages are shunted off and recoupled, and, while the passengers sleep, the train is sped through the early morning darkness to Paris. What could be simpler?

  Normally, the Night Ferry leaves from Victoria's Platform Two, an alley of polyglots, but I boarded at Platform Eight because the President of Tanzania was arriving on the Night Ferry the next morning at Platform Two. A special pavilion was being put up there so that the Queen could welcome this fervent socialist in the style to which he is accustomed. Immigration ("Is this your wife?") and Customs ("How much sterling are you taking out of
the country?") are dealt with swiftly in a series of cubicles on the platform, and once on the train you hand your passport to the conductor, who will show it, on your behalf, to the French authorities at Dunkirk.

  Railway travelers are not like other people. They are calm, and though they have lots of luggage, unburdened. They look wrinkle-proof and contented. The lady ahead of me in the line was reading a fashion magazine; next to her a porter wheeled her belongings—a huge trunk, a suitcase, a bulging bag and a hatbox. Leaving aside the question of whether anyone owns a hatbox any more, would any airline passenger risk bringing one onto a plane? And of course it would have cost the earth to fly that lady's trunk to Paris. There were others shuffling down the platform—businessmen with overnight bags and satchels crammed with figures, a conspicuous little patrol of hitch-hikers with rucksacks and lunchboxes, wintry-faced vacationers, and a sprinkling of adventurers, all sturdy and exportable.

  I had bought a liter of Chablis at a liquor store near the station. My wife and I were settled in our compartment and had barely clinked glasses when the train was crossing the Thames and the lights on Albert Bridge a little way downriver gave a nice yellowy sparkle to my wine. A half hour later we were in the dining car, sipping Bourgogne Aligote with our meal, which was asparagus soup in Tonbridge, grilled halibut steak in Ashford and stilton and cream crackers in the outskirts of Folkestone. There is an unruffled club-like atmosphere in the dining car of the Night Ferry. The train makes no stops; you sit down and are served; there are no further intrusions, no late-comers, no one hurrying to get off. The businessmen leaf through their financial reports, the lady with the hatbox is alone with her novel and her sirloin. Diners reading: you never see that on a plane. When the coast approaches and dinner is over, everyone retires to his compartment to be transferred to the boat in peace, horizontally.

  But it was a wild night. A gale had been blowing all day and the canvas on the parked freight cars nearby was flapping noisily. By the lights of Dover I could see the Channel heaving and gulping. It was after eleven by the time we were loaded. I had a nightcap on the ferry's Veranda Bar, and there met Mr Herz Konopny, a tiny white-haired man, who made precise gestures and drank a whisky as he told me how he had been born in Minsk, moved to Warsaw before the Russian Revolution and then settled in Paris where, in 1939, he joined the Foreign Legion. He fought in Tunisia in a regiment composed of Italians, Poles, Greeks and Spaniards; indeed, this was the reason he'd just been in London—it was the annual meeting of Jewish War Veterans. I asked him how he liked the Night Ferry. He said it was going to be a rough crossing. "When I was young I could sleep anywhere—even on the bare ground—but now that I'm old I don't get much sleep."