Some tribes and clans were still animist or believers in the Great Mother, Lat, or Mother Nature, but these were a minority in a nation with a Muslim majority. Prior to Islam, Afghanistan had been a global center of Buddhism, but that was at least two thousand years-ago.
Other visits would combine similar opportunities for play and learning, along with the main objective for Lela of finding and buying tribal art and artifacts to import to the U.S. and her European customers.
The traveling threesome: Kit, Mike, and Lela typically spent at least three days at the various crafters, bazaars, and homes that had a relationship with each of Mike’s kin groups. Most of the homes were provided with modern furnishings from Delhi or Afghan handmade furniture. All the rugs, kilems, decorations, jewelry, clothing, leather and metal ware were Afghan, although much of the cloth was from Russia, India, and China.
Usually the three visited the crafters and bazaars together, but sometimes a family member took Lela to various craft people, usually relatives, for jewelry, tribal crafts and art objects. Each time they met a new business prospect, the tea ritual was repeated.
When they returned for the mandatory evening family meal, the host would greet them, showing them around the gardens, plantings, livestock, and buildings. Mike and Kit were most interested in the tar used to fill chinks in walls and roofing, and they took note of fresh applications of tar.
In her aerograms to Paul, Lela mentioned that at many of these meals the conversation turned to complements about the food, family, and, especially the host home. Kit admired the decor—the warmth and comfort of the home; making a point of admiring the use of tar to seal openings against the wet and cold.
Mike translated these comments, asking if the tar was obtained nearby. On more than one occasion, the host proudly mentioned that they had their own tar and petroleum source or that there was an open pit in the area available to all, just like the water.
Some used the crude petroleum in household lamps. Mike mentioned that the crude was widely used as a dressing for wounds. On livestock, the sticky tar works best, as animals will not tear it off as they do with bandages; the putrid taste and smell discourages them.
Many merchants with access to crude sold it at bazaars. Lela noted that she often noticed large quantities of plastic jugs filled with the foul stuff sold at most bazaars. The crude merchants needed no advertising as the stink was advertising enough. Buyers had only to follow their nose to the crude seller. There were a number of gasoline filling stations throughout Kabul with at least one in most towns. But these only serviced gasoline and kerosene engines.
Kit said the crude had been used for thousands of years for medication, lighting, heating, and even as an effective sun screen. She was quite knowledgeable and did not hesitate to share her knowledge with Lela and Mike. vii
For global trade, tar sealed the planks of ships for Sumerians, Egyptians, Greeks, Vikings, and even the British navy. That’s why British sailors were called tars.
Kit explained that this knowledge was all acquired as part of her university education. She went on to say that for external injuries and skin ailments, crude serves as a useful anti-infective. Until 1970, pharmacies sold it as carbolated petroleum jelly. The carbolic acid or phenol naturally occurs in crude and coal tar. The toxicity of phenol forced it out of petrolatum products.
Later Kit mentioned that Australian interests were keen to help Afghanistan develop its petroleum industry. She and Mike were motivated by these economic interests as well as their professional objectives, that is, coordinating road building with health clinics.
Lela wrote to Paul about her good fortune in befriending Mike and Kit. She copied most of her daily log to the aerograms she sent Paul, often two to three a week. Similarly, Paul sent aerograms to Lela, describing the events of family household, as well as the interactions of Kirk, Erik, Dan and himself.
In one of her early aerograms, Lela mentioned that as soon as they drove away from a host, they would stop along the road where Kit and Mike would unfold their map and, with a red pencil, circle the areas where natural petroleum was reported.
6
REFLECTIONS - SPRING, 1975
The altitude and landscape in Kabul is reminiscent of Denver, Colorado. For a few weeks in fall and spring the heavens open and turn Kabul into a huge mud slide. The rains came a week after I arrived. Within the first few hours my jeans were mud splattered to the waist.
During the first few weeks I was so involved in business activities continually, there was no time to give the weather much thought. The merchants I dealt with were urban extensions of their tribes. As I familiarized myself with the shopkeepers, their commercial sophistication was evident. I was delighted with the variety and quality of the objects in the shops and bazaars.
I learned that every transaction required a complex social exchange. A feature and fault of these dealings required that most of my meals be with merchant families. It took some getting used to, but I began to realize that social exchange was as important as business exchange. Merchant families stressed that social links paved the way to business success.
Social links are not taken lightly. Once adopted into the extended merchant family, I was treated as kin to all their tribal kin. The tribal connections often extended outside of Afghanistan, into Turkey, Pakistan, India, Iran, Russia, China and Western Europe.
Some of the merchants and traders I encountered along the way were crafty, patronizing, and wary. On the other hand, those who I did business with were friendly, kind, and exuberantly helpful. Once money changed hands, the Afghans insisted on adopting me into their families. This was usually a pleasant and warm experience, especially with the women and children of the clan.
The hospitality was especially warm with Mike’s clan. As we followed Mike’s engineering itinerary, all the families we visited had something to sell or trade. After five years in Afghanistan, it would seem as if buying selling-trading was the principle occupation and pastime.
Over the years, I’ve become kin to many merchants. Each trade, gift, meeting, meal, wedding, and birth strengthens our ties. Typically, I spend two months or so trading in Afghanistan and Europe and two months in the States, selling my tribal treasures.
Lately, I’ve taken some of my business associates back to the States. They live with my family at our ranch in New Jersey, much as I live with them when we return to Afghanistan. Our ranch has become a wait-station for refugees. Some are referred to us by the Unitarians and Quakers in our area, but most are Afghan political refugees.
When I stay with my Afghan family they treat me like a daughter. There was a time when I offered to pay for my room and board, and they laughed at me saying:
“Would we charge our daughter Fatima? We are all family. When we stayed with your family in New Jersey, we were treated like your own family, and we felt at home. Why spoil what we have so rewardingly built? We have all benefited and prospered. Why should we disrupt that?”
ON THE ROAD AGAIN:
This time we were en route to Kandahar when the back right tire rolled off the axle after hitting a rock on the other side of a blind curve. Mike was prepared for this. He jacked up the rear right axle by pulling one of four knobs below the dash.
The knob released a pneumatic jack that slowly raised the rear-right of the vehicle. It was the first time I’d seen an automatic jack, marvelous, I thought. It was Russian military technology that worked for a change.
We recovered the wheel with the hub cap intact; the four large bolts had all worked free. I helped Mike mount the heavy tire back on the axle, holding the wheel steady as he tightened the bolts.
There was no damage. The hub caps have a strong vise-like attachment to the wheel hub. Hubcaps were secured in vise grips with a built-in lock. Mike had to unlock the large hubcap. The lose bolts nested securely, as these were magnetically held against the inner concave hubcap. The magnetic hold was so strong that it took a screw-driver to pry them lose.
Once
we wrestled the wheel back on the axle and bolted the nuts securely, I noticed that the axle protruded about an inch from the bolted wheel base. The end of the axle had a screw hole. “Mike, what’s this hole for?” I asked. He replied, “Now I’m going to show you something I neglected.” He went to the glove compartment and took out a small case with screw bolts. He gave me one of the screws and asked me to screw it through the end of the axle.
Road-Side Mosque outside of Kandahar
Nearing Kandahar, Mike pulled over at a lovely kiosk-size mosque. He asked if I wanted to learn to drive the vehicle. “Sure,” I said, “You must get tired on these long drives. I love to drive, and it seems like you need some relief.” He replied, “Yes, it would be nice to have some relief.”
Manual shifting is something I’ve done for many years, first on an old Ford Falcon. Mike’s vehicle was easy to learn. I persuaded him to let me drive into Kandahar. This, I enjoyed greatly. The mountainous landscape was breathtaking and the drive down to the foot-hills of Kandahar was no less exciting.
Everywhere I go with my 35-mm Lica, I take a lot of photos. The photo above was taken ten miles outside of Kandahar as we were descending the mountain road. The air was so clear that the city seemed much closer.
Mike said, “Lela, I think you like driving and traveling.” I replied that I love driving and travel. “It must be the Gypsy in me or my Turcoman heritage.” Mike replied, “We are all of Turcoman origins, I believe. It means endless trekking and trading. In this respect we are much like Gypsies; but we don’t see Gypsy caravans in Afghanistan. With all the migrating groups in Afghanistan, I believe Gypsies would be redundant.”
“Why don’t Gypsies travel here?” I asked. He replied that probably Afghanistan was too poor and mountainous for them. “Afghans are hospitable to visitors that want to buy and sell, but not to those with questionable ways,” he added.
The trip from Kabul to Kandahar on the A-1, according to the guide books, was 296 miles or 494 km. In most places the A-1 was paved and not bad at all. But mountain roads are subject to wash-outs, mud slides, rock slides and small earthquakes. All in all, other than some minor rock slides; we had no serious trouble on the trip.
Every time we passed a rock slide Mike mentioned that the Kalq government would be installing heavy wire fencing over the rock slide areas—like in the States. At quake zones there would be bins of gravel and sand to fill road cracks.
Local Kalq officials are paid for road maintenance, “Just as are local New Jersey towns,” he repeated frequently. Mike spoke with me in great detail about his transportation plans. “If we were a rich country, we could afford railroads. Possibly barges could move heavy loads over parts of the rivers, but cargo would need to be off loaded to trucks, and that is not economic.
I believe an extensive system of trucks and buses over well-maintained roads is the best solution, possibly supplemented with heavy-duty helicopters. River-linking canals could be of value.”
Mike directed me to a fueling garage just outside of Kandahar. There, he introduced me to his brother-in-law Al. Mike had two wives at the time. The first lived in Kandahar, and Al, his brother-in-law from this marriage, owned the garage.
He asked Al to balance and rotate the tires and put in the screws at the end of each axle before securing the hubcaps. “We also need petrol, motor and fluids check, especially the breaks,” requested Mike.
Al had his mechanic do this and took us to lunch at a nearby café. Mike asked about his wife and son before visiting them. The boy was ten, and Mike thought about taking him to America with him. He expressed these thoughts to Al. Al said that would not work as the clan would not allow the boy or his mother to leave.
“If the Mujahedeen force the Kalq out of the country, my son would be safer with me in America,” declared Mike.
Al replied that the boy and his mother would be safer in Kandahar as her tribe, while powerful, was not political. In any case, her people would not allow the removal of the boy.
“Thanks to you Mike, the boy is getting a good education at the British school here. And will probably get a scholarship to the University in Islamabad,” Al said all this to Mike in a kind and affectionate way.
Mike said that his new wife could not have children and would love to care for his son. After a long discussion, Al finally convinced Mike that his plans would not work. The boy would remain with his mother’s clan.
We were at the café at least an hour before Kit walked in with her aide. Why wasn’t I surprised to see her? She said that they had arranged for six clinics between Kabul and Kandahar. They were negotiating for another six, to be spaced about 25 miles apart. “When this is done, we will set up clinics between Kabul and Jalalabad, Herät, as well as Mazar-e-Sherif at the northern border,” Kit added.
“How is the trek working out for you two?” Kit asked. I said, “Mike and I are coordinating our objectives quite well, and I have found enough tribal art for this trip. Mike does his road surveys, and I bargain with the local merchants. Everyone wants to sell me something. If I get the feeling that a merchant is holding out on me, I give him a pair of blue jeans as baksheesh and the flood gates open.”
Mike added, “On this trip I’m mainly surveying rock slide and earthquake zones, tracking these, and contacting local Kalq people to maintain those danger zones. Road work will create many jobs, and these will be Kalq Party jobs. Our aim is to pave all roads from main highways to towns of 1,000 or more.
“By providing thousands of road-work jobs, we help to build local income and Kalq infrastructure. We pay special bonuses for information concerning natural tar deposits—so the incentives are abundant. It’s vital to show how Kalq cares for all Afghans.”
Kit remarked, “That’s an excellent strategy. We are working similarly on establishing public health clinics, renting existing buildings when possible, and contracting with local builders to construct and refurbish clinics.
“Our aim is a clinic of some sort in every town. Local healers are being hired to staff the clinics. We are paying local families for the use of their homes, when no other facilities are available.
“Local teachers and leaders are paid to set up technical and paramedic schools in conjunction with clinics. Each clinic will add storage space for food and household necessities to families in need. We consider that part of public health.
“Where clean water is a problem, we will have local water tanker trucks provide water to those in need until adequate wells are built. Similarly, we plan to have local transportation provided on a scheduled basis. Buses and cars will be used as available. Even trucks can be used if needed.”
These plans were designed to provide for basic family needs while building a broad base of Kalq Party support.
AUTHOR COMMENTARY:
Lela was impressed with these plans. She wrote to Paul, “The plans for the Afghans are not at all Utopian. They seem practical and efficient. The problem is domination by outsiders such as Pakistan, Iran, Soviet Union, China, India and the U.S.”
In her aerograms Lela repeatedly commented on the energy issue. No one inside Afghanistan uses the word oil, but much talk, too much I think, about the energy issue. The “O” word is now considered politically incorrect.
“When we search for tribal crafts, most visits are to Mike’s people or friends of his relatives. While I find wonderful craft items, the subject of tar pits is always discussed. I’ve seen the map kept by Mike and Kit. The red circles correspond closely with my craft purchases.”
LELA:
After traveling with Mike and Kit for so long, most every low-land town is either circled in red or shows a red question mark. Are they mapping an ocean of energy? I wonder. In the Kabul cafés, we constantly run into embassy staff and journalists. These are such friendly people; they are all smiles and handshakes.
We are at the top of every embassy list of invitees. The receptions and press conferences are virtually non-stop. Endless messages and engraved invitations are sent to us,
and they send their cars for us; however Mike, Kit, and I know what they’re sniffing around for.
The three of us are the stars of the embassy social season. When in Kabul, we three attend at least three events each week. Mike puts the squeeze on them for road funds, and Kit is quite persuasive about contributions to the new Afghan health system. The embassies are intensely interested in commissioning me for redecorating their premises with Afghan tribal art.
I never realized that I had such powerful social skills. We three do not drink alcoholic beverages, but the embassy people are terrible lushes. Actually, they are quite entertaining with their funny stories and jokes. We greet everyone, laugh at the funny stories, eat and drink nothing, and excuse ourselves after twenty minutes of social glad-handing.
7
AFGHAN REALITY - FALL, 1975
LELA:
Paul and the boys are in my thoughts. Paul’s body is central to my fantasies, especially at night. He is my anchor, my link to the real world. After weeks with the Sannyasins, lotus land on wheels, it’s almost refreshing to travel among the Afghan people. Most of all, I miss Paul’s sweet loving.
Traveling with Mike and visiting with his clan families, dealing with business and political realities, remind me of the bus people. The Sannyasin bus people seem to have let go of the real world. They live in a world of sweetness and light, that extends no further than their caravan.
They had only the foggiest understanding of why the Iranians threw rocks at them. They wondered why they were so violent. Kit repeatedly explained the political situation: a revolution was in progress; westerners were symbols of western decadence and should not take it personally, especially as no one was hurt. The bus people could not or would not understand.
The Sannyasins seemed to drift from day to day, mishap to mishap, and from fantasy to fantasy. They thought of Kit and me as den-mothers, and it seemed as if they were truly sad when we left the caravan in Kabul.
The Afghan Queen: A True Story of an American Woman in Afghanistan Page 5