October 7th was my birthday and English was in charge of birthday celebrations. In fact, every event required a celebration. That was one of the caravan rules. Whenever we got the blues, which were rampant in Iran, someone would look for an excuse to celebrate something or other. English was the most persistent of these promoters.
My birthday celebration began on our return from an opera in Tehran. It was a pathetic parody of western culture providing a ludicrous rendition of the Barber of Seville. Nine of us packed into the Unimark like sardines. We returned to camp near midnight and sang an obscene rendition of Happy Birthday in my honor.
Every time I think about how muddled and off the wall we are in today’s world, I just recall the people on the bus and still feel they were the most wasted of any people I’ve met. A celebration could, and often did, start anytime day or night, and any excuse would do.
I realize these “sparks of life,” as Satya called them, were really desperate, last-ditch efforts to ward off tediousness, restlessness and depression. One 4 a.m. I awoke to one of these sparks of life, and, after some back-and-forth bitching, called it a mini riot without spark or life, just noise. That hurt English. It took two days to make it up with him.
A few days later, we made camp outside of Sari, near the Caspian Sea. The road followed the border, with Soviet Turkmenistan, a couple of days from Mashhad, and then into Herät, Afghanistan.
This place was supposed to be the world caviar capital, but I doubted that we would dig down and shell out the $50 per eight ounces that was the local price. After all, $50 could just about feed the whole caravan for a week.
It was a seaside resort and we spent some time swimming in the Caspian Sea, just to say we swam with the sturgeon. I expected to taste fresh water, but it was brackish. Some Iranian teens said it had one-third the salt of sea water. They said that millions of years ago, the Caspian linked the Atlantic to the Pacific. Imagine that!
Tehran-Sari-Mashhad-Herät*
Kit and I rested at the campsite talking about this strange place. Since entering Iran, we’d been traveling along the south shore of the Caspian Sea. Our caravan drove from the southwest shore, with the Azerbaijan oil fields to the north, to the south-east corner of the Caspian bordering Turkmenistan. We talked about the oil dilemma:
“Kit, I’m glad to be rid of the damn oil smoke and odor. It was really intense when we neared the Azerbaijan area to the west. It was like the Caspian Sea was on fire with all that burn-off gas. Do you think oil production will spread to the south-east Caspian?”
“Possibly Lela, but now most of the oil field development is around the south-west shore. Development is now proceeding in the north. Geologists believe the largest oil basin is in the south-east and there’s been little exploration there.
“Again this raises the specter of an ocean of oil. There may be an ocean of oil under the Eurasian land mass from West Africa and the North Sea, through the Arabian-Middle East, on to Iraq-Iran, the Caspian Sea and into Afghanistan. Soviet aerial surveys suggest the possibility of a ‘continent’ of oil the size of the Atlantic Ocean.
“I was told that a new type of magnetic radar was used in the aerial survey. My hope is some other energy source will be found before the oil madness gets worse. Oil production is doing more damage to the Earth than the nukes.”
“Kit, is it likely a more efficient energy form will be found? You sound like “pie-in-the-sky.” There may be trillions invested in oil and the global-politics of oil. Even if a more plentiful, economic and cleaner energy source were found, it’s most likely to cause global disaster rather than salvation.”
“Yes, it’s true. As the major world powers, including the Soviets, consider oil a global life-support—like people need oxygen—any transition to a replacement energy source would precipitate a global political-economic cataclysm.
“But sooner or later such a wrenching change will occur. And what will that change be? Well, of course solar and wind energy is developing slowly, but there is a less obvious energy source right under our feet and it’s not oil.
“I mentioned aerial surveys using magnetic radar. Such technology is feasible because the whole Earth is one huge powerful magnet. Like the solar energy of the Sun, the potential magnetic energy of the Earth is incalculable.
“It’s not like drilling into the Earth for magnetic energy, as is done for oil. I don’t know how it works, but I’m told to drop the oil model entirely. There’s little more to say about magnetic energy except to express the hope that it’s a vast improvement over petroleum.”
“When I think about those hellish oil fields compared to this idyllic campsite, I can easily hope for salvation from magnetic energy or something else. Perhaps a breakthrough in solar technology will eclipse the need for petroleum.”
“Lela, whatever direction the search for energy takes, we’ll need to come to grips with the energy power brokers. Their greed is boundless, poisoning the Earth and human society. The greed machine will go to any lengths to preserve their power. If it comes to that, the current energy brokers and their enforcing agents will take control of any new energy source.
“We live in a world where the power-brokers are able to corrupt, negate or ‘disappear’ all serious opposition. In this male-dominated world, even women leaders such as Indira Ghandi and Golda Meyer, as sainted as they may be, could only function with the tacit support of the male power establishment.
“Both the Soviet system and the global market economy may wither away, but the enforcers: CIA, KGB, MI-5 and the rest of the global bullies will stay in power. You can count on it.”
“I suppose you’re correct Kit, but I’m hopeful for a better world.”
“Certainly, that’s all we have are hopes and dreams. Our small personal endeavors and enterprises help point the way to a more humane future. Whether it’s preserving the Afghan culture, building their income, liberating women, initiating health services or roadways and communication links, it all helps. We must strive to carry on the good work. We progressives must never give up.”
Too many temptations were here, so we went on to Mashhad. We stayed in Mashhad just long enough to get Afghan visas and buy some turquoise. Except for our headlights, the camp was dark when we arrived that night. In the morning I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the place, lush greenery, white-water river, and intoxicating air.
The only faults marring the features were the trucks whizzing by on the American-built road. The diesel noise and fumes were an abomination in what would otherwise have been a pristine place. At times like this I thought of Paul talking about electric power replacing all the combustion farting engines. Come on, Paul, hurry it up!
At Mashhad, our caravan broke up because the Atlanta folks didn’t get their VW camper back from the repair shop. But we picked up some new people. Dharma was watching me like a hawk with the new men. She was overprotective when it came to me and men. We were both strong women and could take care of ourselves, but there was a strong sense of sisterhood between us.
While flirting with an attractive Swede, I could see Dharma giving me the ‘hairy-eyeball.’ Later, she told him to leave me alone or there would be trouble. He asked if we were gay, and she said that as far as he was concerned, we were. She and I walked off hugging and laughing.
I explained to Dharma that flirting is our favorite sport back in the States. She replied that back in Zurich, she too was a flirt, but that here in the caravan we must ’keep a lid on it’ or it would become disruptive and demoralizing. She said, “Lela, you are our Earth Mother; people look up to you; please be careful.”
This was too absurd. As much as I loved Dharma and the trekkers, I’d be glad to be free of them in Kabul. The caravan had become family, and we women were like sisters. If we stopped smiling, we thought there was a problem. We were getting too close. We couldn’t get to Kabul fast enough for me.
One of the few nice events in Iran occurred at a new campsite outside of Mashhad, close to the Afghan border. I
thought we ought to at least rest a bit and get supplies before the usual border crossing hassle.
Part of the campsite was not yet opened, but looked inviting. We stopped to inquire about water and supplies from an old man at the gate who turned out to be the owner. He was so anxious to spread the word to other campers that he persuaded us to spend the night at the camp as his guests.
We had the place all to ourselves and promised to pass out the flyers he gave us. In addition, he gave us loads of fresh melons and vegetables from his adjacent farm. We invited him to join us at our meals. As we got to know him, we learned that he spoke fluent English, German, French, Spanish, and Russian.
He explained that he had been all over the world and spent most of his life in other countries. He was an oil broker and most of his family lived in New York. I asked how old he was and he said he was close to 100. “You could tell me you were 65 and I’d believe it,” I said. He laughed and said, “Mashhadies are long-lived.”
I asked what was different about people from Mashhad. “No,” he corrected, “We are Mashhadies, not people from Mashhad.” He continued, “Mashhadies are Persian Jews who were persecuted and forced to become Muslims. In public we are Muslims, but in secret we remain practicing Jews, like Spanish Jews, forced to be Catholics by day, yet remaining secret Jews.”
He came home to Mashhad to retire and be near thousands of relatives. He continued, “We are merchants and business people until the day we die, it is part of our tradition, almost a religious ritual. Most of us left Mashhad long ago. Those, like me, remaining are more Muslim than Jew. Unlike Christians, many Muslims accept Muslim Jews as children of Abraham.”
Electricity seemed to spark from his eyes when he laughed, which was often. He was the happiest person I’d seen in Iran. He asked that we call him Hajji, as he had been to Mecca many times on business. Quite the promoter, he gave us some of the postcards he used as business cards. One photo of him as a younger man with his favorite horse was especially striking.
Hajji Mashhadi
As we had arrived early in the evening, there was time for a leisurely dinner and stroll afterward. It was a pleasant change, since most days we didn’t make camp until late at night. After dinner we were all supposed to listen to a tape of Dharma’s Indian guru. But the evening was so beautiful that I just had to go for a walk.
The campsite owner, the old Hajji, had created springs and small waterfalls with charming colored stepping stones across waterways. I almost expected to see a miniature golf course but mercifully did not. The camp ground was well lit and inviting for strollers.
Beyond the waterfalls I discovered a tall building with an open terrace that looked as if it had a ping pong table on it. It turned out to be a plain old rickety table. Looking toward the building, I noticed French doors with one ajar. Peeking inside, I realized it was a meditation temple and quite different from any mosque I’ve seen.
I wrapped my scarf around my face, removed my shoes, and glided in the open door. Toward the end of the room was a large altar as high as my eye level. On the altar were many Korans. Some seemed quite old and falling apart. Others were new with decorative gold scrollwork.
The altar floor was covered with a few small rugs and the ceiling was pitched upward, like a tent with four sides, forming a pyramid-like dome. On the altar was an electric candelabra, and a lovely but simple chandelier hung from the peak of the pyramid dome.
Also on the altar were some stones incised with geometric shapes and Arabic script. I counted six stones in all, each in fabric nests that reminded me of cupcake holders. One stone was partly covered in what looked like a small prayer shawl. Another stone rested on a hand printed kerchief, again with beautiful Arabic script probably from the Koran.
As I handled the stones, and with trepidation I might add, a shiver went through me. I wanted to speak with someone about them but there was no one around. The whole atmosphere was magical, and I took some time to just sit on a rug looking through one of the Korans which I could not understand.
When I got back to camp the tape lecture was just ending. We drank some tea and talked a bit about following a master. Bern, Satya’s brother and I agreed. We seemed to be the only ones opting for finding one’s self from within.
I do not believe that some anointed one with the word can make me see the light. I am of the opinion that our light shines from within or not. Only I can turn on my own light. I’m sure that the old Hajji who invited us into his camp was an enlightened one.
That night I slept wonderfully, even though we were wakened by an early morning wedding party. They insisted on waking everyone, beckoning us to dance with them. Dharma and I were the only caravan dancers. We put on Ike and Tina Turner and a dozen men and the bride danced.
The women in the wedding party stood around giggling and gawking as we freakish foreigners danced. The bride party spoke only Pashtu, but my limited understanding was not enough to bridge the language barrier. In any case, good vibes dominated the dancing.
17
HERÄT TO KABUL - FALL, 1977
The sigh of relief was audible when we crossed the border into Afghanistan. We were stuck in Herät for three days, just inside Afghanistan. Fuel and oil lines were stuck for a change. This time Satya and Versant began the engine disassembly, while Dharma and I cleaned the lines and reassembled the engine. These repairs were routine by now.
I hadn’t written to Paul in nearly a week. Usually I write every couple of days. The flow of letters was important as a source of impressions about the trip. My lassitude was partly a result of the tedium of travel and the sense of ill-will projected by the Iranians. Except for the old Hajji, Iran had been a depressing experience.
The moodiness was infectious and seemed to sweep over us in waves. Each experience, affecting one or two of us, managed to infect the atmosphere further. Our games and diversions were helpful in taking the edge off, but the tension continued to build. In spite of all our efforts to the contrary, the dark atmosphere grew heavier.
We blamed the Iranians for this. Actually, we knew the real cause of Iranian hostility was the kiss-of-death western incursions in Iran. The quest for cheap oil was, of course, the ultimate poison. The insanity of western culture reflected a cancerous economic invasion.
Every aspect of Iranian society was degraded by Western presence. The Iranian people would not roll over and play dead. They had spirit and fight, even if it was misdirected against us. We understood their resentment. Occasionally, we spoke with young Iranians who explained that every aspect of Iranian society was degraded by Western capitalism and the Shah.
We explained our rejection of the corporate stranglehold and that we fought it each in our own way. While our sympathies were well received, there was little more we could do other than express our support. Our hope was that the contagion of ill will had not spread to Afghanistan.
Once we crossed the Afghan border to Herät, we all felt better and I was writing again. It was as if a plug had been pulled out of a bucket of stagnant water. As I poured myself onto paper my ugly feelings began to subside.
In Herät my attention was focused on business again. I shopped for large quantities of tribal objects, but found that the merchants were too difficult to deal with. After a few days of futile haggling, I realized it was a mistake to bring other bus people with me, which I had been doing up to that point.
When we went in groups, the Afghans were not cordial to the women. I’d seen some excellent silver perfume vials. These were marvelous examples of the old Turkmen crafts, but prices were unreal. Clearly, this was their way or refusing to do business with me.
In another part of Herät I made a deal to buy a dozen unusual primitive fabric paintings. These displayed a fresh, ingenuous medieval perspective. Animals, people, airplanes, helicopters, and autos were painted in vegetable dyes. These were inexpensive and made great wall hangings.
Seeing modern technology for the first time had provided a fresh point of view. The people who
painted the cars and planes saw them as bigger than life. A helicopter would fill an entire painting fabric, looking as much like a dragon fly as a copter.
A certain charm presented itself in these fabric paintings. Planes, cars, helicopters and even animals were portrayed with a peculiar lopsidedness, with certain features favored over others. The helicopter seemed to be all rotor blades; cars emphasized windows. Animals and people had huge heads with little shrunken bodies. They reminded me of Salvador Dali prints.
Sometimes young children, seeing the world with new eyes, will draw the sky as if it is one big smiling sun. Kids often draw a house emphasizing windows or doors. Young kids draw large smiling faces for people that impress them and small stick figures for those who don’t impress them. These fabric paintings had this childlike charm.
Venuses: Lespugue-Dolní Věstonice-Venus Roumanie-Venus Moravany-Mal’ta Venus*
[The five “Venuses” above emphasize fertility and are about 40,000 years old. The major focus of that age was fertility, successful mating. The attributes of motherhood are exaggerated to the point of being religious fetishes. Hands, feet and heads are missing or greatly reduced.]*
Fabric paintings are also votives emphasizing the most impressive features viewed by the artist. Viewing new technology initiated a desire to obtain some degree of control over it. This, I believed, was the objective of these fabric paintings. Artistically representing vital concerns provided a first step in controlling them, be they fertility or helicopters.
The major problem with these fabric paintings, I later discovered to my dismay, was that the plant dyes were water-based, and I lost at least half the paintings from water damage. I should have inquired further why they were so inexpensive. I paid only one dollar each, however, and recovered more than the costs of those that were ruined.
The Afghan Queen: A True Story of an American Woman in Afghanistan Page 14