I would describe as the people who painted the fabric art as primal rather than primitive. I imagine these primal artists saw animals, plants, and even technology for the first time, as bigger than life, without confining dimensions. The objects floated free without a confining frame.
Seeing the essence of an object with neither framing, boxing, anchoring nor horizon confinement is what I call a primal viewpoint. A camel is painted in the middle of a fabric, without road, horizon or anything else. It just floats there as if nothing else exists in the world.
It was the primal seeing of their tribal reality that remained of great value in those fabric paintings and in all original tribal art. I knew my education at Parsons and The Fashion Institute would come in handy someday.
At the conclusion of my dealings with this merchant, he tried to give me the wrong change and so I took back all my money, ending the bargaining entirely. Perhaps we were still too close to Iran. I had no illusions, but I hoped business would be better in Herät.
The next stop was Kandahar, requiring two days of travel over bad roads. Some of the people in our caravan needed to pick up visas to Pakistan. I had some business in Kandahar so this stop worked for many of us.
By the time we left Herät, we had gathered another four vehicles. I was getting homesick as we started out for Kandahar. To deal with the loneliness I hung out with our little caravan sisterhood. We saw ourselves as protectors for each other. After the deal in Herät soured, however, I realized that the sisterhood was unintentionally messing up my dealings with merchants.
Having anyone just hovering around was enough to put me and the merchants off our trade. From that point on, I visited the bazaars solo. Of course we all wanted to explore the bazaars, but when I noticed interesting merchandise I split from the group, pursuing the goods on my own.
In spite of the coldness of the people bordering Iran, I felt safer than on the streets of New York City. A few of the trekkers were French and knew little English. They needed to learn more English before going to India, so they talked with me as often as they could.
The Frenchmen were of upper middle class families. Two were brothers and one a friend. They worked at one of the Club Meds for a time so they were just the sort of social clowns for me. My caravan sisters, together with the French clowns, kept the blues away.
The Frenchmen were constantly laughing, smiling, and clowning. They were perfect for our little group of lonely, stressed business women. Yet, they brought their marriage troubles with them. Like most of us, they had their load of emotional baggage.
Fortunately, Herät was not a complete loss. The day before leaving, I ventured on my own into a different bazaar and obtained some amber of fine quality at a reasonable price. The world supply of quality amber was rapidly dwindling so I was happy about my luck. There were no merchant hassles this time, although the bargaining was lengthy.
Before going to the bazaar, I had my sisters confirm that I was fully clothed from head to foot. Except for the small facial oval, a beige silk shawl covered my hair and wrapped around my neck and shoulders. Also, I wore large sunglasses—commonly worn by the Afghans. I wore proper shoes and socks and a tent-like Nuristan dress covered arms, legs and body down to my shoes.
As usual, my business manner was polite, direct, and to the point. The result was immediate. There was not the least bit of standoffishness. Two dozen excellent coin silver necklaces were my objective. These contained outstanding green turquoise mounted without backing so the stones were completely visible. The bargaining was intense, but we agreed on a fair price.
Since I always paid in dollars, the merchants throw in extra goods as business gifts. In this case, the merchant gave me a bag of uncut and off-color turquoise gem stones. Before leaving the merchant, some small beautifully carved amber animals on silver chains caught my eye. There were a dozen of these, and I asked, “How much?” He smiled and gave them to me, gratis.
On reaching Kandahar, I decided to splurge on a hotel room. It was inexpensive and clean, but best of all, it was near the bazaars. I figured the bus people and I could use a break from each other. The real treat was a hot shower, a rare luxury in this country.
The room was great for partying as it had four beds, freshly painted walls, and a mirror hung in such an out-of-the-way corner that no one could possibly see one’s reflection. That is one of the charming features of this Islamic nation. The orthodox Muslim abhors the use of photography, mirrors, or pictures of people.
‘Thou shalt not make graven images’ and ‘to capture a person’s image is to diminish their soul,’ appear in both tribal and Koranic strictures: I believe this is all part of focusing attention on ‘The Unseen One.’
My prayer is, “The Earth is my Mother. She permits me green pastures, surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life.”
The first evening in Kandahar was spent shopping for cookies, of all things. I’d been really good about not eating junk food, but now that the trek was dragging on, my willpower was at an all-time low.
The nearer we got to Kabul the more homesick I became. I was impatient to get to Kabul so that I could finalize my purchasing for this trip. So far I hadn’t bought enough to fill the orders I had arrived with. I had thought I would find enough goods between Istanbul and Kabul to justify the overland trek, but I’d found much attitude and little merchandise.
I could kick myself for all the time I spent in bazaar stalls sipping endless cups of chai as there was far too little to show for it. That’s the fault and feature of having one’s own business. The fault is that I’m responsible for the results. The feature is that I have no boss to give me hell.
One antique shop in Kandahar supplied me with a number of small stone fetishes, somewhat resembling the Venuses illustrated above. They looked ancient, but the seller insisted they were recent copies of museum displays.
The seller provided a document with the museum director’s statement naming the photographer and artisans involved. These were quite inexpensive and I would sell them with photocopies of the documentation.
Our stay in Kandahar was longer than expected. There were problems involving visas for those going directly to India. The red tape was daunting for everything involving government officials. Just to cash one traveler check at a bank required over an hour of waiting to see the proper person. By comparison, western banks are blazingly fast and efficient.
The day before leaving Kandahar, I came across some unusual artifacts and bought nine for $67, plus a pair of old leather shoes and some prayer beads made of serpentine were thrown in as a gift. The merchant was a delightful little old dwarf of a man. He took me to the little craft stalls where the prayer beads are made.
They were the same beads I had sold before going to Afghanistan on my own. Most surprising, a master craftsman invited me to take photos of the process. Since I had an old $20 Polaroid, in addition to my professional photo gear, I offered to provide the crafts people with pictures of themselves. This was chancy as I knew full well the attitude about photos.
People are full of surprises. The crafts people were enthusiastic about the photos. It was probably the first time they had had their picture taken. First I took some work photos of the young boys. They looked 9 or 10, but I was told they ranged from 15 to 18.
Using my high-speed 35-mm Lica, I machinegun filmed the process of little fingers and feet drilling little yellow serpentine beads. They sang as they worked the little bow drills. They posed for Polaroid pictures, and I gave them a dozen of these as gifts. The kids were overjoyed. The shop master said that never had the boys seen such kindness. Wish I had recorded their songs.
We had tears in our eyes at this exchange. I purchased 25 strands of the lovely, soft, yellow serpentine and sha-mak-sud prayer beads at $5 each. Later I learned that this was a good price since they were going for $10 to $15 in other bazaars. In future years such prayer beads would be nearly unobtainable at any price.
From left to right:
golden serpentine, shah-mak-sud, Afhan amber, and black coral*
Later that day, I treated the old man to a delightful lunch at a nearby café that I let him pick. He said the one he chose was the best café in Kandahar. After a substantial lunch, the bill came to 75 afs, a little under $2 with tip. Like a typical American clod, I wanted to give more of a tip, but the old man would not allow it. He explained that it would embarrass him and the café staff.
He ordered the usual Afghan lunch of kabob, ahshok, pilaf and tea. The ahshok was unusual, sort of like an Afghan calzone with sesame, onions, leeks, ground lamb, peppers and whatever takes the cook’s fancy. These were pan fried in sesame oil and most delectable.
In his excellent English, he explained that his first work in Europe had been to support his sisters, brothers, and step mother. At age seventeen, he had worked in Paris as a café cleaner. It was located in an enclave of American and English writers and artists. There he learned English while learning French. He jotted down the words he heard during the day and studied his grammar at night.
The next morning I brought him, from the bus, the five books in Arabic that no one could read. It was early in the day and the bazaar was beginning to stir after morning prayers. The old man was copying passages from the Koran when I arrived. He said he did this to sharpen his mind for the day.
This was the only merchant who didn’t offer me hash to smoke as was the custom in most of Central Asia. Merchants treated hash as a social lubricant, much like alcohol in the West. Supposedly it takes the edge off hard bargaining and predisposes negotiators toward conciliation. For this reason, I drank their endless cups of chai and enmeshed myself with their families whenever the opportunity presented itself instead.
The last few days in Kandahar I was in high spirits due to the old merchant and the great purchases. I think the story of his life was as enriching as the items I bought from him.
Originally, I came to his leather stall because the Swedish clogs were hurting my feet. I traded the almost new clogs for a comfortable pair of leather sandals on display. Finding comfortable footwear was hard for me. The old man did not want my clogs.
There were many merchants that deal in old clothes, and most were pathetic lechers wanting more than a pair of clogs. The offers were unbelievable in Herät. I was glad to be out of that city. For five minutes of ‘laughing,’ as they put it, I could have a pair of the finest boots or anything else in the shop. The old man gave me the sandals as a gift, and that’s how we began our business friendship.
The further from Iran, the less I encountered these indignities. There were two ways of handling these offers: I could storm at these people and vent my spleen or just burst out laughing at the farce. I chose to treat these as the burlesques they really were. My impulse was always to laugh them down and move on. This approach salvaged both my self-respect and business prospects.
It was late October when we rolled into Kabul, Gateway to the Silk Road East. Kabul is the foot stool of the Himalayas, as they say. It is also the watering hole and staging point for thousands of years of assorted invaders and traveling merchants. Everyone from Cyrus the Great to Alexander, including Genghis Khan and Tamerlane, to mention a few, refreshed and relieved themselves in this general vicinity.
My first letter from Kabul was written while at a Buzkashi game. Buzkashi is the national sport of Afghanistan, and I use the word sport advisedly. My initial reaction to attending this orgy of mayhem was less than enthusiastic.
Buzkhazi is the ancestor of polo, some say. Instead of a ball, a calf or goat carcass is used. In place of mallets, riders use riding crops to fend off other horsemen. Riders attempt to grab the carcass off the ground and toss it into a central circle goal to score.
This is far more difficult than it sounds. Players spend most of their time trying to stop other riders from grabbing the carcass. If a rider is unfortunate enough to grab the carcass, he becomes the target of other riders. Come to think of it, buzkhazi is as much like polo as cricket is like baseball.
As long as a rider holds the carcass or attempts to grab it, other riders will pile into him with their horses and whip the rider with their crop until the rider lets go. This is injurious to the point of deadly for both horse and rider. Fortunately, women are not yet sufficiently emancipated to play Buzkashi.
The logic of Buzkashi involves endless pursuit and battering of horses and riders. While only one toss of the carcass into the central circle is required to win and end the game, scoring is so difficult that some Buzkashi meets can last an entire day or go on for days.
While an entire clan or tribe may play against others, there is less cooperation between kinsmen and more of a fierce rivalry to achieve a single score. The ridding crop is not used so much on the horse as it is to repel other riders.
My Afghan partner, Mike, insisted I witness ‘the real Afghanistan.’ I hope not, I said to myself as I reluctantly watched. Since I usually try to resist violence and the madness of crowds, I was reluctant to attend. But I let myself be talked into attending. My friend and valued business partner insisted. I should have known it would be revolting since this was one meeting Kit did not attend.
“It will be a once-in-a-lifetime experience,” Mike said. “Let’s make sure of that,” I said to myself. Some of the caravan people went with us to the stadium. We were seated in the European section for our own protection or so we were told. That did not sound good.
What looked even worse were the fierce Mongolian soldiers policing the crowds. I don’t believe one soldier was less than six feet. The giants in Soviet uniform were lent as a ‘friendly’ gesture to the Afghan people.
We had heard plenty of nasty things about Mongolian soldiers. With friends like these, enemies were not needed. Talk about gallows humor; their presence had not a single element of humor. I was petrified just looking at them and tried not to.
Mike showed his official credentials and was allowed to sit with me in the European section. With the exception of our group, the Afghans were roughly treated as they were pushed into the grandstands. The European section demarcation sounded to me like 19th Century British Colonialism.
Buzkashi (mercifully not a clear photo)*
Mike insisted that the segregation was necessary as the Afghan spectators were mostly related to the players and took an active and violent part in the Buzkashi meet. We could easily become victims of their enthusiasm, he insisted. I soon had reason to share his viewpoint.
A cousin of Mike’s spotted him and pushed toward us. The ‘friends’ of the Afghan people unslung their Kalashnikovs (rifles), and with the flat side violently pushed the cousin into the grandstands. My partner was quite upset and spoke with an officer. The officer angrily raised the palms of his hands, making it clear that my partner must not interfere.
I pulled Mike toward our seats, insisting that he stop arguing and that was the end of it. This demonstration of friendship really angered us. “They acted like we were rioters,” I said. Mike didn’t appear at all upset. Does anything ever upset him? what’s he on?, I wondered.
He replied, “The soldiers know what to expect. These games are a substitute for incessant tribal warfare. The opposing players are often bitter rivals for women or status. But I was assured there will be no violence today since both teams hail from two clans of the same tribe.” So much for assurances, I thought.
“I feel so much better knowing that,” I replied, with a touch of sarcasm. Mike laughed and explained the finer points of Bushkhazi. “The sport of polo is based on Bushkhazi, you know?” I added, “So I understand, but in their squeamish disrespect for tribal tradition, westerners use a ball in place of a carcass.”
Mike laughed, replying, “Lela, that’s your loss. Westerners lack respect for the finer old world traditions. Headless carcasses have replaced human heads, so you see we have made some concessions to modernity.” We were now both laughing as I said, “That’s a great relief, but I suggest that Afghans consider carefully before turning thei
r back on tradition.”
As expected, both players and crowds became unruly. In their excitement, spectators left the stands and cheered their team on the field, along with TV and other media. It wasn’t unusual for players on horseback to pursue the game into the crowds, particularly when the spectators spilled onto the playing field.
Spectators often ran onto the field to grab horses and players, but not in a good way. I was told that it is a tradition for at least one rider to rush the spectators in reprisal.
As if on cue, that is exactly what happened. A horseman almost ran into the European area but was stopped by the fans on the field in front of our stand. The crowd cheered the rider wildly. The soldiers became furious, advancing in a phalanx on those spectators still on the field. Those not moving back to the stands fast enough were brutalized with rifle butts.
An hour later, a horse at full gallop dropped dead on top of the rider. The rider was leaning over to grab the goat carcass as the horse’s heart just gave out. Ambulances raced onto the playing field while the horsemen galloped around them. Again, spectators cheered wildly.
One ambulance crew was trampled as they loaded the injured player. There were as many casualties in the stands as on the fields when an out of control rider plowed into the crowd. After two hours of this mayhem, I had had enough. I told my group about my migraine and caught a cab back to the hotel.
The next morning, Mike explained what I had (thankfully) missed. He told me that before the game was over, at sunset, virtually every rider’s face showed gashes and bruises. Nearly half the players had to be carried off the field by ambulance crews. My friend insisted, for the umpteenth time that Buzkashi was a substantial improvement over the old inter-tribal warfare.
I explained that Native American Plains people have a similar release activity. They call it ‘counting-coup.’ Rivals attack each other as in a war party but use their war clubs merely to touch their enemy. No injury is involved except to one’s pride or status. If a rider touches an enemy without being touched, then he has counted coup and increased his tribal status. This practice is calculated to vent hostility without injury or death.
The Afghan Queen: A True Story of an American Woman in Afghanistan Page 15