The Afghan Queen: A True Story of an American Woman in Afghanistan

by Paul Meinhardt

  This merchant displayed a variety of instruments and played many for me. I purchased a dozen different instruments. These she packed in special, burlap-wrapped Styrofoam crates with official export permits and shipping addresses sewn on the burlap. The crates were picked up by airline messenger while I was at the shop, and these arrived in New Jersey before I did.

  I was curious to know how she learned to play all these instruments. She showed me pictures of her folk dance group. Some she had made into postcards. She was of Turcoman background. My favorite photo is of her taken 25 years earlier. In this photo she is a teenager singing in a family folk group.

  Turcoman Singer-Drummer

  During our week in Istanbul, we did all we could to prepare our caravan for the hard trek to Thessalonica, Belgrade, and then to Zagreb, Croatia. While still in Zurich, the bus had acquired new tires, and the old had been kept as spares. A new rock-proof windshield and heat-resistant Kevlar coated exhaust system was installed, along with new and improved shock absorbers.

  We worked out a system to change flats in under 30-minutes. Axles were reinforced with special bracing and spare axles were on board. The bus was like an old woman, full of strange noise and creaking, but still tough as nails. As a driver and mechanic, I’d become quite fond of old-lady-bus.

  At some major cities, I had business contacts. Mainly, these were state museums. I did museum business in Istanbul, Athens, Thessalonica, Belgrade, Zagreb, as well as cities in Switzerland, and Germany. For the last two years I maintained a loose-leaf sales catalog with removable photos of my updated selection of tribal offerings.

  With this versatile catalog, I could provide photocopies of the items that interested my clients. Also, I mailed printed catalogs to key prospects. For reasons I could not fathom, there was no business for me in France or Italy; however, I was completely selling out my acquisitions between buyers in Switzerland, Germany, and the States.

  A business associate in New York, married to a French diplomat, explained that museum-related purchasing in France was controlled by government cultural departments. Paul and I had dinner with the couple one night, and the husband explained that the French government was “ballistic” about preserving French culture. All cultural purchases were restricted to government buyers.

  Paul asked if he knew anything about museum purchasing in Italy. He replied, “Ah, Italy, I can tell you a little something on that subject. In Italy, I’m not aware of any formal government purchasing policy, but there is a firmly established unofficial buying network.

  “As museum and government officials are not well paid in Italy, they must be ‘back door agents.’ That is the term they use. By means of family networks, officials have museum buying fully controlled, including the gift shops. Sicily is semi-autonomous, but I’m sure you can guess who controls all business there.”

  Musical Folk Instruments became major collector items

  My first day in Istanbul and my first stop was the general post office. Some letters from home had finally caught up to me. That first morning I left the post office with three aerograms from Paul. I was ecstatic. They were three of the best, funniest letters I’d ever received.

  We then went shopping in a huge covered Turkish bazaar. There were merchants in shops and stalls from all over the world. The signs contained flags of the various nations represented. Finding my contacts was not as simple as I hoped.

  The Copal amber merchant I dealt with so profitably in the past was gone. Copal amber was now $20 a necklace, untouchable at that price. Copal is a cloudy type of amber; far less valuable but popular all the same.

  At the bazaar, I tried to find other contacts that Mike had given in Kabul. He said that the Istanbul bazaar was the grandest in the world. I asked around, but had no luck. The bazaar was like a city, divided into avenues and streets. It was much bigger than I imagined. There were even merchants selling tribal art from Polynesia and New Guinea.

  After we got new visa photos and took care of some womanly shopping, we returned to the campsite. I had a chance to spend the night in the Unimark. This vehicle had joined our caravan in Milan. It was a house on wheels, with a shower, sink, stove, and even a sofa. The shower was most prized, since few campsites permitted a hook up to their water system.

  Since leaving the Balkans, we campers had had only two shower opportunities. By the time we reached the outstanding Istanbul campsite, we were all fairly ripe. One of the first things on our minds was a shower. We queued up for the co-ed showers. There were six separated shower stalls, so the decontamination process was fairly rapid.

  It was hot and humid when we reached Istanbul. The old stone public buildings, museums, churches and mosques provided cool, meditative relief. Everyone’s favorite point of spiritual renewal was the Topkapi Museum.

  Topkapi is one of the great human accomplishments. Early in the Christian era, Topkapi was the site of the Saint Sofia church complex. With the Islamic conquests, Topkapi became the most magnificent mosque in the world. Since the success of the Turkish revolution in 1910, Turkey has remained an officially secular republic with Topkapi as the jewel in the crown of the new Turkish republic.

  Topkapi Palace Museum Seraglio Point overlooking Marmara and Bosporus*

  Topkapi displays the treasures of the old sultans. While the Topkapi jewelry is nothing less than spectacular, it is widely copied throughout the world, especially in the Turkish bazaars. Many of the jewelry stalls feature not-so-cheap imitations of the Topkapi treasures, all of the same uniformly miserable quality.

  Near our campsite was an old mosque where, on certain nights, an old mullah performed beautiful light shows while telling the story of the mosque and that particular Muslim sect. Originally the mosque was the center of a Dervish sect. The dervishes were all but outlawed by the current Turkish government. While the mullah told his story in Turkish, the light show was so beautiful and his voice so full of emotion, that I hung on every word. I recall the goose bumps I felt.

  Most of the narrative was a cry, and he was shedding copious tears while he spoke. I was so moved by his story that I went to talk to him after his presentation. On my mother’s side, her family name was originally Osman-Ataturk, so I knew a little of the language. I recognized some of the old mullah’s words but not enough to understand his story.

  The old mullah apologized for not telling the story in English, but promised to do so if I returned the next night. We brought the entire caravan the next night.

  Whirling Sufi Dervishes perform in the Galata Mevlevihane (Mevlevi Lodge), Istanbul*

  The old mullah kept his promise. His English was barely understandable; nevertheless, he tore our hearts out with his story. The murder of 10,000 mullahs, families, and followers was described. This act of genocide occurred nearly 1,000 years ago at the hands of Christian crusaders near Jerusalem.

  The Topkapi Mosque was originally built as a memorial by the survivors. He described the suffering of the Dervish community and their new persecution at the hands of modern day despots who dared to call themselves Children of Allah, “May they suffer an eternity of hells, as we did.” Once he got started there was no stopping him, nor would we have wished to stop him even if we could.

  “Why should we suffer so? We dance for God. We dance for the immortality of our souls. We dance to know the celestial heavens, and toward this goal the Koran directs us.” After saying all this, the old man was so exhausted with emotional fatigue that we helped him close up for the night.

  “It was terrible to think,” He said, “that foreigners showed more concern than our fellow Turks.” We took him to a small café nearby. It was decrepit, but he said he could rest peacefully there. He said he hoped to see us again before he passed on.

  By that time it was late and there were only the six of us with the old mullah. Before leaving, he reached into his robe and brought out some old photos. The way he looked around the nearly empty café I thought they might be porno photos. But no, these were the forbidden pictures of
Dervishes in full regalia doing their forbidden dances.

  They wore their traditionally large felt fezzes, huge billowy sleeves, and tunics with small vests. The Dervishes stood poised as if on the brink of paradise. In the photos they danced with their right thumb raised at eye level and arm straight out in front, spinning into a celestial ecstasy.

  [NOTE: While Sufi religious practice is forbidden, Dervish dancing is permitted for the entertainment of tourists. Dervish means one who opens the door to heaven.]

  This was a moving experience, and we were in tears. After taking the old Mullah home, we retreated to our campsite. I can’t remember if I slept that night, but the memory of the Mullah’s story was still indelibly etched in my mind.

  After three days of searching, I found the contact I was seeking in a little copper stall outside the covered bazaar. An old man who spoke no English read the note given by my contact. The note was written in Pashtu. He then motioned me to follow a young boy that he instructed. The boy led me to a lovely inner courtyard, up some stairs and into a clean, neatly arranged shop. A distinguished old gentleman was helping two people from Ireland. From his turban and prayer beads, it appeared he was also a hajji.

  I spent some time talking with the people from Ireland. They too were tribal art dealers. Amazingly, the old hajji was fluent in English. He seemed well-off as he took us into his elegant office.

  Lunch was brought in for all of us, and afterwards, an assistant, his grandson, brought in some ancient artifacts. From past experience, I knew it would be impossible to take any of these out of the country legally. Since we were all well aware of Turkish laws and prisons, I was not going to chance these items. No doubt, they were national treasures.

  Carefully, with the utmost diplomacy, I explained that I could only purchase artifacts if they were complete with national museum stamp, release form and export certificate. To my surprise the hajji smiled coyly and immediately produced the necessary papers, complete with official stamps on photos of the items. I was able to legally purchase some at a reasonable price.

  Some of the pieces were genuine Amlash artifacts. Amlash refers to tribal habitats on the south shore of the Caspian Sea, now part of Iran. One small bronze deer was later examined and certified as a 3,000 year-old artifact. One of the artifacts was a rare Amlash bull. Everything the Amlash created is highly stylized with beautiful pure curvature.

  Rare Amlash bull, Malik Teppe*

  My host also showed me some ancient hand guns with rich mother-of-pearl inlay. For these he could not produce export seals so I had to refuse them. I was able to purchase some beautiful old pocket watches of silver with elaborate gold engraving quite reasonably. Similar watches were sold by New York antique dealers at five-times the price.

  Quality amber is also difficult to export from Turkey. If it is extremely old by carbon dating, it cannot leave the country. Quite rightly, it is felt that Turkey, like Greece, has been ripped-off enough by foreigners. Artifact smugglers are dealt with much as are drug smugglers.

  The Elgin Marbles were in the news again. Turkish officials and antique dealers would bring up this issue whenever I showed interest in anything that might be considered an antique.

  [NOTE: Greece has gone to the International Court with their suit against British and French governments and museums. Britain has a larger collection of ancient Greek marble statuary than Greece. Greece claims it was pilfered by British government officials since the 1800’s.]

  From the sublime to the ridiculous, that same evening I went with my caravan friends, Dharma, Versant, Satya, and Bern to a dumpy disco. They played a lot of old rock and roll, which was fun. After a few hours I asked a waiter if there were any other discos in Istanbul. He said there were many, but they were worse than this one. A bouncer overheard this and threw us out of the club.

  We had danced for a couple of hours before getting bounced. My mood was blue because after an evening spent dancing back home, Paul and I would end with great loving and that wasn’t going to happen here. The next morning I played some old dubbed over Beatles tape cassettes and was able to get-off listening to Paul’s voice on the tapes.

  Mike’s contact put me in touch with an entire network of dealers. From these, I was able to locate some beautiful old ebony black and flamingo pink coral. The coral consisted of large thick pieces, not the more common branch-coral. Another dealer had antique pistols to show me. They were made to look antique. Although the workmanship was excellent with fine silver inlay; the pistols lacked an overall look of antiquity. I passed on these.

  Half a day’s travel from Istanbul is the ancient site of Side, Gennet Sehir Antolya, as it is now called. Some of the ruins of this old Phoenician trading colony are over 3,000 years old. We camped near the ruins and a bright full moon lit the way for a night stroll. As I walked among the ruins, I offered up a prayer to the Moon Goddess.

  I was all alone here enjoying the rare solitude as I rambled through the huge stone seaside amphitheater. Out of nowhere, a huge mastiff dog gently walked up to me. Before I thought about being frightened, the dog licked my hand.

  After we got better acquainted, I noticed she had recently had a litter of pups. She had huge red eyes and seemed to be suffering. The dog didn’t make a sound but kept nuzzling my hand. Every time I sat down, she nuzzled me on to keep walking. We walked on together, side by side.

  The next time I stopped, she sat at my feet. I removed my shoes to feel the fine grass growing between the stones, and the old dog-mother curled up on my feet as if to warm them. Again I studied the moon and closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them it was to find dog-mother had disappeared.

  I stood on top of the stone stairs, looking in all directions. My newfound friend had completely vanished. All at once a great sense of peace enveloped me like a blanket. From my feet, where the dog-mother had warmed me, a comforting warmth rose throughout my body.

  Dog-mother was with me for only a few minutes, but the warmth and peace of her presence remained with me for days. The next day, a museum guide told us that the stones I’d encountered were remnants of what was once a Phoenician temple dedicated to the Moon Goddess as represented by Dog-Mother. The stone I sat on last night was the center of a moon phase calculator for observing the heavens.

  20

  DEMONIAC - FALL, 1978

  With the people who joined our caravan in Istanbul, we became 21 travelers. We were Australians, Americans, English, Swiss, Swedish, and French. The slow meandering pace of our caravan permitted time for reading, between shifts of bus driving, repairs, and cooking.

  It was a great adventure for all of us. Even the hours lost at campgrounds while our repair team rotated tires or reinforced axles were accepted without complaints. We took these opportunities for writing and photographing our experiences. Except for me, I doubt if anyone else had any plans for the future.

  Our slow meandering pace through the expanding countryside gave our minds a chance to expand as well. I had just finished Elizabeth Gould Davis’s The First Sex. At our evening campfire supper, I began spouting-off about the disgusting macho attitude of the men in our caravan:

  Elizabeth Gould Davis aimed to show that early human society consisted of matriarchal queendoms worshiping the “Great Goddess” and characterized by pacifism and democracy. She argued that the early matriarchal societies attained a high level of civilization, which was largely wiped out as a result of the “patriarchal revolution.” She asserted that patriarchy introduced a new system of society, based on property rights rather than human rights, and worshipping a stern and vengeful male deity instead of the caring and nurturing Mother Goddess.*

  The women in the majority cheered me on, while the men laughed it off with lingering smirks. They saw me as some kind of feminist comic. I grabbed a fry-pan and told them, “If you don’t wipe the smirk off your faces, I’ll wipe’em off for you with this frying pan. While we were all laughing, they immediately stopped smirking.

  “If you think it’s s
o funny, you guys can start cleaning up the supper mess.” They started to sneak away from the camp site. As I howled at them and began chasing after, Versant and Satya picked up empty pots and followed me.

  We knew the guys were heading for the bar. We rushed up behind them and smacked them in the behind with our pots. The guys fell down in fits of hilarity. We gals were also laughing as we grabbed their ears and dragged them back to camp.

  Finally, caravan rules were imposed. Everyone must agree to help with caravan chores or else leave the caravan; after some discussion and whining, all agreed and the work load was shared by all. These guys, boys really, needed a mother, and I had plenty of practice with my teenage sons. I became ‘Mother Fury’ with three willing acolytes: Dharma, Versant, and Satya.

  Dharma, as bus owner, announced to all the bus passengers, “All jobs will be assigned as needed. Any hesitation or refusal to do an assigned job, and you will be asked to leave the bus.”

  Usually I’m the last person to get fired up about anything. While I have strong views, I prefer to remain in the background when there is someone around who is more assertive. At times my posture may lead people to believe I’m self-effacing. But when my temper is fired up, I become an unrelenting demon, along the lines of Ibsen’s Demoniac. For this reason, Dharma dubbed me Mother Fury.

  I’d been reading by the campfire after the confrontation between gals and guys over the division of work. We’d resolved the issue of job assignments, at least for the time being. Essentially these were the same jobs that any household faces: shopping, cooking, cleaning up, minding the kids, maintenance, and repairs.

  It was about midnight when Dharma returned from a nearby garage. She was working on the bus transmission again. She insisted that I fix her a late supper. I told her that I put some warm food aside for her. She asked me to bring her a plate of food. I said that my day’s work was done and she would have finished much earlier if she had let me help with the transmission.