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

by Paul Meinhardt

  Dharma insisted that it was her bus and no one knew the transmission as well as she. “That’s true,” I said, “but I helped in the past and it sped up the work. Besides, you get easily frustrated and I can take a fresh look at the problem and often come up with a fix. But you look so worn out, sit down by the fire and I’ll get you some food.”

  She relaxed a bit and ate every scrap on the plate I fixed for her. I got her a glass of Retsina, and she apologized for her hot temper. She began cursing herself in Swiss-German, which I understood. I leaned over and hugged her, at which point she began crying. I cried along with her.

  The next day, after a campfire breakfast, we finalized assigning jobs to everyone. Dharma and I finished our work on the bus transmission. Versant and Satya checked the bus underside for oil leaks, exhaust and tire pressure. The others were asked to clean the bus windows, inside and outside, as well as clean the seats and mop the floor with disinfectant.

  After a couple of hours all the bus work was complete. Everyone was free for the remainder of the day until seven in the evening for supper prep and campsite chores. Dharma, Versant, Satya, and Mother Fury (me) toured Istanbul and purchased provisions in the bazaar. I continued the pursuit of tribal crafts, especially jewelry and textiles.

  Jewelry with amber, copal, lapis or turquoise sold rapidly, so these were my primary objectives. Embroidered clothing and dresses with coin silver were also in demand, and tent and camel decorative textiles were sought by museums.

  Each tribe and clan ‘owned’ specific designs, patterns, songs, and dances, much as do Native Americans and most tribal people throughout the world.

  [NOTE: In academic circles ‘natives’ are referred to as First Nation People.]

  Camel bags were beautifully woven and usually large. They were often made from kilems (thin woven rugs). In Europe and the States camel bags became wall hangings and handbags.

  On the way back to camp we four stopped at the bar at the edge of the campgrounds for cold beer. As we sat drinking and talking, we overheard our bus guys in the far corner wrapped up in an orgy of cursing and whining about “Lela and her Furies.” We listened for about fifteen minutes. They were obviously drunk and feeling sorry for themselves.

  The four of us had worn scarfs around our heads most of the day to avoid attention. We became increasingly angry at the loud indecent and drunken bluster in the corner of the bar. We were now hot under the collar, literally and figuratively. I lowered my head scarf and my ‘sisters’ did the same.

  I could feel my temples pounding and nostrils flaring. Finally, it all spilled out. I walked over to our ‘bus-boys’ in their corner. While they cowered like beaten dogs, Mother Fury gave them the scolding they deserved.

  “Sorry to interrupt your verbal masturbation, but you’re shouting is rattling the bar glasses and the patrons are complaining. You fascist pigs are about to get an English lesson you’ll never forget,” and I began cursing them in American street vernacular. Dharma, Versant, and Satya joined me.

  “You want mothering? Mother Fury and the Furies will give you mothering,” I said. One of the boys replied, “That sounds like a rock band, Mother Fury and the Furies.” Dharma pulled him out of his seat and said, “You bunch of slacker leeches, take these provisions back to the bus and prepare for supper. We’ll join you in a few minutes, and you’d better be busy when we get there.”

  The guys were so stunned and shaken by our eruption into their day dreams that they allowed themselves to be moved like zombies. We hustled them out of the bar and pushed them toward the bus. This time they were not laughing. Back in the bar we hugged and kissed each other and roared with laughter.

  “Do you think they’ll start supper?” I asked the others. Dharma said, “Well, if they act like drones when we get back I’m going to invite them to leave the bus in the morning.” I was sure Dharma was deadly serious.

  The guys were busy little beavers when we arrived back at camp. They had the charcoal well lit and pots, pans, dishes, and provisions neatly laid out ready for cooking. We four women then did our job, cooked supper and for the most part, ate cheerfully with the rest of the bus people.

  After supper I was still angry. I didn’t know what to do next so I grabbed the (feminist) Germaine Greer book I was reading, flipped it open, and spoke the words like bullets. All the bus people looked expectant, but not in a good way.

  I began reading:

  The ages of masculism are now drawing to a close. Their dying days are lit up by a final flare of universal violence and despair such as the world has seldom before seen. Men of good will turn in every direction seeking cures for their perishing society, but to no avail. Any and all social reforms super-imposed upon our sick civilization can be no more effective than a bandage on a gaping and putrefying wound. Only the complete and total demolition of the social body will cure the fatal sickness. Only the overthrow of the three-thousand-yearold beast of masculist materialism will save the race.

  One of the men was on his knees, white as a sheet, paralyzed by what must have been a combination of utter surprise and anger. His mouth was quivering with saliva dripping from the lips. My first impulse was to wipe his mouth, but instead I shouted again:

  “Can you hear me? Was my English clear? Did you understand?” He whispered, “Yes.” I continued holding up the book as a preacher might hold up the Bible, “You should understand this better than anyone. This book calls for a holy war, a final solution to the male problem. We need to look at how the Amazons and Lysistrata dealt with male violence.”

  The women cheered and hugged me. The men did not. Finally, I got control of my fury. Dan was sweating and blubbering. I thought he might go into shock. We threw a blanket over his shoulders and walked him to one of the vans. Versant spent the night looking after him.

  In the morning we all tended to our chores and greeted each other, but little else was said. I noticed that the men were doing their chores briskly. I had not seen this before. To my knowledge the incident of the night before was not discussed again. We women encountered no further abuse or slacker attitude. From then on, everyone pitched in without being asked twice.

  That morning after was lovely. Soft golden sunlight mellowed all the sharp edges of the rocky beach, including my own. A demon fury had possessed me last night but I was now at rest and I was at peace. Everyone and everything seemed to take on a beatific glow.

  I recall sitting in the shadow of a large beach rock while most of the caravan people were sunning or swimming. It was an idyllic scene. I enjoyed it, knowing it could not last. An hour later it would become cloudy. Looking out to sea, I noticed some of our crew perched like seals on the large rocks that jutted out of the seashore.

  One of the people floated about with a snorkel trying to see the not so interesting fish below the clear calm water. I was tempted to do the same and borrowed a mask and snorkel. Soon the idea became contagious. A sense of frolic spread, and everyone began to grab masks and snorkels from each other. While the water was clear, there was little to see. After all, we were snorkeling in what is the world’s major sea lane for shipping. There were a few fish responding to the food crumbs we sprinkled, but nothing worth getting excited about.

  There was only one sour note in what was an otherwise idyllic day. The one German in the caravan had been torturing a ukulele again. Her musical ability was rock bottom, but she certainly was persistent. Her array of songs consisted of old hum-drum American folk tunes of the “Carry Me Back to Old Virginey” variety.

  The music was bad enough, but her voice was worse. Her amazingly inept Blue Ridge American accent was embarrassingly painful. Her plunking of the ukulele strings reminded me of fingernails on a slate blackboard. In my most sincere and polite voice I said to her, “There’s a baby trying to sleep and every time you play she starts crying again, so if you would please stop playing, we would all be grateful.”

  She was quite embarrassed, but she stopped playing and handed the borrowed ukulele back to
her boyfriend. As soon as she stopped playing, a muffled cheer was heard throughout the camp grounds.

  21

  DIGS - FALL, 1978

  We were on the road again after a long and badly needed rest. This time we continued along the southern coast of Turkey to Erdem, near the Syrian border. The days continued sunny with golden sunlight warming us.

  Dharma said everyone looked to me for comfort and sustenance. Satya called me Earth Mother but I asked her to please drop it. “It’s embarrassing and patronizing,” I insisted. “Please call me Lela.”

  The Earth Mother designation was the result of the dinner I cooked last night based on the random supplies we’d been able to purchase along the road. These included eggplant, tomatoes, onions, and green beans. Each time I cooked these, the meal came out differently. We had ample supplies of yogurt, garlic, herbs, lemon and spices, and these made the crucial difference.

  It was a beautiful Sunday and I had successfully passed through the danger zone. I thought of it in this way as it was the same small Turkish town where I had fallen for a dark eyed Turk six months earlier. When our bus rolled into town, I got excited and felt a thrill as we passed the little restaurant where I first met him.

  The restaurant overlooked the Mediterranean. From where we had sat, six months earlier, I could see the ferry to Cyprus. We parked at the outdoor tables for an hour, talking to waiters and staff who might remember us. I tried, as subtly as I could, to find where my Turk was, but no luck or good luck, depending on one’s viewpoint. An old waiter thought he had gone out with a petroleum survey team from the university.

  It was better this way. As it was, I had a full plate with no room for another ‘friend’ in my life. My memories of this place and of my beautiful Turk brought me to a fevered pitch. But after an hour of siting around, I knew I wouldn’t see him. While I was excited, I was also relieved. My life was complicated enough.

  I thought about the play by Berthold Brecht, The Caucasian Chalk Circle. It’s the story of two women fighting over a child. In the Biblical story, the women appeal to Solomon for judgment. Brecht’s drama takes place in the Caucuses and is modeled on an old Chinese tale. A chalk circle is drawn. The child is placed in the middle. The women are on opposite sides outside the circle but they can reach the child.

  The judge tells them that whoever pulls the child outside the circle will be declared the fit and proper mother. Both women grab an arm and begin a fierce tug-of-war, with the child as the rope. The contest is painful for the child, and she begins to cry. At this point, one of the women releases her hold on the child, much to the satisfaction of the other woman, who pulls the child out of the circle.

  The judge asks the woman why she released her hold on the child. The woman replies that rather than harm the child, she preferred to let go. The judge then declares the woman who released the child as the fit and proper mother. “The woman who cares the most will not allow a child to come to harm,” declares the judge.

  The moral of the story is that sometimes the kindest thing to do is to let go. This is what I did with my beautiful Turk. I unloaded him from my emotional burden.

  TURK STORY:

  He was a geology professor at the local university, on vacation when we first met. We had all been scrounging around an old rock outcropping near the ferry landing where there were some old stone ruins.

  Ruins near the site of Troy, Turkey

  The site was not well known except for a few archaeologists and geologists. We had discovered it during out first trip. One of our vehicles broke down along a lovely deserted cliff-side back road. The day was sunny and mild, so we were in no hurry to move on.

  Usually anything more than a flat would eat up most of a day. That breakdown involved a clogged fuel line, and, considering the filthy fuel stations we had to rely on, it was a wonder that it was the only time we had to clean the fuel line.

  On a Mercedes bus it was a long tedious job to dismantle the diesel engine to the point where the fuel line and filter could be reamed clean or replaced. The large storage area under the bus had a separate tools and parts section that was well stocked.

  We worked as teams of two, spending about two hours dismantling to gain fuel line access. Dharma had a detailed repair ring binder keyed to the various parts and problems. Each step was numbered with accompanying illustration, simplifying most repairs.

  Once the fuel line was cleaned, the second team back tracked using the manual to reassemble the fuel line. Versant and I walked away as soon as the second team with Dharma began the reassembly. Dharma was easily frustrated, and I was determined that we were not going to be called back after working on the engine for two hours.

  A half mile from the caravan, along a little-used dirt road, we discovered an easy rising rocky slope that trailed away from the road toward the sea. The dense brush hid the path to the sea. We found a path in the shoulder-high brush that led to a large stony beach bordering the Aegean Sea.

  Site of Ancient Troy on the Aegean Sea*

  Walking beyond the brush, we noticed piles of stone and debris as far as we could see along the shore. The caravan and the archaeological site of Troy were off the E-87 Road in eastern Turkey. As we approached, the Aegean Sea was visible. In front of us, some of the area of grass-covered earth was cleared and marked off in neat cordoned squares.

  Working the digs was a group of a dozen people. One of the diggers approached us. He was in charge of the digs. He showed us around, explaining that this site was but a small portion of the Trojan seaport. Troy encompasses many square miles along the western shore. They were not sure exactly how extensive was the original site of Troy.

  [This particular site was likely a minor port facility. Troy has been explored since the 1860’s and only a small portion has been unearthed. There were, in fact, nine cities built on top of each other. The earliest is dated about 5,000 years ago and was the Hittite city of Wilusa. The political-economic importance 3,300 years ago put Troy in a position to control merchant shipping through the Dardanelles and the Black Sea.]

  As the digs manager showed us the site, he noted that there was little to see. The site had only recently been funded, and dig plans were in the first phase of mapping the site, as we could see. He offered us some coffee and conversation. His tone of voice was friendly but serious.

  “We’re trying desperately not to publicize these digs. The last thing we need are troops of people stomping through this site. If the public comes streaming in before we get funds to secure this site, then much will be lost. We will probably put up radiation danger signs in the meantime.”

  He explained slowly with great care and emotion that this site might be older than Troy. It was possibly older than Hacilar or Çatal Hüyük in Central Anatolia. This might be a settlement over 10,000 years old, he explained. “That’s why I’m begging you to say nothing about this to anyone.”

  The site archaeologist, I’ll call him Jim, was extremely attractive. Jim spoke with us in a sincere and charming manner about the difficulty getting funded, the hassle with local officials and payment for an antiquities observer to be on the site during the digs. All these preparations had stressed him greatly.

  As Jim spoke, we campers nodded compliantly like school girls called before the principal. I assured Jim that we would comply with his request, but we wanted to know more about these digs. He would be working with his students the remainder of the afternoon but would be delighted to join us for supper at six by the ferry dock café. We agreed, delighted with our secret and returned to the campsite.

  We were only gone a short time but Dharma was already cursing. Before we left the bus, the fuel line was carefully reamed out with a long wire brush and rinsed with kerosene. It was amazing the amount of crap we removed from the fuel line and filters. We saved it in a bucket to show Dharma. She thought all the dirt was in the diesel fuel we bought.

  The four of us had the diesel engine reassembled by three in the afternoon. This was the most difficult repair
job so far. I’d been involved in all the bus repairs except for the rear assembly. While Versant loved to tinker with machinery, Dharma and I did not. Beautiful Versant now looked like the Venus of the grease pits.

  Before she cleaned herself, I insisted on a few photos. After the four of us showered the grease off we drove the bus into town and settled in at a grander campgrounds near the ferry landing and the café where Jim would meet us. We let the other caravan people know where to join us.

  I explored a number of shops near the ferry and café. Many were junky tourist shops pushing the Trojan horse theme to a sickening extent. A few boutiques were designed for tourists. The most exotic items were made in American Samoa. What a disappointment, I thought. I should stick to the bazaars from now on and not waste time in tourist traps.

  It was almost six. As the repair crew strolled over to the café, I could see Jim heading in the same direction. Over supper Jim explained that we had walked into a promising but untested site. I asked what led his team to this site. He said they had spent three years at a site a mile north. The most interesting artifact was a stone road leading to this new site.

  Jim mentioned that a few of the stone ruins had been excavated with nothing of great significance revealed to date. Apparently, they were working at the edge of a large public market. A few stone buildings were found with carvings of bull horns.

  The structures were simple, clean-lined boxes, or perhaps market stalls. The few artifacts found consisted mostly of crude bull horns and female figures in stone relief. Jim thought the stone reliefs appeared intentionally crude or abstract as they might have been displayed on market signs.