While we were looking at the photos, the meal was served. First, fragrant rose petals were passed around. Each person ate a few petals and scattered some in front on the serving board. Large porcelain pitchers of chi were placed on the serving board while small matching porcelain cups were passed around.
Platters of cut melon were placed on the serving board. The melon was a Crenshaw type and delicious. Platters of Delhi-type flat crisp cumin-bread were then passed around. Traditional pilafs and kabobs followed. At the end of the meal, strong black Russian tea was served with dates, figs, apricots, and nuts.
Throughout the meal we discussed business mostly, but some of the others talked about tribal politics and the government in Kabul. Outside the Kabul region, tribal power reigned supreme. The Kabul government could do little in the provinces without the cooperation of local tribal chiefs and war lords.
Later in the day, after taking some photos of local village weaving, we drove back to Kabul. Less than a kilometer from the village, our car broke down and we were forced to return by bus. It was a strange feeling to have all the bus people staring at Versant and me. As always in public, we were covered from head to foot, including a head scarf covering head, neck, and most of our faces.
Rug Weavers
The bus back to Kabul was filled with veiled women, bug-eyed children, and squinting men, all staring at me. Local weavers filled the bus rack with small prayer rugs for the Kabul bazaars. At the insistence of three old men, we made an evening prayer stop. One of my companions insisted they did this to impress the Westerners with their religious zeal.
I was one week away from returning to the States when some lovely antique jewelry came to my attention. After some telexing, Paul wired me another $2,000. This required another few hours at the bank for the transaction and conversion to travelers checks.
A few days before my flight to Frankfort, I was invited to a wedding by one of my business agents. I arrived at the groom’s shop early in the evening, but he was busy with customers, of which I was the last. In Afghanistan, as with most of the world, business comes before almost everything else, even weddings.
Between the other customers and me, it was another two hours before he closed the shop, with me in tow. His bride-to-be was quite anxious and phoned the shop twice before he finally locked up for the day. She was concerned about him as last minute ‘cold-feet’ are quite common.
As the groom was locking the doors, a guest from the Italian Embassy drove up in an old van and we were all driven to the groom’s home. As soon as we got to his home, a bus-load of women and children arrived. All were singing and clapping to the beat of tambourines, suggesting a Gypsy wedding.
Confident Groom & Anxious Bride
The groom’s sisters supervised the parceling of wedding guests between his and her vehicles. An hour later, we all arrived at the Kabul Press Club for the wedding. Another two hours were spent talking shop with the merchants. It was like a grade school prom, with the men on one side of the press room and the women on the other, except for me.
It was a slow week for the press media. They needed the two hours to set up photos and separate interviews; female interviewers for bride and women relatives; male interviewers for the groom and male relatives.
I asked one of the Italian officials why the wedding party allowed photos and interviews. He said it was a trade. The press ballroom and food were provided gratis in exchange for unhindered photos and interviews.
By the time the hundred or so guests filed into the ballroom, food tables were groaning with the banquet accoutrements, and the wedding ceremonies were ready to begin. After the banquet, the bride was ushered to a room upstairs. There she sat all alone while all the guests, including me, visited her separately to present their wedding gifts.
After these rituals were complete, the music started. It was not the traditional Afghan music that we Westerners preferred. Electric organ and guitars began blasting away with ‘amplifiers from hell.’ The deafening noise framed popular Indian Bollywood themes. The only way to describe it would be ‘Lead Zep clashes with Metalica in an ear-drum puncturing contest.’
After signaling my respects and goodbyes to my hosts, I exited as fast as possible while my hearing and sanity were still intact. Signaling was all we could do as speaking and hearing were impossible with that catastrophic noise. They were hell bent on copying a typically distasteful American wedding.
Outside, with some of the other routed Afghan guests, Mike said the noise was to frighten away evil jinn’s (spirits). “Looks like they succeeded,” I said. “It now looks like more guests are frightened onto the street than remain in the ballroom.”
By the time everyone had vacated the ballroom, the noise suddenly ceased. Gentle, pleasing Afghan folk music was now calling the guests back to the ballroom. Evidently, angelic jiins were once more in possession of the wedding, having routed Iblis and the fire-jiins.
It was after midnight when the bride and groom were ushered into the ballroom. A beautiful shawl embroidered with phrases from the Koran was held over the bride and groom. The Imam then painted their palms red. The ceremony was brief, rings were exchanged, the couple fed each other dates (fruit from the tree of life), and the wedding formalities were completed.
Chai, tea and juice were set out, along with a great variety of cookies, baklava, fruit and small cakes. The bride and groom cut the wedding cake and fed each other to the cheers of all the guests. There was no public kissing or any other show of affection.
A few days after the wedding, I began my flight back to the States by way of Frankfurt to Newark. This had been the best of years and, without a doubt, the most memorable year of my life, except for the year I was married. Never before or since was so much accomplished in so short a time. This was the year I built a lucrative international art enterprise.
I’d met more people, learned more, and built stronger social-business links to important families, clans, and tribes, than in any year before or since.
[NOTE: In Afghanistan and much of the Middle East, families are less separate entities and, more so, are integral parts of clans and tribes.]
Most importantly, Paul and I have matured and expanded the breadth and depth of our marriage by means of his loving, financial and household support. If “absence makes the heart grow fonder,” we could easily be the poster children for that time-worn cliché.
Having securely established myself as an international art dealer, I felt compelled by customer and supplier demand to return to Afghanistan at least twice a year. This was especially the case since the demand for tribal and Islamic art objects was growing increasingly strong.
A year or so earlier, I’d been at a party in Kabul given by my business partner’s clan. They were politically well connected. Mike was now an important government minister and this was a clan celebration of sorts. The smartest business decision I made was to partner with Mike.
When in Kabul, I had dinner and party invitations almost every night, either from business contacts or friends. Now that I was contributing a noticeable amount of U.S. currency, my business partner had requests for meetings with me from other government officials.
Most of the meetings with officials of the government were at business clan gatherings. I was told that the meetings were arranged this way so as not to attract undue attention. One official said I was now the principal exporter of Afghan art and that the Afghan government would like to expand the global market for Afghan art as much as possible.
Most government officials were also merchants and some of these built profitable business ties with me. My Afghan friends made certain I was invited to most embassy functions. As I met many embassy representatives at marriage and other gatherings of business associates, the groundwork for my embassy hopping was well established.
In the past, Kabul had not exactly been the focal point of global events. As Kabul was not the most exciting capital on the world scene, embassy staff on their way up (or down) were often posted
to Kabul. In the late 1960’s this began to change as Soviet and American officials took a greater interest in Afghanistan.
The Vietnam War had much to do with the growing interest in Afghanistan. An Italian legate suggested that the U.S. was retreating from Indo China to the Middle East. The Italian Embassy staff impressed me as keen observers of the world scene.
On a number of occasions I asked embassy staffers, when I noticed they had too much to drink, “Why are the major powers suddenly so interested in Afghanistan? Somehow, I don’t think it’s the Afghan art that brings them here.”
Whenever I injected this in a conversation, my tipsy embassy friends would burst out laughing. Repeatedly they suggested, as if part of a comedy routine, “Lela, everyone suspects that Afghanistan is floating on an ocean of oil.”
I heard this refrain so often, from so many different sources that I started to believe it. I thought: Could they possibly think I’m sniffing around for the same thing they are? They must believe I’m seriously into tribal art. Maybe some think the search for tribal art is a clever ruse covering a search for something else?
With this in mind, I was becoming a fixture at embassy as well as business clan functions. I was on first name basis with Italian, Indian, Pakistani, French, German, Swiss, British, Soviet, American, and even Chinese embassy staff, in that order of frequency. These embassies were all interested in purchasing Afghan art, for exhibits in their cities.
The notion seemed so obvious to me. It was not my tribal art they were after. Was it my charming intelligent wit? None of these seemed likely. What were they after? Why, of course, it was information. They suspected I was somehow involved in the hunt for oil.
It dawned on me that everyone suspected everyone else. Mike encouraged me to attend most of the embassy receptions. Did he think it was important for business that I be seen at these shindigs?
“Lela, these embassy people think we know something that we’re not sharing. For that matter, everyone invited to these receptions is suspected of harboring hidden knowledge. I realize you would prefer to be the hunter rather than the hunted at these gatherings. If you don’t make an appearance, they will be even more suspicious.
“Please say nothing about our trips. Talk about our search for tribal art until they turn blue in the face. I talk solely about my work at the transport ministry. Kit speaks only about the new health system. These embassy people are information vultures; be extra cautious.”
“Mike, like you and Kit, I don’t drink. I move around with a glass of mineral water, hunting for drunken embassy staff. On a good day, I get them to spill their guts. When I hear them slur out my name, I suggestively ask ‘How’s your love-life?’
“They answer that it would be better if I were part of it. I tell them I have all I can handle. They ask me what I can handle. I respond ’tribal art of course, and what are you seeking? A drunken Russian said he was looking for the Afghan ocean.
“But Afghanistan is land-locked. There are no oceans here.” He replied, “Yes, if you look in the right place.” Still smirking coyly, I asked, “And where is the right place? He said, “We’re probably standing on it.” He burst out laughing at that point and raced to the rest-room.”
This game of cat and mouse was quite entertaining. It became a diplomatic game of bait and switch. I was the bait to trap those with loose lips. Many took the bait, but never did I hear anything but innuendos.
The last two years in Afghanistan, oil was on everyone’s mind. It became a fixation. I considered it a big joke. My tribal art business occupied my activities solely. I told Mike, “Let the diplomats act like idiots. It’s entertaining, but none of our business. They can drown in their imaginary ocean for all I care.”
At first, the embassy staff purchased tribal art through me. Later, they purchased directly from Afghan officials who were in the Afghan art business. I was not at all surprised or upset by this, as my business contacts explained repeatedly that this would happen.
What surprised me was that Soviet, Chinese, and American officials continued to purchase directly from me long after the other embassies purchased direct. I asked Kit, the Australian nurse, why these three embassies continued to buy from me. She said it was to minimize attention by reducing contact with Afghan officials.
These three embassies were far more interested in each other than in Afghanistan. At the same time they needed to demonstrate an interest in Afghan culture. So I was the go between for token purchases of Afghan art, and that was fine with me.
When invited to embassy functions, there was usually one embassy woman official, the trade delegate, who approached me straight away. She would escort me to a noticeable table, and we would chat for about an hour, always about business and trade. We would both be seen scribbling notes on our pads.
At the conclusion of our business meeting, the trade delegate would introduce me to the guests for a polite hello and goodbye. I would then leave the gathering.
I much preferred family clan gatherings with business related people. Most of the family clan gatherings were loving and often as cloyingly warm as my immediate family. I loved this aspect of business the most as I got to spend some time with the women and children.
With the business clans that I was close to, I asked the women and children what gifts they wanted me to bring them from the States. Since I was considered a member of the clan, this was necessary. Usually they wanted T-shirts, jeans, and sneakers, so I measured them, hugging them all before leaving. They called me Auntie Lela and I melted when I heard that.
Although Afghan women and children are small by American standards, they always requested large sizes. When I returned with their gifts, the clothes and sneakers were usually too big. The women were expert at sewing and showed me how they would put drop stitches in the jeans and elastic bands inside the waists.
Felt slippers and thick colorful Afghan wool socks would allow the sneakers to fit nicely until the kid’s feet grew. I sold many gross of the beautiful Afghan sock-boot liners. Afghan socks and Mujahideen hats continued to be major sales items for years.
The women and kids loved to wear baggy American T-shirts, especially the Grateful Dead shirts with the skull and red roses. I explained ‘we are a Deadhead family.’ We are fans of the Grateful Dead. Me and my big mouth! Now they insisted that I bring Grateful Dead records (vinyl LPs) and a phonograph to play them on.
All these requests I fulfilled, along with a small phonograph that worked on batteries and plug. Also, I supplied extra batteries and adapter plugs. After all, what are families for? My Afghan families seemed far more charming at times than my own. It was the exotic newness, especially of the younger kids, that I found most endearing.
While I was enchanted by my business partner Mike’s clan (and the cash flow they provided), I realized that I was becoming a fashionable centerpiece in Afghan business society. I felt genuine affection toward me as I felt toward them, but there were other factors as well.
If I say so myself, it was quite a novelty to find a competent Western businesswoman in Afghanistan, and an attractive, charming one at that or so I was told repeatedly. From the first contact, I strove to maintain impeccable business relations, along with strong social ties. This, along with paying cash on the spot, contributed to my business success.
One merchant told me that I was better than having flowers on the table. I asked him to please explain. He said, “You are more entertaining and better business than any amount of blooms.” I smiled sweetly at this, feeling like a blooming idiot.
23
CROSSING - SPRING, 1979
Today our caravan drove around Lake Van in northeast Turkey. By late afternoon we reached within a few miles of the Iranian border. We camped at the last Turkish campsite before once again crossing the border into Iran. Much as we disliked the idea, to reach Kabul in Afghanistan, we had no choice but to cross the northern region of Iran.
We spent the next day preparing for the crossing. All the vehicles were ca
refully checked and maintained. Our clothes were washed and dried at the camp laundry. We stocked up on provisions. The larger vehicles had second gasoline tanks, and these we filled. Camping gear was aired and cleaned.
Dharma insisted on checking that all had clothing to fully cover the body, including hats and head scarves. A drug check was the final procedure done the night before leaving. Any questionable items were burnt in the campfire or stored in public lockers.
There was time to write and post some aerograms before crossing into Iran. Every time I wrote letters such as these, I realized that they took a week or more to reach the States. One must continually keep in mind this lag time and attempt to inject a sense of duration and continuity into these delayed communications.
Paul and I were well aware of this lag and had agreed to keep writing every couple of days. In this way we kept up a constant stream of aerograms. Our letters were long newsy chronicles of daily events. Lines of thought ran in untimely parallel, and rarely were we able to deal with the same subjects, except belatedly.
It reminded me of a big family gathering where everyone talks at once without really connecting. For me, there is a sense of satisfaction communicating this way. I get the feeling of venting, catharsis. It’s like having the last word without interruption.
I read a science fiction story about a space probe planned for the planet Pluto. The big problem was dealing with the ever-lengthening communication gap. Finally, one of the travelers came up with a solution. Sender and receiver would keep talking without a break, since that was what would provide a constant communication link.
Family, friends, gossip, business, and news events were all exchanged between Paul and me. Paul wrote about orders he filled and shipped for my customers. I detailed my latest merchandise acquisitions, when and how they were likely to arrive. Mostly, my shipments were sent by brokers at Kabul airport and received by my brokers at Kennedy or Newark airport.
The Afghan Queen: A True Story of an American Woman in Afghanistan Page 20