But where was my car? I was reassured me that it was on a small road test drive. I was told that I should come back the next morning and pick up my car. The next morning I saw my Benz shining in white color, which I had not seen for a long time. It looked like new. Bravo, good guys. The crack in the engine block was intelligently repaired.
An engine block welding?
You could do cast welding here in Afghanistan?
I was amazed.
The mechanic explained it to me so: First, a hole is drilled in the crack, after that a threaded fitting is turned into the hole.
Then a suitable screw is screwed in and the next hole drilled, but in such a way that the half of the first bolt is drilled along with; after that, the threaded fitting, then screw thread, then the screw, then the hole, the screw thread, screw, etc., till there is a seam, which is smoothed down. Then everything is welded once again and sanded off. Now the work of art seems to be like a scar on the body.
So far so good, but will everything withstand so many kilometers? For here, for short distances perhaps, but I did not have confidence in the thing. I called again for a war council with Chitra and Lal. We simply did not have enough money. Lal said that he could get some money sent. But I did not want to be even more dependent on him. The French people thought however that I could sell the car. And then? Flying was not possible because the tickets would cost more than the car. No, it wasn’t possible! Then the French people suggested that they would trade their car for mine. They wanted to give me cash for the journey home. The idea was not bad because we could drive home in a good a car.
The fuel up to Austria was not expensive. The Mercedes 190 belonging to the French was a diesel vehicle and thus had cheap consumption.
We agreed on this and completed the transfer formalities at the embassies. It was a bit complicated but in the end everything was in order.
We got our visas for Iran.
I had to apply for a new passport at the embassy since many pages had been used up as a result of several entries of the car.
The fee for a new passport was just 20 DM, I could get over that.
We were ready and drove with the newly acquired diesel car in the direction of Kandahar. It was not so comfortable and also not as fast as my beloved Mercedes 230. The roads were the best out of all the roads that we had driven outside Europe. I was told that the Americans had built from Jalalabad to Kandahar and that the Russian had built the rest up to the Iranian border. Or vice versa? The Americans built with asphalt and the Russians with concrete. We had to pay road toll on the way for every district. It worked like this: Pay once, submit the receipt and pay again.
It had to be paid each time we passed a transit in a province.
There were not always tollgates, which you could see well. There were also chains stretched across the street. If you did not see them on time, you had a coupé or at least a broken windscreen and a huge shock. A customs officer said that the trees were too expensive and that was the reason for the cheaper version with the chains. Yes, the Afghans were poor people, but they had beautiful carpets even in the smallest tea houses along the road, which you called here as highway.
There was delicious grapes, wine, raisins, pistachios, rice and vegetables similar to spinach in Afghanistan. That was it. Or we had to slaughter a lamb.
The Bedouins now wore winter shoes, which were manufactured from car tires. Normally they should have winter profile but I think that was quite irrelevant for the wearer. The sheepskin coats, which they wore, with wool on the outside in summer and with wool on the inside in the winter, were great. The best natural air-conditioning unit, what one can only imagine.
Cool in summer, warm in winter. These "Pustingers" were a must for every "Kuchi", as well as for the dog, which every Bedouin had with him, no matter where he went. The Kuchi-dogs were a race, which did not have ears, only stumps, just ear bases and also no tails. They said to me, these dogs were born so, so that wolves did not have any surfaces for attacking. I saw these creatures run barefoot at minus 20 degrees on the frozen snow.
In each teahouse that we drove up to, there was a warmth, which was not only from the wood-heated iron stove.
No, the warmth came from these people. Many a time, we did not have to pay for our tea - yes, we were not even allowed to.
The tea did not cost much but if you don't have anything, even a little is much.
The food was almost always made out of rice, spinach with raisins and two pieces of mutton. There were also the delicious bread, the Naan.
I have often asked myself: Would an Afghan living in our country be invited for tea on the motorway service stops? I came to the conclusion that he would most probably be banned from the restaurant as a wild person stinking of garlic!
Why are we Europeans actually like that? I have always noticed the following during my travels: The poorer a people's group is, the more unstressed are the people. Even the children here had a very different laugh than in our country or did I imagine that? Would that not be the gross manner or the better way in which they handled their wives? Just think about three hundred years ago - have we also not burned women? Witches?
The Church - what are the things that it was capable of doing? After all, the Muslim faith has a time span of 300 years behind the Christian faith. From this point of view, I am also convinced that something will change in the Muslim countries, even without the rapes done by Western countries. Imagine that the Chinese had heard that some western women threw their newborn in the trash and therefore they thought that they had to teach us culture or go on war with us - do we want this? No!!
We stayed overnight in Kandahar because I did not want to drive at night. I thought of the danger of the chains hanging across the street. The next morning I saw a small stream from our window from between the trees, which were on the right and left and some men, who probably wanted to make their morning toilet.
It appeared so: a bit further away, that is at the very top of the brook, they probably made a community toilet. The men sat in squatting position, with a leg to the left and the other to the right of the rivulet and washed their butts with a pot after completing their business. This did not bother those who stood further down, to complete their mouth hygiene. They brushed their teeth with little twigs. And a little further down, our hotel chef washed salad and tomatoes for our breakfast.
I did without the green vegetables that are so important to our lives. However the breakfast with yoghurt, honey, butter, eggs, sheep cheese and warm bread was delicious. The road was nice again. I drove the Mercedes 190. There was no snow any more and it was much warmer than in Kabul.
On this part of the road, there were hardly any bridges but instead, there were fords, which were Wadi - thoroughfares. Sometimes it went down the ford and then up again. During that period, these wadis were dry. Only when the snow melted, or during heavy rains they were filled with water.
We were just before Herat and I saw a herd of cows before me on my side. I also noticed the young boy, who was trying to drive the cows from the street. There was a bridge in front of us, probably the only one in the area. The boy did not want to let the cows on the bridge. He wanted to lead them through the dry Wadi, through the ford, and to drive them to the other side. I drove a bit slower and on the left side, because there was no oncoming traffic. The animals were now turned off just before the bridge to the Wadi. I drove again towards the right and at this moment, my cowherd came back again to the street, to go over the bridge. There were no sidewalks on such bridges, for whom? In any case the boy now stood on the middle of the road and I braked as hard as I could. But that was not enough! He was exactly in my driving direction - and I was one meter further.
With the result that my bumper hit the boy's shin. He was howling in pain in front of the car. I had not been able to stop early enough and also had not expected that he would come back once again to the road. He cried out in Farsi, Pushto or in Afghan. I could not understand but it was clear to me
immediately that he was in great pain.
A cowherd, an "educated person", a "Khawaga" and a "judge"
I did not have to be a doctor to ascertain that his leg was broken after such a collision between a human being and a car. After a checkup of his legs, I realized that his left leg was broken. The distance to Kandahar was too long, so I invited the boy to sit on the rear seat and Chitra took care of him as much as she could. I drove to Herat. It was approximately 40 Km up to this place. I also found a doctor quickly.
I had no idea how many doctors were in Afghanistan and also if any of them could speak English, French and German. But there was one and I found him in Herat!!!!
He had studied, lived and worked in hospitals in London, Paris and East Berlin. This multilingual doctor was the head of this small hospital. I had a good luck like my little patient had misfortune - to have such an expert as doctor, I thought. But the destiny would be otherwise.
It was again the leprechaun on my shoulder, who laughed his head off and rejoiced. Satan, Satan, my educated doctor brought the village sheriff and told me that he needed an accident report, as it was usual in Europe.
I asked him if it was then so important now and showed him the boy. He should first take care of the boy, I would not run away.
The doctor said that it was impossible. This boy was below the age of twelve and thus he could not do anything without the consent of the father. OK - so we had to find the father of the boy quickly.
I should be not so upset that it all went as per his way, the doctor said to me. A policeman had been sent on a donkey to the mountains to fetch the father.
He said I was a "Khawagha", i.e. a foreigner. And as someone of a different faith, I would not understand this anyway
It would be a very rough terrain that was the reason for the donkey. I was reassured. Now I wrote my report and gave it to the doctor. Of course it was in German and now he had to rewrite everything in Arabic. I had to go with a policeman to the station and wait there.
I was put in prison.
My passport was on a kind of desk and I was behind bars, what was this all about?
My wife and Lal had been sent to a hotel. The Mercedes was to be a piece of evidence for the police.
As evidence for what? You could neither see a bulge on the bumper, nor blood nor also just anything else.
I did not see the doctor for three days.
Then he came and told me that I as a person who had caused the accident would get a court hearing, as in Europe, he added.
But I was not to worry; he would be with me as an interpreter.
This was not very reassuring.
Who knows what problems he had had in Europe for which I had to atone now?
On the fifth day of my captivity, I was brought to a building in the vicinity of the hospital and the police station.
It was a room with a few chairs and a table similar to a desk, at which already have three men sat. I had to stand in front of the table and my doctor-interpreter explained to me that I was guilty to have caused an accident in which a child was injured. The result was that I was responsible for the following things and had to pay:
Firstly, a hospital fee of $20, secondly an interpreter fee of $40, thirdly a fee for witnesses and judges of $40 and of course a life annuity for the victim of $200. That would make a total of $300 in cash!
I had to pay whether I liked it or not, to get back my passport. Only I was sure that the boy would get nothing. I asked the doctor why I was guilty. He answered me that the accident would not have taken place, if I had not been there - hence I now had to bear the consequences.
I could not help adding: Yes, exactly as in Europe!
But I believed that he had not understood what I said.
Now I wanted to see the boy once again before we continued. But the doctor said that it was not possible. I went alone to the hospital and could not believe my eyes. The boy was in the hallway on a mattress now almost a week and nothing had been done, no operation! His leg was already badly swollen and completely black.
I was seething with anger; they had ripped me off and the boy would have to have his leg amputated.
I looked for the multilingual doctor and found him.
What kind of mess was this I asked him and threatened him that I would contact the authorities in Kabul to undertake something against him.
The doctor assured me again that everything is legal, and he could do nothing. Without parental consent, he could not operate, that was the Islamic law.
If the leg had to be amputated, it was Allah’s will. His parents would also get 200 dollars and he would not need to work anymore as a cowherd. The money would be sufficient for many years.
When ecclesial and civil laws clash, there is mostly a dilemma. On the one hand, they pamper their children, especially the boys without end. On the other side, such a shit was happening here because girls made to remain in the background anyway. But here they let a boy to become a cripple, a child, only because a clerical law specified that an operation should not be done because God did not want that. The Creator has intended it that way and it had to be so, the believing Muslims said.
But the fact that they circumcise men and cut the clitoris and mutilate labia in the case of girls, shows that their God is not quite so perfect while creating human beings, otherwise they would not need to lend a helping hand.
So it was not so perfect.
Or had they improved it a bit so that men enjoy sex but the women had to only give counter-pressure and function as a machine? All that takes place in the dark in the room, because sex is something dirty - you only sleep together so that children are procreated. Of course, there should be many boys but faith should not become extinct.
The more the children, the more the Muslims.
In the Christian world, it is a little different in the meantime. We don't want any children and you also don't need children for the old-age insurance because that is available from the State.
All my lost thoughts were of no use; we had to be on our way before I really got into more trouble here. So I said goodbye very politely, and thanked him again for everything.
Inwardly, I did not know why I was thanking him but I did that like the locals also do. Always remain friendly. I asked the doctor who had studied in Europe if he could consider doing at least certain things like it was done in Europe.
This was because there are also other things that were done in Europe totally different than here.
I could not help the boy any more and I was very sorry about this but we had to continue on our journey.
Since I had heard from an Afghan that there was a tower of human skulls and bones very near Herat, I inquired whether someone else had heard this story and knew this place. I
found an old man who claimed that there was a pile of skulls. For a couple of Afghani, he was ready to go with us by car. We found the place but one could hardly describe it as a tower. A huge number of bleached bones and skulls as well were piled up to a heap. There must have been much more earlier.
According to tradition, it was a legacy of the cruel Genghis Khan as he tried to suppress the Afghans. My guide told me that Genghis Khan got the Afghan people killed because they resisted his laws, so to say, as a warning or as a reminder. And since so many were set against him, he got the masses murdered and built the said tower with bones. Whether it was really so? On several occasions I found the skulls and bleached human bones in the remote wilderness of the desert but I thought that it was Bedouins who had died in an accident or of thirst, since I had not thought of the cruel Mongols. For the time being, I had enough of the bleached bones and we drove back to Herat. Very early the next day we set off for "Islam-Quala".
The Afghan-Persian border was not more than a larger Bedouin tent with a work desk, some soldiers, a customs officer and one, who stamped the passports.
Most important was the boy, who replaced air-conditioning since he pulled a rope, which moved a drapery hanging over the wr
iting desk, which then brought air into motion and thus enhanced the life of the official. Up to the Persian side, there was again a strip of no man's land but the Persian customs and the visa buildings were very comfortable and were air-conditioned, compared to the Afghan side however it was also out of service. The formalities were quickly completed and we continued driving to Mashhad, the first bigger city in Iran. There is some important cities of special significance in Islam and Mashhad was one of them, like Medina and of course Mecca in Saudi Arabia.
We drove on along the Caspian Sea, via the Mount Demavand, the local recreation area of the people in Tehran. The well-to-do people of Teheran romped about and took part in winter sports with skiing and tobogganing. In the city it was as if nobody had time because the crowd and the pushing and shoving was so boisterous that you had to make an effort to keep up with them. As a result, most of the cars had dents and scratches on both sides.
I was very glad when we arrived at the "Amir Kabir"- Hotel. We continued our journey into Turkey and along my "home route," to Ankara and Istanbul.
This time we decided to make a stop in Istanbul and drove through up to Edirne, where we treated ourselves to a day of rest. Chitra, Lal and I consulted with one another if it wouldn't be better to drove via Greece.
I did not want to put myself through Bulgaria with its anti-Western attitude. So we decided to continue with our journey via Greece, Yugoslavia, Austria and Munich. Our homeland was very close. My swine hound on my left shoulder wanted to tell me something but I ordered him to be quiet. There was nothing much happening at the Greek border that morning and so we had time to have a hearty breakfast. The raisin buns, the delicious cheese, French bread and the wurst that almost tasted like in Germany were very welcome. I just had to have a little chat with one of the officials and then we could go strengthened for customs inspection. The visa formalities were not very complicated for me but the Ceylonese ladies had to listen to some questions and answer them. Where they came from, why they were traveling and why were they using this border, where they wanted to go, how long did they want to remain in Europe, etc., when he saw that Chitra and I had the same surnames.
My Dream to Be Free Page 20