Lipstick in Afghanistan

by Roberta Gately

  “Yes, well, I hope so, but I’m sure I still have a lot to learn.”

  “You have come here, a stranger, to help us.” He paused and pointed out his car, a small, white sedan held together with duct tape and wire. “We are already grateful to you.” Ajmal grinned broadly again, and Elsa noticed that he was missing almost half of his teeth.

  “We do not have much time, mees.” (He pronounced “miss” as “mees.”) “You cannot even see the old city. There is too much to do. These medical supplies will be sent on to your destination. You will need Afghan clothes and some additional supplies, and you will be on the United Nations flight to Afghanistan this afternoon.”

  Ajmal spoke in short, rapid bursts, and he drove the same way. As he pulled away from the airport, Elsa hung on tightly, certain the tires were about to fly off.

  While he maneuvered the car through the dusty alleys and streets of Peshawar, she got a dizzying look at the city that Kipling had once described as “the Oldest Land.” From the looks of it, not much had changed. The streets swarmed with starving children, crippled beggars, frail men, and skeletal horses. Veiled women hurried along, lugging babies and parcels.

  Could Afghanistan be worse than this? she wondered.

  Ajmal brought the car to a screeching halt outside a maze of stalls selling everything from clothes to rifles. He ushered Elsa inside a tiny shop where the dim light brought needed relief from the sun. He gestured to her as he spoke to the shopkeeper. After a few minutes, Ajmal turned to her.

  “This man is a great tailor, and he supplies clothes for everyone that ADM sends into Afghanistan. He says it is an honor to meet you.” The shopkeeper looked briefly at Elsa and laid his right hand over his heart and bowed slightly as Ajmal continued.

  “He cannot touch you or measure you for clothes, so—from your appearance—he will guess your size and bring out dresses and pants that he has already sewn.” Ajmal settled himself cross-legged on the carpet and motioned for Elsa to join him. She wasn’t sure how to sit on the floor; she tried to cross her legs too, but it didn’t seem right, so she knelt and sat back on her heels.

  A young boy scurried into the shop from a back room. He balanced a silver tray that held a delicate teapot and several cups. He squatted and placed the tray on the carpet and in one swift movement, he poured a cup of steaming tea and pushed it to Elsa. Smiling, he passed her a bowl of sugar cubes and a small pitcher of cream. He stood and almost ran from the shop.

  “Thank you,” Elsa called after the fleeing figure. “Is he afraid of me?” she asked her guide.

  “Perhaps. Though there are more and more foreigners here now, not many locals have a chance to meet one. He’s probably running home to boast that he saw a foreign woman.” Ajmal flashed his toothless grin and filled his little cup with spoon after spoon of sugar cubes.

  Elsa grimaced as she watched. That explained the state of his teeth.

  The shopkeeper appeared, laden with several long dresses and large, wide-legged pants. He held them up for Elsa’s approval and laid them on the counter. He produced several large head-scarves and draped them alongside the dresses.

  Elsa pulled herself up, glad to be off the floor and standing again, and leaned over the items.

  “Oh,” she said, “they’re beautiful. Should I just hold them up to myself?” She held a dress in front of her and turned to Ajmal. “Does it look right?”

  Ajmal nodded his approval, and she set aside the items she wanted to buy. He spoke again to the shopkeeper, who hurried to the back, returning with a full-body cloak called a burqa. It was enormous and intimidating with its accordion-like folds of fabric. Designed to slip over the wearer’s head like a tent, it covered everything from her head to her toes.

  “You will need this, mees,” Ajmal said. “There are still places where women must stay covered. Better that you should get it now and keep it with you.”

  Elsa’s final purchase was to be a pair of shoes, and Ajmal pointed out some cheap plastic sandals, the only footwear available at the little shop. Their shopping done, Ajmal signed the bill.

  “ADM will pay for your clothes,” he explained as he guided her back to the car.

  Behind the wheel of the car, the polite Ajmal became a demon again, speeding through the narrow streets, beeping at donkeys and people alike. Elsa held on to her seat until they came to a stop in front of ADM’s little local office. He looked at his watch and asked her to hurry. “You will need to change into your new clothes for the trip to Kabul. Please hurry, we don’t have much time.”

  He showed Elsa to the bathroom and once she was alone she pulled off her jeans and shirt. She’d been wearing them since she left Boston, and it was good to peel them away. She looked at her new clothes and chose a tan-colored dress and pants. She pulled the pants on, fastened them around her waist, and pulled the long dress over her head. She draped one of the scarves over her head and turned to look in the mirror. A woman from another time stared back at her. In the full-length dress, the puffy pants, and the scarf, she looked as though she might have stepped from a history book, a character from one of Kipling’s stories. If it hadn’t been for her familiar green eyes, thick chestnut hair, and full lips still toting a faded coat of cherry lipstick, she might not have recognized herself.

  She smiled at her reflection and swiped a fresh layer of color over her lips. Now she was ready.

  Ajmal knocked and again asked her to hurry. She picked up her things and joined him. In a flurry of instructions, he told her that the UN flight was early, and she would be flying to Kabul—Afghanistan’s capital—within the hour. He packed Elsa, her lone suitcase, and her new purchases into the car and drove her to the UN booking office, where he said good-bye.

  “Khoda hafez, good-bye,” he said.

  “Thank you so much, Ajmal.” She gripped his hand and pumped it as she spoke. Uncomfortable with her effusive thanks, he slipped his hand from hers and hurried away, grinning nonetheless.

  Pulling her bags and her suitcase behind her, Elsa found a seat in the lounge and waited. There were only three other passengers, Japanese aid workers heading to northern Afghanistan for a brief stay. They were loaded down with heavy boxes, filled—they said—with computers, radios, and satellite phones.

  After a short wait, the small group was taken by van to the airport, but this time they were driven right past the crowds of travelers lugging bags of every size and shape. They were ushered to the UN terminal, a relatively quiet place, where they waited yet again. Finally, an hour later, they were led out to the runway to wait for their flight.

  They stood with their luggage under a raggedy plastic tarpaulin held up by sticks, protecting them from the sun. They watched as a small plane with the UN logo on its wing taxied up to them. The pilot appeared in the plane’s doorway and jumped down to greet them.

  “Hello, hello,” he said briskly. “Things are pretty calm right now, so I think we will have a good flight, but there’s never a guarantee, so it’s best to cover the procedures if we go down.” His words sent a shiver through Elsa, who hadn’t considered the possibility, and he continued, pointing as he spoke.

  “Once we’re on the ground, pull that lever by the front window, push open the door, jump onto the wing, jump down toward the back of the plane, and wait there for me.” He paused and pointed away from the plane.

  “But if I don’t follow you, or if we’re under direct fire, then run like hell for the best cover you can find.”

  Elsa marveled at the way he calmly described a situation she could hardly imagine, and she forced herself to listen carefully to the rest of his instructions.

  A short time later, their seat belts clicked securely into place and they were off to Kabul. She could barely contain her excitement. Her fears had evaporated. Ajmal had been so kind and the pilot so skilled. Everyone, it seemed, knew just what to do. She settled into her seat. She was going to be fine.

  Within the hour, the little plane descended into Kabul, and Elsa pressed her face
against the window to watch as it was all but swallowed by the soaring mountain ranges that ringed the city. As they touched down, she saw that the airport was dotted with machine-gun-toting soldiers, tanks, antiaircraft turrets, sandbags, and military aircraft. The plane stopped in the middle of the runway and the pilot released the little door and staircase. The passengers descended and waited while he threw down their bags. To Elsa’s surprise, he didn’t follow them but turned to slip back into the plane.

  “Good luck,” he yelled as he pulled up the hatch.

  Elsa picked her bag up and hesitated, not certain what to do, wondering if she’d missed something Ajmal had said.

  Should she wait where she stood or somewhere else?

  Was someone coming for her?

  The little trio of Japanese men picked up their own bags and headed into the main terminal, glancing back to see if she was following. Deciding there was strength in numbers, Elsa picked up her things and shuffled after them into the terminal, and there in the crowd stood an ADM staff member waving another sign with her name on it.

  She smiled, turned, and waved good-bye to her fellow travelers before joining him. He grabbed her suitcase and plunged into the hubbub, guiding her through Immigration. Once the necessary forms were signed and filled out, he led her to another decrepit sedan and drove her through Kabul’s crowded streets to the Aide du Monde office.

  He was silent as he drove. He was a bearded man with drooping eyes and a full head of bushy, black hair. Elsa smiled and tried to speak with him, but he never answered.

  The city was bursting at the seams with people and animals and rubble, so there wasn’t an inch of room left. Turbaned men, veiled women, and raggedy children hurried through the streets, competing with dogs, goats, donkeys, and automobiles for precious space.

  The murky, sour smell of exotic foods, spices, and body odor filled the thick, lazy air. She surely wasn’t in Dorchester anymore, but Dorchester had just as surely prepared her for this place. Misery was misery, and if there was one thing she knew, it was that.

  Despite the chaos of the route, this driver—to Elsa’s relief—was much less frenetic than Ajmal had been. After a short ride the driver stopped on a quiet street and yelled out. A large gate opened and the driver maneuvered the car inside, where it jerked to a halt alongside a beautiful, old stone and stucco home surrounded by surprising bursts of bright roses.

  “Thank you,” Elsa said to her driver as she stepped from the car and was greeted by a bearded, turbaned man. He wore thick glasses and a pleasant smile. He bowed his head and held his hand over his heart.

  “Hello, hello, we are very happy to see you,” he said in a deep, booming voice. “I am Qasim and you are Elsa, yes?”

  Elsa nodded and bowed to the man.

  “No, no, miss, do not bow to me. I bow because I cannot touch you in greeting; Islam forbids it. But you can say hello. That is enough.”

  Elsa smiled in return. “Good to meet you, Qasim. And thank you, I could use more lessons like that.”

  “It will come to you quickly enough,” he replied, still smiling.

  Qasim ushered her into the house, which, he explained, was empty save for the cook and a guard. He also told her that he was retained by ADM to maintain the house as a place for new volunteers to rest before the last leg of the journey.

  “ADM has not enough staff these days,” he said apologetically. “There is no one here but us,” he added, and he pointed to a smiling, toothless man wearing a grimy apron. “This is Faizul. You are hungry, miss? He has cooked for you.” Faizul bowed slightly and showed Elsa to the table.

  “Please sit,” he said.

  Too tired to say no, she sat and watched as Faizul brought out the food. He must be expecting a crowd, she mused, because he carried out a platter of rice, one of greasy chicken, and a bowl of yogurt. To that he added large loaves of warm, flat bread and a glass of water.

  “Please, will you join me?” she asked both men.

  “No, no. This is for you,” Qasim insisted.

  “Please, it’s too much for just me. Won’t you sit?”

  “Thank you, mees, for your kindness, but we cannot. You must eat and enjoy.”

  She inhaled the scent of the flat bread, realized that she was hungrier than she had expected, and broke off a piece. It was warm and soft and grainy. She bit into it and smiled. She ate the rice and chicken, and then finished the bowl of yogurt. Faizul had guessed correctly after all. He must have seen plenty of others like her, tired and famished more than they knew.

  “Thank you. It was wonderful,” she said. The cook grinned broadly.

  “You should sleep now, mees,” Qasim suggested. “You leave early.”

  She was shown to a small bedroom with an adjoining bathroom—a luxury, she guessed. From what she’d been told, this would be her last night with electricity and running water. She took a long hot shower and threw herself onto a lumpy, stale-smelling bed. But she didn’t care; she fell asleep quickly and slept soundly on the stained sheets.

  5

  Elsa woke to an urgent rapping at her door.

  “Mees, mees! Hurry, hurry.”

  She rose, splashed water on her face, pulled on the clothes she’d worn the day before, and headed to Qasim’s office. She was given a carrying case of supplies and a manila envelope filled with papers outlining her job. Finally, he led her to a jeep with the bright red and yellow ADM logo painted on the side for the final leg of her trip to Bamiyan.

  As he turned her over to the driver, Qasim held his hand over his heart, just as he had the day before.

  “Good luck, mees. Khoda hafez.”

  Her driver, a bearded young man with greasy uncombed hair, held open the door and pointed to himself.

  “Ismael,” he said proudly.

  Elsa echoed the motion and said, “Elsa.” She climbed into the little jeep; Ismael followed suit and gunned the engine, and they headed off.

  He turned to Elsa.

  “No Inglisi. Famidi?”

  Assuming he had told her he didn’t speak English, Elsa nodded.

  A short time later, they left the paved surface of Kabul’s streets and turned onto the rough and rocky roads that led northwest through the countryside. Their route wound through village after village that had been pounded into dust from years of war. In one particularly devastated village, people ran alongside the jeep and yelled “thank you” in clear English.

  She peered out through the dirty windshield. The road seemed endless, and the villages and their drab, one-story mud houses melted into one another. After a few hours, Ismael stopped the car at a small stand for a meal of beans and rice. Elsa and Ismael sat cross-legged on the ground to eat. Elsa had trouble eating the rice with her fingers as Ismael was doing, so she scooped it into the warm naan she’d been given and ate it off the bread. Once again, she’d been so wrapped up in the journey, she hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she caught the scent of the food—mint, saffron, coriander, and God knew what else—and it stirred her appetite.

  She ate until her plate was wiped clean, and Ismael nodded his approval.

  Back in the jeep and on the rugged road, Elsa needed a bathroom break. She scoured her little book of Dari phrases in search of the right words.

  “Tashnob, lotfan. Bathroom, please,” she said. Ismael coasted the jeep to the side of the road and pointed to an abandoned mud house.

  Elsa climbed out, clutching a small fold of toilet tissue she’d carried since Paris. She stepped carefully into the little house and looked around. In Paris, they’d told her that these old, crumbling buildings sometimes held hidden land mines, but her desire to empty her now full bladder outweighed her fears. When she noticed footprints and a pile of feces in a corner, she followed the prints, praying that if that route had been safe for someone else, it would be safe for her as well.

  She tried to squat and pull up her dress as she pulled her pants away, but the urgency was too great and her new clothes too cumbersome, and befo
re she could manage it all, she felt a gush of warm urine soaking her pant legs and pooling in her sandals.

  “Shit,” she murmured out loud, then glanced around selfconsciously. She tried to mop up the urine, but her pants were soaked and she finally gave up and walked back to the jeep.

  She climbed in, leaned back, closed her eyes, and fell into a restless sleep until Ismael’s words woke her.

  “Mees, inja, Bamiyan.”

  Elsa sat forward and looked outside.

  While Kabul had been a devastated city packed with people, vehicles, and animals, it had boasted some of the services of a real city: occasional electricity, running water, large buildings, even paved streets. But Bamiyan seemed chiseled out of some long-forgotten age where it had remained frozen in time. While Peshawar had evoked Kipling, Bamiyan was almost biblical—an alien landscape peopled with veiled women astride donkeys led by bearded men. The homes, nestled amidst a harsh mountain backdrop, were squat, sand-colored buildings, each no bigger than a small garage. As far as she could see, there was no electricity or running water, and food—what there was of it—seemed to be cooked over open fires. She’d also heard that animals shared whatever small living space a family occupied.

  This was an austere and unforgiving land and Elsa, who’d never even gone camping, was awed by the rugged countryside. She couldn’t imagine how she’d ever be able to live like this, but she’d have to learn. This would be her home for the next year. She felt her stomach tighten.

  Ismael continued on and finally stopped the jeep by the ADM gate. When Elsa climbed out, exhausted and dusty, a tall, thin man rushed out to meet her. He had long shiny hair drawn back and secured with an elastic band.

  “Oh, it is so good that you have come,” he said enthusiastically. His accent was heavy and French. “Welcome, welcome. I am Pierre Dubois.” Elsa was comforted by his gracious welcome and she started to relax.

  It’s going to be okay, she told herself. No need to worry—I got here.