Welcome to the Tenth Century!

WAR STORIES By Phil Cohen

Editor’s Note: This is Part II of Phil’s three-part saga chronicling his harrowing days trying to eke out a living on the streets of Tehran and Kabul just prior to the Iranian Revolution and Russia's invasion of Afghanistan. Click here for Part I

The guards aroused travelers at dawn and pointed us toward several white vans lined up near the crossing. I was instructed to board one of them, surrendered my bedroll to be tied on the roof but forcibly knocked the driver’s hand away as he reached for the guitar. When the rear door finally closed, I found myself in the most crowded environment I’d ever experienced. It made the New York subway during rush hour seem spacious by comparison. The compartment was not only devoid of empty seats but there wasn’t even space to stand upright. While people jostled for position, I ended up carving out airspace with knees bent and leaning forward at a thirty degree angle. This at least spared me the foul breath of the gentleman to my right.

As the van pulled out, I realized the dimly lit passenger compartment didn’t have any windows through which I could at least get an introductory glimpse of Afghanistan. The next three hours unfolded in elongated seconds. Despite the cold weather, combined body heat soon had sweat running down my arms as my head throbbed from hunger and fatigue. I prayed all onboard could control their bladders.

Just when I began imagining I might be dead and in purgatory the van came to an abrupt halt, the rear doors flung open and people flowed out like water from a busted pipe. I found myself staring at the most remarkable scene of my life. Beneath the bright morning sun, an enormous outdoor market stretched in all directions with countless wooden stalls selling produce, garments, utensils, goats and chickens. Several children stood at the van smiling at passengers before returning to assist their parents. The men were mostly clad in simple white tunics, while women were cloaked in long black veils stretching from head to foot, covering their entire face with a small section of lace over the eyes to peer through.

What most caught my attention was how colorfully many of the children were dressed. Stalls and horse drawn carts were artfully painted, often with dazzling greens and reds. There were no electrical wires or pavement. It felt as though I’d been hurled by a time machine through a dark void and emerged in the tenth century.

I hopped off, gathered my possessions and began walking toward one of the larger produce displays. “Not for you. Make you sick,” said the kindly man who’d explained things at the border. I realized he was referring to unsanitary conditions, against which Westerners had no immunity.

I explored a main avenue until locating a small hotel and booked a room for the equivalent of fifty cents in US currency. The young Mongolian proprietor led me to a row of outhouses in the rear and then pointed out log piles for my wood stove. As we returned to the front entrance, he handed me a padlock and key to secure my door. This friendly service was a welcome change from Tehran.

I entered a rather cozy room of about a hundred square feet with my ears and fingers numb from the cold. I’d left my warm goose-down jacket back home, harboring the naïve belief that all of Asia was tropical. I spent an hour figuring out how to operate my first wood stove and then snuggled into my bedroll atop a very narrow bed for fourteen hours of long-overdue sleep in a private room.

Upon awakening it took thirty seconds to reorient myself and remember where I was before swinging my feet onto a cold floor. I knelt before the woodstove for fifteen minutes, adding logs and collecting my thoughts. While in Greece I’d befriended and picked the brains of a French trader who routinely traveled overland to the Far East, acquiring semi-precious gems and artifacts to sell on the streets of Athens. I’d taken detailed notes of locations offering inexpensive lodging and food less likely to cause illness. He’d mentioned a strip of several blocks in downtown Herat that catered to low-budget Westerners. Many European students took eight months between high school and college to travel, financed by their parents in what was referred to as a gap year. The mysteries of Asia were comparatively accessible to these Euro-hippies. The hotel manager provided directions and I headed down two miles of dirt roads, feeling like a starving leopard stalking meat.

When I finally arrived at the designated location, I was astonished to see streets lined with small restaurants and what appeared to be a few clubs. The eating establishments all had similar menus in English posted on the front widow, offering entrees including succulent beef and chicken recipes and a variety of side-dishes. I took a seat in a friendly looking place, delighted they were serving an early lunch, and ordered roast beef with baked potatoes and string beans.

I studied the room while waiting, noting a partially carved goat carcass hanging from the ceiling. I knew refrigeration was a future luxury in these parts and hoped the owner maintained a good supply of ice.

Lunch arrived sooner than expected and the waiter placed a wide dish before me, containing a mountain of rice, topped with a one inch cube of goat meat. It was accompanied by a miniscule bowl containing a spoonful of cooked greens. “Excuse me,” I told the waiter as he turned to leave. “I ordered roast beef and potatoes.”

“Yes, yes, very good. You enjoy now,” he responded while walking away.

I returned to my hotel with a full belly but still not feeling nourished.  After some consideration I decided to forego another cold outdoor shower and began exploring Herat. Other than two perpendicular paved roads with occasional truck or motor-bike traffic, nothing had changed in a thousand years. Most of the living quarters were within small courtyards, devoid of electricity, running water and phones. But I began falling in love with this city and much of its culture.

The children of Herat were all stunningly beautiful, especially the little girls. Small groups would stop playing in the street and swarm around me as I passed screaming, “Baksheesh! Baksheesh!” – the universal expression used by panhandlers throughout Asia, literally translated into gift. As they flashed cute smiles and eyes sparkled, I’d reach into my pocket and distribute a handful of Afghani coins.

I found it tragic that starting at puberty, the sweet, playful girls would be shrouded for life in a black veil, far more extreme than most Islamic nations, looking more like an alien spacesuit than a gesture of modesty. It would never be possible for me to view the face of an adult Afghan woman.

Along the two paved avenues, I passed numerous street vendors offering exotic fruits and cooked delicacies. It was all very tempting but my head had been filled with too many horror stories of Westerners afflicted for life with incurable parasites acquired during indiscriminate dining. However, there were also tiny stalls with an oven baking flat breads made to order. The exposure to high heat made it seem relatively safe and I started enjoying the best bread I’d ever tasted.

I returned to the strip that evening in a renewed effort to fortify myself with protein. I seated myself in a restaurant with an elaborate menu, thinking they can’t all be like the place where I had lunch. The ubiquitous goat carcass hung from the ceiling, illuminated by flickering candles.

Ordering mutton chops seemed like a safe bet, with the supply hanging overhead in plain view.

Ten minutes later, I was handed a mountain of white rice topped with a tiny piece of meat from the poor goat decorating the ceiling. The local water was more dangerous than a loaded gun so I drank chi which, if brought to a full boil, annihilated all microscopic beings that might otherwise wish to inhabit me.

I strolled down the street afterward and heard exquisite music coming from what appeared to be a small club. Once inside, I saw a young Afghan man sitting cross-legged on a stage playing what looked similar to a sitar but was actually an indigenous instrument. Several stoned-out Euro-hippie girls in tight jeans and slinky blouses were swaying to the music. I found them very attractive but was offended by their lack of respect for the native culture.

The next morning I decided to wander outside the city and explore the countryside. As the inevitable cluster of children descended upon me, I spotted a cute little girl with a smiling face and imploring eyes attempting to reach through the outstretched hands of several older boys.

I grabbed a five Afghani coin and forced it past the frenzied hands into hers. After a momentary look of disbelief, she tightly clutched her score and ran back home, chased by the entire mob.

A few minutes later the boys caught up with me. I took all my one Afghani coins and flung them high in the air as I continued walking. They fell upon each other like defensive linemen when their treasure hit the ground.

It seems as though the more primitive a country, the more horrific its insects. Herat not only had a robust population of scorpions but also bees five times larger than any I’d ever imagined. They actually had two connected bodies with a large stinger in the rear, making them over two inches long and reminding me of eighteen-wheelers with two trailers. In every neighborhood, small groups of children who’d gotten a string around one of the cumbersome tractor-trailer bees flew it several feet overhead like a kite.

A mile beyond Herat, I found myself navigating narrow, deserted dirt roads designed for foot traffic centuries before cars existed. The arid terrain was beautiful with desert plants scattered about. I was entering a domain where tourists fear to tread, armed with only a stout branch to defend against predatory dogs or people. But this was exactly what I’d been looking for. Being an adventurer and playing it safe are mutually exclusive concepts.

I turned a bend in the path and approached what appeared to be a ten-foot stone wall surrounding an abandoned courtyard. I was about to enter when the heads of a dozen young boys popped out above the enclosure, all with devilish grins, dressed in rags and colorful headbands, like a crew of miniature buccaneers.

Returning to Herat, I wandered downtown in search of street vendors who might be selling meat, in hopes of cooking on the small gas burner and pot I’d lugged halfway around the world. A middle-aged man with a long white beard was showcasing ground goat and I ordered half a pound, which he grabbed by hand, weighed and stuffed in a plastic bag. Just as I was about to rejoice in an end to my protein fast, I noticed a green spot the size of a quarter through the bag and brought it to the man’s attention.

“No, No, this good,” he said with irritation. “You pay me ten Afghanis.”

“Not fresh!” I said, handing him the package and walking away.

I tried a third restaurant on the strip that evening only to be served what appeared to be the sole menu item in Herat. At least the minute chunk of goat meat wasn’t moldy. Afterward I visited another club and found myself surrounded by young Europeans, trying to recreate the barroom scene back home, minus the alcohol which was illegal under Moslem law. But most of them appeared stoned on hashish that was readily available on the street. The scene was punctuated with middle-class Afghans trying to fit in.

Lying in my bedroll that night, I contemplated a cultural invasion wherein young Westerners presented local counterparts with visions of freedom, easy sex and drugs; far more appealing than a life spent obeying strict Islamic law, including abstinence until one’s family arranged marriage to a stranger. I sensed a violent backlash would at some point be inevitable.

Two days later, I boarded a bus for Kandahar in central Afghanistan. I was the only Westerner on the rickety transport, otherwise filled with members of the resident population, in some cases accompanied by goats or chickens. The 278 mile trip down the narrow highway lasted ten hours and included brief stops at villages, allowing passengers to grab a cup of chi and use the outdoor facilities, which entailed sidestepping puddles of bodily waste to squat over a hole in the floor while enduring an overwhelming stench. The only hygienic option was a small metal pitcher of water, probably swarming with parasites. I’d already learned that the modern marvel of toilet paper was seldom available in this part of the world.

Paper became more valuable than gold to Western travelers and I kept a couple of newspaper pages folded in my back pocket. An Italian girl approached near the toilets and asked if I had any paper to spare. The newspaper wasn’t for sharing but I discovered a crumpled old credit card receipt in another pocket which I handed her. “Thank you so much!” she responded, squeezing my arm and smiling. “You’re so very kind.”

Kandahar was large enough to have lost the primitive charm of Herat but too small to offer the variety and mystery of big cities. I had lunch the next day at a larger and more modern looking restaurant than I’d thus far experienced in Afghanistan. But it was packed with Euro-hippies enjoying rock-and-roll blaring through a loudspeaker. I can’t believe I crossed two continents just to find myself in the middle of this I thought while waiting to be served. The only aspect of the establishment that was truly Afghan was the menu: a mountain of rice topped with goat and a minute portion of greens.

As Kandahar offered no attractions I was desperate for something to read and found a used book stand with inventory in a dozen languages. I finally came upon Rosemary’s Baby, the classic story of demonic possession, and paid five Afghanis.

I rested another day then boarded an early morning bus for the twelve-hour ride to Kabul. Two hours later, the decrepit old transport broke down. People and animals stepped out into the cold and waited until the next regularly scheduled bus came along. When it finally arrived, we tried to find space within the already crowded vehicle. Some of the men chose to ride on the roof and two billy goats vied for dominance as our trip resumed.

As night enveloped the arid landscape, the bus stopped at a restaurant large enough to have a parking lot. The driver announced the duration of the break but unfortunately in a language I didn’t understand. I walked through the doors clutching my guitar for safekeeping as two grinning buffoons on their way out made the mocking gesture of strumming an instrument. Fifteen minutes later I feasted on an extremely scrawny chicken that probably had the misfortune of being butchered earlier in the day, rice and vegetables. Suddenly I was overwhelmed with my first case of third-world diarrhea. I hurried to the indoor restroom and found an unoccupied hole in the tile floor to squat over.

I exited the building and the bus was nowhere in sight. The temperature had dropped in the pitch black surroundings and there I was, an American alone in rural Afghanistan, without any hotels for miles. All my possessions were gone except for the guitar and money belt. I was imagining trying to survive a night in the desert and bandits who saw me as an easy target, when headlights came on two-thirds of the way toward the road. I recognized my bus and ran toward it screaming, hoping the driver would see me in his mirror and care enough to wait, but the vehicle continued its departure…until halting just before making a left turn.

Part III – Hard Knocks in Kabul

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