Hard Knocks in Kabul and Beyond…
We finally arrived at Kabul’s bus station at 10 p.m., where several taxis waited outside. I glanced at my notes for the recommended hotel and appropriate cab fare, entered the rear door of the first car in line, stated my destination, requested the price upfront, and was told an amount consistent with my information.
The taxi stopped several blocks down the road to pick up another passenger – a young man who sat in front. This wasn’t unusual as group rides were customary in many countries. We pulled back into traffic and a couple of minutes later the driver briefly turned in my direction and told me the fare had tripled.
“Bullshit,” I said. “We had a deal.”
The new arrival pivoted, leaning over the back of his seat to confront me aggressively. “This is not Istanbul! This is not Athens or Paris or London! You’re in Kabul now!”
“Well, I’m from New York City, motherfucker, and you’ve got nothing to show me I ain’t already seen!”
The driver’s accomplice faced forward again and exited several blocks later. After fifteen minutes of riding in silence, I got out at the hotel with the driver following. He stood in front of me demanding an amount halfway between the two previously discussed figures. When I refused, he grabbed the neck of my guitar, which was a very bad move. My arm was cocked to punch him in the face but he let go and settled for the agreed upon fare without a tip.
The hotel consisted of three long single-story buildings surrounding a large courtyard. Two of the wings were full, so I became the sole occupant of the third, assigned to room thirteen. The inexpensive chamber was clean, decently furnished, and I was soon sleeping off the arduous journey.
The next day, I entered a nearby restaurant listed in my notes. It was common throughout Asia for strangers to share a table during busy hours, so I took an empty seat across from an attractive Australian woman named Chloe. We talked about our travel experiences and I wrote down my hotel and room number so she could visit me, considering the odds remote that she’d actually show up.
I walked the streets for a couple of hours, exploring the large, mostly paved city with a wide open sewer flowing through the middle where vendors transported goods on rafts and small boats. Kabul synergized the worst of the twentieth and tenth centuries and I decided to resume traveling within a couple of days. I boarded a bus to the Pakistani embassy to apply for a visa, taking a seat near the front so the driver could tell me when my stop approached.
Within moments, the crowded bus burst into angry outcries. I stared about in confusion as irate passengers pointed fingers in my direction until a man approached and politely informed me I was in the women’s section. Men were required to ride in the back.
I sat on my bed reading Rosemary’s Baby at around 9 p.m. when I looked up to see the lamps and furniture dancing around the room as if music were playing. I shut my eyes and told myself this can’t be real. Upon taking a second look I witnessed the ghastly spectacle still in high gear. After two more attempts to reorient my vision I arrived at the conclusion: This is really happening to me. My room is possessed!
After a moment of pure terror, my street sense kicked in with the awareness not to panic. I decided to calmly leave the room, find a new hotel and return for my belongings. As I entered the courtyard, I encountered, of all people, an Irishman. I was about to tell him…You won’t believe it…but my deepest inner voice said, Let him speak first.
“What did you think of the earthquake?” asked my new acquaintance. This had been the aftershock of an epic quake that levied destruction across large parts of China. It was very odd that the floor hadn’t vibrated. But my choice of reading material while the sole occupant of a building in room thirteen hadn’t helped. If Fate had wanted to frighten and then embarrass me, it had been the perfect set up. I was extremely grateful that I’d kept my mouth shut.
Two nights later, I awoke with agonizing stomach cramps and diarrhea, stumbling through the night with my small flashlight in search of the outhouse and clean spaces for my feet while squatting. I repeated this exercise twice before dawn and then lay on my bed for hours, overcome with weakness as the abdominal pain intensified. I had no idea how serious my condition was, feared it resulted from some dreaded parasite, and lacked the strength to leave my room and search for help.
After six hours of staring at the ceiling, clutching my guts and periodically screaming in the empty building, there was a knock on my door. I braced myself against the wall, inching my way toward the door, opened it, and stared into the smiling face of the Australian girl from the restaurant.
“How you doing?” she asked. “Just thought I’d drop by.”
When I explained my predicament, Chloe told me she lived in Dilaram House, a small Christian commune dedicated to helping Westerners with health or legal problems in Afghanistan.
“Why don’t you come stay with us?” she offered. “We’ll take care of you.”
This wasn’t what I had in mind when we met, and I didn’t relish the notion of being preached at while lying helpless in bed, but it was clearly the only game in town. We took a taxi and arrived at a large brick house in an affluent neighborhood. Several people approached to welcome us. After brief introductions, the man in charge named Michael, led me up a flight of stairs to a large room with mattresses on the floor. “Take a load off, brother,” he said with a British accent, pointing to unoccupied bedding.
I finally managed to fall asleep but was awakened by a man and woman leaning over my mattress. “Sorry for the intrusion but we brought you some broth. You need to drink it so you get some nutrition and don’t become dehydrated.” Once finished, they asked if they could prey for me. I felt kindness and sincerity emanating from them and also understood the need to stay in their good graces.
“Sure,” I said. “Thank you.” Both placed their hands on my abdomen and prayed out loud for twenty minutes. I didn’t know how much this might be helping but it felt comforting, and there was nothing pushy or judgmental about them. “Don’t hesitate to ask for anything you need, day or night,” said the woman as they departed.
Dilaram House was equipped with electricity and running water, which felt like unimaginable luxuries to me at this point. But I was so dazed and weakened that making the short stroll to the bathroom required leaning against the wall and then grabbing the sink.
I awoke in a darkened room after midnight with excruciating intestinal pain and considered the recent offer to request help at any hour but didn’t want to disturb everyone in the room. I lay in bed silently suffering for fifteen minutes, feeling terrified and helpless like a small child, before ultimately surrendering to self-preservation. “I’m in really bad pain!” I shouted. “Does anyone have a heating pad?” Within five minutes, I saw the approaching beam of a flashlight. A warm cushion, plugged into an outlet with an extension cord, was gently tucked under my shirt. The strong heat immediately began to ease the symptoms and I drifted off to sleep. The next morning, someone helped me to the toilet and later provided a cane.
When evening arrived, I struggled downstairs to sit with the group at dinner but ate very lightly. There were a dozen people at the long table, mostly permanent staff with several temporary volunteers. A friendly goat nuzzled my arm and I offered him a piece of bread. Chloe was sitting beside me and introduced him as Bruce, explaining he was there for Ramadan. At the time, I had no idea what she meant. Afterward, she and Michael followed me upstairs to lay hands on my belly and pray.
The next few nights resembled the first. I’d awaken in the wee hours, overcome with pain, call out for help and quickly receive my heating pad from a kindly caretaker showing no signs of resentment or being imposed upon. During the day, I was never interrogated about my lifestyle, or preached at. This is the embodiment of what Jesus had in mind I thought to myself.
On the fifth day, I stumbled downstairs and found Michael. “I’m not getting any better. What do you think I should do?”
“There’s a large hospital downtown. That’s all I can suggest. Should I call us a taxi?”
I was very nervous about putting myself at the mercy of local doctors but saw no alternative.
Following a half-hour tour of Kabul, we arrived at a large hospital, looking much like any modern facility back home, which was surprising and encouraging. Michael took a seat in the waiting area, as I was escorted to an examination room. A few minutes later, the orderly returned and told me the head doctor was pleased to have an American patient and would treat me personally.
The physician entered shortly thereafter, cordially shook my hand, listened to my symptoms, and then probed my abdomen for ten minutes. “My physical examination does not reveal anything, so I’m ordering a stool test,” he told me. I was handed an empty vegetable can with the label removed and directed toward the restroom, down a hallway the length of two city blocks. There were actually toilets with seats and I exited holding a metal can with a six inch turd rising conspicuously over the top for the long walk back, moving slowly due to my condition, stared at by women in traditional veils and amused gentlemen. I handed it to the orderly and waited twenty minutes for the doctor to return with my diagnosis.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “The stool test revealed no parasites, nothing abnormal. The problem is…you have some weakness. Well, gee whiz Sherlock, I thought. Do you think I hadn’t already figured that out? The friendly but under-trained doctor handed me a bottle of vitamins to take daily.
I returned to Dilaram House with Michael. “We still have prayer,” he noted.
I trudged upstairs to my mattress, grateful at least to have a warm, comfortable place to suffer my affliction in the company of people who cared. Several times per day, folks lay hands on me and prayed. Gradually, my pain subsided into discomfort; no longer requiring a heating pad, as strength and mobility slowly returned. I became friends with Bruce the goat, petting him while sitting on the floor and offering bits of food.
Chloe had been a temporary volunteer whose travel visa was about to expire. The pretty Australian girl hugged me before boarding a taxi to the airport. She was the guardian angel who’d saved my life when all hope had vanished, but I’d never get to learn how the open-minded collective felt about pre-marital sex.
One morning, Michael informed me that in two days Ramadan would begin - a month-long, deeply spiritual, Islamic holiday, which required fasting during daylight, but permitted feasting with friends at night. Other customs varied throughout neighboring countries. Among the affluent in Afghanistan, the primary nightly entrées consisted of goat recipes, associated with some exacting rituals. Each family butchered a goat, sharing a specified percentage with the poor and offering portions to respected friends and neighbors. The occupants of Dilaram House had integrated themselves into the community and honored their traditions. I was deeply impressed how in this obscure neighborhood, Christians and Muslims had come to respect each other’s spirituality and way of life, but also understood why one of my roommates had been a goat.
During the first afternoon of Ramadan, men in traditional attire with head coverings began knocking on our door, ceremoniously opening newspaper wrapping to reveal a chunk of raw goat meat, which was graciously accepted…except by one new volunteer who told our neighbor he’d give it to his dog, and didn’t understand the man’s brusque departure.
That night I sat at the long dining room table and shared in the classic feast, feeling somewhat unnerved to be eating an animal I’d been petting the day before, but having to admit Bruce was rather tasty.
My thoughts began turning to the grueling overland journey from Kabul to India, and I made a concerted effort to rebuild my stamina, taking long walks around the neighborhood. One day, as I approached the end of a small street lined with stores, a truly fearsome pack of wild dogs turned the corner and headed in my direction. They looked like poorly-groomed German Shepherds only larger, displaying fangs as they breathed. Wolves would have retreated in their presence, but all I could do was step gracefully to the side and stand perfectly still while they passed.
After nearly a month spent recovering in Kabul, I boarded a 9 p.m. bus to Peshawar, the nearest city across the Pakistani border. Between frequent stops to pick up passengers in small villages, customs protocol and road conditions, the 172-mile journey would last fourteen hours. While waiting at the bus station, I began feeling a dull ache in my gums between two lower teeth. Two hours into the trip the feeling had evolved into intense throbbing and I realized a tooth had abscessed. There weren’t likely to be dentists in this remote part of Afghanistan and even if there was one, all he’d know how to do was extract teeth with pliers, absent anesthesia. I compulsively probed the inflamed area, contemplating solutions but finding none.
An hour later, the bus slowed to pull in front of a chi shop and I suddenly had an epiphany. The tannic acid in tea, mixed with salt might make a powerful antiseptic rinse. I located an empty table and was quickly served.
One of the most important attributes of surviving in this world is not giving a damn what anyone thinks. Knowing eyes were upon me, I emptied half a salt shaker into the cup, stirred it and walked out the door to test my theory. Several moments after swishing the hot mixture over my infected tooth, the agony began to ease. I returned to my table, requested another cup, mixed in salt and rose to exit. Men with long beards and head coverings stared at me, no doubt musing, we knew Americans were crazy—but who puts salt in their tea?
As the bus pulled out, I was still in considerable distress but the worst was over. I gained a measure of improvement at each rest area, providing customers with an image they’d never forget. Halfway to the border we stopped to refuel and allow passengers to enjoy more chi and biscuits. I was surprised to see a young Westerner already seated at a table and he motioned for me to join him. Leif was Danish and another trader who purchased gems, clothing and beautiful artifacts at local prices, and returned to Europe where he sold them at substantial markups. He gave the impression of being well-assimilated into Afghan culture. I excused myself when it came time to perform my strange ritual, but he complimented me on being resourceful.
The trader boarded the bus, paid his fare, and took a seat beside me, soon proving to be the ultimate tour guide for eastern Afghanistan. “The Muslim sect in this part of the country believes women don’t have souls, just like animals,” he told me. “Their only purpose is to serve the pleasure of men and give them children. They cease to exist when they die and only men go to heaven. If a wife denies her husband’s request for sex, he walks out the door and shouts, ‘I DOVORCE YOU!’ three times for all to hear. If the woman doesn’t come running out to change his mind before the third time, they are considered legally divorced and she’s forced into the street to live in poverty without her children.”
The sun rose over the most amazing panorama I’d ever seen as the narrow, winding road entered the Hindu Kush. Barren, jagged mountain peaks towered in all directions, making the Rocky Mountains seem like foothills. It was otherworldly at this altitude, almost like being on the moon. Occasionally a pedestrian walked beside the road, with an Enfield rifle slung over his shoulder.
“Hindu Kush literally translates into Hindu Killers,” explained Leif. “For centuries, people from India traveling west by foot had to pass through here. None of them ever survived the rough terrain and cold nights. This place is uninhabitable by normal human standards, yet these tribesmen have endured here forever.”
He pointed out the window to a twisting dirt path far below, following the course of our paved road. “This is the ancient route for smugglers, transporting drugs and weapons by horse and camel. Those are the two main industries up here. There’s no place for agriculture and most livestock couldn’t survive the winter. What else could they do?”
Leif told me he’d be getting off in an hour at the small city of Landi Kotal. “This is the heart of their heroin trade. The main street is lined with shops that have signs in the window saying things in English like, Come in! We have the best heroin at good price! Most of their customers are kids from Europe. The locals would rather skin them alive, but they…how do you say…know which side of their bread is buttered?
“I’ve been coming here for years to buy embroidered cloth and have friends but when we first met, I had to go through a sort of initiation, joining them for dinner to share what must be the world’s hottest food. It was like eating burning coals and I had to fight back tears during my first swallow. But one is not considered a true man worthy of respect until he proves he can empty his bowl.”
The pain in my tooth had nearly subsided and I stared at mountains piercing the clouds as we approached the border. Upon arriving, passengers were instructed to disembark and proceed to a long, narrow customs building. Stretching my legs I gazed upward and saw an utterly enormous billboard attached below a mountain top, dominating the landscape. Bright red letters against a white background proclaimed in English, “DRINK COCA COLA.” It occurred to me that the beverage company had succeeded where Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar had failed. It had truly conquered the known world.
Once my passport had been stamped for entry into Pakistan, I strolled about outside, observing a dozen drug dealers leaning against a side wall of the customs building, pandering to eager Euro-hippies. This border crossing was the most incongruous cultural interface anyone could possibly envision. Decades later, the region would harbor Bin Laden and become a stronghold for Al-Qaeda operatives. But in 1976, it was mostly about drugs and money, with a dash of religion on the side.
We arrived at the Peshawar terminal three hours later where I sat out front on my bedroll until mid-afternoon, watching old trucks, horse drawn carriages, and countless pedestrians pass by on the dusty road while awaiting my bus to Islamabad. I periodically returned to the café for tea, making sure I chose a table with a full salt shaker.
The narrow road east twisted to the south then abruptly turned north, doubling the length of the journey. Once at the Islamabad station, the ticket salesman pointed out a bus scheduled to depart for India. By noon I was at the border and made the routine appearance before a customs official. As I began re-boarding my bus, the driver stopped me.
“Where you go now?” he asked.
“I thought this was the bus to India.”
“India that way,” he said pointing toward the desert. “You walk.”
“How far is it?”
“Yes, Yes. You walk.”
I slung the bedroll rope over my left shoulder, grabbed the guitar with my right hand and headed into stark terrain that served as no-man’s land between two nations always on the brink of war. Hiking had never crossed my mind while preparing for the overseas venture. I was poorly equipped, utterly sleep deprived, and without water as I put one foot in front of the other, transporting a guitar and typewriter across an unknown expanse of desert with my shoulders aching. I never stopped to rest for fear of not finding the strength to get back up.
Eternity slowly unfolded until I saw a small marker stuck in the ground stating in three languages, India. The surroundings remained unchanged but this indicator of progress provided a much needed shot of adrenalin. Eventually, I entered the outskirts of a new country and found a bus to the nearby city of Amritsar. I asked the driver to stop at a small but decent-looking hotel, booked a room and collapsed on the bed.
Several days of travel remained until reaching my friend in central India, but at least it would be on trains that served food. Compared to Afghanistan, India was in the twenty-third century.
Phil Cohen spent 30 years in the field as Special Projects Coordinator for Workers United/SEIU, and specialized in defeating professional union busters. He’s the author of Fighting Union Busters in a Carolina Carpet Mill and The Jackson Project: War in the American Workplace.
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