by Paul Theroux
The voices in the bar grow louder. Russ is saying ‘ole buddy’ to a man at the bar, who is hunched over a bottle and from the back looks wholly crapulous. Gene is standing a few feet away, drinking beer and smiling between pulls on his bottle.
‘Hey, Wayne,’ says Russ to the hunched-over man, ‘who we gonna fight tonight?’
Wayne shakes his head, Gene rubs his cheek with a hand so sunburned, the tattoos barely show.
‘Have a drink, Wayne,’ says Russ. ‘Have a drink, Gene. And ask Billy what he wants.’
Russ slaps Wayne on the back and there is a great crash as Wayne tumbles to the floor between the bar stools. His gold jersey is hiked up to his armpits. Billy comes over (he has been drinking with the women) and helps Russ and Gene get Wayne to his feet and propped against a stool. Wayne’s pink back is exposed. His head is shaven, his ears stick out, his elbows are braced on the bar, and he takes hold of his bottle the way a sailor might grip a mast in a high wind, squinting at his two hands and muttering.
The Iranians, who have been silent the whole time, begin to babble in Farsi to the waiter. They look as if they want to start a scene, and Billy, sensing this, says, ‘What are you telling him?’ to one of the Iranians.
‘Come here, ole buddy,’ says Russ to the other Iranian. He winks at Wayne, and Wayne, recovering, stands up. Russ jerks the Iranian’s jacket sleeve. ‘I wanna talk to you real quick.’
The ladies on the sofa begin to leave, hugging handbags, making for the door.
‘Hey!’ says Russ to them.
‘You boys are getting kinda roughhouse.’
The ladies leave, and, seeing what was about to happen, I follow them into the noisy street, swearing that I will flee Teheran on the next available train.
My original route, the one I had marked out on my map before I left London, took me south from Teheran to Khalidabad for the spur to Isfahan, and from there southeast to Yazd, Bfq, and Zarand, where the railway stops. I would then cross Baluchistan by bus and pick up Pakistan Western Railways at the Iranian station of Zhedn, and head eastward on the main lines of Pakistan.
‘Sure it’s possible,’ said an embassy officer, ‘but it’s not advisable. It’ll take you the best part of a week to get to Quetta, and apart from anything else that’s a hell of a long time to go without a shower.’
I said that I had just gone five days without a shower and it hadn’t worried me. What I was concerned about were the Baluchi tribesmen: were they fighting in that area?
‘You better believe it!’
‘So you don’t think it’s a very good idea for me to go that way?’
‘I’d say you’d be a damned fool to risk it.’
Another traveller might have taken up the challenge to go southeast. I was grateful for the chance to turn my back on it. I thanked him for his advice and bought a ticket for a train northeast to Meshed.
5. The Night Mail to Meshed
MESHED, in the northeast of Iran – about 100 miles from the Afghanistan border and even fewer to the Soviet one – is a holy city; consequently, the most fervent Muslims take the Night Mail, and everywhere on it are Persians in the postures of devotion, murmuring prayers to get to Heaven, though
A Persian’s Heav’n is easily made –
’Tis but black eyes and lemonade.
At the evening call to prayer it is as if the train has been stricken with some strange illness. The passengers fall to their knees and salaam. The Night Mail to Meshed is probably the only train in the ‘world in which all the passengers ride facing in the opposite direction from the one they’re travelling in: they bob along with their eyes turned to Mecca. During the trip, the pressure of prayer builds and the carriages vibrate with these devotions. On the Teheran Express the women wear skirts and blouses; on the Night Mail they are swathed in robes, and their veils reveal nothing of their faces.
It was undoubtedly the Muslim character of the train that had eliminated beer from the dining car. But it was a hot evening when we left Teheran and I was anxious for a drink. I was saving my full bottle of gin for Afghanistan.
‘No beer, eh?’ I said to the steward. ‘What do you have?’
‘Chichen chebub.’
‘No, what other drinks do you have?’
‘Biftek.’
‘Any wine?’
He nodded.
‘What kind?’
‘Chichen pilaff, soup, salade.’
I abandoned the idea of drinking and decided to have a meal. I was eating and watching the passing moonscape – craters, stark mountains on the horizon, and sand as far as the eye could see – when a man in a bush jacket, carrying a newspaper and a shopping bag, approached and said, ‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Not at all.’ His newspaper, the London Daily Telegraph, was five days old; his shopping bag contained many cans of disinfectant. He sat, his elbow on the paper, his chin resting in his hand, in an attitude of concentration.
‘Look at that girl,’ he said. A pretty girl went past, and as she was in a rather tight-fitting dress and not the heavy wimple and habit the other women were wearing, she drew stares from the diners. I started to remark on this, but he shushed me. ‘Wait. I want to concentrate on this.’ He regarded the girl’s backside until she was out of the car and said, ‘I’d love to meet a girl like that.’
‘Why don’t you introduce yourself? It shouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘Impossible. They won’t talk to you. And if you want to take them out – say, for a meal or a show – they won’t go unless you intend to marry them.’
‘That is awkward,’ I said.
‘And that’s not all. I live in the wilds – no women in Ezna.’
‘I take it you come up on weekends.’
‘You’re joking! This is my second time in Teheran – the first was four months ago.’
‘You’ve been in the desert for four months?’
‘The mountains,’ he said. ‘But it comes to the same thing.’
I asked him why he had chosen to live in the mountains of Iran, on a station where there were no women, if he was so keen on meeting a nice girl.
‘I was supposed to meet one here. I knew her in Riyadh – a secretary, very nice girl – and she said she was coming to Teheran. Change of job. So when I got back to the U.K. I took this contract and wrote her a letter. But that was six months ago and she still hasn’t answered.’
It was now dark outside, moonless, impenetrable, desert darkness; the tables of the dining car transmitted the click-click of the wheels to the knives and forks, and the stewards were removing the jackets of their neatly pressed uniforms for evening prayers. The engineer – he was an engineer, supervising the construction of an oil rig – continued his melancholy tale, about having signed a three-year contract in Iran on the slender possibility of meeting the secretary.
‘What I’d really like to do is meet a wealthy girl, not Sophia Loren, but pretty and with some money. I used to know one – her father was in banking – but she was queer, always putting on a little-girl act. Couldn’t see myself being married to that! Look.’
The girl who had passed through the dining car earlier had returned and was marching past once again. This time I had a good look at her, and I think one would have had to have been alone in the Iranian mountains for four months to find any charm in her. The engineer was absolutely ecstatic in a way I found touching and hopeless. ‘God,’ he said, ‘the things I could do with her!’
Attempting to change the subject, I asked him what he did for amusement on the site.
‘There’s a snooker table and a darts board,’ he said, ‘but they’re in such bad condition I don’t use them. Anyway, even if they were usable I wouldn’t go to the club. Can’t stand the smell of the toilets. That’s one of the reasons I went into Teheran – to buy some Harpic. I’ve got nine cans of it.
‘What do I do? Well, let’s see. Normally I read – I love reading. And I’m learning Farsi. Sometimes I work overtime. I listen to the radio a lot.
Oh, it’s a quiet sort of life. That’s why I’d like to meet a girl.’
I suggested that the fact that he had spent, as he told me, the past seven years in Saudi Arabia, Abu Dhabi, and Iran might have something to do with his protracted bachelorhood. He readily agreed.
‘What about brothels?’
‘Not for me, mate. I want a nice steady girl – clean, pretty, with money, the works. My brother’s had lots of them. It really annoys me. There was a ladies’ hairdresser from Uxbridge, lovely she was, and she was mad about him. I was staying with him – I had home leave – in his flat in Hayes. But would he pay the slightest bit of attention to her? Not at all! She finally left him. Married someone else. I don’t blame her. I’d love to have a chance with a girl like that. I’d take her to a show, buy her flowers, treat her to a slap-up meal. That’s what I’d do. I’d be good to her. But my brother’s selfish, always has been. Wants a big car and a colour telly, only interested in himself. Me, I’m interested in all kinds of people.
‘I don’t know why I’m running on like this, but my last home leave nearly finished me. I found a really sweet girl, a typist, from Chester, and just as things were going well I was rung up by her ex-boyfriend. Said he was going to kill me. I had to drop her.’
The dining car was now empty, the stewards had ended their prayers and were setting the tables for breakfast.
‘I think they want us to leave,’ I said.
‘I’ve got great respect for these people,’ said the engineer. ‘You can laugh if you want, but I’ve often thought of becoming a Muslim.’
‘I wouldn’t laugh at that.’
‘You have to know the Koran backwards and forwards. It’s not easy. I’ve been reading it on the site – course, I keep it quiet. If my manager caught me reading the Koran he wouldn’t understand. He’d think I was a nutter. But I think that might be the answer. Become a Muslim, renew my contract after three years, and meet a nice Persian girl. It should be dead easy to meet them if you’re a Muslim.’
The conversation, like many others I had with people on trains, derived an easy candour from the shared journey, the comfort of the dining car, and the certain knowledge that neither of us would see each other again. The railway was a fictor’s bazaar, in which anyone with the patience could carry away a memory to pore over in privacy. The memories were inconclusive, but an ending, as in the best fiction, was always implied. The sad engineer would never go back to England; he would become one of these elderly expatriates who hide out in remote countries, with odd sympathies, a weakness for the local religion, an unreasonable anger, and the kind of total recall that drives curious strangers away.
There were three people in my compartment, a Canadian husband and wife and a grim hairy boy from an East London slum. They were all going to Australia – the Canadian couple because ‘We didn’t feel like learning French’, the cockney because London ‘is ’eaving with bloody Indians’. It must be a sociological fact that prejudice is a more common motive for emigration than poverty, but what interested me about these three was that they were, like so many others, going to Australia the cheapest way, via Afghanistan and India, living like the poorest they were among, eating vile food, and sleeping in bug-ridden hotel rooms, because they were rejecting a society they saw to be in decay.
Their dialogue was absolutely petrifying. I hired a blanket and pillow from the conductor, who demanded only a token bribe, had a gin anaesthetic, and went to sleep.
The hooting of the train woke me early the next morning for the sight of camels grazing among brown bushes and great herds of sheep bunched together on sandy hillsides. The villages were few, but their design was extraordinary; they were walled and low and resembled the kind of sand castles you see parents making for their children at the seashore, with a bucket and spade. They had tiny windows, crumbling ramparts, and inexact crenelations; impressive at a distance, up close they were visibly coming apart, the fortifications merely a feeble challenge to intruders. Women squatted in front of the walls in a stiff wind, keeping their veils against their faces by biting on a corner, holding the cloth in their teeth.
Meshed appeared abruptly from the desert, a city of gold-domed mosques and the white quills of minarets. At the station, pilgrims piled out of the train dragging carpetbags and bedrolls. This station, 4000 miles from London, is the end of the line: between this easternmost station of Iranian National Railways and the little Pakistani station at Landi Kotal in the Khyber Pass, lies Afghanistan, a country without a single inch of railway track.
After an hour in Meshed I was anxious to leave. It was Ramadhan, the Muslim period of fasting, and no food was being sold during the day. I ate my Iranian processed cheese and found two hippies, chiefs who seemed to have lost the rest of their tribe. They couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to stay in Meshed. ‘It’s good,’ one said. ‘It’s funky, it’s loose. You could hang out here.’
‘I’m trying to get to Pakistan,’ I said.
‘First you have to cross Afghanistan,’ the other said. He was little, bearded, and carried a guitar. ‘It’s in the way, like.’
‘Come with us if you want. We’re going to move out. We’ve been this way so many times we just get in that train, pull down the shades, and crash.’ He was wearing Indian pyjamas, sandals, an embroidered waistcoat, a beaded necklace, and bangles, like a Turk in a Victorian etching, but without the scimitar or turban. ‘Hurry up if you’re coming, or we’ll miss the bus.’
‘I hate buses,’ I said.
‘Hear that, Bobby? He hates buses.’
But Bobby didn’t reply. He was staring at a girl, probably American, who was leaving the station. She clomped unsteadily in a pair of high-soled wooden clogs.
‘Those shoes really get me,’ said Bobby. ‘Chicks can’t even walk in them. I’ll bet the guy that invented them is some screamer who really hates chicks.’
Afghanistan is a nuisance. Formerly it was cheap and barbarous, and people went there to buy lumps of hashish – they would spend weeks in the filthy hotels of Herat and Kabul, staying high. But there was a military coup in 1973, and the king (who was sunning himself in Italy) was deposed. Now Afghanistan is expensive but just as barbarous as before. Even the hippies have begun to find it intolerable. The food smells of cholera, travel there is always uncomfortable and sometimes dangerous, and the Afghans are lazy, idle, and violent. I had not been there long before I regretted having changed my plans to take the southern route. True, there was a war in Baluchistan, but Baluchistan was small. I was determined to deal with Afghanistan swiftly and put that discomfort into parentheses. But it was a week before I boarded another train.
The Customs Office was closed for the night. We could not go back to the Iranian frontier; we could not proceed into Herat. So we remained on a strip of earth, neither Afghanistan nor Iran, in a hotel without a name. There was no electricity in this hotel, there was no toilet, and there was enough water for only one cup of tea apiece. Bobby and his friend, who went under the name Lopez (his real name was Morris), became frightfully happy when the Afghan in the candlelit foyer told us our beds would cost thirty-five cents each. Lopez asked for hashish. The Afghan said there was none. Lopez called him a ‘scumbag’. The Afghan brought a piece the size of a dog’s turd and we spent the rest of the evening smoking it. At about midnight a telephone rang in the darkness. Lopez said, ‘If it’s for me, tell them I’m not here!’
On our way into Herat the next day an Afghan passenger fired his shotgun through the roof of the bus and there was a fight to determine who would pay to have the hole mended. My ears were still ringing from the explosion a day later in Herat, as I watched groups of hippies standing in the thorn bushes complaining about the exchange rate. At three o’clock the next morning there was a parade down the main street of Herat, farting cornets and snare drums: it was the sort of bizarre nightmare old men have in German novels. I asked Lopez if he’d heard the parade, but he brushed my question aside. He was worried, he said; cawing like a brok
er, and waving his bangled wrists despairingly, he told his bad news: the dollar was quoted at fifty afghanis. ‘It’s a rip-off!’
I went, by bus and plane, to Kabul, via Mazar-i-Sharif. Two incidents in Kabul stay in my mind: a visit to the Kabul Insane Asylum, where I failed to gain the release of a Canadian who had been put there by mistake (he said he didn’t mind staying there as long as he had a supply of chocolate bars; it was better than going back to Canada), and, later that week, passing a Pathan tent encampment and seeing a camel suddenly collapse under a great load of wood – a moment later the Pathans pounced, dismembering and skinning the poor beast. I had no wish to stay longer in Kabul. I took a bus east, to the top of the Khyber Pass. I had a train to catch there, at Landi Kotal, for Peshawar; and I dreaded missing it, because there is only one train a week, a Sunday local called the ‘132-Down’.
6. The Khyber Pass Local
THE Khyber Pass on the Afghanistan side of the frontier is rockier, higher, and more dramatic than on the Pakistan side, but at Tor Kham – the border – it turns green, and for this foliage one feels enormous gratitude. It was the first continuous greenery I had seen since leaving Istanbul. It begins as lichen on the rock faces, and pale clumps of weed sprouting from crevices; then bushes and low trees the wind has twisted into a mass of elbows, and finally grassy slopes, turning leafy as one nears Peshawar. It is like a seasonal change in the space of a day, this movement from the sharp-featured heights and gorges outside Jalalabad to the cliffs of Landi Khana, bearded with windblown bouquets of wild flowers. The change is abrupt; there cannot be many countries so close geographically and yet so distinctly different. The landscape softens where the border line on the map begins, and the grizzled faces of Afghans, whose heads are sloppily swathed in white turbans, are replaced by the angular beakiness of Pakistanis, who wear narrow slippers and have the thin scornful moustaches of magicians and movie villains.
And there is the Khyber Railway, a further pleasure. Built fifty years ago at great cost, it is an engineering marvel. It has thirty-four tunnels, ninety-two bridges and culverts, and climbs to 3600 feet. The train is well guarded: on bluffs above the track, in little garrisons and pillboxes, the Khyber Rifles stand sentry duty, staring blankly at the plummeting blue-black ravines on Afghanistan’s inhospitable edge.
