The Afghan Queen: A True Story of an American Woman in Afghanistan

by Paul Meinhardt

  At the time on the caravan bus we gambled on getting to Zurich with the tapped and cracked windshield. It was the second windshield in a week. We unanimously voted not to spend the time and money on another windshield replacement. The service stations along the road were well stocked with rolls of heavy-clear repair tape.

  The attendant we talked with said that after fuel, the repair tape was the next best seller. She told us that most vehicles suffer such damage. Some vehicles get fuel tank ruptures from road stones. They do a brisk business replacing fuel tanks.

  In one of Paul’s aerograms, he noted that road repairs in the States were agonizingly slow. He wrote that while we are in the Space Age off the Earth, we are in the Stone Age when it comes to road maintenance on Earth.

  Various bus “underside” exhaust parts were reinforced with heat-resistant duct-tape and bailing-wire. Wire connects loose parts. Duct-tape is then put on top of the wire for a secure patch. At the same time the windshield crack continued to spread. At the end of each day, the underside and windshield tapes were replaced and reinforced. Duct-tape was developed in the 1940s for the war effort. Now it has a pivotal role in holding the world together.

  Now we talk about the fearfully narrow, rocky mountain roads in Yugoslavia, and how good it felt to be on the excellent Austrian and Swiss roads. The scenery in mountainous Yugoslavia is extraordinary—so much so that from moment to moment I forgot the rotten roads.

  Changing time zones severely affected us. I for one was worn out. I could hear and feel my joints creaking, but then I was at least ten years older than my companions. They also complained about back ache and lack of sleep. The cold-rainy weather did not help. But the Austrian-Swiss country-side was lush and looked almost manicured.

  Looking at the country-side haze as our rental car sped along, I thought about the caravan bus windows, the previous spring. The bus windows were so dirty that everything looked hazy-distorted. I was determined that we would have a window-cleaning party when we reached the farm. As “bus-mother” it was my duty.

  Roads in Northern Europe, especially the German Autobahn, have the look of the New Jersey Garden State Parkway, but much wider, cleaner and better maintained. It must be said that the Autobahn is vastly superior to any American road I experienced.

  Autobahn roads are toll-free, have no speed limit and are well appointed with frequent rest stops that provide excellent but costly food. The lack of tolls is more than compensated by the cost of fuel, which is double the U.S. cost.

  Driving on the Autobahn felt like riding on velvet. Autobahn drivers were cautious and gas-conscious. Happily, we experienced no crazy drivers. Our speed rarely exceeded 50 mph as we kept up with traffic. Compared to New Jersey driving, the Autobahn was like travel heaven.

  The luxury of driving in a car had me thinking about the previous spring with the bus caravan. The bus caravan vehicles and people required endless repairing and cleaning. Whenever the six caravan vehicles stopped at a campground a circle was formed. My standing joke was, “Do you expect an Indian attack?” My car companions laughed at this story.

  I mentioned that the bus caravan circled the vehicles fearing bear attacks. I asked my car companions if forest animals were a problem on the Autobahn as we too have brown bears in our New Jersey woodlands. We must put our garbage in metal cans with tight fitting lids. The bears rip-through the strongest plastic garbage pails.

  My car companions mentioned that invisible electronic fencing and professional forest stewardship reduced animal problems to a minimum. Constant Autobahn patrols inspected the roads for any problems. Repairs were made in a matter of hours.

  12

  WATCH ON THE RHINE - SPRING, 1976

  LELA:

  I was back with the bus caravan traveling to Kabul. We had a few days to explore the Rhineland and slowly drove along the Rhine River. I could see the paintings of the German Romantic period by looking at the banks of the Rhine as our bus made its way along the tour road.

  From mile to mile, the sun would alternate with dark vertical clouds. Each time sun or clouds appeared the Rhine Valley changed radically. From light to dark, it was like being in another country. I could well imagine a landscape painter driven to distraction by these rapid shifts from light to dark and back again. Photographers would relish such but not painters.

  I’m normally a happy, cheerful person, but when the clouds darkened the Rhine, I experienced a consuming melancholy. When the sun appeared again, my cheery disposition returned almost magically. I never had such rapid mood shifts anywhere else in the world.

  Rhine River*

  I always thought the use of dark earth tones was excessive. Certainly such paintings were intended to convey the melancholy of the artist. But the pervasive cloud cover along the Rhine could hardly be represented any other way. The reality of the landscape is a dominant influence on our outlook and, never more so than on the Rhine.

  After the last round-trip to Afghanistan I decided to take the train from Geneva along the Rhine to Amsterdam. I would like to take a similar trip from Amsterdam down the Rhine and east along the Danube.

  Paul is not a great one for travel, but perhaps I can convince him to go to Afghanistan with me and travel back through Istanbul using Europass along the Danube to Belgrade, Budapest and Vienna. It’s going to require a major incentive to talk Paul into such a trip.

  Rhine in sunny disposition

  Watching one’s diet is easy in Europe. Food quality is high, even along the roads. People learn quickly about their own care and feeding when food is sold by the weight of your plate. Most roadside eateries are attractive buffets.

  The more you pile on, the more you pay. Buffet lines provide an incentive for minimalist plate decoration. The buffets reminded me of Judy Chicago’s “The Dinner Party.” People in the buffet line arranged their food like pallets of textured paint.

  Judy Chicago “The Dinner Party”*

  The extraordinary variety, quality and beauty of the food were exceeded only by the prices. I found myself arranging my plate with teaspoon size portions. Desserts, I avoided entirely. At each roadside buffet we were greeted with posters of master chiefs and nutritionists responsible for the buffet plan. The food was at least twice as costly as in the States.

  Except for the older Germans, most Europeans were on the slim side. As a whole, American tourists looked overfed and overweight. I felt embarrassed by the ridiculous way Americans dressed, looking like troops of circus clowns. When American chartered buses emptied, it looked as if the circus had come to town.

  On this, my third trip to Afghanistan, I had decided to travel once again with the bus commune on their semi-annual pilgrimage to Delhi. While I had originally promised myself not to travel this way again, Dharma had written to me begging for my motherly services. Besides, she needed another bus driver/mechanic. I found that I could not refuse these loving entreaties.

  Travel preparations began at the same farm outside Zurich where Dharma, my friend and Zurich boutique owner, lived. One potential problem was avoided. Dharma parked her nineyear-old son with her parents at the farm. This is mandatory, as Swiss law prevents moving a child out of the country after the school session begins. As a parent, I thought it a good law. Dharma prepared for the trip weeks in advance, and everyone seemed content with this arrangement.

  Lela-Versant-Dan in Istanbul, Bosporus in the background

  I didn’t notice any whispered conversations. Everyone remained in high spirits for the three days prior to our travel, including the son and grandparents. Dharma’s son did not like traveling and was especially excited that the grandparents were going to pay him to do farm chores.

  Our trip began in Zurich. We sat in a beautiful flowered courtyard listening to live jazz at ten in the morning. Everyone and everything took on a honey glow from the brilliant morning sun, and all the bus passengers and crew assembled for photos.

  The range of dress could have been the setting of a Beatles album cover. My bus compan
ions, while charming, were too damn flaky and vaporous. The caravan people were getting to be a tiresome group of hippie jumping jacks.

  The two Australian nurses on the bus, one of whom was my friend Kit, were chatty with me. They persisted in talking about their love life, perhaps because their lovers were half way around the world. The gist of their experience was that they were tired of one night stands, although they thought that was better than nothing. Their experience interested me and helped to pass the time.

  Kit explained that at first one-nighters were exciting. But it didn’t take long for it to become tiresome. The insufferable macho attitudes encountered seemed to kill it. Once you made it with a guy, they acted like they owned you. Their attempts at control were clumsy and manipulative at best, and violent at worst. The break off point occurred when constricting possessiveness eclipsed loving attention.

  One such conversation came to an abrupt end when they asked about my love life. I knew this was bound to happen and maneuvered the discussion so it would end. All I had to do was mention that I’d only met one loving non-possessive man, and I married him. How lucky is that?

  The subject of shopping and buying was often discussed, as most everyone in the caravan was buying and selling something. Before leaving Europe, a few of us went to a most unusual shopping center on the Zurich beltway. I found some jewelry and antique shops interested in tribal art. Dinner was at the central Fresco Café, where a marvelous buffet was the main attraction.

  The quality and presentation of the food surpassed anything in the States. We selected our meals with tactical deliberation from a tantalizing 50-foot tapestry of hot and cold tables. Looking at the regulars, I noticed that they placed many small portions in artistic arrangements on their oversized plates, each plate becoming a colorful mosaic. Patrons such as me took photos of the plates before eating.

  A large number of color blow-up photos of food plates lined the walls. In fact, patrons competed for the most pleasing visual effect. Finally, we submitted our entry plates to the cashier. The plates were placed on a scale attached to the cash register. Weight and price were automatically calculated at $10 per pound. This was similar to the Autobahn buffet, but far more elaborate.

  Suspended above the weighing scale was a camera. As the weight of the plate registered, it triggered a bird’s eye view photo of the plate. Before leaving we presented our numbered receipt at the exit gift shop counter and received a postcard with a color photo of our plate with a caption under the photo: “Provenance #134722-76, Fresco Café, Zurich, Schweitz (Switzerland).”

  Following this remarkable meal, we visited some of Dharma’s friends. These were artists working in steel, iron, bronze, and wood. The work resembled a more vibrant and dramatic version of Alexander Calder’s mobiles. The farm was an artist and farmer cooperative, a combination foundry, museum, and dairy.

  All three areas were open to the public and, given the number of visitors, seemed quite lucrative. The artists rented space from the dairy farmer, also a sculptor. Foundry and studios were in a huge enclosed shed connecting the farmhouse kitchen to the barn.

  In most of Europe, barn and home are connected for mutual heating and convenience. Living quarters were traditionally built above barns to benefit from the body heat of livestock. Many old farmsteads are still like this.

  The foundry and studios comprised a cavernous room with post and beam partitions. We were given the warmest and driest corner of the foundry as sleeping quarters. It was between the furnace and the barn. I rapidly got used to the aroma of livestock.

  At one time, the foundry shed must have been part of the barn, as both had the same connecting flagstone floor. Separating the foundry from the barn and outside yard were two large sliding doors. Half of the foundry shed had a system of sliding roof partitions controlled by pulley chains which were enlarged versions of sliding hatches on sailing ships.

  After a tour of the farm, we settled down to a late supper of goat cheddar cheese, crusty fresh bread, and dry white wine. The comforting glow of the nearby furnace and muffled chimes of cow bells lulled me to sleep. Perhaps it was the strong lingering odor of the fresh goat cheese, but with each ring of the cow bells, the smell of the barn grew stronger.

  As I dozed off, some ultra-cool jazz floated through from the stereo in the kitchen. It sounded like Ron Carter playing the base. Mixed with the jazz were some soft German phrases. In my dreamy half sleep, I understood most of it:

  “She’s holding up quite well for the amount of traveling; she’s really dead on her feet.”

  “Well shit, we all are. We should have fixed her a nicer sleeping space, but it’s the warmest spot in the whole farm. Anyway, the rest of the place is a filthy pig sty. Do you think she’s as horny as me?”

  “Shut up! She’ll hear you.”

  “She’s dead to the world; can’t hear a thing; not this dialect.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  Dozing off, I smiled to myself. They mixed so much English with their German that they were hardly aware of their strange mix of hip-Swiss-German-English. They call it Swisslish.

  My dreams were so vivid I wrote them in my journal as soon as I awoke: I dreamed about the forbidden province of Nuristan where banditry is the major occupation. I was a bandit queen in this sparsely populated Himalayan foothill region. The few dwellings were built of rough-hewn stone and wood. My troop of bandits had a fortress camp in an isolated forest.

  Fortress-home somewhere in Nuristan

  Nuristan clan dwellings resembled medieval fortresses built on craggy hilltops. These reminded me of bandit fortresses in the old American west. Mike said that the best of Nuristan culture was for sale in the Nuristan shops in Kabul.

  Nuristan crafts were great sellers; especially “V” shaped wall hanging in the window

  I slept until nine the next morning while the sun burnt off the mountain mist. Satya promised me another driving lesson in the old diesel Mercedes. After grabbing some breakfast with Versant, we helped pack the six-vehicle caravan. The Mercedes manual shift took a fair amount of upper body strength, which I had plenty of.

  As mentioned, it was necessary that I drive the Mercedes bus since Dharma had pronounced me the most reliable person in the caravan, and also because my passport and driving papers were in order. I obtained a Euro license on my first trip. So far, my driving record was clean, unlike my fellow travelers. Since there were a number of border crossings, my rapport with people would have to be trusted.

  For some reason driving to border crossings gave me images of Kabul rooftops; I’ve no idea why. Repeatedly I had these flash images appearing and disappearing.

  Life on the rooftops of Kabul

  Border crossing is no light hearted romp. Papers must be flawlessly clean, and an absolutely sober, yet pleasantly calm smiling demeanor, is essential. No one else on the bus had the self-confidence to pull it off.

  We had practiced with Dharma’s granddad playing a border guard, and I was the only one who could remain calm and talk soberly, while smiling pleasantly. Somewhere I had read about people who spoke to Josef Stalin, face-to-face. Stalin was so paranoid that if the person did not look directly into Stalin’s eyes or shifted their glance, Stalin suspected that the person had something to hide. Although Stalin was in awe of intellectuals, those who did not look him in the eye faced a short future.

  Whenever we came to a border check-point, I pretended I was meeting comrade Stalin. We had no problem crossing any border.

  Caravan at a border crossing

  Satya and Versant, Dharma’s close university friends, drove the truck while Dharma and I drove the bus. After being met at Frankfort airport, I had to drive the bus over the Swiss border since Dharma, a Swiss national, could not drive a foreign vehicle across the border. Some of the driving laws at that time seemed weird while others appeared to make good sense; however, as in the U.S., there were too many laws.

  My earlier driving lessons at the farm, after the first trip in the spr
ing of 1975, allowed me to feel comfortable driving the Mercedes bus. The border crossing was uneventful, and we spent the night at Dharma’s farm outside of Zurich.

  Zurich is a charming medieval city with circular cobblestone streets and lovely little shops. The look and feel is genuinely old world. There’s little of the plastic cuteness of American shopping centers.

  Walking through the crowds of shoppers, I sensed stony gazes of disapproval. The sour-faced Swiss burghers made me feel self-conscious even though I intentionally dressed as matronly as possible. I felt more comfortable in Kabul than on the streets of Zurich.

  My little band of hippies seemed oblivious to the stares of passersby. Since the hippies were also Swiss, with just a touch of Swiss arrogance, they acted perfectly at home. As we strolled leisurely through the old part of town, Dharma and Satya pointed out various parts of the city that were parts of their family estate.

  The comments about family property were quite funny and not at all prideful. Dharma and Satya were the offspring of Swiss bankers. They spoke disparagingly about their parents. Dharma said Swiss bankers were war criminals, refusing to return the money stolen by the Nazis and parked in Swiss bank vaults since the 1940s.

  We drove into a sun-drenched and dusty Kabul at midday, which was a pleasant change from the cold drizzle of Europe. I decided to wear only long jeans, long-sleeved blouses, and headscarves covering neck, shoulders, head, and most of my face. I was comfortable wearing my large dark glasses as these are worn throughout the Middle East, since eye problems are common.

  I hammered away at my troop of hippies not to expose any skin while traveling in Muslim areas. After our experience last year traveling through Iran, it should have been crystal clear, even to the Swiss, that we would all be well advised to respect the customs of the nations that host guests such as ourselves.