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

by Paul Meinhardt

  As an American business woman, I insisted on decorum. After all, we already learned that our safety depended on adhering to Islamic dress codes. The Swiss seemed to carry their pride like a crown of thorns. The Swiss describe their arrogance as “stolzigheit,” pridefulness.

  As I mentioned earlier, my primary social and business connections were with my business partner, Mike and his people. This limited my approach to other tribal merchants, as Mike’s people, while quite pleasant, stuck to me like the Kabul mud.

  After a time I realized that Mike’s political and tribal links extended throughout the world. In fact, I owe my business success largely to Mike’s efforts. Within the network of Mike’s tribe I gained the status of a “wise” sister. My “family” likened me to Mohammed’s merchant wife, Khadija. As I am of Sufi Dervish ancestry, I felt honored by such a comparison.

  The decorations on the gifts of clothes provided me with the necessary marks of clan and tribal identity. Without these identity marks, I could easily disappear outside the urban enclave. Now that I was no longer a stranger, I quite enjoyed my new status, both the benefits and the responsibilities.

  The best part of the tribal-patron arrangement is that a solo woman trader can enjoy the advantages of a daughter or sister, minus most of the disadvantages. It’s a great comfort to have the company of these warm people, wonderful home-cooked meals, plus the advantage of numerous business contacts.

  Certainly my patrons were wise enough to appreciate the prospect of a sizable injection of American dollars. I’m convinced that much of the attention and affection was genuine on both our parts. It didn’t take long, however, for this commerce-motivated attention to start cramping my business activities. Every few days I had to do a disappearing act, but I always left a note saying when I expected to return.

  The most difficult part of tribal trading was that every face to-face meeting had to include lots of socializing, small talk, and endless little cups of strong sweet tea, chi. A deal seemed to be incomplete until the tea or your bladder called it quits.

  If you were not willing to devote the better part of a day to such transactions, the local merchant assumed you were not a serious trader. The merchant would then hold back the best objects and politely dismiss you. I soon realized the necessity of allowing myself to be absorbed into this culture. Once I understood and felt comfortable with the rituals, I began to enjoy them.

  As absorbed with daily buying as I was, a free home cooked meal was most welcome. Early in these transactions I was invited to dine with a family that made “one-of-a-kind” tribal necklaces. The next day, another family that made coin necklaces provided a feast.

  The word got around. Each family insisted that I live with them during my stay. Afghan merchants do their best to “capture” customers. The real challenge is to excuse yourself gracefully without offending or ruining trade relations.

  The spring and fall colors of the Kabul countryside were uniformly mud grey. Even with all the rain, the distant mountains remained massive and snow covered. Between rains, the air remained clear enough to see houses dotting the mountains miles away. Trees were few, and that’s what I missed most about this landscape.

  Fresh flowers at dinner provided a lovely surprise after a dreary day of rain and mud. This was a much needed morale boost. The flowers displayed brilliant colors, ranging from scarlet red and burnt-umber orange, to sunny yellow. They looked like a cross between overgrown tulips and mums. No one knew the English names of these flowers.

  It rained for a week on and off, but mostly on. This put a damper on locals and travelers. Muddy rivers of grey ran down hillsides and streets. This must be how deserts are formed. Was I witnessing a Sahara in the making?

  Mud does not discriminate. It covers rich and poor, children and adults and traveling fools like me. Warned in advance, I brought simple, durable and washable clothes, such as jeans. Host families allowed me to do my wash alongside the women of the house on wash days.

  The wash was done with “washing machines” resembling butter churns. These worked with the same up-and-down churning motion as butter churns. These washers actually did a decent cleaning job and I certainly needed the exercise.

  The mud was bad enough. To add to the mess, much of Kabul was under construction with half-paved roads, and potholes you could bath in. By comparison, the worst of New York and New Jersey roads seemed idyllic. Since the 1978 revolution, much has been done to improve the appearance of Kabul.

  Other than my clothes taking on muddy earth tones, I experienced no real mud trauma in my years of Afghan travel. There were no serious falls, slips or other memorable events, until my last trip in 1979. At that time a Russian tank fired a shell harmlessly through the hotel lobby, just below my second floor room.

  Oh yes, there was one mishap. The Mud Goddess would have a waist-deep hole waiting for me in Kabul during the fall of 1979. The embarrassing thing about it was that my sixteen-year old son, Kirk, who was with me for that particular business trip, was able to jump the hole with no difficulty prior to my undignified leap.

  In proper Laurel and Hardy style, Kirk played the foggy-headed, Perrot clown, Stan Laurel part and sailed effortlessly over the hole, while I played Oliver Hardy, destined to take the cosmic pratfall, and landed right in it. That may be the most famous of all comedy routines.

  It had looked like a shallow harmless pot hole. My instincts in business are usually sharp, but in that instance, just like Oliver Hardy, I had my eyes on the stars instead of on the ground. The waist deep mud hole was just waiting for me, and I would become the punch line of every joke in Kabul for years. I had become an urban legend in my time.

  Only my pride was hurt, though. The mud bath provided a continuing flow of business dividends. New contacts usually began with one merchant asking another, in Pashtu, which I understood by now, “Isn’t she the one?” At that, everyone would burst out laughing, including me. One merchant offered to pay me to repeat the stunt on a scheduled basis, which I politely declined.

  Regardless of the weather, Muslims arise by five for morning prayers. I had been getting up at four with the damn roosters because my biological clock was all screwed up from crossing time zones. Most people adapt rapidly to zone changes. I did not.

  After a few days I discovered an open window to let in the morning call to prayer. This relieved my morning stress. The daily calls to prayer helped to ground me, providing a welcome relief from the challenges of the day. In the evening, I could look out my window and watch the people on their adjoining roofs.

  13

  TRADER QUEEN - FALL, 1976

  In case I haven’t said this already, let me state here and now that in Afghanistan commerce is really a man’s trade. A lone woman trader really blew their minds. The reality of American dollars, by far, however, outweighed my gender, and the Afghans consistently showed me respect and even admiration.

  At first I considered it would help if I named myself Khadija, the first benefactor of Islam and Mohammed’s first wife. Now that I reflect, that would have been ridiculously pretentious. Being Lela has worked just fine.

  Initially, I was clearly patronized with suspicion, but as the days and weeks of my first trading venture passed, I felt real affection develop. The merchants and their families warned about ‘bad men’ merchants, lechers, where to eat, and what to avoid.

  During my first trading venture, I bought dozens of beautiful antique wall hangings, tent and camel decorations, rugs, kilems, embroideries, brass and copper-ware, and hundreds of tribal necklaces. More than one bargaining session was usually needed before completing a large purchase.

  Buyer and seller matched cup for cup of tea. Bargaining was punctuated by relating our trading experiences. Tea cups were constantly refilled. Good bladders made good bargains or so they said.

  In this society, every aspect of life involves socializing and holding your water is an important business skill. After visiting a public convenience once, you will need no further inc
entive to hold your water. In this sense, trading with the Afghans is truly a ‘pissing contest.’

  The typical backcountry outhouse consists of two flat stones or tiles, about two feet apart, placed astride a pit next to a back wall. The idea is to place your feet on the tiles, brace yourself against the wall as you squat, and unload. Of course it’s always easier for men.

  During my first trading trip, I acquired some wonderful Nuristan ceremonial dance-wear. These were full-skirted, ankle-length dresses with unique silk embroidery. Each tribe, clan, and family had unique designs. Sleeves and bodice often have coins and buttons sewn in the fabric. Occasionally, matching cloth slippers were sown in at the heels of accompanying dress pants.

  Nuristan dress decorations combined the sublime with the ridiculous. It wasn’t unusual to see junky looking plastic buttons sewn in with the most beautiful silks, velvets, and gold thread. After some initial frustration, I realized that such tribal art reflected a cultural clash rather than some crude copy. Our junk became their gems.

  Tribal Afghans react to our plastic culture with something similar to our wonder and delight on discovering their dazzling tribal art. Some Afghan artisans react to plastic as archaeologists react to stone-age pot shards tossed on a trash heap thousands of years ago.

  Early October in Kabul, daytime temperatures reached into the 60s, with nights cooling to the 30s. The air is still clear enough to permit blinding, brilliant sunshine. After a few weeks of wall-to-wall hospitality, I mastered the art of going out on my own for meals. I was determined to do some solo hunting in the many bazaars.

  Food in the bazaar is good and inexpensive. Citrus fruit and especially fresh-squeezed orange juice is the best I’ve tasted. Breakfast at a café includes a heavy, excellent carrot jam with tea and flat crusty bread for about 3 afs (6 cents). A robust breakfast pie, sort of a cheese omelet, is 25 cents. Always, there is a choice of chi, green, or black teas.

  Any merchant I happened to be dealing with at mealtime insisted on including me, regardless of plans. In fact, there are no firm plans here. The primary daily meal was always a command performance. Families with substantial merchandise orders from me sent a young child to tag along or search me out for dinner if I had somehow managed to give them the slip.

  There were serious problems with my first purchases of antique bronzes. I had to go to the national museum twice to clear over 200 pieces for export. The authorities noticed that all were older than 50 years. In fact, some were closer to 5,000 years old. They gave me a list of complex, contradictory regulations, and I was at a dead end.

  I had the feeling they made up the rules as they went along. Of course, I had not yet mastered the fine art of baksheesh back then. That first time, I was lucky enough to get a refund from the merchant who sold these to me. Mike, my partner and an influential government official, made easy what would have been difficult.

  Much later, I learned from other merchants that a complaint from me would have immediately brought the police, as well as a beating and jail for the merchant. I was forced to go to the police for one early swindle. They immediately drove me back to the swindler. After he resisted returning my money, two policemen beat him, took the money, gave it back to me, and jailed him for two days.

  Thanks to Mike, my experience with the police involved no forms to fill out. Later, I avoided most export problems, thanks to Abdul, a charming university instructor. He was related to key local suppliers and provided his insight about unscrupulous merchants. In Kabul, everyone seems related to everyone. Privacy and secrets are difficult in this social setting.

  It was hard to believe that there are some first rate German, French, Italian, and Asian restaurants in Kabul. A sizable number of westerners attempt to do retail business in the main towns, Kabul in particular. I’m partial to a small Chinese café serving a wonderful lunch.

  Usually, I can count on meeting young European regulars here. They typically start the day on hash. By mid-day they are wrecked and famished. Inexpensive hash of the highest quality is available on the streets of every Afghan town and is as acceptable as tobacco.

  By far, the worst damage affects those who start smoking or eating opium, also widely available. Opium freaks walk around like zombies, when they can walk. Some of the hotels have problems with zoned-out guests falling down stairs. For all the good it does, they post crudely lettered signs, “Please do not use hash or opium.”

  Abdul explained how hash was produced. A closed cone-shaped tent is erected and lined with sheets of clear Mylar, including the floor. One white thick plastic plumbing tube of about six feet is erected in the center of the tent. A large round metal tray is centered on top of the plumbing tube and fit snuggly under the tent top. Similarly, a metal tray is anchored between the pole and the Mylar flooring.

  Sheaves of ripe marijuana hemp, tied as if they were sheaves of wheat, are passed in to ‘beaters’ through a slit in the tent. The beaters are dressed entirely in white cotton and wear goggles. Every part of their body is covered.

  The beaters strike the ends of the sheaves against the center pole, synchronizing their swings to strike the center pole from opposite sides at the same time. Once the pollen dust settles, the spent sheaves are exchanged for fresh sheaves.

  When all the sheaves are dusted-out, the sticky hash dust is collected. The topmost hash pollen is the best quality. Lesser quality hash is collected from the tent walls and pole on down to the plastic tent floor. After all the tent hash is secured, the outside of the tent is carefully beaten with wire rug beaters.

  Finally, the plastic liners and flooring are rolled up around the plastic pole, together with the beaters’ outerwear and taken to a place with electricity to Shop-Vac every inch of plastic and cloth. The hash is then packed into plastic-lined molds, graded, and marketed.

  This is the primary reason so many westerners are attracted to Kabul. Drugs are easily accessible, unregulated, and cheap. As long as usage remains in Afghanistan, there are few problems. Getting drugs out of Afghanistan is, of course, another story, and often a sad story.

  Hotel managers are mostly old hajis (pronounced, hahgees,). These are the faithful who have completed their pilgrimage to Mecca. Because they are outspokenly hostile to drug use, they discourage the drug addicts, or shit heads as they are called, from frequenting their hotels. I found the hajis to be delightful, wise, and warm hearted. In their presence, I felt serene and secure.

  When in town, I went to the bazaars daily. This required a walk through the center of town. It’s a pleasant walk, except for the filthy streets. Most disturbing were the streets and waterways through the towns. These were used as public toilets by men and children, fouling the more frequented parts of the towns. The 1978 revolution would make a substantial improvement in public hygiene, but much would still remain to be done.

  14

  FATEFUL TRIP - SPRING, 1977

  In March 1977, I began planning trip number eight to Afghanistan. Since the spring of 1975, I had made two to three trips each year. Each buying trip lasted a month or two, and business was getting better with each trip. At that time I had a few Afghan partners trading with the tribes. This freed me to develop American and European museum markets.

  A well-known photographer, specializing in tribal fashions and crafts, persuaded me to travel with her. In museum circles she was an internationally recognized photo journalist. She convinced me that we would both benefit from exchanging my knowledge for her photographs and contacts.

  I had the feeling she was a government ‘spook’ (CIA agent). While her professional credentials were valid, something about her was strange. She seemed forced and uneasy even though she made a grand attempt at friendliness. As my husband Paul would say in his Atlanta accent, “Tha gal jes ain raht.” (That gal just ain’t right.) I should have trusted my instincts.

  In spite of my misgivings I went along with the deal. On a deeper level, I disliked the woman. Her constant nervous over-reaching made me wary. I told myself that jou
rnalists were just that way and that this was an occupational attitude. I discovered too late that trading on her fame would yield nothing but trouble, but also, that if she were a government agent, she was a lame one.

  On our stay over in Frankfurt, halfway to Afghanistan, she woke to find a lump in her breast. We frantically searched for and found a German specialist who confirmed her worst fear. I tried to convince her that German health service was far superior and free as well, but she would have none of it. By the afternoon of her diagnosis, she was on a flight back to the States.

  I was sad for her but glad to be free of the anxiety. Trying my best to help her, I kept thinking: ‘There but for the grace of providence, go I’; this was not good for business. The woman was by far the worst distraction I’d encountered so far.

  Making the rounds with her for a week of medical visits completely exhausted my nerves. She did not deal with it well, nor did I. Trying to comfort and reassure her did neither of us any good. Interspersed with her whining were endless questions and prying which embittered and exhausted me.

  It was a major relief when I put her on a flight back to the States. While I sympathized, it was a load off my shoulders to be able to carry on as planned, without her constant questions and self-pity. I wrote to her a few weeks later, but the aerogram was returned as undeliverable. That put an end to it.

  Thinking about this unfortunate woman troubled me deeply for months. Back in the States, I would arrive at the same fateful point one morning, six months later when I also found a lump in my breast. After the initial shock and realization plus some crying, a deliberate numbness set in.

  The first doctor didn’t think the lump was malignant and had me go get a mammogram at his hospital. He seemed unsure of himself. The bluster and flippancy were too obvious, reminding me of a vacuum cleaner salesman. He was more nervous than me.