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

by Paul Meinhardt

  My “Mike-Family” would think nothing of asking me for a gear cam to fit a fifteen-year-old Falcon. They gave me the old cracked gear-cam to match, which I eventually found in a New Jersey automobile junk yard. I sent it via the Afghan trade mission diplomatic pouch. Two weeks later I got a post card saying that ‘the gear-cam works fine, see you soon.’

  One business associate owned a hotel in Kabul and wanted a small refrigerator and some waterbeds. These I found in Zurich. My delighted family more than made up for these gifts with the business advantages they provided.

  There was no real competition for the business I developed. There were archaeologists, civil engineers, museum acquisition representatives, and many journalists from all over the world in Afghanistan, as well as mining engineers and oil geologists. They were hell-bent on exploiting Afghanistan in every possible way. The rumors of an ocean of oil under Afghanistan persisted.

  Those of us involved in global trade were more interested in gold, ivory, precious stones, and art objects. But the diplomatic missions were in Afghanistan long before we were. Long before Americans could join the looting, Russian, British and French diplomats drained the Middle East of their precious heritage via the infamous diplomatic pouch, the diplomat’s swag bag.

  Americans, Europeans, Pakistanis, Indians, Chinese, and especially the Russians, were anxious to develop Afghan resources “for the benefit of the Afghan people.” Swiss museums offered to reconstruct the destroyed Buddha next to the original, but what they wanted in exchange, no one talked about.

  Buddha in Bamian Provence, Afghanistan*

  [The Buddha was dynamited and destroyed in March, 2001 by the Taliban. Since 2006, a rebuilding program continues.]

  15

  FORESTS - FALL, 1977

  The farm serving as the staging base for our next trip to Kabul was at the edge of a magnificent forest. It was the deepest, darkest forest I had ever experienced. Europeans, and especially the Swiss, go to amazing lengths to preserve their forests.

  A sense of mystery and awe overcame me every time I peered across the road that separated the farm from the forest. Such exquisitely impenetrable darkness set the hair on the back of my neck tingling.

  Those dark woods continued to forbid and beckon, as they have for thousands of years. The day before we were all to leave, I finally resolved to walk across the road into the tangled woods. Walking the narrow path into the forest, the trees seemed like towering goddesses.

  I told Dharma that I was going for a stroll into the forest. She said she would go with me and grabbed an old pillowcase. “We can pick mushrooms and fix omelets for breakfast.” We walked about half a mile down a forest foot-path paved with a thick layer of pine needles.

  The intense musty pine scent and narrow shafts of sunlight provided an overpowering sense of mystery. On that day the attraction of the Wood Goddess was more powerful than my childhood fears. I expected to see Pan or at least a Naiad, but instead we came upon a stand of hardwood oaks.

  Dharma walked carefully through the hardwoods, prodding the dried leaves and uncovering large amounts of coprinus mushrooms. She got down on all fours, snapping the groups of young mushrooms at the base. Dharma showed me what to look for and I crawled around the base of other trees, uncovering groups of mushrooms.

  She instructed me to avoid any mushrooms that were turning black or liquefying. In ten minutes we filled the pillow case with young coprinus mushrooms. Back at the farm, we gathered a dozen eggs from the hen house. She informed me that we were going to make mushroom omelets.

  Coprinus comatus close to liquefying*

  With soft brushes we cleaned and cut off the stems without washing the mushrooms. We chopped the mushrooms coarsely, adding freshly picked garlic, chives, and cilantro. The eggs were beaten with black and red pepper. Small chunks of Swiss Gruyère cheese were mixed into the egg batter. The mushroom mix was added to the egg batter.

  To the final mix, Dharma shaved in black truffle and began heating four great cast iron skillets on top of the huge old farm stove. Each skillet was generously lined with extra virgin olive oil.

  Most Europeans drown everything in butter; even though olive oil cannot take excessive heat, Dharma preferred the flavor-enhancing quality of extra virgin olive oil, EVOO.

  Dharma was going to prove the superiority of EVOO. She took a small skillet, put it on the hot burner, and dropped in a large chunk of her own farm butter. After the butter completely liquefied, she ladled in some omelet mix. She cautioned me to allow the pans to heat, just short of smoking, the oil. There were chalk marks on the black stove to guide the heat-knobs.

  She told me to try a forkful of the EVOO omelet first, which I washed down with a mouthful of green tea. Then she pushed some of the butter omelet into my mouth. Dharma then asked me, “What’s your verdict, Lela? Tell me what you really think.”

  “We use butter at home. My taste buds tell me that the EVOO omelet is tastier and the taste of the mushrooms is more developed. The butter omelet tastes great, but the butter flavor overwhelms everything else in the omelet. It’s more like a butter omelet than a mushroom omelet.”

  Five of us spent part of the morning rolling dozens of omelets in wax paper, twisting the ends and stacking these in a large zipper insulated picnic bag. All we needed was fresh bread and wine for instant meals. This was Dharma’s idea of ‘mealson-wheels.’

  The old fairy tales took on a new meaning as we ventured into the dark forest. I imagined Red Riding Hood around the next turn. Walking into that forest was like a stroll through some unrealized dream. The dark tangled mystery of the forest seemed to reflect my innermost feelings.

  Switzerland, at least the rural areas, was just a super place for people like us. Some of the caravan people smoked what they called ‘alpine green.’ Many farmers grew this type of marijuana as an income enhancer for struggling traditional farms. The high altitude, cool damp air, and thin mountainous soil permitted a scrawny proliferation of a rather weak form of cannabis.

  Americans who pass through these alpine forests call it a “Rocky Mountain” high. It leaves you breathless but elated, like traveling through the Colorado Rockies. Growing marijuana had provided a new vitality to many farms throughout Europe. Many believe that marijuana was the major income generator on European farms. The underground economy was alive and well in Europe.

  The Swiss countryside seemed to be teaming with young volatile Marxists. For some reason Switzerland was a breeding ground for Marxists, ranging from the most sublime university theorists to the most ridiculous hippie communes.

  On my travels through Europe and the Middle East, Marxists ranged from gentle hippies to obnoxious Stalinists. Most of my business contacts were leftists of one shade or another. These ranged from the gentle Greens of the ecocommunes and farms, to wild-eyed Trotskyists and Trotskyites.

  The followers of Trotsky Marxism or Trots, as they were sarcastically called, confused me. The difference between the ‘-ists’ and ‘-ites’ warranted a fine distinction. The first, I was told, were the true believers. The second were reformed versions of the original.

  After being active in various leftist causes, the Swiss Marxists were just plain fun to pal around with. It sure brought back some great memories. Switzerland was a sort of way station for the revolutionaries of Europe, the most famous of which were Lenin and Trotsky at the turn of the 20th Century.

  Revolutionaries spent months and years making contacts, gathering funds, and plugging into the most promising movements in their native lands. When they were ready, they returned to their homeland to do what had to be done. Switzerland was still the primary staging area for European radicals and revolutionaries. All parts of Europe were seething with unrest in the 1970s.

  The most prominent groups in the struggle were the Palestinians, Ethiopians, Eritreans, Irish, and Germans. We discussed the Pan Celtic Liberation Front, organized by Cornwall and Scottish nationalists. These had some success for a time with their offshore pirate radio.<
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  At times, they broadcast in Cornwall and Scottish languages. They referred to themselves as the other BBC, Buccaneer Broadcast Conspiracy. Inspired by the Israeli success reviving ancient Hebrew and the Irish success reviving old Irish, similar attempts were underway with the old Celtic tongues: Cornish, Welsh, Manx, Scottish, Normandy, as well as Brittany and Orkney.

  Revival of ancient languages was quite the fashion in Europe in the 1970s. Dharma spoke about possible revival of ancient Helvetian, the Celtic language spoken by Helvetians (Swiss) at the time Caesar fought the Gallic Wars. The great Swiss national hero is Orgetorix who troubled Caesar for many years before he was routed by Roman Legions.

  ON WITH THE TRIP:

  Finally, the caravan was loaded and ready to go. On this trip, the bus carried fourteen passengers, plus a driving maintenance crew of four, including me. The baggage compartment contained trunks of tools and repair materials. The repair materials included special bus jacks, solid foam replacement tires, aluminum patch plates with special rivets, window-windshield repair kits, extra spark plugs, paint, and much more.

  All these maintenance materials were itemized on the bus manifest papers. This was necessary to avoid being stopped as smugglers. The European Value Added Tax, VAT, encourages a lot of smuggling and we did not want to take any chances with the border guards.

  A few days before the trip, Dharma and I cooked up a batch of chicken oregano and were subsequently voted expedition cooks as well as members of the crew. In fact, two more people joined our little band of travelers after dinning with us. The chicken oregano consisted of old spent hens. Dharma had a huge old electric crock pot, which we used to slow cook the chicken parts with fresh garden greens and yogurt. Fresh honey was added in the old Roman Empire style.

  We started at six in the morning going south, but I soon dozed off. I woke up just before we approached the Italian border when it was necessary that I drive the bus to the checkpoint crossing. I held out my passport and bus papers, and a smiling border guard waved us through without further inspection.

  High in the Italian Alps, our muffler fell off. We rigged the muffler on with wire and duct tape until we found the nearest service station. The fun was just starting. Between bouts of oohing and ahhing at the spectacular scenery, I was fast becoming an adept mechanic.

  Alpine scenes*

  It was amazing how fast cracks developed on the Mercedes bus. I must have been cracked to take yet another trip in the same worn out bus. Towering ice-cream cone mountain peaks were separated only by hairline thin roads, looking narrower than our bus.

  Continuing on, driving through Zagreb, Yugoslavia would have been a lot more interesting if it had not rained so much. Since leaving Milano, it had been rainy and foggy for three days. I was beginning to worry about how long the drive to Kabul would take. We had estimates of four to six weeks. Taking it easy on this trip was considered necessary for our well-being and that of the bus.

  Between driving the bus, overseeing vehicle maintenance, and cooking, Dharma and I worried less about other issues. Parts of the traveling costs were paid by the passengers for petrol, oil, food, and other supplies.

  When we stopped at various camp grounds, Dharma and I provided the passenger teams with lists of supplies they were to procure at their own expense. As the travel arrangements were made clear to all passengers signing travel agreements before the trip, there was no grumbling. We were all a happy, generally cheerful group. Except for the foul weather, we would have been positively joyful.

  The cooking and bus maintenance work allowed me to get to know some of the local population wherever our caravan stopped, as cooks and mechanics have to deal with local market and garage people. As I was the senior member of the caravan and an established business person, I was considered the caravan mother.

  As we traveled east, haggling in small town markets became more acceptable. Multi language information exchange was welcomed by local and caravan people. Mostly, I talked about local handcrafts with art and antique dealers.

  Turkey was an especially rich trading center. This made sense as Turkey, and the Bosporus in particular, was the main link in Silk Road trade between the east and west. Handcrafts and tribal art from all parts of the world were displayed in abundance in many local bazaars, shops and stalls.

  As I surveyed the markets between Milano and Kabul, my faculty for picking up and understanding local phrases and sign language became invaluable. I got tired of pointing, pantomiming, and grunting.

  Most market people have some English. My ear for marketplace talk prompted me to feed back various phrases that worked. As I clumsily stumbled over their language, some of the locals tried some of their English. Actually, they were trying to speak TV American. Often market people had spent some time in America, England, or Germany.

  If trade negotiations hit a snag, I would ask, “Auf Deutsch? Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” and the conversation would often proceed nicely. The more I tried the local language, the more they struggled with mine. The best known American market phrase was, “Got jeans to sell?” and, of course, I always had brand name jeans with me, even if they were made in Afghanistan.

  TRIP REVERIE, ABOUT PAUL:

  One night on the road, I was thinking about Paul again, and a curious feeling came over me. A deep and painful longing enveloped me that was much more than just being horny. As I reached across the sleeping bag, I could feel his coarse wiry hair and hear his deep breath, like a southern breeze in midsummer.

  It was funny about my sensing Paul so close as to be next to my sleeping bag. Was I dreaming or not? He will often try to spook me in his aerograms by writing, “When I’m about to fall asleep, I send my doppelganger (ghostly counterpart of a living person) searching for you.”

  At times Paul wrote about this with such intensity that I could almost believe him, and why not? After all he is a great put-on artist. He will start a story with a smirk on his face, and in a joyful voice, talk as if one of the great revelations of heaven is about to descend.

  Once he has your attention, he shifts his mode of speaking. He becomes increasingly earnest and intense. Finally, he becomes deadly serious, to the point where you dare not doubt the importance of what he is about to say.

  When he has you firmly in his grasp, and at times he can be mesmerizing, he will launch into an impassioned tirade, with evangelical zeal to convert you to some ludicrous belief.

  Among Paul’s favorites are:

  Why cannibalism is a humane institution;

  There are people alive today who will never die and you might be one of them;

  Women are the true human species, men are a degenerate, devolving subspecies;

  To save the Earth, we must trust in the Great Celestial Mother, She who creates all;

  We must return to that old-time natural religion of Mother Nature, The Great Mother;

  Male Judaic Christian Islamic religions are destroying humanity and the Earth;

  How the great cats created humanity.

  Most people will enjoy the put on and laugh right along with Paul. Even though we all know we’ve been had, there remains a part of us that is still bothered by reason that the joke succeeded so well. Was there a nagging truth behind the sham? That’s what he calls the Cosmic Joke. Then he will say, “If you want to see the Cosmic Joke, look in the mirror. We are the Cosmic Joke.”

  I want to believe that Paul can transmit his dream double like radio waves or the natural electromagnetic realities he mentions that are not yet fully understood. While it sounds like some sort of magic or miracle, perhaps our miraculous magic is merely technology that we do not yet understand.

  When I got back to the States, between trips, Paul and I would talk about this. He would insist that he would never do anything to harm me, and I believed him. He would say, “Our love is so intense that the electromagnetic energy that radiates may sometimes go astray and manifest as the events you experience halfway around the world.” He’s an incurable romantic, and I lo
ve it.

  I sometimes think that Paul’s energy projections, intentional or not, caused all the little mishaps on our travels: endless flats, cracked windshields, muffler faults and other annoying non-injurious road events. Can we create traveling poltergeists?

  Paul insists that he is my protector and is with me all the time. Sometimes he is the coyote trickster of Native American folklore, but only to provide challenges to what might become a tiresome trip. In fact, throughout the five years of travel, to and from Afghanistan, none of us suffered any serious injury.

  He does not know how it happens. “I think of you all the time, especially when I go to sleep. At least on a conscious level, I wish you all the best. I have no conscious control in the matter of radio wave projection. Certainly, I wish you no harm and sure don’t want to cause you any problems. I want only happiness and success for you, and it seems you are getting these.”

  Paul thinks of all the minor travel mishaps as “bleed-off negative energy that would ordinarily build up to a serious accident.”

  Then his eyes twinkle, and he bursts out laughing and I could kill him for his pranks, real or imagined. If he is a brujo (sorcerer), he’s MY brujo. He’s there for me. I don’t think he really believes in it. He just pretends to believe, to tease me. I love-hate it and love-hate him for it.

  BACK ON THE ROAD:

  The mountain roads of Yugoslavia are so bad that a person dare not spend more than a two-hour shift at the wheel. It became necessary for the licensed drivers among us to take turns driving as we continued on.

  Dalmatian Coast, the new Riviera*

  When I drove, my attention was divided between negotiating the grueling terrain and taking in the breathtaking beauty of the drive south along the treacherous Dalmatian coast. Dalmatia was a Roman province. On the left were towering black mountain forests. To the right was the blinding glare of the Adriatic sun.