The countless times Paul has talked with me and written about building a new tribal society, out of the communal families that now exist, is etched in my mind. “After all, most families are basically communal, sharing the features and faults of life. Each person in a family takes what s/he needs (or tries to), while each gives what s/he can (or tries to),” so says Master Paul, the Philosopher King.
Along with my rage and frustration with Paul’s ideas, there is also admiration and stimulation. It’s all part of the package. This is what makes him a Gemini and me a Libra. I am definitely a water spirit, a libation bearer, and an ocean of mothering love for all who know me.
On the other hand, Paul embodies the Gemini twins, with dual, often opposing spirits. He juggles opposing ideas, making the case for both. It’s like he’s constantly playing chess with himself or at least playing mind games with himself and everyone around him. He views it as Einstein thought about experiments; the pursuit of hidden knowledge.
He assures me that, “The pursuit of ideas and sex is as much a compulsion as an intention. Einstein had the same drive, in pursuit of ideas and sex. His life was a beautiful fabric woven with seminal ideas and sex. His love life was the fabric on which his great ideas were embroidered. Neither sex nor intelligence can exist without each other.”
We talked about this often, by ourselves and with friends. Rather he pontificated and we genuflected. I must admit, as much as I love Paul, he angers me. So I asked, “Why are you so convinced that sex and intelligence depend on each other? To me it sounds like an excuse for womanizing; not that I don’t satisfy an occasional lust for another man.”
In his book, Cinderella’s Housework Dialectics, Paul talks about primate mating, ten million years ago, when great apes, chimpanzees, bonobos, and hominids, branched out separately on the primate tree of life. From decades of study, it’s known that most primates, including humans, form a household or family circle consisting of mothers, offspring, and siblings at the core.
Outside, or at the edge of the family circle, are mature males providing food, resources and protection in exchange for mating privileges. To put it bluntly, monkeys and men exchange food for sex, and healthy creatures are more inclined toward mating success than the unhealthy.
Is this because males and females have freely chosen this arrangement? Not on your life; you can’t see them; you can’t hear them; and you can’t touch them; but you sure as hell can feel them. Up until the last century, these ephemeral rogues were called demons, devils, and imps. Unseen they inhabited body, mind and soul.
We have learned enough to know that the real demon culprits are hormones and neurotransmitters. These are testosterone, growth hormone, estrogen, progesterone, oxytocin, pheromones, serotonin, dopamine, epinephrine, adrenalin, insulin, and hundreds of other natural, normal biological agents, as well as genes. These are the demons that are always with us.
These are the angels and devils of our better and worse nature. How much of this human body, this flesh and blood ‘commune’ allows human freedom? To what extent are we programmed like a computer? One thing we know is our intention to follow the lure of hidden knowledge, to ‘follow our bliss.’
When on the road, as I am, there’s an ample amount of time for reflection. I take copies of Paul’s book with me to peruse and give to business associates. On these long drives, the book has become my bible of ideas.
They still enrage and stimulate me, but now I scribble rebuttals in the margins and include these in my aerograms and travel journal, along with other news. Occasionally, when we are exchanging stories around the evening meal, I read some of his book to my fellow trekkers.
The love-hate feelings for Paul and, to a lesser extreme, the caravan people, fermented as I traveled along the old Silk Road. In a sense, we trekkers were a kind of family feeling affection and the opposite as each day progressed. We women felt increasingly good about each other as each day went by, while the men-boys seemed to incur our wrath whenever they opened their mouths.
Toward the end of the trip I became conscious of time again. It dawned on me that I had better get home soon or I would drown in this Gypsy lifestyle. More and more the bus breakdown delays frustrated me. It helped that I was one of the four mechanics servicing the bus, as that provided some sense of control.
Our travels through Iran, while rapid, were far from uneventful. Eventually, I reached Kabul and my business associate, Mike, in time for Afghanistan Day.
Afghans dressed for Afghanistan Day
24
CHINESE DIPLOMAT - FALL, 1979
My business partner Mike, insisted on meeting me for breakfast. I had flown in from Zurich the day before and jet lag had gotten the best of me. On my way to Kabul, I had stopped over in London, and then taken the night boat train to France, followed by a train to Frankfurt, Basle, Geneva and finally, Zurich.
Over breakfast, I told Mike about our success with the museums in London, Frankfurt, Geneva, Basel and Zurich, but that in France I’d gotten a cool reception. “Lela, you know about the French. All purchases must be through French nationals. Why did you even bother?”
“Mike, I was taking the night boat-train to France anyway, and while I was there, figured I’d give it another try. At least they spoke with me this time. The last time they would not even speak with me. Maybe I’m making progress, do you think?”
“Lela, you are an excellent business person, and you may wear them down to the point of politeness, but don’t expect to make a dent there. You are wasting your time. Let’s concentrate our efforts where they will be most productive.”
“When I meet with the French trade mission woman in Kabul, she is always encouraging.” Mike’s smile looked a little sour when he replied, “Lela, Ahhhh, she’s just being polite. Don’t be so stubborn; let’s move on to better prospects.”
“OK Mike, what do you have in mind?”
“That’s what I want to speak with you about. Yesterday, a member of the Chinese Embassy staff visited my shop, purchased a few things on his list and invited both of us to their Embassy reception this evening at eight. How do they know you are in Kabul?”
“Mike, they must have access to airport passenger lists, I certainly did not notify them. In any case, this is interesting. I’ll meet you at your shop about seven this evening.”
We talked about the purchase orders I received in Europe and how we would fill these orders. I asked Mike what he thought the Chinese wanted. He thought they might do some token business with us, but suspected they wanted access to information about Soviet intentions in Afghanistan, via our friend Kit.
I thought: ‘Yes, of course, after all China shares a border with Afghanistan, as does the Soviet Union. It’s no secret that Mike is a government minister working closely with Kit to set up a network of roads and medical clinics. They must know that the three of us are quite chummy.’
That evening I was introduced to the Chinese Ambassador and his lovely wife. They were a handsome elderly couple, quite stately and graceful, not at all what I expected Maoist diplomats to look like. They looked more like fashionable Italians than Chinese.
The wife wore a beautiful, long-sleeved, red silk evening dress with matching scarf wrapped around her neck and hanging down to the waist. Her hair was pulled back in a sort of diplomatic bun. She was my height, about five-foot-six, and greeted me with an engaging smile.
I wore my newly tailored green, silk cocktail dress covering arms and legs to my ankles. I wore long white silk gloves and matching white silk scarf covering head and neck, in the Turkish style. All the men wore black tie tuxes. There were no military uniforms in sight.
The diplomat’s wife greeted me with outstretched hand. When I took her hand, her two hands grasped mine warmly. Her English was better than mine. “Lela, may I call you that? Please call me Kim. Let’s get to know one-another.”
She took my arm and guided me to a small table at the side of the salon. As soon as we sat down, an aid set glasses of what looke
d like orange juice. “I hope you don’t mind, but I requested champagne cocktails for us, I know we should not be drinking alcohol, but I took the liberty anyway.”
I smiled warmly and took a small sip. “Lela, there are many reasons why we should become friends. We can help each other. First, I should say that I was born and educated in the LA-Berkeley area, as my parents were Chinese diplomats in the 1930s. Next, I believe we may have common business interests. We are in Kabul officially as U.N. Advisors.”
“Kim, what does U.N. Advisor mean?” I asked with a sweet innocent smile. “We observe the living conditions of women and children wherever we are and submit quarterly reports,” she replied. I never did figure out what that really meant.
In any case, Kim and I became fast friends. While we chatted, her husband would come over to our table every few minutes, smile and pass a few polite words with us. He also passed a note to his wife. Then, after a brief exchange of words in Chinese he would excuse himself.
After another twenty minutes of family and children small talk, I got the distinct impression that Kim wanted to get into more weighty matters, when her husband came to our table a final time and asked to borrow his wife. Before she left, she made me promise to meet her for lunch at noon the next day at a favorite café.
As I remained seated nursing my cocktail, Mike sat next to me, smiling broadly and began pumping me. “Lela, what were you two talking about?” I patted his arm and said, “Look at those two. Are they smiling in conversation with the two Soviet attaches or am I hallucinating?”
“Lela, that is certainly surprising, first because the Soviets are at this reception and second, because it looks like they are having a cordial discussion. What do you think is going on?”
I read lips, but did not want Mike to know this. Mike and I were both watching the four-way conversation between the two Chinese and two Soviets. I strained my eyes to see what was being said. Another surprise; they were speaking German. They were smiling, even chuckling from time to time. It certainly seemed out of character.
Mike turned to me and asked what I thought was going on. I told him the truth (sort of). “Mike, I can’t hear them, but if you asked me to guess, I’d say they were trying to set up ground rules.”
Actually, Kim was doing most of the talking, and, since her German was just barely adequate, she used the simplest words she could. Surprise, surprise, my German was better than hers, and that was not saying much. Kim was using her status as a U.N. Advisor to gain some leverage with the Soviets. The gist of the discussion, as best I could glean, went something like this:
“We Chinese are in this (country?) as U.N. advisors and observers of family (health?) conditions, nothing more. We are as (visitors?) interacting and observing as caring people, and to answer your question, we welcome your kind offer of an Afghan guide, that is most, (helpful or cordial?).
“We understand fully that you’re influence in this (region or area?) is great and in no way will we interfere. To demonstrate our good intentions, we welcome any guides you may wish to provide for our (tours?) outside this embassy.”
This is what I related to Mike. Actually, the conversations between Soviets and Chinese seemed quite civil, even cordial from what I observed. But who can say what is behind appearances of civility?
Kim, my hostess, and I talked in the garden toward the end of the evening. “Two things about this evening are unique,” she said. “How so?” I asked. “Well, it’s rare that both Chinese and Soviet ambassadors would attend the same event, especially a small reception like this. Also, it is an innovation that Chinese and Soviets decided to show a united front, at least in public.”
Reflecting on the rather lengthy and cordial conversation, I then remarked as Kim took my arm, “You seemed to have quite a civil conversation, and, while I don’t pretend to understand diplomacy or the ins and outs of Chinese Soviet relations, your ‘performance,’ if I may use that term, seemed friendly and even newsworthy.”
“Lela, believe me when I say that your lack of pretense is an advantage. It’s well known that China and the Soviet Union are taking separate but parallel roads. We are still comrades in the pursuit of a more peaceful and progressive world. Also, we recognize the reality of strong Soviet influence here and have little choice but to cooperate, to the extent permitted.”
“That is understandable,” I said, adding that, “My husband and I see ourselves as progressives and internationalists. We are in the international art trade as much to extend the hand of friendship as to realize profitable trade.”
“Lela, that’s why you and Mike are here this evening. The Chinese cultural ministry wishes to set up museum exhibits throughout our nation. We suggested to the Soviets that you and Mike be our guides, art consultants and suppliers. The Soviets agreed to this arrangement. How do you two feel about this arrangement?”
Mike was smiling broadly and nodding in agreement. Needless to say, we were both delighted with this new opportunity.
There were fewer than 100 people invited to the Chinese reception, including press and media. The event received international attention. Paul sent me a telex the next day, “Saw you on TV. Looking great. Love.”
The Chinese Russian reception was well planned for public consumption. Kim and Mike agreed to meet me for breakfast at my hotel the next morning. We all exited the reception at two in the morning. In fact, Mike and I did a substantial amount of business with the Chinese.
Mike and the Italian Charge de’Affairs walked with me to the hotel. It was a beautiful night for a walk. The Italian asked us about the purpose of the reception. I laughed and replied, “Well it was obvious, don’t you think? There must be some sort of agreement between the Chinese and Russians, at least in Afghanistan. They made that quite clear.”
Kim and I became close companions. Increasingly, our paths crossed with Kit, the Australian nurse. This was no great surprise to me. The four of us, including Mike, got along quite well.
Kit was anxious to show Kim the health clinics, and Mike pointed out the roadwork in progress connecting all the clinics to Kabul. We made certain that each day-trip included an introduction to tribal artisans. Mike arranged for various folk groups to exhibit their skills. This was the extent of my foreign intrigue with the Chinese.
Folk Performers
After much negotiation, my big chance finally came to buy 50 strands of ancient gold and lapis beads. Government archaeologists dated these Greco-Persian strands at about 4,500 years. There was, of course, further negotiation with Kabul museum officials but, after donating five of the strands to the museum, I received my export permits.
The archaeologists provided some information about my beads. While they were quite old, many hundreds were found together with obsidian tools at sites thought to be fabrication centers. In fact, they had many poor quality strands for sale at lower prices.
Putting two and two together, I realized that getting my stuff out of the country would be much easier if I purchased some of their artifacts. I purchased all they had for an excellent price. This purchase, together with my museum donation facilitated efficient shipping to the States.
Mike’s second wife and I were good friends by now. She asked me to go with her to a graduation exercise at a girl’s school. Thinking this would be another unique Afghan experience, I happily agreed. After the ceremony of receiving their diplomas, an army band played Mozart’s Turkish March as the graduates slowly paraded out of the school to a playing field wearing their long green hooded school shifts.
The field was decorated with Afghan banners and dozens of table-tennis set-ups. We all played table tennis for an hour or so. This was considered an appropriate sport for Afghan women belonging to important tribes. Refreshments were served, but many of the graduates preferred to continue with the table-tennis.
My friend introduced me to the head master and some of the faculty. The Russians had built the school; the Chinese provided the playing field and table-tennis equipment. Other embassies
provided faculty pay and student scholarships, as well as other resources. A friendship wall filled with brass plaques documented these contributions.
Graduates
Most of the embassies were represented at the graduation. Kim represented the Chinese and was included in our little group. Representatives from Russia, India, Pakistan, and Iran were also present. All were quite cordial and chatted politely together. Mostly, they were keen on greeting the Afghan delegation, of which Mike, my partner, was now the bridge between Afghanistan, Russia and China.
Kim and I were playing table tennis when she said, “Notice how carefully the Russians keep track of the Chinese?” I replied, “Yes, Afghanistan is now a world stage where nations monitor each other more or less openly. Thankfully, it is a civil and peaceful interaction.”
“That’s a wise observation, Lela. Afghanistan provides a small convenient conversation pit for all the bordering neighbors. We get important tidbits of information from each other. You might say that Afghanistan is the front-line in the East-West information dialog.”
At the juice bar, Mike confided that he heard gossip about recent meetings between Russian, Chinese and Iranian representatives. He thought they were cooperating to topple the Shah. I commented that the gossip did not surprise me. The West seemed to support the worst tyrants, providing short-term profits and long-term enemies.
It seemed obvious, at least to me, that Russia and China were both jockeying for the inside track, but for what? If there were an ocean of oil under Afghanistan, Russia and China seemed determined to control it. Might they actually share it, I wondered?
[NOTE: The Shah of Iran was widely despised. Plots were constantly hatched to depose him. It was just a matter of time before one succeeded. While a revolution deposed the Shah in 1979, few anticipated an Islamic revolution.]
The Afghan Queen: A True Story of an American Woman in Afghanistan Page 22
