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CHANGES - FALL, 1979
On my return to Afghanistan after the April, 1978s revolution, I discovered some changes for the better. It was late September, 1979, six months after the revolution, and the entire city of Kabul looked like it was being renovated. All run-down hotels and guest residences were forced to close until required repairs were completed.
By the fall of 1979, changes in Afghanistan, especially Kabul, were well along. Together with numerous public and private improvements throughout the country, a surge in employment, income, and the overall economy was in the works.
Once again, various global interests were eager to contribute to a new progressive Afghanistan. This time the U.S. was a major “player” along with the usual neighboring influence peddlers.
As soon as I landed, the people seemed more tense than usual. My partner Mike met me at the arrival gate and ushered me through the red tape in record time. The gatekeepers were tense but far more efficient compared to previous visits. This was the first time they actually checked baggage tickets.
Mike had a golf cart waiting for us but, after sitting on the plane for so many hours, I insisted on walking. As to my baggage, Mike already had stowed my bags in his Russian all-terrain vehicle. He took me directly to his hotel, updating me on the way.
He explained that great strides were being made throughout the nation. “Lela, everyone who wants to work can now have a job, but you know we Afghans are not accustomed to rapid change and so people are tense. People are getting more suspicious of foreigners and are less likely to extend invitations unless they know you.”
There was a general apprehension that social contacts with foreigners might cause difficulties. “But you, Lela, need not be concerned. You are well known as a friend and benefactor of the Afghans. You are part of my family and a friend of our government. Everywhere, doors are open to you. Business will improve greatly; you will see.”
Mike explained that all embassy and government functions would extend invitations to me. “Why the glad hand?” I asked. He explained that he and I were now part of a ring of suspicion.
“The Americans think we are Russian agents; the Russians think we are CIA agents; and the Chinese believe we are double agents. They all want to access the ocean of oil if it exists, and if there is no oil each nation is determined to have its own sphereof-influence.”
I asked Mike about the opinion of the Afghan government. He said it depended on each Afghan ministry. “They all know you are the source of substantial amounts of commercial dollars. That is quite obvious. As many of us in the government are also active in this nation’s commerce, we benefit from your business.”
He again told me what I already knew: in Afghanistan what mattered most was money. Political deals become the principle unifying interest in Afghanistan and everywhere else.
As crass as it sounds, it was understandable. I could live with the money arrangement and I’d done well by it. Political power play was another matter entirely. The ambiguity of political infighting did not suit me. I was ill at ease in the halls of power even though I put on a good-face.
Mike added: “Lela, you and I could be triple agents for Russia, China, and America. It wouldn’t matter as long as the cash flow continues. In fact, many in the Afghan government credit you with much of the foreign aid we now get.”
“How do they figure that?” I asked.
Mike said, “Except for earthquake relief, the fact that you have increased commercial interest in Afghan art provides a pretext for governments to support tribal art trade, as well as provide substantial aid as public relations on the global stage.
“Their oil addiction plays into our hands. The Afghan government is keen on feeding the rumor mill. We are encouraged to hint at the “ocean of oil” under our feet, and to even encourage oil exploration if it comes to that.
“It does not matter if there is oil or not. Merely the possibility keeps the money flowing, even if the oil does not. The hundreds of tar pits throughout Afghanistan are enough to heat the embassy fires, literally and figuratively.
“You’ve seen the map Kit and I made. Whenever and wherever we find samples of tar oil, it becomes a red circle on our map. We should start hinting about the map. Such hints will stimulate the oil frenzy and more money will flow into Afghanistan.”
I said I would spread the rumor; but I also thought they were asking for trouble. “Mike, I worry. Oil lust is likely to turn Afghanistan into a war zone. You see what happens in the oil producing regions. Interference by the western powers set the stage for world conflict.
“The Iranian Revolution is just the beginning. Iraq and the entire Middle East are likely to follow. Don’t think Afghanistan is immune. Yes, money will flow in. How much money will go to bribe various factions? Will the inflow of cash fuel an inflow of armaments?
“See how Israel has suffered. Millions of people murdered and, finally, a new nation emerges like a phoenix from the Holocaust ashes. And what is the price Israel now pays? They are forced for their survival to act as the Middle East police force.
“Western powers guarantee the survival of Israel as long cheap oil is available. Since oil is so close to the surface it’s the cheapest in the world. The cost of oil in the Middle East is less than $10 per 42 gallon barrel. If they are to survive, Israel must help maintain the oil status quo.
“This is why the open tar pits in Afghanistan are more a liability than an asset. I believe that by teasing the tiger, we’re inviting a deadly guest to our banquet. By our action, more blood will flow than oil.”
“Lela, you are a true Sufi. You are the wisest person I know. But let’s stick to tribal art. We both know there’s no ocean of oil. They can prospect all they want while pouring money into Afghanistan. The only ocean they’ll find is in their dreams.
“What you say is true, Lela. There’s an ocean of greed, if not oil. We did not create the greed, but we can profit from it. Yes, we have a tiger by the tail, but if no oil is found, the tiger will have neither claws nor fangs.
“Believe me when I tell you there is no ocean of oil here. Scandinavian geologists performed advanced testing procedures throughout the country. The tar oil pools are purely a surface anomaly. These pools are shallow inorganic mineral deposits and not organic. These are only limited deposits of mineral oil. There’s barely enough for apothecary use, let alone fuel oil.
“True, we see this stuff sold in most of the bazaars, but the source pools are no more than a few inches in depth. There are no deep veins. The tar pools result from stone grinding stone for millions of years. Why are we so certain? We’re certain because the only methane gas found is in sewage and garbage treatment facilities.”
“Mike, does this mean that we are part of an Afghan con game?”
“Don’t look at it that way, Lela. Marxists view it as turning capitalist greed to our advantage. It’s economic jujitsu. Capitalist greed is like opium addiction. They want to believe the next oil fix is in Afghanistan. We feed their greed with imaginary oil.”
By the end of 1978, the dollar had fallen in value by about 30%, and a major global inflation was in the works. Some European banks were selling bonds that paid 20% interest. The value of the AF stood at 36 AFs to a dollar. Prices had also risen around the world. Now, a year later, the global inflation was getting scary.
It became increasingly difficult to buy goods for my business and even harder to buy for clients, such as museums commissioning me to buy for them. The result was that I could barely afford to buy for my own business unless I raised my prices accordingly. This I was forced to do, resulting in a drop in sales volume.
I became increasingly wary of offers that seemed too good to be true and consulted with Mike and other trusted business associates about each of these golden opportunities, most of which turned out to be bogus.
The next invitation I received was for a Thanksgiving reception at the U.S. Embassy. All the Afghan ministers were invited, and so I was escorted b
y Mike. Entering the reception room, Kim, the Chinese delegate, and Kit, the Afghan health advisor, both waved at me to join them.
The usual embassy crowd attended. The Italian delegate was leering at me as usual, making me feel as if I were at home with my family and Paul’s suggestive leering. If ever there were a sex addict, it’s my husband. He may be a sex addict, but he’s my sex addict and I love it. He may wear me out at home, but I recover in Afghanistan.
As we entered the ball room, a marine brass band was playing a medley of American rock tunes. Just as I was heading over to Kim and Kit, someone came up behind me and put hands over my eyes. “Bev, guess who?”
The voice was unmistakable. It was the deep voice of the tallest girl in my high school graduating class. “Rosy!” I gasped. We had been good friends at the all-girls high school in Red Hook, Brooklyn. “Rosy, what are you doing here?” She replied, “I could ask you the same question; in fact I will.”
We burst out laughing, Rosy with her foghorn laugh caused heads to turn in our direction. “Bev, let’s go to the ladies’ lounge.” We sat down and hugged each other and began chattering away like magpies. “Lela, is it now? What’s wrong with Bev?”
“Well, ‘Lela’ is now my professional name in the international art world. It’s more musical.” Rosy laughed and said, “I should talk. Do you know what my professional name is? It’s not Rosy Garcia anymore. That was too ethnic for a cultural attaché. I’m now Rose Gavalt, Cultural Attaché U.S. Embassy, Kabul, Afghanistan. Here’s my card.”
“That sounds like ‘oy-ga-valt.’ Isn’t that Yiddish or Polish for ‘here comes trouble’ or something like that? Why did you pick a name like that?”
“Well, I didn’t pick it, my supervisor did. It was her idea of a joke. The name refers to my Sephardic-Jewish background. I protested that it was an ethnic slur, and she just laughed explaining that the name conveys a sense of ethnic authenticity, rather than a cover name, and besides no one would know what it means.
“So I shut my big mouth and discovered that when people see my card, they immediately smile trustingly and knowingly. Besides, I have degrees testifying to my ability as an art historian.”
“Rosy, it’s great to see you, but I have a feeling that our accidental meeting is no accident.” Rosy just smiled and said, “Well Lela, I might say that the U.S. Embassy is interested in Afghan tribal art and your expert consultation on the subject, but you are savvy enough to know there’s more to it than that. Actually, I’d like to meet your friends, especially Kim, Kit, and Mike.”
“And so you shall.” I said, attempting to mimic Tallulah Bankhead’s fog horn voice and poor grammar. I was sure Rosy was heading in that direction and I was more or less prepared. All these new faces and surprise meetings. It felt like some weird TV show where all your lost friends and relatives emerge from nowhere.
“Rosy, I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am to see you again, but you must know that my main interest is growing my business. If you want to meet my acquaintances that’s fine. We are all business associates first and friends second. It’s business that brings us all together. I want to make that clear.
And so, Rosy became part of our little group of ‘watchers,’ each keeping a close eye on the others.
AFGHAN CON:
I’d been in the Tashkagon region three days, the guest of a wealthy trader, and was being treated like a queen. While hospitality is the rule, something about this lavish reception aroused my suspicion. In short, I smelled a rat.
My first evening with this clan, the table was set with a sparkling white embroidered silk cloth. To top it off, a beautiful rose was placed in a polished carnelian urn as a centerpiece. The chair they led me to looked more like a throne, covered with silver and gold embroideries.
Was I being set up as a queen or a patsy? I’d been cultivated in other business encounters that were not to my advantage, but never as elaborately as this extraordinary scene. A truly lavish dinner ended with ashak, a type of leek-filled dumpling appetizer topped with smoked sturgeon and caviar.
Immediately after the feasting, the purpose of this elaborate ruse became apparent. They led me to the courtyard garden and there it was: eight camels were decked out in eight complete sets of camel trappings, complete with saddles, saddlebags made of fine goat wool, and a variety of beautiful ceremonial camel décor.
The final blow hit me like a bolt out of the blue: “Beautiful lady, all this is yours for only 49,000 AFs.” This was about $1,000 at the time. I replied, “If your offer includes the eight camels, I might consider 25,000 AFs as a fair price.”
The merchant was visibly flustered with my counter offer. “Surely you are joking,” he said. “Surely I’m not joking,” I replied. “No, no, the beautiful lady misunderstands, only what is on the camels, not the camels.”
I was not willing to dish out another $1,000 for more camel decorations. However, I did buy some lovely tapestries, embroideries, and camel bags for about $150. Certainly, he spent more on my elaborate reception.
Returning to Tashkagon the same evening, I stayed at a newly rebuilt government hotel, complete with the largest hotel pool I’d ever seen. As an ardent swimmer, this was for me a gift from the Great Mother.
Paul is forever telling everyone how I swam the Bosporus after swimming the English Channel. He explains lewdly how he massaged five pounds of butter into every pore of my body. Every time he tells that bogus story at parties I nod affirming his “put-on” with a lascivious smirk and silently nod my head in agreement.
“Now she wants to swim from Key West to Havana, 90 miles. I keep telling her it’s too dangerous. Great white sharks frequent those waters. But does she listen? No, she laughs at me. Talk about over-confidence, she has it in spades. She thinks citronella will repel all predators.”
“Look, my love, it’s not at all as dangerous as you suggest. The media agreed to accompany my swim with two large cabin-cruisers on either side of me. The Cuban government will provide specially equipped “spotter” boats at the half-way point. It’s an entire protective fleet running interference. What could be safer?” The game ended when one or both of us burst out laughing.
The Tashkagon region was devastated by a major earthquake last year. Many countries contributed to restoring this region, principally U.S., Russia, China, India, Iran and Pakistan, in that order. While in the area, there were daily after-shock rumbles for a week. Hotel guests were requested to sleep in the comfortable cabanas surrounding the pool.
I almost forgot to mention Japanese architects donated plans for an earthquake-resistant hotel. The desk clerk provided handouts to guests explaining the safety features. The hotel was built on a granite outcropping. All hotel buildings were single story, supported on rotating ball pivots. All windows and doors were made of pop-out Lucite. No glass was used in the entire hotel.
Electric power was provided by large arrays of solar devices (gifts from Germany) and wind generators (gifts from Denmark). The wind towers were cleverly anchored to dozens of large tree trunks in the hotel park (a Canadian innovation).
Wind rotors caped each tree, reminding me of ornaments on the top of Christmas trees, actually quite attractive. Six months after completion, the hotel power was functioning independent of the power grid, mostly from wind power. The hotel was spread out like a network of cottages, Los Angeles style.
I picked a pool cabana since I took an early morning swim as well as an evening swim. This way I was close to the pool. It felt like I was in California, surrounded by gardens, splendid trees (topped with wind ornaments), and snow-capped mountains to the north. It felt more secure and comforting in the cabana than in the hotel.
It was incredibly hot for October. At various times of the day the flies were so thick they were like little black clouds. Water rationing would begin two days later and there would soon be no showers. The pool was continually re-filtered and most of the guests would spend time there.
The next morning at the Tashkagon bazaar, I bo
ught ten sets of camel decorations for $15 each, complete with silver bells; so much for one of the more elaborate merchant hypes I’d seen the day before. It was not the first and not the last, but certainly the most overreaching I experienced.
Mike, Kit, Kim, and I explored some of the tribal settlements near Mazar-al-Sharif. Kit, now the official Health Planning Advisor to the Health Ministry, was checking the health conditions in the new tribal settlements.
She was planning additional clinics oriented to the specific needs of the tribes in that region. Kim, the Chinese Embassy U.N. Advisor, agreed to share the costs between Russian and Chinese benefactors. Now that Rosy was part of our little team, she insisted that the U.S. would pay for anything else that’s needed for the clinics, like infant formula and food.
Rosy had been slim, attractive, and athletic in high school and now, twenty years later she was more attractive than ever. While driving, I asked if she still played basketball. She mentioned that she had organized co-ed basketball teams among the embassy staff.
In high school we had fun baiting each other about boys. Now I began baiting Rosy again, only on a different topic “Rosy, I’ll bet you have some background in geology.”
“Jeez, Lela, how in hell did you know that?”
“Come off it, Rosy. Everyone in an embassy position is hunting for that mythical ocean under our feet. Don’t pretend innocence. We know each other too well. Friendship aside, you’re here for that reason, yes?” She gave me an affirming look but said nothing.
Kim said the Chinese played basketball also, but that table tennis was their main sport. Kim invited Rosy, Kit, Mike and me to a table tennis afternoon at the Chinese Embassy, and Rosy did the same for basketball and a swim meet at the U.S. Embassy. It was all sweetness and light among us. Too bad embassy women don’t run their nations.
Mike was now the Interior Minister. His main job was road planning and implementation, especially to link health facilities to key towns and cities. My interest was finding tribal art. Merchants would get to these tribal settlements before me however, and I would have little in the way of purchases to show for the week roaming the region.
The Afghan Queen: A True Story of an American Woman in Afghanistan Page 23
