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

by Paul Meinhardt

  The main business of Kit and Kim was ‘monitoring’ (Kim’s word) Chinese and Russian activities. In reality, they were ordered to keep an eye on each other. Toward this end, a cooperating agreement was in effect.

  All four of us kept notebooks and made frequent entries, each for her own purpose. Now my school chum Rosy, U.S. Cultural Attaché (rhymes with CIA), had joined the ‘watchers daisy chain’, with my assistance, of course.

  NURISTAN VISIT:

  I’d been negotiating for days to get a government pass to visit Nuristan, the northeastern province of Afghanistan. This province had been closed for years because of widespread banditry and warlord control, or so I was told repeatedly. I had attempted to get into Nuristan every six months since doing business in Afghanistan and received the same response.

  Noor, a good friend and business associate from Nuristan, said the official entry denials were not true. He said they wanted to seal off the province to isolate a growing Maoist revolution fueled by China. He also believed the Chinese were developing oil fields in Nuristan.

  Sealing off Nuristan was virtually impossible as it shared a border with the People’s Republic of China and the Soviet Union. Most feared was a proxy clash between China and Russia in Nuristan. As China was desperate for oil, such a conflict was a distinct possibility.

  Via the influence of Kim at the Chinese embassy, as well as Kit and Mike, I was at last granted a pass, but only if I traveled with a security convoy. Mike was not going to Nuristan, though. He made that quite clear and tried, unsuccessfully, to talk me out of going.

  So, here we were again, our watchers’ daisy chain gang of four (Kit, Kim, Rosy, and me) was off on another adventure. I was sure we would be safer traveling in a single vehicle, but my three companions overruled me, and Kit arranged for us to travel with a military convoy.

  Nuristan, as expected, was an armed camp. The Afghan government, with the aid of Soviet Mongolian troops, controlled the main roads and towns. While the convoy remained outside the town, touring the countryside, Noor took our jolly group to his home.

  I was able to find and purchase some unusual small chairs and little round folding tables, all hand carved and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. There were also reasonably priced irresistible embroideries and kilems that I could not live without. All in all, this had been a supremely profitable trip, as well as a great education. Now I was playing on the world stage.

  A few days later, my friends and I were swimming at the Tashkagon hotel pool when a messenger said an old man was waiting to talk with me in the lobby. I left Rosy, Kim, and Kit while they were trading information. (Where else could American, Russian, and Chinese officials trade information so easily? From a distance it looked like a group of gossiping women.)

  I’d been expecting a trader from the Tashkagon region to contact me, but this was not the man Noor had told me about. The little old man was talking with Noor in the lobby when I got there. The old man said he was a lampshade maker. Noor said that the man had come to his shop in Kabul a month ago with Hadad, the merchant we were expecting.

  The lampshade maker had a large canvas bag with beautiful luminous silk shades. He pulled one shade out by a center loop, and it opened into a hemisphere of glorious color. These were items I knew I must have.

  The old man spoke little English and Noor spoke with him in Pashtu for a while before explaining to me that the old man made the lampshades for his cousin Hadad. I thought to myself, ‘This country is one big family enterprise.’

  Noor said that the old man wanted to sell the lampshades to me for less than Hadad would charge. It seemed that the old man and his cousin Hadad had a falling-out. The old man said he could not talk any longer, but asked that we meet him at the India Café at six that evening. This gave me time to discuss the situation with Noor.

  Noor told me a story about the little old lampshade maker from Tashkagon. It seemed that he was in all kinds of trouble with the government and other merchants. We went to meet with him anyway. Noor immediately explained that we were reluctant to do business with him because of the stories we had heard.

  The old man explained that it was his cousin Hadad, and not him who was the problem. That was why he had split with Hadad. The old fox began to cry, and I felt for him, but Noor was not fooled. Noor told him that we would check out the story at the police station; at that, the old trader was gone in a flash.

  We then went to the police station. Two desk clerks looked at us knowingly. One of them asked, “Are you here about the lampshade maker?” Noor replied that he was. The clerk laughed and said we were the fifth complainants today and that the old fraud really got around.

  The police clerk expressed the hope that we did not give him a lot of money. Noor replied that we’d been suspicious and wanted to check the old man’s story before proceeding further.

  The police clerk said, “You were quite wise to check first. I could tell you stories about that ‘poor helpless old trickster’ that you would not believe. Old Ibrahim can document his age at 102 years, but the age documents are phony. He’s in his 80’s, that much we know from his daughter; she tries to smooth things over whenever her father gets in trouble.

  “Not only did he cheat his cousin, but he continually tries to horn in on established traders with all sorts of underhanded schemes. No one will sign a complaint against him because of his age and out of a misguided sense of charity, so he remains out there carrying on, probably until the day Allah, blessed be his name, takes him from us.”

  I was pleased with the traders I’d been dealing with over the years and did not want to jeopardize my pristine business reputation by dealing with the old fraud, no matter how appealing his lampshades were. I was salivating over those lampshades, though. Never had I seen anything like them.

  Fortunately, most of my trading contacts remained intact. These people supported the revolution early in the struggle. Most were Kalq party members of long standing. My main trading partner was victimized by the old regime for his political views.

  Mike and his wife had been forced by unhappy events to take refuge in the States with me for months prior to the 1978 revolution. It seems that her father, some years before, attended the funeral of a cousin killed by the Daoud regime. At the funeral, the police took pictures of all the attendees—instructed by the CIA, I was told.

  Her father was followed and badgered for months then arrested. He was held in prison four years and released with the tuberculosis he contracted in prison. A few months later he died. I didn’t know any of this until she was safely in the States.

  Her political sympathies were known among her relatives and friends. Political sentiments, together with our business relations, a rare combination for Western traders, paved the way for what I hoped would be a long and fruitful business relationship.

  Stamps of the Afghan Revolution (Wikipedia)

  26

  SON OF AFGHAN QUEEN - FALL, 1979

  Why does it take forever to get things done? The flight from Pan Am, Kennedy Airport, due to leave at 8:30 had been changed to 9:10, and due to no open seats in the passenger boarding area, I was sitting on the floor writing in my journal about amazing America.

  The talking heads had finally confirmed the news that was over a week old: ‘Radiation leaks from Three Mile Island, Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, were confirmed, but posed no threat at this time.’

  [The Three Mile Island accident was a partial nuclear meltdown which occurred at the Three Mile Island power plant in Dauphin County, Pennsylvania, United States on March 28, 1979. It was the worst accident in U.S. commercial nuclear power plant history. It resulted in the release of small amounts of radioactive gases and radioactive iodine into the environment.]*

  The media speculated about a meltdown. I had my sixteen year old son, Kirk, with me for this trip. Three Mile Island was close enough to metro NYC to pose a real threat, I thought. I was anxious to leave this lunacy and fly to the lunacy in Kabul. That was so weird: trading one type of insanit
y for another.

  Over the past few days I’d been going in circles, shuffling and reshuffling our bags. My son Kirk had his sheet music in an overnight bag, and his tapes and guitars were checked in. My business bags were checked thru to Kabul. My son seemed delighted to be in the midst of this airport chaos. Of course, it was all new to him and the excitement of this trip was contagious.

  Kirk was acting as if we would not return to the States. He was mostly hyped about the trip but was getting maudlin about missing friends and family. We had all discussed the situation about a possible nuclear meltdown at some point. We agreed that since I needed to get back to Kabul for business, I’d take Kirk with me on this trip while Paul would take our son Erik with him on a business trip out west.

  Both boys relished travel like their Gypsy mother and realized that a worst case scenario would prevent us returning to New Jersey. Our contingency plan was to meet in Las Vegas where I had kin.

  We had quite a load of luggage and at first thought we could take a helicopter to JFK Airport, but high wind forced us to take a limo. After all the waiting, we finally boarded, with Kirk at a window seat and me on the aisle. The nervous tension left me exhausted, but once I started writing it relaxed me, and I was reluctant to stop, until sleep decided for me.

  After seven hours of fitful sleep in the icy cabin, I woke about six a.m., wondering why I was so hungry. My bug-eyed son, with eyes almost as big as the plane window, had the foresight to save my wonderful chicken dinner. The dinner had arrived hours ago, buried in aluminum foil. I was so famished I thought I just might eat the foil also. How wonderful that my dear, dear boy thought of mom for a change.

  At eight in the morning, the steward brought us each a warm sweet roll, an apple, and a pear. Kirk was scrunched up with a pillow between his head and the window. The steward brought a blanket, and I draped it over him. Kirk slept like the dead, and I looked at him every few minutes to check if he was still breathing. At times he drove me nuts, and that was a short drive.

  My son has always been a deep sleeper. The hardest part of everyday was waking him for school. Paul and I took turns doing this when we were home. When we were away Dan, our house helper, would get him up by holding scrambled eggs and apples, which Kirk hates, under his nose. Kirk would then pop out of bed and chase Dan around the house cursing him, while Dan laughed.

  We arrived at Heathrow, London not too gently, but it was enough of a jolt to wake Sleeping Beauty. He asked, “Are we someplace yet? How did we get here? Where’s here?” His eyes were still closed while I told him, “When you open your eyes, you’ll see the thousands of colored butterflies that carried us here.” He replied, “You’re not gonna trick me into opening my eyes.”

  “It doesn’t matter now; they’re all gone.” I gathered all the carry-ons, “We’re the last passengers. Grab some of your gear and let’s vamoose, before the cleaners sweep us out with the garbage.”

  We breezed through the red tape despite my son’s unfunny jokes. The passport clerk said to me, “A real joker ain’t he, ma’am; should be on a stage?” I replied, “And I’ll put him on the first stage back to the States.” Kirk was a bright, inquisitive teen and I loved him dearly; but he was consistently a royal pain in the ass.

  After getting a porter and tow-cart, we changed dollars to pounds. Fortunately, the money-changers provided “scorecards” itemizing the exchange rates, with a caution to check the rates daily at any bank or post office.

  It was suggested that we save our money for the outdoor second-hand markets, where virtually anything may be found at bargain prices. Is England becoming a second-hand nation? It seemed that way, with unbelievable retail prices, the secondhand markets became a necessity for most people.

  Hotels were especially pricey. Luckily we learned about the YMCA and got a room for about $38 per night, per couple, any couple. On the whole, most everything in London is costly, while some important things are cheap. The underground, for example, is a beautiful smooth riding subway. We rode the underground from the airport to London for about sixty cents, a 45-minute ride. Shorter rides cost less.

  The pool and sauna were major attractions for me. Kirk was like a kid in a candy shop; his favorite pastimes were the trampolines and chasing the young ‘lovelies.’ The Y café was less expensive than other eateries, but that wasn’t saying much.

  Today we walked to the old British Museum. They featured a huge display of 1600-1900 gold, plates, jewelry, stemware and clocks. The clock exhibit was separate and included current Lucite clocks with complex but visible Lucite gears, fascinating.

  While the Lucite clock attracted a crowd, with Kirk up front, the display of grand-father clocks caught my attention. Some of the clocks were nine feet tall with elaborate gold inlay scroll work. There were clocks powered by marbles rolling back and forth, functioning like a pendulum. At four in the afternoon they all chimed, but we were in the reading room by then.

  In the reading room there was a small exhibit of a desk and chair that Karl Marx used while writing Capital in the late 1800s. On the table the original three handwritten volumes of Capital were opened but enclosed in Lucite with external page turners for each volume, viewed on an electronic screen. The exhibit was funded by the British Labor Party.

  An almost 180-degree view of the British Museum Reading Room*

  Like parking meters, visitors could insert a shilling in the slot and activate the page turners for ten minutes. A number dispenser provided numbered tickets, while the user’s number was flashed on a light board. I took number 71, while user 60 was at the screen. That amounts to 110 minutes to stroll other exhibits before my number came up.

  I had my 35-mm Lica hoping to take photos of some exhibits. Instead I had to check my camera at the entrance. A booklet of exhibit numbers was provided so that I could check those exhibits I desired photos of and they would be provided at a small price, along with my camera when I was ready to leave. This is a pleasant and most efficient system. Leave it to the Brits.

  At night we went to a Chinese restaurant in Piccadilly Circus. The food was excellent and reasonably priced. The mummy exhibit at the British Museum was far more impressive than Madam Toussard’s wax works, but I’m comparing apples and oranges.

  Kirk’s View:

  Our first day in London was great, but was ‘dust’ compared to our second day. We took our gear and switched to the Bedford Corner Hotel in Totingham Road after breakfast. Mom and I got to see the Toussard Wax Works today. To our surprise it was updated with likenesses of Jimmy Carter, Anwar Sadat, Ella Fitzgerald, Agatha Christie, Elton John, and others.

  Lela Again:

  After viewing the torture chambers, Kirk’s favorite, we visited the planetarium next door. The planetarium displays utilized lasers to demonstrate the aurora borealis and the “Jupiter effect” predicted for 1982, four planets in conjunction.

  Predictions were made of major electrical, electronic and radio interference; but earthquakes and stuff falling from the heavens were thought unlikely. I can’t wait for 1982. The line-up of planets is between the Sun, Earth, Mars, Venus and Jupiter.

  [Major problems did not occur from the predicted planetary alignment—unless we are all dead as a result. In any case, how would we know the difference between life and death?]

  According to the lecturer, the Sun will make an oval orbit and the other planets will line-up in a linear configuration for a possibly strong gravitational pull on the Earth. After that cheery bit of news we dined on fish and chips, to drown our sorrows in grease.

  Next day I woke early and took breakfast while Kirk insisted on sleeping-in. I sent a continental breakfast to him. He later told me the breakfast consisted of two stale buns, sugary white tea and some jam and butter. We then decided to move back to the Y, until our flight out on Sunday.

  Over the next few days I took Kirk with me to various business appointments, but that was too tedious for him, so I parked him at the British Museum while I took care of business. I insisted tha
t we meet in front of the main entrance each day at five in the afternoon. He kept this appointment each day which pleased me.

  My interest was in ancient jewelry. I was able to view and purchase a selection of beautiful jewelry photos from ancient Sumer, Babylon, Egypt, and other areas of the Middle East. My business associates in Kabul will produce “knockoffs” from these photos.

  It was amazing how much interest there was in Islamic and tribal art. Museums and boutiques in London provided requests for entire exhibits, and filling these purchase orders was a challenge. Since the revolutions in Afghanistan and Iran, business had been great, and I was selling everything I had acquired.

  By the end of the week I had more purchase orders than I could fill. That made me a little anxious as I also had commitments in Frankfurt, Basel, and Zurich before flying to Kabul. After meeting Kirk at the Museum and shopping at a magic shop, Kirk’s passion, we took a bus to Chelsea for my last boutique appointment of the day and received a large order for jewelry and a gross of Afghan slipper socks.

  We followed the news about Three Mile Island. This time it was a nuclear disaster in our back yard, what next? I believe we did the right thing, to split the family, with Paul and Erik out west, and Kirk and me going halfway around the world.

  Most days in London were cloudy and drizzly. The morning of departure, we woke early and took the underground back to Heathrow Airport.

  We spent a couple of days in Frankfurt, Basel and Zurich. While I promoted some purchase orders from museums and boutiques, Kirk bought items for gifts, barter, and trade. These included cheap calculators, cigarettes, pens, flashlights, and other small items. My standard gift was blue-jeans. All these gifts were forwarded to Kabul airport and held for us.