by R G Ainslee
"The border station should be close by. See if Abdullah can arrange for the proper stamps. He seems to be an influential man. We can trade the weapons for whatever we need."
Jack considered my suggestion. "Might work, I'll approach him when we get back to the house. It could backfire, you know, he might turn us in."
"Do we have any other choice?"
"No. What do you plan to do about the tape and logs? How are you going to conceal them?"
"Only the first few feet of tape are recorded, and I know what's on the logs. I could save a length and burn the rest. Even if we lose the whole thing, I still know what's on it. It wouldn't be a total loss."
"Let's do it. Don't see any alternative."
* * *
"Ask him, how far is it to the main road?"
Abdullah Faraz agreed to arrange for the passport stamps. He even understood the reason why. He dispatched his oldest son, by horseback, to the border post. The weapons covered the cost, baksheesh, and all. I hated to part with Lisette's little PPK.
"He says the road is an hour or two away on foot." He spoke to Abdullah again. "The bus comes by sometime in the morning. He's not sure of the time, he doesn't have a watch."
"Will we have our passports back by then?"
"Don't know, if not we'll just have to wait another day."
"What about the An-2? It sticks out like a sore thumb and is sure to be spotted sooner or later."
Jack spoke to Abdullah, motioning towards the airplane. "He says no soldiers ever come to the village and it’s rare for an aircraft to fly over. He’ll tell ‘em two Ferangi landed and walked away. In other words, he knows nothing."
"What's a Ferangi?
"Their term for a foreigner. It's used all over the Middle East and dates from the Crusades when the Franks invaded. You know, the French."
"That's a good one. I'll have to start calling Lisette a Ferangi … if I ever see her again."
"Think positive, we'll make it, guaranteed."
"Yeah, I'm positive all right." I didn't share his optimism. Now, we were on foot in one of the most isolated places on the planet, about to be unarmed and heading who knows where.
I stepped outside. No lights, the sky shone brilliant with a thousand stars. I wondered where Lisette was, what she was doing, and why I wasn't with her. I wandered down the road, alone in my thoughts, followed by a veil of despair, and unsure what tomorrow might bring.
Friday, 9 February: Road to Herat, Afghanistan
Ismail, Abdullah's son, motioned down the road. A speck on the horizon eventually grew to reveal an Afghan Army truck loaded with soldiers.
"Looks like they’re gonna stop," said Jack.
We moved around back and tried to blend in with the small group waiting for the bus. Unfortunately, we stood out like a camel in Times Square, too tall and obviously not locals.
The truck ground to a halt beside the chai-khana or teahouse that served as a bus stop. An older man, a non-commissioned officer, exited the cab and strode over to us while the soldiers scrambled for tea. Jack seized the initiative and spoke first. A brief conversation followed, the man stared blankly at Jack's passport and asked one more question. Jack answered. The sergeant broke out in to laughter and returned to the truck.
"What was that all about?"
"Just checking our papers, but he couldn't read. Tried to read the passport upside down."
"What was so funny?"
"He wanted to check our bags. I told him the Iranian border guards stole them. He thought it was hilarious and said the Iranians are a bunch of thieves."
"At least he didn't try to search us."
The package inside my shirt felt a little bit too obvious. We burned the tape reel, saving only the first twenty feet and the relevant pages of the logs. We stuffed the items into a small canvas envelope taken from the Soviet aircraft, now secured next to my body.
"Yeah, might have cost us some baksheesh. Not sure what the going rate is around here."
A half hour later, the soldiers completed their break and left laughing, our story a source of amusement. The waiting locals relaxed a bit, they seemed uncomfortable with the soldier's presence.
"Meester — meester." Several kids approached us and opened a cloth bag holding an assortment of butterfly knifes.
Jack inspected their wares, picked out a closed knife, and with a flicking motion let the blade fly open, ready for action. In an instant, with another flick, the knife closed, eliciting a complementary buzz from the onlookers.
"Where'd you learn those moves?"
"The Philippines. Have a personal collection of Ballisong knives at home. My pride and joy is handmade with inlayed stag horn handles. These are okay, probably locally made, but too crude for the serious collector." He bargained briefly with the boys and bought two knifes.
Several men waiting for the bus carried firearms: one ancient muzzleloader, a Martini-Henry lever action, and a few older Mauser bolt-action rifles. Everyone carried a knife.
At last, a rickety brightly painted bus adorned with colorful tassels pulled up and screeched to a halt. The bus driver and his assistant, like most Afghan men, wore primitive sandals made from car tires.
The bus, half filled with men, included a young girl and her mother, her face covered by a black woven veil. A pair of hippies, incongruously dressed in Peruvian ponchos and wool caps, sat on the back row.
A young student anxious to practice his English greeted us, "Hello — Good day — What time you have?"
I told him daytime and the boy beamed, proud of his command of the language. I chose a window seat, which gave a panoramic view of the Afghan countryside.
The parched barren plain stretched to the horizon where a distant mountain backdrop met the deep blue sky. The paved road ran between occasional small mud-brick villages protected by sunbaked walls, often pierced with rifle slots. Nomads' black tents punctuated the tan-brown desert sand. Sheep and goats wandered, searching the sparse vegetation for sustenance.
The only traffic consisted of a few colorful Afghan trucks with decorated cabs and body panels. The fancy ones featured colorful scenes and even more decorations. All crammed full of goods. Passengers rode on top with the cargo.
The bus stopped at a police checkpoint, the barrier consisted of a metal pipe on a pivot. A young man in an unkempt uniform, several sizes too large, boarded the bus and checked the passengers. He looked everyone in the eyes, didn't ask for papers, and gave us a particularly stern onceover. We sat, mute, paying him no attention. I learned a long time ago, the best way to deal with third world authorities was to play dumb, don't speak unless spoken to.
Satisfied we posed no danger to the Afghan nation; the officer diverted his attention to the hippies and swaggered to the back. After a few sharp words, the hippies shuffled the length of the bus and stepped out onto the pavement. One crawled up on top and tossed down a dirty tattered duffle bag. The officer and his assistant unpacked the bag, searching for who knows what. Finding nothing of interest, he signaled the driver to go. The assistant slung his weather-beaten bolt-action rifle over his shoulder and raised the barrier. The hippies scrambled to return the bag to the luggage rack. They returned down the aisle muttering German obscenities.
At the next checkpoint, a half hour later, a bored older soldier, waved the bus through, no questions asked. We continued ahead, about 100 yards, to a large adobe building where three men, dressed in dirty robes, and carrying flint-lock muskets, climbed aboard and took seats near the front. The driver's assistant approached and after an intense argument, the men stormed off and confronted the driver standing by the door. After picking up a large stone and threatening to bust out the windshield, they climbed aboard and reclaimed their seats. Jack told me they argued about the fare.
Several miles down the road, the older man leapt to his feet and yelled at the driver. The driver twisted and screamed, the assistant laughed. The bus rolled to a halt and the men stormed out, shouting, and gesturing at the drive
r. The driver pulled the door shut and left the men standing alone.
I looked at Jack, questioningly.
"They were traveling the wrong direction. They wanted to go back to the place where we boarded the bus. The old guy told the driver, 'I do not know these fields.' And they forgot to get their fare back."
After another checkpoint, we pulled off the road at a chai-khana in a desolate village. The driver's assistant told Jack, it was half way to Herat. Next to the village well, an older man skinned a goat.
We left the bus followed by a swarm of children. The two German hippies remained on the bus. Inside the mud-walled structure, grizzled old men sat on rugs in a smoke-filled room, drinking tea, and smoking hashish. We sat on wooden benches at a rough wooden table. A young boy served bowls of gritty rice with potatoes and onions. We shared a slab of nan, the traditional afghan bread made from coarse flour and baked in large flat rounds. We washed the meal down with chai.
Back on the road, the driver almost collided with a camel that wandered out onto the pavement. Soon afterward a car, an Iranian made Paykan, sped past towards Herat, an AK-47 protruded from a rear window.
26 ~ Herat
Friday, 9 February: Herat, Afghanistan
Herat sits at the crossroads of an ancient trade route to Iran. The medieval like city dominated by the old fort first built by Alexander the Great during his stay in Herat. Fragrance from cedar trees mixed with aromas of human activity as the rickety bus chugged along the dirt streets. Most of the locals exited the bus outside of town. Only two Afghan men, the woman, and her daughter, the two hippies, Jack and I, remained on the bus. I wondered why.
The bus ground to a halt near the city center. Three police officers rushed up to meet the bus. I began to understand why the others got off early. The woman and her daughter exited first, the police ignored them. The two elderly men next, the police ignored them. We sat waiting for the hippies, but they held their seats.
The ranking police officer, an older sergeant, entered the bus and barked out an order. Jack tugged at my sleeve and we rose from our seats and moved towards the front exit. The sergeant brushed past us and headed for the rear. He shouted at the Germans who remained seated. Outside, a tall thin officer motioned for us to stand by the bus.
We waited until the hippies and the sergeant exited the bus. He yelled at them and motioned for them to go. They gathered their gear and sauntered off down the street.
The sergeant directed his attention to us and asked for our passports in broken English. Jack answered in Farsi, eliciting a look of deep suspicion. He glanced at our passports and instructed Jack to follow him to the police station.
* * *
The police captain, a bearded man in a three-piece suit, painstakingly examined our passports. The sergeant who brought us to the station stood passively by the door. Fortunately, they hadn't seen fit to search us. Yet.
The slim package inside my shirt felt like a huge bulge, ready to give us away at any moment. Anxiety soon gave way to fear as the captain continued to page through our documents. His aloof businesslike demeanor bordered on antagonistic. I expected to be dragged-off at any moment, subjected to a strip search, and dumped into a dank dirty dungeon, never to see the light of day again.
The captain glanced up, but Jack first spoke in Farsi. The captain responded in halting English. "You no have exit stamps for Iran."
"The Iranians stole our bags and refused to stamp our passports," replied Jack.
The officer slapped the passports to the desk and spoke with an increasingly harsh tone. "Where you stay night?"
My knees turned to jelly. This is it. We've had it. I began to recite the Lord's Prayer under my breath. Devine intervention seemed our only hope. Our father in Heaven…
Jack glanced at me and told him the truth, "We stayed in a home near the border."
"What is name of man?"
…your will be done…
"Abdullah Faraz." The headman's name caught the captain's attention. The expression on the captain's face changed in an instant. He raised his hands and carried on excitedly in an animated fashion in Farsi.
…lead us not into temptation…
Jack's glanced over at me. "The captain is Abdullah Faraz's nephew. His deceased father was Abdullah's brother. We're in like Flint."
…but deliver us from evil. I exhaled a sigh of relief.
The captain yelled to someone outside the room and moments later a young man appeared with a tray of tea and local pastries. We spent the next half hour regaling the chief with stories of Abdullah's generous hospitality, omitting little details like our method of arrival and the surreptitiously obtained entry stamps. With any luck, we would be long gone before he learned the full story.
We rode in style in a police jeep, a Russian Gaz-69, to the best hippie hotel in town. At last, a lucky break. After a good night's rest, we would catch the morning bus for Kabul.
* * *
The hotel consisted of two main rooms: a lobby and a large open sleeping area covered with rugs, pillows, and rough cotton filled blankets. The hotel guests, a variety of western travelers both male and female. The two German hippies sat in a corner sharing a hookah with two young bearded men dressed in Indian style clothing, Nehru jackets, and all.
A young man sat on the floor with a map spread out before him. "You blokes just arrive?" His accent was obviously Australian.
"Yeah," I answered, "Where's a good place to eat around here?"
"Down the block and around the corner is a decent place by Herat standards. They should begin serving in about an hour. Why don't you blokes join us?" He pointed to two dour girls resting on a pile of pillows. "We're eating there tonight."
"Thanks, we'll do that. How long you been here?" I hoped he was traveling in our direction.
"Two days. We’ve seen all the sights here, leaving tomorrow. Did you come through Iran?"
"Yeah, sure did."
"Is it safe?" asked a cute brunette with short hair.
"I wouldn't want to go back. If you do, I recommend veering south, try to avoid Mashhad."
"We heard on the BBC this afternoon, fighting has broken out in Tehran," droned the other girl, a chubby blonde with long dirty hair.
"Don't doubt it. It's pretty wild over there."
"See I told you this was a bad idea," the blonde told the man.
The guy snarled, "Nadine, don't start that again." She responded with an obscene gesture.
The brunette sat up. "My names Jenny, what's yours?"
"I'm Ross and this is Jack."
"You blokes Americans?"
"Yeah, and you must be from the Land of Oz."
Her sour demeanor transformed. She reclined and patted a pillow, an invitation to join her. I glanced at Jack. He offered an amused expression. I sat down, keeping what I hoped was a proper distance, but she inched towards me.
"It's so cold here at night." Her voice dripped with temptation.
She really was cute, and I realized I needed to watch myself, didn't need any complications. "Yeah, I know, but it's a lot colder in Iran."
She gave me a sly smile. "Iran — what were you doing there?"
"Oh, we flew in for a little skiing."
She looked hesitant and said, "Skiing … in Iran … you're not serious?"
Jack, enjoying my predicament, laughed. She glared at him and he responded, "He's telling the truth, we were skiing. We didn't have anything better to do after his wife went home."
"Your wife, you're married." She eyed me intently, "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Like he said, we didn't have anything better to do."
* * *
The small restaurant catered to the western-traveler trade. Decorated with colorful wall hangings, Persian carpets, plush pillows, and small knee-high tables, the place evoked a magic carpet atmosphere. The diverse group of diners sat talking quietly, eating, and drinking tea. The room filled with smoke from tall glass hookahs with hashish glowing on top of the bo
wl. The intoxicating haze was strong and soon everyone, non-smokers included, had a buzz on.
After the meal, our party wandered back down the street towards the hotel. We passed a shop sporting a red sign with the Khalq party insignia. Mike, the Australian, commented, "All the shops are required to display one of those."
We lingered at the lone display window. The shop featured leather goods, clothes, and fake antique items. The owner, a middle-aged man dressed in a long shirt and wearing a triangular fur hat, rushed out to invite us in. "This is Aziz," said Mike, "He has the best deals in Herat. Make sure you bargain to get the best price."
The second-hand smoke left me in a good mood and I said, "Great, let's go in."
Jack shook his head and canted his head towards the hotel just down the street. "Not me, I'll just head on back."
Jenny hooked her arm inside mine and led me into the shop.
Almost an hour later, after spirited bargaining, I left the shop with an embroidered Afghan shirt covered by a sheepskin vest and sporting fur lined boots and a soft round-topped fur pakol cap. Contemplating my new persona in the mirror, I wasn't sure if I looked like an Afghan or hopelessly hippie. In any case, Jenny seemed impressed.
Outside the shop, I spotted a police jeep with two rifle-toting guards posted in front of the hotel. My sixth sense kicked in. I was about to ask Jenny to go on and see what was happening when two soldiers led Jack, his hands tied behind his back, out the front door and into the back of the jeep. A man followed. He looked Russian.
"Looks like trouble, I'll stay here. You go see what's up."
She gazed at me, worried and puzzled. I gave her a gentle shove. She advanced tentatively down the street to the hotel and entered just after the Gaz-69 drove off. Two soldiers remained behind.
I returned inside the shop and waited, pretending to shop. Mister Aziz offered a fake antique pistol for my perusal. I was examining the pistol when Jenny re-entered the shop.
"Who are you?" She didn't wait for me to answer. "The policeman claims your friend raped and killed a Russian woman in Iran. They are searching for you and another man. What's going on?"
