by R G Ainslee
Mike broke in, "We're headed back to Kabul. Sell the van and fly home, we've had enough. These buggers are whacko. A Russian's head stuck on a pole outside the airport. I thought—"
"How did you escape?" asked Jenny.
I ignored her and peered over at the blonde, who sat on a pillow with tears in her eyes.
Jenny said, "They tried to pull Nadine from the van. We just did get away."
The New Zealanders remained by the door. The short guy seemed even more worried.
Jack broke up the party. "Come on we need to talk." He motioned for me to follow.
I broke away from Jenny and followed him back into the sleeping room. "You got an idea?" I asked, expecting him to suggest we hitch a ride with Mike to Kabul.
"Not really. Riding with them will be dangerous — for them."
I let the thought sink in. "You're probably right, but on the other hand, we could offer some protection."
"Protection from what? We can't shoot it out with the army or police. Matter of fact, I'm not even sure we need to stay armed. If we ride with them, we'll dump the Tokarev."
I guess my astonished expression said it all.
Jack continued, "Thought you'd never hear me say that again. There's a time and place for everything. Remember what I told you: the inner layer of personal security is to mentally prepare for danger. We need to be alert and aware of the situation and—"
I wasn't ready for another lecture. "I don't think I can be any more alert and I'm sure as hell aware—"
"Okay, okay. Sometimes you have to innovate and go with the flow."
"Yeah right, go with the flow. Like I've said before, it always flows downhill … and guess who's standing at the bottom."
"So, you want to die in a shootout with the Afghan police or the Russians. Look — we've got our butts in a crack and it's gonna take all we can do to survive. You're the boss — you decide."
He was right, all I think of was, "BOHICA."
* * *
Later, that afternoon, two more parties, four Germans in a Mercedes diesel and an English group of ten riding in an old Bedford army truck arrived at the hotel. They were heading east, away from Herat. The consensus was to leave Kandahar as soon as possible. Rumors had the Kandahar garrison near revolt. If that happened, all hell will break loose.
Jack wandered back from speaking to the new arrivals. "Spoke with Jocko, the driver of the orange truck, he's agreed to let us ride with them to Kabul. Be better for us to travel with a larger group. One slight problem though, I don't have a passport, they swiped it back in Herat."
"If anyone asks, tell them it was stolen and you're on your way to the embassy in Kabul to get a replacement."
"Think that'll work?" He appeared skeptical.
"Travelled all over East Africa without one, don't worry, it can be done. What about the pistol, you still want to dump it?"
"The orange truck will give us a measure of protection. Jocko's experienced in dealing with the authorities, who are less inclined to mess with a larger group of foreigners. Think we'll just hold onto it for a while longer."
"Yeah, but if they search us, they'll find the tape and logs too. Shouldn't make much difference, were toast either way."
"No, if they find the tape, they probably won't know what it is. Most of these guys can't read. A Tokarev, on the other hand, needs no interpretation." Jack glanced over my shoulder. "Here comes your lady friend?" I think she assumes you'll be travelling with her."
I needed to deal with her before things got out of hand. Our situation was complicated enough.
Jenny sat on the pillow next to me. She asked a few more questions about our escape from Herat. I offered a sanitized version, leaving out the gory details.
I asked, "What about you, what happened on the road?"
"People were bloody crazy on the streets, the hotel owner told us to leave if we wanted to stay alive. He was afraid we might be mistaken for Russians." Her voice broke, "I don't understand what it's all about."
"Yeah, it’s a complex mess. Go on…"
"We loaded our kit and made our way out of the city through angry crowds. When we passed the airport…" She swallowed hard and took a deep breath. "It was terrible, and outside Kandahar a soldier grabbed Nadine when we stopped at a roadblock. She was almost out of the van when Mike drove off." She grasped my arm. "Are we safe now?"
"Think so. There's no sign of soldiers since we've been here. Long as we stay out of sight, it'll be okay." I hoped, offering false optimism. I was scared too but tried not to let it show.
"That's a relief." Her eyes brightened. "What are your plans?"
"Not sure. We'll stay here tonight and leave tomorrow if we can."
She raised her eyebrows in a questioning manner. "Oh…"
"With Jocko … the guy with the orange truck."
She looked away and gasped a shallow breath. Moments later, she asked, "Why are they after you?"
I shrugged, didn't answer, couldn’t tell her and she wouldn’t believe me if I told the truth anyway.
Her brow furrowed, and eyes narrowed. "Are you a spy?"
Gave her a blank look and ignored her question.
She started to speak, changed her mind, gave me one last pensive glance, and returned to her friends.
All of a sudden, I felt lonely, wondering where Lisette might be and what she was doing.
29 ~ Road to Kabul
Tuesday, 13 February: Road from Kandahar
Jocko left early, right after sun-up, anxious to depart Kandahar. Mike's crew, the Germans, and the two New Zealanders stayed, trusting for things to improve.
The orange Bedford truck chugged along at top speed, 60 kilometers an hour. The road to Kabul passed through empty uninhabited desert punctuated by the occasional mud-walled village. We sat in back, watching the beak landscape pass by.
Carlos, a young Spanish passenger, recounted the trip from Herat. "The soldiers want money, baksheesh, at every barricade … ten or more times."
"At least," agreed Mick, a tall sandy haired South African. "Jocko paid the road toll at the border, but the soldiers were unable to read the road pass and just asked for money, every time."
"Did you pay?" I asked, familiar with the practice from my time in Ethiopia. Illiterate underpaid soldiers and other officials often ask for money. That's just the way it is. My favorite tactic was to play dumb, pretend not to understand. The situation rarely escalated to the point where I had to fork over cash. After a while, I learned the warning signs. That's when you paid. So far, we had met only two roadblocks since leaving Kandahar. Jocko, the driver, experienced in the game, paid at the first one on the edge of town. It was easy to tell they were serious when the sergeant worked the bolt action on his ancient Enfield.
"Two times," said Carlos. The first time at the Herat airport—"
"The Russian's head on a pole left no doubt — we paid," interrupted Millie, a stout Australian farm girl from the outback. "Those buggers were serious."
Carlos agreed, "These people are only bandits in uniform."
Mick broke in, "The last checkpoint, on the bridge over the river was almost as dangerous. The soldiers seemed edgy. Someone evaded them earlier. The angry officer wanted to search the truck, but Jocko dissuaded him with a discrete baksheesh payment."
I glanced at Jack and caught his eye. He responded with a sly grin. The last roadblock had been more relaxed, almost normal. Perhaps our luck had changed.
* * *
Two hours past Kandahar, we stopped for tea in a village with a few trees and a dozen mud houses. Inside the chai shop, Afghan men sat cross-legged around a water pipe filled with hashish. An old man wailed a tune on a reed flute, accompanied by a young boy crouched in a corner thumping away on a crude drum. Jack and I decided to join the others outside to sip hot green tea and munch on tasteless Pakistani-made cookies.
The tea finished, I made a necessary trip out back. No facilities just find an isolated wall. On the way back, I spotted a sm
all convoy headed north from Kandahar. Several convoys passed us on the road during the morning, but no one took an unusual interest. Jack noticed too and joined me alongside the building.
"Another one," I said.
"Let's hang back in case they stop. Don't like to be caught out in the open." Sounded like his sixth sense was kicking in, Jack was good at situational awareness. Maybe he should write a book.
We retreated around the corner and a few seconds later, brakes screeched, and the small convoy led by a Gaz jeep came to a standstill opposite the shop.
"Go scope it out," said Jack. "Maybe you'll blend in with that outfit."
I peeked around the corner before stepping out. A man wearing a Russian uniform sat in the lead vehicle. Hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. My gut tightened. The tape package seemed to bulge all out of proportion. Adrenalin coursed through my veins as I waited for him to turn his face.
The officer spoke to the driver, who strode back to the first truck. His face remained obscured while he examined what appeared to be a map. A few seconds later, he swung his legs out and stood. I blew out a breath. It wasn't Suslov.
The man wasn't ethnic Russian. His face bore marked oriental features, undoubtedly from some Stan in central Asia. An Afghan officer emerged from the back seat, gestured towards the door, and spoke briefly. The Soviet officer nodded, and they strode into the shop. The music stopped.
I slipped back around the building and motioned to Jack. "Looks like it's just another convoy. But with a Soviet officer."
Jack peeked around the corner. "If a Russian's involved, I doubt it's just another convoy—"
"He's not Russian, looks Asian—"
"Same difference, I'm an equal opportunity hater."
"What now?"
Jocko called from the truck, "All right you lot — let's go."
"Looks like we go," said Jack. "You have any better ideas?"
"No … let's clear out before they decide to look around." We circled around the north side and strolled nonchalantly towards the orange truck. "The uniform had me worried for a minute. For a moment, thought Suslov had caught up with us."
"Yeah, let's hope he headed back to Herat. If not, we ain't out of the woods yet."
We climbed over the tailgate, Jocko started the truck, and we lumbered away from the shop. The officer strode out the door, shot a quick glance in our direction, and climbed into the Gaz. A few kilometers later, the convoy passed us on its way north. Jack gave me a discrete thumbs-up.
* * *
An hour later, we passed a nomad camp beside the road. Herds of camels, goats, sheep, and donkeys stood with backs to the frigid wind. Small children scampered between black woolen tents. Women tended cooking fires. Men crouched beside the road watching traffic flow by.
"Things here haven't changed for a hundred years," exclaimed Tony, an introspective Canadian from Vancouver, the first thing he had said since we joined the group. Carlos bobbed his head in agreement.
"Some people are able to live in the modern world without being part of it," offered Mick, the South African. "I see that back home."
Tony sniffed and intoned with scornful tone, "This isn't the modern world in any respect. It never arrived. These people are exploited by ignorance, riven by class divisions and economic inequalities. What they need is planned social progress to evolve into a higher phase with the elimination of all class differences…"
Mick rolled his eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh.
"…and economic justice for the masses."
"You may be right." Jack stared him down and spoke with a serious tone, "Their Russian comrades seem perfectly capable of giving it to them. They ought to ask them to come on in and run things for a while. A true vanguard of the proletariat crushing the oppressors, they can build a socialist paradise in no time at all. Peace, happiness, universal literacy, and free lunches for all."
Jack's sarcasm was lost on Tony. "Yes, the Soviet model may be the optimal solution. A vanguard of the people committed to progress without the ravages of capitalism." His voice trembled with emotion, "A Soviet led nucleus of students, workers, and intellectuals will bring a new era of peace and understanding. The people of Affhanistaan require—"
"Spare me this rubbish. Please change the subject," exclaimed Mick. "We've listened to this all the way from Istanbul." He paused, a pained expression on his face, and raised his hands in exasperation, "Rugby, let's talk rugby. Anybody—"
A chorus of jaded moans silenced him. I guessed it had been a long trip.
Tony went silent as he detected Jack and me trying to stifle dismissive grins. He was a prime example of the obnoxious traveler who tries to roll place names off their tongue with a local accent in a vain effort to give them the cachet of worldly sophistication. He turned red and glared the sneer of the all-knowing.
I agreed with Tony in one respect. In many ways, Afghanistan was like Ethiopia, a backwater almost untouched by the modern world. I wondered if living life on your own terms was such a bad thing. They seemed to have survived. What do I know? It's their lives. Let ’em live it as they please. Live and let live.
No such luck, sooner or later, some well-meaning do-gooder like Tony or the Russians will arrive on the scene and straighten things out for them. Why is it, these elitists are always able to ascribe evil to whatever they disagree with, and somehow find nobility in the most wicked characters in this stupid world? I'd bet my last dime the SOB had a frickin Che tee shirt somewhere in his dirty laundry.
Tony was just another self-obsessed, self-indulgent, self-important poseur with an inflated notion of his knowledge and abilities. Typical of the type convinced their views somehow grant them the right to tell the heathens of the world how to live their lives. Problem is they usually don’t have to face the consequences of their actions. Met a whole lotta people like him — unfortunately most of them work for the government.
For the rest of the morning the landscape was barren desert, scrub desert, and everything in between. Peaks on the distant horizon promised a respite. Ghazni the next city lay in the mountains before Kabul. Jocko planned to stop at the market for fresh food and continue to Kabul before sunset.
Tuesday, 13 February: Ghanzi
The bazaar, not unlike any other third world market, offered an assortment: traditional clothing, carpets, antique swords, knives, guns, woven baskets, and food. We were after food.
Julie, an Australian nurse, warned, "Better watch out, fresh fruits and vegetables most likely have been rinsed in some open ditch the locals use for drinking, washing, and about everything else. Just assume any local vegetable can give you dysentery."
"Yeah — tell me about it," responded Millie, a cute brunette from Sydney.
"Sounds like the voice of experience." I said.
She made a face. "Right'o."
Jack and I volunteered to go with the girls on a shopping trip through Ghazni's open bazaar. Today was their day to cook.
"So, what do you do," I asked, "if it's all suspect, how do you decide?"
"You buy whatever looks good and disinfect the hell out of it."
We paused at a stand to check out some melons. The owner ignored us while the girls inspected the produce. Afghans don't consider shopping the same way we do, almost a social occasion. With them, it's more businesslike, each purchase becomes a negotiation. Most shoppers were men. A few women wearing traditional burkas went with husbands.
"How much for three melons?" asked Julie. The merchant ignored her.
"Gheymatesh chand ast?" asked Jack in Farsi.
The man appeared to be taken aback and answered, holding up seven fingers. Jack told him no and held up three. We departed the covered stall with three melons, five Afghanis poorer.
"Where'd you learn to speak the language?" asked Millie.
"Just picked it up. Lucky he understood some Farsi. It's not the local lingo around here. Anyway, he still overcharged you."
Millie looped her arm around Jack's elbow
. "You're a handy man to have around."
Julie eyed me with an air of suspicion. "Do you speak the local lingo too?"
Raised my hands in surrender. "No, all I speak is English."
"Even that's debatable."
We passed stalls selling traditional Afghan sheepskin coats. Rancid smells from uncured skins filled the air. My vest too was acquiring a certain aroma. At least it was a bargain.
Millie halted at a stall selling dates and nuts. Under the next awning sat an old man with several birdcages and a stack of Coca-Cola bottles.
"Anyone for a Coke?" I offered.
Julie said, "Be sure and check the bottle top."
Upon close inspection, the liquid was too light. A trick often found in African and other Third World markets. Empty half a full Coke into an empty bottle and top it off with water.
"You're right again." The old man ignored my harsh glare and pulled another draw on his hookah.
A commotion broke out down the street. A man in a black robe and white turban yelled at two slight figures clad in burkas. He called to the merchants. They ignored him.
"He's a mullah," said Julie. "The women are alone without their husbands. They consider that a major sin."
The mullah spat at the women, picked up a stone, and chunked it in their direction. Luckily, he would never make it as a pitcher in the Afghan major league. The women scurried, trying to go around him. He responded, blocking the way.
"Looks like they need some help."
Jack grabbed my arm. "Don't even think about it. We don't need to attract attention, and if you wade in, we'll be in one of the biggest mess you've ever seen."
"Enough of this," said Julie. "We have what we need. Let's go back."
We walked back towards the truck in silence. Inside I burned with frustration, not able to intervene, we didn't dare. It was clear our manhood had taken a nosedive in Julie's estimation. Millie on the other hand seemed entranced by Jack's charms.
Deep in thought, I plowed into Jack when he unexpectedly halted at a corner. He pushed back with his left hand and we withdrew into the shadows of a merchant's stall. In a flash, the reason became obvious. Suslov, fifty yards away, was speaking to Jocko behind the truck.
