COUNSELING

Jim, another volunteer, had asked if he could visit me one night. I didn't know JIm very well, and so I was curious why he wanted to see me. I had tea ready when he walked in (TEA WAS ALWAYS READY IN AFGHANISTAN!). We both sat down at the same time. Right away he got out why he was visiting, and said, "My wife won't sleep with me anymore, and I want to kill myself. I have a rope and I tried last night, but I couldn't do it." I said, "That's O.K. I will help you do it right tonight." I was only joking, of course, but this psychological ploy did not have too much of a cheering effect on Jim. He stared stoically down at his feet. After my wry joke which I had meant only to lighten things up, I told Jim I was sorry to hear this news. He left, and he probably thought I was a strange bird. We didn't talk after this, and he never committed suicide as far as I know. A few marriages occurred during my stay in Kabul, but most of us were single, widowed, or divorced.

DRIED MULBERRIES

I loved to eat the dried mulberries that I bought at a store that sold health foods. An American woman owned the store. I visited her store at least one time each week, and would leave with my delicious dried mulberries; or for a real splurge I would buy pistachios and cashews.
My other favorite staple was tangerines. Kabul always had tangerines. I'd buy a couple of kilos every visit I made to the outdoor food stands. I would take them home and soak them in water with a couple of iodine pills.

GIL AND JAMES JOYCE

One afternoon after my university classes had finished, I drank tea with a volunteer named Gil. He didn't socialize much and I believe it was the only time I spoke with him about anything. But one time was plenty, and I mean this in a positive sense. Gil was a very interesting person. I found out that he was planning to leave the Peace Corps and head for Turkey. He explained the route he would take, mentioning a train up inside Russia. I found this amazing. Just leave...not say a word to anyone! Gil was "translating" Ulysses by James Joyce. But the translating was more like interpreting what the heck this novel is about. I still haven't finished it. I finished Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man in a few weeks. Good luck Gil, wherever you are.

ALCOHOL

You could buy alcohol in most dokans (small Afghan stores). We learned that certain mullahs allowed this to occur. The prices were sky-high, but you could procure the booze if you wanted it.

Behind other store items would be the forbidden alcohol. A storekeeper would quickly move a certain product that was in front of the forbidden alcohol.

I didn't drink much, and so I didn't have much need for this black market. However, Jon and I were able to buy a substantial quantity via either the French or English Embassy (I forget which one). We both ordered 12 bottles of Beaujolais wine, a bottle of Sherry, and a gallon of vodka. I ended up letting John drink most of my vodka.

BUTTERFINGERS

Jon, Michael and I went to the movies one everning. I forget what we saw. But before we all went I wanted to buy some goodies. I entered a small dokan and right at the entry was a white freezer, which I opened immediately. It was mostly white, frosted ice, but nestled beneath this ice and poking up its head was a yellow color...Eureka! It was a box of Butterfingers. It was a little difficult to extract the box. I couldn't believe my good fortune. I finally had the precious box in my hand and knew right away I should have not been so exuberant in my discovery, because I knew that the shopkeeper had watched all of my excitement and would now pick an exorbitant price. He did and I paid. The Butterfingers were still pretty good even though the expiration date was about two years old. I shared with Jon and Michael, and it was a merry and precious feast.

THE FIRST DAY OF WINTER

Another Bakery Anecdote. I had on my straw hat, my duck-down gloves, a coat over my beaver fur vest, and of course, my Italian hiking boots. I was riding my Chinese bicycle on my way home, and the rain was turning to sleet, and then came snowflakes, and it was getting colder by the minute, but I needed to buy my hot, delicious nan. I got off of my bike, but instead of standing at the bakery window to order, I walked bravely up the wooden steps to the door entrance of the oven-pit, to get warmer, and to get a closer look at the bakers. One Afghan gently grabbed my arm, grinning a devilish smile, and started pulling me inside. He pointed at the fiery pit and then at me. I was a bit scared, until he started laughing, and the other bakers started to laugh, and so I knew that I wouldn't be tossed into the fiery pit.

I got my nan, hopped back on my bicycle, and rode off to my house. My bike was slipping and sliding, and I was having problems navigating, and I looked forward to arriving at my house where I knew I would soon have a roaring fire going in my faithful little oven. My straw hat fell off, but I didn't care, and I didn't want to stop in this freezing weather to pick it up, and so I kept riding, knowing that tomorrow a goat or sheep would discover a tasty treat.
This was the first beautiful night of winter. In Kabul the weather turned off and and on like a light switch. I remember only one time that it rained, and as it rained, I thought, "It's spring today."

THE PIGEONS

I loved to watch the pigeons fly. A man kept dozens of pigeons on the roof of his building. He opened the door to their "pigeon house", and then...swoosh! They all took off and flew in formation all over the city. And as if by magic, they reappeared when their owner waved a towel (or blanket...maybe it was his turban!) in a circular motion. One big swirling mass returned to the cage. This occurred once per day about sunset. I guess this Afghan raised and sold pigeons. I wondered whether pigeons still delivered air mail messages. There was something poetic and beautiful about pigeons flying.

AT THE FUNERAL

One day Touryalai invited me to a funeral.

"Who died?", I asked.

"I don't know," Touryalai replied.

"Then how can we go to the funeral?", I asked.

"It's no problem. Come with me", he said.

And so he and I walked onto an open dirt field of gravesites. (Not far from this graveyard there was a private area used only by men when they had to go to the bathroom. I again told Touryalai about how gross it was that men just "pooped and peed" in the open. He agreed, and again told me that he wished this custom didn't exist, but it did. I could tell that he was tired of my complaints. I never mentioned the subject again.

"Look. There is the body." said Touryalai.

People were gathered around the body under a small roofed area. On a narrow wooden litter was the corpse of a male covered with a white sheet. When some men picked up the stretcher, Touryalai and I followed. They carefully stepped over a very short fence-like barrier, walked maybe 100 paces, and then stopped. They picked up the corpse and gently laid it inside of a shallow swath of the ground, just large enough to hold one body. Some large flat stones were placed on the corpse, and then a thin layer of soil was used to cover the stones.

I turned to Touryalai.

"That's it?"

He smiled and said, "Yes, that's it."

"What about dogs or other animals?” I asked.

Touryalai indicated that the body would be just fine.

How simple. How unceremonious. How frugal. And then, there was the American way of death.

DREAMS

One night, I dreamt that I flew (like Superman) all the way to Colorado from Kabul to visit my mother. When I came back to Colorado I told her. She said, "I know. I saw you!" Of course, I know that dreams last for a very short time, but I swear it took me a good twenty-four hours to get to Colorado from Afghanistan.

I've never had so many lucid and beautiful dreams as I did in Afghanistan. I would wake up at anytime and groggily step to my typewriter, just inches away, and start tapping down my dreams in the darkness and silence of my bedroom, not caring about spelling, just getting out the news of my strange dreams. Unfortunately, my dreams and other writings were destroyed when I lived in Juarez. Not on purpose. They were inside a metal chest, covered with plastic; but rain, beautiful rain, found its way into the chest, and macerated my thoughts and dreams. I recovered only one old notebook, containing notes from books I've read. The other notebooks contained only inky blurs.

SHOESTRING IN THE BREAD

One evening Jon and I ate dinner over at Michael's house. I remember that Michael was playing JETLINER and FLY LIKE AN EAGLE by the Steve Miller band..."Time keeps on slipping into the future." These songs seemed to be about our adventure in Afghanistan.

As Jon was applying some butter to his nan, he remarked how we would all be "lucky to get out of OUT OF AFHANISTAN alive"; and then just as he took the first bite of his bread, he said, "I'll be *###*! What in the hell is this?"

It turned out to be a shoestring embedded in his nan. Michael chuckled, but I laughed loudly. All Jon could say was, "What's next?" The extra ingredient was not a mistake. The nan bakery-stand probably wanted to play a joke on Jon, since they knew him as one of their steady khareji [foreigner] customers.

I always looked forward to the ritual of buying my nan each day. I spoiled myself, and I would wait a little longer for a hot slice fresh-out-of-the-ovenpit.
Nan is shaped like a snowshoe. It is made from flour and water (and sometimes some charcoal pieces that slip in from the ovenpit). I never had a shoestring in my nan.

AMERICAN BUTTER

When I got tired of my nan diet, I would go to the American Staff House where fortunate volunteers could visit, not just Embassy people, and I would have a big American breakfast. On the table, under a shining sterling-silver butter tray was THE AMERICAN BUTTER, and all of that butter was gone before I was gone. I would take my time, and sit back and enjoy my delicious breakfast, and sigh, so thankful that I could still eat American food. I imagine the waiter thought, "This American sure likes butter".

AT THE CARPENTER SHOP

One time I went to buy myself a cutting board. It wasn't easy like here in the U.S. where we just go to our local retail store. Instead, I needed to visit a carpenter. When I found one, I used my "survival Farsi" and told a bearded carpenter what I wanted. I used strange (but I hoped understandable) gesticulations to describe what I wanted. I believe that my gestures said more than my use of the local language. The bearded carpenter acknowledged that he understood my request, and proceeded to cut and sand a block of wood. He was finished after about 10 minutes, told me the cost, and then asked me if I believed in Allah. I pointed to the sun and muttered, "Zoroaster". I knew immediately I should have just said "Yes" and left. The bearded carpenter slapped me gently on my cheek, shook his head, and wagged his finger at me. I paid him for my breadboard and left. But his slap was as much a shock to me as the one that the bishop gave me at my Confirmation.

Another time I went to buy some toilet paper, but before I could buy the TP I had to answer a question: "Was I Russian?" I think I was just getting teased, but this shopkeeper had a serious demeanor when he asked his question, and so I took it seriously. I was able to buy the TP once the shopkeeper realized that I was not Russian. Touryalai told me "Russia steals our gas and food." Later, of course, they would to try to steal his entire country.

SEEING STARS

July 4, 1977. 

As usual, Betty, Michael, Jon and I are together, this time at a picnic on the U.S. Embassy. The U.S. Ambassador to Afghanistan and his wife are attending.

I remember our Peace Corps Director was out on the field playing cricket.

It was a warm but windy day.

I went to get some food, and then walked to a canvas-canopied seating area where people were sitting on metal folding chairs. 

I saw a vacant chair and sat down. (A person told me that the U.S. ambassador's wife had just left from this chair). 

 I planned to give her seat back when she returned.

I was getting ready to eat when a sudden gust of wind blew down the tent covering, and one of the large metal poles fell down on my head.

I remember seeing stars...yes, it's true, and not only in the cartoons...and then both eyelids began closing...and darkness came...and I said to myself, "No, I don't want to die now...or pass out!" And then my eyelids started opening, and the darkness disappeared, the stars faded, and it was light again.

The U.S. Embassy nurse sewed some stitches on the back of my head where the tall pole had struck, and advised me to take it easy.

Betty, who had worked as a nurse at one time herself, was upset that the embassy nurse hadn't kept me for observation for at least a little while.

Betty asked in her raspy voice, "Do you have a headache? Do you feel nauseous?" 

To both questions I answered no, but Betty said that I should notify the medical office as soon as I had any of these symptoms.

Had the pole fallen below my skull just an inch lower, it might have killed me.

BAZAARS

I was a foreigner in this strange land and I loved visiting the various bazaars in Kabul. My favorite ones were the tea and raisin bazaars. There were dozens of different kinds of teas and raisins to behold, and the colors of the raisins and teas were a tapestry of life itself. And the aromas! How sweet and exotic they were!

On one visit to the bazaars {I believe I had just left the bird bazaar} I was walking along a narrow path where some excavating was being done on the local "sewer" system. This sewer system was basically a very shallow and narrow underground network of channels constructed from bricks. It was a very primitive system. I would often complain to Touryalai about the bad sanitation conditions of his country, but I then realized after awhile that it did no good for me to complain, and I could see that it embarrassed him whenever I spoke about it, and so I didn't mention it again. Anyway, as I was walking I felt a hand hit the right backside of my waist. I had been keeping my eyeglass case in a back pocket. I quickly spun around and saw two Afghan men, and I angrily asked where my case was. They both shrugged, but then my case fell at the feet and under the peran of one of them, and they walked away. I had always kept my wallet in my breast pocket, or in the front pocket of my pants, but these Afghan men probably thought that it was my wallet that they had seen. This was the only time I had had any problem like this during my year in Kabul, where I bicycled, walked, and rode the buses everywhere.

Another time I had gone to the bazaar to buy my stove. Touryalai came with me. The stove bazaar was a busy and noisy place of ceaseless tapping. I finally decided on the stove I wanted, and I haggled over the price. (In Afghanistan, you must always haggle over the price of everything.) Then Touryalai spoke to the shopkeeper. Touryalai told me, "Let's go!", and we went to another shop. I told Touryalai, who was a little upset, that the shopkeeper was only "trying to get our goat." Touryalai abruptly stopped and said, "But, Monty, we don't have a goat!" I explained to him that it was just an American expression. But he remained puzzled as we wandered off to the next shop. English could be a very strange language.

It was also during this shopping day that I realized I had to stop cursing in front of Touryalai, who repeated every word I said so that he could learn English. "Touryalai, I shouldn't say these words because they are bad, and you must not say them either." I tried my hardest not to swear any more.

I finally got my stove, and proudly installed it in my bedroom, which also served as my front room and dining room. My stove only weighed a few pounds, but it was very versatile. Besides keeping my house warm, it also had top "burners", and even an oven. I used to make pizza, spreading my vegetable ingredients, cheese, and sauce on top of some nan. It was scrumptious. I was happy, warm, and glad to be alive in what had become for me an exotic foreign country.

BETTY, MICHAEL AND JON

I saw Betty, Michael and Jon almost every day. We would play cards or just sit around and talk. All of us smoked except Michael. One time I was inside a small room with Betty and Jon. We were puffing away. At one point the room was so full of smoke that it was difficult to see or breathe. I told Jon and Betty that I had to go outside and get some fresh air. When I returned I could barely see Michael or Betty.

Betty talked with a raspy voice. She was a very sweet lady.

Michael was very business-like.

Jon was relaxed and self-effacing.