OUT OF AFGHANISTAN

After living in Kabul for almost a year, I began my vacation.

I could have stayed in Kabul for my month off from teaching at the university, but I wanted to leave a cold and snowy Kabul.

My decision to take this vacation was premised on my hope to travel to a warmer climate.

I had my eyes set upon Sri Lanka. I was confident I would get to the warm, ocean waters.

Fate had other plans for me.

I had not taken a shower for a couple of weeks because my wood-burning water heater's pipes were frozen.

In addition to the bitter cold, I was feeling quite ill. The U.S. Embassy nurse even took my blood and did some tests. It wasn't the feared Amoebaiasis that we were told about so often before landing in Afghanistan. The nurse couldn't tell me what was wrong.

When I finally got back to the United States I found out that I had Hepatitis.

I had been only one of a few volunteers who had been visiting a friend who had hepatitis. He was in "quarantine" at the large and luxurious home of the Peace Corps nurse. I guess my visits with him had infected me.

In any case, I was feeling quite lousy as I began my vacation.

The bus ride up the winding, dirt road through the Khyber Pass was very scary. I didn't know if the bus was traveling on the right side or left side. It didn't seem to matter. The air seemed to become a little warmer as we approached the border with Paskistan. And the ride didn't take that long. I remember I bummed a Bulgarian cigarette from a Pakistani soldier. It was the best tobacco I have ever tasted. Or maybe I was so near death on this particular bus ride that I relished the flavor even more.

The arrival in Peshawar was a very long bus stop. But it ended, and we were are on our way again. I started feeling more miserable.

I made it to Lahore, Pakistan. I found a pharmacy, which was really just a large wooden stall, and the turbaned "pharmacist" behind the counter had bleeding gums. This didn't fill me with too much confidence, but I still went ahead and asked for some Penicillin. I don't know if what I bought was Penicillin, but I put my trust in this sanguine seller of drugs.

Next, I somehow found an airport, but since it was Friday, the Moslem sabbath, it was closed, or almost closed, or I had arrived too early, and just a few airline employees were there, eating their breakfast, and so I'd have to wait to buy my ticket to Sri Lanka. Which never happened. My fever had already started, and I was getting much sicker. I decided to take a train. It was my biggest mistake.

At the train station in Lahore, I was getting my passport stamped. When I finished at the table that was checking passports, I turned to walk away, but fell over someone's metal luggage. I knew right away that I had injured my knee. It began throbbing, and another woe was added to my nausea and fever.

As I was hobbling to board the train, I met a couple from Australia. I told them what had just happened. The husband quickly snapped open a case that contained a trumpet, and he pulled out what he said were painkillers. Now I was combining painkillers with whatever the pharmacist had sold me. I became even sicker and more feverish on the train that night. I was out of Afghanistan, but would soon be lost in India.

BREAKFAST AND THE FLY

Before my fateful vacation into Pakistan and India, I had bought l and |/2 cords of wood for my stove and water heater to get me through the winter. I had always liked the smell of wood because my father had been a carpenter and was always sawing pine, maple, oak, or walnut around the house; or he would come home from a day's work covered with the sweet aroma of wood.

Making my fire every day was not work, but became a sweet ritual that I looked forward to. I remember one very cold day when Touryalai came over to visit. I got the fire lit and my little stove roaring, and suddenly this fly came flying out of the wall made from the straw-like material. I immediately ran to swat it, swearing every time I missed. Touryalai just laughed, and told me, "You worry too much about the fly." I guess he was right, and I forgot about the fly, until the one time I was invited to have breakfast with Touryalai and his family.

I was honored to be a guest. Of course, the girls and young women kept themselves at a distance, but not Touryalai and his brothers. I sat down on the floor facing a fire in the center of a room. The mother of Touryalai broke at least 2 dozen eggs into a huge frying pan that was sizzling with buttery Gee. I greatly appreciated the amount being prepared. Chickens and eggs were like gold in Kabul.

As I waited for breakfast, Touryalai's mother walked out to a small sheltered room. Inside was one light. I stared for a long time at the electrical wire from which a single light bulb dangled. I kept looking. Did I see what I really thought I saw? It looked like the wire was covered by a thick row of flies. This just couldn't be, I thought to myself. I got up and walked to this small room. The wire, indeed, was covered with flies. Were they sleeping? Were they hibernating? It was an unusual and unbelievable sight. I gained new respect for THE FLY. A few years earlier I had checked out the only two books at the University of Colorado on THE FLY. One book was called THE FLY. The other one was a technical book on the biology and physiology of THE FLY. I remembered one important fact, and that was that the majority of flies ate nectar; but the impulse of most humans is TO KILL THE FLY...the dirty fly...William Blake's fly!

BAMIAN

This was our first vacation. I don't know who decided to go to Bamian or why, but what a lovely province it turned out to be. Our bus ride didn't take that long. It was just an all-day drive. On our bumpy and dusty bus ride, an Afghan woman kept putting something up to her veiled face. I thought she might be drinking soup or something; but then she put the vase-like container outside the window and emptied it. She had been vomiting. Bus motion sickness. The local population was not accustomed to bus riding.

Jon brought along a case of wine. This wine was made in Afghanistan, and although I didn't know much about wine, I sure knew that I didn't like this wine.

At one stop for prayer, Jon and I got off to stretch. When we returned to the bus, we saw spittle on our water bottle. Someone had been offended by the alcohol.

When we arrived in Bamian I first noticed how quiet it was, and then how green and clean it looked. We "checked in" to our "hotel", which was a small, dome-shaped and straw-thatched hut. Jon and I bunked in one hut with two single beds. We wondered how many scorpions were here.

I woke up the first night and removed a burning cigarette from Jon's hand. He had fallen asleep. I knew that our hut would have been eaten by flames in a flash. I'm glad that I couldn't sleep that first night.

The next day we walked around. Then we rented horses. My horse was difficult to control. He walked over a large garden. I was afraid I would get shot or something, but nothing happened, and then I looked up and saw a little Persian girl, dressed in beautifully embroidered clothing, walking down a small hill and carrying a basket on her head while holding up a small sickle in her left hand. Her brightly-colored clothing highlighted the earth colors. I wrote my poem Bamian, Afghanistan based on this brief encounter.

Rain had washed out the roads! We were "stranded" in beautiful Bamian! We were out of money, out of alcohol, but not out of hope! We telegraphed Kabul to inform the Peace Corps office of our problem. Our message reached the Peace Corps office so that they would know we were safe and sound, although penniless.

Betty had befriended an embassy worker (or maybe he was a businessman) from Germany, and he agreed to loan us some money. When we finally left Bamian two days later, it was in a plane that could fly over the Himalayas. Afghanistan's mountain peaks were large and ominous. It was a scary take-off and a scary ride, but we finally reached Kabul airport.

Bamian, Afghanistan

Echoes of Tamerlane, Genghis Khan, and Alexander

Were found in turquoise, opal, and amethyst dreams

Young vagabonds slept on Persian rugs

Beneath heaven's pastures far below tall Buddhas on Bamian's plains.

While bright on Earth

Green grass grew under falling rain

Above the sky lit up dark echoed man's last refrain:

We hail the rains to bring us back to life

We hail the rains to remove this mortal rule of knife

But thunder shouted and sirens cried

People hurried

They fought and died.

Echoes of Tamerlane, Genghis Khan, and Alexander

Were found in turquoise, opal, and amethyst dreams

Young vagabonds slept on Persian rugs

Beneath heaven's pastures

Far below tall Buddhas on Bamian's plains.