“We eat!” Zulfiqar announced, and it was exciting to watch Ellen, relaxed and motherly, standing by the roasted sheep and passing out portions as if she had done so all her life. From time to time, with greasy hands, she brushed her blond hair back from her moist face, appearing as feminine as any woman I had ever seen, and I recalled her words from the destroyed letter: I am happy, healthy and alive. Clearly she was, and when it came time to serve me she smiled as she gave me a chunk of well-browned meat.
“Be sure to try the nan,” she advised, as I helped myself to pilau.
Mira led me to a rug where the leaders were sitting, and I found a place across from Dr. Stiglitz, beside whom Ellen would sit. Later, when I tasted the nan Ellen asked, “Delicious, eh?” I replied that it had a nut-like flavor and she explained in English that it had been baked directly over dried camel dung. “Can’t you taste it?” she pressed, and I could. In Pashto she said, “It is of the earth. It is of our life.”
Zulfiqar nodded and said, “The sheep you’re eating … we raised.”
Later I told Zulfiqar, “Ellen wrote the letter to her parents, but tore it up.” Ellen added, “Zulfiqar understands. I can’t explain Dorset to him, nor him to Dorset.”
The big Kochi chieftain said, “You write, Millair.”
“I will…tomorrow.”
My mention of this word evoked a sadness, and at our rug nothing was said; each looked at the other with a sense of strangeness. Mira broke the spell: “What will you tell her parents?”
“What should I tell them?” I asked the group, and to my surprise it was Racha who spoke.
“Tell them,” Zulfiqar’s wife said, “that now we head for the Oxus and in the winter back to the Jhelum. We live between the rivers.”
“But don’t call it the Oxus in your letter,” Ellen warned. “They’ll go crazy looking for it on their maps. Correct name’s the Amu Darya … about a thousand miles from the Jhelum … and we make the round trip each year.”
“Two thousand miles?”
“Each year.”
“You ride the camels?” I asked.
This occasioned great laughter and Ellen explained, “Only the babies ride camels. The rest of us … we walk.” She indicated Zulfiqar: “He has a horse, of course, but he must ride back and forth watching the animals.”
“Do you mind the walking?” I asked.
Ellen indicated her legs tucked beneath the black skirt. “They get very strong,” she assured me.
“How long has your clan been making this trip to the Jhelum?” I asked, and Ellen consulted Zulfiqar.
“There is no memory,” he replied.
“Where exactly is the Jhelum?” I asked.
“Far over the border in India,” was Zulfiqar’s answer, which caused me to burst into laughter.
The big Kochi looked at me quizzically and I explained, “At a meeting in the American embassy we were trying to guess where she might be.” I indicated Ellen, who said in English, “I’ll bet you were.” Quickly she translated the joke into Pashto, and the group laughed.
“And this important officer said”—I imitated Richardson’s pipe-puffing, self-assured style—” The chances of an American girl’s entering India without being noticed are just not measurable.’”
Zulfiqar chuckled. “The British! A million of us pass back and forth each year and no one knows where we go or how we feed ourselves.”
Ellen added, “We’re the wanderers who make fools of petty nations.”
“Where are you headed now?” I asked.
“Musa Darul, Daulat Deh … in twenty-five days, Kabul Bamian, Qabir …” Then he added a name that excited my imagination, for I had known it from boyhood days: Balkh, in ages past the greatest name in Central Asia.
“Balkh!” I said, and for a moment I daydreamed of how it would be to visit Balkh, but my fantasy was broken by Ellen, whose unpredictable behavior I was about to witness for the first time. Because our argument over the letter had become acrimonious, I expected her to be resentful, but to my surprise, and for reasons I could not decipher, she said quietly, “We go right to Kabul.” Zulfiqar nodded, and from something in the way he acted or from some nuance in Ellen’s speech, I received the impression that I might be welcomed on the march to Kabul. I leaned forward to broach the matter and Mira did the same, as if she were anticipating hopefully my reaction to one of the most tenuous invitations ever extended.
“You go right to Kabul?” I repeated. No one spoke.
Then Zulfiqar said quietly, “You’re young. They’ll send soldiers to fetch the broken jeep.”
I turned to consult Dr. Stiglitz, whom I had continued to rebuff, and he said in English, hoping to win back my approval, “He’s right, Herr Miller. You should see the mountain passes. I’ll stay with the jeep.”
Ellen contradicted: “You must come too, Doctor. We could use you in the caravan.”
Zulfiqar leaned back and surveyed the ceiling, then asked Racha, “Could we use such a doctor at Qabir?” Racha studied the German and nodded, whereupon Zulfiqar warned, “We won’t reach Qabir for many weeks. Will you join us?”
Dr. Stiglitz licked his lips and replied weakly, “Yes.”
At this, Zulfiqar ended consultation with the women. “You two,” he demanded of the ferangi, “how much money can you share with us?” I had two hundred dollars Afghan and Stiglitz much less, but he pointed out, “The Americans owe me money. When you pass Kandahar on the way back this autumn …” Zulfiqar reached out and gripped the doctor’s hand.
But before the agreement was sealed I felt, for some reason I could not have explained, that it was my duty to warn Stiglitz of the risk he was taking. I led him away from the table and said, “With me it’s simple. If Verbruggen gets mad, I’m sent home. I’ll gamble, because from something he said I think he’ll understand. But with you, Doctor, if you antagonize the Afghan government …”
“I’m a sick man, Herr Miller,” he said weakly. ‘’You know how sick I am. Unless I can find a rebirth …”
“You could be thrown out of the country,” I warned. “You know what that would mean.”
“Unless I can purify myself …”
“You’re placing a great burden on the Kochis,” I pointed out.
“Zulfiqar knows that,” he argued. “He will use me as I will use him.”
“I wonder what he meant, Could we use him at Qabir?”
“I don’t know,” the German replied. “But I must make this trip. It will be my salvation.” And we rejoined the others.
As we did so, Mira came to me and said, in the dying light of the fire, “The Kochis would like you to join us, Miller.” Then in English she added, “I like it too.”
“I’m going to,” I said.
We sat as a group by the embers and I repeated the story of the pillar, to which Ellen responded, “That’s no surprise. One more outrage in a long series.” Zulfiqar inspected the exposed skull and others satisfied themselves that bodies were immured in the pillar, but no one seemed perturbed.
At bedtime I had my first doubts: Suppose Nazrullah arrives with the rescue party? I’d have to go with them. Suppose the ambassador blows his stack when he gets back from Hong Kong? This could finish me with the State Department. Suppose Shah Khan makes an official protest? I’d be packed out like the two Marines. Then I heard Zulfiqar’s powerful voice announcing, “We will move forward at four in the morning.” Somehow this set my mind at rest. Nazrullah was not going to intercept me, and once I started north with the Kochis, it didn’t matter what the ambassador and Shah Khan thought. They couldn’t do a damned thing about it till I reached Kabul.
I was awakened by the fearful clatter of Kochis preparing to launch their caravan for another day. Protesting camels were loaded with trade stuffs. Black tents were struck and folded. Animals in the courtyard were herded onto the trail, and children were assigned tasks to which they attended promptly to avoid stout blows from Zulfiqar. If I had ever thought of nomads as lazy, such ide
as were dispelled that morning.
As we were about to leave the serai I recalled how careful Nazrullah had been to post messages which would explain to others where he had been and what he had accomplished, and it occurred to me that I ought to extend him the same courtesy, so I scribbled a brief note stating simply that I had found his wife in good health and that I was hiking to Kabul with a caravan of Kochis. Would he advise our ambassador? “That’ll give the old man something to chew on when he gets back,” I chuckled, but when I told Zulfiqar what I was about to do he went suddenly pale—I mean he turned almost white—and ordered me to stay where I was while he went to consult the leaders. Sometime later he returned, badly shaken, and asked me to redraft the note omitting any reference to Kochis. I did so, and he asked Ellen to read it, but she could scarcely keep from laughing. She said cryptically, “It’s accomplished its purpose,” but he asked for further minor changes and at last I carried it with a bit of string to the jeep, where I tied it to the steering wheel.
In darkness we started our journey north, an ageless caravan heading across an ageless land. In the lead, with checkered vest and French overcoat, rode Zulfiqar on his brown horse, complete with dagger, German rifle and leather bandoleer. On the camels rode several infants and one sick woman in her late fifties. The rest walked, slowly, comfortably, tending the sheep or keeping the ninety-one camels in line. Donkeys burdened with panniers chugged along, and behind them marched Ellen Jaspar, wearing stout army-type shoes, and Mira, in sandals.
The busiest person in line was jagged-eyed Maf-toon, flapping back and forth along his string of camels, checking the ugly beasts to be sure their burdens were riding properly. I was to discover that during each day’s hike, some one of the camels was outraged at Maftoon and made his frenzied life miserable: the ugly beast would not rise, would not lie down, would stray from the caravan, would fight and gurgle and protest. It was amusing to watch Maftoon as he tried to keep his camels in line.
At dawn the sun made Ellen’s blond hair shine like gold, and she knew she was a beauty among the dark Kochis, for she carried herself with dignity. She had developed a healthy stride and her broad shoulders swung in the morning sunlight; but she was not alone in her beauty, for beside her with matching stride and jet-black hair hiked Mira, daughter of the chief and a notable person in her own right. She sensed instinctively when I watched her, and this pleased her, for occasionally I would catch her whispering to Ellen and pointing at me.
A day’s trip was about fourteen miles. Except in the desert, where all travel had to be at night, we walked from pre-dawn till about noon, stopping at predetermined spots to which the Kochis had been returning for years, and this pitching and striking of tents became the dominant beat of the day’s rhythm. I volunteered to help with the camels, for the preposterous brown beasts continued to fascinate me, and I often sat for hours watching them chew, with flopping jaws that seemed to lack all terminal attachments.
Once, when I was observing the frowsy old female who had attacked Maftoon, it occurred to me that the forlorn beast with the droopy eyes looked exactly like my Aunt Rebecca in Boston. I could hear her whining as I left for Afghanistan, “Mark, be careful. Find yourself a nice Jewish girl.” Like the camel, Aunt Rebecca uncovered an endless supply of things to complain about, her eyes were jaundiced, and she chewed sideways. If she had had a coat of hair, I’m sure it would have been as bedraggled as the camel’s. It was uncanny how much alike they were, and I was fond of them both. I started calling the camel “Aunt Becky,” and she responded in a way that infuriated Maftoon. She would nip at him, bump him, cry bitterly when he approached her, then turn to me and be as docile as an indulgent old woman. I made her my special charge and often hiked beside her during the long marches.
My legs grew strong. I acquired a good tan and my sleep was unbroken. My appetite was unbelievable and I had never felt better. I thought: No wonder Ellen joined the Kochis.
But any illusions I had about the nomads as noble savages were dispelled on the sixth day, when we reached the outskirts of the little bazaar town of Musa Darul, for as soon as we struck camp six Kochis and four camels, including Aunt Becky, headed for town and in due course returned with an unprecedented supply of melons, meats, shoes and other necessities. That day we had a choice lunch and all would have been well, except that in mid-afternoon Dr. Stiglitz approached me while I was talking with Mira, and pleaded in a begging manner: “I’m hungry for tobacco. This empty pipe drives me crazy. When you mail your report to Kabul, could you get me a little at the bazaar? I have no money.” I replied that after my nap I would see what could be done.
I mailed my report to the embassy, then wandered through the bazaar, seeking parcels of tobacco, and an old Afghan said, “I know I had some right here, but I must have misplaced it,” and I was about to leave empty-handed when I was overtaken by a thin, ingratiating Afghan who spoke a little English.
“Sahib, you got car?”
In Pashto I replied that I did not, whereupon the salesman assured me, “I have a bargain you can’t resist, Sahib. You owe it to yourself.”
“What is it?”
“Wait till you see,” he whispered, taking my arm and leading me to the stall of an accomplice. There amid karakul caps and fabrics from India, were six relatively new automobile tires. “Quite something, eh?” he asked admiringly.
I was startled by the tires. How could they have reached Musa Dural? Then off to one side I spotted a jeep carburetor, an oil filter, a jack, a complete set of tools and practically everything else that could be removed from a jeep frame. There was even a steering wheel, to which was attached my letter to Nazrullah.
“Where’d you get these?” I asked.
“Just came in this afternoon,” he said happily. “From Russia.”
“You’ve got a bargain here,” I assured him, as I ticked off some twenty separate items which I knew were going to be charged against my salary in Kabul. “But you may have to wait some time for a customer,” I warned him.
He laughed and said, “Five weeks, six weeks. If nobody wants them, we’ll ship it all to Kabul.” I winced as I thought of myself wandering through that bazaar, buying back these useful items.
“You send them to Kabul,” I said with resignation. “Somebody’ll be sure to need them.”
I stormed back to camp and the first person I met was Ellen Jaspar. “These damned crooks!” I bellowed. “They invited me on this trip solely to steal my jeep … piece by piece.”
Ellen tried to control her laughter but couldn’t. “What did you think they wanted, your charm?” she chided.
“Did you know what they were up to?” I asked in outrage.
“Didn’t you?” she countered. “Remember the panic you caused when you said you were tying the note to the steering wheel? Didn’t you see me laughing at Zulfiqar, who tricked you to stay inside? Miller, when you started for the jeep, the steering wheel was already packed … on Aunt Becky.”
I felt humiliated. “You mean they stole my jeep and hid it on my own camel?”
“Miller, you should have seen those Kochis unpacking the wheels off Aunt Becky and propping them back onto the jeep until you tied the letter to the wheel.”
“It’s going to cost me a month’s salary,” I said ruefully.
“That’s cheap, for a trip like this. And don’t protest to Zulfiqar. Strictly speaking, what he did was a breach of honor and he’s ashamed. No man should be robbed in a caravanserai.”
I was about to raise hell when Mira came in to hand me something. It was three packs of smoking tobacco. “I got them at the bazaar … for doctor.”
I looked at Ellen and asked, “How did she get them at the bazaar? She has no money.”
Ellen replied, “Mira is very quick.”
I was deflated by my discovery that the Kochis had invited me to Kabul merely to steal the wheels off my jeep, but I soon forgot my irritation. For one thing, after Musa Darul the terrain became more interesting, since we were
heading up the Helmand valley, which would ultimately deposit us near Kabul, a valley that few foreigners had seen. It lay west of the barren plains of Ghazni and east of the towering Koh-i-Baba mountains. No roads traversed it and for days we saw no villages and often only the barest of trails.
As we hiked, I grew to appreciate Nazrullah’s complaint about the goats of Asia, for weeks passed and we saw not a single tree in what seemed otherwise almost virgin territory. Once great forests had covered these hills; there were historical records of that fact; but slowly the goats and the greed of men had denuded even the remote plateaus, leaving only rocky bleakness. I often wondered how our sheep existed as they plodded from one barren pasture to the next, but like the hungry camels, they usually found something.
In our caravan there were about two hundred Kochis, and on the march we were strung out over several miles, with camels and sheep predominant, so it was Zulfiqar’s responsibility, as inheritor of this clan, to ride constantly back and forth, supervising our progress. He offered a striking appearance: tall and dark, with heavy mustaches, and a rifle to maintain his authority. On the trail he wore a white turban, but his conspicuous traits were his taciturnity and his smile. He smiled because he knew that keeping his people contented was half the battle; he kept his mouth shut to cultivate the legend that he knew more than his followers.
When the Kochis had served me roast sheep at the caravanserai, I did not appreciate how special the meal was, for the nomads ate poorly. At breakfast we had hot tea and a slab of nan, on which we hiked for twelve or fourteen miles, after which we had a meager helping of pilau lacking meat. In the evening we had curds and a little nan with some shreds of meat, if any was available. We lived close to the poverty level and seemed to thrive on it, but the children were perpetually hungry. I worried about this until Ellen pointed out, “They don’t have protruding bellies. They’re wonderful specimens,” and I had to agree that what Utile they got nourished them, but I also noticed they were starved for fat and would avidly lick up any scraps, even if they had fallen to the ground.