spectr17
10-07-2001, 06:47 PM
Published: 1974 Author: Paul Theroux
Afghanistan is a nuisance. Formerly it was cheap and barbarous, and people went there to buy lumps of hashish - they would spend weeks in the filthy hotels of Herat and Kabul, staying high. Now Afghanistan is expensive and barbarous.
Even the hippies have begun to find it intolerable. The food smells of cholera, travel there is always uncomfortable and sometimes dangerous, and the Afghans are lazy, idle and violent. I had not been there long before I regretted it. I was determined to deal with Afghanistan swiftly, putting that discomfort in parentheses. But I do have some memories - including the bus with a hole in it.
Lopez sat beside me. He was 31. A tall hippie with pajamas and bangles who had spent long periods in ashrams; once, as long as sixth months. Five years he'd spent in Mexico, where he'd got his name. He said he liked me, "because freaks are so f****** boring and straights are sometimes a groove".
I dreaded the journey, not merely because we were travelling across a patch of stifling desert to the blighted town of Herat, but because I loathe buses. Most buses remind me of church summer-school outings to Nantasket Beach. This bus was on its last legs; it was filled with dust and gasoline fumes. We started out with 18 people and picked up seven more along the way: a blind child, a very old woman, a man with a rifle, a family of four and their five chickens. No one got off. The men's turbans were loosely tied; one man hung out the window, and as he gawked at the desert his turban began to unravel, making a long flapping rag which reached nearly to the back of the bus. It was only when another man called his attention to it that he gathered it in.
We passed more sand castles, and after a while the black tents of nomads. Lopez called them "Coochies" (perhaps Kutchis) and said he had seen them all over India and Pakistan as well. He said they were fierce and unfriendly, but that he had always wanted to join them. The large black tents, ominously pitched in the Afghan desert, reminded me of that speech in Tamburlaine where one of the characters describes how Tamburlaine always pitches black tents when he is about to go to war. The historical Tamerlane actually travelled this same desert and captured the town of Herat.
We stopped again and again. The little bus was hot and crowded; all the windows, except the broken side one where the man had almost lost his turban, were closed and sealed, and a woman near me, who looked very ill, began quietly to puke. The children were crying, and the blind boy, squatting on the floor near the driver, was singing - that high, tuneless Muslim whining. Two hours passed in this way. Lopez said: "You digging it?"
Suddenly - I cannot describe my surprise at the speed of this occurrence - there was the loudest bang I've ever heard; I could not imagine what caused it. The whole interior filled up with blue smoke reeking of cordite. There was a moment of shock and confusion, total deafness - the driver swerved, nearly overturning the bus, and brought us to a halt.
When the smoke cleared, we saw a hole in the green Formica ceiling; it was oval, about an inch and a half wide and edged with soot. Beneath this hole a trembling Afghan held a smoking shotgun. The gun belonged to another man who, wedged at the front of the bus, had no room for the gun. He had passed it to the man to hold, but had not warned him that it was loaded. The man might have pulled the trigger, or else the bumpy road might have set it off. There was a brief argument and then we went on our way.
"Didn't I tell you this was a goofy country?" said Lopez. "Ever see anything like that before?"
The frightening part came an hour later, when the man with the gun got out. There was a fierce argument between the driver and the man with the gun, and then the male passengers leapt out and they all stood in the desert beside the bus, shouting in the sunlight. It was complicated: the man who owned the gun hadn't been holding it when it went off; the man who was holding it hadn't known it was loaded. But there was a hole in the bus to pay for, and as everyone's belongings were tied to the top of the bus, the slugs had penetrated suitcases and bundles. The argument became a fight, and three men rolled in the sand, shouting and kicking, as the shotgun changed hands.
Lopez said: "It's getting hairy."
The owner of the shotgun held the muzzle and swung it at his attackers, who dodged it and got him to the ground. They punched him; he shrieked and tried to get free. The other passengers hooted at him and kicked him when he rolled near.
"I think we should get out," I said. I was for leaving the bus and hitching a ride. My fear was that someone would reload the shotgun and start shooting, and when that happened I wanted to be able to flatten myself against the ground.
"No, no, no," said Lopez. "You don't understand these goofs. They're not going to kill the guy. They just want to get some money out of him to fix the roof. He doesn't want to pay, see, because he wasn't holding the gun. But he'll pay - he's outnumbered."
"Meanwhile, we sit here . . ."
"Look, take it easy. In five minutes they'll all be back in here and we'll be going down the line. It'll be like nothing happened."
It took 10 minutes, but Lopez was right: we were on our way. It was another hour to Herat. I spent it tremulously vowing that this would be my last bus ride.
It is hard to decide where Asia begins. The Russians say at the Urals, the Turks at Haydarpasa, but these are the kind of meaningless cultural perspectives of geography that produce such judgments as the one frequently heard in English pubs: "The wogs begin at Calais." Surprisingly, many faces one sees in eastern Turkey, in Iran and Afghanistan have a European cast, but they are darker and more deeply wrinkled. Perhaps Asia begins when the first dusky hand reaches out with obsequious arrogance for baksheesh. That's what I thought in Turkey. But now I knew. I had crossed the imaginary line between Europe and Asia. When that gun went off with such a crack, blasting a hole in the desert bus, Asia began.
Afghanistan is a nuisance. Formerly it was cheap and barbarous, and people went there to buy lumps of hashish - they would spend weeks in the filthy hotels of Herat and Kabul, staying high. Now Afghanistan is expensive and barbarous.
Even the hippies have begun to find it intolerable. The food smells of cholera, travel there is always uncomfortable and sometimes dangerous, and the Afghans are lazy, idle and violent. I had not been there long before I regretted it. I was determined to deal with Afghanistan swiftly, putting that discomfort in parentheses. But I do have some memories - including the bus with a hole in it.
Lopez sat beside me. He was 31. A tall hippie with pajamas and bangles who had spent long periods in ashrams; once, as long as sixth months. Five years he'd spent in Mexico, where he'd got his name. He said he liked me, "because freaks are so f****** boring and straights are sometimes a groove".
I dreaded the journey, not merely because we were travelling across a patch of stifling desert to the blighted town of Herat, but because I loathe buses. Most buses remind me of church summer-school outings to Nantasket Beach. This bus was on its last legs; it was filled with dust and gasoline fumes. We started out with 18 people and picked up seven more along the way: a blind child, a very old woman, a man with a rifle, a family of four and their five chickens. No one got off. The men's turbans were loosely tied; one man hung out the window, and as he gawked at the desert his turban began to unravel, making a long flapping rag which reached nearly to the back of the bus. It was only when another man called his attention to it that he gathered it in.
We passed more sand castles, and after a while the black tents of nomads. Lopez called them "Coochies" (perhaps Kutchis) and said he had seen them all over India and Pakistan as well. He said they were fierce and unfriendly, but that he had always wanted to join them. The large black tents, ominously pitched in the Afghan desert, reminded me of that speech in Tamburlaine where one of the characters describes how Tamburlaine always pitches black tents when he is about to go to war. The historical Tamerlane actually travelled this same desert and captured the town of Herat.
We stopped again and again. The little bus was hot and crowded; all the windows, except the broken side one where the man had almost lost his turban, were closed and sealed, and a woman near me, who looked very ill, began quietly to puke. The children were crying, and the blind boy, squatting on the floor near the driver, was singing - that high, tuneless Muslim whining. Two hours passed in this way. Lopez said: "You digging it?"
Suddenly - I cannot describe my surprise at the speed of this occurrence - there was the loudest bang I've ever heard; I could not imagine what caused it. The whole interior filled up with blue smoke reeking of cordite. There was a moment of shock and confusion, total deafness - the driver swerved, nearly overturning the bus, and brought us to a halt.
When the smoke cleared, we saw a hole in the green Formica ceiling; it was oval, about an inch and a half wide and edged with soot. Beneath this hole a trembling Afghan held a smoking shotgun. The gun belonged to another man who, wedged at the front of the bus, had no room for the gun. He had passed it to the man to hold, but had not warned him that it was loaded. The man might have pulled the trigger, or else the bumpy road might have set it off. There was a brief argument and then we went on our way.
"Didn't I tell you this was a goofy country?" said Lopez. "Ever see anything like that before?"
The frightening part came an hour later, when the man with the gun got out. There was a fierce argument between the driver and the man with the gun, and then the male passengers leapt out and they all stood in the desert beside the bus, shouting in the sunlight. It was complicated: the man who owned the gun hadn't been holding it when it went off; the man who was holding it hadn't known it was loaded. But there was a hole in the bus to pay for, and as everyone's belongings were tied to the top of the bus, the slugs had penetrated suitcases and bundles. The argument became a fight, and three men rolled in the sand, shouting and kicking, as the shotgun changed hands.
Lopez said: "It's getting hairy."
The owner of the shotgun held the muzzle and swung it at his attackers, who dodged it and got him to the ground. They punched him; he shrieked and tried to get free. The other passengers hooted at him and kicked him when he rolled near.
"I think we should get out," I said. I was for leaving the bus and hitching a ride. My fear was that someone would reload the shotgun and start shooting, and when that happened I wanted to be able to flatten myself against the ground.
"No, no, no," said Lopez. "You don't understand these goofs. They're not going to kill the guy. They just want to get some money out of him to fix the roof. He doesn't want to pay, see, because he wasn't holding the gun. But he'll pay - he's outnumbered."
"Meanwhile, we sit here . . ."
"Look, take it easy. In five minutes they'll all be back in here and we'll be going down the line. It'll be like nothing happened."
It took 10 minutes, but Lopez was right: we were on our way. It was another hour to Herat. I spent it tremulously vowing that this would be my last bus ride.
It is hard to decide where Asia begins. The Russians say at the Urals, the Turks at Haydarpasa, but these are the kind of meaningless cultural perspectives of geography that produce such judgments as the one frequently heard in English pubs: "The wogs begin at Calais." Surprisingly, many faces one sees in eastern Turkey, in Iran and Afghanistan have a European cast, but they are darker and more deeply wrinkled. Perhaps Asia begins when the first dusky hand reaches out with obsequious arrogance for baksheesh. That's what I thought in Turkey. But now I knew. I had crossed the imaginary line between Europe and Asia. When that gun went off with such a crack, blasting a hole in the desert bus, Asia began.