Caravans (25 page)

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 ideas 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.

Three aspects of nomad life distressed me: the Kochis were dirty; they were unkempt; and they made no attempt to develop intellectual interests. The wild free life of the wanderer left much to be desired.

The baggy trousers and flapping white shirts of the Kochi men were rarely clean, while the felt
skirts of the women were apt to be streaked with dirt and tangled with briars, which they ignored. They washed infrequently, but I must admit that the extreme dryness of the air prevented offensive odors from accumulating. In my own case, with the humidity at two or three I could wear a shirt for more than a week because nothing could happen to it except a downright accident: there was no soot to soil the cloth and it was anatomically impossible for perspiration to collect. The minute it appeared it evaporated. I suspected that many Kochi garments were worn for months at a time without washing; only thus could they have become as dirty as they did.

The slovenliness of the Kochis was principally shown in the way they managed their hair. Women rarely combed theirs and men wore shoulder-length bobs which flapped with any vigorous movement. Their heads, men’s and women’s alike, were actually matted and probably worse. I often thought how much fun it would be to run the whole clan through a barber shop some afternoon to see what surprises would turn up.

As for the life of the mind, the speculation about good and evil, the judgment of past and future, there was none. Since they could neither read nor write, and since there was no radio, conversation was limited to the chance events of the caravan: the birth of sheep, the straying of a camel, the long march, outwitting the border guards and who stole what at the last bazaar. Days sped into months and months into years without any extension of the group intellect. It may be that the Kochis were supremely happy in their rough adaptation
to nature; I often found them boring, and I had the ungenerous suspicion that Ellen Jaspar found comfort in the caravan partly because against their illiteracy she could stand out as a person with desirable skills. In any event, I noticed how often she came to Stiglitz or me to escape the dullness of the Kochis and to talk philosophically with an educated person.

There were two exceptions to this tradition of dirtiness, slovenliness and apathy: Zulfiqar and his daughter Mira were alert mentally and far above average in cleanliness, largely due to Ellen, who cut Zulfiqar’s hair and tended his clothes. As to Mira, she kept herself well groomed partly because Ellen gave her instruction and partly because she mimicked whatever Ellen did in the way of cleanliness or personal adornment

She owned several changes of costume: red dress, blue dress, gray felt dress; blue, red, white, green blouses; filmy gray, brown and white turbans; and an extra pair of sandals that she wore only when heading for some village bazaar off the caravan trail. Best of all, she had acquired a stout comb with which she managed her black hair and a washrag which she applied to her clear and even skin. Her face was brown and she wore no makeup, but her eyes and brows were so black that in comparison her face looked more creamy white than brown.

On the trail I often walked with Mira, whose job it was to help mind the sheep, which represented a large proportion of the Kochi wealth, and to swing along beside her as she chattered in Pashto or broken English was delightful. I tried repeatedly to
fathom her narrow world and soon discovered that she knew nothing of history or other school subjects and had no desire to learn. But she did not share the apathy of the other Kochis, for she knew much about Central Asia and in all matters affecting the Kochis was an expert. Skilled in trading, witty in, negotiation, and a master in the care of animals, she confessed a major sorrow: her clan had but one horse, and it was assigned to Zulfiqar.

“A man like you should not walk with the rest of us,” she told me. “In your own country you would be a chief.” I asked her not to feel sorry for me and reminded her that I did have a jeep, which in some ways was better than a horse. She considered this for a moment, then concluded, “Where we go a horse is better.”

“Don’t worry. I like to walk.”

“A chief ought to have his own horse. Look at my father! Would he be so powerful without a horse?”

But if there were disappointments in nomad life there were also congenial surprises and none was more appealing than Maftoon, the cockeyed cameleer. We had marched five days toward Musa Darul when I happened to see a camel halted for no reason that I could ascertain. I therefore started across the meadowland to retrieve the beast when I saw, crouched down between her hind legs, Maftoon, with turban awry, mouth open, and on his face an expression of almost heavenly bliss. With his right hand on the camel’s teat, he was squirting a flow of milk directly from the udder into his mouth, drinking at the rate of about a quart a minute.

“What the hell are you doing, Maftoon?” I shouted.

“Hungry,” he said, halting the flow of milk and looking at me with his good eye.

“Get up! That milk’s for the babies.” He made no effort to leave his lunch, so I added, “And by the way, Maftoon, I’ve found out why Aunt Becky tries to bite you so much. You abuse her.”

The little man stayed crouched between the camel’s legs and looked at me with an expression of sorrow and disgust. “I abuse that beast?” he stammered.

“Yes!” I insisted. “I’ve listened to you the last three mornings. It’s a wonder she didn’t gum your arm again.”

“You listened …to what?”

“To Aunt Becky, complaining of the way you overload her, mistreat her. Damn it all, Maftoon, get away from that camel and listen to me.”

Reluctantly the little Kochi left his meal, stood up with his turban reaching his knees, and to my surprise laughed at me. “Tomorrow,” he said, “you’ll load Aunt Becky.” With that he left.

Next morning I was routed out of bed by the little cameleer and taken to where his beasts were being loaded. Aunt Becky, one of the largest animals we had, still rested on the thick callus built up on her chest, her pedestal it was called, and she was loath to leave it, but when she saw that I was to load her, and not her enemy Maftoon, she seemed as happy as a mournful, droopy-eyed, coat-shedding camel could; but as soon as I placed the first blanket on her—it must have weighed about three-quarters of a pound—she let out a sob
that would have broken the heart of Nero. It was almost human, a wail of protest against the harshness of the world. I slapped her muzzle, and placed on the blanket a few items that she could hardly have felt, and her groans increased to the point of despair. She really sounded like my own Aunt Becky back in Boston, complaining of the Irish politicians, the Italian grocers, the Jewish merchants, and the ingratitude of her family. “How can I possibly bear this awful burden?” Becky the camel sobbed. No matter what I put on her back, the groans increased, and when she was burdened much more lightly than she had been when running over the desert with my jeep, she struggled to her ungainly feet as if this were her last day on earth; for me she would make that extra little effort and then collapse in a heap before my eyes. I gave her a slap and felt more kindly toward Maftoon. At eleven that morning Aunt Becky was striding along the trail with as much joy as a camel ever exhibits and gave me a pleasant nuzzle as I went past.

The next morning Maftoon summoned me again, and this time as soon as I approached Aunt Becky she became apprehensive that I was about to torture her once more, so I placed on her broad, hairy back a handkerchief. It had barely touched her when she began to rage in protest: “Oh, this is more than a poor camel can bear!” she seemed to say. A stranger listening from a distance would have sworn that I was pushing hot swords into her great bulk, and this kept up all during the loading; so on the third morning I said to Maftoon, “Let’s see how much this ugly beast can carry.” And this day we loaded her down with well over eight hundred
pounds. Her protests were exactly the same; her reluctance to rise identical; and her loping, carefree performance on the trail no different from before. In fact, once we got her started, it was hard to stop her. She loved the heft of the burden and again nuzzled me as I went by. After this indoctrination I decided to leave the camels to Maftoon, and it was well that I did, for when it came time to unload Aunt Becky her dim brain remembered that today she had been mistreated, and she started mauling Maftoon. Lucidly he escaped, but soon I saw him naked before the camel while she attacked his clothes. When he was dressed he warned me, “Miller Sahib! You better undress!”

I laughed at the suggestion, but as I approached the huge camel she started for me. Maftoon interceded and, since he had made his peace, saved me. Prudently I undressed and stood by while Aunt Becky kicked the very devil out of my clothes. She bit them, spat on them, and even urinated a little. The next morning we were friends again.

Caravan life provided moments of pride and arrogance: as dawn was breaking we would reach some rise in the trail from which we could look down upon a sleeping village, where dogs would spot us and begin to bark. A few men would appear to see what had agitated the dogs and, seeing the Kochis coming to town, would signal their neighbors, whereupon the villagers would rush about in a frenzy, moving indoors anything that might be stolen. Women in their chaderies would dash out to grab their children lest they be kidnaped, and families would remain cautiously by
doorways as women stared through veils waiting for the approaching nomads. An excited hush would fall over the village, at whose outskirts the first Kochi camels were already sniffing.

At such entries Zulfiqar rode at the head of the column, a handsome figure with his rifle slung insolently across his pommel He affected not to see the frightened families and ignored the pestilent dogs. Behind him came the lumbering camels, with Aunt Becky thrusting her big, inquisitive face from side to side, followed by a large group of Kochi men; then the sheep and most of the women; finally the donkeys, the children, and the rear guard of armed men. It was an impressive caravan when seen in the close confines of a village street, but what outraged the villagers, men and women alike, was the brazen manner in which our nomad women marched handsomely forward with no chaderi.

When Zulfiqar’s clan moved through a village we had with us three additional elements for arousing suspicion and disgust: there was Ellen Jaspar, obviously not a Kochi; there was Dr. Stiglitz, and what was he doing in such a motley group; and there was the young American who marched with the beautiful nomad girl in the red dress.

Several times infuriated mountain mullahs dashed among us to spit at Ellen as they had done at Kandahar, but she had since learned to ward them off indulgently. She understood the moral and mental pressures these fanatics were experiencing in a changing world and she wished to do nothing that would exasperate them, but if Zulfiqar saw them coming, he patiently cut them off with his horse, whereupon the long-robed mullahs
would back against some mud-walled house and curse our passing.