“This is my kind of place!” I took a good drag.
Tyler glowered with disapproval and limited himself to a single “no thank you” toke. So, I went easy, too. Elaine, as usual, was ticked.
Kabul
We flew to Kabul on a small Soviet built passenger jet. The interior was drab and noisy.
“This airplane is a perfect representation of the Communist ideal,” Tyler said, “gray and soulless.”
What kind of soul is an airplane supposed to have, anyway? Elaine, as usual, was ticked.
Kabul was a real step back in time, scary too. Men in flowing robes and wrap-around headgear who looked like they’d just as soon stick a knife into you as say hello. We visited the museum and a couple mosques. Tyler photographed some elderly beggars in a cemetery, paying them a modeling fee.
At an outdoor food market, two girls in head-to-toe Burkas approached. These things are really awful, much worse than the chadors in Iran. They hang over a woman’s body like a toaster cover. One of the girls flung out her hip and bumped into Tyler. I heard giggles under the Burkas. Elaine, as usual ...
Street vendors on platforms roasted kabobs. Delicious.
Bamian
Tyler wanted to visit a place in the mountains called Bamian where there were giant Buddha statues. Sure, I said. We’d given up asking Elaine’s opinion as she seemed to be angry about everything.
The whole area was major league spooky.
The Buddha statues were impressive, though, great towering things carved out of mountains. Tyler trusted me with his precious camera to photograph him standing by a pair of massive stone feet. As I focused the lens, a mysterious dark passage opened up behind him in the mountainside.
“Makes you feel insignificant, doesn’t it?” I said.
“Why?” Tyler asked. “However vast the universe, there is nothing in it like me.”
He’d taken his Napoleon pose, one hand on his hip.
“You’re right,” I said. “Oh graven image, I piss on your stone toes!”
I didn’t, of course, but it sounded dramatic.
A game of Bushkashi was going on at a nearby field. Horsemen thundering around fighting over a goat carcass. Why would anybody want a goat carcass? Crowds of men in robes and turbans watched.
Some military big shot was in the crowd along with many common soldiers. He had on a fancy outfit, but the lower ranks wore old-fashioned gray uniforms like costumes from Dr. Zhivago. Reminded me of the North Korean border guards.
There were no buses available for the trip back to Kabul, so we caught a ride on one of the fantastic Afghan trucks with a towering wooden structure tacked on. Bulging sacks filled the back, and paintings decorated the sides. We piled in with the driver. Afghan music blasted on the cassette player. I don’t need to describe Elaine’s attitude.
The Car Ride from Hell
A surprise in Kabul. No flights to Herat for another week! The only buses headed that direction were milk runs that may or may not even get there.
We were in a tight bind. Tyler and I had already pushed our luck to the limit. If we weren’t back to work by Monday, we’d likely be fired. Elaine didn’t need to worry. She had connections, if you know what I mean.
“I’ll handle everything,” Tyler said.
Like an idiot I let him. He arranged for an Afghan guy to drive us the more than 400 miles to Herat in his private car. The vehicle was a boxy, Russian-made thing, not very comfortable. We got going late afternoon.
“How much is this costing us?” I asked as we moved onto the open road outside Kabul.
When Tyler told me, I practically hit the car roof.
“Why so expensive?” I said.
Tyler shrugged. “It’s going to be dark soon, and people don’t like to be out on the road.”
I looked out at the smooth blacktop. “The road’s paved all the way, right?”
“It’s not that,” Tyler said. “They’re concerned about bandits.”
“Bandits!” I said.
“We’ll be okay,” Tyler said. “The army has checkpoints along the way. It should be interesting.”
Interesting! I looked to Elaine, but for once she wasn’t ticked. She seemed exited, like she was about to have a climax. Was I the only one who hadn’t gone nuts?
Just before dark we stopped at a tea house. Inside was gloomy and ominous. Afghan men clustered around a big stove with a ring of teapots on top. People stared at us, a young boy took an interest in me and kept me under constant surveillance.
Soon it became dark and the ride turned into a long nightmare. Twisted around in the back seat behind the driver, I’d nod off until we’d stop at an army checkpoint. I’d come half awake to see the crude faces of soldiers leering through the window at me.
I’d jerk fully awake then, convinced that we were being attacked by bandits. Tyler thought this was funny until he switched seats with me. At the next checkpoint, he was doing the panic wake-up routine.
The left rear tire blew out, stranding us in the chill night. I felt very uneasy standing on the roadside, looking over the moonscape while the driver changed tires. Did the soldiers patrol this road, or did they just stay in their checkpoints? How reliable were they, anyway – would they help you or just rob you and put a bullet through your head?
We were sitting ducks. Elaine was no longer excited, but Tyler seemed to enjoy the situation. He kept looking out in the moonlight toward the hills.
We got moving again. Everything was fine for about an hour. Then, the right front wheel broke off its tie rod, and the car went into a terrifying skid. The driver flung himself onto the steering wheel, yelling nonstop. I heard “Allah!” shouted several times.
Allah must have heard him because we stopped just before we would have tumbled down the slope alongside the road. We crawled out of the car. My legs felt so weak that I could barely stand.
“This isn’t fun anymore,” Elaine said, her voice shaking.
She got that right. A long set of skid marks gleamed in the moonlight. Tyler took me aside.
“Let’s head out, Bob,” he said.
“Where?”
He pointed to the hills. “There!”
Tyler had a mad gleam in his eye. I could see it clearly, even in the low light.
“You’re crazy, man!” I said. “You don’t know what’s out there – bandits, killers, anything!”
He looked at me hard. “You think we’re ever going to fix that stupid wheel?”
“We can try,” I said.
Tyler frightened me. He scarcely looked like himself. I could have almost sworn that it was actually Jon Glass standing in the road. I stepped back.
“What about Elaine?” I said.
“What about her?” Tyler said. “Let’s go!”
He brushed past Elaine, practically knocking her over, and yanked his knapsack out of the car. Then he started walking fast toward the hills. I couldn’t allow that.
I tackled him, and he fell sprawling onto the dirt. I tried to pin him down, but he wriggled free and got his arms around my neck. Next thing I knew, the life was getting choked out of me. I must have blacked out.
Then the pressure stopped and I was staring up into the dark sky. A fist trembled above me amid the stars and moonlight, waiting to find out if I was going keep fighting.
The fist lowered.
“Bob! Are you okay?” Tyler’s voice.
“Wonderful,” I said. “It only hurts when I breathe.”
Tyler stood up. I moved my arm as fast as possible, though it seemed to weigh a ton. I grabbed his ankle.
“You’re not going anywhere!” I said.
Here it comes, I thought, the knockout blow. I covered my face with my free arm.
“No, of course not,” Tyler said. “Let me help you up.”
He got me onto my wobbly legs and brought me back to the car. He tried to blow the whole thing off with a joke.
“You’re pretty good at that, Bob,” he said. “You should
have tried out for the football team.”
I didn’t feel like laughing. I didn’t think that I’d ever feel the same about Tyler again. I sat on the roadside with Elaine snuggled up against me in the cold.
Fortunately, the driver had a trunk full of tools and spare parts. Somehow he and Tyler rigged up a repair, and we limped the rest of the way into Herat.
Then on to Esfahan. It was a quiet trip back.
Eight: Into the Maelstrom
54: Kingdom of Delusions
It was neither German nor Jew who ruled the ghetto, it was illusion. – Night, by Elie Wiesel
My God, Tabas has been wiped out by an earthquake! The surrounding area has been devastated, tens of thousands killed. We were just there. I shot an entire roll of film in Tabas. Little kids followed me around, grinning and jostling each other as I photographed them.
I grasp the metal film cassette. Inside it are the faces of children who will never grow up. I hadn’t realized until now how fragile life is.
This horrible event plays into the hands of the revolutionaries. Superstitious types interpret it as a divine judgment against the Shah. Bumbling government relief attempts provide a lightning rod for criticism.
We get back from Afghanistan just in time to say good-bye to Stars. He’s had enough of martial law, he says, and has decided to pack it in. This must be the reason for his great calmness, he gets the hell out of stressful situations.
The Jolfa house is too expensive to keep without Stars, so I get a third-flour apartment on the east side of town. Bob wants to move in with one of his opium-smoking buddies, but I won’t hear of it. Violence nearly breaks out over the issue.
Just what I need, another fight with Bob! Besides, he’s a big guy, even if he has lost a lot of weight, and if he gets in the first blow, things could turn out quite differently from the last time.
So, I have a little chat with Mr. Opium Pipe in the school lavatory instead. I ram him into a corner and get a fist under his chin. He seems to weigh almost nothing under his baggy distinctive clothing. His skin is papery yellow, and his buggy eyes glare at me with hatred.
“Go screw up your own life,” I say, “just leave Bob out of it!”
A knee to the groin emphasizes my point. It must have worked, because Bob moves into my apartment without further dispute.
We don’t get fired for our unauthorized vacation. The school director covers for us. When I first learned that he was a retired Marine Corps colonel, I thought he’d be a real hard ass, but he’s always been square.
Also, I think he has an inkling of what’s in store for Iran and has decided that dismissing two qualified teachers would not be wise. To tell the truth, I am rather disappointed. At least getting fired would be a way out of this mad house.
There’s been martial law for some time now, but most foreigners refuse to acknowledge the gravity of the situation, preferring to be prisoners of self deception. The revolution threatens their economic well-being; therefore, it cannot exist. They are as foolishly optimistic as the people in Jaws, refusing to see the shark when it’s swimming right at them.
The worst of this flat earth crowd is Bob’s senior instructor, Pete. According to him, everything will soon be smoothed over. Wake up folks! The writing is blasted on the wall with machine gun bullets.
It’s all a variation on the “it can’t happen to me” theme. I am not subject to such foolish thinking, though, because of the horrible experience with Dad. I learned at an early age that the very worst disasters can strike anybody, any time.
“Don’t you see the irony, the IRAN-y?” I ask Bob. “Not long ago we were Peace Corps volunteers. All that idealism. We weren’t the ugly Americans, not us! Did you think at that time you’d end up here supporting a dictator?”
“President Pak is also a dictator,” Bob says.
“That was different.”
“Mmm.”
Bob seems to find the subject distasteful, but I press on.
“Did you ever think you’d be in a situation like this?”
“Never!” Bob says.
I let it go. I am being self-righteous and know it.
Rolf seems to be the only management person to share my opinion. Sure, he mouths the official optimistic line at work, but when I run into him at the Esfahan hotel bar, he takes a different tack.
“Soon there’ll be a new group in power,” he says in his precise, accented English.
“The religious faction?” I ask.
“Whomever.” Rolf slugs down half a Bud. “This beer is pretty good, even it if isn’t German.”
I raise my bottle. “Javid American brew!”
A beautiful Thai girl is working the bar, surrounded by love sick foreigners. Rolf turns serious.
“It won’t be long before people look back on the ‘good old days’ when the Shah was in power,” he says.
Opposition to the Shah is coming from many quarters: urban poor, disaffected college students, bazaar merchants being squeezed by modern banking and retail methods. And, of course, the religious fanatics. Supposedly, the Communists are the background string pullers. I see it differently.
The big question to me is: Who’s got the dynamic leader – the Hitler / Mao / Lenin type character?
The religious faction does. Ayatollah Khomeini is the Shah’s real enemy, not some gray, faceless Commie boss. If the Shah sees the Communists as the main problem, he’s just another prisoner of self deception.
So, why am I sticking around? That is the question hovering around in my cigarette smoke.
Sure, the money is good, especially after our latest ‘combat pay’ increase, and I hate the idea of returning home to the grind of crappy jobs. These are the obvious reasons, but I know they are not enough by themselves.
I haven’t heard from Jon since we got back. He is angry, I sense, because he’d not been asked to lead the Afghanistan trip. Well, that is just too bad! Maybe I’ll hear from him again, maybe not. I can wait him out.
55: Adios to Bob West
Any fool can tell a crisis when it arrives. The real service to the state is to detect it in embryo. – Foundation, Isaac Asimov
From the DAS ROAD diary, by Bob West
Thank God I’m leaving this terrible place! My teaching job in Bangkok has finally come through. I feel like “The New Socialist Man,” as Tyler would put it.
Bless you, Paul, for helping me! You’ve saved my life.
The salary is much less than we make here, but you don’t get burned out of your home in Bangkok or blown up on your way to work. Such things have been happening to more and more Americans in Esfahan. In the middle of the night, somebody throws a rock through your window, then a Molotov cocktail. Your house becomes an inferno, and you’re lucky to get out alive.
There are increasing numbers of burglaries, and many more American owned cars are getting firebombed. A mob attacked the Youth Hostel, driving out the Americans who were living there. The La Fontaine restaurant and the Old American Club are among the latest foreigner hangouts to get torched.
This curfew is driving me nuts. Tyler says he got used to curfews in Korea. Well, my town was located in North Chung Chong province (Chung Chong Buk Do) in the center of Korea, and we had no curfew. The government must have thought the threat of North Korean infiltrators was too remote there. We used to make fun of the other PCVs with a Frère Jacques type song:
Chung Chong Buk Do! Chung Chong Buk Do!
Where are you? Where are you?
Right here in the middle. Right here in the middle.
No curfew! No curfew!
I’m not laughing anymore.
Last night, somebody stuck a friendly note on our apartment door:
GO HOME IMPERIALIST. VIVA ISLAM!
Okay, I get the message. I’m amazed that none of us have been killed yet. Well, Robert Lincoln West ain’t gonna be here waiting for his number to come up! Many consider Stars to be an alarmist for jumping ship. I think he was smart. T
ime for me to get smart.
A terrorist threw a pipe bomb onto one of our employee buses, badly injuring some of the passengers. Since then, the Iranian army has provided guards. Last week, the guard on our bus nodded out. He just placed his hands on top the muzzle of his rifle, rested his head on them and dropped off to sleep.
“Let’s pull the trigger,” somebody joked.
For a crazy second, I actually wanted to do it. Blow the guy’s brains all over the place just for the hell of it. Then I snapped back to my senses. I’ve got to get out of here, I thought, I’m losing my mind! The wonderful news from Bangkok arrived that same day.
My new job doesn’t start until January, but I’m out of here now.
Okay, I know I look like crap, but at least I’ve lost a lot of weight. If I wasn’t all worn out and gray looking I’d be happy. Well, once I get to that sunshine in Thailand, I’ll be okay. First stop, the Phuket beaches! After I pick up a girl in Bangkok, of course.
One thing is for sure, I’ll avoid anyone who’s into drugs. I’ve had enough of that trip.
Tyler shoved a big wad of cash on me yesterday.
“What’s this for?” I said.
“Settling in money,” he said. “You paid my way to Thailand once, now I’m paying yours.”
I tried to protest, but Tyler cut me off.
“Not a topic for discussion,” he said.
I wish Tyler would come with me, but he’s going to do whatever he wants. One thing I’ve always admired about him is that, even when he does something stupid, he never complains about it afterwards or blames somebody else.
I think he still feels guilty about our fight in Afghanistan. Forget it, pal! Why feel guilty when I was the one who started it? He’s such a gentleman.
Not so Jon Glass. He’s the coldest, scariest person I have ever met. Why Tyler hangs out with him, I’ll never know.
Yes, I do know, even if I hate to admit it. They both have the same mad glow, and that’s what draws them together. Jon has an icy bonfire raging inside, and Tyler just a little flame most of the time, but it can flare up and burn everything – like it almost did in Afghanistan.
Well, I can’t do anything about it, so I’ll just move on and save my own butt. I’ll keep the door open if Tyler changes his mind.
Last Night in Esfahan