Afghanistan Memories
“Our bags are packed; the bus leaves at nine-thirty. Mohammed, our friend from the leather shop, will see us off. He also lends out foreign-language books, and we have spent many afternoons there, sipping tea and exchanging a sentence or two now and then. He is a wonderful, tranquil man. His wife once came with him to the Inter-Conti to hear me sing, and when I admired the huge amber ring on her finger, she slipped it off and gave it to me. I had to accept it—there was no refusing her. They are truly sweet people.
Now we are sitting on the balcony of a restaurant at Kabul’s bus center, drinking Fanta. The sun is blazing, and below us swarms the life of business and travel: Afghans in turbans, tiny shops, vegetable stalls, Afghan music drifting through the air. Artisans at work, loafers and hustlers passing by, the majestic mountains surrounding us. Mud, dust, a carpenter hammering away, the claxons of cars—it is a cacophony of sounds and smells, mixed with the shrieks of children. All of it so typically Eastern.
The bus is supposed to leave at nine-thirty, but it will undoubtedly be an hour or even an hour and a half later. One should never be in a hurry in the East. We take our time. We are waiting for Mohammed.
After a seven-hour bus ride through desert-like country—you grow tired, dusty, clammy, and sticky—we arrive at seven-thirty that evening in Kandahar, in the south. It is very hot there. Flies swarm everywhere, the wind blows steadily, and the moment you step outside a thin film of dust settles over you.”