The Hindu Kush
By Susan Fox
The Russian-built Volga sedan carried seven passengers—the usual number—and as Jo crowded into the back seat with three Afghans, she was a little annoyed with herself, wishing she had not been so impatient, so eager to hire the first available taxi. After all, she knew better. It would have taken only a few extra minutes at the taxi bazaar to find a car that was less crowded, and pay for two fares instead of one—an easy guarantee of extra space. It was a trick every Peace Corps volunteer learned by the second day in Afghanistan.
Jo suppressed a small, resigned sigh. It was too late now. Several of the men wrapped bulky chapans around themselves—heavy wool coats lined with thick quilted cotton, possibly to make up for thin drawstring tombans, or the fact they routinely went without gloves in winter. The extra space would have been nice, she thought, as she flattened herself against the door. At best, it was a five-hour drive to Kabul.
The men accepted Jo without question, as if she were one of them, seemingly unconcerned that she was the only woman, and the only westerner in the car, neither awkward in her presence, nor pressing uncomfortably close.
Jo too, was at ease with her fellow passengers—as comfortable as she could be in a subcompact car. At least there was no one in the trunk for this trip, she told herself. No one had pushed his way through the crowded bazaar at the last minute to haggle with the driver for a reduced fare. Jo had seen it happen many times; passengers climbing into the shadowy recess, crouching down, their grins disappearing like that of a Cheshire cat as they grabbed hold of a little handle on the inside of the trunk lid and pulled it down. There were no extra passengers today, however. It was too cold in the high mountain passes and the trip too long.
Jo wore a skirt and sweater in deference to the dress code for a Muslim country, and stuffed a jacket into the small space by her feet.
Unencumbered by the folds of a heavy chapan, the driver wore a wool jacket and simple prayer cap. He slid behind the wheel with a self-assured movement and waited for his passengers to get settled. Talking incessantly, he turned around every few minutes to make sure he had Jo’s attention, and nodded enthusiastically. “Balê, balê,” he said. “Yes, yes, I will get you to Kabul “zud, zud.”
Still talking, he adjusted the rear view mirror, setting in motion the glass beads and a red tassel that hung down as decoration. Insha’Allah, if God willed it, they would have a safe trip. Turning around yet again, he grinned and raised his eyebrows at Jo. “Shomâ fahmided? Understand?”
The cocky, almost cavalier attitude of the driver made her smile in spite of herself. She nodded.
Satisfied, his grin expanded, and he turned back, put the car in gear and pulled out of the bazaar. With a quick movement, the Afghan passengers wiped their right hands over their faces and beards to disseminate Allah’s blessing. Yes, if it was Allah’s will, may they have a safe trip….
…to be continued in TWW Issue 2