The Afghan Queen: A True Story of an American Woman in Afghanistan by Paul Meinhardt

Author:Paul Meinhardt
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781938501227
Publisher: Turn the Page Publishing
Published: 2013-06-02T07:00:00+00:00

From left to right: golden serpentine, shah-mak-sud, Afhan amber, and black coral*

Later that day, I treated the old man to a delightful lunch at a nearby café that I let him pick. He said the one he chose was the best café in Kandahar. After a substantial lunch, the bill came to 75 afs, a little under $2 with tip. Like a typical American clod, I wanted to give more of a tip, but the old man would not allow it. He explained that it would embarrass him and the café staff.

He ordered the usual Afghan lunch of kabob, ahshok, pilaf and tea. The ahshok was unusual, sort of like an Afghan calzone with sesame, onions, leeks, ground lamb, peppers and whatever takes the cook’s fancy. These were pan fried in sesame oil and most delectable.

In his excellent English, he explained that his first work in Europe had been to support his sisters, brothers, and step mother. At age seventeen, he had worked in Paris as a café cleaner. It was located in an enclave of American and English writers and artists. There he learned English while learning French. He jotted down the words he heard during the day and studied his grammar at night.

The next morning I brought him, from the bus, the five books in Arabic that no one could read. It was early in the day and the bazaar was beginning to stir after morning prayers. The old man was copying passages from the Koran when I arrived. He said he did this to sharpen his mind for the day.

This was the only merchant who didn’t offer me hash to smoke as was the custom in most of Central Asia. Merchants treated hash as a social lubricant, much like alcohol in the West. Supposedly it takes the edge off hard bargaining and predisposes negotiators toward conciliation. For this reason, I drank their endless cups of chai and enmeshed myself with their families whenever the opportunity presented itself instead.

The last few days in Kandahar I was in high spirits due to the old merchant and the great purchases. I think the story of his life was as enriching as the items I bought from him.

Originally, I came to his leather stall because the Swedish clogs were hurting my feet. I traded the almost new clogs for a comfortable pair of leather sandals on display. Finding comfortable footwear was hard for me. The old man did not want my clogs.

There were many merchants that deal in old clothes, and most were pathetic lechers wanting more than a pair of clogs. The offers were unbelievable in Herät. I was glad to be out of that city. For five minutes of ‘laughing,’ as they put it, I could have a pair of the finest boots or anything else in the shop. The old man gave me the sandals as a gift, and that’s how we began our business friendship.

The further from Iran, the less I encountered these indignities. There were two

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