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In this journal entry from , stow away with me on the bus from Mashhad, Iran , to Herat, the leading city in western Afghanistan. Saturday, July 29, Mashhad to Herat. My Spanish friend woke me at We caught a ride down to the station and, weakly, I searched for breakfast. Half a liter of milk and a small cake did quite nicely and we were on our way. Here was the beginning of a new world. Afghanis look Asian and Mongolian compared to Iranians and Afghanis and their twine-wrapped bundles of belongings filled the bus station. Our bus left at and was pretty full of Western travelers — the most we had seen since the Istanbul-Tehran bus. Gene and I were quiet and weak. I kind of sat there, hot wind blowing in my face with my hair whipping around, hoping the kilometers would tick by and knowing I was plunging farther and farther away from Europe. At we came to the desolate Iran-Afghanistan border. What a place! Just stuck in the middle of nowhere. We gave up our passports and walked into the building. An interesting museum with a message greeted us. In several glass cases were the stories and hiding places of many ill-fated drug smugglers. It made for interesting reading — who smuggled what in where and was sent to prison. That would be no fun at all. We just stood around. The wind and heat were fierce. We found shade in one of the wrecked VW vans and peeled a small apple. Then a bus came and we piled in. And here I sit. The time is good for nothing but catching up in the journal, which I finally did, and thinking. As I brush big ants off me and shield my eyes from sand and blowing things, I wonder about all the fun things I could be doing. I think of friends back home, of my parents at leisure in their yacht up in cool, green, refreshing British Columbia , and the fun I could be having in Europe. The funny little bank opened up and to change my francs note I had to make three signatures, write down the serial number of the bill and ask several times for the correct change. I came away with afghanis. The next few hours tried my patience as we bounced from one dusty office to the next getting everything taken care of so we could enter Afghanistan. About yards later there was a police check and most of the Polish travelers on the bus flunked it and had to go through more red tape. Then we headed into the dusty vastness of the Afghanistan wasteland. The countryside was dry and barren, backed by stark brown mountains and broken every once in a while by a cluster of mud huts, some old ruins or a herd of goats or sheep. It always feels good to enter a new country. But everything that lies ahead is as new as can be. Just when it looked like we were getting somewhere, a dispute broke out in the front of the bus. The Afghanis decided to double the price of the ride from 50 to afghani. Us tourists were stubborn and we refused. One rugged looking Afghan pulled a knife while the driver turned around and headed back for the Iranian border. You could say they had us over a barrel. There was an uproar , and everyone was trying to solve the problem. One soft-spoken but commanding Pakistani urged us to pay but we all believed if we paid there was nothing stopping them from pulling the same trick again. We compromised — giving them 60 afghanis now and paying the rest upon arrival in Herat. After that episode we were all on edge and I think if they tried to get any more money, they would have had a lot of trouble from their worldly bus load of hardened travelers. We stopped at a desolate tea shop with a well and a bunch of locals skinning a still warm goat. This was just an innocent tea stop, however, and it provided Gene and me with our first good look at Afghanistan. The leaky well provided everyone with cold, filthy water. I wallowed in it, really cooling down nicely. We shared a cent melon and my weak, starving body gobbled it down. The tea house was exactly the image I had for an Afghanistan tea house. Old traditionally clad men, who looked like they worked hard but who never seem to do anything but lazily sit around, sitting on rugs on the floor drinking tea and smoking hashish. The room filled with smoke and their glassy dark eyes smiled. A few of us tourists joined them and I just stood over my melon rinds looking in the window like I was watching a documentary on TV. The word spread — our driver was high and the crew would be quite mellowed out. What a bizarre society. Sick of cheap, scuzzy holes, I lobbied for a first-class hotel. We found a dilly. Hotel Mowafaq, the fanciest hotel in downtown Herat, was just what we needed. Centrally located, showers, swimming pool, clean restaurants , and free of all the con men who plague cheaper hotels, this would make us feel human again. I feel like a bit of a softy, but I love a place that I can leave my stuff in without worrying and walk around in barefoot and get easy peace when I need it. Now we were ready to clean up and have a feast. Downstairs we ordered the two local specialties that they served on Saturdays and we noticed that the menu had a little note on each page. We were both thirsty and the cold water attacked our self-discipline like the forbidden fruit. We succumbed to it and it was good. The people here are wonderful, soldiers and police are present on the streets in the wake of the recent revolution. Horse-drawn chariot-like flower-decorated taxis charge down the streets. We stood on the breezy balcony under the stars thinking the only thing not different about this place is the constellations. This is journal entry 1 of a five-part series. Stay tuned for another excerpt later today, as year-old me explores Herat, the leading city in western Afghanistan.
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