Zanjabil

For years, I dreamed of Lawrence of Arabia, cantering across sand dunes in flowing robes, beneath a burning sun. I had to do it, and made my way to Herat, Afghanistan where I met a Dane – weather-beaten, ageless, traveling for decades in search of God-knows-what. His English speckled with a dozen dialects. He picked up on my dream, and lead me through the back streets of Herat to an open area filled with stinky sheep, goats, donkeys, horses. “Not to worry!” he shouted, grabbing my arm and tugging me along. “I get you the best price.” There was no stopping him. He raced toward the horses, stroking the legs, poking their teeth, haggling with the owners. “This one!” he said. “And this!” We paid $40 each for two horses and another $20 for beat-up Afghan saddles. “Not to worry!” the Dane said.
We left at 4 in the morning loaded with water bottles, food and bags of grain. I wore a lopsided turban and a loose shirt made by the locals. Twice in my life, I’d been on a horse, and the harsh reality of the trip demolished my dream. Thirst and pain became the primary themes. The sun blistered my brain. The Afghans hooted at us from passing vehicles. Yet one brief moment made it all worthwhile. Passing a steep embankment, I heard a shout, and saw an Afghan soldier ordering me toward him. In one hand, he held a battered rifle, in the other, a cigarette. Fear shot through me, but I kicked the horse up the bank. A light, that’s all he wanted. As I approached, the horse slipped on some stones and reared back, front legs kicking over the soldier’s head; myself now high in the air and the soldier’s face suddenly twisted with fear – as if we had, at that instant, exchanged identities. I had become a jubilant Afghan, meshing perfectly with the desert, and the soldier, a startled tourist. The horse came down to earth and I tossed him a box of matches. He returned me a brief salute of aristocratic deference, and at that one brief moment, my dream and I were one.