In the Sea There Are Crocodiles - Fabio Geda [4]
I stopped counting the stars when we arrived in Kandahar. I stopped because it was the first time I’d ever been in such a big city and the house lights and streetlamps would have been too distracting, even if I hadn’t been too tired to keep count. Kandahar had tarred roads. There were cars and motorbikes and bicycles and shops and lots of places where men could drink chay and talk, and buildings as much as three storys high with aerials on the roofs, and dust, wind and dust, and so many people on the streets, there couldn’t have been anybody left in the houses.
After we’d been walking for a while, the man stopped and told us to wait while he made arrangements. He didn’t say where, or who with. I sat down on a low wall to count how many colored cars passed, while Mother just stood there, so still it was as if her burqa was empty. I could smell fried food. A radio was broadcasting news about lots of people disappearing in Bamiyan and the discovery of a large number of dead bodies in a house. An old man passed with his arms raised to the sky, crying khodaia khair, begging God for a bit of peace. I was starting to feel hungry, but I didn’t ask for food. I was starting to feel thirsty, but I didn’t ask for water.
When the man came back he was smiling, and he had another man with him. This is a good day for you, he said. This is Shaukat and he’ll take you to Pakistan in his lorry.
Salaam, agha Shaukat, said Mother. Thank you.
Shaukat the Pakistani did not reply.
Go now, said the man. We’ll meet again soon.
Thank you for everything, said Mother.
It was a pleasure.
Tell my sister the journey went well.
I will. Good luck, little Enaiat. Ba omidi didar.
He took me in his arms and kissed me on the forehead. I smiled as if to say, But of course, we’ll meet again soon, take care. Then it struck me that Good luck and We’ll meet again soon didn’t really go together. Why wish me good luck if we were going to meet again soon?
The man left. Shaukat the Pakistani raised his hand and signaled to us to follow him. The lorry was parked in a dusty yard surrounded by a metal fence. In the back were dozens and dozens of wooden poles. Taking a closer look at them, I realized they were electricity poles.
Why are you carrying electricity poles?
Shaukat the Pakistani didn’t reply.
This was something I only found out about later. Apparently, people came from Pakistan to Afghanistan to steal things: whatever there was to steal, which wasn’t much. Electricity poles, for example. They came in lorries, knocked down the poles and carried them across the border, to use them or sell them, I’m not sure which. But for the moment what mattered was that we were getting a good lift, in fact, more than good, an excellent lift, because at the border they didn’t check lorries from Pakistan so carefully.
It was a long journey, I couldn’t tell you how long, hours and hours across the mountains, bumping along, past rocks and tents and markets. Clouds. At some point, when it was already dark, Shaukat the Pakistani got out to eat, but only him, because it was better for us if we didn’t get out. You never know, he said. He brought us some leftover meat and we set off again, with the wind whistling through the window, the pane lowered just a crack to let in a bit of air but as little dust as possible. Looking at all that land rushing past us, I remember thinking about my father, because he’d also driven a lorry for a long time.
But that was different. He was forced to.
My father I’ll just call Father. Even though he’s no longer around. Because he’s no longer around. I’ll tell you his story, even though I can only tell it the way it was told to me, so I can’t swear to it. What happened was that the Pashtun had forced him—not only him, but lots of Hazara men from our province—to drive to Iran and back by lorry, in order to get products to sell in their shops: blankets, fabrics, and