Monday, September 19, 2016

JAMES JOYCE AND GIL




One afternoon after my university classes had finished, I drank tea with a volunteer named Gil.

 He didn't socialize much, and I believe it was the only time I spoke with him about anything.

But one time was plenty, and I mean this in a positive sense.

Gil was a very interesting person.

 I found out that he was planning to leave the Peace Corps and head for Turkey.

 He explained the route he would take, mentioning a train up inside Russia.

 I found this amazing. 

Just leave...not say a word to anyone! 

But now I wonder why he told me.

I also thought that he might be a member of an Intelligence agency.

Gil was "translating" Ulysses by James Joyce. 

But the translating was more like interpreting what the heck this novel is about.

 I still haven't finished it.

 I finished Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man in a few weeks.

Good luck Gil, wherever you are.




IT'S ABOUT RENEWABLE RESOURCES

Monday, September 12, 2016

THE FUNERAL



One day Touryalai invited me to a funeral.
"Who died?", I asked.
"I don't know," Touryalai replied.
"Then how can we go to the funeral?", I asked.
"It's no problem. Come with me", he said.
And so he and I walked onto an open dirt field of gravesites. 
(Not far from this graveyard there was a private area used only by men when they had to go to the bathroom.)
 I again told Touryalai about how gross it was that men just "pooped and peed" in the open.
 He agreed, and again told me that he wished this custom didn't exist, but it did. 
I could tell that he was tired of my complaints.
 I never mentioned the subject again.


"Look. There is the body." said Touryalai.
People were gathered around the body under a small roofed area. 
On a narrow wooden litter was the corpse of a male covered with a white sheet. 
When some men picked up the stretcher, Touryalai and I followed. 
They carefully stepped over a very short fence-like barrier, walked maybe 100 paces, and then stopped.
 They picked up the corpse and gently laid it inside of a shallow swath of the ground, just large enough to hold one body.
 Some large flat stones were placed on the corpse, and then a thin layer of soil was used to cover the stones.
I turned to Touryalai.
"That's it?"
He smiled and said, "Yes, that's it."
"What about dogs or other animals?” I asked.
Touryalai indicated that the body would be just fine.
How simple.
 How unceremonious. 
How frugal. 
And then, there was the American way of death.






IT'S ABOUT RENEWABLE RESOURCES


Wednesday, September 07, 2016

BAMIYAN


This was our first vacation.
 I don't know who decided to go to Bamiyan or why, but what a lovely province it turned out to be.
Our bus ride didn't take that long. It was just an all-day drive. 

On our bumpy and dusty bus ride, an Afghan woman kept putting something up to her veiled face. I thought she might be drinking soup or something; but then she put the vase-like container outside the window and emptied it. She had been vomiting. Bus motion sickness. The local population was not accustomed to bus riding.

Jon brought along a case of wine. This wine was made in Afghanistan, and although I didn't know much about wine, I sure knew that I didn't like this wine.
At one stop for prayer, Jon and I got off to stretch. When we returned to the bus, we saw spittle on our water bottle.
 Someone had been offended by the alcohol.

When we arrived in Bamian I first noticed how quiet it was, and then how green and clean it looked.
 We "checked in" to our "hotel", which was a small, dome-shaped and straw-thatched hut. 
Jon and I bunked in one hut with two single beds. We wondered how many scorpions were here.

I woke up the first night and removed a burning cigarette from Jon's hand. He had fallen asleep. I knew that our hut would have been eaten by flames in a flash. I'm glad that I couldn't sleep that first night.
The next day we walked around. Then we rented horses.
 My horse was difficult to control. 
He walked over a large garden.
 I was afraid I would get shot or something, but nothing happened, and then I looked up and saw a little Persian girl, dressed in beautifully embroidered clothing, walking down a small hill and carrying a basket on her head while holding up a small sickle in her left hand. 
Her brightly-colored clothing highlighted the earth colors.
 I wrote my poem Bamian, Afghanistan based on this brief encounter.

Rain had washed out the roads!
 We were "stranded" in beautiful Bamian!
 We were out of money, out of alcohol, but not out of hope! 

We telegraphed Kabul to inform the Peace Corps office of our problem. 
Our message reached the Peace Corps office so that they would know we were safe and sound, although penniless.
Betty had befriended an embassy worker (or maybe he was a businessman) from Germany, and he agreed to loan us some money. 

When we finally left Bamiyan two days later, it was in a plane that could fly over the Himalayas. 
Afghanistan's mountain peaks were large and ominous.
 It was a scary take-off and a scary ride, but we finally reached Kabul airport.






Bamiyan, Afghanistan


Echoes of Tamerlane, Genghis Khan, and Alexander
Were found in turquoise, opal, and amethyst dreams.

Young vagabonds slept on Persian rugs
Beneath heaven's pastures far below tall Buddhas on Bamian's plains.

While bright on Earth
Green grass grew under falling rain
Above the sky lit up dark echoed man's last refrain:
We hail the rains to bring us back to life
We hail the rains to remove this mortal rule of knife;
But thunder shouted and sirens cried
People hurried
They fought and died.

Echoes of Tamerlane, Genghis Khan, and Alexander
Were found in turquoise, opal, and amethyst dreams.

Young vagabonds slept on Persian rugs
Beneath heaven's pastures
Far below tall Buddhas on Bamian's plains.




IT'S ABOUT RENEWABLE RESOURCES