7ba1- Afghanistan Talibans: The present of the Mudjahid. Tale illustrated with sensual images.

The present of the Moudjahid young soldier girl
Act I of an erotic tale taking place in Afghanistan

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We had left Gazni since one hour already. The road to Kabul was covered with snow; a bus just slides off the road, in front of our camping car. It was turned over in the ditch, its occupants, stupefied, surrounded the bus, without knowing too much what to do. We stopped, like almost all the other vehicles on the road, having in mind to break the monotony of this too long journey. We were not very useful, but we were taking part in the effort to stabilize the bus, after what we left for Kabul. The night approached, and we knew that it was unwise to drive at dark. This stop had, in some way, disrupted our program.

The night settled down more quickly then we thought. Prudence prevented us from driving faster and we had to go on to Kabul, on this perilous road, full of police roadblocks without any signposts; they where real traps. We had a car breakdown; one of this breakdowns which haunted us, and which occurred, as it always does, in the worst moments. We were immobilized, expecting some help that, perhaps, would never materialize before the next morning, having to protect ourselves from cold, from the bandits, and from our own anguish.

After a few hours waiting, muffled in our "Afghan" coat bought at the Gazny bazaar, we were resigned to sleep on the side of the road; a vehicle just parked behind us. We wished, it was friendly visitors, but we were not sure of that. We were four, my girlfriend and I and two English passengers we picked up between the Pakistani border and the town of Kandahar, so that we could feel less alone.

Some men approached. They were armed: long craftsman rifles suspended at their shoulders. A worrying leather waistcoat impairs with ammunition and trifles, more or less retained their long white cotton shirts, hanging over what looked like puffing pyjamas. They wear a turban, rolled up around their head, in distinctive form for each man. No apparent sign made us believe, they where official representatives. I was frightened. The others had not realized, their presence, yet.

I slightly lowered the car window, to comply with the apparent threats from the man who seems to be the leader of the group. He asked us to get off the car.

The men searched the vehicle and removed everything possible to take away. We start protesting but with some apprehension, realizing that we could be free, losing some preserves, clothing, cameras and other more or less invaluable goods.

In my mind, all the legends we collected here and there about Afghanistan, came back to haunt me, like obsessive reminders. It was said that at night, the territory was under the control of the moudjahiddins. Close to Kandahar, near the international airport, we locate a place, apparently secure, to park for the night; a well intentioned citizen came and strongly advised us to move on to the city, where, he said, we would be sheltered from the brigands. At night, the Afghan territory is no more under the control of the legitimate authorities of the country. Was it also the same on day time? We had, for the first time of this adventure around the world, the impression to be at the far end of the world.

I saw four mountaineers in front of me, they were well armed, bearing a warlike attitude, proud and well determined; they could be moudjahiddins although I had no idea how to identify them. I had a certain fear, but at the same time, they seamed to me more reassuring than the shameless civil servant or the brutal soldiers who protect the border of the country; we had to ransom them in order to recover our official papers.

They made us climb behind a leaping truck that was used as a mean of transportation. They blindfolded our eyes then we took the road again under a close watch. The vehicle seemed to slow down after several kilometres on the straight and well paved road leading to Kabul, poisoned gift given by the Soviets, to their Afghan neighbours.

We seemed to turn to our left on a run-down road that we followed for almost two hours. The journey was rough. We crossed rocky and uneven tracks that made the engine, vibrate. Many times we almost turn over; blind, we could not keep our balance, and we hardly anticipate the rocking of the truck, so that we remain lying at the bottom of the box.

Then, the vehicle immobilized and they let us get off. With a profusion of unintelligible commandments, shouts, strange noises, they brought us inside what seemed to be a building. They attached our feet and our hands and they removed our blindfolds.

The room was large and provided with few openings, from where, the weak light of the moon, hardly filtered. The walls were an assembly of brick, tree trunks and dried earth, the sheet metal roofs were supported by columns made of roughly squared trees.

We were attached to pillars in the center of the room, at short distance one of the others. The soldiers left in a hubbub of voices and laughter's, leaving an armed guard behind, who remained there, sitting in front of us, smoking and preparing himself to spent the rest of the night.

We were anxious, and this anxiety made us converse between us, of what could happen to us. Each one went with his forecast, more or less reassuring. At one time, I questioned the guard, trying to start a conversation that could have given us a certain hope of what awaits us.

It was useless. He could not understand any of the languages we speak, or of which, we know a few words. He remained dumb, and his gestures were unambiguous on his intention to drowse quietly.

We had been there for an hour already, some soldiers entered and immediately grab and went out with one of the Englishmen. Our guard was replaced by another younger guard; he looked much less hostile to us. I worried for the Englishman and the reason why, they took him apart from the group. The new guardian was young, very young and beautiful, it seemed to me that, it was possible to make friend whit him. It is easy to believe, we can be the object of more compassion, because the torturer is beautiful, or he speaks a little of your own language, or she is a woman; or will that be just a misleading illusion?

We suddenly heard some crackling of firearms. The guard hardly moved. I deduced it was not an attack from the outside; the noise of some massive object falling on the ground, suddenly made me realize what just happened. Panic gained us.

Later, they came back and went to the second Englishman, they took him away as they did with his companion.

We understood that we were going to pass on, one after the other, for what reason? It was impossible for us to know it. Assassinated in this country that was a kingdom, of which, we hardly knew the habits and customs, we suddenly realized the accuracy of the prejudices and fabulations about that country, we had nourished for so long. These countries crossed over by Alexander the Great, by Marco Polo, where still under the reign of cruelty in this advanced half of the twentieth century.

I tried, with gestures, with glances and words, to attract the attention of our young guardian, expecting an explanation, a glance of appeasement, a sign. Nothing! I received in return, only convincing onomatopoeias, a face that hardened slightly, some impatience. I persisted, did I have the choice, feeling that this indifference could be factitious?

Marco Polo or the imaginary journey (Contes et légendes, translated august 2000) © 1996 Jean-Pierre Lapointe
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ACT II