Free Full Tilt by Dervla Murphy Page A

Herat tomorrow morning.

3
Compulsory Bus Rides
    HERAT TO KABUL
HERAT, 10 APRIL
    I slept very well last night in my roadside tea-house, curled up in a corner of the one-roomed building, with moonlight streaming through the doorway that had no door and the ‘proprietor’ curled up under his camel-hair rug in another corner, rifle and turban to hand. He was a dear old boy, who seemed quite shocked when I attempted to pay him before leaving at 5.30 a.m.
    It took me four and a half hours to cover the thirty miles to Herat but I enjoyed the wide silence of the desert in the cool of the morning.
    This is a city of absolute enchantment in the literal sense of the word. It loosens all the bonds binding the traveller to his own age and sets him free to live in a past that is vital and crude but never ugly. Herat is as old as history and as moving as a great epic poem – if Afghanistan had nothing else it would have been worth coming to experience this. Even the loss of my wallet containing over £12 hasn’t been able to depress me today. (It was not stolen but just slipped out of my pocket somehow, as I was exploring.) Of course I’d feel worse about such a loss in Europe; the fact that every Afghan I’ve seen so far obviously needs £12 even more than I do is quite a consolation. During a long trek some disaster of the sort is inevitable.
    The Afghans impress me as a people with very clear-cut personalities , in contrast to the rather characterless Persians. Everyone I’ve met so far stands out as an individual; for example, the three servants at this hotel. One is an elderly man, very slim and sad-looking and withdrawn from the world. When not working (and that means most of the time) he sits in odd corners sipping tea or stands atstrategic points of the stairs and corridors looking through everyone who passes and giving the impression of being in a mystical trance. When I arrived he came to my room with the book to sign and the whole scene was like some solemn religious ritual. The door curtain was pushed aside to admit this individual, wearing a long, pale pink muslin turban and bearing the book open at the relevant page. He bowed very low and glided across the floor in bare feet, laid it on the table before me, bowed again and glided backwards towards the door where he stood erect with arms folded looking into the far distance while I filled in details. Then he glided back to collect the book, bowed, backed to the door, gave a final and most profound bow and disappeared soundlessly – the whole performance without attempting to utter a word and, despite all the bowing, there was not a trace of servility.
    The waiter is equally fascinating in a different way. Aged about twenty and very handsome, with pale, clear white skin, luminous brown eyes and wonderfully clear-cut features, he has a princely bearing and paces slowly round the dining-room; he is extremely efficient, in a quiet way, and looks as though he has some special private joy which makes him supremely happy. The little ‘boots’ is a character too; aged about twelve, he has a round Mongolian face, a big permanent grin and a bouncing friendly manner. Watching me washing my teeth is for him an entertainment beyond compare – he positively holds his breath at the sheer excitement of the spectacle!
    This is a ‘Grade A’ hotel: i.e. it has an Eastern lavatory but with flush attached (when I pulled the string the whole apparatus collapsed and I was drenched in rusty water – but perhaps I used immodest vigour!) and there is also a holder for lavatory paper on the wall which makes one feel that if one stayed here long enough it might have paper too some day. The establishment sports electrical fittings as well – but the supply failed an hour ago and I am now writing by oil-lamp – and my room has a door with a padlock and a window that opens, and clean though very threadbare sheets and blankets on the bed. Other amenities include a bathroom on this first-floor