Wais, the bartender and part owner of the Hotel, waves his
Glock in the air like a blessing. On cue, four beefy men, two on each side of
the bar, pull their weapons out, check their magazines, compare. The men, all
in their mid-thirties, all wearing jeans, are contractors, probably. Wais’ dum-dum
bullets impress, carry the day.
I grab my draft beer and pretend to sneer at the Yankees fan beside me. Mid fifties I’d say, quieter than the others, except when
pontificating on his favorite sports team. He heads security at the airbase, or
so he says.
Can I get through the Salang tunnel? I ask out loud. Wais
thinks so. All four of the contractors agree. Opium trucks queue up all day
long, at about ten thousand feet. They let them through at night, after the
construction workers leave. Concoct some story and stick with it; they’ll let
you through too.
Last week I drove up there, says Wais. Didn’t get through,
but I had a woman with me—a reporter. Tried
to impress her; it wasn’t my day. The warlord Fahim runs things up there.
I hold up the palm of my gunless hand to interrupt and tell
Wais I had dinner with the UN people last night, mostly Irish and Aussie. They
tell me they can’t go overland, it’s too dangerous. They fly up to Mazar or
over to Herat.
Jack, the drunk on my left, calls for another beer and tells
me some bullshit story of his heroics in Bosnia. Then he says, let me ask you
something. When you drive around a bend in the mountains and three AKs are
pointing at your windshield, what are you going to do? Maybe you better ask
your driver. I don’t like this guy, but he has a point.
I’m not leaving, says a defiant Wais to no one.
Evening grays gather, soften storefront shapes in moonlight.
Dust tamped down below the mountain tops and usual stars. The air better now,
breathable.
I walk back in. My place held by a near-empty beer mug.
-- originally blogged January 27, 2013
No comments:
Post a Comment