Abe de Vries

AFGHAN SNAPSHOTS

Thirty thousand feet above the surface of this wretched half moon,
one can still sense the dark, ironed drought
the map on the screen says would be Turkmenistan.
Luckily, a sentimental Indian movie easily produces a drop.
Even here, rather than zodiacs or
westward wanderings of restless stars, scattered citylights
viewed from a widebody in flight,
remind you of Christmases at home.
Yet it couldn’t be more August.

No summer spent was this unforgiving. Only dust
fits the furcoat sellers’ road, foreigners call Chicken Street.
Finding no Marco Polo to go with you on a beerhunt,
you open the hotelroom window, to let the mind
blend in slowly with its environment.
The roll-on roll-off sounds of self-repaired television sets
glide through hot, thick air, as mosquitoes, with the thrust
of helicopter engines, frantically buzz
the Shakespeare In Love-theme.

As late arrivals from the wryest of deserts,
donkey carts roll by,
with wise tribesmen of the deepest dye,
sent to roam the ruined streets of this chaotic oasis.
Bearded drivers and mad dogs bark
much-needed drums in a muezzin’s song.
And ofcourse the women, with their faces made invisible;
women, homegrown for ages behind the surrounding
far away rockwall sounds of silence.
Are they counting coins they cannot
spend again?

The Philippine girl in the troop was some stone offered,
not for free: in return for you-know-what.
Life’s everywhere the same. You wonder
when’s rain coming and when
it’s gonna change into snow.
Internationals drink water bottled in Oman and Dubai.
Adeeb can’t get a girl. Can’t afford
the SIM-cards that should buy him a good start.
Be sure you always got ten afghani in your pocket
for children, following your airconditioned trail
of ice-cold coke and well done kebab.

Spread by stone age Toyota taxicars and jingletrucks,
dust wears thin, like a much washed, but never
wasted tablecloth. People sweat,
swear, shout, breathe in bad air, go to the mosque
by day, get blessed, moan and multiply by night.
So what, when you’ve won the rarest of successes twice?
Come winter, in these rock-covered strongman’s lands
one can only hover over,
purple coloured poppies grow.
And you’ll be freezing, walking up and down
a windy strip of some deserted European beach
without any snow, flashing
your headlights to the enormous sea.