RUDIMENTS, pt. 62
Making Cars
An interesting sidelight to my swank
political education - one of imprecision,
indentation and, mostly, misinformation -
was when, about 1982, I befriended these
two Afghanistan brothers, and a wife or
something too, along with them, maybe
a sister, I didn't know and it was never
discussed. There was some sort of brash,
chain-smoking Afghani-female always
around. This was at the corner of w11th
and Bleecker Street. Across the way
was an old Italian apartment building,
and than a playground, very compact
(Bleecker Playground) and at the
opposite corner the Afghani store. It
all happened by accident. My wife would
often step inside of the nearby parrot store,
filled with birds, loose parrots, bird-feed,
cages and supplies, oddball bird-people, etc.
(I called them that, they weren't literally
'bird-people' at all, but it would have
been if interesting to me had they been).
About this time there was a raging, hot
war between the Soviets and the
nation-kingdom of Afghanistan. It was
a real fight to the finish, a true local war.
The USA was, at this time, aiding the
Afghani 'natives' in their struggle, and
by that countereacting the global politics
of the Soviet Union, as adversary. These
guys, in their fairly large but cramped and
extremely well-stocked store, were selling
everything you think of when you think of
Afghanistan clothing and cold-weather
gear. Lots of heavy, woolen knit things,
mufflers, hats, deep-gloves, thick scarves,
and also the thinner kind of desert wear
they also wore - I guessed when not in
the other, mountainous and cold, locations.
Desert, kaffirs and all the rest; I only
remember a few of the words and things.
These two fellows were deep, dark, and
intense. Furious too, over the situation.
I really knew little, but got into it all. There
was, as I did later find out, and see, after
some confidences were exchanged, a lot
more going on - things ranging from
firearms and machine-gun pedestals and
handguns and long-knives, to money changing
hands only for the purposes of being laundered,
exchanged for a trinket and receipt, to be kept
'legal' enough, and later picked up by courier,
etc. I wasn't one, but it didn't take a genius
to understand what was happening. Also, a
lot of this 'Inventory' was being crated and
being sent there. It never really was store-stock,
per se. It kind of astounded me, and I'd hang
around - they never minded me, off-hours,
open or closed, whatever. In fact, I was often
enough surprised by their confidences and
willingness to have me around. It was cool.
Incense, tea, all sorts of things. What I gleaned,
and this is, remember, the mid-80's at most,
was that this revolutionary fighting force
was the incipient basis of something to
be called 'Taliban.' Which it all later did
become. At this stage it was, really, no more
than a very localized to Afghanistan, 'homeland'
fighting force to defeat the Soviets and stop
their taking of territory, 'national' pride, and
raw materials and the rest. Eventually, and
amazingly, the Soviets were actually beaten,
and in the ensuing years this contributed a
lot to the demise of the entire Soviet Union.
This early version of Taliban (we wound up,
here, calling it 'The Taliban' - in the same
way the music group was specifically named
'Eagles,' but every reference was always 'The
Eagles.' It's an American thing). The situation
at this time did not come across to me as
the extremist Taliban, Islamic, head-chopping
anti-west ideological thing. Thank goodness,
because they'd probably have had to kill me
and stuff me in a closet or a trunk bound for
the distant desert kingdom. There was none of
that 'fervor' yet prevalent, it was always more
about the defense of home, the killing of Soviets.
What a strange, weird world - presented to me
as an always-changeable figment of imagination,
with shifting sides and personnel, and a certain
factor of real danger always present.
-
That entire scene was quite interesting to me, and
as I sit back here now and think it through, 40 years
later or whatever it is, I am riddled with the true
astonishment of all that's transpired, all those
dead people, on all sides, the Twin Towers, the
endless running wars and the 'back and forths',
let alone the enormous sums of money, regular,
good, money - money which could have
rebuilt broken cities, fed people, helped others
right here in our own land, built bridges and
tunnels, trains and tracks. One little stupid,
brute war after the other, each with its own
tacky list of lies (Oops! I mean 'Reasons') for
being, and no excuses ever given for all that's
been lost, the dead, or the maimed as well.
-
So, anyway, scruffy, interested, and bored too,
there I was, circa 1983, scouting the West Village,
still, for vital signs and information. And you know
what? I do it yet today; same thing, from the old
Northern Dispensary right over to the old White
Horse Tavern - just snooping around always,
with my eyes and my ears always open too.
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