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August 22, 1978. Kabul, Afghanistan.
Dear Bert and Bob (John's parents),
Hello again, this time from the land of camel caravans, shish kebabs, and good old yogurt! We’ve been in Kabul for a week now, loving it dry, hot climate after the monsoon rains of northern India. We hope to stay here long enough so that when we return, the rains in India will be over. No more bad weather for us! Do you think it rains in Portland, huh? You should’ve seen Dharamshala! Anyway, we’re in good mental shape, although physically a bit rundown from all the running around, we’ve been doing. It will be so nice to settle down in one place for a long time when this trip is over, just relaxing and being with our old friends.
So how is everything in the Pacific Northwest? Any tax revolts like in California? I overheard what you were up to this summer: did you visit the folks in California? Better hurry before they’re off to China – we may never see them again! I just read Ken Kesey's book about Oregon, Sometimes a Great Notion; have you read it? It gives an insider's view of politics, weather, etc., of a small coastal logging town.
Good news: Nicole's best girlfriend Helene is going to join us in India in a month for a bit of sightseeing together. She’s been instructed to arrive with a good bottle of wine, a nice brie cheese, and a hunk of French sausage, and we’re going to sit right down under a tree and have a real picnic. Then we’re off to the Taj Mahal, Benares and it’s ghats, and once more Kathmandu, one of the loveliest medieval cities in the world, I am sure. Helene won’t believe her eyes.
Say, Bob, I have a technical question for you. Nicole and I have decided to buy a portable cassette recorder in Singapore so we can have some music with us as we return to France, as well as using it in France. It can’t be too big, it should work on main and batteries, it should give good sound (stereo not required), but mainly it should be rugged and reliable. All this for less than say $200 duty-free. Any suggestions?
Love to you both,
Sam & Nicole
August 27, 1978. Bamiyan, Caravan Hotel. Sitting on the rattan bench in front of our tiny yurt room (room for two beds and not much else), about 4 PM, the sun, hot but bearable, the Big Buddha (all 55 m of him) standing in his niche just across the street. Had a few puffs of a hash joint around 11 this morning, and I’m still feeling it’s effects: talking too much, unable to concentrate (lost two chess games badly with some really stupid playing), slightly dizzy. Great stuff from Mazar-i-Sharif, but only if you want to stop functioning for a long while.
We arrived in Bamiyan by bus yesterday afternoon - around seven hours from Kabul. Took a walk around the valley that evening, then hit the Big Buddha this morning. Amazing place. Great people, peaceful, good weather, good food, music every night, not too many tourists. After 12 days in Kabul, it’s nice to be here.
September 7, 1978. Quetta, Lord’s Hotel. Happy birthday, Sam!
After a truly horrible trip from Kandahar, we are esconced in a lovely room with private bath, hot water, thanks to the hoitel owners, the Matas, friends of Lillian Suresh. Sure hope we don’t have to pay for the room. - it’s $18 a day, about 10 times our normal expense. Tonight they’ve invited us to dinner, and I am buying myself a cake for dessert. Tomorrow I get my present, a pair of Bellucci leather sandals, suede if I can find them.
A quick recap of the Kabul -> Quetta trip, while it is still freshen our minds. We begin at the Istanbul Restaurant in Kabul, where we are told we will be delivered to our 1:15 bus. Our contact informs us on arrival at the restaurant at the bus really leaves at three. We hang around, buy another dress for Nicole, and take a taxi to the bus at 2:45. All hell is brewing at the bus: too many tickets have been sold. Arguments, discussions, frequent ticket checks until around 4:30. Bus goes back into town to the bus company headquarters. Efforts to throw tourists off bus (five of us) fails through determination of tourists to remain in our seats. Policeman finally throws the extra people out; they get back on when he leaves, and ride in the aisle. Arrival in Kandahar late at night, finding with difficulty a hotel which will accept us. (Eid is on, and everyone prefers to sit around eating and smoking.). Horrible. Change the next day for the New Tourist Hotel – we are the only guests, the owner too busy smoking hash with about 30 of his cronies to admit others. Kandahar is a mess – most shops close, men’s strolling around, listening to the music blaring from powerful loudspeakers, eating ice cream, drinking tea. Next day, taxi to bus, which sits on its ass for two hours, then slowly grind its way towards the border, stopping every few minutes to let someone out in the middle of the desert. Afghanistan Customs. The official is off eating with friends; three hour wait. Next stage to Pakistan Customs is accomplished in a truck talked down from 100 to 20 Afghan. Pakistan!
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