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Unimpressed, the guard waved me away.
I backed up to a phone booth and jumped out. Amazingly, for a few coins, I got an English-speaking operator to dial the American Embassy. A man answered in a tinny American tone.
"I'm an American!" I pleaded. "Afghan customs is trying to steal my car! At the Herat border!"
Light was growing dim. Headlights were coming on. The VW drove through the border.
"Well--" The voice was hesitant. "We mostly process visas. We're six hundred miles away. In Kabul. Have they taken your car yet?"
"No!" I said. "But they won't let us through!"
"Well--" he fell silent. "My supervisor will be here tomorrow."
My heart sank. I could see the agent watching. He began to clear papers from the window.
"He's closing up!" I said. "We're going to be stuck all night!"
"Can you call back in the morning?" the embassy official said. "It's after six."
The guard took a last look, and shut his window. A spotlight came on and gave a yellow glow. The earth seemed strangely vacant; the expanse of denuded desolation spread in all directions.
"Thanks." I hung up. There was nothing to do. The great American Empire could not help. We spent the night in the car, Brits in the back, huddled on the gravel shoulder, and wondering what would happen. It felt like a wretched Sam Shepherd play, parked by a seedy motel in Arizona, only there was no neon, just endless stars that clung like maggots to the black sky. Other than a few prowling dogs, the evening passed in silence. Like sardines, we rolled up the windows, hugged our sleeping bags, and drifted off to sleep.
A tapping awoke me. In the dingy morning light, a ravaged face, under a tattered turban, pressed against the window. Behind a long grey beard, and frail frame, two eyes beckoned with such fervor, that I was sure the robed and wizened patriarch would impart upon me the secret of life itself. I was gazing into the eyes of the beast, the true believer, and authentic keeper of some holy Constantinople script. What else could explain those bloodshot eyes that blazed with such deep-felt force and road-weary wisdom? I had seen various stripes of Moslems seers and holy men, but this fellow appeared the real thing, an authentic Afghan messenger if not messiah. He raised a shaky forefinger, and grew before us like Gandalf the Grey in Lord of the Rings. My three friends were equally confounded. A portentous event was about to unfold. We waited with baited breath.
I rolled down the window.
"Iranian hashish no good," he spoke with fierce conviction. "Afghan hashish good."
With that, he staggered off into the endless grey, and vanished like a ghost.
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