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The Yellow Bus

Kabul 1978

By Mardi QuonPublished 2 years ago 6 min read
1

Yellow bus 1978 Afghanistan

“For goodness’ sake, can’t you move closer?”

All six foot three inches of him is standing near the bus but not quite close enough to take the photo I want.

He frustrates me so much. My sweeping hand movements are intended to coax him to take one long stride closer to the bus.

Behind him the Hindu Kush loom as a formidable backdrop. I wipe the tears the crisp air has brought on. I sniff ever so lady like by bringing my quilted jacket sleeve up to my nose catching the droplets.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, cold air makes my eyes water.”

“Haven’t you got a hanky or a tissue?”

“Nah”

It is at that moment out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of a group of men who have inched towards me. Terry and I have drawn attention in most place we have travelled. Usually, it was our height difference. Here it is the paleness of our skin, my wild curly hair and his own long blonde hair trapped beneath that colourful beanie. Add to that: my endless chatter.

Women don’t speak in Kabul. Women wait to be spoken to. I can never wait. It is November 1978. Afghanistan is unravelling. This is not a time to step out of line or revolt against tradition.

Terry sees the men moving closer. They scrape sticks in the hardened mud making an irritating sound, one that does not stop, like some sort of warning.

Is it to for Terry and me? Or for others?

Scratch, scratch, scratch the sound urges that we should move.

I still want that photo.

I flip the leather cover off the prized Olympus Trip 35 camera and begin to change the setting from mountain to person.

“Can you just get a little bit closer to the bus and hang the bag on your other shoulder?”

This is the bag he had to have. The red oversized leather bag he haggled with the street stall trader back on Chicken Street.

“For you madam” he said, and I laughed.

“Yeah” said Terry shoving filthy notes into the outstretched brown hand.

“And it’s not madam, it’s Sir.”

And I laughed louder.

I have spoken again. The men turn towards me. They are draped with cloth from the top of their heads, across their shoulders and down their back. They look small compared to Terry, yet their presence is intimidating.

I fumble trying to balance my own bag, my freshly lit cigarette, although there is nothing fresh about smoking a cigarette considered to be made from camel dung, and the camera.

I wriggle my toes in my Afghani boots bought in Kandahar days before. Shifting my weight, I am finally comfortable to take my photo.

Bringing the camera to my face I can see the men have moved closer and are staring at Terry who is staring at me.

I pull a face at Terry, and he pulls one back at me.

We need to get out of here as quickly as we can.

We have disregarded many rules.

I have spoken.

Terry has allowed me to speak.

“Nah”

It is at that moment out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of a group of men who have inched towards me. Terry and I have drawn attention in most place we have travelled. Usually, it was our height difference. Here it is the paleness of our skin, my wild curly hair and his own long blonde hair trapped beneath that colourful beanie. Add to that: my endless chatter.

Women don’t speak in Kabul. Women wait to be spoken to. I can never wait. It is November 1978. Afghanistan is unravelling. This is not a time to step out of line or revolt against tradition.

Terry sees the men moving closer. They scrape sticks in the hardened mud making an irritating sound, one that does not stop, like some sort of warning.

Is it to for Terry and me? Or for others?

Scratch, scratch, scratch the sound urges that we should move.

I still want that photo.

I flip the leather cover off the prized Olympus Trip 35 camera and begin to change the setting from mountain to person.

“Can you just get a little bit closer to the bus and hang the bag on your other shoulder?”

This is the bag he had to have. The red oversized leather bag he haggled with the street stall trader back on Chicken Street.

“For you madam” he said, and I laughed.

“Yeah” said Terry shoving filthy notes into the outstretched brown hand.

“And it’s not madam, it’s Sir.”

And I laughed louder.

I have spoken again. The men turn towards me. They are draped with cloth from the top of their heads, across their shoulders and down their back. They look small compared to Terry, yet their presence is intimidating.

I fumble trying to balance my own bag, my freshly lit cigarette, although there is nothing fresh about smoking a cigarette considered to be made from camel dung, and the camera.

I wriggle my toes in my Afghani boots bought in Kandahar days before. Shifting my weight, I am finally comfortable to take my photo.

Bringing the camera to my face I can see the men have moved closer and are staring at Terry who is staring at me.

I pull a face at Terry, and he pulls one back at me.

We need to get out of here as quickly as we can.

We have disregarded many rules.

I have spoken.

Terry has allowed me to speak.

I am leading the show.

I am a woman, a white woman wearing pants.

I must take this photo regardless of the risks.

The photo of the bus is important.

Terry shuffles closer to the once bright yellow bus. The other buses contrast against the grey and grime.

The rumours are true. In our travels through Afghanistan, whispers emerged that a Contiki or Sundowner tour bus had been set alight.

A firebomb thrown through a window, thrown by bandits camouflaged into the sand, into a bus filled with intrepid Aussie adventurers unaware of the danger.

Stumbling upon the bus as we were weaving our way along the canal past white knuckled women wringing dirty brown water from their washing took us by surprise.

With urgency I clicked the photo leaving no time to wind the film on for a second shot. The men were close now.

Terry with his long strides moved with determination towards me. Grabbing my shoulder and through gritted teeth said.

“start walking and don’t stop.”

asia
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About the Creator

Mardi Quon

Here I am writing stories about my travels back when I was young. I still love live music despite my creaking bones. I have both heels dug in deep raging against the aging of the body and the mind. I refuse to give in without some dancing

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