BEIRA-KARACHI-KABUL
BAND-I-AMIR-TEHRAN

The Middle East

There was the problem of getting back to Europe from Mozambique. I discovered there was a British India Line ship bound for Pakistan, making Karachi my next stop. I look forward to going back. The atmosphere on the ship's upper deck was very festive. The holds, however, were filled with Indians and Pakistanis fleeing the reign of Didi Amin Dada. It was as if Katherine Ann Porter's Ship of Fools had suddenly become reality. Cohabitation seemed to exacerbate the distinctions among the social classes on board; access to the upper deck being a sign of relative distinction. The English and South Africans are up top in tuxedos and cocktail dresses. The Asiatics below exhibit their poverty for all to see. Luckily, the ship's bridges provide the opportunity of movement. I go downstairs to eat, since I'd rather have curried potatoes for dinner than oysters stuffed with whipped cream.

*******

Karachi's glorious filth is just as charming. At this time of year (June), however, the heat is unbearable. Dust storms mask the sun. Dust is everywhere. It swirls into my eyes, mouth, and clothes and adheres to my mucous membranes. I leave for Afghanistan immediately after the concert at the Alliance Française. The altitude will at least provide something vaguely resembling fresh air. First, however, I'll need to obtain a visa to enter Iran. As luck would have it, the Consul was at the previous day's concert. He places his right hand on his chest: - Master, I admire your work. To give you a visa would be a crime, because my country will always welcome you with open arms...

*******

At the Khyber pass, the natural border separating Pakistan and Afghanistan, so charged with its colorful and turbulent past, a suspicious customs officer asks me if I am carrying any alcohol. Considering the heat I've just endured, every bottle and beer can I had has been drained dry. Which is a good thing, because Pakistan has a strict zero-tolerance policy where alcohol is concerned.

Reassured, the civil servant then offers me a bag of cocaine, which I promptly snort. He personally guarantees the drug's premium quality. The effect is quite pleasant, and the numbness makes me feel light-a welcome change following my gastronomic journey through Chile. Feeling bold, I pick up my guitar and suddenly realize that I'm listening to myself as I play. Simultaneously performer and listener, I suddenly feel trapped and insecure. I decide that it's best if I put the guitar back down. The customs officer, charmed by the music, then hands me another packet.

- Heroin?

*******

Kabul hasn't yet been "liberated" by the Soviets. The American manager of the Intercontinental Hotel has arranged for a concert to be given by the swimming pool. The sound of an Afghan sitar drifts through the air, accompanied by a tabla. The peacefulness of this majestic locale, which overlooks the entire city, combined with the soft and sensual music, belies the turmoil and bloodshed to come. I set out in the direction of the legendary Band-I-Amir lakes, in the center of Afghanistan, a difficult trip through high, rock-strewn mountains. The gray landscape was duller than the sky, which was deep blue. Two immensities confronted one another. Only the eagles turning above in the breeze gave a sign that this was no longer the Jovian world. Nature is silent.

Suddenly, like the imaginary monolith that rises up in Arthur Clarke's 2001: A Space Odyssey, a blinding image rose up from the ground. Gigantic emeralds refracted the intense vertical shafts of light. A succession of crystalline lakes lay at my feet, an extravagant necklace of jewels strewn across the landscape by an otherworldly hand.

There is a tent near the river: two young Germans who are traveling across the country on horseback. Be careful, they caution, as I arrive at their little camp, the water is so cold we use it to chill our beer. I dip my hand into the water-a glacial fluid no more than 6 or 7 degrees centigrade. But the bottom, which must be 100 or 150 meters deep, looks so close that you can make out every nook and cranny, magnified by the crystalline water. When viewed from another angle the rays of sunlight bounce off this prism. I find myself in a brilliant opalescent chamber of light. I undress and slowly slip into the water.

- Are you crazy?

I feel compelled to penetrate the soft, hypnotic fluid. I slip in slowly and a glacial anesthesia spreads through me. My body begins to dematerialize.

- Come back!

I dive in. My eyes wide, I observe the surrounding beauty. I want to approach the abyss that contains it. But an anguished voice somewhere above cries out. I return to the surface.

Stiff upper lip

- Come back!

Not yet. Not yet. Once more I'm submerged in it. I can see it, grab it, below me, far down, much farther down. With broad slow strokes I approach its depths. I communicate with the colors around me. Deeper, deeper. I could feel it. It clings to my body, dragging me down toward the supreme paralysis.

- COME BACK.

I want to pierce the veil of the unknown.

- COME BACK.

I raise my eyes. The flat surface of the upper world looks far away, too far to justify my return from this exalted state. I'm intoxicated.

- COME BACK

Against my will my arms and legs move me in the direction of my emergence. NO! NO! The scissor strokes become increasingly urgent. NO! NO! Half-conscious I find myself being catapulted through the surface. Later I lay on the shore of the lake, an exhausted, sexless, sated being.

*******

At the border the Iranian policeman glances at my passport. He calls a guard, who leads me away from the office.

- What do you think you're doing, you ferocious Persian?

- I spic no French, no Inglish!

A repulsive bureaucrat, it's obvious he's a boozer. A more agreeable customs agent enlightens me:

- Don't waste your time, you don't stand a chance. Better to go back.

- But why? What did I do? The French don't need a visa! In any case there's no other way I can get to France. The only highway back passes through your country. It's pointless to insist, however. It's a dead-end. To pass the time, outside the customs office, I unpack my guitar and begin to play a melancholy tune. A white Mercedes stops. A smart looking general emerges from the car. He throws a coin into my guitar case. I set him straight about the purpose of my serenade.

- I'm carrying out a mission of the highest importance. Your vassal, however, has refused me access to your country even though as a Frenchman, I don't require a visa. He examines my passport.

- But you're not French, you're an artist!

- General, you seem to be confusing status and function. Moreover, your consul general in Karachi…

- He was mistaken.

- Then I have to call my embassy, your minister, the Shah!

- On Friday! Are you joking.

After several hours of frenetic combat, several shades of drama (anger, indignation, threats, contempt, humility, tears) and the intervention of another, more musically inclined, officer, a counter-order was given and the gateway to Persia opened before me.

A few years later I was to learn about the many administrative problems I would have experienced as an "artist" in the Middle East. When the French, under a mandate from the Society of Nations, occupied Lebanon and Syria from 1916 to 1944, our Minister of Defense, to help allay the celibacy imposed on young French recruits by the local religion, sent contingents of prostitutes to the rescue. These professionals were listed as "artists" on their passports.

*******

In Teheran the guitar wasn't yet the instrument of Satan it became under Khomeini, who treated all musical instruments as armaments. Although there is a longstanding relation between Islam and music, the art has been considered suspect even though it is legal. The goal of music is to unify man, the object and the act. However, this is also the goal of religion. Hearing, unlike the other senses, is directly linked to intelligence. Music thus inspires tremendous suspicion on the part of legal scholars, who, depending on the interpretation, may tolerate or ban it.

A reception was held in the imperial court after my recital. A young French volunteer, Jean During, had fallen in love with the setar, a kind of three-string lute, which is in reality the origin of the modern guitar (the word "tar" derives from "string," the root is found in "guitar," "cithare," and "sitar").

He began playing long movements based on classical Persian themes. I drifted a little during this amalgam of minor thirds, which, to my ears at least, seemed to resemble one another. But my hosts were flushed with emotion. During certain passages, which had little effect on me, the Iranians stood up and cried out with enthusiasm. Art and education….