A Prisoner In Afghanistan. Adult. A German imprisoned in an American compound. (standard:action, 4233 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 06 2020	Views/Reads: 1156/846	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The story of a writer taken captive in an American and Afghan compound.

"Welches Jahr?" I ask my driver and guide, thumping one hand on the
dash.  With no answer, I amend the question to, "What year?" in 
English. 

"Mad'in 1990," is the reply. Like most of the world, more English is
taught in Turkmenistan than my native German.  We left an inn in 
Gushgy, and are on our way to the border town of Towraghondi, from 
where I hope to make it into Afghanistan. 

The Land Rover may have left the factory in 1990, but has lost its
springs somewhere between then and now, 2014.  My butt feels every 
anthill on the dirt and stone trails we've been following. 

In the process of writing a history of the US's so-called "War On
Terror," I'm on my way to try to cadge an interview with an Al Queda 
hotshot.  Not affiliated with any news agency, I'm using the proceeds 
of my last book to pay for the trip. 

Somehow, I don't think I'll be welcomed by American troops I might run
into there.  Any investigation of my ID will refer to my volume on how 
lousy Americans are with international politics and diplomacy.  I've 
taken the precaution of paying for a fake ID as a Swiss citizen, a 
neutral country.  It's not the best effort for such things, but all I 
can afford. 

"We no go Towraghondi, okay?" the driver asks.  "Radio say many soldier,
Turkmen.  We goes round.  No check, I think." 

"You fucking think?  Hey, it's my ass." 

"You pay a'ready.  You get out now?  Okay me." 

I paid him to take me to the border, now only a few kilometers away as
the crow flies.  I'm bringing a backpack and will have to walk from 
there.  Luckily, I filled my canteens back at the inn.  However, being 
hungry sounds preferable to a Turkmen jail. 

We stop for fuel at a stone hut sitting alongside the road.  I relieve
myself in a small shack out back while the driver fills up from stacks 
of 200litre drums in front. Not trusting him, I take my pack with me.  
It's a good thing I do, since he's gone when I return. 

Shrugging, I turn toward the entrance.  So, I walk a few more
kilometers.  No big deal. 

*** 

An old crone dressed in local finery slumps behind the counter, looking
out a window. Also, a girl appearing to be in her late teens sits on a 
rattan recliner near a wood stove – boots elevated near the fire.  In 
the morning chill, the room smells of a mixture of oil, rotting wood, 
and unfamiliar spices. 

There are shelves of foodstuffs around two sides.  Large items such as a
pickle-barrel, a wooden ox-collar and coils of hemp rope take space in 
the center of the large room.  The counter consists of a door lying 
across stacks of brightly-colored plastic Coco-Cola crates.  Behind it, 
a prominent display of new-looking AK-47 assault rifles catches my eye. 


As I step closer, I see a crate at one end of the counter contains an
assortment of pistols thrown in together like the discount box at a 
supermarket.  They look to be mostly rusty Russian Takarovs and 
Brownings.  Cheap firearms seem to be a staple of grocery stores here, 
most stolen from Saddam's army and the Taliban.  That occurred when the 
Americans sorta forgot to secure them during the opening stages of 
those wars.  No doubt they also have a shack filled with explosives out 
back -- anti-tank rockets for blowing stumps. 

I would like to find out how far it is to the border and pick up more
dried meat to take along on my long walk. With both of the women eyeing 
me warily, I tour the shelves, picking up a few items such as strings 
and balls of dried meat, hoping it's goat or dog not camel.  My teeth 
can't take much more stringy dried dromedary. 



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