Authentic life

This story I heard from a doctor.

He had been to Afghanistan some years ago. I suppose it was after the end of the Soviet occupation, and before 9/11 and the war on terrorism.

He was working there as a doctor in a medical unit in the countryside somewhere. Together with other doctors and nurses he was offering much needed medical help to the local population. Once they had operated on a young man and saved his life. His family, of course, was very thankful. They were rich and powerful people, and they invited the team of doctors to visit them in their village in the mountains.

The following Saturday early in the morning a powerful four wheel drive truck came to their camp to pick them up. They drove for several hours, the roads gradually becoming more and more rugged while the truck with difficulty made its way through the bare and deserted mountain landscape.

They were talking among themselves, eagerly awaiting their arrival to a spot where maybe no Europeans had been before, to see the authentic Afghan village and the way of life there.

Finally they arrived. The father of the son, whose life they had saved, was the chief of the village. He welcomed them warmly and proposed to show them around the village while a meal was being prepared for them. There was one main street in the village. Traditional houses melting into the background of the mountains. “Come inside” he said, “and let me show you what goods my village has to offer”. They went into a house, expecting to find exotic medicines, magic potions and traditional handicraft items of the sort that must have been made there for thousands of years.

To their surprise he proudly showed them huge amounts of fashion goods from Paris. All the well-known perfume brands, the handbags otherwise found in the expensive shops on the Champs-Elysées, and fashion clothing worthy of any European queen.

They were a bit disappointed. He took them to another house. May this was where they would see the authentic products of the mountain dwellers. But no. Here was everything in the way of modern appliances. The most recent computers, the most recent plasma television screens and everything a European teenage boy could ever dream of (by way of hardware that is).

“Before we sit down to have our the meal” the chief said, “there’s just one more shop you should see”. They went into another house. On the shelves and on the floors there was a large array of guns, pistols and weapons of every kind. “Would you like to buy that?” he asked the doctor, and pointed at a Kalashnikov. The doctor didn’t, but asked “don’t you have anything bigger than that?”.

“We do, of course we do”, he said. He took him out to the back of the house. There was a yard filled with military equipment. He pointed to a Soviet tank. “Is that what you want?” he asked. “It is”, the doctor said, “but I am afraid that British Airways will not allow me to take it on the plane.” “Don’t worry” the chief said. “Give us three months. We will take it apart, have it shipped to Europe, and assemble it for you”.

The meal was a traditional one and very tasty at that.