Afghanistan, July-August 1969 – Page 8

Fearful row with the taxi man ends in moral
victory for us. Quite crooked. Machinery brings
out the very worst in people. Lavish love on an
inanimate object seems to totally change their concepts
of honesty. A law unto themselves. Little man with
a fancy shirt and a mean expansion. The first
insult came when he cheerfully waved at me in
the street.

I sit in a taxi heading for Kabul on my
right a chicken and red legged partridge
looking obliquely through a hole in a white
with a purple tanned
calico bill tent. It gasps for air so do I.
The hunka is the balding after is so many sights.

So am I.

Sheakla Pepe. Tuwwah of the Epthalites
crowning the hill.

Think of the hailight discomfort or the
yethenan. good.