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.