August 1972: Kabul and Illness: Desperation

 Taken From All About My Hat The Hippy Trail 1972 ISBN ‎ 978-0993210716 

They had been there (in Kabul) for about ten days when Al started to get sick again. I knew he was feeling worse each day, unable to eat or drink without being sick, until one day he realised that he could not stand straight without his head spinning and the feeling that he was about to black out.

He told Diane that he was going to a clinic and she found the address from reception and arranged for a taxi. Al left his bag but was sure to take his passport. Diane went with him to the hospital reception but had not stayed. She took the same taxi back into the city.

Al had to wait about half an hour and then a doctor approached him, saying “Very sorry Sir, very few people here speak English – they had to fetch me from my home. It is a holiday for me today, but I come to see you.”

He took Al into a room and asked his problem, which he explained briefly. The doctor called and a male nurse arrived and, without a word, took Al by the wrist and led him out of the room. As he left he spotted a poster that was warning against smallpox!

Al was led into a very large structure, the walls were made from corrugated-looking tin and the roof was canvas. It looked like it had well over a hundred big steel beds, most of them empty.

Al was led to a bed and given a bottle of water and the nurse gestured for him to stay. He got on the bed and instantly fell asleep.

It was some time later that Al was awoken. The same male nurse took a sample of his blood.

A remarkably short time later, the nurse returned with a blood transfusion kit. They gave Al a pint of blood, into his arm, and when that was done, several pints of plasma. The nurse motioned to Al so he understood to drink water.

Al just kept dozing off. Several times somebody woke him and gave him sugarless black tea, then the evening meal arrived. It was rice. Just soggy white rice. But Al was hungry and ate it all.

It was two days before Diane arrived for a visit. She had waited, she said, for Al to come back, then tried unsuccessfully to phone the hospital for information, then decided to get a taxi.

Al spoke to somebody for the first time in two days. Diane told him that the taxi-driver had helped her find him and that he had translated for her, Al had been at such a point of dehydration that his life was at risk. She said that the doctor here had said there was nobody to speak in English but in another two or three days an English-speaking doctor would come and until then, Al had to stay!

True to that, the English-speaking doctor that Al had first met at reception, appeared three days later.

Al had been there for five days.

The doctor said that he was surprised that Al was still there; he should have been there for just one day but nobody knew. He said Al could go now.

 Al then realised that he did not have any money and told the doctor – his money was at the hotel. The doctor gave Al some few Afghani notes and told him that he could get a bus outside that would take him to the city centre. From there a short walk took him back to the Peace Hotel in Chicken Street.

Diane was there. She was not happy. She told Al how she had met an English woman whose husband had been in prison for drugs for two years and she had given her most of her money.

The she said “And I've lost my passport!”

“Oh no, how did that happen? Are you getting a new one?”

“I don't know,” she said, “It was in my bag and then it was gone. I went to the embassy and they are getting me a new one in about a week, they just gave me a temporary document for ID in case I need it. They told the police. I've got to go back in a week.”

“Wow, that's not too good, we've got to get out of here next week, our visa's run out and I've not got much money left!” said Al.

“I've got none either, well not much,” said Diane.

“Bloody hell that all went quick!”

“And,” she continued, “When I get a new passport I've got to go back to the border to get an entry stamp, then we got to get our visas extended.”

“Well that's not too bad, it was a brilliant bus ride, I don't mind, I'll come with you. Got to get some money too, somehow.”

“I'm not going to go back to the border,” said Diane, “I don't see why I should, it's obvious I'm here so I must have come into the bloody place. They can stuff it. I'll get my passport but I am not going back.”

Al decided not to argue. He just explained that it was all formality and if Diane wanted to cross into Iran she would need an entry visa and it was only at the Pakistan border that they probably have a record of when they had come in.

That didn't work.

Diane said rather loudly: “Look, I'm not going back, right. They can phone up or do it in the post I don't care. It's just stupid.”

 

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