oasis stops like in the United States. No McDonalds’ or Burger Kings and not even any truck stops. The roads took them through desert and mountains. They brought their own food and water and made only a few stops to refuel and take a quick leak.
When he arrived back in Kandahar, the relative arranged for Mark to stay at the hotel he and Mo had stayed at the first night. That was no small feat, as most of the hotels had been destroyed in the years of war, so Mark tried to convey his appreciation. As much as he hated the treatment of the women here, he couldn’t fault the hospitality he had received. These people didn’t even know him, and yet he had been fed and driven around the country. Mark wanted to pay the man, but he insisted Mo had taken care of everything already, so Mark smiled and thanked the man one more time before he headed into his room and flopped on the bed with a weary sigh. Just a few more days, and then he’d be home.
He slept late the next day, glad that he had nothing on his agenda. It was his plan to get an early start to the day and take more photographs, but the last few weeks finally caught up with him and it was almost eleven when he woke up. After washing and dressing, he took his camera, making sure his batteries were still good and he had plenty of film. Today he planned to just be a sightseer—a tourist of sorts, although the country probably hadn’t seen many tourists in the last twenty years or so. While he had visited many places, he hadn’t had a chance to really go out and explore on his own and he relished the opportunity.
By now, his beard was full, and he had acquired probably the darkest tan of his life, allowing him to blend with the populace as long as he didn’t have to speak to anyone. As he wandered about Kabul, his camera at his side, he noticed the women beggars along the side of the road. Mo had mentioned that the women who had no husband or male relatives had a hard life, but he hadn’t expected that so many had to rely on begging. He took a few photos of them, and then dropped some coins in their cups.
Growing up, the women’s lib movement had been a big political hot button topic, but Mark had been just a kid and it was irrelevant to his life. He played baseball, rode bikes and teased girls in his neighborhood by chasing them with worms or nasty bugs he found in the corn. When he was old enough to ditch the worms and just chase them figuratively, equal rights for women meant he didn’t have to open doors for them—except his parents had drilled the courtesy into him practically from the crib—so he was left confused as to what he was supposed to do. Hold doors? Pay for dates? He usually went with his instincts, which meant following his father’s example.
Even when he went to college, women’s lib for him was more about liberating a girl from her clothes than in any political movement.
Mark discovered even if Mo didn’t follow up finishing the book, he knew this trip would change the way he thought of women for the rest of his life. At least it wouldn’t be a waste in that regard. Instead of erasing his frustration, the prospect of not being able to show the world what was going on set off a slow, simmering anger.
Mid-afternoon the city slowed down as people retreated from the heat and Mark did the same, sitting in the shade of a building as he bit into a plum he had bought from a vendor. The juice squirted in his mouth, and he had to admit that the fruit in this country tasted better than any he could remember. It could have been because he hadn’t eaten any junk food for several weeks and his tastes were changing, or maybe because the fruit assuaged his thirst as well. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, stopping when a small boy approached him. The boy’s clothes hung in tatters and his feet were bare. The child sank onto his haunches and smiled at him, showing a gap-toothed grin. Mark returned the smile,