The Birth of Hope
After Vietnam, much of the summer of 1968 was spent at home in Hawaii where my grandfather was visiting from Sweden. He had the honor of naming the Land Rover that I proposed to drive from the factory in England to my next post which was India. To care for Rimmerfjord, I took a crash course at the factory on how to repair a Land Rover; but the training was on a diesel vehicle. Shortly after crossing the English Channel, the engine died while traveling at about 35 mph. I popped the hood and was horrified to find an electrical wire going through the crankcase and out the other side. Some French fellows on the ferry had been flirting, and when they no longer saw Rimmerfjord in their rearview mirror, they turned around and came back . . . with quite a few words for British engineering. The electrical problems plagued me for years, but I also met a lot of friendly people whenever the car broke down. The moral of the story is never buy a Land Rover that has less that 25,000 miles on the odometer because if the car has survived that long, the owners have solved the problems that should have been addressed at the factory.
By December, I reached Afghanistan and saw my very first hippies. They told me about a road over the north that would lead to Kabul. A few days later, I saw a green Chevy coming from the north so I thought the road existed. Obviously, I wouldn’t be telling the story that follows if the road had actually existed. On one occasion, I got stuck in the mud around sunset. Several Afghani men tried to push the car, but it would not budge. They left and came back with about 50 men and two camels. I wish there had been daylight because someone would have paid handsomely to see camels pulling a Land Rover with a full moon in the background.
It turned out the men were fascinated by my blue eyes and with all kinds of hand signals, they tried to figure out where I was from. Then, an old man with blue eyes appeared. He was completely convinced we were related. My Viking ancestors did travel a lot. After enjoying the all-male Afghan hospitality, I went back to the car to sleep, leaving my muddy boots on the hood. In the morning, the boots were perfectly clean as was the Land Rover, and they accomplished all this without waking me.
Meanwhile some government officials invited me to their office. In very feeble French, they tried to explain that they had had a complaint from the Soviet Union that I had crossed the border. I explained that the roads were very bad and asked about the condition of the roads ahead. The answer was that the roads from Herat to wherever the heck I was were “tres, tres, tres mauvais” and the road ahead was only “tres mauvais”. This sounded incredibly promising. They accompanied me on horseback for several miles to make sure I stayed on the right side of the border.
Then, in the absolute middle of nowhere, the engine again stopped. Horsemen passed from time-to-time and gawked at me, rubbing their eyes as if they were seeing a ghost or mirage. Then, someone with a rifle over his shoulder stopped and began speaking very good Japanese. I asked him what he was speaking Japanese to me. He said it was because it is the only foreign language he knows. He asked if anything was wrong with the car. I said, “I’ll gladly trade it for your horse.” Curious, he asked again about the car. I asked if he knew anything about cars. He said he saw a jeep once during World War II. I said, “A Japanese jeep?” My thinking was if he learned such good Japanese, maybe he actually also knows something about jeeps. I told him the problem was with the brakes. It was obviously not the case at all, but I wanted to see what he would do. He assured me the brakes were fine. So, I said, “Well, actually, it’s the ignition coil.” He said to wait. What else could I do? Rimmerfjord was not going anywhere. Three days later, the man reappeared with a brand new ignition coil, of course, made in Japan. He installed it perfectly, and I deeply regret not prying into what kind of angelic being manifests out of nowhere and then comes back with an ignition coil when I had only seen people on horseback for weeks, no cars since the green Chevy.
Afghanistan was fascinating. I loved it there and took hundreds of pictures. Shortly before Christmas, I got to Kabul and was given luxurious accommodations by the State Department . . . well, after a rugged journey, hot running water and a comfortable bed with clean sheets was something very special. More magic happened as I met some Swedish missionaries heading for India. They asked for a lift, and I immediately agreed. They invited me to join them for a Christmas Eve ceremony at a Swedish Church. Children had been dressed as angels and they looked like they were in the sky because whatever was supporting them could not be seen in the dark. Then, came the three Wise Men on real camels and they placed their presents by the crib. No one uttered a word for 23 minutes. There was no applause. Everyone left in silence, deeply moved by the glorious music in the snowy outdoors. It was the most memorable Christmas of my life . . . and in a Moslem country!
This Christmas, Mercury is retrograde. I wrote a few days ago that I had made my choice, but actually it was a a toss up so I decided to post two videos. South African Pretty Yende has an infectious smile and angelic voice. I probably have a list of 8-10 arias that I have wanted to share with you . . . despite realizing that many subscribers do not click on the music links. However, ‘tis the season and this particular famous piece speaks to everyone in Christendom.
Next, please also enjoy this beautiful carol sung by Kathleen Battle! Her high notes are absolutely out of this world.
May your season be peaceful, joyful, and reverent.
With my blessings,
Ingrid
Copyright by Dr. Ingrid Naiman 2023 || All Rights Reserved
Very interesting post and beautiful music!
Have a great and joyful holiday season!