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AMANULLAH

Passing Landi Kotal, I managed to keep away from
interfering British officials. The babu at the Frontier was
surprised but resigned.

" You are taking great trouble to go to Kabul," he
said.

He was right. I was.

So that black and white wooden barrier between the
barbed wire of the Frontier lifted, and we were through,
leaving behind a minor turmoil in official ranks because
someone had blundered. But it was no longer my
concern. When the red tape of officialdom becomes hope-
lessly knotted, then the reporter sometimes laughs. . . .

It was burning hot that August morning. No rain had
come in the north, and though the clouds came some-
times low enough to promise rain, for the most part the
sun shone with a terrific heat that struck back from the
bare road and the treeless countryside, and seemed to
pierce the eyes with its rays.

The American touring car bumped and swayed over a
roughly-made road. Sitting in the back? I was already
having difficulty in keeping my head from striking the
hood at every chain of potholes. But the driver was
impassive and calm. " This," he said, " is the good part
of the road. Later on, it is not so good."

Before two hours had passed, I was already to gain an
insight into the strange conditions in this strange
country. The driver, an Indian, had begun his journey
in a comfortable dhoti and jacket, with a voluminous
puggaree on his head. Then he stopped the car, and
rummaged in the tool-box.

" Dacca," he said laconically, and began to transform
himself into the perfect imitation of an Eastern gentle-
man " gone.Western."

He pulled on khaki trousers. He replaced his loose
sandals with cheap brown American shoes with bulging

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