EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

boundary line between two worlds. There met the
incoming traders from the hills and the modernised
shopkeepers and merchants of old Kabul. That was
an arena where two ages met and st ared in wonder.

Down the long road from the north, there would
come a daily procession of caravan traders. They would
sit astride their lean-shanked ponies, with their rifles
aslant over their broad shoulders. Their saddles were
heaped rugs and pads of leather. There was coloured
work in their harness, and heavy iron stirrups, with
protective skins to keep the cold of winter from their
shanks. Their puggarees were voluminous and generous.
Their waistcoats gaudy and loose, trousers of white
hanging down in wide folds to their green and red and
yellow sandals.

They would rein in their ponies and stare at the new
KabuL At the policeman at the crossroads, in a smart
new cap of modern design, jacket, puttees, and — wonder
of all — boots. They would spare a glance for the burly
Russian Air Force mechanics, perpetually sitting in the
garden of the hotel. They would look at electric lights,
paved streets, and wide avenues and new shops, showing
advertisements of new Western products, with the eyes
of the unbelieving.

Was this the new Kabul of which they had heard ?
The travellers were not lying for once, then !

Then they would kick their ponies into a trot, call to
their laden mules, and stare fiercely ahead as they made
their way to the old city.

Even then, they were not past their wonderment and
their troubles. For the point-duty policeman would
shout and revile them. He would stand in their way
and call them dolts, louts, ignorant animals. Did they
not know that in modern Kabul traffic must keep to the
left of the road ? They did not know. They had never

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