Majestic Scenery Doesn’t Change the Fact That Eggs Are Gross
Majestic Scenery Doesn’t Change the Fact That Eggs Are Gross
Eggs on the Banks of the Salang River
The white Lexus SUV came to a halt near a dirt path leading to the Salang River in Afghanistan’s Parwan Province.
A burly ex-soldier with a beard that the Taliban would envy hopped out of the front seat and stretched. For years, he had driven around Afghanistan searching for Taliban fighters and he knew the drill at every new village.
“Let’s talk to the locals,” the ex-soldier joked as we looked at the village built into the sides of the biscuit-colored mountains. “How many Taliban are in the area? Who is sheltering them? Where are the rockets?”
The SUV’s driver, a tall Afghan who used to worked with the American soldiers, laughed as he got out. Those were the questions the soldiers asked the villagers on every patrol. But today, we were only in the village for breakfast.
I’m not a breakfast guy. I don’t care for eggs, which is the meal’s staple. I don’t drink coffee nor do I like sweets. Breakfast to me is a bowl of cereal, but when I was invited to a morning picnic in Parwan during a recent trip to Kabul, I had to say yes. I couldn’t pass up a chance to eat in the shadow of the same mountains Alexander the Great crossed or sit near a river he likely saw with his own eyes.
Alexander the Great founded the first settlement in Parwan Province in 329 BC. Since 2001, it has been home to thousands of American soldiers based at Bagram Air Field. On most of my trips to Afghanistan, I arrived in Bagram and then traveled with heavily armed soldiers on patrol. Breakfasts in the field were usually a prepackaged meal and a bottle of water. I was sure this would be better.
I could hear the river before I could see it. Picking our way over the rocky path, I finally got a glimpse of the Salang River. The water was rushing over some rocks. Near the bank, our Afghan hosts set up a bright red rug and some pillows on a concrete slab. Nearby, I could smell the food cooking in an outdoor kitchen. On a small burner, a cook was mixing tomatoes and eggs together. Kicking my boots off, I sat down across from Tom just as plates of bread, cheese, and grapes arrived.
The bread was warm. We used it to grab chucks of cheese drizzled with honey and grapes. Sitting back against the pillow, I had trouble following the conversations around me. I was swept up by the food and scenery. Towering above us were mountains and while it was still warm in Kabul, the mountain air of Parwan was crisp and cool.
A warm glass of tea cut the slight chill. We sipped tea and ate as the cooks prepared the next dish. The eggs arrived slathered in spicy tomato sauce. I dabbed the bread around the plate, careful not to break the yoke. The sauce and bread melted together, making a warm spicy bite. No one spoke for a while as chunks of bread attacked the plates of eggs and tomatoes.
The dish demanded attention. But I still don’t like eggs.