up the peels, and a red powder clouds the room. A sunbeam pokes through a cross-shaped gap in the domed roof to cast light on the wild dance of red dust.
A camel once had to tread in endless circles around this dark chamber, the old miller explains. We chat with him, and he happily shows us his storage room with the various raw materials for making natural colors. A rear court leads to a small caravansary.
"Is she your wife?" Kurosh is asked.
"No, a customer from the shop."
"But why does she speak our language?"
Burden carriers cross our path. Just like the old walls, they seem to come from a different era. The frames on their backs are made of wood and padded with shaggy mats. A bent old man weights down his tiny body with a giant bolt of cloth.
For lunch I talk Kurosh into grilled liver on a stick. Near the Friday Mosque, we finally find a small restaurant where a group of Afghani farmers is sitting. The fireplace connects the inner and outer rooms, and its smoke billows freely into the street.
"Do you really want to stay here?" he asks me dumbfounded. "Only poor people eat at places like this. Everyone's staring at you."
"Could you please buy a couple of sticks? We'll eat them out here," I answer. The smell of the grilled meat and the sight of the delicious thin bread makes my mouth water, and even if I wanted we could not leave

even if I wanted we could not leave now. The only table in the tiny place is a long narrow one for six or eight people, and the men would have to move over if I wanted to sit. They look at me searchingly. When I speak to one of them, they are very unsure. Not many tourists come this way. Their clothes and Mongol faces told me where they came from, and I ask about their situation at home. The Taliban have taken almost every province, they say. Soon all will be lost. Their life in Iran is rough and full of sacrifices, but with God's help everything will come out fine.
"I'm surprised you like this kind of thing," says Kurosh, "and this kind of place for that matter. It's so dirty here. And you're talking to these poor people. I don't think I've ever spoken with an Afghani."
"Then it's about time."
"For what?"
"For you to talk to Afghanis. There are millions of them in your country."
"Let's ride to the river and have our lunch break there," suggests Kurosh. A brief gesture, and a moment later we are sitting in a taxi. "No other passengers, please," Kurosh tells the driver and passes him some money. He lays his arm down on the shelf behind the back seat and tugs tenderly at my headscarf. A warm breeze blows through the open window, and shady trees rush past us. It smells exotic. I lean back and close my eyes.
On the riverbank promenade we run into some Dutch people Kurosh met a few days before