Ok, let me give you a disclaimer - this is a LONG post. It is a combination of a series of letters to my parents while I was in Afghanistan in 2006.
Actually, I had originally intended to write more often of my time in Afghanistan, but quickly found myself getting more and more busy with work and outside work activities (mostly to fight the boredom). This is an albeit weak excuse that I use to explain my lack of diligence in letter writing. Of course, you may ask, "why then, didn't you write letters to fight off the boredom?" Well, this is because city power is practically non-existent in Kabul and generators that are often shut off at the most inconvenient times, power everything. Regardless, while I hoped to keep you informed of the general situation of what is going on here, I've tried to divide up the general story into sections so that a) I am forced to write more often b) you can learn a little more about how things are in Afghanistan and not just how I am doing and c) it makes letter reading a bit more interesting. So….
Chapter 1. The beginning
In the beginning there was Afghanistan…a country tormented by centuries of war, civil unrest and enlightened by mighty empires and various cultures. When you come to Afghanistan and see the mass destruction and poverty it is hard to imagine that this was a land of mighty empires. At one time the Afghan empire was second only to the Ottomans in terms of size. Yet, by looking at much of what remains, one would never guess it. Of course, this is coming from someone who spends 99.9% of his time in Kabul.
Kabul is an "interesting" city. Although not historically a seat of cultural or administrative power, Kabul has become the capital city and has played host to various rulers since the 1700's; ranging from the deposed Afghan monarchy to center of Soviet-Afghan administration and even the stomping ground of the Taliban. From what I understand, today's Kabul as the center of the "religiously-secular" (and yes, I realize that is an oxymoron, but so is everything else here) modern state of Afghanistan is actually not much different from its predecessors. Policy and practices are slow to develop and materialize, causing great and increasing frustration and despondency among the population and now international population as well.
What one first arrives in Kabul they encounter simply a broken shell of what was once here; destroyed gardens, decrepit mausoleums, looted museums, bombed out palaces, practically non-existent roads, etc.
Basically, traces of Central Asian power interwoven with Soviet and some American assistance – mainly during the late 60's and early 70's.
Actually, I had originally intended to write more often of my time in Afghanistan, but quickly found myself getting more and more busy with work and outside work activities (mostly to fight the boredom). This is an albeit weak excuse that I use to explain my lack of diligence in letter writing. Of course, you may ask, "why then, didn't you write letters to fight off the boredom?" Well, this is because city power is practically non-existent in Kabul and generators that are often shut off at the most inconvenient times, power everything. Regardless, while I hoped to keep you informed of the general situation of what is going on here, I've tried to divide up the general story into sections so that a) I am forced to write more often b) you can learn a little more about how things are in Afghanistan and not just how I am doing and c) it makes letter reading a bit more interesting. So….
Chapter 1. The beginning
In the beginning there was Afghanistan…a country tormented by centuries of war, civil unrest and enlightened by mighty empires and various cultures. When you come to Afghanistan and see the mass destruction and poverty it is hard to imagine that this was a land of mighty empires. At one time the Afghan empire was second only to the Ottomans in terms of size. Yet, by looking at much of what remains, one would never guess it. Of course, this is coming from someone who spends 99.9% of his time in Kabul.
Kabul is an "interesting" city. Although not historically a seat of cultural or administrative power, Kabul has become the capital city and has played host to various rulers since the 1700's; ranging from the deposed Afghan monarchy to center of Soviet-Afghan administration and even the stomping ground of the Taliban. From what I understand, today's Kabul as the center of the "religiously-secular" (and yes, I realize that is an oxymoron, but so is everything else here) modern state of Afghanistan is actually not much different from its predecessors. Policy and practices are slow to develop and materialize, causing great and increasing frustration and despondency among the population and now international population as well.
What one first arrives in Kabul they encounter simply a broken shell of what was once here; destroyed gardens, decrepit mausoleums, looted museums, bombed out palaces, practically non-existent roads, etc.
Basically, traces of Central Asian power interwoven with Soviet and some American assistance – mainly during the late 60's and early 70's.
In all honesty, it's rather an odd combination of planning and architecture. Granted, much of the infrastructure was destroyed by the Taliban, various insurgencies and is currently being replaced by Arab and Iranian businessmen who are building large, overpriced glass shopping centers (known as "trade markets") and wedding halls all over town. For example, the compound that I live in reminds me a lot of Miami in terms of architecture. A square shaped house with a flat roof and many windows. The bottom front wall is basically one giant window and the layout is truly Floridian. I learned from my boss who was a Peace Corps volunteer here in the 60's, that volunteers at that time were much more professionally minded than most of the recent recruits (in other places in the world – not Afghanistan) and many of them were architects, doctors, engineers, etc. and they actually contributed quite a bit the development of the time.
As I mentioned before, some of the Soviet legacy remains as well. Many apartment buildings, schools and National Polyclinic are still standing (which is truly remarkable considering the fighting and earthquakes here), as well as the open sewer canals that line the street. This merits some explanation.
In theory, I understand the sewer system of Central Asia. Originating in Persia, the idea of the canals is to channel water from the mountains into and through the city to "flush" the debris out. I've seen them in Kazakhstan and they obviously have them in Iran as well and they seem to work relatively well. Of course, Kazakhstan and Iran also have mountains with plenty of snow on them that can melt and have water come and flow down into the city. Afghanistan on the other hand does not. True, Kabul is situated in a valley, but there is not always snow on the mountains. So, instead of cleansing the city as intended, the open sewer canals ultimately collects what little rain that falls, slowly cooks it in the hot sun and ultimately cultivates the next generation of pestilence in a stagnant stew of rotting debris. As you can imagine, the aroma that encompasses this massive parasitic incubator takes some getting used to, which I imagine won't happen in the short time that I'm here.
I say "short" because, as you may remember my sojourn to Afghanistan is intended to be short – a few months and nothing more. This was an ideal situation really as it allowed me to work in Afghanistan as well as provided me with adequate time to get a feel for the situation and think about staying here long time for work. True, my one-year contract in South Korea turned into three and my time in Georgia led to the purchase of a home there, but based on my stay so far, I can say that I really have no intentions of making a life here; at least not like the one that I currently have. That isn't to say that my life is "bad" here, in fact I've often described it to my co-workers like some sort of summer camp…mind you, a really dangerous, demented sort of summer camp, but camp none the less. There are cooks on the compound and they can cook well, but are rather expensive and I prefer to do my own cooking or go to my friend, Saeed's compound (same organization, but his compound is separated from mine by a wall).
Saeed is a researcher here on contract and originally from Iran. Moreover, he is a great cook and serves as my unofficial translator on the streets. Without a doubt we are very lucky to have him here – good guy with a good sense of humor. My living conditions are nice. I've stayed at much worse places. My original room was fairly large with it's own bathroom, but I was forced to move when new people came.
Although I was originally upset in giving up my private bathroom, I became happier a week later with the entire roof of my former building caved in and came crashing to the floor due to the rats and termites gnawing at the wood rafters. So now my room is on the second floor with a balcony. It is a corner room with the two outer corner walls made of glass. It is fairly attractive and is a nice way to wake up. Of course, sunrise is about 3 o'clock in the morning soon followed by the Muslim call to prayer – so I usually wake up between 3 and 4 now. In turn, this provides me with plenty of time to prepare for work, but as there is no city power and the generators aren't turned on until 6, I usually shower (when there is water (lukewarm on occasion)), shave, eat, and wait to go to work for about 3 hours.
I work for the Afghanistan Research and Evaluation Unit, which is like a think tank. The work environment is very nice professional, but very relaxed and allows me to come to work wearing sandals), and I share the compound (3 separate, yet interconnected walled in yards with one to two houses on them) with very nice foreigners from all over the world. Honestly, my job is fairly simple. I was hired to network with Embassy, NGO, government and UN officials to update a resource book on Afghanistan Assistance. Pretty much an ideal job for me – talking and working on the computer – what more could I ask for? Recently though, I have taken some editing research and guide design assignment as well to kill time as there is little more to do there.
The problem is that I didn't (and honestly don't) know much about Afghanistan. Granted, I thought I did, but the Afghanistan of my mind was a mixture of romanticized adventures of Rudyard Kipling, historical snippets of Khans and the "Great Game" period of Russian and British expansion, sprinkled with a vague understanding of the Soviet occupation, and topped with a combined information of America's "war on terrorism," hunting Osma Bin Laden, and fighting the Taliban. While this "armchair anthropologist" approach may be worth some merit outside the country, it was hardly enough to prepare me for what is here. On one hand there is Internet, mobile phones, cable TV, DVD stores selling various pirated goods and even the store around the compound sells various imported goods that are probably stolen from elsewhere (Belgian chocolates, Danish blue cheese, Oreo cookies, etc. (much more than I ever found in Tbilisi)). Yet, among all these modern conveniences, I go onto the street and am forced to find myself surrounded by extreme poverty, parks (only one and half remain in Kabul) so under cared for that they turn into dust bowls every night, sheep, donkeys and street children living off garbage, land mine victims, constant threats of bombs and rockets, and begging children, elderly and women painfully howling about their woes to ask for whatever money you can spare. Given the amount of corruption and political confusion here, the pace of development often drags and I can fully understand how difficult it is to remain optimistic about one's work and future. Here, organizations force international staff to take a week or so vacation every 2 or 3 months just to help them cope with the amount of stress.
What I find odd about this is that I have seen and experienced such poverty, if not worse in other countries as well, but here it appears as though the hope of something really "better" is unobtainable or intangible. Granted, I hope that I'm wrong and perhaps I'm not seeing things the way they really are. Plus, it is necessary to remember that Afghanistan has an extremely harsh and complex history that is interwoven with commercial, military and religious escapades and all of this has taken a toll on the people and culture for centuries.
From Alexander the Great, to the Persians, to the Mongols and eventually to the Russians and Europeans, Afghanistan has always served as a center of conflict, subjecting its people to warfare, misery and destruction far more than enlightenment and peace. Some of the world's most infamous despots have played their hand in shaping the territory in one fashion or another. Moreover, if they were not being attacked by another, or colonized by the European powers, they were in the midst of bitter tribal wars and infighting. A majority of these bloody coups and uprisings were executed in true Central Asian fashion and carried out by the hands of brother vs. brother, son vs. father, or nephew vs. uncle. Admittedly, many foreign powers also played their hands in these conflicts, spurring on one to destroy the other applying a "divide and conquer" strategy. Regardless, traces of this inner warfare remain today. There are several ethnic groups in Afghanistan and internal politics forces them to remain at odds with one another over issues such as water rights, languages, revenge, etc. And then of course, there's the Taliban.
Ok, I really didn't have a grasp of the Taliban before I came. I mean, sure I'd heard of them, but I didn't really understand what a bunch of blood mongering sociopaths they really were. Evidently, radical Islamic militants are considered a little to warm and fuzzy for members of the Taliban and so they formed their own little special brand of Islam – not to be confused with mainstream Islam.
Members of the Taliban are not Muslims. What they really are though are simply the product of abuse, neglect and pent up sexual frustration (in my opinion). The stories of how the Taliban ruled (and everyone has days of storytelling) stretch from the bizarre to inhumane. In the short time that I have been here, I have heard horror stories of what went on and to be honest, the stories that I could write would not do justice to how horrible the crimes were nor would they pay proper homage to the victims who suffered at the hands of them. It was almost as though they looked at world history and decided what was the worst thing that a power or ruler could impose on people, incorporate it into this society and make it considerably crueler.
For example, in many Islamic societies there is something like a ministry of "vice and virtue" whose job it is to monitor society and ensure that citizens are behaving properly in accordance to the teachings of the Koran. The title and responsibility of this ministry varies from place to place, but the same underlying principles apply.
Under the Taliban rule, they decided to combine "vice and virtue" with Gestapo practices of the Third Reich. To demonstrate: if a man's beard was considered too short, he was imprisoned, beaten and fed dirty water and stale bread (which I can only suppose is what the Taliban considered to be the proper diet and treatment for beard growing). Obviously, the idea of genetics had never entered the Taliban "beard growing equation" as many Asians cannot grow a full beard. Mind you though, men were actually given a much better deal than girls and women. Under the Taliban, all rights – political and human were perversely stripped of them. We've all heard about how women had to cover their entire body under a piece of cloth, known as a burka. But, if a "vice and virtue" goon squad member saw her go into a store (just to do some shopping, which was illegal for women), or on the street without a male relative, or just decided that he didn't like the color of her pantyhose which he could see at her ankles, he would then "rape" (loosely inturpreted) and beat her on the street for all to see. They have yet to tally the number of men, women and children, who were raped, beaten and/or publicly hanged, but there are plenty of photos from various sources.
The burka, by the way, is still a common sight here. Not that all women wear them, but at least 50-60% do (I think). There was a bit of an outcry from Western woman's rights groups about this (which is easy to do when living in the Untied States and Europe). The Westerners claimed that since women were "liberated" that they shouldn't wear the burka anymore. From people who have talked to the women that do, they claim that they choose to wear the burka for a) they have done so for so long, they don't feel the need to change b) fear that a Taliban-like power may come back and seek revenge c) fear that a male relative will see them on the street and will have problems (i.e. beat them there), and d) walk down the street without the leering looks of men, which is very un-Muslim like anyway.
Well, I'm sure by now you must be bored of reading this letter and think that this place is absolutely awful when in truth there are interesting things here. There are carpets and other local antiquities. I see children flying kites and laughing in the street.
I work for a very good organization where I have learned quite a bit actually. I have decided to turn my time here into a "spa experience" and watch my diet and exercise when possible. I once heard a story about two mice that fell into a vat of milk. One mouse drowned, while the other struggled and kicked so much that he turned the milk into cream and was able to eventually pull himself out. Granted, it's a childish metaphor and I am far from turning the vat of milk from cream, but I'm hoping to focus more on the good than the bad while I'm here.
Chapter 2 - The Scorpion King
I would like to open this letter with a brief discussion on flora and fauna in Afghanistan. To be honest, it is striking. From the sky or a high mountain, one can see a very unique quilt of various shades of browns, greens and blues over the countryside. The lack of trees on the mountains that surround the valleys of habitation combined with the green spaces that dot the urban landscape huddled around the water that trickles through them compose a rather striking portrait if taken in at one time. To wax romantic, I often though that the colours and the interwoven relationship between man and nature has been expressed in or has served as inspiration for their carpets.
Regardless, it really is a beautiful country that takes you from barren to blossoming in a matter of a 30-minute or two hour drive. In fact, the geographic dichotomy is surely of the main reasons that Afghanistan was a such a popular "hippie" destination spots of the late 60's. Of course, the other reason for the 60's boom in hippie tourism to my "blossoming" description – Afghanistan: land of poppy fields. Yes, Afghanistan ranks as one of the world largest drug producing countries. While, both the government and Islam outlaw hashish and poppy to be turned into heroine, it continues to be produced in great quantity.
Theoretically, poppy eradication should be simple. That is, spread enough weed killer on it and it will be destroyed. Yet, the situation here is extremely complex. Aside from the warlords (some now parliamentarians) who go to great lengths to, at the very least, maintain poppy output through bribery, violence, etc., there is a question of what can people grow in this harsh climate that will provide an alternative livelihood with a similar income when the physical infrastructure to bring goods to market does not exist. Moreover, the US military's intention of spreading Agent Orange over the crops (and the peasant workers practically enslaved to work in them) has met with sharp criticism from the Afghan government and the international community (based on human rights and environmental issues.) Thus, the UN's approach has been to start and stop a very uncoordinated alternative livelihoods program that has no real, agreed upon solutions. As a result, many over bureaucratized, international "machines" used tactics that simply "pruned" the plants and actually fertilized the ground, spreading poppy spoors and has led a record setting bumper crop of poppy. Working with various people in and out of international organizations, I can honestly tell you to remember, don't believe everything you read – especially on many development websites.
Returning to the subject closer to home, I must admit that the compounds in Kabul are usually very well kept. This actually surprised me. Before I arrived, I knew that there was a water shortage here and when taken from the airport to the compound the streets are filled with dust and people who live on the mountains that surround Kabul must trek all the way down and fetch it from a pump (one of those that actually function that is) and climb back up the mountain side. So when I saw the yard that I was to live in, I was a bit taken aback by the manicured lawns, fruit trees, and bushes of fresh basil, morning glories, roses and even a little pond. I was even more taken aback when I saw the water hose left turned on and was simply lying on the ground watering the cement. While I understand that conservation efforts are new to Afghanistan, I cannot for the life of me, fathom why they would not take stronger measures to ensure waters for emergencies. Moreover, it strikes me as a little incredulous that when I stand at the front gate, I can look down the alley that leads to the main street and can barely make out the dirty children playing in the park due to the amount of dust that has been kicked up and then turn around and look into our yard, which seems like a veritable paradise in comparison. Honestly, I occasionally feel a twinge of embarrassed shame by it. Rationally, I suppose I shouldn't feel that way. After all, I didn't design, create or even expect it, but given that Westerns are seen as neo-colonialists, I have a suspicion that living in such comparative comfort is simply fueling the fire of perceived misconceptions and actually destroys any bridge of understanding. Many of the internationals do not leave their compounds, except to be escorted to work or occasionally to other compounds (and maybe a restaurant for foreigners - with policies of "no Afghans" (read into that "no Afghan – MALES), which only deepens the already existing rift between national and internationals that exists here.
Yet, I keep digressing and should continue with my idealistic little garden. As mentioned before, the garden and yard are very nice and somewhat surrealistic. In all the poverty and warfare going on outside the compound walls, I can sit in the midst of a domestic jungle with buzzing bees, chirping birds, roaming cats, etc. All I truly need is little white, singing mice or seven horizontally challenged, gem mining old men to make the picture complete.
Well, it was early on in my stay here that I learned that I actually had a roommate. One morning I was sitting on a pillow lying on the floor in my room reading when I notice something out of the corner of my eye. There, about 12 inches from me, was one of these woodland creatures that are so free to roam our garden, commonly known in English as – a scorpion. While I am unaware of the scientific name of this particular variety, I can tell you that I actually do not care when faced with a large, white, pointing stinger tailed scorpion scurrying around my room. True, it wasn't stalking me, but instead contented itself to happily investigating the room and more to the point was crawling towards me. Now granted, it was just a scorpion and not an alligator, python or hungry panther and perhaps I am making too much of this, but in all the times I have actually seen a live scorpion, it has been in a pet store with a sheet of glass separating the two of us - an unspoken arrangement in which I believe is mutually beneficial and have never felt the inclination to alter. Thus, posed facing my unexpected visitor without my protective barrier – I froze stiff convinced that just sitting there without making any sudden movements would be the best solution. Of course, my theory did not hold true in this instance and the scorpion, who by the way I believe had actually just come to notice my presence, continued to make its way toward me for what I could only assume was introductions. While the Scorpion King (aptly named due to it's size) opened up with an ice breaker of cordially remaining dead calm on the floor, I, convinced that the Scorpion King was actually plotting how to lung for my jugular vein, quickly leaped up a meter off the ground and did a frantic little shaking dance on the bed yelping nondescript utterances with strong religious overtones, which I can only imagine looked as though I was possessed by the genies of Islam and speaking in tongues.
Well, undoubtedly impressed with my instinctive prowess for natural voodoo style dancing, the scorpion proceeded forward towards me. This in response prompted an increased frequency of bed jumping and howling on my part. After calming down a bit (and I mean just a bit) I began to look around the room for more of it's six legged, stinging companions. Fortunately, as far as I could tell this one was a loner (or worse, just a scout) and I was able to usher it to a makeshift wastebasket container and transport it to the far corner of the garden where it was released to roam as it pleased.
You may wonder why I didn't simply kill it by repeatedly clubbing it with a shoe or something. Well to be honest, I have no clear explanation for that except that it just seemed like a better idea to get it out of the house than to engage myself in some sort of entomologic sacrifice. Although, I suppose in the back of my mind, I was imagining a sort of "captor's benevolence." That is, as I released it, I was telling it that since I had spared it's life, I was hoping it would repay me by spreading the good word of my deed to it's loyal garden followers and I would be left in peace. Perhaps this was an gesture of enlightened, cosmic understanding on my part or simply an act of sheer stupidity based on childish beliefs nurtured by Disney cartoons (as I half expected it to turn around wink and wave goodbye to me), but the Scorpion King simply wandered off never to return.
What was most interesting about my little friend though was that it was that it was white scorpion and after talking to locals I learned that I should consider myself lucky. Evidently, there are two types of scorpions in Afghanistan: black and white. If the black one stings you, you will die in a matter of minutes. If the white one stings you, you merely become deathly ill, are subjected to excruciating pain and nausea, followed by prayers and wishes that you were actually stung by the black one instead. Oddly enough, while this little Afghanistan fun fact did bring a bit of relief to me, it did not sooth or comfort me as much as I would hope as no one has offered a way to keep other "little darlings" out of my room again.
In retrospect though, I suppose that I actually feel fortunate just to have had a scorpion in the house as the compound next to me continues to be invested with large rats.
Yet, as an endnote, I must admit that I continue to check my shoes before putting them on even though I have since moved from that house and live on the second floor of another one.
Long live the Scorpion King!
Regardless, it really is a beautiful country that takes you from barren to blossoming in a matter of a 30-minute or two hour drive. In fact, the geographic dichotomy is surely of the main reasons that Afghanistan was a such a popular "hippie" destination spots of the late 60's. Of course, the other reason for the 60's boom in hippie tourism to my "blossoming" description – Afghanistan: land of poppy fields. Yes, Afghanistan ranks as one of the world largest drug producing countries. While, both the government and Islam outlaw hashish and poppy to be turned into heroine, it continues to be produced in great quantity.
Theoretically, poppy eradication should be simple. That is, spread enough weed killer on it and it will be destroyed. Yet, the situation here is extremely complex. Aside from the warlords (some now parliamentarians) who go to great lengths to, at the very least, maintain poppy output through bribery, violence, etc., there is a question of what can people grow in this harsh climate that will provide an alternative livelihood with a similar income when the physical infrastructure to bring goods to market does not exist. Moreover, the US military's intention of spreading Agent Orange over the crops (and the peasant workers practically enslaved to work in them) has met with sharp criticism from the Afghan government and the international community (based on human rights and environmental issues.) Thus, the UN's approach has been to start and stop a very uncoordinated alternative livelihoods program that has no real, agreed upon solutions. As a result, many over bureaucratized, international "machines" used tactics that simply "pruned" the plants and actually fertilized the ground, spreading poppy spoors and has led a record setting bumper crop of poppy. Working with various people in and out of international organizations, I can honestly tell you to remember, don't believe everything you read – especially on many development websites.
Returning to the subject closer to home, I must admit that the compounds in Kabul are usually very well kept. This actually surprised me. Before I arrived, I knew that there was a water shortage here and when taken from the airport to the compound the streets are filled with dust and people who live on the mountains that surround Kabul must trek all the way down and fetch it from a pump (one of those that actually function that is) and climb back up the mountain side. So when I saw the yard that I was to live in, I was a bit taken aback by the manicured lawns, fruit trees, and bushes of fresh basil, morning glories, roses and even a little pond. I was even more taken aback when I saw the water hose left turned on and was simply lying on the ground watering the cement. While I understand that conservation efforts are new to Afghanistan, I cannot for the life of me, fathom why they would not take stronger measures to ensure waters for emergencies. Moreover, it strikes me as a little incredulous that when I stand at the front gate, I can look down the alley that leads to the main street and can barely make out the dirty children playing in the park due to the amount of dust that has been kicked up and then turn around and look into our yard, which seems like a veritable paradise in comparison. Honestly, I occasionally feel a twinge of embarrassed shame by it. Rationally, I suppose I shouldn't feel that way. After all, I didn't design, create or even expect it, but given that Westerns are seen as neo-colonialists, I have a suspicion that living in such comparative comfort is simply fueling the fire of perceived misconceptions and actually destroys any bridge of understanding. Many of the internationals do not leave their compounds, except to be escorted to work or occasionally to other compounds (and maybe a restaurant for foreigners - with policies of "no Afghans" (read into that "no Afghan – MALES), which only deepens the already existing rift between national and internationals that exists here.
Yet, I keep digressing and should continue with my idealistic little garden. As mentioned before, the garden and yard are very nice and somewhat surrealistic. In all the poverty and warfare going on outside the compound walls, I can sit in the midst of a domestic jungle with buzzing bees, chirping birds, roaming cats, etc. All I truly need is little white, singing mice or seven horizontally challenged, gem mining old men to make the picture complete.
Well, it was early on in my stay here that I learned that I actually had a roommate. One morning I was sitting on a pillow lying on the floor in my room reading when I notice something out of the corner of my eye. There, about 12 inches from me, was one of these woodland creatures that are so free to roam our garden, commonly known in English as – a scorpion. While I am unaware of the scientific name of this particular variety, I can tell you that I actually do not care when faced with a large, white, pointing stinger tailed scorpion scurrying around my room. True, it wasn't stalking me, but instead contented itself to happily investigating the room and more to the point was crawling towards me. Now granted, it was just a scorpion and not an alligator, python or hungry panther and perhaps I am making too much of this, but in all the times I have actually seen a live scorpion, it has been in a pet store with a sheet of glass separating the two of us - an unspoken arrangement in which I believe is mutually beneficial and have never felt the inclination to alter. Thus, posed facing my unexpected visitor without my protective barrier – I froze stiff convinced that just sitting there without making any sudden movements would be the best solution. Of course, my theory did not hold true in this instance and the scorpion, who by the way I believe had actually just come to notice my presence, continued to make its way toward me for what I could only assume was introductions. While the Scorpion King (aptly named due to it's size) opened up with an ice breaker of cordially remaining dead calm on the floor, I, convinced that the Scorpion King was actually plotting how to lung for my jugular vein, quickly leaped up a meter off the ground and did a frantic little shaking dance on the bed yelping nondescript utterances with strong religious overtones, which I can only imagine looked as though I was possessed by the genies of Islam and speaking in tongues.
Well, undoubtedly impressed with my instinctive prowess for natural voodoo style dancing, the scorpion proceeded forward towards me. This in response prompted an increased frequency of bed jumping and howling on my part. After calming down a bit (and I mean just a bit) I began to look around the room for more of it's six legged, stinging companions. Fortunately, as far as I could tell this one was a loner (or worse, just a scout) and I was able to usher it to a makeshift wastebasket container and transport it to the far corner of the garden where it was released to roam as it pleased.
You may wonder why I didn't simply kill it by repeatedly clubbing it with a shoe or something. Well to be honest, I have no clear explanation for that except that it just seemed like a better idea to get it out of the house than to engage myself in some sort of entomologic sacrifice. Although, I suppose in the back of my mind, I was imagining a sort of "captor's benevolence." That is, as I released it, I was telling it that since I had spared it's life, I was hoping it would repay me by spreading the good word of my deed to it's loyal garden followers and I would be left in peace. Perhaps this was an gesture of enlightened, cosmic understanding on my part or simply an act of sheer stupidity based on childish beliefs nurtured by Disney cartoons (as I half expected it to turn around wink and wave goodbye to me), but the Scorpion King simply wandered off never to return.
What was most interesting about my little friend though was that it was that it was white scorpion and after talking to locals I learned that I should consider myself lucky. Evidently, there are two types of scorpions in Afghanistan: black and white. If the black one stings you, you will die in a matter of minutes. If the white one stings you, you merely become deathly ill, are subjected to excruciating pain and nausea, followed by prayers and wishes that you were actually stung by the black one instead. Oddly enough, while this little Afghanistan fun fact did bring a bit of relief to me, it did not sooth or comfort me as much as I would hope as no one has offered a way to keep other "little darlings" out of my room again.
In retrospect though, I suppose that I actually feel fortunate just to have had a scorpion in the house as the compound next to me continues to be invested with large rats.
Yet, as an endnote, I must admit that I continue to check my shoes before putting them on even though I have since moved from that house and live on the second floor of another one.
Long live the Scorpion King!
Chapter 3: Check Please!
Throughout all my travels to various corners of the world, I have secretly prided myself as being relatively "open" person in terms of sampling the local cuisine. Not only is this a way to truly experience the culture and enhance one's understanding for a people and how they live, but it also demonstrates an acceptance and willingness for comradeship with host nationals. Thinking back, I feel secure to say that I've tried perhaps more than most: guinea pig stew, octopus, goat tongue and ears, barbequed sparrows, steamed worm cocoons, and fermented horse milk, just to name a few. Granted, there have been presented with opportunities in which I've declined satisfy my gastronomic curiosity as well – dog, bear paw soup, and monkey to name of few, but this had more to do with the inhuman preparation of the animal (and the fact that a primate is just way too close to being a human) than anything else. Regardless, based on my previous experiences, I felt that I was prepared for most anything that could be offered here in lovely Kabul.
Much to my surprise, Afghanistan does not play host to many "exotic" dishes as I had originally imagined. In fact, to be honest, I find most traditional Afghan food rather…plain. This isn't to say that it isn't tasty (in its own way), but it was not really what I expected. Considering the background of numerous invaders and occupiers who have left their mark on the culture throughout history, I was expecting to find a mixture of Chinese, Indian, Persian, Russian and Western European hybrids and flavors fused into savory sauces, spicy curries and variety of chutneys. Of course, my error was that I based loosely on the Afghan cuisine that I experienced while living in the States (which undoubtedly was altered to cater to American tastes). Instead, I have been presented with very simple and relatively unattractive meal; often kebabs, white flat bread and water. The typical order consists of 8 skewers with small bite-size pieces of meat (lamb or goat) inter-layered with fat and is usually accompanied with salt, black pepper, green chili peppers and sumac. The novelty of so many skewers with the small bits of meat (Georgian kebabs are enormous in comparison) quickly wore off and I rarely dine at any the kebab eateries that line the streets. Admittedly though, my waning desire of local eateries is not only because of the menu.
You must use your imagination to picture what sorts of places that are frequented. True, they do possess a certain charm, but it is not difficult to understand why Afghanistan has been overlooked in the Michelin guide to restaurants and eateries. For example, a typical Afghan, hole in the wall (and sometimes I mean that literally) eatery, which line the streets, is often dark, cramped, and dirty. In one such establishment I counted six rats running around in the kitchen and stealing bread. Kebabs, prepared from meat of questionable quality, are cooked outdoors. In Kabul, this of course, means on the street side, often in the way of where you want to walk. The combination of smoke of charred meat, car exhaust and smell of the open sewers which are next to the grills alerts most of your senses by creating a pungent odor and eye watering effect on many new arrivals. Now if the sewers are dry, well then, all you have to do is deal with the smoke and the fact that bits of dust and rock have been kicked up onto your meal.
Of course, if you're not in the mood for kebabs, there is always a little tea and soup place to stop into. You walk in and grab a bowl that has hopefully been rinsed since the previous owner, tear apart some bread, place it in the bowl and then they ladle soup into it for you. Whether you dine alone or with others, you will be given one cup for everyone to drink from.
But if local dining isn't your pleasure, there are a few foreign restaurants in Kabul as well, though the thought of coming to Kabul and have a poorly made cheeseburger ($10USD), or crepes with an espresso ($20USD) seems a bit against logic. After all, one does not go to Paris for a tall beer and plate of schnitzel. Then again, restaurants in Paris actually try to adhere to some sort of public health code as not to poison the patrons. Have I mentioned food poisoning yet? No? Well then, I think it's high time to delve into that subject.
Before I do, I must provide a disclaimer that to date I have not contracted food poisoning, which is quite an achievement in its own right. I partly believe this is based on the fact that I have ingested so much other bacteria laden food from other countries in the past that my immune system has built a stronger constitution or immune system against the gastronomic evils that are presented on my plate. Please feel free to remind me of this when you find me rushed to the hospital when my theory is proved wrong.
Regardless, what you must understand is that the sheer quantity of parasites in the food that eventually manage to find their way into one's stomach and intestinal track to manifest into a devastatingly large colony…is…well… truly amazing. I have met people who contracted more than one type at a time; causing them excruciating pain, nausea, gas, and projectile diarrhea (which I didn't know was actually possible.) Part of the problem seems to lie in the water. Water from "questionable" sources (meaning the ONLY source) is used to grow the fruit and vegetables, thus infecting the produce before it can even come close to hitting the market. Water from "questionable" sources is then placed on the fruit and vegetables to keep them looking fresh – even those imported (in order to level the "ability to infect unsuspecting buyers" playing field I assume). Plus, when one takes the produce home, what do they do? - wash them in tap water (just in case the first two sources of infecting ourselves with depilating bacteria didn't work). Luckily, we can buy small bottles of iodine to add to the water that we soak produce. Yet, I'm not really sure on how well this works as in talking with people I have yet to find at least one foreigner who has not become violently ill or worse, has been infected with worms. Yet, this is just the produce. Meat and dairy are treated differently.
Meat and dairy are simply left in the sun for days until it is bought. Because the power routinely goes out, refrigeration (when used) is questionable. Imagine my surprise when I learned that local yogurt was not actually suppose to be sour and separated when opening the container. Meat, as I mentioned earlier is often bought in the market, where it has been left out for God knows how long. Now I know that I must be whetting your appetite by now, but honestly, the site of meat hanging over a pile rotting, decapitated, bloody goat heads is actually less appetizing than it sounds and has since reduced any carnivorous craving that may come to me.
So how do eat and manage to stay out of the hospital you must wonder. Well, most of the time I try to cook at home myself. There is a cook on the compound where I live, but I'm not particularly fond of his meals (WAY too much cheese as he is convinced that foreigners love cheese on EVERY meal) or his price for the meals ($100 USD per person per week) and so I cook myself or eat with the other compounds who cook for themselves. When I cook, I try to boil whatever it is that I'm cooking – twice. Granted the pasta is a little mushier than I prefer, but considering the situation I say to hell with al dente . But I don't eat at home all the time and sometimes Saeed and I go out to lunch for kebabs (yeah, the same ones I mentioned above).
Often, most of the lunches that I have had, I've dined upon sheep kebabs, sheep milk with salt, sheep liver, sheep testicles,…wait, did I just write that? Let me check that again. Yes, that's right – a meal consisting of sheep testicles and nothing else. You see, one day, Saeed and I decided to try a new place, sat down and ordered kebabs and waited. Unbeknownst to us, this particular place "specialized" (and I use the term loosely) in testicles (which is another topic all together far beyond my comprehension). Unfortunately, we didn't learn this until it was brought to our plate and not wanting to offend – we ate. Honestly, like most of the food that I've had here, it had very little taste and it was more the idea of eating that particular part of the ram that was most disturbing. I have heard from Foreign Service Officers that when presented with an unappetizing dish, the best thing to do is slice it thin and then swallow it with water. Well, Afghans eat with their fingers (knives are reserved for other purposes) and as I mentioned above, drinking the water is out of the question. So, I ate…slowly, but not too slowly as I didn't want to be mistaken for actually savoring the dish and being offered more.
After the meal, Saeed and I decided to go out for ice cream and cleanse the palate. For Saeed, this was like a trip to his past – he was imagining that nothing could taste better on a hot, dusty day than a dish of hand made almond ice cream. I on the other hand was all up for rewarding myself with a treat for not spitting out my lunch on the floor. Curiously, ice cream too is made outside next to the busy street – which once again added a lovely mixture of dust and car exhaust to the dish. Regardless, it was actually very refreshing and was brought to the table in a series of elegant spirals that resembled several small towers in the bowl. Sitting there, watching the street and how the young men were making ice cream; which by the way, takes a great deal of strength and effort to mix it in the ice cream in the open steel bowl surrounded by packed ice, I can say that we felt a sense ease and satisfaction. After all, it was fresh, homemade ice cream – all natural ingredients and nothing from the market. In fact, this feeling continued through most of the dessert and as we were taking the last spoonfuls of melted ice cream from the bowls to our open mouths, we look over and began to pay closer attention to what was going on. The man next to the guy making ice cream was washing the bowls, the same ones we were eating from, in black water. Seriously, the water was so filthy that it was black and there was no soap. So he was basically rinsing them with his hands, which mind you were about as clean as his feet, and then serving them to customers. After letting out a slight gasp as we sat frozen with spoons still poised before our open mouths, we glanced back to our bowls and the man, paying no heed to the dishwasher, but this time to the man making ice cream. Because it was hot and making ice cream is hard work, he was working up quite a sweat. He constantly wiped his brow with his hands, occasionally washing it in the water where the bowls were being rinsed and then goes back to work with his hands in the ice cream. This is when we slowly, put our spoons back in the bowl and Saeed promptly calls out in Farsi "Check! We'll have our check now!"
Now I suppose in retrospect, I should take a kinder view to the food here. This is a country that has suffered through decades of war, poverty and occupation. Thus, fine dining and public health standards are concepts far from the minds of many. And I suppose that home cuisine is far better than local eatery, yet, I am looking forward to making it through my time here without smuggling a plethora of intestinal disease with me back to Georgia.
All the best and bon appetite.
 | |
| Carpet negotiation or teaching the ways of the Force |
Chapter 4 - Oh Shit!
As you can imagine, the ability to relax in Afghanistan is rather difficult. There are a few eateries. The power is scarce and now that it is autumn it becomes dark very quickly. The Afghan government is trying to reinstate the ministry of "vice and virtue" to combat corruption ( i.e. to shame people into not taking bribes), yet, unfortunately, like every other policy here, the government has not articulated itself well and many local governments, Imams, and mullahs, have taken the opportunity to spit poison and misinformation about the evils of foreigners. All this, plus the war, only hampers my ability to arrange a proper social calendar.
This isn't to say that I really have much of a social agenda while I'm here, but finding something to do here in lovely Kabul is increasingly becoming a bit of a challenge. Simply going and coming to and from work has worn thin and has created a sense of "cabin fever" with many internationals, myself included. On occasion, there is a gathering of people at another compound, but the now daily bombings and increase in kidnappings have encouraged most of us to stay be a bit more alert and not venture out to locations; especially with many other foreigners around as any sort of gathering turns us all into targets. So, as you can see, the subject of entertainment and enjoyment in Afghanistan requires some creativity and risk. Granted, there are two cinemas in Kabul, but as far as I can tell they only play old Bollywood films from India. Not that I have anything against Bollywood films per se, but these are old ones with “Jimmy” as the star and the prospect of being trapped in a dark room with a group of angry men of various ages and various motives of going to the cinema in the first place serves a really good deterrent for internationals and many locals alike. There is one billiard hall, but actually holds the same appeal as the cinema.
Luckily, all of this changed with the invite from an organization known as The Aga Khan Foundation.
The Aga Khan Foundation is known in Central Asia and the Middle East for restoring cultural heritage, monuments, livelihoods, etc. This night, they decided to hold a special concert highlighting traditional music from Herat and Kabul. Granted, I had never heard traditional Afghan music before and honestly, now that I have, am still am ignorant of all it's nuances that separates it from other Central Asian music, but any event that was somewhat cultured and would get me off the compound and provide me with the chance to learn something new and mingle with some boring government officials was a welcomed change of pace. Fortunately, I wasn't the only one who wanted to go and I was able to catch a ride with Saeed and the director of our organization.
We arrived it was around 17:30 and were in time to learn about the history of the music and the instruments played etc. Actually the concert consisted of two groups – one from the city of Herat and the other from Kabul – different in style, costume, and manners. The first group from Herat was, in my opinion, not nearly as entertaining as the other, but the point is that they came from Herat. Herat is considered to be more historically cultured unlike the “crass” administrative center of Kabul, but for me, the music sounded as though someone was slowly disemboweling a mangy alley cat to the beat of large drums for our entertainment. At first I assumed much of the historical and cultural significance must have been lost on me as everyone else really seemed to be intently listening to and politely applauding, but after watching the others in the audience who were quietly chatting or striking a serious pose as though basking in full music appreciation in front the camera, I believe that they were simply being polite and putting on airs.
Well, around 19:00 my boss said he had to leave (although I think that it was the music that drove him away), but said he would send the car back for Saeed and I around 19:30. Personally, this suited me fine. While the concert was a nice diversion from the daily grind, my appreciation for traditional music from Herat was waning and it was slowly getting dark.
Yet the night wasn't a total loss as things began to pick up around this time when the second group from Kabul began to play. Fortunately, they actually knew how to carry a tune and put on a much livelier concert. Although they were far better, it was still getting dark and Saeed and I, who were now sitting around munching on grapes and some cake, were beginning to wonder where the driver was. Checking our watches every 3 minutes or so and watching the moon slowly crawl in night sky, we called the driver to find out where he was and remind him to call us when he arrived. So we waited – 19:35, 19:40, 19:45 [sigh] still not there. This may sound rather petty to you why we were so anxious to go, but remember it was getting dark now and considering that electricity in Kabul is scarce, both the physical landscape and social the environment changes quickly. Basically – it became scary.
Finally, by 20:00 the driver showed up. I suppose now I should mention that it was dark. When I say dark – I mean REALLY dark - like spooky, black ink dark. The driver was unable to park near the entrance of the Aga Khan compound and we had to walk down the "road" ( a.k.a. goat path) to the car. There are no working street lights and sadly my efforts to use some sort of internal, bat-like radar, were insufficient to navigate my way over the numerous rocks and sink holes that I seemed to find and stagger over like a drunk from a wedding. How Saeed and the driver made along without tripping I'll never know.
The car was parked to the side of the road seemed to take forever to get to, but when we finally reached the back of it, I began to make my way to the front passenger side – that is, the side not adjacent to the road. Of course, being the ever so polite gentleman that I aspire to be, I decided to ask Saeed if he would rather sit there instead as he was having a conversation with the driver and I was just going to sit in silence. Unfortunately, when I did ask, he didn't hear me. I disappeared. That's right - gone. Vanished from sight and swallowed up into the blackness. When he turned to ask me to repeat what I said all he saw was darkness and all he heard was a shocked "ahhh…" followed by a muffled splash coupled with "AH SHIT!" and subsequent whimpering and complaining.
Did I mention it was dark? You see, it was, in fact so dark that I really couldn't see the shoulder of the road that I was making my way on. Nor could I see meter deep open sewer (that I mentioned before in previous letters) right next to the shoulder and thus promptly fell into. In retrospect, I'm not sure if my vulgar proclamation was more of surprise and disgust or explanation of where I found myself standing at the moment. Which brings me to the point to elaborate on exactly where I was standing. I was up to waist (no exaggeration) in raw sewage - consisting of mud, stagnant water, fermented slug, and of course, human and animal feces. Obviously, the first order of business is to get out of there as soon as possible – oddly enough, not as easy as one would originally expect. You see when I tried to pull myself up; my shoes remained glued to the bottom and slowly were coming off. Noticing this before they came completely off, I quickly sank back into them and forced myself to easily ease out of the sewer – a process that took about 3-5 minutes.
Once standing on the shoulder of the road, looking down at my filth covered pants, I pulled my shoes off to pour out a coffee cup's worth of slug and debris. Having sufficiently emptying my shoes, I was then forced to grapple with the decision of how to sit down for the ride home. I mean, not only did I not want to dirty the car, but also the prospect of sitting in sewer soaked pants held no special attraction for me. Yet, given the alternative of sitting half-naked in the car or in my present state, I opted for the later (I could just imagine being a state of undress and then getting pulled over by the authorities [shudder] - VERY disturbing)
The trip home, which seems to take much longer than it did to get there when one is sitting in sewage covered pants and squishing one's toes in the slug of the ages, was filled laughter (not so much from me mind you) and relief. Not only had a discovered a new way of providing entertainment for the evening in this amusement barren wasteland, but also I was relieved not to have fallen on my face in the sewer or worse, have broken a bone or stabbed myself with broken glass in the process. Meanwhile, Saeed was relieved that he didn't take the passenger side, and the driver was relieved that it didn't happen to our boss. Well, as long as it wasn't a total washout for everyone.
As an endnote to this section, I feel compelled to inform you that the shoes were a clothing causality of this journey and have since been disposed of.
That's all for now - counting down my days to departure.
As you can imagine, the ability to relax in Afghanistan is rather difficult. There are a few eateries. The power is scarce and now that it is autumn it becomes dark very quickly. The Afghan government is trying to reinstate the ministry of "vice and virtue" to combat corruption ( i.e. to shame people into not taking bribes), yet, unfortunately, like every other policy here, the government has not articulated itself well and many local governments, Imams, and mullahs, have taken the opportunity to spit poison and misinformation about the evils of foreigners. All this, plus the war, only hampers my ability to arrange a proper social calendar.
This isn't to say that I really have much of a social agenda while I'm here, but finding something to do here in lovely Kabul is increasingly becoming a bit of a challenge. Simply going and coming to and from work has worn thin and has created a sense of "cabin fever" with many internationals, myself included. On occasion, there is a gathering of people at another compound, but the now daily bombings and increase in kidnappings have encouraged most of us to stay be a bit more alert and not venture out to locations; especially with many other foreigners around as any sort of gathering turns us all into targets. So, as you can see, the subject of entertainment and enjoyment in Afghanistan requires some creativity and risk. Granted, there are two cinemas in Kabul, but as far as I can tell they only play old Bollywood films from India. Not that I have anything against Bollywood films per se, but these are old ones with “Jimmy” as the star and the prospect of being trapped in a dark room with a group of angry men of various ages and various motives of going to the cinema in the first place serves a really good deterrent for internationals and many locals alike. There is one billiard hall, but actually holds the same appeal as the cinema.
Luckily, all of this changed with the invite from an organization known as The Aga Khan Foundation.
The Aga Khan Foundation is known in Central Asia and the Middle East for restoring cultural heritage, monuments, livelihoods, etc. This night, they decided to hold a special concert highlighting traditional music from Herat and Kabul. Granted, I had never heard traditional Afghan music before and honestly, now that I have, am still am ignorant of all it's nuances that separates it from other Central Asian music, but any event that was somewhat cultured and would get me off the compound and provide me with the chance to learn something new and mingle with some boring government officials was a welcomed change of pace. Fortunately, I wasn't the only one who wanted to go and I was able to catch a ride with Saeed and the director of our organization.
We arrived it was around 17:30 and were in time to learn about the history of the music and the instruments played etc. Actually the concert consisted of two groups – one from the city of Herat and the other from Kabul – different in style, costume, and manners. The first group from Herat was, in my opinion, not nearly as entertaining as the other, but the point is that they came from Herat. Herat is considered to be more historically cultured unlike the “crass” administrative center of Kabul, but for me, the music sounded as though someone was slowly disemboweling a mangy alley cat to the beat of large drums for our entertainment. At first I assumed much of the historical and cultural significance must have been lost on me as everyone else really seemed to be intently listening to and politely applauding, but after watching the others in the audience who were quietly chatting or striking a serious pose as though basking in full music appreciation in front the camera, I believe that they were simply being polite and putting on airs.
Well, around 19:00 my boss said he had to leave (although I think that it was the music that drove him away), but said he would send the car back for Saeed and I around 19:30. Personally, this suited me fine. While the concert was a nice diversion from the daily grind, my appreciation for traditional music from Herat was waning and it was slowly getting dark.
Yet the night wasn't a total loss as things began to pick up around this time when the second group from Kabul began to play. Fortunately, they actually knew how to carry a tune and put on a much livelier concert. Although they were far better, it was still getting dark and Saeed and I, who were now sitting around munching on grapes and some cake, were beginning to wonder where the driver was. Checking our watches every 3 minutes or so and watching the moon slowly crawl in night sky, we called the driver to find out where he was and remind him to call us when he arrived. So we waited – 19:35, 19:40, 19:45 [sigh] still not there. This may sound rather petty to you why we were so anxious to go, but remember it was getting dark now and considering that electricity in Kabul is scarce, both the physical landscape and social the environment changes quickly. Basically – it became scary.
Finally, by 20:00 the driver showed up. I suppose now I should mention that it was dark. When I say dark – I mean REALLY dark - like spooky, black ink dark. The driver was unable to park near the entrance of the Aga Khan compound and we had to walk down the "road" ( a.k.a. goat path) to the car. There are no working street lights and sadly my efforts to use some sort of internal, bat-like radar, were insufficient to navigate my way over the numerous rocks and sink holes that I seemed to find and stagger over like a drunk from a wedding. How Saeed and the driver made along without tripping I'll never know.
The car was parked to the side of the road seemed to take forever to get to, but when we finally reached the back of it, I began to make my way to the front passenger side – that is, the side not adjacent to the road. Of course, being the ever so polite gentleman that I aspire to be, I decided to ask Saeed if he would rather sit there instead as he was having a conversation with the driver and I was just going to sit in silence. Unfortunately, when I did ask, he didn't hear me. I disappeared. That's right - gone. Vanished from sight and swallowed up into the blackness. When he turned to ask me to repeat what I said all he saw was darkness and all he heard was a shocked "ahhh…" followed by a muffled splash coupled with "AH SHIT!" and subsequent whimpering and complaining.
Did I mention it was dark? You see, it was, in fact so dark that I really couldn't see the shoulder of the road that I was making my way on. Nor could I see meter deep open sewer (that I mentioned before in previous letters) right next to the shoulder and thus promptly fell into. In retrospect, I'm not sure if my vulgar proclamation was more of surprise and disgust or explanation of where I found myself standing at the moment. Which brings me to the point to elaborate on exactly where I was standing. I was up to waist (no exaggeration) in raw sewage - consisting of mud, stagnant water, fermented slug, and of course, human and animal feces. Obviously, the first order of business is to get out of there as soon as possible – oddly enough, not as easy as one would originally expect. You see when I tried to pull myself up; my shoes remained glued to the bottom and slowly were coming off. Noticing this before they came completely off, I quickly sank back into them and forced myself to easily ease out of the sewer – a process that took about 3-5 minutes.
Once standing on the shoulder of the road, looking down at my filth covered pants, I pulled my shoes off to pour out a coffee cup's worth of slug and debris. Having sufficiently emptying my shoes, I was then forced to grapple with the decision of how to sit down for the ride home. I mean, not only did I not want to dirty the car, but also the prospect of sitting in sewer soaked pants held no special attraction for me. Yet, given the alternative of sitting half-naked in the car or in my present state, I opted for the later (I could just imagine being a state of undress and then getting pulled over by the authorities [shudder] - VERY disturbing)
The trip home, which seems to take much longer than it did to get there when one is sitting in sewage covered pants and squishing one's toes in the slug of the ages, was filled laughter (not so much from me mind you) and relief. Not only had a discovered a new way of providing entertainment for the evening in this amusement barren wasteland, but also I was relieved not to have fallen on my face in the sewer or worse, have broken a bone or stabbed myself with broken glass in the process. Meanwhile, Saeed was relieved that he didn't take the passenger side, and the driver was relieved that it didn't happen to our boss. Well, as long as it wasn't a total washout for everyone.
As an endnote to this section, I feel compelled to inform you that the shoes were a clothing causality of this journey and have since been disposed of.
That's all for now - counting down my days to departure.
Chapter 5 - Mine! Yours? No Mine!
As you may remember from my last letter, discovering new ways to break the feeling of "cabin fever" here in lovely Kabul is a truly a challenge. Since, I have arrived though, I have tried to keep my "this can be turned into a spa experience" mentality and decided to try and take walks whenever possible. Of course, like everything else here, simply taking walks in Kabul is actually a rather a complicated ordeal. Firstly, considering that I work all week my time to walk is limited to evenings and the weekend. Granted, walking along the streets of Kabul; a city of little electricity, but high rate of poverty, unemployment, the occasional fanatic and numerous and variety assortment of weapons has deterred much of the evening walks. As for the weekend, it is usually recommended that we go out in pairs and so I try to find someone who is willing to accompany me or whom I can accompany them at least for part of the day. Fortunately for me, there is a gentleman here from New Zealand who has lived here for the past 3 years and has studied the language, culture, and history of the area for several years. His name is Royce and is really a treasure trove of information.
During one such walks with Royce, he explained to me that when crossing the street and the median that divides traffic that I should always cross on the worn path that was there and not on the fresh grass. Thinking that this was an act of conservation and "environmental consciousness" not wanting to completely kill off what little remaining plant life that existed on the street, he quickly followed up with why.
As Royce explained, Kabul (and well Afghanistan in general) have been so heavily land mined throughout the past thirty years of Soviet occupation, Taliban domination and recent insurgency that it has been estimated that it would/will take YEARS ( i.e. over a hundred according to some military sources) to completely de-mine the country. To complicate matters worse, sometimes the rains flood certain areas and the mudslides actually move the mines. Thus, the need to walk along the beaten path has less to do with keeping Kabul green, but more because it is the only reliable way of knowing that a mine is not or no longer there. Once again, thankful for the little fact, the more I thought about my situation, the worse I felt. Knowing that I am now living and prancing around a city-sized land mine field is a little unsettling to say the least. Of course, this did help explain many of the explosions that are heard. Sometimes mines are discovered by the military and they detonate themselves. Other times, locals - often children, inadvertently trigger the mines when playing or kite flying. To date, I do not belief that any official count of those who have lost limbs and/or senses partly or wholly or have died due to a land mine blast has been undertaken, but considering that which I have seen only during my short time in Kabul, I can say that it is an enormous amount.
Well, getting back to my story, boredom and restlessness are serious problems for many here. The streets of Kabul can go from relatively friendly to seriously hostile in a matter of 5 minutes without anyone really understanding why or what the hell triggered it. Recognizing that the international and even local staff was becoming increasingly fidgety, the Director of the organization I work for decided that what we needed was a nice change of environment and arranged a picnic outside Kabul in an area known as Salong.
Salong is a rural spot outside about 2 hours from Kabul. Situated along a small river valley and surrounded by tall mountains on both sides, there is a small area right at the base of the mountains that locals use as a picnic spot. Honestly, it was quite an idyllic change from Kabul – quiet, green, and carefree. While waiting for the food to be cooked, people sat around splashing their feet water, drinking tea, playing cards and general sighting.
After eating the big meal we were informed that we had time to do some exploring and a few of us decided to do some rock climbing to get a better view of the area, answer the call of nature, etc. Of course, there is no set path along the mountainside and so we all scurried up in different directions and at different speeds. For example, Saeed and I bounded up like a pair of mountain goats; leaping from boulder to boulder we found a make shift rock barricade used by one force or another at some time and discovered a stunning view of the valley below. Along our way up we also noticed that there were large white spots painted on many of the rocks and when we finally stopped to see the view many rocks were painted both read and white.
Our artistic discovery was cut short when we noticed that 90% of the staff was waiting at the bus with the remaining 10% of them in tow. Evidently the notion of "some exploring" really meant, " 5 minute potty break." For fear of being left behind, we began to wave and call out to make sure that they wouldn't simply leave and fortunately, one of the staff saw us (although it was after counting heads in the bus) and came running back to the base of the mountain yelling and waving his arms.
"Mine!" he calls up to us.
Perplexed, Saeed and I look at each other wondering what was his. Did he forget something? He didn't even go up here. Did we take something from the picnic that was his? Nope, we had only our things with us.
Shrugging my shoulders I yelled back "Yours? What's yours?"
"Not mine" he responded "MINES! Your in a minefield up there."
*Pause*
*Blink*
*Stare*
At this place in the letter you may insert any choice of colourful metaphor here (Lord knows, we went through a whole list of them).
Evidently the paintings on the rocks have a special meaning in Afghanistan. The white spot on the rocks means that the area has been cleared of land mines. The red area indicates that it is not cleared and extremely dangerous. The half red and half white indicate that the government is not sure if the area is safe or not. That is, there MAY be mines there, but have not been cleared or that they have not surveyed the area thoroughly enough yet. Regardless, the revelation that one is standing in the middle of a mine field is remarkably quite an effectively in having one's blood run cold and drain out of one's face. Actually, for a flash instant I remembered a MASH episode where a little Korean boy wandered out in a minefield and Trapper John rushed out to save him, only to get trapped out there himself and the two had to be rescued by helicopter. Sadly, the only difference was that there was no Trapper John to run out and save us, nor was anyone going to call a helicopter to come out for us.
Well, after a few moments of contemplating our situation and surveying the rocks around us, Saeed looks over and asks, "So…do you know the path down?"
Looking over with an incredulous look of disbelief. "Path down?” I squawked “Who am I? Tonto – Indian Scout? How the hell do I know how to get down? I don't even remember how we go up here!" Taking a deep breath…and calming down, we thought about it.
Knowing the answer to the obvious question, we were forced to ask it anyway - "How do we get down?"
"The same way you got up” he replied. Good. "Right on cue" I thought [sigh] "Right. Let's go."
Looking around in the dust, we tried to locate our footprints, which is rather difficult for the untrained eye especially when trying to locate them on rocks used. Cursing and swearing under our breath and cringing to the point that even my bladder began to twinge with fear every time one of us slipped on the loose gravel, we precariously made our way down the mountainside. Needless to say without the same youthful enthusiasm that we had bounding up though.
The trip home was one of mixed emotions. Though, relieved not to have our bodies ripped from their trunks by a landmine explosion, we were rather bitter that no one bothered to explain the colour coding system or inform us when we were leaving. Of course, this came to a halt when the bus was stop for a surprise passport check and…hey kids, you guessed it,….I didn't bring mine with me.
Normally, at a moment like this one looks to the heavens and says “OK, OK, I’m getting the hint!” whereas my first thought was "SHIT! It's like Peru all over again!" I didn't bring the passport with me because I was afraid of losing it at the picnic and now this. [sigh] So I waited. I sat there and anticipated being thrown off the bus, interrogated, and perhaps beaten, but fortunately the Fates decided that placing me in a landmine field was enough excited for the day and because my skin darken up a bit and I was growing a beard, the guard assumed that I was a local and left me alone.
True, one might wonder how on earth I could say that I was bored and restless when things like this happen, but then again, I'm just looking forward to going home.
As you may remember from my last letter, discovering new ways to break the feeling of "cabin fever" here in lovely Kabul is a truly a challenge. Since, I have arrived though, I have tried to keep my "this can be turned into a spa experience" mentality and decided to try and take walks whenever possible. Of course, like everything else here, simply taking walks in Kabul is actually a rather a complicated ordeal. Firstly, considering that I work all week my time to walk is limited to evenings and the weekend. Granted, walking along the streets of Kabul; a city of little electricity, but high rate of poverty, unemployment, the occasional fanatic and numerous and variety assortment of weapons has deterred much of the evening walks. As for the weekend, it is usually recommended that we go out in pairs and so I try to find someone who is willing to accompany me or whom I can accompany them at least for part of the day. Fortunately for me, there is a gentleman here from New Zealand who has lived here for the past 3 years and has studied the language, culture, and history of the area for several years. His name is Royce and is really a treasure trove of information.
During one such walks with Royce, he explained to me that when crossing the street and the median that divides traffic that I should always cross on the worn path that was there and not on the fresh grass. Thinking that this was an act of conservation and "environmental consciousness" not wanting to completely kill off what little remaining plant life that existed on the street, he quickly followed up with why.
As Royce explained, Kabul (and well Afghanistan in general) have been so heavily land mined throughout the past thirty years of Soviet occupation, Taliban domination and recent insurgency that it has been estimated that it would/will take YEARS ( i.e. over a hundred according to some military sources) to completely de-mine the country. To complicate matters worse, sometimes the rains flood certain areas and the mudslides actually move the mines. Thus, the need to walk along the beaten path has less to do with keeping Kabul green, but more because it is the only reliable way of knowing that a mine is not or no longer there. Once again, thankful for the little fact, the more I thought about my situation, the worse I felt. Knowing that I am now living and prancing around a city-sized land mine field is a little unsettling to say the least. Of course, this did help explain many of the explosions that are heard. Sometimes mines are discovered by the military and they detonate themselves. Other times, locals - often children, inadvertently trigger the mines when playing or kite flying. To date, I do not belief that any official count of those who have lost limbs and/or senses partly or wholly or have died due to a land mine blast has been undertaken, but considering that which I have seen only during my short time in Kabul, I can say that it is an enormous amount.
Well, getting back to my story, boredom and restlessness are serious problems for many here. The streets of Kabul can go from relatively friendly to seriously hostile in a matter of 5 minutes without anyone really understanding why or what the hell triggered it. Recognizing that the international and even local staff was becoming increasingly fidgety, the Director of the organization I work for decided that what we needed was a nice change of environment and arranged a picnic outside Kabul in an area known as Salong.
Salong is a rural spot outside about 2 hours from Kabul. Situated along a small river valley and surrounded by tall mountains on both sides, there is a small area right at the base of the mountains that locals use as a picnic spot. Honestly, it was quite an idyllic change from Kabul – quiet, green, and carefree. While waiting for the food to be cooked, people sat around splashing their feet water, drinking tea, playing cards and general sighting.
After eating the big meal we were informed that we had time to do some exploring and a few of us decided to do some rock climbing to get a better view of the area, answer the call of nature, etc. Of course, there is no set path along the mountainside and so we all scurried up in different directions and at different speeds. For example, Saeed and I bounded up like a pair of mountain goats; leaping from boulder to boulder we found a make shift rock barricade used by one force or another at some time and discovered a stunning view of the valley below. Along our way up we also noticed that there were large white spots painted on many of the rocks and when we finally stopped to see the view many rocks were painted both read and white.
Our artistic discovery was cut short when we noticed that 90% of the staff was waiting at the bus with the remaining 10% of them in tow. Evidently the notion of "some exploring" really meant, " 5 minute potty break." For fear of being left behind, we began to wave and call out to make sure that they wouldn't simply leave and fortunately, one of the staff saw us (although it was after counting heads in the bus) and came running back to the base of the mountain yelling and waving his arms.
"Mine!" he calls up to us.
Perplexed, Saeed and I look at each other wondering what was his. Did he forget something? He didn't even go up here. Did we take something from the picnic that was his? Nope, we had only our things with us.
Shrugging my shoulders I yelled back "Yours? What's yours?"
"Not mine" he responded "MINES! Your in a minefield up there."
*Pause*
*Blink*
*Stare*
At this place in the letter you may insert any choice of colourful metaphor here (Lord knows, we went through a whole list of them).
Evidently the paintings on the rocks have a special meaning in Afghanistan. The white spot on the rocks means that the area has been cleared of land mines. The red area indicates that it is not cleared and extremely dangerous. The half red and half white indicate that the government is not sure if the area is safe or not. That is, there MAY be mines there, but have not been cleared or that they have not surveyed the area thoroughly enough yet. Regardless, the revelation that one is standing in the middle of a mine field is remarkably quite an effectively in having one's blood run cold and drain out of one's face. Actually, for a flash instant I remembered a MASH episode where a little Korean boy wandered out in a minefield and Trapper John rushed out to save him, only to get trapped out there himself and the two had to be rescued by helicopter. Sadly, the only difference was that there was no Trapper John to run out and save us, nor was anyone going to call a helicopter to come out for us.
Well, after a few moments of contemplating our situation and surveying the rocks around us, Saeed looks over and asks, "So…do you know the path down?"
Looking over with an incredulous look of disbelief. "Path down?” I squawked “Who am I? Tonto – Indian Scout? How the hell do I know how to get down? I don't even remember how we go up here!" Taking a deep breath…and calming down, we thought about it.
Knowing the answer to the obvious question, we were forced to ask it anyway - "How do we get down?"
"The same way you got up” he replied. Good. "Right on cue" I thought [sigh] "Right. Let's go."
Looking around in the dust, we tried to locate our footprints, which is rather difficult for the untrained eye especially when trying to locate them on rocks used. Cursing and swearing under our breath and cringing to the point that even my bladder began to twinge with fear every time one of us slipped on the loose gravel, we precariously made our way down the mountainside. Needless to say without the same youthful enthusiasm that we had bounding up though.
The trip home was one of mixed emotions. Though, relieved not to have our bodies ripped from their trunks by a landmine explosion, we were rather bitter that no one bothered to explain the colour coding system or inform us when we were leaving. Of course, this came to a halt when the bus was stop for a surprise passport check and…hey kids, you guessed it,….I didn't bring mine with me.
Normally, at a moment like this one looks to the heavens and says “OK, OK, I’m getting the hint!” whereas my first thought was "SHIT! It's like Peru all over again!" I didn't bring the passport with me because I was afraid of losing it at the picnic and now this. [sigh] So I waited. I sat there and anticipated being thrown off the bus, interrogated, and perhaps beaten, but fortunately the Fates decided that placing me in a landmine field was enough excited for the day and because my skin darken up a bit and I was growing a beard, the guard assumed that I was a local and left me alone.
True, one might wonder how on earth I could say that I was bored and restless when things like this happen, but then again, I'm just looking forward to going home.
Ok this is the last and admittedly weakest chapter (yet the most telling really) so enjoy as much as you can....
Chapter 6
By now I'm sure you must be tired of my exploits on how I've been fighting off boredom here in Afghanistan and I suppose it would be best if I left the subject alone, but I do have a story that many don’t.
It starts off with one day - August 27th, Saeed and I are walking back to our compound and we cut through another one (also owned by the organization) that had grapes growing in the yard. Saeed decides that he wants to take some back to his compound for after dinner and grabs a nearby plastic chair to stand on and pick some. When he does, the chair collapses and he falls to the ground. This incident becomes relevant soon so just keep reading.
It starts off with one day - August 27th, Saeed and I are walking back to our compound and we cut through another one (also owned by the organization) that had grapes growing in the yard. Saeed decides that he wants to take some back to his compound for after dinner and grabs a nearby plastic chair to stand on and pick some. When he does, the chair collapses and he falls to the ground. This incident becomes relevant soon so just keep reading.
It was 3 o'clock in the morning on August 28th when I woke up to a loud whistle and then not so distant explosion. Based on what I heard, I assumed it was a rocket that had landed in the park across from the compound. It shook the building, rattled the windows and woke everyone in the house up.
Sitting up straight in bed, I thought "Wow! That was close. I guess I will have one hell of a story for the office tomorrow."
As I began to lie back down, chuckling in relief to myself, I then heard the faint whistling sound of another rocket and must tell you that the next thoughts, which took place in a span of about 3 seconds, were very lucid and have stayed with me since then:
"Wow, another one…hey, that sounds like it's getting pretty close… [now the whistling has turn into a scream]…what the…?… no, it can't be…coming here?….OH F***! [An M-12 class missile flashes by my bedroom window. A natural sense of preservation combined with the pressure of the incoming rocket and blast flips me off the bed onto the floor between the wardrobe and the bed] My GOD! Sveta! Olivia! Children! [KABOOM and a flash of light– the rocket landed in our yard, ½ a meter from our generator, two barrels of diesel fuel and a few meters from the house – knocking out all emergency power and encompassing the entire house in complete darkness] Am I alive?"
Happily I was, which meant that the next order of business was to…well, I don't know. I've never been in a rocket attack before and have never been instructed on the proper protocol and procedures thereof, which soon became very evident as my housemates and I promptly committed three crucial mistakes of post rocket attack.
Mistake one: Run to the windows to find out what happened. Curiosity is a great thing…in certain instances and let me tell you, learning more about a rocket attack after it lands in your garden is bound to spark a certain degree of curiosity. Of course, in our case running to the windows is not a wise choice. While the blast film on the windows prevents the glass from shattering and flying in and shredding anything in it's path, it does not prevent shrapnel from piercing through the window like bullets leaving broken glass on the floor and/or leaving shattered glass loosely hanging in the window frame which could fall on oneself. Yet, my windows (which made up two of my four walls) did not fall on me.
Mistake two: Go outside. It is important to remember that we still didn't actually know what the hell hit us. Was it a random rocket? Was it a deliberate attack? Would there be more coming? Therefore, running out into a pitch black yard and watching the roving hand held searchlights of the guards from our compound and our neighbors, who were running around just a confused as we were, does not classify a tip-top, smashing idea. The smart and safe thing to do would be to run into a room without windows.
Mistake three: go over and investigate it yourself. Call it euphoria, call it stupidity, call it whatever you like, but I do not know what possessed us to actually go over to the crater and rocket to investigate it. To make matter worse, to calm the nerves of one housemate, he lit up a cigarette. So now imagine a small band of idiots standing over a rocket crater, next to barrels of diesel fuel that is now gushing out of the numerous and large shrapnel holes with a camera in hand thinking "this will make a great photo for mom." More importantly, we had no idea if the rocket had actually detonated or not. That is, there could still have been explosives in it.
I'm not sure who said that we should all step away from the crater, it could have been me, but all I know is that it was the best decision of the night as later we found out – the rocket was still live. We learned this from the military guys who we had to call to come to the compound and report the incident. They were walking over to it when they stopped in fear and turned away.
After several minutes of various colorful metaphors in several languages, we all began to calm down. When we came back to the house, I began to feel a slight stinging feeling in my legs and look down to discover that I was bleeding from a couple of scratches. Originally confused by this, I went to my room to wash my leg and dry it with a towel; it was then that all was clarified. As I mentioned before, blast film does prevent the window from shattering, but it does not prevent shrapnel from entering one's room. The windows in my room look like spider webs. Cracked, shattered, and accented with shrapnel holes I quickly learned that my once perceived lovely room had been turned into a potential glass tomb. Shrapnel from the rocket pierced through my windows, my balcony door, my towel, etc. Based on the shrapnel I found near the spot where I was on the ground, I can only assume that a piece grazed my legs cutting me.
After patching myself up a bit, we realized it was now daybreak and we could begin to survey the damage to the yard and the house.
There was shrapnel all over the yard. Pieces of it went flying into the walls, destroying the gutters, walls, windows, etc. One piece went through the guard's house and almost the guard. The actual rocket crater was much smaller than I imagined. I was picturing something from Hollywood movie and all I saw was something about a foot and a half deep and about a meter in diameter. The spookiest part of all is when we found shrapnel next to the five, tall propane gas tanks (used in winter). If a piece of shrapnel had hit one, the explosion would have taken out our front wall.
While walking around and surveying the damage, I mentioned to one of my compound mates "you know, just last week our biggest complaint was that the cook was using too much cheese on the food and was overcharging us" (we had a meeting about dismissing the cook) and now..."
"yeah, cheese and $100....hell, I'd pay him a $100 just to keep the rockets out my garden"
Meanwhile, Saeed goes to the office and as he is coming home for lunch the front guard stops him
"Hey, hey! I heard about it!"
Saeed assuming that the guard wanted to know about the details of the rocket attack and how it almost destroyed their wall as well was about to launch into a tail of danger and woe when the guard continued
"I heard you fell off a chair picking grapes. That's pretty funny"
Miffed at the guard, "yeah that was pretty funny, but hey, did here about the ROCKET ATTACK THAT ALMOST KILLED SOME OF US?!" and stormed off.
You see, that sums up the situation in Afghanistan. A rocket attack is no longer news to locals. It doesn't phase them even when it happens to their friends, family and colleagues.
As an after thought, I really wasn't sure how to title this chapter. How was it last night? Oh, it was a blast! Or "how I learned to stop to worrying and love the bomb." All I really know is that a lot of things have changed in perspective after this.
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