Implosion

After a full day of training loan officers, I had been conscripted into emergency printing and collating for the next day’s board meeting. Staples were bending, the printer was two floors up and constantly running out of paper, and every 15 minutes a board member would pop his head into my bunker and ask if I was done yet.

So when an Afghan colleague offered to remove documents from the printer and collate them, I jumped at it. Forty minutes later, the guy “helping” me appeared at my desk with a stack of papers three inches high. Exasperated (must I do everything?), I began sorting through it and discovered, to my horror, stray and unlabeled budgets, missing appendices, half a document here, half there. Everything was mixed up. My dreams of leaving at a reasonable hour were dashed. Torn between the urge to burst into tears and the urge to leap over my desk and choke him, all I could do was make incoherent squeaking noises of despair.

The problem is that after 25 years of war and scraping to survive, office skills in Afghanistan are lacking. Really really basic office skills, like taking documents out of a printer without shuffling them into random patterns. If you think about it, why on earth would the average Afghan have office skills? I’ve heard this complaint echoed by many ex-pat managers, and of course the answer is intensive training and monitoring and all that good stuff. But I’m not the manager, have no right to tell anyone how to work, and am left to tear my hair out in silence.

Since my implosion, however, the guys in the office have been bending over backwards for me. I think they’re terrified. What scares me is I’m starting to enjoy it.

Tough Guy

As I was preparing for bed, a cockroach the size of my thumb scuttled down the pink tiled wall of my bathroom. You just don’t squash things that size, especially bare footed. So I retreated, and for some unknown reason, glanced over my shoulder. The bug followed. I hastened my pace. It sped up as well, and I thought I heard its shiny brown carapace rustling. Now thoroughly spooked, I fled through the bedroom and into the hallway, in search of bug spray. When I returned, the cockroach stood outside my door, defiant, as if to say, Come on! You wanna piece of me?

But when I uncapped the can of MegaTox, it turned and ran, as if it knew what was coming. I’m not sure what to think of this incident, particularly when combined with my apparent sleep walking the night before. I woke up wearing things I definitely hadn't gone to bed in, though I haven’t sleep-walked since I was about five. Things are just getting weirder and weirder in Kabul.

Pulikhumbri. Water pump in the carpentry bazaar.

On top of the world! And in a traffic jam.

Take the Sound of Music, Add a Dose of Carbon Monoxide

At 14,000 feet, we entered the dark pit of the Salang tunnel. Black billows of exhaust plumed from the high, arched passageway, and I felt a bit like Pinnochio in the whale’s belly (the Disney version, of course). Orange-colored lights shone from the ceiling, casting a hellish pall upon the black smoke. I glimpsed the figure of a man standing motionless in a crevice along the wall. His presence seemed so weird, that I briefly fancied him a demon, or a carbon-monoxide induced hallucination. But I didn’t want to go down that road, and decided he was my canary in the coalmine instead. If someone could breath that air, I’d be okay in the SUV. Fortunately, we made good time, and in five minutes we were on the other side of the pass.

We descended through a landscape of snow and ice into mountain fields bursting with green. I had a brief Julie Andrews moment, also possibly attributable to remnants of CO in my system, but I managed to suppress the urge to leap from the car and spin around, singing.

Village in Salang

Salang

The drive to Pulikhumbri would take me through the Salang Pass and the highest tunnel in the world, at 14,000 feet. It’s an engineering marvel, built by the Russians, and I just had to drive it. But before I got to the tunnel, I had to cross the Shamali Plain, with its fading tulips, and through the Salang valley. There, villages built of stone and mud-brick (and occasional, artillery shells) cascade down the spines of the mountains as if they would spill upon the road. Years ago, Salang was a hot spot for foreign tourists. Little wonder – Salang has a Shangri-La feel to it, set in another time, high above the mortal world, with terraced fields, slim aspens, and a river dancing along the valley floor.

As we climbed higher, the trees disappeared and we entered a stark landscape of boulders and snow. This is where the “galleries” begin – tunnels built to keep the road free of rockslides and avalanches. The galleries are sliced at regular intervals by narrow ventilation shafts, which unfortunately result in snow and ice getting into the galleries, mucking up the road and slowing traffic.

Afghans have a bazaar mentality when it comes to driving. In a western shop, people queue up and wait their turn. In an eastern bazaar, however, people throng the sellers, pushing and shoving and sticking their elbows in each other’s eyes to get to the front of the crowd. They do this when driving as well, as if, Harry Potter-like, they can zip their cars through impossibly narrow spaces and the objects in their way will magically leap aside. Poof! They’re in front!

But vehicles don’t have the same “give” as humans in a bazaar, and the result is a massive traffic jam, in a tunnel filled with cars spouting black exhaust. People have died in these tunnels from carbon monoxide poisoning, and as I clasped my headscarf to my nose (101 uses for a headscarf!), I worried. In spite of the shafts of sunlight, I was choking and claustrophobic. If it felt like this in the galleries (not all of them, fortunately), what would it be like in the Salang Tunnel, which cuts 2.7 kilometers through solid mountain?

Cultural Demerits

A friend and I were forced to take a cab back to the guesthouse – something which is generally frowned upon for security reason. Still, we hailed the cab, no problem, and my friend spoke enough Dari to get us where we wanted to go. When we arrived at our destination, however, the driver refused to take our money. We didn’t understand at first, and tried to give it on him again, but he said, “No, you are guests. No money.” I couldn’t believe it. I’ve never had a taxi driver refuse payment, anywhere. And at dinner at the guesthouse that night, I related the story to the group. Two of the guys looked at me and said, “You’re supposed to insist! Haven’t you received any cultural training?”

Apparently, it’s a custom here (though the first I’ve encountered it) for shopkeepers, restaurant owners, and cab drivers to initially refuse payment. One must press it upon them.

Oops.

Wild Tulips from the Shamali Plain

Wild Tulips

The road to Istalaf (not Istafan!) is lined with wild tulips and minefields. We passed several de-mining crews along the way, kneeling carefully in the overturned earth, blast shields lowered over their faces. Dirt paths lined with red and white-painted rocks wended through the fields, white facing the “safe” side and red on the “mined” side. I can’t shake my sense of eeriness when I pass these fields, and the men working in them

Also lining the road were small children in ragged tunics, their small hands overflowing with tulips. They cleverly posted themselves near the worst potholes, where the cars had to slow and there was greater opportunity for a sale. The children were so excited when we stopped that they hopped up and down on their bare feet, pressing around our open windows. The looks of glee on their faces as we paid them inspired us to stop over and over, until the back of our SUV was full of the flowers.

Children weren't the only ones selling tulips -- just the only ones we stopped for. There were plenty of adults along the roadside as well. The best picture I didn't take was of a small mudbrick police hut. The cops sat beneath an awning, their booted feet stretched out beside buckets of tulips, their machine guns propped against the containers.

Istalaf pottery

Young'uns

Istafan (I think)

Yesterday, some friends and I drove out to Istafan, famous for its pottery. At least, I think we went to Istafan. I’ve developed a mental block when it comes to Afghan place names and am too embarrassed to ask for the sixth time the name of this town.

The town lies in a valley on the Shamali plain, about 90 minutes outside Kabul. The plain was the scene of intense fighting, and the majority of the mud-brick buildings stand like broken teeth upon the slopes of the hills. The damage ranges from sprays of bullet holes to missing walls and (most frequently) ceilings, and it seems impossible that people live here.

But they do live here, and they were surprisingly friendly. People waved at us as we passed, and all the men and boys wanted their pictures taken. The pottery itself was a disappointment. I don’t think it’s very good quality, but the intensity of the blue and green glazes they use are startling, and I bought a small bowl anyway because it was cheap, and I was in Istafan.

I think.

Istafan

Kuchi shepherd

Hm...

Last week a man shot up a Kabul police chief's house, killed a taxi driver in the battle with the guards, and was captured. The police report he was also responsible for Steve's murder, and the kidnapping of three UN election workers last Fall. Other unconfirmed reports state the man is a suspect in global warming, the Asian tsunami, and JFK's assassination.

More camels - Nangahar

Dust

I know I’ve complained about the dust before, but I’m going to do it again anyway. Yesterday afternoon when I left the office, the sky was a dark, angry brown. I took off my glasses, rubbed my eyes, and the horizon was still brown. Then I hurriedly ducked into my car and hoped the storm didn’t hit before I made it to the safety of my guesthouse.

It held off, but I’d accidentally left one of the windows open a tiny crack, and was awakened at 1 a.m. choking on dust. The dust is a fine silt (and about 40% fecal in origin, a statistic I fervently hope is wrong), and I’ve developed a remarkably unattractive hacking cough. Add to that having to dress like a giant pillowcase and the rapid beating my clothing is taking, and Kabul has done wonders for my self-image. In fact, I’m not sure I have a self-image any more. I’ve taken to wearing my summer headscarf (yes ladies, there are seasons to headscarves) wrapped bandito-style around my face. Add sunglasses and my billowing trench coat, and I look like the Pillsbury doughboy’s grandma on a binge.

The Dogs of Kabul

The mosques in Kabul don’t synchronize their 5 am call to prayer. Some begin at 4:30 (the loudest and nearest to my guesthouse, of course), others at 5:15 and conclude with an extended sermon. And when the dogs got into the act this morning, howling accompaniment, I forgot about going back to sleep and staggered out of bed, looking like Bob Marley after a long night.

One doesn’t see many dogs on the street during the day. Dogs are considered unclean, are disliked by the city dweller, and only come out at night, in packs, scavenging for garbage. So I was surprised to see the Kuchis kept dogs. Surprised and terrified. They keep huge mastiffs – ferocious and terribly intelligent. They surrounded our car whenever we approached, barking and growling a warning, but as soon as they understood their owners didn’t mind our presence they vanished.

Wheat, brick ovens, mountains

Nangahar province. The black things in the bush are fabric. The Kuchis use them to lure birds, and them shoot them.

Camel saddle and Kuchi dress

Lunch with the Kuchis

VBIED

And then, the next morning, as I was sipping tea upon the balcony, I heard a sullen boom. I looked about for a plume of smoke, saw none, shrugged, and figured I was being paranoid. Besides, we were running late, should have been out the door ten minutes ago, and I had other things to worry about.

Ten minutes later, we were off and I was calling security to get an update on the areas we’d be going to, only to learn that the emergency vehicles racing ahead of us were on their way to the scene of an explosion. We quickly altered our route.

No one knew what had caused the explosion, but I had an unsettled feeling, and fervently hoped it was simply a gas canister exploding. We drove to Nangahar and visited more “settled” Kuchis, who lived in mud brick houses on land they owned, rather than in tents. However, we stepped into the middle of a simmering conflict. The Kuchis claimed that the government had given their lands to returning refugees, and there had been fighting in the village three weeks earlier. The conflict had not yet been resolved. We ended up talking to them about this more than anything else, and it’s still unclear what the real situation is. But a mere twenty minutes into our conversation, an Afghan security officer popped up to inform us we should inform him before we came there, due to the situation. Now my unease increased. Obviously, we weren’t traveling incognito.

We returned to Jalalabad, sunburned and stuffed with tea and yogurt, and there we learned the explosion had been a VBIED - Vehicle Borne Explosive Device, i.e., car bomb. My colleague and I decided to stay off the streets, and we spent the remainder of the afternoon lying about in an enclosed garden, eating almonds and pistachios like pashas. Okay, our decision was admittedly less about heeding the UN warning and more about being tired and lazy. And I suspect we shocked the Afghan guards at our guesthouse. I see lots of men lying around, but the women are always working. Women with leisure time?! The horror!

Camels

Kuchi grandmother

Kuchis and Camels

It’s for days like these that I got into this line of work, though I haven’t had many days like these lately. We motored across a vast plain with a traveling clinic, bouncing over dirt roads, seeking Kuchis to interview. While the doctor ministered to the Kuchis and distributed medicines, we interviewed the men about their sheep trading practices. The Kuchi tents were spaced far apart, and most of our day was spent getting from encampment A to encampment B, only to discover the men at encampment B were all out shepherding. But I didn’t mind. The scenery was spectacular, tents stretched along a wide valley beneath snow-covered mountain peaks, the green of the valley just beginning to fade to desert. And for a sound track: the grumble of camels and bleat of sheep.

In spite of two western women suddenly appearing in their campsites, unannounced, the Kuchis were remarkably hospitable. We couldn’t leave an encampment without drinking tea with the nomads, stretched out upon thick wool carpets. It was a good thing I was partnered with a serious researcher who knew what she was doing, because as I lounged beneath one tent, baby sheep penned with chicken wire near my feet, smoke from an aromatic fire drifting past, my mind kept drifting along with it: I couldn’t believe I got paid for this sort of thing. In short, I was so busy enjoying the moment that I was having a hard time keeping my mind on the job at hand. But in spite of that, we did get the job done.

I wish I could have spoken to the Kuchi women, but our translator was male so he couldn’t help us. They wore colorful, beaded clothing, and were clearly interested in us, peeking out from their tent and grinning, but we simply couldn’t communicate. Picture taking of Kuchi women is also forbidden, though occasionally the older women will allow it. From a touristic perspective, it is all very charming, but I have to say it’s a brutal lifestyle, especially for the Kuchi women, and once again I’m thankful I was born in 20th century America.

Sky, Kuchis, Camels

A mountain pass

On the Road to Jalalabad

After all the security threats, warnings, and exhortations, I finally managed to leave the office for a road trip to Jalalabad (Afghanistan). My mission: to interview Kuchis and fill in some holes in our economic research. Who are the Kuchis? Ethnically Pashtun, they’re the nomads of Afghanistan and over 2 million strong. I was with a Kuchi expert, and we hoped to catch some remaining in their winter grounds near Jalalabad before they migrated.

An hour outside of Kabul, I finally understood why the British have spent so much ink writing about this country. The scenery is mythic – craggy mountains, wide open landscapes that put the American West to shame, and, to use a cliché, people living the way they’ve lived for hundreds of years.

But then we began crossing through the minefields, stacked with warning rocks: red for mined, red and white for mined, and white for de-mined. But you have to be careful, because a rock that’s white on one side may be red on the other. We drove through huge fields stacked with these rocks, and the sight was creepy and sobering.

Once through the mountain pass, everything was green. Kabul is such a smelly dustbowl, that I’d forgotten what that color meant. But driving past wheat fields and grasses, I felt like something had lifted from me, and I was back in a world that was alive and verdant. The road was lined with mud-brick villages. Mud isn’t the best of building materials, since it’s not actually waterproof, and the eroded buildings looked like ancient settlements, adding to the fantastical nature of the view.

Pakistani truck on the road to Jalalabad (Afghanistan)