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.