Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Going home

Today I leave dusty Kabul for a much-needed break back home. I'm blocking all thoughts of the upcoming horrors of the Kabul airport with fantasies about Californian restaurants. And I'm not talking about the classy, uppercrust ones. Bring on the taquerias, the chains that sell chicken fingers and jalapeno poppers, the Greek pizzarias!

But I'll have to wait a bit longer. I fly through Baku on my return, and have a two-night layover there, so I won't arrive home until July 1st (and won't be functional until the 2nd).

Sigh.

Baku does have a McDonalds though.


What happens when a plane lands in Kabul

Sunday, June 26, 2005


Freedom the Wolf

Good News for Lupus

The wolf cub has found a home! A wolf sanctuary in New Mexico has agreed to take Lupus in. Now all we have to do is get him there. Our "contact" has told us if the wolf is renamed "Freedom," we might be able to impose on a US military transport. (I say "we" but I'm not really involved).

Sending Lupus, er, Freedom, to a sanctuary definitely falls into the "worthy cause" category. Scientists estimate the Afghan wolf is nearing extinction. Unable to do real surveys here, they count the number of pelts in the stores to estimate animal populations - fewer pelts mean smaller populations. There are probably less than 1,000 Afghan wolves left.

And anything is better than the Afghan zoo, which is an absolute horror.


Nice knockers! Entrance to the round fort, Kabul.


Inside the Koala Pushta fort, Kabul.

Only Mad Dogs and Englishmen

It was a Brit’s idea, but I went along with it.

The hills of Kabul are dotted with fortresses, and I’d been too lazy/busy to visit them. In my defense, it’s not as if I, a woman, could just climb up to the fortresses on my own. So I jumped at the opportunity to join the Brit’s informal fort tour, blithely ignoring the fact that we’d be stomping around fortresses during the hottest part of what have become very hot days.

The hillside beneath Koala Pushta fort is littered with garbage. Lots of garbage, cooking in the heat. The stench made my eyes water, and I wondered at the mud-brick homes that abutted the dump. But the odor didn’t rise as high as the fort, and the air smelled blessedly free of rotting garbage, car exhaust, and other bad things.

The fortresses look more impressive from below. Their interiors aren’t terribly thrilling. Open skies, weeds, a few stray dogs, and the ground littered with shells and other detritus of battle. After staggering through the second fort, we all agreed to skip the third (and most historic) in favor of beverages at a local restaurant.

Bad tourist.

Saturday, June 25, 2005


Simple shell casings, their surface wavering with distortions, dents, and imperfections, beautifully juxtapose with a rock path.


Pay homage to the dogs of war with ever-versatile shell casings arranged into practical but whimsical outdoor decor!

Kabuli Chic

Dinner at the asylum is never dull. One of the main reasons I like working here (and yes, it does have its moments) is the motley crew of people I encounter. Tonight at the table, a man, tanned from his day off at the links, was recounting his day at the Kabul golf course.

One of the de-miners laughed, interrupting him. “You do realize that area is mined, don’t you? The local warlord stopped letting us use the area for de-mining practice so he could turn it into a golf course. Lunacy!”

The golfer’s skin turned paler and paler as the de-miners joked about sending the caddy in front, (“Hey, that’s what I’m paying you for!”) and told tales of UXOs (unexploded ordinance) and other things that go boom that they continue to find there.

This country is so littered with things that go boom that it’s little wonder I see shell casings used as building material.

Monday, June 20, 2005

The Process

J sat in the garden, drinking the Belgian’s scotch and cadging cigarettes from another inmate. “There’s a process to peacekeeping,” he said. “You go from conflict, to post-conflict, to local governance, and post-conflict is… a… process." He punctuated his words and the night air with his cigarette. "First, you put a group of eight soldiers on the street, armed, and send them out at random times, walking about. So people get used to seeing soldiers. Then, you reduce the group to four men – three with rifles, one with a handgun. Then one soldier. And then, eventually, you hand it over to the local cops.”

“And what happened here?” I asked.

He took a long draw on the cigarette. “Nothing. It just got handed over to the local cops. But they don’t have the ability to keep the peace yet. And that’s why there’s anarchy in Afghanistan. It’s a process, and no one followed it.”

I don’t know about peacekeeping theory, but J’s made sense, because I see the same problem with the reconstruction. In the name of empowering the Afghans and getting out ASAP, too much was handed over to the local government too soon, and they don’t have the capacity or capability to use the donor funding they control. As a result, the reconstruction isn’t happening, and this is bad. It’s bad for the Afghans, because they desperately need paved roads, drinkable water, a sewer system, and stable electricity, among other things. Businesses need these things too, and without them, the Afghan economy is going nowhere. It's bad for the Americans, because the Afghans are getting frustrated with the anarchy and lack of forward progress, and the Taliban is looking more and more like a reasonable alternative.

An example: This week’s Kabul Weekly published an article on the lack of road building happening in the capital. The roads are execrable – mainly rutted dirt and mud, which dries into a fine slurry that chokes the summer air. (Did I mention that Kabul has the highest percentage of fecal matter in its air of any city in the world? Open sewers, dirt roads... You get the picture.) Road building began years ago and then stopped. Why? The construction companies say they were never paid for their work by the municipality and had to quit before they finished.

I believe it. The organization I work with and many others are experiencing the same problem. The funding was approved by the donors for these organizations, but it stays locked away in a vault, waiting for a signature from a local government bureaucrat, helping no one.

In fairness, the US is one of the few donors that doesn't run projects through local governments, and some very nice highways are being built between Afghan cities. But the bulk of the funding that I’m involved with comes from other, more generous, donors, who route all approvals and funds through the Afghan ministries, which sit on the cash, obstructing the work.

And apparently the US isn't funding road improvements for Kabul. The US is spending a lot on aid on Afghanistan, but Afghanistan is a big country, and donor aid is scattered. I wonder at its effectiveness. The larger cities and towns need fixing, because if the townsfolk become disgruntled, they'll begin to provide aid and comfort to the insurgents. (I read it in a book).

Empowering the government is important and necessary. But that also, is a process, and a lengthy one, and the infrastructure needs to be rebuilt and repaired NOW, so we don't lose this insurgency. The mood among the populace is turning here, and I fear we’re losing the “hearts and minds” battle.

Sunday, June 19, 2005

Mango Lassi

I went to lunch with the two Indian guys in the office today - possibly a mistake because one, M, spent 30 minutes obsessing about mangoes, which are now in season here. A long discussion on the health benefits, calorie content, and danger of mango overdose ensued. You may be familiar with this sort of conversation - lots of talk with minimal actual knowledge on the topic.

In their honor, and since I mentioned lassis in my Food Street post, here’s a recipe for a mango lassi. Remember, they taste best in aluminum cups!

Ingredients:
2 cups plain yoghurt (or plain soy yogurt for you vegans!)
1 medium ripe mango pulp, peeled and diced
2 Tablespoons sugar
1 cup chilled water (and/or ice)
¼ tsp cardamom powder (optional)

Combine all the ingredients in a blender until smooth. To take out any lumps, put through a strainer, pushing out the liquid as you can.

Be sure to select a ripe mango. Here is M's mango peeling technique: “Turn the mango upside down and make a small hole at the bottom of it with a sharp knife. And then, holding the skin between your thumb and knife, gently peeeeel the mango.”

To increase or decrease the thickness of the lassi, adjust the amount of water/ice used.

This isn't an Afghan drink, but it's really good.

Saturday, June 18, 2005


Mosque built by Shah Jahan, 16th c., Babur Gardens


I paid $2 for this?! (Babur Gardens)

Babur Gardens

The few guidebooks that exist about Kabul all rave about the Babur Gardens, built in the 16th century at the behest of Zahir-ed-din Mohammad Babur Shah, the first Mogul emperor.

Whatever.

Destroyed by war and neglect (bullet holes scar the exterior walls of nearby buildings), the renovation of the gardens was scheduled for completion by summer 2003.

Surprise! They’re not done yet.

But there is a very nice wall around the "garden." There are some trees, a few scraggly and stunted rose bushes, and a few bits of browning grass, but this does nothing to prevent dust from billowing along the hillside. I wrap my scarf around my head, crunching dirt between my teeth, and inwardly curse that I had to pay $2 to get in here.

But then we trudge up the hill to a broken-down marble edifice – a mosque also built in the 16th century, wrecked, and restored. There’s a patch of lush green lawn just above it, and we discover the source, a small canal, which empties into a concrete swimming pool. Boys are splashing about inside, but when they see the foreigners they swarm me and practice their English.

Thursday, June 16, 2005

Coping Mechanisms

I sat beneath an arbor at my guesthouse, sharing a bottle of red with two friends. So they remain my friends, I’ll just call them L and D.

L confessed that she’d started crying at her NGO’s stress management meeting and had to leave the room. When she returned to the meeting, supposedly composed, she began to sob again. She sighed. “Afterwards, I went to see the counselor who led the session. I realized I’ve been marking time with people’s deaths. Oh, that happened about the time Steve was killed, or this happened around when Christie died. I thought I was handling everything okay, but I guess I wasn’t. But there are people here who don’t seem to be fazed by any of this, though, and I don’t understand how they do it.”

“Denial. It’s a coping mechanism,” D replied brusquely. “If they admit the danger, they can’t handle it. It’s what they need to do to stay here.” She jabbed her finger at us for emphasis. “The real problem is people don’t realize when their expiration date for this country is. You need to go back to a normal place to understand what you’re doing and remember what the real world is like.” D would be leaving Afghanistan forever the next day, and I thought she sounded a trifle smug.

I balanced the wine glass on my stomach, slouching in my chair. “After Steve was killed, people kept telling me he was targeted because of something he did. It was Steve’s fault he died, and so they were safe. It wasn’t going to happen to them.”

L ran her hand through her black hair. “After Clementina was kidnapped, an Italian colleague of mine burst into tears. He’d been saying for months that he wasn’t a target because he was Italian and worked for an NGO. Part of the stress is fear for other people, and part is fear for yourself. Is that awful?”

D snorted. “It’s realistic.”

L’s eyes reddened. “The day I got word of Steve’s death, someone invited me to a party. I said “no” and they couldn’t understand why. But I do the same thing, don’t I? I hear a bomb go off, and then shrug and get on with things.”

“What else can you do?” I protested. “If you’re around to wonder about the bomb, you’re okay.”

L turned to me. “But it’s strange, isn’t it? We’re not acting normally anymore, are we?”

I shifted uncomfortably, thinking about some of my recent behavior. To my relief, a Belgian man and fellow inmate bounded up the patio steps. He sat down upon the wooden chair beside us and slung one leg across his knee. “What are we talking about?” he asked cheerfully.

I asked if he wanted some wine, then left to get him a glass from the dining room.

When I returned, he was laughing. “I remember once I went home and woke up to a thunderstorm. I thought I was being bombed! And then I did not know who was sleeping next to me. It was my wife!”

I handed L the empty glass and then extended my own. “Another refill on my coping mechanism?”

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Hospital

A friend recently commented that I've gone from one extreme to the other -- from post-Soviet states where alcohol was practically forced down my throat, to Afghanistan, where it's illegal. Ironically, I'm drinking more in Afghanistan than I ever did in the Former Soviet Union. One of the benefits of curfews and lockdowns, however, is that my alcohol consumption has slowed. Never fear, I'm making up the calories with junk food.

So it was with trepidation that I stepped on a scale in an Afghan hospital today. Going to the hospital here was scary enough, without adding a weigh-in to the mix. But the scale was alternatively comforting, because it's so typical of what happens when one goes in for a check-up, and horrifying, because I just didn't want to know how much damage I'd done. (Fortunately, I'm not as fat as I thought I might be).

Why did I go to the hospital? Because I wasn't happy with the European clinic I'd visited. I became suspicious when the harried doctor suggested I had salmonella.

"Why salmonella?" I asked. "I don't have any of the symptoms."

"It's going around," she said. "Four cases this week."

Hm...

So I wasn't terribly surprised when the anti-biotics they gave me didn't work. Next I hauled myself off to a surprisingly clean and friendly western-funded hospital. Had the doctor not also been western, I wouldn't have braved it. A friend in the medical/NGO profession once told me that one of their biggest battles was to get the doctors and nurses here to stop beating the patients.

Unfortunately, there aren't good labs here, so I still might not have the right prescription. Here all the doctors can do is try one set of anti-biotics, and if they don't work, try a different one. So I can't be too hard on the clinic for failing to fix me.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

The Gardens of Kabul

Walking the streets of Kabul, one sees unrelieved concrete, mud brick, and dirt. The dirt is the worst – fine particles that turn to slurry when it rains, then swirl into thick clouds of dust at the slightest breeze. Thanks to years of war, drought, and the Taliban, Kabul is barren, inhospitable, ugly.

But behind the grim walls that guard Kabul’s homes are lush gardens. In the early summer, roses of every variety bloom, unripe apples drop from fruit trees, and people loll about in comfy chairs. Sitting in such a garden, sheltered from the choking dust (to a point), it’s easy to forget that one is in Kabul, armpit of Central Asia.

And then there are the restaurants catering to foreigners. No, they can’t beat your average TGIFriday’s, but they’re a great, if somewhat warped, diversion from reality. Afghans can’t afford to eat in them, and many restaurants simply don’t allow Afghans inside so they can serve alcohol. Weirdly, alcohol is legal for foreigners, illegal for Afghans. The same is true in Pakistan, but it’s much harder to get a drink there. I’m always struck by guilt when I go to one of these places, but that doesn’t stop me. Forgetting I’m in Afghanistan for a few moments a day has become necessary to my dwindling sanity.

http://adventurersclub.blogspot.com

Saturday, June 11, 2005


Hard Shot Cafe, Kabul

Clementina Has Been Freed!

Clementina, the kidnapped Italian aid worker, was released! And according to accounts, she's in good health, all things considered. Unfortunately, the kidnappers are still at large.

Thursday, June 09, 2005

Gnashing of Teeth

Panic reigns in Kabul. The south is heating up, Clementina has yet to be released, and most people are on strict lock-downs.

The good news is that even though the security situation now is worse than it was in the winter, it's a lot better than it was last insurgency season (spring/summer '04). However, most of the people running programs here weren't in Kabul during the last insurgency season, so they don't have that as a basis for comparison.

This is all leading up to the fact that I'm fed up with these ----ng curfews and restrictions, many of which don't make much sense, and are imposed by an agency which still insists on driving around in vehicles with giant identifying labels on the side. Why not a bullseye?

The average Afghan has good reason to be frustrated with the reconstruction process, which is sputtering along at a snail's pace. Donors push for quick wins they can write reports about, but those aren't the most effective development projects, and are pretty much doomed to failure. In short, the bureaucrats are running the show, and it's terrifying.

Saturday, June 04, 2005

Back in Kabul

A lot of internationals had left Afghanistan during the week I was in Pakistan, over fears of more civil disturbances. Naturally, since everyone was worried about it, nothing happened. So it seems a bit ironic that on my first night back in Kabul, I was awakened by a rocket striking my neighborhood. This place is starting to feel less and less like a "post-conflict" environment and more like a "conflict" environment.

That said, five minutes later I was asleep again. The rocket hadn't hit my building, and there was nothing I could do about the event, so there was little sense losing sleep over it. I'm not worried about the occasional bomb or rocket. They're so random my odds of getting hurt by one is less than my odds of being run over by a car back home.

The kidnapping feels a bit more personal, however. Clementina, the Italian aid worker, still hasn't been released by her abductors. It's unclear whether her kidnapping is the beginning of a trend, but everyone fears it.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

Islamabad

Islamabad, Pakistan's capital, was built in the 1960s. It's big, it's soulless, no one looks twice at you if you're bare headed, and you can walk the streets at night. I walked through a crowd of men just exiting a mosque, and rather than raining abuse (or rocks) upon my head for that Newsweek/Koran desecration story, they paid me no attention. The people were polite, well-educated, and friendly. In short, Islamabad is a normal sort of place. And although it's not the most exciting tourist destination in the world, when you've been living in Kabul, it's the best! The sewer system in Islamabad actually runs UNDER ground!

My first afternoon there, I was so busy shopping for clothes, eating in western-style restaurants, and just walking (an activity I haven't been able to engage in since I've been in Afghanistan), that I didn't take any pictures. This was a mistake, because my second day in Islamabad, I was sick as a dog, and the only thing I saw was the ceiling of my hotel room. It was tinted pink from the sun streaming through my bordello-red curtains, and had a rather nice molding.

Note to self: Die of dehydration before consuming anything from a street vendor in Lahore.

And the next morning I returned to Kabul, queasy and disappointed.


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