The Wolf at My Door

Last night I was trotting down the guesthouse steps into the garden, en route to the kitchen to snaffle some yogurt, when the wolf sprang out of the rose bushes at me. Not being a screamer, I settled for leaping straight up into the air.

The wolf regarded me, its head slightly lowered, front legs wide, and when my heart stopped threatening to tear out of my chest, I saw that he just wanted to play. So we chased each other around the garden until two other guests strolled in and the wolf bolted for one of its hidey holes. It was the first time the wolf approached me, and I felt oddly proud.

Managing Over There

The other night I was awakened at 3:11 by a loud boom. It was probably just some construction going on, but I confess, I panicked like a little girl and lay awake, wide-eyed, with my sheets tucked around my chin.

Which leads us to the big question: why is there construction going on at 3:11 am?

I'm sorry to report it's not because the Afghans are so hardworking that they keep building things until the wee hours. Nor is it because of the incredible demand for real estate. There is an incredible demand for homes and offices, but that's not the driving force behind the late night work.

It's because 3:11 am is the only time the workers can "borrow" heavy equipment from neighboring sites.

Now I've heard many ex-pats complain that Afghans take no initiative, that they have to be micromanaged. But that just isn't true (see above). Given the proper motivation, most people can and will show initiative. However, most foreign managers haven't figured this out.

I've seen this phenomena in Eastern Europe as well. Lazy managers figure that since unemployment is high, all they have to do is give someone a job and they'd darn well better be first-rate at it. Then they chisel employees out of decent salaries (You should thank me you've got work!), don't bother with benefits (Save your money, you lazy sod!), and forget about the details, like congratulations on a job well done and employee of the month. Then the manager wonders why nothing functions, and concludes that all Afghans/Romanians/Georgians are lazy.

Are Afghans more difficult to work with? Hell yes! After decades of war and the ravages of the Taliban, few people have anywhere near a basic education. Nor do they know how to function in an office. How could they? But this doesn't make them stupid. It just means we, the foreign hoarde, have to spend more time training and mentoring staff, letting them know what works and what doesn't, and rewarding them accordingly. If you get the rewards right, it will work. If you don't, then you're working in the average foreign NGO.

Book Review

Forget the Kite Runner.

If you want a good read on Afghanistan, pick up Flashman by George MacDonald Fraser. It chronicles the misadventures of Henry Flashman, a cad, coward, and bully who, to his horror, finds himself in Afghanistan during one of the greatest military disasters in British history - the flight from Kabul in 1842. From a military history perspective, it's a fascinating read. From a literary perspective, it's a fun read. But be warned: the dastardly Flashman is an arrogant, racist, misogynistic jerk.

My pleasure in the story was tempered, however, by the sinking feeling that history is repeating itself. Little seems to have changed here since Flashman's time, beyond the arrival of the internal combustion engine. Afghanistan is like some circle of hell, where the same story is played out over and over. It seems Afghanistan's cycle of war, cruelty, and ignorance has been continuing for a thousand years, and I wonder if it can ever be broken, or if it is too embedded in the Afghan psyche, a genetic memory that casts an unshakable pall over the country.

Dust, Flies, Oh My!

This morning, a sienna-colored layer of dust hung over Kabul. Not a good sign, as there wasn't a breath of wind in the air. What's keeping it up? More importantly, where will I be when it descends?

Hopefully, tucked away in my cool little basement (the bunker's not so bad, now that the heat of summer is in full swing), swatting at flies with my straw fan. The insects are fearsome. We have now entered fly season - at least there is a season, and this isn't a year-round event.

A friend once told me that the highest honor an Egyptian Pharaoh could bestow upon a warrior was the Golden Fly, awarded for persistence in the face of overwhelming odds. I understand that now. No matter how violently I thrash, the flies blithely return, crawling upon my keyboard, settling delicately upon my sleeve, buzzing nonchalantly about my head.

Christmas in July

I managed to get out of the wedding by the simple expedient of not arranging for a car and driver. Giddy with freedom, I went to a Christmas in July party instead.

The tree was decorated with beer cans and one sad little candycane. This is one of the few places in the world where one can participate in a "Yankee Trader" gift exchange and walk away with a billyclub under one's arm. Tipsy from vodka punch, I went back to my guesthouse and practiced ninja-like jabs and blocks with my new toy.

http://adventurersclub.blogspot.com

Another #&^%ing wedding

I'm trying to duck out of another Afghan wedding. It's for one of my colleagues, who I really like. But I just don't think I can take another one.

Imagine a sweltering room built for 100 but packed with 300 women, all glaring at each other and waiting for the American to do something interesting. You can't communicate with these women, and you know in the next room, Afghan men are bellydancing together (I've heard this single-sex dancing gets oddly risque). Now imagine there's no food, not until at least 10 or 11 pm. Kids are crawling all over you because you're the oddball foreigner and are the best chance for entertainment they've got tonight. Little do they know you're fantasizing about punting them across the room. But you grin and bear it when the little ones jam their sticky fingers into your hair, rather than risk getting torn to pieces by a howling mob of Afghan women.

Alcohol might make the ordeal bearable. But the best you can hope for is a warm coke.

I've never seen such miserable affairs. In every other country I've attended weddings in, they're a time for celebration. Granted, nine times out of ten an Afghan bride is basically being sold into slavery. Maybe that's why the women's side is such misery. But men I've known who've gone to weddings here say it's just as awful on the guy's side of the curtain.

I think I feel a flu coming on.

Got Girls?

Today I had lunch at Kabul's only Chinese restaurant that is not a brothel.

I'd thought it was a myth.

Unfortunately, I'm not in the minority. We were the only customers, and the ladies who run the Happiness Restaurant are on the brink of shutting it down. There just aren't enough customers (because everyone assumes it's a brothel) and most of the men who show up get upset when women aren't available.

The Chinese restaurant/brothel connection is weird (imagine, weirdness in Kabul). I heard that a gaggle of Chinese prostitutes had been imported into Kabul and restaurants set up as a front. There are so many Chinese restaurants that don't serve food, that diners have given up any hope of a Chinese dinner. Now there's a great restaurant in town that serves actual food, but no one believes it.

Too bad. The food is awesome.

Yep, I'm Back in Kabul

And my first lesson was what happens to a surge protector during a particularly vicious power surge. I wouldn't say it exploded exactly, but there was a pop, a flash of light, and then dark curls of smoke poured from it. But my computer still works.

Of course you see my quandry. I now have no surge protector to protect my brand-spanking new laptop. I've been told it's possible to buy one in Kabul, but predict the quest will not be for the faint of heart.

Returning to Kabul

I'm returning to Kabul on Sunday -- well, leaving for Kabul on Sunday; it will take me two days to get to Afghanistan. The good news is I'm flying through Dubai, and have planned a mini-vacation there on my way back. The bad news is when I tried to get disability insurance this week, I was denied because they don't insure people working in Afghanistan. Now from a risk perspective, I think this is a bit unfair. Sure, the risks are higher in Afghanistan, but the insurance companies can't have *that* many clients living there, so I don't believe insuring me would throw their ratios drastically out of whack.

Still, it gave me pause, and is another reminder of why after this six week contract is up, I'm going somewhere better. This shouldn't be difficult. I've been told there are only half a dozen countries in the world worse than Afghanistan. I think I can avoid them.

Back in California, and eating 'til I bust!

Oil tankers plying the Caspian. Baku, Azerbaijan.

Back to Baku

I have a natural prejudice against countries run by dictators and supported by oil money. But I have to admit, Baku is nice. Maybe it's because I had come from Afghanistan, and just about everywhere looks good by comparison. But Baku's clean streets, friendly and well-educated populace, and air of peace and security is slowly winning me over.

From a tourism perspective, Baku is still NOT the Paris of the Caucasus (have you noticed how many "Switzerlands of" and "Parises of" there are in the world?). But the narrow alleys and architectural details of the old city are charming for an afternoon's stroll. And the pedestrian streets, lined with hustlers selling everything from nesting dolls to KGB paraphenelia are surprisingly orderly. In short, it's not a bad place to kill a day while waiting for your flight to London.

Minarette, Baku's old city