Kabul Haiku

Dust storms cause squinting.

The wrinkles around your eyes

Are bad, and not good.

Okay, I guess I fell down a bit on the last line, but otherwise it fulfills all the critical haiku components: a 5-7-5 syllable structure and reference to season and place (dust storms are primarily a summer phenomena).

The dust is bad.

What this place needs is a dust index, though I'm probably better off not knowing. As it is, we gauge whether we should leave our windows open at night by the density and size of the dust halo around our guest house's outdoor lamp. The problem isn't so much the occasional dust storm, as the constant level of dust in the air, kicked up by passing cars, the occasional breath of wind, etc. It's most obvious, frighteningly so, at night, when the headlights of passing cars illuminates it like a thick fog. A few nights ago we could barely see to drive.

Only 10 Shopping Days Left Until Evacuation!

Afghanistan's parliamentary elections are scheduled for September 18th. So far, all has been quiet... in Kabul at least. But many international workers are planning to evacuate for the period around the election, just in case.

As for myself, my contract here ends on September 8th, after which time I may be off to Pakistan for some work. So this weekend I found myself in a party of western women, getting in that last-minute, pre-evacuation shopping. And once again, I realized that I'm a rotten bargainer.

Ever had that sinking feeling when your friend walks out of a shop with twice as much stuff, that she paid half as much for, as you did? I tell myself that what's important is that I feel the price I paid was fair. But let's face it. That's garbage. How can I be happy when someone else pays less than I did, at the same store, 5 minutes after I completed my purchase? No, what I feel like is an idiot.

So I paste a smile on my face and hope no one asks how much I paid (no one did). Whew!

At least I made the shopkeeper happy.

Is that faience I see? Towers in the Musalla complex, Herat, Afghanistan.

Herat Part II

Byron wrote that the Musalla Complex, built in the 15th century, was “the most beautiful example of color in architecture ever devised by man to the glory of God and himself.”

Hm.

I’m having a hard time envisioning that.

I’m also having a hard time envisioning what Nancy Dupree, the author of the definitive Afghanistan guidebook, saw. Granted, she wrote her guidebook in the 70s. Also granted, I didn’t have time to do a real tour of the complex, or what's left of it. I just drove beneath the four minarets on my way to Jetrai. Apparently, they once marked the corners of a madrassa. They also were once covered in white faience and blue mosaics. A bit of mosaic still exists, but the towers are worn down, especially about the base. And I wonder at the huge road which cleaves through the minarettes, and which can’t be good for them.

Perhaps if I’d had time to tour the citadel, admire the mosque, I’d have a different impression of Herat. Perhaps my expectations were too high. Heart is one of the most, if not the most, “historic” of Afghanistan’s cities. It lies near the Iranian border, and is correspondingly more conservative than Kabul. There are as many women in the flowing black veil as in the burqa, though few women are seen on the street at all.

Herat was also hot. I tossed and turned at night, unable to sleep from the heat. It didn’t help that my bed was lopsided. I had to lie flat upon my back or risk getting tumbled from it. My mood was not improved when the cook at my guesthouse served a version of Afghan prison food, unappetizing and calorie-free.

When I returned to Kabul, people commented that I looked wan. I don’t know if it was from the lack of food (which no doubt did me good) or the battering the small aircraft took on its landing in Kabul. It was windy, the plane was small, and we were tossed helplessly about. Not a good flyer in the best of times, I found the sight of the airsickness bag reassuring, though I fortunately did not have to use it.

Warning stones for the minefield on the road to Jetrai.

Herat!

Some time between 5 and 6 am in the morning, I must have done a poorly executed yoga pose in my sleep because I awoke with a horrible pain radiating from my right shoulder into my neck.
Hoping for some hydro-therapy, I stumbled, bleary-eyed, into the bathroom. There was no water. So I worked myself into an emotional lather instead, preparing biting comments should anyone offend me further. However, it was a morose and grumpy group at the breakfast table as no one else had water either. Perversely, that made me feel better.

Unwashed and with bad hair, and unassured by the Kiwi's comment that I looked the same as ever to him, I threw a scarf over my shoulders and headed to the airport. Once there, I got into a tussle with the UN aircrew, who insisted I wasn't authorized to fly with them (technically I'm not, so I couldn’t get too indignant about it). Eventually however, I did wrangle my way onto the plane and off to Herat.

I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before, but Afghanistan is spectacular from the air. Every color you can imagine ripples through the mountains, from umbers to ochers to even a chalk blue. There’s not much green though.

Herat, however, is another story. It’s got more trees, less traffic, and better (i.e. paved) roads then Kabul. I was soon plugged into my guesthouse, took a shower (hoorah!) and was off to find “success stories” about microfinance borrowers to write about.

We had to drive through a minefield to get to the village of Jetrai. The road was well-traveled and no doubt safe, but the sight of those stacked red and white stones never fails to give me chills. I saw only one tree in the entire village. Jetrai was a picture of desolation, and dust billowed down the dirt roads unimpeded by vegetation, women pulling their long patterned veils tight around their bodies to shield themselves. Hazaras, one of Afghanistan’s ethnic minorities (and brutally kicked around by the majorities), lived in the village, which made my job somewhat easier. The Hazaras are more liberal in their views. Women cover their heads but not their faces, and they are willing to chat.

I met two university students who, with the help of a microloan, had started up a business sewing girls’ clothing. With their first loan they’d bought material, then with their second loan they bought six more sewing machines and began employing other students part-time. Now they plan to hire even more employees. It was terrific to see. Not only were they paying for their studies and helping their own families, but by employing other young women they were spreading the wealth around the community.

Independence Day

By Wednesday night, we still didn’t know if Thursday would be a holiday or not. Friday was Afgan Independence Day (from the Brits), and since Friday was the weekend, Thursday would normally be an official day off. But the government couldn’t make a decision. Afghans do have calendars here (granted, the year is 1384), so a decision could have been made in advance. But what would be the point?

Finally, late Wednesday night I called our office manager and told him I’d be working from home on Thursday and not to send a car. The next morning, the government announced that it would be a work day. I wasn’t budging. I had a computer, Internet access, a cell phone. Work got done.

Along with the Internet connection came various dire e-mail warnings from the UN that since it was a public holiday with outdoor festivities, the natives might be restless. We should all stay in. Since the UN says this on every public holiday and the only thing I miss out on is good-natured Afghans having fun, I ignored this warning as well and went out, first to a chic boutique that makes Afghan-inspired clothing exported for sale to wealthy New Yorkers. The clothes were ill-made, over-priced, and nothing fit.

Afterwards, I abandoned my friends and went for a walk, alone, down nearby Flower Street for some DVDs. The streets were quiet, almost deserted, even the beggars having taken the day off. The ubiquitous shoeshine boys were out in force, however, and they descended upon me like a cloud of whining gnats.

“Lady, shoeshine? Lady, you promised last time that you would have a shoeshine.”

I never made that promise, because only Afghans bother with the ritual of a daily shoe-shine here. There’s just no point. In fifteen minutes, my shoes are just as dust-coated as they were before the shine.

One particularly persistent boy refused to be shaken off. He lounged in the doorway of a shop as I stopped to buy cookies.

“Lady, I’m hungry. Lady, I need work. Shoeshine lady?”

Finally, with change in hand, I gave him 20 Afs (about 50 cents) just to go away.

But he didn’t. He wasn’t a beggar, and even at his young age (ten? twelve?) he had a work ethic and pride. So he decided I’d paid him to escort me home, and for the first time, I really looked at him, at his dingy graying kaftan, his small hands darkened by shoeshine oil, his thin arms.

“Where are you from?” he asked me.

“America. Where are you from?” I teased.

We passed a parked 4x4 filled with wealthy, moon-faced Afghan women. “Where are you from?” they shrieked at me, giggling, mocking. “America! America!”

I was so surprised by their brashness, by their wealth that I automatically smiled and waved at them. Were they daughters of corrupt politicians? Of druglords?

“I’m from Afghanistan,” the boy said, ignoring the young women, who clutched at each other with laughter as we passed. “America is a good place.”

“Afghanistan is a good place too,” I lied, in my heart feeling nothing was further from the truth. But the boy had ceased to be a pest and had become a person, and now I did not wish to offend him.

Two men approached us – security consultants from my guesthouse, Kiwis. One of them looked askance at the boy. “Everything alright?” he asked me.

“I’m good, thanks,” I said, and the boy and I continued on, he coming not much higher than my elbow.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

“Asef. What is yours?”

I told him and we solemnly shook hands, declaring ourselves pleased to have met each other.

He escorted me all the way to my guesthouse, scowling at a boy on a rusty bicycle who circled us, curious, as we said goodbye to each other.

The guesthouse chakidar (literally translated as “chair sitter”, a chakidar can be anything from a doorman to a handyman) laughed. “You have a new bodyguard!”

"Just Because There's a Wolf at the Door...

...doesn't mean you have to let him in!"

Anywhere else, that would be a mixed metaphor. Not at my guesthouse, where I heard that phrase shouted by the Australian manager's wife.


The manager's pregnant wife had returned to Kabul and did not appreciate the wolf's attempts to get into bed with them. The wolf, in turn, had become more aggressive, particularly with the manager's wife, who now had his spot on the bed. Finally, she laid down an ultimatum: "It's me, or the wolf."

The manager shot me a beseeching glance.

I carefully examined my fingernails.

"The mother of your child," she growled, a steely glint in her eyes.

And so when I returned from Kunduz, the wolf was gone. Not, sadly, to a wolf refuge. We were never able to get transport for the wolf out of Afghanistan. Instead it went to a friend of the owner's, who was keeping an adult wolf at his home in Panshir.

My friend, the manager (who shall continue to remain nameless), has been making jokes about wolf skins and wolf-paw keychains, but it's a facade. He's the Hagrid of Kabul: over-sized, hairy, and complete with his own pumpkin patch (it's a Harry Potter reference, for those who haven't read the books). And like Hagrid, he's a soft touch with animals, no matter how obnoxious they may grow to become.

Kunduz

In the past I've complained that Kabul is hot and dusty. However, Kabul has nothing on Kunduz. Kunduz was so dusty, my exposed skin itched from the caked on dust (dust + sweat is not a happy combination).

The town was so hot, that children played in the open sewers and the drainage ditches into which the open sewers flowed. Either Kunduz is due for a cholera epidemic, or these kids have become so inured to germs that they'll never fall ill again.

That off my chest, the people there are fantastic and they still appreciate Americans. Kunduz is in the north, near the Tajik border, and was under the rein of Masood during the Taliban period. They look upon the foreigners as peacekeepers, and are happy to have them there. At least, so said a man I spoke with on the PRT (Provincial Reconstruction Team) base - a quasi-military outfit - and my experience there bore this out. The climate might have been hot and uncomfortable, but no one in Kunduz made me feel unwanted, or stared at, or the brunt of any hostile feelings.

So thank you, Kunduz, for your hospitality! And I hope you get a closed sewer system real soon.

When I'm not having exciting adventures, I'm doing things like visiting a Kunduz flour factory - partly financed by a loan from the US taxpayer!

The flight to Kunduz

They did finally re-open the airport, and we were swiftly bundled onto the waiting eight-seater plane. We had two stops en route to Kunduz -- first at Faisalbad, where we landed upon the Russian-built, metal and camoflaged runway. It felt a bit like taxing down a cattle grate. We only stopped for a short time in this quiet valley, then we were off to our next stop. I don't remember the town's name, but I do remember the landing.

We sharply corkscrewed until we were flying across a dried riverbed, our wingtips threatening to scrape the sides of the sheer banks. We passed over the runway, scaring off the sheep that were grazing upon the dirt runway, then swung up and around again to thread the needle for a second, successful attempt. We stopped only long enough to eject a passenger, left standing forlornely beside the lonely shack that made up the airport, then taxied away. A weedy little Afghan soldier, drowning in his over-sized black uniform, saluted us as we passed.

Ten more minutes and we were in Kunduz. Fortunately. All the spiraling and bumping had left me nauseous, and I was happy to land, even in as dusty and hot a place as Kunduz.

!

This morning my colleague and I drove to the Kabul airport to catch our flight to Kunduz. Getting into the boarding area was surprisingly easy. There was hardly anyone in the airport at all, aside from the guards and airline personnel who checked us in, and a few other people on my flight.

Then, as we sat at the boarding gate, my colleague's cell phone rang. It was the airline, telling her there was a bomb at the airport, the airport was closed, and to come three hours later.

IF THERE'S A BOMB AT THE AIRPORT, WHY DID THEY LET US IN???

So we trekked back to my colleague's house, where I sit down, writing this e-mail, and wondering when/if we'll be flying today.

I like my guesthouse, everything is new and modern. But I don't know what they were thinking when they installed these...

Stupid Wolf Tricks

Last night as I ate dinner, Garry walked into the hallway behind my chair and bellowed, "GET OUT OF THE HOUSE!" He was yelling at the wolf, but I jerked out of my seat. Some security guys, drinking beer outside, saw my reaction through the bay window and roared with laughter.

The wolf has figured out how to open doors.

More worrying, he's taken to sneaking up behind me and nipping the back of my ankle. I now scan the garden like a Navy Seal, wary of every cracking twig and rustling bush. Once the wolf is on the prowl, the only way to stop from getting nipped is to turn the tables and chase him around the garden until he gets bored and runs back to Garry.

The wolf also howls during the evening call to prayer, but I can't blame him for that.

ICE

I recently got this security bulletin from our network. Since it wasn't listed as confidential and it makes good sense, I'm posting it verbatim below:

A campaign encouraging people to enter an emergency contact number in their mobile phone’s memory under the heading “ICE” (i.e., In Case of Emergency), has rapidly spread throughout the world as a particular consequence of the recent terrorist attacks in London. Originally established as a nation-wide campaign in the UK, ICE allows paramedics or police to be able to contact a designated relative/next-of-kin in any emergency situation.

Almost everyone carries a mobile phone now, and with ICE authorities know who to contact immediately and what number to ring in case of any type of emergency, e.g., illness or accident.
By adopting the ICE advice, your mobile phone will help rescue services quickly contact a relative or friend – which could be vital in a life or death situation. It only takes a few second to do, and it could easily help save your life.

An accident, illness, or criminal act may leave a person seriously injured, unconscious, or otherwise unable to communicate with emergency personnel. Missing identification may only add to the problem. Also, encourage all your family and friends, who carry mobile phones, to use ICE.

Simply select a new contact in your phone book, enter the word ‘ICE’ and the number of the person you wish to be contacted. It really could save your life, or put a loved one’s mind at rest. People could also store alternative numbers under ICE1, ICE2, ICE3 etc., thereby giving rescue, or medical personnel additional contacts in the event that the primary person cannot be reached.

I should of...

I had fallen into a (dangerous) not-paying-attention daze whilst being ferried to the US Embassy, when I was shocked out of my stupor by the sight of an Afghan policeman beating an old man with his billyclub as he chased him across the road. I'll assume the old man's proximity to the Embassy was the cause, but it seemed so random and frankly unnecessary that I was stunned. I should have said something when I went inside the Embassy compound, but to my shame and regret, I didn't.

Click on the link above to see an article about the dangers Afghan women face every day.

Your feedback is our blood bank!

One of my the great pleasures in life is the humble menu. There's the wealth of choice, the anticipation that something yummy is coming, the risk that perhaps something yummy is not coming. And then there are menus that read like this:

Lickable lamb!
Burnt at the stake fish!
Chicken hearted!

It's impossible not to have an entertaining dinner conversation when provided with fodder such as this. However, I admit to being taken aback at the sign beneath the bar which I first read as: Your feedback is our bloodbath! Trick of the light, or I've been here too long. Either way, a second, startled glance revealed the truth: blood bank.

Okaaaaay.

What happens when you've got too much time on your hands...

Is Aid to Blame?

Above is a link to a good article which places some of the blame for famine in Africa on aid. I don’t think aid is to blame, per se, but I do agree that bad governance is at fault, and that is something which aid can’t fix.

There’s a fallacy amongst the anti-globalization/anti-capitalism factions that certain countries are poor because others, like the US, are rich. They seem to believe there is a finite supply of money in the world, and one country’s success means another’s failure. But what these socialist wannabes don’t understand is that wealth is created. Bill Gates didn’t steal money from anyone’s pockets when he built Microsoft – he created billions of dollars of wealth and products, and made the office more efficient in the process.

The main problem in the developing world is that there is so much corruption and so many disincentives to production (through over-taxation, tariffs, excess bureaucracy, poor infrastructures which increase costs, and the like) that citizens don’t have the opportunity to create wealth, food, and employment. I’ve noticed a direct correlation between poverty and corruption (check Transparency International’s corruption index). Or just look at the US – the states most notorious for corruption also have the worst schools and standards of living. Coincidence?

Handouts and aid can’t solve the problem of corruption unless, perhaps, they're linked to anti-corruption measures. Even then I’m dubious. But the more aid we give to corrupt countries with rotten systems, the less incentive there is for local governments to fix these internal problems which prevent their economies from functioning. The handouts enable them to continue limping along, conducting business as usual.

To bring this back to Afghanistan, this country has inherited the Soviet model of governance. Does anyone believe the Afghans will have more success with socialism than the Russians did?