Gliding to China

Photo: The King Air of the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC), being refuelled on the tarmac in Mazar e-Sharif. NGO staff can use these flights with approval from the organization.

I'm hopelessly hiding in the shadow sliver of the tail of a King Air. The blazing Mazar e-Sharif sun still finds me in the reflection off the tarmace on this Wednesday morning. Kaptein Pierre (didn't get his last name) comes over to inspect the refuelling progress which involves two Afghans in the bed of an ICRC stamped Toyota Land Cruiser with three drums of AvGas on the back. The pump is hooked on to the battery of the running vehicle, and I watch the ground cable melt onto the ground.

A burly blonde man with a thick Afrikaans accent, the good Kaptein tells me he hails from Middelburg. I am not at all surprised to find a fellow-boer at the helm. If you’ve ever landed safely in a place where people may be inclined to shoot you down, chances are you have to thank a bush pilot named van der Merwe or van Heerden.

The last of the cargo is fed into the belly of the plane. The ground cables detached. I feel a gentle trickle of sweat running down my spine. A welcome breeze appears, my scarf licks at my cheeks. At the thumbs-up from the captain in the cockpit, we board.

Buttons are pressed, dials adjusted, trim center, altimeter: Check. Right prop roars. Full throttle: check mixture. Rudder left, rudder right. Left prop joins in the chorus. It is music to my ears. I sit on the left side of the plane – two rows only divided by an aisle. A habit I guess, to sit left.

Surprisingly my nonprofit organization does not make use of these free ICRC flights, ostensibly because it is not really in the “culture”. Culture of what I am not sure – to take a free flight that will have me in the office in Kabul in two and a half hours, versus an expensive road mission in a beat-up Toyota that will take at least ten hours, in forty degree heat, and cost an exorbitant amount in repair and maintenance costs. Culture or no culture: my affinity for all things airborne might change that.

The Tibetan departee next to me swallows hard on a year’s worth of memories in this dusty little town in NW Afghanistan. I attended his going away at the only restaurant in town last night. Watched him construct a pyramid out of Heineken cans while nostalgically recalling the months gone by with his colleagues. I swallow in turn for the excitement of being here. I finally realize that I have come to love it here, almost in an instant.

How does one go from new arrival to feeling right at home. I don’t know. But that is how it is for me today, in this place, on this plane. Perhaps it has to do with the small breakthrough I experience with my deputy today. An Afghan male, known for his difficulty in working with women, actually carried my bag all the way to the gate to see me off. While this might seem insignificant now, trust me, in a culture where a brother might kill his sister for not lowering her eyes enough in public, and where this colleague has been accused of harassing the female staff for wearing makeup to work, these small gestures have come to mean something.

Photo: The runway in Faizabad

There is a long road ahead, and many things to talk about – but today, I’ll take my small victory.
Below the landscape changes between hues of browns and a dusting of red. Twenty more minutes to Faizabad in the beautiful furthest Northeastern province of Badakhshan, near the border with China, and then on to Kabul. On approach into the airport two ISAF (International Security Assistance Force) helicopters fail to announce themselves on the radio and we have to do a go-around. It is mountainous. We glide through the air. The sky is blue, below a patch work of greens and yellows.

We come in fast before Kaptein Pierre powers back almost completely for what is known as a “soft landing”, done on non-tarmac surfaces and short landing strips – both of which apply in this instance. The plane is left on the runway, made from a metal rug rolled out in the middle of a valley. A few more aid workers and an Afghan father with a cripple little girl board. We charge back down the runway and kiss the sky above the mountains as we turn southbound to Kabul where I will spend a few days meeting donors, visiting with Chris, and meeting up with old Baghdad friends who have since left that place behind too...

Photo: A father prays for his terrified crippled daughter on the ICRC flight. Presumably on their way to Kabul for the necessary treatment for her severly disfigured little feet, that is not be available in Faizabad.

Wheatfields

I took this photo of a woman hiding her identity from me as she strolled next to the wheat fields in the district of Pashtunkot in Faryab Province. I have seen almost no female faces since I have been in Afghanistan. Most of the grown men love having their photo taken, the women hide behind the burqas, while the children mostly run away. This is a completely new experience for me from both photographing in Africa and in the Middle East where children love having their photos taken. Of course, as always, when I take a portrait of someone, I do so with their permission. When I take candid shots while passing, I will try and "steal" a moment in time such as this one.

Finding Faryab

Photo: An old man we met during

a rest stop

The province of Faryab is located in the Northwest of Afghanistan, just east of Turkmenistan. The province is mainly involved in agriculture related activities, and possess no real industry due to its inaccessibility. An estimate puts the number of people who migrated away from Faryab during the war at forty percent, many of whom have since returned as returnees and IDPs (internally displaced people). For more detailed information on the economic activities of Faryab see a report done by the Ministry of Rural Reconstruction and Development.




With its water color hillsides adorning both sides of the vehicle as we make our way through the preceding villages toward Maymana city, home to our sub-base, a Daewoo construction truck billows smoke behind him. He forms part of the work crew on a Japanese funded part of the restoration of the national "ring road" system that will make my traveling in these parts a lot easier.

Photo: A woman in a burqa passes by a restayrant where men are having tea in the town of




Boys race donkeys off to the side of the road while another boy and his dad rides their Russian motorcycle careful to avoid the gaping potholes. The boy clutches a cardboard box with the letters USA in bright red letters. Further down the road, hundreds of such boxes are being unloaded off the back of a truck as people gather around to receive their ration. The lunch I had earlier starts to weigh on me on these bumpy roads, and as the only female I have not been able to make use of any of the "pit stops" at the side of the road that my seven male counterparts have had the pleasure to do. Finally the UN Security officer driving the lead vehicle pulls over to the side of the road and instructs his passengers to disembark. I change vehicles as we drive off on a side road in the direction of a village, but make it only half way when he throws the UN Land Cruiser up a hill, skillfully turns it around, dismounts himself and introduces me to my "privacy". Excellent customer service I thought.

Photo: Camels carry a load of hay to a kuchi settlement

Back on the road I am astonished at the weight-bearing capacity of the camels and donkeys as they cart what has to be hundreds of pounds of grass and a human driver for miles back to the nomadic settlements of the rider. We near the city of Maymana. Entering the town the neat mud houses line the street closer than I have seen before, something I would compare to the houses in Tuscany being built right up to the street's edge so that passing vehicles just about have to be greased up to pass through. In this case the mud walls are adorned with brightly painted steel gates, most of which have a simple awning with grape plants providing much-needed shade. The customary open water canals direct muddy water downstream toward a river that flows through town.

The guesthouse is a huge four story old building that houses both the "expat guesthouse" and the offices. It is run by our dedicated local staff, many of whom have worked with us for upward of nine years. Here the insistent rattle of a Russian Jeep wakes you up early in the morning as the field staff head out to one of the hundreds of communities that benefit from the work that we do in Faryab. My colleague and I are tired and I cannot get the taste of dust out of my mouth. We decide to take a quick break after our nine hour journey, to reconvene in the office a four pm. I go to my room and I am brought tea and watermelon...just what a girl needs to get the dust out of the system. And then we work until nine.

Map of Afghanistan

Whenever I go to a new place I study it on a map to get a sense of scale, size and direction. I find this helps with adapting and also in discovering a place by being more confident in knowing where you are. To try and position myself to you in the country of Afghanistan, I have indicated a few important places pertaining to my "area of operation" on this map:



The numbering refers to the following:

1. Kabul - Capital of Afghanistan. My country headquarters are based here, as is Chris.
2. Approximate location of the Salang Pass, mentioned in previous emails as the beautiful gateway to the Hindu Kush.
3. Baghlan province. We have a very active sub-base here. While it is considered more NE Afghanistan, and I am the Coordinator for the NW, there is an ongoing shelter project for returning refugees from Iran and Pakistan that falls under me.
4. Kunduz - the NE headquarters and base I was originally going to manage before they moved me over to the NW, stationed in Mazar e-Sharif
5. Mazar e-Sharif - My new HOME, and the second largest city in Afghanistan, home to the blue mosque. We have a guesthouse and an office here. From here I manage four provinces: Balkh, Jawzan, Faryab and Samangan. They are indicated on the map as: respectively Mazar, nr. 5 (capital of Balkh Province) Sheberghan, nr. 6 (capital of Jawzan Province), Maymena, Nr. 7 (capital of Faryab Province); and Samangan, Nr. 8.
6. Sheberghan - Jawzan Province, home town of General Dostum, one of the more powerful commanders of the NW. We drove through this area to get to Maymena yesterday, I will share the photos of the hay-bearing camels.
7. Maymena - a beautiful town where we have a wonderful sub-base. I am presently in Maymena to do administration and logistics with the base manager as well as to meet with donors and interagency partners for funding and coordination of our projects. We implement the National Solidarity Program (NSP) in Faryab province and the latest numbers indicate that the number of beneficiaries is upward of 1.1 million people.
8. Samangan Province.

Traveling:
To give an indication of travel times and distances - to travel from:
Kabul to Phuli Khumbri (points 1 to 3) - The road is a combination of paved, dirt, landslide, potholed patch work and double track. Particularly in the mountains, there can be huge delays due to weather, if the roads are clear with no floods, snow or other hindrance - will take approximately 4 hours.
Phulu Khumbri to Mazar e-Sharif (points 1 to 5) - This road is mostly tar, that being said, parts of it have very bad potholes that does slow things down significantly. Time of travel approximately 2.5 hours. So all in all from Kabul to Mazar, one should factor in about 8-9 hours with a rest stop or two.
Mazar to Maymena - (points 5 to 7)this is where the fun starts, since the Japanese paved road stops in Shebergham, although I am happy to say this is being extended all the way to Hrat (see Western most province), which should make our inter-base travel that much easier. Total drive time yesterday: around nine hours.

Flights
There are some flights as operated by the UN, an Afghan national airline as well as the ICRC and another organization that services NGOs. Each of these have their own set of requirements, be it a lot of money (UN), or a Pakistani visa in case of a diverted flight (ICRC), so it is not as easy as making a reservation and showing up at the airport. All of these options are constantly considered, and I am sure I will be utilizing many of them more than once.

Coming to Mazar

It was a beautiful drive up from Kabul to Mazar, and I think that Samangan province might even be more beautiful than the Salang pass which I did not think was possible. But please, you be the judge of that....and more...

Fog and fear

Mere inches separates us from the car in front, as from behind as we crawl down the mountain in first, hazards blinking, brake lights glaring. Fog thick enough to slice. Hairpin turns tight enough to make a strong man lose his lunch. The uninviting cliff to my left fortunately covered in a thick layer of white cotton candy. The fumes from the low gears set my nostrils alight. A few brave (read: stupid) souls decide to overtake. They quickly sidestep back in formation just in time for the upward bus to cruise past.

Just out the fog down the left riverbank a station wagon came to its bitter end. Upstream not one hundred meters a man buckles under the weight of the hatch-back to one banked wagon, a coveted piece of window, no doubt. People congregate, down by the river and by the side of the road where ostensibly the occupant of the unfortunate vehicle is being loaded in the trunk of a fellow station wagon.

I take a calculated sip of my day-old sparkling mineral water from the shelves of one of the "foreign nationals only" supermarkets in Kabul, desperately trying to rid my throat of the incessant taste of diesel in the back of my throat which begins to resemble a chronic nasal drip.

My book, I'll read my book and adhere to my own advice to people not accustomed to driving in the Middle East (which is rapidly being adjusted to read: Asia) - "keep your eyes inside the vehicle at all times if you want to avoid sudden heart attack or loss of lunch."

Market Hour

Just north of Kabul we pass through the bustle of the morning market. It is just after 0600 on a Saturday and I am moving to Mazar e-Sharif to take up my position as Area Coordinator (Regional Manager) for northwest Afghanistan which covers the provinces of Balkh (Mazar), Jawzan (against the Uzbekistan border), Faryab (close to Turkmenistan border) and Samangan (the beautifully mountainous area between Kabul and Mazar).

Back in the market we are fifth in line of what I imagine to be an infinite row of north-bounders who get stuck behind about ten of the brightly decorated tok-tok trucks now greedily muscling their way into a barely-there alley way into the belly of the market. Thousands of brightly colored fruits and vegetables are carefully stacked on one of an army of pushcarts, or loaded onto barrows who battle one another and the commuters to cross the used-up road.

A pair of long legs carries a bag of potatoes the size of my driver. The hunched figure attached to the bag is somewhere between thirty-five and seventy-five. In this place where the average life expectancy is only forty-three, it is not uncommon for people to look much older. I suppose that life doesn't "begin" at forty for everyone.

The burqa clutches the baby in the median break. We haven't moved an inch. Drivers emerge from preceding vehicles to facilitate a negotiated escape from between the bumpers of these beasts. The man occupying the middle front seat of a yellow corolla station wagon hands the boy with the banana-loaded push cart a dirty note of Afghanis. Behind him four more companions on the back seat and one more in the trunk look on as he receives his bananas through the window.

We sputter to a crawl as we too slide in between the two trucks currently occupying all of the driveway. Further up the road to the roundabout where hundreds of men (mostly Asian-looking, Mongolian is my guess) line the curb propped up next to their caked-up paint buckets and tired brushes hoping for a job for the day. Not surprisingly it is, what with an unemployment rate of 40% and no natural resources nor industry, Afghanistan is not a land of prosperity.

Further even the small boy drags the young cow by the nose. Under a tree a goat ram looks up into his shady haven as if waiting for the second coming, ostensibly aiming to reach up for something to eat. Into the next town and another market where we are suddenly swallowed by a sea of three-wheeled motorcycle type canopied taxis. A cynic will say those on bicycles in Afghanistan have never actually learned how to operate the two-wheeled soviet-era, solid steel mode of transportation, at least not judging by the swaying and swerving that swings the rider from side to side and into dangerous positions in front of vehicles operated by questionable drivers themselves. On the other hand I suppose you could consider them experts in the trade, after all how many of us could transport a family of four on a single-speed steel horse.

The markets are packed. Bikes, taxis, laborer, burqas, toddlers, vendors, boys with bread, girls with water, and onions, everywhere the onions. Tons of onions. Turns out there was a severe shortage of inions in 2006, so everyone with a square foot of land to spare planted onions.

Leaving the strong urge for French onion soup behind we start the climb into the mountains past the painted fuel truck with the ominous warning "DANGRS PETROL". Herds of goats and sheep are coaxed out of our way by Kuchis with sticks. I settle into my seat for the remainder of the nine hour drive. The river still flows strongly. It is a nice morning.

Free Haleh!

On December 30th Dr. Haleh Esfandiari, Iranian-American Director of the Middle East Program at Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars, was traveling in a taxi from her mother's house in Tehran to the international airport to return to Washington D.C. when she was ambushed by masked gunmen and her passports, both Iranian and American stolen. For the past five months Dr. Esfandiari has lived in near house-arrest in Tehran, undergoing frequent eight-hour interrogation sessions by Iranian officials urging her to "cooperate" (i.e., confess), which she has refused.

On May 8 however, she was taken from her 93-year old mother's home to the notorious Evin Prison, the site where Iranian-Canadian photo-journalist Zahra Kazemi was killed during her own interrogation in 2003.

Dr. Esfandiari is particularly lauded for her tireless work in furthering the rights of women in the middle east, and is described as "...held in high regard by academics and civil society professionals across the Middle East. She has organized many seminars in the region bringing together diverse Middle Eastern thinkers, particularly women’s rights experts. She is known for her kind demeanor, academic integrity, and enthusiastic networking."

The "Free Haleh" campaign is organized by the American Islamic Congress in conjunction with Ibn Khaldoun Center in Cairo, the Initiative for Inclusive Security in Washington, and the Kuwaiti Economic Society. I urge you to visit the site: www.freehaleh.org to read more about Dr. Esfandiari's work and the situation surrounding her detention. Please also consider signing the petition in the top right hand corner of the home page. The petition will be sent to Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, once again urging him to ensure the release of Dr. Haleh Esfandiari.

Dodging the dust

...or not, as the case may be.

In my office in Kabul where I sit with my back against the window, I suddenly sense a change in weather. Without looking back, in any other location in the world, the sound I hear would be accompanied by a rain storm. In Kabul, it is a storm of a different kind: dust. And when I say dust, I refer to the complete white-out that occurs when the city surrenders to the forces of the wind. The atmosphere quickly turns from its usual grey to an almost glowing yellow as (what I imagine to be tons) of sand, dust, dirt, trash and who knows what else whizzes about frantically. Gaping doors and windows are quickly slammed shut in the NGO land of no-air conditioners.

The trees are bent like rubber toys, the roses vandalized by the vicious gusts. Clank clank goes the satellite dish as it makes its way unceremoniously down the side of the building to a painful landing on the front porch of the house that serves as our office. I choke on the air. I look down at my hands. Dirty again. I washed them not thirty minutes ago. My nails look like that of a twelve-year old boy's after playing a game of rugby on the school playground. And my feet, even worse. Admittedly not as bad as Chris's whose heels have turned to frequent bleeding from the deep cuts and dried out skin. I apply cream frantically but realize I will have to get some bigger balmy guns to counteract the adverse affect that the dust and sand has on our delicate western skin.

The dust is everywhere. My nose is caked with it, my hair is an unattractive grey (like when we used to add talcum powder to our hair to give it the appearance of being grey during stage productions), and my clothes seem dull. I wonder what the purpose is of washing it and hanging it out to dry in this air. Not to mention my lungs - who knows what they must look like? I decide that my colleagues who regularly light up may have a point, smoking in Kabul might actually be good for your health.

During these frequent dust gusts people and animals scurry out of the way as they are covered in a thin layer of Kabul. The city seems to permeate completely to become a part of you. You inhale, you taste, you feel between your fingers, you wear on your clothes, your face and in your eyes. You become one with the city, through the dust. And then, as quickly as it appears, it dissapears, and life in Kabul resumes.

Gauging Vulnerability

Photo: Local male community leaders in a refugee shelter in northern Afthanistan

discuss their concerns with donors and implementing agency.

After a glorious hand shower in about four inches of water in the bathroom I shared with nine other expats during the most recent field mission to Phuli Khumbri district of the Baghlan province, I dressed in what has become my daily wardrobe: long linen pants (preferably reaching the floor), a white long cotton tunic that touches the tops of my knees, my custom-made leather sandals from my time in Kleinmond, and of course the essential headscarf. We piled into two vehicles and headed east to tour one of our refugee resettlement camps for recent returnees expelled from Iran and Pakistan. Today's visit is a "donor visit" where we (the implementer or "facilitating partner") takes the donor (in this instance a US donor) to the site to engage with the local community and gauge the impact of their contribution. We wait by the side of the road for over an hour for the donor to arrive who is running late.

Inside one of the recently constructed shelters we provide in collaboration with the UN High Commission for Refugees, we meet with the males of the community. Sitting on Afghan kilims along the walls of the small room, we listened to the community leaders thank the organization for the diligent work of the engineers who assist them in the construction of their shelters, and voice their concern at the lack of certain services such as schools, clinics and livelihoods. Fortunately we were here today to visit the already ground-broken sites of both a school and a clinic that we are implementing as phase II of the project.

The site will eventually be home to approximately 1,000 families, all considered extremely vulnerable. The way in which the system works is that the government earmarks the land for returnees, then identifies families who qualify for the redistribution scheme. Once a family is identified they are assigned a plot of land and given access to the material supply camp where they collect a standard set of materials (poles, window frames, doors, latrine) and with the assistance and guidance of our local engineers who roam the expanse of desolate land, the beneficiary constructs his own shelter with mud bricks that they manufacture from local materials. This effort will eventually result in a UNHCR standard type B shelter. (note: I am told that two men can construct the shelter in 30 days if the bricks are pre-fabricated.)

Following our meeting with the men, the males in the visiting party proceeded to the site where the clinic is under construction, while the women attended a hygiene education demonstration by one of our community trainers. The training was held in the local Mullah's house, and without a female translator available, we had to get his permission for one of our local male staff to enter is house filled with women only, in order to translate the Dari presentation into English. At first when we entered the women were eager to shake our hands amidst calls of "Salam aleikum", touching their hearts with the free hands not holding one of a dozen children around. Once our male colleague entered the women retreated behind their veils as they hid their feet, arms and faces behind brightly colored fabric to shield themselves from the intruder.

Flies the size of small birds congregated on a colleague's purse, practically turning the brown bag into a tar-black mush of buzzing business. The room is hot. My left sock is wet. Shedding my shoes at the door I managed to step in a huge round wet stain on the carpet. I watch the trainer proudly display the instruction paper with a diagram on how to wash your hands. Our male colleague translates too softly. We get the jist though. Hygiene education is generally a standard part of any training that we provide. Disease caused by poor hygiene is rampant as the lack of sanitation and clean water still plagues these communities.

A few women speak up and voice their own frustration at the lack of shops, bakery, work, clinics and schools for their children. One explains how she had to stand by the roadside for six hours with a sick child to get a lift into town a few weeks before. We politely explain that a clinic and school is under construction, full well knowing that it is not adequate for the expected size of the community. Yet we reassure and recommit our dedication to the sustainable survival of this dusty expanse of an only refuge for these families.

We exit the house and join up with the men folk at the clinic site. The young female representatives from the donor are interested in being photographed next to one of our hand pumps. The head representative compassionately listens to some of the men explain that the particular pump was dry and needed reparation.

Afterward, the donors pile back into their fleet of Land Cruisers and drive off in a cloud of dust. We linger for a while. Drive around the site. Visit some of the beneficiaries. One of my colleagues stops at a hand pump to test the quality and taste of the water (we have a problem with "salty water"), he announces it is perfect.

We drive off too. I remove my sock soaked with unknown substance. We go back to our guesthouse to talk about the visit and strategize on budgets and ideas for providing livelihoods for the families. That night I sleep "like a stone" in the words of my Italian colleague.

Painful Perspectives

Photo left: The hillside coming into Kabul from the north is covered in mud-constructed houses.

To put it mildly, things in Afghanistan is not always as it appears. This seems to be most pronounced when frequenting one of the few expat establishments that pride themselves in removing the visitor from the dusty realities that is Kabul. And it was in exactly one of these establishments that I found myself on May 4th.

After a hectic first week in country, including my first field mission a mere sixteen hours after landing (which meant a 5am departure), Chris thought it would be a nice treat to escape from the house he shares with ten other UNOPS people, to the serenity of the Serena Hotel in Kabul. While the guesthouse is one of the best in all of Kabul, inhabited by a group of fascinating internationals from Croatia, Serbia, Bosnia, UK, Canada and Australia - it is still a shared space, somewhat akin to a commune in college.

So on our Friday off, we went to the outrageously decadent brunch at the Serena with all the housemates and opted to stay the night in one of their elegant guest rooms. It was in the room, while looking around the expanse of private space with a clean functioning bathroom that I started thinking. The nightly rate for the hotel came close to the annual salary for the poorest Afghans who often live on less than $1 a day.

Photo right: Women gather around a handpump to fetch water in plastic containers (Northern Kabul)

In a country with a GDP (2006) of only $1,310 and an unemployment rate of over 40%, poverty plagues the dusty streets of Kabul as beggars, young and old, harass passers-by for scraps of food or yell "dolla, dolla" to foreigners frequenting the shops. The GDP relies on agriculture for about 38% of the nation's revenue, while a mere 10% of the economy is related to each the service and industrial sectors. A full 80% of the 15 million people in the workforce are engaged in agriculture as their main source of income. The bottom line is that a shocking 53% of the population of Afghanistan survives below the poverty line.

The next day I was spoilt to a full-body massage in the spa at the hotel. The young Filipino girl skillfully worked out all the knots and pains from a week of constant traveling, all the while chatting to me about how she wants to visit the Blue Mosque in Mazar e-Sharif. Cost of the massage: one month's salary for a judge in Afghanistan.

What I do

Picture above: A carload of children and women in burkas make their way home after school in a taxi-cab in Kabul

8 May, 2007

Many people have asked me who I work for and what I actually do in Afghanistan. I work for a Paris-based non-governmental organization, or NGO, called the Agency for Technical Cooperation and Development (ACTED). ACTED has been in Afghanistan for over thirteen years and is one of the largest implementing partners in the country. Initially all projects were "relief" oriented, but in line with ACTED's mandate, we primarily focus on the implementation of sustainable development projects that can be self-sustaining in the long run. Among our interventions (both relief and development) we do emergency relief for earthquakes, floods and returning refugees in the form of shelters as well as non-food items (NFIs); ACTED is also the largest facilitating partner for the World Bank funded National Solidarity Program (NSP) that aims to establish local Community Development Councils (CDCs) that will represent rural communities on their development needs and aim to prioritize and physically implement various projects once approved by ACTED and the World Bank, all of this is done under close guidance of expert engineers, provincial managers as well as expat staff. ACTED is also working with UNESCO to establish an Afghan cultural center under the auspice of ACTED's cultural branch, BACTRIA, to be located in the historical town of Mazar e-Sharif, home of the famed Blue Mosque.

My position with ACTED is that of Area Coordinator for Northern Afghanistan. This position will have me based in Mazar e-Sharif, and reporting directly to our Country Director in Kabul. At the moment it appears that I will oversee a team of approximately four expat staff and over three hundred local (or national) staff ranging from office-based finance and HR people, to field engineers and provincial managers.

I have had the pleasure to travel to some of our project sites in the north, but have not made it out west toward Mazar and plan to move up there on Saturday. The drive up from Kabul to Phuli Khumbri and then on to Kunduz in the northeast is beautiful across the majestic Hindukush mountains. (See First Impressions).

I just returned today from yet another trip up north where we visited with some of the beneficiaries of one of our shelter projects aim to provide shelter and community to returning refugees from neighboring countries such as Pakistan and Iran. These communities are considered to be extremely vulnerable with little or no hope of regaining their previous land, which have in most cases been annexed and integrated by families and communities that remained in the country during the recent wars. I will elaborate more on this project, which incidentally I will be managing, and provide some interesting images to give a better idea of the wealth of cultures and people of this nation.

If you are interested in more information about ACTED, may I suggest their official website: http://www.acted.org/. For specific information and some informational articles on our work in Afghanistan specifically, please see the ACTED Afghanistan reporting team's blog: Updates from Afghanistan.

The people I see on the Hindu Kush...

Photo right: breakfast of lamb kebabs, fresh bread and strong tea at the foot of the Hindu Kush.

Headed back over the pass. This time it is only myself, the driver and our HR local manager returning from vacation. It is an absolute magnificent day for a drive in die Hindu Kush. In any other situation, this could be a great trek on an adventure vacation that Chris and I would surely be first in line to sign up for. With something of a National Park feeling to it, the mountains rise up and pierce the bright blue sky.

Through the open windows on the backseat of the old Toyota with its rug-covered seats, I watch people go by as we crawl up to the top of the world at an angle surely a few degrees outside the normal road standard. The river changes lanes on the mountain as herders steer their cattle in green pastures on the left, while a group of turbaned men sit down a la Monet for a picnic edge-side.

Soviet-era tanks litter the hillside along with the green flags planted sporadically in memory of Northern Alliance soldiers who perished in these parts while fighting against the Taliban in the 1990s. All remnants of the impossible-to-forget recent history that only adds a thin layer on the disaster that is Afghanistan's past.

Photo left: A decorated truck emerge from one of the landslide tunnels with the 22,000 foot mountain tops in the background.

It is cool up here. A pleasant relief from the 36 degrees Celsius weather in Phuli Khumbri. The Toyota chuggs along past brightly painted long-haul trucks, so decorated I am told for protection, a tradition originating in Pakistan. The smells are many - over the driver's Super Seven cigarette smoke there is a strong rubber presence as the trucks make the hours-long descent in their lowest gear. Sweet-smelling soap of vehicles being washed road-side permeate my nostrils as I close my eyes and take it all in. There is still the dust. There is always dust. But not nearly as bad as it can be. We are almost to the top, past another group of men. The scent of hash trails them as they throw a glance in our direction, but only briefly.

This time of year is also the time when the Kuchis ("those who are on the move"), a nomadic tribe of Baluchi and Pashtu speaking tribes of Afghanistan are out in force. You can spot them easily across the pastures and hillsides. Simple little tents made of white canvas perched on traditional Afghan rugs and nothing else. Their brightly colored costume-like outfits turn the green fields into a paint palette of bright fuchsias, reds, oranges and blues. The men coax small herds of sheep roadside while women and children gather around a water source with a myriad of water jugs.

Chugg-chugg up the mountain. I am mesmerized by this place with the people from all over. Mongolians, Pakistani, Indian, Asian, Uzbek, Tajik...a world in a country. Being excluded from lunch based on my gender by a provincial politician who visited a refugee shelter site with us that afternoon, I suddenly realize that I am quite hungry...I start to look forward to dinner in one of the Kabul restaurants with Chris where we can talk about it all over a glass of wine.

Photo: Green pastures along the Salang Pass