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.