Afghan Hospitality

Tonight, for once, being a female in Afghanistan turned out to be a good thing. I was invited to participate in a ritual that will elude many males, dinner at an Afghan colleague’s family home – with all members, including the women present.

After dropping a few local and one expat colleagues back at the office after our site visit to the Pistachio Fields, J takes me to his family home – only five minutes away from the large square building that serves as both our expat guesthouse and office in the town of Maymana in Faryab province.

The cozy family compound is situated on a busy corner in the bazaar area of Maymana. Through the entrance, past the Toyota mini van parked inside the garage we emerge on the other side into an inviting courtyard. Approximately 40m by 20m the compound consists of three sets of buildings each flanking one side, the fourth is the periphery wall facing street-side toward the busy bazaar. Against this wall I later learn, are the enclosures where J’s father-in-law houses his rooster-breeding business (he doesn’t fight them they tell me, although some of his clients purportedly do).

I am first welcomed by a pretty young woman who immediately averts her eyes when I smile at her. Not knowing exactly what is appropriate she hovers on the raised mud square that serves as the dining area, festively covered in red rugs and the habitual mattresses and lean-on pillows. I hesitate for a second then extend my hand while respectfully clasping my extended elbow with my other hand (interestingly a habit I learned from the Zulus, apparently applicable many thousands of miles away as a sign of respect).

Through a cloud of delicious aromas more women emerge from the traditional kitchen where fires ablaze a multitude of dishes are carefully being prepared for their guest. Wiping their hands on their skirts, nervously eyeing J, I continue to offer my hand, until finally I lean in and kiss one of them in the traditional manner – three times on the cheeks one on each cheek. With the ice broken a short period of usual staring ensued before they busily returned to their kitchen duties and I was ushered to a prime seat on the mattress (note to self: get sandals without a buckle for easy removal at dining opportunities).

Two young men are introduced to me as well as an older woman, J’s mother-in-law and the rightful owner/heiress of the compound. Her husband joins us and immediately starts playing with his gleeful grandson who is rolling around in a tightly rolled blanket tied with a ribbon that gives him an unmistakable Anne Geddes appearance.

The compound belongs to J’s in-laws; his mother-in-law’s family to be exact. She is one of two children, with a brother in London; she lives there with her five children (three daughters and two sons) and only son-in-law and two grandchildren. A science teacher for the past 24-years, she is an incredibly friendly woman who speaks enough English to explain how many of her old students have gone on to become engineers and doctors, and to touch on the standard questions ranging from my marital status to how many children I have, usually followed by the aghast “why?” (note to self #2: start telling people I am newly-wed, eight years without children do not translate well in a culture where we count the average family size as somewhere between six and nine).

Dinner was laid out family-style with plates of meatballs, rice, okra, and a kind of meat-filled dumpling with yogurt sauce spread across the traditional plastic tarp that is laid out before meals. Notably while most plates were spread evenly across the table, an entire set of food was placed in front of me, exclusively for me. After eating as much as I could, my insistence in sharing the food was first met with skepticism, but later appreciated by the growing teenage boys at the one end of the arrangement. J’s mother-in-law who has since firmly attached herself to my right, found great joy in watching me comfortably break off neat pieces of bread to soak up the okra sauce, intermittently asking me “is good?, is good?”.

A few bottles of Sadat “Safe and Healthy” 500ml mineral water bottles were neatly arranged on a tray for the weak expat stomach while the family drank from a pitcher of their well water. J’s two-year old was much smitten with my water bottle and continued to try and chew the top off while sitting happily on her father’s lap.

The setting was comfortable and welcoming. Family banter, kids laughing and babies crying pierced the mild evening air while the television on the porch entertained the men with an episode of an Afghan stand-up comedy show a-la Idol that depends on viewers’ text message selections at the end of the night to determine the contestants that advance to the next round. J points out his favorite, a young man with a funny hat and very elaborate hand-gestures; “from Jalalabad” he tells me, “I like him because he makes many jokes about Pakistanis.”

After dinner we drink tea and eat watermelon and another type melon akin to honeydew. The women are very curious and J translates snippets of humoristic anecdotes about husbands back and forth. I am really surprised at how open they are toward me, and just in general. As closed-in as the society appears on the outside, within the family walls the family is a unit, regardless of gender – illustrated even by a cousin discreetly breastfeeding her baby in the presence of the family. We laughed together and J's wife bullied him for not giving her enough warning of my visit to prepare an outfit for me. Speaking of outfits, I asked whether they all wear the burqa when they go out, to which they replied "of course."


This started the discussion on whether I have ever worn one, which automatically prompted a sister of the wife to go and fetch the famous blue covering associated with women's oppression the world over. A big commotion erupted as I was urged to try it on, and I gingerly obliged. Two eager helpers assisted me in pulling the surprisingly tight-fitting head piece of the burqa onto my crown, and amidst roaring laughter I clumsily pulled the rest of the blue fabric of the burqa over my head, with expected result.


One more cup of tea, many invitations to come back, and more reassurances sought about the goodness of the weather and the people of Maymana – more invitations for my return, and the presentation of a necklace as a gift from J’s wife to me.

I leave with J’s two-year old on my lap in the vehicle back to the guesthouse. There is a song in my heart as I clutch the small girl tenderly and thank J for the incredible honor and hospitality for having me over to his family’s home, the reason, I explain – for surviving the distance from my own family.

Fancy a ruck?

Berni sent this adorable picture of Nelson in his very own rugby jersey. Can you believe how cute he looks!! (For my non-rugby readers - a "ruck" is the crazy pile-up looking exercise where thirty men all jump on top of one another and pretend to look for the ball)

The boy in Kabul

On my way to the airport this morning, I couldn't help but notice the young boy curiously observing me from the house nextdoor. The shots were taken through a Kabul dust-stained window, but you can clearly see why I couldn't resist.

Magical Maldives

Photo: The view of one of the two private pavilions at the main restaurant, this is the one Chris and I had a romantic candle-light dinner-for-two the night of our anniversary.

We left Kabul in a big hurry, always the last-minute crisis at work to deal with, but we were not even airborne when we started relaxing. My flight-enjoyment was seriously elevated when I was allowed to sit in the cockpit for the entire descent and landing into dusty Dubai. I guess it helps when the flight crew (again) are all South African. What an experience. I had been on the flight deck of a Boeing 747 once before while flying over the Swiss Alps in the mid-nineties - a little reward my dad arranged for us when the air steward asked it if was okay if a person behind us (in the non-smoking section of the flight) could smoke, obviously back in the days when flights were still smoke-friendly zones, but I had never descended and definitely never landed on the deck of a jet before.


For the past week Chris and I spent some seriously needed R&R at a small resort and spa named Island Hideaway on the northern most tip of Maldives on the island of Donakhuli. We spent our entire time eating fresh fish and fruit, enjoying amazing dives with turtles, eagle rays, scorpion fish and a thousand other ocean friends. We visited the amazing Mandara Spa for manicures and pedicures, and the highlight was a 2.5 hour session on our anniversary that included a foot ritual, steam bath, milk bath, massage and all-natural facial.

Photo: The bathtub situated on the open deck of the over-water spa treatment room.

Our anniversary was made especially great by our personal butler Baari who arranged a romantic lunch on our private beach, and an even more romantic dinner in one of the two over-water pavilions at the main restaurant, just for the two of us.

Photo: Part of the anniversary table decorations. They also hand-wove a canopy out of palm leaves for our lunch on the beach, filled our tub with flowers and built a similar congratulations on our bed.

With fewer than forty villas on the island, each separated by at least 50m from any neighbors, the emphasis was all on privacy. We stayed in a Donakhuli villa that comes with a private little splash pool right out front the bedroom. It also has a small private beach and gazebo where candle light dinners can be served by your butler.

Photo: Villa #28 "Filadoo" with bedroom to the right, living area on the left and deck upstairs

The weather was great, we each read a novel for the first time in five months, got a little tanned, and most importantly very relaxed. The week went by too fast, but we had a blast and realized that for two busy-bodies like ourselves, it was the absolute perfect amount of time to relax and catch up, and totally worth the eight year wait! Too soon we were back in Dubai and then making our descent into Kabul. As usual, work is still here, and the world did not (as one always worries) come to an end during our vacation. We are back in the full swing of things, but refreshed and filled with amazing memories of a most memorable (very) belated honeymoon.

Depressing Dubai

I write from the Emirates Business Class lounge at Dubai International Airport. Chris and I are en-route to our "honeymoon" in the Maldives. While he scouts the bookshop for beach reading, I sip a Pinot Grigio and ponder this place that so disappoints me whenever I travel through here. We couldn’t meet up with our friends H&H today, since our flight was earlier than expected, though we will see them on the way back in a week. Both high school classmates of mine, they have lived here for probably about three to five years, and will tell you there is nothing to do her but work, and go to the mall.

We arrived around 1100 and headed straight to Terminal 1 to check our bags before catching a cab to City Center, the huge mall not far from the airport. Not because we like shopping, but because we have realized that in many ways, we are more isolated in Kabul than we were in Baghdad. We have no APO, no US phone number and therefore little direct access to services and communication, and there comes a time when every one needs a new pair of shoes or pants. Enter Dubai. The place that has come to serve as our three-monthly stock-check of necessities and not-so-necessary items.

In the mall we find a salon for the pre-beach de-hairing desires. Chris for a haircut and shave, and I for a wax. In the tiny stock closet-cum-treatment room, the Filipino woman covers the bed with a large paper towel. I strike up a conversation with her. She has been in Dubai for three years; she has only been home once. They have to pay their own way for everything, and I can attest to the fact that prices are skyrocketing in Dubai, a trend which apparently do not extend to salaries.

She has two daughters, one in high school and another in college doing "mass media", though she was not quite sure what that entails, and explained that this one wants to be an air stewardess, adding that family members fly for only 10% of the ticket price. We talk about my work, she knows what an NGO is. She asks about Kabul. Apparently some guys have been trying to recruit some of them to come and open a salon there. We make more small talk. Why Dubai I ask, why now? She explains the family business of bag-manufacturing which perished at the hands of China a few years ago, necessitating her to move to this heartless city, leaving her family behind, just so they can survive. I leave her a 25% tip, Chris is shocked at how much I can learn from someone in forty minutes.

It is 1400 on a Thursday, the mall is packed. The restaurants overflow, the shops are overrun by people dashing between "sale" signs and fitting rooms. Women in hajibs nonchalantly shop for lingerie that would make Paris Hilton blush, and I look for bikinis. We find Chris a nice pair of Aldo sandals; he only tried about forty pairs before settling on one. We go to Woolworths (the South African version, not the US el-cheapo kind) and find him two nice board shorts and a bikini for me - not many options for these items in Kabul. A few more items and we are exhausted and feel guilty for indulging alongside this conspicuously commercialized society. We head to the airport. We like business class. Not something we have ever done (at least not paid for, I've negotiated myself in a few times, but this was the first "legitimate" claim to the fame).

So here in the lounge I wait. I showered. The wine is cold. I am happy. Not quite relaxed yet, but clean, and content. I am desperately trying not to check my work email...

Nelson on the beach

Got this picture from my friend Berni, new mom to Nelson - our fabulous Brittany. This was taken at 8pm on the beach in Oregon where they are presently visiting Berni's parents. This has become a regular trip, and I am glad to see he has taken to the beach, I remember him not being too keen on this huge pond when we first introduced him to the dog beach in SoCal!



For more information on this fabulous breed of dog, and if you are looking to adopt a loving pet, please see the American Brittany Rescue homepage.

The List Project: Helping Iraqi Refugees

Many of you who have been following my work for some time now will recall the harrowing stories of Iraqi colleagues whose lives are threatened because of their affiliation with coalition forces in the Iraqi reconstruction effort. I have told many stories of colleagues who's parents are kidnapped; those who find severed animal parts at their homes; of how they sleep with AK47s at night; but most of all of their resolve and their commitment to try and believe in a better future for their children.

Source: The List Project homepage

Iraq today, is by all accounts a quagmire and, behind Afghanistan, is the greatest producer of refugees in the world. Almost all of my former colleagues live in Jordan, Syria, Dubai or anywhere else they could get in (some in Canada and Sweden as well). I am still in close contact with many of them, who face a growing uncertainty in countries that are also questioning the feasibility of allowing more and more Iraqi refugees in their borders. They battle to find work, they keep a low profile, and most of them are fighting for even a temporary status in their host countries, just to keep them from having to return to Iraq.

Enter Kirk Johnson, a former colleague and good friend of ours. When he heard about the particular incident where a friend and colleague found a headless dog in his front yard with a note pinned to it saying "your head is next", he sprung into action. What followed was first an op-ed in the Los Angeles Times. This gave him the necessary exposure, and after many visists to capital hill where he works with Bureau for Population, Refugees and Migration, as well as the UN High Commision for Refugees (UNHCR), he launched The List Project.

The List Project advocates for refugee status for the hundreds of Iraqis who have placed their own, and the lives of their families, in jeopardy to support the US and other coalition partners in the reconstruction of Iraq. Many of them worked as translators for the military, but many more worked with Aid agencies and NGOs physically trying to rebuild their country day by day. They faced death threats, kidnappings, bombings in their neighborhoods, and threats to the lives of their children. In the uncertainty that prevailed, they continued to sneak in and out of the International Zone every morning, and again every afternoon, fearing for the worst, but told that there was no way to accomodate them inside the relative safety of the zone.

I urge you to visit the website of The List Project, to learn more about the plight of our Iraqi colleagues and friends, I believe we owe them that. Kirk Johnson, founder of The List: Project to Resettle Iraqi Allies, is slated to appear on the ABC World News Weekend broadcast this Sunday, July 8, 2007. Check your local listings for time and station.

Help an AIDS Orphan in South Africa

While this site is not intended for commercial or soliciting purposes, sometimes exceptions are definitely in order. I share with you a little information about an organization very close to my heart. I have been involved with this particular group of amazing individuals since 2003 as an activist, volunteer and fundraiser.

There are more than 1 million AIDS orphans in South Africa today, more than in any other country in the world. These children often face a hard life on the streets if their extended families cannot take them in to care for them. The problem being that most families are already spread so thin, they simply cannot care for any additional children.

Artists for a New South Africa (ANSA) is a non-profit organization based in West Los Angeles. Established in the 1980s to raise awareness and mobilize against apartheid, the organization turned its attention to HIV/AIDS following the first democratic elections in South Africa in 1994. From ANSA's website: "ANSA strategically mobilizes the participation of well-known actors and performing artists to raise public awareness, mobilize increased action and advocate for just government and corporate HIV/AIDS policies and programs. ANSA works in partnership with a wide range of organizations on advocacy efforts on the Global AIDS pandemic and AIDS in South Africa."

Photo: Danny Glover visiting with locals in a township in South Africa, courtesy of www.ansafrica.org

ANSA's AIDS work includes raising awareness about the disease, advocating for access to proper treatments, fundraising, and the provision of essential services such as water. Some of their most recent collaborations and projects include the close partnership with the South African advocacy NGO, the Treatment Action Campaign (TAC), who is committed to lobbying the South African government and private companies to provide access to much-needed medication to all HIV/AIDS sufferers. Through "It Takes a Village" (ITV) ANSA works with a dedicated team of child welfare organizations, community development experts, health care professionals, educators and activists to address the issue of AIDS orphans in South Africa. From ANSA's website:

"ITV is a groundbreaking collaboration providing comprehensive services to orphaned children in South Africa who have fallen through society’s safety net: those living in child-run households, where the eldest child is raising his or her siblings; orphans taken in by neighborhood families or elderly relatives with scant resources; and vulnerable children whose parents are dying. ITV was developed to ensure that the physical, emotional, social, intellectual, and spiritual needs of these children are met in meaningful and long-lasting ways.

ITV is implemented by local community-based organizations and overseen by the highly respected AIDS Foundation of South Africa (AFSA). ANSA provides the funding and resources and AFSA provides the training and oversight to build local capacity to provide vital services to orphans, their caregivers, and community. "

And now, to my shout-out to you. ANSA's AIDS orphan project is currently in the top 50 projects, out of 7,018 original submissions in the American Express Members Project. If you are an American Express card holder and are moved by the story of the AIDS orphans in South Africa, please consider voting for ANSA's project. They are in the running for $5 million to help these children.

To visit the Members Project and vote for ANSA's Orphan Project, go to: www.membersproject.com

and vote for ANSA's project:

#6841 "Help African Children Orphaned by AIDS"

How much for a hit?

The recent rise in the role of drugs in Afghanistan has gained a lot of press. An article by a correspondent for the Associated Press today, chose to highlight the high number of widows in a particular village in the impoverished province of Herat where, according to the article, in the 1,000 families, there are 350 widows. While many of the husbands in the article died over the course of the preceding and incessant wars this nation has seen, more and more are perishing on the road to earning a better living by turning to the dangerous business of smuggling drugs. I was myself shocked at some of the numbers reported in this article and thought I would share these with you, I quote:

"The men said each time a smuggler crossed the border, he carried 20 to 40 pounds of high-grade, concentrated heroin. Mohammad said each delivery earned the carrier $200 a pound _ a possible profit of $8,000 a trip _ extremely good money in a country where teachers and police officers earn just $70 a month.

Across the border in Iran, the street price of heroin is about $5,800 a pound, according to the U.N. Office on Drugs and Crime's latest World Drug Report. That figure jumps to $46,300 a pound in Britain and to $94,300 in the United States."

The poppy industry in Afghanistan is currently estimated at an annual worth of around $3.1 billion, and the nation produces enough opium to make approximately 90 percent of the world's heroin. Perhaps the most important question to ask here though, is why is a teacher and a police officer earning only $70 a month? In this sense I suppose Afghanistan is no different than many other struggling nations where illegal means prove much more profitable than the legal alternatives (think Latin American drug lords, corrupt African leaders, human smugglers in Asia, to name but a few), yet most of those countries are not receiving literally billions of foreign aid money every single year, year after year.

Along the same lines, an article by the Asia Times, ponders this exact question of "what went wrong" questioning the reality of a highly centralized (read: mistrusted by most) government more intent on hiring their starving brothers and uncles than serving the people (the article highlights two key elements of successful governance severely lacking: performance and accountability - I can attest, neither of which is present in any form), instead of decentralizing the government, and encouraging local officials to uphold "security, justice and protection of private property" (note: all things the Taleban are aiming to provide to the destitute residents of throw-away places in Afghanistan too far from Kabul to be noticed).

Notably, Afghanistan tops the UN list for Least Developed Countries (LDCs). With a key requirement of per capita GDP of below $750, it is not hard to see why a growing number of struggling Afghans are resorting to the smuggling of illegal drugs. Frankly, I can't really blame them. Stay tuned for a piece on why things simply don't work here, and a little tongue in cheek explanation of things easily lost in translation.

10 days...

...and counting.

In 10 days' time, Chris and I finally fly out for a little R&R, or as we have come to realize, our honeymoon. Yes indeed, 17 July 2007 marks our eight wedded orbit around the sun together, but let's just say, as usual, things worked out a little differently. I guess that's what happens when you get married so young and then unite two families from opposite corners of the world, and instead of eloping (as my father even suggested) we did the whole shebang in Pretoria, followed by a grand family vacation to see the "animals".

What followed was the tale of two broke barely in their twenties-somethings who could only scrape enough dough together for my tuition, trail mix and a 2-man tent. We spent the next four years camping our way through the Northwest - never quite making it to that idyllic island getaway. And then life just kind of happened and we moved from west to east, then to the Middle East, then to South East...and so, 2,915 days after we wedded on a warm winter's day in Pretoria, we will depart dusty Kabul for the magnificent Maldives!

As usual we hope to not be completely inactive, and plan on diving, deep sea fishing, snorkeling, bicycling, and of course - sampling the 30-cabin eco-friendly resort's 35-page wine list. We'll tell you how that goes (anyone want to spring for the $480 Opus One Napa Cab?)