Kabul bombing

For an update on the blast in Kabul this morning, please see the following article by BBC.

Summary: An apparent suicide bomber was responsible for the blast that occurred outside the governor's office at approximately 08h20 Saturday morning. The blast could be heard across the city. Five people were reportedly killed in the blast.

Back in Kabul!!

Following a wonderful break and cherished opportunity to visit with friends and family in South Africa (for Susan) and California (for both of us), and following almost three days of traveling, Chris and I finally arrived back in Kabul on Saturday afternoon. While a bit exhausted from the jetlag, it was strangely good to be back. I know this sounds odd to anyone who have not lived "at mission", but one becomes strangely fond of the surroundings, the people and all that a particular place begins to hold in store. We battled a few dodgey nights with 3am wake-ups, but emerged somewhere around Tuesday.

Of course, with our Thursdays being the new Friday, that makes Sunday the new Monday, meaning Chris was back in the swing of things on Sunday morning while I, the alleged "lady of leisure" (you may recall I completed my contract in Mazar-e-Sharif, and per our agreement have relocated to Kabul and am now eagerly searching out my next venture), set about rearranging our tiny, yet cozy, room. This might seem mundane compared to constructing shelters and mitigating conflict, but trust me - when you see what Chris can do to a tiny room in nine months, you would revise your thinking.

I find myself struggling to accept time for myself for the first time in months. Having the luxury to sit and ponder, read and hopefully, write, does seem like a blessing. It's not all lounging for me though, as I have entered into massive networking mode to filter through the opportunities that this ever-growing city holds for someone like me.

In the meantime, Kabul is changing its colors, opting for a wintery coat of snow in the mornings, and grey skies during the day. From what I can gather, white, cold, Kabul is actually much preferred over brown, frozen, muddy Kabul, which also means that we are very likely to have a white Christmas. I'll report back again though the first time it hits -25C/-10F, quite possibly with requests for housing in places like Cape Town or California.

Final note from Mazar e-Sharif

It is so hard to believe, but here I am, at the end of a string of goodbye parties and packing sessions, I am writing my final post from Mazar e-Sharif, for now. My time up here has been some of the most rewarding months of my life, both professionally and personally. I have met people with a resilience and will to survive I did not think existed. Now, as I rip pages out of forlorn notebooks, and donate stationary, colleagues keep popping their heads into my office, offering best wishes and home-made crafts in the form of almonds strung into a necklace, homemade yogurt and a hard white home made ball of cheese.

I am nostalgic but also inspired. What I am most proud of is the team spirit we fostered, where people learned the importance of dialogue and "putting heads together". According to the staff what they will remember from me is the fact that "my door is always open", and "I don't like I problems, I like solutions". In addition to one female who proclaimed she will always remember my standard response when someone walks into my office "what can I do for you".

I will miss my friends, and the crazy nights dancing the night away at one of the bi-weekly Mazar Social Club gatherings, a self-driven solution to a rather entertainment-challenged city. And who could forget Sebastien's Tenderloin at the Royal Oak English Restaurant. So many nights spent eating steak and drinking Becks in what fast becomes one's home away from home in the approved restaurant-deprived Mazar. I remember fondly Fridays a the WFP pool, followed by long sessions surfing the web on the Oak’s wi-fi, while sharing G&Ts with girlfriends, discussing previous and future conflict postings. I said this in Baghdad, and I'll say it again, it is remarkable how much faster friendships and other relationships are fostered and strengthened in these environments.

With that, "goddafis Mazar e-Sharif, Tashakor, Tashakor".

24-6 at the half

It's 12:28am Monday 15 October. I am tucked into bed, it is cool now. Computer in hand, furiously praying that the dial-up will catch enough of the streaming coverage of the second semi final match of the Rugby World Cup match for 2007 - this one, South Africa vs. Argentina. I was supposed to watch the game live at another NGO with a satellite and projector on the big screen, but the French loss against England last night may or may not have contributed to the ghostly reception when I showed up with my Aussie friend and lift. Not a soul loomed in the large Pakistani-style house, so we let ourselves back out as quietly as we entered and I have been wrestling my dial-up modem ever since.

Fortunately I am getting play-by-play updates from the Kabul contingent as I try and find a better source for the streaming radio....

The Blue Mosque

I decided to visit the Rawze-e-Sharif Mosque in Mazar e-Sharif today, one of many known as Blue Mosque. Founded in 1512, the mosque occupies a huge expanse of land in the center of the city. The grounds are covered with gardens, fountains, reflection pools and picnic spots. On any given weekend day, hundreds of families, cripples, children, beggars, and the odd entrepreneur (like the guys with the scales and measuring sticks offering their services at a small fee) gather to enjoy a picnic, feed the pigeons, visit the mosque and simply hang out in the company of friends.

We circled the mosque in a counter-clockwise rotation, pausing to take photos and enjoy the images of families occupying the bright blue picnic tables under pine trees. With two expat women in tow, my Australian friend remarked that he does not usually attract this much attention, pointing to the sporadic hordes of young people who follow us for a few steps, or simply yelling "salaam alaykum" in the passing.

I was blown away by the sheer size and scope of the mosque and in particular by the intricate tile work that covers the entire system of buildings. We did not enter the mosque grounds, opting to arrange a special visit with permission before doing so. Instead, we marvelled at the outside of this magnificent structure believed by Shi'a Muslims to house the remains of the fourth caliph and son-in-law of the Prophet Mohammed, revered as the first Shi'a imam. Many, however, still believe that his body is actually buried in Najaf, Iraq.

Turning another page

It's Friday, it's the start of Eid al-Fitr, it's Afghanistan. I am in my room in Mazar e-Sharif, the northwestern city where I have lived for the past six months. Outside the sun is setting, above me, on my roof, the footsteps of the neighbors' children engaging in the national past time of kite flying rambles on incessantly as it has all day. The weather is turning cooler now, the house is quite. I am the only expat in the house at the moment, and even I am not slated to be here for long.

My current contract ends in two weeks, and I have had the agonizing task of making the decision not to stay on here. Not because I don't find the work extremely satisfying, and working with the people unbelievable gratifying. It's just that I have now been apart from my husband for nine months, and frankly, that is getting a bit old. Compromises, I suppose, is what makes the wedding wheel turn after all.

That being said, the dozens of people coming into my office this past week sharing their exasperation with my decision, did not make it any easier. I suppose it is better than the alternative, but still, how do you explain to a team of nine engineers and site managers, with whom you've spent hours and hours on project cycle management and other forms of project capacity building, that you are in a matter of speaking, abandoning them? I nearly burst into tears when one of my guards brought my dinner to my room one night with a look of defiance when he said "Susan inja nie?" (Susan, here, no?) with an indication of both hands waving away? I tried desperately to explain in what little Dari I had picked up that my "family" was in Kabul and I had to leave...

Fortunate for me, my two large projects (the construction of roughly 600 shelters, schools, clinics, road, latrines and potable water for landless refugees, internally displaced persons (IDPs) and returnees (from refugee camps in Pakistan and Iran) is closing at the end of the month, so I will be able to see this through. But still, I have fostered strong friendships, relationships, and professional connections up here and work well with all of my colleagues at the UN, Red Cross and other partner organizations, only to pull up, pack up and move to Kabul.

I have started looking in Kabul, but have not made a firm commitment to anyone, I want to be sure that I select something that will not render me a paper pusher in the capital, with zero or no interaction with the provinces and the people. Ideally I will shift into a Kabul-based position with a lot of travel to the provinces, with a focus on providing access to justice for vulnerable people in Afghanistan.

I am ecstatic to announce though that in three weeks today (enshallah), I will be having dinner with Hannelize in Dubai, on my way to South Africa for some serious R&R in Plett with my parents, and then the Cape with my sister (who decided to pick on me today for joining facebook and hence neglect my blog....) Watch this space for the next page.

Thirty and kicking ....

September 30th, 2007 - my 30th birthday. I am celebrating (stuck at if you can call it that) at the lovely Serena Hotel in Kabul where Chris and I spent last night. He has since left the hotel in a cloud of mystery and I have been ordered to enjoy the rest of the day lounging in the spa and read my book by the pool, have lunch and just enjoy the time to myself. A vehicle will drop my clothes off here in the next few hours, and then return to collect me at 7pm for the night's mysterious festivities.

Over a nice big breakfast Chris asked me what wisdoms I had to bestow of the past decade, to which I responded that I was trying not to be melo-dramatic and therefore wanted to refrain from entering into too much of a melancholy flashback. One thing that did come to mind is that, apart from these milestones being somewhat arbitrary; clumsily allowing us the opportunity to divide our lives into neat chunks for easy review and sometimes regret; the main pitfall at such a juncture, and I believe especially one's 30th, is to look back and have the overwhelming feeling that youth is lost and one did not achieve enough to warrant 30 years. I believe both Chris and I are fortunate in that sense. While the lines are slowly appearing despite the SPF 30s, and the greys are attacking his temples more violently than before, we are definitely far from "grown-up", and more importantly, have tried our utmost to pack as much into the past thirty years.

Today, at thirty, I have lived on four continents, worked in two war zones, met four Nobel Peace Laureates, witnessed the democratization of my beloved country, visited almost 25 others, am licenced to fly and dive deep into the blue ocean. I have more friends than I can count, a loving family, and married to my true love. What more can a girl want?

And for the next decade he asked? Perhaps another Masters, a real home, 25 more countries, and yes - a child.

(I'm pretty much up for anything, as long as it is not boring!)

This old woman

It is not easy to get good photographs of women in Afghanistan. They are notoriously camera-shy and frequently cover their faces whenever someone has a camera. I am extremely careful when I photograph women, and always ask their permission. But when I do get a willing subject I try to use the opportunity to portray the beauty and the variety of the women in this incredibly diverse country. I could not help but fall in love with this old woman's face, not to mention her bubbly personality....

Grassroots groups aim to resolve conflicts

Photo: After a tie for the position of deputy representative, there was a run-off election to determine the winner.

Yesterday I attended the inauguration of the female side of the Conflict Mitigation Committee of one of the sites where we are presently implementing a conflict resolution project. The premise is simple, two communities are in conflict over natural resources (in this instance the right to a river that flows near both communities), we set up a conflict mitigation committee that comprises 50% men and 50% women with equal representation for each committee. It is the task of this committee to conduct meetings to actively try and mitigate the conflict and come up with a solution. A self-identified, jointly-implemented development project acts as catalyst for the communities to work together to improving the conditions for both. These are some photos from the event; this is democracy at its truest grassroots level as women vote.

Photo: Ballots are counted for the positions of Chair, deputy Chair, and Secretary

Anyone who has worked in Afghanistan will tell you the significance of an event such as this. Not only for the overall participation of Afghans in their future and the governing of their communities, but more so even, because of the participation of women in the process. What made this particular event even more significant, was the difference between the two communities, one which is predominantly Pashtu, the vast majority ethnic group of Afghanistan, while the other is the much-discriminated against Kuchi people. In this unique instance, the mostly nomadic Kuchi community settled in this area many years ago, and is now embroiled in a conflict over natural resources with the newer, yet more powerful and more educated Pashtu community. So to bring the women from these starkly different backgrounds together in a room, and to have them vote for a joint committee to represent all of their interests, is to say the least, remarkable.

Street-side

I share some of my recent photographs with you. These are taken in Maymana City bazaar. The young man was very keen to have his photograph taken.

The older man in the next photograph was sorting through a pile of potatoes with his colleagues when we approached for some greetings and pleasantries.

The final picture depicts the early-morning bargaining at the carpet bazaar between local women from the villages who come to the city to sell their kilims to the men who run the carpet bazaar shops. If you come in early enough you can buy directly from the women. Average price for a 2x1m kilim from the women is about $20.

Marking Ramadan

Dear friends, once again I have been quiet on the airwaves. As you can imagine, it is not for a lack of activity, work or excitement. The good news is that this past weekend, I had a little (well, perhaps not so "little" visitor - and I am not referring to the parasitical type that have taken residence in me as of late) - Chris came up for the long weekend that marks the start of the holy month of Ramadan (or Ramazan) as it is called here in Afghanistan.

Ramadan started last week Thursday, albeit not with some confusion surrounding the actual start date. A bit tricky to run an office when you're told, "tomorrow could be a holiday", or it "could be the next day", but we won't know until 2am. Turns out Muslims wait for the official word from Saudi Arabia - and whatever happened, two radio stations in Afghanistan reported the date to be on two different days. Alas, we are now officially in Ramadan, which means shorter working days for the staff, as they fast from sun-up to sundown.

Ramadan lasts for 30 days and is intended to "purify and train body and soul" and to strive for Taqwa or "self-restraint." Certain people are exempt from fasting and include: Minors, the elderly, the sick*, people traveling*, pregnant women*, breastfeeding women*, menstruating women* and the mentally disabled. marked by the celebration of Eid that involves a lot of socializing with family and friends, and joyful eating and drinking.
(* are expected to fast an equivalent number of days afterwards)

Ramadan is divided into three sections: From days 1-10 we see "God's Mercy"; from days 11-20 "God's Forgiveness" and from 20-30 "Salvation from hell fire." Ramadan also reminds the person fasting to think of those who are hungry and suffering, and encourages the assistance of people who have less through charity and donations. Muslims are also discouraged from wasting food and encouraged to practice social responsibility.

Paying in Parasites

German Diagnostic Clinic – 30 August, 10:19.
Kabul, Afghanistan

On a recent weekend trip to visit some current and potential communities for local governance and small infrastructure projects, I was once again showered with Afghan hospitality. From the onset there was food and drink presented me in the very respectful Afghan manner. From fresh figs that stem from the heavily fruited trees that provided shade overhead, to piles of rice hiding hunks of meat – a sure sign of respect and honor, for not everyone in the group received meat – I was practically expected to eat everything I was presented, often a portion of the very little that a family had available.

The mentioned trip is arguably what brings me to the German Diagnostic Clinic in the neighborhood of Shar e-Naw in Kabul today. The small clinic has operated here for a number of years eversince the co-founders founded a clinic at the police academy. Their brochure states "The center is open to anyone without discrimination". The staff include a very blonde German male nurse and a short, also blonde, fifty-something German doctor named Maria who shuttles patients in and out of her examination room. In a place where “capacity building” is a buzzword easily used at least twenty times a day, I am always amazed at the efficiency and professionalism of the Afghan staff in the clinic, many of whom I have noticed, speaks fluent German. As a kind of a one-stop shop for vaccinations, medication, x-rays and blood and other sample work, I have come to much appreciate the service and the clean environment that they keep. So what brings me here today? To check up on my four friends, of course. I have completed seventeen days of antibiotics and am here with a lot of hope that at least some of them have subsided.

Yes, of course I know all the tricks of eating in the developing world, after all, I had survived reasonably unscathed in Zululand, Morocco, Egypt, Turkey, Iraq and some other creative cuisine locales in between. Always peel or boil (preferably both) any fresh fruit or vegetables; boil or buy water; don’t use the ice; avoid meat as much as possible; and since coming to Afghanistan, I have added a new rule: CAUTION – Yogurt ahead. That being said and known, there are times when certain practices are simply not acceptable and potentially downright rude.

Afghanistan may be a land of rather less than more, but for lack of ritual, honor and custom, it can not be accused. The dining experience is an excellent example, and quick lesson in etiquette and Afghan culture. In the many dinners and lunches I have shared with colleagues and friends, I have come to understand some of the customary rituals that I perform well-rehearsed whenever I encounter such a social gathering. Allow me to elaborate on a typical dining ritual, as I have come to know it.

The guest arrives at the home, shoes join the dozens of dusty pairs already assembled outside the door, and is led into the home where he or she is thoroughly introduced to each of the fellow-guests with mutterings of “Salam Aleikum, Khuba stid, Jura stid, Bagerai Stid, Tjorora Stid” (How are you? How is your health? Are you well?.....and a whole host of others) while placing one’s right hand over the heart, then, depending on the situation either extending it to shake hands with the male host and the guests, or in the instance of women, kissing.

When I dine with men, I am usually the only woman. No wives or daughters are ever seen in the company of men outside the family. Theses gatherings are usually with professional affiliations, in which case, as a senior expatriate female manager – am welcomed and respected to participate. This prompted a feeling recently that in Afghanistan, there are essentially three genders: male, female, and then expat female - which is somewhere between a man and a bad woman. In the presence of males, I tend to follow the lead of my host or translator to decide whether or not to shake hands with the men when I step into the home. For the most part, I have been welcomed and with very few exceptions accepted into the group.

Most of my staff are extremely protective and take a lot of pride in introducing me at gatherings. When I am invited to a family gathering, women will be present provided that all the males are family. In this instance, women usually kiss each other on the cheeks, three times – sometimes the third kiss involves a series of kisses trailing off in one’s ear, a sign of endearment I have come to realize.

Once inside the room where the food will be served, the guest is lead to the middle seat on the far side and his or her comfort is ensured by additional pillows being offered. Almost on cue, and always silently, a servant or young male family member appears with tjai. While there is a strong affinity for the press-on-top urns of hot tea in offices, in the communities the silver tea flasks are always used for guest-purposes. The ritual involves pouring about two sips of tea in the bottom of a one-eared, all-glass mug (there must have been a shipment of millions of these to Afghanistan at some point over the last ten years, because it is the only mug or glass I have come across so far), swirled around a few times, and then carefully poured into a shallow bowl that always accompanies the tea presentation. The first glass of tea is always presented to the guest of honor, alongside it a bowl of chocolates (usually a type of toffee, or milk-like chewy candy – disappointingly no actual chocolate involved). Repeat the rinsing for all the guests.

During tea everyone catches up and asks about family and work. As silently as before the bearer of the tea returns to remove the remnants. Follows the customary meal preparation. The food is preceded by a long plastic tarp rolled out in the middle of the squared arrangement. The young male then returns with another silver water jug and big silver catchment bowl, and starting with the guest of honor, pours water for each of the guests to wash their hands. Sometimes there is soap, other times not. A basket of folded towels is passed around.

The food is brought out in a particular order and placed in specific positions on the tarp. First the bread. Depending on the situation, there will be one round flat bread for each guest, or one between every two. The guest of honor is always served first and I have now learned, gets one of each of the dishes to him or herself, while the other guests will sit two to three to a setting. The customary bowl of fried rice with mutton and sultanas, known as qaboli palaw, for one, will always hide a prized piece of meat, and there may even be an additional dish not presented anyone else. In addition to the palaw, dishes include, yogurt, tomato and onion salad, sometimes a very oily soup that you break flat bread into until it soaks up all the soup and you can eat it with your hands by squeezing small pieces between your fingers, and if you are very lucky, one of my favorites manto (a dumpling-like pastry stuffed with minced meat, topped with some tomato-like sauce and sour yogurt).

The whole meal is eaten with one’s hands – often using bread to aid in the process. It is customary to share food with each other, though the guest is always discouraged from doing this and insisted upon to eat all the food, an impossible feat of course. Since certain delicacies, specifically meat, is distributed based on status, any left-over desirables not eaten by the senior members of the party, will be passed down to the far end of the group. Meal times are accompanied by lively chatter and large gesturing, frequently food in hand. I discover I am the only one spilling food as I guiltily notice the trail of rice kernels leading from my bowl to my lap. I clumsily try to improve my rice-with-hands skill but find it a bit awkward. I deny the spoon offered me though. Following the meal there is the customary mound of melon, a refreshing finish to a heavy meal – frequently water melon, but also one or more of a myriad of sweet green melons I am not familiar with.

As quickly as it appeared, the food is removed by the young servant. First the bits of bread is stacked and carried off, often to appear again at breakfast; next the bowls are piled high and removed on large silver trays. The tarp in the middle is used as a make-shift plate and hold-em all for discarded food such as bones and other discards. This is now rolled into the tarp and then carried off.

After eating, there is a small gesture of thanks by all holding their hands at chest level, palms facing upward, head tilted up, followed by a movement that looks like something is being poured over their heads. Depending on the situation, hand washing may be repeated.

The waiting room of the German clinic is very far removed from my fond memories of the communities I visited, and smells of disinfectant. A small girl in a pink outfit leads her mom around the floor, constantly being shined by a cleaner in a green lab coat. There are about twelve people waiting. An African male, an Indian with a woman of Asian descent with a bad blonde dye. Another attractive couple changes seats to escape the vigorous blow of the wall-mounted A/C. The rest of the patients are Afghans. Men in shawa khamis and a women peeking out under her blue burqa escorting a much older woman around to complete samples. An old man with a limp speaks too loudly with his neighbor, presumably he has a mild hearing problem.

We wait patiently as they call our numbers. The doctor recognizes me and in five minutes has drawn blood and instructed me to come back in an hour to see if we’ve killed any of the buggers. She has a very friendly face behind wire-rimmed glasses that rests on the tip of her small nose. She is efficient, friendly, and has a great sense of humor.

Blood work in, stool sample submitted, I pay and wait in the garden for the results. In the small courtyard with its orange pine tables adorned with tacky plastic flower-and rock center pieces, bright red and orange striped canopy shielding a tea and water station, and my favorite – the two garden gnomes, it is hard to believe I am in the middle of dusty, noisy, Kabul. Hopefully the extended antibiotics helped, as I ponder paying in parasites for the need to participate and acclimate. Sometimes a necessary price to pay, I have learned.

Photo pick?

I took this shot through the back window of a circa 1970s Jeep while in Maymana City, Faryab Province. I love the expression on the men's faces, and once in Photoshop I got to playing around with different focal points and hues...I would like to get your comments on which one you prefer - I have been thinking about submitting some of my photographs to amateur outlets - also, if you have any suggestions of publications that might be looking for submissions, or competitions and such, do share.

Here we go, I present four different options of the same photograph:

Option 1:

Option 2:

Option 3:

Option 4:

Long overdue...

...I was reminded by a friend yesterday that it has been far too long since I last wrote. I do apologize to all of you for neglecting the writing, and in particular the photographs that I know you enjoy even more than my blabbering about work and the heat in Mazar.

Alas, I have been extremely busy with new projects and a lot of traveling between bases, which subsequently resulted in a few uninvited friends taking up residence in my tummy. After a host of blood and other tests, the German Diagnostic Center in Kabul confirmed what I suspected....parasite. Only, there was not one, nope - I manage to get four. With a suitcase full of antibiotics and a very unpredictable stomach I set off once again for Mazar e-Sharif.

I am excited to report that we have finally broken ground on a Cultural Center in Mazar e-Sharif that has been in the pipeline since 2005. Additional new projects include a Safe Play Area funded by UNICEF - essentially a play park for children who are at a high risk of injury by unexploded ordinance (UXO) - including land mines. You may recall I mentioned that Afghanistan remains one of the most heavily mined countries in the world, and all along the highways in the provinces, one can see the painted rocks placed by de-mining organizations to warn residents and vehicles about the potential threat.

For the next few days I am in Kabul to meet with a variety of donors and partner agencies. It is always nice to spend a few days with Chris and I find it recharges me for the extended (average of three weeks) periods that we find ourselves in different locations. I also have the opportunity to go to the clinic to see whether any of my friends have checked out of the Bacteria B&B in my stomach.

To make up for my extended absence, I share some of my favorite photos of the last few weeks with you.

A colleague in an agricultural field in Faryab Province, August 2007

Yes, Afghanistan is painful, but it can be breathtaking too.

Girl with loom, Faryab Province August 2007

The ice cream shop

Despite the limitations on women, particularly in public, those fortunate to live in moderately affluent homes, manage to enjoy a fairly active social life. They have innovative ways to enjoy a day in the bazaar, shopping with friends, and even stopping for a much-needed ice cold refreshment - a welcome break from the heat of the burqa in 35+ degree Celcius weather.

This particular ice cream shop is approximately three meters wide and about twenty meters long. At about the half-way point, it is divided by a curtain that stretches across the width of the room. Women head straight for the curtain, alleviated from the heat of their chandris as they emergy on the far side to lift the blue or white burqas over their heads exposing warm and friendly faces. The room is small with tables and benches packed tightly for maximum capacity. On the walls are the faces (sometimes in erotic fashion-advertisement style) of favorite Indian movie stars. There is a plastic container with complimentary water, and soon a young boy emerges through the curtains to collect the order.

The ice cream is a somewhat icy soft-serve type served either in a pink or yellow cone, or in a bowl with a spoon. The taste has a distinc cardamom flavor, not unpleasant. I am informed that the ice cream is "from the milk from the cow."

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.

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.

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.

The man at the mosque

Shot this one evening driving home from the office. The Blue Mosque is usually abuzz with people in the gardens, children running around, and vendors selling their goods on the sidewalks.

Quick update

Just a quick note that I am back in Mazar e-Sharif. Yes, yes, I have lots to tell and I have not written in a few days. And it has been a busy few days indeed. Recent trips and meetings include a visit to Kabul University to meet with a lovely old professor of History, a visit to the National Museum of Afghanistan to discuss the Cultural Center I am planning in Mazar with the director of the museum, and a visit to the amazing Turquoise Mountain Foundation (TMI).

TMI was founded a few years ago by the award winning author of the New York Times bestseller "The Places in Between" (recently lauded as one of the ten best books of 2006) that traces the steps of his hike across Afghanistan (yes, ALL of it) in 2003. Among other things he was the summer tutor to Princes Harry and William in the 1990s, for a pretty impressive cv thanks to our friends at Wikipedia, click here. And all that to tell you that I met with him as well to discuss our cultural center, since - well, he has a very successful one!

Back to Mazar via ICRC flight, piloted this time by Captains Jan en Jaco from Pretooooooria, it was a stunning flight aboard one of my favorite planes, the King Air. I sat in the very front seat so I could get the full view of the runway as we charged down to rotate at 85-knots. Okay, I won't do a whole plane post again.

Things in Mazar are good, although it seems I was gone for three weeks, not ten days. Amazing how things can just seem to move on so quickly when one is not around. It is also about 42 degrees Celsius (haven't exactly confirmed that yet, so could be hotter) - particularly fun without air conditioning. But no worries, I have grown accustomed to the dabbing of tears in eyes due to fan blowing full-speed on face. No wonder I packed a suitcase full of moisturizers.

Alas, I have much to tell, and little time to do it now, but tomorrow I will write about my visit today to an all-girls school to watch one of our Hygiene Education Trainers in action, really cool.