What I'm gona do the day I become a terrorist

I always thought there is a kind of discimination in the way customs, police forces, politicians even assume terrorists are always dark-skinned, with a beard and spend their time reciting prayers before blowing themselves up. After all, I too could be a terrorist, if I really wanted to (or if I were pushed far too far) and would like to be ackowledged for the level of threat I am. As it is, I have always thought however you can only embrace one career at a time. It's the Red Cross or mercenary, I cannot try and be both simultaneously. Then again, many have and will prove me wrong: film star and president/state governor, teacher and stripper, minister and militia leader, UN soldier and human trafficant. The list is imply endless. Still, I do believe in my case opting for terrorism could slightly undermine my chances in the NGO realm, so for now I keep a low profile on the first front.

Nonethless, I am keen to share with you the first few targets I have selected. They remain so far in no definite order, but I trust my flight home for Xmas will create some competition among some of the contenders.

Bachelorette no. 1: I give you Emirates airlines.

Yes, the company, the one and only. Cheapest flights to get the hell out of Dubai. Operating fairly well some would say, if it wasn't for their obnoxious 20-minute long add regarding money-spending in Dubai before landing.

Wrong I say. I once spent 7 hours in Dubai airport because a flight was overbooked by 25 passengers at least. I had to endure not only the overbooking, but also the incompetence of the staff who would not take time to stop and provide information, would not attempt to provide such things as a phone to infom people in the arrival airport of the delay, no tea either, although we all waited from 6 am on in the terminal (that, off course, is the main reason for my anger...), would not conveniently offer to rebook you on another company when they perfectly could, but instead would suggest you spent another 24 hours in Dubai, and most importantly, would not realise just before my R&R, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, you don't fuck with my flight! At last after only seven hours and a fair amount of threats, we did board a new flight but I do not think there is any excuse for them. So yeah, clearly Emirates is on.

Bachelorette no. 2. I give you Ariana airlines.

Aaaaah, have we not all delighted at the pleasant on-board service, the meals which curiously remind me of a day in the office - so much rice, so much nan, so much agent orange, such abundance! - the soft landings, the timely take-offs..? So far, I have actually been pleasantly surprised when leaving Kabul though. If anything, we once actually took off four minutes early. I'm still in schock at the thought of it.

Yet, who has not enjoyed the pleisure of being in Dubai Terminal 2, with a ticket probably purchased and confirmed three times, and finding oneself nonethless told that one is not on the passengers list. Now it's not that I mind so much spending four hours negociating the boarding of an overbooked flight, it's just that last time they went that much too far. The first three hours were spent harassing the charming ticket seller, to make sure the friend travelling along was first to buy one and that my presence on the list was confirmed, since I had the purchased ticket and all. Once the Ariana staff showed up, I alternated between him and them. Surely enough, at some point, the Ariana staff requests me to prove that we do have a confirmed reservation for that flight, after I have repeatedly indicated it was confirmed on that day by our Paris office on the phone because we were travelling the entire day. You would think at some point any of the Ariana guys would consider that, with all this nice IT material lying around, it may be their duty to find out where passengers have disappeared in the system. Especially given that it was no exceptional occurrence. But noooooo, not Ariana, very righteous people they are, always right but never feel the need to prove it. At last however, we make it on the list. I'm a little edgy by then, so when we are about to check in and another incompetent Ariana fucker sees it fit to bring two guys with a truckload of luggage and put them right in front of us 'because one of them is his manager's uncle', I kind of snap. Follows a case of me angrily replying that his excuses are not good enough, that this attitude is unacceptable, that the service provided to their customers is appalling and that... oh well by then Fran begs me to shut up so we're not kicked out of the plane altogether. I of course am way beyond the point of caring and just want to jump on the guy and beat him up, no matter that he's two heads taller. I manage at last to contain myself but just.

This said, Ariana, definitely thumbs up for their annihilation. Though I've been told their financial state is doing the job already.

Bachelorette no. 3: the UNICA guesthouse in Kabul.

Somehow, UNICA decided that it was more of a potential target during election time. So far, that is fairly sensible. As a result however, UNICA resolved to cancle access to non UNICA-stayers to their compound for one month or so, this September. I suppose that's because the rest of the year NGO and embassy people are non-threatening, but during election time, it can fairly be assumed that their good old terrorist habits take them again and they feel an urge to burn the place down...

Either way, this resulted in me being deprived of access to the pool two days before my R&R, when I clearly was not mentally fit to work. I had been looking forward so intensely to a swim, the grass and chilling out with friends, and it was all taken away from me.

No doubt many will rightfully argue this is no serious ground to put them on a terrorist list, but, then again, who said the day I become one I have to do anything rational?

Bachelorette no. 4: Hairdressers of the planet.

Except one, in Brussels working in Eau contre Air. Then again, he refuses to come to Afg to give me a cut so maybe I should reconsider.

Anyhow, I apologise for increasingly resorting to girly topics and spending more time focusing on silk scarves and hairstyle then the state of the world or the approaching elections. As for the elections, I trust Andrew Norton is doing the job on the BBC though, so I'll spare you my thoughts. Plus I wouldn't want to influence anyone into voting for one of the roughly 6000 candidates rather than for the 5999 others.

Anyway, after ten months without approaching a hairdresser, while my hair made people think that if the Beatles and Scoobidoo had had children, they would have looked a bit like me, I started roaming around Delhi in search of a salon. Three days it took me of walking everywhere, asking receptionists and so on but in vain. I have grown to assume that female Indian hair does not grow, possibly as a result of humidity levels in Delhi. Anyway, as I am running around a neighbourhood where one hair salon should be based, without finding it, I come across the Intercontinental, massive, looking like a banking building, and decide they surely must have someone. And indeed they do.

As a start, the fact that there is ten staff and no customer is slightly worrisome, but at this stage I cannot afford to back off. Without much discussion I am taken for the shampoo. Aaagh, bad start. I'm not particularly gifted at explaining what I want when it comes down to hair and surely, once I'll look like a wet dog, it won't give out much indication as to what looks good on me. So by the time I'm in the hairdresser's chair, I'm a little apprehensive already. Then second tiny weeny problem as they have no books illustrating haircuts. Oh wait, they have one add about hair colouring but that won't do. Finally the lady finds me one book filled with Chinese models with haircuts dating back to the '80s. Half of them have wedding haircuts too, with flowers and all. It is reminescent of some bad karaoke videos. Right, I think, glad to see we really understand each other. By the time the haridresser cuts the first hair, my fists are clenched, my jaws are tensed, and I basically have the overall physical attitude of the doberman before a fight. To my credit, I have to specify that years of leaving hairsalons skinned, yet looking more like Hilary Clinton than I ever wished, have made me averse to hairdressers. I consider them a necessary evil, though by no means a pleasant experience, and would more readily go for an excursion to a dentist and have a couple of teeth pulled out.

As it turns out, the lady decides not to cut too much, which seems like a wise option since it means she may be able to follow the remnants of my ten-month old cut. So she cuts, cuts, cuts, leaving my hair in front of my face at all times (to avoid my stares, I suspect). During most of this experience, I try to swallow my tears. At stage, I am so tense I have to remind myself to breath. In and out. In and out. Grrr. Then it seems like the lady is done, but she makes no move to remove my hair from before my eyes. Since I'm an obedient customer (bitchy, psychopath-looking but obedient) I do not dare move them myselves. Then she asks 'You don't like haircut?'. To which, with my jaws fully contracted, I reply with my cheerful say-another-word-and-I'll-shove-these-scissors-up-your-nose kind of tone, 'How would I know, I cannot see.' She laughs. Grr. Breath in, breath out.

Then she reaches for the wax. Aggggh, not the wax! Oh but just a little behind the back then. Right, ok, just a little. Again, I try to make my tone as threatening as can be.

I'm sure in most places you ever went to, there is only one person who then proceeds to dry your hair. Not here though. One handles the brush. The other one the hairdryer. Team work that is. Or taylorisation, I'm not sure. And what do I see? Sure enough she's starting a brushing! Apparently she's been struck by my unconscious efforts to join the Santa Barbara cast and is trying to encourage me hairwise. But no, not me, I will not be taking any of that capilar terrorism. So I scream 'freeze!' And request no brushing for the front, just regular drying. The results still makes me look like a girl on her way to a casting for Charlie's Angels, the serie, who assumes it's all in the hair and the ability to manipulate the comb as a deadly weapon, but somehow it seems like I will be able to cope.

When the hairdresser asks how I find the cut, I can barely say more than it's quite ok. Anything beyond and I'd feel I'd be lying. Plus I still have no idea whether I will be paying 15 or 200 USD. I guess prices would help me decide whether we are in the range of acceptable haircuts or whether I'm burnign the primises down on the spot. As it turns out, it is all fairly cheap and, amusingly enough, the hairwashing costs almost as much as the cut itself. Not sure whether that says anytihng about the state of my hair or whether it suggests training for both positions are equally good (or useless), but it softens me up a little and I even find it a little unfair. Plus I am aware I have left generations of hairdressers traumatised by my obvious lack of confidence and feel like I have to make up a little for it. So I leave a decent tip to the lady, to compensate for the half hour she spent with me, which must have been equally painful for her as it was for me.

This said, do not mistake my sympathy for compassion. I still want most of them dead, so on the list they stay.

More to come as soon as the fancy takes me...

Rule no. 10: Lie, my friend, lie...

Putting a few miles between you and Afghanistan does not necessarily mean you escape Afghanistan. Indeed, by the time we reached Delhi airport, Fran, an Afghan friend and I, it turned out that a group of Afghans were a little, say, uncomfortable with the drafting of the custom documents in Enlish. No wonder. Imagine on your first arrival to Kabul how you would manage a cutom form to be filled in Persian... Anyway, we quite happily helped out and felt, for a second, like public writers which was rather amusing. Then, as Fran mentioned, it turned out the custom officer would really luuuve to work in Afghanistan. Good for him. Usually that's the way people in the region feel before they go and work there.

Anyway, as I said, old habits die hard. Believe it or not I have hardly had to lie about, for instance, my marital status in Afghanistan, as I believe it would be counter-productive to lie to staff and do not end up having so many conversations where I need an escape. Still, I can recollect a wedding where a bold 13-year old clearly thought I was within his range and forced me to let him know that yes, I was married. In Delhi though, as my first five days will be mostly spent on my own, I have been lying to a point where I wonder how I do that so naturally and without a trace of shame. To cab drivers mostly. So no, I am not staying in that really really posh hotel you just picked me up from. - I swear you could not tell from the pictures it'd be such a posh 4-star... -, I was only there/am only going there for a working breakfast/lunch/dinner. No, I am not on holidays in Delhi, I am here for work, so I do not need a taxi, but certainly, if I did happen to go around, I will call you right away. No, you do not need to wait for me one, two, three hours or as many as it takes, my boss will drop me off. Have I been shopping? No, that brand new laptop that I'm carrying around is for my boss. My name? Mrs. L. Have I been here before? Off course, once. So far I have not ended up in a ditch or paying the kind of price I would have deserved for checking in that palace, so it clearly has been all worth it.

And today was my favourite: this rickshaw driver insists on dropping me in some other bazaar before taking me to the one I want to go to. Given that the Lonely Planet is highly instructive on the kind of scams happening here, that I hardly feel like shopping, just want to walk around where I have decided to go, that I am in a foul mood due to some mails from Afghanistan, I reply politely no a first time, more firmly a second time and the third one I am obviously angry. No, I will not stop, not even for five minutes, I am going where I said I would. By then, if there were any chances that the cab driver and I would become best mates, they have clearly faded away. So be it. So right after departing he stops and asks a colleague to take me. It doesn't seem to be out of anger or anything, more like he was there to attract clients. (Though one would wonder how because his stained t-shirt covered in remnants of food is rather a put-off, especially as compared to most rickshaw drivers who are rather decently groomed and more presentable) Anyhow, by now I am expecting that they have agreed to take me anyhow to whichever bazaar he wanted me to go to and where, no doubt, many of his friends must be working. In fact, I have so litle trust in the new driver that I am checking when I can the trip on a map. Indeed, the first driver had asked me whether I had been to the State emporiums where I wished to go before, I believe to find out whether he could take me wherever or not. As usual I replied with a lot of assurance of course! He asked when. Nosy bastard. A few months ago. I wasn't convinced it had taken and in all frankness it would have been quite easy to take me to some shithole of a rip-off bazaar and sell me some coton shawl for only 40 USD, special price for me because I'm a guest in the country... However, believe it or not, we finally end up exactly where I wished to go. I'm in a quasi state of shock: I can make a rickshaw driver believe my lies - and you'd think some of them have done university in that respect, so I'm aware I'm socialising with some people I should consider my masters in that art. Anyway, I am certainly stunned and awed at my own talent. I always was quite good at that sport and if anything, enjoyed it a little too much but still.

Another habit, not necessarily bad per se, and rather convenient when walking around in Delhi, that has a hard time dying is the ability to be oblivious to one's environment, as far as the male gender is concerned. Indeed, in Afghanistan I find that it is much easier to ignore men than to send confrontational stares. The message seems to get across faster too. Thus I walk through life, aware enough not to bump into anyone, but never returning a stare if I can avoid it, never maintaining eyes contact more than a second if it accidentally happens, never even listening to their comments. If anything, male colleagues are likely to be more irritated by men's rude behaviour. As far as I'm concerned, it is as if they were not there.

Given the slighlty bad reputation acquired by Delhi men with respect to their behaviour towards women, and given that I walk around alone, I have decided to resort to the very same strategy. And you would just not believe how effective it is. All you need to do is adopt a cold-looking attitude, empty eyes, with a slightly threatening twist that suggests that if anyone ticks you off, you'll go straight for the jugular, and it is a success. Admitteldy I have no vocation to look like GI Jane, but if it's the way it has to be, again, so be it.

This said, so far I have been rather impressed by this city, booming but not overwhelming, with its few stunning heritage buildings and all its parks. And most of the contacts I have had were rather positive, though limited, as they only concerned hotel and restaurant staff, drivers of all kinds and street children. Oh and an absolutely adorable lady in one shop of the Sate emporiums, near Connaught place, that sells only handicrafts from tribes, with the support of the Tribe ministry. That lady was keen on explaining the origin of all their pashminas and silk scarves and an absolute delight to talk to. I highly recommend...

Anyway, more news soon, with inshallah a little less shopping involved. As I said, habits die hard...

The first day out of Afghanistan

They say you know you've been in Afghanistan too long when a day abroad feels like a day out of jail: you have panick attacks at the thought of all the freedom that's right there, at your feet.

So yesterday, I left to India for a 19-day R&R. This is the longest holidays I have had in 10 months - ten and six days so far were insufficient to guarantee that my mental health could be salvaged. And every second has been, quite literally a thrill ride so far. (People who live in the real world, stop right there, for what I'm going to write is likely to put you to sleep. People from Maymana, Kunduz and Fayzabad, stay put I think you'll understand.)

As a start, the number of checkpoints at Kabul airport have mushroomed. Usually I find the ladies checking you out there quite civil. However, I found out from my friend Fran, who came along, that they have interesting types of collections. They collect British coins, crisps, batteries and even Afghani... Unfortunately, my friend seems to always fall victim of their greed and me never. The second lady to search us though, bothered me more than if she had been versed into the collection of travellers' personal items. I walk past the curtain to the search room, while she's searching another lady. It's all very civil, however as soon as I have put my luggage on the table, she somehow decides that the first area to be searched is the chest. Furtunately I'm dressed, but still so much dedication, added to the fact that she is commenting on the handsome face I seem to have, makes me a little uncomfortable. Meanwhile, Fran is rolling on the floor laughing. As it is, the lady is quite dedicated at searching the knickers area too, which is when my natural instinct forces me to make her back off a little. And I decide that the next lady who tries to search me will get a beat-up if she repeats this.

On the plane, no rice with oil and no nan, as we are traveling Indian airlines. I am extatic. I also find the air hostesses a pleasant change form the Ariana crew with their mustache and their smiles still at home. Then flipping through some magazines and I see amazed pictures of forests. All green. With trees and leaves. God knows I miss vegetation badly.

Landing goes well, we agree to pay a rip-off price for the cab and off we go to the hotel. I am booked in a different hotel than Fran and based on the online pictures, suspect that it is overpriced, with old carpet and poor service. When we arrive, however, it turns out it is a palace. Naturally I will leave broke as a donkey keeper, but in the meantime, I may as well enjoy the large pool, the great breakfast and all. There's an army of doormen at the entrace. Not one door I need to bother opening. And I find everyone absolutely lovely. Naturally, the first adventurous step in this gorgeous hotel is to take a bath. I stay in there very literaly three hours, until approaching the disolving phase.

After that, dinner all together out. The Chinese restaurant we eat in is a little expensive for Delhi, but the food is absolutely worth it. Gargantuan portions, perfect service and we're feasting on veggies, meats, juices, jasmine tea. Happiness. The staff spontaneously gives us a doggy bag when we leave and, as it is, there is a street kid outside who spotted us before we arrived and asks if he can get it. Somehow I've never been so happy in my life to have a doggy bad and to hand it away.

This morning, the day starts with a lovely cup of tea and a swim. I have to keep it to 30 minutes tops, as my little arms are telling me that it is not a figure of speach anymore, when I mention my muscles mass has melted. Thereafter, a gorgeous breakfast, taken as slowly as possible, with the morning papers - not quite the NY Times nor the Guardian, but one has to be flexible sometimes... And finally, I am ready for an excursion to buy a guide about India. So I reach this lovely bookstore cum cafe and fall immediately in love with the place. In fact, my heart feels too big in my chest at seeing so many great novels around me. Naturally, whereas purchasing clothes and all can be delayed, it is out of the question for books. So I browse and pile up each and every book of interest. By the time I reach the c0unter, there are eight volumes in my arms and I certainly plan to buy more... After paying, it is time to explore the Turtle cafe upstairs. The decoration is sober but highly inviting with its bright colours and reminds me of some cafes near Covent Garden. Cafe latte, then little sandwich and juice carrot, I could well be in London and am enjoying it to bits, while reading. Then a stroll around the nearby shopping area, with a stopover at Fabindia, which indeed for anyone coming from Afghanistan is fabulous, with its bright colours, big shawls, amazing scarves. I unfold and fold it all during a good hour, jsut for the sake of textures and colours. I had no idea I could ever care about textile that much. I force myself to leave but only after promising myself that I'll be back. And for a while return to the hotel, so I can do some reading by the pool. I know, tough life. Tomorrow, I'll try to be a little more enterprising in my journey, but for now I'm taking it one thing at a time, as I'm not quite ready yet to make the great leap of faith into the big wide world, where people are free and walk around and women go out in t-shirts. Getting there though. A few cocktails by the pool and I'll be a new person...