The first winter day

Here it is, the first day of winter. It has finally come. One would have expected that Afghanistgan would witness somehow what the rest of the planet calls autumn - or falls, in a few degenarated isolated countries - but no, not here. One easy explanation: Afghans do not like in-betweens. It must either be steaming hot or deadly cold, no compromise. You're either absolutely stuffed or absolutely starving. Absolutely happy or absolutely mad. (Speaking of which I wonder whether Absolute vodka ever considered an 'Absolute Afghanistan' add.)

So yesterday I was still walking around in sandals and with the lightest shalwar kameze, or equivalent, and today I need a sleeping bag, my hiking shoes and wodner where my patou is when I need it.

Now we only really realized winter was upon us last night. We drove from Kunduz to a border post, where you can find only a few mud houses that sell biscuits to border crossers and what resembles a commander's house in these desolate environments, but turns out to be our local office. The house looks terrific, but its one of these multi-stories buildings that are either too hot in the summer or too cold in the winter. So by the time we arrived around 6, it felt like we were actually settling down to camp in the Salang.

Somehow, the office has not exactly been set up with entertainment for staff as a core pillar. So by the time 7 struck, we had to figure out how to entertain ourselves. First, we took blankets out to a part of the lobby that resembles a small living room and put them in square to all chill out. Second, we considered lighting a fire in the middle of that square, but finally decided against it for obvious liability reasons. Then everybody took out their warmest shawl or dragged some more blankets from the bedrooms to cover themselves. As it is, my brand new laptop (a gift from the people of Belgium to the people of Belgium) can read DVDs and, praised by the Lord, Marie happened to have Lost in Translation with her. A miracle! Given that last time I watched it, the Chicken street DVD stopped every 5 minutes, skipped entire sequences and finally stopped working half an hour before the end, it felt like a kind of holidays to watch it all with no interruption. This said, by the time we were done it was still only 8 pm. Naturally, all of us could have read a book or something, but given that we haven't seen each other in a while, we much rather spend time together doing... ah well not a whole lot really. After the movie, some people suggested that we watched the trailers. We decided against it, however, as trailers should be saved for February-March, when you've gone through all DVDs available in the country, including those about the songs of whales and the Galapagos giant turtle.

Suddenly, another miracle: Daler remembers he's got DVDs too. The choice is between Cecil B DeMille's Samson and Dalila and Honey. A bit of a dilemma. Under my influence, motivated by extremely poor judgment, we end up watching Honey, or at least the scenes that the laptop accepts to play. And how can I put it? Well it was just a little early in the winter to watch something like this. Again, February or March would be more appropriate. Or better yet, never. Anyway, when we're done it's still only 9.30. We wonder whether we can distill onions to get alcohol. Someone suggests to send a car to get vodka, but that's just a little optimistic, lest we are ready to send a car to Kunduz just for it.

Under the influence of Honey, we then start trying break dance steps. Marie is showing unlimited talent and enthusiasm, especially when she decides to lie on her stomach, raise her legs and catch her heels with her hands and then tries to kind of jump in this position. It turns out the jumping is not a success, but it's a beautiful try anyhow. Out of modesty, I will not brag about my few talents. Let alone to say with a bit of music on, I did a beautiful Egyptian choreography, followed by what the ravers of Kabul usually call 'the Runner', to finish with an impersonation of Dalida. After that, Marie accompanied with her splendid voice a bit of Puccini. Daler decided to stand on his hands, and tried to convince others to do so. By 10.45, we started telling ourselves that we were really exhausted and ought to go get some sleep. Fortunately, given that everyone is affected by a cold, it was fairly easy to do so.

And that's how our first winter evening finished. In hindsight, it was really easy to recognize the stereotypical signs of the winter evening: boredom in unlimited supplies, alternating with tea or alcohol-fuelled bursts of excitement, rubbish movies, blankets to cover everyone and break dance competition. (By March, last winter, we had reached the point where we'd have traction competitions in the living room...) Now all we need is hot chocolate and pancakes to spice that up a little. Oh and Scotch. Plenty of Scotch.

What I'm gona do the day I become a terrorist - Phase 2

It seems like I have found some new aspirants to join my list of terrorists targets. Indeed, it appears that some private sector folks actually believe that me and/or my few fellow bloggers who are bored enough to come and say hi on here, aspire to organise a cheap wedding, using free softwares against pop-ups, before catching a flight to Brasil or else Europe or possibly Seattle.

For now, though, if anyone dares advertise any commercial site on this blog again, I promise they'll requalify as my brand new and lovely targets. And just as a reminder, I also have a solid background when it comes down to torture theory. And from theory to practice there's only one step. Hehehe.

My first ramadan

For the first time in my life, I doing ramadan. Not that in some enlightenment God has come to me or anything. Simply I suspect when all stop drinking and eating and you're the only one left, you cannot expect to always be remembered and are thus forced to show basic politeness in the form of avoidance of public drinks and food display.

Fortunately, my first ramadan day started in an expat guest house. To my credit, I should emphasise that I only had two iced coffees and two slices of black German bread with nutella. That's my ramadan ration. And for those who think black bread, aka pumpernickel, is gross, try it out with a thick layer of nutella and you'll think twice. (Sudden flashback to French bread with nutella, the way I would eat it at my grandma in France. Vision of the cups in which I had coffee with milk there. OK I'm just hurting myself now...)

Once at the Kunduz guest house, when the staff asks if I want some lunch I politely decline. However, when two hours later, some meat rolls and watermelon have turned up on the table, my fork spontaneously goes for them. It turns out five rolls may be a little more than my digestive system can stomach, so I decide not to eat anything ever again. At 6.30 exactly, a large dinner is nonetheless served in the living room. I remember Flora's comments on how difficult getting our 5 portions of fruits and veggies usually is. And decide to finally feast on the only vegetable, the cauliflower with oil. I eat it all. Yummy. To be washed away later on with a bit of vodka. Yes, just a little bit. I mean it is Ramadan after all.

The second day of ramadan starts with another iced coffee. And some cereals. Come to think of it, during ramadan I think I prefer to go for nutella. You know, to fight the long foodless day. Half a cuppa tea downed at the guest house and off we go, to PiK and then Mazar or Kabul depending on security. Given that I'm a civil person, sympathetic of the duty of my fellow travellers not to eat and drink (unless of course we assume our trip is sufficiently long for an exemption...), I plan not to drink. Thirty minutes stop in PiK and still no drink. Around 12ish, my companions even kindly offer to stop for food, but I have been told it has not been unusual to see expats causing a riot by eating publically during ramadan. Plus it just seems unfair to my colleagues who, after all, see ramadan as a fairly compulsory display of religiosity. And after all, all I really long for is drinking, but am aware that doing so would amount to psychological torture for them. By the time we reach Mazar, I switch car but can barely speak to the new driver, due to an aching dry throat. Got a big headache too. After all, it's been more than six hours without even a cup of tea. And if I'm suffering, I have no idea how all those tea-huggers Afghans manage.
When at last we reach the guest house, the sympathetic staff prepares some eggs and French fries. Again daddy Sainsburys would notice the lack of fruits and veggies so I proceed to drown my fries in ketchup. After that, I'm feeling simultaneously half-dead due to dehydration and absolutely stuffed. Another thing I hate about being food deprived: you overeat and then need 12 hours to recover. So at night I just have a platefull of spinach and some grapes.

Today comes the real test: surviving the office. I have brought over three baby bananas, one cereal bar and dried apples. I also have tons of pot noodles at the guest house but will save these for the ultimate challenge: Maymana. There I suspect I'll be hiding to down them. Again, part of me is fairly looking forward to the prospect of noodles.
At the office, I do request some tea this time as I can drink it hidden, and simply refuse to dry out for the sake of other people's religious feelings. Plus the Afghan chai sabz (gree tea) is the kind of thing you grow fond of and end up unable to live without. If there isn't a thermos around, I simply feel like I'm missing a limb.

By the time twelve strikes, it seems that this morning's baby toast is all but gone and I start shaking due to the hypoglycemia I am developing. Not knowing whether the staff will eventually consider bringing food to the one infidel around, I resolve to eat my bananas, which are black by now but let's not be fussy, then the cereal bar (I should have brought two) and finally some of the dried apples. All washed away with some more tea. I'm still a little hungry and start wondering whether some food will come. It doesn't seem to be the case though. Given that Afghans are leaving the office at three until the end of ramadan, I decide I will probably be doing the same to have another cup of coffee and a toast. I feel like the winter vitamines I have started taking will prove much more useuful now than in January. I feel like everybody else's fasting has made me not just food-conscious, but food-obsessed. I wonder whether pot noodles are good with tea. I mean tea as a substitute for water. I wonder whether religious fervour stems from delirium due to deprivation. I wonder who on earth ever thought boycotting drinks for an entire day was wise. And it's not like this came up in Scandinavia or the North pole either.

So the conclusion of my third day of everybody else's fasting: I haven't found God yet, but feel closer to my stomach than ever before. I value water more than I ever did and wonder how on earth I'm going to handle 6 to 8 hours driving from Mazar to Maymana in a couple of days. I realise a cereal bar is more nutritious than dried apples. I realise I'm not made for religion.

More ramadan wisdom very soon.