You know the Song, You know the End

This is the end of one of these days where the morning on its own seems like a year or so and by 3 p.m. you feel airy and see everything and everyone - including yourself - carrying on with their life a few meters below you.

To be able to forget about the two officers insulting each other via e-mail and the hours it took to solve their different, the few hundred USD someone realised they had to pay 45 min after the Pashtun recipients had arrived to our office, while our overspent budget was closed five months ago, the call for proposals we were just informed of, with today as deadline, and the fact that all that is not my job and still is my business because as long as you are part of the Group, you bear a piece of the collective responsibility, I tuned on to ABBA.

Now I did not intend to put Abba on. It's just that the alphabet drove me to them and I instantly thought to myself "Of course!". Worst still, the mood has imporoved tenfold since...

Where it turns out the head of the village looks like my grandma

A fine sunny day today, spent visiting communities to see what progresses we are making in the field.

Where we stopped in one village, were explained the work on a well by 1 man, the progress on a latrine by 3 and finally the progress on another latrine by 8 men and somewhere around 30 children. I love the way you strike a conversation with five senior men of one village and, within seconds, see the offspring of the entire district run to you, accompanied by the few men who missed the start of the action.

Thereafter, a lunch of soup, bread and bird. As for that bird, it is grey, fluffy and rather dignified. At the end of our lunch, some kid in military garments shows up and gives a full bird to my engineer. But - wait a minute - that's a living bird we're getting. Indeed, our engineer is planning his dinner. Off we go with it in a sealed box, topped with a few nice holes so it can contemplate the countryside, over which it is unlikely to fly again.

Then we reach a far up village lost in the mountain. We leave the car, continue on foot and it turns out 15 months of zero physical activity make my heart beat at 270 by the tenth step. A little dignified - after all, there's a living bird, in a box, in our car, that's facing death without blinking, so surely I can continue walking - I carry on but cannot hide my dismal physical condition.

The head of shura and soon another ten adults and so many children, give us a tour of the wells they have been working on. (That's the deal, communities help with the digging and we provide the hardware material, plus training, spare parts and a lot of other activities.) Not only have they done a fine job on the wells that have started, but they seem to show unlimited energy to deal with the digging. I find it most reassuring as the wells look already more like theirs than anything else. I mean we start the programme, but they get organised, get down to work and all. In short, they are in charge and that's really what matters most.

A flash before leaving: there's something about that head of shura nose and teeth that remind me of someone. Wait, I know, my grandma! The oddest association for sure. Him respectably bearded in his mountains and her baking some lovely madeleines in France. Aaaaah, madeleines.

On the way back, some herd dogs playing catch the car (or is it catch the human?). And in the middle of the conversation it turns out the bird is actually meant to be my supper. Now I'm at loss to explain just how far Afghan generosity can go. I mean our engineer got that poor little bird, that got to do a hell lot of travelling, just because I failed to try the nicest part thereof... So OK, after arguments, I have to accept the offer - with hopes to one day be able to reciprocate. The tough part is I'm not ashamed to be where I stand on the food chain, but in a hypocritical kind of way, would rather not see anything below me before it reaches the casserole. Then again, releasing the bird is not much of an option either. (I mean, I'm told these birds can be caught at night by just flashing them with a light in their holes. Out of surprise, they freeze. In front of so much stupidity, I'm barely accelerating natural selection, am I?)

A few carrots picked along the road before reaching Maymana. They are, for some reason, yellow and red. Can't do anything like the rest of the world here, can they? Washed in a river and rinsed with mineral water, but we're way past caring about our bowels. It turns out these carrots don't really need peeling either and are yummy. And at last, return to our dusty home.

A hypothetical problem

NGO X approaches a Mr. Y working for a department A to get authorisation to work in one place. "No, no" says Mr. Y, you should not work in that place. Instead, go and work in place B. As it turns out, place B also just happens to be the place where Mr. Y's brother ran lately for elections. Mr. Y says he is afraid that people will feel his brother is purposefull stopping developpement if they don't get the project of NGO X. That's one explanation. At the same time, NGO X feels that Mr. Y may just be keen to support his brother's next election, in only a few years.

Simultaneously, deputy governor Z decides that he, on the other hand, wants the project to be implemented in the town C, because he receives a lot of letters from its inhabitants and, as it happens, the city in question is the head town of the province, where his comfy bum would be keen to embrace the governorate seat.

Meanwhile, NGO X is still eager to work where it originally suggested because the budget doesn't really allow to work anywhere else and it is kind of trying to build ties with communities and continue development project with them and that would hardly be lilely in either place B or town C. To settle the matter, ministry A decides that whatever department A says will be the final word. As a result, NGO X lobbies like mad Mr. Y, promising to conduct a proper needs assessment in place B and try and find funding at a later stage, if only they are now allowed to carry on with their work. Mr. Y ultimately bends, but only on the condition that all of the easy-to-build infrastructures of the project go to town C. - Well sure, Mr. Y has plenty of reasons to want to be friend with deputy governor Z and the people of the city.

And in all that, if you've understood any of it, I am asking, it is the NGO that is threatens local development?!

Fat and happy

Without being the panacea of the poor, when wondering around lovely European cities that still not so long ago knew their last miners or dockers strikes, it is fairly obvious that contrary to all the spam I'm getting on a daily basis, weight problems do like to discriminate towards the socially unlucky. (No, no, wait, don't stop here. Just because I initiated Weight Watchers Afghanistan doesn't mean three more lines down the road I'll try and get you jumping and humping for the sake of good health...) I mean truly, how much more likely is a divorced mother of three, juggling between two part time jobs and social services, to feed on cheap food for lack of time for balanced cooking using only the finest organic ingredients? Across the Atlantic it may not be quite so obvious, but in Europe I feel the weight barrier is still clearly running along social lines, with the scale clearly tipping towards the social underdog.

But why is it, then, that in a place like Afghanistan the very opposite happens? Don't get me wrong, that is a rhetorical question. This said, for anyone who comes here, it is something fascinating to see. I mean cities and villages alike are filled with people who would get the whole of Miami crying of jealousy. Every now and then, I find myself sitting opposite a plump man however and realize he is only so because he is the head of the hospital, his service and so on. Not that there aren't some exception though. I'm thinking of a tall man, thin like a snake (for those who care, our national Ustad H) who on his own personal scale has achieved sufficient success to be able to put on a lovely round belly and yet continues to haunt certain parts of the country, looking like an scavenging ghost.

Anyhow, even on the fatty scale, remains a kind of hierarchy among men. I've noticed a few senior engineers, head of departments and hospitals with plump, roundish shapes but overall a healthy feeling about them. Then, next to the plump ones, you have the properly obscenely fat, those who look like, while some people are surviving 6 months per year quasi exclusively on rice and tea, they are gorging on one roasted cow per day. For some reason, I've taken up to picturing Dostum in that way. (For the Afghans around, no that's not Ustad Dostum, for I neither fear him nor have an urge to go a-commanders arse kissing. Speaking of which, cut the Ustad in front of Atta and for god sake, stop giving honoring titles to people living off the flesh of Afghanistan.) Any ride to Shiberghan involves at some stage driving past some astonishing three-storey building. With a gigantic outer fence, high as two houses, it is nevertheless so high that one can see the tip of it. And what is there to see? Some pinkish decorations looking like a swirl of ice-cream in a fancy-fair and a large window covering the whole of the facade. Behind it, one sees the tips of indoor palm trees. It's like finding Dubai Terminal 1 right in the middle of the desert. That house, which in truth I never visited, also includes, so I'm told, a large heated swimming pool. Given the tips of the trees, it takes no effort to imagine. And whose house would that be? Commander Dostum, the friend of the people. I haven't really investigated into the source of his fortune, although I was told that, at the time of the Soviet invasion, there was a governmental depot filled with food and other goods, expected to be used in case of emergency for Afghans, that was emptied of all its goods, which were thereafter sold onto the market. Now I'm aware that sharing unsubstantiated stories, mere hearsay really, is bad, but then a/ who cares and b/ who's gona stop me. Plus c/ I bet this ranks among the nicest stories one will ever tell about the man anyway....

Spring in Mudistan

In Doshte Lali recently, three eagles (the size of a 12-year old with a serious vitamine deficiency) were flying overhead looking for some lovely fluffy prairie dogs for breakfast. At the same time, a few miles away, some commanders' supporters were organising a riot in the dry and warm air of Maymana, at a day that was neither made too cold by the snow, nor too warm by the deadly summer heat. As you will have guessed, it is clear by now that spring has returned to Mudistan.

Now I have to admit, I'm being a little unfair in qualifying these parts of the world as Mudistan when, in fact, Mazar is so much worse. This said, given that our rides back and forth in the desert involved more sliding than it did driving, making it unclear where Mudistan stopped and Fuck-all-end-of-the-Worldistan started, I have decided to settle for this label to qualify most of the northwest of this lovely country.

Anyhow, in its millenia-long history involving mostly grazing sheep, donkeys and camels traveling with bearded men to the bazaar and a few commanders, Maymana managed against all odds for the first ime ever to make it to the headlines of BBC and CNN! Now that is no reason for rejoicing although part of me remains amazed it could ever happen. (What a let down, though, that AFP, which was so prompt to publish its first release on the subject did not have at least a photograph in the field to have a few souvenir shots...)

Anyway, it all started on a sunny Tuesday morning on which, we were told, a few people would demonstrate against the Danish cartoon. How unexpected...

Everything is, on that day, so sunny and peaceful and pleasant by 10 o'clock that everyone assumes it is merely going to be some small gathering. Everyone also wonders whether any of the women's tailoring classes will have been effective enough and internet sufficiently fast to have people bringing up their own brand new Danish flags to burn down at the demonstration...

At a time when things are still quiet, in spite of the odd firework, we are informed that all local UN staff have been sent home as a security measure. Quietly, we proceed to do the same, with the exception of a few senior staff who prefer to continue working. Shortly thereafter, it appears a vehicle, in fact a PRT vehicle, is burning. At which time all the senior staff are in the garden, looking at the not-so-remote smoke with a kind of grin, half amused half nervous, on the face. Marco, my Italian colleague, and I consider checking from the roof the demonstration, however in the face of strong requests from some staff to come down, we settle for being in the courtyard too and let for a while the sunshine in, while sipping tea.

Now enjoying the sun is all good and well, but since I've had to cancel my field trip, I decide I could at least be doing some work and therefore return to my computer. By that time though, it very clearly appears the fire works are in fact weapons being fired at the PRT, the ANA and each other by some commanders' militias. [Note: since this is neither an academic paper nor a proposal, I let you google the abbreviations...] Surprise surprise! Within minutes of the demonstration starting, it has been hijacked by some local groups pursuing no other interest than their own and who have decided to turn this day into a show of strength by daring each other to do more damage to PRT assets and to each other. I have to say, I am to some extent fascinated by the passion that frequently inflames Faryab. I mean it is not an essential trade route. In fact, trucks that reach Maymana city may be too damaged to ever cross the desert again. Local production mostly consists of carpets and, primarily, agricultural produce. People are on average rather poor, outside the odd local commander. Most people are marked by a life involving hard labour and long distances to the bazaar or the well. At the same time, even Maymana has the quiet feel of a countryside village, where things go at the pace of donkey carts. I am told there is some small drug trafficking ongoing at stage, but I cannot fathom how even that would be of sufficent importance to have people fighting over what is, frankly, just a lot of hills, dust, donkeys and a few men. Anyhow, every few months, some armed groups in Sherin Tagab, Khwaja Musa or Almar somehow find it entertaining to fight, so as to decide who will establish their power over what plot of land. In between, the quiet life is only interrupted by the odd robbery, to raise funds for the former.

Now according to some of our staff, what turned into a riot last Tuesday involved some religious extremists from one specific village, an armed band that was considering doing a bank robbery and some commander's militia, determined to kick the ANA out of the province. With various agendas and personal goals, these three groups ended up not only confronting authorities and PRT, but also each other. This resulted in the odd morning fire turning into some exchanged fire involving automatic weapons. To add an air of warfare to the day, a military supersonic plane flew a couple of times overhead at low altitude shooting flare rockets. Although the 500-strong crowd was only a few hundred yards from our compound, we had so far been confident that things would eventually quiet down. However when we were told that they were planning on coming to the UN and NGO offices, a news followed shortly after by the announcement that the UN were evacuating their handful of expatriate staff, and given that with the exception of a German family, the expat NGO population was made up of merely 4 people, we decided to follow suit, just in case. Ensued an escape at high pace (the driver's decision), after a two-minute packing operation, to catch up with the UN convoy that had already left the city. Given how close Maymana is to everything, this evacuation involved driving at night in a treacherous desert, which all drivers mastered however unusually well. I will not drag on the odd punctured tire of the police vehicles escorting us, nor on their getting stuck in the mud on four occasions within ten minutes because that would be both easy and unfair. - Suffice to say we considered abandoning them in the desert but civility naturally prevented us from going ahead. - At the moment, the evacuation felt like the human equivalent of rats jumping off a sinking boat, even though local staff seem reassured to know we were going. In hindsight and following concurring testimonies from local staff, it seems however it helped difuse the situation inasmuch as demonstrators had indeed decided to attack some of the offices, but felt it had become pointless after expats had fled.

The other conclusion of that day was that, just as I would assess of other countries, events of the day were not remotely related to Denmark or to any cartoon. In fact, any opportunty could have been seized giving way to the exact same result. All it reflected was the persistence of groups that refuse the 'new' Afghanistan and insist on returning the country to its old chaos. I have the feeling this is not only true of good ole' Maymana, but also of demonstrations in Kabul, Helmand and even Baghram. If anything, I find it rather interesting that the country was plunged on such short notice into perfect chaos for a couple of hours, demonstrating again just how fragile peace remains. This calls if anything for a heavier international presence in the country, while the ANA continues building its strength. In Faryab province at any rate, an additional 100 to 200 men would probably be sufficient to bring an end to local power fights, the fundraising robberies and the like.

Weight Watchers Afghanistan

The curse of those who think by association is they cannot control the associations that come up.

Hence, today, at lunch time, I walk into the living room to see - Oh surprise! - chick peas in oil, kabuli and nan. In a place such as Maymana, which feels as close to the end of the world as could be, only beaten I suspect by some of the highest plains of Tibet, Mongolia and Chile, one comes to accept that food variety is a concept best grasped on a year-long scale, for if instead you wished to take a snapshot of today's bazaar diversity, you'd have a hard time deciding whether you'll have turnips at lunch time and carrots for dinner or the opposite. (Well actually I'm lying here. On good days we also find spinach!)

So as I said, no major surprise in discovering, once again, chick peas on the table as they pretty much are the daily staple. Just to give some ideas to those who haven't been accustomed to a chick peas diet how enjoyable that is, I've reached a point where I actually have an opinion on whether red beans are better than chick peas. God forbid, I had never known I could actually ever care, let alone care so much that coming lunch time, I would either rejoice at the view of beans or prepare to meet the adversity of one more days on peas.

Now why did I bother you with the issue of association thinking in the first place? Because the second after I thought: "Oh, lucky me, chick peas again today!", came to mind another more terrifying thought, that of the head of a dead horse, taken out of a river and filled with yummy eels (smaller greenish ones around the eyes and three black ones the length of a man's arm coming out of the mouth and ears.) The thought of it and I feel like I'm going to be sick. It's only rather unfortunate that the said head, which I read of in a book yesterday (Note: No I haven't reached the point of insanity where thoughts of dead horses' head just pop up for no reason...), decided to return right after food reached the table. Rather amusing too. Though as a result chick peas are doomed to always be associated to dead horses and eels now. Dear god...