Life in the Field - The Way of the Samurai

Lexicon to Afghanistan

2006-04-17T09:20:00.000+04:30

In case any of you, fascinated followers of The Way, ever considers coming to this beautiful corner of the planet, I have felt a while back it would be useful to provide you with a brief lexicon of common expressions used in English dialogues with Afghans and expats alike, so as to get by in any setting, eg at the office, in Elbow Room or in some commander's guest house. Given that this list was drafted six months ago or so, some definitions may be a little outdated, however most remain applicable.

Awesome party
Similar to a great party (see below), but with alcohol still flowing at 8 in the morning.
Illustration:
- Did you go to the last ACTED party? It was awesome!

Bagram base
Never Never Land. The promised land. Where people can feast on Whoppers and Skinny Cafe Latte throughout the year.
Illustration:
- Yeah I've heard Bagram even has a McDonalds.
- Noooo, a Burger King! [Voice mixing sanctity and longing]

Chemonics
A private company subcontracted by USAID that hopes to support the production of beef and dried fruits in Afghanistan, so as to supply McDonalds, which intends to soon settle in, with unlimited supplies of beef for burgers and toppings for ice-creams.
Illustration:
- So was your livelihood project accepted?
- No, Chemonics thought the profit margin was too low.

Commander
Your friendly village MC who can ensure that your programme runs smoothly or not, depending on whether he likes your face and/or is paid enough and/or feels he's got any benefit to gain from it. Easily recognisable when hanging around with the bacha under his protection. How can you tell the difference between a good commander and a bad commander? If he's a good commander, he should already have obtained some kind of recognition through elections (also true of commanders with a big militia though).
Illustration:
- The guesthouse of a commander near Istalif exploded last night, due to the stocks of explosives kept in his basement, in spite of his officially handing over 'all' his weapons under the DDR programme.

DDR
A programme designed to help all commanders clean up their attic, so as to be able to refill them with brand new weaponry someday.
Illustration:
- The rocket attack yesterday, do you think it was Dostum?
- Naaaaah, he's handed all his weapons to DDR, I heard.

Digestion
Physical process designed to break food into various nutrients necessary for proper functioning of the body and taking anywhere between 15 minutes and 8 hours, depending on whether you are in Afghanistan or on R&R.
Illustration:
- Oh my God! These holidays in Papua New Guinea are simply fantastic. I've been keeping food in my organism for a whole 5 hours in a row. That's unseen!

Driver
A person who could afford to buy a driving license and can honk faster and louder than anybody else. The driver is easily recognizable as he usually has lunch between 11 am and 3 pm and thereafter dinner between 4 pm and 9 pm. [Note: true only of Kabuli drivers. Provincial drivers do not stop to sleep, eat or go to the loo but tend to practice chain smoking when allowed to, during their 84 hrs uninterrupted shifts.]
Illustration:
- Is the car I booked ready? I need to go to this meeting with ECHO.
- Sorry, the driver is eating.
- At 5 pm?!??

Driving license
Document compulsory only to get a job as a driver in a public or international institution.
Illustration:
- So imagine it, we crashed right there.
- Woaw, do you think your driving license will be withdrawn?
- Oh no! I never had one!

Engineer
Title deserved by any person who has gone beyond grade 4 / had an A level in math / has seen an engineer once in their lives.
Illustration:
- Of course I am qualified for this job. I am an engineer. Unfortunately I lost my diplomas and the archives of the university burnt down, so they cannot give me a copy...

Giving
Act of kindness illustrating one's gratefulness at being authorized to conduct their programme unhindered and with no threat of being denounced to any ministry as a bad implementing partner.
Illustration:
- So like the mullah says at the end of his prayer: "Now that I've given you the prayer, what will you give me?", as it happens we do not have a well near our office. Do you think you could build that first well for your programme in our courtyard?!?

Great guesthouse
A guesthouse with a proper kitchen and at least one bathroom per three occupants.
Illustration:
- So how was the party last night?
- Oh it was OK, but you should have seen the great guesthouse they have!

Great guy
A guy who apparently doesn't do Chinese prostitutes.
Illustration:
- I met this great guy at yesterday's party!

Great Party
Same as a Party (see below) but with people dancing on the table and/or until they drop.
Illustration:
- Did you go to Altai? They had a great party last weekend!

Home
The forgotten land. An unidentified location/mental state that you are neither sure you have left, nor certain you have reached.
Illustration:
- So where is your home?
- Huh, here I guess.
- No I mean your permanent home (eg that country where you return for two weeks once a year to down turkey and jelly)?
- Oh huh that's huh in huh Europe I s'pose.

Hygiene
Spitting a fridge clean. Cleaning a dining table with one's own hand or a really old grey cloth.
Illustration:
- Our guesthouse staff have great hygiene standards. I trained them myself.

Insh'allah
Maybe, maybe not. I doubt it. If I can be bothered. I don't think so, my sister is getting married in two days.
Illustration:
- Will you hand in that report on Thursday?
- Insh'allah!

Long vacation
Getting the fuck out of Afghanistan for a job interview, accepting the job, choosing not even to come back to collect one's own stuff.
Illustration:
- Do you mind attending the next provincial coordination meeting?
- Oh sorry, I won't be back on time, I'm going on a long vacation.

Mullah
Bearded man who has decided to fight jihad against any infidel living within hearing distance of the mosque by inflicting sleep deprivation punishments upon them between 3 and 3.45 am.
Illustration:
- So how did you sleep last night?
- Aaaah, I think the mullah has a brand new sound system. I've been awake since the first prayer...

New girl in town
Living being with two X chromosomes.
Illustration:
- Have you seen X from god-knows-what NGO? She's the new girl in town!

Not a great guesthouse
A guesthouse with cockroaches in the bathroom (each with their pet names), spider webs all around, vermin in the bed, no fridge, no oven and where you get electricity on odd days and hot water on even ones only.
Illustration:
- [Just back to Kabul weighing 10 kg less than the previous month and stinking] Oh yeah, I'm just back from Qaisar. Not a great guesthouse the one we have, is it...

Pakistan
A friendly power from the east that exports Happy Cow and taliban to keep its economy and north west frontier under check.
Illustration:
- Did you hear? Apparently some 20 taliban infiltrated Laghman province yesterday via the Pakistani border.
- No, reeeaaally??!?

Party
Gathering of anywhere between 3 and 500 people, spending between 1 and 8 hours talking, with supplies of alcohol present.
Illustration:
- I went to this party last Thursday. It was awesome, we were there til 11 pm at least...

R&R
Getting the fuck out of Afghanistan.
Illustration:
- I can't wait til next month. I'm going on R&R!

Security consultants
Security staff coming from the US (dominant), the UK or South Africa, who apparently haven't seen a girl (see new girl in town above) in 20 years and are gagging for a shag.
Illustration:
- So how was Samarkand yesterday?
- So so. There were only security consultants around.

Salaam aleikum! Bakhair hasti? Khub hasti? Chtaur hasti? Jan jaur ast? Famil-e-shoma khub ast? Saat shoma khub?
Hello!
Illustration:
- Break, break, break! Mike Papa Bravo to Tango base! Mike Papa Bravo to Tango base. This is Foxtrot 65. I think we are under attack. Do you copy me? Tango base, do you copy me?
- Oh Ustad Barbara Sahib. Salaam aleikum! Bakhair hasti? Khub hasti? Chtaur hasti? Jan jaur ast? Famil-e-shoma khub ast?

UN
Organization that one loves to loath, yet that still has the greatest gardens and pools in the entire country.
Illustration:
- So where are you heading to?
- Huh well I need to pick up my bikini in the guesthouse and I'll head afterwards to UNICA for huh a meeting.

Village
The only geographical entity that really matters. Beyond that, other villages are only worth considering to make sure one's village receives as much assistance. The district has a mostly decorative purpose, with hardly any budget allocated to conduct much effective work. The province is the centre of the universe, that defines where you come from and where you belong (unless you're from Panjsheer). The state is this remote entity where 'dog cleaners' try to change good old traditions and customs of the village.
Illustration:
- So where do you come from?
- Oh I'm from Dawlat Abad. [Go and find that on the world map...]

Wolves
Legendary animals not seen on this side of the planet since the beginning of the war, and particularly numerous in areas that are a pain to reach in the winter.
Illustration:
- I'm sorry, we haven't been able to do the survey in these villages. They are very remote so it is necessary to walk and there are wolves, you know...

Pregnant Kitty and Departing me

2006-04-11T10:22:00.000+04:30

The cat that moved into our Mazar compound a while back and tamed our guards and myself has either been eating way too much in the past few weeks or has been hanging around some morally dubious places in questionable company, for her waist size has been multiplied by two lately and she looks like she has a football in her tummy. I would love nothing more than to adopt one of the kittens that will soon be born, however there's a teeny weeny problem: I'm leaving. Mazar. And Afghanistan. And the Group. While I may return to the former in a wee while, I doubt that will be the case for the latter, at least not for a very long time.

I already know what I'll be up to afterwards, though I'll keep the surprise for a while. Before any new job though, I'll have six weeks of holidays. Hehehe.

I'll keep you posted on all and until then, will carry on listening to happy music real loud and plan a goodbye do...

Ze Plane of Love

2006-03-18T14:38:00.000+04:30

So here I am, on the train going from Paris to Brussels. How is it, will you ask, that I am riding when many cheap flights could in fact have taken me straight to Brussels, therefore sparing me the hassle of luggage carrying between terminals and of seeing the train station, which I despise so much? How is it also, may you want to add, that I manage to always travel in the cheapest of the cheapest category, in the very back of the plane and that, in fact, I was offered on several occasions to do the journey among the luggages, and yet am now sitting in the 1st class category on the train? I'd say moronism on the part of the Group and of most travel agents we work with explains it...

Quite unfortunately, every single time I come up with a list of cheap flights on reasonably secure companies, I end up receiving instead a ticket on Emirates. Worst still, this time I was traveling with Air France. Now, for someone who suffers of an ackowledged aversion to French people, as a generic group (although that doesn't pass for racism, for I am sadly enough half French myself), that is sheer mental torture. The prospect of an entire flight surrounded with self-satisfied looking men with a shirt tucked in their jeans or a black suit and white sports shoes (Guys, this is not the 90s anymore and you're not just about to go and play squash anyway, so get a life and learn to dress up!) tends to make me grind my teeth real hard. Add to this the fact that the second I reach Kabul airport, I always have the feeling I am abandoning all these people who are a bit more like me and think a bit more like me and have, like me, a growing alcohol problem, namely the expat 'relief' community, I develop an overwhelming feeling of hatred for all holiday-goers and other businessmen and consultants surrounding me, and you can imagine what a friendly face I show while boarding. So I tried to distribute evenly to most male passengers a stare suggesting something in the form of 'Look at me another second and I'll tear your ears ad will shove them up your nostrils, add some tabasco and stir', which usually works quite well.

Anyhow, fortunately, even the dinner served at 3 am and the breakfast provided at 4 did not stop me from sleeping awhile, therefore allowing me to stop the teeth grinding for a couple of hours. Speaking of which, why on earth do these companies stubbornly try and stuff you with food even in the middle of the night, henceforth keeping little babies up and crying, when all really just long for some sleep or, in my case, to play 'Who wants wot be a millionaire' on the small telly until I beat the machine? When I woke up though, I could still feel my jaws tense from the tension of hearing so many French speakers around. (I know, I know, at this point it's a case of pathological denial).

We landed as planned, all got up and waited to leave the plane. And waited five minutes, then ten. At last, while the queue hadn't moved an inch, the pilot announced, with a rather gleeful tone, that the buses had not arrived to the plane yet, hence the waiting. Too bad, I'd much rather blame it on Air France. Then he proceeds to give us an account of every single bus that arrives. As in 'Oooh, at last I see our first bus coming'. Break of 2 minutes. 'And that's bus no. 2 on its way'. And so on and so forth til the sixth one. Clearly the man enjoyed this, irrespective of all the passengers who may miss their flight and be stranded in the ugliest airport on the planet, surrounded with incompetent French people. Which reminds me of a terrible day when, coming back from Oxford, I arrived late at the Waterloo station, was indicated the platform to go to for the Brussels Eurostar, had someone scream at me 'Board! Board!'. Then the train left and it turned out I was on a direct to Paris. Bugger, bugger, bugger. And I can't say that comments from the French staff really helped. 'But why you don't want to go to Paris. Zis is a very nice city, Paris, ze city of love!' Yeah love, my ass.

At last we leave plane, pass customs and collect luggage, all fairly efficiently compared to my last time here. Head to the train station, buy myself a 2.40 EUR coffee the size of an espresso - fucking bloody rip off city, I'm telling ya... - and head to the platform, while pouring coffee all over myself and my luggage, for I always enjoy smelling of food and dirt and sweat in the early morning. On the platform the modern French train authority has installed a radio system, so we can enjoy NRJ or some other fantastic channel. For those French speakers on here with a good memory for genuinely crap music, we heard 'Une Autre Histoire', which is '90s soup that doesn't deserve the name of music even. Followed something from Elton John, can't remember what, but at least it wasn't that rubbish cry-baby song about Princess Di, which usually makes me prone to violence.

And here I am at last, on board, with my baby, my precious, eg a Compaq nx6120, not the best possibly, but mine, all mine. The Precious is all excited because we're just about to give it a little sister, in the form of an electronically purchased external hard drive the size of my thumb the day I squashed it in the hinges of a door, aged three. 100 Gb of memory to allow me to boost my working capacity, or possibly to violate all applicable regulations on music copyright. Who said there were no happy endings to my stories?

Women’s Day?

2006-03-10T01:50:00.000+04:30

Call me irrational but I could not help but feel irate at the recent Women’s Day. How so? Because it only emphasized how every single other day of the year is, in Afghanistan (and not just there really), Men’s Day. I mean how is distributing roses going to help empower anyone? In a way, over here it feels like an ill-suited Mother’s Day, which after all was set up by Petain’s government, not exactly renown for its liberalism.

So really, what is Women’s Day about for the men I work with and those of a few other NGOs? It’s about sending a congratulations email to the 10 or so female staff out of 600. Am I the only one to see the irony there? And it is about offering roses and rings and the like. Right, because that’s truly going to empower us. I mean gender-clichéed gifts are certainly going to help women know how to achieve equality in society. I believe most men also settled for no wife beating on Women’s Day, but I trust that a few that failed to show sufficient gratefulness will have to make up for it the following day.

Worst still, I’m remembering a TV serie where a women rants that men are truly rubbish and that the only more rubbish thing than men are women. I’d sometimes tend to concur when I hear that some women in some office, for whom special events had been organized the whole day, went ‘Are we getting a present?’ No, you bitch! Your present is your job and the fact that your husband is allowing you to work and all the efforts your organization is making daily to make your environment gender sensitive. Your present is the opportunity you are getting daily to advance the cause of all women around the country. Your present is the acknowledgement that around you, some people are aware of your human rights and simultaneously that most of Afghanistan fails to meet basic standards in terms of right to health and education for women, but that at least we know this. Not that knowledge solves the problem, but it’s a first step in the right direction.

So for Women’s Day, here is my suggestion, let’s tell all our male colleagues to shove their congrats mails, rings and roses up their a…. Let’s send them to MoWA, where they will make sure to publish all our vacancies, and let’s set a target to ourselves: within 6 months, we will try to increase in all bases female representation by 15 %. That’s small, yet significant. A Happy Women’s Day to all with me on that.

Return to the Afghan Gotham

2006-03-10T01:26:00.000+04:30

Before we get down to today’s business, I need to share a thought with you. How is it that the Broadband Wireless Connection in Dubai airport is slower than even our connection in Maymana office? As a matter of fact, I was planning on sending you a live note detailing how I’m delighting at the pains au chocolat and coffee here, but in truth I’ll have to settle for using a good ole’ word document and put it online whenever I’ll be able to connect – and that may not be anytime soon.

Anyway, after a whole 6 weeks away, I finally returned to Kabul last week. After hearing the praises of a couple of new places, five-star hotels and all that have become the place to see and be seen, and given that I had an army of mates, friends and acquaintances who happen to be in my mobile memory and vice versa to catch up with, I resolved to try the now famous Serena hotel.

I had heard a lot about the place and was rather prepared for a disappointment but I ought to be honest here, I was in awe. The internal decoration of the place is absolutely fabulous, with very pure lines and columns, often in dark Nuristani wood. The furniture is dominated by red and purple shades, with some white or yellowish touches here and there. Rather than the rich Afghan wanabe Bollywood decoration I was expecting, I saw something reminiscent of the best ‘Be the Aga Khan For One Day and Decorate Your Home’ kind of BBC shows. I have to admit being especially fond of the restaurant, all in dark wood, with a few lamps and old tea and water carafes in golden shades.

This said, you know me. I would not bother you if it were only for the decoration. So let’s get down to business: the food. We started with some pumpkin raviolis and on my part a duck salad with oranges. Although I only had one ravioli, it seemed positively good, with a hint of spiciness in the background and a melting effect in the mouth. As for my salad, not much green on there, but it was fantastic nonethless. A honey sauce offered a comfy bed to an army of duck breasts slices, with some orange (or was it grape fruit?) pulp on top. A beautiful sweet and sour contrast; positively one of the best salads I’ve had in Afghanistan ever.

The tomato and basil soup I ordered as a main was a bit of a disappointment, neither looking nor tasting quite right. (A bit of oil on top, as I suspect they used some basil marinated in oil, and way too hot, with not enough basil). Anyone in their right mind would think there was something not quite right about it, so I gave up after a while on my attempt to ingurgitate some vitamins. This said, based on the rest of the meal, I suspect the cook is a quick learner and will happily spend half an hour doing capacity building in the kitchen if it can guarantee us some decent soup next time.

When time for desert came, we settled for a cookie parfait with a strawberry sauce. If I may, that plate was clearly calling for more of the latter, but otherwise it was all very edible, with the parfait being somewhere between a mousse and Haagen Dazs’ famous Cookies and Cream.

All in all, it was all fairly good, a pleasant journey in a different environment and cuisine, for a total bill possibly slightly cheaper than at Atmosphere.

For contrast’s sake, I also have to develop on another entirely different food place.
We went with two friends to a new French restaurant, La Fontaine, only a few meters away from Flower street in the direction of Shar-e-Nau park. The place is simply decorated, with a few carpets and some chairs that hint at a Southeast Asian place. The menu wasn’t quite complete, but the owner promised it would be by next week.

As a start we bravely gave the green salad a try. The portion was rather small, but the mustard vinaigrette was simply fabulous, enough so that none of us felt like we had turned into healthy rabbits.

Afterwards, we had some lovely quiches with leeks that were to die for. Buttery, creamy, maybe a little small as one was clearly calling for another, but without a doubt a quiche like none I have eaten in this part of the world. As a matter of fact, it made me ashamed I dared serving something fairly rubbish to friends in the past labeling it as quiche. Meanwhile, one friend was having a steak with chips. Now one could argue that bringing the steak alone, no matter how big, with only fries as garnish would be a little disappointing. Wrong. This steak was the type of life-changing experience that one only goes through a few times in a lifetime (Ok, maybe read a year). Actually, just the thought of it and I find myself drawling again, which in the middle of Dubai Airport could get me in trouble.

To make the picture even better, the owner enjoys making his own chocolate, which consists of white or milk chocolate filled with one or two nuts. Anyone who knows me knows how dogmatic I am on the subject, yet it was delicious. In fact, I bit in one and had a flash of me and a few friends crashing for a DVD and eating those. Surely that’s a sign.

On top of it, the owner, who’s French, also bakes his own croissants. It goes without saying I had to come and try that… As it is, they start being served at 8.30 am until they run out and cost 40 Afs a piece, all worth it. Since I had to have an informal meeting with our coordinator ad interim, we agreed to have a brekky together to try these out. The shameless staff put before us a gigantic plate covered with 25 croissants and pains au chocolat, which we proceeded to eat. Amazing how two croissants call three, call four etc. And take my word on this one, outside of Europe, I have not eaten as decent croissants in the past 18 months. They were buttery, really crispy yet melting inside, calling for some jam, although I could not find the desire to ruin them with anything. In short, they were fabulous. We brought a bunch back to the office and I’m not sure what the people thought but the stuff run out fairly fast so I have to take it as a positive criticism.

All in all, La Fontaine is fairly cheap: less than 5 USD for a starter and between 5 and 12 USD for a main and provides decent ‘bistrot’ cuisine – their words – eg plain but good food. While the surrounding may not quite do it for a romantic evening, it is perfect for a working breakfast or lunch. Only down side, the owner is desperate for constructive criticisms, so he will not leave you alone. However, given that his repeated returns to the table involve some more chocolate tasting I have to forgive him.

You know the Song, You know the End

2006-02-21T18:28:00.000+04:30

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

2006-02-20T21:56:00.000+04:30

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

2006-02-19T20:43:00.000+04:30

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

2006-02-19T20:00:00.000+04:30

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

2006-02-16T14:30:00.000+04:30

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

2006-02-16T14:14:00.000+04:30

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...

Diving back to Afghanistan

2006-01-02T03:10:00.000+04:30

Last time I left Afghanistan and returned, it reminded me of my first experience diving. Where everybody else starts in a shallow well-heated pool, preferably in the Caribbean or so it seems, the very first time I was offered to dive was somewhere in a grey ice-cold sea where the waters were about 40m deep. The friend who was treating me to this birthday present had taught me the basics in the open air but that didn't change anything to the fact that putting my head under the water AND breathing seemed like an utterly unnatural thing to do. I did it though and tried to keep breathing as calmly as possible, but if I've ever felt a panique attack nearing upon me, it was then. I mean I could somehow stay calm, but I knew if I went any further than 2 or 3 meters and got into troubles, I'd freak out properly.

Where that experience resembles returning to Afghanistan, is as far as putting my head under the water for the first time goes. I mean I don't think the country as such would drive anyone crazy too fast, but the organisation I work for, also known as the Group, combined with the location, certainly has potential for making very sane people loose it eventually. If not, the lack of privacy, of opportunity to do anything beyond watching DVDs, the difficulties inherent to walking around and the fantastic people you've met that leave before you do would.

Last time, on the plane back, I had to tell myself, all it would take was some deep breaths and eventually I'd find myself glad to return. This time though, I'm not so sure. And you see the challenge is there is an alternative path I'm considering but I am forced to wait some four months before having any clue whether it'll work out. And I don' know whether I'll be able to take deep breaths for four months. I don't even know wheter the Tai Chi CDrom I'm bringing back and the weekly yoga lessons will do. I know it's all going to last only a short, very short while. I mean four months is nothing in a human life. So I think I'm just going to take off, land and than breathe really deeply. Breathe and keep track of the countdown. Inshallah, soon, I'll be wandering in new territories. New for me anyway.

Until then, two days to go and there's a lot of friends seeing, dinner going, shopping and wandering I ought to do. So, so long until I'm back in deeper waters.

Santa's stuck in the chimney

2005-12-25T17:50:00.000+04:30

I take this opportunity between a gorgeous post-Xmas breakfast involving lots of croissants, pains au chocolat and cougnoux - some sweet bread with lumps of sugar and raisins in the shape of baby Jesus. The ultimate Belgian blasphemy... - as well as liters of coffee and a long walk or maybe a movie or both to wish ya all a

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!

(Huh apologies for the remotely childish colour mix hey. Anyhow, hope you're all having some kind of holidays and enjoying them to bits)

Some pre-Xmas wish

2005-12-12T11:49:00.000+04:30

Quite unfairly, I failed so far to mention a few people that I find make my life in Afghanistan a tad more special. In each and every office and guest house we have, there is indeed at least one staff, a guard, a cook, a gardener or a cleaner, whose kindness makes every minute of the day nicer. In my case, I fondly think of Bangui, who used to work in our Charikar office, to a couple of our guards in the Kabul guest house, the cook in the office and the old gardener, as well as the entire crew in the Mazar guest house.

Sadly enough, quite often those who are the sweetest, most often smiling and all, are also the lowest on the social scale. As a result, they will be the ones other staff dump annoying tasks on. As a friend mentioned, I suspect there is some link between the latter fact and their kindness. I also believe that the gratefulness showed by some expats in front of such pleasant personalities is a kind of gratification of itself, which makes some tasks less of a burden. Nonetheless, there is something quite free in the way their generosity of mind is provided to all willing to accept it that is remarkable.

Somehow, there seems to be something unfair in how humbling the blows of life has made some of these people and in the way they are treated by their peers, as a kind of cheap labour. It's probably more typical of a society where the notion of hierarchy is much more central to social contacts, and where clanic, social and professional ties decide of where you are on the social scale and consequently of how you can behave towards other beings. I would venture that, while continental European cultures also know a certain hierarchy, it is by no means as obvious, possibly inter alia because to start with, the educational and knowledge gap is by no means as large as here.

Anyway, whatever one can do to make up for nature's (society's ?) unfairness, it is only of very symbolic value against a lifetime of injustices due to one's lower social position. So my pre-Xmas wish is that all the people I've met here who have been looking after us with so much gentleness, if they cannot find in this existence the moral reward they deserve, be, in their next life, reincarnated as wise among the wise, respected by all. Now that would seem fair.

Just a perfect day

2005-12-04T13:01:00.000+04:30

With the Christmas season approaching, not only am I more in a family celebration mood than ever, but I also keep on having fantasies about semi skimmed cafe lattes like never before. Understandably, in about ten days I'll be flying home for the first time in 13 months and that on its own would be sufficient to make this Xmas special.

Anyway, if you were me, Xmas mood would mean longing for pancakes and French toasts, as well as hot chocolate and gluhweinn. Yeah, if you were me, you would think food is the main reason we were brought on the planet in the first place. So yesterday, a friend and I decided to have French toasts (or in the circumstances, Afghan ones).

To keep in line with the tradition started by ExMi on his own blog, I will try and give you an idea of the recipes followed to prepare the delicacies we stuffed our face with.

First, it seemed like a great idea to prepare apples in Calvados. For lack of Calva, we decided they would be apples in Captain Morgan. So we cut four apples in small pieces and started cooking them in a lot of butter (and I mean a LOT of butter. I never said it was a balanced and healthy recipe, did I?), adding cinnamon and cloves as well as sugar to taste. Then, as I was planning to have the apples flambees, I took the preparation away from the fire and poured rhum rather generously over them. I lit the match, approached it and nothing happened. Ah well, I always forget how to have stuff flambe, but there was my confirmation: you keep the dish heating or at any rate extremely hot. So the apples went back on the fire and I poured some more rhum, lit the match and holly molly, the apple were on fire for a whole minute. A great show it was.

In the meantime, we mixed three eggs with half a liter of milk and cut two nan (the type you find in Mazar, not too flat, with a real crust on the outside) in quarters and then sliced each quarter in two, so they would be thin enough. We dipped the quarter in the milk cum eggs for as long as it took for them to absorb a lot of the preparation. In the meantime, we heated a pan and filled it with quite a bit of butter again. We then put the toasts in there and made them fry both sides until they were a honey brown and started calling 'Eat me, eat me!'.

By the time we were finished, there was Afghan toasts for a whole army, so it is fortunate Bruce joined us for that great lunch. Even more fortunate was his idea that we should have gluhweinn with this meal. So he heated one bottle of wine with four scoops of honey, a lot of cloves and cinnamon as well as some bits of mandarine peel. (What a fantastic thought). The wine was soon ready and we had this feast watching the movie Goodbye Lenin, which turned out to be the perfect accompaniment.

The rest of the afternoon was a mix of doing as little as possible by the fire and enjoying it as much as possible. That certainly was a perfect pre-Xmas day.

Me, myself and I

2005-11-28T22:54:00.000+04:30

A little chilly maybe...

2005-11-28T21:11:00.000+04:30

Only weeks ago were were working lying on the floor (because the heat rised in the room), right next to the fan and finishing each day with a little water fight consisting of someone running to fill a bucket of icy water, then running back towards someone else who invariably said oh please yes, go ahead!

Now, however, it's so toes-curling fucking freekish cold that I'm thinking of going to bed at 6 pm everyday and never getting up again. Or change country. Or both. If you're dealing in winterization programme in the region, please count me in as beneficiary!

Three bird stories

2005-11-27T07:38:00.002+04:30

Three birds falling down their nest at the dawn of the day...

Some friends have taken up to rationing their beautiful black cat and her lovely shy kitten. I reckon they want to see how long they can go on, until the cat rises and fights back. In the meantime, though, the cat has decided to take her fate in her own paws. Thus last evening, she happily walked into their living room, onto their beautiful Persian carpet, and dropped a dead pigeon there. The kitten arrived wailing like he had not eater in a month. Although the feathers and blood gave a little vavavoooom to the living room decoration, dinner and the two cats had to be chucked out to finish the feast.

Apparently dinner indoor was more to their taste, so they ran back to the carpet, still with the dead bird and had to be chucked out again.

Later on that night, on the streets of the Afghan Gotham, a night owl, probably on his way home, probably very tired or who had spent too much time smoking the nargile, parked his car in the side ditch.

You know the open sewage canalisations that are about 75 cm wide and deep? Running between the sidewalk and the street? Full of dirt and muddy water, that you avoid like the plague in fear of loosing a limb if you ever felt? Well, he probably tried to park along it. Somehow though, he managed to get two wheels full on in the ditch.

It's the second time I see anything like that in Afghanistan - the first one was even better, as the car was some gigantic 4x4. I bet it's going to take a while before that car drives again...

This morning, a third bird came around this way. I went to the kitchen to see if I could get fried eggs and, for lack of a cook, proceeded to make them myself. Only one pan present and properly filled with 3 cm of oil. The one used for my colleague's eggs. No other pan around, so I was forced to make deep fried eggs. Terrifying, I never even knew eggs could fry underneath the layer of oil. My arteries were pretty much screaming I was going to die five years younger, so I tried and wiped the best part of the oil with a tissue afterwards. A little voice in me is now saying the reason why eggs fill you so much here is only for all the oil that coats your stomach wall.

And that was my week starting the way I like it. Let's rock and roll!

Of ISAF in Afghanistan

2005-11-24T14:09:00.001+04:30

I know the ISAF presence, like any international military presence, is not an entirely unambiguous issue in Afghanistan. Especially so when, along ISAF, you have Coalition forces actively engaged in their 'war against terrorism' in the south. There's obviously always a risk for the two forces to be assimilated, at least in people's eyes, with the ensuing risks for ISAF forces - a rather softer target, I suspect, for the laziest Taliban, than the Coalition forces. This ambiguity is only made worse by the fact that some troops, like the Brits, partake in both forces and as a result may sometimes wish their action were more concurring, hence the British plea to have ISAF troops in the south from 2006 more actively involved in the said fight against terrorism. Part of me fears blurring the two mandates is likely to lead to yet more attacks on ISAF and to undermine their overall responsibility to support law and order outside the terrorism realm.

In case any ambiguity subsides, I do think though that ISAF's presence brings an element of stability to the country. Well possibly except where tensions are such that it would take a 100-strong group of men to demilitarize one or two streets. (I'm thinking of Faryab, where militia fighting is still unusually common in some spots.) That's obviously exclusively based on my all-too-subjective perception however. Arguably, the fact that ISAF is made up of NATO nations or, in other words, basically of European ones (Turkey will appreciate) also creates an element of familiarity and therefore trust that partly explains my feeling. Anyhow, as they increasingly have groups of men, if only small ones, patrolling outside provincial centers and trying to keep themselves updated on the local situation, I have the feeling that often, they may appear like a reasonably neutral, if foreign, actor, not involved in local strives. I'm sure I'm overlooking here the quasi instinctive distrust many Afghans feel towards any foreign force interfering in their affairs. Still, for those Afghans who did grow tired of the war and, most likely, grew tired in particular of local warlords fighting each other over a few strips of provinces and a little more power, the presence of military outsiders reasonably neutral to these disputes may appear like a welcome relief.

Anyhow, these are all wild guesses but here is the one thing I can tell you for sure. I find that quite a few of the ISAF forces present here deserve respect for their attempts at bonding with the population. Whether it's just foot patrolling and talking with people on the streets, it is sufficiently remarkable as it is, given the number of attacks targeting them, including in the north. I mean you must have respect for British ISAF, for instance, who days after an attack in the heart of Mazar leading to the death of one of their men were patrolling on foot again in the city.
Additionally, even though I know ISAF's priority shouldn't be to make sure a little female expat worker here feels safe and secure, I have to admit had it not been for a really really tall Dutch ISAF guy guarding the site, Id have been too uncomfortable to ever stop in Maymana park, as I once did, to watch the football match opposing the local team to ISAF. As it is, all the stares were sufficiently obviously on me that it even made ISAF guys nervous. I thus decided to bugger off, but still, ten minutes of game watching had been worth it.
Similarly, today, when the police in Mazar airport decided to record my identity (why exactly I cannot tell except probably out of boredom, as no other city seems to do that upon arrival...), a couple of seconds later a German ISAF guy was in the office too. Feeling a little overconfident about my inexistent German, I saluted him with Guten Morgen. (As I write these lines, I'm not even certain of the spelling, that's how good my German is). Then he asked me something with quite a few words, in German, and I thought fuck, so long for my great language skills. My brain somehow decided that the correct response had to be 'Belgium'. I could have said Belgie too, but all in all I wasn't sure keeping the conversation running in German was going to be that effective. Come to think of it, I'm not even certain what the question was. I may have heard 'land' in the sentence suggesting he wanted to know where I was from. Or I may have gotten that totally wrong cause really, guessing games usually lead you to reply such a thing as 'No, thank you.' to the question where do you work. Anyhow, I'm fairly confident the second question involved something like is there any problem here. That, at any rate, would seem like the obvious line given the number of sleazy policemen hanging around that office. To which I replied 'Keine probleem. Danke.', which must have expressed well enough that all was fine since the guy left as swiftly as he had arrived. Still, as the ISAF guys can't have failed to notice the slight pervert side of most police officers in this airport, I though it had been very civil of him to show up. Civil and discreet. When the police officer asked me what the man had said, I suggested he had just saluted me as my mom is from Germany and so is he. A lie, maybe not a credible one, but something that sounded innocent enough to avoid any tension on the side of the officers towards the ISAF guy.

Anyhow, in the greater scheme of things, I know it was a really unimportant and ultimately unnecessary gesture on the part of the German bloke to come and check if all was fine, but somehow, I really appreciate he did it.

Buzkachi vs. Riots

2005-11-07T22:33:00.000+04:30

In Afghanistan the buzkachi season has just started, while in Europe the riot season is well under way. Two regions, two sports.

In our free time, we have had many fascinating discussions on the social divide in Western Europe, on the level of disaffection of the youth, on their lack of social opportunities and so on. We have had discussions to try and figure out whether the kind of riots seen now and then in the States could take place in a similar fashion in Europe, eg whether at the first display of weakness by the State, populations would within minutes take to the streets, robbing shops and burning down cars. We were fairly convinced it wasn't the case, and indeed, I still believe it isn't.

Why is it so? Because to start with, I do not believe that, when in a neighbourhood, some disaffected members of the population take the street to burn down private and public properties alike or to fight with the police forces around, they are representative of that neighbourhood's population at large. We saw on Euronews some random educator testifying that the ongoing unrest was the result not only of the accidental death of two youth, but also of the general disatisfaction of the local population with police harassment and more generally with their social situation. Arguably, there are truckloads of studies demonstrating that people coming from a certain geographical and/or social background, especially those who are the offspring of first and second generation migrants, are overall failed by the State, in that their chances of social success are far lower at every step of their existence than the rest of the population's. Yet, should I understand from there that mothers of two and three are currently on the streets of France burning down buses? Does it mean that 40-something manual workers are currently harassing police officers patrolling?

The truth is whether in Jo'burg or in Paris' suburbs, the first people to fall victims of such riots in poor suburbs are the local populations, eg the poor are the first to suffer. Because the unrest targets local private property, local public facilities and creates opportunities for further crimes, thefts, etc targeting whoever is close by. In that sense, there should be no misunderstanding that, when failing to calm down such situations, the State is not failing the said disaffected youth, nor possibly those wealthier populations whose very location protects them from such violence, but primarily those people who may indeed feel some level of disatisfaction, yet still express it for most during elections, or public demonstrations, or even during discussions in cafes, but are unfortunate enough to share their neighbourhood with a handful of rioters.

This said, it is also interesting to concentrate for a while on the said disatisfied youth. Again, should we expect that each and every young man and woman in poorer, marginalised neighbourhoods, is currently out on the street, challenging locally the forces of order?

Certainly I cannot pretend I grew up in some of the poorest suburbs. I had a supportive family, with a mind set on sending me to uni, should it turn out to be what I wished to do. I still had to work part-time, to be able to afford the kind of independance most fellow students took for granted, though. Most of my colleagues at the time, in the various bars and cinemas I roamed in during my undergrad years, were similarly students working to be able to afford their studies and lives. Some of them were more successful at uni, some less, but overall all did give it a good try and had their mind on eventually succeeding. Is there any difference between any of them and those kids out to destroy anything they can put their hands on until someone stops them? Probably some: better family support, possibly a better education to start with, teachers more present at school. But mostly they have decided on doing something with their life and they are working on achieving it. Meanwhile, the rioters of Paris, Birmingham or Brussels remind me of this line in Trainspotting: 'Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a fucking big television and wondering who the hell you are on a Sunday morning. (...) But why would I want to do a think like that?'

Maybe, only maybe, these disaffected youth are not children of France failed by the republic. Maybe they are just a bunch of dangerous brats, whose teenage negative energy could not be used in paintball fights, due to lack of funds. Whose energy could not be re-channelled towards actually doing something with their lives, out of lack of imagination. Who, in short, have merely elected to remain passive towards adversity, to use such convenient excuses as their social condition, the ugliness of the suburbs and society's back turned on them to channel all their energy towards something infinitally simple: destroying as much as possible in as little time as possible, without being caught. Because trying to express genuine social and political anger through music or art or political activism would take far more courage than they are able to display. Because trying to change the system for the better would take perseverance. Because building an actual life of their own would take real men and real men don't need to burn down schools to feel good about themselves.

Meanwhile, in Afghanistan, plenty of kids starting with an otherwise difficult passive, are taking every opportunity they can to attend English and IT classes outside school. In fact, I've known some radio operator who attended for a year, while in a refugee camp in Pakistan, an English class around 5 am, before going to regular school. The same people work ridiculously hard to take the university entry exam, often while working full-time. If they are accepted, it will probably not be for the course of their choice, due to the number of applicants and the limited positions. And they will still more often than not work part- or full-time throughout their studies to continue supporting their family. Surely, here too there are some brats who will choose any excuse - an MP's murder, the Karzai government, the international presence, female NGO workers - to go out and be as destructive as possible. Yet, it seems sometimes like it is those starting with the greatest passive who are most able to set their mind on building, building as high and as solid as possible. One would wish that the handful of disaffected, unhappy, aimless kids of Europe who seem to take pride in their internationally publicised little successes could try and live up to these standards and ambitions too, so it wouldn't take children from Karte-Se to remind them they only have very flimsy excuses to turn their back on society and behave like gangsters.

Pop Pop Pop Music!

2005-11-01T11:27:00.000+04:30

During those long days driving around (and those seem to increase exponentially lately), one sees and hears a lot of things. In particular, one gets speaking, I suspect, of love. Unusually high pitched female voices that make the hair on your neck raise. Keyboard sounds that you had always thought unlikely to hear ever again in the 21st century. And for those drivers with the most unusual tastes (I'm thinking of a funny Kabuli one here, who used to always listen to the same tape that reminded me of being once 10 years old), mixes of Indian pop and old Angl-Saxon tracks. In that respect, I am particularly fond of a song that starts with the intro of the 'Final Countdown' of old memories, and goes on to turn into something Indian revolving around a chorus that repeats 'Zouzou zoubizoubizoubi'. Absolutely fascinating. I'll sing it to your someday if we meet.

And today, I wish to introduce you to the driver of C46 and his ever astonishing tastes. First you'll have to forgive me for not giving out his name. As it is, I beleive it's Ahmad Mohamad. But given that it is also the name of almost all of our driving staff, identifying them by their car is as much, if not more, effective. Anyway, the first time I drove around in Mazar with him, he had some Britney Spears on. As it further turned out, he has a full tape. Or possibly everything she has ever recorded since her birth. I let you imagine the beautiful blue mosque of Mazar, with Britney in the background. There's something so unauthentic about it that one comes to regret the good old times of Afghan music, which in its rough simplicity, fits particularly well those bare lands and dry mountains. And naturally one can only long for some Iranian music, which gives the level of poetry and spirituality to those landscapes that makes driving around in a 4X4 resemble a ride in the desert on a camel's back.

Anyway, as it is, our C46 driver does not restrict his tastes to Britney: he has a full tape that inclucdes Jennifer Lopez and even Tom Jones' Sex Bomb. Somehow driving to work is not the same experience anymore: it feels more like walking into some English pub on a Friday night in Dubai or Brussels.

Today, however, is the day we reached a climax in all this lyricism. As we hit the road to Kabul, I was shocked to hear a rap version of 'Manu', a French song from Renault. Fortunately my co-travellers could enlighten me by explaining that it comes from the soundtrack of Taxi. Relevant, I suppose, if only for the driving speed. As it is, the rest of th tape also included a hip hop version of 'Mourir pour de Idees', which includes a beautiful line that goes something like 'Dying for ideas, sure, but preferably of a slow death', as well as 'Dying for ideas, sure, sounds great, but which ones exactly?'. After that, a hip hop version of 'Ces gens-la', from Brel, and I almost felt like I was back home. I mean I'm a bit of a purist, but these tracks were actually fairly good adaptations. From there on, I expected more hip hop interpretations of French-speaking classics. Alas, it was the end of the tape.

The man therefore starts searching among his tapes (while driving, obviously) and apparently satisfied, takes one out. I'm afraid the picture on it rings a terrifying bell. I am not sure I am ready to face the truth, but before I have had time to scream 'Noooooooooooo', I find the tape is in the tape player and the terrible noise is coming out. Yes, you've probably guessed it by now, we are now listening to Modern Talking. Unbelievable. And not just one track either. There seems to be 500 of them on there. I had no idea they had even composed so many songs.(A point of clarification, I'm using the term 'song' here as an internationally recognised term to describe this kind of thing. Noise is, however, more what's on my mind) And here I am, hearing some odd beats and keyboards, which, with the dreadful sound system in the car, remind me strangely of chalk on a blackboard, or else of a camel giving birth.

And suddenly the thought springs to my mind. What if this poor man, next to me, who is afflicted of what is likely to be the poorest musical tastes in the entire country and, worst of all, is somehow hopeful that we share his taste for cheap pop, what if he is just re-enacting tortures he has undergone in Baghram. I mean I have no clue indicating that he has ever been arrested, or ever been to Baghram, or even ever been a muj (although he is after all one of our drivers, so the latter is likely to be true). But then again I have no clue indicating he hasn't. And as all know, experiences in sensory deprivation and stimulation have been among the modern refineries of torture practices. (Well in all fairness, they've always existed, but seem on the way to becoming highly fashionable, probalby thanks to their effectivity, combined with the lack of physical evidence). Anyway, my hypothesis is the following. No person who was not forcibly subjected to repeated sessions of Modern Talking would listen to them. C46 driver listens to them. So C46 driver has been forcibly subjected to these. Given that I suspect Talib torture would preferably involve recordings of Mullah Omar speaches. Given further that Dostum torture usually involves locking up large numbers of prisoners in remorques and leaving them in the desert until all have died (let the one who thinks maybe that man shouldnt occupy an official position please stand up...). Given finally that most of the bad musics inflicted upon us has been Anglo-Saxon (with the exception of the French stuff, but I'll have to assume some expat gave him these), then those responsible for the abject treatment this poor man has been subjected to have to be Americans. Man, these people have no shame.

As it is, right now I still probably have about an hour of Modern Talking to go. It makes me feel like I'm in a bad computer game, which somehow ruins a little the beauty of these majestic gorges surrounding us. Maybe I should consider death. Either his or mine. Oh well, I'll probably go for mine. As the song has it, 'the suicide is painless. It brings on many changes. And I can take it or leave it if I please'.

Love letter from Jalalabad

2005-11-01T11:11:00.000+04:30

Here is a love letter that happened to cross my path on its way to Europe. I thought it my duty to share it with you...

My love,

I am writing to you from my lovely house in this beautiful country. You will have to forgive my handwriting: the bukhari broke down last winter and we have not been able to find a budget to purchase a new one. I have been able to light a fire with the help of our sweet old guard however. Unfortunately, I have run out of wood and as it is now Eid, our guard is away for the next four days and so are the rest of our staff. I would go to town to purchase some wood myself, however my burqa burnt during the last riots and I feel the population is still a little hermetic to seeing a woman on her own with hardly more than a headscarf - nothing, really... - to protect her modesty. It is by no means a major problem, but it means my fingers have been a little numb since yesterday morning and I have had to use both hands to hold my pen. Anyhow, I do hope you feel the same pleasure in reading me, as I feel in writing to you.

I was glad to hear that you sent me those vitamins recently. Sadly, as the road to our beautiful city has been closed to international vehicles for several weeks now, I do not expect to get them before Xmas. I have talked about my problems of bleeding gums and black legs to our hygiene coordinator three days ago and she very kindly indicated a few plants that I should try to help out. I feel already much better, and the dizziness has stopped altogether. Unfortunately my stomach and bowels have gone worst, but you'll find me so slim next time we will meet that I take my ability to digest food within 10 minutes as a bliss. Oh I realise, I cannot be too long now. Our maid was kind enough to bring me food during her day off, and I find that the mutton fat they use to cook the rice turns solid much faster with the cold. But how lovely of her: I just realised she added three slices of tomatoes to the rice! It's true that Eid is a major celebration over here, so one shouldn't fear to have a special meal for once. I really find astonishing all they manage to feed me with, on just 3 USD per day. Such wonderful cooks!

My only (small) criticism of her has to do with her pet policy. Of course I too try to be respectful of all forms of life, but I am not sure that keeping this family of red cockroaches at home is really the way forward for more tenderness. Of course, it does create a feel of company and, at stage, I am happy to salute the mother or one of the children. (There are six of them, including four children. I have given them a name too.) Only I am wondering what will happen the day I leave. I mean not all expats may feel so much tenderness that they will feed these little creatures and I wonder whether it isn't a little cruel to give them a home and food only to kick them out at a later stage.

Speaking of which, do you remember our dog Barky? You know how concerned I was after bringing it into the compound. I mean I understand they are considered impure animals and all. However, as soon as I saw our two pleasant stock keepers, Azeez and Haroun, playing with it and throwing a metal bar so Barky could go and catch it (Once by accident they threw it on Barky! Poor little dog was so scared. How we laughed at the poor honey...), I realised my worries were unfounded. So when they offered to take Barky away for a couple of days so he could get married to a lady dog and have puppies, I was quite enthusiastic, as it seemed like a fair thing to do for my baby dog. Unfortunately, they told me two weeks ago that Barky died while she was givign birth. Not sure how that could have happened, but I imagine maybe even dogs can be killed by emotions or something. I was so sad I even cried, but I am much better now. And the cockroach family has definitely been a help.

At work, not much to say at the moment. I know it is only November, but our educators said so much snow had fallen in some districts they could not reach villages anymore. The engineers also confirmed the temperature dropped to such an extent any work was impossible. Plus they say there are wolves around some of these villages and naturally, I don't want to expose them to unnecessary risks. They expect we can resume the programme beginning of March. In the meantime, we have great discussions about the Pashtun wali and things like that. And I learnt something new: apparently, very fervent Muslims do ramadan for not just one month but two or even three in a row. So I have offered that those still doing it be allowed to continue working the normal ramadan hours and to leave at 3 pm instead of 4 pm. And believe it or not, but more than 75% of the staff turned out ot be doing ramadan for two months. It's so admirable, so much spirituality!

Anyhow, in spite of all that, I have been able to address the problems I had mentioned to you in that small village in Mihtarlam. It turned out that the commander had not collected these wooden beams from our beneficiaries out of greed at all, but because he himself needed a new shelter as he has many wives and children. And he showed me his youngest son and it's true he looked all small, so I don't think he lied about how difficult life was for his family since the government started the disarmement programme. So I managed to contact our capital office and twisted the story a little until they agreed to assist him. I am so pleased about that outcome!

It was fortunate I called them on that day, though, because AWCC has been down ever since, so I can only communicate with the capital via radio. Internet has also been down for 7 weeks, but I am optimistic that the line will be back on before our programme resumes.

Anyway, I hope our accountant will be able to post my letter as promised, and that it will find you well.

I miss you and look forward to seeing you on my next R&R in June.

Yours,

Your ducky from Jalalabad

The first winter day

2005-10-16T22:19:00.000+04:30

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

2005-10-16T22:08:00.000+04:30

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

2005-10-15T22:02:00.000+04:30

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.

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

2005-09-15T21:14:00.000+04:30

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...

2005-09-13T18:52:00.000+04:30

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

2005-09-11T14:25:00.000+04:30

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...

Rule no. 9: What you really want is to live surrounded by donkeys and hills

2005-08-09T19:20:00.000+04:30

After months of longing to start a new programme in a place where I wouldn't be tempted by all Kabul has to offer (opera, theater, walks on the banks of the Kabul river, the zoo, etc), my wish has finally come true. On the positive side, since I am starting this programme, it can by definition not have gone wwong by the time I take over. Not yet anyhow. Also I may be able to experiment with this wonderful new integrated strategy we are setting up, if only I manage to complete the concept paper I am sweating on. On the good side too, I will be commuting between some of these places that are best dedicated to religion and to watching the green grass grow. Wonderful hills in some of the areas. Donkeys and camels. High road robberies. Idyllic.

On the down side, after almost 9 months in and around Kabul, I find I have met some pretty nice fellow friends and the perspective of leaving them simply breaks my heart. Admittedly, I will be back once a month or so thanks to coordination working groups in the capital! But surely, that doesn't make up for it. No more catching up every night in some funky psychedelic bars in town (OK, Im just trying to impress non-Kabuli here), no more sleeping over at some other guest house, no shopping at Tarsian and Blinkley (girls, check this and cry: www.tarsianandblinkley.com) and finito all melted sandwiches lunches. Not easy, I'm telling you. My friend Nick was asking me yesterday why on earth I was leaving. I proceeded to come up with relly sophisticated explanations regarding the need to be more dedicated to my work, to have more time to learn, the virtues of hardly having a social life, the advantage of loneliness, the benefits of sensory isolation, the wonderfully free life cynicals used to lead in ancient times. To which he replied 'That's bollocks'. And I'm afraid he's positively right, so I just said all our new programmes are in the provinces, so no choice for me, that's where I'm going.

To make the experience a little more exciting, I've got a few things set already. First, in one of the two provinces I will live in, I am planning to sleep on the roof every night, until snow starts falling. There's a donkey out there that always makes a point to remind you of his existence at dusk and dawn. The stars are so numerous in the sky they look about to fall down and for a whole five hours before the first prayer, the place is really quiet. Although when I say really quiet, that's forgetting the flag of my organisation we put on the roof. Now you would't think you could be incommodated by the noise of a flag. You'd be wrong. For some reason, we purchased a plastified flag, one of those that survive the war, a locust invasion, the deluge and remains in a pristine state forever and ever. Driving me nuts. Phoushouh, phoushouh, says the plastified flag for the sake of irritating me when I go to bed. Phoushouh, phoushouh.

In the other province, the assets include the wonderful garden, the antz (great pets), the mosquitoes (ditto), the food, if you fancy chicken and fries on a daily basis, the heat, the social circle once a week and the outings every weekend to the very same shrine.

And of course I still have my two-week R&R every four weeks. Only kidding. And work. Aah work (extatic sigh). I also expect to make a point of participating in coordination meetings. Yes, also for the sake of work. And I guess it never hurts to meet new people, does it? Lately I've found I increasingly enjoy meeting up with colleagues from other organisations, for coordination's sake. After a few times, it feels like catching up with mates. The only difference is you're still sharing all information with your fundraising team. Plus my title of technical specialist in the absence of anyone else makes me feel really happy and self-confident. I mean after all, why should I not be considered one? I can tell a well at ten meters' distance. I can even tell you if there is a handpump. I can tell you if we're nearby a latrine in the dark at fifty meter's distance and whether it's a public one or not. I know what the water table is. Roughly anyhow. And I even know what a gravity pipe scheme or spring tapping system is. (Though you can tell the real specialists because if you show them pictures they go 'Well obviously that PVC pipe is 2 mm too narrow and the angle of that connection is obviously inappropriate. Obviously.) In fact, I have even developed a fascination for all sorts of water-related issues. Like recently, traveling in Tajikistan, I was marveling at the shape of the hills, which clearly indicate some sort of erosion, possibly caused by the movement of ice a few millenia ago (or so specialist me told myself anyhow) and started thinking I would truly love coming across some manual on geology, to understand the structure of the ground better. Man, the thought of it now and I'm boring myself.

I even started planning my personal adult learning programme. Management manual then, watsan manual then, back to a bit of humanitarian law and don't you dare tell me the list is a little eclectic. Then I remarked to myself I actually have my entire life for this learning process, so no need to rush it. And naturally there is still a lot I need to learn about Afghanistan in the first place, so as soon as back to the guesthouse, I returned to a thought-provoking, anthropologically relevant book called Pashtun Tales. To summarise it, it's a compilation of fairy tales resembling the 1001 Nights, without the intricate structure. A lot of princes marry a lot of princesses, some 43 at a time. (I am not kidding you. And don't you think the wives are jealous either. Nonono, they conveniently get along. Don't want any 5th century frying pans flying in a fairy tale now, do we?) Kings throw their daughters out for not praising them quite highly enough, but don't fear, once the daughters have married a virtuous man, got rich and come across their royal dad again, they have no other urge but to forgive him. Sarcasms set apart, I have also learnt some useful information. Like beware of djinns falling in love with you (yes, the djinn is the equivalent of some 19th century romantic fool, a kind of young Werchter, that lives exclusively to fall in love with a human who does not want to return the feelings), especially as they tend to just squat in your house forever. Don't lie, don't kill without good reasons (note for the reader: a man who was about to destroy one boat so no one could duplicate it was killed and that, apparently, amounts to a 'good' reason) and don't trust the menial tribe, for they are traditionally cheaters (sic!). The perfect guide to Afghanistan, in short.

OK, now is the time to go and pack my swimming suits, sandals and bollywood clothes, next to a couple of burqas and prepare to migrate north. If any of you live somewhere around (yeah, I strongly believe I already have thousands of blog followers, just about to turn the Way of the Samurai into some modern cult. Call me the new Zarathustra), I hope I'll catch you up in one of the crazy social circles in these wild areas.

Rule no. 8: Don't attempt Kabul-Dushanbe by road drunk as a donkey

2005-08-06T17:54:00.000+04:30

A few days ago, I was informed the never-ending excitements of my job would take me for a week to Dushanbe. Vaguely excited at the thought of stepping once again into this almost normal country, with trees and houses and paint covering them and happy sheep and yogurt everywhere, I planned to pack on Fri, as we would head off by road at seven on Sat. For once, my Fri was used however particularly unconsctructively, ie working. I could hear the UNICA pool calling me. Alas! There was no getting away. Finally, sometimes past 7 pm, I was set free. I then proceeded to catch up with the nicest bunch of South Africans I have met in the area and, if I remember correctly, we basically talked and drank. Not necessarily in this order of importance. And I was informed that we'd finally have to drive off to Dushanbe at 5 am.

Sometimes around whenever it was that we went, we proceeded to all embark on board of a flying coach and go to the C. C. club, which has everything but a showgirl named Lola. Some said it was a private party, but I suspect that was just supposed to mean no one would come. Not bothered by the news, we all started dancing like Afghanistan's development depended on the number of calories spent on the dance floor. The music was overall rubbish, let's face it, (Yes, Junior, if you ever read that, I mean it. I love you, man, but god you've got terrible musical tastes) but who cares?

The good thing about the private party business is shots started going around, for free obviously. Blue stuff and Baileysish ones. Before you know it, although you've hardly eaten anything in a day, you've downed your weight in spirits but are still dancing. Anyhow, at some stage I asked some friend of a friend of a friend to give me a lift. Then I realised one of the South Africans (or well technically a Zimbabwean, but do you really want me to get into that much details?) in question has left and as I'm not going to see him ever again (burst in tears on her laptop, then pulls herself together and starts typing again), I decided to go to his place. Where it turned out he was not. Feeling increasingly not entirely sober, I then tried the othe nearby guesthouse where he could be hanging around, looked everywhere but zilch. So I decided to return to his house and wait for him. Though by the time I got to his house I was not quite able to align enough words to build a full sentence and the very reason of my presence got a little blury. I somehow then decided to sleep for a while. Then, I am afraid I cannot remember whether I did actually sleep or not. Yes, it was that bad. I do remember however receiving many phone calls, I assume from Junior, but can't remember what about exactly. I doubt he would either. I do recall nevertheless in hindsight that I may have got a little sick and well I'm not entirely certain the floor was in a pristine state by the time my friend got home. Then I realised it was 4.40, so I could as well consider going home to pack up my things. I called for a car, dressed up, checked in the early morning lights whether it had arrived, went down again, got back up again, by which time I did not remember why on earth I was outside checking whether there was a car. A call from Junior and he offered to send their car. I accepted and it was there in no time. Once I was in the car he called again to convince me to go to the intercontinental (why? one wonders), then come back because he's leaving Afg too. I apologised vaguely. Well no actually I didn't really apologise because I was in no state to do so. Too bad, no saying goodbye. I reached home and the guards told me the car was waiting for me in the guesthouse I just left. Then it struck me: that's why I was waiting outside. My talking skills were not exactly up to standards by this time, so I was not quite able to mumble apologies in Dari, English or else. I just went and woke up Vincent, who was part of the trip, threw a few things in my bag, fortunatley even remembered to take my passport, and off we went. By the time I was in the car, a thought crossed my poor sorry increasingly drunk brain in the line of 'Ooooooh my god how on earth will I survive the trip?'

Then I collapsed. One eye opened in the Salang. One eye opened down the Salang and another one in PiK. The nice driver stopped to buy drinks and gave me one of these sickeningly sweet cherry ones. I held it in my hand and fell asleep. By the time we reached Kunduz, I was finally emerging and downed the juice, which made me feel even more sorry for my poor poor stomach, trying to recover. By the time we reached the base, it felt however like most of the alcohol had been drained away. So a piece of nan, some tea, and back on the road all the way to the Oxus river. It is apparently unusually entertaining for all to have a lady crossing on her own, but anyhow most people were fairly nice. As you take bad habits, I ended up negotiating the price of the crossing with the captain of the boat, but since the only other passenger payed it, I finally gave the 10 USD. First thought once I set foot in Ladastan is apart from the Russian mafia, there's no one in the area I would find less trustworthy than custom officers. They turned out to all be quite all right however, if a little lame, and the only scam I have to face is a bunch of dodgy blokes trying to pass for my drivers. Obviously, it's not like my amazing Tajiki and Russian skills were of great help there, and fortunately. This said, I have a natural distrust for people with more than three golden teeth, so I became a little weary, until I finally found the real car of my organisation, which seemed much better than ending up robbed and thrown in a ditch or, more likely, paying a 50 USD fee for a trip to Dushanbe, as I expect was going to happen otherwise.

And finally I could enjoy all that Ladastan has to offer: its trees, its houses, its yogurt. A quick stop in KT and here I was trying to down a yogurt at 70 mph. I did consider for a while helping myself with my fingers, but first they were filthy and second, I did not want to give a worse reputation of the 'Afghans' we are to our Tajik colleagues than we have already. And finally for the last 1.5 hours ride, I sat back, relaxed, looked at a country that looks like a real country, with women around and all, and thought after all it would be a good week.

The story of the Alpha One

2005-07-29T11:06:00.000+04:30

The Alpha One is a funny little bird that was thought to have vanished from the mountains of Afghanistan, until two French zoologists in sandals, travelling on foot from Paris to Goa, rediscovered it after a nap in a mines field.

The Alpha One, also know as Bearded Alpha and, in the Tajik mountains, as the Coughing Alpha, was named after a famous adventurer dating back to the Great game period. This solitary man, reknowned for his exploits, had come one day from a distant country and joined a group of Turkmen tribesmen. He had sworn to support them in their attempt at safeguarding their independance from the advancing Russian invader and was seen during several battles fighting side by side along the fiercest of the Turkmen. The manner in which his dignity and intelligence made him stand out in any crowd led people to nickname him the Alpha or Alpha male. In his old years, after three decades spent among the tribesmen, he was finally elected as their leader and therefore renamed Alpha One.

However, his dignified long blond beard and the signal he gave before attacking the ennemy - a long rough cough - explain the various names under which he is also known.

Several legends revolve around this brave and dignified man. These would have fallen in the limbo of history, had it not been for the Iranian traveller, Mohammad Raza Ali, who wrote the famous 'Battles of the Two Worlds: Legends of the Brave in the Great Game'. I wish to recollect in particular two stories of interest.

First, a few months after joning the Turkmen, the tribe decided the courage and faithfulness of Alpha One had to be put to the test. They therefore sent him on a spying mission all the way to Cashmeer, where he was expected to find out the plans of the advanced garrison of the East India Company. For his travel, he planned to cross the arid Turkmen and Uzbek plains, cut through the Hindu Kush and thereafter take the Khyber pass towards the east. Unexpectedly, his lonely days as a traveller mostly went without problems and his well-known language and spying skills allowed him to gather sufficient evidence about the Company's plans to put the Turkmen's mind at rest. On his way back, however, the donkey that had been faithfully carrying him throughout the journey felt. While his first reaction was anger, he realised within seconds that the sad beast of burden had developed a tumor underneath his left hind leg, and could not possibly have walked another step. Alpha One also realised the animal must have been under tremendous pain for days, as the tumor was the size of a clenched fist. Taking pity in such a faithful companion, and although local practices would have had him killing it and leaving it by the side of the road, Alpha One took the poor animal and threw him upon his shoulder. Bemused passers-by spread the story that, in the Hindu Kush, a blond bearded man had become a beast of burden, and could be seen carrying his donkey on his back. Determined, Alpha One carried on indeed, undeterred by the laughters and stopping only to massage the poor animal's leg. He carried him all the way back to the Turkmen country, where the poor animal died during surgery.

On another occasion, Alpha One was preparing for battle agsinst a battalion of 1500 Cosaks advancing towards Cabul. On the morning of the battle, it is said that the 500-strong Turkmen troop took to smoking from the narghile under the orders of Alpha One, to give them strength and courage. The Turkmen took the Cosaks by surprise, while the sun was already high in the sky, and the battle went on uninterrupted for three days and three nights. While the Turkmen were far fewer than the Cosaks, their fierceness surpassed even that of the wild Cosaks and at the end of the third day, 150 Turkmen had died, but the entire imperial batallion had been decimated. Alpha One, still strong and standing, ordered his men to return to the camp and rest, as the following day would be used to burry friends, while foes were left to the birds. Upon departing, he heard however the sound of a bird, coming from nearby the battlefield. When he approached, he discovered a kind of bearded sarling locked up in a cage. Alpha One took the bird under his protection and took upon him, during the next few days, to teach him the practices that belong to wild animals until, after a month, the sarling was released. Several sketches drawn by Alpha One himself somehow reached the famous 1812 Guide to Botanical and Zoological Treasures of Central Asia, published by Cooper and Stills. A brief excerpt on the meeting between the bird and Alpha One was provided next to the drawing and, as a result, given that it was the first discovery of this species of starling, scientists chose to call the bird the 'Alpha One', a name that remains to this date.

There are many other stories surrounding the enigmatic Alpha One, including those reminding of these daughters of kings and viziers that travelled from remote lands to meet the wise man. I will however keep these for another date and encourage you to post any information you may have on Alpha One, the warrior of Central Asia.

Rule no. 7: These are a few of my favourite things

2005-07-28T23:09:00.000+04:30

'Mullahs calling me for the 3.45 prayer;
Flies invading the bathroom when I get there;
Nan that was cooked by the baker yesterday;
Me thinking to work I'm gona have to get away;

When the driver honks;
When the cook swears;
When at work I finally get;

I get back to thinking of the first day's prayer;
And then I don't feel so baaaaaad!'

'Talib students on their way to illumination;
Coalition troops considering anihilation;
Mangoes and peaches and exotic fruits;
They too will end in my plate today at noon;

When suppliers call;
When engineers call;
When I'm all needed;

Then I hide in the basement;
Pretend I just died;
And then I don't feel so baaaaaaad!'

'Country strategy for watsan programming;
Thinking of latrines, wells all around and pipe schemes;
Imagining a land green and prosper;
Hoping for thunder, rain, all you can bear;

When the clouds come;
When the thunder storms;
When the rain falls down;

I know birds are singing;
And the country's in re-birth;
And then I don't feel so baaaaaaad!'

Rule no.6: They did not live happily ever after.

2005-07-28T23:00:00.000+04:30

Man, it only took five months for me to realise that blogspot had not erased me and remember my password. Should pretend I've been working like mad during this time but who would I fool?

Anyway, when coming here (on here or in this lovely fucked up country), you may have thought you were gona meet prince/princess charming, marry, get lots of little charming children. Then, as any normal being, you took up drinking on any regular weekday and felt even more certain luck would come your way.

Well let me tell you right away. Naaaa. Unless you're particularly lucky on your Supreme shopping, you may be 26 but you just signed up to remain a spinster for the next 40 years or so. So you may as well enjoy it, because who cares about morality if your private life's gona be fucked anyhow?

(I drink to that!)

Rule no.5: Be like the green green grass

2005-02-26T10:02:00.000+04:30

Just before landing in Kabul a couple of months ago, following a long transit night in Dubai, I was desperately thirsty, longing for some water or tea. The feeling was made only stronger by the dryness of everything below, the mountains, the plains, the mud houses. Whatever I seemed to lay my eyes upon was a yellowish brown, with ocre shades. Everything blended in this colour too. The landscape, the houses were all made of the same material and seemed to form a perfect unity. In short, one of the things that made Afghanistan quite unique was that even inhabited locations seemed empty of villages, until the eye was well enough trained to dsitinguish the mud villages from the hills.

After a couple of days, as I drove down to Charikar, in Parwan province, this first impression of very dry landscape was confirmed. All the trees seemed dry. So did the land and the little vegetation. All the vineyards too, apparently dry. In fact, I was even wondering whether they were used at all. In Mir Bacha Kot, one of the trade centers along the way, finally a nice bunch of tall trees. I've been wondering ever since when they were planted and by what miracles they survived the years of drought, war, displaced populations looking for firewood. These tall pine trees are apparently among the 10% of forests that were not devastated in the last 30 years. Lucky ones. As we approached Charikar, every once in a while I could see a small square of green grass, obviously neatly irrigated, which I assume was in fact some kind of crop. Anyhow, a very pleasant sight indeed.

Once I got the opportunity to further drive around Parwan province, it turned out the picture was a little less bleak. Indeed, while I seemed to put my eyes on a few dry river beds between Kabul and Charikar, part of the Shamali plains are irrigated with many little kareze, eg irrigation canals, that run along and under the roads. Sometimes over them too, which makes crossing a bit of an adventure. And you can see indeed bits and pieces of vegetation surrounding them that suggest the land can still produce some green green grass.

Somehow, I always loved the contrast brought by the range of mountain tops covered with some snow and the flat land, deserted by water. In the far, the Hindu Kush was always present with some dignified eternal snow covering its sides, while along the valleys, you could just see the smaller mountains announcing winter. And invariably, day after day the snow progressed down the slope, all the way to the plains. I cannot tell you how much I longed to see the snow finally reaching us, covering everything. Not that I was entirely certain it would happen, but I had my fingers crossed, hoping for a couple of snow fights. And sure enough, in January it happened. On a beautiful night of January, I reckon, it started snowing and in the morning, we woke up with the streets, parks and houses of Kabul covered in a beautiful layer of snow. Cars progressed very slowly on the still pristine white blanket. Not often do you see such careful kabuli drivers and I even heard all businesses selling chains run out of stock and had to close early. For a coupe of days, snow felt every night, sometimes even throughout the day and fair enough it made climbing the stairs to our office a highly hazardous activity. Happy but bruised we survived. Happy mostly because we had a few mean snow fights at night and during the day, and although the sharpness and speed of my snow balls could not compete with some of my colleagues', I still managed to hold myself proud and be only ever touched a couple of times. (While we're at it, though, I would like to specify that our mad Tajik friend taking snow in his hand and proceeding to spread it over my skull does not count in the snow fight...)

Thanks to the below zero temperatures, the snow remained, although it got a little too hard for fights or snowmen, or even walks so the fun was not entirely there. Yet still, the country looked beautiful. My main interrogation concerned what the land would look like once it's all melted. Would there be a proper spring time, with all trees and fields turning green? That seemed unlikely, but one could hope. Without surprise, Kabul turned to its good old muddy style once all the snow and ice had melted, so Im back to wearing trousers that most of the time have too the colour of the earth. Anyway, as I drove back from Parwan to Kabul a couple of days ago, to my astonishment, I put my eyes on some wild patches of grass here and there. It's not the light green I'm longong for. It still looks a little dry and pitiful. But it's grass and 'living' one at that and that's a beginning. Plus there was quite a bit of it, all along the road. And in fact, even some of the hills of Kabul seem to have made the effort to cover themselves with bits and pieces of green carpet.

So I'm aware the springtime renewal should not be equated to Afghanistan finally standing proud, with no more development problems. The last UN development report sufficiently shows that. And it does not mean the underground water levels have substantially changed. Nor is the Kabul river running wild again, as a friend once wished. But I've decided anyhow that to me the patches of green are a positive sign. That the country will be spared droughts for a few years and that it will go on progressing - I let you decide for yourself in what direction it should progress. Plus today is a bueatiful sunny day, clear blue sky, just a few clouds, and surely that is sufficient to be optimistic. So let's see, nowroz is coming at the end of March and the new year will start then. I'll put my bet on this being a good year for Afghanistan.

So when once in a while you're not certain the country's moving on, try to look at the grass. In fact be the grass. Visualise the proud growth of your little green arms. OK I'm only kidding here. But who knows, maybe that too can turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy?

Rule no. 4: Although I Walk in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I Shalt not Fear, for my Handset is with Me. Or Shall I?

2005-02-25T19:38:00.000+04:30

You do not know what loneliness is until you have found yourself spending three hours in a party carrying around a massively cumbersome handset. I read recently a joke about relief workers feeling an urge to display their handset at all times. And I have to say this joke is absolute blasphemy. Find me one single relief worker who doesn't feel an absolute fool carrying around the said handset and I pay you dinner in Atmosphere.

Now, there is two reasons why people would carry a handset at night, and in parties specifically. First, they are forced to. Second, it's the only way they'll ever get hold of a car to go home - obviously, walking home is not exactly an option, if only because should mobs of gangsters not attack you on the way, you're likely to die falling in some pothole. As far as people I work with are concerned, the first factor is definitely determining. Note, by the way, that our security officer has lately decided to take his job so much at heart that the radio now runs random checks on people. At any time. Even when we are in the office. Go and have a reasonable argument with a guy who reproaches you not to have your handset on when you are in office... Wonderful. The irony is when you do carry it around, you're likely not to be reachable once the radio could become useful. Naturally that shields you from radio checks in the middle of a party - amazing how radio waves are stopped by big fat concrete walls. - but it's likely to mean you'll need to go out in the pouring rain to request a car. In the middle of the night, not necessarily in the most recommendable areas - well surely you can't attend parties in Wazir Akbar Khan every night-, I'm not exactly certain how that is meant to increase your safety. Anyway.

Imagine you're some lonely worker in Afghanistan, victimised by a sadistic security officer who allows you to attend parties in only three locations (including your own organisation's compound) and frequent only two restaurants, who imposes a 9.30 pm curfew upon you and does every night a radio check to ensure you've brushed your teeth before going to bed. Naturally, in the circumstances, you do not take any chance and carry your handset around at alll times. Should you find yourself in a party with it, you're faced with a difficult decision: Where on earth can you put it? Obviously, let it lie around and you're unlikely to ever find it back. I myself made the mistake of leaving it with a trusted friend, and got it back with the antenna half melted. Still wondering how this ever happened. So a few options: in your pockets, attached to your trousers, in your bag or in your hand. If you're the unlikely bearer of two X chromosomes, I expect your pockets are not large enough for this deposit. Remains the handbag, but it's probably too small. Plus you'd ruin it and don't expect to find such a lovely black leather bag - a beautiful product of Belgian handicraft - anywhere around. Attached to your trousers seems a little rustic so you resolve to hold it in your hand. Now I do expect the previous paragraphs sufficiently highlight that you are not doing this of your own will. In fact you're close to feeling like the oppressed member of a minority forced to display the shame of its roots in the handset it carries around. So for f# sake, could people please stop asking me why I seem to cherish the handset I carry around so much?!? I don't, ok? So now leave me alone or I think I'll cry. Gee, it's not even like there is some support group or anything. And of course, dancing is absolutely excluded. You're far too self conscious. Instead, you resolve to stand next to the bar, possibly drink yourself drunk to forget, though unfortunately it's now 11 pm and the bar is probably empty.

After a nonetheless enjoyable evening - well sure, nothing like Kabul decadence to cheer you up. - you will usually proceed to the entrance door, where reception seems better and you find yourself holding in front of witnesses a dialogue resembling the following:
'Me: Huh Delta Alpha Base, this is Romeo Papa 33 sending.
Resp: Chhhrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrkkkk.
Me: Delta Alpha Base, this is Romeo Papa 33 sending.
Resp: Chhhhrrrrrrrrrkkkkkkk Romeo Papa chhhhhhhhhrrkkkkkkk

Me: Huh Sorry Delta Alpha Base, bad copy, can you repeat, over?

Resp: Ccccchhhhhhhrk move to channel 6 Romeo Papa 33, over.

Me: Huh right huh moving. [Ok, now how do you get to channel 6. Oh sure I've got it]

Resp: Romeo Papa 33, this is Delta Alpha Base, over.

Me: Yeah, right, Delta Alpha Base, this is Romeo Papa 33, Could you send a car to huh the guesthouse of huh #?!# ?

Resp: Huh the car cchhhhhhhhrrrrkkkkk.

Me: Sorry, bad copy, can you repeat over?

Resp: The car is not available right now, Romeo Papa 33. The driver is having dinner over.

Me: At 2 in the morning, over?!?!

Resp: Sure, they'll be finished in 20 minutes over.

Me: Ok well could we have a car in 20 minutes then, over?

Resp: Sure, what is your location, over?

Me: Well as I said it's the guesthouse #?!#, over.

Resp: And where is that located exactly, over?

Me: Huh wherever the driver dropped us earlier on, over.

Resp: Ok, car will be there in 30 min, over.

Me: OK, great, thanks. Over and out.

Resp: Out.'

And that's when you turn around, and you find a mixed crowd of international and security staff looking at you bemused, wondering why on earth you can't speak like a literate person when using a handset. Well you can't because you were told not to. In fact you even had a training to be able to say over at the right moments. One very long hour of my existence.

Half an hour later, the highly obedient staff you are makes his/her adieux to the crowd and reaches the gate. A look around and there it is, the beaming white jeep, with reinforced lateral doors. Or possibly a volga, depending on whom you work for. You hear the radio sshhhhhrking again and there you have the radio asking you why your handset wasn't on, the car has been waiting for 20 minutes. Now that would be because there's no signal within the house and you didn't expect the car any earlier anyway. The radio probably responds something like oh well ok then. And you get yourself on the car and back home, feeling a little guilty for the driver who waited all this time.

The interesting point here is I expect the handset is the last life-saving device you will need if you do find yourself in troubles. Really try to figure yourself in a life-threatening situation.

Say on your way to Supreme, you find yourself under a rocket attack (probably following an increase of Jacob's Creek prices). What do you do? Radio your base of course. And I bet that your radio will tell you in his most professional voice that 'you need to evacuate the area immediately.' No kidding. That's one I wouldn't have figured out myself.

Or imagine you find yourself by accident in a demonstration turning sour. The car is stuck and you're not so sure whether demonstrators will remain pacific. You radio. What happens? Does the radio call a friend in ISAF to make sure they get you out? Does he come himself to liberate you in spite of the danger? No, the odds are that the fantastically helpful radio will go 'OK, stay right where you are for now, over.' Well it's not like I have any choice, really, is it?

So maybe all radios do not have the sense of irony the ones I know have, but either way, if you find yourself walking in the valley of the shadow of death, sure, the handset may come handy. But elsewhere, naaaaaa, don't think so.

Rule no. 3: Do not trust your computer.

2005-02-18T17:46:00.001+04:30

In the field or elsewhere, there is no such thing as a badly programmed software, a memory shortage or a connection failure. There is only a bloody computer trying to ruin your existence, bring you down to your knees and make you feel sorry you were ever born.

Why is it that I spent the last 15 minutes reformatting a blog, repeating over and over again the same procedure without it having any impact whatsoever on my imaginative yet thought-provoking blog? I wonder.

Anyhow, you ought to know by now, and if not I’d rather be the one to inform you, we are at war. The silicon valley and co. have decided to take over the planet. In this conflict, you are either with them or against them. Their first goal is currently to drive all PC-users mad, to be able to take over the world. Each computing failure, each breakdown while you were just upon to complete this urgent note due 10 minutes ago is no coincidence. They provoked it.

Do not believe your IT technician is one of yours either. He may have been a dedicated employee of your organization for years, yet his solidarity lies elsewhere. Why is it, do you think, that he will fix the same problem 100 times and never be able to find a long-term solution? Incompetence? I don’t think so. The man is part of a greater plan. In the greater scheme of things, the matrix is no fiction. It’s a frightening process that’ll need no more than a couple of months to overtake the planet.

Meanwhile, if you cannot hinder their expansion, you can at least take advantage of it. So don’t forget, if you haven’t e-mailed some friends in weeks, it’s because the internet was down pretty much 24/7. Not because you spent most of your time drinking pints in Elbow Room. If that long overdue report was not on your boss’ desk yesterday, it’s because a virus has destroyed your entire hard drive and sadly enough you have no backup on the network. It’s a war that we cannot win, but we may at least have some fun during the battle…

So don’t forget, your computer is neither your friend nor your ally. It’s here to destroy you. Therefore Rule no. 3: Never trust your computer.

Rule no. 2: Don't fuck with drivers

2005-02-18T16:47:00.000+04:30

As it's become clear to you all by now, in the field, you're alone, so rather make sure you keep the friendship, or at least the respect, of people you see everyday. Could be life-saving.

Therefore never, ever, under any circumstances, fuck with your driver.

Don't forget that the man is likely to have fought among mujahideens for years and thereafter the talibans, or northern alliance, or whichever criminal mob that may have threatened his family. So when you're driving around Kabul at night, desperately searching for a guest house of whichever organisation throwing a party, and he gives you that bad evil stare, smile, try to sound pleasant, make sure fear is not too evident in your voice, and for fuck sake find the bloody house NOW. The man has killed once and he could do it again!

Expect drivers to be a bit of a mum, dad, bodyguard and Dari teacher to you. All this on a salary equivalent to your per diem. If you're a lot out in the field, or even just (God forbid) stuck in the Kabul jams most of the week, the driver may turn out to be your main companion. So start early improving your Dari. Better still start speaking Dari with him. He'll probably be delighted at your appalling attempts to ask him his name, as Afghan people tend to have a rather good sense of humour. Plus he'll probably take on the role of Dari teacher. (Now good luck with that. I find that on average drivers try to teach me about 20 words in a one-hour drive and trust me, my sorry little European brain cannot follow).

As it happens, once you get a little personal with the driver, you're likely to be the recipient of the story of Afghanistan through his own experience. I only wish my Dari were anywhere nearer to his so I could have a clue what on earth we are talking about. (Note that since most of our drivers are used to meetings expats with little Persian language skills, they tend to use a lot of visual illustrations involving naturally their hands. Beware of the driver telling you about the battle of Kabul while driving at 60 mph...)

Remember that until you make other Afghan friends, the driver is also the one who'll tell you about Afghan practices, religion, life, death, mariage, education. He'll open to you the doors to the country and, as it happens, will also make sure you don't pay rip-off prices in stores.

Besides all this, your driver is just that guy who'd probably have the guts if you really pissed him off to just dump you on the side of Jalalabad Rd. at dusk, going in Dari 'Your home's that way. Good luck!' before driving off. Or maybe not, but I do wonder.

So in doubt, remember Rule no. 2: Make sure the driver is your friend and never, ever fuck with him.

Rule no. 1: Follow the path of the buddha

2005-02-17T19:24:00.000+04:30

Once in the field, you may want to live life to the fullest, make every experience something intense, jump head first into it all without ever thinking twice. It makes sense to try and seize the day, yet if I have learnt anything in the past couple of months, it's that your rule number 1 should nevertheless be to take some distance from it all every once in a while. It may seem like something obvious to do, yet trust me, I'm seeing a lot of people who cannot handle this. In fact, even I have found it hard in the last couple of weeks to simply step back and think.

So what kind of distance is it exactly that you need to take? I would say that depends on your condition. UN guidelines wisely recommend always taking some time for yourself while in the field, practicing sport, reading, basically doing anything that allows you to put your mind off work and be stimulated in different ways. Trust me, where I work, not following any of this is close to a religion. And because the atmosphere is not ideal in the first place, you end up suffocated by waves of negative vibes. So clearly, if we cannot walk to work nor properly do any outdoor sport, we need to find some proper substitutes that allow us to get some rest and lead a vaguely normal life. In this respect, I guess the dinner for which I cooked my absolutely amazing pasta sauce yesterday was a good example of such an activity. I should mention that the proliferation of blogs started by my colleagues shows just how much some need evasion at this stage, even while in the office.

This said, in a country with a system and values that put your own to the test - to say the least - , especially when you work for an organisation the structures of which are less than ideal, the concept of R&R comes as something you should not overlook. Surely, if most organisations assume you need frequent holidays to recuperate, then you probably do. Some people make the mistakes of overlooking their need to get back to a more normal life, being able to move around, dress and behave as they wish. However this lack of awareness is likely to strike back. Trust me, it is no coincidence if you frequently comne across this or that person who's taken up drinking and so on. I guess self-awareness is the key in the field because by the time your lack of balance is so obvious that other people advise you to take a break, you probably look like a sad illustration of maniaco-depression.

Finally, R&R is one thing, but as a friend put it, you don't have anything to prove to anyone as far as staying in the country is concerned. When I got my contract, I thought to myself this is my test regarding a field career. It will last a very short 5 months. If after 5 months I wish to leave the country or even to give up on having a field career, fair enough. Being in the field is an opportunity to learn a lot about yourself and that also means accepting your limits. Now that I realise I find the country beautiful, want to get to know and understand Afghans better and see all provinces, I am starting to think that I'd like to stay for another 10 months, until just before Xmas. Maybe I will, maybe I won't, I'll try to set myself goals yet still take life one thing at a time. Too many people I'm seeing seem to stretch themselves to the limit, until they just break down. Clearly nothing justifies it. Not your job, which you won't do properly while a wreck. Not your sense of sacrifice, for the same reason. Basically, the main thing you owe to anyone is honesty to yourself. If you start feeling unhappy about the country and you don't see any way to change your mindset, just leave. Don't force yourself to go through increasingly painful days or to stand colleagues you don't want to see anymore. Just go, go and see your family, rest, do nothing.

I figured out today there's a very basic test to decide whether you need to stay or not. Ask yourself:
- Do I still like the job?
- Do I believe in the organisation?
- Do I like the country?
If you respond no to the three of them, I wonder why you're still here in the first place. Otherwise, I'd imagine the answers are self-explanatory, in that once you've identified the problem, you know what you've got to do.

Finally, to return to my initial point, the only way to be sufficiently alert to your own welfare is to be able to distance yourself spiritually from people and things and look into yourself to determine your feelings. I'm not suggesting we should all embrace buddhism, but I have to admit I half-jokingly did say this to a couple of friends today. There are some arts designed to facilitate distanciation and reflection and undoubtfully you'd be better off leaving to the field armed with one of them. At this moment, believe it or not, I even regret that I only ever attended two yoga classes. Not that I can be bothered having a yoga teacher over here though - why is it that I can't have people teaching me anything, I have no idea. It's like when I was a kid and my mum told me lamb was beef so I'd eat and happily oblivious would decide I loved it: you can teach me things, but only if you make me believe you're not. Tricky. Anyway.- but if only there were yoga books available I reckon I'd give it a go. In fact, what I could possibly really need is a book on yoga in Dari. This way maybe I can improve both my technique and languages skills..?

Finally, and don't laugh here, I realise I may have been loosing it a little because I didn't spend sufficient time laughing lately. I realise the main person who's been making me laugh has been away for a while and Ive been awfully gloomy since. So there we go, back to trying to think positive thoughts to cheer myself up. How pathetic is that? I know, though I have no doubt it must be in loads of 25-USD methods for self-support or whatever you call it. Anyway, one approach I tried the other day was thinking of 10 simple things that make me happy. A nice breakfast in the Pain Quotidien, one dinner at my friend Fran (pasta off course), an evening at my friend Elodie's, chilling out with my sister eating pasta with butter, when my mum is so happy about something she gets all emotional and tell my sister and I how much she loves us, a night with x, and so on. Believe it or not, it works really well. A second thing, a personal favourite, is thinking of happy songs. I mean really happy songs. I assume most of the Sound of Music soundtrack could do, or even Mary Poppins or, say, He needs me from the Popeye and/or Punch Drunk Love soundtrack. Imagine the clouds, the pink sky and the Walt Disney little birds and you're already there.

So no doubt, Rule no. 1 will be: When you feel like breaking down, take some distance, breath in and see if you need a change of atmosphere. There's no self-imposed rule that can't be broken if you're not happy.