Where's Dara?

20 June 2007

Well, it is been an embarrassingly long while since I have posted onto my blog. Not for lack of desire. Problems with internet connections, utter exhaustion, and being overworked have thwarted my efforts.

Today, though, I am back in our provincial office, where the pace is a little slower and the internet connections a bit better. Plus, we had a little event that I thought I would write about: my Gender Assistant and I shocked our little compound in Fayzabad. How? We played volleyball.

When I came to visit in mid-April to investigate a mass grave (more on that later), the guys in the office had begun to play volleyball. The court was set up on the compound, and the drivers, guards, and substantive staff all played at 5 pm each day, weather permitting.

The volleyball court

On this visit, I was a spectator... and broke in my fancy dancy new camera. I must say, it was a lovely way to end a day--with laughs and hollers, rather than staring madly at a computer.

Our fearless security assistant in action

The competitive head of office blocking

Of course, this is Afghanistan, so there must be two things:

The requisite tea

and...

The spectator

In fayzabad, the mountains are always looking on as well.

On this trip to Fayzabad, I told Dominique, I was determined to play with 'the boys'--however 'scandalous' that would be. I wanted to play too. Harumph.

So, I packed my culturally appropriate clothes to do a culturally inappropriate act: the seemingly innocent act of playing a game of volleyball with my colleagues--co-ed.

And so, at 5 pm yesterday, I walked out onto the court with my long, light pink shirt from Pakistan, and my brown cargo pants along with my well worn sneakers (trainers for you Brits) ready to play--for the first time in 15 years.

The boys did not blink an eyelid. They were happy to play and just rolled with it--particularly my, um, skills. (let's just say I did not do my sex proud yesterday.)

At one point, Dominique and our Political Assistant laughed at me after I hit the ball (successfully, I might add). I asked what was up.

"You," Dominique said laughing, "close your eyes when you hit the ball." It's been 15 years.

Our security assistant decided that I was the weakest link on the team--not necessarily so. He would hit the ball and yell, "Dara!" Beaming with anticipation of me missing the hit. More often than not, I got it. Still, there were enough times that I did acrobatic moves and missed it to entertain everyone.

Towards the end of the 3 set match, the ball went over the the wall of the compound into the neighbors. The guard went to get the ball and came back empty handed. We were informed that the neighbor refused to return the ball. In fact, it turned out, about 6 balls had gone unreturned or been returned punctured. Not a nice neighbor. Of course, the boys had neglected to apologize to the neighbor and thank in with some small gesture... still, though, that behaviour was not called for!

"Dara," our Political Assistant said to me, "he is a bad person."

The boys produced another, dilapitated ball that after a few minutes of play had had its last play. We tried to get the ball back again--to no avail.

Meanwhile, my Gender Assistant said to me, "I am going to play when they come back with the ball."

This is a big thing in Afghanistan. Women do not play with men. Particularly Afghan women. It is shocking enough that I was playing, but huge that she wanted to play. It showed the level of comfort she had in the office, as well as her determination to establish her own rules.

This determination, and her confidence, has led her to become the 'leader' of the women in the office, which is no easy task. Being a women in Afghanistan, and a working woman, is a struggle. Snears, snickers, gossiping behind your back, crude words and insults lobbed at you, and the freezing out of meetings and work in which you should be involved... balanced with the desire to not create 'security concerns' for you or your family. It is not easy being a working woman in Afghanistan--and strong, vocal one. Add to that the weight of the other women's hardships on your shoulder, and you carry a tremendous burden. Coupled with a small child, a husband in Pakistan, and an ill parent and you find a woman with incredible strength of will.

And so, we come to the volleyball court in Fayzabad.

Today, she and I walked onto it, ready to play. She with a scarf wrapped around her head for appropriateness, and I with my pink shirt and cargo pants.

And we all had a blast!

The guys in Fayzabad office were great. She immediately was taken in as part of the team.

My Gender Assistant and her team

They immediately put her in to serve... and boy, does she have a strong serve! They kept her there. Eventually, my team figured that I might be good at serving too and threw me the ball (I was ok).

Me ready to serve

It soon became a battle of the serving women.

My Gender Assistant ready to serve

Me serving!

And another serve...

The game was quite intense today. 5 sets.

The action gets heavy at the net

More action at the net

My team won--little thanks to me,except for my serving. The Security Assistant still was targeting me, relatively unsuccessfully. And Dominique was sending all the difficult ones my way--at least that is what my Gender Assistant felt. I was improving my game--marginally. Still, we beat the other team. Victorious, and with only 1 ball over the wall.

At one point, my Gender Assistant asked, "Do you think that they are talking about me?"

"If they are, it is only good because you are winning them points, unlike me!" I replied. She laughed.

After the game, she was beaming but said to me: "Dara, I only played because you did. I know that they will talk, and they will talk to the guys in the other office." She paused. I looked at her and said, "So what? What did you do wrong?"

She thought, looked at me and said, "Yes, I don't care if they talk. I had fun."

Actually, the guys in the Fayzabad office were great. They made my Gender Assistant feel comfortable, and made sure that she and I had a chance to hit the ball. It is like a little oasis in many ways, but particularly for her. I could tell immediately when I arrived a couple days after her and she was happy, laughing with the guys, and looking much more relaxed than she does normally.

"I think you should spend more time out here," I said to her.

"Yes," she replied with a smile, "I like it out here."

In fact, I am pretty sure that the same would not happen in other offices. In many offices, integrating women staff into the work of the office is a challenge. I never knew how much until I had to do it myself.

As an international women working here you have to be aware of perceptions of you and how that plays into your effectiveness, but for Afghan women the calculations are harder, and choices more difficult.

During one crisis in our office related to gender dynamics, I turned to my female Head of Office and said, "Wow, this must be what our mothers went through--but this must be worse."

So, today, the guys in Fayzabad helped give my Gender Assistant some of the confidence to challenge barriers, and she will no doubt keep pushing. She is one of the many strong women of Afghanistan, and one who does not quite understand her strength. Soon, I hope, she will realize it.

Who would have thought a little game of volleyball could be such an event.

For once, I am posting an entry on the day of the event. Unfortunately, it is a depressing subject.

Today, a suicide bomber shattered the relative calm of Kunduz. It was as audacious as it was devastating. The suicide bomber set himself off on the road in front of the provincial police station. A large number of police were there, apparently practicing for a parade on 28 April. It was in the center of town. It was close to a school. According to reports, 8 died at the scene and at least 20 were seriously wounded.

At 8:35 this morning, the world shattered for those nearby and those whose loved ones and friends died.

My chokidor went to the hospital. He had a good friend who was a policeman. His friend is dead.

"Madam Dara," he said to me, "it is a very horrible day."

Indeed it is.

I found out about it after our morning meeting. My head of office called me and said "No one leaves the office. There are reports of a suicide bomber in town." I called my colleague, who was outside the office, to make sure that he stayed where he was. No movement. I went and told the staff.

And then she called a few minutes later and told me the news. The staff already knew. They find these things out fast.

The last time there was a suicide bomb in Kunduz was last June. At that time, 3 died and 8 were wounded. It was in a market, I believe. There was one attempt in the time that I have been here, but it was thwarted.

Now, we have been warned and jolted out of our sense of relative security. We had a few IEDs (improvised explosive devises) in the provinces, but most were defused. We have the most mobility of any region-and we enjoy it. Now, though, we have been warned.

My female assistant said to me, when she heard the news, "I must start wearing a burka." She interprets this as a clear sign that the Taliban have returned.

I told her to wait and see and not to overreact.

"I was not here last time," she said, "but I heard they killed women for not wearing the burka here."

Wait and see, I said to her.

Another of my national staff said to me, "I just can't figure out what makes someone do this. They are just poor police officers. And why would someone kill himself to hurt others?"

A good question. And one that I really could not start to answer.

The strange thing is about a suicide bombing in the town you are in is that it seems like a hundred miles away if you do not see it with your eyes. If you cannot touch it, it just does not seem real. But you know that it is. And you know the implications.

You are no longer safe.

Nor are your friends or your colleagues.

It happened right down the street--to the people who are supposed to protect you from these things.

It may not seem real--but it is. Your rational side knows.

My female assistant had brought her son into the office. They were supposed to have flown to Fayzabad with her son, a day ahead of the rest of us. The flight was cancelled (as usual) and she returned directly to the office. The only place the car was allowed to go.

Her son is one and half with big, curious brown eyes. Oblivious to our discussion, which was in a language he could not understand, anyway, he blithely went around the office, playing with everything. A happy distraction. So, I thought, let's go into our other office and bring a smile to the guys. The laughs came, as we played our game of hide-and-go-seek.

Normalcy, for us, had returned.

24 February 2007

I made a promise to Dominique before I came to Fayzabad. The promise was that I would bring food—good food—and cook.

The last time I was in Fayzabad, in October, food was an issue. It looked unappetizing; it smelled unappetizing; and it tasted unappetizing. Tired looking lamb with bones in an unrecognizable brown sauce and some tired looking rice at the guesthouse, where the staff lived. At one point, desperate, I asked Dominique if the staff could find something decent to eat. They came back with… strawberry pop tarts! Unbelievable. I have never even seen them in Kabul. We had them for 2 days until the cleaning ladies at the guesthouse absconded with them.

The guesthouse compound

I decided that this trip I was going to take cooking matters into my own hands. And Dominique was more than happy to oblige.

Having recently been in Kabul, I had done a PX run, even filling Dominique’s orders for “anything pork” (it becomes a luxury item in a strict Muslim country) and lots of V8 juice (vegetables are a scarce commodity in Badakshan). I lugged enough pasta, sauce, spices, olive oil, and meat products to last us the week. Plus, I brought the 'piece de la resistance', Betty Crocker brownie mix.

Brownie mix, though, was a compromise. It was in lieu of chocolate chip cookie makings.

The Badakshani Boys had received regular shipments of homemade Afghanized chocolate chip cookies. (They were Afghanized by the fact that our Pakistani gem of an oven, along with the halal margarine (no butter around Kunduz) appeared to render the cookies slow more crispy than my normal cookies.) The boys (Philbert, Dominique, and Hakim) had received relatively regular deliveries via plane and car. It got to the point where I was convinced that, when Dominique said, come out, that he really just wanted my cookies and not my smiling face!

Cookies, I told Dominique before I left, were not in the cards. I had seen the kitchen and it was just too dire to make cookies. Brownie mix was pushing it but would be procured.

After settling in, I pulled out the supplies and asked the food-deprived boy for his preference. Pasta with tomato sauce doctored with one of the treasured port products. So we headed to the kitchen.

The outside of the kitchen

Shiver.

It smelled like an amalgamation of hospitals and a garbage dump stained with meat flavouring. Ugh.

And the implements were coated with blackened oil, basted with a coat of grease, and usually only half functional.

Oh—and there was no sponge or soap. Gotta love Afghanistan.

The guts of the kitchen

More of the glorious kitchen

Dominique dug out some cleaning supplies from his room, and we set off to make ourselves dinner. Cutting onions, garlic, pork products, and boiling water on the greasy counters.

Dominique getting ready to assist the cook

30 minutes later, viola! All was done, except the parmesan. How to grate it? There was a grater but it looked disgusting. We went for shavings.

With our steaming pots and pans in hand, we went into the living room/dining room to eat. Sitting on the table was pizza (if you can call it that) made by the cook. “That,” Dominique said, “ has been there since yesterday’s lunch.” Lovely.

One of the things about being deprived is that even the simplest meal is heavenly. It was so for our Dominique. Easily pleased, I must say.

He was most delighted when I pulled out the brie and crackers. I had to ration them.

“Dominique, there are five days until we go to Kunduz. Pace yourself, man.”

We went to bed that night satiated.

The rest of the week we strategically ploughed through the meat, cheese, and other goodies until Friday, when we had decided we would do a nice dinner with the smoked salmon and veal roll and I had brought… and the brownies, of course. People from outside the organization(shocker for me) were invited over—though only one came.

The challenge for me was to figure out how to cook the brownies. There was no pan the right size. I finally decided on the “pancake method”, as seen below. It is quite involved, you know. Dump the batter and let the batter roll out as it may.

Pancake brownies

(There is also the "dam method", as it is known in posh mission cooking circles-yeah, right. The "dam method" is when you fold up a piece of aluminium foil to make a fake 'wall' and shorten the dimensions of the pan. Honestly, that one slipped my mind.)

Only problem with the pancake method, I discovered, is that it cooks really fast.

Didn’t help that the oven, if it could be dignified with such a designation, had no handles or indicators regarding on what temperature it was.

The problematic oven with the experimental brownies

In fact, we spent four days trying to figure out how to get the oven to work. Yes, a PhD, LLM, and various other degrees between the two of us and we could not figure out how to turn on the oven. It required pliers (or very strong fingers) and turning on the timer as well as the temperature. Who knew?

When the timer ran out in mid-bake (Oh, did I forget to say that, of course, the time was not marked nor were the few markings reliable), you had to battle with the metal remains of the knob to turn it back on. In the midst of roasting potatoes, the timer went out. Our guest had arrived but I was stuck for 10 minutes battling the metal rod with the grease dish towel (don't get me started on that!) until it finally gave way.

By Sunday, when we had to drive back (yes, again!), I must admit that I was gleeful with anticipation of returning to my mildly functional kitchen in Kunduz. Still, I had a happy Dominique, so all was right in Fayzabad.

Happy Dominique

So, here I go again. After a long absence, some entries in the blog…

This one I had almost all written out in Fayzabad, our provincial office, but my computer—not the internet connection—lost it all and I just never got back to writing it, with all 15 photos uploaded.

**************

20 February 2007

“Dancing in the mud”

My last few entries have been about traveling back and forth to Kabul. This one is another travelogue as well, but not to Kabul but instead to our provincial office in Fayzabad, Badakshan.

Before I delve into our adventurous trip, let me orient you a bit. As you know, I cover four provinces in the northeast region of Afghanistan—Kunduz (where I live), Baghlan (which I go through on the way to Kabul), Takhar and Badakshan.

From Kunduz, we can easily cover Baghlan and Takhar, whose capitals are within an hour and a half drive. Badakshan’s capital, Fayzabad, however, while only approximately 200 kilometers (80 miles) away from Kunduz, is about an 8 hour drive. We therefore have an office out there.

Badakshan is said to be the poorest province in the country—and much of it has to do with the terrain. The province encompasses the Wakhan corridor, which is the ‘pan handle’ that juts out into China, and has borders with Tajikistan and Pakistan as well. In fact, there are some areas of Badakshan that are only easily accessed through Tajikistan. The terrain is mountainous and foreboding.

During the election, election materials in some areas of the province were sent out via donkeys. Each donkey had a police escort—sitting on a donkey. The journey took 3 days.

Relatively untouched, the province also can be breathtaking, as you will see from the pictures below. The Government of Afghanistan has not been able to establish district level representation in all of the 28 districts, and in many districts, officials govern from neighboring districts.

The rough terrain has hampered the province’s development. It has one of the highest infant and maternal mortality rates in the world, has incredibly high illiteracy, and, aside from agriculture, narcotics—trafficking and growing poppy—are a key industry.

At the same time, the terrain has made it difficult to conquer. During the Taliban regime, the Taliban were unable to infiltrate the province, in large part due to its geography. One of the leading Jihadi figures of Afghan politics, Professor Rabbani, hails from Fayzabad and maintains a house and a power base there.

Despite the difficulties, humanitarian organizations have been in the province for decades, as has my organization.

Right now, my unit does not have anyone permanently out there, so I try to get out there whenever I can—but that has not been since October. The Head of Office, a former Balkanista himself, Dominique, is always nagging me to come out and to work and to hang out with him and the other international out there, a Rwandan security officer who makes us both laugh.

The plan was to fly and to go for ten days, with the first two and half days focused on work with my Gender Assistant. We made day care arrangements for her son, procured permission from the administration in Kabul to allow her son onto the plan, and had set all our meetings. I had forgotten that this was Afghanistan and the saying “plans are make to be broken” was coined here.

No flight—of course! Why would there be a flight? Snow in Kabul. All planes were grounded. Then the good news came—no flights to Kunduz or Fayzabad for the next 10 days due to maintenance. No choice left. Get in the car and go—but without my Gender Assistant and her 1 year old. The road was unpaved for 7 of the 8 hours. Not the most exciting prospect for a 1 year old.

10 days was shaved to 5 days. No planes meant that Dominique and I both had to drive to Kabul—I to get to a meeting, him to get to flight out for leave.

To finally get me there, we were going to do what is called a “Kiss operation”. (Catchy name, eh?) In a kiss operation, vehicles from two offices meet in the middle and swap passengers or cargo. In this case, the Kunduz cars and the Fayzabad cars were going to meet at Kishem, a town just inside Badakshan province.

So, a few days later off we went, on the paved road towards Takhar, which borders Badakshan. The road to Taloqan, the capital of Takhar, is smooth and the scenery was somewhat green.

View from the car on the road to Taloqan

Entrance to Taloqan

Petrol palace in Taloqan

Anywhere you go, study the gas stations. Not only do they make great money laundering covers, as they did in Kosovo, but they are a great indicator of post-conflict development. (There normally are no McDonalds to use the infamous Big Mac index!) In the Balkans, we termed the gas stations ‘petrol palaces’ because they were gaudy, ostentatious, mini-cities. Some had restaurants, shops, neon jumping dolphins (seriously), and lots of parking. Always amusing are the signs, which are inevitably in broken English but necessary to be a true petrol palace.

The ‘Takar Petrol Pomp’ has the potential to become a petrol palace, as is one of the more sophisticated gas stations I have seen in Afghanistan. Notice the lovely red building in the back with satellite dishes (indicating a TV connoisseur) and the sheltered area for the station attendants. It has potential… unlike the gas station we passed after Kishem, shown below. Plastic chairs, unpainted walls, and no overwhelming awning.

Gas station outside Kishem

One of the striking elements of the drive was the constantly shifting terrain.

As we left Taloqan, the snow capped mountains came into view,

and the terrain began to change—and the pavement of the road to dissipate.

A riverbed outside Taloqan

Fields against the snow capped mountains

The muddy road

In fact, the pavement that was there was being torn up!

Bulldozer and truck tearing up the pavement

I trust that there was some twisted logic behind this destruction of precious asphalt. A project to build a paved road between Fayzabad and Taloqan was inaugurated last fall. Apparently, one must tear up the existing pavement so as to widen and reconstruct the road—or at least this was what I am deducing.

As the car began to drive further into nature, nature began to commune with us. Rivers hugged the road.

A river along the road

And the road became almost indistinguishable from a field—of mud.

The road hugging the river

Then the mud ‘road’ turned to a literal ‘rocky road’.

A car on our rocky road

After a while in deserted mud and rock zones, we came upon a village.

Approaching a village

After the village, a young boy stood along the road, smoothing over a path for the car and putting his hand out for money for the service given. My driver rolled down his window and gave him some small change.

He turned to me, dismayed. “No school,” he said.

In his limited English, he began to lament the lack of jobs and education for people in these areas, as well as the lack of medical care. No money and no education for the young boy on the road, trying to get money anyway he could. Along the way, men young and old repeated the same ritual.

Soon after this encounter, we were thrust into a vast and watery muddy path.

The watery muddy path

The four-wheel drive was, well, useless. As the car swerved back and forth through the mud, almost gliding like an adult just learning how to ice skate for the first time, my driver turned to me and said “The car is dancing to your music. The car likes your music.”

We both laughed.

“Yes,” I replied, “it must really like the music!”

We had been listening to ‘Western’ music on my ipod (yes, they go everywhere!).

Smiling broadly, he drove confidently, swerving through the mud, with, for all I could tell, little if any control of the car, enjoying the Western music.

Eventually, the mud solidified into a soft dirt road, and the evidence of the recent snow fall became more evident…

Snow and mud mix along the way

A road mission in Afghanistan would not be complete without the sighting of a decaying Soviet-era tank… and the one below was the first of many. The tanks remain scattered throughout the country, including in ‘nouveau riche’ neighborhoods of Kabul, because, I was told, there is no equipment to move them, or it, as is likely the case along the road on which I was traveling, the equipment could not easily reach the area to remove them.

During the 2005 elections, we used to pass the hollowed out, rusting tanks in central Kabul on our way to work. That just seemed surreal. Seeing them nestled up in the forbidding mountainous terrain, though, impressed me. The Soviets got them up there, where we barely could maneuver a four wheeled light vehicle and are armoured cars strained to make it along the roads. Of course, while I was never quite convinced about why the Kabul tanks were not removed, I completely understand why no one appears to have attempted to retrieve them here.

The requisite decaying tank

To me, these desolate and decaying tanks serve as a quiet but strong reminder of the defeat of the superpower by not simply the Afghans, but of the raw power of nature. They lie as a symbol of the previous world order, and, echo a melancholy reminder of the battles fought. Plus, there is the simple absurdity of a massive, disintegrating military instrument laying the midst of urban centers or barely accessible wilderness.

As we traveled further, we got caught in a bit of ‘traffic’.

The trucks squeeze by.

Down the muddy road.

Finally, we arrived in Kishem, with our mud-encrusted cars, ready for lunch—the Fayzabad gang was almost done with theirs.

The muddy product.

Suffice it to say, getting out of the car was not a clean affair!

Washing up in front of the restaurant.

As is typical in Afghanistan—and around the world, you must wash before you eat (though the cleanliness of the water is questionable—see below.)

Stream or sewer? You decide.9

As with the trip to Kabul, the typical lunch is either kabob or pilau.

My lunch.

Happily eating pilau!

After lunch, the Kunduz gang bid farewell to the Fayzabad gang, and off I went into the Fayzabad cars down the road.

Driving the road out of Kishem.

We passed villages…

...and boys playing games to pass the time.

Traversed over bridges, while challenging stubborn cows.

The cow was shocked—a vehicle?

And passed men having a chat…

Let’s discuss…

And crossed strong streams, or were they rivers…

A river runs through it.

Slowly, the terrain transformed again.

Rocky mountains, rather than mud covered ones.

Sweeping rivers cutting through the mountains.

Green re-emerges.

As the terrain evolved, so did the way villages nestled into the wilderness.

Roadside village, sprawling.

After a while, we had to check in with our radio room to let them know we had not gotten stuck in the mud, a river, or waylaid in a village. Being in the remote mountains of Badakshan, mobile phones were of little use, as was our VHF or longer range HF radio. Left in our spectrum of communication equipment was a satellite phone. To do so, though, you have to stop, take the phone outside the car, extend the antenna and give the phone a couple of minutes to catch the satellite and then attempt the call (which rarely is successful on the first try!).

During the communications/security briefing I once had, a colleague asked “So, what happens if we are under attack and the satellite phone is the only communication equipment that works?”

“You have to get out of the car and find a safe area to call,” the briefer responded.

“Right,” my colleague said, a bit perplexed.

Checking in with base

Eventually, the green, the rocks, and the mud led us into Fayzabad.

“I’m here!” I reported to Dominique, over my mobile (which only works inside the city limits).

“About time! Come to the office, and then let’s get some dinner,” the fearless head of office responded.

Now eating in Fayzabad is a whole other story… for another entry.

7 February 2007

Today I traveled to Kabul from Kunduz. Supposedly there is a flight from Kunduz to Kabul on Wednesdays. At least that is what the schedule says. Here in Afghanistan, schedules are made but often broken. There was no flight today.

Anvar, our regional admin guru, put it succinctly, “Dara, they are not going to send a plane for one or two people to the North. The South will always be the priority.” He added, “Don’t go to Kabul so much!” [I am working on a project in Kabul right now.]

So, at 7:15 am, I embarked on my third road mission between Kabul and Kunduz in less than a month. The flight schedule, you see, is infinitely reliable.

The drive is actually not that bad—and I am merely a passenger. It is a beautiful drive through changing terrain, and the road is well paved. The most stressful stress-especially in the winter—is the Salong Pass, and, of course, the infamous tunnel built by the Soviets.

Here are some pictures of the road today between Baghlan and the Salong Pass:

Just past Puli Kumri, Baghlan

Another road scene

A door to a home

A village scene

Entering the area of the Salong

Snow of the Salong

Leading to ‘the’ tunnel is a series of open tunnels. Designed primarily to protect the road from avalanches, though they still occur in other areas of the Pass. Just in December a couple people died on the Kabul side in an avalanche.

Here are some pictures from 2005 of the open tunnels:

View of Salong tunnels from Kabul side in 2005

Series of Salong tunnels from Kabul side 2005

The tunnel itself is one of the more ominous and strange tunnels I have driven through.
When I drove it the first time this time in Afghanistan, you could barely see in front of the car. That was September.

A picture of the tunnel entrance at the time.

Entrance to closed tunnel in Salong, 7 September 2006

When we drove down just before Christmas, we could only see the lights running along the midline above. The dust, fog, mist, what ever you want to call it, was so thick that you could only see a vehicle’s lights when it was almost upon you. That was not a fun ten minutes to experience. Today, though, it was relatively clear and only small patches of black ice.

What struck me on this trip down to Kabul was how little snow was left. Normally, according to our Afghan staff, February is the month when the snow falls and the Pass is closed, or only open in one direction. Today, in contrast to two weeks ago, we did not even think about putting snow chains on. While a dusting of snow still covered the area, the ground was peeping through. Had winter ended so soon?
One of the two events of any road mission to Kabul are:

(a) the bathroom breaks; and
(b) lunch.

Afghan men, like all men given the chance, have no compunction communing with nature on the side of the road. Traveling with at least 4 men every time (2 drivers and 2 security guards to accompany the drivers on the return trip), it is always amusing to witness the group exodus for the call of nature. They fan out across the field on the side of the road, with no shelter.

As a woman, and a woman in Afghanistan surrounded by men, the problem stems not from going to the bathroom outside, which is no big deal, but from the fact that outside is, well, pretty exposed.

I remember the trip in September, and needing to answer the call of nature on the Salong. Nice mountainous area, you think. No so. There are no trees. Just rocks—and not big ones at that. Not only did I travel down a mountain side, but them had to locate a medium size rock that would protect my modesty somewhat (and I am small!) and then just pray that no car came. After this experience, I believe that I have a better understanding as to why Afghan women wear long shirts which fall just above the knees. The long shirt was somewhat helpful.

The second event, lunch, is always awkward as a woman in Afghanistan. Going to a public restaurant—and there are only two—across the street from one another— that our drivers tend to frequent. Kabob and Kabuli pilau (with carrots and currants and a hunk of lamb hidden under oil-drneched rice) are the two main choices and they come accompanied by a plate with various vegetables. Sometimes the guys hide me in a private room, sometimes, they feel comfortable enough to eat in the main area. One time, when I was with Gabriela (Head of Office), we let the guys go and eat, and chatted in the car, munching on apples.

Today, we went to the smaller of the two restaurants. It only having one area, we ate there.

The interior of the restaurant.

The guards and some of the drivers.

Fazal, one of our drivers, has gone with me on most of my trips to Kabul. He is one of the sweetest guys, and always takes care of me. We chat a bit, and then the driving narcolepsy kicks in… off into a light ‘car sleep’ I go, waking up at every jolt, swerve, etc. Today I awoke at one point, about 45 minutes in because a BBC radio program was on. Just hearing it on the radio awoke me. They were talking about drugs, poverty and gangs in the US.

Soon after we passed an outdoor animal market, throbbing with Afghan men, come to seel their wares.

At one point we saw 5 women crossing the street on horses. 2 were wearing a burkha and three were covered head to toe with a red cloth printed with a bandana-like pattern.

We passed boys playing along the side of the road.

We passed shepards.

We passed the pottery shops were stopped at last time.

And then we hit the chaos of Kabul. The cars mixing with horse drawn carriages. Vendors forming market areas along the road. The paved roads, intermingled with the gravel road, intermingled with the mud, water filled pits of streets. And then, there you were. The center. The billboards, the Serena hotel, the fortified compounds of the key organizations. And then we were at the gate, driving into Headquarters.

5 and 20 February 2007

“We have a problem,” Aleks was telling me over the phone.

“What?” I asked.

“With the cook,” he responded. “You will see it in the email.”

Ten minutes later comes the email.

Subject line: “Cook dissatisfied.”

In Afghanistan, as I have explained before, we all live in ‘guest houses’. These group houses can be ‘private’ or ‘commercially’ run. Obviously, the ‘private’ houses tend to be more like a house. In most every ‘guest house’, you not only have the requisite security guards, but you have at least one chokidoor (house boy), and, normally, a cook.

Houses have cooks in large part because, especially in field offices, people eat all meals at their ‘guest house’ and given the number of people, it is likely that some do not cook. While we did not have a cook last year, we were also in Kabul and had international food shops at our disposal, as well as restaurants. In Kunduz, we have but one restaurant and few shops with novelty items such as pasta, cheese, etc. Kabob or bust! In my house, while I often cook, some housemates struggle with boiling water. The cook is the life line.

Our cook, Gertie, had come to us through some housemates when they moved in from a guest house that was closing down. An Afghan from Taloqan, Takhar—the capital of the neighboring province)--he had been a refugee in Pakistan and apparently cooked at the Italian consulate in Peshawar, Pakistan. Hmmm.

Mid to late 40s or early 50s, he was a puttering presence in our house, always awaiting feedback on the food, or watching intently while I cooked.

He was a pretty good cook for Afghanistan. He cooked nice soups, baked some good (though slightly too sweet) cakes, and decent meat dishes. He, however, did overcook pasta... He also was in charge of buying all the food. While there had been some tension with him about money and the availability of decent ingredients, generally all was good.

Then, the day of email. He apparently had stormed out of the house--throwing his books to the new house manager. When we arrived back home that night there was no cook.

At a house meeting, it turned out that there were two issues: money and conflict with the chokidoor. On the first, apparently, he asked for more money and the house manager would not give him. To all of us, it appeared that money was being skimmed but we had no proof. On the second, he was upset that the new house manager asked the choikdoor to get--now get this--water, oranges and apples in bulk. Territory was violated.

It was decided that I should mediate for the house. Gerdie liked me, as a fellow cook. So, we arranged a meeting.

It took 2 hours of neogtiating. I even had to negotiate between Gerdie and our chokidoor, Saleh, who would get the morning naan (bread).

He was to return the following Sunday (beginning of the week). I left for Kabul before he was to come back. I arrived back from Kabul and there was no cook. Apparently, the house manager had gone through the books and found clear evidence that he had been skimming money from the house. Out he went.

We still have no cook. Our ever able chokidoor, Saleh, is doing his best for the house. Only in Afghanistan.

Daria requested that this little anecdote goes on the blog:

(that’s her)

On Sunday, I was quietly sitting at my desk, working on my computer (It being a workday and all). Ghizal, my office mate and assistant, calls to me, after picking up her phone:

“Dara!,” she says.

I turn to face her—she is cradling her phone against her face, talking to me and the phone. “Yes?” I ask.

“The doctors says that you must go and get the shot,” she responds.

“What shot?”

“The.. shot. You must get it”

“What is the name of the medicine,” I asked – confused and dubious.

She talked into the phone quickly in Dari and then looked up and said hesitantly, “the bird flu shot.”

“Sorry?,” I say.

“The flu shot. The bird flu shot. You must get I,.” She said somewhat insistently.

Somewhat amused, I said, “Ghizal, did you say the bird flu shot or the flu shot?”

Again, a quick Dari conversation into the phone ensues. “The bird flu shot,” she says with confidence.

“Um, I don’t think that there is a ‘bird flu’ shot. I am pretty sure there is no vaccine for it. Are you sure it is not the flu shot?”

She looked at me, unsure if she should be embarrassed, amused, or working to clarify it. She relays this message to the doctor. She looks up at me, and says somewhat crestfallen—“Yes, it is the flu shot.”

25 December 2006

Many of ended up in Kabul for Christmas this year. Most of you are thinking, eh gads.. Christmas in Kabul, how depressing. Not so!

Not only did we have a wonderfully white Christmas, but were there many parties on Christmas Eve, and on Christmas Day the Serena Hotel (4 star hotel chain) in Kabul had a lovely brunch, complete with sushi, smoked salmon (always my weakness) and Chinese dishes) to which a bunch of us went.

See, we are all happy!

Kirstie, Nazia, Sonja, Candice, Kara and me

Javier and Amir happily contented

We then party hopped to a house party, and then off to a relaxing evening near a warm bukhari (heater).

14 December 2006

Today we went to a Buskashi match. Sitting amongst the elders, who were wrapped in turbans and tribal coats, we watched the ancient game play out on a cold, overcast day.

Gabriela, our head of office, had told me the day before that Mir Alam, a famous Buskashi player and local commander, had invited all the internationals of the office to watch the three day game. Purdel, one of our assistants, was excited by the prospect and had attended the opening lunch yesterday.

Buskashi is one of the ‘must-do’ Afghan experiences, and one that is not necessarily easy to find. It is virile and violent game played in the winter or early spring. Men on horses fighting over the carcass of a sheep… dragging it across the field, trying to get it into their team’s circle.

The audience watches the battles from above. The audience is almost exclusively men. When I mentioned to my Gender Assistant that there was a game and asked her if she wanted to go, her eyes looked excited but her mouth said no. “Come,” I said. “You will sit with Gabriela and I—you will be an ‘international woman’ for the day.” She was persuaded, and she came.

The game pitted three teams against one another: Kunduz, Samangan and Takhar. Kunduz and Takhar were from our region, while Samangan was from the neighboring one.

Unfortunately for us, the teams were equally matched. What this translated into was a lot of fighting over the carcass in big, barely moving clumps of horses and few breakaway gallops. No real action.

I should explain the rules of the game a bit more. As I said, the players fight over the carcass. In order to move the carcass, a player must be holding the carcass by their hand (i.e. dragging it along, not carrying it on the horse) while managing to ride the horse. If a player drops the carcass, he or another player must grab it while still remaining on the horse. No jumping down. Certainly is a game of skill and strength.

Given these restrictions, the battle for a dropped carcass is intense and can be fierce. While in possession of the carcass, opponents make every attempt to dislodge it from the player’s grip.

The game we watched mostly involved attempts to grab the dropped carcass. In sports fans terms: a bit, well, boring. Indeed, about an hour of sitting in the biting damp cold of Kunduz, the diehard audience, began to disperse, as did we.

Here are some pictures from our perch above the field (apologies for the quality):

Players setting up, and being told the rules.

The carcass at its starting point.

Gaby, Ghizal, and Mohiuddin at the match.

Referee talking to the crowd

And the game begins!

After the carcass is dropped, a new argument amongst the players ensues.

The battle continues...

Movement begins...

The many hatted crowd

And now a breakaway

Victory!

I sat down with 2 young women, who had removed their burkas as they walked into the compound, and, after a long day, saw a slice of hope.

The women worked for a local radio station for women, by women, about women. They use our internet (however slow it may be), and wanted to meet me and my other new staff member, our Gender Assistant. [Yes, we have the most ridiculous names for posts.]

After the requisite ‘nice to meet you’s and ‘you are doing great work’, we began talking about the issue at the front of our minds: the “16 Days of Activisms Against Gender-based Violence”. It was coming up fast—25 November –10 December and the region and our office just did not have good activists events. It was frustrating me to no end.

Over the past week, my newly arrived Gender Assistant and I had been canvassing the key actors—the Department of Women’s Affairs and the Independent Human Rights Commission to see what they were doing. And we were discouraged. No one who should know knew what we were talking about or if they did they had the days all wrong.

It got to the point where my Gender Assistant turned to me and said, “Are you sure we are right about the dates?” (I checked my files when we got back to the office, doubting myself as well. I was right.) After the third person told us the wrong dates, my Gender Assistant said, “Is Afghanistan in some alternate reality?” “Seems to be,” I said.

These young women, however, were not part of the alternate reality. As we chatted about ideas we were kicking around for more activists events, one of them said, “Why can’t we give the victim’s a voice? Why can’t we give them an opportunity to tell their stories and expose the awful things happening to them?” It was a great idea.

As we developed it with them, I got more excited. After a week and half of pulling teeth in the office for national staff’s ideas, here were two intelligent young Afghan women developing a program. It gave me hope for Afghanistan.

Postscipt: On 29 November, the Department of Women’s Affairs in each of the three of the region’s province facilitated a radio program called “Giving Victims Voices”, in which victims of violence against women spoke about their ordeals. The response was positive, and the hope is that help create momentum to address these awful cases.

12 November 2006

There he was sitting across from me. The police chief. Just plump enough not to burst out of his fall uniform, comfortably ever so subtly reclining in his chair, perpendicular to mine. He was talking in the foreign tongue they all speak in up here—Dari (a dialect of Persian/Farsi). I was half listening, looking at his conspicuously clean desk next to him, at the note taker, and was extremely self-conscious because of the cameraman holding the digital camera filming us. (This is not uncommon. During many one-on-one meetings there is a camera stuck in my face.)

He was telling me about the background of a potentially volatile land dispute. I needed to know the information but I was just trying to judge the veracity of it. And there he was sitting across from me –again.

The last time I saw him he had laughed my question off. It was about why he had not apprehended one of his dstrict Police Chiefs accused of murder. He laughed. Yes, laughed at me. “This is not a problem,” he said. “He will report to me because I told him to come.” This was unlikely because he had complained to the Governor 30 minutes earlier that this district Chief of Police was not obeying his orders. Clearly, he wanted me off his back.

But today he wanted me intently listening to what he had to say. He requested the meeting. He had calmed the situation a few days before, avoiding a violent protest that could have blocked the main highway from the North to Kabul. Today, though, his job was different. He was assuring me all would be calm, and blaming the ‘other’ main ethnic group. I was entering familiar territory.

After he had his say, entertained my questions—somewhat—whilst answering his cell phone every five minutes—we were ushered into the adjacent room for lunch.

Now, I have been privy to a few lunches in my time in Afghanistan, with Governors, former commanders, elders, and the like. All feasts. All too much food. And all with more vegetables than this lunch. This lunch was fit for a fighting man: meat, meat, and, more meat.

Kebab—usually three pieces on a skewer, two small lamb pieces sandwiching a small piece of fat (are we getting why Afghans have short life expectancies?). A leg of roasted lamb. Half a roasted oversize chicken. Tear off pieces of the lamb and chicken, slap it on top of the rice, and pull at it with your fingers.

Rice, a staple of the Afghan diet, was on the table. Half a heaping platter for me, the other half for the Chief. My assistants shared a platter. Drenched in oil, it is not as healthy as you think. The Chief had been nice enough to give me a spoon to eat it with. He, as most Afghans do, grabbed a bunch of rice with his hands and pushed it into a loose ball and ate it. He was more focused on the rice than the bread. In every Afghan meal there seems to be at least 2 starches.

As we ate, we continued to chat. My poor assistants eating and translating. Such is the life of field staff…”Why have you not eaten much,” the Chief asked. (I had eaten most of my kabob, a bunch of chicken, half my slab of bread, and a good chunk of the rice in an attempt to not be impolite.) A little dismayed, I quickly tried to think of a witty retort. The only thing I could come up with was: “I am smaller than you, so I eat less—not everything fits!” He accepted this weak response.

A few days before, my hosts had apologized for the poor quality of the food. We had soup, some fresh vegetables, a wet bread and meat dish (laden with fat that I only picked at), and apples. Tad more interesting and healthy though not the most fabulous meal. Did the trick though. “No, “ I said, “It was perfect.”

My hosts were a group of elders—former jihadi commanders, civil servants, mullahs—representing the side of the land dispute that had wanted to protest. We had been sitting for about an hour before the meal came. They told me their winding side of the story, and when the plastic mat for the food started to be rolled out along the floor (we were sitting on cushions on the ground, as is traditional), they were marking a hand drawn map for me. “These people came here 300 years ago.” “This is pasture land.” “This is where they want to put the dam.” They explained as they drew more detail.

“We had come to speak with them about the piece of barren land in dispute. Three major tribes, fighting over a piece of what is better characterized as desert andapparently encouraged by major power brokers in Kabul. It had layer upon layer: political intrigue, systemic failure, ethnic discrimination, fraud, illegal occupation of land, and guns.

We had come to speak with the elders. All were gathered in front of a dilapidated house by the side of the main road. As we entered the lawn, some turned their heads. The Pashtuns are the most conservative ethnic group in Afghanistan. My assistant was concerned that I was not dressed conservatively enough, though I had one of my longest shirts. He made me put on the summer jacket I had with me.

The elders themselves were not dressed how I expected. Some were in the traditional shawar kameez, some in more western dress, and not all with the traditional turban. They sat in a circle on mats on the ground outside, or milling about, chatting away.

The leading mullah introduced me to each elder—approximately 20, giving me the background of each elder. It was somewhat overwhelming. Then they ushered me upstairs for a chat about land and to draw me maps.

As we left, and said goodbye, one of the elders ran up to the car and said, “Oh, by the way, if the other party does not stop building, we are protesting. And well, we know they have arms, so we must bring ours.” “But you will not be violent, will you?” I asked. “We cannot make any promises.” Bit of a whopper to be a ‘oh by the way’, don’tcha think?

Welcome to Afghanistan.

Here is the first of some older entries that I wrote before the invention of da blog.

************

November 11, 2006

Today, I woke up happy to find our electricity still on. Until two days ago, we had had almost 24 hour electricity in Kunduz—something unheard of in Afghanistan. Kunduz benefits from its proximity to Tajikistan, and imports much of its electricity—or so I am told. When it rains, snows, or there is a wind storm, however, the luck has run out. There is no electricity.

Two days ago, Thursday, I woke up and there was no sun streaming through my thin brown curtains. I thought this strange, and looked at my clock. Nope, it was 6:30 am. Sun should be blaring into my room. Hmm. I crawled out of bed and pulled the curtains back and looked out. No blue sky. In fact, I could barely see the clouds. It was all fuzzy, gray. Not so good.

We had been lucky. It was just getting a bit cool at night, but a week into November, it was comfortable, even, at times, hot during the days. In Kabul, it had been cold—sweaters and jackets needed, and the first snow had fallen on the Salong Pass a couple of weeks before. No, it now seemed the winter had arrived in Kunduz. Sigh.

A bit groggy—as one can only be on an overcast day, I got ready, called for the car to pick me up, and stumbled out the door when it arrived at the gate. When I walked out there was a strange mist or fog. Sort of brown everywhere. In my state, I could not place what it was. The air was heavy with moisture, and the blanket of clouds ominous. The weather had turned.

As the morning wore on, the wind came. Lots of wind. In fact, I soon figured out what the strange mist was: dust. We were in the midst of a 15-hour dust storm. Yup. A dust storm.

Apparently I had missed the first one when I was relaxing in Bali a couple weeks prior. Now, after months without rain, in a place naturally full of dry, the winds that come before a storm kicked up a dust storm.

It was everywhere. It snuck through window joints, swirled through frames and got into your hair, nostrils and settled on anything it could find. It snuck in—it did not force its way into these places. The dust hung in the air rendering visibility almost nil, forcing people to cover their noses and mouths with the ubiquitous scarf or turban, and brought the city to a crawl (Boy was I glad I was not needing to fly that day!). There were no tornadoes of dust, like I had seen before. It just saturated everything—so much so that when the wind kicked up from its slightly more than gentle steadiness, you did not really notice the dust moving. It was there, though.

The wind and the dust, and the impending rainstorm coming from Mazar-I-Sharif, east of us, meant that the powers-that-be decided to cut the electricity—or so I was told. By the time I went home in the evening, once the rain had started coming down, our house was pitch black.

Being a newly established house hoping to get a generator lent from the organization, we, in our venerable wisdom, had not yet procured a generator—of any size. I guess we were gambling a bit, but like I said, we had electricity but for a few minutes a day.

Our luck just had run out.

When I arrived home, I found one candle. “Saleh (our chokidor/house helper),” I called as a stumbled into the dark house, “do we have any more candles?”

Close behind me, he responded: “No.”

“Aleks!!!” I yelled as I walked up the stairs to our house manager’s room. Had to think fast. Stay in the dark and feel my way to some dinner or…

“Yes, Dara” he answered in his Bosnian accent. [Yes, I managed to find a Bosnian from Sarajevo even in the wilderness of Afghanistan!]

“Have you eaten? [It was after 7 pm so he usually would have.]”

“No.”

“Let’s go eat at the German Restaurant”, I said. The German is the only restaurant in town for us expats. And the only place with beer.

“OK,” he easily acquiesced.

Off we went, driving through the wet, dark city to the light. Or so we thought. At some point the restaurant’s generator went—for 45 minutes. But they had candles. And food, beer, and people. Right before we left, the generator was back online. Alas, no city power.

Back to the house we went, with a few more candles around, courtesy of Saleh. Nothing else to do but say good night and go off to bed.

The next morning I awoke, with hope—which was immediately dashed. No sun. No electricity. And it was our day off. Sigh. I stayed in bed and read.

At about 10:30, Aleks knocked on my door. Sitting in the living room we looked at each other, and he, as the fearless house manager said, “I think we need to buy a generator.” I immediately agreed.

“Usually,” Aleks said with the authority of someone having lived in Kunduz for 2.5 years, “this will last for 2-3 days. It rains, they cut the electricity, they have to fix something, and we wait for 2 or 3 days.” That just horrified me. “How much?” I asked.

As we lamented our plight, both of us, we soon found out, had taken showers not knowing if we would have hot water the next day. We laughed at each other and then got to business. There were only 3 of 8 housemates in the house. Everyone else was on leave—can you believe that! [Everyone is on a 6 week leave cycle—after 6 weeks you have a week leave and everyone flees.] So, we consulted with our only other present housemate and made the only decision possible: get a generator.

We would get the ‘back-up generator’-- 4-5KW, as we were still holding out hope for one from the organization. Such a small generator would not run the boilers, but it would run everything else—like our housemate’s private freezer in which hundreds of dollars of food was going bad.

Aleks made arrangements to meet our engineer (Afghan) after Friday prayers and have him call the electrician. “Don’t worry—we prepared all the wiring for a generator before. All we need is the generator. And that should only cost $300-400.” OK, I said and left it to him and went to the office.

Friday’s, you see, are a nice day to go to the office. Our Saturday but in commerce terms more like Sunday, it is catch up day. Organize your life (or pretend to), clean out your inbox, file, catch up on personal emails. Yes, that it what Fridays are for.

Not this Friday.

The driver dropped me off in the compound. It was a bitter, wet cold, and I had my heavy fall jacket on—only 48 hours earlier I had had on my summer jacket. I walked up the external stairs, opened the door to go to my desk and saw it...

A big plastic garbage can by the door, where normally there was only carpet. That was the first thing I saw. Then I turned right to head to my desk. The bookshelf, I noticed was, well, no longer against the wall. Instead, it was angled out into the hallway, almost touching my desk.

I should explain--my desk is literally in a corridor, by a door connecting with another corridor. In this series of corridors sits 5 on my side, and 6 on the other. Not so conducive to effective work, but a place to set your things. Or so I thought.

Following the back of the bookcase back to the wall, I saw a huge water stain, and two more big plastic buckets almost as big as me. Then I pulled my eyes towards me and saw that the printer and digital sender were gone. And I then walked towards my desk and saw wet papers and destroyed binders. Yup. The roof—the mud roof— had leaked. And only yesterday, men where banging over my head fixing it.

And to top it off, I was Officer-in-Charge (everyone being on leave and all). Wouldn’t it be lovely if the building collapsed on my watch. I called our Admin guru…”Um, Anvar, I just walked into the office and it appears that the roof has leaked.”

“Yes,” he responded, “we thought something like that might happen. We put plastic over everything last night.”

“Hmm.. well, don’t think it worked.”

“No worries, they will work on it later today.”

“Ok. Thanks,” I said, at a loss for a better response.

After assessing the damage, I turned on my computer (thankfully unharmed) and went to work—unable to print anything. An hour later I heard “plip”. Then “plip”. And another, and another, closer together. What is that, I thought. I tried to ignore. Nope, gotta figure it out.

I got up, walked towards the sound. Looked around. Yup. The roof was leaking again. The rain had started again—and it was a downpour. I sighed and went back to work, with the “plip”, “plip” adding ambience. What else to do?

Then the phone rang. “Um, Dara, Aleks here.” “Yeah?” “I have been to 3 places and only working generator I can find is 5 KW generator for $500.” “That’s a little much, isn’t it?” “Yeah, but the guy won’t budge. All the others are Chinese. This is Korean. It is quality.” We chatted a bit, trying to figure out what to do. Then a half hour later chatted again—at that time he had him down to $470—after walking out. 45minutes later, we got it for what it was worth--$400. Aleks is our house manager for a reason—never mess with a stubborn Bosnian.

At 4 pm I called Aleks. “Power yet?” “Well, we have the generator, the fuel, and the generator works… it just does not power anything in the house.” “Great.” I went home an hour later. The generator was still not connected. But the rain had stopped. And there was Aleks, holding a massive MagLite, Saleh and John looking on, and two electricians standing on a flat ladder playing with electrical wires in the fuse box on the side of the house.

Water was dripping into the fuse box. A calamity waiting to happen. 30 minutes later, with no electrocutions, we got the generator working.

5 minutes later the city power went on—but only on the first floor. Why? Good question.

In a normal place, if the power was on the whole house would work—all the fuses were on, etc. Yeah…not in a normal place.

Apparently, we have 3 different wires running from the city power into the house—1 per floor. Each one represents a different ‘phase’ of the power company. Whereas in normal places (and I cannot believe I am putting Pristina in this category), one ‘phase’ runs to one area of the city, in Kunduz you get the benefit of each phase all over the city and one floor having electricity while the other two do not. Hey, at least there is electricity in the house, right? Hmm.. not so fast. It went out almost as soon as it came.

Later that night, after having dinner guests suffer through the loud generator, the city electricity went back. And thus, I woke up to electricity this morning.

Having begun the morning well, I thought, let’s go to the Youth Civic Participation Conference in town. I walked into the dubious Kunduz Hotel and into the conference room where around 100 young people from all over the Northeast region were sitting, listening attentively to their peers talk about what youth civic participation meant. They were demanding a voice, dismissing ethnic differences, and decrying the lack of employment opportunities. The MC was a young woman, and each province spoke through a man and a woman.

Then some of the young teenagers did a skit, mimicking a family chat, a neighbor drop in, and commentating on the need to be environmentally conscious (throwing your trash in the street is so disgusting), and encouraging civic participation.

The goal of the conference is for the region’s youth to develop an action plan. I must say, they appear to be the most organized group I have seen--including the adults.

(Dara writing here...) Yes, the nagging has finally paid off--though we all may come to regret that. I have given into the peer pressure--it was unbearable--and am now entering the 21st century.

So, to all, welcome to my blog. Established by popular demand. Hopefully someone will read it--other than Matt.

People have asked me to write about my trapsing around the world, or at least the corners that I frequent, so here is the new place to find out about it.

Next post--I promise--will be more interesting!

(It's Matt writing here...) After a lot of nagging, I've finally managed to convince Dara to keep a blog. So here it is!