Where's Dara?

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.

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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.