Greg and I enter a movie theater in Bristol, UK...
G: (To the ticket saleswoman) Hi, we just got in from Afghanistan and we don't know what's going on. Can you make a movie recommendation?
Ticket Saleswoman: Uhhh.....Shrek?
24 July 2010
19 July 2010
Exit Strategy
I'm on the move in the next couple of days, but stay tuned! More updates to come on the blog...
17 July 2010
The Plot
It was another beautiful night in Kabul. I was on the terrace, watching the bats flit around a neighboring floodlight and thinking over a few things. Earlier in the evening, in a kind and thoughtful gesture from the government of Afghanistan, a Colonel with the National Directorate of Security (NDS) stopped by and informed me they had received intelligence that I was the target of a kidnapping plot. Unfortunately I wasn’t noteworthy enough to be a political kidnapping; this one was going to be for financial purposes. These would-be kidnappers obviously hadn’t seen my 2009 income tax returns.
A kidnapping would be a big fiasco for me personally. Maybe if it had happened earlier in my stay, I would have had the energy for that sort of thing, but I had been living and working in Kabul for months already. I was tired and frayed around the edges. Besides, I had led the majority of my loved ones to believe I was in India and it seemed hurtful for them to learn the truth from a Yahoo! news brief.
What to do? Well, Kabul Conference was coming up, which meant lockdown was at hand in a few days and movement around the city would become nearly impossible. The Colonel from NDS had suggested I disappear for a week, possibly take up residence in another hotel such as the Serena or the InterContinental. Both seemed unlikely options, as they were not within the budget of a civil servant such as yours truly and would soon be loaded with guests who were political kidnapping worthy. Besides, I already knew the risks at my current site: it was haunted by freaky ghosts and people were trying to kidnap me. Who knew what I would face at the new location?
My visa expiration was rapidly approaching anyway, and my departure from Afghanistan was imminent—less than a week away. Although I was going to miss my Central Asian home, it was time for a vacation.
A kidnapping would be a big fiasco for me personally. Maybe if it had happened earlier in my stay, I would have had the energy for that sort of thing, but I had been living and working in Kabul for months already. I was tired and frayed around the edges. Besides, I had led the majority of my loved ones to believe I was in India and it seemed hurtful for them to learn the truth from a Yahoo! news brief.
What to do? Well, Kabul Conference was coming up, which meant lockdown was at hand in a few days and movement around the city would become nearly impossible. The Colonel from NDS had suggested I disappear for a week, possibly take up residence in another hotel such as the Serena or the InterContinental. Both seemed unlikely options, as they were not within the budget of a civil servant such as yours truly and would soon be loaded with guests who were political kidnapping worthy. Besides, I already knew the risks at my current site: it was haunted by freaky ghosts and people were trying to kidnap me. Who knew what I would face at the new location?
My visa expiration was rapidly approaching anyway, and my departure from Afghanistan was imminent—less than a week away. Although I was going to miss my Central Asian home, it was time for a vacation.
10 July 2010
Propane Nightmares
I never thought I would be the kind of person who was intimidated by or jumped at loud noises, but propane accomplished its mission of fully scaring the hell out of me when it somehow ignited and exploded in the shower this morning. Luckily I was practicing the wasteful western habit of letting the water run for no good reason while I accomplished other tasks at the time. I made an executive decision to stop trying to take hot showers, as they get tepid at best anyway, it's July, and the rise in temperature isn't worth the accompanying skin graft.
06 July 2010
Transportation Dialogue
G: How are you?
J: Good. Just got back from a UNDP meeting. I am like not entirely excited about going places in a car marked with UN in big letters on the side of it since that one got attacked.
G: Yeah, don't go high profile. Keep it low.
J: There's no way, they put a gigantic UN on all the vehicles. A car was attacked last week, the driver was shot. I don't know the details. Maybe a gambling debt. But they always blame the T.
G: We're always using soft shell local vehicles with local drivers. That's a lot safer than a big hard shell with idiots.
J: Yeah, if we rode around in taxis with cracked windshields and no AC I guarantee there would be no attack. People would realize we had suffered enough.
G: That's right.
J: They would probably offer us some funding from their kidnapping money so we could be more comfortable.
J: Good. Just got back from a UNDP meeting. I am like not entirely excited about going places in a car marked with UN in big letters on the side of it since that one got attacked.
G: Yeah, don't go high profile. Keep it low.
J: There's no way, they put a gigantic UN on all the vehicles. A car was attacked last week, the driver was shot. I don't know the details. Maybe a gambling debt. But they always blame the T.
G: We're always using soft shell local vehicles with local drivers. That's a lot safer than a big hard shell with idiots.
J: Yeah, if we rode around in taxis with cracked windshields and no AC I guarantee there would be no attack. People would realize we had suffered enough.
G: That's right.
J: They would probably offer us some funding from their kidnapping money so we could be more comfortable.
03 July 2010
Horses and Carts
My car pool had determined that as a native English speaker, I was obligated to teach them two new words a day. The program seemed to be going well.
On Wednesday the driver pointed at the windshield.
“Windshield,” I said.
It came out the next day that this had been a misunderstanding. The driver had actually been pointing through the windshield at a horse and cart.
I explained the options for animal-pulled transportation and their various conditional uses: cart, carriage, buggy. The lesson was satisfactory and met with some approval. Later on in the day the lesson became more relevant when Kenta needed to change money on the way home, and a donkey-pulled cart collided with our vehicle as we were stopped on the side of the road.
“I never should have asked to stop for my personal reasons.” Kenta shook his head regretfully.
“At least the English lesson will be useful,” I said.
That afternoon I stopped by a French development organization that had offered me a job.
Me: As headquarters explained it to me, they can’t hire me until this other key position has been filled, or it’s like putting the cart before the horse.
Them 1: Right, except in this case, we don’t even have a horse.
Them 2: There is no horse.
On Wednesday the driver pointed at the windshield.
“Windshield,” I said.
It came out the next day that this had been a misunderstanding. The driver had actually been pointing through the windshield at a horse and cart.
I explained the options for animal-pulled transportation and their various conditional uses: cart, carriage, buggy. The lesson was satisfactory and met with some approval. Later on in the day the lesson became more relevant when Kenta needed to change money on the way home, and a donkey-pulled cart collided with our vehicle as we were stopped on the side of the road.
“I never should have asked to stop for my personal reasons.” Kenta shook his head regretfully.
“At least the English lesson will be useful,” I said.
That afternoon I stopped by a French development organization that had offered me a job.
Me: As headquarters explained it to me, they can’t hire me until this other key position has been filled, or it’s like putting the cart before the horse.
Them 1: Right, except in this case, we don’t even have a horse.
Them 2: There is no horse.
28 June 2010
The Loss of My Friend
Things haven't been the same around home since My Friend left, a key staff member at my hotel. He was a vital component to interests near and dear to my heart, like breakfast. I don't really know what My Friend's real name is. There was a Japanese woman around for a few days who has been coming to Afghanistan since 1996, and one time she called him Hussaini, but I never heard him introduce himself as anything other than My Friend.
At first, none of us took My Friend's alleged departure to the south seriously. "He's been saying that for two years," Abdullah said. Still, I threatened to hobble him, and Ged and I discussed some sort of captivity plan. Eventually My Friend escaped anyway. As a former teacher, he had to fulfill several more contracts before he could receive his pension. They sent him to Kandahar along with ten other teachers, perhaps Helmand and Uruzgan to come. I haven't really been able to secure a breakfast since, and the days of two cups of coffee in the morning are long gone.
Above: My Friend gleefully shows us his plane ticket, as we all voice our disapproval. "I'll take a picture in case you get kidnapped," I offer. "Okay," My Friend says. "Thank you."
At first, none of us took My Friend's alleged departure to the south seriously. "He's been saying that for two years," Abdullah said. Still, I threatened to hobble him, and Ged and I discussed some sort of captivity plan. Eventually My Friend escaped anyway. As a former teacher, he had to fulfill several more contracts before he could receive his pension. They sent him to Kandahar along with ten other teachers, perhaps Helmand and Uruzgan to come. I haven't really been able to secure a breakfast since, and the days of two cups of coffee in the morning are long gone.
Above: My Friend gleefully shows us his plane ticket, as we all voice our disapproval. "I'll take a picture in case you get kidnapped," I offer. "Okay," My Friend says. "Thank you."
20 June 2010
Foreigner Landscaping Techniques
A pond of fecal waste material, complete with decorative fountains, outside a military installation in Kandahar.
Photo complements of Paul Junior, reporting from Kandahar.
16 June 2010
Goodbye, Wall!
The concrete wall I usually face when I walk outside was totally missing this morning. It was visually shocking, but I knew its disappearance was coming. The cranes had been working on it all night, removing the cement barriers that ran the length of the road, the same that hid virtually all the buildings in Kabul for security purposes.
Mustafa came into our sitting area when they first started to remove the wall yesterday afternoon. He said Karzai signed a deal with the Taliban and both sides were making concessions: no more suicide bombings, no more barriers. The old foreigners I live with all grumbled something like: "...grumble grumble....until the next suicide bombing....grumble grumble....," but I celebrated the peace agreement, because even fifteen minutes of peace agreement seemed better than no peace agreement, and I was looking forward to seeing what some of these buildings looked like after all.
I searched for some news on it later in the day, but there was nothing, and like most things here in Afghanistan, I had absolutely no idea if it was true or not.
Mustafa came into our sitting area when they first started to remove the wall yesterday afternoon. He said Karzai signed a deal with the Taliban and both sides were making concessions: no more suicide bombings, no more barriers. The old foreigners I live with all grumbled something like: "...grumble grumble....until the next suicide bombing....grumble grumble....," but I celebrated the peace agreement, because even fifteen minutes of peace agreement seemed better than no peace agreement, and I was looking forward to seeing what some of these buildings looked like after all.
I searched for some news on it later in the day, but there was nothing, and like most things here in Afghanistan, I had absolutely no idea if it was true or not.
13 June 2010
An excerpt from the Listening Project, Afghanistan
“I was at a meeting with an NGO and I asked ‘Is the assistance going to the poorest?’ and no one answered.”
-Resident of Kabul
-Resident of Kabul
04 June 2010
The REAL threat: hotel ghosts and migrant pigeons-
At home, I was still trying to rack up support for the filming of a new movie about the hotel. I needed a host for the segment. I thought about it every day when I went out onto the roof. I was smoking up to a pack a day, sometimes more, cleverly edging the dust out of my lungs with smoke, which was especially useful lately, as the dust had been swirling around us at an even more frenzied clip. I was watching some birds build a nest in the bathroom window down by my portion of the fourth floor. Between that and the ledge outside my bedroom, these pigeons had me surrounded with their habitat. My living space echoed with a persistent cooing at certain times of day.
In the old days, the Soviets used the building to hold, interrogate and torture potential enemies. Now it was my hotel. It was so goddamned haunted. A hotel employee had once seen an apparition so terrifying, he fired his gun at it and then fled the hotel, never to return. Although I had heard some impressive stories, I hadn’t seen much of anything too frightening, but then again, I was often too exhausted to humor any dead people in my down time. I was sleeping through everything: gunfire and explosions, pigeons, ghostly torture victims. The foreigners at work told me that as foreigners, we have a stamina expiration date of about 3 months in Afghanistan, and if you don’t take a vacation after that amount of time you usually wind up sick or crazy, or both. So I was pushing the envelope, but I wasn’t exhausted enough to sleep through the seismic tremors a few mornings ago, although I didn’t immediately identify them as earthquake material, instead pinning the shaking walls on my new, possibly frisky neighbors or their many lively children.
In the old days, the Soviets used the building to hold, interrogate and torture potential enemies. Now it was my hotel. It was so goddamned haunted. A hotel employee had once seen an apparition so terrifying, he fired his gun at it and then fled the hotel, never to return. Although I had heard some impressive stories, I hadn’t seen much of anything too frightening, but then again, I was often too exhausted to humor any dead people in my down time. I was sleeping through everything: gunfire and explosions, pigeons, ghostly torture victims. The foreigners at work told me that as foreigners, we have a stamina expiration date of about 3 months in Afghanistan, and if you don’t take a vacation after that amount of time you usually wind up sick or crazy, or both. So I was pushing the envelope, but I wasn’t exhausted enough to sleep through the seismic tremors a few mornings ago, although I didn’t immediately identify them as earthquake material, instead pinning the shaking walls on my new, possibly frisky neighbors or their many lively children.
01 June 2010
Immigrant Jirga
The Rhodesian gunsmith and I were sitting around, watching some lousy movie on cable as usual. He was naming all the different kinds of guns as they appeared in the movie and commenting on their comparative advantages.
The Danish botanist was depressed, lying on the couch. I knew he was depressed because a little bit earlier I had pointed in his direction and shouted,
“Look at him! He’s depressed!”
“I am,” he had confirmed. “Every day I think I’m going to get my visa extended.”
He was facing disappointment on a daily basis, reminiscent of the woes that had initially surrounded Paul Senior’s visa extension application, slowly torn in half before his very eyes at the Ministry of the Interior. The botanist was aiming for not only a visa extension but also some permits to extract vegetation from Afghanistan that he found relevant to his botanical research in some way. It all seemed highly unlikely to me given the track record of other foreigners I had witnessed before him but I was keeping my potentially negative mouth shut due to his already-descending depression. He was the third Danish expedition dispatched to the Wakhan Corridor. I think he said the last one was deployed about a hundred years ago.
But so far he was trapped in Kabul due to these aforementioned visa concerns, as were many others (c.r. the Swiss motorcyclist, until his eye had gotten so infected he had to go home because he was becoming a medical emergency and just the sight of him was starting to get a little bit sickening).
The next day, at the office, I went to print something, but when I tried to retrieve it, the printer was missing. I saw it later on, sitting in a wheelbarrow outside Building A.
The Danish botanist was depressed, lying on the couch. I knew he was depressed because a little bit earlier I had pointed in his direction and shouted,
“Look at him! He’s depressed!”
“I am,” he had confirmed. “Every day I think I’m going to get my visa extended.”
He was facing disappointment on a daily basis, reminiscent of the woes that had initially surrounded Paul Senior’s visa extension application, slowly torn in half before his very eyes at the Ministry of the Interior. The botanist was aiming for not only a visa extension but also some permits to extract vegetation from Afghanistan that he found relevant to his botanical research in some way. It all seemed highly unlikely to me given the track record of other foreigners I had witnessed before him but I was keeping my potentially negative mouth shut due to his already-descending depression. He was the third Danish expedition dispatched to the Wakhan Corridor. I think he said the last one was deployed about a hundred years ago.
But so far he was trapped in Kabul due to these aforementioned visa concerns, as were many others (c.r. the Swiss motorcyclist, until his eye had gotten so infected he had to go home because he was becoming a medical emergency and just the sight of him was starting to get a little bit sickening).
The next day, at the office, I went to print something, but when I tried to retrieve it, the printer was missing. I saw it later on, sitting in a wheelbarrow outside Building A.
25 May 2010
Countdown
I've been trying to make a movie about food for three months, but when it arrives I get so excited I eat it before I can remember to take the damn picture. So here's a movie about my day at work.
Countdown: another day at the office. May 18, 2010.
Countdown: another day at the office. May 18, 2010.
23 May 2010
Magic stick!
A man walks into a hotel lobby in Kabul and says, "Can you hold onto this stick for me?"
I'm not even starting a joke here!
Rick the Journalist has returned from shooting his piece on the Shinwari tribe for Al Jazeera bearing a magic stick they gifted him. As he can't easily leave the country with something that could be used to beat a fellow passenger into submission, I agreed to hold onto the souvenir until he returns to Afghanistan in three weeks.
I don't really understand the properties of a magical stick, and so far both google and the stick have revealed little to me. Will update the blog as more information becomes available.
19 May 2010
Get out your running shoes!
18 May: As if the morning commute weren't laborious enough, suicide bombers detonate an explosive-filled vehicle. I was already in the office at the time. Reports say it killed 18 people, most on a public bus, and wounded dozens. The road was crowded with rush hour traffic.
Some claimed it was a rocket attack, but there was no sound of trajectory, and we discovered later on (per the media) that it was actually 1,650 pounds of explosives in a Toyota minivan, rammed into the ISAF convoy that we pass on the road. The damage in the office amounted to nothing more than broken windows and fallen light fixtures.
They kept us half-dozen foreigners in a safe room for a few hours. I don't know what made that room different from the other rooms. Is it just the name? Perhaps they were going for a placebo effect.
Unfortunately they had just started re-paving the road down here. I don't know what these suicide attackers have against a nice, newly paved road. It would also benefit their attacks. Do you really want to stop and change a tire on your way to an operation with more than 1,000 pounds of explosives in the back?
I only heard the attack; I didn't really see anything except a plume of smoke and a gigantic helicopter. I wanted to use the bombing as an excuse to go have a coffee at my favorite cafe, but couldn't drum up much support for the idea. I thought about calling my taxi service but then decided that the suicide attack prices were probably unaffordable.
Later in the day it hailed.
Some claimed it was a rocket attack, but there was no sound of trajectory, and we discovered later on (per the media) that it was actually 1,650 pounds of explosives in a Toyota minivan, rammed into the ISAF convoy that we pass on the road. The damage in the office amounted to nothing more than broken windows and fallen light fixtures.
They kept us half-dozen foreigners in a safe room for a few hours. I don't know what made that room different from the other rooms. Is it just the name? Perhaps they were going for a placebo effect.
Unfortunately they had just started re-paving the road down here. I don't know what these suicide attackers have against a nice, newly paved road. It would also benefit their attacks. Do you really want to stop and change a tire on your way to an operation with more than 1,000 pounds of explosives in the back?
I only heard the attack; I didn't really see anything except a plume of smoke and a gigantic helicopter. I wanted to use the bombing as an excuse to go have a coffee at my favorite cafe, but couldn't drum up much support for the idea. I thought about calling my taxi service but then decided that the suicide attack prices were probably unaffordable.
Later in the day it hailed.
14 May 2010
13 May 2010
The Fine Art of the Truth
"It smells like horrible things have happened in here," Paul Senior said on a brief visit to my room. He was right. My new room smelled like sewage. The changes around home had not been entirely favorable to me.
My perfect health record had been blemished the previous week or so when I broke out in a fantastic rash in the middle of a high profile meeting. I tended to blame formerly acquired minor rashes on my laundry. The service has always come with a free rash, but I was reluctant to lodge any complaints with my launderer. He was a military general in the time of the Soviets, now he does my laundry. This new rash was comparatively special and looked a little like radiation poisoning.
The following week, in the middle of my workday, some men had come into the office and taken all the furniture away, then glued down a new carpet. Later, when I got home, I was internally displaced from my standard living area and moved to a room that smelled like sewage and fresh paint. Between the toxicity of my home and my job, I was high all the time. I forgot all the precious new ideas for my blog. I woke up every day with a brand new headache. Critical thinking didn't go as smoothly as before.
The lost blog ideas weren't destined to come to fruition anyhow, as the internet at work had also become internally displaced.
"I can't do this! I can't live without the internet!" I threw up my hands.
"It's only a few days," Ramin said.
"Fariba said it's until the end of May," I said. It was the first week of May.
"Yes, few days, few days. This is Afghanistan. I have become a pure Afghan." Ramin followed up with a few stories about how the local tendency to underestimate time and distance had endangered his life over the years, particularly where activities such as hiking and swimming were concerned.
My perfect health record had been blemished the previous week or so when I broke out in a fantastic rash in the middle of a high profile meeting. I tended to blame formerly acquired minor rashes on my laundry. The service has always come with a free rash, but I was reluctant to lodge any complaints with my launderer. He was a military general in the time of the Soviets, now he does my laundry. This new rash was comparatively special and looked a little like radiation poisoning.
The following week, in the middle of my workday, some men had come into the office and taken all the furniture away, then glued down a new carpet. Later, when I got home, I was internally displaced from my standard living area and moved to a room that smelled like sewage and fresh paint. Between the toxicity of my home and my job, I was high all the time. I forgot all the precious new ideas for my blog. I woke up every day with a brand new headache. Critical thinking didn't go as smoothly as before.
The lost blog ideas weren't destined to come to fruition anyhow, as the internet at work had also become internally displaced.
"I can't do this! I can't live without the internet!" I threw up my hands.
"It's only a few days," Ramin said.
"Fariba said it's until the end of May," I said. It was the first week of May.
"Yes, few days, few days. This is Afghanistan. I have become a pure Afghan." Ramin followed up with a few stories about how the local tendency to underestimate time and distance had endangered his life over the years, particularly where activities such as hiking and swimming were concerned.
05 May 2010
25 April 2010
Paparazzi, V-Day
My co-worker and I wanted to leave work a bit early to attend a conference sponsored by the Youth in Action Association, but she thought there might be some objection to our little excursion, so we told our boss we were going to visit a research institution to pick up some material. While we were at the youth conference, we were filmed by the local and national news networks, who put it (and us) on the evening news. Our whole unit at work saw us, including our boss. Damn paparazzi.
28 April kicks off a 3-day break for us in honor of Victory Day, which I am slightly unclear on, but might mark the day the mujahideen descended on Kabul following a 3-year period of civil war after the ousting of the Soviets in 1989, or might celebrate the victory over the Soviets themselves. One of my co-workers told me a little piece of the Ministry for Urban Development was blown up early this morning, which is an interesting way to commemorate a victory, but I guess we all have our methods of celebration. In 2008, an attempted Karzai assassination killed some parliamentarians at a V-Day event, so I don't know if they hold those high-profile events anymore, but I'll probably celebrate this Victory Day quietly and away from large crowds, which is coincidentally how I celebrate every day.
28 April kicks off a 3-day break for us in honor of Victory Day, which I am slightly unclear on, but might mark the day the mujahideen descended on Kabul following a 3-year period of civil war after the ousting of the Soviets in 1989, or might celebrate the victory over the Soviets themselves. One of my co-workers told me a little piece of the Ministry for Urban Development was blown up early this morning, which is an interesting way to commemorate a victory, but I guess we all have our methods of celebration. In 2008, an attempted Karzai assassination killed some parliamentarians at a V-Day event, so I don't know if they hold those high-profile events anymore, but I'll probably celebrate this Victory Day quietly and away from large crowds, which is coincidentally how I celebrate every day.
24 April 2010
Tim McGirk, you ruiner-
13 April: Time Magazine publishes an article written by Tim McGirk about the "manic craziness" of Kabul's nightlife, patronized, according to him, by spies and mercenaries who make an excess of $100,000 to blow on hookers and booze.
You can review the article online, Kabul Nightlife: Thriving in Between Bombs, and read about what a spectacular time everybody used to have.
15 April: Several bars and restaurants popular with foreigners around town are raided by the police. Over 6,000 bottles of alcohol are confiscated. Some of the establishments close. Some reopen dry, some don't reopen at all. The Minister of the Interior issues warnings to all relevant businesses in Kabul, i.e., bars, restaurants, and hotels, that alcohol is illegal to sell or consume. I hear word from the underground about plainclothes spies strategically placed around town.
Now we're all under Sharia. Thanks a lot, Tim McGirk.
I had frequented a popular expatriate bar a few times and can testify to witnessing several instances of possible moral decay as suspected by the Afghan government, ranging from bare women's arms to a lively fistfight, but the government seemed content to leave the foreigners to their own devices before Tim McGirk came along.
Since the ban on alcohol I had been wrapping my headscarf a little bit tighter anyway, which might come in handy since Iranian cleric Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi announced a link between the lack of modesty among women and earthquakes some days ago. Now, I've never noticed that particular causality, but you never know. Plate tectonics always seemed a little implausible too.
You can review the article online, Kabul Nightlife: Thriving in Between Bombs, and read about what a spectacular time everybody used to have.
15 April: Several bars and restaurants popular with foreigners around town are raided by the police. Over 6,000 bottles of alcohol are confiscated. Some of the establishments close. Some reopen dry, some don't reopen at all. The Minister of the Interior issues warnings to all relevant businesses in Kabul, i.e., bars, restaurants, and hotels, that alcohol is illegal to sell or consume. I hear word from the underground about plainclothes spies strategically placed around town.
Now we're all under Sharia. Thanks a lot, Tim McGirk.
I had frequented a popular expatriate bar a few times and can testify to witnessing several instances of possible moral decay as suspected by the Afghan government, ranging from bare women's arms to a lively fistfight, but the government seemed content to leave the foreigners to their own devices before Tim McGirk came along.
Since the ban on alcohol I had been wrapping my headscarf a little bit tighter anyway, which might come in handy since Iranian cleric Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi announced a link between the lack of modesty among women and earthquakes some days ago. Now, I've never noticed that particular causality, but you never know. Plate tectonics always seemed a little implausible too.
17 April 2010
07 April 2010
Conversations in Afghanistan
At a business appointment in Kabul, 30 March-
CT: Would either of you like some hash?
Me: No...no thanks. You know, I don't want to do anything that would interfere with my ability to run away from something.
CT: You'd be surprised how the adrenaline kicks in. Anyway, sometimes it's about knowing when to run away and when not to.
Me: Yeah...but didn't you get shot?
CT: Well, it's a judgement call.
On a road trip to Istalif, 2 April-
Mark: Is it safe?
Me: Yeah, of course it's safe. And anyway, (pointing to the driver) we've got Massoud's bodyguard here to protect us. (Referring to Ahmad Shah Massoud, military commander of the Northern Alliance.)
Mark: Does he have a gun?
Me: No, but he's got his hands.
Greg: Didn't Massoud get killed?
Me: ...yeah. Shit. Yeah. They assassinated him.
CT: Would either of you like some hash?
Me: No...no thanks. You know, I don't want to do anything that would interfere with my ability to run away from something.
CT: You'd be surprised how the adrenaline kicks in. Anyway, sometimes it's about knowing when to run away and when not to.
Me: Yeah...but didn't you get shot?
CT: Well, it's a judgement call.
On a road trip to Istalif, 2 April-
Mark: Is it safe?
Me: Yeah, of course it's safe. And anyway, (pointing to the driver) we've got Massoud's bodyguard here to protect us. (Referring to Ahmad Shah Massoud, military commander of the Northern Alliance.)
Mark: Does he have a gun?
Me: No, but he's got his hands.
Greg: Didn't Massoud get killed?
Me: ...yeah. Shit. Yeah. They assassinated him.
03 April 2010
Saving Paul Junior: Part 1
Paul Junior used to be an embedded military journalist. He managed a fairly successful article publication, after which his contracting newspaper group entirely failed to pay him. His visa expired. His money ran out. He got sick. He was just another American illegal immigrant in Afghanistan knocking on death's door until Greg and I intervened.
Next time on the blog: Saving Paul Junior Revisited. I delve into the Afghan business world and meet a second American mujahideen in the process. Job offers ensue.
Next time on the blog: Saving Paul Junior Revisited. I delve into the Afghan business world and meet a second American mujahideen in the process. Job offers ensue.
23 March 2010
Happy New Year!
I rang in 1389 on a weekend holiday to the city of Herat, walking around Old City alleys, staring at minarets, sitting around in Friday Mosque, climbing Herat Citadel (courtesy of Alexander the Great), and drinking tea on the roof of Jam Hotel. It was dissimilar to the western concept of New Year's celebrations in some respects, such as the lack of screaming, drinking, and other obvious party functions, although the hotel did string up some lights outside that blinked on and off. On the other hand, traffic did get a bit worse.
A short movie of Herat images in similar fashion to my 2-week movie is probably on its way.
For my first act of 1389, I ate a flavor of ice cream I had never tried before. It tasted like pistachios and rosewater. Also a little bit like cigarettes.
Afghanistan, Pro. Green tea is the national drink of choice: good for health, widely available at low prices.
Afghanistan, Con. Job interview, date, and kidnapping: all virtually indistinguishable from each other in the early stages.
Forthcoming on the blog:
15+ years of staunch vegetarianism die an unholy death when I eat a small pile of unknown baby animal parts.
A short movie of Herat images in similar fashion to my 2-week movie is probably on its way.
For my first act of 1389, I ate a flavor of ice cream I had never tried before. It tasted like pistachios and rosewater. Also a little bit like cigarettes.
Afghanistan, Pro. Green tea is the national drink of choice: good for health, widely available at low prices.
Afghanistan, Con. Job interview, date, and kidnapping: all virtually indistinguishable from each other in the early stages.
Forthcoming on the blog:
15+ years of staunch vegetarianism die an unholy death when I eat a small pile of unknown baby animal parts.
13 March 2010
Massachusetts Paul and Typhoid Linny
The day started out pretty decent enough. The dust was sluggish. The surveillance blimp looked especially crisp and white in the sky. Then Paul from Massachusetts showed up at the hotel, and I was suddenly facing close contact with another American.
Paul claims to have fought with the mujahideen against the Soviets back in 1988. He wrote a book about it, of course. Now he's back, desperately seeking Osama Bin Laden so that he can end the war and force the withdrawal of American troops. It confirms some nagging suspicions I had formed some weeks prior, based on my brief contact with a French intelligence agent, that the foreigners in Afghanistan are predominantly out of their goddamned minds.
So it started. I would be trying to drink my tea and watch my Afghan Idol, and there he was, juicing our Afghan counterparts in the hotel for book material, ruining my evenings with some cockamamie political theories about nothing in particular. On the very first conversation he pissed German off so much that he started calling Paul Karzai after that. I couldn't tell exactly what they were saying, because it was all in German, but somehow the obnoxious undercurrent transcended the barriers of language.
I looked up Paul's book; it was listed on amazon for $119 USD. I calculated the cost at an approximate charge of 50 cents per page. I initially wanted to go all jihad on his ass, but eventually settled down into a moderately irritated complacency.
In unrelated news, Linny, my Indonesian coworker and carpool-mate, has contracted typhoid. "The good news is, I'm not contagious," Linny said, "Unless you eat my feces."
Paul claims to have fought with the mujahideen against the Soviets back in 1988. He wrote a book about it, of course. Now he's back, desperately seeking Osama Bin Laden so that he can end the war and force the withdrawal of American troops. It confirms some nagging suspicions I had formed some weeks prior, based on my brief contact with a French intelligence agent, that the foreigners in Afghanistan are predominantly out of their goddamned minds.
So it started. I would be trying to drink my tea and watch my Afghan Idol, and there he was, juicing our Afghan counterparts in the hotel for book material, ruining my evenings with some cockamamie political theories about nothing in particular. On the very first conversation he pissed German off so much that he started calling Paul Karzai after that. I couldn't tell exactly what they were saying, because it was all in German, but somehow the obnoxious undercurrent transcended the barriers of language.
I looked up Paul's book; it was listed on amazon for $119 USD. I calculated the cost at an approximate charge of 50 cents per page. I initially wanted to go all jihad on his ass, but eventually settled down into a moderately irritated complacency.
In unrelated news, Linny, my Indonesian coworker and carpool-mate, has contracted typhoid. "The good news is, I'm not contagious," Linny said, "Unless you eat my feces."
09 March 2010
Afghan Idol
4 March, Thursday night: weekend in Kabul. German, Nasr, and I are sitting around in the upstairs living room drinking tea and eating cookies. German is actually half German, half Afghan, but Half German Half Afghan isn’t such a clever literary nickname. German and Nasr are both in Kabul for the same basic reason: property rights. They’re fighting a complex bureaucracy and a corrupt legal system to try to win back their own property and houses from opportunistic thieves. They both appear to be losing.
On this particular night we’re watching Afghan Idol. The former host of Afghan Idol was something of a success story. He rose from zero training in broadcasting and no former education to become a real hit as the beloved host of the show. He received invitations from all over the world to visit and make appearances. Finally he accepted one such invitation, to go to the United States, upon which he immediately fled to Canada and was never heard from again.
The new generation is like that, Nasr says. Prone to flight.
On this particular night we’re watching Afghan Idol. The former host of Afghan Idol was something of a success story. He rose from zero training in broadcasting and no former education to become a real hit as the beloved host of the show. He received invitations from all over the world to visit and make appearances. Finally he accepted one such invitation, to go to the United States, upon which he immediately fled to Canada and was never heard from again.
The new generation is like that, Nasr says. Prone to flight.
04 March 2010
03 March 2010
Is it me, or is this hotel moving?
27 or 28 February: I fail to fully enjoy my first earthquake by sleeping through most of it, then waking up for a few seconds of shaking around, putting on pants, and immediately going back to sleep. Despite two weeks in Afghanistan, survival instinct is still minimal.
2 March: I complete a short movie about my first two weeks in Kabul, but entirely lack the bandwidth to upload it.
2 March: I complete a short movie about my first two weeks in Kabul, but entirely lack the bandwidth to upload it.
27 February 2010
Kabul Cassanova, or, How I got my status as the second wife-
Day Twenty-three: My plans to secure a gym membership are entirely thwarted when suicide bombers blow up my prospective gym. Likewise, my plans to sleep in on my day off are destroyed, not by the initial explosion, which I manage to sleep through, but by the ensuing gunbattles. Some snipers head up to our roof but we're not in the prime sniping location. One of the Afghan military takes refuge in our hotel momentarily-
Soldier: (enters lobby)
Hotel Employee: What are you doing? You're a soldier! Get out there!
Soldier: You don't have heat in here? (exits)
I accept it as a sign to put off my exercise regiment and spend the day smoking and eating cake.
Later on in the day Anandi, Abdullah, Nasr, and I go out for dinner and some live music. We stop by Safi Landmark / City Centre, and it looks as destroyed as it did on television. Back home, Abdullah donates a kevlar vest to the littlest MOI soldier outside.
Why my safety is usually ensured:
I attained status as Abdullah's second wife early on here, when I started joining him and Anandi on excursions. It's in my favor, and Abdullah used to be something of a Kabul cassanova, so it isn't a stretch for his character.
I look Afghani, dress Afghani, stick to Afghani places, and move around with Afghans, so when the media says foreigners are being targeted, chances are, they're not talking about me.
20 February 2010
News from Chicken Street...
I took up residence in a hotel around the corner from chicken street. I guess I've been here about five days or so.
Five days ago, in the Frankfurt airport:
Customs officer: Kabul? (Something in German.)
Me: Yes. For Work.
Customs officer: (Something in German.)
Me: ...
Him: For Uncle Sam?
Me: For Uncle...Karzai?
My new job is confusing for all of us.
Incidentally, I am missing my first day of work right now. Something complex and political is going on and every single road I need to take to get there is closed. Instead I'm eating a hummus sandwich at my favorite new restaurant.
Anyways, here's an update-
The Good News: After a week or whatever amount of time has gone by, there have been no attempted kidnappings and I still have all my limbs. The food is great and they believe in overeating here.
The New Threats: The gas heaters potentially give off carbon monoxide and poison you. This is especially dangerous in places like showers, where as I understand it steam forces the gas down and you pass out in there and die. The owner of my hotel has lost some millions of dollars in embezzled money to gambling debts. Rumor has it the lobby has seen a shootout in recent times.
The Bad News: No internet at home. Gotta move.
Things I thought I might write about if my computer battery wasn't going to die-
How I unwittingly booked the first nonstop flight from Frankfurt to Kabul and the departure gate party that followed.
My new sitcom idea, Anandi & Abdullah.
Afghani home visit.
Nasr's stories about the time of the Soviets and the time of the Mujahideen.
My first domestic dispute in Kabul.
The British pub.
Five days ago, in the Frankfurt airport:
Customs officer: Kabul? (Something in German.)
Me: Yes. For Work.
Customs officer: (Something in German.)
Me: ...
Him: For Uncle Sam?
Me: For Uncle...Karzai?
My new job is confusing for all of us.
Incidentally, I am missing my first day of work right now. Something complex and political is going on and every single road I need to take to get there is closed. Instead I'm eating a hummus sandwich at my favorite new restaurant.
Anyways, here's an update-
The Good News: After a week or whatever amount of time has gone by, there have been no attempted kidnappings and I still have all my limbs. The food is great and they believe in overeating here.
The New Threats: The gas heaters potentially give off carbon monoxide and poison you. This is especially dangerous in places like showers, where as I understand it steam forces the gas down and you pass out in there and die. The owner of my hotel has lost some millions of dollars in embezzled money to gambling debts. Rumor has it the lobby has seen a shootout in recent times.
The Bad News: No internet at home. Gotta move.
Things I thought I might write about if my computer battery wasn't going to die-
How I unwittingly booked the first nonstop flight from Frankfurt to Kabul and the departure gate party that followed.
My new sitcom idea, Anandi & Abdullah.
Afghani home visit.
Nasr's stories about the time of the Soviets and the time of the Mujahideen.
My first domestic dispute in Kabul.
The British pub.
15 February 2010
A little flashback-
Day Zero (2 Feb 2010 or somewhere around there): My Afghan visa arrives in the mail. I'm mystified that these things just get handed out.
Day One: I take a leave of absence from grad school.
Day Two: I solidify the lying process to my parents and several others to protect them from my new decision. I claim to be going to Paris, Frankfurt, India. Two of those are true.
Day Nine: I'm on a plane to France. I visit some friends I met in Tanzania five years ago. They feed me and shelter me and do all the work. I see some famous stuff.
Day Thirteen (now): I'm sitting in the Frankfurt airport waiting for my flight to Kabul.
Day One: I take a leave of absence from grad school.
Day Two: I solidify the lying process to my parents and several others to protect them from my new decision. I claim to be going to Paris, Frankfurt, India. Two of those are true.
Day Nine: I'm on a plane to France. I visit some friends I met in Tanzania five years ago. They feed me and shelter me and do all the work. I see some famous stuff.
Day Thirteen (now): I'm sitting in the Frankfurt airport waiting for my flight to Kabul.
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