Exercise is a great challenge here as security greatly constricts the amount of free movement anyone can get. Before leaving Boston, I heard from my father about a yoga class that a few of his colleagues attend each week. Not ever really having taken yoga before, but figuring it could constitute yet another part of this grand new adventure, I made a point of investigating soon after my arrival and discovered there was a class on Monday evening.
The amusements started a third of the way through the class when the electricity suddenly began having what I can only describe as a sort of manic-depressive episode of on-off-on-off again flickers, finally leaving us in utter darkness. I was already beginning to suspect that the instructor was out to bend my body into positions it was never meant to take on. The lights going out only meant that I was left to bend in response to auditory commands with no visuals to follow at all. It was like a strange game of Twister without the help of knowing where the red dot is.
The instructor’s commands made the class all the more entertaining. She would say things like, “Now imagine yourself getting bigger. You’re taking up more room.” And so I would try to imagine myself taking up more room, only to realize that the whole point of taking these classes was so that I might lose some weight and take up less room.
When it came time for our relaxation exercises at the end of the class, I almost couldn’t contain the giggles. Despite my strategic position next to the stove, the classroom had been freezing all night. In preparation to unwind, the instructor told us to put on all the warm things we had. I fumbled around in the dark and managed to locate my socks, sweater, coat and shawl, which I duly wrapped tightly around me. I lay on my back, closed my eyes and prepared to become totally relaxed.
The instructor’s instructions came, “Relax your neck, your shoulders, your legs.” I tried to ease the tension and avoid the urge to shiver.
“Now imagine that you’re lying on a beach in the sun. You can feel the warmth of the sun on your face.” Struggling to keep my toes from becoming stiff with cold, all I could think was, “Lady, my imagination just cannot work that hard!”
“Now, breathe in deeply.” I inhaled deeply and almost chocked from a lung-full of diesel fumes coming from the stove. This yoga thing just cannot be good for you!
Finally, if the class hadn’t provided reason enough to laugh, through the silence I heard the soft rhythm of a man snoring. I thought, “Perhaps he found the beach.”
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Explosions in Kabul
I should immediately apologize for this title as it really is unfair, but I just couldn’t think of a better one. These are not the kind of explosions that one might expect here, at least not if you’re new to the country.
On Sunday afternoon, as the snow began falling heavily all over Kabul, the heater in my bedroom stopped functioning. Dad and I tried hard to rectify the situation that evening, but to no avail. I threw on an extra blanket, filled my hot-water bottle and pulled on fleece socks, determined not to let a cold Afghan night get the better of me so early in my time here.
I spent the next day working out of Dad’s room, which was considerably warmer. When a guard, who my mother nicknamed Pedro after a good Spanish friend to whom he bears a striking resemblance, came in to fill the diesel tank on Dad’s heater. Trying desperately, and unsuccessfully, to remember the word “bokhari” (heater), I tried to indicate to him that my stove had gone out and would not start. I quickly resorted to silly “come” hand gestures and got him to follow me into my bedroom.
“Oh, stop!” said Pedro upon seeing my heater.
“Yes, stop!” I replied, making more funny gestures, this time of shivering. (Now we’re communicating!)
I left him to mess with the heater and returned to the heat of my father’s room. A few minutes later Pedro entered the room again. “Miss, Stop!” I gave him a puzzled look and followed him to my bedroom. A miracle had occurred! Somehow he had managed to get the thing started again.
“You got it started!” I said with real glee.
“Yes. Start!” he said with a smile.
So where’s the explosion you ask? Well, just wait …
I returned to my father’s room to finish some emails and leave my room to heat up, when I had a sudden, strange urge to check on the stove. I got up and walked across the hall to my room. Just as I opened the door, I heard a great “WHOOOSH!” sound as the flames went shooting out. The flames then retracted momentarily before another great orange WHOOSH.
Only knowing about three Dari words so far and none of them amounting to anything approaching a frantic, “HELP, THE HOUSE IS ABOUT TO BURN DOWN!!!” I resorted to calling down a very dignified, British, “Excuse me?” The son of someone who works in the house and happens to know a little English emerged from the kitchen and seemed to become quickly confused by this strange foreign woman, looking very frightened and saying, “Come! Please, something’s happening!”
As he walked into my mini-combustion center he let out a startled “Oh!” and ran over to the stove, turning some knob and making the flames come down to a restful flicker. He turned to me, still looking rather shocked, and said, “Actually, very dangerous!” All I could do was let out a nervous laugh and repeat over and over again the word, “Tashakur” (thank you).
I’m sure this isn’t quite the kind of danger we were all anticipating, but I can now say I’ve experienced one explosion here in Kabul.
On Sunday afternoon, as the snow began falling heavily all over Kabul, the heater in my bedroom stopped functioning. Dad and I tried hard to rectify the situation that evening, but to no avail. I threw on an extra blanket, filled my hot-water bottle and pulled on fleece socks, determined not to let a cold Afghan night get the better of me so early in my time here.
I spent the next day working out of Dad’s room, which was considerably warmer. When a guard, who my mother nicknamed Pedro after a good Spanish friend to whom he bears a striking resemblance, came in to fill the diesel tank on Dad’s heater. Trying desperately, and unsuccessfully, to remember the word “bokhari” (heater), I tried to indicate to him that my stove had gone out and would not start. I quickly resorted to silly “come” hand gestures and got him to follow me into my bedroom.
“Oh, stop!” said Pedro upon seeing my heater.
“Yes, stop!” I replied, making more funny gestures, this time of shivering. (Now we’re communicating!)
I left him to mess with the heater and returned to the heat of my father’s room. A few minutes later Pedro entered the room again. “Miss, Stop!” I gave him a puzzled look and followed him to my bedroom. A miracle had occurred! Somehow he had managed to get the thing started again.
“You got it started!” I said with real glee.
“Yes. Start!” he said with a smile.
So where’s the explosion you ask? Well, just wait …
I returned to my father’s room to finish some emails and leave my room to heat up, when I had a sudden, strange urge to check on the stove. I got up and walked across the hall to my room. Just as I opened the door, I heard a great “WHOOOSH!” sound as the flames went shooting out. The flames then retracted momentarily before another great orange WHOOSH.
Only knowing about three Dari words so far and none of them amounting to anything approaching a frantic, “HELP, THE HOUSE IS ABOUT TO BURN DOWN!!!” I resorted to calling down a very dignified, British, “Excuse me?” The son of someone who works in the house and happens to know a little English emerged from the kitchen and seemed to become quickly confused by this strange foreign woman, looking very frightened and saying, “Come! Please, something’s happening!”
As he walked into my mini-combustion center he let out a startled “Oh!” and ran over to the stove, turning some knob and making the flames come down to a restful flicker. He turned to me, still looking rather shocked, and said, “Actually, very dangerous!” All I could do was let out a nervous laugh and repeat over and over again the word, “Tashakur” (thank you).
I’m sure this isn’t quite the kind of danger we were all anticipating, but I can now say I’ve experienced one explosion here in Kabul.
Shades of Grey - Arriving in Kabul
Just as the women who walk behind the thin mesh veil of their burqas, Kabul seems shrouded beneath a gauzy grey blanket of dust. The grey sheathe masks the cities’ subtle beauties and graceful dignity so that one needs to look just a little closer, behind the curtain, to the eyes of this wonderful country. Indeed, it is in the faces of Afghans that I suspect the color really lies.
Dad and I arrived in Kabul last Thursday evening on a UN flight from Dubai. The fiercely jagged peaks of the Hindu Kush rose and jutted to either side of the plane, their snow-covered edges making their appearance all the more awe-inspiring. This is the kind of beauty we are not meant to understand nor to contain, but to respect and tremble at. It was here, in some unforgiving crevice of the mountains, that my parents’ organization lost three young women in a plane crash just one year ago. As we approached Kabul, I watched this new world approach through the small portal window next to me. The plane suddenly dipped, coming into the city’s valley, and then circled uncomfortably close to the surrounding mountains before landing on a small runway.
My father and I gathered our belongings and I brought my shawl over my head to cover my hair, tossing a loose end over my left shoulder. Backpack on, we went through passport control, which roughly consisted of two small desks ceremoniously placed behind Plexiglas walls. We collected our luggage from an equally cramped and dusty room and discovered the driver waiting for us outside.
My first views of the city were clouded by a thick fog of jet-lag made worse by a sleepless night in Dubai. Others in the car politely pointed out various landmarks as I struggled to make my mind process anything. Pot-holed streets bumped up against one another, flanked on either side by cement and mud-brick walls that guarded Kabul’s more private life. Driving here feels like a constant off-roading adventure, made more interesting by the myriad obstacles of people, bicycles and deep sewage ditches someone here has nicknamed “alligator pits”. It is the ultimate testosterone tussle – cars and drivers involved in a constant alpha-male gorilla battle to claim space and establish dominance.
We finally arrived at the house unscathed and were greeted by Dad’s guards, who wore some of the largest smiles I have ever seen as they shook his hand, embraced him and welcomed him home. Expecting them to politely greet me with “Salaam”, I was surprised when they shook my hand as well and then, looking to my father, said “dokhtar” (daughter). I shall never forget those smiles.
Yes, I think I will enjoy it here. The security and subsequent constraints on movement around the city will be a challenge and frustration, I’m sure. But I sense this city and this country hold something far more beautiful than the image captured in our Western media spots. In fact, I begin to wonder if it isn’t those images that have created the real veil behind which Afghanistan remains hidden to much of the world.
“You are welcome here. I hope that your time in Kabul will be good.” This is the regular greeting I have received from Afghans. Today, an Afghan doctor followed this statement with, “Many people have fear to come here. I hope you will like it.”
Yes, many people do have fear to come here, and perhaps some of you are fearful having me here. Things do happen – bombs go off, people are killed and kidnapped – these are a reality. But they are only one part of the reality and do not reflect the Kabul – the Afghanistan – I am slowly meeting and I hope to show you all in the coming months.
Dad and I arrived in Kabul last Thursday evening on a UN flight from Dubai. The fiercely jagged peaks of the Hindu Kush rose and jutted to either side of the plane, their snow-covered edges making their appearance all the more awe-inspiring. This is the kind of beauty we are not meant to understand nor to contain, but to respect and tremble at. It was here, in some unforgiving crevice of the mountains, that my parents’ organization lost three young women in a plane crash just one year ago. As we approached Kabul, I watched this new world approach through the small portal window next to me. The plane suddenly dipped, coming into the city’s valley, and then circled uncomfortably close to the surrounding mountains before landing on a small runway.
My father and I gathered our belongings and I brought my shawl over my head to cover my hair, tossing a loose end over my left shoulder. Backpack on, we went through passport control, which roughly consisted of two small desks ceremoniously placed behind Plexiglas walls. We collected our luggage from an equally cramped and dusty room and discovered the driver waiting for us outside.
My first views of the city were clouded by a thick fog of jet-lag made worse by a sleepless night in Dubai. Others in the car politely pointed out various landmarks as I struggled to make my mind process anything. Pot-holed streets bumped up against one another, flanked on either side by cement and mud-brick walls that guarded Kabul’s more private life. Driving here feels like a constant off-roading adventure, made more interesting by the myriad obstacles of people, bicycles and deep sewage ditches someone here has nicknamed “alligator pits”. It is the ultimate testosterone tussle – cars and drivers involved in a constant alpha-male gorilla battle to claim space and establish dominance.
We finally arrived at the house unscathed and were greeted by Dad’s guards, who wore some of the largest smiles I have ever seen as they shook his hand, embraced him and welcomed him home. Expecting them to politely greet me with “Salaam”, I was surprised when they shook my hand as well and then, looking to my father, said “dokhtar” (daughter). I shall never forget those smiles.
Yes, I think I will enjoy it here. The security and subsequent constraints on movement around the city will be a challenge and frustration, I’m sure. But I sense this city and this country hold something far more beautiful than the image captured in our Western media spots. In fact, I begin to wonder if it isn’t those images that have created the real veil behind which Afghanistan remains hidden to much of the world.
“You are welcome here. I hope that your time in Kabul will be good.” This is the regular greeting I have received from Afghans. Today, an Afghan doctor followed this statement with, “Many people have fear to come here. I hope you will like it.”
Yes, many people do have fear to come here, and perhaps some of you are fearful having me here. Things do happen – bombs go off, people are killed and kidnapped – these are a reality. But they are only one part of the reality and do not reflect the Kabul – the Afghanistan – I am slowly meeting and I hope to show you all in the coming months.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Preparations
How does one begin preparing for two years in Afghanistan?
Preparing for the actual travel is one thing. I find myself seated cross-legged on my bathroom floor, surrounded by a world in miniature – Little bottles of shampoo; little bars of soap; funny little foot scrubbers. I begin to wonder whether someone will also have shrunk my destination (Little Kabul?).
Kabul doesn’t feel little at the moment. Nor does this move. The floor and bed of my sister’s bedroom, covered with what will become the contents of my father and my suitcases, attests to the bigness of this move. Apparently two years in Afghanistan roughly translates to six toothbrushes, twelve boxes of tampons, two blow-dryers, five chap-stick tubes and tons of hair things. I find all this utterly absurd and rather overwhelming.
Six and a half years ago, I found myself in a similar state, this time cross-legged on my parents’ living room floor. Piled high around me were empty boxes and suitcases, and stacks of clothes and sheets and stuff that were meant to have been neatly packed into them. I looked, half-crying, at my mother. “I’m not ready,” I said. To this day, neither she nor I are sure whether I was referring to lack of progress I had made in filling boxes or whether, instead, I was saying something deeper and more significant. “I’m not ready … for college, for leaving, for life.”
Of course, I was ready and off we drove, car packed full of all my freshman belongings. By the time we arrived, something had changed and I settled in quickly. My words to my mother were my only real hint at this vague fear I held that I was not at all prepared for the next stage of my life.
Today, I am tempted again to say, “I’m not ready.” The truth is that I’m not sure what exactly to be ready for. Afghanistan feels like an amorphous fog with promises of adventure, growth and challenge just beyond the next wisp of white cloud. Through the veil, I think I begin to see the snow-covered, dusty roads packed full of cars and trucks maneuvering themselves around one another. I think I get a glimpse of men and women wrapped tightly with dark grey-brown shawls. For an instant, I even wonder if I smell or hear something of this new and foreign place. But then, just as soon as these visions begin to crystallize – poof, a wind blows in and everything vanishes again behind a new blanket of cloud.
On Monday, I will load up a car with suitcases and bags. I will look around this house in which I have lived since I was twelve, but which my parents plan to sell for an impending move to Spain. I will step on a plane, kick off my shoes under the seat in front of me and buckle my seatbelt. I will vaguely hear the stewardess recite the safety procedures I have heard hundreds of times. And then we will begin to taxi off and I will watch this country begin to move, slowly at first with a low grumble and then quicker, whirring higher. And I will say goodbye to this country as my home for the last time. When the buildings beneath me have almost vanished, I will look away from the window, close my eyes, thank God for wonderful years here and this time, I will say, “I am ready.”
Preparing for the actual travel is one thing. I find myself seated cross-legged on my bathroom floor, surrounded by a world in miniature – Little bottles of shampoo; little bars of soap; funny little foot scrubbers. I begin to wonder whether someone will also have shrunk my destination (Little Kabul?).
Kabul doesn’t feel little at the moment. Nor does this move. The floor and bed of my sister’s bedroom, covered with what will become the contents of my father and my suitcases, attests to the bigness of this move. Apparently two years in Afghanistan roughly translates to six toothbrushes, twelve boxes of tampons, two blow-dryers, five chap-stick tubes and tons of hair things. I find all this utterly absurd and rather overwhelming.
Six and a half years ago, I found myself in a similar state, this time cross-legged on my parents’ living room floor. Piled high around me were empty boxes and suitcases, and stacks of clothes and sheets and stuff that were meant to have been neatly packed into them. I looked, half-crying, at my mother. “I’m not ready,” I said. To this day, neither she nor I are sure whether I was referring to lack of progress I had made in filling boxes or whether, instead, I was saying something deeper and more significant. “I’m not ready … for college, for leaving, for life.”
Of course, I was ready and off we drove, car packed full of all my freshman belongings. By the time we arrived, something had changed and I settled in quickly. My words to my mother were my only real hint at this vague fear I held that I was not at all prepared for the next stage of my life.
Today, I am tempted again to say, “I’m not ready.” The truth is that I’m not sure what exactly to be ready for. Afghanistan feels like an amorphous fog with promises of adventure, growth and challenge just beyond the next wisp of white cloud. Through the veil, I think I begin to see the snow-covered, dusty roads packed full of cars and trucks maneuvering themselves around one another. I think I get a glimpse of men and women wrapped tightly with dark grey-brown shawls. For an instant, I even wonder if I smell or hear something of this new and foreign place. But then, just as soon as these visions begin to crystallize – poof, a wind blows in and everything vanishes again behind a new blanket of cloud.
On Monday, I will load up a car with suitcases and bags. I will look around this house in which I have lived since I was twelve, but which my parents plan to sell for an impending move to Spain. I will step on a plane, kick off my shoes under the seat in front of me and buckle my seatbelt. I will vaguely hear the stewardess recite the safety procedures I have heard hundreds of times. And then we will begin to taxi off and I will watch this country begin to move, slowly at first with a low grumble and then quicker, whirring higher. And I will say goodbye to this country as my home for the last time. When the buildings beneath me have almost vanished, I will look away from the window, close my eyes, thank God for wonderful years here and this time, I will say, “I am ready.”
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