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.