Jagged mountains of Afghanistan
Trip Start
Nov 20, 2007
1
3
4
Trip End
Nov 27, 2007
Kabul,
Afghanistan
Thursday, November 22, 2007
About 09:00 and I am sitting on the UN flight on the runway in Kabul. I was interrupted enjoying my lime soda yesterday by an Australian man who wanted me to share a bottle of wine with him. As I was waiting for Simon, (Albany's Director) to finish bonding with his former Royal Marine chum inside the restaurant (it was taking a while), I took him up on the offer and had half a glass and whilst he had the rest. He had a weathered, jaded look from being in Helmand Province too long. Down near Kandahar he worked "In Security", protecting those involved in counter narcotics (trying to quell production of opiates from poppies. Useless fact of the day - 92% of Europe's heroin originates from Afghanistan - I learnt that speech writing for Dr Kim Howlers ). Like others I have met on my short trip here, an individual with more stories to tell than you could wave a stick at. Not long ago he was running a medical practice in Australia (he was a doctor) but has since turned his hand to help an Afghan woman escape the wrath of a ruthless warlord across the Pakistan border with the cunning use of a donkey and a burkha (that old trick, eh?) Like many, he was candid about his experiences. Wrapped in an Afghan scarf and with a shaven head betraying his middle age receded hair line I saw straight to the nub of his vulnerability. He shared with me an extraordinary moment, explained as life "getting to him", he described how the previous week he had pushed his fist through the window of a taxi in blind rage in a haggle over an inflated fare. He understood it was time for a break, and having done a spot of trauma psychology I knew his behaviour to be "not unusual" and he took comfort in my understanding (and the surprisingly good red wine no doubt). He told me a lot of good things about him to even out the taxi cab madness. Of how he cared for several street children in Kabul, and of how their plight moved him.
Afghan Mountains
Then he was gone and the connection lost. I joined Simon and had an altogether different back-slapping sort of conversation with two military gents about the UN's function in Afghanistan.I am flying over Afghanistan now, looking down at the vast stretches of brown grey jagged mountains as far as the eye can see. Hundred and hundreds of miles of inhospitable terrain without so much as a spec of dull green. Every so often a pathetic trail of river, like a hair line scar dwarfed by the magnificent mountain range, with tiny mute villages clinging to the shore. Pin pricks of human existence in an otherwise alien like environment. Why anyone decided to settle in Afghanistan is completely beyond me. It is a land for gods and giants, clearly (but again really only appreciated from an aeroplane).
When we landed in Kabul a few days ago, the flight had banked sharply and our decent into Kabul was steep (although nothing like my dive into Baghdad last year). Upon landing I could see that the grey brown colour I see from the air covers the whole city in a fine layer of dust. Like aged actors, the powder filled wrinkles and cracks, turned Kabuls inhabitants into caricatures. I understood the lack of green from above, although some scraps of life were evident - one street was lined with roses in bloom, their vibrancy dulled by a film of filth.
I was met from the plane by a bearded man bearing a card with my name (there's me trying to be all inconspicuous). He was perfectly happy to answer my many questions about life in Afghanistan (I set to work quickly), but less thrilled to hear about it was the young Spainish girl who had just arrived to work as an administrator for the UN. Her first assignment overseas. As the driver described (in a too casual, lighthearted tone I felt) the antics of the "drugged up insane Pakistani" suicide bomber the previous day, I could smell her fear. The driver told me how life in the east of the country was better, and of how his own life was in real danger by working for the UN. His colleague in the passenger seat agreed. With a big smile full of blacked out teeth, he turned to me "Yes! Very danger indeed!" Oh. Right - surely not an Afghan adrenaline junkie? He seems delighted with his plight. They then gave a graphic description of how the brave Afghan police had grabbed yesterday's failed suicide bomber (now that is a crap thing to have on your CV) and literally pulled him apart holding a limb each. I think it was a test....I was intrigued and asked for more details please ( I passed). The Spanish girl let out a whimper.
Afghan scape
By this stage the pair couldn't contain their laughter and giggled all the way speaking a mixture of (oh god I am going to get this wrong I know) Pashto and English about this foolish failed martyr from across the border. They were clearly, proud as punch (and rightly so) about the bravery of the Afghan police.When the plane had landed (terribly out of sequence this, but I keep remembering things I consider important), the women on board covered their heads with scarves they had at the ready. I didn't ask much about this before I came here, but I wore a scarf around my neck just in case and quickly filed in line. The accepted form for western women is to cover heads in public, but inside missions or in some hotels they could be uncovered. The odd lock is permitted to drift into sight. I actually feel a bit more comfortable leaving in on, especially in meetings with Afghans. Besides you have heard of "hat head" right? The constant scarf shuffling, along with the dry air causes static. Nuff said.
I felt it more of a pain in the arse than "oppressive", because I am not used to it. It is simply what is culturally acceptable. You wouldn't walk down Oxford Street with your tits out now would you? And before you say that you wouldn't do that anywhere - I have been to places in Africa where tits out is quite the norm...do you think African tribes are lobbying our government to loosen their antiquated covering-of-the-boobs ways? Do we feel oppressed by covering our breasts? No. Of course we don't. We feel comfortable, because it is what we are used to.
The last bit of this diary entry was written very illegibly - it says is "Serena Hotel, Nato, Spokesman and the Gandamac, sleepless night - dreams of the Etheringtons escaping a landmine, early start, Wendy (?), dog on a running machine, US Emb, UK Emb, Fort - Turquiose Mountain". I think it was intended that I embellish each thought trail with more information. But fuk it. I don't think I can be bothered. Maybe the reader can make sense of it? Answers on a postcard....the most innovative ideas will be honoured with a million dollar book deal. Yeah right. Of course it may all become clear later as you read on....or it may not. No, it will. Not.
