tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72924482024-03-08T07:06:03.406-05:00Salaam AfghanistanHealth and Ethnic Conflict.
<p>
My first visit to the Heart of Asia -- Reflections and Photos.
</p>Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1123297332700781062005-08-05T21:59:00.000-05:002005-08-06T19:04:30.320-05:00A note on my entriesAs I prepare to leave on my next adventure, I am taking the time now to make sure I document all of my stories from Afghanistan. The most recent posts are incomplete (i.e. those from the last two weeks of my trip), and in the form of lists and photo highlights. I am updating them daily. Up through July 24, however, the posts are already fully written and supplemented with pictures, so I hope you will look at those earlier entries. It's best in chronological order, anyway...!Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1122410150458495062004-08-26T15:34:00.000-05:002005-08-05T21:57:09.680-05:00The Transition Back -- Solicitous Women in Amsterdam, Overwhelmed by Options, Uncomfortable in Shortsat the airport - my stuff cleared to go<br />waiting in the lobby<br />time to go, can't pay the fee, they let me go and take the extra weight<br />patted down in a curtained room before entry<br />sitting by jonathan - dude i met at the carpet shop<br />arrival in istanbul<br />comfort of the call to prayer, the women still mostly covered<br />istanbul seems so advanced, so well manicured and wealthy<br />overwhelmed at the grand bazaar<br />then to amsterdam, turn left at centraal instead of right, shocked by the women in the windows<br />back in boston, still weirded out, see images of iraq on the news and feel homesick for afghanistan<br />home and needing face wash -- overwhelmed in the grocery store<br />aversion to having so much choice -- shouldn't we choose not to have so many choices?<br /><br />gardens with white rocks and thoughts of mines<br />star flight helicopters and black hawks in pursuit<br />starting to adjust to seeing people dressed in so little but i still uncomfortable in shorts.Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1122410044539756152004-08-12T22:33:00.000-05:002005-08-05T21:49:40.480-05:00Out with the Guys: My Going Away Partymy last few days -- carpet shopping with shahriar, to the intercontinental to look for the book for fred and mare -- disagreement over the price; decide to get flowers from flower street; the woman coming out of the beauty shop under a burqa, iranian flowers; the gis guys want to take me out along with ryoko for her birthday <div>everyone laughing, teasing</div><div>piling in the back</div><br />my last night -- out to dinner with fred and mare at the german restaurant, walking in and conversing easily with the staff -- they ask if i am iranian<br />beer and yagermeister<br />goodbye to qais, to the schiffbauers, qais kisses me<br />final moments -- is it real?Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1092216151001061682004-08-11T12:59:00.000-05:002005-07-18T19:44:49.820-05:00Khuda Hofez Afghanistan<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/IMG_5990.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/320/IMG_5990.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Wow. I can't believe I am really leaving this place. I actually managed to feel pretty at home here, comfortable, get into a routine, make a little life. I am used to being here. I am used to the sights, used to the heat, used to the dress codes, used to the poverty of the country (still not used to the poverty of the people). I think it is going to be really weird to be back home, where most everyone is wealthy, the land of the cellophane-wrapped meat and 1 million different varieties of every single commodity, of central air-conditioning, of credit cards and ATMs, of solid stools. All of a sudden I will be searching for an apartment that will cost me three times as much per month as most Afghans make in a year. I'll be out alone in public in shorts and a tank top and no one will think it is inappropriate, no one will even notice. And I'll get to use soft toilet tissue! I'll eat unpeeled and comparatively tasteless fruits, and I will wet my toothbrush under the water from the faucet, clean and safe and flourinated for my benefit. The children will have toys, and will be back in school. Traffic will follow traffic laws, and no more announcements about road closures because of possible IEDs!<br /><br />I am finishing up here at work. I just sent out my exit memo, and cleaned out my desk. I didn't finish my project because the translations are so slow-going, but I hope to receive them in time to finish my analysis before I start school again in two weeks. I can't believe how busy things will get all of a sudden!<br /><br />I am going carpet shopping today, and hopefully will be able to send them via the APO here. Tomorrow I finish packing and enjoy one more meal at home with Fred and Mar and Winston. I have to make my arrangements for a hotel in Istanbul, where I will be for two days on my way back home. I get back to Boston on Sunday evening and will be home in Texas for 10 days. I'll have to be working -- neuroanatomy, finishing my study. And I get back to Boston just in time to start school again -- two days before! I don't have an apartment. All of my stuff is in my friend Peter's living room. I absolutely <em>hate </em>looking for an apartment and moving! I hate that I will be doing that while I am starting school! ugh.<br /><br />I digress, don't I? I just wanted to send a quick update as I prepare to leave. I have so many stories that I will work on posting as soon as I am back on a computer. I'll put them in their appropriate place, appropriately dated as soon as possible, complete with photos.<br /><br />I haven't internalized that I am leaving here and that I don't know when I will be back. For some reason, it feels like I'll be back soon. ..Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1122411807245969712004-08-06T16:03:00.000-05:002005-08-05T21:26:48.290-05:00No, I Won't Marry Youheading back<br />continuing the discussion entitled no, i won't marry you<br />no, i don't want you to move to boston<br />no, we can't be friends<br />no, we're never going to see each other again<br />back to kabul by nightfallDr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1122409407371485242004-08-06T15:20:00.000-05:002006-06-20T12:32:08.816-05:00Where the Buddhas Once Stood -- Bamiyan<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/summer%202004%20234.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/400/summer%202004%20234.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/DCP_1323.jpg"></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Me and my neuroanatomy book in Bamiyan.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/summer%202004%202262.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/400/summer%202004%202262.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><p>up next morning, still arguing with heidar -- no, i don't want to eat breakfast</p><p>i'd like bananas or rice and tea</p><p>heidar finds bananas -- extremely rare, imported from pakistan</p><p>we argue because he peels them for me, i can peel my own bananas, no i don't want anymore, you peel it you eat it yourself</p><p>the old woman and her sheep. she is spinning yarn. i ask to take a photo, she declines. just of your hands? no. </p><p>wandering around among the ruins</p><p>the armed men asking for money, heidar argues, the men surround us and follow us, we try to get in the car and they follow us to the doors and windows</p><p>heidar gets out and goes with them -- the police intervene, heidar wins</p><p>stop at the ancient city shari gulghula (city of screams), sacked by genghis khan and used as a base for the soviets -- lots of unexploded ordinance; up up up to the top</p><p>then back toward kabul, stopping only for a picnic of mulberries</p>Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1122409472149491812004-08-05T15:23:00.000-05:002006-06-20T12:16:50.496-05:00Swan Boats in the Middle of Nowhere -- Bandyamir<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/summer%202004%20210.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/400/summer%202004%20210.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The most beautiful water I've ever seen.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/summer%202004%20204.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/400/summer%202004%20204.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />And swan boats, of course.<br /><br /><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/400/summer%202004%20219.jpg" border="0" /><br /><p></p><p>up the next morning. first go to the un to check email. then head out. bamiyan is beautiful. the entire village is set at the foot of the rock face that once housed hundreds of buddhas.</p><p>the drive out to bandyamir, getting sick</p><p>the mine fields and arguing with heidar.</p><p>the bluest and clearest water i've ever seen. i can't believe it's real. heidar disrobes and jumps in. tries to convince me to go too. only a few people in the water, all men. all the women nearby are fully covered. obviously, i'm not going to swim. besides, i am not feeling well.</p><p>invitation to stay with the widower and take care of his family.</p><p>sicker by the time we're back; sleep the afternoon, argue with heidar over what to do; afghan remedies; fever. lots of vomiting, stomach pain, diarrhea -- certain its food poisoning; reheated rice from last night -- bacillus cereus? heidar watches over me all night.</p><p></p>Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1123294806162524302004-08-04T21:12:00.000-05:002006-06-20T12:11:05.346-05:00Freaking Out On the Night Drive Through the Mountainsthe trip was supposed to be 8 hours.<br /><br />we drive back the way we came, back trough ghazni. have to stop to fix the car again.<br />heidar and a gentleman he knows seem to think it's best that i wait at the house. it's not clear why, but there is some sort of danger about. i'm told to stay inside and not to be seen.<br /><br />first discussion with heidar re: not getting married. "you don't even know me" "i know you." "heidar, with as much as you know about me, i could be any other woman"<br /><br />we finally leave ghazni, turn west to the road to herat to head to bamiyan.<br /><br />at 11 hours, the little town in the middle of nowhere. the country is becoming more mountainous. we stop for snacks and bathroom. i ask a man how much farther it is to bamiyan. we are told it should be another 4-5 hours -- i'm starting to get angry and nervous. this is taking much longer than it was supposed to. night falls as we begin the ascent over the mountains.<br /><br />i'm getting really angry at heidar, getting scared -- did not agree to travel at night through the isolated mountains of afghanistan; the white toyota on the side of the road reminding me of the white toyotas the taleban used to drive around in. putting on my shoes, marking my surroundings and planning how i would escape, having my thuraya satellite phone ready to call for help; arguing with heidar -- it doesn't matter that you have a black belt and your knife, if they ambush our car they will just shoot us in the head. heidar says he'll take full responsibility for anything that happens. what a consolation. he urges me to go to sleep. i know i need to stop thinking about it. nothing has happened. there is no real reason to believe anything would happen. i am the only one concerned. i feel like a child who's afraid of the "monster" in the corner in the dark that turns out to be my jacket draped over my chair when i turn on the light.<br /><br />at 17 hours, past 10pm, we arrive. find a room on the roof, eat the left overs, go to bed angry.Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1150822501541710072004-08-03T22:18:00.000-05:002006-06-20T12:01:06.683-05:00Sima Samar's Hospital, Riding a Motorbike, Volleyball, and Spelunking in JaghoriWe arrive in Jaghori and meet Heidar's family. Parents, brother, sisters & their husbands, children. We are offered a lunch-time snack. They offer to clean my clothes (I am dusty!).<br /><br />Jaghori is beautiful. A small, lush valley at the edge of the "river." Trees have been replanted.<br /><br />Heidar wants to get a haircut and we need pick up food for dinner. We get on the motorbike, I behind Heidar, and I am sure I must have just implicitly agreed to be married to him by doing this. "Are you sure it's ok?" "Yes, yes, it's ok" We stop at local women's community center, a small structure that has been rebuilt and is being refurbished. Women can come here and learn to read. The man who runs it gives me an apple.<br /><br />Back on the bike and farther down the path into town. The one main street. The rubble at the end of the street where the school for boys used to be. Heidar's haircut.<br /><br />Back on the bike and over to look at the new hospital. Then to the UN for a visit and doing some email.<br /><br />Head back. Stop for a quick game of volleyball. Heidar invites me to play. I decide to watch instead.<br /><br />Back home. Cooking the rice in a huge pot in the backyard. Dinner upstairs. After dinner we watch some karate movies. Bedtime. Heidar and I sleep alone in the same room upstairs, his mat on one side, mine on the other. Still, I am surprised. Surely they think we are married.<br /><br />Up early the next day to drive out to a nearby place where there are caves that go as far as you can see. Heidar's dad gives us knives and guns.<br /><br />We arrive and get out ready to explore the caves. A couple of local boys show us the way. It's tough to climb up to the entrance. So much effort only to discover that they have been closed up. Villagers have put lots of rocks at the entrances, apparently to prevent their boys from going in and getting lost. We are told that this has happened in the past, that the boys never returned.<br /><br />Back down. Heidar wants me to go the long way around instead of straight down the way we came up. I tell him, "That little boy just went this way, I can go this way." He says, "He's an Afhgan boy" and I say, "Well, I am American woman, and I'll go this way" Heidar is bemused but goes down first and insists on catching me as I jump. I don't want him to, but there is no preventing it.<br /><br />We play in the river a bit. Heidar is filming, and playing Afghan music for the soundtrack.<br /><br />We continue up the road and have lunch at the home of a relative of our driver (I think). Relax a bit, and head back.<br /><br />Back in Jaghori, we return to the hospital and go in. His cousin works there as a nurse, and she shows me around. the is the men's ward. the women's ward. the outpatient room where they are examined. here are some very sick women. one has a tumor and is clearly wasting. its crowded. i wish i could do something.<br /><br />The operating rooms. The story about the pregnant woman who hemorrhaged and died fighting for water at the water pump. A man kicked her in the stomach. They didn't have any blood for her. Without regular electricity they don't have a place to keep blood. Another story about a woman whose child was stillborn. How terrible. How she must have felt. Yes, she said, "All of that time waiting for nothing." I am reminded why so many Afghan families treat pregnancy so differently, why they don't acknowledge pregnancy even until much later, even into the 3rd trimester, and why the women don't behave and are not treated any differently -- they are expected to work the same, to delay eating at meals just the same. With such a high maternal and infant mortality rate, it would be difficult to be emotional and attached.<br /><br />The staff at the hospital are so overworked and underpaid as it is -- there aren't enough people to treat all problems at any time of day. There is a room where the nurses sleep and eat while on their shifts. They take turns spending the night. They are very tired. My host says that she will look for new work after one more year because it is too difficult here.<br /><br />We go back to Heidar's house. Dinner. To bed early because we are to leave for Bamiyan tomorrow. Heidar wants to stay another day, but I need to be back in Kabul by Friday, so we decide to continue as planned. It should take 8 hours to get to Bamiyan, so we plan to get up and be out by 8:00.Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1122409181087861032004-08-02T21:47:00.000-05:002006-06-20T11:17:53.970-05:00Into Taleban Territory: Through Ghazni and Into JaghoriHabib, a gentleman I met through his work at Harvard Law School, sent me to Afghanistan with many contacts who are eager to help. I've already mentioned several in my previous stories. It is through these contacts that I met Heidar. He is Habib's friend's brother-in-law, who is visitng from London for the first time in several years and is eager to travel. Remembering that I had mentioned my great desire to see Bamiyan and Bandyamir, I am invited to travel with Heidar for the next week. I meet Heidar on Friday, and am invited "out" with them that night. Wary of what that might entail and also tired, I thank him and decline, but agree to meet him again for dinner with his uncle the following night, Saturday. Dinner is very late, and Heidar calls for me at around 8:30pm. We drive over to the old Soviet complexes near the road that heads out to the UN compounds. I'm sure I've mentioned them. Giant, concrete buildings imposing on the otherwise more rural, older-world landscape of that part of the city.<br /><br />I am welcomed in and we sit and have some tea. I tell a few stories about how I like Afghanistan and how I don't like the present U.S. Government. We talk about the differences between Afghanistan and my country. The laugh as I grimace at the name "George Bush." After a time, we retire to the dining room, where I take my place as guest on the floor farthest from the door. Around the dining cloth are myself, Heidar's uncle, his cousin, another gentleman (a friend of the uncle, I believe), and Heidar. Ocassionally, a woman appears to present the food or tea, or to clear plates. She doesn't really look at me. I feel uncomfortable knowing that there are several women in the kitchen waiting their turn to eat in discretion and anonymity while I sit among the men, even invited to drink with them, enjoying the benefits of the sort of "neutered" status I enjoy as an American. I am not fully a man, of course, but neither am I an Afghan woman.<br /><br />Later, after we've finished our meal (I love Afghan food), we decide to leave the next day for Jaghori, then to Bamiyan, then Badyamir. Heidar will call me at work and we will rent a taxi nearby and head out early in the afternoon so as to be in Jaghori in time for dinner. It's Sunday, the first day of the work week, and as I am still waiting on the translations to be completed, I won't be missing anything. I pack up my things, including a large bottle of water and a couple of packets of Oral Rehydration Therapy and I think of my professor Dr. Cash from the School of Public Health who invented these in his early 20s. A short time later, I get the handwritten note from our security guards telling me that Heidar is here for me and I head out.<br /><br />We can't find a taxi for that day, so we arrange for one for tomorrow.<br />Road rage in Kabul, "No, Heidar, don't get out and fight"<br />Spend the night at Dr. Aloudal's.<br />Up early the next morning and head out at 5:00am.<br />8 hours. Through Ghazni.<br /><br />Heidar's story: tortured at the hands of the Taleban. Scars. Now a black belt in Karate, works with the police in UK.<br /><br />Driving through Pashtu territory. Eliciting waves from people in villages. Talking about differences between the Hazara and the Pashtu. Convincing Heidar to smile.<br /><br />Lunch in Ghazni. Heidar puts on my headscarf as we enter the village. Stop at the restaurant, eat in the main dining area (the only woman), lots of stares from local warlords.<br /><br />Continue the drive. Stopping to pee in the wide open landscape, flat, and nothing but a shrub or two for miles and miles -- Heidar and our driver friend walk off a few paces and kneel. Where am I supposed to go? I hold it until we find a sort of bridge-like area. I insist that they keep watch on the road.<br /><br />Arrive in Jaghori early afternoon.Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1091340214084925052004-07-31T02:02:00.000-05:002005-12-15T00:15:58.583-05:00I Fell in Love With a Boy in a Marijuana Field in Mazar-e-SharifThis photo courtesy Ben Schiffbauer.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/IMG_5989.jpg"><p><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/400/IMG_5989.jpg" border="0" /></a></p>Knowing I have very little time here, I am eager to see as much of the country as possible. Through Habib's family and friends and friends of friends and cousins of friends of friends and friends of cousins of brothers of friends, I have a contact in Mazar-e-Sharif, and have been invited to stay with him and his family should I ever get the chance to visit the hot north. With time passing so quickly, I decide to take Muhammad Shah Babai up on his offer. I invite Ben Schiffbauer, Bill and Judy's son, to come along, and he agrees.<br /><br />Ben and I bought our tickets for the KamAir flight to Mazar for Thursday, and plan to return on Saturday. We made all the necessary arrangements for getting to the airport, getting picked up at the airport, and getting back. Our travel office makes the arrangements for us and on Thursday morning, we are accompanied by Noori to the airport in Kabul where we get through security (I through the special women's section, a separate room behind a curtain for modest secuirty check) and head out to the hangar to wait for the tiny plane that will fly us north, over the Hindu Kush, to the area where Alexander the Great found his central asian wife so many years ago.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/summer%202004%20139.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/320/summer%202004%20139.jpg" border="0" /></a>We sat on small metal chairs with our bags outside of the hangar, looking out over the tarmac, trying not to be too hot. I looked over at the mountains beyond and tried to remember that I had only just flown in for the first time a few short weeks ago. Already its hard to remember the disbelief I felt when I tried to understand that I was here, in Afghanistan.<br /><br />After some time, we were instructed to follow a man across the tarmac to a small plane at the far side of the pavement. Our packs were in the back of the plane, secured by a sort of mesh netting. <a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/summer%202004%20140.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/320/summer%202004%20140.jpg" border="0" /></a>I think there were about 10 passenger seats. There was no separate cockpit, and I sat basically right behind the copilot. It was actually pretty cool to watch them doing all of those pilot-y things, pushing all of those buttons, wearing the headsets, looking through logs and what-not.<br /><br />The view as we flew over the Hindu Kush was also pretty amazing. I wish this photo came anywhere close to doing it justice.<br /><br /><br /><p><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/320/summer%202004%20141.jpg" border="0" /><br />When we arrived, I really had to pee. It was extremely hot. And humid. And I was desperate to find a bathroom. That stinky pit toilet in the hall of the airport (a small concrete building that might have been abandoned) was such a relief!<br /><br />Muhammad Shah's driver came and met us at the airport and drove us back to the ZOA office in downtown Mazar-e-Sharif. Mazar is much, much flatter than Kabul. It is actually quite striking. Driving to the city, you can look out and see flat land for miles and miles.<br /><br />We arrived at the ZOA office and were welcomed to the downstairs room where lunch was served. Usual yummy Afghan fare, including the yummiest watermelon yet! Everyone had told us that Mazar was the place for tarboza. They were totally right.<br /><br />Since the gang had to work, Ben and I decided that we would take a walk into town and do a bit of exploring. Our hosts discouraged us, concerned we would get lost and it was too hot, but we were not about to sit around inside when there were discoveries to be made and experiences to be had, so we decided to try our luck regardless. We asked the guard at the gate the general direction to walk to get to town, and he instructed us with some disbelief that we actually intended to walk <em>in this heat</em> when we could stay inside and relax in the "cool" of the fan.<br /><br /><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/320/IMG_5808.jpg" border="0" />Ben and I found our way through the main bazaar and to the famed Blue Mosque. I had been told that around here, I should take care to always have my head covered. Indeed, all the women here, where they were to be seen, were dressed in full burqa, although here instead of the sky blue I was used to seeing in Kabul and its nearby villages, the women wore white. Were it not for the terrible oppression underlying its origins and the reason for wearing it, one might be tempted to agree with the men here who admire the beauty of such dress. People were very friendly to us, eager to communicate and say "hello!" I got to use my Uzbek of old, and was so pleased to witness the shock on people's faces when I greeted them with "Salam alaykum, yakhshimisiz?" and respond to them with "Yakhshi, rahmat" While Ben was buying a vest (so as to better fit the style of Afghan men), I got into a pleasant conversation with an Uzbek man. (see photo above) I understood him way more than I was able to communicate, per usual.</p><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/IMG_5805.2.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/400/IMG_5805.0.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p>From the bazaar, we walked down the middle of <a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/IMG_5805.0.jpg"></a>the street toward the blue mosque, which has a large portrait of Massoud hanging in front of it. It really dominates--defines, even---the city. <a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/IMG_5812.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/400/IMG_5812.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p>It's pretty amazing. As we neared the mosque, we encountered a group of Iranian soldiers, who were impressed with our Persian and excited to invite us to dine with them at their quarters and to vitit their country. We thanked them and continued on toward the grounds of the mosque. Closer up, the mosque is even more beautiful. (So much greater the disappointment when my camera stopped working! Hence, most of these photos are Ben's) Decorated with thousands of tiles in intricate and beautiful patterns, it is a testament to more prosperous and peaceful times. To underscore this and to remind us of a hope for peaceful times yet to come, thousands of white doves (pigeons?) make their home on the mosque grounds. One man told us confidently that all birds who come here turn white after a few weeks. <a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/IMG_5852.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/320/IMG_5852.jpg" border="0" /></a>We need only look to confirm that only white birds lived there. How else do you explain that?</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/IMG_5898.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/320/IMG_5898.jpg" border="0" /></a>Beggars were everywhere, as is common near places of worship, only here they are beneath tattered burqas or seated on what remains of their legs, arms missing as well. One woman wore a brown burqa, and my heart wrenched to realize that what I had initially glimpsed as a large sack was actually a person. One man swayed from side to side, seated on the ground, singing loudly and fervently, eyes closed, and beating the knubs of his forearms on his knees. </p><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/IMG_5841.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/320/IMG_5841.0.jpg" border="0" /></a>And of course, groups of laughing children in raggedy shalwar kameez gathered to have their photo taken.<br /><br /></p><p></p><p></p><p>We left the mosque and tracked back through the bazaar to return to ZOA in time to go out with the guys. We ended up going to some expat party where there was a lot of beer and a lot of very serious discussion about their group and whether or not to let military folks attend their functions. It was really interesting to listen to the concerns that this social group has about its identity. For people living here as expatriates, this is the only social network that they really have, and it becomes extremely important to identity. Anyway, it was actually pretty serious business, and I got some insight into the life of the isolation of aid work in small villages in distant, insecure countries. </p><p>After the party, it was late and I was really hungry, and a couple of the guys <a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/IMG_5910.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/320/IMG_5910.jpg" border="0" /></a>there invited us back to their compound for pizza and more beer. We ended up staying there, and sleeping under mosquito nets outside. During the summer, they take their little mattresses and set them up under trees and drape the mosquito nets over them; the resulting effect is a lush garden with little pods here and there from which men emerge ever morning. At first we just kind of fell asleep on this deck next to the "pool" (a reservoir), under the stars. But I was pretty uncomfortable, so I took over one of the pods. Next morning up for Nescafe (I can't wait to have real coffee again) before meeting up with Muhammad Shah to meet his wife and take a day trip to Balkh, the actual village where Alexander met and married his wife. </p><p>Here is a bit of info summarized from : <a href="http://www.archaeological.org/pdfs/papers/AIA_Afghanistan_address_lowres.pdf">http://www.archaeological.org/pdfs/papers/AIA_Afghanistan_address_lowres.pdf</a> </p><p>Balkh was sometimes called “the mother of the world cities” during the Middle Ages. Alexander the Great kept Bactres (Balkh) as the capital of Bactria (around 330 BCE) but transformed it into a Greek city. Most western archaeologists coming to Afghanistan began excavating on the site of today’s Balkh precisely because by 250 BCE it was the capital of the Greek-Bactrian kingdom. The tumultuous history of Balkh is associated with both glorious and tragic events of Central Asia. We know that Genghis Khan had this "mother of the cities" destroyed from top to bottom in 1221. But when Marco Polo visited Balkh a half a century later he mentioned the existence of "many beautiful palaces and marble houses." </p><p>We drove west, through fields of lush vegetation, beyond the thousands of years-old remains of the wall that once enclosed and protected the village of Balkh from intruders. The outer wall is high, and stretches for more than 7 miles around the ancient outer limits of the city. </p><p>We went up to what I think is probably the site of Tepe, or Tapa, so called of Zargaran, literally <a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/IMG_5924.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/320/IMG_5924.jpg" border="0" /></a>meaning "the jeweler’s hill", which is at the level of the lower city and which has been subject to tons and tons and tons of illegal excavation. We were offered several different items by wandering peddlers (on bikes, donkey carts, motorcycles) claiming to have dug them up themselves: small carvings, coins, jewelry. I guess maybe I should have considered buying something, which is probably ancient and worth a lot more than the pittance they asked. Or would I have been encouraging the destruction of an ancient heritage...? Either way, I didn't buy anything. </p><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/IMG_5961.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/320/IMG_5961.jpg" border="0" /></a>From there, we went to an old cemetery with the gravesite of a local legend who was a great healer. There is a tree trunk in front of his grave with hundreds of nails that have been placed there by faithful pilgrims who believe that by nailing the nails with a fervent prayer and faith, they will be granted their need. </p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/IMG_5975.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/320/IMG_5975.jpg" border="0" /></a>Then we went to the ancient remains of Khwadja Parsa is a mausoleum from the Ghorid period, which dates to the late Timurid provincial style of the 15th century A.D. Here is the tomb of Rabiah Balkhi, the first woman poet of Afghanistan, after whom the women's hospital in Kabul is named.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/IMG_5981.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/320/IMG_5981.jpg" border="0" /></a>On the way back toward Mazar, and a bit out of the way (off a side road in the middle of fields of marijuana), we found our way to a UNESCO heritage site that serves as a picnic spot for Afghan families, and a pilgrimage spot as well. Families of women in white burqa carrying children rested among the trees and the fields. </p><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/IMG_5977.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/320/IMG_5977.jpg" border="0" /></a>We were told that the crumbling remains of this beautiful mosque were originally erected on the site where a very devout muslim died en route, on foot, to mecca. The 9-domed mosque is named Masjid-e-Tarikh, and was built between the 8th and 9th centuries, the first of its kind in Islam. Wandering among the ancient pillars, I first noticed my love -- a little boy, shepherding a single cow, who was totally intrigued by me but too shy to maintain eye contact. Each time I looked over at him and smiled he smiled despite himself, blushed, and looked away. I fell in love with him immediately. It took more than a half hour of distant flirtation before he was willing to be approached by me. I made him laugh by feeding the donkey the melon rinds and petting him. Finally, as we were about to depart and he was following his cow in another direction, I leapt out of the car and asked to take a photo with him. He was so pleased and so embarrassed at the same time, I wanted nothing more than to please him and bring him happiness. It was a very strange, instantaneous, deep desire to shelter and protect this child that <img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/400/IMG_5988.0.jpg" border="0" />drove me crazy over the next several hours, and occupied my thoughts for months after. Could I adopt this boy? No, of course not. How could I take him away from his family? That would be wrong. But could I pay for his education? How much money does he bring to his family by shepherding this cow, and how much would be necessary to convince his family to let him study instead? Would that make any difference? I could pay for his education and return to visit as often as I could and when he was old enough, I could bring him to the U.S. It sounds stupid, I know, but I was quite consumed with an inexplicable but very real and deep spiritual connection to this boy. I still think of him and wonder if it is too late to do anything to improve his life. I also wonder if I am arrogant to think that his life may need improving and that anything I might do could be an improvement.</p><p>That night we stayed with the boys, and were treated to amazing home-cooked Indian food. We slept soundly and were disappointed to leave our new friends so soon the next day. Why didn't I get their email addresses? Ben, if you know how to reach them, please pass on word.<br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/disguised.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/320/disguised.jpg" border="0" /></a></p>Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1091340139257250182004-07-26T13:01:00.000-05:002005-08-06T19:29:23.876-05:00Rural Site: Kalakan District<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/kalakan%20circled.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/400/kalakan%20circled.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The final FGDs went well overall, although we certainly could have benefited from a bit more advanced planning. Nasreen, our female notetaker, was unable to attend the final days of the study because of her father's concerns about the travel to the site. Because it is a rural site and farther away from the city, Nasreen's father believes that "they still steal girls." I am not sure who "they" are, but his concern was real and he would not be swayed. Nasreen was not allowed to travel to the rural site with us. As a result, we had to recruit a staff member from the NGO that was hosting us to perform the role of the female notetaker. She did a pretty good job, but failed to match quotes to people, so there is no way we can know, for example, whether the same person said one thing many times or if different people said the same thing.<br /><br />Also, the room was exceedingly hot and as a consequence, the babies (with the new mothers) were uncomfortable and crying, of course distracting their moms from the discussion at hand. We had to have the windows open which limited the privacy and intimacy of the group as well. And for some reason, one of the clinic staff kept coming in and out of the room, helping herself to the snacks and taking them to other members of the staff and holding loudly whispered conversations through the open doorway with people nearby. She certainly should have been informed of the importance of a quiet, focused, private discussion ahead of time. I am surprised that she didn't understand this, but alas, there we have it. The discussion still went well and we were able to gather some valuable and interesting information. I can't wait for the translations to be complete so that I can work on analyzing the results. Hard to believe we are done! Such a brief period of time here and so much we were able to do. But finishing the project means I am closer to finishing with my time here, which is hard to believe as well.<br /><br />One interesting observation is that every single woman in the discussion wore full burqa, the veil flipped back behind their hands to expose and cool their faces, and almost all of them took care to recover their faces when our "tea man" entered with the refreshments. Here, in this relatively safe space with only other women, they can reveal their unique identities, but when a man enters they rush to hide it again. I wonder if they are afraid that he might tell people if they didn't cover up when he came in, or maybe they are afraid that the other women might say somehting. Or maybe they are just so accustomed to living under a burqa and veiwing men through a screen that it is second nature for them. Maybe they are uncomfortable if they don't do it, they just feel that it is immodest -- I imagine that if I were to move to certain parts of rural Africa, even if I knew I would live there for the rest of my life, I would still feel uncomfortable bearing my naked breasts in front of men even though it would be ok, acceptable, even normal.<br /><br />After our final FGD we headed back to the city for lunch. Someone suggested we go to this particular Afghan restaurant on the north side of town -- one of the 2 more popular restaurants that serve principally Afghan foods. That sounded good to me, so we found our way there and parked and began to file out of the van. Hamayoon took care to insist that our driver join us. So up we all went, and when it came time to order, everyone looked to me to order first. I really didn't know, so a few people made suggestions and then I agreed to one of them (a more expensive option, but one which everyone agreed would be good) and then everyone handed in their menus. It was then that I understood that I was going to be expected to pay for everyone there -- a total of eight of us. Oh, man! No way out of this one, but given that it was clearly understood by everyone except me that I should pay, I figured it would be an extremely rude violation of Afghan culture not to. I wondered, is it because I am Western and they therefore believe that I must have a lot of money? Or is it because I am running the study? I decided it was probably because I am a Western woman running a study -- i.e. I am the boss and I have money so of course I should invite everyone for a final thank you lunch. Makes sense. I just wish I really did have the money behind me to do it.Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1091339985962160912004-07-23T11:59:00.000-05:002005-08-05T20:18:25.203-05:00Afghan Hospitality<p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/summer%202004%201061.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/400/summer%202004%201061.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/summer%202004%20106.jpg"></a><br />This morning the car arrived very early to pick up me and Miho. I was confused because I had understood that we were going to be having dinner -- when we said 8 o'clock, I assumed we meant 8:00 pm. But no, Miho was correct, they asked that we arrive at 8:00 am. Bright and early we are welcomed warmly into the family house of our friends from yesterday. We climbed the stairs to our hosts' upstairs apartments. The home is decorated in traditional Afghan style, with minimalist empty walls and only elaborate Afghan carpets and kilms on the floor. We are immediately escorted into the hosting room and invited to sit down and enjoy some <em>chai</em> and <em>chocolat</em> -- tea and sweets. Miho and I accept with gratitude and begin the familiar process of sitting and drinking tea and being watched and not able to speak much in return. Rather, that is <em>my </em>routine. Miho has been here in Kabul for the past 3 years now, and her Dari is quite good. She is able to translate for me those things that gestures and facial expressions are not able to communicate. I understand that the girls want me to take them to the zoo and shopping. I explain that I would love to take them shopping but that I cannot use the company cars for such expeditions with so many guests, and further that I will need to arrange for the car in advance. They are leaving for Pakistan the following day and today is our final chance to pass time together. They are disappointed but understanding.<br /><br />After some time, we are invited to meet the elders of the family -- grandmother and grandfather <em>(modar and padar kalaam). </em>Grandfather is an extremely gracious man, eager to engage with me and express his gratitude to the United States for intervening and defeating the Taleban. <a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/summer%202004%20107.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" height="208" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/400/summer%202004%20107.jpg" width="302" border="0" /></a>He tells me how bad things were during Taleban rule, how terrible everything was, and how grateful he is that the U.S. ended it all. I understand him perfectly, even though he speaks in rapid Dari and does not gesture like I do. I understand him because of the depth of feeling with which he communicates his memories, his gratitude, his relief, his appreciation, his warm welcome and pleasure at having me in his home. I am overcome. Here even more than in other countries, I as a U.S. American citizen represent for the people here the government of the United States, and I am thereby entitled to the feelings of both gratitude and anger, awe and disdain, envy and rejection that our presence and reputation evokes. His warm and free affection for me fills me with a desire to reciprocate, to share my love for his country, and more than anything, to express my own apologetic gratitude for such kindness and hospitality knowing I have done nothing to deserve this. </p><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/summer%202004%20131.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" height="243" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/400/summer%202004%20131.jpg" width="355" border="0" /></a>Grandmother expresses her pleasure with much quieter dignity. She smiles and nods. She takes my hand and pats it. She gestures for a photo together. We take several, pausing after each one to look at the digital preview on the tiny camera screen. She does not know what to say to me, but she is happy that I am sitting beside her in her home on the other side of the world from my own.</p><p>After some time, Miho and I decide that we should mention that we are going to have to leave soon. "But we thought you were staying for dinner!" I think they meant lunch. They have been planning an elaborate meal with those things that I mentioned yesterday that I enjoy so much -- <em>ausak </em>and <em>mantu</em>. They are disappointed to hear that we will need to be leaving earlier than anticipated. Apparently they had wanted us to arrive early only to pass the day together, and were planning a full table for the afternoon meal. They rush to accomodate our needs and soon everyone is in the kitchen together, preparing the ausak. </p><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/summer%202004%20112.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/320/summer%202004%20112.jpg" border="0" /></a>First, we must prepare the "pasta" dough. I wish I knew what the ingredients were for everything, but unfortunately, specific grains and vegetables and herbs and spices are not the most common words in daily conversation and I have not picked up the Dari for them. This description is therefore embarrassingly limited. </p><p>We prepare the dough -- rolling it, kneading it, rolling it, flattening it in that special flattening machine until it is about 3mm thin and ready to be sliced into long, thin noodles. These they will use in a different dish later on.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/summer%202004%20109.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/200/summer%202004%20109.jpg" border="0" /></a>The sister who wore the burqa yesterday is also in charge of flattening. Her hennaed palms and fingers work the dough and the machine with familiar and habitual agility. For the ausak, we take the flattened dough and cut it into little circles with a cup. Then we take these little circles and fill them with greens -- dill, I think, and a type of onion, and other herbs that I have not yet identified. Once they are filled, we fold the little circles over and press the edges between our fingertips with a bit of water to close off these tasty little pockets. They will be cooked in oil and smothered in some yummy meaty red sauce and yogurt sauce. I am thrilled at this authentically Afghan female experience. Minus, of course, the poverty and the subtle relief of being inside one's <a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/summer%202004%20113.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/320/summer%202004%20113.jpg" border="0" /></a>own house rather than outside in the oppressive public where women must be cautious about showing their bodies, faces, hair or talking too freely with people who are not related. </p><p>We finish preparing the meal and spend some time taking photos of each other. Everyone wants to have multiple pictures taken of themselves -- they are thrilled to see what they look like on camera. I encourage them to smile. I say, "with teeth!" and they laugh freely. The brother comes in and poses with a serious face that could easily pass for displeasure. Finally enough of them exhaust their desire to be photographed to convince the rest that it's enough. We adjourn once again to the sitting room where the children spread a tablecloth and begin to set the delicious meal. As is customary, the guests are served first, then the elder men, then the male children, the female children, and then the women. Actually, the women usually eat what is left over after everyone else has been served and eaten their fill. During the meal they are scarce, in the kitchen mostly but sometimes gliding in unobtrusively to refill tea, refill plates, and neaten the table. I am always extremely uncomfortable with this. As a western woman I am given a more masculine status, and I feel the distance keenly. I wonder how long it would take me to figure out how best to deal with that. Perhaps I will discover it in the future.</p><p>The meal was wonderful and then it was time for our car to return. We said our good-byes with many a <em>besyar tashakur</em>, <em>bamane khuda, huda hofez, tashakur</em> on our part and a chorus of "I love you my sister I miss you you my friend forever I love you" on theirs. I wrote my email on a card for them and explained that it was something they could use to reach me from a computer. I also gave them my phone number, but really I knew I would likely never see them or hear from them again. Somehow our separate lives in such dramatically different worlds led us to each other for a brief and meaningful encounter wherein we were able to connect to one another as women, as people, and I was both extremely happy and sad at once to realize it.</p>Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com51tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1091339947829044312004-07-22T21:57:00.000-05:002005-07-27T21:51:20.920-05:00The Women's Park: A New Perspective on Women in Burqas<p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/summer%202004%20087.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/400/summer%202004%20087.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />On the north side of the city, there is a women's park. What is it, exactly? Well... that. A park for women only, where women go with their families, they go with their wares, they shed their burqas and buy and sell clothes, medicines, trinkets, accessories, and foods. It's a space where women can feel free as they can't in many other places, even in their own homes where men and male visitors are regular.<br /><br />I had been wanting to go since I heard about it, and so had my friend Miho, so we made plans to head over after work today. We had just walked in and were beginning to appraise the situation (actually not too much to speak of -- a little bit of brownish grass, some pebbled walkways, a few shaded benches, and a play area for children), when I heard a voice behind us asking, "Excuse me, do you speak English?" I turned around to see a group of young women, faces shining and eager to practice their English with a real American. They also wanted to know if we spoke German or French. No, I'm a lame American. I only speak English and Spanish, and <em>cam cam Farsi</em>. They wanted to take photos with us (see above) right away. They asked us to come and meet their sister and to sit with them. </p><p>My Dari was not quite as good as their English, so once again, our verbal communication was limited. This, time, though, our companions were so pleased with us (and, I daresay, my smiling ignorance) that they quickly decided that "I love you" and "You my sister now." We sat and "talked" under the shade and I took their photos.</p><p></p><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/400/summer%202004%20091.jpg" border="0" />I was able to gather that they are Afghans living in Pakistan, as refugees not yet returned home after the fall of the Taleban. One of the girls, with a beauty far more mature than her age, has been living in Germany, and wants to be a model. Living far away from her native Afghanistan where women and children go hungry and malnourished for want of food, she already exhibits symptoms of a poor body image in the <a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/summer%202004%20092.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/320/summer%202004%20092.jpg" border="0" /></a>making, pinching her belly and complaining of "getting fat" and needing to "diet." These are English words that she nows. I hate to think what these discussions sound like in German, when she is not limited by lack of vocabulary. She's 8 years old. Beautiful, isn't she? <p></p><p></p><p>We continue talking and as it becomes later and it is nearing time for us to leave, they press us with extremely enthusiastic sincerity to join them for dinner the following day. Once again, Miho and I decline as politely as possible, but they are insistent and actually plead with us to join them. "please, come, dinner, my house" and "i love, you, my house." The young model clasps her hands in the kind of sweet supplication that children are able to convey. They take my arm and snuggle close, unwilling to accept that we will not see each other again. They force bracelets on my wrists, despite my protests. Of course, we end by accepting their invitation. They are thrilled! Admittedly, their genuine pleasure is infectious, and I, too, am smiling broadly at my good fortune in meeting such kind and welcoming women. I look forward to breaking bread and sharing an authentic meal with them -- I have had such few opportunities to experience the culture in these kind of meaningful ways. </p><p>Our agreement secured, we are free to leave and we walk outside together. Miho crosses the street with the children to buy some treats, and I pause to take a photo:</p><p><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/400/summer%202004%20100.jpg" border="0" /></p><p>When I turn back around, I turn just in time to get a final glimpse of one of my companions' faces before she lets the curtain that is her burqa drop down to her knees. I am shocked and dismayed at my reaction. In that moment, it is as if she has drawn an invisibility cloak over herself. She is depersonalized. She fades into the background, camouflaged as one of the silent blue figures that drift along as "extras" or even, yes, "props" on the Taleban-era Afghanistan set. </p><p>I thought that I was so open, so in touch with the plight of these oppressed women, an knowledgable and <em>knowing</em> advocate. I heard myself passionately educating my friends and colleagues about Afghan women, what its like for them, how easily people form mistaken opinions about them. And I never knew. And I never knew I didn't know until that moment. I, too have been guilty of depersonalizing these women. It is worse for the hypocrisy. I had just passed two hours talking and laughing and holding hands with this woman, and in a moment, I no longer saw <em>her</em>, I didn't even know how to look for her. Yes, this is what fundamentalists want, this is the very function of the burqa, and I have given in to it.</p><p>Tomorrow I will see her again, unveiled in the comfort of her home. I wish I knew how to make myself see her now.</p><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/summer%202004%20101.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/400/summer%202004%20101.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p>Above: Her sister, who does not wear the veil and is ok with being photographed. She is beneath the burqa, turning away in the background. And yet I manage to smile even after such a revelation about my personal failings...</p>Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1090754776840824942004-07-20T17:50:00.000-05:002005-07-26T18:19:29.040-05:00FGD Semi-Urban Site: Shakardara<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/shakardara%20circled.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/400/shakardara%20circled.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The first day of our semi-urban site did not go as planned. It all started off wrong. Everything.<br /><br />Our cars were an hour late. Our female moderator threatened not to come.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>(background on that: Challenge #One: Trained moderators are extremely difficult to come by here. There is, not surprisingly after so many years of war and oppression, a very real lack of trained Afghan staff who are qualified to do the kind of work the NGOs are looking for. Because there are so many NGOs, those few who are capable are already very busy and hard to come by. I spent several days and several meetings trying to identify moderators for our FGDs. Finally, the Research Coordinator at PSI made a recommendation for a male-female couple who, we were told, had experience moderating FGDs. Challenge #Two: On the day of the training, which I had designed entirely in English, we discovered that our moderators did not, in fact, speak English. On the day of the field tests, we discovered that, Challenge #Three, there was no way these people had real experience with FGDs before. The male moderator was both especially committed (he spent time at home working on <strong>rewriting </strong>the questions!) and especially lacking in skill. Because the male groups were the most important groups for our study, we had to find a new moderator at the last moment. The day before our first study site, a man from one of our grantee organizations, Dr. Ihsan, agreed to act as the moderator, despite an extremely busy schedule. We informed the original moderator that we would not be able to use his services. The day of the study, however, he showed up. When we told him again that, Thank you, but we have a different moderator, the female moderator (who has a harsh personality) said that if he did not go, she would not go. I'm not sure how we convinced her, perhaps it was an empty threat and when she realized we were going ahead, she thought better of it. Regardless, she came.) </em></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">We arrived to the clinic there to discover that no one was expecting us. This despite a confirmation the previous day that all was set and we would arrive to a staff who had been briefed, prepared to help us conduct our study without a hitch.</span><br /><br />"I'm sorry, who are you?" It was going to be impossible to assemble complete groups this day. We did our best with the women's groups, and were able to recruit small groups of women who had delivered at the clinic. The men's groups were another story. We were extremely fortunate to have our new male moderator, Dr. Ihsan -- he was well-connected in that community and, working his connections and the respect he and his organization have earned there, he was able to set up the discussions for the next day. We would not be able to recruit from the waiting rooms as hoped, but were guaranteed to have full groups and spacious rooms at a home out in the community for the following day.<br /><br />As he busied himself tending to the arrangements for us, we were invited in to share lunch with the folks from Sanayee Development Foundation, one of the civil organizations that works out in the community. We politely declined, not wanting to take advantage, but accepted some <em>dogh</em> -- a drink made of sour yoghurt, cucumber, and pepper. As a muslim country, Afghans don't drink alcohol -- this drink serves a similar purpose, it seems. People joke about how relaxed and sleepy you get after having too much dogh. If you joke about feeling tired after drinking a glass, you are guaranteed to get a laugh and win some points for really knowing the culture. Drunk on our dogh, we ended up accepting a bit of lunch.<br /><br />On the way back to the city that afternoon, I spent a little more time talking with our moderator, who was very polite, very kind, and very informative. It was he who first told me that all of the land we pass on our way out of Kabul was once lush and green with fields and fields of grapes and fruit trees. Looking out at the dry, dusty earth and the demarcated plots of mines I felt a clutch in my chest imagining what it must be like for him, who knew the beauty and fertility this land used to be. The Taliban burned these fields, burned the villages, killed many of the remaining few villagers that had not fled north prior to the invasion of that evil regime. The air must have been thick with the smell of smoldering grapes, gunpowder, and violence. After this devastation, even the rain was afraid to return to the region, and now, after eight years of drought, little remains to remind us of what it must have looked like then.<br /><br />As he looked out of the windows toward the past with me, he was reminded of his boyhood in fields like these. He smiled the smile that I have only seen Afghans give as he recollected the days he passed chasing small birds through the vineyards, the grass, with the sound of bullets zipping past his ears. He remembers that he didn't even consider it extraordinary, that he didn't then recognize the dissonance of such childish playful innocence and such adult violence and evil. There is no clever or poignant adjective or allegory to really characterize that smile, the one that accompanies such tragic memories, tragic histories, tragic todays; or if there is, I am just not clever enough to think of it.<br /><br />We dropped him off with effusive thanks and I wished it were not inappropriate to give hugs. He would not be able to accompany us the next day, but he would be sure to send a well-respected and qualified colleague.<br /><br />The following day, Day 2 at Shakardara was just lovely. Mr. Shirzai from SDF performed wonderfully at the male FGDs, and I had a wonderful time with the women. Instead of conducting the discussions at the clinic, the efforts of SDF the previous day paid off tenfold -- all of the men and women had been recruited ahead of time, and were waiting for us in small but comfortable rooms at Malalay House out in the village. Little girls gave me beautiful flowers -- fresh picked lavender and a bunch of other sweet smelling blooms that I didn't recognize. The women smiled at me continuously and sent their children over to me to sit with me and be touched by me. I was told that they thought I was cute and that I seemed very kind. It never ceases to amaze me how far a wide, ignorant smile carries me in foreign countries. That and my jilted, toddler-level language skills: "Thank you, thank you so much, thank you. Flowers, no? Flowers? Flowers are beautiful. Beautiful? Yes? Girl is beautiful." I'm sure this is a large part of what endears me to them.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/summer%202004%20273%20-%202.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/320/summer%202004%20273%20-%202.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />After we finished, the men were still in their groups, so we were escorted by the senior women in the village to a garden owned by one of the community leaders. "Very safe and beautiful" we were told. And indeed it was. It was an enclosed garden with rows and rows of fruit trees -- apples, especially -- and flowers and plants and the famous fat-tailed sheep.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/summer%202004%20279.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/320/summer%202004%20279.jpg" border="0" /></a> A blanket was laid for us beneath a large mulberry tree, and we wandered in and out of the trees, picking fruit, picking flowers, and breathing the fresh air. The women I was with wanted to share some mulberries with me, so two of them took up a large sheet and held it underneath while another shook the branches above with a force that surprised me. Large berries, white and purples, rained down into the sheet for our enjoyment. We sat in the shade of green trees, eating their luscious, decadent fruits, laughing and talking until our male colleagues came to fetch us.<br /><br />I thought, this is what it was like before the wars began. This is the joy of being Afghan, the joy of living in this land, the joy that has sustained these people through so much and that encourages them to continue, to work, rebuild, and move forward with a gratitude that I am embarrassed to admit I too often fail to feel myself.Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1090751341332016632004-07-20T14:05:00.000-05:002004-07-25T05:46:29.946-05:00Project Overview<p>Our first official study site was in a district called Shakardara. Wait. How much have I told you about my study? I spent the first two weeks here designing the study and designing the training for the field team, but now that I think of it, I feel like maybe I haven't shared that much with you about that.
<br />
<br />Okay. So first things first. Below find a brief overview of the study:
<br />
<br /><u><strong>Where a Pregnant Woman Delivers in Afghanistan: Important Factors in the Decision-Making Process</strong>
<br /><strong></strong></u>
<br /><strong>Project Overview</strong>
<br />
<br />A qualitative study relating to the decision-making process regarding place of delivery for pregnant women in Afghanistan. This will be a pilot study, designed to provide initial guidance to interested parties and to inform further research.
<br />
<br /><strong>Main Question(s)</strong>
<br />
<br />What factors should NGOs and other organizations consider when designing culturally appropriate birthing services in Afghanistan? What are some ways that NGOs and other organizations might increase demand for facility-based delivery in Afghanistan?
<br />
<br />1a. Among those families wherein women deliver in health facilities, what are the considerations that lead them to choose facility-based delivery?
<br />2a. Among those families wherein women do not deliver in health facilities and who have access to such facilities, why do they deliver at home?
<br />2b. Among those families wherein women do not deliver in health facilities and who have access to such facilities, what services and factors would be necessary in order for them to consider delivery in the facility?
<br />
<br /><strong>Methods</strong>
<br />
<br />Prepare FGD guide.
<br />
<br />Develop questions ( 8 – 12 questions per FGD) based on preliminary guidance from knowledgeable individuals among REACH staff and in local NGOs.
<br />
<br />Send the guiding questions to English-speaking REACH staff for review and revision.
<br />
<br />Translate the guiding questions into Dari.
<br />
<br />Send the guiding questions to Dari-speaking REACH staff for review and revision.
<br />
<br />Field test the questions. One site that is easily accessible is sufficient.
<br />
<br />Revise the questions based on field test results.
<br />
<br />Identify and train Dari-speaking moderators.
<br />
<br />Identify two sites at which to conduct the qualitative research, one urban/semi-urban and one rural.
<br />
<br />Identify and recruit participants (maximum 10 participants per group) for focus group discussions (FGDs) on-site in designated waiting areas at times when desired groups are generally available (determined through consultation with clinic/hospital staff): </p><blockquote>Research will be conducted using six FGDs per site, for a total of twelve FGDs.
<br />
<br />Each site will have two sets of FGDs – one set including members of families wherein women deliver in health facilities (HFs), and one set including members of families wherein women do not deliver in health facilities and who have access to such facilities.
<br />
<br />Each of the two sets will be further divided into three distinct FGDs – one composed of women’s husbands, one composed of women’s mothers-in-law, and one composed of the women themselves.
<br />
<br />See diagram below.
<br /></blockquote><p> --Husbands </p> /
<br /> ----Deliver in HFs-------Mothers-in-law
<br /> / \
<br /> / --Women
<br />RURAL
<br /> \ --Husbands
<br /> \ /
<br /> Do not deliver in HFs----Mothers-in-law
<br /> \
<br /> --Women
<br />
<br />
<br /> --Husbands
<br /> /
<br /> ----Deliver in HFs-------Mothers-in-law
<br /> / \
<br /> / --Women
<br />URBAN
<br /> \ --Husbands
<br /> \ /
<br /> Do not deliver in HFs----Mothers-in-law
<br /> \
<br /> --Women
<br /><p>
<br /></p><blockquote>Clarifications:
<br />
<br />· “families wherein women do/do not deliver in health facilities” should include families in which a woman has delivered a child within the past 18 months.
<br />
<br />· It is not necessary to limit the participants by requiring that the husbands, mothers-in-law, and women are all in the same family. However, this information should be documented and noted.
<br /></blockquote><p>Conduct FGDs in Dari employing an Afghan moderator who has a similar profile to the participants in the group. Men should be interviewed by a man, and women should be interviewed by a woman.
<br />
<br />The FGDs will include the moderator and a note-taker. The note-taker should also be Afghan to minimize bias that may be introduced by the presence of the expatriate, and to allow for detailed note-taking in the event that participants express unwillingness to be tape-recorded. Notes taken by a non-Dari speaker are limited to physical and interpersonal observation.
<br />
<br />The FGDs will be conducted over 2 days. At least two and not more than four FGDs will be conducted on a given day. Each FGD should last approximately one hour. </p><blockquote>Sunday – FGDs with husbands of women who do/do not deliver in health facilities (1 morning, 1 afternoon)
<br />Simulataneous FGDs with mothers-in-law of women who do/do not deliver in health facilities.
<br />
<br />Monday – FGDs with women who do/do not deliver in health facilities. (1 morning, 1 afternoon)
<br /></blockquote><p>Transcribe the audio recordings of the FGDs, and translate the transcriptions from Dari into English.
<br />
<br /><strong>Resources Required</strong>
<br />
<br />Human resources:
<br />· 2 project managers.
<br />· 2 moderators—1 male and 1 female.
<br />· 2 note-takers/transcribers/translators—1 male and 1 female.
<br />
<br />Technical resources:
<br />· 4 audio recorders.
<br />· 15 audio cassettes, with at least 90 minutes per cassette.
<br />· Camera.
<br />· Batteries
<br />
<br />Other resources:
<br />· Pens.
<br />· Notepads.
<br />· Tea/biscuits
<br />
<br /><strong>Limitations
<br /></strong>
<br />Afghanistan is a very heterogenous country. Customs, beliefs, and needs will vary greatly across the country, depending on ethnicity and religion along with a range of other variables. This is of particular importance in the rural areas, as variation between rural areas can be much greater than variation between urban areas.
<br />
<br />For the most reliable results, FGDs should be conducted in an environment that provides the greatest degree of comfort possible for the participants. Our FGDs will be conducted in the presence of female expatriates. Foreign presence in the FGDs is likely to affect the results – common experience demonstrates that foreign presence stifles freedom of discussion among participants, and may also lead participants to answer as they believe they are “supposed to.” It is not clear how the presence of a female expatriate in a group of male participants will affect the results; however, given the gender norms of Afghan society, it is reasonable to expect that the discussion will be impacted.
<br />
<br />Our methods require two different translation and interpretation processes, one at the beginning to translate the guiding questions from English into Dari, and one at the conclusion of the study to translate the discussion transcriptions from Dari back into English. It is well documented that translations decrease the reliability of the results.
<br /></p>
<br />Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1090139292372696942004-07-17T15:30:00.000-05:002004-07-22T02:48:44.540-05:00A Trip to the ZooAfter yesterday's climb, I was a teeny bit sore, but not too bad. We went out to eat at this restaurant that is owned by some Europeans, and that feels like anyplace but Kabul when you are inside. Cleany, shiny surfaces, trendy lighting and decor, expensive dishes. Apparently it is a place where a lot of the military men hang out, because it meets all of the security specifications necessary to make it always ok (set back from the street X kilometers, walls X meters high, X number of guards, etc). It is supposedly quite the singles scene. I am glad I went with a group.
<br />
<br />The food was good, although I kind of got screwed with the bill. I had forgotten what that feels like -- you know, when you are the one person in the group who doesn't make a salary but instead is in a bunch of debt so you order the cheap dish and no appetizer and only have one drink while everyone else orders two or three drinks and apps and then at the end everyone wants to just split the bill evenly which works well for everyone except you who would feel like a jerk be to be the one person to ask to contribute less and so you end up subsidizing everyone else's consumption despite your best efforts to not spend too much on your own. You know the deal. But it was great company and good food, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself nevertheless.
<br />
<br />Today I went to the zoo with Ash (one of my fellow hikers from yesterday). I and a woman in a burqa were the only two women there. I got lots of stares. The zoo is not very big, and especially now that about half of the pins/cages/animal areas have been destroyed by the wars, there is not too much to see.
<br />
<br />I felt both good and bad about the zoo. Really the only good part was that the people there were really interested in us, and this whole little crowd of grown Afghan men wanted to show us around and talk to us. One of them was very tall and, like most Afghan men, had a dark, stern-looking face beneath his white turban. It was fun and incongruous to watch him put his fingers up above his ears like horns, as he tried to explain the animals to us. Another one was a master of the one English phrase, "Come on!" and used it repeatedly to encourage us to follow them to the next cage.
<br />
<br />The rest of the zoo was a big ol' downer. I mean, I have mixed feelings about zoos anyway. I hate to cage up wild animals and restrict them from their natural environments and territories, but if they are well-cared for and if it helps protect endangered species and encourages people to love and respect animals, then that's good. But here, the zoo fails in every respect. The animals are not well cared for. They are in tiny cages (giant bears in a cage the size of a small studio apartment, large birds of prey in cages the same size with no room to fly) and they are clearly hungry and the visitors do not respect them. The areas with the monkeys and the other bears are surrounded by small canals of giardia-infested, green, stagnant water with all sorts of trash and debris floating around in it. The gazelles looked okay. And the "wild boars" seemed to be doing fine (although they are not wild boars at all -- just regular ol' domestic pigs!), even though visitors regularly climb down into their area and tease them. The lions seemed okay <span style="font-size:85%;"><em>(there are two new lions -- there were two previously, but the Taliban threw a grenade into their pit and killed one and took the eye out of the other. the one-eyed lion died last year of kidney failure.)</em> <span style="font-size:100%;">but then again, they didn't move. I noticed that there were many ways that these lions could easily jump over the walls of their little area if they were happy enough, healthy enough, well enough fed. This could not be a very good sign that they were just laying there even though freedom was so easily attainable. The parakeets also seemed to be doing well. </span></span>
<br />
<br />That is about all there is to the zoo. It is kind of surreal to walk around some of the old destroyed parts of the buildings, and see up close like that the destruction of war. There was some graffitti, in English, on one of the old buildings (I imagine it was a reptile house, but don't ask me why) which read, "Long live Mujahudeen of Afghanistan." I wonder who wrote that and when.
<br />
<br />We left the zoo and went to Chicken Street, the main commercial street that caters to tourists in Kabul. Carpets, clothing, more animal fur and pelts than you can imagine, jewelry, and some knick-knack stores like the one we went into. It is a metal store, with antique metalworks like rifles ornately carved and decorated with ivory and wood, water pipes, locks, instruments, swords, shields, chain mail, old coins, and anything else made of metal that you can imagine. Pretty neat store, really. The pieces come from all over Afghanistan and all over the world. I am not sure how to judge the quality, but nothing here is as expensive as it is anywhere else, so I am sure you can' really go wrong.
<br />
<br />Tonight I will go out to eat at the Chinese Dumpling House and play some ping pong and some cards. A slow Kabul weekend evening.
<br />
<br />Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1090134620993498522004-07-16T17:33:00.000-05:002005-07-27T21:13:23.010-05:00Wall Walking on Sher Darwaaza: View from the TopSee also the story about our trip in the Afghan SCENE Magazine, page 15: <br /><br /><a href="http://www.afghanscene.com/pdfs/asmaug.pdf">http://www.afghanscene.com/pdfs/asmaug.pdf</a> <br /><br />This Friday was the first day of real exercise I have had since I arrived in Kabul. I went with two of the Le Monde guys (that guesthouse I mentioned) -- Ash from Australia and Jeremy from the States -- to climb the tallest peak in Kabul. It was fantastic! (Despite the fact that I had been ill the two days before!)<br /> <br />The peak (I'll find the name later) has an ancient wall bisecting the mountain. Various estimates of how old it is place it anywhere from 800 to 1600 years old. Some people say it was built during a time when two brothers ruled the area, in order to divide the land between them. Others say that there is a love story behind it. I don't know that anyone really knows. It is mud bricks and stone, with windows here and there, and runs like stairs up the mountainside. <br /> <br />We drove out to Karte Se (the part of town that my office is in), and got out at the foot of the mountain. I wore my REI zip offs and a T-shirt, but brought a longer sleeve shirt and a head scarf with me to wear at the bottom and at the top. At the bottom, when you first start climbing (and I in my tevas -- bad idea!), you are climbing the route that so many people, usually children, climb every day to bring water up to their mud brick homes. There are no smooth paths, no streets, just rocks and the treads of the little plastic sandals that walk there daily. I wore my headscarf until we ascended the first 500 feet and were well out of view of the villagers. <br /> <br /><br />House on the way up the mountain <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/963.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/963.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Jeremy and I taking a breather. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/964.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/964.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Me and Ash <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/132_3280.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/132_3280.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Another breather <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/965.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/965.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Meditation. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/979.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/979.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Wall in the background. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/981.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/981.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Village kids. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/970.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/970.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />It is a good workout, and the view is amazing. You walk right along the wall, sometimes on top of the wall, up up up, over boulders, past the rusted ordinance casings that still remain scattered over the mountain after 23 years of war, and finally reach the summit. You really get a good sense of the layout of Kabul from way up there, and also a good sense of the history of the place. In so many ways, it still looks much as it did centuries ago when different people were warring over it and trying to conquer its people and its land. <br /><br />Looking out over the city from on top of the wall. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/967.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/967.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Jeremy on top of the world. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/000.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/000.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Looking out over Karte Seh <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/975.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/975.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /> <br />At the top, there is a long, deep trench that follows the wall. More casings. And some goat bones. I imagine this must have been where some men fought and slept and ate during one of the wars. We walk along the wall toward the other side of the mountain, where we see in the distance the silhouette of a man with a gun. <br /><br />At the top. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/132_3294.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/132_3294.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Me taking Ash down. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/132_3299.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/132_3299.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Silhouette of the soldier guarding the top. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/013.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/013.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We have brought fresh apricots with us to offer to him in exchange for tea and rest at the top. I put on my long sleeves and my head scarf. Salaam alaykum! we greet each other. We make our offering, apologizing that some of them are squishy after the morning climb. I am sure that squishy does not translate. <br /><br />Making the apricot offering. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/014.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/014.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /> <br />He offers us chai, and we accept with thanks. He goes into his small, rock shelter, and we look around. From somewhere heretofore unseen, we hear a donkey crying in pain. Over this ledge, down in this former artillery-pit, a donkey is tied to an old gun mount. He's caught, and the rope is too tight. His leg is bleeding. We free him, as the soldier watches in amusement. Poor thing. He got more loving from me during that hour visit than he has gotten in a long time. <br /><br />Donkey tied to gun mount. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/019.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/019.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Me and donkey getting to know each other. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/030.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/030.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Me and donkey good friends. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/037.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/037.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Good friends 2. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/041.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/041.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /> <br />This man leads a solitary life. I am sure he gets some visitors, perhaps weekly, from people like us, but mostly it is just him and his dog and his donkey at the top of a mountain overlooking Kabul. I wonder, who does he plan to shoot with that gun way up there so far from everything else? Here and there are other barricades, with even larger remnants of bombs and missiles scattered about rusting in the dust. I wonder whose they were. Were they ours? Were they Soviet? Taleban? <br /><br />The soldier's fort. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/133_3340.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/133_3340.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Profile of the lone soldier. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/026.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/026.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Lone soldier. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/029.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/029.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Rusted bullet casing. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/054.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/054.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Rusted bomb. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/052.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/052.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Looking out over the city. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/133_3343.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/133_3343.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Kabul from the top. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/061.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/061.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Kabul from the top 2. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/060.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/060.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Kabul from the top 3. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/133_3383.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/133_3383.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /> <br />We enjoy tea together, with minimal conversation. I manage to use the few words I have learned in my Dari lessons to ask, "U sag nam dara?" -- does that dog have a name? He does. But two seconds later I don't remember what it is.<br /> <br />We thank him very much, "Besyar tashakur" and wish that God will take care of him as we leave, "Bomane khuda. Khuda hofez." He shows us the path down the other side of the mountain. The path down is much easier than the path up. We make it down in 30 minutes, stopping for a few more photos,<br /><br />On the way back down. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/072.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/072.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Wall on the way down. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/133_3347.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/133_3347.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Windows in the wall <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/133_3359.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/133_3359.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Through the windows in the wall. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/076.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/076.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Wall window 2. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/080.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/080.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Through the window 3. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/133_3369.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/133_3369.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Me and Ash looking through the window. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/133_3381.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/133_3381.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Last bits of the wall. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/084.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/084.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Mosque and intersection. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/089.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/089.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />and ending up on the other side of town where the old fort is and the cemetery and Olympic stadium where they play soccer and all the motorized rickshaws (we called them tuk tuks in Thailand).<br /> <br />We ended our hike by driving out to the ISAF market -- Supreme -- for Baskin Robbins ice cream and a cold Coke. Kind of strange to be enjoying such treats as we walk back out past the arms unloading checkpoint and get into the car to drive past the three rows of razor wire that surround the compound. So Afghanistan.<br /> <br />Okay. I have to get back to work. I will post the titles of all the things I still want to write about and date them appropriately (starting from last weekend - a full week ago) -- then, as time permits this week, I'll fill in the details and post photos when possible.<br /> <br />Love and hugs.Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com87tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1090139096844402262004-07-15T21:24:00.000-05:002005-08-07T11:18:44.896-05:00PARTY! Afghan style.Tonight our Chief of Party had a party for all the staff living in Kabul. This included our drivers, our guards, our cleaning staff, and everyone who works on projects here. The vast majority are Afghans. I was reminded this morning that the party was tonight. When I got up and came down to breakfast, I noticed that outside, our driver was dressed to the nines in a suit and shiney shoes, and that his hair glistened neatly under the weight of some unknown hair product. He was all ready for the party later on.<br /><br />Despite being ill <span style="font-size:85%;"><em>(I mentioned that I was sick for the past two days. Today was a bit better, after a little rest in the afternoon.),</em></span> I was able to enjoy the evening.<br /><br />I am so upset with myself that I failed to take photos! It was quite a sight. There was a large tent set up outside, basically an Afghan blanket set up on bamboo poles, with a bunch of low chairs around low tables set up underneath. At one end of the tent was a stage, where a local Afghan band set up with their instruments -- drums, and some interesting stringed instrumets -- and microphones. The musicians were in full Afghan garb, wearing nice shalwar kameez and new vests and the appropriate kullaa (hat) for their culture. <em><span style="font-size:85%;">(note to self: I should take some pictures of the different hats men wear here to share with everyone. they are very distinctive and tell the observer where the wearer is from) </span></em>In front of the stage was a little area where they laid down Afghan carpets so that the men could dance. And they danced! I mean <strong>really </strong>danced!<br /><br />One man at a time would get up and exhibit his dancing abilities. Lots of arms and jumping and kicking and lots of moving of hips. One of my friends aptly commented that this kind of dancing would just as easily transfer to a Dead concert. I prefer it set to the background music of central asian stringed instruments and drums. They played Iranian music, Afghan music, and Indian music, and the men took turns demonstrating their ability to meet the demands of each different type of song. Baba Jan, our head security dude that I mentioned before, not only sang in an amazing voice, but he also went around "recruiting" men to dance. Several men volunteered on their own, but several more had to be encouraged.<br /><br />One of our dispatchers was trying to convince me to dance. I told him that there was no way I, the American woman who just arrived, was going to be the one to start the movement of women dancing in public parties with mixed company. He asked Baba Jan, who answered that of course, here at MSH we are equal opportunity and everyone has the same right to dance. I knew, though, that even if every single man at the party agreed individually that I could dance, collectively it would be unacceptable. What would they think of me?? I sat it out and enjoyed the show.<br /><br />The food was amazing, but I couldn't enjoy very much of it. There was, of course, palaw (the national rice dish -- very oily, often with shaved carrots, or radishes and onions), kebab, and mantu (the forerunner of ravioli!). There was also plenty of naan and some potato bread. And for dessert, lots of fresh watermelon. I don't think watermelon grows as sweetly anywhere else in the world.<br /><br /><br /><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/400/summer%202004%20282.jpg" border="0" /><br />Everyone enjoyed their meal and then there was more dancing and singing (among the men only, of course) until late into the evening. One of my companions had refused to dance early one, but said that he would dance later. He laughed when I asked him, "After a few more 7Ups?" <em><span style="font-size:85%;">(or is that 7s Up?) </span></em>Afghans still don't drink. Their fun comes entirely from enjoying each other's company, being moved by the music, and feeling warm after a good meal and one or two cans of 7Up.Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1090139172423175922004-07-15T15:25:00.000-05:002004-07-21T06:43:36.426-05:00Getting sick and staying home: Rabia Barkhi HospitalAfter my evening with Habib's cousins, I went home, ate dinner, and then went to bed as usual. Next day, I woke up, ate breakfast, and went to work as usual. Work was bit hectic, lots of running around making arrangements with little progress <span style="font-size:85%;"><em>(had a meeting to arrange the semi-urban site, which was good; went over to our other office to pick up a colleague to go with me to the Ministry of Health to get a signature to take over to the Hospital to confirm permission to conduct the study -- lots of waiting, lots of no-shows -- ugh!)</em>.</span> I had my 3rd Dari lesson, which I enjoyed. But that evening, during dinner, I suddenly felt faint and a bit flushed. I went to bed early, and woke up the next morning, the first day of the field tests for my study, and was too weak to go. I couldn't keep anything down. I called in sick and had a colleague take care of Day 1. I went back to bed, and basically slept the entire day until around 6pm.
<br />
<br />I got up and tried some bread. No luck. I slept another hour. I got up and tried some soup. Also no luck. I went to bed again. Next day was Day 2 of the field tests. I had to go. I was better, but not great. I had breakfast (a bit of bread and juice), went to work, and lost the breakfast on arrival. Yuck.
<br />
<br />We were conducting the field tests of the focus groups at a Hospital here in Kabul called Rabia Barkhi. I am not sure if I have described Rabia Barkhi before or not. It is in the middle of a bazaar here in Kabul. The front of the hospital, the part that is facing the public so that people know where it is, is no bigger than any other stall or storefront on the street. It is a tunnel with a gate about as wide as a car, with a small sign over it that says "Rabia Barkhi Hospital". You have to know where to look to find it because it is anything but obvious. I wish I had had my camera with me to take photos.
<br />
<br />You drive in, and on either side of the first part of the "driveway" are rows of men, wearing shalwar kameez, vests, and various kullaa (hats -- square ones, Uzbek ones, turbans, Panjshiri flat fuzzy ones). They have to stand up to make room for the vehicle to pass. Then through another gate, and there are all the women. Most of them are wearing burqas, some of them have the fronts of their burqas pulled back over their heads like brides' veils. We pull into the parking lot.
<br />
<br />Rabia Barkhi is one of the best hospitals in Afghanistan. It is one of the biggest, with the most resources. And, as I walked around feeling very sick, I thought, "I'd rather stay home, too."
<br />
<br />Like most buildings in Afghanistan, the building is made of cracking and crumbling concrete, with dust and sand in all the crevices and holes. There are a few old, dirty benches that are still just strong enough to hold weary patients as they wait outside before being seen. There is some standing water here and there in the "yard" and a bunch of pieces of old metal rusting in corners against buildings. Flowers grow among the weeds. Off to one side, there is the OPD waiting room, where pregnant women wait to be seen. The door has been patched, and on the adjacent wall there is a dark patch of dirt and oil where hundreds of hands have sought to support the weight of pregnant bodies.
<br />
<br />Inside, I stumble weakly up the stairs to the office of the woman we will see to confirm our arrival. I have to be careful not to stumble into the pile of rubbish in the corner on the landing. At the top, in the hallway, there is an old metal gurney. It doesn't have any mattress or bedding on it -- just the wires of the metal frame, and a woman laying in the fetal position, either asleep or unconscious. No one seems to take note of it, so I assume she has been taken care of. In the hallway, I sit down on some chairs to rest. Across from me, there is a whitish cloth stretched between two wooden bookshelves. It is an examining room.
<br />
<br />I put my head down, and as the earth shakes with the tiny rumblings of the earthquake going on kilometers away <span style="font-size:85%;"><em>(like how I use kilometers here?),</em></span> I see the little chunks of dirt and pebbles vibrating on the concrete floor below me.
<br />
<br />I get up when my colleagues return and we head back downstairs to recruit women to participate in our study. We pass several labor rooms, with five or six beds side-by-side, and very pregnant women looking very uncomfortable. The rooms are crowded and the doors are open. I understand the delivery rooms are similar. Several women in one room laboring together. When one baby comes out, it is taken to a different room and put on a shelf, still naked, with several other babies. They tie a little identification label with string to their wrists. Some of the Afghan people believe that if you deliver a son there, there is a chance that another family will pay to have their daughter switched with your son. Many people complain that you have to pay the doctors to attend to you. I can understand why so many women would rather deliver at home. If you are going to deliver in an unsterile place, and you believe you might not be attended to properly anyway, why come to a hospital where you have to share your dirty room with a bunch of other women? I'd rather stay home, where I know the rooms, and I have only the people closest to me around. It's no wonder maternal mortality is so high here. Hard to convince people that the hospital is the best place.
<br />
<br />We had our morning session with women who had delivered a child in the past 18 months in a health facility (shafa khaana). Although I of course did not understand, I think the discussion was good. One woman asked me how to stop having children. She was 28 years old and had 6 children already. She said they were making her tired and old. I asked her if she used birth control pills or if she would take injections. She said the medicines gave her hemhorrage <span style="font-size:85%;"><em>(a common misconception here -- because of all of the births and miscarriages, and also because often the placenta is not fully removed, many (most?) women here bleed continuously after childbirth)</em></span><span style="font-size:100%;">. I asked if her husband would consider using a condom. She said that he agrees with her desire to limit their children, but that he was a rural man, and he would not use a condom. She was there, as I understand, for an IUD. As she was leaving, she told me I did not advise her well!</span>
<br />
<br />We went back out to the waiting areas to try to recruit the women for the second session of our study, but because the hospital closes at 1:30pm on Thursdays, no one was there anymore.
<br />
<br />What happens if a woman goes into labor on Thursday afternoon? She delivers at home.
<br />
<br />
<br />Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1090139031942715832004-07-12T19:30:00.000-05:002004-07-22T03:39:55.056-05:00Studying at university and evening family walks: Our Afghan CounterpartsToday after work I met up with two relatives of a man I know from the Afghan Community of Massachusetts named Habib. They are his young cousins (one girl who is 18, and one young man who is 21), and speak a little bit of English, although most of our conversation is quite limited.
<br />
<br />They came by my work this afternoon as I was finishing and invited me to walk with them. We started walking in the direction of downtown Kabul, and figured out that they had understood that I wanted them to take me to Malalay Hospital to interview women there. When we all understood that I was all set with work, we talked about what we might do together. They didn't really have any ideas. I suggested we might go to Chicken Street, but they had never heard of it. I suggested we go out to eat somewhere, but the idea seemed pretty foreign to them. Finally, we decided to go to this place that looks like a mosque but is really a hotel and restaurant. It is a popular picnic spot among people from Kabul -- it overlooks the city from the hill on which the Intercontinental sits. We took a taxi there, and walked up the hill. There were a few vendors open -- they have sodas, and fruit, and water, all stacked up on these little wooden circus carts that all the street vendors use. I bought us three Pepsis. We stood around a little bit, and then walked back down the hill.
<br />
<br />Habib's cousins. <a href='http://www.hello.com/' target='ext'><img src='http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif' alt='Posted by Hello' border='0' style='border:0px;padding:0px;background:transparent;' align='absmiddle'></a><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/DCP_1097.jpg'><img border='0' style='border:1px solid #666666; margin:2px' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/DCP_1097.jpg'></a>
<br />
<br />Looking down on Kabul. <a href='http://www.hello.com/' target='ext'><img src='http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif' alt='Posted by Hello' border='0' style='border:0px;padding:0px;background:transparent;' align='absmiddle'></a><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/DCP_1098.jpg'><img border='0' style='border:1px solid #666666; margin:2px' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/DCP_1098.jpg'></a>
<br />
<br />"Now what?" I didn't have any more suggestions. I kept saying, "You know the city better than I do. Let's do whatever you want." I realized that they don't really go out into the city to do anything for entertainment. They go to school when school is in session, and work, and buy food, and maybe every now and again buy clothing; but they do not really look at the city as a place for going out for enjoyment. Enjoyment is getting together for weddings, or having dinner with a family, or going for a picnic outside of Kabul. We didn't have the opportunity to do any of those things, so we were basically left to walk around.
<br />
<br />"Would you like to meet some University girls?" That sounded fine to me. It sounded like we would go to meet with some friends of the young girl I was with, and maybe sit somewhere and talk and visit. We walked toward the university. Most Afghans walk everywhere in the city. I found it hot and dusty, and my back hurt from carrying my backpack. These people walk everywhere, often using their chadri or turban ends to cover their faces just as much for keeping the dust out as for modesty, and often carrying heavy loads of water or food from the bazaar. Lots of women carry huge sacks of vegetables on their heads, and small children in their arms, all while wearing a burqa over long sleeves and long pants and a large headscarf and plastic sandals. I am such a wimp.
<br />
<br />We walked for about 20 minutes, and I realized that that was the most time I have spent outside in the city, and the farthest distance I have traversed on foot since I have been here. It felt so much more real than the way I am used to experiencing the city -- carried everywhere in the (usually) air conditioned comfort of a brand new SUV.
<br />
<br />We arrived to the university. Like most buildings, it is set back behind tall concrete walls, and guarded at the front gate. The concrete is broken into potholes on the sidewalks, and weeds grow tall through the cracks and invade the grounds.
<br />
<br />The university is basically four large concrete buildings. In the middle of this quadrangle is a sort of patio. One of the buildings is much smaller than the others, and I understood it to be the place where the girls eat. The gardens are not groomed, and the grass struggles to grow in the dry, dusty earth. To one side of the dormitory building, there is a huge pile of rusting metal chairs and tables and who knows what else. Behind the university there is just an open swath of dusty earth, stretching back to the foot of the mountains beyond. A few sheep (or are they goats?) wander about.
<br />
<br />Several girls are sitting outside on the grass, studying. Here two sit together. Here one sits alone. They are just like us. I imagine their friendships, I imagine that they must walk down the hallways to each others' dorm rooms in the evenings, asking each other questions about the homework, or talking about their boyfriends. But here they all wear long headscarves and fully cover their arms and legs, even in the comfort of their private university. And here, their boyfriends, for the most part, are fiances that have been selected for them by their families, often many years ago when they were 13 or 14. Here, they are part of the extremely small percentage of Afghan women who are allowed to and can afford to study at university. Many of them have traveled here from the countryside. Their families make a great sacrifice for them to leave home and study.
<br />
<br />I think about how fortunate I am to have had the opportunities I have had. Even in the U.S., I know I am extremely lucky, but when I consider the experience and perspective of the entire world, I am ashamed that I ever take it for granted and fail to recognize the privileges I have.
<br />
<br />And just as I am contemplating all of our differences, and how disparate are the worlds we come from, I look over and see the signs, written in English and in Farsi -- Chemistry Lab; Math Level II; Biology. Learning connects us all. We study the same subjects, we learn the same principles of science and math. They know the same things I know about the body, the Earth. It's awesome.
<br />
<br />Anyway, we meet one of the girls and walk back to the dorm rooms. But then we just sit there. Another few girls come and go and we greet each other in the customary way, but that's all we do. We just greet. And then they leave. And then we leave.
<br />
<br />"Now what?" Back to that. The two of them live close by, and invite me to come to their home with them. I agree to go home with them so that I can have a comfortable place to wait for our drivers to come pick me up. We take a taxi with a woman in a burqa, and direct the driver to their village. There are no street signs, and no major land marks. On the way, we stop so that the taxi driver can take some water from a little girl walking by carrying two large pitchers, probably back to her home for dinner. We arrive to their home, and I am greeted warmly. They live in a fairly large concrete house. The first room we walk into is large and open, but it looks to me like the house is in the midst of construction. It isn't really. It has been finished for years. But the concrete walls and floors are bare, and there is no furniture. This is the way that Afghan people live. This same house would be tiled, with hand-woven Afghan carpets laid down, and tables and chairs and lamps and decorations if it were owned by an American. We walk upstairs, to another room that looks much like this one. We walk through this room to a back room that has two machine-made Afghan carpets laid down, and several cushions on the floor. There are some drapes on the windows and in the doorway. This is thier main sitting room. I meet Mom and Dad and the other six children. They are ten altogether. I am determined not to stay for dinner -- how many mouths can they possibly feed? We sit together, all of us, in that room. I feel like a television set -- the whole family just sitting around me watching. They bring me some chai, which I drink despite being sweaty and uncomfortable in the late afternoon heat. I take their photo, and they are very happy. We talk as much as we are able. We laugh a few times at my misunderstandings. They smile at me, and nod in encouragement. I am not sure what they are encouraging me to do. Before my car arrives, the mother has one of the younger children bring out two hand-stitched napkins, made in Gazni, where they are from. They are gifts that they insist I accept. I never know what to do in those situations. I know that if I don't accept they will be offended, but I also know that they do not have much and I hate to take from them. They did, however, seem very pleased with my embarrassed gratitude for their gift.
<br />
<br />Just the ten of them. <a href='http://www.hello.com/' target='ext'><img src='http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif' alt='Posted by Hello' border='0' style='border:0px;padding:0px;background:transparent;' align='absmiddle'></a><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/DCP_1099.jpg'><img border='0' style='border:1px solid #666666; margin:2px' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/DCP_1099.jpg'></a>
<br />
<br />The car arrived and I gave hugs and thanks all around, touching my chest, saying "Tashakur. Besyar tashakur. Bomaane khuda. Khuda hofez." As we drove out of the little village of new houses and old abandoned bombed out and destroyed houses, we passed a young man carrying a little girl and holding the hand of a little boy, both in little-kid-sized shalwar kameez. The kids were about the same ages as my niece and nephew, and the dad was probably about my brother Rene's age. I thought of what their life here must be like, and tried to imagine their home-life based on the template of Rene's family. They walk in their plastic sandals to the bazaar together, where they ask for a cut of meat from the freshly slaughtered goat hanging from the butcher hooks. They'll negotiate over the price. Rene might drive Michael and Sarah to the grocery store in their family van, and select a few pounds of meat neatly packaged in styrofoam and celophane, the price clearly printed on a sticker on the front. At home, these young Afghan children might walk down the mountain-side, through the dust and rocks, to the public well, where they will wait their turn to pump water into whatever old containers they could find at home, and then climb back up with their heavy loads to bring water to their mother to cook with. Jessie and Rene will turn on the faucet for clean, safe, flourinated water, and prepare a fresh dinner together while Michael and Sarah play with some of their many toys in the next room. So many life things are so different here from there, but the whole reason I thought of my brother's family is because of the tenderness with which the father carried his little girl on their evening walk, and the way that the children relate to each other and their environments -- skipping over the rocks, teasing their siblings, pointing out the curiosities around them and asking for explanation from their parents. A loving family is the same everywhere. I am so glad I was able to finally have an experience in Kabul as my young Afghan counterparts experience it. I hope to visit with them again soon.
<br />
<br />Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1090138890843821782004-07-10T17:20:00.000-05:002004-08-01T01:05:04.570-05:00Minister of Planning: Where are all our cars?We had planned to spend the day "walking the wall" on the highest peak in Kabul. But, I needed to buy some more traditional Afghan clothing, in anticipation of my visits to the field to interview Afghans about their beliefs, thoughts, opinions, ideas about where a woman will deliver her child.
<br />
<br />We went to the Intercontinental Hotel, where a local store called Dacaar was having an exhibit. I didn't find anything, but we did enjoy some coffee there. Thing is, we use company cars to get around everywhere, and are sharing 10 cars among all 150 of our staff. This Friday, there just weren't enough cars available. After waiting for an hour, we walked back down to the highway and took a cab. Easy. Fast. Cheap. We were back in Shar-e Nau in ten minutes.
<br />
<br />A typical Kabul weekend, with not much to do, we wandered up toward the DVD store, where we bought three boot-leg copies of movies. We got Starsky and Hutch, Fahrenheit 9/11, and Spiderman 2. The little boys on the street pushing their magazines, maps, and books waited patiently outside. When we came out, they quickly picked up with us again, urging us to buy. One little boy always works this part of the street, right in front of the DVD place and the Western-style supermarket with U.S. products. He has some form of dwarfism, which makes the tiny hand that he thrusts into yours even tinier. He doesn't let go until you walk too far away from his beat.
<br />
<br />It was a slow day of watching movies, playing cards, some ping-pong, and that's about it. Next day, I went down to the Roshan City Tower -- a five story "mall" with sequined clothing and western styles that no Afghan woman would ever put on in public. Kind of bizarre, really, to have this mall in the middle of downtown bombed out Kabul. No food court, though, and no movie-plex. Is that even a word?
<br />
<br />From there, I went back to LeMonde and waited for the car that was supposed to take me back home. It never showed up. Finally, we called and were told that our cars were being impounded and there was a security meeting called and we would be notified when everyone knew what was up. Had a car been stolen? Was there some sort of security threat? Did they decide to ban SUVs like we heard they were doing in Paris? We weren't called back, but after another hour, we called again.
<br />
<br />We were told to stay put. Turns out that the Minister of Planning, who is staunchly opposed to the foreign NGO presence in Afghanistan but fully supportive of foreign funds and equipment, decided to start impounding all vehicles with NGO plates. Out of the blue. No warning.
<br />
<br />Who does that? We finally got our cars back around 4pm that afternoon. No additional word. No additional information. No apology. No guarantee that it won't happen again.
<br />
<br />Bizarre.
<br />
<br />Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1089187041307404592004-07-07T02:55:00.000-05:002005-08-05T19:32:54.130-05:00Afghan Women Change, But Burqa Stays<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/1600/nbc%20article.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7138/382/320/nbc%20article.jpg" border="0" /></a> <strong>New generation pushing boundaries in traditional style</strong><br /><br /><br />Hasiba, 9, center, sits with Afghan women clad in burqas in front of the presidential palace in Kabul, on May 8.<br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Emilio Morenatti / AP file</span></em><br /><br />By Kiko Itasaka<br />Producer<br />NBC News<br /><br />Updated: 12:17 p.m. ET July 06, 2004<br /><br />KABUL, Afghanistan - The burqa, a symbol of Taliban repression of women, remains a common sight in Afghanistan, nearly three years after the hard-line government was ousted by U.S. forces.<br /><br />In Kabul, more than half of the women wear burqas, while outside the capital virtually all women are clad in head-to-toe covering.<br /><br />For Westerners, it is an astonishing sight. As American health worker Raquel Reyes noted, “It was the first thing I noticed when I arrived.”<br /><br />“All these women in burqas. I thought things had changed and that there wouldn’t be so many any more," said Reyes. “I was so pleased to see girls, little girls, going to school.”<br /><br />When the Taliban took over the country in 1996, girls were forbidden from attending school. Now they are receiving education along with the boys, though they remain covered up in long black shrouds, with white headscarves.<br /><br /><strong>Women’s role has changed, but burqas still prevail<br /></strong><br />Yet the status of women has improved since Taliban times. Women can walk around, unaccompanied by males, and they are allowed to work. They are free to roam in public without fear of being arrested or beaten for wearing high heels or seeming to walk in a provocative manner.<br /><br />Yet the burqa still prevails and for some women, it is a form of protection.<br /><br />They recall the time before the Taliban when the Northern Alliance took control of Kabul in 1992. It was a time of violent crimes, many of them committed against women. The burqa, they believed, protected them from unwanted male attention. Now with the backing of the United States and international forces, many members of the Northern Alliance are once again in positions of power.<br /><br />Their transgressions are in the past, but not entirely forgotten. Change comes slowly in a country ravaged by a series of wars, and a culture deeply rooted in tradition.<br /><br /><strong>Subtle changes</strong><br />The female dress code has changed in ways subtle to foreigners, but revolutionary to many Afghans.<br /><br />Underneath their burqas, many women wear high heels, and they daringly put on brightly colored nail polish, details that may not please the conservative religious leaders who remain influential.<br /><br />Another breakthrough will occur in Athens this summer when Robina Muqimyar represents her country in the 100 meters race at the Olympics. She and one other judo wrestler will be the first women to represent their nation at the Olympics.<br /><br />Not all their compatriots will be cheering on their behalf. Islamic mullahs have criticized Muqimyar, saying it is wrong for her to display her face or body to non-Muslims in a public setting.<br />In a compromise, Muqimyar will compete in a tracksuit, a decision made by the Afghan Olympic Committee, and will not be showing her legs.<br /><br />She and her fellow female competitor are part of a new generation of young women who are lifting the veil for their nation.<br /><br />Mohamed Haroon, owner of a burqa stall in the bustling central Kabul Mundawi market said he’s not worried or offended by these modern women.<br /><br />Sales are thriving he said, and even if more women are shedding their blue robes, they are still in the minority.<br /><br />“They still come here to buy. Maybe not always from Kabul, but from the countryside,” said Haroon.<br /><br />Prices are still high by Afghan standards. A good burqa costs anywhere from $8 to $12. With the average salary at $40 a month, it is a major expenditure for Afghans.<br /><br />Haroon said he’s convinced there is a good future in burqa sales, but with true entrepreneurial spirit, he’s exploring other options. He’s branched out and in addition to burqas, he now sells bras.<br /><br />Kiko Itasaka is an NBC News producer on assignment in Kabul, Afghanistan.Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1089023098182728842004-07-05T05:24:00.000-05:002005-08-07T10:41:25.413-05:00PanjshirThis weekend was one of the best weekends I have ever had in my entire life. It was amazing.<br /><br />On Thursday night, I went over to the “Beach Party,” which was fine. I met a bunch of new people, including a couple of other Harvard folks, a few South Africans, some Frenchies, some Aussies, Brits. Putt-putt golf, barbecue, beer, dancing. It was fun, but I left feeling extremely frustrated at my overwhelmingly expatriate life here. I feel like I live in bubble-world, observing from car windows, never really touching the people or the culture. I move from my American household to the backseat of a car where I am driven to my expatriate-laden work environment. When I go out, I go out with other expats. I am so tired of it! The weekend was exactly what I needed.<br /><br />We left on Friday at around 9am, and drove for three and a half hours to the Panjshir Valley. I have never seen a more beautiful place. The drive was full of interesting sights as well. On the way out of Kabul, the air starts clearing and the concrete subsides into grass and mountains and so many tiny communities, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, of new and rebuilt mud-brick square dwellings mixed among the remnants of houses destroyed by 23 years of war. Here and there are old military tanks, artillery forts, graves marked with green flags. You know by the red and white rocks that there is a “sidewalk” that has been cleared of mines (the white half of the rock) adjacent to a field still full of active landmines (the red half of the rock). Children still play in the fields, and women and men still work in the fields. Way up in the mountains, you can see the zig-zag of switchback roads that lead to small communities.<br /><br />We passed through a couple of really cute towns on the way. I was so pleased that when we got out at the first bazaar to buy refreshments, the children were so excited to pose with me in photos. Actually, even a couple of the adults were excited to pose with me!<br /><br />The kids in the bazaar. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20003.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20003.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20004.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20004.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20005.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20005.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20006.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20006.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20007.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20007.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20008.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20008.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20009.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20009.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20010.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20010.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I have to say, the Afghan people must be among the most consistently beautiful people I’ve ever seen. It is rare to see an Afghan who is not striking. So many cultures and ethnicities converge in this place – I’ve been told by several Afghans that I look like I belong, which I find extremely flattering! A few people have even mistaken me for an Afghan. Light eyes and blonde streaks and all. Even my round features seem to be consistent with some of the various ethnicities here.<br /><br />Once we reach the Panjshir Valley, it is still a six hour drive before you get to the other end. We only drove for another 2 hours in. The Panjshir is an oasis in this desert country. The river flows down through the valley, and you can see where the water stops diffusing out beyond the shores – dry, sandy soil meets green vegetation in a clearly demarcated boundary. Kind of strange, really. The mountains are huge and beautiful, and the mountain road tiny and treacherous for anyone who is not a native Panjshiri. All of the drivers who work for MSH are, fortunately, Panjshiris. And, as I mentioned in the preview last time, there are tens of abandoned soviet and Taliban tanks throughout the valley.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20013.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20013.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />At one point along the road, there is a huge live munitions stockpile, and a cave full of weapons, just in case another force should try once again to take the Valley. And all along the way, there are mountain villages. How do these people get in and out? Where do they get their food? How do they build these lovely homes? How do they get their work animals in? And a question always on my mind when I see isolated communities, where do they go for health care when they need it? Amazing.<br /><br />We stopped along the way to visit Massoud’s shrine. Massoud is adored here more than any other figure. He was a very well-respected fighter for the freedom of the Afghan people. He was a great general. He was assassinated during the Taliban times. His shrine is on a hill that looks over great valleys and mountains on either side. People make pilgrimages here.<br /><br />Massoud's memorial. <a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20032.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20032.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20033.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20033.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20034.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20034.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />We stopped on the way at a minister’s home to picnic along the river. What a decadent experience! Two large Afghan carpets were laid out under a 300 year-old tree, right on the bank of the river.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20020.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20020.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20023.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20023.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />We lounged on pillows and were served sweets, tea, beer, bread, and really awesome fresh-off-the-grill, fresh-killed kebab. You should see the skewers they use! Huge metal lances – nothing like our little sticks. Oh, amazing. And fresh melon, and berries. Wonderful. Here I am contributing to the preparation of the kebab:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20019.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20019.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I played with the children – chased them around, took their photos – I think people were surprised to see an adult woman doing these things, but I asked beforehand, so I know no one was offended.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20017.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20017.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20021.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20021.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />After some more lounging and napping,<br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20025.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20025.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />we set out for our next destination, farther into the valley.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20027.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20027.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20040.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20040.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20031.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20031.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Two of our security officers are from the area, and are extremely well-respected. People along the way would stop to salute them. Baba Jan and Assad were instrumental in the wars against the Soviets and the Taliban. They were brilliant tacticians, and hard-core fighters, apparently. They know and have traversed all the best paths over the mountains. This is their land, and they have fought to protect the land and their people.<br /><br />Assad was our host at the next two stopping points. First we stopped at one of his uncles’ house, where we ate dinner and slept outside right on the banks of the raging river. More palaw (the rice dish), kebab, lamb stew, salad, fresh naan, a traditional okra dish, beer, yoghurt, berries, peaches, apricots. Such amazing food. And sitting around talking with the local people, listening to them sing, laughing together, eating together, resting together. Wonderful. I slept peacefully with the sound of the river rushing by.<br /><br />In the morning we awoke early to head to our next destination, another uncle’s house farther into the valley. Here we had fried bread stuffed with cheese, dipped in home-made fresh fruit jams (mulberry and apricot), warm milk with chai, fresh yogurt. More relaxing on pillows under trees, then up the road (that Assad’s uncle built) high up into the mountains. What an awesome vista!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20041.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20041.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20045.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20045.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />It was exactly what I needed – to be outside, breathing fresh air, meditating on such spectacular beauty, climbing among the rocks. Cristi and I swam in the icy-cold water (I swear it must have been 33 degrees) – it was actually a bit painful. And, I guess to be exact, we didn't really swim. We dove in and swam out as soon as we could. We were very pleased with ourselves because many of the men were afraid to dive in as we did and as women it was assumed we would not dare to brave the currents of that ice water. We ate fresh yogurt (“very fresh--it’s from that cow over there”) and fresh cherries from the trees. We laid out on the rocks in the sun. We lounged on pillows under trees.<br /><br />Then, back again for lunch of more kebab, traditional okra specialty, naan, salad, fresh fruit, boneless lamb. More stories from our impressive hosts. More lounging. Picking some mulberries fresh from the trees. I didn’t want to come back to Kabul.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Panjshir%20036.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Panjshir%20036.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />It was so great. So great to be among the Afghan people, great to eat traditional, home-cooked foods, great to be in such a beautiful place. Ahhhhhhh. I was very happy. Two of the best days I’ve ever had.<br /><br />Now I am back at work, trying to keep things going. I am very hopeful about the project and looking forward to it!<br /><br />I will post some photos of the weekend soon. And I will be in touch again with more news when I have more to share.<br /><br />Love and hugs.Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292448.post-1088579707250597202004-06-30T11:12:00.000-05:002005-08-07T10:46:46.496-05:00A Stern SoldierYesterday on my way to work, I was again taking photos from the van. I wanted to get a couple of the things that I wrote about last time -- the watermelons, the brightly decorated 18 wheelers, turbaned men on bikes. We were, per usual, stalled in traffic, and, per usual, I was attracting stares and other attentions from passersby and fellow passengers stalled in traffic as well. One of the men this time looked particularly intimidating. He was dressed in military attire and carrying a gun over his shoulder. He looked at me sternly, and with what I guaged to be disapproval. I smiled, and lifted my camera, gesturing for his permission to take a photo. He was so pleased! He promptly stood at attention, looking his most dignified. A money changer nearby saw this man pressing his face against the window of the van, and came over to have a look himself. "Take a picture of me!" he gestured with smiles and waving his wad of Afhganis (the currency here). I ended up with several pictures of these men, smiling and tickled at the sight of themselves (I was able to share the photos with them because I have a digital camera -- hence the faces pressed against the windows). I really enjoyed it.<br /><br /><br />Here are the boys:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Summer%202004%20033.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Summer%202004%20033.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Summer%202004%20034.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Summer%202004%20034.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Summer%202004%20035.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Summer%202004%20035.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />And here is just one of the many many many watermelon vendors with his many many many watermelons:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Summer%202004%20037.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Summer%202004%20037.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />One of the many men pulling carts of various items.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Summer%202004%20036.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Summer%202004%20036.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Man on bike wearing headscarf and traditional Islamic kullaa.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Summer%202004%20039.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Summer%202004%20039.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Brightly painted Pakistani cargo vehicles:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Summer%202004%20038.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Summer%202004%20038.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Summer%202004%20040.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Summer%202004%20040.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />These are some of the folks at the office. And a couple of me in a chador.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Summer%202004%20029.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Summer%202004%20029.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Summer%202004%20030.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Summer%202004%20030.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Summer%202004%20031.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Summer%202004%20031.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.hello.com/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" alt="Posted by Hello" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif" align="absMiddle" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/320/Summer%202004%20032.jpg"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-TOP: #666666 1px solid; MARGIN: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #666666 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #666666 1px solid" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/57/1317/400/Summer%202004%20032.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />So, all is well here. I went over to the Intercontinental last night to watch Sopranos with the NBC and AP folks. The DVDs here are super cheap, but they are also hit or miss. Sometimes the bootleg copy you get is really good, basically like a real DVD. Other times, it's obviously a guy in the back of the theater with a video camera, and you can see the heads of people getting up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the show, and hear the crunching of popcorn and rattling of candy wrappers. Pretty funny, actually, unless there are subtitles. Usually, the subtitles are cut off, so you're out of luck!<br /><br />Tonight I am going to have dinner with this guy I met named Jackson Ireland -- I should clarify. He's not just some guy, he works here at MSH and just arrived from the Boston office a few days ago. Anyway, he is staying at this guest house here that is a super popular place for the young aid community. Ping pong, uchre tournaments, pool, big TV room. The owner is this Australian dude who cooks a different theme meal for the guests every night, and who hosts theme parties every quarter. Tomorrow night is the Beach Party -- he bought an inflatable pool (in the shape of a Mini Cooper) and gathered some sand (not too hard in this desert region) and is also setting up a mini golf course that I think is Taliban themed? Not sure what that means. Maybe it's, like, knocking down Buddhas or something. I'm going to the party, so I'll let you know how it turns out.<br /><br />This weekend is a long weekend for us (we have Sunday off since it is the 4th), so a bunch of folks from work (Tony, Steve, Cristi, Jackson, Nisam, to name a few) are going away for the weekend to some place that is supposed to look like the Grand Canyon. It supposed to be really beautiful, and the one place that the Soviets were never able to take. Apparently, a bunch of Soviet Paratroopers parachuted in, and only three months later, all of them were gone. There are still a few old Soviet military vehicles down in the gorge. I'll take photos and post when I get back.<br /><br />I'm also going to start taking Dari lessons on Sunday. It's $3.50 and hour for personal instruction. Jackson and I are going to take them together, so it might turn out to be $1.75 each...?<br /><br />Okay. I have to get back to work. I hope everyone is well. I'll write again soon.Dr.Quelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08487285136422910514noreply@blogger.com4