A Little Bit of Canada in Kabul

We were invited to the Canadian Embassy for Remembrance Day. Each guest received a red poppy to pin on our coats. Then they had a ceremony, speeches, and a minute of silence. After, we were invited to a light luncheon at the ambassador's residence.

We were served smoked salmon on rye, egg rolls with sweet and sour sauce, curry potato salad, sandwiches with the crust cut off, salsa and corn chips, and veggies with ranch dip. All very Canadian. Canada's Ministry of Defense sent representatives to attend the ceremony. The Afghan government sent two ministers: The Minister of Defense and the Minister of Rural Rehabilitation, who happens to be Douglas' boss.

Among the people I met was a woman from Vancouver. I can't remember her name, but she and her husband are in Afghanistan to help farmers grow soy beans. She's lived in Kabul for two years. So we stood together and had our photograph taken with a Mountie.



The Canadian Embassy compound runs a stretch of road behind several guarded barricades. About 30 staff work and live there, along with soldiers who are stationed in Kabul. One young embassy staff told us on that stretch of road, they play ball hockey. When a car comes through, they shout, Car! move the nets, and stand aside. When the car passes, they put everything back in place and resume their game. Just like home, eh?

Except when the Russians found out the Canadians were playing hockey on the street, they wanted to play too. These young Canadians are embassy staff, not soldiers. They didn't spend their youth honing their sports prowess playing hockey. They look more like skinny, little bookworms. The Russians on the other hand are heft International Security Assistance Force soldiers. They patrol the streets looking fierce with guns pointing in the air, in tows of three or four over-sized, mud-coloured hummers. All traffic must stop when their hummers approach, must not interfere with their destination, even if they are just going to Kentucky Fried Chicken for coffee. Or, they could gun you down.

So far, the Canadians have not accepted the Russians' invitation to play street hockey. But how long can they hold out? The young embassy man admitted they were afraid of the Russians and are desperately looking through their conduct manual for a policy that prohibits them from engaging in recreational sports with staff from other embassies. Heck, they could just tell the Russians such a policy exists. They don't have to show them the manual.

In the evening, we went to dinner at the Gandamack restaurant. You have to go through this secret door, walk through a lane to get into the restaurant behind.



The restaurant serves a mix of Afghan, Italian, French, and American food. You get grilled meat, pasta, and burgers. There was a large table reserved for a party of 20. When those guests arrived, we knew most of them were Canadian. They were the ones wearing a red poppy on their jackets. And Douglas recognized some of them from the Remembrance Day ceremony.

Then we went through this set of ancient doors to the basement where the smoky bar was.


In the smoky, low-ceilinged, basement bar, you meet these bad boys, building up their jobs as gun-runners in case their careers as international development workers get boring.

Douglas


Chris


Helge

The Afghans

I love that in Afghanistan, they call foreigners "ferengi". That is so Star Trek.

I also love the way Afghans put their right hand over their heart in greeting, like when one of the ministry drivers did when he said in his limited English, "You are welcome to Afghanistan." When they extend this kind of hospitality, the gesture and tone of voice come together in such genuine expression.

Another driver invited Douglas and I to his sister's wedding. But Douglas had to work that night so we didn't go. If it weren't inappropriate for me to go by myself, I think I might have gone. I'm just that way.

Yesterday, having no plans for the day, again, I settled down to read the Lonely Planet guide to Afghanistan. It says the Pashtun moral code is ingrained in every Afghan, taking precedence over any external laws. They live by siali - individual equality, nang - honour, and melmastia - hospitality.

The Afghan draws a strict distinction between private and public life but family is always the bedrock. Nang is central to his identity and women are seen as the symbol of family honour. Melmastia is hospitality to all visitors without expectation of reward. Now I remember Elizabeth telling me that of all the people she met in the Middle East, Afghans were the most hospitable.

When I see an older Afghan in a turban sitting in his shop hand weaving a carpet, I see contentment, kindness, pride, and honour on his face. I am drawn to these old men and want to sit with them and chat, but I don't. It would be inappropriate.

Despite my inability to get out and see more of Afghanistan, there is something about the people that intrigues me. It really has to do with how they treat guests, and how they take care of each other. For example, the guards in front of every house could just sit there and act bored. But they all greet me. The young guards at the U.N. compound always come across the street to help me cross back over when I get out of the car. Even children who try to sell me things say, Today I am your bodyguard.

Despite all that, corruption in the government is high. One young man Chris works with is 33. He earns a good salary at the ministry. But he supports half his village with his earnings. He supports his immediate family, parents, siblings and neighbours. He pays for teachers to come to his village twice a week so the girls can have some schooling. A job came up in the anti-corruption unit of the ministry. He applied and was told he was best qualified for the job, so if he could pay three officials a sum of money each, the job would be his. He had no money to pay. The job went to a relative of one of the officials. In the anti-corruption unit!

One young man Douglas works with is a graphic artist. He learned how to do that to earn a living. He too supports his extended family with his earnings. He told Douglas he really wants to be an accountant. So he attends university at night. He said, I work for my family, but I go to school for myself.

I notice sometimes that shop merchants look at and talk to Douglas but not me, even when they try to sell us women's clothing. I decided I wouldn't take offence, that it must be some kind of cultural habit. Lonely Planet tells me that is in fact the case. An Afghan would consider himself violating me and being disrespectful to Douglas if he looked and talked to me directly. In turn, I should not look at an Afghan directly either. Too late for that now. But the generous and hospitable Afghan makes allowances for social faux-pas for ferengis.

Out of respect for Afghan tradition, I have taken to covering my head when I go out, as rare as that is. I did that in rural India (though more to get shade from the sun), so no reason I can't do that here. Truth is, I quite like covering my head. I feel feminine and protected. I would even wear a burqa if Lonely Planet hadn't said that would be a disrespectful thing for a foreign woman to do. I have to settle for my faran.

The only Afghan women I have access to are the women who come to clean the room. They don't speak English but we still manage to exchange greetings and let each other know what we want. I don't get the feeling they are laughing at me, they seem so respectful and sincere. So unlike the Chinese who criticize and make fun of you to your face because they know you don't understand the language.

But I am sure corruption and economic hardhship are not the only dark side to Afghan life. I need to know more.

Weekend

Today is Friday, a weekend in Kabul. Weekends are only one day in Kabul. But Douglas has to work in the morning and evening preparing for a "jirga". A jirga is a conference with the elders of many communities. For this one, they will talk about community development. A thousand or so people are coming in from different parts of Afghanistan to participate. Douglas got me an ID pass for the jirga so I can help out. How I don't know. I am free labour.

So to feel weekend-ish, we went out for dinner last night to a Chinese restaurant. Douglas' colleague, Helge, invited us, perhaps to thank me for editing his document. We drove through an ex-pat neighbourhood where all the houses were behind cement walls with barbed wires. At each doorway, there are at least two guards. The restaurant, The Golden Key, is also behind a thick cement wall. A guard opens a short door to let us through.

The food wasn't bad in this restaurant, though not as good as I'm accustomed to in Toronto. It's the over-use of salt that spoils an otherwise good dish. But I pulled a good one. Helge ordered a bottle of red wine. It was Jacob's Creek, an Australian red. It should have been an okay wine for me. I've determined with my book club of special dietary needs members that Australian wines are the only wines we can drink because they process the wine twice to remove most of the sulphite.

But I reacted to something. I had half a glass of wine over dinner. Then I felt myself flush. I felt myself go pale as Helge and Douglas kept asking if I was okay. I started to heave and had trouble breathing. When I knew I wasn't okay, I asked for the washroom. Douglas helped me get there. But I didn't make it. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor and I threw up. The restaurant staff ran around getting me napkins and finally a blue plastic basin to dump my guck into. Then I cleaned myself up in the washroom and felt better.

So what am I to think now? Jacob's Creek may be one of the few Australian reds that is only processed once and contains high sulphite. Or it was the MSG in the food. Or it's the combination of sulphite and MSG that caused my reaction.

We went home and Helge gave me a special tea he calls "Feel Relaxed" tea. It's all natural. The ingredients are gathered in the Black Forest by women. I quite liked it. It's light, smooth and fruity. His company is promoting this tea in Germany.

This morning, I stayed in the room to rest. Douglas went to the dining hall and ordered breakfast to be sent to me. With my breakfast Helge sent a pot of Feel Relaxed tea!

In the afternoon, Douglas was free. He arranged for a ministry car and driver to take us around. Helge also joined us for the afternoon. We first went to a leather shop and ordered a bag for me. I don't need another purse, but I ordered a big one anyway. It will be my souvenir from Kabul.

We next went to the Babur Gardens for a stroll. Babur is the grandfather of the Moghul who built the Taj Mahal.

Then we went to the Serena Hotel for coffee. The Serena is the poshest hotel in Kabul. They scan the car before they let it into the parking lot, then they get you to empty out your pockets, check your purse, and have you walk through an airport scanner before letting you into the hotel.

The hotel is Western, clean and dust free. I walked in, breathed a sigh of relief and said, I am home. We went to the bar to order coffee and cake. In the pastry display case, there were many beautiful looking cakes and French pastries. That Helge. Steve and James would love him. And he seems so serious all the time. He didn't order just one piece of pastry. He ordered one pastry, plus a whole pear flan!

So I ate my chocolate eclair and had a slice of pear flan. I had a Sprite and coffee. Then Helge said there were other pastries in the case. He went back and ordered a blueberry tart and a mango tart. We split them. That means in one sitting, I ate three pieces of dessert for lunch.

Then we went to see Douglas' apartment. It is quaint, charming, and rustic even though it is sort of new. It is in fact a romantic set up. By that, I mean it is like an artist studio with low doorways, a wood-burning stove for heater, peeling walls, iron gates, and guards outside. If I were a man and an artist, and this is not a Muslim country under military guard, this is the apartment where I would produce love-children.

In the evening, Douglas went back to the jirga and I went home. Now I'm trying to not be sick from this afternoon's pastries.

India In Pictures

I know I haven't posted many photographs of India. It was difficult to do during the march. You could do it, but I didn't have the patience to wait 15 minutes to upload each photo.

Now that I have full time, high speed internet access on Douglas' computer during the day, and Sue says Callum is going to India in January, I will put some photos up. My pictures are limited to what I saw in villages during the march, but some of them depict the Indian way of life.

Shannon, me, and Lisa getting ready for the march one day.


We marched right by this structure.


Some shops in a village we passed.


Vendors opening up shop.


Women on a rooftop watching us watching them.


How many Indians does it take to change a light bulb? In this case, four. They really were change a light bulb. And they didn't let height or the lack of a proper ladder stop them.


Me outside the Taj Mahal. We arrived on a Friday and the Taj was closed!


Cows share the road in downtown Agra.


Even village roads are congested.


Neva, one of the French marchers, contemplates whether she wants to buy what they sell, if only we could figure out what they were selling.


Life in a village.


The Sikh temple that rescued me from being lost in Mathura.


But look how selective they are about who they accept donations from.


A village of cow dung huts. Dried cow dug disks are piled up to make these huts. They are not to live in. This is just a storage system. The dung disks are burned as fuel, chipped away from the huts as needed.


A Hindu temple ruin. You can't take pictures in villages without kids getting in on it.


Narrow lanes inside a village.


A village road before rush hour.


They really like to cram in the passengers.





Everyone and everything share the road.



Cute little girls.


Even in Delhi the big city, we have to cross the railroad tracks to get to the internet cafe.


At the market with Mohamed.

Kabul

To come to Kabul, I first had to go back to Delhi. It seems I am always going to Delhi, that dreaded city of smog, sweat, sewage, and sight for sore eyes. I marvel at the freedom I had in Delhi, how I maneuvered my way through the city, even from the airport to unknown neighbourhoods.

I have now been in Kabul for three days but have not seen much of the city.

That's because I'm told not to go outside of the U.N. compound where Douglas is staying. They tell me not to go out by myself. It's not bombing they fear, but crimes committed by locals. Apparently, locals kidnap and rape women, though none of Douglas' colleagues say harm has actually come to women since they have been here, even the man who's lived in Kabul for four years.

There was a kidnapping of a Western woman last month. She was nabbed in a restaurant by a group of men in front of her husband. But the kidnapping was a bungled attempt, done on a whim more than a planned kidnapping. The police knew immediately who was responsible and got the woman back within 24 hours. Maybe the woman's husband even put the men up to it.

Still, the caution is issued from everyone I've met so far. So I stay in the U.N. compound and try to catch up on my blog. I am a kept woman. I am in solitary confinement though I wander the grounds, and order food, make tea in the dining building. I could be bored out of my mind if I didn't have a cold and actually want to rest. And if I weren't so good at doing nothing. I can hardly believe I am here in Kabul with Douglas. When he comes home from work, he squeezes my arm to see if I am really here.

When you enter the gates of the compound, you enter a courtyard. There are administrative and security offices to the side. At the end of the courtyard are the dining building and a gym. There is also a vine-covered walkway that men hose down every morning. The walkway courts a garden, with picnic benches and parakeets in cages. At the end of the walkway is another courtyard. There is a fountain and a swimming pool here. Go through this area and you enter another garden. Off to the right is the building where Douglas lives. He has a room on the second floor.

Open wall spaces in the gardens are stuffed with sandbags. There are sandbags piles beside walls and covered with plastic sheets.

All the doors in this compound are low. They clear my head but I notice Douglas tilts his a bit to make sure he doesn't get banged.

From the car, I've only seen compounds here in Kabul. They are all behind solid iron gates, with uniformed, gun-toting guards manning them. I don't know what private homes look like. Douglas has rented an apartment in a private house in a security approved area and will be moving there soon. He says the house does not have an iron gate in front. It has a heavy wooden gate, with armed guards keeping vigil.

A couple of nights ago, we went to dinner at the Sizzler, an American-style steak house. I ordered a filet mignon. In Canada, an order of filet mignon is usually the smallest cut, maybe 6 oz. What I got was a honking slab of meat. It was easily 18 oz. I barely managed half. The restaurant was about 20 minutes away by car. During the ride to and from the restaurant, I saw no one on the street. Where do people go at night in Kabul?

Yesterday, we ventured out for a stroll in the afternoon. We took a car to an area that has shops, then walked to Chicken Street. That really is its name. There were many shops on Chicken Street, selling clothes, carpets, jewelery, and trinkets. Everything is covered in dust. People stared at us and I wonder if we've now been marked as kidnapping targets. The shopkeepers all wave us into their shops, saying, Come inside and look, looking is free.

That may be so. But suffering the dust and pollution of Kabul will cost me later. We couldn't have been out for more than an hour. I wanted to come back to the compound because I couldn't breath. Kabul has more dust, though less diesel fumes than Delhi. We came back to the compound by taxi and I crashed on the sofa in the dining building with exhaustion. I spent the next half hour trying to revive myself with Jasmine tea.

Yesterday, a suicide bomber outside Kabul killed 35 people, including three government ministers. Today, some of the roads in Kabul are closed for the funeral.

I've made Kabul sound dangerous. It is not. It is because I have nothing to do here. The bombing was targetted at the ministers.

Today, a colleague of Douglas' sent me a file to edit. It is written in English by an Afghani so it needs some smoothing out to make it read better. It is not badly written at all. So today, I am working and I stop making up stories about the dangers of Kabul.

Naranag And A Faran

When we got back from the boat market, I showered and had breakfast. Then we set off for another mountain. This time, to Naranag.

I expressed a desire to have my own faran. I had grown fond of wearing the one lent to me and liked the way they hang on just about everyone I see. I am sure Dior and Givenchy had been to Kashmir and incorporated the flow of the Kashmiri faran into their designs.

Mohamed took me to his friend the tailor. I choose a light burgundy wool and the tailor quoted me 850 rupees to make the faran. I asked Mohamed if that was a good price. Mohamed said 800. So the tailor agreed and said, You are a guest, I give you good price. I almost laughed. I wanted to say, Okay give me the local price instead. But why not contribute to the Kashmiri economy? I am getting a custom-made wool faran for $20. It will be ready by evening.

Naranag is also a two-hour ride away by car, but in the opposite direction of Yousmarg, I think. Naranag is the most awe-inspiring mountain I have ever seen. It is what I've imagined the Himalayas to be.

There are also villages in this mountain. Mohamed asked if I wanted to buy sweets for the children. I agreed and purchased a bag of orange candies. I gave it to Mohamed to hand out so I could take pictures.

On Naranag, houses perch on mountain slopes with sculpted rice fields all around.







The narrow road up the mountain twisted, turned, and coiled, some parts with steep drops down the mountain face. Yet, drivers still make room for oncoming traffic as if it's no big deal. A few times I gasped as our driver pulled over to sit on a slant to let traffic pass. I think if I sneezed, our car would have plunged down the cliff.

But oh, the view was magnificent.





The car stopped in front of a Hindu temple ruin where we had lunch.





Mohamed and I then walked into the mountain for a few hours.

Some gypsy girls we met.



Mohamed giving candies to children.



Adults asked for candies too so Mohamed gave some to a brickmaker. He was making bricks by hand in the sun.



Mohamed nudged me each time we saw gypsies pass by. Most of them herded buffaloes and goats. We met women and girls carrying bundles of wood on their heads as they came out of the forests. They gather wood in preparation for winter. Here, some gypsy women accompanied us on our walk for a bit as they headed into the forest. They spoke a few words of English. The younger one kept saying, Come, come. I think she wanted me to gather wood with her. This is one of the few pictures that had me in it.



Some wood gatherers on the way back to their homes.





When we got back to the car in late afternoon, I thought the coat I had brought for the day had gone missing. I asked Mohamed if he noticed if I in fact had brought the coat. He said yes, here it is. He put the coat he was carrying in the back seat. He said, I took the coat because I thought you might get cold. I hadn't even noticed Mohamed carrying my coat on our walk. But there he is in that photograph giving candies to children, with my coat draped over his shoulders. I feel spoiled having someone anticipate my needs so.

Back at the boathouse, I had to pass up an invitation to another wedding feast. Ali had invited me to accompany him to his daughter's new home where her in-laws would host the dinner. After dinner, Ali would bring his daughter home for a few days. I was just too tired and achy all over to go.

After dinner, Mohamed went to his friend the tailor's to pick up my faran. It is beautiful. I have actually been writing from Kabul where I arrived two days ago. Douglas says the faran makes me look like a Buddhist monk. Good thing I didn't get one made for him! I feel more like one of Margaret Atwood's handmaids. I will even give that the faran is like a Kashmiri muumuu. It matters not what you've got under, you're just covered and comfortable with a faran on.

So I love my faran and it swooshes when I turn. At the airport out of Srinagar, one of the security women who searched me noticed my faran and commented that it fits me well. She made sure I knew it was called a faran and that it was native Kashmiri dress. How tent dresses make me happy.

The Lake At Dawn

Each morning, I am awakened by the faraway sound of men chanting. I know it's the call for prayer coming from a nearby mosque. In the comfort of my bed, I find the chanting melodic and soothing. I think I detect an oboe accompanying the voices of men.

The third morning, I woke up to the voices of prayer as usual. It was 5 a.m. I had to get ready for my visit to the open boat market. We got outside the boathouse where a shakara was waiting. A shakara is like a gondola. It is a long pointy boat with a canopy, an area for sitting, and an area where the "shakarier" rows the boat. You find shakaras only in Kashmir.

But silly me, I forgot to take a photograph of my shakara. Here is a blurry picture of someone else's shakara at the boat market.



The boatman fitted the seating area with cushions while Mohamed brought blankets from the boathouse. I climbed in from the pointy end of the boat and walk across to the cushions under the canopy. Mohamed tucked a thick blanket around me to keep me warm. But I was not paying attention to the boat. I was listening to the sound of prayers over the water at dawn.

I was mistaken about a nearby mosque. There was not one mosque. There were several, maybe six or eight. They were spread around Lake Nagin where my houseboat sat.

Truly, the combined voices of different chants and varying pitches coming from mosques across the lake is like the sound of men answering god with song. As the shakara glided across the water, the chanting from each nearby mosque became louder as other chants receded into a background drone. I was also mistaken about hearing an oboe. That was the faraway sound of chanting at a lower pitch.

At 5:30 a.m., the sky was still dark. The droning chants over the water was haunting, eerie, and enchanting. It was peaceful and beautiful as the horizon grew brighter with the sunrise, and this happens everyday. I cannot reconcile men who pray to god like that with terrorists. Indeed, I have been told many times, terrorists have nothing to do with Islam.

As the boat man paddled out of Lake Nagin and into Dal Lake, farmers in wooden boats glided by, carrying their ware to market.



They are wholesalers who sell to market vendors who sell to the general population. Wholesalers and vendors bargain and barter till they get what they want. Then the market vendors take their goods to market for the day. Everything is done on the water, from boat to boat.



The open boat market starts about 4:30 a.m. and ends when morning has broken. In recent years, sellers of finished products also come to the boat market with their wares because they know tourists come to see the boat market. I bought saffron from such a boat vendor.





On the way back to the boathouse, we paddle through the canals of Srinagar. These canals are dirty and smelly, with garbage strewn everywhere. This is not the Venice of India.





Mohamed stopped at one of the homes on the canal. He was excited. He said, Come, come, come, so I climbed to shore. He led me through the side of a garden and into a kitchen. "This is my brother," said Mohamed with a big smile. Then he bid me to sit, sit, sit, and put a blanket over my legs.

The "brother" and his wife served me tea and biscuits. Brother, wife, Mohamed and the boat man had milk tea with salt! They dip bread into their tea. Salt? The brother poured me a small cup to sample. Interesting.

Of course, brother is not brother at all. He is a good friend of Mohamed's. They worked together at the houseboat for 20 years. In recent years, brother resigned to start his own jewelery business, though he still gets calls from the houseboat to take tourists trekking into the Himalayas. Brother and Mohamed both said they love the trekking because they can never get enough of the beauty of the mountains.

I can't tell how old Mohamed is. Maybe in his forties. He owns a small farm in Gulamarg, another town that leads into the Himalayas. He works on the houseboat while his wife and six children tend the farm of rice, corn, cows, and goats.

After tea, we got back in the shakara. We next stopped at a wood carver's. He makes walnut furniture with intricate hand carved details of dragons, flowers, and Indian motifs. There were desks, room dividers, nestled tables, bowls, plates, and other pieces. As well-made as the pieces were, I was not fond of them. I am too practical for the detailed carving. They are high maintenance. How do you clean between the grooves of the carving?

I also think they are somewhat gauche and gaudy, even though I did like a set of nestled tables. That's okay. I was in India and India is a land of contrariness and contrast.

Anyway, we don't have room in our house for more conflicting furniture that draw attention to our lack of themed decor so I bought a mini shakara because the vendor said I was the first customer of the day and it would bring him good luck if I bought something. He kissed the rupees for luck when I paid him. I am a sucker for such sentiments. But really, how can you deny someone luck when it costs you so little?

Here are some houseboats on Dal Lake.



I think this is the houseboat I stayed in.