Contraband Ingenuity

Alcohol is illegal in Afghanistan; as it is in parts of India, Pakistan and Bangladesh.

Sitting in a restaurant bar on Thursday night did nothing to convince me of that fact. Somehow, alcohol has to be smuggled into the country and then the proprietors have to reach an understanding with the authorities and keep palms lubricated enough for them to turn a blind eye. The very bar we were sitting in had been raided recently, all their alcohol confiscated and a big fine slapped on them. Word on the street is a couple weeks later they were able to buy their stock back from the police. That might explain the exorbitantly inflated prices.

Once their alcohol stock was restored they would try to be more discreet in serving the alcohol so that if the police raided the place, the evidence wouldn’t be on the table in the form of a bottle. This is strategically done for example by serving wine in teapots, for they surely wouldn’t be able to figure it out by the red colored liquid in the wine glasses on the table or as I would imagine, from the shocked look on all the foreigners faces.

Up until recently you were able to buy alcohol from the UN stores, but “the UN is dry right now,” one DACAAR expat staff explained. Afghans with their guns are hired to protect the restaurant, standing outside protecting the entrance and then in the gun "locker room” where they do body and handbag scans and have locking 'safes' to store patrons’ guns in. Afghans are also serving the alcohol, but Afghans are not allowed in to the restaurant as customers. If you look like an Afghan you have to present identification to prove otherwise.

That’s not to say that Afghans don’t drink, although I haven’t actually seen any myself, what usually happens, as it did in North America during prohibition, is drinking goes underground. Publicly condoned, but privately treasured by the liberals. And liberal is what we decided the staff of these establishments must be or they wouldn’t work here. I might also comment that they may also feel a sense of freedom in being in that environment, away from the conservativism that rules the streets and public life.

Cycling in India in 2002 was my first exposure to prohibition. Alcohol? Illegal? It was so foreign to me and yet fit the state of foreignness that was in my face every day travelling in India. Not like we really noticed, at the time, as we were on a different mission than smoking hashish and drinking that many a backpacker was drawn to for the challenge and adventure that it provided in being able to procure this ridiculously cheap contraband.

On our way up the coast from Goa to Mumbai I realized ‘illegal’ just meant ‘underground’. We arrived in a village on the edge of a river that we were hell-bent on getting across instead of cycling 20 kms up-river to the bridge and another 20 kms back to the coast. We found some boats and waited for a time for a boat owner to show up so we could pay them to take us across. It was disturbingly quiet for an Indian fishing village with only one or two milling about and seemingly void of other inhabitants.

Eventually we got tired of waiting and started searching down the road for someone to help us. A few villagers, once asked, kept pointing us further down the road. Finally we reached a door that was open, but curtained, as were the windows. We could hear a number of voices inside, so we knocked and popped our heads in only to find a crowd of villagers, having a bit of a party, with their tables full of bottles of spirits. We managed to extract a boat owner from the party long enough to get us across the river after much convincing that it was worth his while to leave the party.

Although it is also illegal in Bangladesh, Pete explained that while he was living and working there it was very easy to get something to drink, particularly as an expat with diplomat status. With this status you had a gold card for essentially being above the law of prohibition. In pretty much every international hotel or restaurant frequented by the expatriate community it was available for a price as well as at the clique national clubs that were expat only meeting, sport and entertainment establishments; quite snooty for Pete’s taste but had it’s benefits.

Working as he was with many Bangladeshi locals, he described that they would have picnics as a staff. Once settled in their spots, the Bangladeshis would pull out bottles of spirits and thump them on the tables. Large doses of which were poured with a flourish into coffee-sized mugs, a hasty toast and gulped back all in one throw. “They necked the things as fast as they could,” he asserted. They would then hide the evidence away and sit there beatifically and three sheets to the wind, as if the picnic could then begin.

Another time, himself and two Africans travelled into the south of Bangladesh, where diplomat status had no meaning, but upon arrival the driver asked if they would like some beer. Within 30 minutes their rooms were loaded with cases of beer that he figures was smuggled from SE Asia somewhere, although he wasn’t sure what kind of beer as the labels had been scratched off. To prevent getting caught with the contraband in their houses, the locals would bury the alcohol at the beach. Over time the sand would rub the labels clean. This storage facility would definitely make building sand castles fruitful.

Once the beer was secure in their rooms they ingeniously hung the cans in front of the air conditioners to cool them off. Pete, nodding his head in appreciation of their innovation, declared that it worked quite well indeed as the beer was more than sufficiently cooled.

Now Pete was on a roll as his stories started to flow we moved on from Bangladesh and he took me to Afghanistan in the 90s during the Taliban regime's reign. A team member that was really only there to be a chaperone for the female doctors and nurses doing needs assessments. The poor guy would just sit there in the vehicle the whole time. A great position to be able to finish your PhD dissertation, was Pete’s take on the situation. Considering the guy didn’t have that to work on, to keep himself occupied he set himself the task of smuggling alcohol into the country. At first he was able to remove the panels of the car and hide the bottles behind them, but once the officials caught on to that he was forced to step it up. So, he started emptying and washing out the windshield washer fluid tank and fill it with spirits.

I had to laugh. Now is that really for the spirits, or the spirit of adventure in trying to outwit the officials? Well, it gave him something to do at least, Pete said with his Scottish lilt.

A Refugee's Adventure

February 19 - A few days ago....

My nose was cold. I was cocooned in my bed, two layers of thermals over my entire body, a touque and a luke warm hot water bottle, which I had had to get up in the middle of the night to refresh as I was feeling like a cocooned popsicle. My nose was the only part peeking out for obvious reasons, oxygen. I was starting to squirm with needing to relieve myself though otherwise I would have stayed tucked in. It was Saturday morning; I was in no rush to get the day going.

As soon as I left my room I was thankful for the little heat I did have. It was like getting out of a tent; you realize that your little fridge is better than the freezer outside. Oh how I wish they had a squat toilet; the toilet seat on the western style one is Freezing!

While Pete and I were hopping from foot to foot in the kitchen waiting for the water to boil for tea we watched as the thermometer on my watch descended to a mere 6 degrees. The 10 degrees in my room actually felt warm when you walked through the door, at least for the first few moments; a good example of perspective, which I tend to get a good dose of on these trips.

When Pete announced that he was going to have a shower, I shuddered at the thought. It’s one thing to sit on a cold toilet seat, another to stand in your birthday suit under cold water in 6 degrees. Even when, to my surprise, he said there was hot water, I still wasn’t tempted. The shower in Dubai was still a close enough memory to convince me to keep my clothes on.

Azeem, the Wet Centre manager at DACAAR picked us up around 10 in his car, which he pointed out was safer as it was a local non-descript blue car, Toyota Camry style; not the 4x4 Toyota Prado types that are like neon signs with bulls-eye targets. He drove us through the main part of town and then up to a park where we got out and walked.

The views from the park were not as they could have been due to the smog in the air, but enough to give some perspective of the surrounding area. Perched on the foothills around the city the houses were stacked high. They were fairly large looking flat roofed, rectangular and with plenty of windows. Some were plastered cream, blue or red, but most were left exposing the earthen or concrete structure, blending them into the hillside.

One of the first things I noticed leaving the airport were the grand long needle pine trees that I now see are scattered throughout the city particularly in the park areas. During the world wars in Europe I remember reading that the trees of cities like Paris were either victims of bombs or cut down for fuel leaving entire parks decimated, so I was surprised to see so many of them still standing here in Kabul.

On the walk back to the car, Azeem told us a bit about his story.

When he was an engineering student at the university of Kabul in the 70s he used to frequent the very park we were walking through with his friends, to sit, drink tea, smoke hookah and chat. When the Russians invaded in 1978, I was 1 year old, he was in his third year of study. Even with the invasion, he did manage to finish his studies, but by that time they wouldn’t hand out the diploma certificates. He explained that their fear was that if you received your certificate then you would be more likely to leave the country. Which is what ended up happening anyways.

Once he was finished he went back to his hometown in the Eastern mountains of Afghanistan living with his wife and children. As a man there was always the fear of being pulled into the war against the Russians and he was not willing to join rank. So, he started traveling, often 4 days by foot through the mountains, over the border to Peshawar, Pakistan to work. Here he was working for NGOs (non-government organizations) on design teams and often managing the construction of schools, hospitals and a mosque. In the summers, he would take a great risk to return to his family and tend to his crops, which he explained that in doing so helped him to have some of the best crops in the village as there were few men who did so.

It was a grueling trek he explained where they were carrying very little with them: a sleeping bag and two pairs of shoes so that when your feet were tired of one pair you could put the other pair on. During one of these treks in the winter, there was a large group of them travelling together, over 100 people; some travelling for work, others transporting firearms, some on horses, others on foot. Azeem, his two brothers, a few cousins and neighbours were near the back of the group and they decided to stop near a small stream to pray. The rest of the group kept moving along the valley.

Suddenly fires were being shot from over head at the front of the group and the back; Russians in white suits camouflaged in the snow.

Azeem and his group jumped up from their prayers and started running. Shots were hitting the rocks on his left and on his right. There was nowhere to hide. All but two of them managed to make it to a small gorge and jumped in. They stayed there through the night. The next morning more that 40 people had been killed and 50 taken hostage.

As he was telling the story there was a sparkle in his eye. Did they keep going, I asked? Oh no, we were not far from home, so we returned. It was adventurous times, he said with a chuckle.

By 1988, after years of leaving his family, trekking over the mountains to work in Pakistan, he was finally able to procure a truck to safely transport his family to Peshawar. For 17 years, they lived there for as refugees. During this time was when he started working for DACAAR – Danish Committee for Aid to Afghan Refugees as a senior surveying engineer of the refuge camp; mapping the camp entry and exit points, the alley ways and general layout.

Telling the story years later in the company of someone like me having never been shot at before it is a fantastic story that sounds crazy, scary and surreal. I would imagine if he was telling that story with a group of his friends that have lived through war, shootings, guns, battles, it is another one of those adventures that they survived.

Like technology, life is a collection of perspectives that develop and transform moment by moment– at a pace that I can barely keep up with.

Azeem and I at a closed down restaurant in the park.

Wind Under Mending Wings

"Experience indeed. Once it was ignorance, fretting over explosions and rapid firing weapons from the Shining Path but still getting a good night sleep. Now, experience, you just don't sleep."

A friend's response from my Ignorance vs. Experience piece.

And that is exactly how I am feeling tonight.

We were eating lunch during the first day of our first of four workshops. Myself and the three other women were sitting at a table together, which is expected since we are women. Breaking news: another bombing today in Kunar province, at a government administrative center. 30 killed. This is another blow after the attack on Saturday at a bank in Jalalabad, which killed 18.

“How do you feel about this as Afghans?” was my question to the three women. For the next 45 minutes the resulting conversation turned me upside down and backwards. I sat in the next session of the workshop, unable to concentrate, my cheeks burning at my ignorance that I blatantly left to flap in the wind in my last blogs.

“We do not agree with this. No person in Afghanistan agrees with this. We all live in fear. This is not right.”

“Why are there more bombings right now? Why do they continue?” I asked this after hearing that this is unusual for this time of year, nor are the soft targets they are choosing to attack.

“Because the Americans are still here. They (the Taliban) want to maintain fear. And they are. We live in fear every day.”

“How is that it took that Americans one week to take the country from the Taliban and now 9 years later they are still here and the bombing and attacks by the Taliban are still happening?” All I could do was lamely shrug my shoulders and say I don’t know.

“Where do the Taliban today come from? During the Russian occupation, like you said, they were trained and armed by the Americans, but who is supporting them now? Where is their foreign support coming from?” That is a really good question, and I hadn’t really thought about it in that way.

“Why do they (US and other foreigners) not believe that Afghans have the capacity to rebuild their own country? We can do this on our own; we are capable, intelligent, educated. We have the capacity with us.” I think she and I both know the answer. Money. Contracts for foreign companies is way to ensure the economic sustainability of those that have pledged the Aid; it's called the Business of International Aid.

“Why do they give the reconstruction contracts to the foreign companies? For example, a contract that is worth a lot of money will be put out to fix a series of roads. The contract will be given to a foreign company that builds roads of such low quality that the roads only last 2-3 years. Why, when we are capable of doing it ourselves?” Again. Money.

“As women, life is extremely hard here in Afghanistan. Women are still beaten, sometimes killed, and many are still not allowed to leave their houses.”

“Most of the people in this country are only concerned how they are going to find something to eat. Why must we live this way?”

Crack. Crack. Crack.

The hammer falls. ‘Luxury’ is what I wrote. ‘Calm’ is what I wrote. What was all the fuss about? I thought and wrote that too. My cheeks burn in shame and my heart squeezes.

Luxurious is what I Am living here in Afghanistan, where over half the 30 million Afghans live below poverty, meaning 15 million people are living below poverty. That’s hard to imagine, so instead, the next moment you are sitting at a table with a group of people, think that half of you are starving as you do not have "the bare minimum income to provide basic food requirements; it does not account for other essentials such as shelter, clothing, health care and education. That is why some times the poverty lines have been described as starvation lines." (Below Poverty Lines, Wikipedia) Living this luxury keeps me at arms length with reality.

Even when I tried to imagine this tonight as I sat to dinner with 5 Afghan men and Pete, I know I will never feel what it is really like to live with hunger and fear of starvation Every Day.

Calm I wrote. Well yes, it is calm. We are staying in Kabul, which has had large-scale efforts to make and keep it safe, but today, in light of the recent bombings and this conversation, it sunk in past my cognitive recognition to my center where I Felt that this is absolutely not the reality beyond the inner city sanctum of the Ring of Steel (a series of ANF manned security points that ring the city). And even within that ring it is not absolute safety either considering the two other recent bombings were within that ring.

Yesterday, I asked Azeem if he was okay, if I could help him so he wouldn’t be stressed as he prepared for the workshop (because I am always stressed the day before).

A former mujahidin commander (and now the Water and Sanitation Program Manager for DACAAR) who was sitting in the room remarked, “Why would he be stressed? He is not fighting, so there is nothing to be stressed about.”

Crack.

Talk about a perspective rearrangement for me, like a kickboxing blow to the jaw. After 30 years of war, the population obviously has a different tipping point for stress, or, on the flipside, for calm, than my sheltered Canadian perspective. Call it survival calm. Under this veneer of calm lay layer upon layer of deep scars of stress. The people in the city are not in fire fights fighting for their lives and freedom, but they have in the past.

(Call it stress Education for someone that manages to live in a high stress state when there is absolutely no need for it.)

Maybe I didn’t want to believe or feel the depth of the horrific things that I have read, particularly by authors like John Pilger and Kholed Hosseini, about human rights violations against women and minority groups, or about Western politics and money creating and profiting from the blood of Afghanistan.

Maybe I didn’t want to really feel that I am in a place where my life could just be a pawn in this sick political and financial game.

Do I feel like I am crazy to be here as I really start to feel the depth of this beast and my resulting confusion? Not at all. In fact as I meet the people and feel their heart, their passion, their intelligence and determination, the more determined I am to support them in their efforts; to support them by continuing to feed their intense desire for more information as they continue building their own capacity.

These women and men are the ticket for their country’s resurrection from the tyranny of the few who continue to capitalize on these years of war. Added to that maybe I will be an ear for them to express themselves and disseminate what they think and how they feel about what is happening with Their country.

As I write this I have written and then erased these women’s details and hopefully any identifying factor for fear of affecting their safety. Grounded or not, I do not want to put them at risk. Although they did not fear speaking out passionately, loudly, I realize that I do not in any way understand this beast and as a result fear for them.

But I will tell you this; these women are professionals (an engineer, lawyer and water and sanitation specialist) that practiced their professions before and during the Russian occupation. They then lived and survived the Tyranny of the Taliban where they were not allowed to leave the house without burka and a male family member escort; where they could have been persecuted and killed for the slightest misstep.

And now they have returned to work, to life.

Like being a bird who at one time knew the sky and the wind under its’ wings, even if you are caged and covered for years, once you know what wind under the wings feels like, you never forget it.

Kalashnikovs and Koffee

Kabul 1755 hours

After four hours of delirious and disorienting sleep, Pete woke me from my comatose state to meet up with Gerry, the expat Chief of Water and Sanitation with DACAAR. Once outside again, in the sun, it was noticeably warmer outside than in, which is often the case in concrete buildings without centralized heating – great in the summer, not so much in the winter.

The courtyard has hand pump parts stacked high, a little patch of brown soil, which must be the summer garden, their water well and a clear plastic tarp covered greenhouse. High hopes and excitement at having homegrown vegetables for our meals were quickly dashed and at once educating as to priority of the people tending to the greenhouse. For me it was also a cultural indication of appreciating beauty and fragility – it was full of flowering plants, not the opium producing ones but pots of geraniums and the like. As soon as the door was opened for us to peek in the waft of tropical humidity came over us, so much so that Pete’s glasses fogged up. A complete contrast to the cold arid air of winter, in an 1800m desert, that surrounded us.

Gerry picked us up in his car and took us to a local restaurant/coffee shop near his home. A tiny sign with small print identified it as such. A Kalashnikov totting guard opened the door and then closed it behind us. There was another gate before us and before we could move on we were asked to leave our guns. I want to admit jokingly that we had left ours back at the guesthouse so had nothing to hand over, but instead I remark that I have never been asked if I am packing a gun before. Once we had established being unarmed, they called out to another Kalashnikov totting guard on the other side of the gate who opened up the walled garden oasis. With the sun warm on our shoulders, we decide to sit outside to capture that warmth. Residual snow was still holding on in the shadows but a feeling of spring was in the air.

(Gerry is on the left and Pete is on the right)

On the menu was anything from salads to sandwiches to Mexican fajitas to pizzas. I was soon munching on a grilled chicken salad sprinkled with almonds, Pete was digging into huevos rancheros and Gerry the fajitas. Polishing off lunch we warmed up with lattes.

And I thought, really? This is what I had been internally fussing about? Gerry did point out that it is Friday which is the muslim Sunday so most people are home and shops are closed. But still, the energy in the air was anything but tense. Flocks of cooing pigeons flying overhead, chirping birds in the trees and a calm quiet surrounded us, well when the helicopters aren’t buzzing our heads, added up to a surreal atmosphere.

Haiti, I have decided, should be the first stop for everyone. After that every thing else is luxury. Running water, electricity, climate mediation (that being heat here), salad (in my first hours on the ground), lattes, wireless and quiet. Incredible.

After lunch, Gerry took us into the house that was the restaurant and inside were at least 14 young foreigners chatting in small groups, typing away on computers or quietly reading. Comfortably furnished and decorated I was struck that you could feel as though you are in many places in Asia besides Afghanistan.

Next stop was the supermarket, the sister market to the one bombed two weeks ago. There was a flurry of activity outside as they were beefing up the security of the perimeter and there were four guards outside that did a body scan for firearms of both Pete and Gerry. I was left to enter the market without the body search.

Once inside, I was amazed to see the stacked shelves of everything from tuna to peanut butter to canned vegetables, Kellogg’s cereal, an impressive fresh fruit and vegetable section, European cheeses, yogurt, a whole aisle of pet food, and wouldn’t you know it the glass jars of Starbucks Frappaccino. I actually had to take a picture. This market rivaled that of the one in Ndola, Zambia that we shop at for foreign food.

(Seriously? Seriously.)

After purchasing some nuts, dried figs, the small hard ones I used to get in China, milk for tea, some muesli for my breakfast (they do say that a meal in Afghanistan is not complete until you have bread so I figured I needed to arm myself with something I can eat), and Pete’s tea time bikkies (he Is a Scot) and chocolate. There were scores of young men working in the store that were quick to say hello and help when I was looking for something. I had already remarked to Pete how beautiful the people are, particularly the men, and my first sense is now being perpetually validated. Now, don’t worry I have no motivations for love here, but their high cheek bones, clear skin, dark to light brown hair and sometimes green or blue eyes are hard not to take note of. Everywhere I look I wish I could take pictures of them up close to share them with you.

As I finish off my first day here I can see the moon from my desk presenting itself like a link to home and here the call to prayer like a lullaby. It is now 10 degrees in my room and my hot water bottle is calling me. The dogs have just started up…now that is common to the developing world no matter where I have been, South Asia, Africa, Haiti and now here. Though, I have a feeling nothing will keep me awake now.

Kabul - A Contradictory Surprise

Feb 18, 2011 Kabul 0800 hours

Writing the time like that seems appropriate with all the helicopters flying overhead of where I am staying. But first let me back up.

The flight was mostly in the dark, which was a shame as we were flying over mountain range after mountain range of Iran, Pakistan and then into Afghanistan . By the time light started to appear on the horizon we were 30 minutes away from landing. What looked like nothing but darkness at first started to take shape a light ray at a time; mountains started to unfold themselves to the day ahead. A sea of white, massive rock jutting out in every direction as far as my eyes could see, and at 8800m that was a long way.

Higher elevations were shrouded in white and occasionally the elevation must have dropped to valleys that were a hundred shades of brown rock and dust reminding me of Utah. Snakes of age-old creeks and dried up river beds had left their mark with deep valleys; contours like the backs of turtles with high ridges funneling and sloping away with the force of gravity and time. The mountains are different than the mountains in Canada; they look older, more weathered, mounds spanning tens to hundreds of square kilometers with high peaks instead of individual or bands of sharp peaks. There hasn’t been fresh snow for a while as the southern slopes of the lower mountains were a bare deep brown from the high elevation winter sun. All the other aspects were still brilliant white deepening the contrast. Couple the contours with the swaths of white stripes of slopes; it looked like skeletons lying on the mountains.

As the sun breached the horizon, in glorious red, the mountain views extended further and the contrasts more evident than each moment before and still not a road or any evidence of civilization below. As we approached Kabul a few small settlements perched on the sides of mountains appeared, but no lights, just lighter shades of brown set apart from the darker surrounding landscape. No wonder people can hide easily in these unending mountains.

Before reaching the city, the Kabul valley opened up and I could start to distinguish miles and miles of land that was squared off by what I imagine being rock walls for agriculture. Although, now in winter they were completely void of any vegetation I can only imagine the sight of them in the summer all green with growth. At the city limits, there was what looked like massive Army bases, all shiny, new and organized, next to crumbled, bombed neighborhoods. As we continued to fly, the number of transport truck graveyards astounded me. Hundreds of them in dozens of lots parked and covered in a layer of dirt and dust; left unused and the highways running along side empty.

All the while my eyes were torn between looking at the city unfold beneath me and the surrounding mountains. We did a full turn in the air and the mountains were 360 degrees and still as far as the eye could see. Kabul sits at 1800m, so I guesstimate the mountains to be 4000m and up. As we descended to the airport, there were reams of army and UN planes and hundreds of helicopters, medium Bell 212 types to Big helicopters; the ones with 5 blades, 7 window sections just for the pilots and can probably move a whole platoon, hundreds of them. Only a few actually had UN markings on them that I could see, otherwise they were plain white or army brown.

As soon as the wheels touched the ground I had a rush of exhilaration, closed my eyes and said “Oh God.” Not sure which one I was summoning or why. The smile on my face just kept getting bigger. I quickly adjusted the scarf around my head to secure it better and collected my things. As we entered the airport I instantly remarked to Pete that it was already a way higher quality airport than Delhi. He laughed, yep it is. Marble tiles underfoot, floor to ceiling windows and a very organized and orderly customs processing area. I was impressed.

With my head covered I felt better, but was uncertain what to do with my eyes. Our culture it is respectful to look people in the eye, but here I am pretty sure that is not the case so I carefully kept my eyes averted to the side of people or down, but all the while peering up trying to take everyone in without meeting their eyes; or looking at their eyes while they looked elsewhere.

Once outside, the cool air (-1 degrees), the smell of wood and kerosene smoke and a heavy smog made me think of Beijing in the winter. There were no crowds of people trying to offer us a ride or take our luggage, just a few slightly sorry looking souls that would quietly offer their services. My heart broke within minutes of arriving watching or turning them down. Life is very obviously not easy.

As we made our way out of the airport, there were armed police and soldiers at every point, no vehicles or people without authorization were allowed near the airport. We trekked quite a ways through protected yet empty parking lots and streets to arrive to our pick up point. As soon as we left the protected zone a small crowd of men and women were gathered waiting and a soft voice said to me “You are most welcome to Afghanistan.” I looked up quickly and then down, smiled slightly, so as not to offend the man with to forward a response, and kept going. Immediately, it was a different feel from Asia I have so far experienced, and the antithesis of what most of us would expect. Very calm and unhurried atmosphere, not the overpopulated mad pace that is common-place in India, China, Haiti and I would even say to some degree, Calgary.

It was surprising to see that most women wear a burka, sometimes holding a baby in her arms or a child’s hand in her own. The burkas were different than I had originally imagined. There are more layers underneath, long flowing clothes and then the blue burka is an over garment that covers their entire body. Some of them are a bit shorter on the front to about their midriff and flows to the floor at the back or is entirely floor length, with the little screen at their eyes, not wide enough for any peripheral vision, that they see the outside world through. I was afraid to look too long or to seek their eyes out as well.

Our appointed driver was there waiting for us. Pete was familiar with him from his past trip and solidly shook hands with him. I had asked Pete earlier how they greet each other and what I should do and he wasn’t quite sure. He says he shakes hands but wasn’t sure what I should do. So instead of putting my hand out I said Salam and smiled. That seemed to suffice, but I will ask about what is the best protocol. As for the drive to the guesthouse, I was almost too excited to properly take it all in, but what I did notice were the state of the main roads we were on were is excellent condition, there were many men on bikes - I wanted to say people, but realized there were no women riding around - that were very much like the Chinese bikes you see in China, obviously, and in Africa. There were obvious relics of communist Russia still standing and it was very sanitary, well, compared to Haiti. Actually, all the infrastructure and organization so far was reams ahead of what I know of Haiti.

Knowing that I will be able to take more in when we get out over the next 4 weeks, I was okay to let the details pass me by until I am more able to take it all in. I was still captivated at being able to see mountains in every direction.

At our guesthouse, which is right next to the office, I was shown to my room where I promptly opened the curtains (not sure if I should, but I wanted to let the light in) and grinned. It was perfect. I have a bed, closet, desk, a little fire heater and a full wall of windows. My desk looks out over a roof and courtyard and is facing east for the morning sun. What a spot to write. We aren’t that far from the airport, so there is plenty of helicopter traffic overhead, sometimes flying low enough to make the windows rattle, already reminding me at once of Spy Games, with Robert Redford and Brad Pitt – don’t ask me why since they were in eastern Europe and Beirut, and heli-skiing (Oh to take those helicopters and explore the slopes around here….yeah right, fat chance of that).

Pete and I sat in the little sitting area outside our rooms getting our cel phones set up and waited for breakfast to arrive, not that we really needed it; I felt like we basically ate our way from Canada to Kabul. When our host brought up the breakfast he made a move to take it in to Pete’s room and we motioned for him to bring it over to the table we were at. He paused, tilted his head and then set the tray and thermos down. Realizing that it was a serving for one, we looked at each other and I said uh oh I think we may have scandalized him already by eating together. The second tray arrived for me shortly thereafter and he left us to our breakfast of fresh tandoori style bread (that I had to try – commenting that I will be wearing so many clothes that no one will notice how bloated I am) and some tea. I then asked Pete if I should keep my hair covered inside and he shook his head no. And then added with a laugh, well you have already scandalized yourself, so why stop there? But, no really, I think you are fine.

Even with the little heater, it is not strong enough to hold off the chill. My fingers are a bit stiff typing. Actually it kind of feels like being at home in Millarville, as I sometimes keep the heat lower to reduce my costs. Little did I know, I was inadvertently acclimatizing this whole winter for being here; mind you 12 degrees in my room is a little lower than what I keep at home. I have to admit that I am already mourning that I had to take my sleeping bag out at the last minute, I would love to have my legs wrapped up in it right now as I type. I do have lots of layers on and my sheepskin boots are a good stand in for slippers at the moment; I am in no way unhappy about the coolness, as I much prefer this to hot and humid – any day.

Well, my eyes are crusty with fatigue and my body aches to be in a horizontal position after with sitting or standing for the last 38 hours. So, rest it is.

Reality Drops In

Feb 18, 2011 Dubai Airport – 330am

My heart is hammering in my chest. I don’t know what it is about getting on the plane now for the final leg of the journey to Kabul, but suddenly it is real. For long moments passing the dozens of cultures represented in the faces in the passenger hallways of the Dubai airport, it almost felt like it was just another airport, going to just another destination. Just before reaching gate 134 my mind jumped to try and anticipate what the faces would look like of the passengers on my Safi Airways flight.

My eyes scanned the crowd as we approached and my mind did all the observing, processing and calculating within moments like Iron Man behind his mask. First it was the lighter skin, dark hair and a few fair colored eyes that I took in. Wearing suits or long jackets, jovially sharing bits of greeting and information that made them smile warmly and laugh out loud. Women with clear skin, scarf covered hair and dark eyeliner magnifying beautiful round dark eyes. The musical tones of their language sounds Persian. All of which reminded me faintly of the Uyghur people from western China that I became familiar with while living in China.

A handful of big, bulky, tanned, thick necked, rough-around-the-edges, maybe rogue, US Marine types (not your clean cuts from the Army ads) carrying huge backpacks containing things that I would love to investigate were the majority of Westerners lining up. Some of them carry expressions on their face communicating tiredness, wariness and an air of experienced acceptance (as opposed to ignorant excitement such as mine?), giving me a sense that this is not their first Afghan rodeo. Briefcase totting Western businessmen and a couple women sounding very Canadian made up the rest of the 8 or so foreigners in the waiting room.

Instantly I feel self-conscious with my head uncovered, so once settled in my seat I have draped my scarf, that was waiting at the ready around my neck, over my head. It is 330am here in Dubai and I am wide awake as it is 330pm in Canada. The British and American pilots just informed us of our route to Kabul and I hope the sun comes up soon so I can see the land we are passing over. Kabul is reported to have clear skies.

Ignorance or Experience

Standing at the rail of the ferry looking north to the city unfolding in the distance I was jubilant. We had made it. Every day someone would tell us what we were trying to do was not possible. A Swiss guy had warned us they would say this, but insisted it was possible. So, we persevered and 5 days, 7 boats (wooden ketch, canoe, hull you name it we took it), a couple nights sleeping in coconut groves we cycled the coast from Goa to just south of Mumbai. We had learned while cycling in India that if you are confident and insistent enough you can usually find someone to join your band wagon and get what you want.

Back to standing at the rail. We were approaching the Gateway to India, the monument that in earlier times people would first see as they arrived in Mumbai, when a young, well dressed woman started chatting with us. She asked the standard questions of where were we from, where have we been and then where were we going. When we told her we were going to take the train to Rajasthan, she became very concerned for us as we were going to be passing through Gujarat.

"Have you not heard?"

"Heard what?" We had been sleeping in coconut groves and backwater villages for a week.

"There has been a tragic clash between a group of muslims and hindus. A train returning from a holy place was forcibly stopped and 58 passengers, mainly women, children and elderly, were burned alive in the train car. Since then the hindus have retaliated and now hindus are killing muslims, pulling them from their houses and burning them alive in the street. Everything is shut down, people are told they are not to leave their houses. It is very dangerous. You should not go."

This would explain why we hadn't eaten yet that day, she was right, everything had been shut down. After some discussion, we decided to continue on anyways since we weren't prepared to stay in Mumbai (after stories of lice in the guesthouses). We were also pretty confident that we would not be mistaken for either a hindu or a muslim. By the time we reached Udaipur, Rajasthan in the evening, after passing through Ahmedabad, the capital of Gujarat, where the riots were the worst, we were strung out.

So, when we collected our bikes from the train, the police told us that we were not allowed to leave, we were to stay at the train station for the night, we refused. We persisted through 3 or 4 police check points and completely empty streets. People were poking their heads out their doors once in a while, but otherwise the city was shut down. The nervous energy in the air was palpable. And it stayed that way for 3 days.

In the end, 790 Muslims and 254 Hindus were brutally killed. 223 more people were reported missing. The pictures and stories were horrific. And it was those pictures and stories that reached home.

This experience, in one way, led us a month later to travel in to Nepal where the civil war between the government and the Maoists was wrecking havoc throughout the country. We knew what was in the news and researched the Travel warnings from the Canadian, British and French governments and had previously decided not to go. But then talking to other travelers that had just arrived from Nepal changed our minds.

We ended up putting more stock in to what the travelers were saying than the news and government warnings and set off. Trekking the Annapurna circuit the only evidence we saw of the conflict were locals desperate for your business. The news and travel warnings had kept thousands of others away.

It was a month in to our trip before the conflict became real. We were heading out to start our second trek just in time to miss the country-wide strike (it literally shuts down the country) that the Maoists had initiated. Within hours of leaving Kathmandu our bus was being escorted by trembling kids with guns in Ked sneakers, aka - the government army. They were walking along side the bus as it crawled along the valley towards a bridge that had been bombed hours earlier by the Maoists. The locals and bus drivers seemed undeterred by the gapping hole in the bridge. They did take the precaution of asking us to get off and walk across while the bus crept empty to the other side. Looking up the lush valley walls, I could see why the kids were trembling; we were sitting ducks. Within minutes, we all hopped back on bus and kept going, leaving the kids behind.

Looking back, our decisions to continue on in these conflicts seem to be based on a massive dose of ignorance, naivety and mixed with the stubborn righteousness of two kids in their 20s on an adventure of a lifetime. But I learned a lot from that about what makes the news and the travel warnings. One is to sell a story, sometimes sensationalized, and other times very accurate for what is happening in that very spot at that very moment. The other is to cover their asses, so if something happens to you they can say, "Well, we told you not to go there."

When I read the news, the travel warnings and the daily summary of insurgent incidents (particularly in the Kabul area) in Afghanistan I understand my (and your) apprehension. What prevents me from being concerned is knowing I just need to get on the ground and see what it's like. I don't want to be one of thousands that stay away when I am willing and able to join in and help in the locally motivated effort to get safe water to the people.

And now with no more sleeps to go, I am packed (well almost), ready and, instead of apprehension, I have butterflies of nervous excitement.

Next stop: Kabul.

A Cultivated Curiosity - Afghanistan

When Out of Africa star Meryl Streep, in her Dutch-British accent, says -

I had a farm in Aa-fri-ka...

- as if it is dripping like sweet, thick honey and eliciting visions of unequivocal wilderness, seemingly mythical cultures and unbridled adventure. (If you haven't seen the movie, watch it just for that line. Oh and Robert Redford.)

Af-ghan-is-tan, said with the same honey drip (go ahead try it), elicits the same visions for me.

Ever since I read the novel by Dervla Murphy, Full Tilt, whereby in 1964 this amazing, adventuring Irish woman cycled solo through Afghanistan on her way from Ireland to India, I have been fascinated with its cultural and geographic isolation from the West. Her written experiences portrayed a deep connection with the people, the wilds of the country and the cultural traditions reminiscent of Persia and Arabia that have clashed and combined.

Centralized as Afghanistan is on numerous trade routes, as it touches borders with Pakistan, China, Tajikistan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan and Iran, it is a tribal melting pot that continues (as we are well aware) to challenge peace even today. Add to the fact that the majority of the population now live below poverty, the climate is harsh and it is in the direct path for the US to move oil from the break off states of mother Russia, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and Turkmenistan, to a major port in Pakistan, this country seems destined for war. And wars there have been.

News, though, has a way of focusing on the spectacular, the bombs, the war and forgetting about the people that still live there day to day, etching out a life in a country torn apart. News has a way of presenting a situation with one side of the story, and we, in the West, can disconcertingly become immune to the stories if we hear too many of them or don't have a direct connection.

And it is all of these thoughts (and more) that has inspired me to jump at the chance to go there myself. To see and smell and hear and feel this country and it's people, myself.

As I prepare to leave on Wednesday, I have to admit that I haven't put a lot of thought into the reality of going. Could be a number of things: I haven't had much time to actually think about it, or I am avoiding thinking about it as I am a bit on edge about it. Probably both.

"Will you have culture shock?" I asked Pete during one of our many safety meetings. We had already established that I will probably have some shock to contend with.

"I think I will have culture shock, watching you have culture shock. As a woman going to this country where some will politely listen, but disregard what you are saying or just ignore you because you are a woman."

As a woman, to support my purpose for going there, I don't want what I am wearing to distract from the job that I am there to do. So, what I have spent the most time thinking about is what I will bring to wear to be appropriately dressed. There is a complexity to this in my mind: I want to look professional, but hyper-respectful, and yet I will have to cover myself because I am a woman. That is the reality.

If you know me at all this goes against every fiber in my body, to submit to the age old insecurities and weaknesses of men (that's my opinion of it) that has now become a cultural norm. But I knew going in that this was the reality. I do not have to wear a burka, but my head will have to be covered most of the time. Long, contourless clothing that covers any part that makes me look female is pretty much what I have been told to aim for.

My cultivated curiosity has brought me the opportunity to go, but now I am trying to put all my preconceptions aside. To be as open as possible, so that from the confines of my 'secure' locations, I can experience Afghanistan for who and what it is today.