Fuller's Tales and Musings

Pushing while Flying

2011-03-17T07:29:00.001-07:00

Pushing boundaries seems to happen naturally for me, perhaps because often I don’t realize the boundary exists, I subconsciously ignore it or I blatantly disregard it. This time it may have been a combination of all three.

Innocently sitting on the roof top terrace minding my own business, I was staring at the brown Heidi height wall, enjoying the warmth and quiet when a kite crashed at me feet. It took me so much by surprise that I stared at it in blank surprise like aliens had just landed.

I looked up expecting to see the head of a young boy peering over the edge looking for it. When none appeared and there was no tug on the string I grabbed hold and tugged. When there was no resistance, I started pulling in the string right to the frayed end. Stupidly and proudly grinning to myself I had captured a kite. Deciding to test it I tried setting it a flight on my own running back and forth on the roof to no avail. So, I tucked it into my room and thought I just want to fly it back and then I will donate it to the kids out on the street.

Kite flying has returned to Afghanistan since the fall of the Taliban who had banned it during their reign. I had not seen any yet in Kabul, but spring was in full bloom so the kites were out as if in celebration. At any one time, I would be able to count at least 20 flying high just from my vantage point on the top terrace. Made very simply from tissue paper or a plastic bag, the boys all over the neighborhood would spend hours flying and sometimes fighting their kites in the sky.

When Azeem asked the next day if I wanted to go to and visit a very secure park. I jumped at the chance to get out of the compound and then, bubbled out my story about the kite and asked if I could bring it and try to fly it. Of course, he said.

After making it through the security detail to get into the park, I walked through the gate and stopped in my tracks. It was all men, no women. Of course, it didn’t even occur to me that this would be the case, but made complete sense. In the past, they did have one day for women and one day for men, but the religious officials pulled rank and banned women completely from the park. Regardless, Azeem was totally non-plussed about walking in with me.

It struck me deeply on this trip to Jalalabad how blessed I am as a woman to have Azeem as our host and counterpart on the business side, but also the tourist side. Although he takes the security situation very seriously and is a pious Muslim he is still not afraid to stretch what most see as cultural limits – at least with me – I am not sure about with his own family.

(The Hindu Kush mountains from the park.)

The park consisted of some drink and food shops, a net ball turf pitch that was being used for a short field soccer game, a kids playground and a large grass soccer pitch that was empty; perfect spot to fly a kite.

Within moments of entering the park a small boy saw my kite and wanted it. Azeem explained to him that first we were going to fly it and then he could have it. By the time we reach the soccer pitch we had a small gathering of young boys in tow, like the pied piper. One of the boys grabbed the kite and went across the field to the maximum length of the string.

When we said ready, he let go and I pulled on the string. With the short length of string and lack of wind it was a difficult task to get the kite to stay in the sky but it was fun. It kept crashing and they would run after it and help me get it in the sky again or if they could catch the string before it hit the ground they would yank on the string to try and help me keep it in the sky. By the time we were done the kite was in rough shape, but they were happy to take off with it.

To my surprise and great pleasure the following day, Azeem eyes brimming with excitement came to tell me he had just gone out (leaving the training that was in progress) to buy a new kite and a proper length of string. “We will fly it at lunch.”

So, after the roof top lunch for two, Azeem joined us with the new kite and roll of string in tow. While tying the string to the kite he explained that when he was living in Peshewar as a refugee he would fly kites with his kids teaching them handling and sky fighting.

There is definitely a technique in getting the kite in the sky off of a roof with all the wires, trees and other buildings, and then keeping it up there. Even though it is made of tissue paper one has to take an overhand approach while yarding on the string in a forceful pull release motion to be able to capture enough of the breeze.

(Terrace flying with Azeem and the Heidi height wall)

When the tip of the kite is pointed in the direction that you want it to go you yank on the string and voila it follows your lead. Kite fighting is a different sport altogether. Another kite will come towards yours very slowly and if you end up in a fight you try to be the first to cut the other kites string - that was level 3 flying that I didn't graduate to - next time.

A few of the other men came to the flying terrace for ablutions before prayer when I was flying. One of them said please Heidi sit down. He thinks I am going to tire myself out and wants me to preserve energy, I think to myself, but nope. “Sit down or women in the neighborhood will see you flying a kite.” And what, cause a kite flying revolution?

Azeem and Pete, bless them, didn’t say anything and just let me fly. Combine the confines of my clothes, the security situation, my swinging honorary man status and being compound bound flying that little kite was exhilarating. Add that statement to all and the stubborn female fire inside me burned stronger which cranked my enjoyment factor. You put me to the roof to eat because I am a woman, well look what happens, I fly anyways.

(One of the many kite carcasses...)

A Gentle Man, A Muslim

2011-03-17T06:47:00.000-07:00

“May I ask you a question?” I ask as my heart is stammering in my chest. As a woman and as a non-Muslim I am afraid I may be overstepping my boundaries, but I am hoping that either my foreign card will be a security pass or it is inoffensive to this man.

“There are the Sunni and Shia Muslims, right?” Yes. “The blue mosque over there,” I point in a direction over the man’s shoulder, “is it Sunni or Shiite?” (Now I can’t even remember – I think Sunni). “And the mosque on the corner is…?” Shiite. “OK.”

“So…what is the difference?”

Ah, he says, here is the real question you are meaning to ask.

Well, yes, I think to myself, but I couldn’t start with that one.

We are sitting eating dinner together as we, Pete, Shah Aruf and I, have done almost every night that we have been here. The three of us are the regulars and other guests that come to stay are the transient participants or observers to our conversations. We are all bundled up; Pete in his down jacket, Shah Aruf with his touque and wool blanket thrown around his shoulders in true Afghan style that makes it appear as if he was born wearing it and myself with my sheepskin boots and multiple layers on.

The two guests tonight are young men that seem fairly conservative and stick to themselves. The sense I get is that they haven’t quite figured me out yet or what they are to do with themselves while they consume their meals in my presence. I can feel pretty quickly when it is pushing men right out of their comfort zone to have me around and these two have my neck hairs standing on end; which is why I have kept my head covered as I try to squelch any further discomforts for all of us. Within moments of my question, they get up and leave the table, leaving the three of us to continue.

Shah Aruf takes a breath, as though diving in, reaches for a hunk of flatbread and starts to explain.

From my perspective fundamentally they are the same, Sunni and Shia. We believe in the same God. We believe in Prophet Mohammed. Mohammed came to earth to teach the people that men and women are equal as they both come from Allah. He taught us that all living things must be treated equally, that we must care for each other. We must treat all life with care, and help each other.

As he was talking, he would slowly take pieces of the flat bread with his delicately elegant fingers, methodically put them in his mouth and chew slowly. There was no rush.

We believe that we return to this earth. “You mean resurrection?” I ask. Yes, resurrection. “All things or just humans?” All things living return to earth after death.

It was after the death of Mohammed when the separation started based on the followers of Mohammed at the time of his death. But fundamentally, spiritually we are the same.

(After looking it up myself, I found that the division was political. The Sunni Muslims believed that after Mohammed’s death, the leader should be elected to rule the Muslim nation. The Shia Muslims believed that the leadership should remain in the house of Mohammed – like a royal monarchy.)

Then he asks me, are you asking yourself - why Muslim?

I kind of laughed uncomfortably, looked down, thought about it and then replied, “Actually not at all. I have never questioned why someone else chooses the religion they dedicate their souls to. I am just hoping to gain more understanding about the Muslim religion. And my question was more founded in why there is the clash between the two when they are both Islam. Kind of like the clash between the Protestants and Catholics.”

As the call to prayer started, I asked, “What about your prayers, what you pray about?” What we pray about is the same. Maybe some of the ways in which they are said are different, but what we pray for is the same. “What about the call to prayer? What is playing now?” This is the Sunni mosque call to prayer. It is the same, the Shia add a few extra lines into their call. “How often do you pray?” As Sunni, we pray 5 times, in the morning, at noon, in the afternoon, evening and night.

[Here is where I got a bit lost – whether it was lost in translation, his attempt at diplomacy or a combination of the two.]

What becomes difficult is the understanding of why we do certain things. In the beginning we would cover our bodies completely because it was cold. What we need to understand is people’s objective for wearing such things. Like, maybe I am wearing very dark clothes and you, he points to Pete, are wearing lighter clothes, and you, he points to me, are wearing a red scarf – but what is the reason behind wearing such things?

If we push that we all must be the same without trying to understand each other, then we have difficulty with each other. The problem is that the majority of Muslims, say 80%, do not understand or question why they are Muslim. Their father was Muslim, so they are Muslim. They do not believe because of faith, they believe because of the culture of their house. They do not question why they pray, or why they must go to the mosque. Pete and I both interjected that that is the case with most people in most, if not all, religions.

[It was this last bit that made me sit forward and want to dig deeper.]

We believe in heaven and hell.

“What determines if you reach heaven or hell?” You will make it to heaven if you believe in Allah, in all the prophets (not just one), in the holy Quran and the other literature that supports the Quran, as well as do good things, treat each other with love and respect, if you help one another. You must believe and do these things if you are to reach heaven. And hell, well if you do not believe or do such things that please Allah you will go to hell.

Sounds familiar.

At this point the call to prayer has stopped and I can see his minor muscles are starting to twitch as his faith calls him. But then I put two and two together and am confused.

Click.

“So, wait. You believe in heaven and hell, but you also believe in resurrection.” Here Christianity meets Buddhism; I never even thought to put these two tenements together for a single soul to aspire to. “So, do you have to reach heaven to be able to be resurrected?”

The question penetrates, he methodically nods and says, ah interesting question.

Yes, whether you go to heaven or hell you will return to this Earth. “Even if you do all the bad things, and go to hell you get to come back,” I ask. He smiled slightly, and replied, well yes. But God will have a conversation with you about what you did that was good or bad. It is a meeting with him to evaluate your life. “Judgment Day,” I say.

Yes, exactly. Judgment Day.

Regardless of which leadership they support, every Muslim I have knowingly met has met me with grace and kindness. While cycling through northwestern Malaysia in 2002, watching Osama Bin Laden photos taped to the back windows watch me as buses drove past, I have to admit the timing was unnerving to cross the border from Thailand. Quickly, I realized that I had nothing to worry about, in fact I felt safer and more relaxed without the drunks, prostitutes and drug dealers I left behind in Thailand.

Like all faithfuls, within the Muslims I have now met, there are varying degrees of piousness and liberalism. Now I am not sure, but I think I have met one of the most pious, ever, in my workshop this week. I can’t say for sure because I don’t have the guts to ask, but there is a man that has a dark grey and chapped callus on his forehead; right where it would meet the mat through his spiritual ministrations.

Although I watched him in prayer, I couldn’t see a difference in how he was praying compared to the other men, but that is only one time of prayer in five. They were all side-by-side on the green prayer mat that was provided by the hotel. Interestingly for me, it isn’t like praying all together, the same prayer at the same time in the church I grew up in or before a meal. They arrived at various times after ablutions, removed their shoes, stepped on to the mat and prayed at their own pace. At one given time some may be standing with their hands clasped together in front of them and head bowed lips murmuring prayers or at different intervals in the three times they do the motions of kneeling and touching their foreheads to the mat.

Sadly, what I have heard the most is about the violence committed in the name of Allah painting the Muslim religion in black; the news-making stories, the stories that paint Muslims and particularly this country with a wide swath of barbarism.

That is not to say that the stories of the violent action of some in the name of Allah are not real, and not so incorrigibly sickening and senseless making me feel like I’m being gutted alive. Has there not been violent action also taken by people in the name of most religions as some point in history?

Is it not blatant ignorance and prejudice to not accept that the fundamental belief of any religion, even Islam, is to serve its followers in helping us bring peace to our souls, to guide us to be better people?

So, maybe instead of asking what is different about the two factions of Islam, the gaping question that begs asking is this:

Why is it that, as people, we have to work so hard and need this much help from God (whichever one you are praying to) to treat each other with understanding, respect and kindness?

Honorary Man

2011-03-15T19:51:00.001-07:00

Culture here runs deep in history, tradition, respectability, honor, trust and survival. Harsh climate and landscape, age-old tribal law, and religion have shaped the people in a way that I have not yet come across in my other travels. Through my experiences with them these last weeks I am changed and yet not completely surprised.

This past week, as a foreign woman and a guest, I was bestowed with a partial privilege of being invited into the world of Afghan men – and so became an honorary man. Infiltrating into this world is like seeing into the pope’s private chamber, at once scary, exciting and seemingly sacrilegious.

Every day, as the only woman in the office compound in Jalalabad, but more appropriately as a guest, I was welcomed, well… invited, to eat in the main room for breakfast and dinner. The epitome of man cave. The room was probably 10m X 5m, had at least 20 foot ceilings, tall windows along one wall and floor mats about office desk width set in a U shape along the main walls. Large stiff cushions were positioned to support our backs.

Before arriving in Afghanistan, I had read in The Places in Between by Rory Stewart that in the main room of an Afghan house, the most honored position in the room is furthest from the door. This was reserved for the leader/eldest man. From there the hierarchy spread in each direction along the walls.

If a man of greater status walked into the room and men of lower status were on the mat, they would all stand up and move closer to the door to make room for this individual. Sometimes there was even an argument if the individual didn’t feel deserving of the position, but the lower status men always thoroughly insisted and won. When the floor mat was full the rest would sit on the bare floor, their backs supported by the wall.

As guests, Azeem, Pete and I were along the wall facing the door. (Pete and Azeem were the woman buffers sitting on either side of me.) Once the meal was ready, one of the servers would come in and role out a large plastic mat that fit into the U of the mats and the dishes started arriving.

Small portioned plates of sabji (a vegetable dish cooked till they are limp and then swimming in oil), rice (that is also thoroughly oiled), usually a meat dish and of course bread – lots of it – dropped from up high so they slapped like a beaver tail on water as it landed on the plastic mat. Each person gets handed a plate, they tear their bread and use the pieces as we do cutlery – a vehicle to get food to their mouths. Subconsciously they would pick off the parts of the bread that were too crisp or burnt and toss them on the plastic mat.

Platters of apples, bananas or oranges for dessert would accompany every lunch and dinner. The peels and left over bits were also tossed on the plastic mat.

When the meal was sufficiently ravished often in silent masticating concentration, the servers would start, what was to me, a mesmerizing ritual. First they would collect the plates of left over food and used plates, piling any left over bread. What was left over on the mat were the bits of bread, crumbs, and fruit peels.

One of the servers would then sit on the floor mat with a cloth in hand and start wiping the mat collecting the bits together as far as he could reach from his seated position. He would then roll up the clean part of the mat moving the still contaminated sections towards himself. He would continue this from one end of the mat to the other, wiping, rolling, wiping, rolling. At the end, the pile was usually substantial, so to collect it he would lay one of the cloths on the carpet at the edge of the plastic mat and wipe the pile onto it. With the plastic mat cleared and the final portion rolled up he would put the mat away, wrap the pile up in the cloth and exit.

Once the plastic mat was cleared and away, the tea ceremony would start. “Without tea, fighting is not possible, “ an Afghan proverb. When Afghanistan was fighting Uzbekistan (I am not sure when) they joke that they lost that battle, because the fighters were supposed to engage, but insisted “first we have tea, then we will fight.” And in doing so, lost the battle. At least that’s how the story has been passed down.

A tray of mugs would be brought in with large pots of green tea, which was surprising to me that it wasn’t chai or black. The server would squat down and pour a small amount of tea into each mug, like tasting wine, swirl it and then dump out the contents, not like tasting wine. It was explained that this served two purposes, to warm the mug as well as extra cleaning of the mug. Each mug was then heaped, and I mean heaped, with sugar and filled. Mugs were then distributed again according to status.

Sticking out like a sore thumb is not hard in places like this no matter how hard we try to fit in. Special treatment just makes it more prominent even if the intention is to honor us as guests. So the white teacup with saucer instead of the clear glass mug, the glass plate instead of the tin one, the heaping plates reserved for us made me squirm from the start. Instead of making me feel more honored it succeeded in making me feel more uncomfortable; its not as if I would ever blend in, but at least it would make me feel as such if they were the same as for the rest.

How did this make me an honorary man? Well, women and men do not typically eat together, pray together or even marry together. There are always separate rooms. I am not certain, but I would imagine that in a normal household, the women would cook, but the men, or boys, of lowest status would do the serving and clearing for the other men.

Now, there are always shades of grey with cultural maneuverings particularly comparing one province to another or in city and rural contexts, as is the case in any country you go to - even in North America. Here in Afghanistan, the more conservative provinces, like Nangarhar where this story takes place, and in rural areas is some of the strongest segregation of women from society.

And this is what happened during the Jalalabad workshop every lunch; I was safely tucked away from the men.

Very diplomatically, one of the WET Centre staff, who I am certain was forcibly nominated by the others to broach this delicately, explained that maybe I would feel more comfortable not eating with all the men – like I said very diplomatic by making it about my comfort. Pete was still encouraged to join the men, but he graciously said that he was not going to leave me to eat alone (as I was the only woman in the compound). What a friend and a man, gasp.

Summarily stripped of honorary man status, I at first felt incensed and somewhat shamed by it. Even though I was fully aware that we were in one of the most conservative provinces of Afghanistan, being invited during dinner the night before and breakfast that morning, I was confused. Within moment, though, of Pete and I being set up on the roof terrace in the sun I felt a bit better. Although we couldn’t look out at the mountains due to the Heidi height wall, having a break with the sun on our face was a nice reprieve every day during the training.

Like all things, with time we can adapt to pretty much anything if exposed to it long enough. Like wearing a head covering and long clothes; I have in fact become so used to it that it has started to feel as if I am exposed if I am not covered. That’s also how I felt with the DACAAR men during mealtime; they were more used to having me in the room by the end of 5 days.

Although, it was probably more due to the fact that I was a guest and treated with honor and it wasn’t a cultural shift as I was not one of their women, so it was easier to accept for the time I was there.

And really the bulk of them had no choice, I was leaning on the honor wall.

The Expatriate Hyperbole

2011-03-04T18:33:00.000-08:00

Back to Afghanistan 2011, Friday is holy day in Islam, so Thursday night marks the end of the workweek. The bar was packed. My seat was oriented towards the entrance and I was fascinated by who was walking through the door; trying to figure out what they were all doing here in Kabul.

Immediately crossed off the list were UN and Embassy staff, as they are not allowed to frequent these restaurants and bars due to security. In fact, I have been told that the UN staff, after a bombing at one of their guesthouses, are now confined to their compound where they work and live. When Pete visited the embassy last time, the Field Officer was quizzing him on what it was like beyond the walls of the compound as he had not been out there in weeks. How ironic to have a title like that and ask that question.

Can you imagine? Already I feel a little caged because I go from my guesthouse into a vehicle, drive 10-15 minutes to the hotel where the trainings are, stay there for 9 hours and then return by vehicle to my guesthouse. No walking the streets. Not enough space to stretch the leg or heart muscles. The widest open space that I have is the view from my room, or from the roof (and when I am up there I am conscious that I am a sitting duck).

Can you imagine living in a country and having no contact with the people and their life that is going on outside of the compound? Can you imagine feeling like every Afghan is going to shoot you? This particular sentiment is very real for some and baffles and concerns me based on the locals that I have met.

Back to the bar; Pete and I started predicting what occupies people in Afghanistan. A group of 4 very wide, a bit scruffy around the edges, well muscled men, my imagination decided, were contract killers. The group of mid 20s-30s group with their wide rimmed, 80s Ray Ban style glasses wearing ribbed touques pulled low over their ears and plaid long sleeves, definitely the documentary journalists.

Reaching fever pitch of curiosity, I finally had to ask. There were two groups I was intent on probing into. Right beside us a cluster of 6 or so we had decided were working with an NGO that we predicted worked in a variety of sectors. Two younger women right next to me were my target. Excusing myself by interrupting their conversation I asked what they were doing here.

“We work with the Tribal Society Initiative.” (I think that is what it was called.)

“What’s that?”

When they explained the areas they were working in, it was again gibberish to me. So they finally said, “Maybe we should be asking what you are doing here.” Water and sanitation, I stated without much more detail as I was intent on my mission.

PhD research was what they were doing. Couldn’t quite get the topics because of the din in the room, but the organization they are working with focuses on Tribal Culture, Peacemaking and Livelihood Preservation. What felt like the opening to a very interesting, intellectual conversation about their studies, interpretations and conclusions turned into a rant about their frustrations of living in Kabul.

On my right was an Asian American from Massachusetts that had just been living in Hawaii for 7 years. “How long have you been here?” Six months. “How long will you be living here?” I asked, assuming really that there is a time limit for all of us non-Afghans. “Indefinitely, “ she replied with a mixture of disdain and resignation. “My husband is an anthropologist whose main study is Afghanistan.” Ahh, didn’t quite look at that part of his CV as being important at the time, maybe?

By the end of her rant about the muddy streets and wearing so many layers of clothes, she concluded by saying “Don’t get me wrong, I love the people. They are strong, firm, proud, genuine, but at the end of the day I still have mud on my shoes.” Seriously? Seriously. That’s what it comes down to? Ah, perspective taking once again.

(OK. So it's a bit muddy.)

“What do you think of Afghanistan? Wait, how long have you been here?” they asked me.

Well, a week, I replied, and I think it’s amazing. I love it. Mind you, I explained, I am comparing this to Haiti and Zambia, not Hawaii.

On my left was a student from Holland that had been back in the country for just two weeks. After spending 3 months here the previous summer she had been in Holland since to organize her study project and had just returned to Kabul. Her rant – “It takes FORever to get ANYthing done in this country.”

Ah, the classic westernism of time.

One of the women in the training last week described her generation of Afghanis as a “restful” generation that likes to eat and discuss and enjoy life. We are happy to enjoy life. We like to work, but we are a ‘restful’ as well. The younger generation, she continued, seems much more motivated to live at a faster pace.

Which in the eyes of the Hollander, I would imagine, was still not up to her western standard.

As a Zambian once said to me, Westerners have it all wrong. You buy time with your technology, but don’t stop to enjoy it; you just fill it with more.

When you have a culture that has been here since, what feels like, before time even began, time has a different quality to it. It is one of the many aspects of these cultures that I truly enjoy.

I never did make it to the next group to determine what their function was in this massive political and cultural chess game. So, I promised myself that next time I would start my research sooner in the evening.

Contraband Ingenuity

2011-02-26T07:19:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-24T18:15:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-21T08:14:00.000-08:00

"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

2011-02-18T20:00:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-18T09:30:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-18T04:00:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-16T05:28:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-13T19:20:00.000-08:00

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.

Sharing CAWST

2010-12-05T16:26:00.000-08:00

Dearest family and friends,

With the year almost over I wanted to thank you for your support and for following my work and travels on this blog, keeping in touch with me and welcoming me home when I have been so absent. It has meant so much to me to know I have the support of such a fantastic group of people. I am truly blessed.

As you know I work for a formidable little organization called CAWST - the Centre for Affordable Water and Sanitation Technology. The small staff of 23 - see photo above (and over 150 volunteers) that so far have helped 3.6 million of the most vulnerable people get access to better water and sanitation.

With CAWST I have personally and professionally garnered a wealth of experience, opportunity, growth, and innovation that I didn't think was possible. And even after the adventures that I have been priviledged to live, prior to joining CAWST, I see the world in a completely different light as my experiences are now directly working with local champions in places like Haiti, Zambia and Uganda.

Along side my time in the field is the experience of being surrounded by an incredible force of talent. There have been countless occasions where I have been at the office or working in the field and been awestruck by the passionate, determined, innovative, adaptable, overachieving, excessively intelligent people I work with. It is all at once stimulating, encouraging and intimidating.

Since CAWST is a non-profit organization, often I am asked where we get our funding from. It is through a combination of generous donations (personal and corporate), government grants, project consulting, and training courses.

Interestingly we are the only organization world wide that does what we do - provide technical and educational training and consulting and act as a centre of expertise in water and sanitation for the poor in developing countries. This being so, at times it is difficult to sell ourselves when historically many donors look for indicators such as number of wells drilled or hand pumps installed.

Greta Raymond, CAWST's Board of Directors Chair wrote in our 2010 annual report:

"CAWST has reaffirmed its key strategies and focused its limited human and financial resources on those strategies which we believe will have the biggest impact. As always our Board is committed to prudent financial management. While we have many generous donors, funding is always a challenge when there is so much work to do. We actively balance our commitments, activities and resultant expenditures with the level of funding available."

So, with the holidays approaching I wanted to offer you (and all who you know) the option of CAWST as a worthy recipient of your hard earned dollars, to help us continue to serve the poor in meeting their basic water and sanitation needs.

If you choose to do so, go to the DONATE tab at http://www.cawst.org/ to determine a method to suits your needs.

Wishing you a safe, healthy, happy and soulful holiday season.

All my love and thanks,

Heidi

Local Reality Challenges Local Perception

2010-11-12T12:19:00.000-08:00

Doing something for the first time creates an interesting mix of challenge, creativity and chance.

Add to that mix, an overachieving, highly motivated academic from Boston, a world crusted technical expert with international celebrity status and an educator riding the wave of inexperience with unbridled determination. Then, put 23 people representing 18 different organizations in the room with these three. The result: jaws dropping, questioning arms thrusting and a momentum for change.

The topic has the capacity to create hope, preserve dignity and save lives and seems insanely common sense, but there was not one organization in that room that was directly addressing this issue in their existing programs.

The topic: Safe Water for People Living with HIV/AIDS.

In preparation for the session, we decided to visit a few peri-urban communities on the edge of Lusaka, the capital city of Zambia.

What we found in Mazyopa and Chigala was what we expected, which is why we went there to collect the evidence.

According to the World Health Organization, one way to categorize safe water is by the level of fecal contamination (CFU/100mL) or how much bacteria from poo is in 100mL.

Water that has a level of 0-10 is reasonable quality and may be consumed as is;

10-100 polluted - treat if possible;

100-1000 dangerous - must be treated;

over 1000 very dangerous - reject or must be treated.

Our findings (which as I said we were expecting, but wanted to collect for message impact):

Hand dug well at the school: 1500

Hand dug well 200m down from the school: 4000

Stream (picture below): Too Numerous To Count

From the Biosand Filter: zero

The source of the water that was put through the Biosand filter was from the hand dug well that had the 4000 count.

So, let me repeat, from the Biosand Filter: zero

Put that data together with the countless kids (and adults) that are drinking, bathing, living with this water. These kids, that for the most part, are orphans or from single parent families because of HIV/AIDS.

When this evidence was presented to the 23 individuals in the room along with the research that overwhelmingly concludes that people living with HIV/AIDS die most often from diarrheal diseases, which are most often caused by contaminated water, people sat up a lot straighter.

Although it seemed impossible for them to be more blown away, when the next key point was made that if people are suffering from diarrhea their ability to absorb the expensive Anti-retro viral drugs is significantly decreased, they almost slouched in their seats from the immensity of these evidence based proclamations.

After the initial defensive remarks that filled the room this comment spoke volumes:

"In our programs supporting people living with HIV/AIDS we focus on providing drugs and food, but never even consider the impact of water."

For the first time, representatives from both the water sector and the HIV/AIDS sector put their heads together about what they were going to do about this. And the three of us, after taking a chance watched them collectively and creatively put their heads together to begin to address this challenge.

And I fiercely hope that they follow through so that little ones like this precious giggling little girl from Mazyopa will have a chance at life.

Ernest, Darth, Superman and now you

2010-11-01T19:14:00.001-07:00

It IS amazing what you can capture in six words.

"Big hairy chest - lots of kids."

Father, Wind Surfer, All things outdoors in his Cowichan Dinner jacket. Teacher. Maple Bay, BC. My dear friend, who does have a hairy chest and his third son was just born.

"Live life to the max, enjoy!"

Skier, Traveller, Head of Communications agency in the Netherlands

"Insanely spontaneous. Never without a smile."

SnowBoarder, Fisherman, Helicopter engineer from Kelowna, BC

"Had a baby. Wish you could come see him :)"
World traveller. On line shopping fiend. Teaching partner in China. Teacher of all things difficult: Chemistry, Biology, Math...all grade 12...all at once. And yes, now a mom. Must be the hormones messing with the adding skills :). Surrey, BC

"Rise and shine. Explore. Then Breathe."

Climber, runner, hiker. Lover of books and sewing cool chalk bags. Mother of one very new little guy. Soaking up the days in Victoria, BC.

"Up and down. Round and round."

Rescue, skiing and live wire heli pilot out of Canmore, AB

Yep that makes sense.

"Passionate humanitarian. Travels world, intending change."

Super smart, super steady, super girl. Colleague, friend. Far from home, but settling in to Calgary.

"Grass always greener. Need magnetic shoes."

Vagabond heart and soul, mom of two, etching life in Geneva.

Curious about the shoes...

"It's one day at a time."

Volleyball addict, movie lover, problem solving genius in Calgary.

I take many lessons on life from this guy. Lucky for me he is my brother....so it's free.

"Trust always. Love forever. Move forward."

Loves all things communication and being surrounded by those she loves. Settling in in Montreal.

All three I struggle with at different times and for different reasons. Good one to keep to remind me.

"In motion perpetually. Making a difference."

Skier, passionate mover and shaker, geared in overdrive, captain of four companies manned by a diverse and colorful group of people. Sails his ship from Boulder, CO.

And this is truly a just picture of this man.

"Trying simplicity. Failing. Making moves joyfully."

Dare devil. Jokester. Risk taker. Adventurist.

Bike selling non-cyclist, pig cultivator. Zambia.

"Read, eat, sleep, travel dot dot dot "

Gentle, strong. Creative, herself. A young woman grown up so fast. Ottawa.

This one definitely speaks to me...the last part I am told was inspired by Mama Mia. Although one word extra, I think it is too perfect to take one dot away.

"Ever restless. Ever in awe. Ever..."

Speaks to my soul this one.

Lover of all things delicious, BBQed or liquid and red and has great legs. Passionate about retirement.

I see myself in him.

Thankfully he is my dad so I can accept myself for it. :)

And this is the last that came in and really I couldn't choose just one of them so I included the whole thing:

This is too hard! First thing that comes to mind

"Happiest when running with her dog".

How about

"Exploring, running, tea drinking, animal lover"?

Ha! or how about

"Too indecisive for this difficult task!" :)

Runner (yeah she mentioned that). But really a real runner. Marathons, over and over again and fast (3:12 was her last one). Her training grounds - Victoria, BC.

The list goes on.

Thanks for sharing.

Connect Africa - Uganda

2010-09-03T05:01:00.000-07:00

http://www.armadillothor.com/armadillothor.com/Blog/Entries/2010/8/15_Connect_Africa_pt.1.html

Above is a link to a site that has an amazing picture introduction to where I am and what the organisation Connect Africa does here in Uganda.

Quotes I love so far:
"But what sauce will you have with your fish and rice? You need lubricant for your food."

"Men have super powers." (That is why men are not to be cooking food or looking after children. That is a woman's job.)

....I will expand on that story next :)

Love and hugs.
Heidi

Dirty Water Vending Machine - New York

2010-08-26T19:56:00.000-07:00

4,200 children die of water-related diseases everyday.

UNICEF attempts to change that by shocking the public to create awareness with their Dirty Watercampaign.

There are 8 “flavors” of water that represent common diseases that affect the global poor: malaria, cholera, typhoid, dengue, hepatitis, dysentery, salmonella, and yellow fever.

Thirsty people can choose their favorite infected water to support the charity – each dollar goes to UNICEF’s efforts to provide clean water to those that need it.

A purchase of one bottle provides 40 days worth of potable water for a child.

Watch the video at:

http://www.psfk.com/2010/07/unicef-installs-dirty-water-vending-machine-in-manhattan.html

Simply Life

2010-08-21T20:49:00.000-07:00

“Blanco. Blanco.” I hear far below the street that hugs the cliffs.

“Bon soir. Comment y est?” I say to the women that have called out.

And with voices of laughter the reply reaches me. “Pas plus mal. Et vous?”

A little beyond, a face stares darkly at me. “Bon soir” I say. And what unfolds is a brilliant sparkling smile, lighted eyes and “Ah, bon soir cherie (with alacrity). Ca va?”

Cap Haitien is on the North coast of Haiti. To the west, the city is tucked into a mountain side. To the east a river delta levels the wide valley and another range of mountains rests in the distance. We were staying at a guesthouse, run by nuns, that was perched on a steep bank right over the ocean.

Growing up in land locked Calgary, I now never tire of looking out over the ocean. Or of watching the wooden fishing boats (that reminded the romantic in me of 18^th century pirate boats) row out in the wee morning hours and sail back in on the evening breeze.

It is early, 5 am, and the road below is full of younger and older out running before the heat of the day. There is a group just outside the gate of The Sisters grunting through their routine of push ups and sit ups on the cobbled driveway. The dogs that have been up all night are finally quiet, just in time for the cocks to start crowing.

The garbage, the pollution, the rotting garbage filling the waterways that lead directly into the ocean could fill my attention, but that is where too much Blanco focus already lies. My gaze glazes over those scenes and refocuses on the little treasures of assurance that life’s simple pleasures are abundant even with the challenges that face this nation.

Instead it is the flowers that catch my eye as their radiance stands out against the dusty roads.

The chicks that tweek, tweek around the feet of their mother hen, the young goats at play make me stop in my tracks.

Joie de vivre emanates from them. They are fiercely independent and are emotionally engaging. They love sport, laughing, teasing and telling joke after joke.

Their genuine nature is refreshing.

It's the essence of the place that infuses itself in me. The simplicity contrasting the chaos. The beauty contrasting the filth. Their open welcome that contrasts the fight in them.

Life is more apparent with the contrasts. It is raw, simple and right in your face.

It is simply life.

Kassav and Momba

2010-08-14T18:05:00.001-07:00

Kassav is a labour intensive, delicious, crusty, mandible exhaustive flat bread made of cassava root.

Cassava is a woody shrub vegetable originating in South America and now found world wide. It looks like a sweet potato but very hard and fibrous. They first hand peel the root, mash it through a stone grinder and then put it into bags. The bags of the ground root are pressed (see below) to remove all the water.

Cassava flour is sieved to capture the finer pieces of flour (see below).

Huge round platforms are heated with burning coal where the cassava flour is grilled like a gigantic pancake.

Freshly shucked and hand grated coconut is spread on top of the grilled cassava and a sprinkling of raw sugar. Another layer of the flour is laid on top so as to appear like a coconut sandwich.

When heated it has a soft, chewy consistency so they can use flattened sticks to make the divots in them.

With 6 fires and kassav rounds being fired at once all day long the crew were working hard.

Once grilled to a crispy perfection the pancake is left to cool and then it is broken into squares made easy by the divots.

So that is kassav.

Now momba is another local delicacy.

You might recognize it by the name we give it - peanut butter.

BUT, not just any kind of PB.

Spicy PB.

At first disconcerting but very addictive.

Yep.

Two meals a day.

Three weeks straight.

Heavenly Goat

2010-08-14T17:10:00.001-07:00

Heaven is a lot of different things for different people. And right now I am in heaven. The crunch of green leaves, with chlorophyll, antioxidants and vitamins bursting in my mouth. I feel like a goat. A heavenly goat.

When I am a visitor to a country I try to eat as close to local custom as possible, it is easiest and a part of learning about the country and the people. But with an addiction to vegetables and an allergy to wheat meal time in Haiti gets a little complicated.

Breakfast always included Kaiser size, Safeway bagel dense white flour buns. Included in the fare served would be alternately stew with meat and home made pasta balls, spaghetti in tomato sauce, deep fried egg omelette, boiled plantain bananas with a meat soup to pour over them, corn maize porridge with meat or sardine soup, and some fruit (usually a banana each or on rare occasion sliced pineapple).

The main meal in Haiti is lunch. Every day I would look at the table of food prepared for us in wonderment at how many forms of starch can be prepared for one meal; boiled plantain bananas, lam (a white starch that grows on trees), sweet potato and rice.

This assortment of starches were served with some kind of meat stew or broth to douse them in, as well maybe sliced tomato, boiled carrots, avocado and iceberg lettuce.There was always a huge mountain of rice at lunch. Plain white rice or rice cooked with some form of bean (black, kidney, navy…).

Ritualistically they eat the other starches with the meat sauce and vegetables first. Then their ‘bisse’ or round two was a mountain of rice as large as could be contained on their plates.

(This would explain why every day after lunch I had scheduled in a siesta before continuing to work.)

Evenings we would find a platter of buns with processed cheese triangles or butter (that they would slather on to the same thickness of cheese) and a drink, either hot chocolate, tea or Tampico (fake fruit juice). Sometimes it would vary and there would be pasta again or potatoes.

This time, I will concede that I ate a form of green vegetable five times on this trip (boiled spinach twice and green beans twice and one day we even had a few leaves of fresh ‘herb’). Iceberg lettuce (with a faint taste of chlorine) was served a few times, but my proficient addiction to vegetables cannot consider iceberg lettuce green – it is merely cellulose encapsulating water. So if we calculate that in 21 days, that’s 63 meals. (That’s 7.9% of my meals that included something green.)

With such a lack of vegetables and a culture with a penchant for all things wheat, I became known for my capacity to eat kassav, momba and bananas in unparalleled proportions; at least two times a day and sometimes as a snack in between. There really wasn’t anything else.

As I tuck into my first salad in three weeks, I can feel the nutrients barreling through my veins. And yet, as I sit here I can’t deny that regardless of how good the greens are, the people and the laughter that I shared for every one of those 63 meals more than made up for it.

Pictures of Sacrificial Bathing

2010-07-27T08:27:00.000-07:00

Sensuality and Sacrificial Bathing

2010-07-25T14:34:00.000-07:00

Maybe it’s the extreme contradictions that make me ask questions and search for understanding that I am addicted to in this world. I have navigated from the sexiest dance I have experienced to the most disgusting thing I have yet to see, in the space of 24 hours.

The music was reminiscent of Havana nights with a latino flair; playing the beat of a drum so strong that it felt like my heart had a different drummer. The Compas (silent s) is a style of music and, at the same time, a style of dance. Instruments and people abound on stage: guitars, trumpets, electric piano, drums, and singers to create an atmosphere electric energy, Cuban cigar smoke and sweat.

With music that is alive and so loud there is no chance of conversation, you can just lose yourself in the music and the dance.

When I first saw this dance I was mesmerized with the contrasting movements of “chaud” (fast paced and energetic) to sensuality so poignant it can take your breath away. The dance floor is a mass of bodies, paired men and women in a trance of each other. What struck me was that it is the rhythm of the lead (the man usually) that chooses the rhythm of the dance, not necessarily the music.

The dance itself is simple, a one-two shifting and gliding of weight from one foot to the other while twirling one way and then the other and within that flow throw in a few slow jive type moves. Then, within moments (in the same song), you can slow down to the point of almost imperceptible movement of shifting feet and rolling hips, either touching or barely. This shifting of tempo repeats itself at the will of the man leading the dance.

Now add to the fact that the ambient air temperature standing on your own was probably 33 degrees with humidity so feels like 45. Then add a dance floor with at least 200 bodies in exercise. Sweat, lots of it.

After each song the dance floor would clear. The band would take a few moments and start up again. Couples would arrive back on the floor en mass to do it again. Not being able to understand what the songs were saying, I was under the influence of just the music in and of itself and either up with the masses or content to just sit or to be an observer.

From sensual to dégueulasse (discusting).

Plein du Nord is a festival that happens every year, same dates, same place. As with most things here I am unsure of what to expect. A 30 minute drive outside of Cap Haitien, where the air is clear, and mountains bordering the plains of the low land rice and sugar cane fields. Tiny houses line the road with their mud walls and rusty tin roofs. In a haze of dust from the road there is almost a rush of anticipation to get there. Motorbikes carrying three to five people, lorries packed with people. Getting out of the car we were assaulted with the sound of thousands of people, music, and car horns as people continued to arrive en mass. I was expecting more of a fair ground, but it was like a massive market place. Small muddy alley ways of makeshift stalls selling everything from candy, to meat to bibles and rosaries.

When I asked the day before what the festival was about I was explained that there were bands, food and beigner dans le bu (bathing in mud). I am thinking: mud wrestling or like spa style mud bathing? Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.

First off after elbowing my way into the edge of the pool of mud, I first noticed the mud was more a pool of muddy water. The edge of the pool was a mass of observers, colorfully dressed festival participants, or just observers. They were mostly young men in the muddy water, covered head to toe in a thin layer of it. The muddy water smelled putrid. One man swam past head full face in the water, mouth open. Another man then walked slowly through the muddy water with what looked like the full leg of a sheep or goat. That’s when I really started to wonder what this was all about.

We moved further down the length of the pool. Once I made my elbowing way up to the edge of the pool again I looked down to find myself staring into the eyes of a goat. Or I should say the head of a goat nestled in the bloated putrid entrails of what I found out to be a bull; both the sorry victims of sacrifice.

There wasn’t just one of these displays, there were at least 5 such masses of bloated entrails with goat heads and other organs. On the side there were the entrails of yet another bull being eviscerated and cut open to expose all the partially digested food exposed and then it all shoved into the water; the same water that these men (and one old gyrating woman) were bathing in. Not quite what the spa scene I had in mind.

Why? What the hell for? For those in the pool it is their belief to do so to purify their souls and a lucrative way to make money, for some of the people surrounding the pool offered money to these men for their own luck; an alms of sorts.

Some of these people seemed quite sane, while others did have the looked of the possessed. You would have to be – possessed I mean.

Even once I had walked away, I was unsettled. I couldn’t shake the scene, the smell and the atmosphere. And as Marthe put it “Ce n’est pas quelque chose que tu peut décrire a quelqu’un, tu doit avoir l’expérience complète.” It’s not something you can really describe; you just have to experience it.

As I continue to gain exposure to this incredible culture I feel like a turned table; exposed, unsettled and yet curious and, strangely, very comfortable.

Awareness in to Action

2010-05-23T12:31:00.000-07:00

This is Erick’s fifth Saturday meeting and he has them right where he wants them; on the edge of their seats, full of information and ready for the next step. With little encouragement they spoke confidently about how water is contaminated, how to treat water, and why hygiene is important. As they were obviously brimming with this new knowledge, we were curious and determined to better understand why 12-14 year olds were sitting at their school desks at 8 am on a Saturday morning.

A young boy, Zoyon, confidently shares the motivations of his group,
“So we can share what we have learned and to protect our families from sickness.”

After meeting two separate JEPA groups (Jeunesse pour la promotion de l’Eau Potable et l’Assainissement or Youth for the promotion of safe water and sanitation), Olivier and I were charged.

Despite the overwhelming challenges that confront Haitians today, Erick has kept these students engaged. The groups have an obvious potential for greater and broader Action. This WASH awareness project, that focuses on water treatment, hygiene and sanitation, is one initiative of CAWST’s WET Center program in Haiti.

Having a dynamic, engaging, motivated and committed individual like Erick working with the people of the Artibonite valley explains why PAIDEH (CAWST’s WET Center Partner) has been able to reach 7068 adults and children here in the last 1.5 years and consequently stimulated demand from local organizations for training in implementing Household Water Treatment.

Erick has already witnessed the impact of these JEPA groups on the families of the kids involved. “Monsieur Erick, what do I have to do to get a filter, because my son is bothering me?” one parent asks him. And that was the basis for forming JEPA groups, to have an impact in the kids’ schools and hopefully beyond. And that is exactly where Erick’s capacity to empower them comes in. They are now ready to be equipped to take their WASH awareness into Action.

The emphasis and agreement today was that to share a message successfully, one has to represent the message by example.

And they are right where they need to be, ready for Action.

Haiti

2010-05-23T06:57:00.000-07:00

Haiti. A place that I can't say I knew much about until a couple months ago.

Once I knew I was going to be there in May working for CAWST delivering training and helping in the development of a water treatment, hygiene and sanitation program for youth, it became clear that I needed to learn more about the country and more importantly the people and their culture.

What is their history? What has shaped them? What kind of perspectives might they have? But really there is only so much reading you can do about a place that cannot in any way bring you to a full reality of the place.

Strangly, as soon as we deplaned, I was reminded of India.

The chaos at the airport was a good start. The earthquake of Jan 12 destroyed the original terminal. In it's place, they converted a still standing small airplane hanger that included immigration, a baggage claim area and even toilets. The recent addition was the baggage carousel that Olivier noticed was an addition since his trip here in March. Although the 30m loop of the carousel was quickly overwhelmed and luggage was piled high off to the side making the search for your bags that much more of an adventure.

Upon leaving the building, the throng of shiny, dark faces were all jostling for a small job of either giving you a ride somewhere or helping with your luggage. Habituated from past travels, I was aware of their anchored persistance; just making eye contact equates tacit agreement to hiring their efforts. As we made our way through the crowd I was convinced I smelled incence. India? my mind asks.

Once we found him, we made our way with Thomas, the director of PAIDEH and our host, to our vehicle and beetle out of Port-au-Prince immediately. Plans have changed. We were supposed to gather up the materials we would need for the trainings we were doing, but didn't know that it was a holiday so all the shops were closed. Not only that, Thomas and his family were still living in a tent in one of the camps (like 3.5 million others) so we didn't have a place to stay. Luckily, the family house survived the erathquake even though many of their neighbours' houses didn't. Still, even though their house survived , they are still afraid to sleep in it.

As we drove out of the city (past numerous spontaneous settlements of internally displaced Haitians) I was again struck by the parallels with India. The garbage, filth, disrepair, masses of motorcycles, horns blaring, hot and humid. The smell coming through the window was the familiar combination of diesel, dust, fried fat, diaper (from open sewage), sweat and sweet fragrance from the tropical foliage, all of which are forced through a furnace vent and up your nose. Not something that can be truly understood by words alone.

The decibel level is just as loud as any overpopulated area. (I remember returning to Shanghai after being in Delhi and was in awe of how clean and quiet the city of 15 million seemed.) Voices, moto engines, horns, diesel trucks, music and in general a chaotic cacaphony that boggles the senses into a heightened state then falling into a state of submission.

To be sure thought this is a classic case of not judging a book by its cover.

It has taken most of this week to really feel the beginnings of a connection to the essence of the people, their spirit, the complicated, dark and twisted path of their past and their tenuous and challenging path into the future.

But what little I do know is those that I have had the pleasure to share time with are quick to smile, to laugh, to joke, to live, to survive, which is not a reflection of the environmental disrepair they are surrounded by.

Joie de vivre

2010-05-18T03:13:00.001-07:00

It was Friday night. The sun was sliding towards the horizon, casting its warm glow through the trees lining the narrow streets and gently caressing the age old buildings. Winding stairs reaching to the upper stories of colonial era apartments, to ghosts that must have a few stories to tell.

The atmosphere was electric and energetic, but far from frenetic. "Apportez votre vin" displayed in restaurant windows invited bottles into the hands of restaurant goers clutching them with a sense of glee as they moved towards their destinations.

The restaurants lining the streets could compete with UN representation: Italian, Greek, French, Korean, Japanese, de l'Ile de Reunion, Moroccan, Vietnammese, Afghan. All of them chock full and brimming with musical chatter, clinking glasses and laughter. I felt as if I had been transported to Europe, Paris perhaps. And yet it had only been a four hour flight.

Same country, different world.

Can it really be the first time in 30 years that I have set foot East of Calgary in my own country? Why have I waited so long? (I asked myself that question quite often particularly after noticing very quickly the high concentration of incredibly attractive men :).

From the moment we landed the differences started, not just the atmosphere, the language as well. French first, then English over the announcements. Signage the same. Music to my ears and poetry for my mind. I have always felt lucky (well in my adult life for sure) that my parents put me in French immersion, but it was here that I felt proud that as a Canadian I am able to speak both national languages. I appreciated that here, when I spoke French, they responded in French. Unlike in France where they will jump to English, if they can, at the slightest indication that you are not French; both parties vying for the opportunity to practice our respective second languages.

For three days in Montreal I feel as though I languished and soaked in as much as I could of this city and it's enraptured joie de vivre. And now, time is too short for I am sad to leave. When people all around me are enjoying the outdoors, running, biking, playing, it's hard for me not to just grin in happiness for them and myself as their witness.

I was captivated by the parks that were everywhere and full of small to large groups participating in impromptu baseball games, throwing a football or tossing a frisbee, practicing their balance on slacklines, playing music (a lone violin, a group of guitars or the full on Tam Tam drumming experience) or just enjoying a bottle of wine and a picnic on a blanket. The language, the parks, the streets, the shops, the motorbikes (Ducati heaven), the people watching, the whole package. And now the desire for more. I will be back. That I know.

Joie de vivre is a hot commodity in my bank these days.

Taming Spirits, Wrestling Monkeys

2010-05-05T20:25:00.000-07:00

It came back just as it always does, eventually. Dragging itself in the door, eyes barely able to meet mine, matted with dried saliva, leaves and twigs poking out at random. Curling up in a fetal ball at my feet. The difference this time is that I was Home. Home, because finally I could no longer keep going.

I curled my Self around the ball at my feet and held on. You see, the form that I, my Body, wrapped my arms around was my Spirit.

Up until now it has been running wild, doling out its Energy at the slightest request and allowing itSelf to be taken wherever the wind would blow that was new, wherever someone was in need or to wherever It thought a challenge or adventure had presented itself; paying no heed whatsoever to It's own conservation or balance. Until finally, It's well had run dry.

This time I had actually stopped, exhausted, no longer able to chase, with no energy left to even care about catching up.

The days that followed were difficult. I had never been good at taming my Spirit. Every so often, It would start to rally, lift It's head and try to claw out of my grasp like a Stray Alley cat, ready to bolt off at the slightest scent of adventure. I held on with my last reserves of strength. Withdrawal set in and the addiction pains ran deep, but I held on and finally We started to breathe the same rhythm again.

Both of us started building a resistance to the temptation of Scheming, Planning, Committing to everything but today, and anything but exactly what Body and Spirit needed to do, which was rest and be right here, right now. The only problem was there was one last Piece that was missing.

The final and most difficult to lasso (Ok, I'm an Alberta girl, but did you know that the ancient Egyptians used them too??) and wrestle to the ground. At full speed.

The Mind.

No matter how much conscious presence I focused on, how much yoga I did, or how much stimulation I revoked my Mind always found a place to swing off to in a highly developed, efficient and sophisticated manner. All day, and night too.

I would wake up in the morning exhausted, looking haggard, hair askew (and I have enough of it to make quite a display), eyes puffy as though I had been wrestling a Monkey. And that blasted Monkey was still raring to go, teeth bared, hopping up and down, cackling. There wasn't a lasso long enough or strong enough to counter those wrangy arms and legs.

Practicing meditation had no greater result. Sitting in stillness, staying present, breathing and still that relentless Monkey would take me on a journey through my past, my present and then into my future and back again in a matter of seconds. It would get me all tied up and unable to extract or find Myself. Questioning, Toiling, Tumbling.

Where am I going? What am I doing? Why did I do that? Why didn't I say that? What does this all MEAN? I can do this next year. I could do that next month. And then maybe next week I can... Next, next, next.

Finally, an intervention. As a collective, we figured that if We don't sort this out and get on the same page We are going to end up in the deepest, darkest depths of a loony bin --maybe I am there already...feels like it some days.

After long, arduous negotiations (since each party figured they were the most qualified to make the decisions) there is now a Democracy of Three. Three equal votes. Me, Myself and I (one step further than Jim Carrey). Body, Mind and Spirit.

A quote I was introduced to this week says it so well. "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing every day and expecting a different outcome." Thanks Einstein. (Ok, so I am Not a genius.)

I have been on so many paths. They have all overflowed with adventure and challenge at a high pace. I never knew until now that just sitting in the middle of the path, closing my eyes, looking inward and enjoying the simplicity of the act and the moment is as much a challenge as any I have undertaken. And with Monkey wrestling it's an adventure as well.

(Now don't kid yourself (because I don't myself) into thinking that I have given up my passion for new places, adventure and challenge with my eyes wide open. I can tame, lasso and wrestle with the best if them, but I am who I am. I just have a new appreciation for the balance and peace that this new form of adventure has brought and taught me.)

A Wise Man Once Said

2010-04-22T20:06:00.000-07:00

He was walking in front of me down a worn and narrow dirt path bordered by bursting willows. With two ski poles to add poise to his posture and a short brimmed rounded cap he strode confidently, having obviously travelled this way before.

As I caught up with him, he stepped aside, turned and with the sun shining on his beatific face commented on the glorious day that it was. I adamantly agreed. "If only every day was like this" he said. "Well, we need poor weather days to appreciate days such as this" I replied. "Oh yes" he replied "that is true".

He sent me off with a "Have yourself a wonderful afternoon." As I turned to go my heart melted as he started singing to himself with his slight lilting accent. Now there is a happy, content man.

I found my place along the river and just as I lay back and closed my eyes I heard his singing voice get closer. After another brief exchange he settled at the bench a couple meters away. I succumbed to the warmth of the sun an

d started into a doze. As the river babbled to me, my thoughts would not rest as I was so tempted to continue my conversation with this man. I wanted to know him, his life, and what has brought him meaning as I struggle to find purchase in my own.

Just as I sat up to ask him, he had stood up and started moving on down the path. I was tempted to call after him but instead watched the opportunity saunter away with each pole plant. It took me a while to let go of my disappointment.

As I was leaving I found him further along sitting on the river bank and with courage asked if I could join him. It didn't take much prodding to delve into his life. With very few questions he shared and I just watched the deep satisfying creases in his face and sharpness in his eyes and listened.

Traveling through his life from the present to the past we started in Canmore (for the last 11 years after he lost his wife of 44 years and his only son),

from Nova Scotia,

from Montreal (where he was a journalist for 33 years with the CBC-I am disappointed I didn't ask what kind of journalism),

from London (where he met the Irish lass who became his wife - his words),

from Dun Laoghaire, Ireland (a small town just outside of Dublin - that I have visited- where he was born).

This is Sean, at 88 years strong, and this is what he had to say:

"Life couldn't be better with my health, good friends, good perspective on life, and this incredible place to call home. "

"Girl surround yourself with good people. And if somebody says something offensive to you, you just turn on your heal and walk

away. That one person is not worth knowing. There are 100 other people out there that are."

And when I was about to take my leave he said while wagging his finger at me:

"Remember girl, life is for living."

So,