Sylvia's Journal

The training program that we finalized on Friday was supposed to start at 8 AM. When we left the restaurant last night everyone was told to show up at the health center at 8. But at 8 AM very few of the participants were ready to even leave the hotel, some just coming down for breakfast. It was Afghan, not American time I figured. Most men were still walking around on the ubiquitous plastic slippers that are standard equipment, even in our guesthouse; Afghan indoor shoes.

I, always on Dutch time, was ready long before the others and way too early. I ended up hanging out in the lobby for hours, engaging then with this then with that Afghan gentleman, each one doing his best to either speak English or teach me Farsi. They call it Farsi here because we are only 150 km away from the border with Iran.

Iran’s influence is palpable; not only in the white on black or grey print chadoors that women wear when not in burkas but also, I am told, in the undermining of nascent businesses that are trying to survive on the outskirts of Herat. Many have already closed their doors because of security concerns, kidnappings and other acts of sabotage. My colleagues have no doubt about who is behind this. ‘Why?’ I ask. Are they afraid of the competition?

Another bad guy was killed, the son-in-law of the bad guy who was killed when we arrived; I offered to take the team to Kandahar and see if I could magically make this happen again, orchestrating the forces from the universe to kill one bad guy on my arrival and another on my departure day.

The tension between greed or blatant self interest and enlightened stewardship of resources is a constant one in this country. Islam has something to say about it but it is of course not practiced by the people who make the news; much like the basic tenets of Christianity, in the societies I know, have little to do with the actual behavior of its most notorious citizens. In that sense both religions appear to be more aspirational than normative.

I finally gave up the practice of walking to my fifth floor (10 stairs) rather than taking the lift, because of stomach troubles that required a quick escape to a private bathroom as the lobby toilet is for both sexes, which here means men. And like men’s bathrooms everywhere they are wet, dirty and stink.

The elevator appears to be made in Japan. While ascending or descending I listen to Flamenco music and when the door opens the recorded voice of a Japanese lady announces the arrival at my floor, in Dari that sounds like Japanese. The music stops abruptly when I open the door and starts after it closes.

I learn that the UN flight that is supposed to bring us back to Kabul will depart a few hours earlier than we expected. As a result we hastily say goodbye at the provincial health office before the session has even opened. That was just as well since somehow the careful design was combined with another event about polio and countless participants had arrived expecting something else.

I told the team we would call them later to hear how everything went and what they learned. I think in the end they will do what they had planned from the beginning, something loose and unstructured with flexible beginning and ending times resulting in everyone having a good time but dubious results.

When we arrive at the airport we discover that our plane hasn’t even departed Kabul, two hours away. I don’t understand the UN flight schedule as it seems rather loose to my untrained eye. I wonder how people plan their travels. Apparently routes change easily, with planes landing at or overflying airports based on considerations other than what’s in the schedule.

Our Thursday flight to Herat was supposed to go via Bamiyan but an hour into the flight it was clear we were flying directly to Herat. Now I am not sure how we will fly, some people mention Kandahar. In the end we sit for hours on uncomfortable baby blue plastic chairs in a special room for UN passengers. For lunch there are chips, sandwiches with contents of unknown origin that I decline, and little Turkish cakes with pictures on the wrapping that have nothing to do with either the color or texture of the real thing inside.

A bunch of foreigners who are travelling with us show up with several boxes of great looking pizza which they eat, within smelling distance, for lunch. They clearly have connections with the Italian PRT, whose barracks are right next to the terminal. The water we buy in the little shop also comes from Italy and we wonder whether we are buying stolen (leaked) good.

Finally we board our DeHavilland Dash 8 Combi, a small two propeller plane that is supported, according to placards displayed prominently in the front of the plane, by the governments of Japan and Canada. The two flags look nice side by side with their red centers: one a sun and the other a maple leaf.

Everything in this country that runs or works for the common good is supported by one foreign government or another, openly; everything that does not work towards the common good is also supported by foreign governments, neighbors or world powers who have a deep stake in regional or international geopolitical games that few really understand; none of this is posted on placards, but everyone knows.

We land in Bamiyan on a gravel strip and I can see the former Buddha alcoves without their occupants. I am glad I saw what was supposed to be in there 31 years ago and the memories remain vivid in spite of what I see, or rather not see, now.

When we circle back up to altitude to cross increasingly high mountains the canned safety announcements are repeated again for the new passengers; always in two languages even though there is no French speaker on board. It’s a Canadian plane and the two languages remain programmed into system since Canada pays part of the bill.

Back in Kabul I join Azmah who has just arrived from Pakistan, also on a UN flight. She is as part of the large stream of consultants that is coming in now that the elections have faded into the past and the future and MSH has lifted travel restrictions for consultants.

I find my room just as I left it except that my bed is made and my laundry is neatly folded on my bed. It’s nice to be home again in my temporary quarters. I treat myself to a pretend beer to celebrate a first successful and safe trip out into the field, as we call it.