We re-arranged the hideous furniture and moved one piece into the guestroom and another to the upstairs hallway. We unfolded the enormous kelim that Steve is letting us use until he leaves next June. It covers the machine-made carpets in the living room and looks perfect.
I arranged the Afghan living room mattresses in a way that is not entirely Afghan but makes for a very comfortable legless couch. The living room looks lovely and invites to lounging. That’s just what I have been waiting for.
The kitchen with our newlywed kitchen stuff was locked because the cook was off. We could peek in through the serving window and noticed that the refrigerator was placed in a way that more or less blocked access to the sink, especially for large people. My suggestion to put the fridge in a better place had clearly gotten lost in all the other repairs and re-arranging.
All the small diesel stoves were on full blast and the house was not only toasty warm but full of diesel smells. We suggested the guard turn all of them off; for one it was a very warm day and secondly, no one was staying in the house yet. Even the small, 7 by 7 feet room was being heated at full blast by a diesel heater that took up about one sixth of the room.
The guard, Abibullah, helped us move furniture and carry boxes and suitcases upstairs. It’s nice not to have to do that oneself. Us moving in also meant he had to remove the meager belongings of the guard and move these to the small guard house oustide.
After everything was unpacked we asked for a car to take us to downtown Shari-Nao, to the Herat restaurant that lies more or less between the latest two blast sites (Indian embassy and UN guesthouse). We had a late lunch consisting of the best kebabs, some spicy spinach, limp fries, creamy yogurt and green tea, followed by ice-milk for me, a kind of not so creamy icecream.
We called our friend Wazmah who lives around the corner but she was in the neighborhood of our guesthouse visiting our friend Razia Jan. Both took a taxi and joined us for a cup of tea at the end of our meal.
We talked about Razia Jan’s school for girls and listened to sad stories of way-to-young girls (11 years) being married of for a dowry consisting of 4 oranges. They are stories about domestic slavery and unimaginable poverty and cruelty to girls. But we also listened to inspiring stories of carpet weavers making finally a decent living and selling to an American market that can appreciate (and pay good $$s) for quality work, improving the lives of people who have otherwise little going for them.
And now I am sitting here, longing to be in my own house while listening to the call for prayer which echos between the mountains in the clear autumn evening sky. We don’t know the mosque situation near our new house and may be in for a surprise when we wake up to the 4:30 AM prayer call on Sunday or Monday morning.
Sylvia's Journal 
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