Sylvia's Journal

I know just enough Dari to fool people into believing that I understand. This has led to a few awkward and costly misunderstandings the last few days.

First the cook showed up on our doorstep with ‘supplies’ (probably yogurt, hot peppers, coriander and limes). The guard who responded to the bell at the outside gate (we never open our own door here) walked over to me and mentioned that the cook was at the door. With the clarity of hindsight I now know he said also that he had things with him, but at the time I didn’t understand. So, in my best Dari, I told the guard that the cook should go home since it was a public holiday (Mujahideen day). And so the guard sent the cook home, with all his supplies, including the yogurt we so badly wanted.

Early this morning the electricity went off. After having the generator on for most of the day we noticed that no one else in the neighbourhood had generators going. I called the other guesthouses and they too had town electricity. It took us about 5 hours to figure out what the guard had probably told us early in the morning. I had understood the words for burned and broken but not what these adjectives referred to. When the night guard arrived at the end of the day he figured out that the fuse, outside our house in a box on the street, had been burned (aha). It was fixed within minutes.

With the generator humming in the background, we had a quiet day at home, satying put all day except for a brief outing into town to complete our shopping for gifts to take to Holland. It was a domestic sort of day. I finished a baby sweater, for the next kid that comes along, baked cookies in an oven I don’t understand (cookies did not come out well), washed the dishes, and studied Dari.

For lunch I prepared a Lebanese meal which we shared with the guard and drivers. I think they liked the mana’ishe (wild thyme pizza). Axel did an after action review with himself about the writing workshop he designed for five SOLA students and conducted on Wednesday. I think he has found his calling! He also downloaded ‘House’ (14 hours of download for one episode!), which we will watch tonight over our Pad Thai dinner – the cook is out so we get to choose what we eat. One more day off, tomorrow, will complete this very long weekend, that started on Wednesday and end on Sunday, only 2 days before our take off to Holland.

Some of Kabul went to work today but most people took a day off, bridging from holiday to weekend. As a result traffic was easy today and it took me less than 30 minutes to get to my lunch appointment with Denise, in the Flower Street Cafe which isn’t on Flower Street. It’s the place where young good looking expats are hanging out. If I were single and much younger, that’s where I would go to check out who’s in Kabul.

Denise heads up one of our sister projects that complements ours by focusing on strengthening the NGOs that deliver the health services. Her project has recently been asked to provide more support to one of the departments of the ministry we are also supporting; and so we got together to make sure we are aligned.

We have more experience in working with the ministry than her team has. We are used to working in this extremely difficult environment and have developed a considerable degree of frustration tolerance. One of our dilemmas is how to respond to the numerous requests for this and for that, as if we are a supermarket for whatever makes offices work (people, equipment, internet, etc.). We are navigating these treacherous waters with sometimes a ‘no’ and sometimes a ‘yes.’

After lunch I stopped at one of the supermarkets that caters to expats to stock up on the things we foreigners cannot do without (like very dark chocolate and cold medicine). I spotted a laminated chart with the Dari alphabet. The shopkeeper proudly pointed out that he also had the English one but I told him I knew that alphabet already and preferred the Dari one. It now hangs in the hallway so we can practice each time we walk to the kitchen.

Axel’s employment prospects are growing by the day. There is much paperwork to be completed before the final go-ahead. We suspect this may come the day before we leave for Holland, next week.

My army physical therapist was called to go on a trip someplace and so, once again, I skipped my weekly PT session. My PT visits are now so infrequent that I might as well do without them. I have asked my US-based shoulder surgeon to review my Beirut MRI and interpret it, but so far I have not heard a thing and so I muddle along with exercises that may not be the right ones.

It was another beautiful summer day in Kabul. We had breakfast outside and enjoyed watching the roses open up right in front of our eyes. At noon we joined Pia for lunch in the overpriced Lebanese restaurant that was a far cry from our seaside eating experiences in Lebanon: no views (other than barbed wire and blast walls), and no bottle of chilled white wine. The food was good though.

Since the raids on alcohol serving establishments over a week ago it is not so easy to get a glass of something with lunch or dinner. There is no mention anymore of alcohol on the menu, so we asked. Yes, there was wine (red only) and beer and would we mind that it was served in a tea mug? We didn’t but drinking wine that way does take away from the pleasure and I am not sure it is worth the hefty price that alcohol now commands.

We went straight to our Dari classes. They seem to depress Axel these days as he feels he makes little progress and all sorts of unpleasant childhood memories about learning another language are activated. This is too bad as there is no better way to learn Dari than in the circumstances in which we find ourselves – plenty of practice with drivers, cooks, household help and all.

Back home we had a visit from driver Fazle who is also the coach of many of Afghanistan’s soccer teams. A colleague had sent a huge duffel bag full of cleats, shin guards, jerseys, socks, shorts and what not; it is supposed to go to the women’s soccer teams but many of the supplies are rather large for women. He promised he would take everything first to the girls – to take what fits, and only then would he go to the boys. Here, you never know for sure that the girls get served; they are after all second hand citizens. I gave Fazle my camera, saying I expect pictures.

Today we went into Afghanistan. This may sound strange but being in Kabul is not quite being in Afghanistan. Unlike Kabul, not a pretty city, the country side of Afghanistan is stunningly beautiful. The visible traces of violence, and destruction that have marred this magnificent place make your heart ache.

We had been cleared by our security folks to go to Istalef which is about 50 km north of Kabul on the Shamali plain along the road that takes travellers to about one third of all the provinces north of Kabul. It is the road to the Panshir, to the Salang Pass, further north to Mazar-e-Sharif. It is where the Bagram airbase is located. Because of this the Shamali plains are strategic and so there has often been heavy fighting in this area, all through history.

From a distance Istalef looks like a green patch that was slapped against the side of the brown mountains, halfway between the flatland of the plains and the enormous and ragged snow-covered peaks. This makes it look small and insignificant. But it never was, mostly because of its strategic location; you can see far north and south from the village and so everyone wanted it.

Massoud had his headquarters up there some time. There is a French connection (Massoud attended the French Lycee Istiqlal in Kabul and received is first publicity from the French government and press). We passed by the ‘ecole mixte’ and saw many other signs of projects that have a picture of the French flag and Dari translated into French.

We drove up to a place in the shade for our picnic. One of our guards who lives nearby, arrived on his motorcycle with his cousin. They brought a large pot of homemade yogurt, something for which Istalef is well known. The guards bought fresh bread, some of it filled with dal, potato and sweet potato, in the village and everyone shared with everyone.

I had tried to organize our party (several of my male colleagues) to share the task of preparing a picnic but no one had bothered and so everyone ate what I had brought. Axel had to agree that this was a male thing – men have wives who prepare such things, and I happened to be the only wife around.

After our picnic we walked up to the roof of the still bombed out hotel where four years ago Sita and I also had a picnic with our MSH colleagues who then lived here. I am glad that Axel also got to see the place. Now only Tessa hasn’t been here. Come on over Tess!

You need a little bit of imagination to look past the crater, the blackened or collapsed walls and the bricked up windows to see the fantasy place this could be. The roof also serves as a huge terrace with breathtaking views in all directions over the plain, framed by spectacular and high mountains.

Below is we could see a small stream where cars were washed, and children were playing in the water. Yet all around this idyllic scene are the remains of mud-brick houses that were destroyed by aerial attacks and heavy mortar.

The hotel itself has never recovered except for the garden that is lovingly tended by the gardener who lives amidst the debris in a greenhouse made from plastic. His roses could win prizes in garden shows in England.
Other than yogurt, Istalef is also famous for its turquoise and brown pottery.

We spent quite a bit of time walking up and down the main street looking for the perfect pieces of the somewhat brittle pottery. I haggled about the prices in my best Dari and we are now the proud owners of several small and large bowls, including some dishes from which to eat the famous yogurt and a pot in which to make it.

I am progressing well in my Dari book. I have four more chapters to go which qualifies me for holding all sorts of conversations with Dari speakers about everything but specialized and technical matters. The drivers, guards, cook and housekeeper have stopped talking to me in their broken English. Now I am speaking with them in broken Dari – and we more or less understand each other. There’s nothing like total immersion.

Today I learned the names of the months. They are the names of the zodiac and so the seasons and months are aligned, unlike in our Gregorian calendar. We are now in the year 1389 and in the month of soar which means Taurus and my birthday is in the month of qaos, or Sagittarius. All morning I practiced them with the driver and I think I have mastered them now.

After my Dari class I joined Axel at the Flower Street cafe which was mostly occupied by young foreigners intently gazing at their laptops. The Flower Street Cafe has wireless internet as well as good cappuccino and sandwiches. This attracts a particular crowd that doesn’t include many Afghans.

After lunch we picked up our pretend beer that now tastes as good as the real thing, at the New Rose Supermarket in Shar-e-nao. Next and last stop was Ibrahim’s shop off Chicken Street to buy a wedding present for my nephew and his bride. Coming from Afghanistan what else but a carpet to bring as a gift? Ibrahim took down rug after rug from a pile of the most beautiful things, each more interesting than the previous one.

The beauty of the handicraft that are made in this part of the world never cease to amaze me. Axel and I don’t have exactly the same taste but we finally agreed on a Yomut (or Yamoud) rug that comes from Herat where this particular group of Turkmen settled. Back home we unfolded the rug on our terrace and Axel photographed it from the balcony. We will ask the mother of the groom whether we picked the right thing.

Today was all about alignment, or rather, mis or non alignment. Sometimes, in our eagerness to show results or do something (don’t just sit there but do something) we plough ahead leaving those who we are supposed to bring along, behind, chewing on the goodies (trips, per diem, certificates, uniforms, badges, pins, bags) given to them and eventually forgetting all about what they were supposed to do, or even care about. And then we get upset because they don’t seem to care at all, or don’t have the same excitement that we have for whatever it is we are trying to accomplish.

Lots of stuff that is in development plans ends up this way; it gives development a bad rap. This is particularly true for training. And so today was about figuring out how to get people along; how to pass ownership from us to them. There is a common misconception that you can make someone ‘own’ something. I have never seen it happen. I have gotten very good at spotting when that transfer of ownership doesn’t spontaneously take place.

For me the signals are clear. When something remains ‘unclear’ or feet are dragging, work plan upon work plan, strategy upon strategy is developed, meeting after meeting takes place and nothing significantly changes, it’s sure sign that someone in a position of power hasn’t ‘bought in.’ And nothing is owned without buying it first. And nothing is bought without someone selling.

So that brings us back to selling, which is what we do. We sell expertise, we sell solutions, we sell advice, and sometimes we sell hope and encouragement. It’s a very difficult job under any circumstance. Today was one of those days.

A four-day workweek is a good thing, it is weekend now. I can go home in good conscience now that it seems that our hapless travellers are returning home from Dubai in the early morning hours tomorrow; with, I am told, their suitcases.