Sylvia's Journal

I read a story to my driver and guard this morning on my way to my weekly massage. I read the story in Dari from a Persian children’s book that contains short animal stories with moral messages. We didn’t get very far because they kept correcting my pronunciation or finishing my sentences. We never got to the moral, told by a wise little bird: the black and raspy old crow is just as important to the world as the sweet colorful little songbird. So there!

The guard and I walked the kilometer or so that it takes when the driver drops me off at the east side of the military complex where large concrete blocks keep us from driving closer. I don’t mind because walking that far is a luxury; besides the weather was wonderful, blue sky and no dust for a change. We chatted in Dari – an advantage of immersion – about developments in the office. Although I have a few holes in my vocabulary about such things we understood each other. Boys, girls and beggars who have learned a few English words from the military personnel that lives behind the barriers tried to strike up a limited conversation (buy, give, baby hungry, hello) but the guard shoos them away.

An hour later, on our way back home, we listened to the local radio to find out if the Dearborne demonstration was on and what the Kabul police had in mind. I was told to be back home around noontime, just in case some overexcited mullahs would be urging their flock to protest against Americans, or westerners in general, when they assume there are not boundaries between us and reckless pastor Jones and his people. But the media were silent on Jones – even the BBC; everyone is too busy with Libya and Syria these days.

Halfway home we were stopped by the police. They were checking our radios to make sure they are legal. Radio licenses are not being renewed by the ministry of telecommunications until a new law takes effect. This make us think that the Afghan government, or at least some part of it, want us foreigners out – first they tackled the private security firms and now this.

After we were waved on the drivers laughed because the police couldn’t read the English papers they were shown. They pretended but the driver didn’t think they could read. No one seems too worried about it, least of all our security chief which I take as a good sign.

One of our drivers tries to speak English with me as I try to speak Dari with others. This leads to some strange exchanges because both of us are lacking vocabulary and sometimes our pronunciation is off. He says something that sounds like ‘Gals with sunglasses not as expensive.’ I quickly look up brideprice in my dictionary. ‘Is that what he means?’ ‘Qimat (expensive),’ he nods but more expensive in the rural areas.’ He switches to English again and cites 20.000 dollars as a price that is not the bride price but some other price. I give up and nod. We have many weird exchanges like that which make for interesting rides across town.

Back home Axel had coffee ready which we drunk on the terrace sitting underneath the grapevine that is just leafing out. It is really too hot to sit in the sun, 26 degrees the BBC told us later. The rest of the day was devoted to a sewing project while I listened to Arabian Nights stories. Axel did teacher homework, printing out colorful posters with which to decorate the SOLA study room and make it look more like an elementary school classroom – vowels, consonants, diphthongs and digraphs; he is learning a whole new vocabulary.

TV dinner and ‘Don’t Eat the Daisies’ was the nightly entertainment during our first day of lock-down.