Sylvia's Journal

I was finally able to make it again to the wool place where the rug we saw started several months ago was ready for our viewing (and buying). We drove the long avenue through the Hazara part of town. Our Pashto driver said it was dangerous, pushing the bridge of his nose down to emphasize that his nose was very different from the ones we saw around us. We were in Gengis Khan land. There is bad blood and bad history between the Hazaras and the Pashtoons and people have along memories. I could tell he was not altogether at ease.

Of course the Hazaras are probably just as uneasy with the Pashtoon driver – it is a matter of who outnumbers who. Still this very big part of Kabul is no longer the scene of violence it was during Mujahideen time. We were thus in a safe part of Kabul when a suicide bomber detonated himself in the 400-bed military hospital far across town. I used to go to that hospital for physical therapy every Saturday during most of my first year here. Used to…might have been….Kabul is a big city.

I was warmly welcomed at the wool factory where this time some 15 women and girls were busy spinning and knitting and carpeting. I had brought juice packs and cookies and everyone was asked to come and sit in the knitting room to be with the foreign lady. I told them they could ask any question they wanted to ask me. But girls are taught not to be curious and so the questions were left in their heads. They mostly hid behind their veils and giggled, especially the young girls. This time there were no boys – they were in school. The girls had the afternoon shift, I discovered to my relief; although I watched child labor, it was not child labor at the expense of an education.

Two girls were busy on a large than life portrait rug of an American soldier by the name of Mr. Burton; bald-headed, the kind that pumps iron, drinks Red Bull and wears Ray Ban sunglasses. They had just finished his moustache. Weird.

The rug we had seen under construction some months ago was already spread out for me to view. I had not intended to buy it but when it became clear that a good chunk of the money would go to the families of the boys and girls who had worked on it and the remainder would buy another spinning wheel I quickly counted out my dollars and bought it.

For my Dari grammar class I was once again alone and learned the simple present perfect and the continuous present perfect allowing me to make more and more complex sentences, such as, I have forgotten my Dari since I haven’t spoken it for a few weeks. We made plans for my classes after my return in June and I was given a workbook that is used in 3rd grade here. My teacher expects me to keep on studying while on leave. All I could promise is that I would work in planes and while waiting for planes, but probably not much more than that.

I spent the morning reviewing performance reviews of the staff who are reporting to my staff. It is something that I take so serious that I never have the quiet time at work, so it’s saved up for the weekend. Writing good performance objectives, clarify expectations and then writing the assessment is very difficult if you want to do it right and very easy if you remove the staff development/mentoring aspect from it. It is a little thankless when you realize that for many people it is simply a compliance thing.

Friday is beauty parlor day. I have a masseuse who not only gives me great massages but also jewelry, semi-precious stones, hugs, food, and Starbucks coffee. The young Afghan girl gives me the relaxing massage while Lisa works the kinks out of my muscles – this is not relaxing and rather painful. And Pearl practiced her hair cutting skills on me because her job from last week was not quite complete.

I re-appeared from the odd salon (provider of armored vehicles, forklifts and other manly war things) with shorter hair, more limber and with shiny painted toenails, requirements, according to the team of beauticians, for seeing my family in a few days.

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In the afternoon I was invited to S’s house to check out the hybrid and grafted roses of which we had only seen the leafless and burlap-wrapped stumps on New Year’s day, 2 months ago. They had all broken out into spectacular blooms, some rose bushes instant multi-colored bouquets because of the grafting.

S and her sister were preparing a wonderful meal while I was sitting with her mom, this time no longer talking in broken German but rather in Dari. In the two months since we had celebrated new year with them my Dari had improved to the point where I could now manage the conversation without too much trouble. Occasionally she would slip into German but then I would quickly return to Dari. I tried a few of my new Pashto words on her which I then had to repeat to much amusement to the rest of the family. I felt very encouraged.

We moved to the outdoor veranda which was quickly covered by a carpet and cushions. While mom and I installed ourselves on the cushions, nursing our arthritic knees, the girls brought out a multi-course late lunch/early dinner (what the French would call a goûter). The tape recorder was brought out for some German songs from the 70s that mom had brought back. followed by Pashto songs that made it hard to sit still. For several hours we enjoyed conversation in several languages in the quiet afternoon warmth that settled over us after a nasty dust storm that had everyone gasping for air underneath their chadoors or destmals (checkered all purpose cloths worn by men in a variety of ways).

The very talkative kawk (fighter partridge) was let out of his cage and engaged in a rigorous exercise with papa whose feet he kept pecking at (he didn’t do any of this silly behavior with females). It was all quite entertaining.

Back home my friend Fazle the jeweler returned with the repaired earrings and rings and brought some more stuff, just in case I had money burning in my pocket. I called N in from guesthouse 0 who had indeed this burning sensation. Among the repaired treasures were the lapis earrings that Axel had bought for me on Chicken Street in Kabul in 1978. They had been broken at least a decade ago, as were the earrings he bought for me in Senegal at our 25th anniversary. They are all back in service just in time for our family gathering for Tessa’s graduation. Fazle donated a ring and is planning another surprise if he gets it to me in time. Three more nights, 2 more days till lift off!