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A very long yes

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The mother of the groom refers to herself and all of us westerlings as the white monkeys. It was not a term she made up but that was used some time back before the bride’s family realized the relationship with this white young man was for real.

The bride’s family is a Jain family which means, among others, that the food is entirely vegetarian – fine with me as it is varied and delicious. It also means there is no champagne, beer or white wine at any point during the wedding. For me this is nothing new but I can see that for the contingent of friends of the groom that had come from a beer drinking country (including the groom himself) this is not easy. The weather is exceedingly hot and humid (it hasn’t rained for two days in a row) and a nice cold beer would have been perfect.

The groom’s male friends, from his student years in Leiden, came with wives and girlfriends, many from Holland, some business partners from Bangelore. They all wore the local pajama style dress and wore red turbans elaborately styled, some round and flat, others feathered like a peacock, by turban experts hired for the purpose.

All this was happening while the tall blond girls stepped out of the spa building in their sarees, expertly wrapped and pinned around them by the women who do massages during the day. Most walked awkwardly and much too slow for their liking in their unfamiliar attire.

Everyone, including the teenage cousins, looked the part that required accompanying the groom as he rode on a decorated elephant to the entrance of the hotel. In front of him the groom’s party danced on the frenzied tones of the band as if it was carnival in Rio. For us, the parents, aunt and uncle and grandma of the bride it was too hot for dancing – we fanned ourselves as we walked slowly in front of the dancing mass, wondering why it took an hour to cover the 200 meter distance.

There is much teasing in a Hindu wedding as we discovered. The slow progress of the groom, leaving the bride waiting, the stealing of his shoes to be sold back later for a fee, the bride’s effort to put a flower garland around her betrothed’s head while his friends keep raising him up on their shoulders to keep him out of reach.

Even later during the ceremony on the stage there was much irreverent laughing and joking and much tolerance of these westerners not knowing what to do when. Never was there the solemnity and the emotional moments that we know so well from our traditions. And indeed, the emotions and tears came the next day during part 2,the more western part of the wedding).

The bride was brought in carried on the shoulders of men clad in only a loincloth, seated in a palanquin that was curtained off with roses and jasmine petals – a very fragrant arrangement. She emerged in a red gauzy saree, bejeweled and embroidered. Around her neck and arms jewelry that was dazzling and heavy. I was told this was not custom jewelry. Even her face was bejeweled. She, usually standing tall and straight, appeared slightly bent under the weight of it all.

The ceremony was carried out by a priest who came with bags of paraphernalia needed to complete the countless steps in the process. There were various objects, spices and substances I could not identify, large shiny green leaves that were used to wrap around money as well as the couple’s hands, kerchiefs, straw rings and a fire around which the couple was to walk seven times over the course of the evening, bound together with a string, involving all sorts of other rituals.

The seven walks around the fire took forever, the groom grinning to his friends sticking up his finger to indicate how many more. The foreigners stayed and watched not knowing the drill – after all we didn’t want to miss anything , taking thousands of pictures – everything was so very photogenic, the indian ladies in the bejeweled and colorful sarees, the thousands of white and red and green lights on every inch of grass and draped over every tree branch. The lush greenery accentuated by large green floodlights while a laser show was going on above our head on the tent ceiling.

Many of the Indians, knowing the drill and how long the ceremony would last, got up at the very start and went to the dining hall to sit down and enjoy the exquisite buffet. Only the immediate family of the bride, her aunties and sisters, remained on the stage, sitting across the Dutch parents.

The Indian side of the family was actively involved in the ceremony, given a variety of tasks by the priest while the Dutch party sat at the groom’s side mostly watching in wonderment and confusion, Hans alternating in his role of father of the groom and photographer/videographer with both cameras on his knees. Although somewhat prepared by their son, there were a few awkward surprises such as not having bills of rupees on hand when money was supposed to be deposited in then this then that container the priest held out for them. They had nothing in their pockets. The Indian laughed good natured and moved on to the next step in the process while the Indian dad, well prepared of course, constantly put small bills in hands, leaves, and kerchiefs.

It was a bit of an ordeal for everyone on the stage because (a) they didn’t get to drink or eat anything like everyone else; (b) it was exceedingly hot and humid but the clothes the men wore were seemingly for colder climes – thick damast-like long coats with stiff collars closed high at the neck; c) a ceremonial fire was burning in front of them which required that d) at least on the stage, the high power fans that we in the audience benefitted from had to be turned off.

After the ceremony was finally over – as someone said, a very complicated process for simply saying yes, we joined the Indian families in the restaurant and had curries and ice cream. On the program was a reception but this was mostly a photo shoot with everyone and their mother and brother posing with the couple. Some of the Dutch saree-wearing contingent had gone back to their rooms and changed into more comfortable wear and take a swim to cool off.

I decided to call it a night and found my room on one of the houseboats where an enormous spider had settled in for the night as well. I called the boat staff and they entered my room with a spray can and chased the poor thing around the room – it was not a fair fight. I had intended to send it back to nature but the chemicals did their work. I slept like a baby.

Gone to heaven

We moored for the night at another one of the thin sliver islands, just one meter wide, with other boats, one after the other. Since it is low tourist season there are very few other westerners – yet boats are everywhere, filled with Indian families and groups of young people.

After another great meal we settled in for the night, me with oma in our small cabin on boat nr. two the one with the picture of jesus above the flat screen TV. We are sharing the boat with the groom’s sister, her best friend and his two young cousins and Joe from Tanzania. I woke up to birds and the soft sound of waves that carried clumps of water hyacinth, now in the other direction.

After a mixed Indian/western breakfast with omelets and coconut pancakes we made our way for a few hours across a very long and narrow lake/waterway, passed small houses where people went about their morning chores such as washing, toothbrushing and doing the dishes – all in the same water.

When we approached the Kumarakom Lake resort mom and dad of the bride, sisters, aunties and uncles awaited us. After lots of namastes and the exchange of a few words in English we were taken to our various quarters. The whole place has been hired by the family – no other guests unrelated to the wedding party.

The westerners are put on one side of the resort and the, more abundant, Indian guests on the other. There are some incompatible lifestyle issues around dress and adult beverages that make the separation desirable.

Whole bus loads (literally) of Indian relatives arrived to the drumbeats of a local traditional music ensemble. Each person received a dab of yellow powder on the forehead which instantly dripping down because of the sweat generated by the intense humidity. Cold wet towels, a fresh drink of coconut juice straight out of the nut and a necklace of yellow marigolds completed the welcome.

The Dutch friends are literally sticking out from the crowd – all the Dutch friends of the groom are immensely tall – towering over the Indians.

I am lodged on a houseboat because when the decision was reversed about my permission for leave the resort rooms were all occupied. My friends, parents, grandma and aunt and uncle of the groom are lodged in small bungelows that include private walled in swimming pools, an outdoor shower and more luxuries that I cannot even begin to relate. the slideshow will help.

The bride and groom are rather stressed out. Not me. I have booked a stress reducing ayurvedic massage right after lunch – I think I have gone to heaven.

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Waterland

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I woke up early and walked around the center of Fort Cochin. The humidity hit me as if a very heavy wet blanket was thrown over me. It hovered very close to 100% turning damp air into rain now and then.

I walked over moss covered pavers, along moss covered walls and under trees that may well be a few hundred years old with trunks and branches that have seen a lot of history. First the Portuguese were here and then the Dutch who firmly planted Christianity on this heathen soil. Churches, crosses, jesuses and monks are common figures in the landscape.

In spite of the heavy humid air and the puddles on the makeshift fields, soccer games were going on everywhere at this early hour. A walkway along the ocean was used by people doing their early morning constitutionals, their exercises, people shifting through the mass of water hyacinths for plastic bottles and other recyclables and fishermen repairing or arranging their nets.

I passed by the Dutch cemetery which was locked up behind a rusty gate – perpetually it seems. Large moss grown tombs were visible but I would have liked to see the inscriptions – who died here in the 1600s, so far from home? Who were these brave souls who left damp and cold Holland behind to convert people in this far away place?

At breakfast I met the extended Dutch party, immediate family of the groom and old friends. All the women, including the groom’s oma had had their hands henna-ed, intricate patterns applied with great skill during the previous days in Mumbai where the family of the bride lives.

Everyone had been taken shopping for sarees and wedding outfits. I fear that I will probably look a little frumpy, coming from the backwater of Afghanistan amidst these very sophisticated Mumbaian.
My friend had arranged for all of us to spend one night on a houseboat in what is called the backwaters. I can’t explain the look of the boats, not one is the same, so the slideshow will have to do. We encountered hundreds of them as we explored the waterland between the coast and the hinterland. They reminded me of elephants – big creatures lumbering along the waterways.

We had two boats to accommodate us all, the youngsters on one and the older one on the other, except that oma and I got to be with the younger group – maybe to keep an eye on things. We knew they had, with permission from parents, bought some adult beverages.

For lunch we lashed the two boats together and tied up at one of the small man-made islands where paddy is grown – the lush green color a wonderful sight after the khaki color of Kabul (khaki means dusty in Persian). The boat ride through these island-dotted waterways reminded me of the lilac islands on the Westeinder lake near in Aalsmeer.

The cooks had been working on our lunch since we had left the dock – vegetable curries with coconut, dhal, rice, fried fish, chutney, beans and more.

Spicy, alert and forbearing

I flew in a spotless but crowded Safi jet to Delhi for a very low price – an introductory offer that is no longer available. There were many sick people on the flight. I occurred to me that flying out of Kabul to a prime medical tourism spot, may therefore be nearly as risky as living in Afghanistan.

Unlike Air India with its predictable delays, Safi left and arrived as scheduled. They have that reputation on their other routes. And so I arrived in plenty of time to catch my connecting flight to Cochin (Kochi).

I did what Axel had wanted to do in India and never did, and that is checking out McDonalds. We had wondered during our previous trip, with pork and beef off limits, how McD had adapted its menu. For one there is the Maharaja Chicken and the rest is variations on chicken and fish with the usual names.

Their advertising trick (what is more spicy, McSpicy Chicken or McSpicy Paneer?) succeeded in getting me to buy the spicy paneer. It was a little disappointing (should I be surprised?) and was not all that spicy and the question not interesting enough to entice me to buy the other McSpicy; I don’t think I will be a repeat customer.
At the beginning of the gate area for the domestic travellers a circular upward pathway shows the sequence of the Surya Namaskar, sun saluations, with an explanation. It is more or less what I do every other morning though my spine doesn’t quite bend the way it is bend this way or that way by the bronze life size manikins.

According to the explanation provided on an engraved plaque ‘the Surya Namaskar holds equal benefits for the body and the intellect. Its practice results in a shapely and strong body encompassing a sharp and focused mind. Working out the routine at dawn with controlled breathing uplifts the mood and provides an invigorating start of the day. This alleviation of anxiety and stress grants a clear and alert mind that is capable of concentration and meditation which is the ultimate path to creating complete harmony of the spirit and the body.’ Imagine what my life in Kabul would be like without this routine.

The statement above the money changer’s desk is exactly the kind of state of mind I am in: Please bear with any inconvenience if there is any. Indeed!

Tying up and loosening down

Today was a day of wrapping up, delegating, negotiating, smoothing ruffled features, completing tasks before deadlines and writing my handover note. The interesting thing about my handover notes is that I use the notes from my last trip and then make the necessary changes. It’s a satisfying exercise because things that were very important last time have either been completed or are no longer important or can even be deleted. I did get a sense of progress when looking over notes written just 6 weeks ago when I headed out for the US.

I had been tasked to present our plans and approaches for the new management and leadership development center in the ministry at an early morning meeting. I had not entirely grasped my assignment. Watching a colleague moving from one beautiful and thoughtful slide to another I realized that I was utterly unprepared.

I scrambled, listening with one ear to her presentation while kluging together a presentation that would not present too sad a contrast with that of my friend across the table. Everything worked out in the end, including the branding logos that I had dragged quickly to cover up old logos – the color scheme was utterly mismatched but I don’t think people noticed.

Back in the office I received my jeweler friend who came with two small silver Turkmen objects, gifts for the parents of the bride and groom, one set of parents old friends from my student years in Holland, the other Indian, who I will meet in a couple of days.

I was invited to lunch in the daycare center where our one time receptionist had come for a visit. Five months after her wedding she is properly pregnant with the correct number of months to go. My Dari had improved sufficiently that we could talk more easily now than when she still worked here. It was a wonderfully joyous lunch, chaotic and loving as only a group of mothers with their young children can be. Once in a while a sleepy looking kid emerged out of the adjacent nap room where a few beds are lined up – some in pajamas – to drape themselves around their mom’s neck. If it wasn’t for my long to-do list I could have stayed there for a long time. It was lovely.

I had a couple of hours to sort out various hiccups in the organization of a big conference that will take place at the end of the month – a sort of crowning event for me because it gets me back to why I came here in the first place.

After a two hour conversation with Boston and Washington, to inform, discuss, clarify, ask and, once more sort things out I returned to my office and completed a full 12 hour workday, nonstop. It was a piercing headache that finally drove me home to eat, pack and organize for my trip to Delhi and then Kerala tomorrow. The break comes exactly at the right moment, even though some of my colleagues would argue with me about that.

Money, guns and malaria pills

This morning I spent about one hour trying to get my malaria prophylaxis. It was not as simple as I thought. I mobilized one of my colleagues, a specialist in infectious diseases who connected me to his friend who runs the national malaria program. I pulled him out of a meeting which he didn’t seem to mind. As it turned out he had studied a year in my homeland and we exchanged a few words in Dutch while being served cake and tea.

I left the place with an insecticide treated bednet after I had declined pills to treat malaria, since I don’t have it, don’t plan to get it; I plan to avoid getting it. Prophylaxis is not so common here, despite the fact that there were about half a million malaria cases last year. The disease is fought mostly through education and bednets; only pregnant women are given prophylaxis.

I ended up getting the pills my Boston colleague had suggested, against the judgment of the chief malaria epidemiologist – but the small pharmacy had nothing else. And then the parents of the bridegroom wrote me they are not taking anything because their son claims there is no malaria in India. He is a young and healthy entrepreneur in the age group that doesn’t expect to ever get sick. What he doesn’t know is that malaria is a big and deadly problem in India (although apparently not so much in Kerala), so I will bring my pills and maybe even my treated bednet.

After several calls with Boston about what happens next I spent over an hour mindlessly removing beads from a scarf that some poor Afghan woman must have spent days sewing on the outlines of a paisley pattern. I don’t even know why I did it and seemed not able to stop myself. The reptilian brain had taken over – not wanting anything nubby to mess up the smooth texture of the scarf – a yearning for something.

The box under the TV that lets me access international news channels was broken again so I watched the local news. Most of it was about weapons or money and/or the damage caused by one or the other or both. Although I did not really understand the details of the coverage of a workshop, I could read on the banner that it was about senior government officials disclosing their assets. The number of 2 million was mentioned several times and I wondered whether that was the limit above which officials had to declare their assets or whether it was the amount already declared. A couple of dozen men seemed to be squirming around a conference table, suggesting the latter. I am all for disclosures like that.

Next the viewer was treated to footage of a huge courtyard presumably somewhere in Kabul with thousands of weapons that were confiscated from the private security companies that are being disbanded. That they were removed from these companies gave me little comfort as they are still in Kabul and will surely go to some other user, official or non official. I just can’t imagine these arms being put in a smelter and turned into plough shares though that would be the right thing to do.

Afloat

The complexity of the work here can sometimes overwhelm any sense of duty, responsibility, idealism, optimism and what not. Today was such a day. Where to begin? I read the newspaper and it is full of things that didn’t work out as planned, that misfired, that got waylaid with criminal intent, that never got off the ground or that went unnoticed. How about this for a front page headline: Karzai seeks honest US support in anti-corruption drive! (grrr)

The newspaper retains its balance, somewhat, by always having a provincial news page. It is written by, what I assume are the communication people, the PR folks at the Provincial Rehabilitation Teams. They write in good English (unlike most other pages of the newspaper) and their stories are always upbeat, encouraging, heartwarming, optimistic. They write about small do-good projects like pizza parties for the local kids, a visit by women soldiers to women in purdah, a school, a bridge built, and locals doing things for themselves now that the foreigners used to do for them. Often I read that page first, for therapeutic reasons, but today it didn’t help.

Sometimes I can write like that in my blog, and I have done so many times, but not today. Today was a day marked by people second guessing me without asking, by not being asked for my opinion, by walls, things to run into and I came home a bit bruised – the empty house didn’t help, except for Axel’s email about the excitement of the Fourth of July – he is in the parade on one of the floats. I try to imagine him. Me, I am floating on a wave of self pity.

The visit to India on Thursday is timely, a moment of respite, a psychological breather. At first permission was not granted but the decision was reversed, thank god. During my preparations I realized a bit late that I will need to take malaria pills. I have gotten out of the habit and threw away my last Malarone tablets because they were two years past their expiration date. Not something to ignore when dealing with a serious disease like malaria. I have never gotten malaria pills here because the malaria areas are out of bounds anyways. My public health friends in Boston sent me advice on what to take that can be obtained here – doxycycline, bad for the stomach but also bad for the parasite.

Sitting in an airconditioned living room with all but one of my favorite things around me I am floating upwards a bit again. There is much work to be done before takeoff on Thursday and a good night sleep seems just the right thing.

Another day

We are preparing for a conference during which we want to showcase the leadership program and the results of a study that seems to indicate some link between our leadership development program and improved coverage of one or another of the priority health services.

Presenting the results in house triggered a heated response from my colleagues – suddenly, after a long period of non interest everyone had an opinion. I had to bite my tongue at times. I took down notes of everything people thought wrong and will use it as part of our preparation for the more public sharing. I am glad I am not a researcher – I have seen similar reactions when other studies were presented. Maybe you have to hang out in academia to be immune to such reactions.

We are starting to prepare for the second workshop of the leadership program with the midwives. It is about six months behind schedule, for a variety of reasons, and falls during the last days of my upcoming trip to India. And so I will this time not sit in the back and coach/advise M and S who are the rookie facilitators – they will thus be thrown into the deep. I am working with them over the next few days to make sure they will do well – I know they can.

There was another explosion, a bomb thrown into a government office not far from our office at the Demazhang traffic circle at the end of our road. It was a minor thing compared to the spectacular Intercon attack but no less worrisome; I didn’t even hear it, just noticed people busy on cell phones responding to worried inquiries or re-assuring family members.

I delivered a small suitcase to a colleague who is travelling back to the US tomorrow and graciously offered to take stuff back to Axel, some clothes and books. I have another pack waiting for the next traveler. The rest will have to wait until our container ships back in the fall.

Celebrations

One of Axel’s SOLA students, Farid, showed up at my house with a friend, Fatima who, like him, returned from a stay with an American family while attending high school. If placing young Afghans with American families and sending them to school for a while has the same results that I saw with these too, we should be sending thousands of them to the US (and, to avoid them skipping to Canada, guaranteeing them a re-entry visa if they return to Afghanistan first before returning to colleges or schools that gave them secured scholarships). What a great deal!

What I saw was a case study in young adult leadership – if we could multiply what these two are doing by a few thousands this country would be on its way back to normalcy soon.

Upon their return the two approached the principal of a girls high school from which one of them graduated, to ask permission for introducing tennis as a third option for girls who can now only choose basketball or volleyball as their school sport. Farid had taken up tennis at his high school in Maine and sees an opportunity. His coach assured him that the International Tennis Federation would be interested in getting Afghans hooked on this sport. His enthusiasm was contagious and I immediately launched an appeal on facebook for getting Afghans to Wimbledon by 2050.

The principal thought it a good idea, the Ministry of Education thought so too, its engineers approved the site, Farid pulled down the specs from the internet, lined up a contractor, negotiated the cost of a net and rackets/balls down from their foreigner prices with a local vendor. They are now waiting for the remaining 500 dollar to come in to purchase the building materials. Labor will be provided by their friends. I offered to help – bringing in 500 dollars should not be too difficult.

I marveled at their energy, vision and drive. We brainstormed about how to get a fence or netting around the court, a considerable expense – but wait, wouldn’t the military have some of that just sitting around? We racked out brains for connections with people in the military. Farid’s hairdresser in Maine has a daughter who is here in uniform – a start; and Fatima knows someone here who knows someone in the military – another start. If ever one doubted the importance of networking, we proved these doubts to be baseless. Although there are no results yet, the rush of energy about possibilities gave everyone hope and yet more energy. That’s the neat thing about vision.

In my Dari class I started in a third grade public school textbook. I feel sorry for the 9 year olds who have to learn this way. The first three lessons are all religious and with words that are more appropriate for 11th graders than 3rd graders, with pictures of the Kaba in Mecca, the Mosque in Medina, printed on cheap paper in stark black and white that allows for no nuances. The whole lesson doesn’t allow for nuances. The lessons have questions (what do you see in the picture) that leave nothing to the imagination and groupwork that basically ask kids to read back what they read in the text. The whole things sharply contrasting with Farid and Fatima’s approach to life and learning which is all about curiosity, experimentation and the pursuit of a vision.

I woke Tessa up to congratulate her on her 26th birthday and thought back to that joyous event all those years ago when Axel burned the croissants in the birth center’s oven that locked for cleaning and incinerated them, which brought the fire trucks out while I was laboring heavily.

I wanted to catch her before preparations for her customary birthday beach party are well on their way. Apparently it is a 10+ day in Manchester by the Sea, with high tide at 1 PM – add to that one’s best friends (called in among other things through facebook) and all should be a most joyous occasion. I tried not to be too sad to miss it but of course I am. I toasted my non alcohol beer to her continued health and happiness and, instead of croissants, baked myself a Lebanese thyme pizza (mana(q)ishe) that did not incinerate nor brought the fire trucks to my house. Some things do improve over time.

Surrender

Yesterday’s newspaper showed a picture of a would-be suicide bomber, ‘clad in lady-dress’ according to the caption, who was caught on his way to Kapisa with a bag full of explosives. The picture shows what looks like a mentally disabled man, his capture, despite his ‘lady dress’ suggesting this may well have been the case. If not his behavior, then his beard and shoes would have given him away. Young girls have also been girded with suicide vests – people go to great length to pursue all sorts of sinister objectives. The picture filled me with sadness.

I found my masseuse in the company of a new character by the name of Sammy. The name did not help me in figuring out whether I was dealing with a he or she. S/he cut my hair with the flair of a gay hairdresser who considers hairdressing an artistic expression rather than a job. The hair job was followed by an extraordinary massage of both legs and one arm (A did the other) and L was in and out giving directions to both, lending a hand once in a while. Sammy is apparently an expert in tantric massage but until I know what that is I decided to go with a regular one under L’s supervision.

I made it to and from the massage place without encountering any madmen like the one pictured above. In fact, to my great surprise I was waved through several blocked off streets by uniformed men with guns as if I was part of the military.

The rest of the day I devoted to exploring job opportunities post Kabul, both with and outside MSH. I organized and edited my CVs, completed an American one, and a European one, and filled in most of my Devex profile, following tips and advice from the Devex professionals. It is a little scary, after nearly 25 years, to throw oneself into the job market again. Thousands of kilometers away Axel is doing the same thing. Something will surely turn up.


May 2026
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