Sylvia's Journal

I left Kabul on Safi Airways, a local airline company that has gotten highs scores from some of my colleagues. This exit was very unlike the previous one that got us in a stall as we climbed out of Kabul airspace. With good visibility and blue skies I was able to understand what happened on that cloudy and drizzly April 10 when our UN flight pilot did a straight out departure from runway 29. Straight out is always faster and therefore cheaper in fuel use than circling the airport in an upward spiral until enough altitude is gained to get over the mountains surrounding Kabul. I don’t know whether these considerations played a role in the decision making process, but as a result we just barely scraped over the top of the mountains.

I boarded the plane with some trepidation and was glad that the skies were blue. Except for a thick layer of dust that disappeared at about 500 feet, all looked clear and I figured I would at least see whether we were heading straight into a mountain. When the pilot did a right turn immediately after takeoff I let out a deep sigh of relief and knew I was in good hands. We spiraled up and then zigzagged between the lower ranges until we reached sufficient altitude to turn to our heading. A straight out departure, even on this calm and clear day seemed nearly impossible given the height of the mountain range.

The greeting by the captain was done in two languages but the messages were different. The English was the usual standard welcome on board message but the other was something else. I presume it was a reading from the Koran because I recognized more Arabic than I usually do when Dari is spoken and God was invoked more than once. That is the difference between travelling in this part of the world and elsewhere. Invocatus atque non deus aderit, was engraved at the entrance to Jung’s house in Swisterland, imeaning ‘Invoked or not, God is always there.’ Here they invoke, just to be on the safe side.

Getting onto the plane was no small feat. I counted 13 check points between our guesthouse and my seat on the plane. The first few were handled through the car window while I was still accompanied by an escort from the office, the rest I had to do on my own with various young boys carrying my suitcase for a few meters for which they expected to be paid one or more dollars.

All of the checking is done in a cursory way or not at all. The various officials are mostly just going through the motions. In the US it is called the TSA Theater – it’s no different here. Only dumb terrorist would be caught. My female checkers didn’t even take my scotch tape away as was done in 2002 – supposedly because I could wrap scotch tape around the pilot’s mouth and eyes and then do my evil deed.

The checkpoints do of course cause many long queues and for once it is advantageous to be a woman in this country because men cannot frisk women. You have to go through a separate entrance, hidden behind a ragged and dirty curtain where one or more female officials were shivering in the cold. I must not have looked the profile of a terrorist and was ushered through quickly each time; only once did I have to open my suitcase.

On the way to the airport we passed unimaginable amounts of rebar-reinforced concrete and razor wire – a good business to be in. Tucked in between all this was the World Philosophical and Mathematical Society. I wondered what they were calculating and contemplating in there and who its members and sponsors were – or maybe it was just a front for something that had to be disguised. A Google search came up empty.

The heat of Dubai was a welcome change from the cold in Kabul. It was my luck to have once again a driver who did not know where to go. I summoned all my Arabic but he turned out to be a Pakistani with a dead cell phone. Eventually we found the place. I checked in and took a taxi to the Dubai Museum. I had contemplated going to the ski slope or camel races, and the bell captain suggested racing around dunes in a SUV followed by belly dancing but that was not very appealing. The museum was crowded with loud Europeans and I got out of it quickly and found a nice restaurant on the Creek.

I had a yummy Lebanese mezze with a lemon-mint concoction that looked dangerous but was delicious while watching the frantic activity in and around the Creek with loud noises from any kind of motor one could imagine, cars, trucks, boats and planes.

I took a water taxi back to the other side where my hotel was and ended up walking all the way back because the taxi market is a seller’s one – they are in short supply and the few that stopped where not interested in my destination; either too close by or too much traffic. And now on to Holland.

I spent a restless night in utter luxury in Dubai. My fancy room, appointed in pink, contained an industrial size espresso machine, a bowl full of fruit, an ironing board, a huge flat panel screen and a balcony overlooking a lush garden and pool. All this in the middle of the desert!

While checking email I watched scenes from Holland about the release of Geert Wilder’s video – to see how far he can go enraging Muslims. There is something utterly Dutch about this whole affair; a part of Dutch mentality I do not particularly like. The Dutch newspaper I read in the plane from Amsterdam was full of commentaries on the anticipated and actual reactions – mild, balanced and far from the expected furor. Somehow it seems that the Dutch distaste of open display of emotionality has rubbed off on at least the leaders of the Muslim immigrant population. So far so good. There was a large and peaceful demonstration, allegedly, in Kabul, delaying some flights in and out of the capital. However, I was also told that many of the Imams have not seen the video yet and it is possible that the shit won’t hit the fan yet until next week which is when the Imams’ experience of the video will be transmitted, rightly or wrongly, to the general population during Friday prayers.

I arrived early at the terminal for my flight to Kabul and waited in a smoky cafeteria, right under the nicotine-stained no-smoking sign, with Eddi from Bosnia and Kirk from the Philippines, both employed by the UN in Kabul and on their way back from home leave. The small terminal contains a duty free shop that sells everything except the anti-histamines I needed badly to contain my allergic reaction to something. I could have bought Gripe Syrup, packaged in ways that may not have changed in a hundred years, and sold to remedy wind and other problems of the bowels of small children. There was an abundance of syrups, the preferred treatment it seemed over pills, amidst a great variety of condoms and CDs with Arabic music and scantily clad young ladies on the cover. This part of the world is so full of contradictions.

I am travelling to Kabul on the UN plane with some 100 expats from all parts of the world, all earning a living because Afghanistan is in shambles. This is the ‘development industry’ that some people write about in not very flattering terms. I belong to that group as well and when we travel together in such a large pack it feels a little awkward. I prefer to travel more anonymously, mixed in with the general population, as I tend to do when I go to Africa.

I sit next to Eddi in the plane, one of the two people I now ‘know’ on this flight. He falls asleep instantly. He is going back to work. As an IT specialist he is on duty all the time. We talked earlier about the folly of the UN and other organizations to want to upgrade to Office 2007 when the older version is perfectly suited to the kind of work that most of us do. This is how we create work and waste money, he said. These upgrades require bigger and newer computers and complicate our communications with people in other countries, or counterparts in ministries who don’t have the money or expertise to follow the latest fads in computer technology. Hmmm, I thought, maybe I should resist this upgrade business that requires a new computer when I am quite happy with my old one that actually fits on a tray table and in my handbag.

The trip from Dubai to Kabul takes a little less than three hours, flying mostly over desert lands. The UN plane does not have a magazine with maps and routes in the seat pockets and I can’t remember the region’s geography very well so I don’t know which desert lands we are traversing. I imagine it is Iraq and later Iran that I see far below.

I was picked up by three men, Ahmad Mourid found me where the luggage comes in, then there was a driver and another who, I assume, was a security detail. Staff security is taken very seriously and there are many dos and don’ts: no taxis, no walking on the street, no going to places where foreigners tend to, or used to congregate, etc. Even though the office is 100 meters away, we are bussed there. Only Mirwais, one of my house mates, who is Afghan, can walk there. My other house mate is Haider, originally from Bangladesh but now from Maryland, who I haven’t seen since my early days at MSH when I worked in Nigeria where Haider was with USAID. My third house mate is Steve from New Mexico/Indonesia, a pediatrician with an impressive resume that includes Commissioner of Health for the City of New York in the early AIDS days as well as Peace Corps doc in the early 60s in Nepal. We sat around the table to figure out when and where we met, if we did, and rattled off acquaintances or friends we have or may have in common; enough for some interesting conversation to kick off my stay.

Jawed, the same IT manager who I first met in 2002 is still here and comes to my rescue when I find out I cannot connect to the server. Saturday is his day off but he shows up anyways in the evening to help me out. I am too tired to watch what he does but I am connected again when he leaves, a few minutes later. I give him a big bar of chocolate. It traveled thousands of miles exactly for this kind of service.