Full summer in Mazar

Life starts very early in my neighborhood. The day's light is saved, not to be savored in the late evening, but for use when it arrives as naturally ordained in what I would normally call the middle of the night. The chawkidars, the guards of the IAM (International Assistance Mission) guesthouse where I live, are up at 03:30 opening and closing metal doors, washing cars, revving motors; Zambol, the furry crop-eared dog has a few thoughts he is not shy to voice; the birds have started chirping their morning accountability; and the muezzins, their watches asynchronized, call in succession from the three surrounding mosques. At that time the light is just barely strong enough to outline the mountains to the south. A slightly cool breeze filters through my open window and by half 04:00 I am usually awake.

The temperature during the day is now well over 100° F. under an intense sun and a pall of dust. In any other country, people would be wearing light-weight clothing that allowed the air to circulate. Men working on the street wear an undershirt, a buttoned, long-sleeved cotton or rayon long tunic over baggy pants, and a lheavy wool vest. Women are smothered in layers of long sleeves, (most often of unbreathable synthetic fabrics) sweaters and dark coats, or burkas and always the scarf wrapped protectively around the neck. The smell of dirty human bodies and accumulated sweat permeates through the layers of the hospital's already noxious smells.

In response to the heat juice sellers have cropped up along the sidewalks. Mounds of sour cherries piled on blocks of ice offer the most mouth-watering refreshment, mangos from Pakistan, the same. But I only look. A recent revolt of the intestines has forced me to boxed juices--cherry and pomegranate are my immediate favorites. The further I retreat from the reality of the cramps and dizziness, the more enticing the iced fresh juices look.

Fresh ice cream is made in front of small shop fronts in 3 gallon deep, metal tubs embedded in troughs of shaved ice. The ice cream maker physically swirls and twirls the tubs back and forth within the packed ice, occasionally scrapping down the sides. No dashers, no motors, only the soft grating of the metal against ice and a spurt of human labor. This ice cream is soft and sweet. Light tan in color, but of no recognizable flavor, it remains the sensual combination of sweet-soft-cold. I asked Rahimullah if the flavor had a name. He shrugged, "Just Afghan ice-cream."

The guesthouse garden reflects the increasing high temperatures. The roses have not been dead-headed; their dusty spent blossoms make the garden look derelict. They remind me of Afghan women, desiccated before their time, ill handled. The lettuces have gone to seed, the leaves thick to the tooth, bitter. Zinnias are now beginning to take over. The gardeners are transforming the garden into its summer form. A few days ago a cat's cradle of purple plastic strings was suspended from an upright rectangular metal frame to encourage some nearby nasturtiums in their ascent to the roof. Every day a new pole or string is added to manage the easy growth of the hyacinth bean runners.

A lone holly hock has grown an additional 6 feet since my arrival; its lower pink blossoms have already become seed buttons. The figs are plumping, the sunflower leaves have been badly decimated by hungry insects, the datura's white trumpets flower and fade with regularity, and the ovaries of the pomegranate flowers are swelling into miniature fruits, the stamens and petals dried reminders of their waxy blossoms. Is it any wonder they are a Persian symbol of fertility? Seedling weeds and dust have overtaken the bed of eggplant and its solanacae siblings of pepper and tomato. The gardeners do not weeks. Their true vocation seems to be the daily resetting of the garden, revamping it into some inner idea of paradise.

When I go to the garden at 06:00 the language classes in the downstairs class rooms have already been in session for an hour. I walk outside to a sea of shoes scattered on the linoleum of the porch. The women's shoes are usually black high heels, often studded with rhinestones and bows, tartish and uncomfortable to my thinking, the sort of shoe I cannot imagine ever wearing. Yet in Afghanistan, this is the norm to be worn daily through the mud and the dust of the unpaved streets to school. The men come in sandals or the very pointed-toe shoes that are the de rigueur fashion statement for the Afghan peacock.

At the hospital I have come across the Afghan cane--a long, straight hardwood stick with a sharp metal point grasped with both hands of the lame person and used as if poling a boat. Semi effective in dirt, which is most of Afghanistan, the pointed metal end slips on the sidewalk or the cement floor. This is the exact same assistive device one sees in religious pictures of the halt and crippled coming to Jesus for help. It looks so clumsy and doesn't unweight the hip or any part of the lower extremity. My substitution of 2 elbow or axillary crutches is looked on with suspicion and I see the patients discard them, returning with their old Biblical sticks.