Beggars and their dogsMany of the Kathmandu beggars have dogs. The few curs I've seen up close, sleeping on the same mats and blankets as beggars look no worse off, and usually a lot better than most other dogs, who suffer from mange and worms. I wonder if the beggars beg for the dogs and share, of if the canines are on their own for procuring meals. Not being dependent on a human for food, it may be a purely companionable relationship. I like to think so, because I imagine the future in such a relationship. When I become a demented bag lady, I will have a short-haired rather small dog, one that keeps my feet warm. Seeing the possibilities on Kathmandu's streets makes planning for this eventuality a little more realistic. I know I won't be the only one.
The Road to TansenSapana Panday's father graciously escorted me to the central bus station at 06:30 Sunday morning. He'd already purchased my ticket to Tansen, though it could have been purchased that morning without problems. I feel very pampered to have such attention. It has made movement easy, almost too easy, since I don't have to figure out my own coping strategies. I had seat number 8, a window seat on bus 4806, with "speed control" written across the front bumper. The painting of a trident holding blue Shiva with a cobra wrapped around his neck graced the front of the Tata bus, flanked by pairs of outstretched open-palmed hands offering flowers . The sides were painted with identical village scenes of houses in hills with a shrine. I wrote down the number of the bus's license plates because at crowded bus stations I've sometimes lost my bus due to poor attention to such simple details.
I was both dreading this estimated 10 hour trip and looking forward to the adventure. Where the line of adventure would cross into abject discomfort was unknown, but could have been at any stage in the journey. How much abuse can an already grumbly lumbar spine take? And the toilet facilities? Do they exist? Can one stomach them? Ah! This is always my worry, though in Nepal it is less a problem than in a place like Afghanistan. And if I'm so worried about toilets, what am I doing here? About an hour out of Kathmandu valley, the bus stopped and all the men got out to pee. At the breakfast stop, (greasy chapattis and curry potatoes) there were some not totally disgusting loos and even water to wash hands. And much later in the almost dark, I went with two sari-clad women into some low shrubs at the far side of the road and squatted. I didn't drink all day, fearful of the consequences.
It was not an uncomfortable trip. In fact, the small, up-right seat with no space for knees did wonders for my back. Don't ask how. I sat beside an old Nepali man in a wool coat and Nepali hat. He was quiet, didn't cough or burp too much and considering what could have been, I was grateful for this politely quiet and neutrally fragranced seat mate. He politely refused my offer of a digestive cracker, which may have been because of its appearance, my caste, or his lack of hunger.
The mountains to the north were misty, everything was misty, my pictures taken out of the opened window are blurred or inconsequential and hardly worth saving. How many pictures of harvested terraced rice fields can one justifiably save ?
We traveled south from KTMD, crossing the middle range of mountains in vertiginous curves, following a river, (sorry, I do not know the name) into the terai, the southern strip of flat land, which is more like India than one's storybook idea of Sherpa landscape. In the terai we made good time on the straight road heading west until 40 km E as Butwal, where we came to a stop behind a 300 meter line of backed-up trucks and buses. A multi-ton road building machine had fallen off a truck on a sharp curve and now, on its side, blocked the road. No matter the lever, and no matter the number of Nepalis giving directions, I could see nothing positive coming of this affair for many hours. I tied my fleece around my waist, shouldered my back pack, and grabbing my laptop, set off.
What a wonderful feeling. I'd been so pampered with help from people arranging tickets, ferreting out times, driving me to appointments or picking me up, that I'd forgotten the sense of freedom independent travel can give. In a space of minutes I was made a free agent and in the process felt a new capability. I started walking, crossed under and over the wreck and near the end of the backed-up traffic on the other side found a bus heading west for the town of Butwal. As the bus was taking off, I was offered a seat, shared with a man and three absolutely filthy children at the very front of the bus. What a great seat. As the children pawed me and kicked me with their dirty feet, I reminded myself that if I wanted to stay clean I wouldn't be traveling in Nepal on a public bus. My bags had been left on the rack in the back where I'd been standing before the offer of the seat arose and I was a bit concerned about pickpockets, but tried to release the thought, insisting to myself that people are generally good and helpful. Which of course they are.
The Butwal bus left me at the edge of town and I took a rickshaw to the station to catch a bus to Tansen. I was the last passenger to board the last bus and was on the road again within a few minutes, at 17:00. Wow! What luck. (Strange that a small good fortune quickly following a set back seems so especially sweet).My crowded back seat and the growing dusk didn't allow much appreciation of the canyon we followed north. All my trust in the driver on this exquisitely twisting road was rewarded with arrival in Tansen, possibly at about the same time as my scheduled bus would have arrived had it not been blocked.
I called my contact, the true value of cell phone technology at night in strange towns where one hasn't a clue, and in short time was whisked to Tansen hospital --United Mission Hospital of Tansen--where a room was waiting as well as a slightly cold, but welcome dinner of pizza and cabbage (which wasn't pizza at all, more like cake topped with buffalo meat, but as close as one is likely to get to pizza in western Nepal). I ate with great appreciation. After dinner I walked outside the hospital gates, found a "cold shop" selling beer, bought a 650ml Tuborg and drank what I didn't dare drink all day.
17 November 2009
14 November 2009
DHARAN
Rice harvest
Nepal's rice harvest is almost finished. On the flat cobbles in front of temples and shrines piles of grain lie on plastic sheets to dry. No associated blessing accompanies this placement as I'd assumed, thinking of the blessing of first fruits or the blessing of the fleet. It is simply a matter of making use of an open and warm space. In the fields bundles of rice straw are carefully arranged in solid cylinders about 6'wide and 6' tall, coming to a point in the center topped with a decorative marigold branch. What is it about the flowing lines of terraced rice fields that stir the heart? The infinite shades of green or gold, the notion of fecundity, the foreignness of the organic lines to western eyes? Rice fields dominate Kathmandu's eastern valley. The middle distance is thick jungle or forest, while snow sharpens the distant peaks. Viewing the cold, forbidding, far horizon framed by graceful banana leaves puts the scene into another world.
Yeti Air
Thursday morning I flew Yeti Air from Kathmandu to Biratnagar in the SE of Nepal to visit the BP Koirala Institute of Health Sciences in Dharan. Kathmandu's small domestic terminal was filled with trekkers, primarily "geared-to-go" middle aged Europeans or young travelers in their 20s, flying to distant base camps to begin their treks. The quality of the PA system made announcements incomprehensible, so everyone crowded around the airport staff near the gate, afraid to miss their plane. One can fly Yeti Air, Buddha Air, Cosmic Air, Gurka Air, Agni Air, Mountain Air, or Tara Air. After learning about Tara at the Rubin Museum before coming to Nepal, and knowing how positively disposed she is for helping humans, I would have liked to fly with her. I was the only barang (frangi, gringo, haole) traveling to Biratnagar--not exactly a prime trekking destination.
Taking off at 07:20 the fog in the valleys hadn't yet been burned off and another layer of cloud obscured the high peaks to the north. The landscape of the middle range became steeper and drier as we flew east, forest and field giving way to rock and scattered hamlets. The cloud and the filthy window prohibited any reasonable picture taking.
Dharan
Biratnagar is flat, warm, and humid, with an immediately recognized decrease in smog compared to KTMD. It also has more bikes and rickshaws, tractors and old trucks on the flat, better maintained roads.
Congregations of Indian mynahs on wires look natural here. Delonix regia, coconut, mango, acacias, figs of various types, eucalypts, casuarina, plumaria, papaya, great spreading canopies of an albezzia, and 40' tall bauhinia purpura are trees I can identify. There are many more I can't place.
The campus of BP Koirala Institute of Health Sciences is lush with old growth trees in a run-down park-like setting. The British built a Gurkha camp with hospital here and now it has evolved into almost a town dominated by the extensive health complex of hospital, medical and dental schools, hostels and housing and playing fields. The huge compound has a nice, active feel.
The ER is a crowded chaotic mess with patients on mattresses on the floor and people milling, pushing to enter, demanding, holding up their papers. The noise is terrific. I was taken aback seeing a middle aged man in peasant clothes bagging a patient while white coated doctors and nurses tended the person on the trolley. My orthopaedic colleagues frowned when I commented on this, saying it was sad, but the hospital only has a limited number of ventilators and not enough staff to physically ventilate every patient who comes to the ER in need of assistance breathing. A family member has to do it. I can't imagine what a son must feel when he is handed an ambu bag and told to press it in order to deliver oxygen to this dying mother.
My room at the guest house is fairly clean, a bit shabby, but suitable. Besides space sufficient to do TaiChi, hearing the familiar chur-chur of resident geckos makes even the lack of hot water acceptable.
While I bought a beer at a small shop outside the hospital, a woman came up and stood beside me at the counter. With no verbal exchange, the proprietress walked to the back of the store and returned with a half liter of whiskey, wrapped it and gave it to the woman. How convenient to have your wants known without saying a word. I came away with a semi cool 650ml Tuborg, wrapped in a June 26, 2009 page from the Katmandu Post.
While waiting at the Biratnagar airport for the return Yeti flight to Kathmandu, a small high-winged STOL airplane taxied to the departure gate. Short dark, wrinkled hill people--women with heavy gold rings hanging from their nasal septums and ears and wearing long colorful skirts and head wraps--filed out of the gate and into the plane.
It seems one can tell where people are going by their clothes and what plane they board. The trekkers in their gear leave in certain planes, the hill people in another and just regular folk into another. Who you are determines your destination.
The "GPS Manikin"
I don't know the streets in Kathmandu or the neighborhoods, except the one in which I'm presently staying. I don't even know which way I'm traveling and the short cuts the taxi drivers take leave me baffled. However, over a couple days riding around the city I have come to recognize a few landmarks. One is a manikin at a dress shop. It stands on the sidewalk and has breasts so pointed and unbalanced, Barbie would be embarrassed.
Nepal's rice harvest is almost finished. On the flat cobbles in front of temples and shrines piles of grain lie on plastic sheets to dry. No associated blessing accompanies this placement as I'd assumed, thinking of the blessing of first fruits or the blessing of the fleet. It is simply a matter of making use of an open and warm space. In the fields bundles of rice straw are carefully arranged in solid cylinders about 6'wide and 6' tall, coming to a point in the center topped with a decorative marigold branch. What is it about the flowing lines of terraced rice fields that stir the heart? The infinite shades of green or gold, the notion of fecundity, the foreignness of the organic lines to western eyes? Rice fields dominate Kathmandu's eastern valley. The middle distance is thick jungle or forest, while snow sharpens the distant peaks. Viewing the cold, forbidding, far horizon framed by graceful banana leaves puts the scene into another world.
Yeti Air
Thursday morning I flew Yeti Air from Kathmandu to Biratnagar in the SE of Nepal to visit the BP Koirala Institute of Health Sciences in Dharan. Kathmandu's small domestic terminal was filled with trekkers, primarily "geared-to-go" middle aged Europeans or young travelers in their 20s, flying to distant base camps to begin their treks. The quality of the PA system made announcements incomprehensible, so everyone crowded around the airport staff near the gate, afraid to miss their plane. One can fly Yeti Air, Buddha Air, Cosmic Air, Gurka Air, Agni Air, Mountain Air, or Tara Air. After learning about Tara at the Rubin Museum before coming to Nepal, and knowing how positively disposed she is for helping humans, I would have liked to fly with her. I was the only barang (frangi, gringo, haole) traveling to Biratnagar--not exactly a prime trekking destination.
Taking off at 07:20 the fog in the valleys hadn't yet been burned off and another layer of cloud obscured the high peaks to the north. The landscape of the middle range became steeper and drier as we flew east, forest and field giving way to rock and scattered hamlets. The cloud and the filthy window prohibited any reasonable picture taking.
Dharan
Biratnagar is flat, warm, and humid, with an immediately recognized decrease in smog compared to KTMD. It also has more bikes and rickshaws, tractors and old trucks on the flat, better maintained roads.
Congregations of Indian mynahs on wires look natural here. Delonix regia, coconut, mango, acacias, figs of various types, eucalypts, casuarina, plumaria, papaya, great spreading canopies of an albezzia, and 40' tall bauhinia purpura are trees I can identify. There are many more I can't place.
The campus of BP Koirala Institute of Health Sciences is lush with old growth trees in a run-down park-like setting. The British built a Gurkha camp with hospital here and now it has evolved into almost a town dominated by the extensive health complex of hospital, medical and dental schools, hostels and housing and playing fields. The huge compound has a nice, active feel.
The ER is a crowded chaotic mess with patients on mattresses on the floor and people milling, pushing to enter, demanding, holding up their papers. The noise is terrific. I was taken aback seeing a middle aged man in peasant clothes bagging a patient while white coated doctors and nurses tended the person on the trolley. My orthopaedic colleagues frowned when I commented on this, saying it was sad, but the hospital only has a limited number of ventilators and not enough staff to physically ventilate every patient who comes to the ER in need of assistance breathing. A family member has to do it. I can't imagine what a son must feel when he is handed an ambu bag and told to press it in order to deliver oxygen to this dying mother.
My room at the guest house is fairly clean, a bit shabby, but suitable. Besides space sufficient to do TaiChi, hearing the familiar chur-chur of resident geckos makes even the lack of hot water acceptable.
While I bought a beer at a small shop outside the hospital, a woman came up and stood beside me at the counter. With no verbal exchange, the proprietress walked to the back of the store and returned with a half liter of whiskey, wrapped it and gave it to the woman. How convenient to have your wants known without saying a word. I came away with a semi cool 650ml Tuborg, wrapped in a June 26, 2009 page from the Katmandu Post.
While waiting at the Biratnagar airport for the return Yeti flight to Kathmandu, a small high-winged STOL airplane taxied to the departure gate. Short dark, wrinkled hill people--women with heavy gold rings hanging from their nasal septums and ears and wearing long colorful skirts and head wraps--filed out of the gate and into the plane.
It seems one can tell where people are going by their clothes and what plane they board. The trekkers in their gear leave in certain planes, the hill people in another and just regular folk into another. Who you are determines your destination.
The "GPS Manikin"
I don't know the streets in Kathmandu or the neighborhoods, except the one in which I'm presently staying. I don't even know which way I'm traveling and the short cuts the taxi drivers take leave me baffled. However, over a couple days riding around the city I have come to recognize a few landmarks. One is a manikin at a dress shop. It stands on the sidewalk and has breasts so pointed and unbalanced, Barbie would be embarrassed.
12 November 2009
Thoughts after a week in Katmandu
The Pandey Children
The five year old Pandey girl, Chandani, goes to all-day kindergarten. She can read and write short stories in English and Nepali. I was told she can read the Nepali newspaper, though has to ask the meanings of some of the longer words. When could I write stories in English, let alone a foreign language? Maybe second grade. Though I know this sort of private education is not given to all Nepali children, or even 1%, her abilities let me know how and why we Americans are not destined to remain a powerful force in the world much longer. The educated people from the rest of the world are going to eat us alive, crunch our ill-educated bones for the marrow, and spit out our indigestible parts without us even asking for quarter or even knowing how to ask, because we have become so ignorant.
Seeing how the Pandey children's top-notch education sets them apart from what I know of American children and of most Nepali children, I am struck by the power of knowledge and education. It doesn't bring us together, but instead divides us. On the savannah we all had pretty much the same education, knew the same things, held similar ideas. With the expansion in our fund of knowledge or information we become divided into haves and have-nots. No matter the category of life one studies there are those who get it and those who don't. If in one category you are a "have", it is more likely that you are a have in a few others. The same goes for the have nots. The divisions seem to be coming out more and more unequal.
Chaos after civil war
On our overland walk to the hospital to avoid the chaos of the demonstration that blocked off his hospital last Friday, Chakra made the point that despite having no government, and living in the midst of chaos, people continue to function as if life is normal--evidence that there is a human need or constitutional imperative to live and sort out life the best way possible.
Nepal is an example not of a developing country but of a deteriorating country. It shows how civil war can destroy the cultural fabric of the country. The insurgency has done nothing positive for anyone. Previous levels of trust (what Chakra called the innate forgiveness of Nepalis) no longer exist. The blame can be placed in many quarters, but I don't see how anything positive can come from the existing situation. A Nepali mentioned that he'd been in Vietnam and saw that everyone between the ages of 15-50 was moving, going somewhere, doing something. In Nepal, about half the people were moving and after 2 weeks in Sierra Leone, he calculated that about 10% of the people were moving. He figured a country had about 5 years, or some set, short time in which to right itself after a civil war, and Vietnam had passed this magic interval satisfactorily and is on its way to wealth and stability. Nepal is rapidly losing the opportunity and SL, well, . .
One of the wireless phone companies is called STD. Signs on small shop windows advertising STD/ISD available make me think automatically they are clinics to treat sexually transmitted diseases.
Kathmandu's Durbar Square
On Saturday Cherin Pandey, male about 13, and I visited Kathmandu's Durbar Square. one of the main tourist attractions in the city. A must-do. The historic site of official business lined with old government buildings and crowded with temples, filled now with tourists, touts, punks, dogs, motorcycles and cars. We started our walk in the tourist area of Thamel. I was a bit confused because I couldn't figure out where on the map we had actually started since none of the streets have names and even my little compass confused me. Cherin was a fastidious guide. Every 25 meters he'd ask a person the way even though we'd already been told and hadn't changed direction, or met up with a side street that would have allowed a change in direction.
The Square and its buildings were uninteresting--crowded, noisy, smelling of human waste and awash with litter. I would have no reason to return, or to walk through Thamel, past the souvenir sellers with their gaudy overpriced merchandise. Since I am uninterested in buying, nothing looks interesting to me.
Toy-Toying in Nepal
Sunday, on the drive to Nepal Orthopaedic Hospital the car was twice diverted into long treacherously crowded and dusty detours because of demonstrators performing on the road. This seems to happen daily. A group is unhappy about something and takes its discontent into the street. It all seems relatively peaceful, with chanting and marching, nothing mean or aggressive, but the street is closed, inconveniencing everyone and raising the general level of frustration mixed with anger. Such actions are called marches or demonstrations, but I think of them using the South African word: they are toyi-toying in the street. The term fits.
On Tues the Kathmandu Valley was shut off by the Maoists at all the major roads. No guns, no violence, just long sticks, red flags, red and blue baseball caps, plus some singing and dancing. By their numbers and the narrowness of the road, the mass of primarily male demonstrators prevented vehicles from coming in or leaving the valley all day. Riot police stood in their protective gear along the road, a presence only.
I had been planning to visit two hospitals east of the city and secured a ride beyond the valley's boundary in an official hospital van. After much palaver with the demonstrators the driver got us through in the morning, but coming back to the city we had to wait until one leader, with a very bad hair color job, finished his speech. Driving out I sat in the front passenger seat. I was told my presence was auspicious because Maoists are known to be kindly disposed to foreigners and generally don't harm them. (thought extracting payment is another thing) I suppose they are keen to prevent bad publicity. These toyi-toyis add to the already atrociously snarled traffic and fray the nerves.
I can't imagine the Afghans toyi-toying like the Nepalis or even the Africans. Demonstrating a grievance by taking it nonviolently to the street doesn't fit with notions of any preferred Afghan response. On further reflection, such peaceful action seems positively ridiculous in an Afghan setting.
The five year old Pandey girl, Chandani, goes to all-day kindergarten. She can read and write short stories in English and Nepali. I was told she can read the Nepali newspaper, though has to ask the meanings of some of the longer words. When could I write stories in English, let alone a foreign language? Maybe second grade. Though I know this sort of private education is not given to all Nepali children, or even 1%, her abilities let me know how and why we Americans are not destined to remain a powerful force in the world much longer. The educated people from the rest of the world are going to eat us alive, crunch our ill-educated bones for the marrow, and spit out our indigestible parts without us even asking for quarter or even knowing how to ask, because we have become so ignorant.
Seeing how the Pandey children's top-notch education sets them apart from what I know of American children and of most Nepali children, I am struck by the power of knowledge and education. It doesn't bring us together, but instead divides us. On the savannah we all had pretty much the same education, knew the same things, held similar ideas. With the expansion in our fund of knowledge or information we become divided into haves and have-nots. No matter the category of life one studies there are those who get it and those who don't. If in one category you are a "have", it is more likely that you are a have in a few others. The same goes for the have nots. The divisions seem to be coming out more and more unequal.
Chaos after civil war
On our overland walk to the hospital to avoid the chaos of the demonstration that blocked off his hospital last Friday, Chakra made the point that despite having no government, and living in the midst of chaos, people continue to function as if life is normal--evidence that there is a human need or constitutional imperative to live and sort out life the best way possible.
Nepal is an example not of a developing country but of a deteriorating country. It shows how civil war can destroy the cultural fabric of the country. The insurgency has done nothing positive for anyone. Previous levels of trust (what Chakra called the innate forgiveness of Nepalis) no longer exist. The blame can be placed in many quarters, but I don't see how anything positive can come from the existing situation. A Nepali mentioned that he'd been in Vietnam and saw that everyone between the ages of 15-50 was moving, going somewhere, doing something. In Nepal, about half the people were moving and after 2 weeks in Sierra Leone, he calculated that about 10% of the people were moving. He figured a country had about 5 years, or some set, short time in which to right itself after a civil war, and Vietnam had passed this magic interval satisfactorily and is on its way to wealth and stability. Nepal is rapidly losing the opportunity and SL, well, . .
One of the wireless phone companies is called STD. Signs on small shop windows advertising STD/ISD available make me think automatically they are clinics to treat sexually transmitted diseases.
Kathmandu's Durbar Square
On Saturday Cherin Pandey, male about 13, and I visited Kathmandu's Durbar Square. one of the main tourist attractions in the city. A must-do. The historic site of official business lined with old government buildings and crowded with temples, filled now with tourists, touts, punks, dogs, motorcycles and cars. We started our walk in the tourist area of Thamel. I was a bit confused because I couldn't figure out where on the map we had actually started since none of the streets have names and even my little compass confused me. Cherin was a fastidious guide. Every 25 meters he'd ask a person the way even though we'd already been told and hadn't changed direction, or met up with a side street that would have allowed a change in direction.
The Square and its buildings were uninteresting--crowded, noisy, smelling of human waste and awash with litter. I would have no reason to return, or to walk through Thamel, past the souvenir sellers with their gaudy overpriced merchandise. Since I am uninterested in buying, nothing looks interesting to me.
Toy-Toying in Nepal
Sunday, on the drive to Nepal Orthopaedic Hospital the car was twice diverted into long treacherously crowded and dusty detours because of demonstrators performing on the road. This seems to happen daily. A group is unhappy about something and takes its discontent into the street. It all seems relatively peaceful, with chanting and marching, nothing mean or aggressive, but the street is closed, inconveniencing everyone and raising the general level of frustration mixed with anger. Such actions are called marches or demonstrations, but I think of them using the South African word: they are toyi-toying in the street. The term fits.
On Tues the Kathmandu Valley was shut off by the Maoists at all the major roads. No guns, no violence, just long sticks, red flags, red and blue baseball caps, plus some singing and dancing. By their numbers and the narrowness of the road, the mass of primarily male demonstrators prevented vehicles from coming in or leaving the valley all day. Riot police stood in their protective gear along the road, a presence only.
I had been planning to visit two hospitals east of the city and secured a ride beyond the valley's boundary in an official hospital van. After much palaver with the demonstrators the driver got us through in the morning, but coming back to the city we had to wait until one leader, with a very bad hair color job, finished his speech. Driving out I sat in the front passenger seat. I was told my presence was auspicious because Maoists are known to be kindly disposed to foreigners and generally don't harm them. (thought extracting payment is another thing) I suppose they are keen to prevent bad publicity. These toyi-toyis add to the already atrociously snarled traffic and fray the nerves.
I can't imagine the Afghans toyi-toying like the Nepalis or even the Africans. Demonstrating a grievance by taking it nonviolently to the street doesn't fit with notions of any preferred Afghan response. On further reflection, such peaceful action seems positively ridiculous in an Afghan setting.
08 November 2009
ARRIVAL IN NEPAL
On approach to Kathmandu, the rugged snowy peaks of the Himalaya sparkle above the horizon of green hills protecting the Kathmandu valley. A magnificent sight marred only by thick fumes pouring from open fires and smoke stacks.
Traffic
The traffic problems of the city, and I suspect of the country, are an inadequate road system in 1)quantity for the rapidly growing amount of traffic and 2) structural quality so that what little is available is rather more a detriment than a conduit for travel. Walking is a nightmare of avoiding both the torn up sidewalks, if there are any, and the vehicles whose sole goal has nothing to do with extending one's longevity. The roads can not be widened and no attempt has been made to repair or repave them. 99% of the hordes of careening motorcycles are driven by young men without either licenses or regard. They could well be seconds for any scene from Mad Max.
The city is filthy in litter, plastic bags, dust, and pollution. Foul smells of organic waste abound, mixed with chemical irritants. In short it is not a friendly city, liberally spiked with all manner of difficulties in getting from point A to point B. However, the home Dr.Chakra Pandey and his family have offered me is off the main street in as quiet and peaceful a setting as one can imagine in a noisy Asian city. (Night dogs still require ear plugs.) At 06:00, first light, pigeons and house crows awaken along with a 20 second lilting wake-up song by an unseen bulbul type of bird, who rouses the sparrows who chirp off and on all day. Mango, persimmon, orange, papaya, and kumquat trees line the garden parterres along with clay pots of marigolds and chrysanthemums. Cannonballs of pommelos hang from a neighbor's tree over one wall. The temperature hovers around 55-60° at night, warming in the sun to a cool bright 75°.
I have been given a pleasant sunny upstairs bedroom in a house adjacent to the Pandey's, but on their compound. The first floor's spacious entrance room has little furniture and its smooth wood floor and open space allow an exuberant, daily Tai Chi ritual. All in all a perfect place.
Fitted for Shalwar-Kamis
I thought I needed a shalwar/kamis, something a little lighter, a bit dressier than my expedition gear. I was also looking for clothing for warmer weather than the one I imagined from snowy Montana, and chosen with the thought of surviving a Himalayan December. I pictured some cheap clothes, but in the ready made stores there wasn't much without beads and sequins or gold glitter. The local tailor has pre-made sets of color and pattern coordinated cloth pieces suitable for top and bottom and a shawl that are then made up in the style one chooses from a picture book. I picked out all the components and dimensions for my sartorial masterpiece-- a round neck opening large enough so there's no need for a zip or buttons, long sleeves, kamis length to below knee, shalwar of thin legs bunched up at the ankles and elastic waist band. The picture book showing the various styles looked like the book I used in Sierra Leone for a wedding party dress--a mix and match guide of possibilities. It was quite exciting creating what I think I wanted, though I'm sure that when I try it on, I will find something not quite right. Sapana, Chakra's accommodating wife, did all the talking for the transaction. How wonderful to watch someone who understands how to get what she wants.
Nepali style Anarchy
Thurs afternoon, the day I arrived, 5 Nov, a bus ran into 3 people buying radishes beside the street, killing them. The driver ran away, knowing he'd be held accountable to some sort of public "justice". People destroyed the bus (similar to killing the messenger) and a big demonstration took over the street which the police closed, snarling traffic for the next 24 hours.
The hospital in Dharan was recently closed for a week because a patient's relatives had beat up some doctors when something untoward happened to the patient. Chakra attributed it to the general anarchy, since the state offers no security or justice and the hospital can't provide it either because the hired guards aren't trained, have no authority, and run away when trouble starts. Like the bus driver.
Friday the road to Chakra's hospital was closed, even ambulances weren't allowed to pass the barricades. One of the servants drove us until we couldn't go further because of a traffic jam, so we walked among the stalled cars, over a bridge, down a dirt embankment, up and around to the hospital. From the orthopaedic clinic windows I watched demonstrators march on the street, shouting slogans. The road was finally opened late in the afternoon.
Traffic
The traffic problems of the city, and I suspect of the country, are an inadequate road system in 1)quantity for the rapidly growing amount of traffic and 2) structural quality so that what little is available is rather more a detriment than a conduit for travel. Walking is a nightmare of avoiding both the torn up sidewalks, if there are any, and the vehicles whose sole goal has nothing to do with extending one's longevity. The roads can not be widened and no attempt has been made to repair or repave them. 99% of the hordes of careening motorcycles are driven by young men without either licenses or regard. They could well be seconds for any scene from Mad Max.
The city is filthy in litter, plastic bags, dust, and pollution. Foul smells of organic waste abound, mixed with chemical irritants. In short it is not a friendly city, liberally spiked with all manner of difficulties in getting from point A to point B. However, the home Dr.Chakra Pandey and his family have offered me is off the main street in as quiet and peaceful a setting as one can imagine in a noisy Asian city. (Night dogs still require ear plugs.) At 06:00, first light, pigeons and house crows awaken along with a 20 second lilting wake-up song by an unseen bulbul type of bird, who rouses the sparrows who chirp off and on all day. Mango, persimmon, orange, papaya, and kumquat trees line the garden parterres along with clay pots of marigolds and chrysanthemums. Cannonballs of pommelos hang from a neighbor's tree over one wall. The temperature hovers around 55-60° at night, warming in the sun to a cool bright 75°.
I have been given a pleasant sunny upstairs bedroom in a house adjacent to the Pandey's, but on their compound. The first floor's spacious entrance room has little furniture and its smooth wood floor and open space allow an exuberant, daily Tai Chi ritual. All in all a perfect place.
Fitted for Shalwar-Kamis
I thought I needed a shalwar/kamis, something a little lighter, a bit dressier than my expedition gear. I was also looking for clothing for warmer weather than the one I imagined from snowy Montana, and chosen with the thought of surviving a Himalayan December. I pictured some cheap clothes, but in the ready made stores there wasn't much without beads and sequins or gold glitter. The local tailor has pre-made sets of color and pattern coordinated cloth pieces suitable for top and bottom and a shawl that are then made up in the style one chooses from a picture book. I picked out all the components and dimensions for my sartorial masterpiece-- a round neck opening large enough so there's no need for a zip or buttons, long sleeves, kamis length to below knee, shalwar of thin legs bunched up at the ankles and elastic waist band. The picture book showing the various styles looked like the book I used in Sierra Leone for a wedding party dress--a mix and match guide of possibilities. It was quite exciting creating what I think I wanted, though I'm sure that when I try it on, I will find something not quite right. Sapana, Chakra's accommodating wife, did all the talking for the transaction. How wonderful to watch someone who understands how to get what she wants.
Nepali style Anarchy
Thurs afternoon, the day I arrived, 5 Nov, a bus ran into 3 people buying radishes beside the street, killing them. The driver ran away, knowing he'd be held accountable to some sort of public "justice". People destroyed the bus (similar to killing the messenger) and a big demonstration took over the street which the police closed, snarling traffic for the next 24 hours.
The hospital in Dharan was recently closed for a week because a patient's relatives had beat up some doctors when something untoward happened to the patient. Chakra attributed it to the general anarchy, since the state offers no security or justice and the hospital can't provide it either because the hired guards aren't trained, have no authority, and run away when trouble starts. Like the bus driver.
Friday the road to Chakra's hospital was closed, even ambulances weren't allowed to pass the barricades. One of the servants drove us until we couldn't go further because of a traffic jam, so we walked among the stalled cars, over a bridge, down a dirt embankment, up and around to the hospital. From the orthopaedic clinic windows I watched demonstrators march on the street, shouting slogans. The road was finally opened late in the afternoon.
06 November 2009
5 Nov,
NEW YORK AND THE RUBIN MUSEUM OF ART
A couple weeks ago I came upon the name and description of this museum and a coupon from the internet for a free pass to accompany a person paying full price. I thought this would be something worthwhile to prime a trip to Nepal and Bhutan. Dick Freeman and I spent an informative afternoon in this tasteful, new museum. One of the organization's goals is to inform and educate people about the art one finds in the Himalayan areas, concentrating on a Tibetan Buddhism. This it does very well.
At the suggestion of the ticket seller, we joined a small tour group run by a white-haired gentleman who by picking a few exhibits gave the half dozen in the group the barest beginnings of an education. He was wonderfully knowledgeable and able to answer questions without losing us on detail. He made the many arms of the gods less threatening, despite the weapons wielded in each.
He started with the art of Gandhara--the melding of Indian-Buddhism symbols and forms with Greco-Macedonian classical conventions starting in the 3rd C. BCE. Greek facial features, classical Greek hair in ringlets topped with a Buddhist topknot of wisdom; classical draping and arrangement of clothes into a toga; Greek sandals; and a short body of un-classical eastern proportions but shielded with a muscled classical chest, standing on a pediment with a frieze of figures such that one would see on a sarcophagus . The example in the museum is quite instructive of the melding of the familiar with the unfamiliar in a specific setting. (There must be other examples of such cultural fusion come to life in the art of the period, but I can't think of any). A fusion that I'm sure made all the sense in the world to the artists of the day, little aware of what came before and after or what they were "suppose to do" or how they were "suppose to do it".
Our guide, George, explained the Buddhist goddess Tara. She comes in various colors, represented by the colors of the rainbow. I don't quite understand what all she does, or how she functions, but she is a helpful deity, one people turn to and she is known to deliver, ready to jump, coming to one's assistance. This pose of readiness is portrayed by the right leg having slid from its folded, seated position so that it hangs dependent over her seat in readiness to come to assistance. The right hand, open-palmed and dependent resting over the knee gives added motion and intent to her willingness. The way George explained this posture, a bit of ignorance was washed away.
HALLOWEEN
Everyone in NYC was in Halloween mood--much in the way of lawn (if there are lawns in Brooklyn) and fence decorations with cotton strew to look like thick cobwebs, pipe cleaner spiders, parts of human skeletons sticking up from the ground and of course pumpkins. Kids out all Saturday morning and afternoon in costume and adults and teens in the evening/night. Ninjas, Chinese princesses, supermen and Ghostbusters filled the subways. All quite glorious to see, everyone having fun, testing new personas. I haven't experienced Halloween with such intensity since I last trick or treated, probably 45 years ago. And that was before many people took the occasion as seriously as they now do.
NYC MARATHON
Sunday, the 1st was the NYC marathon. We saw the start with the elite women going first over the Verrazano Bridge from Staten Island into Brooklyn on TV then walked to the corner of 8th St. and 4th Avenue where we saw the runners run past--all 40,000! The energy was palpable, each runner a part of a larger organism. People around me were calling out, "Go Kate, go Fiona, Go Italy," urging the named runners, their country or the charities they were running for. Energy traveled both ways from runners to bystanders and back, people on the curb held out their hands, slapping palms with the runners. Despite the cold, the wind, the damp, I enjoyed it very much.
The wheelchair participants, the blind, the ones whom you know were out to prove a point were very heroic, including a white haired woman in a wheelchair. Some of the people looked as if they hadn't trained at all and doing grave injustice to their bodies should not have been in the field, their fat jiggling, but still, you have to hand it to them--just to try takes something.
AIRLINE REGULATIONS
Tues 3 Nov--JFK in the early afternoon is almost bare, not the time for flights to Europe or Asia. When I left Billings on Fri I had to remove some SIGN nails from my checked in bag because it was too heavy. So, Dick Freeman and I removed some to a separate box with some clothes to distribute the weight since the allowed check in baggage is 2 bags of 50 lbs each. The box was small, taped up and tied with rope--appropriate with all the roped suitcases on board for the sub continent. The check in people didn't like the box. I think it was too small and their reasoning of it getting wet and ruined didn't make sense. So I was asked to put the box into my red roll-on. After all that work or trying to figure out what is right! Preparing for the next leg to Kathmandu, I've discarded the box since its individual contents are easier to stuff in the red bag. I hope I don't get called again on this.
For the one airport that is the primary eastern gateway to the US, JFK is very tawdry; the people who should be nice are rude, barking orders. In a restroom, I couldn't get hand soap from a whole series of dispensers. The cleaner yelled from her duties, "no soap". I gestured disgust with a shrug and she came out and flicked her hand along the line of soapless sinks, "no soap," she said, as if I was totally clueless and gestured for me to use the other line of sinks. Does the airport have the funds to fill only one line of hand soap dispensers?
DELHI
A night in India, for the 14 hour layover before the flight to Kathmandu.
I'm back in the land of ledger books whose white, colored and carbon papers are of flimsy stuff, so that the ink feathers and is unreadable. How incongruent for a country with a huge computer and informational business. This is also the land of lackeys and gofers--a surfeit of official low level workers who in their attempts to be helpful get in the way.
NEW YORK AND THE RUBIN MUSEUM OF ART
A couple weeks ago I came upon the name and description of this museum and a coupon from the internet for a free pass to accompany a person paying full price. I thought this would be something worthwhile to prime a trip to Nepal and Bhutan. Dick Freeman and I spent an informative afternoon in this tasteful, new museum. One of the organization's goals is to inform and educate people about the art one finds in the Himalayan areas, concentrating on a Tibetan Buddhism. This it does very well.
At the suggestion of the ticket seller, we joined a small tour group run by a white-haired gentleman who by picking a few exhibits gave the half dozen in the group the barest beginnings of an education. He was wonderfully knowledgeable and able to answer questions without losing us on detail. He made the many arms of the gods less threatening, despite the weapons wielded in each.
He started with the art of Gandhara--the melding of Indian-Buddhism symbols and forms with Greco-Macedonian classical conventions starting in the 3rd C. BCE. Greek facial features, classical Greek hair in ringlets topped with a Buddhist topknot of wisdom; classical draping and arrangement of clothes into a toga; Greek sandals; and a short body of un-classical eastern proportions but shielded with a muscled classical chest, standing on a pediment with a frieze of figures such that one would see on a sarcophagus . The example in the museum is quite instructive of the melding of the familiar with the unfamiliar in a specific setting. (There must be other examples of such cultural fusion come to life in the art of the period, but I can't think of any). A fusion that I'm sure made all the sense in the world to the artists of the day, little aware of what came before and after or what they were "suppose to do" or how they were "suppose to do it".
Our guide, George, explained the Buddhist goddess Tara. She comes in various colors, represented by the colors of the rainbow. I don't quite understand what all she does, or how she functions, but she is a helpful deity, one people turn to and she is known to deliver, ready to jump, coming to one's assistance. This pose of readiness is portrayed by the right leg having slid from its folded, seated position so that it hangs dependent over her seat in readiness to come to assistance. The right hand, open-palmed and dependent resting over the knee gives added motion and intent to her willingness. The way George explained this posture, a bit of ignorance was washed away.
HALLOWEEN
Everyone in NYC was in Halloween mood--much in the way of lawn (if there are lawns in Brooklyn) and fence decorations with cotton strew to look like thick cobwebs, pipe cleaner spiders, parts of human skeletons sticking up from the ground and of course pumpkins. Kids out all Saturday morning and afternoon in costume and adults and teens in the evening/night. Ninjas, Chinese princesses, supermen and Ghostbusters filled the subways. All quite glorious to see, everyone having fun, testing new personas. I haven't experienced Halloween with such intensity since I last trick or treated, probably 45 years ago. And that was before many people took the occasion as seriously as they now do.
NYC MARATHON
Sunday, the 1st was the NYC marathon. We saw the start with the elite women going first over the Verrazano Bridge from Staten Island into Brooklyn on TV then walked to the corner of 8th St. and 4th Avenue where we saw the runners run past--all 40,000! The energy was palpable, each runner a part of a larger organism. People around me were calling out, "Go Kate, go Fiona, Go Italy," urging the named runners, their country or the charities they were running for. Energy traveled both ways from runners to bystanders and back, people on the curb held out their hands, slapping palms with the runners. Despite the cold, the wind, the damp, I enjoyed it very much.
The wheelchair participants, the blind, the ones whom you know were out to prove a point were very heroic, including a white haired woman in a wheelchair. Some of the people looked as if they hadn't trained at all and doing grave injustice to their bodies should not have been in the field, their fat jiggling, but still, you have to hand it to them--just to try takes something.
AIRLINE REGULATIONS
Tues 3 Nov--JFK in the early afternoon is almost bare, not the time for flights to Europe or Asia. When I left Billings on Fri I had to remove some SIGN nails from my checked in bag because it was too heavy. So, Dick Freeman and I removed some to a separate box with some clothes to distribute the weight since the allowed check in baggage is 2 bags of 50 lbs each. The box was small, taped up and tied with rope--appropriate with all the roped suitcases on board for the sub continent. The check in people didn't like the box. I think it was too small and their reasoning of it getting wet and ruined didn't make sense. So I was asked to put the box into my red roll-on. After all that work or trying to figure out what is right! Preparing for the next leg to Kathmandu, I've discarded the box since its individual contents are easier to stuff in the red bag. I hope I don't get called again on this.
For the one airport that is the primary eastern gateway to the US, JFK is very tawdry; the people who should be nice are rude, barking orders. In a restroom, I couldn't get hand soap from a whole series of dispensers. The cleaner yelled from her duties, "no soap". I gestured disgust with a shrug and she came out and flicked her hand along the line of soapless sinks, "no soap," she said, as if I was totally clueless and gestured for me to use the other line of sinks. Does the airport have the funds to fill only one line of hand soap dispensers?
DELHI
A night in India, for the 14 hour layover before the flight to Kathmandu.
I'm back in the land of ledger books whose white, colored and carbon papers are of flimsy stuff, so that the ink feathers and is unreadable. How incongruent for a country with a huge computer and informational business. This is also the land of lackeys and gofers--a surfeit of official low level workers who in their attempts to be helpful get in the way.
12 June 2009
Return to Balkh and the Salang Tunnel
Southside of the Salang Tunnel
Walls of the Bala Hissar at Balkh, late afternoon.
(I started this final blog about Afghanistan on the 4th of June and became distracted. Please forgive. )
For my last weekend in Mazar I had asked for a trip to walk the walls of Balkh with someone who knew the area. Most of my doctor friends are not particularly interested in the history that fuels these desires and do not feel comfortable in this town that is known to have strong taliban ties. Someone big and knowledgeable about the area--in short a Pashtun protector--was what I was after. On Thursday it seemed that the trip wasn't going to come off but at 08:00 Friday morning Rahimullah called to say he would pick me up at 14:15 to take me to a cross-roads where Dr. Meraj, one of our colleagues, would be waiting to take me to Balkh.
On most outings with Afghans I am generally left in the dark. Though I might request to see certain things, the going, the timing, and much of the execution are up to others. This is unnatural for me. On this trip, I was particularly left in the dark. Afghans aren't the sort to start the trip with a little organizational pow-wow, outlining the details of the agenda. Even among the planners, the details seem to get sorted out, piecemeal, as they arise, and rarely with a "plan B" in place in case plan A fails. I wasn't sure Meraj knew exactly what I wanted, or maybe he correctly thought better to ignore my requests, after all, what person really wants to walk around Balkh's walls when the temperature hovers at 100°F. His English is rough and I often find bits are missing in the translation of words to action. He asked a friend of his, Shah Gawsi, who lives in Balkh and who knows many of the ruins to accompany us. I had badly misjudged Meraj.
On our way into the town, Meraj asked if I knew Jalalludin Rumi. I caught enough to recognize the name of the Sufi poet. The celebrated Rumi had left Balkh at the age of 12, two years before Genghis Khan razed the city and massacred the population in the early 13th century. Shah Gawsi took us on a tour of the shrines to Rumi, plus some other shrines, of which Balkh holds an inordinate number. None of them were particularly beautiful, but all were festive with Friday picnickers. At the first shrine I commented on the majesty of a tall chenar tree. The next shrine was graced with a much larger chenar, a lofty patriarch with many trunks spawned from its ancient roots. It was truly a tree to be worshipped. A rope and wooden-seated swing hung from a stout branch and young bearded men vied with each other to pump for acrobatic height. I was entertained, watching the boy-men swing in the cool shade, being, as well, entertainment as a farangi woman.
We drove to the ruins of Rumi's house and the mosque/madressa of his father Bauhuidin. Only a few preserved ogive arches of baked brick and mud survive. Shah Gawsi said the Turkish government wants to develop this area for tourism, but the villagers have rightly nixed the plan. I could gain little sense of Rumi, but these ruins in the middle of the village's fields and orchards gave a sense of the timelessness of the people and landscape. We continued to drive a further few kilometers on a dusty road through another village of horse carts and people working in their fields to another shrine. The village roofs were stacked with thick, brown rounds of animal fuel, like great loaves of rustic hearth-baked bread.
On this particular shrine, to one of Rumi's teachers I remain completely ignorant. The grave lies in a garden, a true refuge from the heat, among fruit trees. We walked under grape arbors and a haphazard orchard mixed with roses to an unwalled compound, maybe 12 by 12 meters, of flatted packed dirt deep in the shade of surrounding chenars. The old man guardian was smoking hashish in his cool garden on this hot afternoon. We paid our respects and left in peace.
We back tracked to the inner ancient wall of Balkh, and another shrine, this to Shah Nabi, under a huge rip-stop tent. His long grave could have held a dozen or two uncrowded bodies. From there we entered the ancient inner city walls. When I was in Balkh 3 years ago, I wasn't oriented, this time, Meraj pointed out ruins and sights to me and I finally got a sense of the ancient city--the outer walls extending into the orchards and fields, the inner city walls of the Bala Hissar, and finally the walls of the high citadel. Were these the walls Alexander saw? Were these outlines of the Bala Hissar the walls under which he married Roxanne, the 13 year old daughter of a Sogdian warlord? I don't know. The city inside these ruined mounds of mud had been a living, changing entity through its thousands of years of habitation.
From the citadel we drove across the empty space of the old inner city, the Bala Hissar, and through another portal to another shrine and walked along the walls a short way. Meraj wanted to show me the mosque-shrine to Nasra Parsa and the grave of the poetess, Rabia Balkhi, a princess who fell in love with a slave, was imprisoned for her passion, and died writing her final poem in her own blood. We walked through the cool central park of Balkh in the late afternoon. It smelled of deep shaded greenery. The gypsy women were gone. I was walking with two men, one large and the other known in the city and two children. I was looked at, but the stares were not obtrusive because I was protected. For all I know the stares were harsher, longer, but the presence of men beside me, their sauntering attitude, their unhesitancy at approaching the shrines, deflected all the negatives. How remarkable this was. I liked Balkh; the park that before had been filled with luring men, turning, twice, three times to stare at me, no longer existed.
About 18:00 we returned to Shah Gawsi's orchard, picked sour cherries then rested on some carpets, toshaks (thin mattresses),and pillows he had laid out on some well-tamped dirt under a 9-trunked chenar whose leaves grew as large as a man's head. Another magnificent specimen. From this slightly elevated position I sat in the background, out of the conversation, unobtrusive. I watched people slowly, sauntering by or casually pedaling a single-geared bike under the trees and along the walls, returning home in the early evening dusk.
A young man climbed a nearby mulberry, tut, tree, shook it while young boys held a sheet to catch the falling fruit. Like kings, we were handed platters of sweet, soft, white tut that melted in the mouth. This was an Afghan scene I'd read about many times, thinking it bordered on perfection, yet sure I'd never experience it. Meraj handed it to me along with his tour of the walls--like the tut--on a platter, perfectly ripe and without even knowing it is what I most desired.
A few days after this trip to Balkh I left Mazar on the bus to Kabul over the Salang Pass and tunnel. I Bought bus tickets for myself and Amy Son, who was in Mazar visiting from Kabul, the day before. I wanted two window seats so we could both have unobstructed views of the countryside, but the man wouldn't sell them; the two foreign women had to sit together. When I protested, the ticket seller looked at me with furrowed forehead and explained to Rahimullah, "But who will sit next to them?" No lone male would sit beside us and no lone female travels--they always have someone with them.
The bus hit the road at 04:20. People were already working in the fields. It was still a bit dark and the window at our seat was clouded with something between the two panes, so I didn't get the sort of view I expected. South of Tashqurgan we passed through a narrow, windy gorge of red rock. Despite the clouded window and the early light, the red gorge was quite spectacular--the sort of pass a caravan master would not attempt without being accompanied by armed guards. Traveling through the pass, I had a better feel for the difference between the flatness of the extensive plain around Mazar and points north and the significant barrier made by the wall of mountains to its south. After about 10 kms the pass opened into a 1-2 km wide valley ringed with low hills. It was heavily cultivated and the grass of the hills was just beginning to turn brown from summer heat.
We climbed through wheat fields and pasture lands; the higher we went the greener the landscape became, as if going back in time. We passed through the town of Puli-Kumrei after two hours travel and from there started to climb into the mountains, through wide, green, cultivated valleys and mud houses piled one on top of the other. Flowering tamarisk blossomed along the river, surrounded by rocky, treeless mountains. The sweep of wide, vertical "footprints" left by the cascading waters that had come down the mountains in the snow melt played out in a lighter shade of brown against the rock and were zig-zagged with sheep and goat trails. We passed nomadic koochi encampments tucked into the valley offshoots, each made up of a half dozen tents (a couple of which were inevitably stamped, "UN"), hundreds of sheep, and a few camels. Groups of nomads were on the move, the small children perched on camels, slowly, sedately taking-up their portion of the road, the trucks and buses moving around them. As we climbed a thin overcast dulled the sky. The mountains became sheer rock faces and the river divided into innumerable streams of frothy white water rushing through treeless, alpine bog dotted with spikes of yellow red-hot pokers. The air was cool and smelled of fresh of water and mint.
Before we entered the Salang tunnel, (at 3400 meters altitude and 2.6. km long) we passed through a series of roofed, partly open "half-tunnels" that protect the road from avalanche. We came out of the dark Salang tunnel to snow and bright light, speeding down the hair pin turns. Fresh spring was in full brightness on the south side of the tunnel. Poplar leaves shimmered in the sun, and a much earlier green graced the terraced hillsides on the cooler south slopes of the Hindu Kush. The Shomali plains north of Kabul were still lush, unbeaten by the heat that had swiftly turned the plains of north Afghanistan into baked fields ready for harvest.
Many farangis try to pass unobtrusively in Afghanistan. Women especially go to great lengths in dress and manner to be like Afghan women. Though it is true that with my skin and hair color I could on first glance be mistaken for an Afghan, there is something in the way I stand and walk that shouts out: "foreigner." Plus I have no desire to be treated like an Afghan woman--I can think of nothing more degrading. Instead I use and have become dependent on the courtesy extended to me by this foreignness. This stems from the responsibility Afghans automatically assume for the protection of the guest in their midst. For the conductor and even for the ticket seller, who would not give me two window seats, my being a guest was never questioned. I was never asked to show a ticket, but the conductor knew where my seat wase--he had been warned about the two farangi women traveling on the morning bus. He kept track of us, showing us the toilet facilities when we stopped for a tea break. He remembered which side of the bus my luggage had been placed and retrieved it as soon as we arrived in Kabul.
31 May 2009
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.
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.
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