As my last post described, I have been in the midst of an intense time at work. For over two months, I've struggled (with help) to finish the building phase of the soybean mill, complete commissioning production, and more recently, take on the first soybean harvest in Iraq. The challenges have been numerous and overwhelming in each of these projects. I have been forced back in time and into myself, specifically to reflect on the concept of work. Not just work as labor capital, or an economic exchange, but work as it relates to the soul, the body, natural processes and cycles.
I began working when I was quite young, hauling hay at age eleven, and eventually running my own landscaping business by the time I graduated from high school. Odd jobs were never lacking. Building decks, cleaning horse stalls, and random construction projects often took priority over school work. I liked having money to pay for gas, play billiards, go to tractor-pulls, and buy tobacco--all the "rebellious" things a rural Tennessee kid desires. Besides the money, I remember manual labor feeling much more satisfying than sitting in a classroom. After all, we had class to learn about things I might never pursue or use, things that were suppose to provide me opportunity down the road. And those opportunities would then turn into money, stuff, prestige, and if I was lucky, power. (They didn't say it this way, but it was the subliminal message.)
I don't despise education at all. For those that know me, I am now passionate about learning and increasing opportunity as I increase in knowledge. However, the precepts taught in high school are out of step; success is defined in the wrong terms and thus the path to get there is misconstrued. Our society has taught us that work can only be valued by the money which is derived in exchange for it. I think this notion is fundamentally false, based purely on economic theory and reasoning. Indeed, we can place a dollar value on work, and doing so can grant insight into the economic dealings which dictate much of our lives. Economics is a valuable discipline, but cannot stand on its own. We value things this way, perhaps at the most basic level, because we are absolutely convinced that money will bring about happiness and make our dreams come true.
Two interconnected issues arise from this premise. The first is that increasingly, we are undervaluing things and people around us due to our inadequate system of valuation. Biodiversity is shrinking because we cannot assume something's value just for the fact that it exists. Seniors have no value because they are no longer able to provide what they once could to push the economy forward. According to the economy and the economist, they are invalids. Yet, I imagine if we spent time delving into their life experiences and knowledge we might find an incredible store of wisdom; it is likely less related to making money and being successful, and more related to the quality of life one is living. If we cannot find an immediate use, or project an income from something, we dismiss it as having no value, and therefore, it is neglected, unworthy of attention and protection. We leave no room for mystery and possibility, which is a dastardly mistake considering our limited knowledge and inability to reason into the future.
The second issue relates more to the human aspect of work. We no longer seek to do that which provides us a higher quality of life based on our necessities. Rather, we do the things we hate because they pay more; because we believe it will provide us with a larger quantity of our wants. The ecosystems that thrive in the world, those that present more opportunity and hold more life, are not composed of what a single organism has built and colonized. Those natural communities that thrive are built on and within a complex system of nearly infinite, minute interactions that require each being to play its role, to live within the discipline of its own evolution and creation. It takes only a glimpse into our cities and countryside to see that we have denigrated both humans and our environment to the dollar sign. The breadbasket of a America is covered in less than seven major crops. We use approximately 382 million acres for crop production; 282 million of which are planted in corn, soybeans, hay, wheat, cotton, sorghum, and rice. Compare this many acres to a 1 acre garden with more than 25 different foodstuffs, enough to feed a family of five and still sell to the market. I would much rather spend my day working in the garden than on a combine in the middle of a 5,000 acre corn plot. Diversity brings life.
In an environmental sense, our cities are in much the same shape as the 5,000 acre farm. We work hard to create human diversity in cites; for this, I am grateful. Cities can be magnificent places, where culture, art, and community thrive. Human civilization and a civil society require these elements, but all to often, cities are void of our dependence on the natural world, the processes and cycles that drive food production and dictate the availability of resources. All things found in the city are derived from an original source. We pride ourselves in creating new things, but forget that whatever we create necessitates the extraction and manipulation of an existing, natural material. The decisions driving our expansion and extraction, our use of natural resources, our exploitation of invaluable raw materials are made from high rise office buildings. Farming methods, crop production, and the physical world are devalued by the abstract, dis-associative system of money valuation.
For us to thrive, we must consider the natural context of diversity. We must be aware of our influence on the things around us, and perhaps more importantly, of the influence those things have on us. I am not so naive as to think that we should dissolve our cities, nor that everyone should live on a farm. But, I do hope that our cities consider alternative options for growth and planning, such as green-roofing, roof-top and community gardening, planting trees, and creating green-space. Our philosophies of quantity and abstract valuation are bleeding into the world. We are maligning human-environment systems of interaction which have lasted for several millennia. Developing cities and nations are following our footsteps, and often take drastically detrimental footsteps in trying to "catch up" and "keep up". River systems are destroyed for the rock and soil at their edges. Entire populations of fish and aquatic life die due to lack of erosion control. Flooding is more probable and destructive than ever before due to our inability to reason ahead and plan for our impact on the hydrologic cycle. We justify it with the jobs created, the money made, and the ease with which we can move around doing the work we don't want to do, for money that won't bring about the ends we want.
Work can be for money, but also a way to explore our unique fit into the complex and mysterious workings of the world, our eco-system. Instead of working solely (and often miserably) for money, the so-called means to our end, which is thought to be human happiness, we should move toward a different philosophy of work--that work is the discipline and joy of today. The discipline is in reminding oneself that reaching the end would only bring about further doubt, insecurity, and some other nonsensical pursuit. The joy of work is in knowing that you are made, evolved and created, to fit into the complexities of the natural world. There is joy in recognizing our smallness, and also our uniqueness in this shrinking but still diverse Earth. For those who work from this philosophy, work is the means and the end.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Thursday, October 18, 2012
My Job Isn't Glamorous, But It's Worth It
Living overseas has a peculiar way of making one know who they are, and who they aren't. This is the eighth time in the past six years I've spent more than a month abroad; the longest period being nine months in Thailand and the shortest a month in Turkey and Cyprus. Yet, with more than two years of experience abroad, struggles with cultural difference and periods of intense homesickness continue to wash over me in unpredictable waves. Though few and far between were my entries, I find it paradoxically comforting and disconcerting to read old journals from in-between times in Tennessee. There were periods, typically upon re-entry, that everything about "home" was glorified--the weather, food, coffee shops and bars, access to the outdoors and various hobbies, and most of all, familiar people doing familiar things, especially family. As I read past the initial months in the journal, the sinking feeling of wistfulness and ancy yearnings for the uniqueness and erratic dealings of life beyond my own culture are apparent in my writing. Unfortunately, I haven't found that perfect place in the world where I and everyone else are happy all the time.
I'm learning various disciplines at the moment. Many virtues become important when you're tossed headlong into another society. I think its because the abstractions are all that's left to hold onto. Currently, patience and perseverance top the list. Time doesn't operate the same way here. Everything moves according to events, not the clock. So, as we plan out our workday, I have to account for the many teas I'll drink and the social aspect of completing projects and buying parts. With Western deadlines, this can be incredibly stressful.
Perseverance comes with both language and work. I run around town for lots of parts; explaining issues I don't know much about, mainly electrical and mechanical, in a language I don't know very well. Its been a long while since I've been this exhausted, almost to the point of sickness. My body feels chewed up, mashed and beaten by the machines. It feels like betrayal to work this hard, this many hours, and still see the enormous labor necessary to get over the first year "hump", which actually feels like the highest mountain in the whole damn world, only without the splendor. Last night I was driving to a business meeting and tears came to my eyes as I thought of finishing this year's harvest and milling. I've never worked through anything near as difficult as the things Natalie and I have faced since last December. Afghanistan, two months "homeless" at home, and now Iraq (actually Kurdistan, but most are unaware).
For Natalie, I know for certain the greatest difficulty has not been the difference in gender roles, finding the right job, or even physical security; it has been the distance, the isolation from family and friends, missing out on key events. But not only for the important happenings, also and especially she has craved being with them for the day-in and day-out experience of life as a unit. They are a tight bunch, and indeed, I am a lucky man to be part of their lovely crew.
For us, it has been challenging to face the changes, pressures, and questions that arise from living here. In our first 18 months of marriage, we've had to discuss everything from our deepest insecurities, which penetrate many layers of identity, to the concept of death as it applies to each of us. All of these intense topics have tested us, and so far, they have only caused our love to grow. We are learning the art of quarreling and pushing through challenging circumstances. It is only an art because we are committed to winning as a couple both in arguing and facing the trials around us. Every day, my heart grows fonder, not in spite of the disagreements and demanding externalities, but because of them. I suppose this isn't very logical, but what does make sense is clinging to one another as the storm rages on.
For me, I have certainly missed my family, my close friends, and especially spending time with all of my little nephews and new niece. I miss Sunday lunch at my grandparents, and heading to the river with my dad and brothers for the afternoon. I miss visiting my sister's farm. Work has consumed me to the point that it rules many of my thoughts, even my dreams at night. It may be because I'm working mostly in areas I would consider myself quite weak, in a stupendously hard place to do any sort of work. But, it's also likely I'm afraid of the responsibilities and look for a way to justify the freedom of doing something easy. Indeed, it is enticing to give up, to quit. Maybe I could work at a coffee shop and spend my free time committed to hobbies, hunting and fishing, outdoors, small scale farming, and doing the many things I'm unable to do here. It may be that one day this will happen (aside from working at a coffee shop), and I hope it does. But for now, I press on in hope that what we do here could change a city, a region, or even the world in some small way.
I'm learning various disciplines at the moment. Many virtues become important when you're tossed headlong into another society. I think its because the abstractions are all that's left to hold onto. Currently, patience and perseverance top the list. Time doesn't operate the same way here. Everything moves according to events, not the clock. So, as we plan out our workday, I have to account for the many teas I'll drink and the social aspect of completing projects and buying parts. With Western deadlines, this can be incredibly stressful.
Perseverance comes with both language and work. I run around town for lots of parts; explaining issues I don't know much about, mainly electrical and mechanical, in a language I don't know very well. Its been a long while since I've been this exhausted, almost to the point of sickness. My body feels chewed up, mashed and beaten by the machines. It feels like betrayal to work this hard, this many hours, and still see the enormous labor necessary to get over the first year "hump", which actually feels like the highest mountain in the whole damn world, only without the splendor. Last night I was driving to a business meeting and tears came to my eyes as I thought of finishing this year's harvest and milling. I've never worked through anything near as difficult as the things Natalie and I have faced since last December. Afghanistan, two months "homeless" at home, and now Iraq (actually Kurdistan, but most are unaware).
For Natalie, I know for certain the greatest difficulty has not been the difference in gender roles, finding the right job, or even physical security; it has been the distance, the isolation from family and friends, missing out on key events. But not only for the important happenings, also and especially she has craved being with them for the day-in and day-out experience of life as a unit. They are a tight bunch, and indeed, I am a lucky man to be part of their lovely crew.
For us, it has been challenging to face the changes, pressures, and questions that arise from living here. In our first 18 months of marriage, we've had to discuss everything from our deepest insecurities, which penetrate many layers of identity, to the concept of death as it applies to each of us. All of these intense topics have tested us, and so far, they have only caused our love to grow. We are learning the art of quarreling and pushing through challenging circumstances. It is only an art because we are committed to winning as a couple both in arguing and facing the trials around us. Every day, my heart grows fonder, not in spite of the disagreements and demanding externalities, but because of them. I suppose this isn't very logical, but what does make sense is clinging to one another as the storm rages on.
For me, I have certainly missed my family, my close friends, and especially spending time with all of my little nephews and new niece. I miss Sunday lunch at my grandparents, and heading to the river with my dad and brothers for the afternoon. I miss visiting my sister's farm. Work has consumed me to the point that it rules many of my thoughts, even my dreams at night. It may be because I'm working mostly in areas I would consider myself quite weak, in a stupendously hard place to do any sort of work. But, it's also likely I'm afraid of the responsibilities and look for a way to justify the freedom of doing something easy. Indeed, it is enticing to give up, to quit. Maybe I could work at a coffee shop and spend my free time committed to hobbies, hunting and fishing, outdoors, small scale farming, and doing the many things I'm unable to do here. It may be that one day this will happen (aside from working at a coffee shop), and I hope it does. But for now, I press on in hope that what we do here could change a city, a region, or even the world in some small way.
Friday, August 10, 2012
Life & Business, Not So Typical
We landed in the dusty Erbil airport on June 21st at 3:30 pm. Our good friend picked us up and took us to our Country Director's house where we stayed for three days, and then we moved into a transitional home. We lucked out because it's very expensive for short-term housing here, and we paid a normal month's rent to stay in a nice, furnished home that an American family had left for the summer. It was a great place to make home base while we went through the motions of finding our own home, obtaining residency, and buying a vehicle.
I was surprised to find rent here to be so incredibly expensive, on average around $1000 US per month based on everything we found anyway. After much searching, we found a home in a middle class, blue collar-like neighborhood for under our budgeted amount. It was a big win considering we then had to spend quite a lot of money furnishing the home and fixing it up. When renting or buying a home, there isn't a lot of time to think about it. You check it out, and basically have to decide that day whether you want it or not. The market turns over quickly and waiting a day probably means losing your chance at that particular place. Initially, we thought this place was perfect, and now that we're more or less settled in, we feel that way again. The month inbetween was similar to hell for me because it consisted of a seemingly infinite list of mundane tasks. I found myself very frustrated at all the problems--fixing light switches, installing toilets and A/C units, painting, buying light fixtures, sealing up the doors and windows for bugs and dust, and on and on the list went, all without having our own vehicle, which we finally bought about two weeks ago. Now most of the "fix it" list is complete and the furnishing list we have reduced to things we can count on one hand. Life is becoming more typical with regular trips to the grocery store and a semi-set routine.
Now, work has been very interesting. As most of you already know, I work for an agribusiness called Agrisoya. We were a company started by the non-profit organization, SALT International. We worked with the Ministry of Agriculture (MOA) to conduct a few years of research trials, and now we're working with farmers to help them grow soybeans as a cash crop. At harvest time in October, we will buy the beans, process them into low-fat soybean meal and sell the product to a local poultry producer. Thus far, the farmers have done quite well with this year's crop, aside from a few issues with irrigation and weed control, and we're looking forward to yields between 1 MT per acre and 1 MT per donum, which is excellent even in comparison to some places in the states, and especially this year due to the drought. And the factory will soon be commissioned and on it's way to full operating capacity by the end of September.
My official role in this is to be the Director of Training & Research, which means I will (eventually) spend most of my time assisting the Chief Agronomist and conducting seminars, field days, and training sessions with the university, MOA, and farmers. As a business within it's first six months, all four employees are scrambling to get things jump-started, organized, and on a sustainable path. This means long hours, as is typical in new businesses, but along with that, in an entirely different culture with a language barrier and few friends to whom we can vent.
Iraq is among the eight most corrupt countries in the world according to Transparency International (http://www.iraq-businessnews.com/tag/transparency-international/), and it is ranked 164 of 183 for overall "ease of doing business" by RealClearWorld (http://world-business-rank.realclearworld.com/l/348/Iraq). As one might guess, this makes everything incredibly challenging. A simple task that might take thirty minutes to an hour in the States might take a day or more here. However, I must distinguish here between the Kurdish Region of Iraq, and the Central Government in Baghdad. The information above relates to the whole of Iraq, including the Kurdish Regional Governate (KRG). However, it has to be taken into account that Barzani has gone to great lengths in the KRG to protect the rights of businesses and provide a fair litigation process. I am grateful for the KRG's ambition to distinguish itself as a profitable and fair place to do business, even if it is far from being realized due to high levels of corruption and isolation.
Iraq is among the eight most corrupt countries in the world according to Transparency International (http://www.iraq-businessnews.com/tag/transparency-international/), and it is ranked 164 of 183 for overall "ease of doing business" by RealClearWorld (http://world-business-rank.realclearworld.com/l/348/Iraq). As one might guess, this makes everything incredibly challenging. A simple task that might take thirty minutes to an hour in the States might take a day or more here. However, I must distinguish here between the Kurdish Region of Iraq, and the Central Government in Baghdad. The information above relates to the whole of Iraq, including the Kurdish Regional Governate (KRG). However, it has to be taken into account that Barzani has gone to great lengths in the KRG to protect the rights of businesses and provide a fair litigation process. I am grateful for the KRG's ambition to distinguish itself as a profitable and fair place to do business, even if it is far from being realized due to high levels of corruption and isolation.
I have often thought over the past few years that I would pursue my PhD in International Relations with some concentration on food security issues and conflict. I am grateful for this opportunity to work in an agribusiness on the ground in an international context, especially in Iraq and formerly Afghanistan. What I am learning right now, I believe, will only increase my understanding of the pragmatic issues people, businesses, and governments must face in order to see social, economic, and political progress--all of which are necessary to create a food secure environment for the future. I hope being involved in the initial phases of this is as rewarding as it is stressful. Business registration, budgetary policies, a foreign legal system and bureaucracy, obtaining credit at high risk, working across cultural and linguistic barriers, and a broken, or at the very least, disjointed supply chain are among the many factors that make work tough for us. Some signs give me hope, such as Dr. Talib Elam's blogs--http://www.kurdistanfoodsecurity.com/2012/05/kurdistan-benefit-of-soybean-production_15.html. It is possible to see a healthy, and food secure Kurdistan in Northern Iraq, and we are working hard on many levels to see that happen.
Also, if you're interested in seeing pictures of the soy fields and factory, check this out: http://www.hebervega.com/2012/07/16/my-work-for-salt-international/.
Also, if you're interested in seeing pictures of the soy fields and factory, check this out: http://www.hebervega.com/2012/07/16/my-work-for-salt-international/.
Tennessee in the Spring
Last time I wrote, I was readying myself to leave Mazar-i-Sharif, Afganistan, and preparing for a few months in the states. I expected to write, at least once a month, while at home, but the time never seemed right, the words never came. Then, I hoped to begin writing, once a week, in Erbil, but the transition into a new home, culture, city, and job has bogged me down. I guess I can make excuses all day long for why I didn't write or reason my way through the lack of motivation to write. Let's move on to what happened back in Tennessee during springtime.
We spent a few days in Dubai in transit between Afghanistan and Denver. Natalie and I walked from our hotel to the Mall of the Emirates, which contains a snow skiing slope. I watched children eating McDonald's french fries, and couldn't help but think back to the kids waving to us in the streets of Mazar (and even further back to India, Ethiopia, etc...). The feeling was overwhelming but I can't put words to it. At first, it was saddening, and then I felt angry, and then apathy, which I guess was my mind's way of saying "this is too big for you, move on". Our two days there didn't seem real. It was like being in a city on a different planet. We only flew about five hours, but we changed temperatures by about 50-60 degrees Fahrenheit, went from stark and unforgiving mountains to beaches and sky-scrapers, from beat-up cars and crazy drivers to $250 k cars with 16 year old drivers.
From Dubai, we flew to Denver where we spent a week drinking good beer, eating great food, and driving through the mountains with Natalie's aunt. And let's not forget the wonders of central heat! We felt relieved. It was like getting a breath of air after a deep dive to the bottom of a swimming pool where the water presses hard from all directions. We were groggy and jet-lagged the first few days, but by the end of the week we were wide-eyed and mystified by the familiar comforts of the United States. Natalie's aunt showed great hospitality while we stayed with her and her husband, and we can't wait to visit again at some point, or to return the favor in Iraq. Toward the end of the week, I went snow skiing with an old friend. I hadn't been since I was around 18 or so, and it was exhilarating. It reminded me of the pleasures one can find when physical activity and the outdoors are put together. I've always been fond of such things, as a way to stay mentally sharp and healthy, almost like meditation, but being in Afghanistan, unable to pursue any outdoor activity (with ease anyway), really drained me. Very thankful to my friend Ben for that experience.
We flew back to Des Moines, and traveled back to Grinnell with my friend Jordan in our Subaru, which I missed dearly in AF. We were only in Grinnell for a few weeks before packing everything up for the move back to Tennessee. These few weeks were a blur catching up at work and trying to plan out the rest of our time before the leap to Iraq. I'm one of those weirdo's that find transition sensational--leaving the known behind and heading straight into the mystery. This was true of my thoughts and emotions in the U-Haul back to TN, even if I was only transitioning back "home".
In traveling back and forth over the past few years, I've realized that even returning home to familiar things can be quite adventurous. I think it's because we change, all of us, but when we're together we don't notice. After spending time away and returning, the changes are more noticeable. Every time I've left and returned, I've made new friends and acquaintances, but this time was unique. I only spent time with those closest to me, and didn't really meet anyone new. I kept to myself, trying to write, read, and process the past year, and more really, and also trying to pull the various pieces of my identity together from each of my experiences. I don't like being idle. I don't like not working. This was the hardest aspect of my being home. It forced me to stop and think, to rest and not worry about fulfilling obligations or goals, or pursuing dreams and ambitions. This time was preserved by the fact that work was guaranteed ahead, but there were no responsibilities for several months. It was a necessary thing before moving to Iraq for a minimum of two years, and while there were days I felt miserable and purposeless, I look back joyfully at the time I had fishing, sitting by the fire, and relaxing with the closest of family and friends. Tennessee is amazing in the spring. I want this time again, but it will be a while.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Closing Thoughts from Mazar-i-Sharif
Here we are in the last week of our three month work stint in Afghanistan. It has been challenging and difficult, unique and surreal. I would characterize none of our three months here as comfortable or easy, but every bit of it as worthy of our time and effort. I will leave this place with a larger heart, a mind more able, and experiences unforgettable.
As a young person, I have begun to understand the challenges of training in a culture that values and respects age, even over education and experience. I have sought to train with grace and humility, and by asking questions rather than making statements. The managers seem to have learned quite a lot in spite of the different approach. After several weeks of training, I feel that they respect me, even as a young fella with few wrinkles on my face, and hands yet to wither in time.
Beyond the age issue, the concept of management in this culture is ambiguous, specifically middle management. Trust is grasped tightly by everyone, and more-so by the financially able. Money tends to stay within the family network. As a result of this, people that are capable may not obtain jobs they are qualified to do, while an unqualified family member is given a job.
In my experience here, business owners hired managers outside of the family, only to have lower level employees undermine them. Because the lower level employees were family, they perceived a right to work, which the managers couldn't overcome. Needless to say, those managers couldn't stay due to their lack of authority within the system. The new managers are perhaps more competent than those before, but could face similar problems if we don't adjust the structure of management to absorb these issues.
In my experience here, business owners hired managers outside of the family, only to have lower level employees undermine them. Because the lower level employees were family, they perceived a right to work, which the managers couldn't overcome. Needless to say, those managers couldn't stay due to their lack of authority within the system. The new managers are perhaps more competent than those before, but could face similar problems if we don't adjust the structure of management to absorb these issues.
Now, magnify this management problem on a national level; think particularly about the centralized government that has been built by a single figurehead in Kabul. This very same issue has stymied this country from creating a stable government that can stand beyond the limits of one individual. Without international support, this system that has been built over the past ten years could quite possibly crumble before the eyes of Afghans and the world. Afghan voices fill with fear when I've asked what they think about the next few years here. I'm not arguing that the US should stay; I'm only trying to relay what Afghans around me feel and think about their situation.
As a fairly punctual person, it has been challenging to work in the Afghan time scheme. I've faced this before, but not in the same manner as I have in the working environment at the factory. It is uncommon for anyone to be less than fifteen minutes late, which has been very frustrating. It has also been difficult to take on the wavering expectations and commitments of our partners and employees; getting electricity to the factory has been quite the fiasco.
As all things ebb and flow here, so have my responsibilities. Some weeks, I've felt the weight of preparing for WFP Inspections, training managers, and working toward a sustainable electrical solution, and other weeks, I've struggled to find emails to respond to just to keep busy. While most of the things above are negative, I don't view my time working here as negative, nor as a waste of time. I have learned from Afghans, as much or more as I may have given them. I will remember how challenging it was to work and live in this environment, but also that these challenges have only forced me to be all the more innovative and adaptive.
This blog may seem quite random; one paragraph doesn't necessarily lead to the next, and such is the way life happens in Mazar-i-Sharif. It is a taste of life in these muddy streets. Each day brings something new to the doorstep, sometimes adversity and great frustration, sometimes confusion, and sometimes delightful hospitality. Through my western eyes, I miss much of what goes on around me, but somehow it all comes together to create a coherent flow. I only hope that this flow moves in the direction of a modern economy, some degree of political freedom, and ultimately the rise of a country at peace with the world and at peace with itself. It may be far-fetched, and it most definitely isn't the responsibility of anyone but Afghans to make happen, but there is a glimmer of hope. I see it in the smiles of children as we pass them on the street. It's in each brick placed in the wall of a school and each girl that gets to attend there. It's in each Afghan college graduate, angry at the corruption and ambitious for change.
As all things ebb and flow here, so have my responsibilities. Some weeks, I've felt the weight of preparing for WFP Inspections, training managers, and working toward a sustainable electrical solution, and other weeks, I've struggled to find emails to respond to just to keep busy. While most of the things above are negative, I don't view my time working here as negative, nor as a waste of time. I have learned from Afghans, as much or more as I may have given them. I will remember how challenging it was to work and live in this environment, but also that these challenges have only forced me to be all the more innovative and adaptive.
This blog may seem quite random; one paragraph doesn't necessarily lead to the next, and such is the way life happens in Mazar-i-Sharif. It is a taste of life in these muddy streets. Each day brings something new to the doorstep, sometimes adversity and great frustration, sometimes confusion, and sometimes delightful hospitality. Through my western eyes, I miss much of what goes on around me, but somehow it all comes together to create a coherent flow. I only hope that this flow moves in the direction of a modern economy, some degree of political freedom, and ultimately the rise of a country at peace with the world and at peace with itself. It may be far-fetched, and it most definitely isn't the responsibility of anyone but Afghans to make happen, but there is a glimmer of hope. I see it in the smiles of children as we pass them on the street. It's in each brick placed in the wall of a school and each girl that gets to attend there. It's in each Afghan college graduate, angry at the corruption and ambitious for change.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Pictures: A Little Variety
Another day of Buzkashi with some new friends; this time in Mazar-i-Sharif.
This guy must have been close to seven feet tall, and his horse was quite the giant as well.
The overcast sky and muddy, icy fields made for a spectacular Buzkashi game with over 100 riders.
Having lunch at work. Sometimes a surreal experience. We have Kabuli Palao and bread. Kabuli Palao, or Kabul-styled rice, is made with lots of oil, raisins, and shredded carrots. We share large platters of this rice between two or three individuals, and usually eat with your fingers or bread (though I sometimes cheat with a spoon).
This is our night chowki-dor which is basically a watchman. We enjoy a cup of tea once or twice a week while he practices English and I Dari. This particular evening we worked our way through the magazine, Fur, Fish, & Game.
This picture can seem empty to the untrained eye, but there are many things we can pull from it. Notice the hook-shaped tube in the upper right corner. This is a lantern attachment for a bottle of natural gas, and probably the main source of light for them at night. There's also an oil lamp in the window, which would be used if they need to go outside of the lantern-lit room. They do actually have flashlights but said they prefer this. This large Persian rug is handmade and marks the main commons area; at the far end of the room, you can barely make out everyone's shoes, which are always taken off at the door. You can say a glass bowl of candy at the bottom, and a large thermos of chai on the right, two essentials in Afghan culture.
This is one of the gates over the central road in and out of Mazar. On the left, Ahmad Shah Massoud stares down at the road; he is a hero to many Tajiks and Northern Afghans but a warlord to others. He was assassinated on September 10, 2001 by two Arab extremists. An emblem of the Afghan flag sits in the center, and Hamid Karzai, the current President of Afghanistan is on the far right.
We pass these men selling fish every day on the way to the factory. I believe they are from the Amu Darya, an ancient river of the north. Most of them are carp, so I haven't exactly sought out an opportunity to eat or cook them.
This is the road toward our office. A woman begs sitting in the muddy road.
Your average orange stand, usually sitting on every other corner.
If you can make it out through the mud and snow, this is a chaikhana, or teahouse, around the corner from our house. I wrote about this in a former entry for those of you that have been tagging along.
The streets are always busy, lots of cars and many people. Its hard not to wonder what all of the are doing, where they're going, and why.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Gifts from the "Poor"
Natalie and I went to a friend's house for dinner last night. It took about 30 minutes to get there, and quite a while on muddy, potholed roads. We parked in front of a rickety metal door, which was set into a mud wall. We were greeted by younger brothers, maybe 8 to 12 years old, and ushered inside. As always, we removed our shoes at the front door, and continued the greetings for each sibling, friend, and family member present. Usually, you ask how the person is, how their health is, how life is, and how the family is; it can take 15 minutes just to say "hello" to everyone. This is revealing of the relational side to Afghans. We sat on toshaks, which are basically large pillows laid on the floor around the edges of a room, and waited for the main course. In the meantime, we made small talk, as much as possible in the bits and pieces of Dari we know. They served us nuts and drinks and brought in a small oil lamp to provide lighting.
The main course was brought in and placed before me and Natalie. We waited for others to be served, only to find out that everyone had already eaten with an aunt who had come a few hours before us. It was a little awkward to be the only ones eating the main course, but we had no choice but to dig in. As we began to eat, we learned everyone's name, how old some of them are, and what they do. The oldest brother has just finished a degree in Science from a local university, which is quite an accomplishment for a lower class family in a culture with a high illiteracy rate. We enjoyed the mantou, meat dumplings smothered in a yoghurt sauce and eaten with bread. Then we wrapped up the meal with tangerines and a sticky substance made from walnuts, similar to peanut butter but quite bitter.
I've often spoken with my American friends of the hospitality I've received abroad, mainly from Thailand, Morocco, and India, but due to the constraints of American media and lack of experience, I typically receive a critical eye. Here I've found yet another example. A family I would consider "poor" by western standards opened their home to us, stuffed us with delicious food, and even showered us with gifts. We haven't done anything in particular for this family, but they wanted to do something nice for us. Natalie received a nice (and interesting) pair of shoes, a bracelet, and a hair beret, and I received an embroidered, white handkerchief. Not much in our world of "stuff" back in America, but these things are symbolic for something far deeper--that "things" are nothing compared to friendship. The "poor" here seem to understand better than me that all these material things will rot away one day. It makes one ponder where their treasure is.
Beyond our wonderful evening with these friends, we see daily acts of kindness and hospitality. After visiting guests, they often place your shoes on the doormat facing out, making it easier for you to put your shoes on and head down the road. They almost always make you go first through a door, and won't have you letting them go first. And as in the case of this family, they thanked God for the food and for their guests at the end of the meal. Sometimes my view of "poor" is wrong and miscalculated. This family may not have much in material terms, but their hearts are filled--with friendship, kindness, and laughter. Certainly, cold winters are difficult for them, and I'm sure food isn't always that easy to come by, but they find ways to be happy. I'm glad they shared their happiness with me.
The main course was brought in and placed before me and Natalie. We waited for others to be served, only to find out that everyone had already eaten with an aunt who had come a few hours before us. It was a little awkward to be the only ones eating the main course, but we had no choice but to dig in. As we began to eat, we learned everyone's name, how old some of them are, and what they do. The oldest brother has just finished a degree in Science from a local university, which is quite an accomplishment for a lower class family in a culture with a high illiteracy rate. We enjoyed the mantou, meat dumplings smothered in a yoghurt sauce and eaten with bread. Then we wrapped up the meal with tangerines and a sticky substance made from walnuts, similar to peanut butter but quite bitter.
I've often spoken with my American friends of the hospitality I've received abroad, mainly from Thailand, Morocco, and India, but due to the constraints of American media and lack of experience, I typically receive a critical eye. Here I've found yet another example. A family I would consider "poor" by western standards opened their home to us, stuffed us with delicious food, and even showered us with gifts. We haven't done anything in particular for this family, but they wanted to do something nice for us. Natalie received a nice (and interesting) pair of shoes, a bracelet, and a hair beret, and I received an embroidered, white handkerchief. Not much in our world of "stuff" back in America, but these things are symbolic for something far deeper--that "things" are nothing compared to friendship. The "poor" here seem to understand better than me that all these material things will rot away one day. It makes one ponder where their treasure is.
Beyond our wonderful evening with these friends, we see daily acts of kindness and hospitality. After visiting guests, they often place your shoes on the doormat facing out, making it easier for you to put your shoes on and head down the road. They almost always make you go first through a door, and won't have you letting them go first. And as in the case of this family, they thanked God for the food and for their guests at the end of the meal. Sometimes my view of "poor" is wrong and miscalculated. This family may not have much in material terms, but their hearts are filled--with friendship, kindness, and laughter. Certainly, cold winters are difficult for them, and I'm sure food isn't always that easy to come by, but they find ways to be happy. I'm glad they shared their happiness with me.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Daily Life in Mazar
I began reading Over the Oxus, a chapter of Colin Thubron's Shadow of the Silk Road. I'm jealous of Thubron's ability to create excellent prose and a flowing narrative of his experience crossing the Uzbek-Afghan border and his travel to Mazar. It reminds me of an old adage I heard a few years ago--"go somewhere for a week, write a book; go somewhere for a month, write an essay; go somewhere for a year, write a few words." The longer I'm here, the more difficult it becomes to describe in detail what I'm seeing, but having even a small audience is encouraging and helpful. Here's my shot for the day:
We woke up to wind and rain, slamming the winterizing plastic nailed around our windows as cheap insulation. For a while I just laid there thinking of how nice it was to have the day blocked out to read, write, and relax. I eventually dragged myself from the warm bed and into the cold morning air. It was dark, as usual, and the electricity was out, so before anything else I went out to turn on the generator. Natalie & I cooked a nice brunch and did the routine email and news check over coffee. After that, I started a fire in the boukhari (wood-burning stove) to get the house warmed up and read for a while.
We needed a few things from the store, so I got in our Toyota Four-Runner and honked for our chowk-i-dor (gatekeeper) to open the large, rusty steel gate to the street. I backed out from our gravel pad and sunk in the muddy alley where our straw and mud walled lot sits. I always have to dodge passers-by, the most stressful of whom are five or six young neighborhood kids. I'm always afraid I'll hit one of them and it'll be the end of me, perhaps literally. I shift into drive and pass the small candle-lit shops we regularly buy bread and veggies from and wave at the friendly shopkeepers.
As I pull onto the larger mud road, several men and women are walking in the center of the lane. The men wear traditional puran-tom-bone, a baggy suit, and a pakool hat made of wool, flat on top and rolled up around the ears. They also wear a sweeping woolen blanket-cloak of sorts for warmth. The women walked several feet behind the men and migrated to the opposite side of the road from the men as I passed in between them. They both wore sweeping head to ground pleated burkhas, one white and one blue. Sometimes it feels like I'm passing ghosts; yet, I know from Natalie that behind closed doors these women are exuberant and lively. They have dreams and big hearts, willing to share with any woman who will come and listen.
I pull onto the paved main road, nose my way around the three wheeled zarang carts, pass several mechanic shops, and weave my way around two roundabouts. As I drive up, my imagination runs for a moment, constructing a scene around the store like a bomb exploded out front. I've often wondered if we should even shop at this store because its where all the westerners go. Then again, they have salsa, and violence is pretty uncommon here. After parking on a side road, I walk past the beggars and cookie shops, cross the jooey (an open sewage ditch), and enter the grocery store.
On my way home, I began to think about the recent paranoia I have developed. My fears are fueled by the countless scenarios I allow to run through my mind. They are most pervasive at night, when the wind rips at the walls, metal doors bang somewhere in the distance, and cars rumble by at the latest hours. It drives me crazy, even though it isn't probable that anything would happen; in fact, its probably more likely to be broken into in Nashville. Its good to get out, walk, work, and be around people. Often, my irrational fears subside when I'm making friends with those who seem to stare through me as I drive past. I'm learning to breathe deep, control my thoughts, and confront these fears, day in and day out.
When I turn back south, onto the mud road, the snow-covered Hindu Kush Mountains rise starkly in the background, reminding me of the rugged beauty here. I see it reflected in the weathered faces and gray eyes of the elderly. The looks are penetrating, as if they're trying to judge me, whether I'm a threat or not. I don't blame them after thirty years of war, and hope my presence is known as a kind one.
We woke up to wind and rain, slamming the winterizing plastic nailed around our windows as cheap insulation. For a while I just laid there thinking of how nice it was to have the day blocked out to read, write, and relax. I eventually dragged myself from the warm bed and into the cold morning air. It was dark, as usual, and the electricity was out, so before anything else I went out to turn on the generator. Natalie & I cooked a nice brunch and did the routine email and news check over coffee. After that, I started a fire in the boukhari (wood-burning stove) to get the house warmed up and read for a while.
We needed a few things from the store, so I got in our Toyota Four-Runner and honked for our chowk-i-dor (gatekeeper) to open the large, rusty steel gate to the street. I backed out from our gravel pad and sunk in the muddy alley where our straw and mud walled lot sits. I always have to dodge passers-by, the most stressful of whom are five or six young neighborhood kids. I'm always afraid I'll hit one of them and it'll be the end of me, perhaps literally. I shift into drive and pass the small candle-lit shops we regularly buy bread and veggies from and wave at the friendly shopkeepers.
As I pull onto the larger mud road, several men and women are walking in the center of the lane. The men wear traditional puran-tom-bone, a baggy suit, and a pakool hat made of wool, flat on top and rolled up around the ears. They also wear a sweeping woolen blanket-cloak of sorts for warmth. The women walked several feet behind the men and migrated to the opposite side of the road from the men as I passed in between them. They both wore sweeping head to ground pleated burkhas, one white and one blue. Sometimes it feels like I'm passing ghosts; yet, I know from Natalie that behind closed doors these women are exuberant and lively. They have dreams and big hearts, willing to share with any woman who will come and listen.
I pull onto the paved main road, nose my way around the three wheeled zarang carts, pass several mechanic shops, and weave my way around two roundabouts. As I drive up, my imagination runs for a moment, constructing a scene around the store like a bomb exploded out front. I've often wondered if we should even shop at this store because its where all the westerners go. Then again, they have salsa, and violence is pretty uncommon here. After parking on a side road, I walk past the beggars and cookie shops, cross the jooey (an open sewage ditch), and enter the grocery store.
On my way home, I began to think about the recent paranoia I have developed. My fears are fueled by the countless scenarios I allow to run through my mind. They are most pervasive at night, when the wind rips at the walls, metal doors bang somewhere in the distance, and cars rumble by at the latest hours. It drives me crazy, even though it isn't probable that anything would happen; in fact, its probably more likely to be broken into in Nashville. Its good to get out, walk, work, and be around people. Often, my irrational fears subside when I'm making friends with those who seem to stare through me as I drive past. I'm learning to breathe deep, control my thoughts, and confront these fears, day in and day out.
When I turn back south, onto the mud road, the snow-covered Hindu Kush Mountains rise starkly in the background, reminding me of the rugged beauty here. I see it reflected in the weathered faces and gray eyes of the elderly. The looks are penetrating, as if they're trying to judge me, whether I'm a threat or not. I don't blame them after thirty years of war, and hope my presence is known as a kind one.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Pictures & Such
I've not written lately because life seems monotonous and mundane, but hopefully I'll have some resurgent desire to give an update soon. Until then, here are some pictures for your enjoyment.
A small jeep convoy; mostly German, Turkish, or Italian in this region.
I can't wait to drive somewhere with street laws...
The "world" roundabout toward the mountains.
Our backyard with a random dusting of snow; the two days before this were 60 degrees.
Another roundabout; I'd call this one "Spaceship" but I guess that's not my role here.
A fancy house in the "nice" part of town.
A mosque.
Dari script on the walls of common homes.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
OK, One More Little Rant... (and Pictures)
Another electricity fiasco I left out of the last blog:
About three weeks ago our city power wasn't working. For some reason, the wiring was/is messed up. The same thing happened just before we arrived here, and they had someone fix it. So, we called the same guy to come and do it again. He was in and out in about 10 minutes, but charged quite a lot compared to what we've heard other people pay to fix the same problem. We paid it anyway, happy to have city power. Then, one week ago the whole situation repeated itself for the third go-round, except that this time he wanted double what we paid him last time. Not only did he want to charge me double for literally jiggling wires until a light blinked on, he said he needed to replace the main wire and would charge me for that too.
In my broken Dari, I began to ask him why it was double and why he didn't just fix it the first time if that was the problem, but we weren't communicating very well. I could tell he was becoming frustrated with me, but I only thought it was the language issue. At first, I called one of our Afghan drivers to translate over the phone. The 'electrician' shut down the conversation and got on his motorcycle to leave without answering any of the questions. I just wanted an honest answer, and don't even mind paying the guy for what he's done, but I would like to know what I'm paying for. Luckily I was able to stop him. My neighbor happened to be pulling in, so I had him translate for me again, but apparently I crossed an invisible line and he drove off on his motorcycle as he had started to do earlier.
My theory: he was fixing the electricity just enough to last a few weeks, get paid, and wait for the next call. Perhaps I'm wrong, but several people, both Afghans and expats have confirmed my thoughts on this. When I challenged his way of doing things, it seemed like he took it as an issue of honor and respectability. The paradox of it all is that I want to know what I'm paying for and why, but when I ask these questions, it seems to be taken as an offensive gesture to their integrity. Quite a paradox when bargaining is required in almost any business transaction.
Here's our electric box and power lines:
About three weeks ago our city power wasn't working. For some reason, the wiring was/is messed up. The same thing happened just before we arrived here, and they had someone fix it. So, we called the same guy to come and do it again. He was in and out in about 10 minutes, but charged quite a lot compared to what we've heard other people pay to fix the same problem. We paid it anyway, happy to have city power. Then, one week ago the whole situation repeated itself for the third go-round, except that this time he wanted double what we paid him last time. Not only did he want to charge me double for literally jiggling wires until a light blinked on, he said he needed to replace the main wire and would charge me for that too.
In my broken Dari, I began to ask him why it was double and why he didn't just fix it the first time if that was the problem, but we weren't communicating very well. I could tell he was becoming frustrated with me, but I only thought it was the language issue. At first, I called one of our Afghan drivers to translate over the phone. The 'electrician' shut down the conversation and got on his motorcycle to leave without answering any of the questions. I just wanted an honest answer, and don't even mind paying the guy for what he's done, but I would like to know what I'm paying for. Luckily I was able to stop him. My neighbor happened to be pulling in, so I had him translate for me again, but apparently I crossed an invisible line and he drove off on his motorcycle as he had started to do earlier.
My theory: he was fixing the electricity just enough to last a few weeks, get paid, and wait for the next call. Perhaps I'm wrong, but several people, both Afghans and expats have confirmed my thoughts on this. When I challenged his way of doing things, it seemed like he took it as an issue of honor and respectability. The paradox of it all is that I want to know what I'm paying for and why, but when I ask these questions, it seems to be taken as an offensive gesture to their integrity. Quite a paradox when bargaining is required in almost any business transaction.
Here's our electric box and power lines:
My view from the factory:
This guy's car wouldn't start, so he decided to check the gas--with a muddy piece of cord off of the ground...
The view down our street, and our street lights that work about half the time (or less):
A wall we pass every day; notice the bullet holes:
The mud home we're staying in:
Another view from the factory:
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Electricity & Intl Aid: More Ranting than Rambling
In the states, we have large, systematic bureaucracies that provide infrastructure for our society; the government, businesses, and organizations all operate within a bureaucratic web. While there are great inefficiencies and inconsistencies in our system, I am quite thankful for how automated some things have become, especially electricity...
In Mazar, we have city power approximately half of each day. During the other half of the day, we either choose to run a gas-guzzling generator or go without power. Going without isn't too bad, except that the windows are covered with blankets to keep heat in, which leaves us with flashlights to accomplish everyday household tasks like washing dishes, cooking, and reading. When we wake up in the morning, we use flashlights to get the coffee going on our wonderful gas stove. In some ways, it feels like a hobbit house-- dark, kinda cold, but also cozy.
Some of the more frustrating parts of dealing with the lack of electricity include:
Oh, and almost all of the generators are Chinese, which means they fall apart every couple of weeks. You can buy Japanese brands that have greater longevity, but when they break, nobody knows how to fix them.
Beyond the local issues we have with power, its frustrating to see American tax dollars and donated money go to waste. Our factory is located in an industrial park that was built by the USAID. Basically, they decided to build an "industrial park" 15 km from Mazar with the intention of having potable water and 24/7 electricity later. They built the park--spending millions of dollars--with the "hope" that a large power line would be completed between Uzbekistan and Mazar. I'm not sure where they were hoping to get water pumped from; I guess the plan was to have it trucked in every week (completely unsustainable...).What this has amounted to is a failed project, though they wouldn't admit this because they checked off all of their boxes. Idealism killed the project. They created contracts and completed a project based on an idealistic premise that the electricity would be completed. Now that the premise has fallen through, the project is worthless to anyone who purchased property within the industrial park.
I guess that's enough ranting for now...
In Mazar, we have city power approximately half of each day. During the other half of the day, we either choose to run a gas-guzzling generator or go without power. Going without isn't too bad, except that the windows are covered with blankets to keep heat in, which leaves us with flashlights to accomplish everyday household tasks like washing dishes, cooking, and reading. When we wake up in the morning, we use flashlights to get the coffee going on our wonderful gas stove. In some ways, it feels like a hobbit house-- dark, kinda cold, but also cozy.
Some of the more frustrating parts of dealing with the lack of electricity include:
- delays at work for lack of a decent, economical power source to run the machines at the factory
- the inability to wash clothes without steady power for a few hours
- having to pump water into a tank on our roof every day so as to not be in the middle of a shower when it runs out
- having to keep track of whether the hot water heater was on long enough to last through your shower
- and tripping over everything in the dark to find a flashlight when you're in the middle of something and everything blacks out
Oh, and almost all of the generators are Chinese, which means they fall apart every couple of weeks. You can buy Japanese brands that have greater longevity, but when they break, nobody knows how to fix them.
Beyond the local issues we have with power, its frustrating to see American tax dollars and donated money go to waste. Our factory is located in an industrial park that was built by the USAID. Basically, they decided to build an "industrial park" 15 km from Mazar with the intention of having potable water and 24/7 electricity later. They built the park--spending millions of dollars--with the "hope" that a large power line would be completed between Uzbekistan and Mazar. I'm not sure where they were hoping to get water pumped from; I guess the plan was to have it trucked in every week (completely unsustainable...).What this has amounted to is a failed project, though they wouldn't admit this because they checked off all of their boxes. Idealism killed the project. They created contracts and completed a project based on an idealistic premise that the electricity would be completed. Now that the premise has fallen through, the project is worthless to anyone who purchased property within the industrial park.
I guess that's enough ranting for now...
Monday, January 16, 2012
Ramblings on Driving & Culture
Traffic in Afghanistan may be the craziest I've ever experienced. There are many cars on the road, but that isn't what gets me. What gets me is that every time I get in a vehicle, I feel like we're playing chicken with everybody else on the road. This quote from our Country Director sums up how I feel when I'm driving in Mazar:
"Driving through Kabul in a snow storm is like playing Russian Roulette with 3 bullets in the chamber instead of 1."
There are no speed limits or stop signs. The street lights only work when there's actually city power, and even then, its only a suggestion. When you come to an intersection and the light is out, you have to ease your nose into oncoming traffic, flick your lights, and honk your horn until you cut someone off. Its a bit of a doozy because you have to cut them off, but leave them enough time to stop before they hit you. Then you fight your way through the middle of the road and squeeze into traffic going the direction you want to go.
In the city, there are typically lots of cars, motorcycles, trucks, bicycles, pedestrians, and wheelbarrows on the road, which means there's a much greater chance of being in an accident, but at least everyone's going slow enough that it only results in fender benders. However, on my way to the factory, we are on a major highway heading out of town. There's less traffic, more big trucks, and everyone moves much, much faster. Sometimes we're passing one semi or dump-truck with another one coming head on, the pedal's to the floor (meaning you can't go any faster, and you can't slow down or the guy following you around the big truck will also wreck) and you swoop in front of the truck just in time. Its a rush; one I'm still not fond of. Oh, there aren't really any shoulders on the side of the highway either...
I think there's an intriguing cultural dynamic to all of this. In the West, especially America, we tend to be hyper-security oriented, and everything we do is a calculation of risk in some form or another. We don't let the kids play in the street because its risky- the child could be hit by a car. We (most of us anyway...) buckle our seat-belts because we know it is safer, and the statistics say so. (I must admit, I didn't start wearing my seat-belt here until after our wreck...). In the worldview of most Westerners, we believe our choices and actions are legitimate in and of themselves. It is a matter of our own responsibility to control life, good and evil, etc. I have been stressed many times at work, school, and in my travels because I have ultimately seen myself as the one controlling outcomes. Not necessarily a good thing.
For many Afghans, and I think many people throughout the Greater Middle East, our ambitions to control life seem futile. If you get into grad school, it was Allah's will. If we make it past the semi, it was Allah's will. If we didn't, the same remains true. You get the picture. Everything is rooted in the fact that Allah controls everything, especially outcomes. This particularly relates to death, life, good, and evil. The crazy driving and kids playing in the streets seems crazy to me, because in my worldview, my decisions and choices matter quite a lot, and perhaps more than they should. Here, people don't see themselves as the controllers of their own destiny, and see struggling with Allah for that position as a pointless endeavor.
So, there are definitely pros and cons to the way we view things, from whichever side of the world we come. It is one thing to take responsibility for what we do, but it is another thing to try to control outcomes. The world, and life, are far too large and complicated for us to control them, and we drive ourselves mad trying to do so. On the other hand, our decisions in life do make a difference and we must be responsible for them. By introducing seat-belt laws, the number of deaths from car accidents dropped-- its a fact. All that to say-- I'm learning to relinquish what I think I control in life, and hopefully, some of those I'm around are learning that they do have some responsibility in the decisions they make.
"Driving through Kabul in a snow storm is like playing Russian Roulette with 3 bullets in the chamber instead of 1."
There are no speed limits or stop signs. The street lights only work when there's actually city power, and even then, its only a suggestion. When you come to an intersection and the light is out, you have to ease your nose into oncoming traffic, flick your lights, and honk your horn until you cut someone off. Its a bit of a doozy because you have to cut them off, but leave them enough time to stop before they hit you. Then you fight your way through the middle of the road and squeeze into traffic going the direction you want to go.
In the city, there are typically lots of cars, motorcycles, trucks, bicycles, pedestrians, and wheelbarrows on the road, which means there's a much greater chance of being in an accident, but at least everyone's going slow enough that it only results in fender benders. However, on my way to the factory, we are on a major highway heading out of town. There's less traffic, more big trucks, and everyone moves much, much faster. Sometimes we're passing one semi or dump-truck with another one coming head on, the pedal's to the floor (meaning you can't go any faster, and you can't slow down or the guy following you around the big truck will also wreck) and you swoop in front of the truck just in time. Its a rush; one I'm still not fond of. Oh, there aren't really any shoulders on the side of the highway either...
I think there's an intriguing cultural dynamic to all of this. In the West, especially America, we tend to be hyper-security oriented, and everything we do is a calculation of risk in some form or another. We don't let the kids play in the street because its risky- the child could be hit by a car. We (most of us anyway...) buckle our seat-belts because we know it is safer, and the statistics say so. (I must admit, I didn't start wearing my seat-belt here until after our wreck...). In the worldview of most Westerners, we believe our choices and actions are legitimate in and of themselves. It is a matter of our own responsibility to control life, good and evil, etc. I have been stressed many times at work, school, and in my travels because I have ultimately seen myself as the one controlling outcomes. Not necessarily a good thing.
For many Afghans, and I think many people throughout the Greater Middle East, our ambitions to control life seem futile. If you get into grad school, it was Allah's will. If we make it past the semi, it was Allah's will. If we didn't, the same remains true. You get the picture. Everything is rooted in the fact that Allah controls everything, especially outcomes. This particularly relates to death, life, good, and evil. The crazy driving and kids playing in the streets seems crazy to me, because in my worldview, my decisions and choices matter quite a lot, and perhaps more than they should. Here, people don't see themselves as the controllers of their own destiny, and see struggling with Allah for that position as a pointless endeavor.
So, there are definitely pros and cons to the way we view things, from whichever side of the world we come. It is one thing to take responsibility for what we do, but it is another thing to try to control outcomes. The world, and life, are far too large and complicated for us to control them, and we drive ourselves mad trying to do so. On the other hand, our decisions in life do make a difference and we must be responsible for them. By introducing seat-belt laws, the number of deaths from car accidents dropped-- its a fact. All that to say-- I'm learning to relinquish what I think I control in life, and hopefully, some of those I'm around are learning that they do have some responsibility in the decisions they make.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Living in a Fish Bowl: Restaurants and the Bazaar
This week, I felt like being anywhere but here. Upon reflection, I remember feeling this way in other places, even in the states. Remembering this relieved some of the slummed-out feelings I was having and reminded me that its very much a part of being human. Its how we remember we're finite and small in quite a large world, regardless of where we're from or who we are. Today's blog is about a trip to the restaurant and the bazaar. Its amazing to me that a simple trip to town can turn out to be such an overwhelmingly different experience than it would be in the states.
Restaurants and the Bazaar
On Thursday, I left around noon to have lunch with a few friends and find a tailor in the bazaar. It snowed the night before, so the streets turned into a sludgy, muddy mess. It was clear and cold, and the wind cut through all three layers of clothing I was wearing. As I sloshed down the street, I passed the small tea (shai) house on the corner. They smiled and greeted me with the four to five ways you say, "how are you?" and insisted that I come have shai on the way out. This was quite a change from the way it has been.
For the first month, I would wave or smile as we drove by, only to receive deep stares from very serious faces. A little under a week ago, I was walking by and decided to have some tea and try for a chat. I greeted them, and they hesitantly returned the same. I sat on the carpeted wooden platform, three or so feet from the ground under a canvas tent. They passed me shai and offered some kabob. Though my Dari is quite elementary, they could tell I was trying, and it seemed to make all the difference in the world. It intrigued them that a white guy from America, not in the military, is having tea and at least trying to communicate in their own language. So, now they wave, smile, and insist on my stopping in every time I pass by. This is my goal everywhere I go here: to get people to smile back, wave, and give a greeting, which can be intimidating due to the hard stares and serious faces, but seeing these guys on the corner reminds me that its worth it to keep trying and pressing on.
I met my other friends down the road and we walked to the restaurant. They had the grills cranking and everything smelled delicious. As we walked in, it seemed as if the whole place stopped for just a moment to give us a good look over. This place was a mix between a traditional style restaurant, with platforms lining the walls and places for people to sit, and a modern or Western style restaurant with tables and chairs. I think this was the first time I've eaten at a table in over a month. Lunch was excellent, though limited to the usual diet-- homemade yogurt, lamb shanks, and chicken kabob with fresh bread. Oh, how I long for fresh fruits and veggies!
From here, we went to the plumbing area of the bazaar to find a toilet seat for one of the guys. I waited outside, talked to a few curious guys on the street, and enjoyed freezing in the wind. We hiked on toward the main bazaar, toilet seat in hand, and stopped at two carpet stores. The first was a friend of a friend, and the other is a friend I made a few weeks back. We found a chess set made of lapiz and onyx stone. It was quite unique, but I wouldn't pay $120 US for it. At my friend's shop, I made my favorite purchase in Afghanistan up to this point, a pair of gorgeous hand-made twin carpets.
It took us about three hours up to this point, and with all the tea and talking at each stop, I had to find a bathroom, which can be quite tricky in this country. Most guys find a wall, or a ditch, or wherever to do their business but for a white guy, it tends to draw more attention than I'm comfortable with. So, as we were about to head on from the carpet shop area, I asked a man where I might find a toilet. He pointed me down a narrow alley and told me to go upstairs and turn right. The smell was quite rancid, the trash overflowing, and I decided not to let my mind wander too far with what all the stains were from. Nonetheless, it was sufficient to do the job.
We traveled on, crossing busy intersections, weaving between three-wheeled carts, motorcycles, donkeys, and taxis to arrive at the lailomi bazaar (a sort of walking market; mainly second-hand goods). We went to my friend Mafuz's tailor, which was in a small box, about 2 meters x 3 meters x 3 meters. As he was getting measured for his PuranTamBone (Afghani style pants and shirt; similar to Shalwar Qamiz found in Pakistan or India), I took off to another area of the bazaar to find some cloth for my own PuranTamBone. After visiting several stores with an Afghan guy, I realized I was quite close to paying a foreigners "tax" because my "buddy" was getting tipped to bring me to specific shops. So, I decided to go to a different shop of my own choosing. I'm quite proud that I was able to get the cloth I wanted for a third the price he had found for me. I made the purchase, 4 meters of cloth for a full PuranTamBone, for approximately $8 US and went back to the tailor. The tailor measured me up and said to return on Tuesday. Let's hope it turns out well!
Restaurants and the Bazaar
On Thursday, I left around noon to have lunch with a few friends and find a tailor in the bazaar. It snowed the night before, so the streets turned into a sludgy, muddy mess. It was clear and cold, and the wind cut through all three layers of clothing I was wearing. As I sloshed down the street, I passed the small tea (shai) house on the corner. They smiled and greeted me with the four to five ways you say, "how are you?" and insisted that I come have shai on the way out. This was quite a change from the way it has been.
For the first month, I would wave or smile as we drove by, only to receive deep stares from very serious faces. A little under a week ago, I was walking by and decided to have some tea and try for a chat. I greeted them, and they hesitantly returned the same. I sat on the carpeted wooden platform, three or so feet from the ground under a canvas tent. They passed me shai and offered some kabob. Though my Dari is quite elementary, they could tell I was trying, and it seemed to make all the difference in the world. It intrigued them that a white guy from America, not in the military, is having tea and at least trying to communicate in their own language. So, now they wave, smile, and insist on my stopping in every time I pass by. This is my goal everywhere I go here: to get people to smile back, wave, and give a greeting, which can be intimidating due to the hard stares and serious faces, but seeing these guys on the corner reminds me that its worth it to keep trying and pressing on.
I met my other friends down the road and we walked to the restaurant. They had the grills cranking and everything smelled delicious. As we walked in, it seemed as if the whole place stopped for just a moment to give us a good look over. This place was a mix between a traditional style restaurant, with platforms lining the walls and places for people to sit, and a modern or Western style restaurant with tables and chairs. I think this was the first time I've eaten at a table in over a month. Lunch was excellent, though limited to the usual diet-- homemade yogurt, lamb shanks, and chicken kabob with fresh bread. Oh, how I long for fresh fruits and veggies!
From here, we went to the plumbing area of the bazaar to find a toilet seat for one of the guys. I waited outside, talked to a few curious guys on the street, and enjoyed freezing in the wind. We hiked on toward the main bazaar, toilet seat in hand, and stopped at two carpet stores. The first was a friend of a friend, and the other is a friend I made a few weeks back. We found a chess set made of lapiz and onyx stone. It was quite unique, but I wouldn't pay $120 US for it. At my friend's shop, I made my favorite purchase in Afghanistan up to this point, a pair of gorgeous hand-made twin carpets.
It took us about three hours up to this point, and with all the tea and talking at each stop, I had to find a bathroom, which can be quite tricky in this country. Most guys find a wall, or a ditch, or wherever to do their business but for a white guy, it tends to draw more attention than I'm comfortable with. So, as we were about to head on from the carpet shop area, I asked a man where I might find a toilet. He pointed me down a narrow alley and told me to go upstairs and turn right. The smell was quite rancid, the trash overflowing, and I decided not to let my mind wander too far with what all the stains were from. Nonetheless, it was sufficient to do the job.
We traveled on, crossing busy intersections, weaving between three-wheeled carts, motorcycles, donkeys, and taxis to arrive at the lailomi bazaar (a sort of walking market; mainly second-hand goods). We went to my friend Mafuz's tailor, which was in a small box, about 2 meters x 3 meters x 3 meters. As he was getting measured for his PuranTamBone (Afghani style pants and shirt; similar to Shalwar Qamiz found in Pakistan or India), I took off to another area of the bazaar to find some cloth for my own PuranTamBone. After visiting several stores with an Afghan guy, I realized I was quite close to paying a foreigners "tax" because my "buddy" was getting tipped to bring me to specific shops. So, I decided to go to a different shop of my own choosing. I'm quite proud that I was able to get the cloth I wanted for a third the price he had found for me. I made the purchase, 4 meters of cloth for a full PuranTamBone, for approximately $8 US and went back to the tailor. The tailor measured me up and said to return on Tuesday. Let's hope it turns out well!
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