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.