Faizabad At Last (And Taloqan Memories)
Dear Everyone,
First off, let me tell you that I am now in Faizabad. Those of you looking at maps of Afghanistan will find it in the northeastern corner of the country. Keeping up the trend of arriving new places on holidays, I arrived just in time for Naroz - New Year's - which is also the beginning of several days of Buzkashi, the national sport. They fill a playing field full of men and horses, put a circle at one end, a flag at the other, and toss in a headless calf. The idea is for the men to pick up the calf and carry it from the circle around the flag for one point, and back to the circle for three. I think there are teams, but it's hard to tell. Other than that, no rules. Very rough game that often spills out into the crowd. It’s kind of like sitting right in the ring during a rodeo. Today, I saw the horses ride straight into the crowd. One guy didn't get out of the way in time and got trampled. But no one was taken away on a stretcher until the end. I’m not sure what you have to do to yourself to be taken away on the stretcher. Die, perhaps. Today they tore about five calves to shreds before they were done. It’s all very manly.
I should mention that the war is very remote here. Some of you have been wondering if there have been repercussions for us. In a word, no. You probably hear about it more than we do. Here in the Northern provinces there is almost no anti-American sentiment, as they are usually seen as liberators. The most I’ve gotten is a mild bafflement that any country would meddle with another so far away. Touché. We can watch BBC but I usually don't. It reminds me too much of sports news, everyone talking and nothing being said, bookmarked by nifty graphics and the same footage over and over. But I’m safe, if you were wondering. I just have to stay out of the way of the Buzkashi riders...
We had a staff meeting about the school today. I’ll be working with three others: Seth, who is the computer teacher for the men, and who has been with the institute since the beginning. He speaks very good Dari, and everyone around here knows and loves him. Very good guy. Jo, who is British, and the wife of the director of another NGO in town, will teach the women's computer course. She is a teacher, but out here she has not been working until she volunteered for this. Sue is a formidable elderly woman who has traveled all over and taught ESL many years in Honduras. She is here for a year, and will be in charge of the English department, we decided today. That is a relief for me, since I will have someone who has taught ESL before to help me. The plan is for us to start with a beginner's course each, which will take me to the end of my time here, and then hopefully sue can provide some continuity for the teacher who takes my place. The big problem with the English program is continuity. There’s no money to pay people and it's hard to get teachers to volunteer here for any length of time, and any one to stay and oversee the implementation of a consistent program, which short-termers could just pick and teach. sue has brought a curriculum which looks promising, and now we will have to find the money to provide the students with books for the long term. For now, we will create ways to make do. But it's coming together.
In addition to my course, I will be in charge of what little office administration there is here. The big project has finished here and we have minimal staff and expenses.
Now, I wrote you a little thing, a parting gift from Taloqan, which wasn't finished for the last newsletter. To be honest, it kind of got sidetracked by the raw thing I sent last. Let me first say a bit about that. I included things in that letter which perhaps would have been best left in my journal. Some of it was potentially dangerous, and I can only hope that it will not be. Some of it was too harsh, I did not know the people I lashed out at; perhaps if I had I would not have lashed. I hope if by some chance, that letter reached their ears, that this one will as well, and they will forgive me. The rest of you, please remember all who come here for the sake of the Afghans that they may truly help. Having said that, thanks to all of you who responded to that letter. Quite surprisingly, no one was critical, although I certainly must have given cause for that. It was perhaps the first uncensored thing I have sent. I took off my writerly filter and sent you exactly what I felt. Your concern and love and encouragement, sometimes coming from completely unexpected places, have given me the resolve to rise above what was sinking me. I am ready for this new challenge here in Faizabad. I have already made new friends, we have a plan for our work, and my new room has a stove, a bed, and a view of the mountains. Who could ask for more? So with that, I will leave you with this little piece: a morning in Taloqan.
You are awakened between dreams by the chanting call of the mosques. One voice starts and is taken up by another until there is a chorus of loudspeakers proclaiming the name of God. The chorus of barking dogs follows, and then the roosters start crowing. The sky is still dark in the Far East; dawn has only cracked one pale eyelid.
By six the light has come and you are fully awake. You may have prayers of your own, or you may lie on your cushions on the floor, listening to diesel engines roar to life, the bleating of horns beginning, and the shouts of men out in the streets. By seven you are up.
The clothing is simple. There are pants, loose and baggy, with a waistband that would fit around most tree trunks. You cinch these around you with a braided cotton cord. Over this you pull the shirt, which buttons from neck to navel, then falls loosely to just below your knees. Then a vest or a sweater, or both if it's cold. Headwear is optional, but recommended. You have a choice. The big, loose turban, the small pillbox, or the woollen pakoul - a thickly rolled beret. If you are a woman, a scarf to cover your hair is mandatory. If it's cool, and it is today, you wrap your pattu around you. You drape it across your shoulders leaving one side too long, then give the long side a flick and fling so it swings across your chest and hangs across the opposite shoulder. If you are a foreigner (which you are) and you don't want to draw the usual crowd, you pull the edge of it up over your head as a hood. This is good for an extra 500 yards of unnoticed
Walking, 1000 if it's dusk. You don't walk after dusk.
The walk is short. If you are up early enough, you can leave before the driver comes to pick you up. If the weather is clear it's nice to walk. If you are bringing your laptop, you should carry it under your pattu. The morning is pale. On your street, Russian Kamaz trucks are thrumming as they warm up. The drivers cluster and swap words while they wait. Children are out now, too, mostly boys, carrying shoeshine kits or boxes of cigarettes and cheap candy hanging around their necks. Men with faces like walnut shells bend double pulling flatbed carts over the ruts. You hear the jingle of sleigh bells from the Christmas albums of your childhood and step to the side as a big-wheeled horse cart rattles by you, the horse festooned with red plastic flowers, the two women in burqas bouncing in the back like blue and white milk bottles. At the corner men are melting rubber treads on to wooden cartwheels. The unhitched carts sit back on their heels and point their harnesses to the sky like circus painted anti-aircraft guns. There is a cloud of rubber smoke and diesel fumes to walk through. As you round the corner, you can see the mountains covered in snow beyond the city. In the lazy golden glow of evening the view on this street is idyllic. But for now it is still grey, and you are stepping around the mud. There is a string of vendors' stalls that you are passing now, and even with your hood up they can still tell you are haradji by your shoes: "hello! How are you mister! Come sit in my shop!" Unless you want to buy cheap candy, cheaper cigarettes, light bulbs, or toilet paper, you should just smile and keep moving. The destroyed building on your left is the ministry of statistics, if the sign outside is to be believed. It looks like the ministry of rubble and empty rooms, but it is guarded by two guys with Kalashnikovs, so maybe there's something you don't know. By the time you reach the next corner and turn right, you have been noticed. Across the street is a park and the children playing football stop and yell "salaams" and "thank-yous" at you. They’re not bad. It’s the packs of young blades with nothing to do that you want to be careful of. Like packs of teenagers everywhere, they are probably up to a modest form of "no good." Make that actually up to. . . one of them just tossed a stone to splash ditch water on you as you passed. Harmless, really, and the only form of rudeness you've encountered in two months here. As you turn the corner the wall on your right has the stamp of The Halo Trust stencilled on it, green paint on the yellow wall. Quite striking actually. What it means is that the school behind the wall was once a battle zone, and it has been cleared of mines.
Up ahead is the shelter for life gate. A small crowd of drivers and guards has gathered there, as they do every morning, to mill about before the day starts. You pass a small girl in a bright green dress, holding a plastic jug - and old oil jug - for carrying water. You smile at her, but she just stares back. She is strikingly beautiful, and she looks out at you from behind her tangled black hair. All along the street there are children like this, carrying buckets of water from the well, and some, like this girl, are as young as four or five. You keep hoping for a smile from them, but you are too strange. Some of the braver boys will sometimes smile at you if you make a funny face. You leave the little girl standing in the shadow of her doorway. Up ahead the trees that line the street are in bloom, pink and white. You wonder what kind of trees they are, and you wonder how to ask the men standing around. You know the word for tree - daraq - but not how to ask what kind. You’ve tried this before. "Daraq," you say, pointing at the tree. Now what? They all smile huge grins and nod. The haradji is trying to speak Persian. "Nam e daraq che ast?" (What’s the name of the tree?) And finally you have the answer, but it's in Dari, and you don't understand. So now it's your turn to grin hugely, and shake your head. Turn now and enter the gate. There will be eggs fried in oil for breakfast, and a day full of computer problems, deadlines to fall behind, emails to answer, and Afghans who really, really like you to get you through it all. Have a good day.
Peace and love to all,
rjs
First off, let me tell you that I am now in Faizabad. Those of you looking at maps of Afghanistan will find it in the northeastern corner of the country. Keeping up the trend of arriving new places on holidays, I arrived just in time for Naroz - New Year's - which is also the beginning of several days of Buzkashi, the national sport. They fill a playing field full of men and horses, put a circle at one end, a flag at the other, and toss in a headless calf. The idea is for the men to pick up the calf and carry it from the circle around the flag for one point, and back to the circle for three. I think there are teams, but it's hard to tell. Other than that, no rules. Very rough game that often spills out into the crowd. It’s kind of like sitting right in the ring during a rodeo. Today, I saw the horses ride straight into the crowd. One guy didn't get out of the way in time and got trampled. But no one was taken away on a stretcher until the end. I’m not sure what you have to do to yourself to be taken away on the stretcher. Die, perhaps. Today they tore about five calves to shreds before they were done. It’s all very manly.
I should mention that the war is very remote here. Some of you have been wondering if there have been repercussions for us. In a word, no. You probably hear about it more than we do. Here in the Northern provinces there is almost no anti-American sentiment, as they are usually seen as liberators. The most I’ve gotten is a mild bafflement that any country would meddle with another so far away. Touché. We can watch BBC but I usually don't. It reminds me too much of sports news, everyone talking and nothing being said, bookmarked by nifty graphics and the same footage over and over. But I’m safe, if you were wondering. I just have to stay out of the way of the Buzkashi riders...
We had a staff meeting about the school today. I’ll be working with three others: Seth, who is the computer teacher for the men, and who has been with the institute since the beginning. He speaks very good Dari, and everyone around here knows and loves him. Very good guy. Jo, who is British, and the wife of the director of another NGO in town, will teach the women's computer course. She is a teacher, but out here she has not been working until she volunteered for this. Sue is a formidable elderly woman who has traveled all over and taught ESL many years in Honduras. She is here for a year, and will be in charge of the English department, we decided today. That is a relief for me, since I will have someone who has taught ESL before to help me. The plan is for us to start with a beginner's course each, which will take me to the end of my time here, and then hopefully sue can provide some continuity for the teacher who takes my place. The big problem with the English program is continuity. There’s no money to pay people and it's hard to get teachers to volunteer here for any length of time, and any one to stay and oversee the implementation of a consistent program, which short-termers could just pick and teach. sue has brought a curriculum which looks promising, and now we will have to find the money to provide the students with books for the long term. For now, we will create ways to make do. But it's coming together.
In addition to my course, I will be in charge of what little office administration there is here. The big project has finished here and we have minimal staff and expenses.
Now, I wrote you a little thing, a parting gift from Taloqan, which wasn't finished for the last newsletter. To be honest, it kind of got sidetracked by the raw thing I sent last. Let me first say a bit about that. I included things in that letter which perhaps would have been best left in my journal. Some of it was potentially dangerous, and I can only hope that it will not be. Some of it was too harsh, I did not know the people I lashed out at; perhaps if I had I would not have lashed. I hope if by some chance, that letter reached their ears, that this one will as well, and they will forgive me. The rest of you, please remember all who come here for the sake of the Afghans that they may truly help. Having said that, thanks to all of you who responded to that letter. Quite surprisingly, no one was critical, although I certainly must have given cause for that. It was perhaps the first uncensored thing I have sent. I took off my writerly filter and sent you exactly what I felt. Your concern and love and encouragement, sometimes coming from completely unexpected places, have given me the resolve to rise above what was sinking me. I am ready for this new challenge here in Faizabad. I have already made new friends, we have a plan for our work, and my new room has a stove, a bed, and a view of the mountains. Who could ask for more? So with that, I will leave you with this little piece: a morning in Taloqan.
You are awakened between dreams by the chanting call of the mosques. One voice starts and is taken up by another until there is a chorus of loudspeakers proclaiming the name of God. The chorus of barking dogs follows, and then the roosters start crowing. The sky is still dark in the Far East; dawn has only cracked one pale eyelid.
By six the light has come and you are fully awake. You may have prayers of your own, or you may lie on your cushions on the floor, listening to diesel engines roar to life, the bleating of horns beginning, and the shouts of men out in the streets. By seven you are up.
The clothing is simple. There are pants, loose and baggy, with a waistband that would fit around most tree trunks. You cinch these around you with a braided cotton cord. Over this you pull the shirt, which buttons from neck to navel, then falls loosely to just below your knees. Then a vest or a sweater, or both if it's cold. Headwear is optional, but recommended. You have a choice. The big, loose turban, the small pillbox, or the woollen pakoul - a thickly rolled beret. If you are a woman, a scarf to cover your hair is mandatory. If it's cool, and it is today, you wrap your pattu around you. You drape it across your shoulders leaving one side too long, then give the long side a flick and fling so it swings across your chest and hangs across the opposite shoulder. If you are a foreigner (which you are) and you don't want to draw the usual crowd, you pull the edge of it up over your head as a hood. This is good for an extra 500 yards of unnoticed
Walking, 1000 if it's dusk. You don't walk after dusk.
The walk is short. If you are up early enough, you can leave before the driver comes to pick you up. If the weather is clear it's nice to walk. If you are bringing your laptop, you should carry it under your pattu. The morning is pale. On your street, Russian Kamaz trucks are thrumming as they warm up. The drivers cluster and swap words while they wait. Children are out now, too, mostly boys, carrying shoeshine kits or boxes of cigarettes and cheap candy hanging around their necks. Men with faces like walnut shells bend double pulling flatbed carts over the ruts. You hear the jingle of sleigh bells from the Christmas albums of your childhood and step to the side as a big-wheeled horse cart rattles by you, the horse festooned with red plastic flowers, the two women in burqas bouncing in the back like blue and white milk bottles. At the corner men are melting rubber treads on to wooden cartwheels. The unhitched carts sit back on their heels and point their harnesses to the sky like circus painted anti-aircraft guns. There is a cloud of rubber smoke and diesel fumes to walk through. As you round the corner, you can see the mountains covered in snow beyond the city. In the lazy golden glow of evening the view on this street is idyllic. But for now it is still grey, and you are stepping around the mud. There is a string of vendors' stalls that you are passing now, and even with your hood up they can still tell you are haradji by your shoes: "hello! How are you mister! Come sit in my shop!" Unless you want to buy cheap candy, cheaper cigarettes, light bulbs, or toilet paper, you should just smile and keep moving. The destroyed building on your left is the ministry of statistics, if the sign outside is to be believed. It looks like the ministry of rubble and empty rooms, but it is guarded by two guys with Kalashnikovs, so maybe there's something you don't know. By the time you reach the next corner and turn right, you have been noticed. Across the street is a park and the children playing football stop and yell "salaams" and "thank-yous" at you. They’re not bad. It’s the packs of young blades with nothing to do that you want to be careful of. Like packs of teenagers everywhere, they are probably up to a modest form of "no good." Make that actually up to. . . one of them just tossed a stone to splash ditch water on you as you passed. Harmless, really, and the only form of rudeness you've encountered in two months here. As you turn the corner the wall on your right has the stamp of The Halo Trust stencilled on it, green paint on the yellow wall. Quite striking actually. What it means is that the school behind the wall was once a battle zone, and it has been cleared of mines.
Up ahead is the shelter for life gate. A small crowd of drivers and guards has gathered there, as they do every morning, to mill about before the day starts. You pass a small girl in a bright green dress, holding a plastic jug - and old oil jug - for carrying water. You smile at her, but she just stares back. She is strikingly beautiful, and she looks out at you from behind her tangled black hair. All along the street there are children like this, carrying buckets of water from the well, and some, like this girl, are as young as four or five. You keep hoping for a smile from them, but you are too strange. Some of the braver boys will sometimes smile at you if you make a funny face. You leave the little girl standing in the shadow of her doorway. Up ahead the trees that line the street are in bloom, pink and white. You wonder what kind of trees they are, and you wonder how to ask the men standing around. You know the word for tree - daraq - but not how to ask what kind. You’ve tried this before. "Daraq," you say, pointing at the tree. Now what? They all smile huge grins and nod. The haradji is trying to speak Persian. "Nam e daraq che ast?" (What’s the name of the tree?) And finally you have the answer, but it's in Dari, and you don't understand. So now it's your turn to grin hugely, and shake your head. Turn now and enter the gate. There will be eggs fried in oil for breakfast, and a day full of computer problems, deadlines to fall behind, emails to answer, and Afghans who really, really like you to get you through it all. Have a good day.
Peace and love to all,
rjs
posted by rjs | 4:02 PM
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