Rain, Rambo, and the UN
Dear Everyone,
It rained and it rained and it rained this week. Buckets. Faizabad became like the Hotel California: you could check out any time you liked, but you could never leave. None of the planes landed because the clouds were too low, and none of the trucks drove because the mountains were sliding down over the roads. Village elders were coming to our door because they were afraid the mountains would fall on their people. The government was asking all the NGOs for help. WFP sent out their bulldozer to clear the roads. I asked haleem what they usually do when the mudslides cover the roads. I’m recording his answer because it is Afghanistan in a sentence:
"We wait for the mud to dry, then we drive over it."
(I typically don't recommend movies like this, but if you want a small idea of the afghan worldview, watch Rambo III. Especially one scene when a mujahid is explaining Buzkashi to Mr. John Rambo.
M: you must take the goat and put it in the circle.
R: (grunting) why?
M: because there is a circle.
Also, there is a cool scene where Rambo cauterizes his own wound with gunpowder... ok, never mind...)
Bob and Val, SFL's intrepid HR couple, decided on Saturday that they would make a run for it by truck to Taloqan. they made it past one mudslide, met another, walked around it down and up hills and across a river, and crammed into a 14-passenger van with 20 people for several hours until they finally met their ride from Taloqan coming the other way. At one point, Val was carried by an elderly and chivalrous gentleman, who, when he had her safely down the hill, cried: Oi! Ameri-KA! They took pictures with their digital camera, made instant friends, turned down numerous invitations to dinner, and rolled into Taloqan 12 hours after they left here. See? Afghanistan is fun.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch...
I went to meetings. Some meetings are scheduled, about one in five. The rest pop in on you like a long-lost relative you wish would stay lost. The meetings this week were those kind. All of a sudden, they are simply THERE. Two days after I arrived here, the governor sent a notice that apparently followed up a phone call from earlier that morning. He was testy because he had called us to come to his office and he didn't understand why we hadn't shown up yet. We understood why perfectly: our phone is a World War II field phone that you crank up and yell into, a step up from the tin can and string model, and not the most reliable transmitter of information. Joyce and I caught a taxi up to his posh building at the top of the hill to get our knuckles rapped for not being able to help one set of villagers (and thus making him look bad because he promised them we would help). As it turned out, we actually could help them, we just hadn't got that message either. Maybe he used the telephone.
Anyway, the meeting this week was at UNAMA, the logistical branch of the UN in Afghanistan, which makes a valiant effort to coordinate other efforts. This was a general coordination meeting, which means that it was three hours of assistant heads and deputies of various NGOs bragging about what they had accomplished since the last meeting. it was chaired by Paola Emerson, the regional head of UNAMA, who made me fall in love with her by finally saying to everyone that there were no donors present, so it was not necessary to give the whole CV of their organizations, and our time was better spent talking about solutions to the most important issues, such as: why did 600 children die of a preventable disease in Badakhshan this winter and do we want that to happen next winter, because unless we do something it will. Or, why does Badakhshan have the highest maternal mortality rate in the WHOLE WORLD, and what are we doing about it? I must admit that to watch a masterful woman use shame to lead a room full of men to the truth is one of the best sights in the world. just like Deborah in your bee-i-bee-ell-ee.
The next day, a UN truck arrived at out gate and summoned "engineer Sarwaz and a foreigner" to UNAMA again. It’s kind of like getting a wedding invitation for "Mr. So-and-so and guest" when you are the guest; any old foreigner will do, just bring one. We had to decline on behalf of the engineer - he hasn't worked here for months - and I went alone. Turned out that Paola had asked for us, and there have been so many staff switches at SFL Faizabad that she wasn't sure who, if anyone, was in charge anymore. they'd tried several times to get a hold of someone here in the last few months and had had no luck. So she was happy to see me. The bad part was that she wanted to know about an SFL project from which no staff were left, and which had finished before I arrived. So I drank half a glass of tea while I broke this news to her, then hopped back into a UN ride and went back to check the files for the 411 on the project.
"Files" is a gracious word.
By some chance, I found something, and drove back in the UN truck. (I keep mentioning the UN truck because I felt pretty important commandeering this vehicle; they write UN on the side in large blue letters and drive like they own the place). We’d just started into it again when they called on the radio to say that Paola's flight had arrived and was waiting for her at the airport. she left, and I finished up the meeting with a translator and two members of the Ministry of Reconstruction and Rural Development, who told me that they were extremely happy with SFL, but next time could we just give cash instead of things like stove coal and blankets? Of course, lads, anything else you need? Any idea what you're going to do when all the NGOs leave in a year?
In our brief visit over tea, Paola told me that all the NGOs are downsizing now, pulling out. She, and others like her, are doing their best to help the government take over, but she admits now that there will be a gap between the NGOs leaving and the government being ready to handle things. There are still regional politics, and Kabul policy only trickles out to the provinces. Plus, most government officials are warriors, used to helping themselves to the donations from the west, guns during the war and money now. So of course, the government will not suffer in this transition; it will be those mothers and children dying in remote villages, and their helpless men.
Meanwhile, outside my window the children come tripping down the hill to school, each one with a UNICEF backpack and one or two brothers and sisters in tow. I will hear them sing songs and chant lessons and run around shouting at recess like children everywhere until twelve o'clock, when they will trip back up the hill with their blue backpacks, happily pulling each other's hair and running around and shouting some more. And if I go out to the street they will gather around and call "oware yoh?" and giggle at me. I sometimes wonder what good we're doing here, but the kids don't seem to notice, or care. I hope by the time they do, there will still be something here worth running around and shouting about.
Love and peace to all of you. Thank you for remembering me. And them.
rjs
ps. things have changed a little for my work here. I don't think I will be teaching an English course after all. The office jobs, meetings and such, keep me too busy. But just yesterday, I began Dari language lessons with Sanatullah, who is the office assistant. it works out well, because I can swap language lessons with him and help him with his English, so it won't cost me - or him - anything, and it will benefit us both since we work together closely to run the office. I’d like to see him to the place where he is ready to administrate the school office on his own, since the plan is eventually to turn the institute over to local folks to operate. I won't be here to see that part of it through, but I think that this is my part right now.
I said last time that I had hoped to make it to Taloqan for Easter and my birthday, but it doesn't look like I’ll be able to right now. My money is too sparse. I’m a little sad about that, because I made some good friends there I’d love to see again. But you could all send me birthday emails on April 19th...
It rained and it rained and it rained this week. Buckets. Faizabad became like the Hotel California: you could check out any time you liked, but you could never leave. None of the planes landed because the clouds were too low, and none of the trucks drove because the mountains were sliding down over the roads. Village elders were coming to our door because they were afraid the mountains would fall on their people. The government was asking all the NGOs for help. WFP sent out their bulldozer to clear the roads. I asked haleem what they usually do when the mudslides cover the roads. I’m recording his answer because it is Afghanistan in a sentence:
"We wait for the mud to dry, then we drive over it."
(I typically don't recommend movies like this, but if you want a small idea of the afghan worldview, watch Rambo III. Especially one scene when a mujahid is explaining Buzkashi to Mr. John Rambo.
M: you must take the goat and put it in the circle.
R: (grunting) why?
M: because there is a circle.
Also, there is a cool scene where Rambo cauterizes his own wound with gunpowder... ok, never mind...)
Bob and Val, SFL's intrepid HR couple, decided on Saturday that they would make a run for it by truck to Taloqan. they made it past one mudslide, met another, walked around it down and up hills and across a river, and crammed into a 14-passenger van with 20 people for several hours until they finally met their ride from Taloqan coming the other way. At one point, Val was carried by an elderly and chivalrous gentleman, who, when he had her safely down the hill, cried: Oi! Ameri-KA! They took pictures with their digital camera, made instant friends, turned down numerous invitations to dinner, and rolled into Taloqan 12 hours after they left here. See? Afghanistan is fun.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch...
I went to meetings. Some meetings are scheduled, about one in five. The rest pop in on you like a long-lost relative you wish would stay lost. The meetings this week were those kind. All of a sudden, they are simply THERE. Two days after I arrived here, the governor sent a notice that apparently followed up a phone call from earlier that morning. He was testy because he had called us to come to his office and he didn't understand why we hadn't shown up yet. We understood why perfectly: our phone is a World War II field phone that you crank up and yell into, a step up from the tin can and string model, and not the most reliable transmitter of information. Joyce and I caught a taxi up to his posh building at the top of the hill to get our knuckles rapped for not being able to help one set of villagers (and thus making him look bad because he promised them we would help). As it turned out, we actually could help them, we just hadn't got that message either. Maybe he used the telephone.
Anyway, the meeting this week was at UNAMA, the logistical branch of the UN in Afghanistan, which makes a valiant effort to coordinate other efforts. This was a general coordination meeting, which means that it was three hours of assistant heads and deputies of various NGOs bragging about what they had accomplished since the last meeting. it was chaired by Paola Emerson, the regional head of UNAMA, who made me fall in love with her by finally saying to everyone that there were no donors present, so it was not necessary to give the whole CV of their organizations, and our time was better spent talking about solutions to the most important issues, such as: why did 600 children die of a preventable disease in Badakhshan this winter and do we want that to happen next winter, because unless we do something it will. Or, why does Badakhshan have the highest maternal mortality rate in the WHOLE WORLD, and what are we doing about it? I must admit that to watch a masterful woman use shame to lead a room full of men to the truth is one of the best sights in the world. just like Deborah in your bee-i-bee-ell-ee.
The next day, a UN truck arrived at out gate and summoned "engineer Sarwaz and a foreigner" to UNAMA again. It’s kind of like getting a wedding invitation for "Mr. So-and-so and guest" when you are the guest; any old foreigner will do, just bring one. We had to decline on behalf of the engineer - he hasn't worked here for months - and I went alone. Turned out that Paola had asked for us, and there have been so many staff switches at SFL Faizabad that she wasn't sure who, if anyone, was in charge anymore. they'd tried several times to get a hold of someone here in the last few months and had had no luck. So she was happy to see me. The bad part was that she wanted to know about an SFL project from which no staff were left, and which had finished before I arrived. So I drank half a glass of tea while I broke this news to her, then hopped back into a UN ride and went back to check the files for the 411 on the project.
"Files" is a gracious word.
By some chance, I found something, and drove back in the UN truck. (I keep mentioning the UN truck because I felt pretty important commandeering this vehicle; they write UN on the side in large blue letters and drive like they own the place). We’d just started into it again when they called on the radio to say that Paola's flight had arrived and was waiting for her at the airport. she left, and I finished up the meeting with a translator and two members of the Ministry of Reconstruction and Rural Development, who told me that they were extremely happy with SFL, but next time could we just give cash instead of things like stove coal and blankets? Of course, lads, anything else you need? Any idea what you're going to do when all the NGOs leave in a year?
In our brief visit over tea, Paola told me that all the NGOs are downsizing now, pulling out. She, and others like her, are doing their best to help the government take over, but she admits now that there will be a gap between the NGOs leaving and the government being ready to handle things. There are still regional politics, and Kabul policy only trickles out to the provinces. Plus, most government officials are warriors, used to helping themselves to the donations from the west, guns during the war and money now. So of course, the government will not suffer in this transition; it will be those mothers and children dying in remote villages, and their helpless men.
Meanwhile, outside my window the children come tripping down the hill to school, each one with a UNICEF backpack and one or two brothers and sisters in tow. I will hear them sing songs and chant lessons and run around shouting at recess like children everywhere until twelve o'clock, when they will trip back up the hill with their blue backpacks, happily pulling each other's hair and running around and shouting some more. And if I go out to the street they will gather around and call "oware yoh?" and giggle at me. I sometimes wonder what good we're doing here, but the kids don't seem to notice, or care. I hope by the time they do, there will still be something here worth running around and shouting about.
Love and peace to all of you. Thank you for remembering me. And them.
rjs
ps. things have changed a little for my work here. I don't think I will be teaching an English course after all. The office jobs, meetings and such, keep me too busy. But just yesterday, I began Dari language lessons with Sanatullah, who is the office assistant. it works out well, because I can swap language lessons with him and help him with his English, so it won't cost me - or him - anything, and it will benefit us both since we work together closely to run the office. I’d like to see him to the place where he is ready to administrate the school office on his own, since the plan is eventually to turn the institute over to local folks to operate. I won't be here to see that part of it through, but I think that this is my part right now.
I said last time that I had hoped to make it to Taloqan for Easter and my birthday, but it doesn't look like I’ll be able to right now. My money is too sparse. I’m a little sad about that, because I made some good friends there I’d love to see again. But you could all send me birthday emails on April 19th...
posted by rjs | 4:07 PM
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