January 6, 2009 In the four days since I arrived in Kabul, we've had snow and two earthquakes which woke me in the night. As my room swayed, I racked my brain to remember my Southern California childhood training. Duck and cover? No. That's in case of a nuclear bomb. Stand in a doorjamb? I think so. It didn't come to that, but it was a moment.
I feel safe. It is a new experience being accompanied everywhere by a bodyguard, but I don't go many places outside of home and work. I spent yesterday, my first day at work, at a conference of law students, law professors, lawyers, judges, government officials. All of the women wear their heads covered. Men wore Armani suits and shalwar kamiz, capes, and turbans.
Although I receive “danger pay” (term of art!) for this job, this is far from a hardship post in many respects. My meals are prepared and served to me by skilled cooks. Last night's menu: fried chicken, roast potatoes, corn, bread pudding. Hamburgers and french fries the night before. My laundry is done for me; yesterday, my old frayed flannel nightgown was returned to me IRONED! I
I cover my head when I go out. At first, it seemed novel, but after a few hours of fidgeting again and again to make my scarf stay on my head, it became a great nuisance. At the legal conference I attended at the Safi Landmark Hotel in Kabul on Saturday, January 3, I watched the few women – law students, lawyers, judges – all of them in scarves. Not one of them fussed with her scarf, and it seemed to me that every scarf stayed in place except mine.
The contrasts are enormous. Palatial homes surrounded by high walls, next door to mud homes, both on unpaved dirt streets. After yesterday’s snow, Kabul’s rutted streets were mired in mud. Our skilled drivers traverse those streets like bumper cars, twisting and turning, brushing past daring pedestrians, darting into oncoming traffic which seems to part on cue. At night, Kabul traffic is a game of Chicken, writ large.
Street sights clipping through Kabul in an armored car: butcher stalls with slabs of meat hanging in the air. Bakeries with huge loaves of Naan in the window. Produce stands with stunningly beautiful arrangements of fruits and vegetables, placed with the hand of an artist. Eggplants, okra, oranges, apples, cauliflower, pomegranates, tiny lemons, enormous Clementines, cabbage, lettuce, leeks, onions. Purple, green, red, yellow, orange. Gorgeous. Children sorting through curbside garbage in search of soda cans. Goats nibbling on what is left of the garbage. A local bus with fringed windows and “Elephant of the Road” painted in scrolling letters across the front and side.
I am happy to be here.
I feel safe. It is a new experience being accompanied everywhere by a bodyguard, but I don't go many places outside of home and work. I spent yesterday, my first day at work, at a conference of law students, law professors, lawyers, judges, government officials. All of the women wear their heads covered. Men wore Armani suits and shalwar kamiz, capes, and turbans.
Although I receive “danger pay” (term of art!) for this job, this is far from a hardship post in many respects. My meals are prepared and served to me by skilled cooks. Last night's menu: fried chicken, roast potatoes, corn, bread pudding. Hamburgers and french fries the night before. My laundry is done for me; yesterday, my old frayed flannel nightgown was returned to me IRONED! I
I cover my head when I go out. At first, it seemed novel, but after a few hours of fidgeting again and again to make my scarf stay on my head, it became a great nuisance. At the legal conference I attended at the Safi Landmark Hotel in Kabul on Saturday, January 3, I watched the few women – law students, lawyers, judges – all of them in scarves. Not one of them fussed with her scarf, and it seemed to me that every scarf stayed in place except mine.
The contrasts are enormous. Palatial homes surrounded by high walls, next door to mud homes, both on unpaved dirt streets. After yesterday’s snow, Kabul’s rutted streets were mired in mud. Our skilled drivers traverse those streets like bumper cars, twisting and turning, brushing past daring pedestrians, darting into oncoming traffic which seems to part on cue. At night, Kabul traffic is a game of Chicken, writ large.
Street sights clipping through Kabul in an armored car: butcher stalls with slabs of meat hanging in the air. Bakeries with huge loaves of Naan in the window. Produce stands with stunningly beautiful arrangements of fruits and vegetables, placed with the hand of an artist. Eggplants, okra, oranges, apples, cauliflower, pomegranates, tiny lemons, enormous Clementines, cabbage, lettuce, leeks, onions. Purple, green, red, yellow, orange. Gorgeous. Children sorting through curbside garbage in search of soda cans. Goats nibbling on what is left of the garbage. A local bus with fringed windows and “Elephant of the Road” painted in scrolling letters across the front and side.
I am happy to be here.
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