On the Roads

It's hard to describe just how shitty the roads are in Afghanistan. Think back to the worst road you ever drove in the states, like that time that you visited your friend's camp in rural Maine right after three days of rain. That last, unmarked dirt road, so uneven you had to drive 3 miles an hour or crack the muffler clean off, with potholes so enormous you had to slip into first gear to traverse them… now imagine a few more boulders, potholes, some horses, and a line of donkeys bearing straw and you have the central highway through the province of Badakhshan.

I took that road this morning east to Baharak. It should have taken two hours but a rock slide blocked the road for an hour. Luckily the slide was next to a river with a grassy field and mulberry trees. One thing about Afghans is they're always prepared to sit one out. Suddenly appeared some cushions, the hot tea, someone caught fish in the river, another climbed the tree and picked mulberries. When we started up again my driver saw my med kit and complained of a stomach ache. So I gave him one of my Immodiums which cured him instantly. "Where is that pill from?" he asked. From America, I said. "Ah," he said, quite satisfied. I wonder if the placebo effect increases the less actual health care you have. Like the way blind people become better at hearing.

Turtle Jihad

All my best pictures from today i couldn't take because there were either women or poppy plants in the way. And photographing either of those would have caused trouble. Up in the mountains of Fayzabad, took a hike today with a mixed group of afghans, pakistanis and americans I met on the plane. We left early and followed a tiny dirt path through minefields and poppy fields, and one of the american boys commented about what a good email he was going to be able to write that afternoon. He was right of course, but i felt caught in the outdoors magazine-y tone of that email. Afghanistan's clichés can make you claustrophobic. The afghans among us seemed less impressed by those tropes; they prefered the turtles. Really. Anytime we spotted a turtle, one of them would grab it and put it in the path and take pictures as it ran back to cover. This happened four or five different times. They were really getting into those photo shoots filming mr. turtle from all angles. I made a dumb joke about turtle soup which got far more laughter than it deserved. Something was up with those turtles I'll never know what. The word for turtle in Dari is the same as the word for tank and along the mountain ridge we passed many destroyed russian tanks. If I had a better camera I could have taken a sort of turtle/tank composite shot, though what that photo would mean to anyone I have no idea. It would be a photo that would require a lot of explanation. I would have to talk about afghan versus american tourism, about life on a mountain and life in a shell, I'd probably have to repeat a dumb joke about turtle soup, and I'd just end up feeling lonelier than I do already.

Volleyball in Fayzabad

Early flight to Fayzabad on the Afghan airline. Ragging on the state-owned airlines is oh so kabul but it got us there comfortably enough. Only the seats were made of that wrinkly school bus seat foam and the engine sounded like a dustbuster vaccuum trying to swallow a whole GI Joe. Fayzabad is up in the mountains to the northeast; it's where a lot of afghan fled the Taliban, since it's completely mountainous and rather inaccessible. The Northern alliance started here.

I ran into a rather amazing young Brit who has been living here 3 months and not changed a lick. We joined a pickup volleyball game in a pretty empty park. The little boys beat us then mocked us. In other words, no different than 11 year olds everywhere.

Here's a picture of volleyball, and another picture of a boy on the street who begged me to take his photo, but didn't understand the concept of an action shot. I was trying to get him to walk with the cows but whenever I picked up the camera he'd stop and smile while the cows carried on out of the frame.

fasten your seat-tables and upright your seat-backs

we're flying into Kabul. There’s even a bus this time to meet us on the tarmac. And– the terminal’s got a makeover! I never knew fluorescent fixtures would make me so happy. I find myself smiling over the floors like in friend’s new home. Charming! And that must be stone tile. Marvelous! Yes, it was all finished two weeks ago, says my neighbor. He and I are standing in line for passport control (“Passport Entery”). We share stories about the old terminal – so dark – so dim! – and those weird forms filled in duplicate (the first one I had to fill out, the second one by the officer – though the forms were the same and the officer spoke little English, so the answers came out all wrong, in short a creepy and absurd waste of time)… while now we’re whisked through with no forms no papers just stamp stamp flip on the visa and it’s all done.

While we wait they bring in a busload of deportees from Dubai. Each holds a green sheet of paper and little else. The police pick them up as they find them. Some shuffle along with small bags from duty free. One boy in acid-washed jeans and a salmon-colored t-shirt seems ready to fight someone.

Out in the city, lot of new construction. Is the mood here different, or is it just Spring?

oh, dubai

In Dubai for a layover. Dubai is like los angeles in that it's planned around cars. But more so. The streets are like highways, you can't cross them. So to get to the grocery store across the street you get in a cab, drive it down to the roundabout and back down on the other side. $15 round trip.

My hotel has four nightclubs. Iranian, Pakistani, Indian, and African. All are on different floors and there are, well, not fights exactly, but grumblings in the elevator based on which club you get out at.

This is sort of a blow-off-the-dust, stretch and warm up blog. I arrive in Kabul tomorrow.