Next Day

The day began as I frantically threw my clothes and leftover stuff into my two humonga suitcases. I had done most of my packing over the past day when I found out that I would be going to another Camp for two weeks. I hate to get up in the morning and try to pack to go somewhere because I usually forget something. Believe it or not, and this goes to Russ and the praise team, I was actually ready BEFORE 9:30. I had my suitcases outside and ready to go by 9:15, and waited patiently for Chris to come pick me up.

In the meantime, I watched the people walk by. I find it interesting to see the diversity in the dress of the Afghan people. The young women wear skinny jeans or pants under fitted, colorful tunics and cover their heads with beautiful scarves. If they wear skirts, they are long and gauzy, and they wear footless tights underneath the skirts. The older women dress mostly in black, as most of us have seen on television, with long, heavy, draping skirts and generally dark head coverings. The young men dress in jeans and tee shirts, or they wear suits as we would see on the streets of any American city, or they wear traditional garb, which consists of flowing trousers, usually white, with a matching tunic with slits up the side. The tunic usually hits the man about mid-thigh. Some men wear that traditional clothing and top it with a suit vest or even a suit coat. Most everyone wears sandals, which is incredible to me because of the dust and dirt. I can’t imagine what their feet look like at the end of the day.

Anyway, Chris arrived, and my driver was late, and then the guards wouldn’t let the driver in the gate, and Chris had to go get him. Eventually, about half an hour after we were supposed to leave, we left one Camp to go past the airport in the other direction to the other Camp.

The route to that Camp is difficult to describe and even talk about. First, almost the entire distance is unpaved, so the road is dirty and dusty and full of ruts and holes. I think sometimes we in the United States take for granted that the government sees to it that the roadways are at least paved and are as safe as possible for its citizens; after seeing these roads, I will never take my highways for granted again. The sad thing is that this road is a main road connecting Kabul with the south, and I can see that business development, and therefore community development, is hindered because of this supposed thoroughfare that, in the United States, would be declared not drivable as a national highway, and certainly in need of maintenance out in Pettis County.

Then, as I mentioned when describing my drive in from the airport, Afghanistan has no rules of the road. Drivers, including the one who was behind the wheel of my vehicle, simply go down the road at whatever speed is achievable for the circumstances. The circumstances vary, though, and sometimes the cars leave the purported road for the purported shoulder in order to avoid colliding with the car in front, or the approaching car that is passing the approaching truck down the middle of the road. Fortunately, because of the horrendously bad condition of the road, no one goes really fast.

Next, the road is populated with people – people on bicycles, driving goats, walking along, and, in one instance, sitting in the middle of the road with a child. This was difficult to see. A woman was sitting in the middle of the road holding her toddler’s hand so that he would not wander out into traffic, but I think she was begging for money or food. She was almost invisible because of the dust until we were right upon her, but sitting there she was. I cannot imagine such a situation. I wonder if she has no other way of support. I wonder if the child’s father is dead. I wonder whether anyone stopped to give her anything.

Then, as we drove along, creating our own dust bowl, I saw vendors alongside the road. These people were selling fresh fruit that was displayed artistically on shelves. I cannot imagine buying the fruit, however, because as it sat there, appealingly beautiful, the dust swirling from the passage of traffic settled on the fruit, making it dirty and filthy. I suppose the dirt can be washed off, but who will buy it?

And people were simply walking alongside the road, scarves to faces, trying to hold out the ever-present dust. I asked my driver why and how someone would walk in the face of such adversity. He said that they didn’t have any choice. I think there must be a better way, but that would require the people’s coming together to demand of their government that improvements be made that would make their lives better. I’m not sure what kind of government exists here. Maybe as I go along, I will have a better idea.

I got to the Camp and found that I would be working with a fast-talking, chain-smoking, peripatetic Scot I will call Bruce. I like that name and think it sounds like Scotland. I was also in an office with the mayor of Pinnacle, Jim, who had learned being a mayor from the mayor of the other Camp, my friend David. He was delightful to work with, and we shared frustrations and successes as he taught me how to write specific kinds of reports and I taught him how to make his computer more efficient. I had a great afternoon, and got to write, as well as read, stories about how the program I am working for has made a difference in the lives of the people who work in the Afghan justice system.

After work, because tomorrow (Friday) is our day off, we went out for pizza with David and another friend from Camp, and Bruce talked about Burns Day in Scotland, and told me how he makes haggis. Then he recited Robert Burns’ poetry in the most beautiful Scottish brogue I have ever heard. I am going to make him record some of it for me before I head out.

And I found out that I will head out much earlier than expected: someone has been reassigned, and that means that the Herat team is one person short. That person is me – and as you know, I am always short.

So tomorrow, I will enjoy a day of rest and wait to see what happens next.