“Where are you from?”

That’s the first question that Afghans ask me once they have dispensed with the customary pleasantries. Most Afghans initially assume that I am a local. The question of my origins is often initiated by an awkward moment during which my new acquaintance tries to greet me in Dari and I have to grin apologetically, my ignorance of their language exposed. I put my ability to masquerade as an Afghan down to my swarthy skin tone and my ‘impressive’ beard, but unfortunately once I have deployed my finest version of ‘As salaam al aykuum’, I am rumbled as just another enthusiastic foreigner annoyingly trying to help them. This in itself is uninteresting, but it is the conversation that follows that provides a tiny but intriguing insight into Afghanistan. Once I have availed myself of my entire life story - where I was born, brought up, educated, and my ancestral origins – the next question that arrives without fail: “Are you Muslim?”. Once I have confirmed that I am ‘one of them’, almost without fail my interrogator’s face will crease into a warm smile and they will say, “Al hamd’Allah, al hamd’Allah”. I personally find this intriguing because it demonstrates the enduring centrality of Islam to people’s personal lives here and the ongoing affinity Afghans feel towards other Muslims. Now I am not claiming that I have some kind of comparative advantage here because I am Muslim – everyday I am more and more bewildered by Afghanistan and feel I understand it less and less – only that the small and personal metaphorical wall that I sense is torn down in the wake of my confession of faith may be instructive. The Government of Afghanistan is flooded with American and European advisers many of whom are capable and committed. But I wonder whether the gargantuan challenge of state-building in a country like Afghanistan can ever be successfully instituted by westerners. I accept that this may appear to be an incredibly simplistic observation – that an understanding of the cultural context is an essential pre-requisite for any form of successful assistance. But I suppose the frequency with which I have had this conversation in the last two weeks, coupled with the consistency of the response has served to highlight to me just how paramount this component of the enterprise is. And if this is so blindingly obvious, why are there not more advisers from Muslim states walking the corridors of Afghan Ministries? Why have we failed to involve regional partners sufficiently in this terrifyingly enormous challenge? A NATO, World Bank and UN dominated by the US and the Euros are surely not the only answer? Where are the Iranians? Where are the Saudis and other Gulf Arabs? What about Indonesia? Can we encourage the Turks to do more? Admittedly, these are not necessarily paragons of good governance (especially the first two) at home. But if we are realistic, in the medium-term, is Afghanistan more likely to look like one of these aforementioned countries or like Washington and Westminster? This brings one back to the slippery question of what actually constitutes ‘success’ in Afghanistan. Once we have answered that definitively, maybe we can be a bit more canny about how to get there. On a slightly more frivilous note – a liitle something for those Y-beard fans out there (I know there are a few) – its coming along well. It got its first real trim a few days ago. Its slightly scraggly, lacking the symmetry of the groomed gentleman. But I judge that its unruliness gives it its distinctive character, makes me look a little ‘wild’ and helps me blend in. Watch this space for more from the gripping series that is ‘Y’s adventures in facial fuzz….’ --Y

Afghanistan Arrival

A strange irony of the journey into Kabul is that one of the most popular transit points is Dubai. The contrast between these two places could not be more stark. Dubai is perhaps one of the most vulgar places I have visited. The tiny emirate seems to celebrate conspicious consumption in its most brash and unadulterated form. Anything that your most base instincts desire or imagine is attainable here, as the boundaries of excessive materialism are constantly being redefined – 7* hotels, the tallest skyscraper in the world, ski slopes in the desert. This tiny corner of the world is simply a giant temple to worship Mammon.

It is the first time that I have visited Dubai since the onset of the financial crisis, and its decadence seems almost anachronistic now. At a time when the prevailing narrative in Europe and the US seems to be based on sacrifice and thriftness and disdainful of greed, Dubai’s opulence appears entirely out of step. There is no doubt that Dubai’s economy is in deep trouble, but it seems that this message has been slow to reach the Emirate’s populace, a rigidly segmented community of entitled native Arabs, hedonistic western expats, and a south asian mamluk-like working class. It will be interesting to watch what becomes of it in the future, if the global financial system genuinely does change.

Fortunately my stay in Dubai was short. My flight into Kabul was severely delayed and then when it eventually took off was re-routed back to Dubai, as Iran had closed its airspace in response to the post-election political turmoil. After an hour of sitting on the tarmac in Dubai, we learned that the Iranians had now decided to re-open their airspace and we were allowed to begin our journey.

I would love to provide a detailed insight into life in Kabul but my existence here is too restricted to allow that. I reside with other expats in a large house that stands behind high walls and barbed wire, surrounded by armed guards. I have a room with an ensuite bathroom and a team of domestic staff that cook me three meals a day and do my laundry. I travel to work everyday in an armoured vehicle with my Afghan driver, gazing out of the SUVs window trying to soak up as much about life in the city as one can glean from behind bullet-proof glass. I am based in a small office in the Ministry which I travel to daily, which allows me some opportunity to interact with Afghans, although I recognise that these are hardly representative of the populace at large. In short, my life here is incredibly sheltered.

My main opportunity to learn something about Afghanistan comes through my work. I am working as a consultant in the Government’s Ministry of Rural Rehabilitation and Development (MRRD). This is a giant, cross-sectoral Ministry, used as a vehicle by many donors to channel large sums of money to the provinces to invest in rural infrastructure, such as roads and bridges. The Ministry’s work also stretches to the rehabilitation of schools, hospitals and power installations. From this sprawling mass of objectives, organisational chaos has been born. Poor co-ordination between donors, coupled with their desire to stick national flags on projects that they are funding means that the Ministry has become balkanized, with various fiefdoms within the beauracracy emerging and weak control from the centre over the delivery of flagship programmes.

The Ministry’s senior leadership are cognizant of the chaos within their organisation, and are also aware that the shift in the US’s strategy in Afghanistan will potentially bring them even greater resources in the coming months. They feel that unless they can get a grip on their Ministry, understand where the gaps in capacity are and make an assessment of real needs, their voice will not be heard when the American deluge – or ‘civ-surge’ as it is called – strikes.

The task before me is quite daunting. I have only a month to prepare a short, action-oriented report diagnosing problems within the Ministry and suggesting practical solutions that can be developed into a change management strategy. I feel that the amount of ‘unknown unknowns’ in this endeavour are considerable and it is not entirely clear to me how, or through whom, information can be acquired. I feel like the proverbial blind man feeling an elephant, as my eventual conclusions will be inevitably hamstrung by my lack of understanding of the whole beast. How I deal with this challenge is what I am spending most of my day thinking about.

The rest of my day I spend thinking about the beard that I am cultivating while I am here, stroking it like a sage while I do so. My hope is that my advances in facial fashion will give me the gravitas I need to at least fool my Afghan colleagues into thinking that I know what I am doing here. Any grooming tips would be gratefully received.

--Y

Impressions from Damascus

Impressions from Damascus

The old city is lovely. The narrow streets wind through souqs and are peppered with old crumbling Ottoman houses. Many have not been renovated because it is difficult to get permission from the government. In the middle of the night you can wander around the old city, eerily lit by the green neon of mosques’ minarets, never completely alone because Damascus never sleeps – street cleaners, mothers in black abayas with their young children, men walking hand in hand, workmen sitting around a pot of tea, all can be found between the hours of 2 and 6 AM.

Conversations about the government are rare. Most Syrians will not bring up the subject although many seem to be in favor of the new president, Bashar, whose picture adorns many cafes, stores, and late-night falafel stands. Syrians are curious about America and ask questions that are difficult to answer – What is like to live in a country with democracy and freedom? – for which I often have no answer. When they speak about the future and their hopes for peace they include Palestinians, Lebanese, Iranians, and Afghanis, as if their fate is bound up in the fate of all Muslims.

The grounds of Damascus University are in desperate need of a makeover. Crumbling fountains without water and broken cobblestones abound. Women in fashionable headscarves and tight jeans sit on benches studying or chatting with their friends. The occasional couple can be found, heads slightly tilted together, in the quieter parts of the courtyard.

Syrian men are generally respectful and keep their distance. Sometimes when I walk by I can catch whispered words – beautiful, girl – but so soft it sounds like someone murmuring sweet nothings in your ear.

Almost all of the foreigners in the city are students studying Arabic. The odd NGO employee or diplomat can also be found. Prices in the souq seem to drop quickly if you can speak a few words of Arabic and tell the proprietor that you are a student. Most students study at the university or with a private tutor. Some also study at the Abu Noor mosque, where women wear headscarves in class. A few Western women study at Abu Noor, but most of the students come from the rest of the Muslim world. There is an hour of religious instruction after the language lesson that includes Quranic readings. The instruction at Abu Noor is considered much more hard-core than at the University, and for a fraction of the cost.

The other day I took a nap in the church of a monastery built fifteen hundred years ago in the desolate countryside an hour outside Damascus. We crammed six people in the car and drove to Mar Musa monastery under a reddish hazy sky that looked like L.A.-style pollution to me but which I was informed was simply a normal Syrian sandstorm. We arrived in the morning and I climbed what seemed like a thousand stairs to the old monastery and ducked into a small doorway four feet tall and walked hunched over through a winding passageway to a large veranda with a view of red hills and not much else. You can sit in the church of the monastery, undisturbed for hours, and read and sleep. Eventually a monk will come by and tell you its time for lunch. Lunch is a lovely affair of rice with lamb and chicken, yogurt, and fruit. The only money taken at the monastery is donations. If you happen to go to Mar Musa, be sure to meet Father Paulo, who embodies the spirit of the place. He’s been there for ages, has a great booming laugh, and will immediately put you at ease. You can spend the night at the monastery, but you may want to wait a few months, since they are getting electricity in the dormitory soon.

Some Kurdish friends organized a picnic for us a few days ago. We rented a small mini-van and drove an hour outside the city to a small stream next to abandoned rail tracks. The Kurds in Damascus, like everywhere, are not well regarded by the Syrians. Despite being born in Syria, they have no identity papers and cannot obtain passports. They’re ghosts in the Syrian system. One of them, who is an artist who paints scenes from the old city, told me he simply says “I am Kurdish” if the police ask him for his papers, and he’s on his way. His parents paid thousands of dollars for a fake passport to escape to France but he can’t earn enough money as an artist to leave. We sat by the stream and played traditional Kurdish songs, smoked nargile, and drank beer while the Kurdish boys danced dabka round and round in circles.

The young Kurds I have met in Damascus seem somewhat disdainful of the Kurds in Turkey and the Kurds from the Syrian countryside. They recognize the problems in their society – girls being married off as early 13 in order to make sure they don’t lose their reputations before a suitable husband can be found, parents having seven to twelve children and not educating or, in some cases, feeding them properly, a conservative society that does not value education or social liberties. My Kurdish friend who teaches Arabic as a private tutor, gets angry when he goes back to his village and some of the parents of the children seem satisfied to let their children grow like weeds in the wild. He lectures them on their responsibilities and they respond, “Allah will provide.” He thinks its shameful that some of the men think it is sufficient to work for two months out of the year. When they have saved a small amount of money, it goes toward finding a second or third wife. But the Kurds I have met in Damascus are modern and hopefully will change the next generation.

Abu George is the smallest bar in Damascus. It fits about 5 tables and everyone is crammed on top of one another. The barkeep is an engaging older man who pours Scotch, arak, and wine with an easy manner. The walls are decorated in bizarre old record albums from the 70s, a photo from the early 80s of a topless woman with leopard skin boots that match the trim of her cowboy hat, and adverts for Arabic tutors. It’s impossible to not become involved in the conversations of the tables around you and when one group cheers, the whole bar chimes in. Wet met some Danish sailors and a mad old Irishman in the first ten minutes. Eventually the conversation conflates into one and then dissembles again after a while. You can while away hours at Abu George.

--Ümlaut

Part III - J's 2nd week: Social Stratification and Sheesha

The rest of the week consisted of a variety of get-togethers and meeting people through people I've already met. On Monday, the journalist Noor introduced me to a group of artist-types: a theater director who recently directed "Art" (a play that won the Tony award back in 1998 that starred Alan Alda, Victor Garber and Alfred Molina); an actor who went to Stanford undergrad; an "up-and-coming" Pakistani pop singer whose single is getting a lot of radio play; and a handful of others that worked in a more traditional careers. They arrived at the guesthouse to take me over to an Uzbek restaurant that is located in a house on a main thoroughfare. The security, like everywhere else in Islamabad, is ostensibly "tight," which means poorly trained guards with guns that may or may not work, high walls and magnetometer wands that they won't use on women and ignore when they use them on guys. Basically the front yard is empty of people and functions now as a blast buffer, although it may have been primarily a zoo beforehand. Because while it's empty of people, it contained a few flamingo-like birds and a couple of docile lop-eared rabbits. I wasn't sure if they were decorative, coincidental or simply menu items. The inside of the house serves as an art gallery and the guests mainly dine or smoke sheehsa out back. But before we ordered, someone made the decision that we should leave and drive to another friend's house on the outskirts of town. I'm still puzzled as to why that decision was made, but seeing as how I was the random new guy, I had pretty much zero decision-making authority. While the drive took a bit of time, it was actually quite fun since everyone in the car was singing along to a mix of popular American music on the pop-singer's iPod. There was, however, one exception to the American music, which was the pop-singer's recent Urdu hit. Evidently, it is some sort of rock ballad. Not quite the high-powered vocals of Steve Perry and less hip-hop oriented than J T. Maybe Nick Lachey? Point is, while I couldn't understand any of what he was singing, the tune was decently catchy. Unsurprisingly, he sang along.

On Tuesday, after finishing a few additional items for the IDP report prior to its publication, I got a call from Asim who wanted to hang out at Gloria Jean's. He arrived to pick me up in his upscale Honda. While some of the elites still purchase the usual BMW/Mercedes/Range Rovers, most typically drive the top of the line Hondas and Toyotas, some of which aren't available in the States. Evidently, it's hard to get maintenance or car parts for German cars, whereas Japanese cars are often times assembled in Pakistan. That and when driving around Pakistan, a low profile is often the better choice. So I got in and we headed back to Khosar to grab a couple of macchiatos. When we arrived, Asim saw a friend of his from ISoI, who we sat with. His friend then introduced me to the other two people at the table, both of whom were also ISoIers, of course. And It turns out that all three were all recently in an indie film entitled "Slackistan." I think it's a "Reality Bites" for Pakistan, but classier. Or so they tell me. We chatted about film, photography and theater for awhile before a few of us eventually decided to go to dinner.

We settled on dinner at the Serena Hotel -- the only real uspcale hotel in Isloo that isn't the Marriott. The security to get in was breathtakingly robust. We pulled into the hotel's driveway, where the car was checked for bombs. They lowered the metal barrier to allow us into the parking lot entrance, where the car was again checked. 20 heavily armed security guards dotted the parking area under the watchful eye of rooftop snipers. After exiting the car, we left the parking lot through a metal detector and walked another 50 yards before reaching a small room with a hotel staff and a few more security guards at the final metal detector. Having passed the formal security, we climbed the long flight of stairs to reach the hotel, which is perched upon a hill-like foundation. This height provides the hotel's guests the added 'luxury' of limiting both street noise and bomb blasts. Every need and desire accounted for.... Obviously, having security to deter terrorists from attacking the hotel is needed. But it really creates a feeling of being under siege, which is a bit unnerving. I can only imagine the cognitive damage that having a constant state of security throughout the city has caused people. Once inside, the restaurant had an ambiance of an upscale US restaurant that was trying to be "authentic" Pakistani food. My chicken biryani was decent, but definitely overpriced. The bill included a surcharge for what I assume was the opportunity to be surrounded by expats with cash to burn, because it certainly could not have been for the service. The evening ended when I decided to skip out on Hotspot, the ice-cream shop that is frequently an evening stop on the F7 social circuit.

Thursday evening was spent hanging out at Gloria Jean's for several hours with Shaheryar and Asim. Shaheryar and I then met Noor for dinner at Rendezvous. Rendezvous is a "chic" restaurant that offers overpriced entrees and sheesha. I experienced both. The restaurant is part of a recently built promenade in F7 along a park that offers outdoor seating for several sheesha places, restaurants and an ice cream shop, catering to the elite and their expat friends. Noor's actor and pop-singer friends joined us, as did another journalist, a Brit, who worked for the Guardian and now works for Globe and Mail. He later told me that he was driving up to Swat the next day to survey the damage from the military operations. Only half-kidding, I offered to take pictures for him. Luckily, the end of newspapers means that they don't have funding for a photographer. That and I'm not completely stupid. Asim joined us later for sheesha, as did another gentleman who works in the defense industry trade -- all on the up and up, I assume. We spent the evening puffing on sheesha and chatting until we adjourned around 1am.

On Friday, I received an invitation from a friend of a friend to stop by for drinks and dinner. He attended school in the States and is back to work for his family business. His house was, unsurprisingly, gorgeous. Filled with paintings and other works of art, its decor isa blend of clean, contemporary lines, but with classical and traditional elements, making it inviting. Of chief importance is the wet bar, which is the best stocked home-bar that I have seen. Not just in Pakistan, but anywhere. Also of note was the gorgeous pool out back. When the temperature reaches 40 degrees Celsius, I think I'll know where to go. For drinks, we were accompanied by a couple of others. One was a Chinese guy who is receiving his MA in Islamabad. While he is ostensibly in graduate school, he is apparently high up in the "Party" and everyone thinks he works for Chinese intelligence. The other guy works for a strategic think tank that is funded by the Pakistani Government and the ISI (the one that isn't the International School of Islamabad), and is deceptively known as the ISSI. Who would make that connection, right? You could say that the conversation over drinks was interesting. The discussion continued over dinner, which was regional food from around Pakistan and prepared and served to us by several members of the house staff.

After dinner, I went to Noor's friend's place that is near my guesthouse. We played Jenga (yes, the ridiculous woodblock game) while smoking sheesha and drinking bootlegged wine. It was fun, but the highlight of the evening was the comment about the benefit of window curtains and how upset the "Baby Taliban" would be if they knew about the 'debauchery' that was occurring so close to their madrassah. Yes, Jenga+2 bottles of wine shared amongst 8 people=debauchery. Oh right, we also played charades.

After two weeks, the notion that I'm simply living a life with the elites gets to me. It still surprises me that someone has an entire waitstaff that consists of cooks, butlers, guards, maids, drivers, etc. And although I keep trying to get used to it, I nevertheless feel awkward being served in such an obsequious manner. Despite my abstract desire to learn about a more normal Pakistani existence, I'm not certain I really can. First is a communication issue. My Urdu, while I've learned a few phrases and words, is not enough to actually communicate; and outside the elite, there are very few English speakers. Second is the issue of security, as one can never be too careful about who one trusts. And even if someone and their friends are trustworthy, there is an uncertainty about whom they may tell or who may simply overhear them mention some random American that they are meeting or who is visiting them at home. I was surprised to learn that a poll showed that many within the ranks of the common man are sympathetic to the Taliban. While this is less about the program of Sharia law and extremism and more about the Taliban's recent quasi-socialist policy of taking over an emerald mine in Swat and giving much higher wages to the laborers, it nevertheless makes me hesitant to put myself in a potentially hostile situation. And lastly, it’s simply more fun to hang out with the elite.

Of course, I interact with the staff at the office and guesthouse. In the first couple of weeks, I have tried speak with them as much as possible about their lives. During meals, I am sometimes joined by Farhan the cook. It turns out that he is Christian and that being a Christian in Pakistan is very difficult. His last name gives him away, as it’s simply an English name (like John or Harris). In his mid 20s, he has had plenty of vocational training – training two years to be a hair stylist and more recently six years to become a cook. Early into my time at the guesthouse he opened up to me about how his girlfriend’s family doesn’t accept him. I thought it was because he was Christian, but that wasn’t it. The reason is that her family wants her to marry someone with a college degree, not a chef.

Ismail, a 27 year old Pashtun that looks nearly 40 from Malakand District is the late-evening and early-morning front desk attendant. He often sits with me in the morning and teaches me a phrase or two in Urdu. While his English is the best compared to the rest of the guesthouse staff, he is frequently unintelligible. But some things that I have been able to understand are about his family. Evidently, he has eight siblings, most of who have left or are leaving Malakand because of the current crisis and military operations. He is very much against the problems that the Taliban are causing generally, and how they reject traditional Pashtun culture, as well as undermine the development of his people. Despite living in Islamabad, he remains culturally connected to his culture. At night, he’ll chat in Pashto and drink a cup of tea with the guards. And he often spends the very late night hours at the front desk wearing large headphones while watching traditional Pashtun dances on YouTube.

The daytime front desk guy, Brian (I don’t actually remember his name, but Brian fits him), is 18 or 19 and always stands when I approach the desk. I tell him not to, but he says it’s part of the job. He studies Islamic history at school and is often reading his text book at the front desk. And once he gets off work at 6 pm, he works for 6 more hours at a tailor where he apprentices. His tailoring skills have come in handy. He offered to hem a couple of Shalwer Kameez outfits for me and suggested several good stores to find quality clothing. He is always smiling at me, but I think he just thinks I’m a bit silly. They all do. But Brian did tell me that I looked “Beautiful” in the Shalwer Kameez. I mean, I know it looks good, but beautiful seems like a stretch. When I wore the outfit to the office, the staff used the same phrase. It must just be that the connotation is lost without some degree of fluency. When I recently used a literal translation into Urdu of an English phrase, I said something that was uproariously inappropriate. I still have no idea what. But at least there were no real negative consequences, since I was just laughed at. Point is, linguistic nuance is not easy.

Ismail said to me a few days ago: “We enjoy you very much.” I awkwardly smiled. Seeing my confusion, he explained that he likes that I am “sometimes serious and sometimes silly.” Not really sure how to take that the silly comment. I guess being nice to the staff and smiling often counts as silly, because it’s not like I’m doing a slapstick routine in the dining room. In the days since, he has told me that I’m the first American he has ever met, and that unlike the other guests, most of whom are German it turns out, I am the only one that talks with him, Farhan and Brian about their lives. Just last night Ismail opened up to me about his first and only love. Evidently, after he had fallen madly in love with her, she deceived him. His love was, and I quote, “pure and true.” And he was crushed by her betrayal. So much so that he declared that he’ll never love again. Not sure how long that will last since he already has a crush on a German woman that once stayed at the guesthouse.

A couple other characters that add color to my experience are the cleaning guy at the office and a couple guards outside the guesthouse. Bassid, the cleaning guy, arrives to work on his 1976 Vespa far before everyone else to “clean” the office. But as I noticed during the mornings when I arrived before most of the ICG staff, he does very little cleaning. I wandered into my office one morning and he decided to come upstairs to dust the small and somewhat dehydrated fern plant next to my desk. This was clearly an excuse to chat, because as he began his story, he dropped all pretense of cleaning. Evidently, this polio-stricken 21 year old, has had a tremendously troubled life. He managed to tell me that: he’s discriminated against for being a Christian; his mother died last year; his baby died a few weeks after being born; his wife has now gone crazy since the baby died; and his father has had three heart bypasses and has a weak heart. And after each one he would just shake his head, murmuring about being unlucky and having many problems. Admittedly, his life is terrible. But when I would ask follow up questions, such as how long ago did this happen or that happen, he would simply nod and look sad, as if I had not just asked a question. It was like the Family Guy episode when Stewie and Brian get into a truck with an immigrant who sounds fluent in English while describing some specific situation. But when asked a follow-up question, he has a small speech explaining that his only knowledge of English is the previous speech and this one explaining that. They ask him another question and he simply responds– No hablo ingles. It feels like that when chatting with this guy, who has now regaled me with the same story several times.

Also of note are the two evening guards (the day guards are nice too, but they’re a bit more proper, and thus, less funny). One guard is a younger Punjabi guy, who is quite possibly the frailest guard I’ve ever seen. Yes, he carries a gun, but it seems like he can’t lift it with one arm. He always gives me a salute and then a handshake that turns into a partial hug, as I walk up the driveway. His smile is a bit crooked and his coordination is not the best, but he is always eager to help. Of course, eagerness won’t be a suitable replacement for strength and dexterity if real help is needed, but I imagine that skill-set won’t be called for. And I much prefer this slightly awkward, very kind and somewhat emaciated guard anyway.

The other guard is the one who works at the house next door. He is a very old Pashtun man from Swat, who dyes his long, gray beard with henna, giving it that unique orange color. Every time that he sees me he throws up his hands in the air, broadly smiling, and shouts “Hello, sir!” Often, he comes down from his guard station to shake my hand. Once he even hugged me. He said to me that I was the first Westerner that ever smiled or talked to him. He once said that I am very kind and told me that he wishes me a long and happy life, which is tremendously sweet. Of course, the other guards think he’s a bit loopy, which he is, but he’s just a sweet old man who happens to carry a large shotgun. A little bit like Texas, I suppose.

It seems to me that the lives of the help staff and guards are mostly unpleasant. They commute an hour or more to work each way, every day. And they do so, so they can stand in the heat all day with only a gun for company, or so that they can pointlessly clean and ponder their own misery. But they are remarkably kind. And they deeply appreciate the smallest show of gratitude and friendship, for which they seem starved.

-J

--------------------------------------------------------

My next posting will be on my Saturday in Pindi and my experience learning and watching Pakistan's Cricket team.

Ümlaut's first post from Syria - Hamam

Al-Hamam

For the men reading this, I am sorry. Sorry that while you may go to a public bath in the Middle East you will never experience the enclave of female comfort that I experienced. For those of you visiting Istanbul, many of the male public baths are gay pick-up joints (if that’s the kind of thing you’re into). I have heard that there are similar gay baths in Syria although I wouldn’t know where to ask or where to go. For the women, if you have the chance, do not miss a uniquely female experience like ladies’ day at the hamam.

The entrance to the hamam I went to a few days ago is a large circular room with a 30-meter high ceiling finishing in a beautiful cupola punctuated by small stained glass windows. Low divans surround a central fountain where women sit smoking nargile and cigarettes, drinking coffee and chatting among themselves. Once you’ve divested yourself of your belongings and your clothes (in a carefully orchestrated changing process as to not reveal too much) you are given a thin cloth to wrap around yourself and sent into a hot sauna with a small bowl containing a scrubber, a small bottle of shampoo, and a bizarre sponge made of plastic wires.

We sat, sweltering, and chatting, when a lovely buxom British women came in and sat with us. Other than the three of us, everyone was local. Old women with large breasts that hung down to their bellies and tall, nubile young Syrian women splashing around sitting on the hot stones around small fountains. A young mother brought her two daughters, one who was likely around 18 months old and clearly not pleased by the hot room or the constant deluge of water her mother poured over her head. We sat until we had sweated enough and then moved in front of a fat woman dressed in drenched black clothes. I laid down on the hot floor, basically naked, with my cloth draped between my legs, and she scrubbed my arms, my legs, and my face and then motioned over to a table jutting out from the wall – “massage” – I imagine one of 3 words she spoke in English. The table is dangerously slippery and I almost slid off several times, saved only by the bulk of the frizzy red-headed masseuse. The massage was nothing like I have experienced in the States, involving all my parts, including those that even the most adventurous masseuse in San Francisco would likely avoid. When she wanted me to move closer to her she grabbed the two ends of my cloth and pulled me towards her and I slid like a winter sled down the long table smack into her generous bosom. You may think that there are too many mentions of breasts in this short description but if you should find yourself in this situation, I guarantee, breasts are all that you see – they are unavoidable and ever present. Shy women should steer clear.

After the massage and hot shower during which I fashioned my wrap into a shower curtain of sorts, we retreated into the first stone room, an entryway of sorts, where women offered us small, sour green plums and escaped the heat. At this point, I felt clean, slightly light-headed, but altogether relaxed. We exchanged our dripping wraps for dry ones and went into the first room again to sit on the divan, smoke nargile, and drink peach iced tea. Just as I was thinking a bit of music would be nice, loud belly dancing tunes began emanating from ancient speakers, echoing loudly in the chamber. I shook my shoulders a bit to the tune and the next thing I knew, I was dancing with the proprietress, switching my hips to the beat with women clapping in the background. We started a dance party as other women began to dance, either in their seats or in front of their divans, cigarettes dangling from their fingers. Two young Syrian girls, beautiful, tall, with amazing figures, began a dance that was mesmerizing. Their wraps were tied around their waists in knots and their midriffs were bare – they had changed into colorful bras that accentuated their full breasts and thin shoulders. I’ve never seen girls dance so well, carefree in front of their mothers, aunts, grandmothers. It was lovely. Everyone, young and old, was swaying to the music and laughing and clapping. What I would have given for a video camera at that moment. We sat for an hour listening to the music, chatting, trying to answer questions in our broken Arabic, and feeling entirely at ease. One of the older women got up and made a space to pray in the corner. My friend whispered to me, “There is a time to dance and a time to pray.” Apparently, at the hamam, these can happen at the same time. After an hour, reluctantly, the dance party broke up and we got dressed. The young nubile Syrian girls drew dark kohl lines around their eyes and put on their trendy clothes. The older women donned their headscarves and lost a bit of their charm. We left the building through a curtained old doorway. The harsh reality of the Syrian afternoon light was a bit surreal after that time of sweet female companionship.
--------------------
For those of you who know me, please do not use my name in the comment section of the blog. Thanks a million!

Part II -J's 1st Weekend: Checkpoints and Chicken

On my first Friday evening in Isloo a fellow named Shaheryar, another Kevin Bacon-esque connection, called and invited me to join him for coffee. I didn't know what to expect from this aspiring journalist, but thought that getting coffee was a good way to go. If it was terrible, I could just head home and write a funny blog entry about it. He swung by my place around 7 with his friend Asim. Both went to ISoI and attended college in the States. After the basic introductions, he drove us over to F6's Khosar Market. Khosar is a smaller and slightly more upscale market area that is chiefly important because it contains Gloria Jean's coffee, one of the only cafes in Isloo and few places that serves real coffee. This makes it a sort of social life mecca in Isloo for the elites and a handful of expats. While such patronage makes it a potential target for the militants, it is also very close to a mosque, which militates against its likelihood of being targeted. As do the security guards that wander around with semi-automatic weapons. Just beyond Gloria Jean's patio is a fountain that shuts off randomly. On the other side of the fountain is a large, dilapidated cage for peacocks. Why, I have no idea. The rest of Khosar has a typical mix of stores -- shoe, rug, fabric, and grocery stores, as well as a small produce area and the random street food vendors that come around 8 pm.

Once we arrived, we grabbed some macchiatos and decided to sit outside since the interior has a sharp, paint-like smell that is probably toxic. We encircled a small table on the edge of the patio and chatted about my work for Crisis Group, Asim's life and former job in Dubai, Shaheryar's pursuit of journalism, the current situation in Pakistan, and life in general. After a brief time, a friend from Harvard, Nadia, joined us. She was in Isloo for the night in order to travel to the IDP camps in Mardan the following morning. Soon after, her friend Noor, a columnist and blogger for Dawn (the best English newspaper in Pakistan) joined us. She quickly apologized for wearing a sleeveless shirt, and explained that she was going out to a party later that evening and hadn't expected being out in public. While considered scandalous in many circles in Pakistan, her sartorial choice would have been considered conservative in the West. I, of course, told her I was deeply offended. She thankfully realized that this was simply my poor attempt at humor.

After lingering over our empty cups of espresso for three hours, we decided it was time to grab dinner. So we left Gloria Jean's and decided upon Tiramisu. Tiramisu is Islamabad's somewhat feeble attempt at Italian fine-dining and is located off the main commercial thoroughfare, known as the Blue Area. The Blue Area is lined with businesses, shops and restaurants that range from hole-in-the-wall to upscale, or Isloo's approximation of upscale. Everyone was excited for some soup that they serve, but it seemed that they no longer served it. My penne arabiata with chicken was spicy, but somehow not particularly tasty, and clearly overpriced at 6 USD an entree. Pleasantly, my entree was paired with a great wine that really brought out the flavors of Tuscan cooking. Wait. That doesn't sound right. They don't serve wine in Pakistan. Oh right. I was drinking watermelon juice. Tasty on its own, Watermelon juice offers some conflicting tastes when paired with picante pasta. The dessert, however, was great and worth every rupee.

As the evening wound down, we offered to drive Nadia back to her evening's lodging. Since she was only there for the night, she didn't quite remember where it was. All she could recall was that it was on the way to the airport, there was a ramp nearby, and it was a "farm." Evidently, there are a number of "farms" outside Isloo, which are simply sprawling mansions with a substantial plot of land. While finding her place was difficult, the hour that we spent looking for her place offered me a bunch of new sights as we drove past the Islamabad Club, the country club in Isloo, and the Diplomatic Enclave, the highly guarded sector that houses many embassies, including the French, British, American and Canadian, and their expat-popular "clubs." In fact, we drove so far in attempting to find Nadia's place that we ended up in Rawalpindi. Rawalpindi, or Pindi for short, would be part of the Isloo metropolitan area if Isloo had a metropolitan area. While our entry into Pindi was brief, it was enough to get a sense that it's a lot grittier and much more like what one would expect a city in a developing country to look like. Its population is 4-5 times that of Isloo and is only about a 25 minute drive, or 30 minutes including the police checkpoint traffic. That evening's accidental journey to Pindi wouldn't be my last; in fact, I would end up there the following night.

Saturday is not a day off for most in Pakistan. The proles usually only get Sunday off and possibly time for prayers on Friday afternoons. The menial laborers don't even get Sunday off. The UN takes off Friday afternoon and the rest of the weekend, which is just one more area for possible UN reform. Crisis Group is a bit more rational and gives us the normal weekend, so we don't get Friday afternoons off. But that's probably a good thing, since one wants to avoid running into impassioned service-goers as they emerge from the mosque after an inflammatory sermon. So, my first weekend arrived. But instead of spending the day in the markets or out in the sun, I ended up working since we were trying to finish the IDP report (see the link from Part I below). The only thing that entertained me throughout the day were the two geckos that I discovered were my roommates. At least they eat some of the mosquitoes. Not enough of them, but at least it's something.

As evening rolled around, Shaheryar had gone over to another ISoI-er friend that lived near him in Pindi. I couldn't find anyone who wanted to go out to Pindi and I had nothing else to do, so I was just going to call it a night and avoid wandering around alone at night on foot. But it turned out that Shaheryar's friend had sent his driver to pick me up. So, I hopped into the waiting SUV and we began the 25 minute drive to Pindi. As the buildings shifted into farmland, we came upon a police checkpoint. They stopped us, had me get out, searched the car and patted me down. I thought nothing of it at the time. That would change later. (Cue music for ominous foreshadowing). We got back into the car and drove into Pindi, passing partially built buildings, furniture stores, peeling advertisements, textile mills, shuttered store fronts and run-down dwellings. While traffic laws are not completely followed in Isloo, the term "law" can't properly be used to apply to Pindi traffic -- they're simply suggestions. So I was pleased when we pulled off the road and arrived in front of a large wall with a metal gate.

Out came several guards to open the gate and wave us through. As we drove towards the house, I didn't realize its true size until the driver drove along the front, past the stone arch entryway, around the side, past the guesthouse and stopped at the 6 car garage that apparently abuts an Olympic sized pool. It's one of the oldest homes in Pindi and clearly one of the largest. I walked to the side entrance and Shaheryar had to come get me since I would undoubtedly not found the room he was actually in. After a seemingly endless walk down a couple corridors that were lined with impressive artwork, we reached the our destination, consisting of a suite of rooms. One was a room dedicated to an amazing sound system and had a bar hidden within what appeared to be some sort of artsy furniture. The other was a cavernous room that houses the snooker billiard table. For those unfamiliar with Snooker (I know I was): it's an old British game that is played on a larger table, with smaller cues and takes substantially longer time to play than 8 or 9 ball. The third was the bathroom that was twice the size of my bedroom in Cambridge. It also had vaulted ceilings, a fireplace, two sitting chairs, and a coffee table. It was far too spacious to feel comfortable to use.

The three of us sat on the "modern" furniture that was impossibly comfortable, drank scotch, listened to jazz and chatted for a couple hours. It was a summer goal of mine to drink scotch with a Pakistani general, but I'm happy to settle for a titan of industry. It turns out that this family owns a large number of corporations, including a textile business that Shaheryar's friend runs at age 25. A couple other friends arrived later into the evening. One had been playing Polo earlier that day and invited me to a match later in the summer. The other was a Brit whose family was from Pakistan and he was in town visiting them in between trips to the US, where he owns gas stations and convenience stores throughout the South and Midwest, as well as a joint venture in Florida. Hilariously, the joint venture is with an old Jew in Florida with whom he owns a chain of Greek diners, where the cooks are Mexican. "Only in America," he tells me. After some more drinking and chatting, someone smartly suggested a game of snooker. It wasn't pretty. I chalk it up to my "inexperience" with snooker, but it was more likely the scotch.

We called it a night after several hours, but our adventures weren't over. The group of us left with the driver in the SUV. We again came to the checkpoint. The police stopped us again, but I wasn't forced out of the car this time. But I was the only one who was asked in Urdu for their National Identity Card. It was then that I remembered Samina's warning that I looked like a Pashtun and that I should have a copy of my passport. So, I pulled it out to show the officer. He responded by asking me for the real one. At that point the other guys in the car said, he's American and not stupid enough to carry his actual passport around. They luckily let us go. I jokingly apologized to the guys for looking like a Pashtun due to my Taliban-esque beard.

So why would I be the only one asked for my NIC? Basically, racial profiling. The recent bombings throughout Lahore, Islamabad and elsewhere have been carried out by militants who are overwhelmingly Pashtun in origin. The others in the car were of Punjabi and Mohajir origin (Mohajir means emigrant in Arabic and refers to the muslims in northern India that came over after Partition.) So, the police view the Pashtuns with suspicion, but not the Punjabis and Mohajirs. It is this ethnic tension that is bubbling up throughout Pakistan, exacerbated by the 2.5 million mostly Pashtun refugees that are fleeing the NWFP. But this tension goes beyond the Pashtun, as the different ethnic groups view each other with disdain and is the basis for many of the internal problems of Pakistan including the secessionist movement in Baluchistan and the rise of MQM in Karachi.

The following day I took it easy and wandered around my neighborhood to take pictures. I found my way up a nearby street and saw a family of monkeys that were living in some trees above a creek. Of course, as an easily impressed foreigner, I started taking pictures of them. Then an older man came up to me. After the normal greeting, he asked me what I was taking picture of. I told him "monkeys" and proceeded to point them out. He asked where I was from. "Canada," I answered. He asked for my passport. "I left it at home, so I wouldn't lose it, sir." He said this was a restricted zone and illegal to take pictures. "Oh. I didn't realize that. I just wanted a few pictures of the monkeys, since we don't have them in Canada." He said he should call the police. "That isn't necessary -- I'm just a Canadian tourist who likes taking pictures of monkeys." And I just kept walking. He didn't call the police, or if he did, they didn't care. As I found out later that week, the reason for the restricted zone is because it's the back of A.Q. Khan's house. Yes, that A.Q. Khan. Talk about having a crazy neighbor. A.Q. Khan is the father of the Pakistani nuclear bomb and the chief exporter of nuclear technology to N. Korea, Iran, Syria, and Libya. He is a national hero of sorts, despite the unsavory dealings and subsequent house arrest. Over a week later, I am still a bit amazed by the fact that AQ Khan has a house up the street from me.

Later that day, I met up with my father's co-worker's brother in-law, who is from Isloo. He and his friend, both of whom are "entrepreneurs," meaning they are inheriting their father's company, picked me up. They decided to take me to the top of the Margala Hills (they'd be considered mountains in Massachusetts or Virginia). We decided to stop for dinner at Monal, a restaurant that overlooks Isloo. But the pollution was mixing with clouds and the view, while nice, was obscured a bit. On a clear day you can see the mountains within the NWFP, the real foothills of the Himalayas. The hills themselves are gorgeous - with lush green ravines and abundant wildlife, including monkeys (with the standard beware of monkey signs.) The road that snakes up the hills isn't the most dangerous road in the world (that's in Bolivia), but the hairpin turns and complete lack of proper lanes or driving technique certainly increase the risk factor. Arriving to the restaurant was interesting. The guards checked the car for bombs, and glared at me, but let us through. But before we got to the restaurant, we had to go through a metal-detector. I, looking like an Afghan Taliban, got patted down. We descended the stairs to the dining area, where we were watched over by several snipers. Luckily, we sat facing the valley and could nearly forget the barbed wire fence and heavily armed protection behind us. We shared different Pakistani chicken dishes over a couple orders of Nan, while discussing Pakistan and politics. Both the food and conversation were enjoyable.

After dinner we went to the park built onto the side of the mountain that has a few fair-like activities and is largely a place for families to picnic. It offers views of Isloo from different angles and is lovely at dusk, as the heat of the day fades. The guys pointed out landmarks in Isloo and we laughed about the warning signs about keeping your children away from the monkeys, as well as the monkeys who were being forced to perform tricks for money. But before I became too irate at the inhumane treatment, the clouds that had impeded our city-scape had turned into storm clouds, so we headed back to the car. As we drove back down to the city to get some ice cream, they played Indian music videos on the car's small screen with the windows rolled down. Nothing like Hindi pop music to get the party started. We arrived at the ice cream shop, which is basically a Cold Stone and was called Marble Stone. As one can imagine, it had the same flavors and toppings that one would find in Missouri or Massachusetts. Inside it felt like a decent approximation of American suburbia. Even the music was American. But when you stepped outside to sit on their patio you could the unfinished pavement, the diesel generators, buildings in disrepair and armed guards. That and the ice cream tasted just slightly off. I imagine it has to do with the milk they use, which tastes a little different. Not sure how, just not quite right. But it was still ice cream, and therefore tasty. So we finished our cones and I got dropped off. And thus ended my first week in Isloo.

--J