Cultural Exchange April 10th, 2006
(Mohammad's Birthday, and no, they do not call it "Mohammadmas")



Listening this cold early Spring night to Dwight Yoakum, I realize that I am indeed a 1000 miles from nowhere and there is no place I wanna' be. In the past 3 months, travels have taken me to the Congo, South Africa, the United Arab Emirates, Afghanistan, and a brief trip home to the United States. Kabul is a three hour flight to the nearest city of consequence, Dubai, a town where Europeans go for sun and Arabs go to escape restrictive cultures. In between are pockets of unique civilizations, tribes, that have been, for the most part, isolated from the rest of humanity except for brief visits by the traversing conquering powers of Greeks, Mongols, Chinese, British, Russians and Islamists bringing the message of Mohammad often with the sword. It is easy to understand the ethnic separation of groups in this nation as each is insulated by a massive desert or towering mountain range. Though similar in appearance, the people that tend invitations for tea in their modest mud brick homes in Kabul differ greatly in intent from the ones in the Hellmand in whose presence I would be butchered and burned, a fate suffered by a Moslem Turk whose remains we recently returned.

In each of the afore mentioned places of my travels, modern technology has afforded me a means to photo-document. Like most who read this letter, I enjoy keeping a memory of the unique places traveled and people met. Yesterday afternoon, I sought to share my experiences with new friends made in Kabul only to again realize the massive gaps in understanding between  cultures. In honor of the birth of Mohammad, I was invited to lunch at the home of Omar and his family. As is becoming commonplace, his mother Torpika and sister Shisha prepared a splendid meal of fresh vegetables, bean soup, an okra-tomato dish along with meat and neen bread. Omar brought the wash kettle and basin, pouring water over my hands into the basin, then handed me a clean towel, preceded the meal. Meals here are often taken without utensils, with bread being torn and to dip or pinch food as necessary. Lunch was then enjoyed in the hand-woven Afghan carpets covering the family room. Devoid of the trappings of furniture, a plastic mat placed atop the hand crafted afghan carpets was our table. As per tradition, us men folk were waited hand over foot while the woman and girls ate in the kitchen. That said, in my absence, the family enjoys meals together, and like in America, is a focal point of family life.

Like a Jewish grandmother, Torpika made sure that I was filled to capacity and insisted that I was too skinny and needed more to eat. Lunch was followed by tea. Another daughter, Ghakia arrived, the family cat did what cats do and a neighbor girl wandered into the house as well. Aside of a couple thousand square feet and furniture, it was like any other home in the United States.

During tea, I offered to open the computer and share photos of my first seven months abroad. I made sure that Torpika saw the picture of my 99-year-old Gram wearing the scarf she sent 10,000mi to Florida. Photos of family, friends were gazed upon and I was asked how someone could possibly have a name of Bobo, or why would 1000 people jump into a cold lake at once to swim 2.4 miles. Basically, this same questions people have asked me for the past 20 years. Then.... came Africa.

I thought the term "Shock & Awe" referred to a battle tactic used in Iraq. I quickly realized that the cultures of sub-Saharan Africa and Afghanistan are about as far apart as one could possibly imagine. The look on Omar's teenage sisters was that of someone utterly stunned. Suffice to say, they had never seen anything like that. Most shocking were the photos of young girls taking part in organized sports and the general lack of clothing worn. When I showed photos of the war torn areas of Congo, I sensed that they felt things in Afghanistan were not so bad after all. As mentioned previously, there is a distinct culture here that reflects the crossroads of civilizations for centuries.

Thankful to have been part of a family gathering on an important day, I returned to my sub-fashionable home near the base of swimming pool hill. I entered the house and was thrust 25 years into the past as I effectively live in a fraternity house. Though I was on a Track & Field team and not in a fraternity in college, this meant that I did not have to pay for my friends. We have a number of young South African mechanics and their favorite pastime is to link several laptop computers and play a standard hunt and kill video game. Last Saturday was slow and I even joined a few rounds under the code name "Man from Luzianne". The house often sounds and resembles a fraternity house with the associated shouting and alcohol. The South Africans mostly come from farming communities where they learned mechanical skills but do not venture out that often. After dinner made by a fellow pilot and bush hunter, Rudy, I sat by our outdoor fire and heard why some do not look upon Americans fondly. I also had a nice chat with Ibriham, as he enjoyed an evening smoke. He’s a retired Jordanian general who is our liaison with the United Nations who once taught survival school at Fairchild Air Force Base in Spokane. I am also learning is that our domestic workers and drivers have fought in real wars against the Russians and Taliban. One was a tank commander; another has shrapnel throughout his legs, another escaped death as he walked out of his home moments before a rocket destroyed it. These men need not play video games. They have lived and fought in wars against foreign conquers and each other most of their lives. Yet, when asked about the presence of Americans, they are extremely thankful, primarily due to the fact that there is relative peace and democratic elections. But also, for the removal of the Taliban, a group which when history is written and compared, will show themselves to have behaved in as reprehensible ways as the Nazi's, though on a smaller scale

Today, we were held in Herat for an hour as some unexploded ordnance was located just off the runway and had to be handled. I spent time in the control tower, drinking coffee with an Italian air traffic controller who made sure to wear his uniform in a most fashionable manner, an Afghan airport manager wearing a $50 suit, tie and flip flops along with a Spaniard gazing through a scope looking for "Bad Guys" and later revealing his primary trade: Sniper. Oddly enough, the Afghans, Americans, South Africans, Italians, Spaniards, Pashtuns and Tajiks seem to get along well here. So long as we have the common goal or ridding the Taliban threat.

Merry Mohammadmas
JLH
 

Dinner at Omar's

Ibriham enjoys a smoke

South Africans like food and guns