Greetings from Afghanistan March 4th, 2006

I have arrived in the crossroads between East & West. In the first week of my arrival, my new home has provided me hospitality rivaling that of the South, given me views surpassing that of the Rocky Mountains & been visited by the President of the United States.

The plan for my travel here has been in place since my commencement of duty at Air Serv International. Due to a shortfall of experience as captain in the Beechcraft King Air 200, I was required to spend a period of time in the Congo, which, given my bouts with various jungle illness’, I have no regrets. Oddly enough, in order to fly in Afghanistan, I needed to become a South African pilot. Thus the trip from Equator to Asia passed through Pretoria.

While flying over Iran last Sunday I saw my first snow in over a year as we neared the Afghan border. Arrival in Kabul was a much less harrowing experience than Kinshasa as there was not the general chaos and shouting I had become accustomed to in Africa. I was immediately taken to the HQ where, from the secretary, was read the riot act the likes of which I last heard in Kindergarten: Don’t Talk to Strangers, Don’t walk alone after dark, Don’t drink the water. (OK, so Miss Stinchcomb never mentioned the Louisville, Ky water supply…) I fully expected to be told to hold hands while crossing the street. Granted, the Congo was recently listed as the most dangerous place on earth with 38,000 deaths each month from war, poverty and disease. However, with the exception of Mesopotamia, this is the most dangerous place for a white man. I am fully aware of the dangers posed to American citizens. I soon met my six new roommates, including an old English friend from the Congo, and a departing American. They gave me an honest security briefing and I soon departed on my first walkabout in this new land.

We have two hills just behind our home. Each is about 400ft high, 3/4mile long and 1/2mile wide and for the most part, barren. It is where the vast amount of running will be conducted. It has braided trails and is, for the most part, de-mined. It is best to stay on the worn paths. On the opposite slope is a graveyard amounting to little more than piles of hardened dirt and an unmarked rock and at the bottom, a community that has changed little in the past 500 years. It is built of mud bricks, a few timbers in the roof and narrow roads and passageways. Water comes from communal wells. Fuel comes from manure or canned gas. Atop the 1st hill, closest to my home is a very out of place 50m swimming pool and 10m platform diving board, both of which are of Olympic proportions. It lies empty and used by kids playing soccer. Occasionally, dogfights are held there and a man was recently hung from the diving platform for having an affair. It is patrolled by Italian troops and littered with equipment from a defeated Russian army. I know this as I was warmly greeted by the local population and engaged in conversation. Everyone I have met this far has been overly polite.

After a couple of days of running the hill and old village, I stopped to gain bearing and was promptly invited to play soccer. The game is played the same on the beaches of Brazil, the jungles of Africa and the high country of Asia. My team won. Whilst running on the far hill in late afternoon, I stopped in another dirt neighborhood and approached by Omar, an 18yr old master of the English language. After a brief conversation, I was invited into his home for tea, a deeply held Afghan tradition, and one I was told to expect by the father of one of my God-Ghildren. I assessed the risk as minimal & entered a dark corridor to enter a small courtyard. I entered the home, removed my shoes and met the family. His father was in the Afghan Air Force, and the women were his mother, sister, and aunt, all of who were unveiled, appropriate in ones home. A young nephew sat bewildered in the living room, which consisted of luxurious red Afghan carpets and pillows. The women presented tea and fresh fruit and the
conversation began. Omar had been shipped to Pakistan when the Taliban arrived and returned when the Americans liberated Kabul. At this point I became at ease. I chatted through Omar with his father, but the women sat on the opposite side of the room and looked away when I made eye contact. I am invited to Sunday lunch.

On Friday, while the Taliban were at mosque and criminals still in bed, I made my way out of town for a brief bike ride. Though cognizant of security, my greatest concern was pulmonary health, as the city seems constantly full of stagnant foul air, which like Denver, is often held to the ground by a temperature inversion. One photo below is of the former kings palace. It is larger than the White House and possesses a spectacular view. Unfortunately, the Taliban destroyed it during the civil war of the 90’s. The Taliban also had a field day with the national museum, destroying artifacts dating 2000 years because of Buddhist origin or because it possessed a face which could be construed as idolatry in radical Islam.

I shall remain here until late in the summer & look forward to learning about this place with one eye always looking over my shoulder.


JLH

The King's Palace, victim of civil war

Downtown Kabul on a Friday morning

Hill behind house, shoeshine boys Samir & Jawite. Note the Russian built 10m diving platform atop the hill.