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This is not a journal entry regarding Kyrgyzstan, but rather about a trip we
took to Uzbekistan and Afghanistan. It is long....my apologies. We sat in the Bishkek Manas Airport for 6 hours because the flight that would take us to Uzbekistan on the first leg of our trip was delayed. And delayed. And delayed some more. When it seemed that we were not going to leave Bishkek at all, we heard the roar of a small, propeller plane that sounded like a million bees flying together. In fact, it was our little plane, having arrived from Tashkent, the capital of Uzbekistan, and it was the same plane that would take us to that same city. I cringed when I saw how small the plane was and it was then that I developed a fear. …small Soviet era planes with roaring propellers, seats that won't stay upright, no oxygen masks, and frilly curtains to cover the windows. Yet, wanting to start out on our adventure, we boarded the plane and soon (what is another 45 minutes when we'd been sitting for 6 hours?) we were in the air, barely soaring over the Kyrgyz mountains. Yet, we reached Tashkent with no incident and our journey truly began. Tashkent is a sprawling city which from the sky it looked like a bug with its wings spread out. A man from our hotel greeted us with a sign that said "Eric and Tanya Woever". He took us through the streets of Tashkent to a clean and very nice hotel in a back alley surrounded by trees and green patches of grass. We dropped our things in our room and made our way to the JDA office (the organization which works in partnership with Habitat in Afghanistan). There, we were warmly greeted, as though we had met before and were given waiver forms to sign stating that we were about to enter into Afghanistan on our own free will and that we have insurance to cover any event that might happen while in that country. Tickets to the Uzbek/Afghan border town of Termiz were purchased and arrangements finalized for our trip into a wild country, torn up by years of civil war, hunger, drought, and a war against terrorism. With our plans complete and our logistics in order, Eric and I started out to wander the city and to get a feel of Tashkent. Our contact in Afghanistan, Sara, had requested that we bring her a set of sheets, so we wandered to the bazaar, to the central store, various streets and found nothing to take to Sara. It was while we were drinking black tea that we became friends with two of the most generous men I have met. They invited us to share their table with them and then offered the suggestion that we drink green tea at this time of the year because of the heat. As we sipped hot green tea, we shared our stories and laughed and talked until it was time for us to continue searching for sheets. Wouldn't you know it? The men insisted in taking us to purchase the sheets and what ensued was a day full of action and sightseeing. Ulugbek, Muhamaddjon, Eric and I climbed into Ulugbek's car and we joined the traffic of Tashkent. After buying the sheets in a bazaar, we went to an amusement park and rode the Ferris wheel so we could see the city from the sky. We drank water while walking down the street, bought sunglasses, rode a metro, took photos in front of statues, saw the American embassy, ate lunch together, and had a wonderful day with two strangers who wanted to share their city with us. We were left again, with a sense of wonderment at the generosity of time, energy and what little material possessions they have, of the people of Central Asia. When the time came for us to fly to Termiz, they took us to our hotel and said goodbye to us as one would say goodbye to a friend, with words such as "please be sure you return and see us again" intermingled with "thank you for letting us show you our city." It occurs to me that the word 'lovely' can describe men, no matter how manly and tough they are. Joined by 2 JDA women, we flew down to Termiz on another miserable little plane and arrived to feel that the air had grown considerably hotter and that the wind stood still, refusing to negate the stillness of the intense heat The ground seemed to radiate the heat, with even the blandest of sand and concrete shining under the rays. After a night in this town, we got ourselves ready to drive across the border into one of the most feared countries of the world. The women and I dressed in traditional clothes, baggy pants under a long sleeved tunic and a head covering and, with Eric we left for Afghanistan. Six security checkpoints, 4 liters of water, lots of desert, and 2.5 hours later, we arrived in Mazar-I-Sharif, a city that in the past year has been made known to the world outside of Central Asia, but which has existed for thousands of years. As we drove, all around us was desert, beautifully sculpted with occasional shrubs peeking through the dunes. Camels, heavily burdened with unknown goods, yet carrying them with nonchalant ease, filed by. Their owners turbaned men, weathered and brown from years under the sun, shielding their eyes to see the car that sped through their territory. We passed an abandoned refugee camp where thousands lost their lives in a bloody war between Tajik refugees and Russians. How sad it was to see bullet holes riddled in every single one of the no-longer functioning electricity poles in front of the camp. Images came to mind of people with no place to hide in a wide, wide desert as they fought for their lives. As we rode on, a pickup truck passed us, going at high speed, loaded with soldiers, a rocket launcher and many weapons. Where were they going? What were those men thinking as they sat, holding onto rifles and guns and rockets? Did their families know where they were and what they were about to do? Do their women pray for them as they go to yet another battle or are they so used to it, that they just go fetch water as though today was just another day in their lives? By the time my questions calmed, we were approaching a city, with its traffic of cars, donkeys, carts and people. We had arrived to Mazar-I-Sharif! Even though we had our heads covered, eyes stared at us through the car windows, making us feel conspicuous and foreign. It is one thing is to know I am foreign and dealing with that, it is another completely different matter to have men openly staring, stopping to look at you and also having the audacity to reach out and grab you, as though you were a thing and not a person. I look Afghan when I have the traditional clothes and head covering on, and I wonder if the men did not think I was too bold for my own good to be walking around without a full covering because they stared and stared, occasionally speaking to me in Dari or Pashtu. Women on the street, walking to bazaars or home with their children, were completely covered in a "burqua", a tent-like covering that allows little room for breathing and less for peripheral vision. I can't imagine how hot it would be to wear one of those over your clothes when the temperatures were over 110 degrees and the sun was blasting its heat everywhere! With a head covering alone, I was sweating… We spent three days in Mazar, at the JDA/Habitat compound, talking and learning with Sara (Habitat) and her team of local people, an engineer, a community worker, an administrative assistant, a project assistant, and a consultant. (This small team is soon going to start work in Salburun, a forgotten village north west of Mazar.) We were welcomed with such open arms! Even the guards (24-hour), drivers, and cook were very warm , smiling and speaking in either Dari or Russian to us. And, even though I know only one word in Dari (takashur - thank you), with smiles and hand motions, we managed. A few times, we went into town to exchange money, visit with other humanitarian organizations and to look around. Mazar is a bustling town, unchanged for the past 300 years. Donkeys, men and carts full of melons take up the space in the narrow roads. Dust rises up with every puff of wind and cries are heard in Dari and Pashtu every few seconds as people sell their wares in the bazaar. Car horns beep, men yell, children laugh, and women walk in silence through the city, giving a look of total chaos to what I am sure is organized in a special Mazar way. Traffic is horrendous . No lanes exist and no right of way. First come, first go, seems to be the idea there, where being second is not an option. Cars vie for first place, cutting in front of other cars, while people calmly walk between the metal bodies, unconcerned with what would seem to be impending injury or death. Bicycles weave their way around both car and humanity, adding another accident-about-to-happen to the equation. Yet, amazingly, I never saw an accident although I did worry one or twice that we were going to kill someone! On Saturday, eleven of us (including two drivers) went to the village of Salburun, where Habitat is about to start building and rebuilding houses for about 200 families, almost the entire village. We started off on a paved road, turned off into an unpaved road and then, we turned off into what seemed to be the desert itself. Sand slapped the windows of the truck and occasionally was blown through the vents, making us sneeze. Sometimes the sand was so thick in the air around us that we could not see the front of the car. How did the drivers know where to go? How did they know which path to take? We asked our driver if the area was mined and his casual reply was "Yes, so we just stay on the road, which is not mined." So we drove through desolate lands, arid and sucked of any water or vegetation. I would hold my breath when we came upon a walled village, wondering if it was 'our' village. But, no, we would continue to drive until I thought we would reach the end of the earth. And, it is exactly what it seemed to be when we finally arrived at Salburun. The village of Salburun is one of yellow mud and absolute dryness. The walls surrounding the village, the houses, the mosque, EVERYTHING is built out of mud. The bleak brownish yellow of Salburun is broken up by the surprising sight of a few very green trees in the center of the village, right in front of the mosque. How they get watered is hard to imagine, as this area has had a drought for four years and nothing green has grown for ages. Yet, those trees stand, green and vibrant, signifying hope to people who have lost theirs long, long ago. The locals said that the temperature in Salburun was about 125F. It was easy to imagine that it was that hot…the heat slapped us on our faces when we left the cars and when we walked through the village. It was an unending kind of heat that moves through the still wind into your pores and your tongue and leaves you wondering how people survive in such weather. In fact, due to the drought that assailed this part of the country, entire flocks of animals died, along with children and adults, starved by the land that no longer produced food. Water is scarce and it is obvious in the matted hair and the dirty clothes and faces of the inhabitants of Salburun. Constant headaches plague the villagers due to dehydration, boils covering the bodies of the children. It is a sad, sad sight, this village in the middle of nowhere. It is tragic that people are living in the conditions in which they exist. Yes, 'exist' is a better choice of word because they truly are not living in the sense that they are just trying to make it to tomorrow. Children in this village have never seen a potato, carrot or onion. All they know is bread and green tea, rationed out during the day to keep them going. At times, I was told when I sat down to speak to women about their issues, 4 or 5 days go by with no food entering their system . I interviewed some women from the village to hear their thoughts and one of them, Salima, a 22-year old mother of 3 (a 2-year old son, 6-year old daughter and 9-year old daughter), touched me deeply. With her shy and precocious smile, dull hair and gorgeous face, she was unable to answer any question about herself without first consulting her male cousin. When men came to her one room house, she would cover up and hide in a corner, breaking my heart. Yet, she said that she didn't want to leave Salburun because this is where she was born and where she would die. The walls of her house are crumbling due to the fact that there is no spare water with which to make mud for repairs She is afraid of winter, with its harsh climate that can kill as easily as the hot sun. Knowing that Habitat will help her rebuild her home, she shyly told me that whenever she does eat, she prays for Habitat because she is so happy that she will have a decent place in which to live. After spending some time with Salima and other women of the village, my JDA
friends and I made our way to lunch, which we shared with the elders of the
village (all are men, of course) Eric and the rest of the Habitat team. We had
brought the food with us to Salburun and made sure not to eat big portions, so
we could leave as much as possible for the villagers upon our departure. It was
delicious! Pilov (rice dish), tomatoes, fermented goat's milk, tea, watermelon,
and broth, all served in the traditional way on the floor on a carpet. As I ate
with my hands, I looked around me and saw beautiful faces, lined with stress,
weather, and life. These men were not old, life expectancy in Afghanistan is 46
years, not old by any stretch of the imagination, yet in this country, where 30
years of age looks old, these men with their long white beads and brown leathery
skin were perfectly ancient. |
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