Kabul's iron chefs

It shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone that Oren and I like throwing dinner parties. We like hosting, we like coming up with three-course meals, and we like seeing guests happy. So we figured that we'd try it out here as well, despite the somewhat limited resources. Better start small, we thought, so we invited Oren's coworker, Mary, and a short-term consultant who happens to be a former member of the Canadian parliament.

When we wake up the next morning, Mary has left us a note next to the coffee maker: "Anja and Oren--I invited the Canadian ambassador to join us for dinner. Menu?" Like that, our little get-together just turned into a dinner featuring a former parliamentarian and the ambassador of a fairly important country. This became clear when two camouflaged security guys, sporting bullet-proof vests and huge guns, show up to give our house a firm-fisted thumbs up.

We make the interesting trip out to the PX--a heavily fortified supermarket, armed by Nato troops, where you need a non-Afghan passport to get in. That place is a blog post in and of itself, but to give you an idea, I'll just say that they sell shotglasses that say "Operation Enduring Freedom, Afghanistan." We buy some very expensive fish, cheese, and ice cream and some very cheap whisky and wine.

Oren spend the afternoon wondering whether it's appropriate for him to handle food, considering the plethora of parasites the German doctor found living in his stomach, while I decide on the menu. Broiled cod with herb-roasted new potatoes and a butter-lemon sauce. We start cooking, all seems to go smoothly, until all of a sudden the electricity goes off. It turns out our generator isn't powerful enough to support the oven.

So, the ambassador is on his way, and in our kitchen there is raw fish and potatoes. Without electricity, what to do? Oh yes, fry things on the countertop gas range. We find two old, rusty frying pans, and use up half a bottle of oil trying to make things not stick too badly. Meanwhile, the ambassador arrives. He's got a very formal air about him, leading me to lose my mind for a few seconds in anticipated embarrassment over what we're about to serve him.

Anyways, in the end, what we put on the table in front of our guests were plates of something that looked like day-old fish and chips. To my surprise, they all liked it. The ambassador even said that it was good to have a real home-cooked meal for a change.

Donkey kong?

One of the researchers I work with took this picture at a market in Jalalabad. The Afghans seem to think that donkeys are somehow related to Superman. Sometimes you see an entire family riding on one donkey--the funny thing is, the donkey just keeps walking.

I'm lovin' it

Quite a few times in the past couple of days, I have been overcome by a strong sense of satisfaction. Somewhat paradoxically perhaps given the recent surge in violence around Afghanistan, but I am just so happy to be here. Why? I have a few ideas.

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to make a difference in the lives of those less fortunate than myself--the poor, the vulnerable, the politically oppressed. Growing up in an obsessively equal society somehow made me want to fight injustice in all its shapes and forms. And now I feel like I've taken a step in that direction.

In my new job, I will play a role in making sure that policy makers, donors, and aid organizations get information on how best to spend their money. What I like the most is that it's on a very hands-on, grass-roots level: I am learning what a difference a couple of goats can make in the life of a poor family and how even a part-time job can mean that they don't have to "sell" their daughter in marriage to an old man.

Anyways, the bottom line is that I am so incredibly happy to be here. Even with the sound of explosions in the distance, I do not regret the decision to come hear. And that's just a wonderful feeling.

A first round of pictures

The flight from Islamabad to Kabul is insanely scenic. Still I couldn't help wondering if Osama was down there somewhere.

Western Kabul, where we live, was almost entirely destroyed during the civil war, when different mujaheddin factions fired at each other from the surrounding hills. Even though a lot has been rebuilt or torn down, there are still plenty of ruins like this one.

In the city center, there are a lot of small shops that sell Afghan rugs and handicrafts to the international aid community.

Kabul is home to around 3 million people, the vast majority of whom live in mud houses perched on the hillsides surrounding the city center. It looks beautiful from a distance, but I can't imagine what it's like to haul water up there.

This high school is not too far from our house. The school uniform for girls seems to be a black shalwar kameez and a white head scarf, while most of the boys wear t-shirts and baseball caps.

The Setting

Kabul is a city of a unique breed: equal parts Middle Ages, Soviet Union, and post-apocalyptic science fiction.

On its streets, shepherds with biblical faces graze their goats on the plentiful garbage dumps; burqa-clad women float like ghosts through the sidewalk bazaars; and school-aged pedestrians skillfully navigate the stinking chaos of UN Landcruisers, buses, and donkey carts. Everywhere are the jagged-edge ruins of buildings--torn apart by explosions so that you can see the pink or green interior walls of what were once people's homes. There are telephone poles bent like drinking straws and bullet holes in the few surviving street signs. In Kabul, two decades of war make themselves known on every block, around every street corner.

From the comfortable distance afforded me by the car window, I observe it all on my daily commute to and from work. Between the walled compound where we live and the walled compound of the office are 45 minutes of what at first looked like complete misery and destruction.

After only a week in the city, however, I have realized that my first impression was flawed. Kabul is not on the verge of death. Despite the apparent destitution, the city is actually booming with energy and entrepreneurship. In the skeletons of old buildings there is a multitude of tiny shops and offices and lining some roads are old Russian storage containers that have been converted into grocery stores and bike dealerships. Every street, every sidewalk is a market, where people come to shop and to make a living. On one street it is all about tires, on the next, furniture. Few of Kabul's streets have names, but it is clear which one is Butcher Street and which one is Flower Street.

Every morning I see a man performing his beauty routine by the sidewalk water pump--brushing his teeth, soaping his face, shaving. How foolish of me to think that life stops in the absence of running water and electricity. Even in the most destitute of situations, people somehow carve out their livelihoods, they manage to celebrate weddings and funerals, and they find time to maintain friendships and social networks. Indeed, most of them appear to be living, not, as I had expected, merely surviving.