Dispatches from Afghanistan
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SEPTEMBER 17, 2004 - "CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?"
Fleas.
I have fleas.
Now, don't get me wrong. The Kabul Inn is a great place to stay by Afghan standards. My "visitors" are not the owner's fault, not in the least—they could have jumped my train at any number of a thousand station stops I've made in the past few days. To try to place blame for fleas in Afghanistan is like blaming puddles for the rain. The owner of the Kabul Inn is a returnee, one of thousands of Afghans who have come back from Iran and Pakistan, or even the United States, to start businesses and rebuild their hometowns. And his cook makes the meanest chicken fried rice this side of Boston's Chinatown.
Over the past decades of war in his homeland, Arshak (I think that's how you spell his name) has lived in both Iran and Gilget, a region of Pakistan. And though his first daughter was born just five days ago, he works from 5 am until 9 at night to keep the Kabul Inn running—only to start his nearly hour-long bicycle ride home to his family when his workday is done. I would like to think I work hard, but when I travel in the lesser developed world I realize that to most people on the planet, our version of hard work would often seem to them like a veritable holiday.
Be that as it may, I have fleas.
So far, I only have a couple bites.
But there is swelling. Oh, there is swelling.
So today is Friday, the Islamic equivalent of Sunday, the day of rest. And hypothetically I should be resting as well. The Oxfam office is closed and Afghans are at home, so no formal meetings to be had. But paperwork had me up early (as well as my other friend called Jet Lag), so here I am, itching, scratching, and using the toothpaste I picked up on British Airways to brush my teeth. Dissatisfied with the BA product, I decide to go to the Chelsea Market to examine my other options in oral hygiene.
Let's talk about the Chelsea. This is a place which always has a UN or NGO vehicle parked outside because, in part, it is the only place where you can buy Pringles, Snickers, and other Western brands that you would find at 7-11 back home, taking them for granted. Here, however, these seemingly mundane delicacies, which some may unfairly call "junk food," can be pure gold—the cure to homesickness, the antidote to the blues.
That's usually not the only reason these Land Rovers are parked outside, though; there is a more pragmatic motivation for their presence. The Chelsea sells a staple that is critical for the everyday aid worker, the average expat, and the more upwardly "mobile" Afghan (excuse the pun in advance): phone cards. With support from the US and other countries, as part of the Bonn Process for the reconstruction of Afghanistan, a wireless cell phone network has been installed in Kabul. If we didn't have this crucial infrastructure, the pace of work would grind down to a crawl. And we would be left sitting on our hands because we would not be able to schedule appointments in advance as easily as we can with the trusty cell phone.
But there is a catch. (There is always a catch.)
Two competing cell phone service providers are vying for control of this lucrative and essential market, Roshan and AWCC. And these two nascent Afghan corporations, private companies licensed by the central government, have created a situation where phones subscribed to one company cannot easily talk to phones subscribed to its competitor.
Basically, it's akin to a world where you have a Verizon cell phone and your Uncle Fred has Sprint, leaving you unable to reliably call one another without getting cut off, hearing cracks and gurgles, or failing to have your call go through altogether. This tragicomic reality has caused most people here, especially those based in Kabul for an extended period, to carry two cell phones—one Roshan and one AWCC.
Sharks and Jets.
To leap this hurdle, Kenny carries a Roshan and I carry an AWCC. And we have packed the ever-reliable, and expensive, Thuraya—the Cadillac of satellite phones. Thuraya's are relatively small, about the size of an early '80s cell phone, and have a global range that can be a life-saver, literally, when in the field.
Sat phones, used by journalists, aid workers, and warlords alike, can be crucial for getting important news to the people who need to hear it most, and hear it first. These "Flash Gordon" devices are just another factor serving to increase the speed at which information moves around the world. These advances force those of us in the humanitarian field to keep pace with technology by incorporating these next steps into how we do our jobs and communicate our work with the public (take this primitive excuse for a blog as a prime example).
Now that I have graced you with the scintillating tale of Kabul's cell phone network, it's time to get to the punch line and tell you what happened with the toothpaste hunt. While Kenny and Meryem, my dear colleague from Oxfam Novib, our affiliate organization in the Netherlands, did their part in the continuing Kabul "phone war" by buying some cards to refill their minutes, I found my way to the toiletry counter at the back of the Chelsea.
Behind the counter, framed by shelves of Mach 3 razors and baby shampoo, was a dour-looking Afghan with suitcases under his eyes. "Salaam," said I, saying about all I am able to say to non-English speaking Afghans except for "thank you," "what's your name," and something that probably means: "me, American, you, Jane." And what did the clerk say? Nothing. He waved his hand in a way that could have been a greeting, or, more likely, a defense against an unseen fly.
Giving up my expectation of receiving the same warm and hearty greeting that you usually get every hour of every day from every Afghan you meet here, I turned to the toothpaste selections. They had your standard Crest, some sort of "extra-whitening" product that promised to bleach my gums in less than a fiscal quarter, as well as a variety of toothpastes that seemed to predate the fall of the Soviet Union. And so on and so forth; the parade of toothpastes continued to march across the shelf.
But suddenly, everything stopped and a light shone down from the ceiling. There it was: the Holy Grail of toothpastes. Kodomo, an Indonesian toothpaste for kids, known in Bhasa as Pasta Gigi, decorated with a zoo's worth of cartoon animals, invites children to savor its Strawberry Rasa flavor with its priceless catchphrase, "Anak-Anak!" Though I have never had Indonesian toothpaste, I do have a blog to write, and with its primary selling point being a shaky storyline about oral hygiene and post-conflict transition in Afghanistan, the choice was obvious. With elections under way now in Indonesia, maybe Kodomo is an especially appropriate selection.
Let me be clear, more happened to me today than just toothpaste and phone cards, but anybody in Afghanistan can talk about the need for Afghans to be safe to vote. I could wax on ad infinitum about the continuing contraction of the safe space in which NGOs struggle to assist their Afghan partners. You can read endless briefing papers from aid groups working here about how this place needs much more security and international attention and support than it currently has received.
I could describe in too much detail each woman in a burqa or chador I've seen clutching a grimy, malnourished child, hoping you'll toss a couple of Afghanis her way so she can buy bread. You can just read CNN if you want to hear about the rockets in Gardez that were shot at Hamid Karzai's helicopter this week. Or go to the UN website to learn about how the burgeoning production of opium in Afghanistan has made it the world's largest narco-economy.
There will be time enough for lines and lines of analysis and attempted insight about the humanitarian situation as our time in Afghanistan wears on. For now, I leave you with a momentary meditation about the therapeutic importance of the mundane. Phone cards and toothpaste—when the enormity of the challenges facing Afghanistan, not to mention the world at large, overwhelm, repeat after me: phone cards and toothpaste.
Phone cards and toothpaste.
