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10/06/2003: "Kandahar Chronicles #23 - 05/10/2003"

“Okay, okay MSF, why don’t we continue to disregard the past things that have come to us and solve fortuitously what it is we are proceeding for.”

Who the hell are you?

“It is not for want these technical matters for otherwise problematic circumstances.”
What!?

Exaggerated sigh, a shake of his head loosens his turban. He walks back to the carpet draped motorcycle and reaches into a hidden pocket, pushing back the material that drops over his face. I’m standing inside the blue gates of the UNHCR compound in a crucifix pose getting a scan from the uniformed security guard. My eyes follow the man as he comes back from his bike clutching a crumpled envelope.


“This is what for changing radio every persons NGO.” He says as if to a slow child. “Antennas from small hills we are meeting yesterday.”

This guy sounds like Yoda.

“Has this anything to do with my request last month for the UN’s camp radio frequencies?” I venture, walking towards the reception desk. I can understand the vocabulary clearly and am trying to snatch key words that might give me an idea who this maniac is. I’m late for a meeting about winterisation packages for IDPs and have little time for scrabble.

“Exactly,” he says with a relieved sigh at my late grasp of the obvious, “without programming of having convenience for with us communication is most needy.”

I’ve had enough of this guy. He fixes me with a look of pity after I sign in. “Is there somebody else I can talk to about this? I’m a bit late for the meeting.”

“Tomorrows calling has been graciously fine.”(I’m not making this up) He says before giving me his phone number. Yea, see ya Yoda.

I peek in the conference room, three people are staring at their pens on the table in front of them. “Is this the Zhare Dahst winterisation meeting?” I ask a sleepy looking woman at the head of the table.

“We’ll discuss all camps except Zhare Dahst today. Who are you?” she sneers suspiciously.

The hell with this. “Sorry” I say to the closing door. I walk back to the gate and radio my driver to come back and pick me up. The motorcycle man is talking to confused looking security man like he would to a naughty puppy. Good luck mate, better you than me. Communication here can be a bit like herding cats. My driver smiles and cocks an eyebrow. I grimace and shake my head. It’s good to be understood again.