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11/06/2003: "Kandahar Chronicles #39 - 06/11/2003"

I had to make another quick trip out to the customs checkpoint last night. This is actually a police check that inspects vehicle passengers and cargo on the main Heart –Kandahar road far away from any international border. It’s known as the Silo post as it’s located across the road from a giant grain silo that sits unused since the Russians spitefully blew the top off the elevator by tank fire before pulling out of the country. The technical logistician, Victor, from HQ had managed to get through with one of the minivans being brought down, but the second one with its driver was detained. Every cargo sent down this way is stopped and these thirty minute drives to the roadblock have become routine. I jumped in with Mr Omer, the night driver, and Jaweed, and armed with the cargo manifest and MSF ID prepared to lock horns once again with my old foe, Superintendent Karim.

Victor led the way in the minivan and we followed through the quiet streets. The Mullah had called evening prayer and most people were at home enjoying their first meal of the day. We passed small, brightly lit shops that seemed festive without the belching smoke of passing trucks. A policeman at a minor checkpoint became agitated when he saw us until we promised we would drive no further than the customs post. The checkpoint guards have been increased with the latest Taliban offensive rumours and have now been issued with RPG’s and heavy machine guns. The ruined tower of the silo was silhouetted against the stars and a long line of trucks awaiting clearance lined the side of the road. Victor turned into the compound while we drove slowly past more guards, huddled in blankets against the night chill.

Jaweed and I greeted the familiar sentry at the entrance to the office and he escorted us to the Super Karims office. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor drinking chai and holding court with his minions. As he was too busy slurping tea to acknowledge us, Jaweed waited patiently by the door while I struck up a conversation with a couple rough looking, uniformed hoodlums who wanted to try out their English. After exchanging pleasantries and commenting on how cold it was, the older looking one asked if I was a Muslim. I’m not even a Christian. I gave my standard answer about believing in one God above all and that Mohammed, Jesus, Buddha, Vishnu and all the rest of them were his prophets. That satisfied him and I turned the conversation to the small motorbikes in the hallway. I don’t like to talk religion at the best of times, much less to a couple of armed, excitable strangers.

At that moment King Karim emerged from his court looking suitably pissed off and stuck out his hand for the documents. After much sighing and shaking his head, he handed back the papers and sent the young guard out to clear the minivans. Oddly, he then offered me chai, referring to me as his little brother. I followed him into the lion’s den unsure what to make of this about face in our confrontational yet familiar relationship. He appraised me for a full minute, stroking his bushy beard. He told me that his cousin had been very sick up in Bamyan province and that MSF had treated him. MSF is divided into sections; Belgium, France, Spain, Switzerland, Holland, and I think MSF France is in Bamyan. I belong to Holland, with which MSF Canada is affiliated. We discussed what I do here while I finished my chai and then shook my hand. I asked if he could facilitate the passage of future MSF deliveries but he just laughed and shook his turban. At least I had finally met the man behind the title.