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01/27/2004: "Kandahar Chronicles #62 - 24/01/2004"

The sky hangs like a grey sheet of ice. People shuffle quickly past swirling dust, only their eyes visible squinting through tightly wrapped scarves. Unlatched windows bang shut and corrugated tin sheets on the roofs creak on old timber. A camel train plods by; ten shaggy, sullen beasts bare yellow teeth and pull at their halters. The wind picks up strength moving through the buildings with a low moan. The sky turns from white to yellow to a sinister dark brown as the winter sandstorm advances. Four American humvees pass by the gates on patrol, spooking the camels. Soldiers manning machine guns on the roofs of the point and tail vehicles nod a greeting, just goggles and helmets pulled deep into their jackets peering over their gun shields. An electronic eye attached to a cannon blinks at me. Shopkeepers move quickly fastening shutters to protect merchandise from the storm. The sand comes like a wall; already the end of the street has vanished, swallowed by the flying debris.

I had spent the morning trying to track down a shipment of diesel sent down from Heart. It was good to get out of the compound. I went with Jaweed and a driver to the police checkpoint about fifteen minutes out of town. The truck wasn’t there but we had chai with some street vendors. I was shown a block of hash the size of a loaf of bread. I don’t know if it was for sale but it made a good conversation piece and I got the obligatory photo holding it. From there, we came back to the city and drove through the bazaar looking for the truck. Security regulations insist we avoid the bazaar but I needed to unwind a bit and chat with some of the storekeepers I’ve met over the last eight and a half months. More chai and then we returned to the office to find the truck driver pulling up in front. From then, it was a race to unload the fuel before the storm swallowed us, but at least the exercise keeps us warm.

I move inside but the mood matches the weather. Hamil works at his computer in the medical office writing protocols for treatment of various diseases. He was at the hospital today to see two small kids who had been terribly burned at Zhare Dasht when the flimsy tent they live in caught fire. Nobody knows how it happened. One boy died but the other should survive. Despite a strong character and a natural professional detachment, I can see that it has upset him. He is an amazing guitar player who writes his own music and performed some of his songs the other night for about five of us. All the songs are personal to him and a number of them reflect the experiences he has had here and in the Sudan. Some are sad and seem to serve as a coping mechanism for him. In places like this or Africa, I guess you do whatever you have to to get through the day. He has music playing in there now, off in his own world beside an electric heater.

Replies: 1 Comment

Carlos,
Do you have a new posting? If so,where? I hope you will write about it for us...Fascinating stuff.

Hum said @ 01/28/2004 12:07 PM EST