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Confection

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  1. Confection

    Serena Attacked

    By Confection,

    This is a big deal.
     
    Like the UN getting blown up in Baghdad, this incident portends much worse for Afghanistan. Thank Allah (most merciful) I am not living there anymore.
     
    The only question remaining is: how can someone who works for Save the Children afford gym membership at a 5-star hotel?
  2. Confection
    It always starts innocently enough.
     
    Last Sunday my husband, cat and I were enjoying a sunny day in the yard. I was slightly hungover from the five gin and tonics I had consumed during the course of our Thanksgiving dinner and subsequent Thanksgiving trip to the Platinum nightclub the night before and thought that lying around in the hammock would be a good way to recover. We had only been outside for about ten minutes when my husband yelled, “sweetie, look!” and I turned around to see this on the wall behind me:
     
     

     
     
     
     
     
     
    Alright, it was actually more like this:
     

     
    Who knows how long the evil primate had been surveilling us. It had something furry and long-dead in its hand, which it threw down on the ground and came after us, its teeth bared. We sprung up and ran towards the porch and the front door. (A girl I went to high school with died from monkey poo--I shit you not and no pun intended.) Thinking quickly, my husband grabbed Snega (our cat) and threw it at the rabid monkey, but it was not deterred. It came closer and my husband picked one a metal chair over his head ready to knock the living monkey shit out of it. It scampered up one of the porch columns to a monkey friend waiting on the roof (a coordinated attack).
     
    After the narrow escape we went over to examine the dead furry thing. It was a baby monkey. Abush, our guard, picked the carcass up with a stick and flung it at the monkey who then jumped over the neighbors’ fence.
     
    So, what was learned from this experience?
    1. Monkeys will rip your face off without notice or provocation;
    2. Monkeys are sneaky little bastards and surprisingly quiet;
    3. Chucking white cats at monkeys will not save you (however, cats of other colors have not been field tested and may prove effective);
    4. If you are hungover from drinking too much gin the night before you are better off staying in bed.
     
    Ah, the excitement of living in Africa…
  3. Confection

    Applications

    By Confection,

    In addition to writing proposals, reviewing proposals, developing assessments, creating presentations, drinking coffee and reading Perez Hilton, one of the most tedious, but relatively amusing tasks that I have is reviewing job applications. Now, the first vetting isn't something I do regularly, and would only usually do it if I were filling my own position; however, serving as Project Manager for the project I totally made up I feel like I need to have greater control on how this whole thing kicks off.
     
    So, ladies and gentlemen, without further adieu, I give you excerpts from applications:
     
    Makes what swell?
     
    “I have done my second research paper had a title of ‘Hot romance movie and its impact on the swell of HIV/AIDS’”
     
    &*#@! I hate ampersands.
     
    “I have a Bachelor degree in STATISTICS as MAJOR and COMPUTER SCIENCE as a MINOR from ADDIS ABABA UNIVERSITY. Therefore, I have very interested and best hood in working in the vacant position, which I am applying for being competitive & successful in the position. Attached here with, I enclosed all my documents that witness about me.”
     
    Alright—at least three applicants talked about “exerting [their] efforts” (not in my office you don't):
     
    “I would be glad and most powerful if you give me a chance of employment so as to exert my effort with dedication & honesty.”
     
    “…to exert my effort with dedication and honest.”
     
     
    At least it is better than being a “steamed” organization:
    “I am writing this letter of application to request for an open position in your estimated organization…”
     
    Fill in the blank, we aren’t picky:
     
    “I am interested to work as (in pen) Monitoring Officer in your school/college /organization…”
     
    Finally, the respect I deserve:
     
    “Dear: Sir/Madam
    I have the honour to inform your Excellency that I am very interested to employ in the position of Monitoring Officer…”
  4. Confection

    Floods

    By Confection,

    The excerpt below is from CNN. In Ethiopia we have had thousands of people stranded on high ground surrounded by water with crocodiles and poisoned snakes over the past two weeks. The US is only pledging 100K to help the people affected by the disaster, which is bullshit. I give money to MSF whenever there is a similar crisis--I suggest you do too.
     
     
     
    AMURIA DISTRICT, Uganda (AP) -- Aid agencies were appealing for millions of dollars Friday to help more than 1 million Africans affected by deadly floods that have swept across the continent.
     
    The United States planned to send $100,000 for Uganda -- one of the hardest hit countries -- and Europe announced more than $15 million in aid for flood victims across 17 countries. The floods have killed at least 200 people and displaced hundreds of thousands since the summer in central and eastern Africa.
     
    "If we don't get food people will die in this place," Francis Aruo, 28, told The Associated Press in eastern Uganda, one of the hardest-hit regions of Africa. "All our crops are rotten."
     
    The United Nations asked for $43 million for Uganda, where 50 people have died. Theophane Nikyema, U.N. Humanitarian coordinator for Uganda, said the money will help address the "devastation left behind by the rising tide of water."
     
    The European Commission is planning to send $15.45 million in humanitarian aid to help flood victims, said Louis Michel, the European Commissioner for Development and Humanitarian Aid. The United States was sending $100,000 for Uganda, said Steven Browning, the country's U.S. ambassador.
     
    In Uganda's Amuria District, which was put under a state of emergency this week, more than 500 people were taking shelter in a seven-room schoolhouse, which was meant to open for a new term last week.
     
    "It's a struggle for accommodations," said Gilbert Omeke, the school's head teacher. "Some people are fighting for space. I have designated one classroom for expectant mothers and the elderly but so many more don't find space."
     
    UNICEF was distributing basic disease-prevention kits, including plastic sheeting and water purification tablets, but medical officials said illnesses were spreading.
     
    Florence Asega, a nurse at the closest health clinic to the school, some three miles away, said children were increasingly suffering from malaria and diarrhea.
     
    "In the cramped, wet conditions coughs and infections spread quickly," she added.
     
    In nearby Katakwi District, latrines were overflowing and hundreds of mud huts had collapsed. The nearest World Food Program distribution site was nearly four miles away, through waist-high floodwater.
     
    Aruo has made the journey twice so far, returning with 65 pounds of maize, groundnuts and cooking oil for his wife and three children.
     
    "It's a very tedious journey because it is water the whole way, the food is very heavy and some people have to leave some behind because they can't carry it," he said.
  5. Confection

    When Monkeys Attack

    By Confection,

    The Culprit
     
    Here I was, Saturday morning, minding my own business, when I spotted something gray in my front yard. Thinking it was another cat trying to pop a squat in my marigolds, I ran outside. It was a monkey. I saw the first couple of monkeys two weeks ago. They were walking along the front wall of my yard, not bothering anything.
     
    I live in the capital of Ethiopia. I live in the city. I am truly puzzled as to how these primates are making their way into my yard. Moreover, I am pissed off that the little motherfuckers are eating my flowers.
     
    I used to like monkeys--buy pyjamas with monkeys on them, subscribe to Monkey Wire news alerts, enjoy looking at them in zoos--but when they start destroying my property by pulling up plants whose seeds my husband brought from China, well, a monkey ass is going to get a hammer thrown at it.
     
    It's on.
  6. Confection
    There is a reason why you never hear the words “dentist” and “Africa” in the same sentence. There are few places in the world where you would be better off letting that rotten root fester than actually seeking professional help and pretty much the whole continent (except for South Africa and one hospital in Nairobi) qualifies.
     
    Let me start from the beginning: about a month and a half ago, I was lying on the couch one Sunday night, watching Dr. Phil, drinking a St. Georges and eating popcorn when I broke the back off one of my lower front teeth (which was cracked during a raspberry verenyi incident in 2004) by biting down on a kernel. Since I had been medevaced back to my cute little Tennessean dentist, Dr. Gregory, less than a month before for an abscessed tooth, I had little choice but to suck it up and visit a dentist in town.
     
    During the said abscessed tooth episode, which involved a lot of swelling, pain and visits to the dickhead South Asian dentist Dr. Raina (yeah, that’s right, I used your real name) who withheld information about treatment options, I was advised by an American working for a Christian aid agency about a Chinese dentist on Bole Road who did good work. Crumpled in my chair during the food security workshop from the pain, I decided I had nothing to lose by visiting Dr. Ling. Although she could do nothing to help me with my abscessed tooth except pull it (since a root canal had already been done) or “make a little window” to clean the roots by drilling into my jaw, she decided it was in everyone’s best interest to send me back to Dr. Gregory and promptly filled out my insurance paperwork (which Dr. Dickhead Raina refused to do).
     
    This episode solidified the bond between me and Dr. Ling. Inside I swore that if any other dental problem arose I would go to her.
     
    Back to the broken tooth—in August I went to see Dr. Ling who drilled down my two front teeth to little nubs before I knew what was happening or was able to ask for anesthesia. She then made impressions of my teeth, put in temporary (but nice looking) caps, and informed me that my new ceramic teeth would be back from China in a month. Those teeth came in last week and were installed. They looked good, but were a little too big. Dr. Ling told me to wait a week and see if I still thought they were too big and she would sand them down. That visit took place today.
     
    This morning I got up, threw on some jeans and got in the car to Bole. By 9:00 Dr. Ling had ground down the teeth and I was on my way. Looking in the rearview mirror, I realized a mistake had been made—there was a considerable gap between where my top and bottom teeth met in front. I thought about it for a while, got ready and went into the office. By 11:00 I was distraught. Here I had fucked up the only front teeth I would ever have-- I went back to Dr. Ling. She was reassuring, we would fix it, she told me. The next hour was the worst, and nearly the most painful, of my life.
     
    I have a high pain threshold: I have suffered peptic ulcers, burst ovarian cysts, and dry sockets and taken them all like a Pionerka. Something about this visit today made me squeal like a five year old. It took Dr. Ling about 35 minutes to drill the teeth, crack the ceramic, reassure me, shoot me up with anesthesia, and do some more drilling. I screamed, I cried, I squirmed, I bled. I was ashamed of myself for acting like such a big baby. I was mad because I was having this done in East Africa instead of East Tennessee. After what seemed like an eternity, Dr. Ling took impressions and put in temporary caps. I decided there was no way I could work for the rest of the day and packed it up to come home. Here at my dining room table, four hours later, my jaw and teeth are still aching. The pain and the humiliation of the whole day ranks only behind the riots in 2006 and losing my job three years ago. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Never see a dentist in Africa, NEVER.
     
    Nothing left to do but light up a sheesha and have some wine.
  7. Confection
    I now have an answer as to why I have been unable to eat since my husband went to West Africa: a peptic ulcer.
     
    I awoke Monday with chest pains. Nonetheless, I got ready and (being the Pionerka that I am) went into the office at 8:30. By 10:00, I was doubled over in pain and thought it was a panic attack. My boss instructed one of my Ethiopian counterparts to take me to St. Gabriel’s hospital, less than 2 kilometers from the office and a block from my house. We entered the hospital and explained to the people behind the registration desk that I was having chest pains; they regarded these symptoms with the same urgency they would give an ingrown toenail.
     
    I paid my 60 birr registration fee and was instructed to go and wait in the “waiting area” which consists of a narrow hallway leading to the cafeteria with several worn leather seats and which smells of fried fish and bleach. I sat down and turned my attention to one of the overhead TVs, inexplicably tuned to CNN rather than ETV. After 15 minutes Tamrat (my Ethiopian coworker) told me to go to the nurses’ station where they took my blood pressure and weight and again treated my chest pains nonchalantly. I was given a card with the number 22 on it and instructed to return to the waiting area/hallway.
     
    For two hours I waited among 50 coughing, sneezing Ethiopians to see the doctor. Finally, when it was my turn, the doctor asked me about my symptoms and listened to my chest. When Tamrat left to ask the office about payment, the doctor decided to ask me a series of personal, probing questions Ethiopians can’t help but ask when confronted with a captive ferangi (white person): Are you a worker or a volunteer? How long have you been married? Do you have children? Why have you been married seven years and do not have children? Where is your husband? What is he doing there?
     
    I felt like standing up on his desk and screaming: THIS IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS. FOR YOUR INFORMATION AND FOR THE INFORMATION OF EVERYONE IN THE COUNTRY, I DO NOT HAVE CHILDREN BECAUSE I CANNOT STAND THEM. I WOULD RATHER LOSE A LIMB THAN LACTATE. I AM ONLY ENDURING THIS ON THE OFF CHANCE YOU ARE GOING TO PRESCRIBE ME SOME VALIUM.
     
    After what seemed like an eternity, Tamrat returned and explained to the doctor in Amharic that my employer would pay because I didn’t have any cash. The doctor took out a photocopied sheet of paper and wrote, “lab”, “EKG” and “observation”. I told him there was no way in HELL I was going to stay overnight, that I would rather die of a heart attack. He scratched out the last word and sent me on my way.
     
    The first thing they wanted to do was the “labs”. I walked into the laboratory which smelled like urine and the technician grabbed two vials. I stood up and walked out. There is not a chance in hell that I would let a public hospital in East Africa stick me with a needle.
     
    The next day, I slept in and went to work about 11:00 thinking that the symptoms would pass. By 3:00 I was about to die: pains were coming every five minutes. I rallied my strength and drove myself to a private clinic near my office. The Israeli doctors gave me an exam, diagnosis, prescription and completed insurance forms and sent me on my way in less than an hour.
     
    A few days after beginning treatment and I am still hardly able to eat and experience excessive pain when I do. An American co-worker had the dickheaded comment, “well, if you wanted to lose weight this would be the way to do it”. It has been the week for dickheaded comments.
     
    So if you, by chance, find yourself in Addis Ababa with a health problem DO NOT go to St. Gabriel’s hospital, especially if you have a potentially life-threatening and time sensitive health problem. Ethiopians are the slowest people in the world and never treat anything as urgent. Consider yourself warned.
  8. Confection

    As If

    By Confection,

    (from the BBC)
     
    US targets Ethiopia for sanctions
     
    Correspondents say Ethiopia has come in for increased criticism over its human rights record since the violent crackdown on post poll protests in 2005; opposition leaders imprisoned as a consequence have subsequently been released.
     
    And since Ethiopia's went into Somalia last December to help the transitional government- a rebellion in its eastern Ogaden region which borders Somalia has escalated.
     
    'Correct wrongdoings'
     
    The US representatives approved the Ethiopian Democracy and Accountability Act on Tuesday, which puts Ethiopian government officials at risk of being denied entry visas over human rights violations.
     
    It also threatens to withhold military aid of at least $1.5m
     
    Mr Payne said the bill was bipartisan and secured unanimous approval.
     
    "It's something that's been discussed ever since the killing of civilians, gunned down in the streets of Addis [Ababa] almost two years ago," the Democratic Congressman told the BBC's Network Africa.
     
    "There was a feeling that Ethiopia, being an ally of the United States, should have an opportunity to correct some of the wrongdoings, and that has not happened.
     
    "Two years later people are still being imprisoned. There's still problems in the Ogaden region. People are having food kept away from them. That's why we finally said we need to move forward with it."
     
    Samuel Assefa, Ethiopia's ambassador to the US, called the bill "irresponsible" and said it would hamper efforts to improve things.
     
    "The legislation also would undermine regional stability in the Horn of Africa by jeopardising vital security cooperation between the United States and Ethiopia," he said in a statement, Reuters news agency reports.
     
    The BBC's Elizabeth Blunt in Addis Ababa says as Ethiopia is such a strong ally of the US in the Horn of Africa, it is unlikely that President George Bush's administratation will be sympathetic to the bill.
  9. Confection

    Why I can't blog

    By Confection,

    Ethiopia has the lowest number of cell phone subscribers in Africa.
     
    The country where my husband is has the lowest number of internet subscribers. While what is wrong with Liberia might be easily explained by years of war that decimated the infrastructure, Ethiopia (besides a few skirmishes with Eritrea) has not seen the conflict on the scale of say, Sierra Leone. No, the situation in Abyssinia comes down to three letters: ETC. Ethiopia Telecom will not allow competition--all of the telecommunications systems go through the government. This is why it took four months for my employer to take pity on me and give me the "consultant" SIM card (the whole time I was in country there were none available and ETC refused to issue new ones) and why, as I write now, I am on a slow dial-up.
     
    The government shut down Skype, blogspot.com, and streaming video seems at least three decades away.
     
    Last week the internet, cell phones and land lines shut down for the whole day. My Ethiopian colleagues thought Somalia had invaded. After living in Afghanistan, I believed them.
     
    So, as you all know, Somalia did not invade. However, after this post I this blog might be shut down.
  10. Confection
    Whenever I read a story like this, I feel like I have been kicked in the chest.
     
    I have been out of Afghanistan now for over four months. Still, I can't tear myself away from the stories--stories so fucking bewildering they make me want to cry. Why would anyone gun down schoolgirls?
     
    I think about the time I went to a school opening in the same province where these two little girls were killed. My organization had built a primary school for boys and one for girls and a few colleagues and I were invited for the ceremony. Dozens of little girls lined the walk as we approached the school--handing us flowers, singing and shaking our hands. They were all wearing the traditional green headscarves and maroon dresses with gold trim. After we toured the new school, one of the girls read a poem she had written and the teachers provided us with sugar coated almonds, raisins and green tea even though it was Ramadan and all of the Muslims were fasting--not eating or drinking until sundown.
     
    Two months later, a rocket hit the school at night. No one was hurt and there was minimal damage, but it was a warning.
     
    I guess things are getting worse.
     
    Stories like this also remind me of the Afghans who really meant a lot to me--the civil engineer I worked with who broke down crying when he heard I was leaving for Ethiopia and told me, "I have three daughters. The youngest, she is like you. I always encourage her to be like you." The Afghans who called when the riots happened to make sure I was OK, the friends who offered to take us into hiding. I also think about Sharif, a driver at my work. Sharif did not speak English, but taking me and my husband home one day my husband noticed a Zemfira tape in his car.
     
    "Ti gavareesh pa-ruskii?" ("you speak Russian?"), my husband asked, using the informal "you" which always pisses me off. "Da", he replied--a friendship was born.
     
    Sharif went to university in Leningrad and finished his degree in history in 1987--two years before the Soviets were run out of Afghanistan by the Mujahadeen. He had five daughters, a real misfortune for an Afghan father. Since I was the only expatriate Sharif could communicate with (the only one who spoke Russian), he often asked me what was going on within the organization--the hirings, firings and other gossip and he told me what was going on in Afghanistan--the corrupt police, the bombings, the rumors.
     
    Before my husband and I left Afghanistan for good Sharif invited us over to his house for dinner. He lived in the "unplanned" area of the city where people squatted on public land in mud houses. He lived on the side of TV hill, on the third floor of a lopsided building with no running water and no sewer (wastewater ran down a trench in the center of the dirt road). We met all of his beautiful daughters, including the smallest, Arazu, who was five. Sitting there drinking tea with Sharif and his family, I could tell how much he loved his daughters.
     
    They brought out dozens of dishes from their small kitchen in a genuine display of hospitality. After dinner, Sharif's daughters presented me with some jewlery they had made for me and Sharif brought out his photos.
     
    The pictures broke my heart. Here was Sharif--twenty years ago with more hair--in Sochi, with his college friends (big Soviet women lounging in bikinis in the background, obviously scandalous for an Afghan). Here was Sharif in Red Square, in front of Lenin's tomb, in his obshezhetye (dorm) with his friends from Pakistan, China and Kenya. Here was Sharif, so full of hope, thinking that the world was ahead of him with no idea what was going to happen a few years down the road.
     
    Now he is a driver earning $125 a month and supporting his wife and five girls.
     
    When I hear terrible things about Afghanistan, I think about people like Sharif. I think about people who just want to raise their children and celebrate their weddings, to play with their grandchildren and sit around with friends and drink tea. I think about how the bombings have killed the family members of friends. I think about the little girls who sang songs for the foreigners when they got their new school. I think about Sharif sitting in the window of his small, two-room house, holding his little Arazu.
  11. Confection
    Why is it no matter where I go I get cat-called? I can be wearing anything, any time of the day in any part of the city and men cannot help but yell something at me! Walking back to my office from lunch with my husband a man pulled up next to me in his car and yelled, “sexy!” And last week, wearing sweats with greasy hair going to play Frisbee a man in a minibus taxi pulled in between me and my husband just to holler at me (I was walking with him and three Ethiopian men, but the driver was undeterred): “Hey baby, how are you?”
     
    What are these guys thinking? Seriously, is there some myth about white women that I have not heard? Do they think that I am going to talk to them? What gives them the fucking right to walk past me and whisper, “sweet, sweet sister”? What gives them the right to even talk to me at all? I just want to yell “LOOK, I AM WALKING WITH MY HUSBAND, THE ONLY WHITE GUY WITHIN A TEN MILE RADIUS AND I AM WEARING BUSINESS CLOTHES. I AM NOT A PROSTITUTE AND I HAVE NO REASON TO TALK TO YOU. FUCK OFF.”
     
    I really need to invest in a tazer.
  13. Confection
    From the NYT--I knew that the Ethiopian Government was restrictive and authoritarian, but sanctioned rape and torture?
     
     
    --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
     
    June 18, 2007
    In Ethiopian Desert, Fear and Cries of Army Brutality
    By JEFFREY GETTLEMAN
    IN THE OGADEN DESERT, Ethiopia — The rebels march 300 strong across the crunchy earth, young men with dreadlocks and AK-47s slung over their shoulders.
     
    This is the Ogaden, a spindle-legged corner of Ethiopia that the urbane officials in Addis Ababa, the capital, would rather outsiders never see. It is the epicenter of a separatist war pitting impoverished nomads against one of the biggest armies in Africa.
     
    What goes on here seems to be starkly different from the carefully constructed up-and-coming image that Ethiopia — a country that the United States increasingly relies on to fight militant Islam in the Horn of Africa — tries to project.
     
    In village after village, people said they had been brutalized by government troops. They described a widespread and longstanding reign of terror, with Ethiopian soldiers gang-raping women, burning down huts and killing civilians at will.
     
    It is the same military that the American government helps train and equip — and provides with prized intelligence. The two nations have been allies for years, but recently they have grown especially close, teaming up last winter to oust an Islamic movement that controlled much of Somalia and rid the region of a potential terrorist threat.
     
    The Bush administration, particularly the military, considers Ethiopia its best bet in the volatile Horn — which, with Sudan, Somalia and Eritrea, is fast becoming intensely violent, virulently anti-American and an incubator for terrorism.
     
    But an emerging concern for American officials is the way that the Ethiopian military operates inside its own borders, especially in war zones like the Ogaden.
     
    Anab, a 40-year-old camel herder who was too frightened, like many others, to give her last name, said soldiers took her to a police station, put her in a cell and twisted her nipples with pliers. She said government security forces routinely rounded up young women under the pretext that they were rebel supporters so they could bring them to jail and rape them.
     
    “Me, I am old,” she said, “but they raped me, too.”
     
    According to Georgette Gagnon, deputy director for the Africa division of Human Rights Watch, Ethiopia is one of the most repressive countries in Africa.
     
    “What the Ethiopian security forces are doing,” she said, “may amount to crimes against humanity.”
     
    Human Rights Watch issued a report in 2005 that documented a rampage by government troops against members of the Anuak, a minority tribe in western Ethiopia, in which soldiers ransacked homes, beat villagers to death with iron bars and in one case, according to a witness, tied up a prisoner and ran over him with a military truck.
     
    After the report came out, the researcher who wrote it was banned by the Ethiopian government from returning to the country. Similarly, three New York Times journalists who visited the Ogaden to cover this story were imprisoned for five days and had all their equipment confiscated before being released without charges.
     
    The violence has been particularly acute against women, villagers said, and many have recently fled.
     
    Asma, 19, who now lives in neighboring Somaliland, said she was stuck in an underground cell for more than six months last year, raped and tortured. “They beat me on the feet and breasts,” she said. She was freed only after her father paid the soldiers ransom, she said, though she did not know how much.
  14. Confection

    When Monkeys Attack

    By Confection,

    The Culprit
     
    Here I was, Saturday morning, minding my own business, when I spotted something gray in my front yard. Thinking it was another cat trying to pop a squat in my marigolds, I ran outside. It was a monkey. I saw the first couple of monkeys two weeks ago. They were walking along the front wall of my yard, not bothering anything.
     
    I live in the capital of Ethiopia. I live in the city. I am truly puzzled as to how these primates are making their way into my yard. Moreover, I am pissed off that the little motherfuckers are eating my flowers.
     
    I used to like monkeys--buy pyjamas with monkeys on them, subscribe to Monkey Wire news alerts, enjoying looking at them in zoos--but when they start destroying my property by pulling up plants whose seeds my husband brought from China, well, a monkey ass is going to get a hammer thrown at it.
     
    It's on.
  15. Confection
    I never really thought about Rwanda before. I mean, I saw the movie and considered the genocide but I never really thought about the country, especially not as a place where I would vacation; but here I was, last Friday, on an Ethiopian flight with my husband and SMP to Kigali.
     
    I had no hand in planning this; my husband got obsessed with the idea of gorilla trekking after some guy from the US Embassy told him about it. I just half-assedly agreed to the trip and SMP decided to join us even though she had seen gorillas in Uganda before. After landing, clearing passport (no visa required for US citizens) and getting our bags, we were out in Kigali. The city is clean (plastic bags having been banned years ago) and spread out. We went to the genocide museum (more on that soon) and after a car breakdown we were on our way to Musazana to the extremely overpriced lodge from which the next day we would set off.
     
    After nearly dying from exhaust being piped into the vehicle and frozen from cold wind blowing in through the window, we arrived about 9pm. The lodge being the only site on the main power grid, I could not see a damn thing and had no idea what was around. After a terrible meal and a much-deserved hot shower we got into bed to be prepared for the next day. By 6:45am we had eaten our terrible, overpriced breakfast and arrived at the Volcanoes National Park office with the 70 other white folk who were going to see golden monkeys, gorillas and (strangely) Dian Fossey’s grave. Our lack of planning and forethought was clearly evident in how we were dressed: although the other tourists were decked out in GoreTex, gators and Patagonia, I was wearing jeans and a gabardine pea coat, my husband had his fleece and SMP had on her trademark plunge neckline and hoop earrings.
     
    As luck would have it, the husband, SMP and I were the only three of the 70 said white folk interested in gorilla trekking that day. We decided to go and see the largest group, which was also the farthest away. We loaded up with our guide for a 30-minute exhaust-filled ride to a small village near one of the volcanoes. We got out at the ranger base, got our armed guards and walking sticks and set off.
     
    Contrary to what you might think about a place like Rwanda, it is really a beautiful country. As we began our walk up the terraced hills where villagers were planting potatoes and chrysanthemum (as mosquito repellant), we started to see the green, rolling landscape and low clouds. After about two hours of climbing at a 75 degree slope and having children run out and scream “ferangu” at us, we reached a big pile of rocks. This, the ranger/guide told us, was the national forest. After this point there could be no eating, no smoking (which we weren’t), no loud talking, and no defecating without first digging a 30 centimeter hole. One of the soldiers hacked down the wall and we went in. Now, I ain’t never been in a rainforest before and the brush was thick; before I could even enter I was besieged with spiders and insects. The guides had to hack their way through the vines and bamboo to make a path for us while radioing the trackers who spend all day with the gorilla pods. We trudged on for about another hour, all the while getting smacked in the face with wet tree limbs, getting hung on vines, having rain trickle down on us, freezing in the cold. It seemed like we were walking in circles, but then we saw it: gorilla poo.
     
    Before long, we stopped and the guide told us to put down our bags and walking sticks. We were here and the gorillas were close. We did as we were told and I stepped around a tree and there they were.

    A member of the Susa Group

     
    It was like they were waiting for us, all 21 of them. I saw Poppy (a gorilla researched by Dian Fossey) and her baby first. The rest were stretched out in a clearing, relaxing. It was literally a scene out of the best-staged documentary: the mist rolled in, the younger members of the group played with each other and ran towards us. It was simply amazing. We were able to spend an hour with the gorillas, during which time they were mainly eating, yawning, sleeping, scratching themselves and farting. They are extremely sedate creatures (or at least this group was too familiar with humans after years of being researched). There were three silverbacks we could see and the one closest to us had a cold and spent the time we were there picking his nose and eating it. One of the 1-year-old twins ran towards us, turned around, peed in our direction, and then began to make kissing noises and shake her head back and forth with her mouth wide open. The younger gorillas climbed up the trees while the mothers nursed their babies. It’s hard to believe that I actually got to be that close to them—less than four feet from a booger eating silverback!
     
    One of the babies.
     
    We took tons of photos (which I swear I will post) and it was not long before we had to leave. We set off back through the forest and it was a full-on rain by the time we got back to the rock fence boundary. Walking back down, I fell once while SMP fell a record four times down the muddy sides of the hills. When we got back to the car and received our certificates, we were beat, covered in mud, cold and completely wet. Although it took a long hike through the rain and a few thousand dollars, it was worth it.
     
    This morning, while getting ready for work, I saw last night's Nightline program, concidentally about the same trip. You can read about it here.
  17. Confection
    A fitting beginnging to my last full day in Afghanistan: a window-shaking explosion at 6:45am. I had just gotten out of bed when I heard it; 20 minutes later and still no news on whether it was a rocket or an IED. (Actually, in the end, it was a gunpowder storage shop that exploded on accident.)
     
    On a lighter note, something happened that made me laugh until my sides ached yesterday. See, there are these poor kids who hang out by the US Embassy/USAID/ISAF base in Shash Durak trying to sell things. Usually they sell newspapers or copies of the Afghan Scene, or chewing gum. These kids are RELENTLESS, springing into action at the sight of a foreigner, repeating "gum, madam? Gum? Madam, one dollar, gum?" Yesterday, I was running to have a quick beer with my friend Sas who is stuck in the USAID compound when I had to pass ISAF and the throng of kids. One jumped out in front of me with a plastic snake. "Snake, madam?"
     
    So today is my last day. Praise to Allah.
  18. Confection

    Payday

    By Confection,

    The last three days of the month are always my least favorite. I am not sure how this happened, but in my previous office (in the building that was torched during the riots) and in my new office on the third floor of another building, I am right next to the fucking cashier. This means that on the last three working days of every month nearly all of the 700 Afghans working for my organization come in to get paid.
     
    So for three solid days, there are at least fifty Afghan men (and sometimes two or three women) crammed into the narrow 3-foot wide hallway in front of my door. They like to stand in front of my office door (which opens outward), essentially blocking anyone from entering or exiting. Often, I try to open the door, only to hit someone, who will then refuse to move. If I have to walk down the hallway to anyone else’s office in the building, the bearded men in their turbans and patus stare at me as if I were naked. Added to this is the smell and the noise. The smell—well, it defies definition. I can best describe it as a mix of sausage pizza, wet dog and used maxi pad. The heat of the summer amplifies the odor.
     
    These people like to talk while they are waiting on their monthly pay. They talk loudly and ceaselessly, forcing Schwig, my Cheesehead officemate, to go out at least three times a day to announce, “Bubakshah (excuse me) shutthefuckup. Tashakour (thank you)”. Telling the crowd to quiet down usually works for only a few minutes as there are soon more people cycling in, getting their cash, and leaving.
     
    This is another aspect of my life in Afghanistan I don’t want to forget about. The bureaucracy, the virtually non-existent banking system, the lack of faith in the existing banking system, the dearth of running water or perceived importance of bathing; the way the men stare at women who are not in burqas, the way this stare makes me feel. I have mixed feelings about Afghanistan. I hate it, especially on days like today when I cannot fly out to Kazakhstan because of snow, but then there is the guilt of having to leave good people behind. Good people who only want to earn a little money, own a house and watch their children grow up. The guilt of being a person who just can’t relate to their situations and their needs because I have never and will never experience such circumstances.
     
    More on that later—got to finish washing clothes.
  19. Confection

    Full of Talibs

    By Confection,

    Last week at a staff meeting, one of the Program Managers was talking about how one of the districts where we work is “full of Talibs”.
     
    Well, apparently, the provinces outside of Kabul are not the only place. Consider this warning from the National Defense Service:
     
    NDS sources report that HiG (Hizb-I Islami Gulbuddin)are becoming the dominant group within Kabul district. The source reported that the grouping had been conducting a
    successful recruiting campaign in the districts surrounding Kabul. As a result
    an increase in attacks is expected with HiG expected to operate in
    Police Districts 12, 7 and 6 of the capital. TB are traditionally strong in the Dih Sabz
    area (PD9) which accounts for the concentration of attacks on Jalalabad road. (Recall the Jalalabad Road is the road one has to travel to get liquor, as well as being the road the Coalition uses in and out of Kabul.)
     
    For those of you who are unfamiliar with HiG:
    "Hezb-e Islami Gulbuddin (HIG) has long established ties with Osama Bin Ladin. (HIG) founder Gulbuddin Hikmatyar offered to shelter Bin Ladin after the latter fled Sudan in 1996. HIG has staged small attacks in its attempt to force U.S. troops to withdraw from Afghanistan, overthrow the Afghan Transitional Administration (ATA) and establish a fundamentalist state."
     
    Gulbuddin Hikmatyar is the one who castrated Najibullah (the President of Afghanistan under the Soviets), shot him and hanged his body in Ariana square.
     
    So the Taliban is in Kabul and ready to fight.
     
    Not really news, but now people are talking about negiotiating with the Taliban.
    My organization has been in Afghanistan for a while, so we negotiated with the Taliban to have access to provincial areas pre-2001. Last year, while implementing a shelter program in the East, we also met with Taliban leaders in one district so that supplies could be carried in. I am not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, talking to the Taliban is a necessary evil; we are non-partisan and are working in the interests of the people. On the other hand, I feel like it lends them some legitimacy and reinforces the notion that they are the decision makers. Moreover, this could possibly undermine the fragile Afghan government in areas where their power is waning; having to ask the Talibs for permission to do our work might tip the balance.
     
    Anyway, after one month this is NOT MY PROBLEM.
  20. Confection
    Dear Applicant,
     
    Thank you for submitting your resume for the Gender Officer position in Afghanistan. There were several moderately qualified candidates and therefore, the selection was slightly difficult. I regret to inform you that you were not selected for the position due to one, or a combination of, the following:
     
    1. You mentioned your “mental state” on your CV as “rural, urban, cosmopolitan”;
    2. You sent me a long email after the phone interview explaining what you really meant to say during the interview, but just couldn’t;
    3. Your writing sample included the phrase: “poverty has a women face” and/or “empowering the powerless through concretization”;
    4. Your references told me how you “did not dress appropriately” when you worked in Kabul two years ago;
    5. Your writing sample was 32 pages long, written in 2002, had eight annexes (including an ORGANOGRAM) and was over 1.5 MB;
    6. Your writing sample had several misspellings and grammatical mistakes;
    7. During the interview, you described your management style as “authoritative”.
     
    Due to some, or all, of these reasons, we cannot extend an offer of employment to you at this time. Thank you for your interest.
     
    Sincerely,
     
    Confection
  21. Confection

    Road Rage

    By Confection,

    You say matatu, I say FUCK YOU GET OUT OF MY WAY!
     
    I never thought I would put this into words: Afghans are not the worst drivers in the world. That honor belongs to Ethiopians. While in Kabul drivers had to contend with crowded streets, one traffic light and men on bicycles and drove like fucking lunatics, Ethiopians have paved roads, traffic lights and traffic police and are still unable to get their heads out of their asses to drive down the road without 1) venturing into my lane or 2) pulling out in front of me without looking. Plus they are slow. Now I have stated before that Ethiopians are officially the slowest people on earth, but, overall, this does not concern me at the bread store, at the restaurant, or at the gym; but it bothers the hell out of me on the road. Added to the ignorant people in regular cars are the minibuses (matatus? Marshrutki?) of which there must be at least 500,000 in Addis alone. These little beat up junk buckets are blue and white, ill-maintained focal points for my scorn. They pick up people every ten feet, not pulling off the road to do so, and pull out into traffic without any forewarning. Plus, most do not have break lights. Just today, one pulled in front of me while I was hauling ass down Djibouti Street (that’s Mazoria 22 for all y’all old school folk), so I laid on the horn for at least 20 seconds, after which, someone in a passing car yelled, “slow down!” to which I replied, “your mother!”
     
    Sadly, people are always telling white-girl-in-red-car to slow down. Often, when I am in first gear. Lord, people.
     
    But let us not forget the Ethiopian PEDESTRIANS. I think the years of famine have stunted the cerebral growth of these people. They walk in the street, they stand in the street, they run out in front of my car while it’s in the street, they see how close they can get (someone actually told me these pedestrians try to get as close as possible to speeding cars for “luck”!). Sometimes, I am ashamed to admit, I will speed up when I see these people. While attempting to run down pedestrians is simply fun for me and my mom in the parking lot of our local Tennessee Wal-Mart, such actions are cathartic rush for white-girl-in-red-car in Addis Ababa.
     
    And don’t even get me started on the donkey herds roaming the public roads.
     
    Alas, I think I am becoming notorious. There are only so many times white-girl-in-red-car can ram vehicles who pull out in front of her on purpose on Djibouti street without attracting some vigilante justice.
     
    I think I need to switch cars.
  23. Confection
    The good news: I am leaving Afghanistan (Praise be to Allah).
     
    The bad news: I am going here.
     
    How come war gotta be declared less than ten days after I get my new job?
     
    So over the next few weeks, I am going to wrap up my time here in Afghanistan and wrap up this blog with all the things I meant to mention about this country, but haven't yet.
  24. Confection

    Cold

    By Confection,

    I want to start out by saying I know cold. I have lived in Siberia for two years and have seen my share of -53 degrees days. However, not even a stint in a Soviet gulag could prepare me for the cold I now have to endure in Kabul, without the warmth of a coal-burning electrical plant to fire my radiators in the depth of the Central Asian night.
     
    A lot of people assume that Afghanistan is a warm place, that it is mostly desert and that it rarely dips below 80 degrees. For those people I have two words: Altitude, baby. Kabul sets in the Hindu Kush mountain range and the capital is about 4800 feet above sea level. Its location between hell and the devil’s anus means that summers are long, dry and hot and winters are snowy, cold, and also long.
     
    Now, I know that everyone bitches and complains about cold weather. Even in Atlanta, I have known people to work themselves up over 50 degrees during the winter. However, these people have access to central heating and constant electricity. Here in Afghanistan, there is no electricity. Sure, during the summer there is central power almost 12 hours a day, but in the winter, you are lucky to get six hours every two days. Central heating is unheard of. That heat pump you’ve got out back or that sputtering radiator in the kitchen--Afghanistan has not seen technology like that since General Najibullah was around.
     
    In order to keep warm, Afghans (and white folk like me) use bukhari. These are little stoves with chimneys that feed into the wall. Generally, these are diesel or wood burning and need to be refueled every few hours. They heat only one small area, so running to the bathroom at night results in a severe and immediate drop in body temperature.
     
    Bukhari. My carbon footprint is bigger than yours!
     
    But there is another, more sinister effect of the cold: frozen pipes. Here there is no central water system, no sewage system: wells are the name of the game. White folk (like me) generally have a well in the yard and an electric pump that forces water into a tank on top of the house. Most Afghans in the capital have this system too, but outside of Kabul most people carry water in buckets to their houses—all year. When you have a tank, the miracle of gravity brings this water to your sink, shower and toilet. Frozen pipes prevent this water from reaching your sink, shower and toilet, resulting in dirty (frozen) dishes, unwashed bodies and solid streams of urine to greet you in the morning.
     
    This past weekend, my husband and I had the trifecta of cold-related problems: no electricity, frozen generator and frozen pipes. On Friday, we were surprised when our generator was frozen solid, so we spent the evening baking brownies by candlelight and drinking copious amounts of contraband alcohol. Saturday was even more surprising because when the generator finally started, we discovered our pipes were frozen. Forced to shower at my husband’s office on Sunday before work because we had NO water (Muslim workweek is Sunday-Thursday), I had no idea I was in for the greatest surprise of all: frozen pipes at work. Now, it is one thing to have to face your own frozen pee in the morning, but it is a whole ‘nother issue to have to stare down the excreta of your fellow employees. Plus, I had my period.
     
    Why am I telling you this? Because I don’t want to forget how shitty (no pun intended) living in this country can be. I don’t want to think for a minute that things were OK here and not really that bad and that I could do it again. You might read articles about Afghanistan that are romantic and poetic about the country, but when it gets cold, all bets are off. The beauty is gone and all you are left with is exhaust from a diesel heater and yellow snow. I have no idea how people live here in mud brick buildings with one room and no toilet or running water. I have no idea how they sleep at night with one thin blanket and go to work wearing a patu and no coat. No idea. White folk (like me) just can’t.
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