"you look like a nice afghan girl,"

said the mullah of the village, at the msq dedication ceremony, where i offered a blessing for the place in the name of the Only One who can save.

yeah, that was a good day.

perspective

Again, allowing children to run free with one's camera can produce priceless photos.

"let stand for one hour to coagulate"

or one day, or six weeks, or however long...

a few things i've learned in the past few days, covering a few areas of life and spirituality and food:

:: i lack discipline
:: i'm too optimistic
:: snicker's candy bars are a whole heck-of-a-lot harder to ration over the course of a week than are clif bars
:: saying that you'll learn a language by buying the books and cd's is quite different than actually learning the language
:: hot chocolate mix (with tiny marshmallows) + instant coffee + raw sugar = "mocha"
:: i'm afraid of weapons, but i'm not sure why
:: it is possible to still feel like you have dirt on your body even after a really hot shower
:: the world and life keeps clicking along even when you go to a new place and you wish it'd just stop and wait for you to come back
:: never, ever give your underware to the cleaning lady to be washed, unless you want everyone else to see it in living room later
:: assuming honesty is a dangerous dance
:: hair dryers can catch fire, especially when they start smoking
:: it takes more effort to live in a developing country
:: somehow i miss places i've never been. or have i confused missing with longing?
:: soaking clothes in hot, soapy water works for me (see seventh bullet point...)

don't know nothing except change will come

just wanted to share these curious faces with you. not much going on today. i'm stuck inside, with patty griffin singing to me, donald miller filling my head, along with Isaiah's words, and dusty, spring air collecting outside. el blog underwent a bit of a facelift today. the new color scheme was inspired by the mountain that is perched perfectly in my window. sometimes i think it is mocking me for not being able to conquer its summit. but i've decided to use its dominating presence as an inspiration to return here and reach new heights.

i was tempted to not write about this, considering the fact that some in my readership might be on the squeemish-side, but i just have to share what was in my food today, for the second time since i've been in this lovely country. ready? fur. i've had two pieces of naan with fur baked into the crust. sometimes the only way to eat is with my eyes closed. does fur have any nutritional value, i wonder?

tonight several of my new friends and i will be eating OUT, at a lebanese restaurant. i don't think fur is part of the lebanese cuisine, if memory serves me. i'm looking forward to fur-free hummus.

and patty bellows on...

.....I don't know nothing except change will come
Year after year what we do is undone
Time keeps moving from a crawl to a run
I wonder if we're gonna ever get home

You're out there walking down a highway
And all of the signs got blown away
Sometimes you wonder if you're walking in the wrong direction

But if you break down
I'll drive out and find you
If you forget my love
I'll try to remind you
And stay by you when it don't come easy..................

reconstruction

I found this quote from C.S. Lewis' Mere Christianity, and I've started using it to lift up this land, amidst all the rebuilding happening here.

"Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on: you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of — throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were going to be made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself."

God is here, and I'm learning of the mighty remodeling He's been up to lately. I hope that soon and very soon the people will see with their eyes and recognize with their lips, this great Architect, and that He'll make His home in their hearts.

fruitful failure

I tried to climb a mountain today, in honor of the New Year celebration. Well, I didn't make it. I actually thought I was about to croak 1/4 of the way up, and was sure I would croak 1/2 the way up, then basic bodily functions started shutting down 3/4 of the way up. Things I should have taken into consideration before this hike: 1) I have a cold/sinus infection/lung wheeze; 2) i'm asthmatic; 3) we're about 6,000 ft higher in elevation than I'm used to, and I'm definitely not climatized. So, I didn't make it. But I'm quite happy that I whimped out just above the city, but not quite to the top. As usual, my dear, empathetic, and lagging-behind friend and I started to draw a crowd as I sucked air through a windpipe the size of a coffee stirring straw. The crowd grew and grew, and soon there were probably around 10 women and twice as many kids surrounding us. Even though I know about 10 words in Dari, I felt totally in my element, be it an element with very thin air. As my friend and I wondered how to entertain our new audience, I thought to pull out my camera. Kids love this thing. I started to take pictures, then let them run wild with my camera. Here's a taste of my out-of-breath afternoon among the mountains of Kbl, through my lens:

this is my "if-i-have-to-climb-another-inch-we'll-be-revisiting-the-taco-soup-i-just-had-for-lunch" smile

breath-taking. literally.

henna-ed fingertips are smudging my lense, but i don't really care at this point.

mountain goat girls

babies and old men put me to shame

making babies cry, one mountain village at a time

her name is Nilofar and her hair really is blonde. and she's got an eye for photography.

mountain goat family

"these are a few of my favorite things..."

When all the world is new, one learns to find pleasure in the simplest of things. Here’s a portion of my on-going list of simple things that, peppered throughout my day, bring me a smile:

• finding a hidden hot chocolate packet in the cupboard of my guesthouse
• the night watchman’s leopard-print slippers
• the imported Dutch trampoline at a friend’s house
• starting a fire with less than 10 matches
• Chaila—the coffee house that serves homemade milkshakes
• the two ice cubes I’ve had in 4 weeks
• hot water
• balloon man selling helium balloons tied to the back of his bicycle
• gospl quartet at the military base
• sunset into mountains
• almond-shaped eyes and wind-burned cheeks on children wearing fuzzy wool hats

el gym

Today my host friend took me to the gym. Hold it right there, you’re probably thinking. You went to the gym? In A*stan? How? Why? and Where? are good questions that you also might be pondering. Well, just so happens that for about 3 hours in the middle of the day this particular gym is open for women. There are apparently several gyms in the city, and the gym we went to is the “nicest.” “Nice” must be a relative term, for several reasons. 1) The place smelled like feet; 2)the weight machines were made out of old car seats, bike chains, bike seats, and anything that could be measurably heavy, 3)there wasn’t a track, so the women just ran around the weight machines. Rather, they frolicked around the weight machines. I didn’t have to wear my head scarf, but I did have to wear my salwar kamis, the traditional shirt-and-top combo that most Af*gs wear. I didn’t exactly bring my track pants and tank top to this country. Also, as is tradition, we had to take off our shoes when entering the building, just like we do everywhere else we enter. But, I also left my running shoes at home, so I had nothing to change in to. I did about an hour workout in my sock feet. I don’t think you’d even be allowed in a gym in the States without shoes on. I channeled some of my creative energy into weight lifting techniques, as the dumbbells the women use are about 1lb each, and neon-colored. This country never ceases to amaze me…


check out the handle bars and old driver seat from a car.


this is a shot from the locker room, with a burqa in the foreground.


again, the bike seat…


Lisa Frank school supplies would have fit in nicely here in the free weight section.

among giants

On the plane ride up to Maz. I was able to actually watch the takeoff and landing through the front windows of the airplane! I was sitting in the row behind the pilots and I’m sure I looked like a kid in a candy shop. My eyes must have been huge as I watched the pilots flip a zillion switches and say stuff like, “Left prop is go for flight” and “Setting cruising altitude at 27 thousand, captain.” I made a friend here that is a pilot, and he told me who would be flying my plane. This is good info for schmoozing purposes. I did some name dropping and found favor with the mutual friend/pilot. He asked if I wanted to wear the headphones and communicate with my friend who was also flying that day. I chickened out because I pictured the worst: some bit of vital information coming through as I’m wearing the set of headphones, putting the vital communication at a hault, then our plan spiraling down into a crash landing in a mountain, all because I was wearing the headphones instead of the pilot. Instead, I busied myself with the view from my little frosted-over window. Here’s what I saw…







Goose the Pilot, my new friend that gave me the schmoozing ability with Bruce my pilot told me that the mountains we flew over were the Hindu-Kush Mountains. I believe him. He also said that if we had taken a hard right turn as we were flying over the major mountain pass, we would eventually run into Mt. Everest. I’m glad to be in Maz for this week, but must admit that circling Mt. Everest in a 10-seater plane would have been quite fabulous, as well.

Ps: Goose isn’t his real name.

burqa series

I'm learning to imagine that there really is a smile underneath the burqa. Imainge that with me, won't you?

Istalif

...an enchanted little mountain village... a diamond in the rough...




the check mark means the house and property is cleared of land mines. oh, goodie.


this man is a doctor from the clinic at Istalif


these are his patients






kiddos around the city


the people are known for their pottery (led-based, that is.) the color of green reminded me of my first hot-rod, the Camero, in all of her teal-blue wonder.


Dina and I with A-stan behind us


fighting birds in cages. They clip their wings and let them have at it.

a new way to learn

We have been visiting with several women's "self-help" groups in the villages around Kabul. These groups are organized by a local NGO, but mainly led through strong women in the community. The women get together monthly to learn, encourage each other, and bounce new ideas around, and probably, as my Nana would say, "gab" about goings on in the village. The model for self-help groups has been quite successful in several developing countries. Our business team is partnering with two specific CLA's (Cluster Level Associations). The CLA's are made up of representatives from each self-help group. The Dari word for the CLA group, which was decided on by the women, is "Desta Jamee"-- "joining hands together." I have visited several of these groups throughout the past week, and I was a little taken-back by the method of teaching/learning that happens in the meeting. I suppose I didn't really know what I was stepping in to, but I had my ideas. I thought the groups were a collection of simple village women, and I had attached an intellectual level to them. For some reason I thought that because they were taking care of the home, cooking, cleaning, taking care of kids, washing, looking after the livestock, etc. that they would be a bit more intellectually advanced. But I was quite wrong. These women are illiterate and have the most basic reasoning and critical thinking skills, only. I don't mean to share this information for any other reason than to say how the Father has encouraged me to teach these women. They learn through pictures, so that is what we have been doing. We draw and they add to our drawings; or, we give them an idea, and they elaborate on the idea through drawing. If anyone was thinking they needed a PhD to teach, they are wrong. The Father is teaching me that I am incredibly blessed to have the university education that I have. And I'm encouraged that the training I DO have is quite sufficient, if I really am just here to share the love of the Father.

for you to click on

check out these blogs for more stories and pictures from our trip:

Bajalia Trading Co.

Michael's Blog

The Bookseller of Kabul

I'm trying to pace myself with the taking of pictures ("snaps" as our British friends call them). I'm going to be here close to a month, so I'm trying to just take it all in right now. Astan is simply enchanting, and I don't think my lens has been capturing the awe I’m experiencing. Below is just a sample, more to come very soon:



If you were thinking Afghans only frowned, you’re sadly mistaken. I’ve seen many, many smiles here.



I live on this street, I think. Most of the streets have huge craters, so even drives on paved roads are like going “muddin.'”



Roof top view, from a Hazara village we visited. Mountains surround this whole city.



On our way to one village we got stuck in “mud.” Our driver thought he could make it down this alley, but he was just a little too ambitious. We were actually driving on ice. After several attempts we decided to let the men handle the problem, and the ladies went on to our appointment. Turns out, this wasn’t just a muddy alley, covered by ice. The open sewer system means that the streets are flowing with mud and, well, yeah. Poo.



Stockpiled wool for the carpet-weaving project we visited. All the wool is dyed in vegetable dye and hand-spun.



Michael bought some HOT shoes. He feels more culturally appropriate in these shoes, he says. I…don’t know…but, hmmm



A typical street scene—hanging meet, bicycle, more men than women, burqa, script I can’t read, etc.



Mary and Joseph, er, I mean, Brangelina, er…Michael and Jennifer. I’m sporting my new fur coat, which smells like it was alive not too long ago. We’re not supposed to smile in this country, but we’re both on the verge.



Even through all the smog and dirt, the snow is still quite bright. There is a mountain range behind me. In fact, everywhere I turn there is a mountain range somewhere behind me.



Our feastings. If you look closely, there are French fries cooked in with the chicken legs. Side note: I saw French soldiers at a restaurant today and I think they were eating French fries. Ha.



In case you didn’t get the point, I look at mountains all day long.

I read a book called The Bookseller of Kabul before I came here as a sort of cultural indoctrination, along with The Kite Runner (which I totally recommend that everyone read). In The Bookseller of Kabul, the author/journalists takes some creative liberties, but basically tells the true-life story of an Afghan family, weaving each family member’s story into a novel, but mainly focusing on the life of the bookseller, the father of the family. She spent “a springtime” with this family whose patriarch is a renowned bookseller in Kabul. The author writes that one of the bookshops is located in the lobby of the Inter Continental Hotel. We made lunch plans for the hotel restaurant today, and I thought I’d do my own little investigation into this bookshop. The novel is supposed to be based on true events, right? Sure enough, there is a bookshop in the hotel lobby. I nosed my way into the shop, a tiny nook, really, off to the side of the main lobby. There was a man inside building shelves, but there were hardly any books on the shelves, maybe 10 books. I asked if he was the carpenter or owner. The convo went a little something like this:

“Excuse me, sir, is this the bookshop?”

“Yes, this is bookshop.”

“Oh! Ok, are you the carpenter or the owner?”

“Ne, ne, this is my shop. I am Shah Mohammed. See sign? [points to poster hanging just to my right] ‘Shah M. Bookshop’.”

“Yes, oh. I see. Are you new? I mean to say, is this a new bookshop for the hotel?”

“No, this is a reopening. We are a very old shop. I have many shops in Kabul. You want to have look?”

“Well, sir, I must come back, my friends are leaving me. I will be here all month. Will you be open soon?”

“Yes, I open very soon.”

[bookseller leans in very close] “You know, miss, I am very famous. This shop very famous.”

“Ah, yes. I have heard of your shop. And I’ve heard of your postcards. You are famous to me, that’s for certain. I will come back to visit you when I have more time.”

“Yes, thank you. Ok, salaam.”

“Salam, tashakor Shahjan.”

Process of elimination and my keen detective skillz tell me…I just met The Bookseller of Kabul! And the ironic part of the story (one of them, at least) is that a chapter of the novel tells the story of a contracted carpenter whom the Bookseller hired to build him new shelves for his shop. The carpenter ended up stealing several thousand postcards from the shop, and there was a whole scene involving the police and bringing shame to the carpenters family, etc, etc. Well, I guess the Bookseller learned his lesson! He’s building his own shelves now!

I wonder if he’ll carry his book…