Tales from Timor

I landed in a small airport in a quaint city. I passed through the entrance that read ‘Welcome to Timor Leste’ and was greeted by smiling faces. Immigration was fast, and I was out of the airport in 30 minutes. But a mix up had me stranded for an hour and I did what I do best at airports - people watching! The hotel car showed no sign of arriving, so I eventually hired a local taxi. It was a short uneventful drive on practically empty roads, with the sea following on the side relentlessly. The water sparkled under the bright midday sun, and the tall coconut trees swayed majestically against the clear blue sky. All along, I strained to follow what the taxi driver was saying in broken English. 

I arrived in front of a nondescript hotel - Discovery Inn. It was nonetheless charming. A few men sat on the street pavement smoking and chatting and a lone car at the end of the street waited for the signal to turn green. I walked into the hotel and a pleasant young Timorese woman checked me in. I smiled looking at the stuff she handed to me, it was not often that I have received breakfast vouchers! As I passed the upper deck on my way to the room, my eyes caught a quick glimpse of the restaurant below - Diya (that was a Hindi term, meaning lamp!). There was no one besides me, and the silence was broken only by the rustling of leaves from the many plants on the deck. The furniture was simple and functional, but the green added a touch of beauty to the place. It was siesta time for everything and everyone perhaps, thanks to the gentle breeze from the sea not far away. 

This was the closest I got to any of the island nations in the Pacific (although the country is not exactly in the Pacific) – in a way I had it visualized in my mind and been fascinated with - the remote islands with its serene beaches. I have watched movies that romanticized these waters, the tiny lands and their people with a laid-back lifestyle. A land where the sunrise and sunset are more beautiful than anywhere else, and the sound of the waves is in perfect harmony with the winds. Where one’s footsteps mark a lone path on the beach and time stood still. An ideal place to lose oneself. I was already falling in love. Day 1, Sunday. 

A 1.5$ taxi ride brought me to the office. It took 8 minutes for the taxi to get to where I could have got on foot in 5 minutes - blame it on one-way roads. The office was housed in a rambling ministry building (from Indonesian rule). A look at the two huge tree trunks in the garden dispensed any doubt about how old the place was. I started the day with a staff meeting, with the focus entirely on the upcoming elections, planned campaigns, potential situations and emergency procedures! At a point, the security person told me not to be alarmed and that it was all precautionary. Before I could respond, a colleague who knew me from my Afghanistan days remarked “Oh! She has lived in Kabul, this is no big deal”. I smiled sheepishly; it was true. We got down to work right after the meeting. But during the short breaks in between, I was getting to learn about the country and the people, one little detail at a time. I had read up a bit before getting to Dili, but it never compensated for the local stories. Getting a government job was a challenge apparently as Portuguese was a requirement, and majority of the population of employable age spoke only Indonesian in addition to the native language Tetum. I was told that the government had spent big bucks on roads, but not much had been done for health and education. I sensed frustration. On the lighter side, the affordable lot made shopping trips to Bali!

Soon it was time for lunch and Moby’s was a good choice as it was close by. The weather was scorching hot, reminding me of Chennai. Moby’s was a home-run restaurant with minimalist decor, ceiling & standing fans, and a guitar. It was advertised as the sports bar. The menu was not elaborate, but a simple dish of rice with vegetables was not a big ask. My colleagues and I were the only ones at the restaurant. A heavily pregnant lady was varnishing the furniture in that heat, while 3 cats circled my feet for some food. As we walked back to the office, it was hard not to miss the sign ‘Largo De Lecidere’ in big letters in the distance. I made a mental note to visit during the week. The afternoon passed quickly and without a break, and it was soon 5 pm. There was a refreshing afternoon ritual that I followed the entire week thanks to my colleague Tita, it helped me skip coffee and stretch my limbs. Across the road from the office, just before the beach, were many coconut vendors. For $1 apiece, I got a heavy coconut brimming with sweet water and lot of tender coconut; it was a healthy option. Simple pleasures of life. Day 2, Monday.

We spent the substantial part of the day in meetings in Ministry of Agriculture. On our way back to office, we stopped at Tais market for a souvenir. The market had pretty rugs and wooden figurines. Tais itself refers to woven textile in bright colors, which is the country’s famous handicraft. I would have loved something in wood, but what I liked was too big to carry back. After an hour of shop-hopping, I settled on a Timorese headgear made of silver. It was unique and had an ornate representation of the traditional totem house on it – the Uma Lulik (sacred house). It now sits prettily in my office. Task accomplished.

Back in office, I spent time dealing with an overload of emails. Internet connectivity was a problem in Dili. When I was out of office, I had to forget about checking emails and using WhatsApp. Discovery Inn’s internet service was great by any standard - if I sent a message it would get delivered within the next 10 minutes! We operate in a 24/7 time zone, connecting with people in different places at different times, and Dili is 13 hours ahead of DC. So, the first 2 days, I napped late evening and woke up at midnight hoping to catch up on stuff. How wrong I was! Like everyone else, I took connectivity for granted. A local number did not help as the network was also weak. Yet, I had one for emergency. I made a note to myself – do all I have to in office, and otherwise cancel the webex meetings I had accepted for the week. Reality check. Day 3, Tuesday.

We decided to hike to Cristo Rei in the evening after work. It was a slow 30-minute drive on a narrow winding road along the coastline. We passed gentle curves and sharp bends, and bikers and runners. But as we left the city behind, the view got better and the beach, cleaner. There was no time to stop at the beach, but we did stop briefly to answer a curiosity call. In an isolated spot, rocks were stacked, sorted by size and color. An elderly woman sat under a makeshift plastic tent. She spoke only Tetum and said she spent hours by the beach selling rocks. The rocks were used as decorative materials in house construction. I nicknamed her the ‘Rockseller’. I asked her for a photograph, and she gleefully agreed saying that she was photographed all the time by tourists from Australia. As we were leaving, she put her hands together in an Indian namaste and gave a wide smile.

We continued our drive. We had to make it to the peak for the sunset. But sunset was going to be a challenge; it had been raining and the sky was overcast. We parked the car at a point and started the hike up 590 steps. The path was neatly laid out, and it was a comfortable hike except for the stifling humidity. Halfway up, a waft of cool breeze stroked my cheeks, and I was presented with a spectacular view of the waters on either side of the mountain. By the time we got to Cristo Rei, the sky cleared a little, but the evening sun had already begun its journey beyond the horizon. I sat on a boulder watching the sun go down all too quickly, but in the process covering the vast sky and expanse of water in stunning shades of orange and red. Cristo Rei, the 89-foot copper statue of Christ on a globe, stood gleaming and imposing. I was in awe. Day 4, Wednesday.

As I walked to the office in the morning, I saw small waves of people in red T-shirts. The election fever was palpable. I walked through a thick crowd that had gathered in front of a park for a peace march. Some supporters obliged me with a picture. Later that afternoon, Tita and I stood by the ‘0’ km point, as vans and bikes whizzed past with people waving flags and screaming. It was still orderly, and I did not witness any violence. By the harbor, people were queueing up in large numbers to take the ferry to Pante Macassar in Oecusse municipality to vote. Oecusse is in West Timor that is part of the Nusa Tenggara province of Indonesia. I was told people prefer the 12-hr ferry ride to the 6-hr road trip due to visa requirement. This was the only time in the week I saw so much activity in Dili, the city was quiet otherwise. This campaign prevented us from making a field trip to a project site outside Dili. But I hoped for better luck next time.

Dinner was at Diya, again. I was fortunate to get good Indian vegetarian food (the chef was a Pakistani from Australia) and had no reason to grumble. Still, few evenings during the week, I walked to El Legendario for some fresh air and relaxed in the open setting of the restaurant. After dinner, I habitually sat at the deck with my laptop until late to avoid remaining cooped up in the small hotel room. I was getting claustrophobic. Day 5, Thursday.

There were no scheduled meetings for the day as the government offices were closed. Our office too was closing half day, so we wrapped up things quickly. During a conversation with a colleague, I mentioned I was charmed by the sight of the many eating joints dotting the stretch of the beach. Many were family run, I was told. Soon, we were at NHA Casa for lunch. The restaurant opened to the beach and had a little garden, with a Ganesha statue in a corner. They had a long-handwritten menu, in neat handwriting, and the food was great. Once again, we were the only ones at the restaurant.

We had missed the Areia Branca beach the other day going to Cristo Rei. It was called the white beach for a good reason. So early evening, we spent some good time at the beach, playing in the water, picking shells and chatting. This time, the sun took its own sweet time to set. As Tita dropped me back at the hotel, I said goodbye to my indulging partner in crime. Sometimes, associations made at work go way beyond work. I knew this was going to be one such association.

I was amazed at how small the world was - how else do I explain meeting in Dili an Afghan counterpart that I had worked with for many years in Kabul! When we connected, he insisted I visit his home over dinner. I would not say no to Afghan hospitality in 100 years. So, I spent a lively long drawn evening with his family catching up on memorable Kabul stories as delicious food appeared continuously on the dinner table. It was the Afghan connection. Day 6, Friday.

It was a long trip back to DC – an hour’s flight to Bali with a 10-hour layover, 10 hours of flying to Doha and then 14 hours onto DC. During this time, I was recalling my experiences over the past week. I had always lived in crowded cities, so this little jewel of a country was alluring. I traveled again to Timor Leste after a year, and made time to visit Liquica and explore colonial ruins. It was a different world out there. But that makes for another story.

As we enter 3rd week of HBW…..

For once, the experience is not unique to me. It is the same story and similar reactions from friends and family all over. Most of us have not experienced anything so widespread and prolonged in our lifetime, and it is so overwhelming that it is hard to steer a conversation away from the topic. Let us face it, the coronavirus is here to stay for a while.

Face it, I must. The developments are indeed worrisome. But the question I ask myself is whether I want to spend my day constantly focusing on the news and panic? Clearly no. I believe that if I decide not to let my mind focus on it, I will at least be half successful. Like they say, its mind over matter. Everyone has their own coping mechanism. As I reflect on the past two weeks, there are things I try to do/not to do as part of my coping strategy. I say ‘try’ because not all of this works perfectly every single time, it’s trial and error. But by and large, home based work not been as bad as I thought it would be. I have a housemate, and it is a blessing during these times.

·  .  Don’t binge read news - I stick to two 15-minute updates, one in the morning and evening. I also get updates from the office. I cannot possibly digest every piece of news that is out there. I am happy to stay ignorant for 8-12 hours. It keeps me sane.

·  Don’t forward every ‘forward’ I get – Like many, I am part of many informal whatsapp groups. Average of 5 forwards per group times number of groups is a LOT of forwards. It ranges from factual news to personal stories to conspiracy theories. I cannot stop receiving the forwards, but I can refrain from re-forwarding.  The funny memes are exceptions, I forward some to a close circle if I think it will bring a smile. In fact, I saved two of them to use as part of this blog, but could not figure out who to give copyright credit to!

·   Maintain a routine – This has been the most challenging, I must admit. Being a night person, my mornings are not the most productive. The real work gets done in the afternoons and late evenings. Yes, there is a routine, just a slightly different routine each day. Well, whatever enables me to get work done for now is good.

·   Get my dose of exercise – Its spring, the sky is bright (although raining on and off), and the weather is nice. But I prefer to err on the side of being conservative and stay home. I get good tips on home exercises from my sister and roommate that I follow. My sister also conducts online Zumba sessions 3 times a week. I cannot follow the steps but I still join to get some action. And my dose of fresh air comes from the balcony.

·  Cook my favorite dishes – Home food is a comfort factor and cooking is a destress activity (like cutting vegetables and washing dishes). So every day I spend time and effort to cook one of my favorite South Indian dishes from my mom’s recipes. 

·  Don’t binge eat – The urge to raid the fridge is strong these days. I curb the feeling by telling myself that I must fit into my ‘spring collection’ clothes when I resume office (it won’t be spring then sadly). I give in once a while, but mostly have been disciplined. I do not want to be rolling out of my apartment at the end of this ordeal.

·   Engage in 2 of my hobbies – It’s been 2 months of no travel. So, I plan and research for my next two trips that I don’t know when I will undertake. But the process keeps me excited. I plan to restart work on a few unfinished blogs and travel scrap book. It is not that I have time to kill. But these activities help me stay focused, at the same time distracted from the ongoing crisis. A recent article on virtual worlds on BBC has piqued my interest.

·   Stay connected more than before – I always did a decent job of keeping in touch, but it’s reached a different level now - like an aggressive sales call pitch. Emails, phone calls, video calls – I average 3 non-work calls daily. I feel blessed to have that circle of family and friends I can count on. A cousin initiated a video call with my big group of cousins over the weekend, it was epic. I feel great.

·    Stay positive and stay calm – There must be an inner determination to stay positive. All of the above surely helps.

·    Laugh a lot – Its short of a therapy. I started this during my times in Kabul. I watch a comedy show for about 15 minutes before going to bed. It lightens the heart.

It looks like a lot, but it is pretty much what I would do even otherwise. Now I do it more consciously. The only annoyance factor coming from this lock down is the ‘disinfect’ ritual every time I leave the apartment (which is not frequent thankfully). OCD is not fun!

Before I even think about fashionably complaining how painful HBW is, I remind myself that my issues are non-issues in comparison to many others. While I am concerned for my family back in India, on a day to day basis here in DC I only need to take care of myself. I am not faced with the challenges of managing little kids, cooking for a large family or attending to elders. I can work from home while many are losing their livelihoods. I am not short of entertainment at home, while many do not have a shelter over their heads. I debate about what to cook every day, that says I am not short of groceries. I choose to count my blessings.

We are all in it together. We have to do what we should as responsible citizens and human beings to protect ourselves and others. We must remain perseverant, this too shall pass. I eagerly look forward to the day I will be back in office and see my colleagues in flesh and blood. It will call for a real celebration. Until then I hope and pray for everyone’s health. Thanks to technology that help us stay connected. #Stayhome#

Aisle 15

The departures board announced that the flight was delayed by an hour and will depart at 8 pm. It did not bother me much as I had two and a half hours to connect to the flight to Halifax from Toronto. The delay gave me time to pick up early dinner at the airport. For a Thursday evening, the airport was full and buzzing with people. Not one seat was available by any of the charging stations, and there were many passengers in waiting. I circled around the terminal a bit and managed to find a comfortable place, and parked my laptop. I sat back and relaxed. The delay also gave me time to finish reviewing two reports that I couldn’t finish earlier in the day. A productive evening at the airport terminal, I chuckled to myself.

I enjoy watching the hustle bustle at the airport, and the landing flights. As I looked out of the huge glass windows, I was taken by surprise. Earlier when I was waiting for an uber to take me to the airport, it was sunny and hot. But now, the clouds were turning from grey to black and had begun to envelop the sky. What started as a drizzle turned into a heavy downpour in minutes. The board flashed a further delay of one hour – 9 pm now. The incoming flight was hovering somewhere up in the sky unable to land. I had not paid attention to the weather forecast this time, it was apparently thunder showers. Slowly the announcements started trickling in of delayed flights and a few flight deviations. I didn’t like the sound of it and my brows came together in annoyance. I spoke to the lady at the gate who was surprisingly very helpful. It didn’t look like I will be able to make it to my connecting flight, she said. There was a flight at 6 am the next morning to Halifax with just one seat left. I didn’t take time to decide and she issued me a boarding pass for the morning flight mentioning that I could still try my luck to get on the night flight. What I was going to do in Toronto overnight was something I was going to figure out later.

Soon the skies cleared just a bit as though for the flights to land and take off. The elderly gentleman next to me was constantly giving me updates on the flight position, and proudly showed off the app he had downloaded that evening ‘Flight Stats’. He was heading for a meeting to Toronto before returning to Israel, he said as a matter-of-factly. As we both peered into his phone, there were indications of the flight descending. We knew before the announcement that the flight was landing. Call it petty pleasures. The process of disembarking and boarding was quick and finally the flight took off – it was 9 pm. The flight touched down in Toronto Pearson at 10:30 pm, with still 25 minutes left for the connecting flight. I hated these situations, it was perfectly fine with me if I knew for sure that I won’t make it to the flight. But the touch and go situation irked me. I was restless and my heart raced, because I wanted to make my best effort to make it to the flight. Those are the moments when you feel everything is operating in slow motion mode. All queues move while mine stalls. Not to mention the passenger in front of me at the immigration counter had to have a problem. It was Murphy’s Law in action of course. But finally, immigration was done – 11 pm. I talked to my friend in Toronto debating whether it was a good idea to visit just to spend 4-5 hours, that too at that ghostly hour. Then I noticed that the connecting flight was also delayed by an hour. My hopes were raised.

A marathon walk gets me in 30 minutes to the security for the Connections – 11:30 pm. I was told in DC I didn’t need a boarding pass for the specific flight and I could get one at the gate. But at security, I was not allowed to pass through and was told to get a boarding pass for the night flight. Was this not in contradiction to what I was told before? Apparently, the rule holds good for same day flights, my boarding pass was for the next morning. It couldn’t get more jinxed. I was directed to aisle 2, it was a painful wait. There were 2 customer service agents at the counter and 10 people in the queue, me at the fag end. The agents were taking their own sweet time oblivious to the restless people in the queue. It was 11:45 pm. I was not going to miss the chance having come this close especially with the flight scheduled to depart at 12:15 am. I excused myself, jumped the queue to request for a boarding pass. For whatever reason in this world that I failed to understand, the agent told me that the flight had departed as scheduled at 10:55 pm!!! NO……it is to depart at 12:15 am, but her system did not bring that up. At that point, I gave up. Taking a later than 6 am flight the next day so that I could visit my friend was also not an option as the flights were full. So, I held on to the boarding pass on hand dearly and inquired about a place to rest at the airport. Aisle 15, she said.

I got to Aisle 15 at 12:30 am. It was not very crowded and I got a row of 5 seats to myself. I checked out the place for the nearest washroom and charging point, and settled. A couple on the next row of seats were obviously on a hiking/camping trip, and they took out their gear to get a comfortable sleep, minus the tent. There was a 24-hr subway and Tim Hortons at the airport. A hot chocolate was all I needed. One learns to be thankful for these little things. I stretched, backpack for a pillow, luggage for my legs and my shawl for a blanket. It was as comfortable as it can get when you have a spend a night at an airport terminal. I recollected with amusement the 12 hours I spent a night at Caracas airport many years back with just one lady for company, and to keep an eye on my luggage when I had to answer nature’s call. There was no airport hotel, nor a single store to buy something to eat until breakfast time. There were also many nights I have spent at Delhi airport coming from Kabul and invariably missing the connecting flight to Chennai (it was not worth the effort checking into a hotel for 3 hours). This was no comparison. Aisle 15 was going to my ‘adda’ for the next couple of hours. It was also here that I penned down this experience.

Travel Talk - Afghanistan

First of the Travel Talk series for the year. This presentation generated lot of interest, and many curious listeners turned up. There has not been any presentation on Afghanistan in the group in more than 3 years. Even then, the perspective has been very different. People got to see a very different side of Afghanistan through me, and I was very glad for the opportunity. Of course, preparing for it and rummaging through 1000s of pictures had me relive my 10 years all over again in 2 days. Its a journey I love revisiting every now and then...

Travel Talk - Ladakh (India) and Bhutan

Third and last presentation for the year after Jordan and Russia - Travel Talk: Ladakh (India) & Bhutan. Am so elated it was well received. Interestingly the group has not had any presenters on Bhutan in a long time so that generated a lot of interest. My next slot is for Feb.....topic Afghanistan! So excited. 2018 calendar is already filled up for the group...wow.

Every session is a learning experience, with the participants sharing rich and interesting travel experiences.... After the presentation ended at 6:30, a small group ended up staying until 9 today, one never gets bored with these conversations! A member who is now retired was a English language instructor and lived in Japan for many years. So the learning for today is about Haiku, a short form of Japanese poetry and that it is characterized by 17 syllables, in three phrases of 5, 7, 5.

Airport Woes

I was traveling back to DC from Vientiane via BKK and here is how amusingly conversations went with various airlines personnel.


SCENE 1

Check-in counter at Wattay Intl Airport, Vientiane: Ma’am, your luggage will be checked in until BKK only
Me: But I connect on Qatar later tonight, cant the luggage be transferred?
Check-in counter at Wattay: Sorry ma’am. Thai Smile does not provide transfer services. You will need to collect your luggage at Suvarnabhumi airport and check in again
Me: !!!!! Does this make sense? I don’t need to get into Bangkok
Check-in counter at Wattay: Please check with Thai Airways personnel in Bangkok.

SCENE 2

Me: Sir, I need to have my luggage transferred. I was asked by Thai Smile to contact Thai personnel
Information center in BKK airport: Ma’am you need to clear immigration to collect your luggage
Me: (Oh….I didn’t know that – in my mind). Thank you, but I don’t want to clear immigration. I want the luggage to be transferred. I prefer to stay in the airport terminal.
Information counter in BKK airport: Please go speak to Qatar Airways personnel on level 2.

SCENE 3

I walk 15 mins, clear security to get to transfer area on level 2. I find no one at the Qatar counter.
Thai Airways counter: Ma’am can I help you?
Me: Please! I just need to have my luggage transferred, having arrived from Vientiane on Thai Smile.
Thai Airways counter: Oh sorry ma’am, but Thai Smile does not provide the service
Me: I thought Thai Smile was part of Thai Airways?
Thai Airways counter: yes, ma’am but we are yet to sign some MOUs
Me: (HA HA HA – in my mind). OKAY……I cannot find anyone from Qatar in the transfer area
Thai Airways counter: They will come 3-4 hours before flight time. You see, today is a Saturday
Me: Doesn’t the airport have any paid service to have the luggage transferred?
Thai Airways counter: No ma’am sorry
Me: So how do I speak to a Qatar representative?
Thai Airways counter: Maybe you can find someone in the departure terminal
Me: (God, please give me patience!). But that means I must clear immigration???
Thai Airways counter: Yes ma’am. There is no other option
Me: Okay, I can get a visa on entry. But what if I couldn’t, then how should I get my luggage?
Thai Airways counter: In that case ma’am, I need to check with my manager
Me: Can you check now assuming I cannot get a visa?
Thai Airways counter: You will need to wait ma’am. The manager is not around currently.
Me: Thank you very much, I will get a visa.

So, I end up paying for a visa (using the fast track as the regular line was way too long) just so that I can collect my luggage. Cost apart, such a waste of time and effort. Well, Thai Smile, you definitely didn’t make me smile! Maybe BKK airport could think of something similar like the Marhaba in Dubai. Even if expensive, atleast the service is available. I hope the drama quota for this trip is over, please!

Now it’s a different matter altogether that I was not going to let the visa go waste. So, I take the airport link train to get to the city for 3 hours to do some quick shopping at Platinum. This doesn’t rate very well on the cost benefit analysis though, just saying.....

My first impression of a city….actually two cities

YANGON – While a green Myanmar is not a surprise, I was a bit surprised that a buzzling city would have so much greenery (atleast going by many cities in India where greenery is vanishing). Its lush everywhere, not just in some parts of the city. And the rain only added to the beauty. Very friendly people, as a first timer I was reminded of Thailand. The Burmese equivalent of Sawadika is mingalaba, used both for hello and goodbye. Just a little less musical. The ‘thanaka’ (traditional Burmese cosmetic paste made from ground bark) is used widely, I would have thought working women may not prefer to wear it to office. But surprise, many women employees from the govt that attended a training hosted by us came with the paste applied on their cheeks. Mostly it is a perfect round, occasionally the shape of a leaf. I have seen petite women in South East Asia, but in Myanmar they are ‘petite petite’, with a delicate waistline that will put the sexiest of mannequins to shame. The traditional attire is not a rarity, most women wear the longyi, and in such lovely colors and designs. Yes, it’s just a variation of the Indian lungi. But the mean wear the typical lungi that I am familiar with in India, with a rounded knot in the center. It also doubles up as formal, most government employees and many men I saw on the road wore the longyi. There are nice boutiques that custom make longyi for women, next time next time!

Rain or shine, rather I should say even if no rain nor shine, everyone carries an umbrella during the rainy reason. It’s not the fancy flimsy foldable ones, but the sturdy long ones with a curved handle. The surprise element of this trip for me was that people carry lunch to office in the 2 or 3 level traditional ‘tiffin carrier’!!! In Chennai, I have not seen one in ages - they are long gone into the paran (attic), and have given way to smarter lunch containers (called Tupperware!). Many in Chennai would be embarrassed to carry this to office, but not them. Road side eateries are common, and there are vendors at every traffic signal. Mind you, the signals are long so there is sufficient time to buy the flowers and paan! You drive around downtown, and you can instantly identify the Tamil women, because of the bindi and the features. I did not get a chance to try, but a colleague told me that the idlis from the many chettiar shops in downtown are famous. It was interesting to drive past the Kali Amman temple, a gurudwara, Arya Samaj temple and the Thambara Reddiar school! The school though no longer functions as a school apparently. Sighting monks is not a rarity, but I saw lady monks for the first time. They wear pink robes. Due to the heavy rains, I was just happy walking round the Kandawgyi lake and visiting the Shwedagon pagoda, rest of the sightseeing will have to wait. The pagoda is lit up all night, and is imposing. I was excited to see so many monks in the pagoda, but was amused that they were doing exactly the same thing as everyone else – taking pictures on their mobile!

 

NAYPYIDAW – By the way, this is the capital if you did not know (I did not know). A city built from scratch. Built for the future I guess, with segregated zones for offices, residences and hotels. Has 20 lane roads (10 on one side), but you can see very few people and very few cars in the city! There is no shortage of space, so the hotels are mostly sprawled out. Its ok if you are on holiday, but on work it’s not very comfortable with buildings spread out. Didn’t see much of the city except for the Hilton and the Auditor General’s office. But the hotel is definitely worth staying over the weekend, could combine it with a 3.5 hr drive to Mandalay. I was a bit paranoid (no surprise there) as it was constantly raining, and we were flying in small aircraft (ATR 72?). It’s the only thing that makes me uncomfortable, everything about travel is okay except for the flights! But as the aircraft flies low, one can see the green fields below. Such a beautiful sight.

Afghanistan Demystified – End of a chapter

Late 2008. Things changed in Kabul. When I now compare 2006 to 2014, it’s a stark difference. But while living there, the changes were so gradual that they went unnoticed, except for the unfortunate big incidents. One such incident resulted in my move from a thriving private house to a protected Bank residence, though the saving grace was that my cook continued his services in the new place. By then, my cook had become an expert at making South Indian dishes. While the lunches and dinners continued, I stopped hosting revelries to avoid unwanted attention. I don’t remember when we transitioned to a full fleet of bullet proof vehicles or when cars began to wait on me while I did my meetings at the client offices. The local shopping became restricted, and I was thankful to be able to go to Finest and Spinneys for my groceries even if only for 15 minutes, for these had good print DVDs of English and Hindi movies! The restaurant list got shorter. I missed going to Rumi and Sufi for their ambience, but my favorite brunch place, Wakhan Café, remained on the list.

With so many wonderful things said about Afghanistan, I am afraid of giving a skewed impression and suggesting that it was all fun. It certainly was not. It was a ‘work hard, play hard’ routine, where the line between the two blurred quickly. It was a brutal cycle of project preparations, negotiations and supervisions, meetings, report writing, and much awaited breaks. There was a constant sense of urgency - everything had to be done ‘yesterday’. Work peaked to crazy levels sometimes, but I never felt saturated.  The tremendous support from my colleagues and the camaraderie we shared kept me going.  If I was desperate for a coffee or had the irresistible urge to vent out to my colleague, the in-house Flower Street café was the refuge.

As a South Asian lady with no grey hair (then) working in a conservative society, my biggest challenge was to be taken seriously by my clients. I worked very hard to earn their respect and in my tenure, I consider the confidence my clients placed in me in a short span of time as my proudest achievement. I had huge respect for my clients who worked under difficult circumstances to bring positive change to their country. I believed I had the easier job. So even during my breaks, I ensured I was reachable. There were times I amusingly thought to myself that I didn’t work for my orgn, but for my clients. I knew my clients were happy with the service, as conceited I may sound saying so, and that gratification did wonders to my self-esteem. Professionally and personally, I grew.

My family was privy to everything I did in Afghanistan. I excitedly shared with them the little details about my life, work and travels. I was sometimes afraid of boring them with the stories, except that they saw it as being part of my journey. I missed the opportunity to bring them to Kabul while I lived in a private house. But during the breaks, I traveled with them like there was no tomorrow. While in Afghanistan, I sadly lost my dad, but happily welcomed my niece into this world. The media continued to project an inflated picture of the situation in Afghanistan, and with every bombing the pressure from extended family and friends was mounting. I learnt the art of damage control.  But my immediate family remained staunch in its support of my decision to be in Kabul. Without their backing, I would not have lasted so long - I was the second longest serving staff on assignment in Kabul.

I had my distressing moments too, of security incidents with associated lock down and bunker time. And it was miserable when I could put a face to the name. The bad ones are best not described. People remained resilient through the deteriorating security situation and I was no exception. Ironically, I never felt fear, rather I became immune to these incidents and got back to routine quickly. At worst, the insecurity meant not being able to get to scheduled meetings. There was once I had to work out of temporary work premises due to a security incident, and I was amusingly referred to as an IDP – internally displaced person. But then I was already an IDP – internationally displaced person! I had to keep my humor intact to get through these situations. My thinking was simple. Either quit or stay, but don’t fuss. I had to leave Kabul after a terrible incident in January 2014 but continued my work with frequent visits to the city. Personally though, the worst was to happen in May 2015, and sadly it saw the loss of two friends and the end of a beautiful chapter. Nevertheless, I continued working remotely, before saying a final good bye in September 2016.

A friend who left Kabul before me once told me she experienced ‘withdrawal symptoms’, and advised me not to stay long. I thought it must be a joke. But when I moved out of Kabul in March 2014, it hit me. Most expat Kabulians live in a bubble. I had forgotten for some time how it was to live a normal life. I only experienced normalcy when I visited my family. Outside Afghanistan, I missed the high wire environment, and anything less intense felt mundane. I simply missed being in Kabul jaan! Over the years, I came to fall in love with this country and its people; it was my home away from home. The experience will always remain special and some day in the future, I hope to go back as a tourist to a peaceful Afghanistan.

As I conclude, I feel compelled to recollect some experiences from the many field trips I was part of. Visits to potato farms and small businesses were inspiring, seeing how rural initiatives grew from their modest beginnings to revenue generating enterprises. Cherished experiences of meeting village community members, especially women, to hear about the positive impact of projects. Witnessing community treasurers diligently maintaining accounting records. Visits to remote schools that had basic infrastructure. It was a humbling experience to be welcomed by school students standing in line under the blazing sun, holding the Afghan flag and singing the national song. But the one sight that remains etched in my memory is of a young boy of about six years with pink sun-burnt cheeks and a UNICEF bag hanging around his neck. All these children walked quite a distance to the nearest school. Most often I may have taken it for granted, but these were moments that made me realize how privileged I was to be part of my organization – an organization that is partnering with countries like Afghanistan for a better tomorrow. For good reason, I am reminded of the book I was given when I joined in 2001.  It is titled ‘Our Dream – A World Free of Poverty’. It did not make much sense then. But now it does.

Afghanistan Demystified – All Things Beautiful

10 years of working on Afghanistan and almost 8 years of living in Kabul! ‘How was it?’ It’s a question I am often asked, sometimes with awe but more often with apprehension. It’s a question that brings myriad thoughts and emotions to my mind, as well as a glowing sense of pride and satisfaction. I cannot point to just one aspect that made this journey wonderful, so where do I begin?
     

Afghanistan was an enigma, a distant place somewhere beyond the mountains, and knowledge of it was restricted to what little I had read in school books and newspaper articles. I remember reading the Kabuliwala (an original Bengali short story by the Nobel Prize recipient Rabindranath Tagore), and watching on television the unfortunate bombing of the Buddha statue in Bamyan. When the opportunity of an assignment in Kabul came knocking, the desire to do something different sparked in me. It was a line of profession for which I had neither aspired nor trained for. I was content living and working in my hometown Chennai. But the chance to experience a new culture, to learn new skills, and visit home every 2 months was a lure. So, I found myself sitting in an interview where I was asked questions about the public sector. My answers were mostly in the negative (using the Indian ‘nod’ as many of my colleagues say), but I impressed upon my interviewers that I would learn. Passion is not something I lacked, and maybe it showed. Thus, I made the move from a seemingly normal city to a fragile state in July 2006. In all those years in Chennai when I used to frequent the restaurant ‘Kabul’, I had the remotest idea that one day I will go to live in the REAL Kabul!

I owe my beautiful, and almost poetic existence in Kabul to many - my colleagues, friends, housemates, clients, and to the drivers, facilities and security staff in the office. This is not a token acknowledgement, those who have lived in Kabul know too well it is that spectrum of support system absolutely needed to survive there. The settling in process took no time at all as I had help to carry out the tiniest of tasks, such as even changing a light bulb. I empathized with those who did these tasks as there was no expectation in return except for a genuine tashakor (`thank you` in Dari, the local language). Small change was purely voluntary if one could spare it. Talking of thank you, one of the distinct things about Afghanistan is its way of greeting. It goes on for a full two minutes, exaggerations aside, starting off with salam (greetings), chitor asti? (how are you?), and sehat khoob as? (is your health ok?), before continuing in a long but endearing flurry of niceties that end up completely losing you. In all those years, I never figured out entirely what they said. But I was polite, I smiled and returned the greetings. Another linguistic and cultural peculiarity that stood out was the liberal usage of the term ‘jaan’ (meaning `dear`). The first time a colleague addressed me as ‘Asha jaan’, I cringed. For an Indian, it has a different connotation, being a term of affection reserved only for a romantic partner. But I came to appreciate that Afghans use the term for everything that is cherished. It became part of my vocabulary too. 

I arrived in Kabul at a time when the security situation was, relatively speaking, not bad; I drove around in a soft skin vehicle, shopped at the local grocery store, went to the Butcher street for fresh vegetables, enjoyed Friday dosa brunch at Delhi Durbar, had a long list of go-to restaurants and frequently walked the length of Chikan Street shop-hopping for shawls, rugs and trinkets. Le Bistro sold beautiful paintings, but I found them atrociously expensive. The small shop across the restaurant had a few, painted by the owner.  They were not great, but good enough for a souvenir. I took a taxi once, just once. Interestingly almost every taxi in the city was a Toyota Camry; it influenced my decision not to go for it when I did buy a car after leaving Kabul. The Camry had lost its charm. The shar-e-naw market, a must visit, was deceptive in its appearance. It surprised me with the merchandise it offered especially the shoes that were worthy of a ramp walk! I replenished my stock of dry fruits from a regular store, and while the shopkeeper weighed and packed them, I wouldn’t stop popping the long green kishmish into my mouth. I also did the obvious – read and watched ‘The Kite Runner’; and became a proud owner of the book ‘Afghanistan over a Cup of Tea’ by Nancy Dupree, and hand woven kilims, carpets and donkey sacks! Carpet buying was an enlightening experience, I had not realized I could sound knowledgeable by discussing the knots in a carpet. 

I enjoyed short walks up the small hill close to my home in Wazir Akbar Khan neighborhood. I frequented the UN guest house, a favorite hangout for its pool and squash court, and more so for its Wednesday salsa nights. A one-off day trip to Qargha lake combined a tour of Babur gardens and a sneak peek of the Kabul golf course. I visited a gurudwara too in faraway Karte Parwan area. I wished to witness the legendary Buzkashi (the Afghan national sport, like polo – but using a goat or calf carcass instead of a ball!), but never got a chance.  I recommend with caution the Mandawi market – the largest wholesale market in town that combines cacophony and chaos effortlessly. Disorder is the order of the day in this place and  it takes talent to maneuver around. There is nothing that cannot be found here – spices, copper vessels, clothing, and the ubiquitous Afghan elderly gentleman in his characteristic turban and beard. On the innumerable trips I made across the city, I watched with curiosity the street side shops by the Kabul river and the flock of pigeons by Shah-du-Shamshira mosque, but failed miserably in my attempts to get a good picture from the moving car; it was a no-go zone on foot. Even in the days of flexible movement, attending weddings locally was not allowed. When a colleague got engaged, special permission was granted to attend the celebrations. I was thrilled to be part of the ceremony, sitting with the women folk on one side of the venue, while the men sat on the other side. Interestingly, each side had its own dances. Contrary to popular notion, I saw that Afghans loved their dance and music, if Attan – the national dance of Afghanistan accompanied by the drum - is one example to go by.

Many middle aged Kabulians remembered my city as Madras, the old name for Chennai. More than once I was asked if I had met the famous Amitabh Bachchan (popular Indian actor) or some random actor from the 80s, and I speculated if Bollywood was frozen in the 80s and 90s in their minds. No wonder Ariana cinema mostly showed movies from this time, many unheard of. That many Bollywood actors (particularly the Khans) could trace their ancestry to Afghanistan was a revelation to me. The dynamic younger generation was eager to demonstrate its English and Urdu skills, thanks to which I never picked up Dari (one of the two official languages and a variety of Persian) beyond the basics. I must speak of the country’s hospitality; no Afghanistan story is complete without it. Always overwhelmed by the quantity of food served, I wondered if my Afghan hosts expected me to eat all of it.  But amid all the kebabs and meat offerings, there was a generous vegetarian spread that I came to relish. The Kabuli pulav, eggplant dish and the bolani remain favorites. Seasonal fruits are something to die for; I have seen boxes and boxes of fruits checked in on flights out of Kabul. Somehow the honeydew melon never tastes the same anywhere else. The nation swears allegiance to green tea that is equaled only in its royal accompaniment of dry fruits. I was convinced that green tea is a magic potion, how else to explain for very few overweight people in a largely meat eating population! Too bad I never developed a taste for it. The food culture clarified why Afghans did not understand the concept of vegetarianism, and I convinced no one with my explanation.

In 2006, I remember Kabul was pockmarked with some badly bombed buildings, but despite its dilapidated condition the Darul Aman palace’s erstwhile grandeur was apparent. Outside of Kabul, the landscape is a magical creation of valleys, streams and rugged mountains that left me in awe. It will be a vain attempt to try to describe the breathtaking beauty. I got thrice lucky with Bamyan, traveling to where the imposing Buddha statue once stood and the brilliant blue waters of the tranquil Band-e-Amir lake glitter. A stunning aerial view from behind the ‘statue’ is totally worth the trek up the mountain. I also trekked up a cliff to see the ruins of Shahr-e-Zohak and its mud-brick towers. I had my first experience of flying in a 16-seater aircraft, landing on a narrow strip of land that was the runway. Staying at the basic ‘Roof of Bamiyan’ hotel on one trip, an early morning breakfast on the roof with the valley and the mountains in view, and the chill April winds caressing the skin was nothing less than a 5-star experience. Coming back from my last trip to Bamyan, I packed and went to the makeshift airport, sat there fidgeting for a few hours, only to be told to return as the flight from Kabul didn’t make its journey due to bad weather – this happened for 3 days in a row! Road travel was not an option, and I could have been stranded there for days. By the 3^rd day, I was on the verge of literally crawling up the walls of my hotel room, if it were not for the long evening walks in the valley that kept me sane.

I traveled to Mazar-e-Sharif twice. A road trip in 2007 took me through the Salang tunnel, and I stopped by in Tajqorghan to buy enormous pomegranates – they were a beautiful crimson red. While on a field visit, I excitedly walked the road/rail bridge that connects Uzbekistan across the Amu Darya river, and visited Mazar’s famous Blue Mosque. I also made short trips to the provinces of Parwan, Kapisa and Panjshir, but Herat and Badakshan remained elusive. It was a different group of colleagues on every trip and we always had a great time bonding. Driving through the rustic countryside always promised random sights of the kuchis (nomads), people on donkeys and occasionally, discarded machine tanks. Living and traveling in Afghanistan demystified the place for me.

Ten years is a long time to summarize in words; there are still many details that merit mention. The warm Afghan nan straight out of the tandoor from the street corner bread shops - they were priced dirt cheap! On a winter evening, they would quickly vanish in the car even before I got home. Congregating at the Indian restaurant Anar for cricket matches. Early morning city tour sitting in a bullet proof SUV, although a rarity. Boys playing cricket or football, or flying kites in the city. Getting used to the walkie-talkie radio and it’s call sign. Carrying my shawl everywhere, even in warm-warmer-hot Chennai, having got so used to it. The view of the distant snow peaks from a sunny Kabul and the colorful blooming roses. Gawking wide-eyed at the fruits growing in the office garden, all at hand’s reach but never having the heart to pluck any. Fairy tale winter experiences – witnessing the first spell of snow, sauntering around office in heavy snow taking pictures and breaking off icicles for no reason. Shopping at the Galleria, Istalif and Zardozi. My hopeless search for a Kabul city map. Being audience to several mesmerizing performances in office by the students of Afghanistan National Institute of Music – I felt like royalty. Extended brunches and lounging at the Serena with my besties. Office happy hours. Ladies’ lunches. Movie nights. Farewell parties. Yes, when you spend so many years in a place, you bid many goodbyes grudgingly. The list is infinite. I captured my experiences in a few random articles, and the 1,000s of photos I shot and still treasure.

I lived in a sprawling 4-level house with eight others, communal living if I may. We had a cook Zulmai (Zi for short), a maid and a gardener (our gentle Baba, the cook’s father), who together took care of us very well. The sizable lawn grew beautiful flowers, especially roses, and saw many badminton games. During the days of power shortage, I remember huddling around the bukhari (traditional wood or saw dust burning heater) with my housemates many winter evenings having animated conversations, accompanied by generous servings of hot pakoras and masala chai. Not to mention my struggle to converse in Dari – Baba, bukhari roshan! Baba, masheen chalaan! – meaning to light up the heater or start the generator. These were my famous winter lines. The mini projector was introduced in the home and we ran our very own N Talkies! Outside home, the social scene was a culture shock initially. In Chennai, my friends were from my school and college, and there was a sense of familiarity. In Kabul, I constantly met with strange faces from around the world. I found the

ultra-social personalities overbearing, although they were helping me adapt. Also, because I lived in Afghanistan, I did not think my conversations had to always revolve around aid and development. I came to dislike networking in all forms. So, I stayed a recluse the initial months. But over time, I shed my inhibitions and learned to be comfortable amongst unfamiliar crowds. Even better, I created my own little world with a close group of friends I made for life. We shared similar interests and together, we spent the weekends cooking, watching movies, making holiday plans and sharing photography tips, heading reluctantly back to our dwellings only at the stroke of 12 midnight – it was curfew time! We planned and organized grand Diwali parties, Iftar dinners and musical events at my place. We celebrated everything in equal fervor. We truly celebrated diversity, and life. Those were good days.