The Life of 2ME

I Have an office in Ashgabat...

2012-01-21T06:19:00.000-08:00

48A Gorogly Street, my office address in Ashgabat. It’s a place I dream to get back to one day

soon. Outside the snow is falling on the streets of New York and a world away, who knows what’s going on. Is there snow? Is the laundry hanging out on the line from the apartment building next door? Is Rashid, the shopkeeper blaring his music from his little store on the corner where I buy my afternoon chocolate? Are the throngs of families still waiting outside the big maternity

hospital across the street? I’m sure they are, for there is one thing I have learned about life…it goes on.
This unexpected delay in getting myself back into Wonderland is sort of a blessing in disguise. While I can provide support for my staff from the comfort of my kitchen, every morning at 6 a.m. via Skype, I’m also able to fully and completely enjoy New York City, at a calm pace. I’ve got a little routine going that begins at 6 a.m. with work and by lunch time I get out of the house for a bit, then come back and do some more work, and then go out in the evenings with friends or by myself to a film, dinner, whatever. I made a movie list and am slowly crossing things off the list as I see them. “Iron Lady,” “War Horse,” “My Week with Marilyn,” “Girl With the Dragon Tattoo,” and there’s still more on the list. Plus there’s the theater but I haven’t taken much advantage of that. What I’m most enjoying is just being at

home and getting caught up on a variety of projects like getting rid of my old computers, clean the basement, do some sewing projects, organize my office, get rid of old papers, etc. Lulu is also happy that I’m home with her. She’s enjoying all the attention. The first month of the year is a perfect time of year for this kind of activity. January is always slow and a month for getting one’s self together.
Still I dream of the day when I can go through the looking glass once more, back to Wonderland

and all it’s interesting ways. I’ve exhausted all the reasons why I wasn’t let back in and they run the gamut:
1) Someone in the government read my blog
2) Someone didn’t like my karaoke singing
3) Someone didn’t like the fact I walked around the Presidential Palace and took some pictures
4) Someone didn’t like the fact that I spoke with a prostitute in a disco (For the record I complimented her on her shoes)
5) Because of presidential elections in February, they are limiting the number of foreigners coming in the country
6) It’s not about me at all, it’s just the Migration Service’s idea of a joke

I’ve got the US Embassy on my side and hopefully with their support (uh it’s their program so they should fight for me) I’ll be back in at the end of March. I remain confident that I’ll get back in then and be back with my people soon. In the meantime, I have my Afghans to attend to. I still am in charge of the YSEL camp, my leadership camp for Afghans that I run in India. We are doing a camp in February so I’m busy doing that as well. Will be off to Afghanistan beginning of February and then on to India. Looking forward to that.
The other day my office in Ashgabat had a New Year’s party and I had sent presents for

everyone through my colleague who was in DC last week. Everyone loved the gifts and it made me happy that I could bring them happiness from far away. Wish I was there in person to hand out the gifts but alas that was not to be. It’s nice to know though that I am missed across the

miles by a group of people in a three-storied house/office, covered in old grape vines, behind a tall, light blue apartment building with laundry fluttering in the cold January wind. I will get back there one day but for now I am there in my heart.

Persona Non Grata

2012-01-09T03:44:00.003-08:00

Now I’ve been kicked out a bar before, but never out of a country! January 4th, I was supposed to return to Turkmenistan but the Migratsionnaya Sluzhba (Migration Services) who issue letters of invitation rejected me. Do they ever tell you why? No, that is one of the greatest mysteries of the Turkmen government. According to a friend of mine in Ashgabat, they are rejecting most people who want to come in to Turkmenistan, most likely because of the upcoming presidential elections and they are terrified of an Arab Spring scenario where their benevolent form of government and their exalted president are toppled. As if that’s what I plan to do while I’m there? I don’t think so.
My college prep program that I’ve spent much time working on to come to fruition will still go on. Today marks the first day of classes and I’m not there. It’s OK, I have an excellent staff, Lale and Gulshat, who are more than capable of running the show, and 4 excellent teachers who are trained and ready to go. Most likely I will not be going back to Turkmenistan until sometime in March, but I will go back for sure. We’ll see what happens. This is not the first time I’ve been in these situations of limbo, waiting for a higher power (like a governemental department) to make a decision so I can continue my work. I sort of like it because I have no power over the situation and one needs to just let it go and see what happens. It’s an attitude I’ve adopted over the years of working in Afghanistan. No need to worry about something that you can’t control. Meanwhile I have Plans B, C and D swirling around in my head, waiting to implement if need be.
So what does a boy do when he can’t get back into Turkmenistan? Well for this past week, he has been enjoying time at home with his cat Lulu and doing various projects on the long list of home projects to do. Since the weather has been warm the past few days, I’ve been taking advantage of it to do some garden work like making raised planter beds and putting together some benches from slats of wood from old planter boxes and composte bin. Come summer, my garden will be an idyllic place to sit. There’s more indoor projects to be done and when the weather starts acting like winter, I’ll stay inside to do them.
Another idea that popped in my head is some travel to Europe. The world is my oyster and why do I need to stay in one place all this time? It’s been a while since I’ve seen my peeps in France so I may just pop over to see them as well as friends in Brussels. Plus I’ve never been to Versailles and have an itch to go over and see it while I have the time. So why not? The next blog entry may just be from Gay Paree!

OH, You got my card!

2011-12-26T05:45:00.000-08:00

I know who you are. You are one of the 130+ people on my Christmas list who has decided to

click on my blog to see what it’s all about. Well, let me start by answering the question on the card—Why am I in Turkmenistan?
I work for a non-profit educational organization (and have since my days in Russia 18 yrs ago) American Councils for International Education. They have sent me all over Central Asia on various programs, for the past 8 years I’ve been working on programs in Afghansitan. Now they have a new program in Turkmenistan, which they’ve asked me to work on--Prep4Success. It’s not really a new program, it’s just an improvement on many of the things we are doing there. Basically, I am developing and implementing a college prepatory course for senior high school students and those who have recently graduated from high school here and have yet to get in to a university or institute here in Turkmenistan. The options for higher education are few here and it’s very difficult to get accepted to the state university. Many students look for colleges abroad where they can get a higher education. Many want to study abroad but they don’t have the English level or knowledge base to be candidates for many univerisities and colleges abroad. That’s where I come in.
Prep4Success is a 3-month program for students to improve their already good English, develop critical thinking skills, prepare for standardized tests like SAT and TOEFL, and develop academic reading and writing skills. I’m the director of the program and am responsible for creating the curriculum, hiring the teachers, recruiting the 30 students for our pilot program and making the whole thing work. In the past month in Turkmenistan, my staff (Lale and Gulshat) and I have already hired 4 teachers, trained them in the teaching materials and recruited 30 students through a rigourous application process. There are many students who want to apply to the program but we are looking for students who are looking to further their education abroad and already have been looking at colleges and applying to them. Since this program is being funded by the US embassy here, the focus is on getting students to apply to US colleges. We will help them figure out the application process, improve their knowledge and make them better candidates for potential scholarships.
I love creating new projects and watching them grow and be successful, this is something I’ve done many times and always look forward to doing again and again. There is a lot of focus on this program and if it is successful (which I know it will be) there is interest in implementing it in other countries. I would love to see something like this work in Afghanistan for example.
Turkmenistan is not new territory for me, I’ve been here before. It is like stepping back into the time of the Soviet Union and there are many allusions to Wonderland. The capital is Ashgabat and the country is run by President Gurbanguly Berdymukhamedov. I will probably never meet him in person but it’s OK, I see him everyday, everywhere since his portrait is everywhere I go. Why he even made it on to my Christmas card (yes that’s who that man is behind me and the tree).
Anyways, please follow my travels and travails through Turkmenistan and other parts of the world like Afghanistan and India. My program officially begins on January 9th so I’m looking forward to that. While you’re waiting for what’s going to happen in Turkmenistan, you can read past posts and find out what I’ve already been up to. Happy reading, and Happy New Year everybody!!!

Dulcinea

2011-12-22T03:37:00.001-08:00

After our office Christmas party in a seafood restaurant last Saturday, some of us decided to continue the party at the disco at the OguzKent hotel—the fancy-schmansy most expensive, VIP, elite, diplomats only hotel. Down in the basement, through a separate, side entrance, you don’t have to be a VIP to get in although they do have a gold rope outside ala some hot mnahattan night club with people clamoring to get in. Here though, there is no line of people, and as we descended into the nightclub, there were no people to speak of. The lights were flashing, the music pumping and beat on an empty dance floor. Groups of young guys were sitting around drinking beer, a guy and his girl were talking close in a booth in the back, there were two women talking and having a drink at the back of the bar, but there in the front part of the bar near the dance floor was she—Dulcinea. A vision of beauty in her white dress with a line of peacock feathers going around the mid-part of it, under her breast line as if to accentuate them, glittering rhinestone earrings and high, high black heels. The heels were rather thick as if to hold up this full-figured woman on a more solid foundation. Her hair wais a giant coif of beautiful black hair with long curled tresses falling to her shoulders and back. As we entered her eyes fixed on us, two local girls and three American guys, all dressed up for a night out. Joe and I were wearing our suits and ties, and Dulcinea’s eyes followed like a heat seeking laser as we crossed the empty dance floor to an empty table and some low-lying sofas. She turned all her attention our way, gazing intently, shift her dress as if to accentuate her already large chest and flicking one of her heeled feet crossed ever so elegantly to the beat of the music. She nursed her drink and sipped at it from a straw so as not to smudge her perfectly glossed lipstick.
She was sitting all alone, not because she preferred to be alone but she was on the prowl. This was her working turf and tonight’s pickings were not too good. The local Turkmen probably wouldn’t pay for her services and there weren’t many foreigners there who could pay more, that is until we stepped into the club. Perched on her high bar stool, our eyes would meet now and then and I would smile at her and she would smile back in a demure way. As my friends and I danced, I could feel Dulcinea’s eyes upon us. She was a vision of beauty and I wanted to go tell her how fantastic she looked this evening. That’s all I wanted to say. I didn’t want to pay for her services, just give her a compliment. Before I left the bar that night, I would approach her and let her know.
Dulcinea probably doesn’t have the easiest life, and having to get all dressed up and sit in a nightclub for hours hoping that you could meet someone and make some money is hard. Especially in a place like Ashgabat where the bar is filled with mostly local guys who seem to have more fun dancing with each other. As she sat there, looking our way, grooving to the music through her left leg, I wondered how other people in the place viewed her. Was she just seen as a local prostitute and ignored by everyone? Were people too afraid to approach her because she was a lady of the night? I knew what her story was, but I didn’t see her that way. I saw a beautiful, voluptuous young lady dressed to the nines, radiating beauty from her dark part of the nightclub.
After a few dances, I broke away from my friends and went over to say hello and compliment her. Her eyes widened with excitement and her smile got bigger as I approached. “Privet” we said to each other and over the loud techno music, I told her how fantastic she looked. Her dress was perfect and her shoes were fierce. She gushed a bit at my compliments and giggled like a
little girl. She said she couldn’t come to my table because I was with two other women but I told her I only came over to tell her how fabulous she looked. “Such beauty needs to be noticed and complimented,” I told her. She thanks me and I could see she was really happy from this male attention. I’m sure many of the men who come in here just look at her big breasts and long legs and want one thing, but I saw something else—feminine beauty, which needed to be celebrated and honored.
After I headed back to my table, I could see from across the room how my compliments affected Dulcinea. She was beaming and glowing, radiating happiness from her bar stool. The radiance seemed to sparkle out from her rhinestone earrings and shine from the ends of her curled black hair. Her leg seemed to flip more lively to the music and she even got a little beat going in her shoulders. I was happy I could make her happy and feel good about herself. As I left the nightclub, I went back to her and said goodbye, asking her name. “Svetlana,” she replied, “Thomas,” said I. We shook hands and I told her it was nice meeting her. Again she beamed, and I could tell that my attention and kind words were worth more to her than any $100 she’d make that night.

Painting the Roses Red

2011-12-12T19:36:00.001-08:00

“We’re painting the roses red, We’re painting the roses red,” that’s the songthat has been going through my head as I walk around town watching people set up Chritsmas trees in fron to f the various ministries and other government buildings. The other night I saw soldiers stringing lights on all the pine trees in front of the KGB building, 2 young men on top of a cherry picker, fastening the lights to the top of the tree and two other soldiers on the ground guiding the strings down to the trunk, making sure the lights were in a straight line. It reminded me of the card soldiers painting the white roses red in Wonderland, for the queen didn’t like white roses. Here the mandate has come from on high that all government buildings must have a tree out in front and the big pine trees that line the streets must be decorated. A rather benign mandate and it makes the city look more festive than it already is. Many of the trees are fake ones, metal frames wrapped with green fuzzy plastic or the usual bristly plastic branches, but a few are made up of real pine. They have a special metal Xmas tree frame and shove branches or even small trees into the frame sideways so you get this nice, fragrant bushy tree rising to the sky. The official government tree, sort of like the one in Rockefeller Center, is being put up in front of the circus and is by far the tallest one in town. I saw them constructing it the other night and wonder how far they’ve gotten in their decorating. Should take a walk by and see. Many of the trees are done very neat and orderly and some are festooned rather sloppily with crooked garlands and lights, as if the men put in charge of decorating didn’t give a rat’s ass. I wonder if there is a prize for the best looking tree? Will the dear president walk around with a phalanx of flunkies, clasping clipboards and making notes of his comments on each tree, like some uber-important group of ladies judging a pie contest at a county fair? Will heads roll for sloppily decorated trees? I doubt that will happen, but here in Wonderland anything is possible.
Yesterday was Neutrality Day, the day when the UN officially recognized Turkmenistan’s neutrality back in 1995. Neutrality is a core component of the Turkmen constitution and the government prides itself on it. It basically means that Turkmenistan will not get involved in any wars or conflicts with its neighbors, sort of like the Switzerland of Central Asia. It was a lovely day for a walk so I decided to walk the town and see what exciting things were happening in honor of this holiday. Was there going to be a mass love fest with an appearance by my friend the president at one of the giant stadiums? Could I get a ticket and join the festively clothed masses clapping monotonously in unison? Would flags be waving in the breeze as the sun shone down on the glorious capital of Turkmenistan? No, no and no, nothing. I was rather surprised to see practically no one on the streets at all as I made my way through parks and up the wide boulevard that is Neutrality Street to the 40-legged statues (10 horses standing on a giant rock) and on to the “Disneyland” park and then to the Olympic center to find out about swimming in their pool. Hey Turkmens work 6 days a week and only have Sundays off, so I’m sure most people just wanted to stay at home and enjoy the extra day off. Plus Turkmens don’t like the cold so I’m sure many thought that it was too cold to go outside. Not I. I walked the streets happily taking pictures along the way, enjoying the fresh air and the beauty around me. There were lovers in the park, sitting on benches talking or walking down the tree lined alleys. I caught one guy making out with his girlfriend behind a bush, which made me happy to see people acting like human beings here. Actually there’s a lot of sex in cars that happens here, especially by the park by my house. My friend Kerim pointed it out to me one day as we were walking through the park, which surprised me but also made me happy that people were getting some action here in this repressive country. So 1950’s.
Being mostly the only person on the street, I really did feel like Alice in Wonderland, walking through parks as if I was about to come along the caterpillar on a mushroom amid the trees or the Mad Hatter’s tea party. With portraits of the president everywhere and gold domed buildings there is something surreal about this place. Happiness inside a hermetically sealed jar, keeping the reality of the world outside and living in a world of façade-like beauty. Where spectacular white marble buildings glisten with gold fronts and sparkling chandeliers hang in the lobbies inside, where fountains run all year round, all hours of the day and lights shine through parks magically. Yet nothing happens in many of these grand buildings like the Ashgabat movie theater or the drama theater; there is someone guarding the outside telling you that you can’t go in or you have to be someone special to get inside. It’s sort of like those people who buy nice furniture and don’t let you sit on it when you come over for they don’t want oyu to get it dirty. What’s the point of having all this then? Grand buildings and beautiful parks don’t pay the bills of the average Turkmen but I guess it keeps them happy. Is this what it feels to take Prozac? Who needs an anti-depressant when you can live in Ashgabat surrounded by beauty. So I guess that’s what neutrality is, shutting yourself off from the rest of the world, keeping out any contact with it by censoring the press, blocking the Internet and TV stations and give citizens one newspaper called “Neutral Turkmenistan” which is basically a recap of what the president did the previous day, with staged pictures. Like an ostrich with its head in the sand, Turkmenistan has decided to ignore the rest of us, but maybe that’s a good thing in the long run. Hey isolation has worked well for North Korea for so many years right? Who am I to decide what’s right and wrong for a nation, I’m just an educator plopped down in this place for a short time, not a politician.
The goal of my walk was to get to the Olympic Center to find out about swimming hours, which I did. I went to the grand entrance with its gold bust of Turkmenbashy only to find out I had to walk around to the back to get in the place. In order to swim here, I need a certificate from a dermatologist that I don’t have any skin disease and from my family doctor saying I am in fit condition to swim. Now how I go about that is going to be fun. I’m sure I can just pay a doctor for a spravka as cerificates are called here. These hurdles are important for me because if I don’t get in a routine of swimming, I’ll go completely bananas. After all that, I went to a salsa class that was organized by a guy from the embassy. He, Andrew, has a Sunday night salsa dance party every week that I’ve been meaning to go to since I got here but haven’t. I’m not a huge salsa fan but here there aren’t a lot of dance venues and God help me if I have to spend all my time in the techno land of the nightclub Florida, so maybe I’ll just make it a regular thing. Exercise, being social, having fun, maybe I’ll start a contra dance here too. Hmmmmm.

Adopting the Stray and other things

2011-12-06T19:25:00.001-08:00

There comes a time in a cat person’s life when they make that decision to get attached to a cat. Mine was last night. There’s a cute little tabby that hangs out on my stairwell, sometimes she’s on the second floor but recently I’ve seen her snuggled on a chair my neighbor has out on the landing of the third floor, my floor. Like the black and white street cat on my street back home in Brooklyn, she is skittish and runs away whenever I walk by her. Last night I came home and she was snuggling on the chair on the landing. I walked by slowly, but she still darted off and down the stairs to watch me from a safer distance. The weather is starting to turn colder and she’ll probably need somewhere warm to sleep soon, if she already doesn’t have a place. Last night’s dinner involved a can of tuna fish so I decided this was it, this was the time I’m going to break down and share my tuna with this little cat. Once I do that, I know that there’s no turning back, the bond has been put in place and she’ll probably be hanging out on my soon more often. There are other neighbors who feed her but probably not as luxurious as canned tuna from Impash, the Turkish supermarket.
On Saturday it seemed the edict went out around town from the president or whomever up there to start putting Christmas trees up for the holidays. Since then, cherry pickers can be seen hovering over giant pine trees with workers throwing garlands and fastening coloured balls to the big branches. Where theren’t live trees, big, fake trees are put up. I’ve been taking pictures of these trees, hoping to get the right shot for my Christmas card. My dream shot is a tree in front of an official building with a giant portrait of the president behind it. The tree in front of the Ministry of Education would be the best shot but they don’t like you taking pictures of official buildings here so I may have to find another one. The “Rod dom” (Maternity House) across the street from my office just put up a tree and there’s a portrait of prezzy so that may just work.
Had my first night of teacher training last night and it seems we have a good batch of teachers. I hired four teachers and two dropped out the day before so I had to scramble to find two more. I managed to hire one more so I’m up to three right now. One more will come around I know. Unfortunately, the real good ones are too busy but the ones I found are just fine. They’ll be great I know it! We have two weeks of training and then I’m off to the US for the holidays—I can’t wait. I will probably need to do some shopping soon to get some Turkmen souvenirs for everyone back home, and possibly a rug or two to stuff in my bag. Can’t wait to be on the plane flying home. I’m enjoying my time here and people are great but it’ll be nice to be at home for the holidays. As much as I am looking forward to going home, I’m also looking forward to coming back and starting my program with our first batch of students.

Life down in the Rabbit Hole

2011-12-04T18:01:00.000-08:00

Two weeks have now passed since I fell down the rabbit hole. Things have been going just fine with my project; my staff of two, Lale and Gulshat, and I have bonded and gotten our project formed and ready to roll, we’ve hired teachers, done presentations for students, and now waiting for applications to come rolling in. We will do all our selection before I go home for Christmas so when I come back in January, we will begin to officially start PREP4SUCCESS, the college prep course I’ve designed and will implement.
While things at work are what they seem, the more I stay here, the crazier this place seems. While there is that sense of everything is alright, there is the dreaded sense that you are being watched and trailed all the time. A friend of mine told me the reason they don’t allow a lot of foreigners into Turkmenistan is that they don’t have enough KGB agents to keep tabs on us. I thought it sounded absurd, ut this is an absurd place so why not. Agents, like the packs of cards the Queen had for guards, running about fulfilling the demands of the apparatus that pulls the strings. There are many crazy rules here that I’m finding out like rules about cars: your car must always be clean or they fine you, no honking your horn (both of those I admit aren’t that bad but taking one’s license away and a heavy fine? Really?), foreign men cannot date local girls, all foreigners must be at home at 11pm, no walking around after 11—take a taxi please. Oh, I’m sure I’ll find out more as we go along, don’t you worry. These are just some of the crazy rules that I’ve run across. You never quite know all the rules here so for fear of breaking one, it’s best not to do anything rash, like take a picture of a building!
I’m sure one of the most sacred rules here is that every organization, company, store, establishment must have a prominently displayed picture of the president of Turkmenistan. That man is everywhere! And it’s usually the same picture, him sitting at his desk, pen in hand as if he’s signing some important document. I feel I know this man so well, given I see his face hundreds of times a day, on big TV screens placed in squares downtown, hanging above ministry doorways, gazing out from window displays in the main department store. It’s almost like protecting yourself from the nefarious KGB entity that looms behind the scenes. If you have a picture of the president, it means you are loyal and they’ll leave you alone. He is a benevolent looking guy, at least when you see him on TV returning from a foreign trip to applauding ministers with giant bouqets in their hands, or when he appears at the staged mass performances in stadiums. Who knows what lurks behind that smile and those nice suits? I would like to one day meet this man, just for the experience of meeting him. Perhaps I will one day wander in to the rose garden to find his minions repainting the roses and get an audience and a game of croquet with him. I doubt it, but we’ll see. Maybe I’ll wind up in the Independent Turkmenistan newspaper with screeching headlines about Tom Toomey meeting the president. The front page picture of him in his typical picture, sitting in his chair facing right while my picture would be on the right side of the page, as if we are having a conversation, with a bunch of drivel and hyperbole wedged between us that takes up all of page 1 and some of page 3. That’s all the paper is about anyway, him—all four pages of it. A far cry from the NY Times I must say!
Monday December 5th, the beginning of my official 3rd week here in Ashgabat and I’ve already managed to get into the social scene here so I’m staying at home every night of the week. My colleagues and I go out every Friday night to a different restaurant, which breaks up the monotony a bit. Last Friday we went to a new fried chicken place, followed by some karaoke at Shazada and dancing the night away at the club Florida. The chicken was OK, a very KFC kinda place, the karaoke bar was fabulous and they demanded us back. My colleague Joe rocked the place with his singing, and I wowed the place by singing some Russian songs (actually sang better than in English but “Black Magic Woman” the song I was asked to sing, isn’t the most dynamic song). Florida was a reminder of how I do not miss going to loud nightclubs with annoying flashing lights. It was also a reminder that I was back in a place that allows smoking in the club, so I went home stinking like an ashtray. I think I found one of my favorite cafes in town, “Shokoladnitsa” or “Chocolate café”. Serving delicious savory and sweet pastries, cakes and rolls, it’s a lovely place to meet and hang out for a while with a big pot of tea and some fresh treats. I was there both on Saturday and Sunday!
Went to my friend Kamal’s house on Saturday night for a delicious meal of manty, homemade meat dumplings-YUM YUM! Kamal’s mom added some pumpkin with them, which made them extra tasty. I wound up spending the night at his place, after watching 2 movies. I’m supposed to sleep in my apartment every night (one of the other rules/laws) so I hope the police didn’t give me a ring while I was asleep on Kamal’s couch. So sue me for breaking the rules! It is nice to have friends here already that I can hang out with, makes this unwelcoming place more welcoming. Next time I’ll go over, Kamal’s mom will show me how to make lagman, Central Asian noodles. We’ll sit around rolling out the dough like very fine thread before we throw it in the pot to boil. I can’t wait! Kamal is one of my former students who wound up in Charlevoix, Michigan, the summer place of my family, and the first student of mine I ever visited in the US. Over the years we have seen each other, in Kyrgyzstan where he went to school, here in Ashgabat and also New York. Now he is gearing up for the next phase of his life, marriage. He has built himself a beautiful little house in what used to be the garden of his family’s house. Very spacious and modern for him and his future wife. He has a girlfriend, I believe I’ve already written about her, but the parents don’t know they’ve been dating 4 years. They don’t want the pressure from both sides to get married. It’ll happen when they are ready. Soon his kitchen will be done, the rooms furnished, the bathroom complete and then he’ll be ready to marry. I hope I’ll be here in Ashgabat to witness it. I think he’s been waiting for me to get here to start the process rolling. I like this girlfriend better than the last one, so I’ll be happy when Kamal and Enesha get hitched. Never been to a Turkmen wedding!

5am Musings

2011-11-26T16:56:00.000-08:00

5 a.m. seems to be my waking time here in Turkmenistan. It may be remnants of jet lag but I see it as an opportunity to get some writing done before the rest of the city has awoken. Last night was my first big social outing. The DCM (the 2nd in charge after the ambassador) had a big Thanksgiving party for a bunch of us Americans and local who have been on various programs to the US. It was a fun time and I wound up knowing people who knew some of the same people I know. For example, the DCM Susan knows my friend Brook because they worked together in Cheng Du in China. I also found out the head of the Peace Corps is someone I worked with in Moscow for CARE. Small world. I guess the older and more experienced I get in the international world, the smaller the world gets and the more people I know. I like when that happens, it sort of opens up a new layer of friendship.
I am on day 6 of being in Ashgabat and today I’m going to head out and walk this town and get my bearings. I was here eight years ago and things have changed a lot. Mainly all the rebuilding of the city, tearing down of the old and putting up of the new, white marbled buildings. I have to walk around to get a sense of where I am. Life is rather quiet here compared to New York, as I’ve probably already mentioned, and that’s OK. The fast paced craziness of NYC leaves me unfocused most of the time. Here there seems to time to breath and go about things in a moderate pace. After a while I’m sure it’ll drive me bananas but for now I embrace it.
The more time I’m here and start scratching under the white marbled façade of this town, I realize that this place really is like Wonderland. If I keep it in that perspective, I’ll be OK. Things are really not as they seem. Giant white buildings all lit up at night but completely empty, pristine apartment buildings rising in the sky with just a few windows ablaze to show someone lives there, a newspaper that only has news about what the president did or who he talked with, with a giant picture and large font to fill up the columns of what could be more interesting stories. Maybe on my walk today I’ll find the Mad Hatter’s tea party somewhere. It seems apropos that my daily notebook is a recycled copy of Alice in Wonderland. A friend of mine in NYC takes old children’s books and adds blank pages to them to make them into cool notebooks, so you can read the story and write down your thoughts. It’s very eye catching at meetings here. I also found in one of my jacket pockets ticket stubs to the Broadway show “Wonderland” that I went to see with my friend Matthew earlier this year. I take all this as a sign and a coping mechanism for dealing with life in a repressive country that shuts out the world at large and creates its own reality, feeding people whatever they feel like or just giving them no options at all. I’m not here to dramatically change things and I don’t want to get on the KGB radar (they literally spy on everything here) and get kicked out of the country. I want to give kids a chance to use their brains and think for themselves whilst learning. Hopefully that will not be too much for the local authorities.
Here is an interesting fact about Turkmenistan I learned the other night. It is not allowed that local girls go out with foreigners, so they keep their distance. If a foreigner wants to marry a local girl, he has to pay $50,000 to the government. Go figure. I wonder how they feel about local guys dating foreign guys or maybe they just can’t imagine that. So far there’s not really anyone I’d want to date here anyways. I’m sure the longer I stay, the more interesting and odd facts I will find out. The government works in a mysterious way and you never know how they will react to things so you just got to be careful. That seems to be the local mentality. I’ll try to follow some of the rules of the game the best I can.
My goal of eating in different restaurants in town is going well. 3 within 5 days is a pretty good record. Merdem, the Turkish place is still my favorite. Kaptdegai was alright more like bar food-good fajitas though. Restrantino has a good steak and nice atmosphere. What I would like to find is some decently priced wines. In the restaurants, mediocre wine is about $50 a bottle and $15-20 for a glass. I’ll have to search out the wine selection today on my walk. Maybe there’s some magic wine shop with an amazing selection somewhere in town that I’ll stumble upon. If so, I suppose that will be my Mad Hatter’s Tea Party!

My Ashgabat abode

2011-11-24T20:08:00.000-08:00

So let me tell you about my apartment. It’s quite cozy despite the fact that my landlady informed me that she took out the radiators and there’s no heating except for the AC units which provide decent heat. I was never one for overheated places (like my office) so an apartment that’s cool is fine by me. As I always like to say, I’m like champagne, best when chilled. When I arrived here early Monday morning, I was immediately taken with the place. It’s spacious for one person: living room, bedroom, breakfast nook (my favorite place to be), and nice sized kitchen. There are most of the comforts of home here, enough for me in this temporary home and I’m sure as I get settled in, I’ll be buying more things that I need (note to self—buy a decent can opener).
Irina, my landlady, is a bubbly, short, bleached blonde woman who came swirling into my place the other night to show me how everything works and talk about our rental agreement. Bedazzling rings on most fingers, a waft of lovely perfume, she moved about from room to room explaining things to me in detail, speaking slowly in Russian as if I didn’t understand her (but I did). I had my list of questions and she had hers and together we crossed them off the list as we got them answered. The rent is $500 a month, a steal by New York standards, on the high side for Ashgabat but hey, she’s got a daughter in school in Russia she wants to help support and my company pays $275 of it so it’s not a huge dent in my pocket. She’s happy, I’m happy, we are all happy.
The breakfast nook is where I spend most of my time—a cozy place with a small couch and chair, TV and table where I can do my writing. The living room is nice when I want to chill and watch TV but for the most part the nook is where you can find me. The kitchen is a decent size and most importantly comes with a washing machine. Now I can join my neighbor in hanging out clothes to dry along the stairwell! The bedroom is cozy and while the bed is a bit hard, it’s not killing me.
My apartment is a ten-minute walk from my office, down a quiet residential street with private homes behind white walls. I would love to rent one of these houses with a small garden, but it’ll probably be too much work and I’d rather go home and work on my own house. Still I enjoy the daily walk through this neighborhood, avoiding the busy streets with cars whizzing by.
As I stretch my arms out and explore the city, day by day, week by week, there are more adventures to be had, things to find and people to meet here in Ashgabat. Despite the Wonderland-like quality to the place, I will try to remain positive about things in my comments. I’m looking forward to exploring all the food and shopping places here in town and commenting on them, so stay tuned.
My friend Kamal and I went out again last night with his girlfriend Enesha and my colleague Rafael to yet another eatery—Koptdegay. We had chicken fajitas (the closest we could get to a turkey) and sangria and toasted the holiday. The food was good, decent fajitas and potent sangrias, plus a nice Caesar salad. The place we went the other night, Merdem, a Turkish restaurant, I liked better. Good food and service, a more focused menu with big, glossy pictures of all the dishes. There are more places to explore and I will be updating you on all the eateries as my adventure in Turkmenistan unfolds.

Thanksgiving in Wonderland

2011-11-24T16:19:00.000-08:00

It’s Thanksgiving day over in America but just another Thursday here in Turkmenistan. If I were at home, I’d be waking to the Macy’s parade and probably preparing a bird or pumpkin pies for a party somewhere. I love Thanksgiving, I think it’s my favorite holiday—no religion, no gift giving, no hype, just good food and always interesting people. A reason to come together and be thankful for what we have. Lately, Thanksgiving seems to have been shoved aside by the ever-expanding hype of Christmas, but it’s still there and still an important holiday.
I like Christmas and in New York especially it is a very festive time to be in the city. Getting ready to leave for Turkmenistan, I was a little remiss in leaving the Big Apple for Wonderland (as I think I’ll be calling Ashgabat) as we gear up for the holiday season. I’ll miss a season of shirt selling at Christmas markets, staying up until all hours making stockings that “fly off the shelves” the following day, finding that peaceful moment in all the madness to pick out a tree and decorate it, as well as festoon the house with lights on the outside. I’ll still have time to festoon the house with lights when I get back to New York for I need the house to look festive and I’ll be back for New Years so I can enjoy it then. As for a tree, I may forgo it but maybe not. I might get a small one to have in the house for the small amount of time I’ll be in New York. One of these days I will stay put in New York, have a two floor apartment and every Christmas have a giant tree in the middle of the floor downstairs where I can put every last ornament I have collected on the tree and not have half of them in storage and the other half on the tree. My family will come out east for Christmas and we’ll all go see the Rockettes, have a big party and enjoy the season together. Until then, I’ll travel the world making some cash to be able to afford giving up my tenants on the bottom floor and making that dream a reality.
Let’s talk about reality and/or the lack of it here. Well, not really lack of it, just a different reality. Turkmenistan prides itself on being neutral and independent. Those are things many nations should take pride in but here it is more like they want to shut out the world and live in their own hermetically sealed “reality” that they can control and in turn control what people think (or have them not think at all). Turkmenistan is the ostrich with its head in the sand of Central Asia, closing itself off from the world around and controlling what and who comes in and goes out. In some ways it’s refreshing to not be overwhelmed by media and a dearth of information, it helps me focus better and not be distracted, but in the end it’s not a healthy way to run a country. The fact that I cannot communicate on Facebook or post these blogs with ease is a testimony to the state of affairs here. But I’m not complaining, I’m just stating my opinion on the facts (as I see them) and will figure out a way to get around the obstacles. They may want to stop people from thinking but that approach just makes people think more creatively.
Office life here is OK. Our office is made up of mostly women, there are four of us guys and 7 women and everyone seems to get along. I have a program coordinator Lyale who I am getting to know this week and so far we are enjoying working together and figuring things out. Next week we’ll have a program assistant, Gulshat, join our team. It’s a bit challenging for me to have people to help me work when I am figuring things out for myself. Still I’m managing to keep Lyale busy and we will get Gulshat busy as well. It’ll all work out beautifully I know, I just need to put all the magic together.
I think I’m almost over my jet lag but now and then I have my moments. Last night I was so tired that after my landlady Irina came over to show me everything, I was in bed by 9:00. Then I get up at 5am and am able to write, get some other work done I need to do and slowly greet another day here in Wonderland. Maybe this schedule will change as I adjust to the local time and get a social schedule going on here, but it would be nice to keep this routine. Lord knows I need to get that Afghan book written. I do need to find a pool where I go swim on a daily basis for sure. That’ll be on the list for next week.

Some Things Make You Bigger and Some Things Make You Small

2011-11-24T16:17:00.000-08:00

I don’t know what I ate last night but my insides are killing me. Not in a food poisoning kind of way, but more like a burning sensation. Must another bout of acid reflux or something. Went out with my friend Kamal and his girlfriend Inna to a Turkish restaurant and we ate a lot of delicious food, drank tea until closing time, then did a drive around the city. Maybe it was the amount of food I ate that’s causing me problems. I told myself that I’d watch what I eat here and lose some weight—this is not getting off to a good start I suppose.
Kamal has been waiting for me to come to Turkmenistan for a long time. He went to the US on the FLEX program (the high school exchange I work on) in 2003. I brought him and a group of students to the US. It was on the plane as he was filling out his customs forms that I noticed he was going to Charlevoix, Michigan, my family’s summer place, and we bonded instantly. Later that year I found myself in Charlevoix and went to visit him. He has the distinction of being the first student ever that I visited in the US in their home. He had a crazy placement, his host mom took in elderly people and ran an assisted living home for about 6 adults upstairs while Kamal lived downstairs. It wasn’t the idyllic placement but he got through it and he says that experience helped make him a stronger person.
Since that time, he has visited me in New York, we have hung out in Bishkek where he went to college (American University of Central Asia) and now after a long wait can spend time in Ashgabat. His girlfriend is a lovely young lady and I think they are going to get married soon. Maybe even while I’m here! They haven’t told their families yet that they have been dating already 4 years because they don’t want the pressure from both sides to get married. They’d rather wait untilt he time is right.
After dinner at the Merdam restaurant, we took a drive around town to see how much this place has changed since I was last here in 2003. Man has it changed a lot! A lot of old buildings have been torn down to make way for big, white marble buildings and tall, fancy structures glistening in the illuminated glow of the many floodlights that shine on them. When I was last here they were knocking down the old neighborhoods; walled individual homes with their gardens and shady trees to make way for the giant, white apartment buildings that no one can really afford. Built by the Turkish, these structures rise into the air, glowing white in the night sky like giant sentinels. Most of the windows are dark but a few windows show signs of life with a light shining out as if to say, “We are here, we are here!”
Ashgabat has definitely changed in my 8 years absence. Coming back here is like the end of “It’s A Wonderful Life,” when Jimmy Stewart goes back to Pottersville and is shocked by what he sees. I am not shocked but I am in awe of all the building that has gone on and the spectacle of it all. Part Las Vegas, part Dubai, Ashgabat is poised to host the world with all it’s apartment buildings, fancy hotels, nice shops and parks with fountains and statues of horses and famous Turkmen of yore. The funny thing is, I ask myself, who are they building all this for? It’s obvious people are not clamoring to come here and Lord knows the local can’t afford to live here so then who is it for? Is it a self-satisfying move of a repressive government to prop themselves up and feel important? A hollow showcase to impress themselves and the few foreigners they let in? Or is it all for the people of Turkmenistan, to make them feel proud of their capital? Maybe all of the above, it depends on who you ask. Well for what it’s worth, it is quite beautiful at night driving around, giant floodlights and neon making things as bright as day, trees festooned with lanterns that light up and chandeliers dangling between giant marble pillars lining the wide boulevards between the giant apartment blocks. Electricity is almost free here for the masses so they spare no expense when it comes to lighting up their city here. I can assure you it is safe to walk alone in any park in town given the amount of lights there are in them.
The locals like to show their humor with all of the building that goens on around here by giving nicknames to all the towers and giant buildings that go up. Trinoshka, Pyatinoshka, Vosminoshka (3-legged, 5-legged and 8-legged respectively) that refer to the 3 towers around town and the number of “legs” that hold them up. There’s also my favorite--Sorokanoshka, 40-legged, which is a big statue of 10 horses in a park. 10 horses x 4 legs each =Get it?? There’s Sozhigalka (the Lighter building) which is the Oil and Gas Ministry building and does look like a big Bic lighter. Shashlik another new tower that does look like a giant shishkebab (that’s what shashlik means). It’s nice to see that whether they approve of al these fancy buildings or not (most don’t really approve) that people can still have a sense of humor about it.
As we drove around taking in the sites, I was of two minds. Part of me thought, Wow this is so amazing and I can’t wait to walk around at night checking everything out, and the other part was saying Tom, where in the hell did you land yourself this time and why? I’m still figuring that out day by day, as I navigate my way through this new project, a new routine and a new, temporary life. Maybe after this project in two years, I’ll take some time off to stay in one place, my house in Brooklyn. That’s some ways away but for now, I’ll blossom where I am, here in Central Asia.

Down the Rabbit Hole...

2011-11-24T16:15:00.000-08:00

Do you ever have those days when you wake up and realize you’re in Turkmenistan? Of course not, this only happens to me and a handful of other expatriots who have come to this former Soviet republic to spend a few years of their lives. I was last here in 2003, the height of the Turkmenbashi era, where it seemed he had gone off the deep end with his personality cult of a regime. He had changed the names of the days and months, even the constellations to names that reflected his glory (January became his month, February, his father’s and March his mother’s). 2003 saw the advent of the Rukhnama, the Great Leader’s book detailing how the history of the world began and most everything was invented in Turkmenistan. Everyone had to read it and government workers stayed after work on Wednesdays to discuss it, like a forced book club or Bible study.
Anyways, he died in 2006 and all that nonsense seems to have faded away. The statues and pictures of Turkmenbashi are gone, he has been replaced on the money, and a new leader has taken his place. Not much of the personality cult of his predecessor, but Turkmenistan still isn’t the Garden of Eden. I’ve been here a little over 24 hours so give me time to observe the changes. It is still a country that is mired in layers of bureaucracy that seems to squeeze the initiative out of any progress like a boa constrictor, but there are some positive things happening. The streets are clean and orderly, not a lot of pollution, getting a visa at the aiport didn’t take forever, and so far people seem very friendly. It’s a happy place, Ashgabat is (that’s the capital people), but maybe one whose happiness is reliant on anti-depressants so to speak, artificial, unreal. Give me some time to figure that out.
Orazgan, our office driver, picked me up at 1 a.m. at the airport and whisked me off to a lovely 3-room apartment near our office downtown. My neighbors had theor laundry hanging outside and my head hit the towels and house dresses that hung low as I made my way to the third floor. I immediately fell in love with my apartment—it’s so clean, well furnished, and comfortable. I have the option of staying here and renting it or moving to another place after a month, but I think I will stay here since she has offered to rent the place for $500. $275 is paid for by my company—so a mere $225 a month, can’t ever find a deal like that in NYC! The landlady is moving to Russia to be with her daughter and wants to rent it out for the extra income. I’ve already unpacked my bags and feel like I’m at home here so I might as well stay. There’s a nice big kitchen with a breakfast nook, equipped with a little couch, sitting chairs and a TV. Big living room and bedroom too—what more does a man need?
After a 6-hour nap, I was up and at the office by 9 a.m. much to the surprise of everyone, since they thought I would be in bed all day. Not this trooper, there is work to do and jet lag to get over so what better way than jumping right in to it. I actually help up rather well all day despite my long trek from New York, only feeling drowsy around 5 when our office closes anyways. Had a quick shopping trip at my local store “Okean” (the Soviet name for the local fish store, now defnct and selling everything but fish it seems) and headed upstairs to have my first meal in my new house—pelmeni! When there isn’t lots of options for fresh food, these meat-filled dumplings always come in handy. I used to make these all the time when I lived in Russia and when I was lazy, would buy them pre-made in the shops. They’re a fun thing to make with a group of friends and then eat them or freeze them and save them for later. Pelmeni are especially delicious in winter, with some broth in the bowl to make for a warm-in-your-tummy meal to keep you going. It doesn’t get as cold here as it does in the Urals, where I used to live, but still pelmeni are still good comfort food.
I found out that my TV in the breakfast nook doesn’t get any channels (or I don’t know how to work the satellite box on it) and the TV in my living room gets on channel in Russian (or I don’t know how to work the satellite box). If that’s the case, then I will get a lot of writing on my book done. Maybe I will even finish it (oow WOW!). As God is my witness my book on my Afghans will be done by the end of 2012—I swear! Lack of many channels only goes to show the iron hold the governement has on the media. I’m still wrapping my head around the fact that they block FaceBook and figuring out how I will let the rest of the world know about my existence in Turkmenistan. I cannot educate the rest of my friends about the wonders of Turkmenistan—egads! Hopefully they haven’t blocked my blog site. I guess we will see when I try to upload this later today at the office. Apparently I can use the wireless at the US embassy where I can FB to my heart’s delight but let me find out how often I can go there and use it. Step by step, day by day, I’ll get myself settled in here and find some outlets for letting the world know where I am. Besides the work I was sent here to do, develop and implement a college prep course for aspiring students who would like to go to the US to study, I need to get exercising, swimming laps every day as I did in Astana, eat healthier and lose some weight. My last visit to the doctor was not great and that visit last week was preceeded by a night in the hospital for what I thought was a heart attack but turned out to be really bad acid reflux. So it’s time to get on the healthy band wagon and stay on it. I’m sure once I go to India my healthy living will decline again but maybe I can sustain it while I’m there and try to eat better. It’s all about self control really and I’m sure I can do it.
It has been raining since last night and I’m wondering how I’m going to walk to work today without an umbrella. Maybe I’ll dig around in my landlady’s closets to see if she has one lying around. Otherwise I’ll just have to get wet or take a cab. Either way I’ll get to work ☺. OK that’s enough to report for now. Off I go to work…

Toronto in Fall...

2011-11-08T13:14:00.000-08:00

The sky was clear and the sun shining it’s golden rays down on Ontario as I flew into the Toronto International Airport Saturday morning. Lake Ontario was placid and deep blue, the landscape awash in an autumn palate of golds, yellows and reds. Looks like this was a welcome forecast for a quick weekend of wine tasting and hanging out with Ghufran and other Afghan friends/former students. Got off my plane, went through customs, into the rental car place and was off to downtown Toronto Ghufran and his brother Numan’s apartment, my home in Toronto. I enjoy being comfortable with a city and knowing my way around it, that’s how it is with Toronto. Who knew that 2 Septembers ago I would be making so many trips up here for my book and then coming up just to hang out with people.
Saturday was one of those pristine autumn days with that fresh crispness in the air, the lighting that is so special this time of the year, one last breath of nature’s beauty before winter comes and shakes the trees of all their leaves and the palette changes. We got into my bright red rental car and headed down to the Niagara region to taste some of the wines. It was just Ghufran and I and it was a nice time to catch up, talk about what’s been going on in our lives and what will be happening in the near future. He’s a great young man and it’s always great hanging out with him. He was the first one to call me “Kaka” and it sort of stuck. He’s like a nephew or even a son to me and I enjoy the times we spend together. Over the past two years I’ve gotten to know his famiy back in Afghanistan, helped a little on his mother’s campaign for the Afghan Parliament (she one, maybe thanks to my button making), and always enjoy the time in Toronto with him and his older brother Numan.
I tried many wines from this region last September on my trip in Quebec and, always passing these wineries on my way up or from Toronto from Buffalo, it was time to stop. Wine tasting isn’t something I can do with many of my former Afghan students since they don’t drink but Ghufran is open minded enough to do a little tasting and enjoy driving through the vineyards. We sample at a few vineyards, Wayne Gretzky’s vineyard was on my list but unfortunately not open. He makes a delicious red! After some tasting, we headed to the charming town of Niagara-on-the –Lake. One of those old towns with lots of charm. We hung out there for a bit, drinking some coffee and walking the streets as the sun set over Ontario. Afterwards we headed to St. Catheirne’s for an Eid party with the recent batch of YES students who made their way to Canada this past spring.
In a basement apartment we gathered, about 9 of us for what I thought was going to be a potluck or dinner. Shakib served us tea and a plate of nuts, dried mulberries and raisins. Given their dire financial situations, I understood that it was not going to be an elaborate meal. It was good to see my former students, catch up on their lives and given them some encouragement and advice when they asked. Their lives are not easy and I got the feeling (as I did earlier when I met them) that they are lost and need direction, so this visit was good for them I think. It is a little sad for me but it is their lives and there is no need to put them down or make them feel bad about their choice. One boy told me he has no winter jacket or boots, which worried me a bit. I told him to check with the shelter he used to live in, Goodwill or Salvation Army for one. Somehow, despite their struggle, they will make it through high school and on to bigger and better things, inshallah. After a while it was obvious no food was going to appear, so I sent Ghufran and Shakib out for some pizza for everybody. While most of them said they weren’t hungry, I knew they would eat pizza so we got four, which were devoured in minutes. I am always concerned about how nutritious these runaways eat as they try to make $200 last a month. It seems to be mostly a menu of rice and beans, some times spaghetti, but never does it seem to include fresh vegetables or fruit. Pizza wasn’t my first choice but pickings are slim in St. Catherine’s late at night. Plus they probably don’t eat a lot of pizza so why not give them a little happiness.
Sunday was the first day of Eid, the sacrificial one. This is when Muslims slaughter a sheep and share the meat with the poor. It is when everyone must be charitable and do good things for those in need. Numan got Ghufran and I up for a trip to the mosque for Eid prayer. There are many Muslims in Toronto and thus many mosques. Everyone has their own mosque and we went to the Afghani mosque, which was down the street from the Somali mosque and next to a Pizza Hut. I was welcomed in to the mosque and soon was surrounded by people I knew—former students and friends of Numan and Ghufran’s. This was my first time in a mosque for prayer. I’ve always asked my students to show me how they pray and there was always some hesitancy because I wasn’t a Muslim. But this day I was welcomed to come in and pray in the mosque. The imam was making a speech and I chatted with Zabi and Ratib who were sitting next to me. I was a little hesitant at first to be here praying but there was a nice sense of brotherhood and welcome feeling so I relaxed. Praying the world over is pretty much the same, you just do it in different positions. It was a really great experience for me and as the imam recited the prayer from the Quran, I sent my prayers out into the world, for Ghufran and numan, all my students in Canada, in Afghanistan, that peace comes to their country, for my own family and friends. The sun shone on my head through the window as if God was shining down on me and telling me I was doing a good thing. As we knelt and bowed our head to the floor three times, there was a peace in me, as if the world had stopped and for this moment nothing else mattered but my communion with God. As my forehead touched the floor for the final time, I realized that God is one and no one religion can claim a monopoly on him/her/it. There is a final finish of the Muslim prayer where you turn your head to right and then to the left and then it is over. We hugged and shook hands, congratulating each other with Eid and stepped out into the brilliantly, sunny day. As we were leaving the parking lot, shots rang out from the Pizza Hut parking lot and people were running into cars, ducking—chaos. One guy was shot in the leg, put in a car and sped away. It seems like it was some gang rivalry or just plain old rivalry among the Afghans, but put a damper on this blessed of days in the Muslim calendar. We spent the rest of the day eating lunch at Bamyan Kebab (one of my favorite places to eat in Toronto) and walking along the lake, enjoying the wonderful weather of a golden autumn day. It was nice to stroll along with two friends and not having a care or worry in the world. I shut off the work brain and just let the Sunday afternoon unfold. I haven’t felt this relaxed in a long while and it was nice to forget about my worries for awhile.

Post-YSEL camp Post

2011-10-27T11:58:00.001-07:00

The Senator Lounge in the Dubai airport. My YSEL students went back to Afghanistan yesterday, Diwlai was celebrated in Delhi with lots of lights and fireworks, had a restful sleep at the luxurious Hilton, had my Ayurvedic massage this morning and am now on my way home. Where has this month gone I don’t know. Seems like it always happens with my camps. We just get started and then it’s over. Never enough time to get everything done that we want but there’s always next time. Next February is my when I’ll be heading back to India for another camp. In the meantime there’s travel to Turkmenistan for a new project and other parts of the world. 2012 will be my year of travel with a lot of work in Turkmenistan, Afghanistan and India. In addition to travel, I’ll be making some good money so I can pay down my mortgage and student loans ☺. Maybe even do some intensive repairs on my house to boot. I do need to fix up my apartments, especially the bathrooms. It’ll get done. Meanwhile I’m just going to enjoy another glass of wine here.
Since last writing so much has gone on at camp. We had a fantastic group of students from all over Afghanistan and they had a great time learning leadership, about each other, improving their English and having a lot of fun in a safe and stress free environment. We even had a few love matches between the boys and girls and it was special to watch young love flourish without judgement, scorn or shame. In order to make a civilized future Afghanistan, the future needs a place to act civilized, and at our camp they did. We introduced the concepts of ladies first, gentleman acting like gentlemen and the simple idea of respecting each other. In the stressful, intense environment at camp it is hard to see progress until one day someone says something or does something mind-blowing and you realize that you have achieved your goal.
My best moment at camp was taking one of my girls, who had broken her shoes, to a shoe store to buy a new pair. Mazhgan is from Jowzjan, a very conservative area of Afghanistan, and going out and buying shoes was something she had never done. She was hesitant about entering the store where 3 salesmen were telling her to come in and look. “Go in,” I told her and I accompanied her in the store. I helped her chose a pair, made her bargain him down for a better price and when she decided to buy them, she gave me the money. “No, you pay for it. They’re your shoes not mine. You can buy them,” I said. It was then I realized that she had never been out shopping for shoes ever, and probably never handled money before. She thanked me profusely afterwards, saying she would never forget this day in all her life. It was a real triumph and boost for her self confidence—a realization that she can buy her own pair of shoes. Every time she wore them at camp, I got a satisfied grin on my face.
Another special part of camp was having Daniel there. Daniel is the 5 yr old son of Chynara, one of my teachers who has been at all the camps since 2004. He came the first time to our last camp in February and has ever since called me his American daddy. We put him in a kindergarten class at the school where we ran the program and every morning I would get him up and walk him to school, both of us walking hand in hand to the kindergarten wing on the other side of the stinky open sewage canal we called the River Stinks. Our daily routine was to hold our noses and run across the bridge as fast as we could. The last week he deicded to move into my room and sleep in my bed, giving his mom a break for awhile. It was a special time and it was nice to feel like a father to a young son. He’s back in Bishkek now and misses me. I miss him too and hope to see him soon.
Despite all the pollution at camp, the management of CT Schools was very kind to us and did their utmost to make our stay comfortable. There is a push to go back but I don’t know if I can handle another unhealthy month there. Unless I work in weekends away in nature that would be the sanity maker for this place. Overall the kids liked the place a lot so maybe we could wing it. We shall see.
After 3 weeks home, I will be heading off to another stan, Turkmenistan, for a new project. I will be designing and running a college prep course for students interested in applying to US colleges and universities but don’t have the proper skills to be good candidates. I haven’t been to Turkmenistan since 2003 so it’ll be interesting to see how much it has changed (or not) since the death of Turkmenbashi, the benevolent, wacky dictator. I’m a little stressed about leaving Lulu and my house for a long period of time but it’ll be interesting work and good dinero so why not. Maybe I’ll wind up taking Lulu with me, I don’t know. She’s kinda old and maybe should stay put in Brooklyn. Enough roaming the planet for my 16 yr old cat. She wasn’t my favorite of my three cats but now that she is the last one left, I do give her all the love and attention she deserves.
Anyways, my plane starts boarding in 20 minutes so I should post this and go. Will I be upgraded to business class? Who knows. I’m supposed to be but right now I’m in economy plus. Fingers crossed everybody.

Midnight Hour Musings in Jalandhar

2011-10-19T11:49:00.000-07:00

Almost midnight here in Jalandhar. I’ve sent all my Afghans off to bed, I have Daniel, one of my teacher’s 5 yr old son, asleep in my bed, and I am on the couch of our hostel lobby here at CT Schools enjoying the peace and quiet, the whirr of the ceiling fan the only sound I hear.
It has been awhile since I have been able to find a quiet moment to clack away a few lines for my blog, and instead of work on work stuff or read something for someone else, I’m going to enjoy this moment and jot down a few notes from the past few weeks. It has been a crazy camp this time, very disorganized and bumpy but somehow we managed to get through it all intact, with the future generation of Afghanistan more open minded, aware of each other and ready to do fantastic things in their country. I have spent a lot of time dealing with organizational and logistical things, which are usually taken care of by our hosts but this school is very disorganized and ill prepared for the band of 40 Afghan students and an international staff of 14 that has descended upon their school. It is amazing how service-oriented India can be so backwards and bumbling when it comes to organization. I find myself spending so much time explainging simple things or trying to Internet access on a daily basis that it is very draining. There is always the question as to why I need something like Internet everyday or Why do I need clocks in the dorm rooms (because I need kids to know what time it is so they are not late for breakfast or classes dumbass!). There is this insistence by the locals that as the director I shouldn’t do anything just sit and command. But I’m not that kind of boss plus I can get things done quicker and more effective than they can.
Despite all these issues, the camp is going well and the kids are really enjoying themselves as are the teachers. I don’t want these outside elements to affect my camp in a negative way so I ensure that everyone is happy and we iron out our own problems together. So far, so good.
CT Schools is not the best choice for a camp and I don’t know why my colleague chose it. I do know one thing, I am having full decision over any future camp sites we choose. The staff here is overall nice but it is not a great place to hold a camp. First of all it is in a heavily polluted part of Jalandhar, with smoke and pollution from the highway a stone’s throw away, the train tracks are right next to the school soccer field so there is a steady flow of train traffic daily. Also there is an open sewage canal between the senior wing and the kindergarten wing, which is highly aromatic throughout the day. We call it the River Stinks (not Styxx) because of its malodorous quality. I take Daniel to kindergarten every morning and our routine includes running across the bridge holding our noses. It is that disgusting. Right now if I take a breath in, I can pick up the smell of burning trash that permeates the air. My next camp will likely be somewhere in the mountains in a green place not anywhere near a city.
I’m looking forward to going home for a few weeks before heading off on my next adventure to Turkmenistan. I’ve taken a new consulting job developing and administering a college prep course for potential scholarship recipients to US universities and colleges. Apparently there isn’t a lot of qualified students from Turkmenistan and this course will help them improve their chances of getting scholarships to US colleges. I haven’t been to Turkmenistan in a while (since 2003) and it’ll be interesting to see how things have, or haven’t changed. That’s a 2-yr project so many of my future blog entries will be coming from another “stan”.
Meanwhile I will still be connected to Afghanistan and its future, dealing with more students in new camps in 2012. I love working with these kids and just the fact that I can inspire them and give them a boost in their self confidence, help them develop their own talents and skills and make them more optimistic about the future gves me great joy.
There is some sort of swarm of little bugs flying around me and none of the gekkos are running around the wall eating them. Maybe they’ve had their fill and are resting behind the giant painting on the wall. I’m not going to move it to find out. Knowing this place the painting may come crashing down on me. Anyways, let me post this and go to bed.

Battling Indian inefficiency, festivals, and wonderful kids

2011-10-08T18:49:00.000-07:00

It has already been a week since we’ve arrived here at CT Schools in Jalandhar and gotten the second Youth Solidarity and English Language (YSEL) program underway. It has been a heel of a week organizational-wise for we landed late last Friday night and were greeted by a staff totally unprepared for us. Not only were they unprepared to host 55 people, they had never taken on such an endeavor, so we’ve been training them, which has been rather exhausting. In many ways it’s like reinventing the wheel everyday. Yesterday it took me an hour to hook up a DVD player, every day the shut off their Internet so we need one person to turn it back on and reboot the system, everyday. It took a week to get the kitchen staff to put out hot water and milk for our morning coffee every morning. Just when one thing gets working, another thing stops working. This has been my week. It has tired me out a bit, but I’m not out of the fight yet. I need to be strong to keep my staff going so we give our Afghans a great month.
Despite all these logistical and organizational problems, we’ve been having a great time. I feel the kids coming together and starting to gel into a cohesive group. There are challenges for them as they learn to figure out how to think differently and do things outside their comfort zone, or question some of their beliefs, or simply learnt o think and act for themselves of their own free will, without someone telling them what to do. My teachers are dedicated to giving them a solid academic program and we are beginning to see the fruits of our labors. I’m looking forward to the second week when it all comes together fantastically, inshallah.
It’s festival season here in India, which is a great time to be here. It just adds to the experience for the kids and for us. Last Thursday was Deshera, a festival that celebrates the triumph of good over evil. On that day, a long time ago, the evil ten-headed king Raven kidnapped Lord Rama’s wife Sita and carried her off to Sri Lanka where he ruled. He and his two brothers were evil people and ruled their land with an iron and bloody fist. Six years passed before Lord Rama, with the help of Homayun, the Monkey God, flew off to Sri Lanka to get his wife back. Raven and his brothers were giants and Rama and Homayun fought long and hard with them until finally they burned their kingdom and them along with it. Lord Rama and Sita spent 14 days traveling back to their kingdom and were greeted with candles and blazing lights. Diwali, which is in two weeks will honor this occasion and is the Christmas of India. Can’t wait for that! Last Thursday we went to a Deshera festival where they burned giant effigies of Raven and his evil brothers. It reminded me a bit of Burning Man but these things went up in flames and firecrackers much quicker. There was a huge crowd around a big open field where they held the event at sundown. We sat in our bus and watched it. They reenacted the battle scene with fireworks and dramatization. We couldn’t see it but we could hear a man laughing evilly as Raven the ten-headed king. Then all of a sudden one of his brothers went up in flames and crackles and booms from all the firecrackers they had stuffed inside him. Then the other brother went up in flames and lastly Raven got torched. It was really cool to watch and before we knew it, it was all over. Then we sped off to the mall for some shopping and on to Punjabi Village for dinner.
Punjabi Village is a themed restaurant/cultural center to give people a sense of Punjab culture. The kids really enjoyed it a lot, especially riding the camel and the horse. Poor camel, I think they broke his hump, so many of the kids rode him. The magic of Punjabi Village and some of the other places I’ve been to hundreds of times has worn off for me, but I’m always happy to see my kids enjoying themselves to their hearts content. These experiences make them more open minded, happier and better people. I’m glad I can give them that experience. Today we are off to Science City. This will be my fourth time visiting here but I’m always happy to give my Afghans this unique science experience.

Waiting for Afghans, Indian Road Trip

2011-10-08T18:36:00.000-07:00

New Delhi, 6:30 a.m., another day at the Vishal Hotel in holding pattern,waiting the arrival of my 40 students and 8 counselors from Afghanistan so I can start my new camp. With me is my stalwart and dedicated assistant Santosh, Chynara and Batma, the dynamic mother and daughter teaching team from Kyrgyzstan and James and Patrick, two teachers from the US. There are delays because the kids don’t have passports yet and we don’t know when they will get them. After getting passports, they still need to get Indian visas, which can take a few days. Inside I am worrying and palnning all sorts of scenarios to ensure we have a successful program. I know we will, I just worry that by the time the kids get here there will only be two weeks left and not the planned four. With the precarious and unpredictable situation in Afghanistan these days, you never know when another bomb blast or attack in Kabul will delay passport processing or shut down the Indian embassy. But I can’t control that. Still we sit and wonder when they will come. We’ve all made predictions on the dates, the 4th, the 5th of October. They’ll get here when they get here. It’s not the first time I’m in this situation.
So what does one do with a staff of five? Sit around a hotel in Delhi? GO shopping everyday? Hell no, let’s take this show on the road! We did a little road trip down to Jaipur, the seat of the Maharajahs of Rajahstan and then over to the Taj Mahal and back to Delhi. Known as the Golden Triangle, it was a great little trip and helped bond us even more, always a good thing when working as a team.
On the way into Jaipur, we stopped at the Amber Fort, a beautifully preserved palace of the early Rajas. An ochre citadel that rises from the side of a hill overlooking Amer and Jaipur further down the valley, the Amber Fort offers great views and gives one a sense of the early days of India. Since our minibus couldn’t make it up the narrow cobblestoned streets to the fort, we had our choice of transport; a jeep or an elephant. The elephant was on a lunch break so we opted for the quicker mode of transportation. Swatting the souvenir and postcard sellers like flies, we made our way into the fort, walking through the courtyards and along the walls, looking down below at the lovely manicured garden and lake at its base.
After the Amber Fort, we made our way into Jaipur for a tour of the City Palace. We took our time at the Amber Fort so we didn’t have a lot of time at the City Palace, which was fine. We didn’t feel that we had to see everything at the palace, just get a feel for it. Still we had a tour guide to tell us what we were looking at. The looking part was easy, the listening required focus since our guides thick accent made it tricky to understand him. Nuresh was his name and he was a lovely guide. The City Palace is still the seat of the Maharajahs of Rajahstan and while they don’t wield power like they used to, they still uphold their titles and official seat of residence (like where else are they going to go?). Indira Gandhi took away a lot of their government stipends that they recieved and political clout when she was in power, yet the Rajahstani royalty seems to have held on quite well compared to others.
As the sun was setting over the Pink City (as Jaipur is called because all the buildings are painted pink), Nuresh walked us up to the Wind Palace alongside a busy thoroughfare, souvenir hawkers and people selling produce. By this time we were hot, a bit tired and ready for a cold drink, a shower, and a nice meal out. Given we hadn’t eaten any lunch, we were starving as well. We piled in our bus and made our way out of the center to a more suburban part of town to a lovely hotel on a quiet street with a lovely garden out back. An idyllic respite from our long day of traveling and touring. We ordered tons of snacks off the menu (all veg as we found out) and lounged in the garden, eating and drinking our tea and cold drinks. Unfortunately, India isn’t a place where you can get a cold beer or a glass of wine on every street corner. Most establishments don’t have alcohol at all, which can be a real let down when you are craving a cold beer. We somehow managed to get through the snacks beerless and dinner later that night although we were guaranteed the place had beer. We’re flexible, we settled for lime soda. I guess it is very expensive to have a liquor license and the majority of Indians going out to dinner don’t drink so it isn’t worth it for many establishments to have booze. The tandoori chicken tasted just fine with the lime soda.
The second day of our 2-day trip was spent traveling from Jaipur to the Taj Mahal. Traveling by road in India is interesting because they say it takes 3-4 hours when it really seems to be almost six. Eventhough it is a mere 200 kilometers, the road never seems to end. We managed to leave at 10 am and got to the Taj Mahal at 4. Of course we stopped for lunch (and cold beer!) but still it was an epic journey. Either the driver went at a glacial speed, which he didn’t or the kilometrage is all off. This was my third time at the Taj Mahal and while I wasn’t really looking forward to experiencing the full tourist exploitation experience, being at the Taj at the end of the day was quite lovely. The light of the day was really beautiful and made the trip there just magical. We had the obligatory tour guide who told me a few new facts about the Taj I didn’t know, like the four pillars he built leaning out so if there was an earthquake, the pillars wouldn’t fall on the Taj Mahal.
By 6 pm when the sunset was giving off its lovely gold and orange colors, we piled in the minibus for the 5 hour trek back to Delhi. We got back to our lovely Vishal Hotel around 2 am and plopped into bed. I got workd that the kids’ passports would be ready the following day and my counselors were on their way. That was news to make me smile as I dozed off to sleep.

Life in a Wedding Hotel

2011-09-23T11:30:00.000-07:00

Coming to you live from the Crystal Hotel in the Taimany section of Kabul! This area is wedding palace central, with one big hotel after another offering Afghans a place to celebrate the most important event in their lives—marriage. At night the place looks like Las Vegas with it’s brilliant neon and flashing lights of the various wedding halls in each hotel. The Benazir Wedding Hall, Kabul-Dubai, are just some of the names of these fancy places. Next to us is the Paris-Kabul Wedding Palace with its big Eiffel Tower out front. This hall is the wedding hall I spent my first night ever in Kabul back in 2006, experiencing my first Afghan wedding.
This time, I am holed up here with 31 of my Afghan students, running a follow up workshop. My colleague Claire is here too and together we are putting on a great show. These students we had the pleasure of working with back in February at the first YSEL (Youth Solidarity and English Language) camp in India. This is a one-month camp for Afghan youth sponsored by the US Embassy here. It is the alternative to the YES (Youth Exchange and Study) program that I’ve worked on since 2004, which has been cancelled because none of the kids on that program come back from the US, usually running away to Canada. Got it?
Anyways, so we are here doing a one week follow up workshop with our fabulous kids to see what an impact the program had on them and how we can further help in their growth as positive thinkers and good leaders for their generation. We left NYC on the 10th anniversary of 9/11 and arrived in Kabul on the 13th, the day the Taliban decided to create some chaos in Kabul with 10 explosions around town (2 near our office that woke me from a jet-lagged slumber) and attack the US embassy. Cowards would freak out at this news and want to go home but we keep calm and carry on, for the future of this country needs our guidance. Claire was more freaked out than I was, but has calmed down a bit. We are pretty much in the Crystal Hotel all day and all night working with the kids so we don’t see the light of day much. Yesterday we too the kids out to Bagh Babur, a beautiful garden where Babur Shah the great king is buried. It was a wonderful outing, so nice getting out into the sun and fresh air for a change. Afterwards we went to our office to play a few games of volleyball, which the kids enjoyed immensely. There isn’t much opportunity here for boys and girls to mix and the American Councils office seems to be one of the few places where they can mingle and play together.
Here at the Crystal Palace, there’s a wedding every night. Loud music comes thumping through the walls and we here people yelling, hooting and hollering at these festive events. It’s nice to see that despite the instability, life goes on. Weddings are elaborate events here and the minimum cost of a wedding is $20,000. It’s rather an extravagance for people who have so little, yet they will go into debt to the fullest to have the wedding of their dreams. Afghans spend an exorbinant amount of money on this rite and it doesn’t just include the wedding itself. The engagement party is equally as extravagant as is the post-wedding party. Who knew? You find out a lot when you spend your days and nights in a wedding palace hotel.
The food here is pretty much the same everyday; rice, bread, meat, salad, fruit. The amount of rice people eat here is amazing. At dinner we get three giant platters of rice, all different. One is Qabuli (with carrots and raisins), one is a bit sweet and one is plain. With all the rice and bread I’m having, it’s amazing I can shit. Luckily the fresh vegetables and fruit help balance that out. Oh I can’t wait for Indian where it is pretty much the same food venue but just a bit spicier. I’ll have to really watch myself so I don’t gain as much weight as I did the last camp. Plus my cholesterol was out of control. That’s next week, let me deal with Kabul life for a few more days.
Despite the bombs and lots of rice, I’m having a great time as usual in the wonderful, mad-cap place!

Reflections 10 Years LAter

2011-09-13T19:39:00.001-07:00

Driving down the West Side Highway on a rainy September afternoon, just days before the 10th anniversary of when the Twin Towers came crumbling down and our world changed. The new Freedom Tower rises high in the air. The clouds are low and hide the top of it from view. I remember back before 9/11 when the clouds used to hide the top of the World Trade Center. Coming out of the East Broadway subway stop on my way to work every morning I’d instinctively look down Division Street as I crossed Canal and look at the World Trade Center. Many days it would be caught in the morning sunlight, a shining beacon of comfort. Some days it would be shrouded in those clouds and I would feel sad for all the tourists who would not get the spectacular view of the city and land beyond.
Passing the new World Trade Center I go back in my mind to a warm August evening in 2001. An outdoor concert on the plaza between the Twin Towers. I was with a special person that I was madly in love with. We brought food to share, he a potato salad with mint and I a quiche of mushrooms and spinach. The warm evening air wafted through the plaza from the Hudson River and the beautiful music of the girl duo group danced around us. After a summer of traveling in Russia, Georgia and Azerbaijan for work, I was happy to be able to spend some free time in the city I called home. Sitting next to Ben on this night I felt like this was home too. After years of running around the world, this is who I wanted to stop for, to settle down with. I leaned back in my chair, putting my arm around the back of his chair and looked up at the tall, tall buildings above me. They seemed to go on forever and my heart sailed up on high, trying to get to the top of them. I closed my eyes and smiled, I was very happy.
The love I had for Ben was not reciprocated and he wanted to be nothing more than friends. My heart crumbled like the towers did on 9/11 and I was left with a big empty hole in my heart. Love, as I knew it, would never come into my life again. It was lost down in the ashes of the World Trade Center. Yet like a phoenix, love did resurface from the ashes. It had changed form from that of a romantic love to one of a paternal love. I had never wanted my own children but somehow got over 300 of them in my life because of 9/11. It took a few years for them to break down the icy walls around my heart but they did. I have my Afghans now who bring me joy and have made me care about humanity once again. On my first visit to Canada in 2009, I realized how much I was still a part of their life and how much they wanted guidance in their lives. “What is the one thing you guys need in your lives?”, I asked one of my students in Toronto. “Love”, was the reply. “Who can give you that love you need?” I replied. “You can Kaka Tom.” was the answer. I may have lost something on 9/11, like so many others did, but I gained so much.
September 11th was a beautiful, sunny day. The sky was a vivid blue and there was a tinge of autumn in the air. There has been no other day like it since. It was as if God had painted a perfect backdrop to the most horrific event many of us will ever live through. I can still see the silent fireball explode out of the South tower, feel the heat and air push against my face on the corner of Division and Allen Street, a few seconds delay as the boom traveled across Lower Manhattan. The cacophony of Chinese, Spanish and English responses to the explosion—shock and disbelief in three languages. The scene of the burning towers played out from the 5th floor of PS 42 and we teachers tried to keep some air of calm for the children’s sake. I remember being on the roof of the school and watching the North tower silently sink down into a crumbled mass of dust and ruin, the massive roar of destruction following seconds behind. All of us New Yorkers on the roof tops watching our world change, screaming in disbelief and holding up our arms as if to try and hold up the falling icon of our metropolis. I look at the Empire State Building waiting for it to collapse as well but it stood there stoically, once again the tallest building in New York. For once in my life I felt a need to defend my country and go seek revenge from those who did this. They, whoever “they” were, would pay for this.
The morning of September 11th, 2011 is quiet. The sky is not a clear blue like it was ten years ago on this day. It is overcast but the sun peeks out now and then form above. I am busy packing for my trip to Afghanistan. As the city remembers the horrific day ten years ago, I will be flying eastward to Kabul. My work with the next generation of Afghanistan is not over, nor do I see it being over any time soon. While many in the world have given up on Afghanistan, I have not. Before 9/11 I was a rudderless boat sailing without a destination, now I know clearly where my direction is and on this day as my city is full of somber remembrance, I sail on eastward to a country that needs me.

Khoda Hafiz Kabul jan

2011-07-06T13:07:00.001-07:00

Sitting on my balcony with some Afghan friends smoking hash and eating melon. A bright spot light glares at us from across the street at one of the guarded entries into Parliament. There are more guards than usual, something must be going on. Lively Pashtun music shouts out from somebody’s cell phone from down below under the tree, where the guards lounge and smoke hash. Never will the two worlds meet—we are tucked away in our own little world on the second floor of a house in Karte-Seh in Kabul, Afghanistan.
The balcony in question is my balcony, because it is attached to my bedroom. They call this room, Tom’s Room at my office because it is the room I stay in when I come here for work. Last year it was inhabited by a slobby Canadian who kept the room in such disarray we had to have the whole place repainted and cleaned after he left.
It is that time of my trip when I have that moment of quiet reflection about the trip, what was done, not accomplished, highlights, and how grateful for all the attention lavished upon me. I also think about the delicate balance of life here in Afghanistan, how things can turn on a dime in a matter of seconds. Who knows what the future has in store for Afghanistan and I remain hopeful that it will be a bright one. There’s too much at risk for Afghans to go back now. I contemplate all this as well as the generosity I have been shown while here as we pass the joint back and forth. The melon is warm and sour but we still manage to eat half of it. The thick smoke from the hash curls up into the air, wafting about in the warm night. It is caught up in the spot light from across the street, glowing in an eerie white. The smoke twists and curls in the air like the sky in a Van Gogh picture, floating up into the tree that provides shade during the day and protection during the night from peering eyes below.
I’m ready to go home even though I will miss this place and all the people who inhabit it. It’s like clicking my heels ala Dorothy and away I’ll go back home and leave this world behind. My colleague Fazilhaq is like my Scarecrow, he’s the one I’ll miss the most. He has become so close with me and I will miss our late night talks and jokes. I’ll miss giving Wadood a can of Red Bull on Gulshanbe or Thursday as he heads home to his family. I will be back soon, in September, but still you never know what can happen in 2 months. It’s as elusive as the curls of smoke I blow out into the mid-summer night’s air of Kabul.

Along the Most Dangerous Road in Afghanistan

2011-07-06T12:24:00.000-07:00

The Kabul River flows east through the craggy mountain pass heading towards Jalalabad. It is no longer the wretched black stream of toxic water but rather clear, clean and full. Along side the river, the Jalalabad road twists and turns through the high, rugged mountains. This road is considered the deadliest road in all Afghanistan. Many attacks occur on this road as it is a lifeline for ISAF forces. Burned out shells of gas trucks, riddled with bullets dot the road as do big black marks to denote where trucks once stood ablaze in the blackness of the night. The Taliban target theses gas trucks as they are bringing fuel for the ISAF and Afghan National Army. Besides the threat from the Taliban, reckless driving is another threat on this dangerous stretch of road. Flying along at high speed along a mountain road with hairpin turns, cars have been known to careen off the side, down the steep ravine to the bottom. Smashed up cars can be seen here and there as the road winds down through the mountains. Cars pass slow moving trucks, whizzing past each other in a dangerous game of chicken with oncoming cars as they make their way up and down this treacherous road. In 1840, the British made their humiliating retreat from Kabul through these mountains. 12,000 men, women and children were slaughtered by the Afghans on their way back east to Jalalabad. Legend has is that they left one man alive, a Dr. Brydon, to tell the bloody story of what transpired.
Amid all these violent reminders of past and present conflicts, the Kabul River runs forward through the mountains to a large lake, the convergence of the Panjshir, Kabul and Salang rivers. A small village is reflected on the calm, mirror-like surface of the water. Looking into that reflection one can see typical village life going on; women in burqas doing their shopping, boys kicking a soccer ball, girls playing a game of tag on a front porch, donkeys laden with wheat stalks clopping along the dirt roads of the village. The Taliban, ISAF, ANA can shatter this peace with a rocket launch into a gas truck, a spray of gunfire, or a show of force with armored patrols. Like a hand churning the water, the peaceful village scene disappears from the surface of the lake. Yet the water will calm itself and that happy village life reflected on the lake’s surface will reappear. The fighting is temporary, the peace is eternal. People here have lived long enough with war to not let it destroy their daily lives completely. War may be around them but life goes on.
The road climbs up past the lake through the arid landscape and continues to follow the Kabul River eastward. The river widens into a blue-green band, calmly flowing along. It feeds the farmers’ fields and nurtures the villages and towns along its way. The river is the complete opposite of the highway. It is a serenity to the danger that is the Jalalabad Road. Boys swim in the river, sheep graze on its banks and men fish in it or splash their faces to get a cool respite from the heat of the day. I would like to stop the car and take a swim in the peaceful waters of the Kabul River. To wash away the sweat off my body and cool myself from the blistering humidity. To feel that here next to the most dangerous road in all Afghanistan, there is peace and that I am not an American in fear of being kidnapped or killed, but just a human being who wants to be embraced in the refreshing waters of a river for a just a brief moment in time.
Farzana Naz sings from the cassette player in the car. The lively tunes and bouncy rhythms seem to make the car fly. Wadood, my driver, sings along in a nasal, robust voice that comes from his heart. The song is about a young girl awaiting the arrival of her love from Nangahar. It is a happy song, one full of the unbridled happiness of a young girl in love. We are all caught up in this song, clapping and singing, as we speed down the road. We are oblivious to the potential danger outside, but are in the moment of this song about love. We may be shot at, our car bombed off the road, or hit by an on-coming car but that all doesn’t matter. The three of us in the car are sailing on pure joy from our hearts and soul, living for the moment, free from all restrictions. In this moment we are free from all our worries of the world outside this Ford Explorer. This is the true spirit of an Afghan—an untangible happiness that cannot be labeled or put in a box. Like a wild horse, it refuses to be saddled or reined, but must run free. No matter how hard you try, you will never be able to tame the Afghan soul. It is freedom in its purest form. It will do what it wants, when it wants even though it may not be the right choice in the long run. Like water, it will flow the way it wants to, uncontrollably.

How I Learn My Dari

2011-06-20T19:06:00.000-07:00

Yow dwa dre silor pinzda shpak, that’s how you count to six in Pashtun. I can’t remember the numbers after six because a dice only goes up to six. Luddoo is the game of choice here at the American Councils office in Kabul. In the US, we call it Parcheesi. If you don’t remember Parcheesi, Trouble is basically the same game. Four colours race their four markers around the board and up the path to a square in the middle of the board to victory. In winter we huddle in the guards’ booth, in the summer we sit on the takhta, a wide platform bed under a pergola of grape vines. Usually we play in pairs and race to get around without being killed and killing our opponents in the meantime. The game is always fast paced and boisterous as we race and argue over moves. Useeku is a new word I learned this time. It basically means “you’re out”. That’s what we say when someone kills another person’s piece.
Fazilhaq and I always joke that if I was ever abducted by the Taliban, that I would save myself by playing Luddoo with them. I hope I never get kidnapped by the Taliban but if I do, I sure hope they have a Luddoo game.
Volleyball is another game we play here. At the end of the workday we play a few games before the sun goes down on another day in Kabul. Thanks to volleyball, I can count to 21 in Dari: yak du sei char panj shash aft asht no da yowzda duazda seizda charda ponzda shonzda aftda ashtda nonzda bist bisteyak. If you haven’t guessed by now, we play volleyball up to 21. Not only is this a great way to learn numbers but it’s a great way to exercise in a rather sedentary existence here. There isn’t a YMCA or NY Sports Club just down the street and long bike rides on the streets of Kabul seems a wee bit dangerous.
The other day I went to visit a former student of mine at his home in Parwan. I’ve passed Romal’s house many times on my way up to Mazar or to Panjshir and he’s either never home or we don’t have time to stop. Last Friday we spent the whole day there making cholpan kebab, drinking dogh (a yoghurt drink) and eating fresh toot (mulberries) that we shook from the trees in Romal’s garden. We sat on the veranda overlooking the garden and the town outside the high walls of Romal’s family home drinking our dogh and eating the fresh toot chilled by the fresh, cold water that comes from the Salang mountains. Afterwards, Romal pulled out UNO a fun card game that we have played at the camps I run forever. This day I added to my numbers, four basic colours: suhr abi sabz zar. These are the colours of UNO, red, blue, green, and yellow and after repeating them over and over as we went around throwing cards down at rapid speed, they stuck in my mind.
There are many ways to learn a language and, instead of studying it in a classroom, like I did Russian, German, French and Italian, this time I prefer to learn it naturally, among native speakers. I do have a basic Dari book to refer to now and then for appropriate phrases, but most of my Dari is learned in gardens, under grape vines, on volleyball courts, and in people’s houses. That’s the way I like it.

2011-06-16T19:07:00.001-07:00

The takhta is my favorite place to be in summer at the American Councils office in Kabul. A giant divan or raised platform with cushions and pillows, under a pergola of grape vines to give shade. It is the center of non-work activity all day—the guards drink tea there, we play Luddoo (Parcheesi), eat chapli kebab and lounge around there all day and night. I’ve taken to stretching out and taking a nap as a boisterous game of Luddoo goes on next to me or the daily volleball game is in full swing nearby. The voices of students and teachers from the DANISH Learning Center next door waft over the wall in the afternoon. The English teacher’s loud voice resonates above the rest with all sorts of interesting phrases like “White pants, black shirt, Black pants, white shirt.” It is intriguing to try and figure out what he is teaching and one day I’ll go over there to meet him.
I’ve been two days in Kabul this time with 3 more weeks to go. So far I’ve been to two dinners, met some of my former students, and lunch at the embassy. Today is Juma or Friday, the Muslim day of rest and we are headed out of the city for some kebab making and picnicking in nature. It should be a great day. I feel so lucky to be getting such an inside look into Afghan life that many foreigners don’t get. Hidden behind their heavy walls with barbed wire atop, many foreign workers don’t know what real life in Afghanistan is like.
My workload here is rather light, which means I will have ample time to write my book. For those of you readers not in the know, I am writing a book about my Afghan students. With all the books out there on Afghanistan, it is time I got my book written. Mine is a book about the future generation of this country, how the program I’ve worked on has impacted these students and where that experience has taken them. The next generation is still growing and learning and with proper guidance will be ready to make this country great again. Word by word, sentence by sentence the book is getting written on a daily basis. In the quiet of the early morning before the heat of the day gets overwhelming and the office jumps to life, I can get some writing done. There is much more to do on the book but the words are flowing well up in my corner room of house on Park Street in Kabul.

Adieu Mon Felix

2011-05-30T09:04:00.001-07:00

Putting a beloved pet to sleep is one of the hardest things a person can do. Two Mondays ago, I had to put my Felix down after a great 17 years together. It was a difficult decision to make and as much as I hated to do it, it had to been sooner rather than later. When I came back from my trip to California, I noticed Felix hobbling around and not to be his usual happy self. After a $400 ultrasound and blood test, I found out he had what was mostl likely cancer in and around his stomach. He was also bloated with fluid. Putitng him down was inevitable but first I wanted a second opinion.
After teaching, I raced home to put Felix, by now basket bound and not really eating or able to move much, into the car and get out to Dr. Wen on Long Island to see what he could do for my cat. Dr. Wen worked miracles with his Chinese herbs on Mama Suly and I thought maybe, just maybe, he could do something for Felix. The fates seemed against me that afternoon as I raced through the rain on the Belt Parkway, trying to get past the rush hour traffic. By the time I got on the Sunrise Highway, I knew I wasn’t going to make it to Dr. Wen’s by the time he closed. So halfway out to one vet, I turned around and made an appointment at my local vet for a second opinion but in reality to put him down. I think he knew too and sort of told me it was OK with his sad, painful meows.
During the botched trip to Long Island, Felix peed on his blanket so I had to stop home and get him a new one. I grabbed one of my patous from Afghanistan as he lay in the car, on the floor on the driver’s side. The rain was heavy and I was running late for my 5:20 pm appointment with Dr. Stronger at Animal Kind Vet up on 7th Ave. The garbage truck was lumbering up the street, slowing all traffic behind it. I sat in the car with Felix and talked to him, petted him and told him what a great cat he was, as inside I struggled with the decision I had to make. He gave me a long wail of a meow and I knew that there was no turning back. The trash truck was at the end of the street and I was free to go.
I wrapped him in the white patou that a student from Herat gave me last itme I was in Afghanistan. We walked into the vet’s office and the desk people knew from my sad face and quiet demeanor that I needed a room quick. A lady came over to ooh and aah over Felix, I turned toward the wall to shield him from her.
Dr. Stronger came in and was so great at helping me with this decision. She tolld me if I didn’t do it know, I would wind up doing it in a few days for she could see that Felix was in a lot of pain. There was no rush to make the decision, she took all the time I needed but in her kind way, she told me that since I was there I must have come knowing I needed to put him to sleep. Yes it was true, as the tears rolled down my cheeks, my hands softly petting Felix. I said OK and we made arrangements for his individual cremation. She went to start the paper work and they put up a screen over the window for privacy. In those moments when I was alone with Felix, I cried so hard and told him how much I loved him and how sorry I was for doing what I was about to do. He lay there as I cried into his side, his fur wet from my tears.
The assistant came in to have me sign some papers and take my credit card for payment. A few minutes later, Dr. Stronger and an assistant came in to put the catheter in to Felix’s front paw. They shaved his front right paw and searched for a vein. He came to life a bit, meowing at the discomfort and annoyance of being shaved. The assistant and I held him down and I calmed him down. Once they got it in, she prepared the tranquilizer that would make him doze off and the injection that would actually make his little heart stop beating.
Once the catheter was in Felix stood up on the table and made his way over to my lap. He settled in my lap and I calmly stroked him over and over as Dr. Stronger got the tranquilizer ready. There was no turning back, but part of me wanted to stop the whole thing and take him home for just another day. There was no sense in doing that, I’d just be back there one or two days later. I thought of poor Lulu at home, probably wondering where her daddy was, somehow knowing she would never see him again. As Dr. Stronger injected the tranquilizer, I felt Felix go limp and heavy in my lap. I covered my eyes, not able to watch my little friend go away from me, and sobbed. 17 years together drifted away in a matter of moments as the lethal injection did its job. The tears dropped down on Felix’s back as he slipped away from me. I stroked his back and held him in my lap, not wanting to let him go. Dr. Stronger checked his heartbeat to verify he was gone. I sat in the big metal chair, stroking him over and over, outlining the “M” on his forehead, giving one last tug on his ears and a rub on the nose. We sat there for 5 minutes, enveloped in grief and sadness in the quietude of Room 1. The tears continued to flow as Felix’s limp body lay in my lap. It was over but I wanted to stay just a little bit longer. After about 10 minutes, I gently lifted Felix onto the examining table and laid him out. I tucked his back paws under his body and curled his tail around his side. His head rested in his front paws and I closed his eyes with a gentle pet on the face. He would come back to me in a few weeks in a small tin as cremated remains to join Suly on a shelf in my office. Presently I had to go home and console a little black cat named Lulu who will never see her daddy again.
As I walked back to the car on this grey Monday evening, the rain had stopped and the cool air felt good on my tear stained face. Two gone, one more left. Death is inevitable and we must embrace it when it does come. As much as I was devastated to put down Felix, it needed to be done. He had a great life, was loved every day of that life and did not suffer long in the end. I will miss him surely as much as I miss Mama Suly, but we must enjoy the time we have together. Now I must enjoy the time I have left with 16 year old Lulu whether it be long or short. Those were my thoughts as I drove home in quiet contemplation.

Thoughts on Osama (taken from my upcoming book)

2011-05-02T10:25:00.000-07:00

May 1, 2011, late in the evening a yellow header flashes on the Yahoo News page. Osama Bin Laden is dead. I look at the words in disbelief. Such news so late on a Sunday evening? I click on the link to get more details. It is one of those moments in life you will remember, a monumental event that makes you stop everything. On Face Book the word spreads fast, my phone is beeping with all sorts of messages about Osama. One student in Toronto, students at colleges in Massachusetts and Kentucky, one in Kabul. We all can’t believe the news and share what we know as we await the President’s speech on the White House website. I post the news on Face Book and quickly former students from all over the world comment on it and soon it turns into a lively debate of comments about what this means for Afghanistan. Despite the happy news, some of my Afghans remain skeptical that anything will change in their country. Instead of an end to all the terrorism, someone new will step in to take over the reins and just to show the world that Al-Qaeda is not dead like bin Laden, that there will be new attacks. We shall see. For now the world rejoices at this news. I recall news images of people in the Middle East cheering and clapping after the attacks of 9/11. That made me the angriest, that somewhere in the world people were celebrating as my city was recovering from the worst thing it has ever seen. Now it was our time to celebrate, to cheer at the death of one man who was responsible for so much evil. On the other side of the world in enclaves in Pakistan, Afghanistan, Yemen and elsewhere, men devoted to Osama bin Laden are grieving their loss and try to piece their lives together and carry on. Will they put down their weapons, go home and get an education or will they pull deeper into the evil and terror that has become a normal a of life? The world waits, my Afghans wait, and in the meantime, we celebrate.

Afghanistan needs good news, and this surely is a source of happiness in a pessimistic world. There is a long road to go before Afghanistan sees the lightness of an educated, peaceful country, but this is a step in the right direction. Some may not see this as the right direction but it truly is. Afghanistan can no longer remain backwards, illiterate and ignorant. It is time that it stepped in to the 21st century. Modern times have ripped the lid off this country hermetically sealed in darkness and ignorance for so long. Like that French tightrope walker who traversed between the Twin Towers, Afghanistan walks a precarious rope. It can have a treacherous fall back into extremism and being terrorized by Al-Qaeda and other factions or it can keep going forward toward enlightenment, rational thought and progress. A generation has been lost to the horrors of war and the Taliban. It is not their fault, their education and dreams were snatched away from them. Someone younger will step in to change things, rebuild and make a difference in Afghanistan.
My Afghans will make that difference. They will be the generation that will make their country a strong, peaceful country. Even though some may be in Canada, America, Turkey, Pakistan, and other countries around the world, like the waters that flow down from the snow capped peaks throughout Afghanistan, they will come home. Water cannot be controlled and it flows where it wants to, but my Afghans know that wherever they go in the world, their path will lead them home. Now is not the time for many but it will be soon. Very soon.

A Wild NIght With A Country's Future

2011-03-06T04:44:00.000-08:00

Boy’s night at Woodlands. We are separated from the girls and gather together for a night of revelry. We can hear the girls screaming at the other end of the building but we don’t pay much attention. We are in our element. No longer are we American, Afghan, bosses, directors or students, we are just our gender, dancing around to the makeshift drum (the boys’ laundry hamper). It’s a very tribal feeling as we swirl, clap, hoot and holler to the banging of the drum, which echoes throughout the cavernous empty room we use. There’s no electricity but a floodlight illuminates the room. Our dancing shadows swirl on the wall and ceiling, larger than us as if encapsulating us in a primitive, tribal world. We dance anyway we feel like moving; shaking our shoulders with arms outstretched-Afghan style, spinning, clapping, stomping. We make a giant circle and start an Attan dance, clapping, spinning faster and faster as the drum beats wildly. For two weeks these boys have lived life completely different and it’s time to break away. They’ve been together with girls in the classrooms, dining hall, in clubs, doing homework. Now it’s time to break away and let all the maleness out while the girls get out their femaleness down the hall. Eventhough we want them to integrate as much as possible, they must go back to a segregated society so a little separate time is due them. Plus it helps them process everything they’ve been through and get out all their stress and anxieties.
I look up at the shadows on the wall and consider my role here at this camp. I am here to build leadership skills for a future generation of a country mending itself back together. As I look up at the giant shadows, I consider the future of these bright young men and Afghanistan. Who will be president or a member of Parliament, who will be the teachers, lawyers, and business men? Who will good husbands and fathers? Will this night be a spark of change in their life? Will this camp instill in them some new ideas and values that they will take home and use? I think about those things as I swirl and dance around with my boys and our shadows dance wildly above us. Some of the shadows I know longer than others, my former students now counselors who serve as guides to these students. I cannot tell any of them that one way is better than another, I can only suggest and guide and lead by example. In the end, they must find their own way, as a person and as a country. In a fast-changing society, these boys need to temper tradition with modernity, break away from superstition and ignorance and forge a new thinking in their society.
Hopefully this night, and this camp will help them to see that.

The Early Morning Bed Blog

2011-02-04T01:50:00.001-08:00

Writing from the warmth and comfort of my queen sized bed in Brooklyn. The clock reads 4 a.m.—a normal time to be up for someone who is still dealing with jet lag. Around 9:30 the jet lag hit like a ton of bricks and I crawled into bed. Felix washes himself next to me and, now and then, stretches his paw out to my, poking me with his sharps claws (Note to self—clip the claws before I go). Lulu was here but when I moved to get my computer she did her leap off the bed. She’ll be back.
I should have done more blogging in Kabul but I didn’t. There was so much other writing I was doing that I didn’t get to it, plus so much of what I did there wasn’t new for me, it was a bit routine. Still it was more experience in Afghanistan and one step closer to the Afghan people that I know. I had dinner one night with 2 American journalists who are working with a lot of my former students on a citizen journalist project. The dinner was fine, it wound up we knew some of the same people in the news world (I used to work for ABC News in Moscow back in the day). James, one of the journalists, told me he has been coming here since 2001, exclaiming this fact like an award he’s received. Yet one thing he said that has stuck with me, is that in all that time, he has never been invited into an Afghan home. That really had an impression on me and sort of demonstrated the gap between the foreigners and the locals. There are so many foreigners in Afghanistan that are here to help the Afghan people but it seems that they don’t have much contact with the Afghan people to speak of. Instead they are too busy keeping themselves safe and behind high walls with barbed wire to venture out into the real Afghanistan. After all the times I’ve been to my students’ houses and met their families, I feel so fortunate after hearing this comment. My flight out of Kabul was full of foreign contractors, on their way home to Europe and America. They sit with all their electronic gadgets nonplussed yet probably happy to be going home to their families. I feel rather sad for them. Here they are in this battered, yet fascinating country and they have no connection to it. They have more connection with their iPod or Kindle than with the people they are supposed to be helping. It doesn’t seem like they really care. They have a job to do and that’s it. I think back on all the fun times I’ve had with my colleagues and students and feel lucky. Lucky that I am not one of them, holed up in a fortress and not able to sit in a guard booth to eat chapli kebab and play Luddo, walk to Mann Continental restaurant for dinner, sit up all night drinking tea and talking with Fazilhaq and Hassib, spend a day in the Panjshir eating fish, or walk the quiet morning back streets of Karte She with Esmat to the French Bakery. Their loss, my gain.
Felix has turned over and gone back to sleep. In one week I will be on a plane for India to start up a new program for Afghan youth—the Youth Solidarity and English Language program. There are plans to make, supplies to order, schedules to write up but it’ll all get done. Besides all the work, I want to spend time with friends, go to the movies and give my cats a month’s worth of love and attention. New adventures await next week but for now I’ll spend my time in my house recharging my batteries.
(PS: I know the pictures don't match the words, but just go with it!)

Post-Interview Post from Kabul

2011-01-27T18:59:00.000-08:00

YEAH!! The interviews are over!! 9 days of asking questions to 90 kids about the whys, hows, whats, and whos to figure out who is a good candidate for the YES program. After cutting through the rehearsed lines about culture and learning why America is a developed country and Afghanistan is so backward, either there was nothing interesting or a fascinating story.
Now I can focus on interviewing students for my book and plan out my upcoming new camp in February—the Youth Solidarity and English Language Proogram which I’ll be running in India. Much like the camps I’ve run in the past, this one is a little different. Instead of 40 Afghan high school age kids going on to America, they will go home to Afghanistan. I think the days of Afghans to the US are coming to an end due to the amount of students who don’t return home. At least the US State Dept. is thinking of other ways to support Afghan youth.
I’m sorry for not blogging more but my days have been so busy writing interview form after interview form that I got rather burned out. I have 3 days worth of forms sitting on the chair next to me but I just needed to blog before jumping in to that.
I’m just back from the French Bakery where I got the cheese and chocolate croissants fresh from the oven. 7:15 seems the ideal time that they are ready, an important thing to remember. After immediately eating one in the car, I wrapped the other ones in my patou to keep them warm on the ride home. Esmat, my driver hesitated at first but I made him take a bite and enjoy the warm, dark chocolate in the middle of the flaky dough. Mustafa, one of our guards, Esmat and I relished a warm cheese croissant in the guard booth when we returned to the office. A nice way to start a cold January morning. Esmat and I drove this morning to the French Bakery but next time we will walk. I long to just roam the quiet morning streets of Karte-Seh at least once while I’m here.
My life has been rather sequestered here in the office, which is just fine with me. With all the craziness that is my life in NYC, I don’t mind a slow pace and staying in one place. One would think that Afghanistan is full of dangers and bombs going off all the time but it has been rather peaceful here. I do venture out don’t get me wrong to local restaurants for dinner with a colleague, to Finest, the local supermarket or the occasional dinner at someone’s house. Otherwise I’m happy making dinner here and hanging out with my colleagues and the guards. Usually our night includes a game of Luddo (Parcheesi) in the guard booth.
Parliament is just across the street from our office, behind heavily guarded blockades and walls. The opening of Parliament was last Wednesday, Karzai spoke, we were basically in lock down that day. At 3:30, the buses are all lined up to take the Parliamentarians to their respective homes. In the morning, a group of boys play soccer in the street in front of the guarded entrance to the Parliament compound. I can see them warming up now from my bedroom window, stretching and jogging in place.
Being the cat person that I am, I’ve befriended the local cats that hang out at our office compound. There’s a big, loud-mouthed tabby who I’ve named Buster. He comes around lunchtime roaring for something to eat. I bought a big bag of dried cat food and leave some out for him every day to appeasing him. The guards and office staff don’t quite get why I would spend a whopping $8 for a big bag of Whiskas dried food on a cat. Maybe they never will but let a cat person from New York have his fun.
Just a few days left before I head back to New York and all the snow. My pipes froze the other day and thank the Lord they didn’t burst. I did manage to walk through some steps with Katey who is looking after my cats via Skype to help alleviate the problem. The water is back on again after almost a day of not working. I guess I’m missing all the snow that has been hitting the east coast but from the sounds of it there will be enough when I get back. I thought it would barf (that’s Dari for snow) while I was here but hasn’t done much. Supposedly tomorrow we may get some. Today I have all my former students coming for lunch. I’m making chili for 40, a pretty easy task, I’ve done it before. I’ll make pots of it and put them on the bukhari and let them stew all morning. What I do for my Afghans. It’s OK, I enjoy it.

You Are My Sunshine-Part 2

2011-01-22T19:07:00.000-08:00

Children singing is the most beautiful sound in the world. As long as I can hear it, I am a happy man.

You Are My Sunshine-Part 1

2011-01-22T19:05:00.000-08:00

This is the reason for what I do. As long as I can see childrens' bright, happy faces and hear their lovely voices, I am a happy man.

Morning Kabul Missive 1/22/10

2011-01-21T17:22:00.000-08:00

5:15 am, Kabul time on Saturday, the 22nd day of January. At least I think it is the 22nd. Maybe it’s the 21st, who knows, but I do know it’s Saturday. In just a few minutes the chorus of meuzzins will begin ringing out in the darkness of Karte-she, the area of Kabul where I happen to be. Some would find these early morning sounds annoying to their beauty sleep but I find it a wonderful kind of music to start the day.
Arrived exactly one week ago and have been busy interviewing high school students ever since. With all the forms I have to fill out for the students, I haven’t had a desire to blog much. Well, actually I’ve gotten back logged with interview forms, so have been stuck doing that kind of writing and not had time for this kind of writing, but this morning is an exception.
It took a few days to get over the jet lag, but now I’m pretty much on Kabul time. Usually I would interview students until 3pm, then take a nap until dinner, drag myself out fo bed and go to one of the two or three restaurants near the office, come home and play a game of Luddo (like Parcheesi and Trouble mixed into one) with the guards and colleagues and go to bed. Wednesday, I took a nap and didn’t wake up until 5 a.m. the next day. Now I’ve crossed over to local time.
My day consists of a simple routine: wake up at 5 or 6, light the bukhari, that’s Dari for wood burning stove, fill out interview forms from the day before and prepare for another day of interviewing potential candidates for the YES program. At 7:30, I go downstairs to a waiting room of 10 students, Fazilhaq, my colleague runs a group activity which I sit and observe, then we make a list and interview them one by one, taking a break for lunch served up by Fauzia our cook, then back for a few more and the day is done. The day may be done however but the work is not. Then we get to fill out forms with gory details about each kid and rate them accordingly. The really bad ones and the really great ones are easy. It’s the average kids that are hard to wirte about, especially if they don’t stand out on the interview. We t ry to assess each kid individually but after a while, they kind of get lumped into different categories—YES, NO and MAYBE.
Kabul is a smokey, dusty, cold city right now. Smokey because everyone uses wood burning stoves to heat their houses. The smoke lays thick in the air, mixed with the pollution from all the cars so navigating your way down the streets by car is a murky adventure. Who knows when the Afghans will tackle their smog and smoke problem but I imagine it will be decades. It’s enjoyable to be here once again, eventhough my life has been rather cloistered. With all the activity I have in NYC, it’s nice to have a break from all that. The day I arrived, I went ot the Kabul Zoo just for fun. Then bought a carpet on Chicken Street, the main street for souvenirs and all things Afghans for the tourists. Yesterday I went to an art opening that some of my former students were filming, which was very interesting. It was paintings done in mud and ground up stones like watercolours. Interesting pictures, Afghan scenes mostly, but more importantly a nice reason to get out of the office on a Friday. In addition, it was an art opening in Kabul—how civilized!!
Fazilhaq, my colleague and interview partner has been my main companion throughout the trip. One of my former students from the 2008-09 year, he now works in our office and deals with the returning students and keeps them connected once they return home from their year in America. He is a great young man and dedicated to the cause of youth leadership and helping his country. He recently lost his mother to cancer in October and is still grieving. We’ve had some great talks over dinner at Barbeque Tonight or Mann Continental or just sititng by the bukhari drinking tea. I’ve given him my words of wisdom on loss and grieiving, which seems to have helped him. He’s one of those former students that I feel really connected to and want to help through this time and further on in his life. He’s going to do great things I know.
OK, that’s it for now. The muezzins have called the prayer, it’s 10 to 6 and I need to fire up the bukhari, make some breakfast and start my day. There’s a pile of interview forms awaiting me on my table. We start interviewing again tomorrow, so today is catch up day.

new pashto songs ( ASHIQAN KHO LAIWANEE )

2011-01-12T19:33:00.000-08:00

The Long Journey Home...

2010-11-30T04:54:00.001-08:00

The line for passport control is half ex-pats and half Hajiis. Either we are going to Dubai and on to our respective homes or we are going to Jeddah to fulfill a religious obligation. The Afghan men who are doing their haj don’t stand in line very well and push themselves ahead. I hold my ground and when the line bends sneak up a few Hajiis to show them I can push ahead with the best of them. One cranky American is being a line monitor and making sure no one gets ahead of him. He grumbles and growls at the men behind him and makes it clear no one, not no one is getting ahead of him. They try their best but he manages to keep a bit of order in a chaotic line. The line moves slowly but it’s OK, I have time to kill before my arduous return to the United States. Plus I’ll be sitting for so long that I might as well stand for awhile. The Hajii next to me smiles and I smile at him. In my very minimal Dari I try to make a conversation about going to Jeddah as a good thing and try to ask how long he will be there. It’s a very small conversation but the smiles and laughs and a hearty handshake speak volumes.
“Ka-chunk, ka-chunk” goes the stamp on my visa and after the first of many x-ray checks, I’m in the big waiting hall for my flight. People crowd the one door open to get on the flight. I push my way up because I can hear the word “Dubai” but it is the Pamir flight not the Safi Air flight which I am booked on. So I grab a bottle of water from the kisok and sit down to wait. It’s not too long of a wait and before you know it, I’m on the plane and on my way to Dubai. 2.5 hours later I’m at the Costa Coffee café once again for a Massimo cappuccino and a cookie celebrating the 39th anniversary of the founding of the United Arab Emirates. The cookie isn’t the best, it was more the novelty of biting in to a tri-colored glazed cookie.
There are US contractors lounging in the café alongside me. They are easy to pick out; khaki or camo pants, the boots, ballcap with Oakley wraparound sunglasses atop. Another sign from many of them are the well-developed pecs and arms under tight t-shirts, the arms covered in tattoos. A well sculpted canvas for their self expression. One of them comes sits at the table next to me. He is wearing shorts and a t-shirt, flip flops and a ballcap and most every part of his exposed body has big tattoos all over it. We make eye contact and smile at each other. I ask him jokingly “So what’s the next one?” pointing at his legs and arms. The conversation goes from tattoos to where we came from and where we are going. He from Hawaii to Kabul (oy what a schlep) and me from Kabul to New York. I tell him he better have warmer pants and shoes where he’s going and he points to his bag saying he’s all prepared. Ryan is his name and personal security is his game. He can’t give me too many details of his job and I know how much I can ask. He hasn’t been back since 2004 so he’ll be in for a big surprise for sure. He lives in Hawaii where his wife is stationed in the navy, gone for 6 months to Kabul. They don’t have kids yet but with such a crazy work life, it’s hard to have themselves in the same place for too long. I was planning the traditional trip to McDonald’s but why leave an interesting conversation with a handsome tattooed man for junk food. Soon he goes to check in for his flight and I go get on my 777 to Dulles. Maybe we’d meet in Kabul one time when I’m back there but I doub it. Our work worlds rarely come in contact and if I ran up to him on the streets of Kabul to say HI, he’d probably shoot me (they stand around all armored with their fingers on the trigger waiting for anything out of the normal or unexpected). We’ll always have the Dubai airport, the meeting place, the in between place where we Americans can be civil to each other, share a coffee or a beer before we put on our armors and work faces or go back to our communities in the US where we probably don’t have a lot in common. Yet for this little time, we have common interests and make some sort of connection.
Thinking back on the day, I am amazed at all that was accomplished. I had a bout 5 things I wanted to do before leaving for the airport and miraculously I got them all done. I got up at the absurd hour of 5 to finish all my interview forms, methodically writing comments about each student to give the evaluators (the people who select kids for the rogram I work on) a better idea of who this kid is. The bad ones are easy, the great ones are easy, it’s the average to good kids that are hard to evaluate. Trying not to write the same comments about each one and give rationale behind the comments is an art form, which I think I’ve mastered. By 9:30 I’m done and out the door to the Finest supermarket just down the road to buy supplies to make chili for lunch. What would take 10 minutes usually takes almost an hour to drive down the traffic clogged main street of Kar-te-She. It’s crazy and we almost cancel the whole trip but we are at the bridge that goes over the trash strewn, yuck of a river and Fazilhaq, my colleague with me declares that we are at the point of no return so I relax and embrace the moment. I race through Finest grabbing kidney beans and canned tomatoes. Fazilhaq and Moneer, the driver, follow behind me like assistants as I throw things in the baskets. All the meat is frozen, so in a split-second the chili becomes vegetarian (on the way back I have the idea to go get kebab and throw it in the mix at the end). Due to the traffic we have to drive past the French Bakery, one of my favorite places to go in Kabul, so we stop and get some brownies, doughnuts and cookies for dessert. I also like to see the guy who works there, he is so hot—still the most handsome man in Kabul. After purchasing and a little flirting, we are on our detoured way back to the office. By this time Dr. Nader is waiting for me. As a favor to a foundation back in the US who finances Afghan girls to come to the US, I agreed to meet and interview a candidate in an orphanage that has recently come to their attention. Fortunately the orphanage is blocks from our office and Dr. Nader will take us there at 11. It must be 11 because he is waiting for me at the office. I give orders for someone to cut some onions for the chili and race off to talk to Zainab, a young lady in an orphanage. Part of me is thinking this is going to be a waste of time, that a girl in an orphanage won’t make a good candidate for studying in the US, but I’m actually very impressed with her level of English and her pleasant, relaxed demeanor with me. Fazilhaq records, I ask questions, she responds, the head of the orphanage and Dr. Nader watch. 15 minutes later, we are out the door and on our way back to the office to make chili.
Lunch is for the office staff as well as former students and the Fantastic 9 I came here to work with. Some are waiting for me and, since the onions weren’t cut yet, I put the boys to work chopping onions. The cook has a giant pot of rice cooking on the stove and I need to compete with him for burner space to get the chili started. I teach the boys how to open a can of beans and drain them, sauté onions and throw together a delicious meal easily. After the onions are sauted, in goes the beans and tomatoes, some chili powder and salt and in about 30-45 mins, lunch will be ready. In the meantime we eat chips and microwaved popcorn on the patio as students gather. Suleiman, one of my alumnus arrives with a film crew from the US. He and others are part of a Citizen Journalist project, making small films and reports about life in Afghanistan. The crew is filming his life and this being part of it, it makes perfect sense for them to be there. It is two people really, Erika, the producer and Les, the camera guy. Erika it turns out is my neighbor back in Brooklyn, Les is from LA. They film me making chili, talk to the kids, film them socializing and playing volleyball. While the focus on on all that, and the chili is underway, I excuse myself for 15 minutes to go pack my suitcase. It’s 1pm and I need to leave by 3 so it seems like a good time to pack. Being the world traveler, 15 minutes is more than enough time.
Lunch and the afternoon activities (singing camp songs, teaching the new kids the Chicken dance and volleyball) are a great way to end a wonderful week in Kabul. We eat, sing, laugh, dance—me and all my students, Les films, Erika takes notes and I sometimes get her in the mix. There is true happiness here in this courtyard in Kabul and joy is felt all around. At 2:45 Najeeb, my colleague says we must leave. The traffic is really terrible today plus at 3:30, the government workers start to go home and things get really jammed in the city. I takes about 20 minutes to say goodbye to everyone and get some group pictures and before you know it, we are waving goodbyes and “I love yous” at each other and away I go to start my long journey back to the US.
Now I sit at my kitchen table with a cup of tea, the darkness of a new day outside, two cats curled up at my feet by the radiator, content that their master has come home once again. This is my spot, my grounding place where I come to and recharge myself for the next adventure. It’s nice to have such a place to come home. So here I will stay throughout December, until the next adveture—whenever and wherever that may be.

A Trip To The Panshir

2010-11-30T03:22:00.000-08:00

Ok I’ve worked 7 days in a row and now it’s time for a day off! After an orientation program for three days and four days of interviewing potential candidates for next year, let’s get out of this office please! I’ve left the office this past week only for dinner in the Kar-te-she or Wazir Akbar Khan districts of Kabul so I have yet to experience the dreasful traffic jams that plague the capital. Today we are headed up to the Panshir, about two hours northeast of Kabul. The mountains and crystal clear rushing river are what the Panshir area is known for. It also the final resting place for Massoud, the famous “Lion of the Panshir” and national hero, more popular in some places than Hamid Karzai.
The entrance to the Panshir is a narrow two-lane road between two massive hills, the Panshir river flowing south on the left side of the road. Guards at a checkpoint stop us and check the car. An old man registers me in a register book in his office and we are on our way. My company is my colleagues: Naeem, Najib, Esmat and Moneer—four fun-loving guys who are great to be around. We drive up the valley, following the river, small villages along the way, masses of trees in vivid gold to contrast nicely with the clear blue sky.
We follow the road all the up to Massoud’s grave site, a massive monument on the top of a hill overlooking the Panshir valley. Inside the monument is Massoud’s grave. We take off our shoes and go in to the immaculately clean gravesite and pay our respects. My four companions hold up their hands and recite a prayer for the national hero. I bow my head and offer a prayer too. In a few years this hillside will be a giant complex dedicated to Massoud; the grave, a museum, reflecting pool, visitor’s center and so on. I can’t wait to come back and see it when it’s done. Lined up to the side of the monument on the bluff are various Soviet tanks and armored vehicles in various stages of decay. Not only are they a reminder of an earlier era, they are now novelty items on which to climb and pose for photos on. We snap away with our cameras and then pile in the car and head down for lunch.
Naeem decides I need to have a fish lunch since there are places along the river where fresh fish can be found. We stop at one
of the places along the Panshir, check out the freshness of the fish and decide to stay for lunch. Naeem, Najib, Esmat and I sit outside on the patio over looking the rushing river and the villages on the other side of it. Moneer, our driver, oversees the cooking of the fish outside to make sure we get the freshest fish and it’s fried well. Empty cans of vegetable oil donated by the US lie to the side of the outdoor kitchen so we know the oil is more or less decent.
The air is cold but the sun shines bright on the patio where we sit. We are wrapped up in our wool patou to keep us warm from the wind and sip green tea from small metal teapots. After 10 or 15 mins, Moneer and the waiter arrive with the fried fish. 3 big plates of fish served along with fresh lemons, chili peppers and long piece of flat bread. The table goes quiet as we dig in to our lunch. Pulling the fins and skin off, we crunch into the local river fish. We pile the heads and other non-edible parts of the fish on the table and tally them at the end of the meal to see who ate the most. Moneer and I are tied with 9, then Naeem, Najib and Esmat being last with one (he doesn’t like fish much). It is a tranquil afternoon of civility. Being out in nature, having lunch, far away from the traffic and smog of Kabul. One would not think we are in Afghanistan given the peaceful afternoon and absence of fear and tension which many people, especially foreigners, are used to.
After our lunch, we head back down the road toward Kabul. We stop a long the way to buy me a pakol the traditional flat woolen hat that is worn by many in this area. After 4 years coming here and many pakol gifted to me, I finally have one that fits me. I guess not many people have big heads like me. We don’t dawdle at the market since it is an unfamiliar place and we don’t want to make our presence too known. Down the road again we stop for some tuut (dried mulberries) and qurt (a dried sour yoghurt treat) at a roadside stand. I want to bring back some for Malahat and Azada, two of my students now studying in Baltimore. Two boys and their father come by with their donkeys carrying their supply of firewood. One of the donkeys gets stuck by my open door and moves back and forth to free itself. I help free the donkey but the father is very upset and hits one of the boys for not leading the donkey around the car. The boy cries, I feel bad and say something to the dad like “You didn’t need to do that,” but my English words fall on ears that do not understand and the caravan on donkeys, boys, little sisters and angry father make their way down a dirt road to their house.
Before we get into Kabul, we stop at a roadside eatery for bolani and doh (potato or leek filled pancakes and yoghurt). It is one of those grimy places that most Westerners wouldn’t deign to eat at and I have some hesitation about the effects of such an establishment on my stomach but Naeem reassures me that it’ll be OK and it is. I take a leek bolani and a cup of thick, fresh yoghurt, which is delicious. Back on the road we go, following the line of growing traffic down to Kabul. You could see the haze and pollution miles before we actually get into the city. It spreads out northward like the new housing that is spreading north of the city. Giant mansions and complexes for large families of the upper classes of Kabul stretch out along the busy highway. Naeem comments that this is where most of the aid money from the west winds up. Instead of going to people who need it or projects in demand, the aid money winds up in the pockets of corrupt government officials who use it to build these big houses. It’s a sad sign that the ones who are supposed to be advocating change and reform of this backward, highly illiterate country are using their positions to enrich themselves and their families. Maybe one day that will change but I don’t really see that day anytime soon.
The sun is setting as we enter the fray of traffic winding in to the city. People are going home from their jobs, children are playing or heading home from school, life plays itself out along the roadside as we head back to the office.It has been a glorious day full of fresh air and peaceful places but now it is time to get back to the unfinished work and plan out my final day in Afghanistan.

Happy Elephant Chicken Day!

2010-11-24T18:35:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving Day in Kabul. The meuzzin calls, a rooster crows, the pack of dogs barked wildly on the street, a military plane flies high overhead. Just another day here in the Afghan capital but on the other side of the world, in my country, people are preparing for a day of feasting, parades and giving thanks for what many take for granted. Before the dinner is over or the coffee is served with dessert, Christmas has rudely shoved its way into the homes and minds of millions of Americans and no one remembers why they are thankful, but rather are on to the crowning glory of all American hoidays.
This isn’t the first time I’ve spent Thanksgiving overseas, nor will it probably be my last. While I’ll miss having a turkey and being with friends, i.e. my other family, I am not alone here in Kabul. My colleagues are my family here, the office is my home and the cook will make sure we do not go hungry. Najib, our finance officer, has made sure I won’t go cold by putting a bukhat or tin stove in my room. I absolutely love it and it is a more charming form of keeping warm than the little space heater. We lit it last night, they use sawdust to fuel the stove, and even now there is warmth emanating from the little stove. Those holes in the top of the walls in each room, that I would wonder about in summer now make sense—they are the exhaust holes for the pipe coming from the stove. I kinda wish I had one of these back in Brooklyn. Maybe there is some modern version of the stove that I can rig up in my house.
It is day 3 of interviewing potential students for next year. The last two days we’ve had students from Bamiyan, the home of the famed Buddhas blown up by the Taliban. Interviewing students is a bit of a grueling process, lots of writing and analyzing to do, asking questions to elicit information from the student about who they are. Sometimes it is hard to get through the heavy veneer of memorized speeches about exchange of culture and building bridges of peace, leadership and all that but we, my former student/colleague Fazilhaq and I, manage to break through that wall to the real student. The last two days we have heard some very moving stories; the boy who lost three fingers working in a factory in Iran as a child, the number of students without parents, the boy who was sent to Herat at age 13, alone, to escort his grandmother back home from Iran, the boy who was sent ahead to Bamiyan with his uncle to build a house while his family awaited its completion in Pakistan. There are sad stories, happy stories and those in between. So much of life has many of these kids experienced at such a young age, it is sometimes overwhelming. When the boy who lost three fingers told me straight faced that his parents were dead, adding that the Taliban killed his father and his mother died after that, I had to turn away, pretending to write something down as the tears welled in my eyes.
Today we have students from Kunduz, a city up north by the Tajik border. When I drove up to Tajikistan two summers ago, it was safe. Now the Taliban is back and the road apparently isn’t safe. Students have called our office saying they might not come because the Taliban has blocked the road, setting cars on fire. Who knows how many of our scheduled students will arrive, we shall see. What obstacles these children face to get on this program. Fazilhaq who is from the north says that the Taliban are becoming more active in his area. His father is moving to another town soon. He has two sons who have gone to the US on the YES program, Fazilhaq and his older brother Zia, so who knows what might happen to him and his family if the Taliban find out. Take his house, hurt his family, kill him—it is too risky to wait around and find out.
Every morning before I start my work, Allahudin, or cook asks me what I would like for lunch. There is so much pressure on me to answer this question because a) my decision is for the whole office and what if others don’t like what I choose, b) I fear I’ll blurt out what I really want—grilled salmon with a side of roasted asparagus and a mesculun salad which will send him on a wild goose chase all over town, and c) I like to be surprised and I eat anything. I learned the word for turkey in Dari funtmurgh which literally means elephant chicken. I would love to tell him to go find some elephant chicken but it seems easier just to ask for chicken. I had turkey the week before I came here so I’m OK with my intake of elephant chicken. Maybe I’ll ask for qabuli pilau the standard rice pilaf dish with raisins and carrots that I haven’t had since being here. He is a good cook, that Allahudin, so it doesn’t matter what he makes, I’ll eat it.
Fazilhaq, Najib and I have been eating out for dinner every night on the main drag of Kar-te-She, the area of Kabul where our office is located. There isn’t much variety among the restaurants, kebab and pilau being the standard fare in all of them. There is more variety in the Wazir Akbar Khan district where the ex-pats dine; Thai, Indian, Mexican, French, but my Afghan colleagues are not allowed in those places because they serve booze. So instead of dining alone in some ex-pat joint, I have the pleasure of the company of my colleagues and get to soak up local color. Besides, I can get food served in Wazir Akbar Khan on any street corner in NYC.
Along the strip we have dined in Barbeque Tonight and Mann Continental. There is also Kabul Fired Chicken (KFC) but we haven’t dined there yet. Barbeque Tonight is still my favorite place although the new Mann Continental has a wider menu. Mann Continental just opened up last week and is all shiny and new inside, as well as cold so we make sure to bundle up before heading out to this restaurant. Besides having an extensive menu, it also can pride itself on unabashed flagrant disrespect for trademarks (see picture and figure it out yourself). I’m sure the McDonald’s corporation will let this slide for now. I’m sure no lawyer would be willing to come over here to sue the Mann people anyway. KFC is the other flagrant misuse of another trademark but you know what? The hell with the big corportations, let the Afghans use it to promote their business. It’s not like they’re making millions, they just want to eke out a modest living and give locals a comfortable and enjoyable dining experience.
OK 6:30 is upon us here in Kabul. While the Macy’s parade balloons are being filled with helium, children are making their way to our office to put their best foot forward and take a chance at being in next year’s group of YES students. I’m sure Mustafa has turned on the heater in the bathroom so it’s safe to take a shower by now. HappyThanksgiving everyone. I hope you are thankful for what you have, wherever you may be.

Morning Thoughts

2010-11-21T16:15:00.000-08:00

4 am in Kabul. Too early for the rooster just yet this morning. Underneath my thisck covers it is snuggly warm but outside of the bed it is chilly. The space heater next to my bad keeps the chill at bay. It’s not that bad really. I grew up in a cold house so I find it quite refreshing. Still I’d rather stay in bed and blog than get out and sit at the table by the window.
Usually at this time of morning, the muezzin’s call to prayer can be heard eafting through the early morning air. That’s one of my favorite summer sounds here, but now in winter I don’t hear it at all. Probably the prayer time has shifted because it’s tied to when the sun rises. So maybe by the time I fifnish this entry he’ll be making the call. An army jet can be heard high overhead flying off somewhere and dogs bark somewhere in the distance. Now and then the guards across the street in front of some government building yell for oncoming cars to halt to be searched.
I think after today I’ll be over my jetlag and be officially on Afghan time. Yesterday wasn’t bad at all but I started to waver around 8 pm and was in bed by 9. The kids I have been working with, we’ve called ourselves “The Fantastic Nine”, are really great and highly motivated. They’re open, honest and get a lot of the rather droll material I’m covering in the PDO sessions (PDO=Pre Departue Orientation). They’ve had a few months to read up on all the material they’ve been given and they’re pretty much ready for their 6-month exchange. I’ve broken up the dry sessions on cultural differences and understanding your host family with essay writing and reading. They have all complained about missing out on Christmas in the US, so I brouht Christmas to them. We are reading “A Christmas Memory” by Truman Capote and I’m goi ng to show them the film later today. Also I brought stockings and decorations to make a festive room today and give them a little taste of Christmas. It’s the least I can do for these bright young men.
Every afternoon we take a break from our work and play a game of volleyball. They don’t play volleyball that often so it’s good for them to learn a new game and I get to observe how they interact with each other in a different setting. Plus it helps bond us as a group.
Last night Najib, our accountant, and I went out to one of my favorite restaurants on the busy strip of Kar-te-She, Barbeque Tonight. Nothing special, a kebab house with an extended menu beyond the typical pilau and kebab. They have Chinese, American and Indian versions of grilled meat to add some variety. It’s a place where Afghans go to eat, so I like it. I prefer soaking up the local colour to the fancier places where the ex-pats dine.
As I said earlier, it’s rather quiet around town as it is in our office. Everyone is out recruiting new students for next year’s group of exchange students. I will be interviewing many of them in the next 4 days (another reason I came here) so it will be interesting to meet some of the future group before the PDO in India next summer. That all starts tomorrow. Until then, I need to brush up on my interviewing skills (haven’t done it in 14 years) and finish on a festive holiday note with my “Fantastic Nine”. Right now I think it’s warm enough to step outside of the bed and go make some tea downstairs in the kitchen. Anyway, I’m sure that rooster will be crowing any time soon.

Kabul in November--First Impressions

2010-11-21T07:19:00.000-08:00

Kabul is a different city in November. The light is different, softer and more pastel-like as the sun slowly rises in the early morning. It is not the bright glare and blasting heat of July, but a more distant sun from this part of the world. The streets are quieter, seemingly less populated than the hustle and bustle of summer with cars whizzing around, honking and clogging the streets of the capital. The lush green trees are bare or almost thereof, shedding their leaves as is customary for this part of the year.
A rooster crows in a courtyard nearby, declaring that the new day has arrived. I didn’t hear the meuzzin’s call to prayer earlier so it is the rooster this time that tells me it is time to wake up and start a new day. Little by little the quiet space of the city is filled up with the noise of daily routines. The builders next door take their places at the 3-4 storied houses being built up around our little courtyard, cars beep their horns and move about furtively on the street outside the walled compund that is my home for the next 10 days. The street dog bark in chorus on the corner where they hang out at whatever comes their way. Students go to school by foot or by bicycle. Another day in the life of Kabul.
I sit in the window of my classroom where I will be teaching the 9 students I have been assigned to “orient” these next three days so they will be prepared for their shortened time in the US. Unlike the other kids who came in August, these nine were caught in a visa-bureaucracy limbo, which has them waiting for their visas. They will go to the US in January for six months, not the ful year, but they seem pretty cool with that.
After a very long flight from New York to DC to Dubai to Kabul, I arrived yesterday morning at 6am in Afghanistan. As we landed, I was filled with excitement and and a feeling of comfort at coming to a place that is feared by so many yet familiar to me. My first time here 4 years ago I was nervous and a little unsure but that is the case no longer. It it just another place that I hold dear in my heart. So two hours after I disembarked from my Safi Airlines flight from Dubai, I was in my bedroom in our office in the Kar-te-Seh district of Kabul, unpacking and getting ready to teach while my 9 boys awaited me in the room next door. After breakfast and a splash of water on my face, it was showtime and I was in front of the class, teaching away. For a person who has just flown half-way across the world, I held up pretty well throughout the day, only really lagging around 4:00. That’s when we learned the word of the day “jetlag”. The boys didn’t get what it was, but they will in January when they get to the U.S. So I said goodbye to them at 5pm and went directly to bed, not getting up for dinner but sleeping until dawn. I did get up around midnight, read the article about Cher in my Vanity Fair and went back to sleep. There is no central heating in the building so we rely on spaceheaters to keep us warm. I clicked my on and dozed off, all snuggled up in my heavy blankets and flannel pjs.
The boys are slowly coming in to class now so I must go and teach. 6 out of 9 are here, so I should start my day with them. A lot to do today and tomorrow with them. More to follow in the coming days.

In between start and finish

2010-11-19T10:40:00.001-08:00

Ah the Dubai airport, where the entire world can be seen. It’s sort of like being on the subway in Brooklyn but brighter, better outfits and no rats. There are the Emirati men in the long white robes and head dresses, women head scarved and covered faces in black, the American guys in their “contractor” uniforms; khakis and combat boots, Phillipinos running the Duty Free shops, Indians, Africans, Chinese, the list goes is endless. And so here I am in the Costa Coffee café watching it all go by. In a way it’s like being in the twilight zone, what after a 13-hour flight from DC to here and a 7 hr wait here until my flight to Kabul. I think I got enough sleep on the plane but I’m still in that state of suspended reality and probably will be until I get to Kabul.
Luckily I managed to get bumped out of my middle seat in the back of the plane to an aisle with more legroom on that long flight so I’m somewhat rested. The 9 boys I’ll be working with arrive at our office around 8 am, that’s an hour after I arrive in Kabul. It’s going to be a long day with them I can already tell, but we’ll see if I can’t get through it. I’m adept at hitting the ground running so this is just par for the course. So in about an hour I can check in for my flight at 3:30 in the morning. I’ve given up all control of my body’s time schedule and will just go with the flow. Next stop Kabul!!

Thoughts from the Wendy's in Terminal C at Dulles

2010-11-19T10:18:00.000-08:00

I’m sitting at the Wendy’s in Dulles Airport. Not a Wendy’s, but THE Wendy’s that I eat at when I’m on my way to parts east. I’m on my way to Kabul again for the 6th time, a trip that is always one I get excited about but there’s always that fear that I may get hurt or something. My mother always says when life is stressful, go to McDonald’s and have a Big Mac and a cup of coffee. Not very healthy advice but it does the trick. There are no McD’s here in Terminal C so Wendy’s will have to do. It is also the place where one of my former students’ host father works (I believe he’s the manager). Two years ago, this Afghan boy gets of the plane at Dulles and is met by his host family, a Muslim couple from Egypt I believe. I’m surprised that his family can meet him at the gate but as I find out a little while later, hs host dad works at Wendy’s! What a shocker for me (and the boy) to think that we send kids from Afghanistan to the US for a year and they wind up living with people who work at Wendy’s.
That boy is now in Toronto, he didn’t last long that year, I believe leaving almost as soon as he arrived. He’s repeating his senior year in high school this year because he frittered away last year and failed. Such is life up north without real guidance. His host dad is still working here, he just waited on me. I wonder if he recognized me? If he did, he didn’t show it.
So who knows what waits for me in Kabul in a day and a half. I’m actually looking forward to the trip and excited for some inspiration for my book that I’ve been struggling to write. Maybe I’ll get some of it written while in Kabul, it seems that life in New York is just so crazy that I can’t focus on the book. The story is inside of me and now and then gets scribbled down on my computer but I need a quiet place to push it out of me. I notice just here in the Dulles airport that away from the Big Apple my creative juices flow. The stresses and worries of daily life; money, t-shirts, teaching, a social life, house, cats, etc. can be very distracting to a budding novelist. Guess I should go away more often.
Now why, you may ask am I going to Kabul in November? Well, let me tell you. It’s sort of like finishing unfinished business. 9 of my kids from the summer didn’t come but will come in January for a semester. Prior to their arrival, they need to have a pre-departure orientation (PDO), which I have been asked to run. This is the same work I do in summer, not to confuse anyone. That’ll be my first three days in Afghanistan. After that, I will be interviewing potential candidates for next year’s program. A busy ten days with not much breathing space but that’s OK, it’s all enjoyable work for me.
This time away from NYC will hopefully give me some time to reflect on where my life is going these days. It seems there is no direction, but full of activity which I enjoy, some of which I don’t really enjoy. How much more time do I really want to spend on my t-shirt business? Do I want to do more work overseas? When will I make time to get this book finished? How will I pay my bills if I do? Well, I have a 13-hour plane ride to Dubai awaiting me. Besides catching up on reading the NY Times and watching some movies, maybe I can ponder these questions. I’ll talk to you later, let me go get on my flight. They’re boarding in a few minutes.

The Connecticut Post

2010-11-15T04:50:00.001-08:00

I know that I don’t blog as much as usual these days and to the many (or few) of the people who read my blog, I apologize. Sometimes it’s the muse that is not there but sometimes it’s just that life gets in the way. Bills to pay, money to make and times are hard ya know. Oh how I was for a windfall of cash, a cushion to rest upon so I don’t have to say yes to the substituting jobs and don’t have to run off to teach English at night but just go with the natural flow of the day and finish writing this book I’m working on about all my Afghans. It’ll happen just when I don’t know. So keep encouraging me or send me money!
This morning, I wole up in the Amsterdam Hotel in Stamford, Conneticuit. Maruska, my business partner, and I came up here for the weekend to do two shows in the uber-WASPy area of Stamford and Westport. Friday and Saturday saw us in the Marriot doing the Winter Fair for the Junior League, the hoity toity women’s club that can be found in all upper middle class enclaves throughout the country. Lots of jewelry and high class stuff but not a lot of customers at this show. If it weren’t for our Darien ladies selling shoes next to us, it would have been a dreadful show. Not only were they fun to be with, but they spend hundreds of dollars on our stuff and helped cover our ass. Despite the blessed windfall from the shoe girls, I don’t think we’ll come back next year for the Winter Fair.
Presently I’m sitting behind my booth at another holiday fair in Westport, CT. It’s in a top drawer preschool in a top drawer neighborhood of a top drawer part of the state. Before the market warms up and the people start buying, I need to blog. To vent about where I am. It’s sort of like being with the Stepford wives. They all look the same, with their long slim bodies and streaked blonde hair. Their faces are well pampered but seem to not be able to mask all the stress and determination it takes to keep up the appearances. Many of them are too thin but I guess that comes with the territory. It all seems so superficial the way they greet each other and talk about what they’ve been up to and their children. It’s all so alien to me really, and Maruska too who keeps making faces whenver we get snippets of conversation that floats over our way. The giant, glistening wedding and engagement rings glisten as they look through our wares. They’ve mastered the art of holding the Coach bag at the elbow and talking with their hands, ever so deftly flipping that diamond encrusted finger around as if to say, “I’m better than you.”
This is a strange enclave we have stumbled into this weekend and Maruska and I are just constantly fascinated by this pampered lifestyle that seems to be something that people strive for and achieve with such fervent determination. The house, the car, the clothes, the hairstyle, the clothes on their children—it’s like a giant sorority where everyone is one-upping each other. They walk a narrow tightrope between civility and viscousness in their quest to be the perfect whatever it is they want to be and show their friends just how good they are. I’m sure however if you just scratch below the surface of these ever young faces and designer clothes, there are tons of problems just like we all have. The over-worked husbands who need to finance the lifestyle, the marriage that doesn’t sparkle as much as the ring that symbolizes it, the strain of playing the game of Keeping Up With The Jones, and the boredom of living a life that is built so much on material things. “Why do they do this?” I ask myself. Is this their vision of the perfect life? The ultimate goal? Happiness?
Last night we went to see “For Colored Girls…” a film about black women and their struggles. It was quite the contrast from the upper class people we surrounded ourselves with this weekend but I’m sure there could be a movie called “For White Girls…” that could encompass some of the problems and struggles that many of these tall, white, blonde women face in their lives. At the Junior League show, our neighbors were three housewives from Darien, the tip-top drawer neighborhood around here. They were a lot of fun to be with and it was interesting to be in their world, observe them and hear about some of their problems. The one statement that stuck with me was said by Patricia, the dark haired one, mother of 3, running a big household, etc. When talking about marriage, single life and I told her I’m single but not alone she said “I’ve felt alone for the last 15 years.” An unfulfilled marriage? A llife of tedium? I don’t know but it would have been interesting to hear more but there were shirts to sell and she had to run off to take one of her kids to hockey and another to swimming.
Now that you’ve come to the end of my blog entry, here is my proviso. I am in a foreign place observing and interpreting—not judging. Although my language may seem judgemental or critical, I don’t mean to be. The whole lifestyle here just intrigues me and I wonder how happy everyone really is. In a few days I am off to Afghanistan, another foreign land, one that I am more familiar with than this. I’ll bet almost every Afghan would give up everything to live like these people. The entire world wants to live like these people with all the comforts and trappings of upper-middle class/wealthy. But would they be happy?

TIme Flies When You're Having Fun

2010-10-18T04:10:00.000-07:00

Was it just yesterday I was embracing September and now here we are looking down the second half of October? My how time flies. I tend to think that it is just the pace of New York that makes time go so fast and months whiz by, but the more I talk to other people around the world, the phenomena is universal.
So post Switzerland, there was a 4-day trip to DC for a conference, next weekend is contradancing in the Berkshires, which I look forward to. It’s predominantly a gay/lesbian event so it’ll be nice to be around my people for a weekend. Besides that, everyone is just great to be around—warm, loving, friendly. The teaching has begun in earnest so a weekend up in beautiful, Western Massachusetts should be invigorating.
Subbing has provided me with a reason to get up early and out of the house almost every morning. I started a night class as well at the J (Jewish Center of Bensonhurst). This new class is a lot of fun and so far I’m enjoying myself. The students are very mixed (level wise and ethnic wise) not all of them are Russian speakers so more reason to keep it all in English. It’s a fun class and people are not afraid to speak in English. Wedged into a small room, there are challenges in moving around and talking to each other. I got in trouble from the custodial staff for moving the tables around out of the in rows position, but f them, Toomey has to do things his way so his students can look and talk to each other.
My oldest friends, Tamara and Carla came for a visit to New York last weekend, which was a great treat. We go all the way back to high school and our connected by our dear departed friend Christopher. It was nice to have them and continue our friendship past Chris. For so many years we’ve only talked about him and his drinking problem, now that he is gone, we must pick up the pieces of our almost 30-year friendships and carry on. This was a great weekend to do just that. It was also a good time to have Carla and Tamara spend time together since they had a falling out some years back. So strange to be together as adults and see how much we’ve changed and how much we haven’t changed. Despite all our idiosyncracies, we love each other very much.
Five Mondays ago was when Suly left us and since then we have made the transition from the House of Three Cats to the House of Two Cats. Despite the loss, my house will always be called the House of Three Cats. Felix, Lulu and I are doing just fine. I don’t know about them, but I have my “I miss Mama Suly” moments now and then. I miss the sound of her paws as she walked across the kitchen. I miss holding her in my arm like a little baby, nestled in my left arm as I typed with the right hand. I miss her little grunting meows, demanding to be fed or a pleading whimper to be let down from arms. Since her departure, the skittish black and white cat out front has become friendlier and maybe, just maybe one of these days she’ll let me pet her. Until that day she meows and rolls on the sidewalk but hisses and runs away when I reach out my hand. We’ll see how much of Suly is in her yet.

The Swiss entry

2010-09-20T01:45:00.000-07:00

One week ago at this time, I was putting my beloved Mama Suy to sleep after a 17+ year life span. This Monday, I’m in the kitchen of Nina and Sally in Geneva, blogging away as they start their days.
It’s amazing how a small cat could leave such a hole in a home. Her absence has been so felt this past week by me and I’m sure the other two. She has become such a fixture in the house after so many years and we all have our daily routines that it’s sad to realize I won’t ever hear her walk coming into the kitchen or her pacing around the apartment. No longer will she jump on the bed and scratch with her paw at the top of the covers, demanding entry under the duvet where she slept all night stretched alongside me. Now I have to learn how to fill two bowls of food and not three, and start buying smaller cans to feed less cats. Now I have to love two cats and not three, which is an adjustment. The other day I looked at Felix and Lulu and didn’t feel any love for them or desire to love them. That’s a temporary feeling I know and maybe this week trip to Switzerland will give me the quiet time away from home and my cats to reflect on what’s next in my life and my two cats’ lives.
Switzerland is a great place to come and rejuvenate. People have been coming here for centuries to do just that at various spas and curing centers but I have come to just see old friends and hang out in a different space for a week. I’ve been meaning to come visit Nina, Sally and their two boys Milo and Cy for the last almost three years and finally have gotten around to it. It’s not that I’ve been avoiding the place but life gets busy and I’m dragged in other parts of the world as you may know.
It’s a great time of year to be in Switzerland when it’s still warm and there’s a tinge of fall in the air. This isn’t my first time here but my first time spending any time in Geneva. Usually I spend my time in Zurich visiting my friend Oliver and in the Basel area seeing my cousins. Now I have a reason to come down to Geneva. Flew into Zurich on Thursday morning and hopped the train and tram to Oliver’s house. It’s been 5 years since we last met and we just picked up where we left off. Spent some good quality time with him until Friday afternoon when I hopped the train to Geneva—a mere 2.5 hours from Zurich. I was able to finish reading the NY Times that I dragged with me before arriving in Geneva.
There’s always something that immediately jumps out at me when I arrive at a place. Like when returning to America, it’s all the fat people. In Switzerland, it’s all the smoking. Everyone smokes, everywhere. Like chimneys or dragons, they are constantly exhaling giant clouds of smoke. It has been a long time since I had clothes that smelled of smoke but being here, I’m back to that gross smell of cigarettes on my clothes. YUCK! Thank God Oliver has stopped smoking, hopefully forever this time. The E.U. has bypassed Switzerland, maybe the anti-smoking campaign won’t.
The other thing I noticed upon exiting the train at Geneva is the switch from German to French. My brain had to make that adjustment right away which wasn’t hideously complicated. My German is better than my French but always need the practice. I found my way to the tram, figured out how to pay for the ride and followed Sally’s directions on how to get to their house—a semi-circled apartment complex in a classic 1940’s style with a lovely garden in the middle.
Milo and Cy came running across the garden to meet me, they having gone to the train station to meet me. Unbeknownst to moi, they were going to surprise me at the gare, but I just got right on the tram and headed their way. We missed each other at the train station, but found each other in the garden. They have grown so much, as kids do, since I last saw them and we had to go through the steps of getting reacquainted with each other. It didn’t take long and they didn’t really forget me since they have all my t-shirts and were sporting them upon arrival. I’m amazed at how well the shirts held up in the wash (a source of pride for me). Before long, Cy asked me to be his godfather, which I graciously accepted. Then he asked if he could see my penis to which I had to think about for a while. (In the end I did show him my penis, figuring as a boy in a two-mommy household, he needs to see a man’s dick once in a while).
The weekend was chock full of activities like the big junk sale where the boys got tons of ski stuff, bikes, rollerblades and other things at low, low prices, rented ski equipment (20% off if you rent in September), the Walnut Festival in some small town up in the hills, a Fall Food Festival in another little town surrounded by vineyards, a morning trip to the thermal baths, dinner with some friends, etc. Rather busy weekend I must say.
The Walnut Festival was really cool. Small and not so crowded, we sampled some local beer (blah!) and bread (yum!) as well as wine (YUCK!). The best part of the festival was making walnut oil. We got 2 kgs of walnuts, cracked them on big tree stumps, then sat at a table together and shelled them, took the meat into the mill where the nuts are roasted, ground and pressed into oil. We got to see how the nuts are ground and pressed into oil. Then we go to the bottling room where our bottle is filled with oil, capped, and labeled by us. A great family event, and fun for the kids as well. The other festival was alright—more crowded than the walnut festival but that’s because everyone came to see the parade, drink bad wine and eat fondue and sausages. The little parade was fun and Milo and Cy squeezed up front to get a streetside view of the event. There were marching bands, floats, people in native dress, flag wavers, and the like. My favorite float was the one with the stuffed wild boar in front and a real one being roasted at the back of the float. Must have been the local hunter’s guild or something like that. By the end of the festival, Nina and I had come to a decision that a) Swiss wine at festivals is undrinkable and b) most Swiss wines suck. I’m sure point b can be refuted after some more tasting but point a definitely is true.
So I have three and a half more days in this lovely land, what shall I do? See Geneva of course, squeeze in a dinner with my cousins up in Berne, enjoy my time with Nina and Sally and have one last dinner with Oliver in Zurich. I think we are planning on fondue. It’s hard to resist all the cheese here—it’s so damned good. On Thursday I fly home, back to reality and allit’s ups and downs. There’s a lot to do at home when I arrive—fixing Liz’s shower, drywalling my ceiling, rebuilding my planter boxes, dealing with the house next door, etc. Also continue my work on my book, start up selling t-shirts again, and do some teaching. Well that’s after Thursday, until then, I’ll enjoy Switzerland!

Mama Suly--In Memorium

2010-09-14T07:49:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I had to put Mama Suly to sleep. After almost two years of dealing with cancer, and 17 years of a wonderful life, this little Siamese gave me the look that I had been waiting for and it was time to go to the vet for the last time. She had a seizure and was writhing on the floor so in a moment my whole Monday plans changed. Meetings, emails, chores—all that seemed irrelevant on 9/13/10 as I walked up the street with Suly wrapped in a towel in my arms.
I had been rehearsing this day over and over in my head so I was prepared. Still it was hard and the tears streamed down my face as I got closer to the vet. People on the street either thought I was crazy or knew what I was going to do. A very personal moment played out in public. My neighbor works at the vet and when she saw me with the towel held in my arms, she knew why I was there. She went into action and got me into a room and a doctor there in a matter of moments so Suly didn’t have to suffer long. No one wants to have to put their animal to sleep but I knew this was the time to do it. This was a rite of passage that I had played out in my head over and over these past few years. It was done out of love and Suly knew that.
17 years ago this little creature came into my life when I was living with Artem on Mosfilmovskaya Street in the Lenin Hills section of Moscow. I came home one night to find my cat Bancroft chasing around this small, white and brown fuzzy kitten. Someone had given it to Artem, “Tom has a cat, and you need one too,” was the rationale. So while walking on the Arbat, the pedestrian street filled with art, souvenir and pet sellers downtown, Angelina (the giver of the kitten) decided to pick up a little gift for Artem. This is how animals come in to people’s lives in Russia, as unplanned gifts. I can just imagine how some of my American friends would react if I showed up with a kitten as a gift and not a bottle of wine or flowers.
The old ladies who sold their kittens on the Arbat by the big “Zoomagazin” (Russian for pet store) had little marketing tricks to make their wares more sellable. With the fuzzball Persians and Siberians, they used to brush all their fur forward to make them look fuzzier. With white and crème colored cats (as in Suly’s case) they would bleach their fur to make them look whiter and cleaner. So Suly came into our lives a little bleached, white and pristine.
Bancroft wasn’t too hapy at first to be sharing the 2 bedroom apartment with this little cat and let her know it. After a day or two though, he had accepted that she wasn’t leaving and let her snuggle with him and was more cordial. That was spring of 1993. In a year, Bancroft would die and she was the only one in the house but not for long. Felix came onto the scene one Sunday afternoon at the “Ptichy Rynok” (Russian for pet market) in Arpil of 94. She was happy for the company and treated him like her own, snuggling with him, washing him, and sometimes giving him a whack to know who is boss.
By summer of 94, I took a job in Ekaterinburg and Artem went to Berlin for awhile. The relationship ended and I took the cats with me to the Urals. My job in Ekaterinburg had me traveling a lot and during those trips, Felix and SUly were getting it on and thus in July of 95, Suly gave birth to two little black kittens. How a Siamese and a tabby had black kittens is a bit of a mystery but I credited genes of a grandfather that skipped a generation. So there they were, the little family of four on Ulitsa Bolshakova in the Parkovy rayon of Ekaterinburg. Lulu and Eddy were the names of the offspring and one was given away to an American teaching in town and I kept Lulu to make my duo a trio. There it was, my trio of cats no more to be added, just a little family of mom, dad and the baby. In 1997, they made the big move from the Urals to New York City, an event so noteworthy that the local TV and newspaper came to cover the story. There was suspicion that I was stealing away Russia’s pedigree animals but when anyone saw them, journalists or local vets, they would ask, “Why are you taking these animals to America?” Apparently they didn’t find them worthy enough of a trip abroad. One lady vet sheepishly asked if she could be one of my cats and go with me.
Suly almost didn’t make the trip for the day before I was to leave, little Miss Siamese got out of the apartment as I was taking stuff down to a waiting car. I went out for about 30 mins and came home to hear her meowing somewhere ein the hallway. She was hiding behind the trash chute, scared yet happy to see me. Thank God none of my neighbors took her, that would have been so upsetting for me. August 4th, 1997, we all flew off to the US, me upgraded to business class and my three fellow travelers in a giant cage down below. Felix and Lulu were so nervous about the trip and Suly furtively liked both of them to calm them down. I’m sure by mid-flight, they were all snuggled together in a pile, Suly keeping them at peace.
Upon arrival in New York, I was homeless, but had friends I could stay with. The only problem was no place for my cats, so they had to spend 3 weeks at the Paws Inn, a pet hotel in midtown Manhattan. I would visit them every day so they knew I hadn’t abandoned them. I did go awayf or 2 weeks, which worried them enough to make Suly’s brown face get flecked with white hairs from worry. By the end of 3 weeks Suly, Felix and Lulu had had enough of life in a big cage and were happy to be moving into an apartment in Brooklyn.
That apartment changed into a house after 6 years and in Russian style, the cats went in to the house from the front door on their own. This is so they sense whether the house is good or not. It seemed to pass their test and they set up residence on the second floor. Suly loved running up and down the stairs, going into the basement to explore and lay out on the patio in the morning sun. One of my favorite things she would do was race down the stairs and bound out the back, racing toward the big, white bench at the back of the yard. There she would meow loud enough to wake the dead and roll around on the bench, basking in the warm sun. That was one of her spots she loved to sleep on, as were there many more inside and out. They would change from time to time over the years. At night, when I would go to bed, Suly would come up and paw at the covers until I lifted them up, and she went under to snuggle between my legs or at my side. A loud purr would emanate from under the comforter as she happily settled in for her night’s sleep.
Over the years, you don’t always realize the love you have for your animals. They can be annoying, as Suly could be at times—overly needy, in your way, on the table drinking the milk out of the creamer, under fott so you step on her all the time. The one thing she did that would piss me off royally was to clumsily step on the saucer of my tea cup and send the tea spilling all over my desk or table. One time, in the Moscow days on New Year’s Eve, Artem and friends were preparing salads for a big dinner party. Amid all the fracas in our little kitchen, she managed to sneak into the fridge and start eating one of the fish salads. When someone opened the fridge, there she was smothered in mayonnaise, happily chewing on some fish. Despite the annoyances, you forgive your little animals for they are innocent and love you unconditionally looking over your flaws as well. In my life, love of another person, as we all want it, has not shone on me greatly but I don’t bemoan that. I have had the unconditional love of three cats, who warmly have greeted me when I come home for the past 17 years. Now we are down to two and the love still goes on. I take care of them and they reward me by showing their affection and love. Sounds a little strange but it makes sense to me (and I’m sure a lot of other people in this world).
When Suly got ill with cancer, at first I didn’t know what to do. I followed the vet’s advice and made her comfortable as possible since her diagnosed life was about 3 months. Then I found Dr. Wen on Long Island. He was the famed vet who used Chinese herbs and accupuncture to cure dogs and cats of the life-threatening illnesses. Driving the 1.5 hour drive every month or so, with Suly asleep on my lap or in the seat next to me, I felt love in my heart. I was doing something for someone who has been with me for so long. It was the right thing to do really after so many years of loyalty. Some would give up and put her down, I decided to give Dr. Wen’s herbs a try and they worked for almost two years.
Yesterday afternoon, I made another drive out to Long Island, this time with Suly wrapped in a towel in the back seat, on her way to be cremated at the Regency Pet Cemetery. They were very caring about the whole process. Chuckie, the man operating the crematorium snipped some fur as a memento for me before she went into the oven. I gave her stiff little body one last snuggle and kiss and in she went to be turned into ash. As Pete and I waited for her ashes, we walked through the small little cemetery full of tombstones of beloved dogs, cats, horses and even a donkey. $238.89 for cremating a cat was a drop compared to the amount of money people spend on their pets’ graves. Ornate tombstones with pictures of dogs or cats, flowers, statues—it’s incredible. Like I said, a pet’s love is a mighty force. I found the tombstones with the religious symbols on them the most interesting, as if to say “Muffin was a good Jewish dog”, like Mufifn went to temple all the time. Most of the pets had Italian or Jewish last names so I guess we can make a genralization about ethnic groups and post-mortem pet worship. If you ever need a new drag name (first pet’s name + mother’s maiden name is the standard rule), or are stuck for names of characters in your next novel, take a stroll through a pet cemetery. My favorite was Dolly Sokolinski, Pete like Guinevere Cardavallo. There are many more out there for you to enjoy. Unfortunately I didn’t take my camera to get them all.

Today I have to learn a new way of feeding my pets, buy smaller cans of cat food, and get used to not having Suly walking around my feet. She is still in her little tin, wrapped up with green tissue in a nice little gift bag from Regency. There will be time to deal with her yet. Maybe a little sprinkle in my rose garden, a little sprinkle in Russia when I go next, and the rest mixed up with the other two when they go. A cat era has come to a close and today I want only the quiet of my house and Felix and Lulu sleeping peacefully at my feet.

Fasting Thoughts In Toronto

2010-09-04T06:47:00.000-07:00

I look out on a clouded blue sky, framed by 4 non-descript apartment high rises in downtown Toronto. A hot humid day in Ontario, what a day to be fasting. After all my travels around the world, I had a week’s respite chez moi in Brooklyn before heading up here to see my Afghans students. My main mission was to bring gifts to Ghufran, one of my former students, and his brother from their mom back in Mazar Sharif. I visited her this summer and she loaded me up with clothes and all sorts of things for them. Given our busy schedules, this was the only time we could meet up before he starts school.
It just so happens that we are in the final 2 weeks of Ramadan, meaning we eat less than usual and our sleeping schedules get all messed up. I’ve decided to embrace the fasting schedule like Ghufran, his brother, and all the other Afghans I know up here. Today is day 3 of fasting and so far, so good. Day one was the most difficult since I didn’t wake up to eat before sunrise, but yesterday was better. Muslims fast for the month of Ramadan between sun up and sun down. That means you have to get up at a prescribed time, usually 4am, to gorge yourself on food before going back to bed. Then you can’t eat or drink all day until about 7:50 pm when you break the fast with a big meal. It really isn’t that hard and feels rather good to be fasting; reflecting on your body, mind and soul throughout the day. The hardest part for me is waking up at 4 am and having to eat a big meal, especially after being up late, til 12 or 1am and not having enough sleep then having to eat. Today is my last dy of fasting since I’ll be traveling tomorrow back to NYC and you don’t fast on a travel day. Will I do it next week until my birthday? Maybe.
While up here I’ve been visiting my other former students who decided to leave my program while in the US and make a life for themselves in Canada. I’ve been coming up here over the past year to do interviewing and observing of the students, see how they are faring and provide moral support and guidance when needed. The whole purpose of this research is for a book I’m writing about all my Afghans from the program over the years. At first it was solely on the kids who ran away to Canada but now it’s expanded to include the others who went home and those that came back to study in the US. I’ve already done extensive interviewing here in Toronto and some in Afghanistan, now I just have to put it all together. September will be my writing month, since it is a quiet month for me.
This time coming to see these former students, there’s a sadness I have that I haven’t had before. Before, I saw young men and women, who took a risk to start a new life actively pursuing their education and carving out a niche for themselves in their new home. Now I see many of them, especially the girls, aimlessly frittering their time away after high school and not actively pursuing the higher education that they want. I give them advice and try to guide them as to what to do but whether they actually do something about it is another story. I met with the 7 students who came up this past spring/summer, deciding not to go back to Afghanistan. They are all in this limbo stage and don’t quite grasp what they need to do to get settled. As school approaches, they are finding foster families or apartments and registering in local schools. The refugee shelter where they have been living for the past few months is happy to see them move on, even though some go hesitantly. The reality of life in Canada is now hitting them; the novelty of making it over the border is done and the harsh reality of life on their own, with a meager allowance from the government, has begun. The comfort of the host family and community in the US is gone and now every step they take, they take on their own. Now they must, do their own laundry, cook, buy groceries, pay bills, clean, get themselves up and go to school, study all by themselves. The government gives them about $600 a month, with $400 of that going to rent. $200 is left to live on each month. That’s a lot of rice and beans for sure. Part time jobs are available. Under the table is best for that adds to their $200. Official jobs mean that their monthly earnings are taken out of their monthly stipend so they work hard and don’t get anything more.
As I visited these new arrivals in the refugee shelter and in their foster homes, I was angry at them for leaving the program and sad to think that these students, who were selected for their potential as leaders and the best ambassadors for Afghanistan, are now just welfare recipients in Toronto. Also, as an American, I feel used and that they just thought of this program as a stepping stone to Canada. They are too young to be here and Canada doesn’t need more welfare recipients. They could have been so much more if they went home, but they didn’t listen to us. They went up to the “Land of Plenty” and realize it is not so plentiful. Besides these young students, there are so many more Afghans teenagers and older, who have come to the US on various government-funded programs and hopped over the border. They too have come to the harsh reality of life in Canada—it ain’t a bed of roses for sure. One man had a career in the military, has a family back home and is sitting here in Toronto, not working and pining for his family. I tell him to go home where he can make more money and be near his family. Some, who have come here, find life in Canada to be too stressful and go back home. Many of my students have gone home for the summer, a huge risk given their protected person status, and come back to an unclear future. They ask themselves, WHY are they here? I ask the same question to them—why are you here? What do you want to accomplish?
Despite the sadness and bitterness I feel, I continue to give them the moral support they need to make their burden easier. Life is hard enough for them, why make it harder by telling them they’re wasting their time here. They aren’t wasting their time, they are just floating along the current of their lives. Some are flowing along just fine, others are sitting in irons waiting for their sails to blow them forward and some are swirling in an eddy, not being able to get out of it. Hopefully they will one day stand on their feet and become the people they are meant to be. Whether it is here in Canada or back home in Afghanistan, as long as they are safe and happy—that’s all I wish for them.

Adieu India, Hello Michigan

2010-08-22T04:54:00.000-07:00

August 17, 2010-Charlevoix, Michigan. Was I really in India for the last month or was it all a dream? I do have all the pictures and videos on my computer so it must have happened. Time goes by so fast when you’re having fun. Now all my children are safely in their US homes, beginning another adjustment cycle and readying themselves for a year-long experience they will never forget. I sit in the dining room of a rented summer house with the early morning sun shining in. The shadows of the tree branches blown wildly by a strong wind off Lake Michigan make the light dance and shimmer throughout the room. Two days ago there was a heat wave, now since yesterday it seems that autumn is closing in on us.
Charlevoix is the summer retreat for my family. It has been for generations and every summer a contingent of aunts, uncles and cousins can be found here. My summer is usually spent in Kyrgyzstan, India, Afghanistan (or all of the above) and it has been a long time since I’ve made it up here. Every now and again though the dates of my camp and the dates of when people are here in Charlevoix coincide and I’m able to enjoy some post-camp time with the family.
This year was a special year, my aunt and uncle’s 50th wedding anniversary last Friday. I planned the whole camp around this event and fortunately was able to make it. Last Thursday I left Delhi with 21 kids in tow on the first leg of our trip to the US. We had a 6 hour wait in Dubai, which isn’t a bad thing given all the shops, cafes, restaurants and free Internet. After getting squared away with United on our tickets, we headed down to our first taste of American culture—McDonald’s. The kids were quite hungry and I figured this is a good start to their year in the US. I’m not much of a McDonald’s fan, but after a month of Indian food, bring it on! To use an Indian term, we relished the McRoyal meals. After the McD’s experience, I let them roam the vast terminal to check out the shops and whatever else was there. I plopped myself in a chair near the gate and took advantage of the free WiFi.
Our travel agent Raj loves me and I love him. For the long 14-hour flight to DC, he upgraded me to business class, so I was able to stretch out my legs, sleep and enjoy the flight. My seat partner was a computer software engineer from Iraq, going to the US for some training with his company. We had interssting conversations about Iraq and Afghanistan, comparing the two countries, their problems, the US presence in each and about life in general. He doesn’t like his country and would like to leave it. I told him he has great skills which are very hireable in the US or elsewhere, but his country needs him. He wasn’t too convinced about that but he said he remains because of his family and friends. That was more important than a better life in a foreign country.
Early Friday morning, after shepherding my 21 kids through passport control and customs, I bid adieu to my charges and hopped on a plane to Chicago. It was hard to say goodbye but all good things must come to an end as I tell them and, where one adventure ends, another begins. So with tears in our eyes and emotion bubbling in our throats, we said Khoda Hafez and away I went. Some would follow me hours later on to Chicago and then on to their host cities, excited families waiting to greet them. In Chicago, I had a 3 hour wait which turned into 5 due to a delayed crew. By 3pm local time I was chomping at the bit, ready to get on that plane up to Traverse City and to see my family. After arriving in Traverse City, I still had a 1 hr drive up to Charlevoix. The big party was being held at the beach and began at 5:30. I arrived at 4:45 local time (the pilot made up for lost time zooming across Lake Michigan, despite the bumps, I was grateful), got my car, luggage was first to come out and within 15 minutes, after a clothing change in the parking lot was on my way up north. The car rental agent asked if I needed a GPS to which I said no. I have an internal GPS that knows this area like the back of my hand, spending so many summers here since childhood.
With the pedal to the metal, I made it up to Charlevox in 45 minutes and arrived at Depot Beach, the site of the big to-do 30 minutes late. What a welcome site to see all my family there—my mom and brothers, Aunt Jan and Fran and their broods, grandkids and great-grand kids running around just like we did years ago. Family friends in the mix as well. After so many hours flying, oceans and countries crossed, I was home. Not my regular home in Brookyln, but home in the bigger sense of the word. I left one family in India and was welcomed with open arms by another in Charlevoix. What a welcome sight indeed!

The India Post #4

2010-08-22T04:53:00.000-07:00

Friday morning 7 a.m. the Woodlanders are arriving at school. Their noise fills the hall outside my door and from the other side of my bathroom door. The name of the classroom that shares a door with my bathroom is Uranus, so you can imagine all the jokes we’ve had with that one. Fortunately here at school, they stress the first syllable of the word and not the second. Otherwise I’d be in stiches all the time.
Yesterday was the big cricket match between our kids and the Woodlanders. We lost unfortunately but we were up against a really good team. The event was very official as was last year’s soccer match and this time I was ready for it. Last year I wanted to take a nap and show up later, not realizing the lengths Woodlands went to to make it as important as the World Cup. I wanted to take a swim and showed up on the field in a bathing suit and orange Crocs, quite the sight. This year, I had my khakis, white shirt and navy blue blazer on. Two 11th graders escorted Mr. and Mrs. Gill and I to the field. We inspected the teams and wished everyone good luck, I tossed the coin to see who’d go first and then we took our seats on the sidelines. I now know what the Queen goes through and I can say I’m glad I’m not the Queen. All the officialness and formalities would drive me bananas. The Afghans practiced a whole lot but that didn’t save them from losing the game. The boys were down after the game and I gave them a pep talk to cheer them up. You win some, you lose some—that’s life. Now they want to have a soccer match to reclaim their victory.
Post cricket match, us adults retired to the gazebo amid the pouring rain for some gin drinks and grilled chicken. Mr. Gill did a great job with the yoghurt marinade with ginger-garlic and chili paste. I made the Cuke—a concoction of limes, lemons, mint and cucumbers soaked in gin, cut with tonic or soda. Quite refreshing during the hot, summer months. The chicken was to die for and we ate ourselves silly. We haven’t spent much time with the Gills this year and with less than a week to go before we break camp, we made up for lost time. We ate, drank, and laughed, enjoying each other’s company as we usually do.
The camp seems to have gone very fast this year. It seems like a year since I’ve been home and like yesterday that the camp started. It was an OK camp this time. The kids were not as open as past years, some more conservative elements in the crowd trying to control others, especially the girls. We sort of put that to rest but I’m sure there is an undertone of that going on still. Fortunately, the girls aren’t putting up with any of the boys’ controlling crap. We’ve placed bets on who already has their eyes set on Canada and who will return home. Let’s see what happens as the year rolls on.

The India Post #3

2010-08-22T04:36:00.000-07:00

This past weekend was our religion weekend. Not that we are trying to convert anyone, but we want to expose these kids to different faiths and teach them respect for other beliefs. Saturday was our trip to Amritsar and the Golden Temple—the Sikhs holy city. The Vatican of Sikhism with an estimated 10,000 people a day visiting. Going a second time with a big group is a little easier than the first time because you know what to do. We did our walk around the Lake of Nectar (not really nectar but pumped-in water) to the entrance of the Golden Temple. The temple is situated in the middle of the lake with a long platform stretching out to it. The platform is a mass of people waiting to get in to pray beside the Guru Granth Sahib, the Sikhs’ holy book. We were all smashed in with the faithful ready when the stern looking guard at the fornt raised the stick, allowing us to flood into the temple. Inside this ornate building is the holy book shrouded in pink sparkly cloth. People sit around, musicians are there playing music in worship 24/7. The music is quite pleasant, prayers it is, and it can be heard throughout the complex over loud speakers. Going into the temple is somewhat reminiscent of a Disneyland ride, waiting in a long line for a few minutes of fun. No disrespect to the Sikhs, I think they have a cool religion and they were quite friendly to explain, teach and share their views with us.
After the visit to the temple, we headed over to the dining hall for lunch. The Sikhs are quite hospitable and serve meals for the thousands in their long dining halls. As you enter the complex, you are handed a metal plate, spoon and cup and head in to the dining hall. Everyone sits on the floor and puts their plate in front of them. Men come around with buckets of daal and other vegetarian delights, and slop them into your compartmented plate. The bread man wont give you bread unless you hold out two hands ala begging. The main philosophy of the Sikhs is everyone is equal and here in the dining hall that idea is best represented. No one sits higher than the other, no one gets more than what they can consume, and no one is allowed to waste. We take what we need and that’s it. To many the Westerner, they may enter with trepidation and fear of food poisoning but the place is very clean and the food delicious. It’s still one of my best dining experiences in India.
Once out of the temple, we headed down the street to Jallianwala Bagh, the site of the Indian massacre. This is the other place in Amritsar we like to take the kids for some Indian history. It’s a black mark on the period of British rule in India. A one Brigadier General Dyer shooting into a crowd of 5,000 peaceful protesters, killing and injuring upward of 1,500 people. By this time in the day, it is really hot and we are tired so most of us cooled down in the shady arbors and took a peek inside the small museum.
At the end of all this, on the way back to camp, I got a craving for cold beer and tandoori chicken. My magic man, Mr. Santosh made that happen and in the evening after a nice, cold shower we were able to relax in the gazebo with chicken, beer and a few gin and tonics to boot. Aaaaah life is good!

The India Post #2

2010-08-06T11:39:00.000-07:00

Oh my God, I can’t believe roughly two weeks have gone by since the last posting! Please forgive me, but once camp starts, things get a little busy. In addition to the usual business of running this camp and managing students and a staff, there is the task of keeping good relations with the Woodlands staff. That means ensuring our kids socialize with the Woodlands kids and I sit in the gazebo with the Gills for gin and tonics now and then. I actually enjoy Mr. Gills company (and gin and tonics) so that isn’t too difficult, but still all together it’s a balancing act that not everyone can do.
As per usual with this program, there are always problems. Nothing ever goes the way it is supposed to go and every year the problem is different. This year’s problem is having the kids get their US visas. Apparently there are some State Dept. people who really want to shut the program down, either for one year or forever. That said, they’ve held up the arrival of half the kids to camp. At the onset of camp I had 19 kids, not 34. Two days ago I got six more kids and who knows when or whether I will get the remaining nine. Camp ends in ten days and then we are off to the US. It is something that I cannot worry about or do anything about. We focus on the kids we have here and do our best to make sure they are ready to go to the US by the time camp is over.
This year’s group has been a bit tough at the start. Serious, uptight, a few conservative, controlling boys who inhibit the group from coming together as a whole and causing friction between the boys and girls. Excuse my French, but I don’t put up with that shit and nipped it in the bud so it wouldn’t make me lose sleep at night. That was the first week and since then we have been working on a variety of team building activities and I’ve been having some one on ones with some of the boys to make sure everyone is on the same page and working together. I have ten rules at camp, and the last one is probably the most important—“We Are Family”. Now at the end of the second week I think they understand this rule better than the week before.
So what have we been up to? Well, lots of academics for sure and the kids have been struggling to keep up with the ton of homework my teachers assign them. They’re not used to so much homework and try to get out of doing it but we have none of their sympathy. They will face these challenges when in the US so why not get them used to the work load now rather than have it a shock when they get there.
Besides studying, we have had some fun outside the gates of Woodlands. Last weekend we went on a picnic to a rest house in the forest. Just like last year it was really hot and humid and the electricity didn’t work so no fans or AC untis worked. That didn’t stop the kids from roaming outside in the woods or having a water balloon fight. I stayed inside and played a game of Scrabble with Tim, one of my teachers. Post picnic we stopped to visit a Hindu temple to the goddess with lots of arms who rides a lion. I can’t remember her name and when someone says it they mumble it so fast that I don’t get the name. Anyway she has 9 different incarnations which makes it all the more confusing. Hinduism has over 33,000 gods and goddesses and I don’t know how they keep them all straight. I should be happy I came from a religion with one Jesus, a Holy Mother, 12 apostles and some a few hundred saints. This temple is a recreation of a cave where this goddess originally came from, so you enter this temple through a narrow passage just like the real cave in another part of India. It was sort of like a ride at Disneyland but this was the real Hindu deal. God forbid the Disney folks ever come here and get the idea to put something like this at one of their parks. They’ll have Hindus bulldozing it down. Anyway, back in the cave there’s a small altar to different goddesses that you can pray to, leave an offering, get some munchy puffed rice and a thali on your forehead. Further on are depictions of scenes from the life of this goddess and all the different views she takes on. My favorite is the blue view with her tongue sticking way out ala Gene Simmons of KISS, wearing a lei of men’s heads and a skirt of bloodied arms. Talk about hell hath no fury like a woman scorned!
As per tradition, there was an evening of Indian-Afghan culture where the Woodlanders and our Afghans performed traditional dances and songs from their respective countries. It was really good this year and our kids did a great job performing the Atan dance, the national anthem, and doing a skit how Afghans get married. Everyone loved it and at the end of the evening we had a big disco for our kids and the Woodlanders, which was a blast despite the stifling humidity.

India Post Number 1

2010-07-18T11:10:00.001-07:00

Is there any better way to wake up in India with the sun shining through your colorfully painted window and listening to Stevie Nicks sing “Landslide”? Well maybe we could add Tedju, the dining hall waiter, knocking on my door with my bed tea. It’s still early maybe he’ll knock around 7.
So here we are in Hoshiarpur, India, my hot and humid home for the next month, settled into our rooms at Woodlands 362">Overseas School. The Gil family that runs the school greeted us last Friday with marigold leis, red dots on the forehead and sweets last week as per usual to welcoming someone in India. It was a meeting of formality but also informality as we hugged and beamed at the site of each other after one year. They have been quite busy here at Woodlands in the past year, building two more stories to the senior wing, giving us more space to spread out and run our program. I’m just happy to get my own spacious room where I can get up early and write without distractions. The best part of my room is the second door in the bathroom. Where does it go? Well unlock it and you’ll fall right into an 8th grade class! I guess I’ll have to time my visits to the bathroom before the kids start school. Now there’s a reason to get up early!
I’ve had my staff running around India this past week which is a overwhelming, especially for those who just flew in from the US or Kyrgyzstan. I wanted my staff to see the Taj Mahal before we went up to camp and started work. So that’s what we did. My 3 Afghan counselors, Tim (teacher) and I drove up here last Friday in what turned into an arduous 11 hr drive with various stops for food, closed roads due to recent monsoon flooding, and a flat tire. An adventure indeed and we were happy to finally arrive at Woodlands, take a shower and unpack our bags. Traveling is fun, but it’s always nice to stay in one place for a while. I had my staff here for two days then we went back down to Delhi to meet 3 more teachers, do some shopping and go to the Taj.
Delhi is a huge, polluted, crowded metropolis that I enjoy arriving to and then getting the hell out. We left a little late for the Taj trip and it took us about 2 hrs just to get out of the city. There’s tons of construction projects, roads being redone, a metro line being built, getting ready for the Commonwealth Games in October. A 4 hr drive to Agra is never what it seems. So 6 hrs later we arrived at India’s most sacred tourist attraction and the foreign tourist exploitation began. All sorts of crap from keychains to necklaces to bottles of water thrust in your face as Mr. Santosh, my die-hard assistant, shephered us away from the camel carts to the faster electric cars. As the electric car tried to pull away, the desparate sellers slashed their prices, threw Taj keychains in my lap (which I brushed off back into their hands) and cried out their names to remember them on the way back. I’ve seen this all before so I wasn’t shocked by the circus of vendors in front of me. It’s all part of the experience.
Even a second time (and probably a third, fourth or fifth) the Taj Mahal is really glorious. I was happy that my staff was able to see this wonder before an intensive month-long camp far away from the Taj. We had the guided tour, which they enjoyed and snapped pictures galore. As irony would have it, my camera battery died when we got there so I had to rely on Nick’s camera to document the day (Nick is one of my counselors). After the tour, we had the obligatory trip to the marble shop to see how they inlay different stones into the marble and of course buy something. I preferred to stay on the street eating ice cream and batting away the souvenir hawkers. Back on the electric car, the hawking drama was in high gear as my staff made last minute purchases from the desparate throng of sellers. Just when we were about to go, Chynara would handle a chess set and the car would stop. Nick or Zia would decide they need that box of earrings as a gift to take home. Again Taj Mahal key chains were thrown at me and carved stone elephants were shoved in my face but I politely denied their ever lowering offers as we tried to pull away. Finally the driver gunned it and away we went as souvenirs or rupees were thrown about in a last second exchange. This scenario repeated itself at the car as more sellers blocked my entry to the car, halfway in the van with more chess sets, mini Taj Mahals and Lord knows what else, trying to get my souvenir hungry colleagues to buy. But it all proved too much and with a slam of the car door and a pop of the clutch, we were on our way back to Delhi.
The return drive back always seems shorter than the way there. Still we made it home before midnight (with 30 mins to spare) and immediately plopped into bed. We had to be up at the crack of dawn 5:30 to be exact so we could make it to our train back up to Hoshiarpur. My staff were troopers and we made the train with no problem. One thing I like about Delhi in the early morning, there’s no traffic and you drive around freely. We whizzed down the unclogged streets to the railway station where the traffic jam of cars and people was in full force. Mr. Santosh got some porters to carry Jane, Chynara and Batma’s big suitcases to the platform. They wrapped their cloths around the top of their heads and plopped those heavy loads on top and off they went with all of us scurrying past the other travelers, beggars, people asleep on the floor, suitcases, tea sellers and the lot. Our train arrived at the appointed time and we settled into our seats, ready for our 5 hr ride to Jalandhar, our stop in the Punjab.
Jalandhar is about an hour from Hoshiarpur by car so the Woodlands bus was there to meet us and away we went for the final drive before settling down and getting to work. Again the Gils greeted us in full Indian style and happy to have us back and see Chynara and Batma after a year. While we went to the Taj, Tim decided to check out Dharamsala, the Indian home of the Dalai Lama and his seat of government in exile. He had been to the Taj with his wife a week earlier and had no desire to relive the exploitation of it all. Despite the fact that he ate a bad samosa on the way up and got sick, he said it was worth the trip (eventhough he didn’t see the Dalai Lama).
As usual with the YES program, nothing ever works just right so why should this year be any different. This year’s surprise is that only 19 out of 34 kids got their US visas so far and will be arriving on the planned start date of camp. The others may come sometime next week once they get their US and Indian visas. One of those things you can’t control, so you adjust yourself accordingly. We’ve already tweaked the schedule so it’s not too disruptive to our original plan.
Prior to the kids’ arrival, we have been preparing for their imminent arrival, swimming, bonding, laughing, catching up on sleep and hanging out with the Gils. Last night they took us to a mango grove for some mango sucking. I beg your pardon? Yes, here in India there are so many kinds of mangoes. Last night we sucked mangoes to our hearts delight. So refreshing in the humid, early evening. Giant buckets of mangoes in icy water, chilled to perfection. After we were sated on mangoes, we tried our hand at plucking mangoes from the trees with a giant stick. Picked about a basket full which we got to take home. No trip into the countryside is complete without a visit to the Gil’s farm. Down along a canal we drove from the mango groves past farmers and villagers on their way home or out for an evening stroll, through small villages alive with activity to the quietness of the Gil farm, surrounded by acres of citrus and fruit trees. We sat, civilized, on the lawn being served drinks and snacks, talking like the adults we are, as the young counselors bounded off into the citrus groves. As the sun set on another day in the Punjab, in our lives, we piled into the cars and headed back to our waiting dinner at Woodlands. The hot, sticky air reminded us of the coming monsoon in a day or two that will give us some much needed relief.

Ciao Afghanistan!

2010-07-14T18:44:00.001-07:00

My time in Kabul has just flown by. I didn’t even have enough time to sit down and blg about it. What’s up with that? Well, here I sit on my last morning in the Intercontinental Hotel, writing up the latest news. This has probably been my busiest and best trip to Kabul. Since coming back from Mazar e Sharif, I have been on the go, mostly meeting with my former students around town. I did have some good one-on-one interviews with some alumni about what they are doing here in Afghanistan for my book. Recorded it all on y little tape recorder, now just have to sit down and transcribe it. The story slowly forms in my head, gains clarity and by the time I get home, should be writing itself. There are great things my students are doing here. On a small scale they are great, not changing government policies, but day-to-day great things to make their country stable and developed. Many I’ve spoken with have opened schools, teaching young children English and other subjects. Impressive for 16/17 year olds. The interviews highlight how much needs to be done here and how little faith people have in their own country. Still these young men and women remain hopeful for a better future.
I actually can say I felt more comfortable moving around Kabul compared to the last few times I was here. The city less tense for some reason and I was able to move around more freely than before. Most of my time in the last week was going around to students’ houses for lunch or dinner. Now that was a treat but really exhausting. There’s so much food and it’s always the same; qabuli pilau (rice), mantu (meat dumplings), kebabs, tomato and cucumber salad, melon. My stomach had quite a time processing all of that two times a day (I was usually invited for lunch or dinner). I jokingly said to one student, “Can’t I just have a cup of tea?” Not here in Afghanistan. I am the guest, the representative of the YES program and this is the way the families are thanking me, and all Americans really for the opportunity given to their son or daughter. Well, I wish there were a few more Americans helping me eat all this food! Despite the sameness of every meal (there isn’t a whole lot of variety in Afghan cuisine), there was always something special to poin out and complement the host on—the leek and potato bolani, the orange peel added to the qabuli pilau, the spicy bean dish, the spinach to go along with the chicken, the fresh mint with kebabs, the spicy chutney, the finely chopped tomato, onion and pepper salad. I stuffed myself at every house and left a happy man, which I’m sure made the hosts feel very pleased. Believe it or not, I didn’t have any stomach problems that usually afflict the western digestive tract in this part of the world. I should count my blessings! Still I’m sure all that meat, rice, bread didn’t do much for my weight or cholesterol level. But hey, am I here to spend our time worrying about that or to experience real Afghan living?
There were many great days I’ve had here in Kabul. The delicious meals, getting to see how my students live, meeting their families, practice sitting cross-legged for hours, walking around the streets relatively safe. I had two favorite moments. The first was spending time with two students in the Kabul City Center eating lunch and talking, then walking around downtown, stopping in to see a former student’s father at his motorcycle shop. It was that simple, everyday normalcy that I haven’t had much of here in Kabul due to security concerns. The other was driving out to Kargha Lake in the evening with another student of mine to eat kebab by the lake as the sun set. Another moment of simplicity, seeing Afghans doing something normal like relaxing by the lake. We didn’t eat all of our kebab and as we left, a little boy grabbed the leftovers in the big piece of flatbread and ran down to the shore to eat it with his friends. After that we went to my student’s house to meet his 2 yr old daughter, wife, mother, brothers and sisters. Another real Afghan moment.
We Americans sit in front of our TVs and judge the world based on what we see. Usually, we only see the negative, the dangerous and assume that the world outside is a place to fear. Well I’m here to say that it isn’t. Despite what we see on TV, there are good things happening here in Afghanistan. They are small, but they are happening. As long as one stays positive, good things will come. Keeping your head low here is one thing you have to do, remaining positive is another thing, one more difficult than the first. But anything is possible.
With that last thought, I’m packing my big bags and flying off to New Delhi to start the next leg of my adventure. On to another country fraught with problems as well (what country isn’t I ask) but doing very well despite all that. After a two hour flight and a 9 hour bus ride, I will be in my new summer home at Woodlands Overseas School. Off we go!

Waking Up in Kabul

2010-07-14T18:23:00.000-07:00

4:50 a.m. in the capital and the sun is rising in the east, the glow from behind the mountains gets stronger and stronger. In just a matter of minutes the sun will have made its appearance and rise majestically over Kabul to blaze down on it for another day. Already the muezzin has awoken me from my sleep and with the new day beginning there’s no way I can sleep anymore. After an 8-hour journey from Mazar, we arrived back in Kabul around three and I was back in my citadel of modest comfort, aka the Intercontinental Hotel—a relic from the glory days of Afghanistan (1960’s-70’s), now rather resembling the hotel in “The Shining” with its empty, quiet corridors. After a swim in the pool, I lounged in my bed, watching TV until I dozed off around 5. The jet lag bug just wont let me go as much as I try to stay awake, so I figured this was my time to get all the sleep out of me and get in groove with the Kabul time zone. I think I’m over the jet lag hump.
The trip back to Kabul, while long, seemed to go rather fast. I’ve been on that road so many times that it’s familiar to me. Plus there’s the theory that the return trip seems quicker than the way there. Through valleys and mountain gorges, past villages and dusty towns, rushing rivers, rice fields, orchards of fruit trees and almonds, stopping to buy peaches in a village, up the Salang Pass; through the dark, murky tunnel and then whizzing down the other side, stopping for lunch of kebab, pilau and vegetable soup at a roadside eatery, getting the car washed by one of the many places along the way where the water comes fresh from the river below. Despite all the relative calm viewed along the way, there is the underlying fear of unrest, violence by the Taliban who have increased their presence in this area in the last year. Apparently they come out at night to impose their order of fear in the locals, from the villages tucked away off the main highway. Luckily we didn’t have any problems along the way.
So here I am in Kabul for a week and lots to do. Mainly I want to meet with my YES kids and find out what is going on with them. Fodder for the book. I think I’ll be able to crank out a lot of writing here in this quiet hotel with few distractions. Right now I’m needing a cup of coffee and some breakfast since I didn’t eat dinner ast night. When does the breakfast buffet open?? Let me go find out.

From NYC to Mazar-e Sharif

2010-07-01T18:50:00.000-07:00

4:42 a.m. and it is already light outside in Mazar-e Sharif. The past few days have been a blur of movement around the globe from hot and humid New York to the dry, desert-like heat of Mazar. I have left the comfort and stability of my New York home for the rough and tumble world of Afghanistan. In many was it’s like traveling back in time to an ancient era but a ring of a cellphone or the free wireless connection in my hotel reminds me that I’m still in the 21st century.
I left New York last Thursday, traveling through DC and Dubai, finally landing in Kabul early Saturday morning. I was allowed one day’s rest at the retro Intercontinental Hotel before rising early Sunday morning for the 8-hour drive to Mazar. They just don’t let me rest here! Little by little over the past few days I’ve been adjusting to the 100+ degree heat and time difference. I think I’m almost adjusted but just in case, I plan to lock myself up in my room tomorrow at the Intercontinental and just veg out. It’s a half-day anyway for the country so I’m not missing much. My colleagues here worry that I will be so lonely but I assure them that I’ll be just fine. To appease them, I may join them for dinner.
Mazar was on my radar for this year’s trip to Afghanistan for various reasons. The most important reason was visiting my friend Ghufran’s family. He is now in Canada and has been helping me with my book that I’m writing on all my students. I’ve been up to see him and others over the past year and always stay with him. While he is my former student, I now consider him my friend. I figured if I came all this way, I needed to visit his family. His mom is running for public office so we designed her a campaign button, which I printed out on my button maker at home. Unfortunately I only had enough for 27 butotns but I’ll have to find somewhere in India to have them made.
Ghufran looks just like his mom. That’s the first thing I said to her when we met at the girls’ high school where she is principal. Although we couldn’t speak each other’s language, we communicated our happiness at meeting each other with our eyes. She is short, like him and a dynamo of energy, like him too. Besides mom, I got to meet Ghufran’s youngest brother, a shy, lanky 14 yr old Rizvan and his adorable little nieces. They came to my hotel for a visit and the little girls had fun jumping on my bed. Had I known I’d be seeing these little dolls, I would have sent them home with some TCat t-shirts. Oh well, next time.
Besides meeting the family, I had other families to meet (the new group of students) and also the alumni from past years. I interviewed some of my former students for my book, which seemed to go over well. I will be doing the same in Kabul and hopefully get some good material to write. Still I’m sure one time is not enough and maybe I’ll come back here another time to do some more interviewing. Thank God for Face Book I can keep connected with many of my students and do some interviewing through chat.
The biggest tourist attraction in Mazar is the Blue Mosque. Apparently it’s really the only thing to see here. It is the grave of Mullah Ali, a prophet held in high regard by the Shiites. Many people come to the Blue Mosque for Naurouz, the spring festival in the Islamic calendar. White doves fly around this beautiful edifice in the middle of town, a tiled structure of various shades of blues. Visiting it in mid-day is a scorcher on the feet (you have to go barefoot) but the trick is to stay on the white tiles, not the grey ones. As a non-believer, I wasn’t allowed in to see the tomb of Mullah Ali but could peer in through the giant golden doors. I enjoyed taking close ups of all the fabulous patterened tiles that covers the shrine and adjoining mosque.
It is now 5:30 and I must repack my bags and get ready for the long journey back down to Kabul. A road I know so well since I’ve done the drive up and over the Salang pass many times. I enjoyed my visit here and will miss this small city despite it’s heat and slower than Kabul ways. I’ll be back though one day for sure, inshallah.

The May Update

2010-05-25T03:16:00.000-07:00

Morning arrives for the umpteenth time in Brooklyn. It is always the same but never dull. The cool morning air, the quiet, the sun making it’s way up the sky, slowly bringing my yello kitchen to life, birds chirping and the city slowly coming to life. A fog horn blows in the distance, is it the Queen Mary 2 arriving in New York harbor, squeezing under the Verrazano Bridge? For some unforeseen reason I am up at 5:15 and instead of trying to go back to bed until 6, I embrace the moment and figure it’s time to get caught up on my blog. Readers have been wondering if I fell off the face of the earth and the answer is NO. You would have heard that!
Seems the last time I wrote I was in DC for a conference with my Afghan students. Since then, 2 boys have ran away to Canada (that makes 3 this year) and the girls are getting scholarships left and right. Not to say boys aren’t eligible to return and study, it’s just that there is more money out there for Afghan girls than boys. I feel it is a bit unfair, for to really build a stable country, you need to educate both the boys and the girls. I worry that this trend toward providing educational opportunities only for the women of Afghanistan will back fire and make them only more oppressed or the men more repressive.
Still, that doesn’t stop me from taking advantage of opportunities for anyone. May was spent helping to put together a 2-year scholarship for my Afghan girl here in NYC at a private school in Baltimore. Two Fridays ago, she and I drove down to the school to take a look at the campus, meet the admissions and educational people, the president and students of the school. In the end, she walked away with a scholarship to do her junior and senior years at this respected school. It was one of the best days of my life to see how people came together to change the life of one young Afghan girl. In the end, it was her that got the scholarship but a few of us behind the scenes did a lot to change her destiny.
Besides helping to decide futures, life goes on as a teacher of children and adults alike and as a t-shirt designer/vendor on the streets of NYC. The school year is coming to an end and I’ll be more than happy to see it over. It’s that time of year when my adults come less and less to class and get lazy about doing the work. I don’t know if it’s the change in the weather and/or more work but the need to do something else rather than study is obvious. Just a two more weeks left and we are done. Work at the elementary level has been hectic, subbing everyday for the last two weeks. It’s draining but in the end, the money will keep my student loan paid for awhile. I’ve actually enjoyed the work since I’ve had some consistency with classes. Then I can get actual learning done instead of flitting from class to class. This week I’m the science teacher and I’m getting those kids ready for the science fair which is fun.
The summer job in India looms ahead of me and once Memorial Day weekend is over, the time just flies and suddenly I’m on a plane to India. This year I’m taking the kids back to Afghanistan first so that’ll be rather exciting. I’m actually looking forward to the trip since I’d like to do some interviewing of students for my book. So far, I have a lot of fodder from Canada and anticipate some good stuff in Afghanistan. People all think I’m crazy for going, my mother is already worrying but there’s nothing to fear but fear itself. I’m sure it’ll be OK. Before that trip, I plan to go to Toronto for a quick trip to see my kids up there.
The t-shirt business has been good this summer. I’m selling out of a lot of stuff which is good since I didn’t do a printing this spring. I figured since I had a lot of stock already, why get more. Maybe a printing in September will suffice. I enjoy the weekend work selling my wares, sharing a booth with Maruska, my partner in crime on the street market scene but am being conservative this year with spending. I’d like to do as many markets as I can and sell off what I have. What will happen next with TCat Designs, who knows but it won’t close for sure. My new website is up and running which looks great. If you read this blog, go check it out: www.tcatdesigns.com. You’ll love it.
All my cats are doing well. Mama Suly is definitely older but still getting around. She paces a lot and I find myself stepping on her more and more the poor thing. She doesn’t like taking her Chinese herbs anymore and I am not shoving them down her throat. As long as she is eating, going to the bathroom and able to jump up on the bed, then she’s doing OK by me. I just hope she doesn’t croak over the summer when I’m gone. I wouldn’t want to let that with my sublettor.

The kitchen is aglow now which means it must be close to 6:30. It’s a mess but still beautiful in the morning light. My kitchen table is a vortex for everything and rarely do I see its surface, but it’s just the nature of things I suppose. That said, I’m going to start my Tuesday.

Looking out on the Morning Light

2010-04-24T04:26:00.000-07:00

Dawn creeps in to my dark hotel room. As I open the curtains to greet the day, my view is on a nondescript parking lot with a Burger King and a Taco Bell. I could be anywhere in the US, but I am looking out from a room at the Holiday Inn in Chantilly, VA. I somehow feel I’m on the set of “Up In The Air” but no I am on the set of something more real—an end of year workshop for my Afghan students. Where has the time gone? It seems that they just arrived and now we are getting ready to say goodbye. Time—the older you get the faster it seems to go. The question on everyone’s mind is “Who will run away to Canada?” for this is the time that they do it. Either during the weekend workshop or when they return home. So far we have one kid in a Homeland Security detention center whow as caught trying to head over in September and one who went a few weeks ago who did get over. Hopefully no more will go but you never know.
As I look out on the typical American suburbia landschaft, the question on my mind is “Where have I been and where am I going?” Seems like ages since I last wrote on my blog and it’s not out of lack of interest but rather lack of time to sit down and write. Well I will amend that as spring has arrived and life awakens after the cold winter. The hallway is full of the Afghan teenage noise that I’ve become accustomed to which means they did all wake up and are ready for breakfast. Now let’s see if they can get downstairs on time for breakfast.

Mrs. Maxell's Cakes

2010-03-22T06:27:00.000-07:00

Going to and from JFK along Atlantic Ave, one passes and intriguing place—Mrs. Maxwell’s cake shop. It’s a big place in a junky part of the avenue and I always wondered about the quality of their cakes. Well, last Saturday I just happened to be driving along Atlantic, on my way back from the 1.5 hr drive to Dr. Wen, Suly’s vet on Long Island. This was the day I was going to stop by and check out Mrs. Maxwell’s. The parkig lot was full of cars, people picking up some cakes for children’s birthday parties. Being in a low economic neighborhood, I was the only white person in there, the clientele mostly black or Hispanic. Well with all the other bakeries closer to my house, why would I schlep out here for a cake, right?
The place was neat and clean and filled with luscious baked goods-pies, cakes, pastries, cupcakes made in that old school way. I opted for a devils’food chocolate cake, a chocolate roll and a cupcake. No I wasn’t going to throw weeks of healthy eating and exercise out the window by eating this all myself, but I felt we needed a sample of different things to try. The cupcake was very good-moist, dense cake and creamy frosting. A tad too sweet but not overbearing. The chocolate roll was the minature version of their most popular cake—the Hershey’s Kiss cake a white, creamy condfection with chocolate sponge cake in the middle. All I can say to that is YUM YUM! As for the chocolate cake, again the frosting was a bit sugary (as noted by the wee headache I get from too much sugar) but not enough to transport me back to the days my grandmother’s chocolate cakes or the German bakery where we got our cakes. One bite of that cake and you were forced to pur yourself a glass of milk. A good chocolate cake should do that. Looking forward to the next time I happen to be on Atlantic without luggage heading to the airport. I want to try the Carmen Miranda pie and the Coconut chocolate cake!

When Life Gives You A Blank Wall...

2010-03-22T06:18:00.001-07:00

So the deserted building next to me that was gutted last fall has sprung to life again. Well, with the warm, spring weather it is possible for the owners of this eyesore to begin work anew. They left a giant hole in the backyard in fall (a planned extension of the house) which took on alife of its own and began checking out the neighbors. Slowly but surely the big hole started coming into my yard and my patio started to fall into the encroaching pit. Last week with a major rain storm, the hole claimed more of my patio and part of my tomato bed. Then fence began to do a lean that way as well. Fortunately we had excellent weather all week and the workers dug more as well as fortify the earth a wee bit to stop the sink hole from getting bigger. What they also did while I was away at work, but a necessity I suppose, was cut down the fence, take down my pergola and put up a giant plywood wall on my property. That I wasn’t expecting but when it was all done, there wasn’t much I could say. They do promise to put it back the way it was and I have a signed note to prove it.
What does one do when life throws a giant blank wall into their life? Well I know what I do—I paint it. Last Saturday I pulled out the paints and went to work to relieve some stress by painting giant cats sitting in a garden of big, red flowers on a sunny day. That’s all I did for now but who knows, more cats might go up along the the plywood. Lights were hung too so we have some sort of festive illumination out back to take away from the dirt and shabbiness. Who knows how long the fence will be up but if I have to look at it, I might as well look at something I enjoy, right?

40 dnei Andreya

2010-02-25T05:47:00.001-08:00

The 40th day came and life slowed down to remember a loved one. Since I heard the news of Andrei’s passing, it slowly seeped into me that someone I cared for is truly gone. It took a few days for me to get over the shock and come to terms with this news. If I knew earlier, could I have helped him? Why didn’t I know earlier? Why didn’t I call to find out? These were questions that kept going over in my mind. But in the end, it doesn’t bring him back to life.
On Tuesday, I was feeling pretty down and alone—not around anyone who knew him well. I wished I could transport myself to Russia to gather with his friends and family. So in a small, quiet way I honored the memory of my friend. Of course a few shots of vodka were done (7 to be exact) and words were said (maybe he heard them). In addition I went to a Russian Orthodox church to light a candle and have the priest pray for him (panikhida is what they call it).
Lighting a candle and sitting in the dark church, alone with my thoughts, was a real comfort. I needed to do something a little more serious and heartfelt than down 7 shots of vodka to a friend and a panikhida, as recommended by my friend Liz, was just the thing. I wrote Andrei’s name (first name only, no last names) on a piece of paper and put it in an envelope with $17 (suggested donation). With the change from a $20, I lit a big $3 candle and placed it at the designated spot in front of an icon of Jesus on the cross. It’s like a little stand, always on the right side when you first walk in to any Russian Orthodox church. I stood in the growing darkness of this small church, the sweet smell of beeswax candles, the rustling of people in the lobby and the pitter patter of rain on the roof. In my own quiet way, I said goodbye to Andrei and knew that his soul was in good hands. This small ritual may seem silly, but it brought much peace to my heart.
As I left the church on my way to teach, I felt a huge release of energy off me. The sadness was gone and I was embraced by a sense of comfort and goodness. On one hand it wasn’t so much that I was saying goodbye to a friend on the day when his soul leaves this earth and ascends into heaven, as the Russians believe, but rather that I was upholding a tradition I learned in Russia, and after all these years of not living there, still found value in it. This act reaffirmed how accultured I became in Russia and how much of Russian traditions, values and ideas are still in me. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, it is a part of who I am—an added layer to my way of thinking and feeling. And on a cold, rainy February afternoon in a small Russian church on a busy street in Brooklyn, it was the most important thing I did all day.

V Traure (In mourning)

2010-02-18T05:25:00.001-08:00

I got some sad news the other day. Andrei, a friend of mine from Russia died last month. I’ve been emailing him and trying to Skype him for the past few months and no answer. I thought maybe he was busy or mad at me. So I called him yesterday only to find out that the news wasn’t good. He died on January 15th at age 35. This was not the news I expected to hear nor wanted to hear. My Andrei dead? How could this be? Apparently he died of AIDS-related pneumonia. Had I known about this, I could have got something to him to save his life. No one with AIDS dies of pneumonia anymore, not in this country at least. There’s profylaxsis for that, it’s treatable. I can just imagine the treatment he got once the doctors found out he was HIV+. Nothing they could do except judge and isolate him. His friend Yura told me all the details about his sickness, death and funeral. All his friends are in shock and grief. I’ve been in shock too. I can’t believe I won’t see him anymore or hear his voice over Skype. Now he lies in Kushva, a small town north of Ekaterinburg, six feet under the snow and ice.
Andrei was more than a friend, more of a boyfriend, who came into my life around 1995. What I liked about him is he was simple. He had no expectations from me nor looked at me as the rich American who would be his meal ticket (like so many other guys did). He was in the travel business which opened up his world to places to go and see. He came to visit me twice in New York and I would make the trek out to Ekaterinburg to see him when I was in Russia or nearby in Kazakhstan. The last time I saw him was 3 years ago. By then we weren’t really boyfriends anymore, but the love and friendship was still there. There was always a desire to rekindle the flame but the big question was where. We tried to meet up in places around the world but the timing was off. He took his vacation in September just as I was getting home from my 2 months overseas. This year would have been different, we were definitely going to meet up somewhere in Europe. Alas it will not be. Our timing was off again, and one month to the day after Andrei’s death, my Christmas card arrived and I phoned to get the sad, sad news.
I can’t go over to Ekaterinburg and bring him back to life. I can only remember my sweet, fun friend who made me laugh and was always a pleasure to be with. A picture of him and me sits now on a table in the living room. I can celebrate what was, and will try not to mourn what could have been. Next week will be the 40th day since his passing. According to the Russians, that’s when his soul will ascend up into heaven. As tradition has it, that is when we gather and remember the departed and send him on his way. The vodka will be flowing in Ekaterinburg as well as New York that day. A nice tribute to a small-town boy with an international flair.
Poka Andrei, do novykh vstrech.

A Weekend in Pennsylvania

2010-02-09T05:07:00.000-08:00

Looking at the end of my last post, the snow didn’t stop me. Actually there was no big snow storm to stop me. I woke up early Saturday to a light snow but by the time I was through the Holland Tunnel, there was no snow at all. So much for the hype and drama that goes on here when it snows. It drives me crazy. A little flake and people flip out. “It’s just snow”, I tell them. In Russia snow began in October and lasted until May. People still went about their lives despite the cold and snow.
Anyway, I digress. So off I went down I-80 to Kane, PA, roads clear of traffic and snow. My mission—to meet with some host families and talk about their experience with the Afghan students who ran away to Canada. Not all of the ones invited showed up but a few did. Those that didn’t show up apparently didn’t want to take part in my book ideaand upon talking with them over the phone, were against the book. A little opposition is just fodder to go forward, and forward I do go. The interview session went well. I was expecting maybe a little more negativity on the families’ part but it wasn’t there. Time heals all wounds and the young are forgiven. How can you hold a grudge against someone who wants to better their life?
Arriving a few hours early in themiddle of PA, I decided to pop down and say hi to Phil the groundhog in Punxsutawney. Four days late of his big day, but he was still around. They actually have him in a little zoo on the main square of this small Pennsylvanian town. Phil did predict 6 more weeksof winter and he was right. The town got hit on Friday and the place was covered in snow. Besides Phil, there isn’t a lot to draw one down to Punxsutawney. It is a cute little town with shops, cafes and all. There are groundhogs wherever you go as you spend the 15 minutes walking around the place. Giant fiberglass Phils in various states of design and dress dot the streets and public places, much like the cows did in New York years ago. The lady in the Chamber of Commerce was very friendly and told me all the things to do in Punxsutawney. I opted for the quick tour—a walk to the Groundhog zoo and a drive into the woods to Gobbler’s Knob where the big festivities happen. Phil has a lovely little home next to the library throughout the year and on his one big day, he goes out to Gobbler’s Knob in the woods to look for his shadow. The PETA people are fit to be tied about Phil’s treatment but it looks like he lives a good life for a groundhog, and he has a friend to hang out with in his zoo. He is a cute little thing, I expected him to be bigger. Hey there’s probably more than one Phil. There is a movement by PETA and others to use a mechanical Phil but that seems just ludicrous! We talked about Groundhog Day in my classes so I got plenty of brochures and newspapers to share with my classes. They’ll be psyched to know that I went there and brought back stuff for them.
The 6 hr drive back was sunny, clear and a chance to mull over my book, what I heard from others and where this book will go next. Also where I will go next? So much to think about and what better way than on a long stretch of road. That’s where I do my best thinking.

Where has January Gone?

2010-02-05T07:14:00.000-08:00

My mother commented the other day that I haven’t blogged in awhile. She’s right. Lookoing at the last entry, that was the beginning of January. Now we are in the beginning of February—where has the time gone? Who knows and who cares really. It’s just life moving along its steady pace.
Well the trip to Canada was a mellow trip. Not a lot of interviewing, but a lot of observing. I didn’t want to scare my subjects with the video camera again (my mode of interviewing and capturing moments to later write about). Apparently there were some rumours and talk about what exactly I was doing with the video (telling the US government, etc.). This time I just wanted to observe everyone in their “natural environment”so to speak. We organized a party at one of the girl’s house on the outer reaches of Toronto. It isn’t easy to find apartments when you’re 17, 18, 19 years old and a student and on the government dole, so the kids take what they can get. From subway to long bus ride through neighborhoods of giant apartment complexes, very reminiscent of Russia, we went. Proximity to a subway station is always important when looking for an apartment and I guess the further away you are, the lower your rent is. I decided since many of my Canadians did not celebrate Christmas this year, to make the party like Christmas. I bought a bunch of little gifts; NY t-shirts, my shirts, foodstuffs, slippers, scarves, etc. and wrapped them up. In the middle of the party, we laid them out on the floor and everyone took turns choosing and opening their gift. The laughing and joking that ensued made me happy that I could bring some joy into these kids’ lives for a bit. Their first exposure to Christmas was with their host families in America and they still remember it well. I think many of them long for Christmas, and they were sad that they haven’t experience it here in Canada like they did in the US. Not that they don’t have Christmas, but more that no one bought them presents and showered them with attention.
I know there are some people that have schadenfreude that things haven’t worked out for these kids, since they hurt a lot of people here in the US by running away to Canada. They hurt me too and eventhough I’ve come to forgive them (for they are only children—and some children do worse to their own families) there are times I feel a pang of bitterness in my heart, but I try to not let it get the best of me. In the end, you can’t hate a child for wanting a better life.
At the end of the party, I told my former students about my book, why I was filming, what I did with the tapes, etc. and I think there was a collective sigh of relief. I need to win their trust completely if I’m going to get anywhere with this book, and I think I’ve got their trust. So hopefully on my next trip, I can go in and get some good interviews done. Keep your fingers crossed darlings!
Fast forward to a week later—a horrific earthquake hits Haiti. The earthquake demolishes most of Port-au-Prince and shakes up lives all over Brooklyn. In my Mon and Weds ESL class, where most of my students are Haitian, the worry and despair in their eyes the day after the quake was terrible to see. Many of my students stood around talking to each other in the hall, quiet, dazed, worried at not hearing from their families, unable to sleep, not knowing the fate of their loved ones. I’m surprised to see them and tell them to go home, for they cannot study in a state of mind like this. If they want to stay to take their mind off of the earthquake, they can. Some stay, most go home. In my role book, I mark them all present. Since then, they have made contact with their families. Many have survived with broken bones, others were not so lucky. One woman found out 2 of her brothers and one sister died with all their spouses and children when their house collapsed. My blind student somberly tells me of her cousin’s daughter who was trapped in her collapsed school, with only her feet sticking out. Her father and friends desparately tried to get her out of the rubble for three days but could not. If they went into the building, it would have collapsed more. So for three days they tried and tried, only able to touch the feet of this young girl, until rigormortis set in and there was nothing more for them to do.
Such sad stories are all over Brooklyn as we have a big Haitian community. People have rallied to aid Haiti in every way possible. I donated a bunch of t-shirts for children to the Red Cross. Something to make Haitian children smile in the wake of this disaster. I never knew or cared much about Haiti until I began work at Brooklyn College. I’ve learned so much through my students about the culture and ways of the Haitians. They’re a good group of people.
When I’m not working with Haitians, I’ve got Russian speakers on Tues and Thurs nights(variety is the spice of life ya know). It’s interesting to see the difference in how different groups of people learn. The Haitians are more conversive and take more risks in their learning. The Russians are more serious and more resistant to opening up their mouths. They have that thing where if they can’t speak perfectly, they won’tspeak at all. Well, I’m breaking that down just as fast as I can. It’s a challenge but, I’m up for a challenge as always. Keeps me on my toes as a teacher. I like doing the same lesson with each group to see how it turns out. Always fun to see how each group reacts.
So that is how I’ve spent my January, and why I haven’t been blogging much. Substitute teaching in Chinatown has taken a big chunk of my days, but it’s OK, I need the money to pay off my bills. January and February are the quiet times for me. Best to focus on teaching and paying off some bills before spring. Of course there is the occasional trip out of town, and this weekend I’m off to Kane, PA. to interview some host families for my book. We’ll see how that goes. It’s supposed to snow today and tomorrow but when has something like snow ever stopped moi?

Reflections on a Market past

2010-01-04T05:18:00.000-08:00

I never did get to more blogging while I was at the market. It was a busy time and a lot of fun to boot. Our “F” row became quite the little family and we all had a great time; joking, dancing, singing, shooting the breeze. I miss everyone now that it’s all over. It’s the family of vendors that makes it all fun and enjoyable work. Sort of like carnies but probably with less issues and rap sheets.
Business was OK, I expected better from Union Square but it was what it was. The question on everyone’s lips was “When will they start shopping?” They didn’t come out in droves the last two weeks as they usually do. Nothing can be predicted these days about shopping mentality. People aren’t spending as much as they did and you can’t force them to buy your wares. A lot of looking and thinking but no immediate buying. So I have a lot of product left over. I don’t have to worry about inventory next year. Still, the let down I feel after the market makes me wonder about the future of my t-shirt line and whether it’s all worth the effort. I would like to focus more on my web business and less on markets. We’ll see how that all pans out.
One thing that kept me busy the last two weeks of the market was stockings. Apparently no one was selling them so I began to make some, and they sold like hot cakes. After putting all my sewing supplies away and cleaning the living room, out it all came and the room was awash with fabrics, looking like a sweatshop again. Out of 33 stockings, I sold all but 2. Not bad at $25 a pop! Each one was different so no one got the same stocking. I’m going to start making more for next year later this month.
The market ended on Christmas Eve and Maruska and I loaded up our UHaul with our things and went home. All I wanted to do when I got home was take a shower, drink some tea and decorate my house for the holidays. I’m not about the weeks leading up to Christmas, but rather about the days after and into January. You know the Twelve Days of Christmas don’t begin until the 25th and go to the eve of the Epiphany. Plus I like to include Russian Christmas and New Years (the 7th and 13th respectively) so my celebrating goes on until mid January. Anyway, post-market found me putting the lights up in the backyard and decorating the tree until the wee hours. I was tired, I should have gone to bed but something kept me going until the house was aglow with Christmas from front to back and inside too. Eddie, my neighbor, and I have a competition to see who can put up the most lights in the yard. He had already done his so I needed to respond now that I had a free moment. At 1 in the morning I was having a cup of tea in my garden, snow everywhere and softly glowing from all the lights I had strung up along the fances and 2 of the 3 wise men looking up toward the big star I wired up on the laundry ladder at the back of the yard. Very apropos to have them following the yonder star, just too bad I don’t have the third one. I found 2 in the trash about 5 years ago and have been searching for the third ever since. I recently saw one in a display in Williamsburg and wanted to stop and steal it but it was on a roof and might have been a little tricky. Anyway, my search for Melchior (that’s the one missing) continues so if you have any leads, let me know.
Christmas was quiet, ate roast beef with my neighbor Eddie, my friend Eric came over in the afternoon. New Years was a bit more raucous as it should be. I go into 2010 a bit unfocused, wondering what life has in store for me this year, the first in a new decade. I know teaching 4 nights a week is one thing to look forward to (beginning tonight) as is a trip to see my Afghans in Toronto next weekend. Other than that, we’ll leave it up to fate I suppose. Happy 2010 y’all!

Ho Ho Ho from the Holiday Market!

2009-12-03T05:39:00.001-08:00

OK, I know I haven’t been blogging lately and the reason can be summed up in two words: Union Square. Actually four words: Union Square Holiday Market. The biggest holiday market in NYC and an event that Maruska (my business partner) and I have been gearing up for for the last year. So the past 6 weeks have been filled with papier mache, sewing, printing shirts, more sewing and general planning for this big event.
The Union Square Holiday Market is a month-long market in the style of a German Christmas market. Little booths with lots of interesting stuff to buy and eat. There are a lot of designers and artists who sell unique items perfect for any Xmas wish list. It may cost you a little more, but it’s definitely worth it since most of things you find here are a) one of a kind and b) handmade by local people (like myself). Resist the mind-numbness of mall shopping and get your ass to this market or one like it near you.
We opened a week ago and so far it’s been pretty good. A little slow but that’s to be expected (as the veterans have been telling us). They say the last two weeks will be really crazy so that’s what I am getting ready for. Maruska and I have one of the most welcoming and colorful booths in the market loaded with great stuff—t-shirts, pajamas, quilts and blankets for babies, Diva Kitties, original art, ornaments, and so on. My latest animal, the tiger is looking to be a hot seller for me. Next week, I’ll be debuting a giraffe design which should be fabulous.
What I love about the market is that it’s like a little village full of friendly people that you get to see every day. I know many of the vendors around us from other markets and those I don’t know, we are already buddies. Besides Belle, the jeweler and Jensen the textile designer, there’s Sister Kristina from Belarus selling Russian laquer boxes, ornaments and matroshki for the monastery where she works. Of course she and I blab in Russian all day. She’s not a real nun but works at the St. Elisabeth monastery in Minsk. They sent her because she personable and knows English. Actually I’ve been speaking a lot of Russian at the market. Besides Kristina, there’s Azamat and Hamid, two young students from Tajikistan selling Pillow Pets. Oh those Christmas jobs! All the Russian speaking opened up a door with Lisa who sells jewelry across from us. Turns out she and I lived in Russia at the same time. Small world huh? She and I ran in different crowds. I was more in with the Russian students who came over to find work and she was more corporate, working for Saachi and Saachi, a high-falootin’ ad agency. Still we have good reminiscing time when it’s slow. On the other side of us is the Viking cuisine and Dezign Mind booth. Run by Klaus and Tina, the Viking cuisine is basically hearty food like meatballs with potato salad, rice pudding and little hamburgers. Klaus is the showcase of that booth, where he and his girls cook up a storm all day in the Viking hats. Dezign Mind is Tina’s booth full of things from Bali: toys, ornaments boxes, masks, etc. The biggest draw is the wooden frog toy that you make rabbit by stroking its back with a stick. So besides the smell of meatballs all day, we hear croaking frogs too. We’ve already grown accustomed to it all.
Besides working at the market all day, I’ve still been teaching ESL two nights a week at Brooklyn College. Monday, I’m having my students come to the market to do a Scavenger Hunt, using their English skills to find out information and to have a chance to get out of Brooklyn. They belly ache about taking the subway and all, but I assured them that they’re going to have a good time—and they will, once they get here.
So here it is a Thursday morning, the beginning of the second week for us. Before I know it, we’ll be finished and resting at home on Christmas Day. The weather has gotten quite warm today, in the 60’s, so that should bring out the shoppers. Look out for more pictures and news from the market in the next weeks!

The October Missive

2009-10-14T06:19:00.000-07:00

Jackhammers somewhere off in the distance provide a steady beat to the usual morning sounds of birds chirping, cars moving up the street and classical music from my bedside clock/radio. They jackhammerers are far enough away to not be annoying. Thus opens another Tuesday in the life of 2Me here in Brooklyn. The cats have been fed, the tea has been poured and after a few weeks, it is time to blog.
Papier Mache has taken over my kitchen table this morning. Since the temperature has dropped, I figured it’s best to have my projects dry in the warmth of the kitchen instead of the chill of the art studio. I’m making ornaments and big collage hearts and cat heads for the Union Square Holiday Market. In addition to my line of shirts, I’m whipping up some hand made things to sell. This week I’m working on papier mache, next week is tie-dying and then I begin to sew. By November 25th ,when the market starts, I’ll be all set with a wide array of merchandise to sell.
I really enjoy this creative time I have right now. No rushing around to different jobs (just one and a few subbing gigs) and I’m focused and getting things done. Not a lot of distractions and I’m feeling very productive. May this feeling last!
It’s good I’m home at this time because they have begun gutting the house next door to me and I can keep a close eye on the work to make sure they don’t trash my house in the process. Here in Brooklyn we share walls—a single row of bricks and a layer of plaster is all that separates us. One too many bangs on the wall and we could have trouble. They’ve actually already done some minor damage and loosened a wall cabinet in my 3rd floor apartment. I’m still waiting for them to come over and fix it. The owner isn’t a jerk so I don’t want to be a jerk—yet. The put up scaffolding in front of the house and by law have to go 5 feet on either side which means half of my house is covered by scaffolding. This would send some people I know into a tirade but I look at things in a more positive light—I’ve got a front deck! The scaffolding comes up to my living room window so I can go out and enjoy the sunsets al fresco now. My friend Stuart and I tested it out the other day by having tea out there. A little wobbly but it worked. Who knows how long it’ll be there but come Christmas and that thing is getting decorated. I’ve made friends with the Mexican workers who are gutting the place. A good thing to do, especially when you have junk in your basement you want to throw into their dumpsters. They let me throw away some old doors that have been cluttering up the basement for years. In return, I buy them beer. They plan to extend the house another 24ft which basically means my patio will be boxed in. Not too bad really, I’ll grow a trumpet vine up it which will make it less ugly. They say they’ll be done in 4 months but I doubt that. Winter is coming and how much work will get done? We’ll see.
So my secret mission to Canada was a big success and not so secret anymore so I can talk a bit about it. Amazing trip! It was so good to see all my former students, well the 20 or so that came out to the Afghan restaurant where we met up. They look and try to act like mature people but deep inside they are still young kids navigating their way through this new world. Despite the fact that they snuck away from the program I work on, and I did tell them that it upset me, I’m impressed how they are making a life for themselves in Canada. It’s not easy to be a teenager and have to rent an apartment, go to school (many are still in high school), do all the domestic stuff that they aren’t used to (cleaning, cooking and shopping) but together, they are surviving. I got some good footage and interviews with some of the kids on camera with the intention of making a film but on second thought, this would make a better book so a book I have begun to write. It’s a story I think I can tell well because these kids trust me and will open up to me about things. They also know that I would never do anything to put them in harm’s way or exploit them. I just think they have fascinating stories to tell and it could make for a compelling book. That said, I’m on page 12 of the book and it seems to be just writing itself. Another trip is planned for January! That’s all I can say about that for now.
OK, t-shirts at Friedman’s await me and I must go pick up my big order for the Christmas line. Also need to look through my book of designs and see which new designs I will be printing. But first a stop at Lindo’s with Pete for some breakfast served up by Denise—the sassy Puerto Rican waitress at our breakfast spot.