3:45 a.m. – Relief worker guest house, Kabul.

I wake to the sound of Imams in the distance calling people to prayer at mosques around the city. In a way the sound is beautiful, poetic. Haunting, too. As I listen I realize there is a mournful quality to the sound as well; voices calling out from the darkness.

Most of Kabul has been without electricity since I have been here. The lights and a fan here in the guest house came on for a couple of hours in the middle of the night but went off again about 3 a.m. It is uncomfortably hot in here. I am at the moment writing on a notepad by the beam of a small flashlight Lucy insisted I bring with me in my backpack. Glad she insisted. The guesthouse actually has a generator but they only run it for an hour or so a day, long enough to charge the batteries for their cell phones (yes, some cells work here) and to turn on a computer long enough to write and send some emails (yes, somehow they can access the Internet). They don’t run it long, though, as it costs money and they don’t seem to have much in the way of funding. I’ll ask to use the computer a little later so I can send these words back home.

Because access to a computer has been difficult I haven’t had much time to describe Kabul, yet. The city, at least the parts I have visited, show clear evidence of all the war it has seen; building after building shot full of holes, walls and rooftops blown away or caving in. I have never seen anything like it. Most of the houses are surrounded by walls. The poorer residents live in mud-brick dwellings. Some of the westerners here, the few I have met so far, have hired what they call chowkidors (guards or watchmen). They hang out by the locked gates in the walls bordering the streets. There is a chowkidor watching this house where I am spending the night. We have to ring a bell to get inside the wall. Pull the cord, a bell rings inside, and he lets us in a minute later. He is not armed so I don’t imagine he would be much help if anyone armed and determined wanted in. But the westerners who hire the chowkidors apparently feel they are a deterrent. Our chowkidor is tall and thin, very dark with a thick black beard. He’s draped in a robe, of course, and never smiles. Guards at two other homes I have visited were more friendly, quick to smile, and have kindly eyes.

A few of the larger homes I have seen have armed guards patrolling their perimeters. R. says the wealthier Afghans may have enemies so they hire armed protection. An armed guard is apparently also a status symbol in some circles.


LATER…
I am now sitting in seat 18c on a commercial flight that is to take me to Herat. I am sitting with two female relief workers from the U.S. C. and M. The jet has not moved since we boarded an hour ago. It is very hot inside with very little air circulating. It is stifling. I don’t know how all the robed people around me can stand it. The only two I can speak with in English are the two American women I am traveling with. They, like the local women, are required to cover themselves. They first said the heat was not bothering them too much but now they admit they are uncomfortable. My beard is growing in, which doesn’t help much. I am covered with sweat from head to toe. Seriously. I’m wearing sandals so I can actually see the sweat on my toes. I didn’t know toes could sweat.

On the drive from the guest house to the airport I mentioned to my driver, D. (an American relief worker stationed in Kabul) that I thought I heard gunfire during the night. He said it was probably fireworks. Today is Independence Day in Afghanistan, a national holiday, and he says there were fireworks set off after midnight to celebrate.

I noticed even more armed Afghan patrols in the streets on the drive to the airfield this morning than I saw yesterday. D says they are out in force to discourage any anti-government violence on the holiday. As we neared the gate at the airport entrance some soldiers (or police, I am not sure which) approached with what appeared to be Russian-made Kalishnikov rifles. That’s what I’ve seen most around here. Even the occasional armed guard carries the same weapon. It has some sort of modified metal stock so it looks shorter than what I’ve seen in news photos from various war zones over the years. These guns appear very beat up, like someone bought them all at some garage sale. The way they handle them gives me the feeling they haven’t been through proper firearms training.

It just occurred to me that I have not seen any American military anywhere in the city. I know they are in Afghanistan from the reports I have read over the past few weeks about battles between U.S. forces and rebels in the south and east parts of the country but they don’t seem to be in Kabul. Frankly, I wouldn’t mind seeing some. I have seen an occasional U.N.-marked vehicle, and from the gate before we were allowed to board the jet I could see several armored personnel carriers moving along a taxiway at the far end of the tarmac.

Going through security I was people watching. The women were covered, of course, so there wasn’t much to see. The men wore robes as you would expect Arab men to wear. The security checkpoints don’t seem all that secure. They barely look at the bags and frisk each man quickly. The women are taken into a separate room where a female security official frisks them (“really feels us up,” the female relief workers told me later).

I have only slept a few hours since leaving home so I am wiped out right now. Time for sleep.