JOY AND DUST AND TRAVELING WITH WHAT’S HIS NAME

W.A. Guest House In Herat, Afghanistan

Awake again in the early morning darkness listening to the Mullahs calling people to prayer. (I have been referring to them as Imans but one of the relief team members here told me today that it is the Mullah who calls people to prayer, not the Imam. Peter the Australian gave me bad information. Never trust an Aussie to identify Muslim prayer callers.) I can hear two this morning. One sounds pretty good, the other sounds like a sick cow. Can’t imagine many people responding to that noise. I can also hear cats fighting somewhere nearby. They sound better than the tone deaf Mullah. I’m sure he’s a nice guy and all, but, seriously, he should sleep in. The other one sounds quite good. Because of the heat and the 10 hour time difference I am running on very little sleep. It is not by choice but this has become my morning routine. After maybe two hours sleep, around 3 or 3:30 I give up and roll off my little bedroll on the floor, go outside to cool off and sit on the step in my boxers. There is a wall around the guest house so there’s no real possibility of offending anyone.

The stars are beautiful this morning. I can see a crescent moon low in the sky just over the top of the wall around the guesthouse. I may as well be up there on the moon, so out of this world is this place. This time of day is the only time it is not hot. The wind has finally died down a bit. Several people here have told me Herat has 120 days of wind every year. They didn’t say 4 months. 120 days. In a row. Like someone has counted them.

I feel I have been covered in dirt and sweat since arriving in Afghanistan. There is a coating of dust on everything. The computer I have been borrowing from one of the relief team members is so dirty some of the keys stickkk. Running my fingertip across the touchpad is like drawing a line in the sand.

And here’s a weird development. For some reason, yesterday, Peter began forgetting my name and now calls me Rob about half the time. We fly halfway around the world together and six days into the trip he forgets who I am. So now I call him Larry.

Yesterday the members of the relief team gathered in the upstairs room of the guesthouse to sing and share stories. I knew most of the songs but I don’t believe I’ve ever heard them sung with quite so much energy. The team leader shut the windows and the door about halfway through the first song, clearly concerned the neighbors would hear. I have now had a chance to talk at some length with most of them and am more amazed each day. On the one hand I understand them better now, yet it is still hard for me to really grasp how they have been able to leave their homes, friends and families behind, convinced that they are supposed to be here helping strangers. It is clear they have a burden for the people of Afghanistan. They speak with certainty about the reasons for coming. Their love for God is at the heart of it.

And the joy… L., the director, is an amazing and, to me, perplexing man. He has done relief work in Mauritania, Pakistan, India, Israel, and perhaps a dozen other places. I had thought he had been here in Afghanistan for just a year but it has actually been more than three since he first arrived with his wife and two young daughters. He can be quite serious, but is quick to laugh. And when he laughs he laughs with his whole body, loudly at first, then swallowing the sound for a moment, then slapping his knee and letting it all out. It’s the knee slap I love the most. His joy is transcendent.