Lunch

You haven't lived until you've seen half a dozen Pashtuns take apart three sheep and a wiry old goat with a rusty hatchet. The fact that you will shortly be eating said animals adds a whole extra layer of discomfort.

I'd post pictures but they would probably be nauseating to most of you.

Prohibited Shipments

A friend of mine in the States wants to send me a package (probably Kraft mac-n-cheese and stuff like that)* so I've been investigating the nuances of shipping into Afghanistan.

*There'd better be some peanut butter in the box- Skippy creamy only! That's all I'm sayin'

This is not as easy as it ought to be. Big surprise. First off, there's no real postal service here. Oh sure, there are Post Offices (well, one that I know of), but no one seems to work in them, and one never sees postmen out doing their rounds. Apparently, the creed of the Afghan postal service is something along the lines of: "Neither snow nor rain nor heat of day nor gloom of night shall stay these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds; but explosions, random gunfire, armed criminal gangs, venal police checkpoints and generally shitty roads- that's a bit much for us!" Sissies.

Anyway, DHL and FedEx both ship to Afghanistan on a daily basis. Pretty admirable if you ask me, and a fine example of American capitalism at work. That said, even international shipping companies have to abide by local laws and customs, so there are certain things they will not ship. Witness the list below taken from the DHL webpage for Afghanistan.*

• Alcoholic beverages
• Antiques
• Asbestos
• Cotton seed
• Dangerous goods, hazardous or combustible materials
• Drugs: non-prescription
• Furs
• Gambling devices
• Ivory
• Pornography
• Postal envelopes
• Precious metals & stones
• Soil samples
  

*Somewhat ominously, DHL misspelled the location of their corporate headquarters in Kabul. When we're talking about a company that makes its money by delivering things on time to the proper address, that's a bad sign, right?

Now, some of the stuff on the above list is unsurprising. A-stan is a Muslim country after all, so the prohibition on alcohol is standard (although annoying), and I'm not shocked to see pornography on the list either. I'm not sure what "gambling devices" are, but I think I may have violated that already when I brought a deck of cards with me. Hazardous or combutible materials, well that's true around the world. No airline likes stuff that goes boom on their planes.* But cotton seeds? Is there a vast illicit cotten trade out there that I'm not aware of? Furs? Not a lot of animal rights activists in this part of the world. They have more important things to worry about.

*And its not like there's a shortage of stuff that goes boom in this country.

The prohibition against non-prescription drugs is particularly ironic, given that Afghanistan produces and exports approximately 90% of the worlds opium. The vaunted Afghan Customs Police are worried about a few aspirin?

"Military equipment" is not on the above list, because that's actually not prohibited. Go figure. DHL merely suggests that the shipper contact their local office to determine what additional paperwork might be required. I think we may have hit on the root cause of Afghanistan's problems. You can't have a beer, but with a little extra paperwork you can import a couple of crates of assault rifles. Somebody needs to readjust their priorities.

The kicker for me however, was the prohibition on postal envelopes. Of course! It's not that the Afghan postal service is ineffective or non-existant. It's just that no one can import envelopes, so no one writes any letters. No letters, no need for a postman. So simple.

9mm

So I'm sitting at lunch today with a couple of expat contractors looking for a local partner to help them relocate to A-stan from Iraq and the phone rings. It's a guy I met the other day (another expat) asking if I have any need for 7000 rounds of Russian-made 9mm ammunition at $0.75 per round.* This is my life now. Weird.

*I didn't need the ammo, by the way. Our weapons are mostly Kalashnikovs, which use the old 7.62x39mm cartridge.

Happy Nowruz!

First off, Happy Nowruz to all of you. That's Happy New Year if you're not keeping up with your Pashto/Dari lessons. Nowruz marks the first day of spring (although it still feels like the tail end of winter to me) and is a national holiday across Afghanistan. If you've read The Kite Runner then you'll be familiar with the concept of kite-fighting which is a traditional event on Nowruz. Unfortunately, I was stuck at the compound all day, so I missed the celebrations throughout Kabul, including the kite flying festival.

Being stuck in the city, I also didn't have a chance to witness the equestrian insanity that is Buzkashi. It's sort of a Central Asia version of polo, except that instead of a ball and mallet, you use your bare hands and a dead goat. Other than that, its identical to the polo matches I used to see in Chicago, right down to the funny hats and cucumber sandwiches. Well, maybe not the cucumber sandwiches, but there are definately funny hats.

As people around the world do on major holidays, Nowruz is also a time for large festive meals of traditional dishes. Fruits and fruit salad, locally known as Haft Mewa, form an important part of the day's feast. With that in mind, the Rug Merchant, normally a man who could squeeze two dimes and get a quarter, decreed that the company mess would serve a special meal today. To illustrate exactly how special, it's important to demonstrate what a regular days' meal would look like.

Breakfast: bread and tea
Lunch: rice, bread and tea
Dinner: rice, bread, tea and spinach

Occasionally, there are bits of meat in the rice (lamb probably, but its best not to speculate), and even more occasionally a plate of cabbage or the odd cucumber. Needless to say, I'm a little sick of rice. I also think I'm losing weight. Anyone know the early symptoms of scurvy?

Well, on this grand festival of days, due to the largesse of my employer, our holiday meals consisted of basically the same staples as above, with the addition of a banana and a couple of oranges.* Oh, and there were raisins in the rice, along with the aforementioned mystery meat.

*I got two oranges. I didn't check but I'm willing to bet that the rest of the company only got one. Not that I'm inclined to share; I'm fighting off scurvy here!

Being the diligent student of Afghan culture that I am, I had prepared myself (via Wikipedia) for the traditional Haft Mewa, which means Seven Fruits. I checked pretty thoroughly and I'm sure I only got two fruits (and that's counting the raisins - can't count the oranges twice). Needless to say, I'm not impressed. No one else seems to be complaining, at least not that I'm aware of, but it seems to me that once a year a nice plum or perhaps a cookie wouldn't be too much to ask. I won't bother to ask for a cheeseburger.

Cast of Characters

It occurs to me that I’m going to be referring to a lot of people repeatedly on this blog, and it would help to have some sort of system for identifying them. Obviously, since this is anonymous for OpSec* and professional reasons, I have to be somewhat circumspect in how I name people. Thus, I’ve devised the following cast of characters to guide readers through the swamp that is the Kabul private security industry. I’ll have to add to this later on as my list of associates and contacts grows, but here it is for now:

*That’s Operational Security for those of you who were wondering. Admittedly not as big a concern for me as it would be for a soldier or Marine out in the field, but better safe than sorry. I'm also doing it this way to protect the essential anonymity for professional reasons.

For those of you who think that using the actual names or pseudonyms instead of entirely fake nicknames would be easier, it might help to realize that there are six or eight very popular male names in Afghanistan, so any list of actual names would be highly redundant. Sometimes it seems that every third guy here is named Massoud. Confusingly, many Afghans go by only one name, which only adds to the difficulty.

The Rug Merchant (aka The Boss): In any other part of the world, this guy would be considered shady. In Afghanistan, he’s connected. Hyperactive to the point of mania, always carries at least three phones, one of which is usually ringing. Has not grasped the concept that talking fast and loud is not synonymous with communicating effectively.
The Godfather: One of the Western backers of this venture. A retired banker, experienced in finance and business, and a true gentleman in every sense of the word. Unfortunately only appears in Kabul every few months and only stays for a few days. Also the guy who got me this job, so my opinion of him is dependent on what kind of day I’m having.
The Doctor: An actual medical doctor and the Deputy President of The Company. Good English skills, lots of experience and very easy to work with. My time here would be a lot more trying if it wasn’t for his patience and dedication.
The General: A former Afghan army officer (probably not actually a general), in charge of overseeing the training and deployment of the guards. Not the brightest bulb in the box, and speaks not a word of English, but we get along great after I gave him some of my imported cigarettes. Now we’re blood brothers apparently. Has a staff of three NCOs who conduct the drills and instruct new recruits. Also known as “Saddam” for his eerie resemblance to the former Iraqi dictator.
Smiley: One of the General’s many assistants, apparently his responsibilities are limited to drilling the new recruits in Afghan/Soviet style marching, which is pretty comical to anyone familiar with Western methods of drill. Always cheerful and eager to talk; somewhat hampered by the fact that he only speaks four words of English, which are repeated incessantly with a broad smile.
Hazmat (short for Hazardous Materials): Personal bodyguard and batman to The Rug Merchant. Always wears a cheap three-piece suit with a bright pastel shirt, and carries a slung AK-47 with him everywhere he goes. Earned his nickname because one can see in his eyes that something is broken in his head. Has a nasty streak and is overly impressed with his own importance, but is probably capable of even worse stuff given half a chance.
Frankie Avalon: A dead-ringer for the singer (circa 1962), without the singing voice, but a competent dancer. Works as the “intelligence chief” for The Company, which is a bit of a euphemism. His job consists of sitting in a small room watching three TVs and monitoring the internet for current events. Sends out half a dozen emails a day with morbid announcements like “Two killed by IED in Helmand” or “Aid worker shot in Kunduz.” A real bundle of joy, but his English is better than most so I talk to him a lot.
Mad Max: The best driver in the company, which is an extremely valuable skill in a place like Kabul. Given the option, I always choose him to be my driver. Able to find his way around Kabul traffic with surprising alacrity and is friendly and pleasant to boot. Carries a pistol under his jacket.
Hound Dog and the Pack: Hound Dog is my personal favorite among the PSDs (Personal Security Detachment, aka bodyguards). He would probably be insulted to be called “dog” but he reminds me of an old hunting dog that has been kicked once too often. Always looks a little downtrodden, but has excellent situational awareness and takes his job very seriously. Like the aforesaid dog, there’s something about him that makes one think he’ll bite back if pressed. The Pack is my generic name for the rest of the PSD team (since I don’t know their real names). Most of them are solicitous and professional, although sometimes a little slow off the mark. Tactical initiative is not a well-developed Afghan trait.
Mutt and Jeff: Two of The Boss’s assistants, exact job description unknown. They meddle in training, admin, pricing and general business decisions. Since I don’t know what they’re saying, I don’t know if they’re useful or not. Mutt speaks some English, at least enough to ask “How you this day, sir?” Jeff speaks none at all, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to talk to me. Both smoke heavily (my cigarettes if they can get them).
The Prince: So-called because his real name is the same as a prominent Gulf sheikh, Prince is the designated interpreter for The Company. Unfortunately, he never seems to be around when I need him and not all that much when I don’t.
Mr. Greensleeves: Unsure as to what he does exactly (or even generally). Most of all he seems to hang around the compound wearing bright pastel jackets (usually green- hence the name), joking with the rest of the staff. The best dancer in The Company, as proven at a traditional Afghan wedding.
The Player: Another of the admin staff of indeterminate purpose, he always wears faded designer jeans, colorful T-shirts and RayBans (full disclosure: I wear my Oakleys as often as possible, to project the necessary degree of authority and anonymity).
Eli: The finance guy who apparently is still learning how to use Excel (maybe they don’t have Dari language user guides). Good with numbers, but follows The Rug Merchant's lead to closely (i.e. anything to increase gross revenue, regardless of net profit).
Bear: So-named because of his great bulk, hirsute appearance and massive paws. Bear is euphemistically referred to as the Facilities Manager, which means he is in charge of the logistics here, including maintenance and provisions. If the current conditions in the compound are any indication, a man woefully out of his depth.
Jeeves: My recently-assigned assistant for all-things-not-covered-by-someone-else, Jeeves is the guy who makes sure I have sufficient tea and food at all hours of the day and night. Pleasant to the point of deferential, has some limited English and is happy to talk politics when we can find the right words.

There will be more later, but those are the main players for now.

Update: New personnel will be added below as they join the company.

The Lion: Doesn't actually look or act like a lion, but he's Tajik, like Ahmad Shah Massoud, the Lion of the Panshijr Valley and one of my personal heroes. (More on Massood here). The Lion joined us after several years with the ANP's elite counter-narcotics commando battalion. He's quiet and reserved, but highly competent and professional. The Lion serves as our senior instructor. I had to personally insist to The Boss that we hire him and for that he is unfailingly loyal. If I had five hundred men like him, I'd own this country.

Afghan TV

In my downtime here, I try to keep up on events going on in the wider world. This is often more difficult than it sounds. In order to get my news in my preferred manner (i.e. the internet), three consecutive things have to happen. One, there has to be electricity to Kabul power grid, or a functioning generator. Two, the satellite system upon which the connection depends has to be up and running. And three, there has to be sufficient bandwidth on the network to prevent page-loading from becoming an exercise in futility. When these three factors align properly, I’m good to go. If only the first two conditions are in place (power and satellite connection), then I’m reduced to the watching the BBC World news service.

Now, I’m generally a fan of the BBC (although their radio programming is better than TV), but like any international news show it can become staggeringly redundant, with the same headlines and stories over and over again. At those times when I don’t need to see the story about protests by French cheese makers for the fourth time, I slip into old habits and start flipping channels. This is usually not an effective use of my time, since among the thirty channels that I have access to perhaps four of them are in English (including, oddly enough, a HBO subsidiary). The rest are either terrestrial Afghan channels or cable shows from the Gulf (in Arabic) or India (in what I presume is Hindi). I won’t attempt to describe the intense loathing I have developed for Indian television. Suffice to say that nothing about it, not the acting, not the music, not the production value, not even the sound of the language causes anything more than a rapid rise in blood pressure and, after prolonged exposure, uncontrolled twitching and what my father used to call “free-floating hostility.”

No, my focus here is on the English subtitles that accompany about half of the channels, including strangely two of the English-language channels. I’ve noticed something in the last few days that struck me as odd.

In a Muslim country like Afghanistan one expects that certain elements of foreign television (Indian or Western) would be inappropriate for broadcast. An example of this is the clumsily-done blurring of certain parts of the female anatomy, parts which, it should be pointed out, wouldn’t even raise eyebrows on American after-school specials. Really racy things like…..shoulders and knees. Fair enough. You have an inordinate fear of the female form. Whatever. Get over it.

The odder thing is the text in the subtitles. As one would expect, the language is toned down and sanitized from the original dialogue. This may be undetectable to non-native speakers, but when I’m listening to dialogue in English and simultaneously reading the English subtitles, the disconnect is obvious. [Warning – language unsuitable for young eyes follows. If you’re the sensitive type, or still harboring unrealistic illusions about my own propriety, stop reading now…….Are they gone? Good. On with the show.] Words like “shit” are transformed in the subtitles to “crap.” Not sure if that’s actually an improvement, but whatever. “Asshole” becomes “moron,” and “son of a bitch” transmutes to “jerk.” All of this is to be expected, of course, in a country in which harsh language is a serious social taboo. The really interesting bit comes when someone on-screen, as overly-traditional Christians would say, takes the lord’s name in vain. “Damn” becomes “darn,” while “goddamn” magically is transcribed as “gosh darn.” There are of course no derogatory references to Allah or Islam. Those movies don’t even make it on the air.

However, the strangest bit of all is the fact that “Jesus Christ,” when used as an expletive (as in “Jesus Christ, this asshole is a goddamn piece of shit!”) is left unaltered. So the above line, in the subtitles becomes, “Jesus Christ, that jerk is a gosh darn piece of crap!” Lacks the same rhetorical impact, I think you’ll agree.

But why leave “Jesus Christ” unchanged? In the West, that particular phrase is considered by some to be worse than any other curse imaginable. Not by me admittedly, but I pride myself on inventive and entertaining use of the sludgy end of the language pool. So, is it because they don’t recognize that this is considered a swear by Western standards? Or is it because JC is considered a prophet in Islamic theology, and therefore cannot be renamed or redacted? I’m not sure (although I lean towards the latter explanation), but it can be jarring to see Jim Belushi’s words transmuted into something one might here in an episode of The Andy Griffith Show, followed by a resounding “Jesus Christ!”

Keep It Simple

This from a blog about humanitarian aid workers:

About nine years ago, as a young pup, I recall meeting a Programme Director from another organisation. Having just come back from years in a field office, she was gaunt from tropical diseases, and wrinkled and weathered from years of sun exposure. Her clothes looked like they were from another decade. She wore no jewellery and no make up. She spoke slowly and deliberately, using simple words and short sentences. No jargon. No sophistication. Plain speaking. Every few minutes, she would pause and check that you got her point. I recall another colleague saying derisively, "You can tell when they have been in the field too long. They lose touch".

Not that I have reached this point yet (and hopefully I never will), but I've already noticed a developing tendency to dumb-down my vocabulary and simplify my speech in order to communicate with the locals. Even those that speak English well are somewhat limited in the more complex vocabulary and sentence constructions. It's easy to forget that when the person you're talking to is nodding and saying "Yes, yes" over and over again he might not actually be understanding everything you're saying.

The quote is from Vasco Pyjama, via Chris Blattman.