What would you do with an angry mob on your doorstep?

That is one of those questions that no one can answer until they find themselves in that exact situation. Turns out I would go through denile, then start pacing, then grab the kitten and the shortwave radio and lock myself in my bedroom. After checking my room for possible hiding places / escape routes and finding none, I would strap my passport and money to me, crawl into bed, assume small ball form position and try to fall asleep. I am not sure sleeping is the recommended approach, but turns out it is my extreme stress coping mechanism and when you are not sure what to do, then sleeping at least passes the time better than being awake and imagining the worst.

So Kabul erupted into riots on Monday. I had got back from a trip to a province called Ghor that morning (amazing experience, which I will write about) and was at home working before my 2pm meeting when my colleague called and said "there has been an incident, involving the US army and Afghans, probably best you don't come to the office today". Now my colleagues are lovely, but they like to take time off whenever possible, so my first reaction was that they were making this all sound more serious so I wouldn't come to the office and they could have another boss-free day. But then my 2pm meeting was cancelled 'because of security issues' and then I started to hear what sounded like gun shots. Gun shot sounds are not something that my ears are familiar with. At first they sounded like people nailing metal objects in to stone (Kabul has an insane rate of construction, so this is a feasible alternative option for the banging sound) then I figured it must be noises from a stone quarry, then I looked out of my back window and saw men dressed in black waving guns in the air and runnning about the fort on the hill behind where I live and I realised that the sound was gun shots.

Still though my brain was not registering panic, but was justifying and thinking through and making everything ok.

Then the gun shots got louder and the sounds of angry crowds got closer, until I knew they were outside my high walls and could smell smoke in the air. What do you do? What can you do? I was home alone (except for the guard and his wife) and I didn't have a clue. The phones were down, Brian my housemate was stuck at work, the guys in the office had called me earlier to say they were trapped in the office as a mob looted the oxfam offices opposite (luckily we don't have a sign outside our office, or we would have been attacked too). So I just sort of paced. Meanwhile, the guard was standing in the driveway, poised for action but he was one small, mild mannered man and by the sounds of the baying crowds, there was at least 50 armed people outside. The guard's wife was looking scared and trying to get me to hide in her house. The guard was not so sure about this option and kept repeating sentences in Dari, which I told myself were "it's ok, they won't try to come in here, go back inside, it's ok"...but my Dari has still not progressed past thank you.

So I grabbed the cat and the BBC and locked myself in my room until they passed. It took about an hour for the constant gunfire to reduce to occassional shots and then after about 2 hours I could hear the birds chirping in the garden again.

It's moments like these when you wonder why you're here, why I'm here. The international community is not liked or welcomed, not by the Afghan on the street and certainly not by the dissident factions. The international community themselves are cynical and tired and many of the people I speak to have forgotten why they are here and don't know what they are changing, if anything. This is not Nepal, it is a whole different, much scarier ball game, where the slightest scratch on the surface leads to an eruption of hatred and violence. They say now that these riots were planned a while back, that the organisors were just waiting for the spark, any spark. What you also realise is that the police can't help really. They have had crowd control training, but they don't have tear gas or water canons, the choice is shoot or run and realistically, there loyalties don't lie with the internationals. They are Afghans after all and the faces in the crowds are often family members. They won't shoot, they can't always run, I heard some were taking off their uniforms and joining the mob. And where were ISAF? There are so many rules and regulations about when the security forces can and can't use force, when they can and can't leave their safe compound...so much ridulous talk of protocol and presidence and procedure. But it's calm now and I am fine. A little spooked, a little less fond of Kabul, a little more eager to return to Kathmandu. Supposedly this is the worst rioting and anti-american display of violence since the fall of the Taliban. I'd like to say it was cool to witness it, to be a part of it. But it wasn't.

ps: My office has put in many emergency security procedures now including giving me a satellite phone and ensuring I always have a driver and a chaperone and I'm moving in with a lovely girl tonight, so the me, alone in a house surrounded by an angry mob situation shouldn't happen again. Plus only 4 weeks and counting!

Big Boss Blues

It's official people, it is no fun being the big boss lady. I say get off that ladder now, because when you get to the top, things just get hard and stressful and it all stops being fun. How do I know this...well a week after I arrive in Kabul, the boss lady leaves and as she is getting on the plane (not quite, but you get the picture) she yells back "so you're the boss now."

I am in charge of an office of 10 Afghan men. I am in charge of the finances and the safe (which up until last week only had $50 left in it). I am dealing with the snake in the guard's hut ("we cannot sleep there anymore Gemma Jaan") and the quitting of the finance guy and the loss of my driver, to be replaced by another guy who although is lovely cannot speak English, reverse, or find anywhere in Kabul. I am having important and scary meetings with UNDP and FAO and FCO. I'm attending sharing workshops at the Supreme Court and the Ministry of Women's Affairs. I'm batting off the daily requests for money from the staff as we only have $50 now $40 now $30 dollars left in the safe (while we wait for a late transfer from HQ). I have to decided whether to use the last $30 for generator fuel for electricity or food for lunch. I am working with the content guy, trying patiently to explain to him what a radio presenter is and why a program needs one. I am working on radio dramas and re-writing scripts and organising 2-day media events for ministers in provinces. I am putting together concept papers and heading to a province with a pilot called tin-can-Bob to do research in to Human Rights. I am going to the bank to pick up the money that has finally arrived and paying salaries and saying no to advances and practically spending it all in one day. I am doing a study of all the production houses in the area, I am getting 20 emails a day with more to-do lists. I am surrounded by scraps of paper with bits of other to do lists on. I am critiquing other organisations programs and giving advice on broadcasting for disabled audiences. I am putting together ideas for broadcasting to youth, broadcasting on rural development, broadcasting on drug demand reduction. I am working a 61/2 day week. I am tired.

I know and I am reminding myself on a daily basis that this is all good experience and day-to-day I am happy (tired but happy) but man, when the big boss lady returns I will happily give up the big seat and the big desk and the big responsibility. And when the day finally comes (end of June now) I will happy drag my tired ass back to Nepal.

Sorry this was not a blog full of insights in to life and culture here, they will come, I just needed to splurge and try to explain why my contact and blogging is sporadic, but don't give up on me.

Afghan Chicken

So I live in Kabul. How crazy is that? I am still having trouble getting my head around that reality. Although, to be honest, I don't actually live in kabul. Kabul is my day to day backdrop. I don't walk in Kabul (you're not allowed), the only times I have stepped in Kabul is the driveway to my house or the driveway to my office, oo I also stepped briefly on the pavement on my way into a shop. I see Kabul through a window, correction I see Kabul through a car window, you can't see Kabul through normal office or home windows because all the buildings I have been in (even the restaurants and supermarkets) are surrounded by a high wall. So I live in a bubble known as Kabul. I think that is why I am having such trouble getting my head around the reality, because my reality is not a normal reality.

I live in a house (surrounded by a high wall) where everyday dinner, a side salad and a dessert (apple pie, victoria sponge, fruit salad...) has been cooked and left out by a middle aged male cook with brilliant green eyes, where my washing and cleaning is done by a heavily pregnant lady who is the second wife of the guard (a guy with cheek bones that frame a ridiculously sharp jaw line and again those National Geographic eyes) who basically takes care of any other needs after eating and washing. Everyday I am driven to work by a driver, who picks me up at the end of the day and brings me home. If I need to go anywhere, there he is in his car, and while I eat in a restaurant or have a meeting with a UN agency, he waits in the car until I want to go home, or go shopping, or go to the bank. I am not quite sure what to do or think about this life. I know that it is very difficult to be Western here and live any other way, I guess it is pretty easy to be Western here and get used to living this way but something about it doesn't quite sit with me. Maybe if I could speak the language, so far I have mastered 'thank you', I would feel less colonial about it all. Maybe I should just get over my 'colonial guilt', maybe I should fight the system, maybe we're providing necessary jobs to locals who need money, maybe we're taking advantage of local people. who knows.

I work behind a different wall to the one I live behind. Work is no less surreal. I share an office with my boss Michele (who I also live with), the rest of our team are all male and all Afghan. And they all seem lovely, but I still figuring out what they do. Lots of men with huge beards and turbans visit the office everyday; I have no idea who they are. I've had meetings with Afghan Ministers who spend most of the meeting drumming the table, looking around the room or leaning across the table to ask me "so you lived in Nepal?", even though my boss is speaking directly to them. I've had to chair meetings where no one sticks to agenda and everyone just talks in Dari, while the only other Westerner there tore out her hair before yelling at everyone (including me!) I've been in meetings which include female high court judges and I just want to say "wow, so how did you get to be a high court judge in a country where women are rarely even let out of the house" but I can't, because I don't speak Dari and she didn't speak English, so she said "judge" and i said, "I am very honoured to meet you".(but I could have just as easily said "apples taste good in spring"), I've been to UN meetings and thought, 'do you even know what happens outside your high walls?', I've sat with colleagues and wanted to bang my head against a wall, as I know full well that "of course - inshallah" does not mean that any of what I spent the last half an hour explaining has registered, I've sat alone and wanted to bang my head against a wall because I don't want to be one of those ex pats who gets frustrated with their Afghan colleagues – it's a totally different culture, language, way of life, and do I really know better?

And I've only been here a week...or is it a year? I don't know anymore, all I know is that I've eaten lots of Afghan Chicken and Jase, for you information, it tastes GOOD. (Although not as good as jerk chicken).

ps the title of this blog was in honour of the lovely Mr JJ Codrington, who requested it to be so. Had he not requested it, I would have called it Kabul is so passé. This was said in my presence just 3 hours after landing in this rubbled, war torn country. This claim was followed by "actually Iraq is pretty passé too...isn't the Darfur the new Iraq?" Insanity!