The best little drive-through in Mumbai ...

I don't think Big Daddy's (the English name) is on Zagat or Michelin's food radar, but I think it is one of Bombay's best eats. The "restaurant" is comprised of parking spaces and curbside carts that grill up the most delectable meat/vegetable kebobs and tikkis. The preferred "tables" are car hoods which are leveled by glass bottles (see picture). The seats? Well, this is a standing room only kind of place where the napkins are the clothes on your (or your dining companion's) back. If you want to find this gem it is behind the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel in the Colaba section of Mumbai.

Gem scammed

There’s warning to travelers in the Lonely Planet about various gem scams in India. The scam essentially works like this: you get befriended my a nice Indian man (or two) who offers you fantastic hospitality at no cost to you (perhaps free beers or dinners or tours of the city). When they have you were they want you, they will bring up a business proposition that has you agreeing to carry a bagful of precious stones back to your country where you will meet with a gem person, sell the bagful of gems you have been toting, and get a stake in the profit. First you will need to leave some money for “good faith” since presumably you will have hundreds of thousands of gems. The scam is that these gems are worthless, and the money you put down in good faith, is never returned to you. I knew about this scam before traveling to Jaipur so I was prepared. What I wasn’t prepared for was how slick the operators really are. In my case, I met two brothers, Samir and Sabir. Sabir had an “official” tourist car, and he and his younger brother split driving duties. They never brought up costs, they treated me to chais (tea), they even invited e to attend their family Eid celebration. I was hooked on this family. But then they introduced me to their friend and boss, Tony Ali. This was what he called himself at least. Tony lived in a house the size of an India city block. He spoke six languages flawlessly. His family, he said, was in the jewelry trade and had been for years. He also owned a disco and some hotels. Wouldn’t I like a VIP-treated night at his disco. Wouldn’t I like some whiskey? After I said “no” a few dozen different ways, he finally said, “I have a business proposition.” Here it came. He was going to try to scam me. It clearly wouldn’t work as I was on to him. What did work, was that I got conned into thinking these twp brothers were nice and honest people. Maybe one of them is. But I know that the bond between Indian brothers means nothing goes unsaid and if one of them is working to find marks, the other is in on it too. So my scam story doesn’t end in loss of money and fake rocks, but it ends with an abrupt severing to a once promising, albeit short, friendship. It felt awful. Not because I felt I had been "had", but because I started to feel cynical to other offers of hospitality. Here is where I have a choice: close up and don’t trust, or let myself be open on the chance I will meet another truly lovely person. Thankfully, I believe in taking chances.

Shopping Secrets Revealed

Almost everything in India can be haggled. From the price of food, to taxis, to hotels; the set price is never the set price. The one exception is entrance fees to monuments or shrines. But the fact that haggling exists isn’t a secret. What doesn’t get shared often is when the best time to shop really is. It's been my experience that you can get far greater deals and have much better bargaining success if you shop in the morning. Most Indian shopkeepers subscribe to “luck.” They believe that as long as they make that first sale of the day, they will be blessed with more sales throughout the day. At one point, a shopkeeper went even lower than my “last and final offer” because he was so scared he was going to lose out on his luck if I walked away. Now that's buying power. (the photo is of a typical shopping center at night. The second best time to shop).

Cinema Paradiso

Jaipur is home to one of India's biggest cinemas, the Raj Mandir. It is an art deco monster from the outside, and the inside looks like you have been swallowed by a whale. No Bollywood experience would be complete without a hefty amount of audience participation. Babies cried. Children danced in the aisles. Men whistled and women shrieked with glee. The audience was actually better than the movie, "Aaja Nachle", translated to "Let's Dance" for those who would like to Netflix it. It didn't matter that the film was mostly in Hindi and I got lost on a couple of relatively important plot points (e.g. why did they want to dance anyway?). What I found interesting was that the film focused on a strong, sexy female who overcomes odds and obstacles (plot spoiler: she "wins" in the end) in a culture where women are often disregarded. What was neat was how the audience seemed to eat it up, so perhaps India is ready for a little female love and respect after all. Oh, and for all of the sexual tension that existed, there was no on-screen kissing. Blast!

Ranthambore National Park

Ranthambore is the only place to spot wild tigers in Rajastan. Much has been written about the countless seekers who have gone home disappointed after not seeing a single tiger. That is not my story.

On a lark, I went in search of a tiger. I booked no tickets for the safari (which usually is booked weeks in advance), and took my chances that I would get on one of the 20 seats that are released day of. My chances paid off. Big time.

After seeing monkeys (who goes on safari in India to see what you can see on the the streets?), some crocodiles, and an owl, we came across three lounging tigers. Three. Did I mention people hope to see just one? This picture cannot do justice to what I have only seen behind bars at a zoo. The beauty of the beasts are matched only by the Taj Mahal. The difference is that my pictures of the Taj came out less fuzzy.

Sisters

This is Puja and Sandoori. They live at the train station in Jaipur because that is where they said goodbye to their mother one month ago. Their mother went to Dehli in search of work and they hope she will come for them. So they wait. Puja is 12, but looks more like 7. She takes care of her baby sister who is one. I watched as Puja begged (sucessfully) for chipati (bread) and fed it to her sister. Puja says she doesn't get cold at night even though I have been chilled despite wearing two layers of fleece to bed. Sandoori has lesions all over her body. The kind that look like bed sores, but (considering their environment) is more likely to be some type of flesh eating bacteria. There doesn't appear to be a shelter of any kind for homeless children in Jaipur (a city of 3 million). With so many charitable people in the world, I am surprised that little has been done for the countless homeless girls who have been forgotten on India's streets. Perhaps it is because the charitable people don't ride India's commuter rails where these children are found. This is why I introduce you to them. They deserve a second glance. And Puja, in Hindi, means prayer.

Top Ten things to know before visiting India

There are a few things you need to be okay with when visiting India. If any of these things repel you, your visit will be unpleasant. Might I suggest Florida instead.

1. you will never hear nothing.
2. the smell of urine is everywhere.
3. you have to share sidewalks and roads with cows and what cows leave behind.
4. children will follow you, with a "hello" refrain, until you give them a couple of rupees.
5. monkeys will follow you, until you wave a stick, growl, stomp or feed them something. (if you feed them, be prepared to hightail it out of there before word gets out in the monkey community).
6. everyone has a store they want to take you to.
7. everyone knows someone who has a store they want to take you to.
8. there will never be toilet paper or towels in your room unless you ask.
9. the sound of phlegm working its way through the body and spitting is rampant.
10. other bodily function noises share in the harmony.

Once you get over this, your visit will be divine.

Cremation 101

In Varanasi, at the 'burning ghats', people are publicly cremated. The rules for cremation are as follows: you can be cremated so long as you are not a child, pregnant woman, leper, or have been bitten by a cobra. Your class decides what type of wood will be used to burn you (sandalwood is for the elite). If you are a young woman, you are draped in red, a young man is draped in white, and old people are covered in gold. The pyres are lit from an "eternal flame"; an area where logs are kept burning 24/7. A holy man will light straw from the flame and bring the burning straw to the pyre. Before lighting, he will walk around the body five times to symbolize the five elements: earth, wind, fire, air, and water. The smoke at the burning ghats is heavy. The ash and embers blow around. You are never quite sure what (or who) you are breathing in, only that you have witnessed something that feels voyeuristic. I am still coming to grips with the notion that I watched a young man, a young woman, and an elder burn before me. I do not know their names or their stories. I only know their class because of the wood that was used.

Monkeys

I think back wistfully to the first monkey I saw in India. It was in the distance and I grabbed by camera, zoomed to the max, and got a blurry shot of something that looked like a cat. That was then. Now, they are everywhere. Things cannot be left on balconies, or windows left open, otherwise the mini-humans (or, more appropriately, thieves) will creep away with what belongs to you. Or worse, they will attack. I heard a story of a man getting beaten to the ground and bitten by one of the region's bigger monkeys. Yes, they are cute when they sit with their young strapped to their undersides. They appear harmless as they carefully (almost delicately) root through garbage, but when they beat you up and take your crap, well that's just like New York City in the 80s. And here I am without my mace.

Varanasi

Varanasi, India’s holiest and oldest city, is also septic. The city is built along the Ganges River and is comprised of 80 different ghats (or areas with steps leading into the river). Ancient (feeling) architecture hugs the shoreline while smoke billows from pyres from the cremation ghats. The river, so filthy now, houses those generations past sins. Just imagining the sheer volume of people who come to this river to cleanse themselves of actual or spiritual impurities suffocates me. It grabs hold of my chest like a punch to the solar plexus might leave you gasping for air. But even still, children play in these waters. They still take advantage of what the river is giving them. It has been the most obvious showing of a word so often maligned: Faith.

The Hunt for Bhut Jolokia

It is known as the spiciest chili is the world (in fact, Guinness ranked it as such), and it can be found in one area in India. It's apparent white color gives it the nickname "ghost chili;" I just hope it doesn't disappear before I can get to it. Imagine a thumb-sized chili having the same sense of awe and adventure as the Holy Grail.

Nearly honest

There’s a bartender in Patnem name Brahma who left his family a year ago to come southward. He was trained as an electric engineer, but didn’t like spending days in a lab. So he packed up his things and left. All he had was the belief in himself that he was a “people person.” Speaking with him is how I imagine a conversation with Confucious would be. He says things like “There is no profit in lying.” And quickly follows that with “I only lie to my father.” There is humor and sadness is this. Much like how I imagine India to be.

Medicine Man

This is Ayrgun. He is a medicine man from Karnataka. He "diagnosed" my health and considered me to be of "medium-bad" health. I asked what that meant and he said I had too much fire. Then he promised to cure me for $40 USD with an herbal mix that I would take 3 times a day for 2 months. I said I couldn't carry around all of that powder with me while I traveled. So he shrugged and said, "ok, 1 month and you get less medium."

Ayurvedic Massage

I was a little scared. First of all, it is a massage I could hardly pronounce, secondly, they wanted me to strip and lie down on a wooden table that resembled a torture device (I was given a loin cloth for cover). Next I knew, two people were rubbing and pulling me simultaneously. This, to help circulation as the belief is that poor circulation is the root to poor health. Herb-scented hot oil is poured over your body and as you get tugged, you also start to slide around the table (thankfully there were no splinters!). What amazed me most was that the lead masseuse (the one who sets the pace for the other masseuse) knew within 5 minutes that I had problems with the right side of my body. Sure the bowling ball-sized knots probably gave it away, but he was able to narrow down that my problems emanated from my cervical spine. For those of you who know me well, this is the moment you should go “ah hah!” For those of you just getting to know me, your “ah hah” will come.

The Un-India

Patnem is south of Goa and is the place to go when you want to be in India, but feel like you are someplace else. Here drinking is allowed, as are tank tops and even bikinis. It is rebuilt every year after the monsoon season shreds the make-shift huts apart. Everything is make-shift. Mattresses are yoga pads, toilets are holes, but there is nothing like showering with a bucket of cold water under the stars with the occasional frog hopping through.

Ingenious

Kids in Mumbai seem to spend much of their free time roaming through the streets of Chor Bazaar with home made metal detectors. It is basically a stick with a magnet attached to one end that they drag through the littered dusty streets. After just a few minutes of watching a group of three young boys, they all came up lucky. I recall being given a store made metal detector to help pass the time on the beach as a 7 year old. I have no idea what it cost, but I am pretty sure the junk I found never made up for it. Home made has its advantages.

India's rail system

It is said that to truly understand a culture, you have t spend time on the rails. With this in mind, I navigated my way through the Victoria Terminus to get a ticket for a 12 hour train ride southward to Goa. Upon my arrival, a man was being run through the terminal on a stretcher. He had apparently fallen off the train and was run over. I assume this as I cannot fathom another reason why his leg would have been bloodied and dissected. (apologies for those of you eating while reading). I was told that this happens quite frequently as people cram themselves on to the commuter trains. While I had hoped to experience the rails the way the locals do, I also decided it was probably best for me to get a reserved seat so that I wouldn't have to fight to stay on the train. After getting on three of the wrong lines, I finally got my ticket to Goa. 6am departure time. This is clearly not a vacation.

Afghanistan revisited?

I thought I had already gone to the amputee capital of the world when I was in Kabul, but Mumbai is giving that metropolis a run for its money. As I approached Chor Bazaar, I was greeted by a triple amputee on a roller board. His one arm moved him along, and once he gathered enough velocity, he aimed himself for me and was able to wrap his one and only arm around mine. I understand why Mother Teresa spent so much time in these parts. There is heartache a plenty.

No Thank You necessary

I was out to dinner with a seemingly polite, young Indian man named Amand and he let me in on a little secret. Apparently "please" and "thank you" are considered condescending in India. I didn't believe it at first until I watched how the locals ordered their food and never used the common pleasantries. Could this be? Miss Manners must have never travelled to India. ((A note from linguist Noam Chomsky: politeness is actually built in to verb endings.))  

Welcome to Mumbai

You know you have reached Mumbai when the sounds of life are downed out by a relentless orchestra of car horns.   You know you have reached the city's vibrant center when the aroma is that of an flooded sewer. You know you are a tourist when the written cost of something is "X", but you get charged "X" plus "Y" and "Z".  But I am here in India's southern capital and couldn't be happier. Plus, on my very first night, I was approached for a massage. What I couldn't discern; however, as I stood on the sandy stretch of Chowpatty Beach, was whether I was being asked to give or receive one. In any event, I kept my hands to myself.

Things that make you go ewww ....

On the boat ride to Vung Tau, a popular beach resort south of HoChi Minh City, I stumbled upon this notice to passengers. The boat is very old and I think the English signage is a throw back to when the American War (what the call the Vietnam War) was happening. One part struck me as odd. It made me wonder if what happened in Vung Tau stayed in Vung Tau.

Green Guys

No, they are not environmentalists. They are street crossers. They assist the elderly, the young, and the tourist in negotiating HoChi Minh City’s traffic patterns. These green guys generally hang out around hotels and major points of interest in HCMC (so “tourist walking” is where the big business is), and they wear all green to indicate that they are “official.” But who are these green gods? They are from the city’s Youth Volunteer Brigade, and they know what it takes to cross the street safely. So the next time your travels take you to Saigon/HoChi Minh City, don’t let someone dressed in another color walk you across the street ... who knows where you’ll end up if you do.

Desperately Seeking Noam Chomsky

I am really trying to communicate in my version of Vietnamese. It hasn’t been going too well. A sample:
ME: (in Vietnamese) “How do you say ‘lemon’?”
Waiter: (in English) “Lemon?”
ME: (in Vietnamese) “Yes, how do you say lemon?”
Waiter: “Lemon.”

The Rice Fields

The next time you sit in front of a bowl of rice, I ask that you give a silent shout out to the people who farmed it. I tried to pretend I was one with the paddies, but the walk out through the the swampy rice stew alone tired me out. Plus there is that fear that you might stumble upon some one's ankle, hacked off in their frenzy to cut the rice down for milling. The poorer farmers do not have the electric miller that you see in these pictures; they hack down the rice and carry it to ground where they beat it with rocks to get the grains out. And the process I just explained is just one in a series. There's the planting of the seeds, the agitating of the seeds (I think that means they tease them), the milling, the husking, and the polishing (for white rice). So if you don't want to eat brown rice for health reasons, do it so that these good people have do one less thing to worry about. Oh behalf of all freelance rice farmers, I thank you.

Meet Linh

Pham Thi Thuy Linh is 13 years old and is waiting for an operation that will remove the hump from her back. She is scared of the operation, but she understands that weight needs to be taken off her spine so that she can live without pain. Most days the pain is so bad, she cannot walk. Linh is probably a victim of Agent Orange, but getting designated as such is more difficult now that the US and Vietnam have mended fences. Clearly it is not in the US’s interest to admit their wartime chemical continues to plague this country, and Vietnam doesn’t want to push the issue.
Linh was born without arms and has beautiful teeth. She is religious about her oral hygiene, and holds her toothbrush with her foot. She opens doors by using her head and chin and wears only elastic pants so that she can shimmy up and down bathroom walls to use the toilet. Linh lives in a “village” created by the Tu Du Hospital. She is one of 60 children who were born with defects and abandoned by their families. But she doesn’t want to go home even if her parents came back for her because she is happy and she loves her brothers and sisters. Linh spends most of her free time listening to pop music; she says she doesn’t dance … at least not yet.

My Chuchi Experience

Enough as been written about the Chuchi Tunnels so instead of regurgitating the history behind the vast and complex VC tunnel system, I thought I'd give you the highlights from my experience. First off, you need to understand that the Vietnamese have no problem in stating the obvious. If you are plump, you will be called “big man” or “big lady,” so hope they don’t characterize you this way. Before getting to the tunnels, everyone in my pack was lined up, and the guide went down the row pointing to people on which tunnel they could see. Tunnels have been recreated a littler wider for westerners to act like VC. Down the line they went: “big tunnel .. big tunnel .. little tunnel”; the closer they got to me, the more I wanted to be labeled “little tunnel.”
They pointed to me, sent me in with the smaller people, explained that we would be going down 8 meters into the ground and tunneling across 100 meters. There were “air holes” at 50 meters and the guide smiled and said “no problem, let’s go.” I was trying my best to remember metric conversions .. wondering how far and long would I be underground? What was this about an air hole? Does this mean I can’t breath before then? Suddenly I wanted to be fat.
The photos are of me getting in to the tunnel (you cover up with a door the way the VC did), and tunneling.

Unesco Schmunesco

Halong Bay (in the northeast of Vietnam) has been designated a UNESCO site. It is an area littered with limestone jetties/mini islands. Most of these spots have caves and through those caves there are lagoons. Parts of it are breathtaking, but then there is the part that most of the day tourists see. Gone for them are the emerald waters that Halong Bay boasts of in its brochures, instead its main part .. the one most visitors now see, is littered with junk boats which have now turned the waters into a dozen shades of brown. Ten years ago thee were 40 junk boats (flat-ish bottomed, wooden boats that chug their ways through the bay allowing visitors to overnight in a relatively tranquil state). Now there are over 400 of these boats. It is not the boats that are ruining it, but the disorganization of it all. Most of us adopt a “we want it when we want it” mentality, but that wicked side of our psyches should not be catered to. Amidst the frenzy, there is a certain amount of order. If only that order was applied to restricting of number of boats out at one time, or the locations where they could putter, this would remain a UNESCO site for much longer. Note: you can see Halong Bay in its glory if you spend two – three days there (which I recommend). The photos are of the conjestion at the docks and a more traditional Halong Bay beauty shot.

Sweat Swiper

It is summer in Vietnam and it is hot. Nevermind what you think of as hot; this is hotter .. and more humid. They don’t even dicker around with “real feel” temperatures because it would probably indicate that we are boiling. Given these circumstances, I don’t think it is shocking to admit that I sweat. Especially when I am in the jungle. Vietnamese (at least those from the northern mountains) don’t sweat. They get warm, but they don’t melt. So there I was, melting, when a young Vietnamese woman came up to me and swiped my sweat! She didn’t jar it or do anything really strange, but she came up, looked at my glistening (or is it glowing) arms, and ran her own palm along mine to draw off the sweat. She stood there looking at my body juice on her hand and I stood there thinking “she must actually think this is my body juice!” There weren’t throngs of screaming fans, or people fainting at my feet, but I kind of know how Elvis must have felt.

Ho's Great Adventure

HoChi Minh is a rock star here. People line up for hours to go through his Mausoleum (actually, it is just the Vietnamese people who have the long wait; visitors have no more than a 20 minute pause). The government has turned his house on silts, his palace and yes, the ice block in which he lies, into Hanoi’s version of Disney Land. Streets are lined with vendors hawking “I (heart) HoChi Minh” T-shirts, embroidered pillowcases of Ho at various functions, and ice cream are among the big sellers. I couldn't find any funnel cake so I guess there a limits to what you can sell in a sacred place.

2 very different Hanoi Hiltons

This has nothing to do with Paris. I promise.

The “Hanoi Hilton” aka Hoa Lo Prison (aka Maison Centrale), once home to Senator John McCain, is a tourist attraction. Kind of in the way that the Tower of London are: people like torture stories. The interesting side note to the prison is how nice they make it out to be. They show the harshness of being confined here, but when it comes to the telling of the way the soldiers of the “American War” were treated, they showed smiling soldiers, pictures of them cooking in the kitchen, pictures of them receiving presents from their families. All with the disclaimer that “they came here to kill us, but look how well we treated them.”
You would think that the last place the Hilton family would want to build a new hotel would be Hanoi. Sure there’s the name recognition, but would you want to go to a Camp Auschwitz? Right off the banks of the Red River, and next to the historic Opera, a new Hilton stands. I held my moral ground and didn’t go in. Even though there was a ladies night special.

Life is like ...

I am out in a jungle. I meet some people on a tour and follow behind. Inside the group are two English speakers, they happen to be American. They happen to live in New York, better yet, in Brooklyn. One of them looks familiar, and we begin the process of figuring out how our faces have been seen before. She mentions she is “in cheese.” I mention I love cheese. She says she works as a muckity muck at one of NYC’s greatest cheese shops. I ask whether she was ever a counter girl. I tell her I can picture her in an all white uniform with shorter hair. She nods, is contemplative, and asks me whether I like “stinky cheese.” Bull’s eye! So here in the jungle, I meet someone who 4 years ago served me up some excellent stinky cheese. Forget the box of chocolates; life is like an excellent cheese aisle.

Ling Squared

Two young girls approached me and asked whether I would mind practicing English with them (as far as I knew, my English didn’t need the work, but you can never be too overconfident). I heard the stories of people getting swindled as young girls ask innocuous questions while their counterparts pick every pocket available. I wasn’t going to be that easy, but they were so cute and young and honest looking so I agreed. After they practiced their English 101 questions (how are you, how old are you, where is the library), they loosened up and spoke of how beautiful they believe Vietnam to be .. the most beautiful country, second only to Singapore. When I asked how many times they have been to Singapore, they giggled and admitted to never being out of Vietnam.
They introduced themselves as Ling and Ling, mentioned they were both in high school, Ling #1 wanted to go into hotel hospitality, Ling #2 wanted to be a clothes designer, although she has never touched a sewing machine.
Their big reveal came when I asked them what Vietnam needed to do to compete with a Shangri-la like Singapore. Without missing a beat, they said that Hanoi needed to purge itself of the men who play chess in the streets. Now, I’ve been here less than a week, but I haven’t seen the kind of rampant street chess the Lings believe are taking their city down.

Hanoi's road rules

This is a typical street scene on a calm day. Thousands of mopeds share the road with cars, bicyclists, and the hapless tourist. Forget all you think you know about crossing the road. Don't bother looking both ways; if you wait for green, you might be waiting forever; and if you presume the pedestrian has the right of way in the cross walk, you'll do the rest of your presuming from a hospital bed. Here is the best way to cross the street: take a deep inhale, step off the curb, and walk. Walk in a direct line, walk slowly and deliberately, and walk preferably with someone larger than you acting as a shield. Once you are over, I suggest taking a taxi to cross back.

Lost With No Translation

Tokyo, Japan is reminiscent of New York City in a variety of ways. Neighborhoods are classified as the shopping, eating, drinking, dancing, etc. district, and there are subways that move people between those districts. But what it lacks is a real second language. Purists might think, “Great! All the better to get submersed in the culture!” I thought this ... for all of 10 seconds (the time it took me to be thoroughly confused when trying to buy a subway ticket).While most of the signs and instructions are in Japanese, there are key English words to sucker you in to thinking you might actually be able to get somewhere in conversation. Those key words are: Lunch, Soup, Sale, and Sexy Girls. These pictures show a typical restaurant scene: plastic food plates designed to attract customers in, and a sign with some English, but all the key details are withheld behind the Japanese word fortress.

The best advice I can give to anyone seeking time in Tokyo is to let it all just happen. Walk into that restaurant, point at anything on the menu and see what happens. For the adventure traveler, be sure to try this gastro-blindness at one of Tokyo's many sushi spots. If worse comes to worse, you can always find a sexy girl to keep you company as you pray to the porcelain God.

A 10 second voice over

This morning I hear a network newscaster report that a bomb exploded in the heart of Kabul killing 4 civilians. The next story was the latest hair style of that awful "American Idol" contestant. Granted I have opinions on each story, but the lack of information coming out of Afghanistan is quite troubling. I know I am in the huge minority, since most Americans do not know anyone who is over there, but I do, and believe I bear some responsibility to introduce you to some regular people.
Manizha is worth knowing. She is an Afghan-American who has lived all her life in Queens, New York. She moved to Kabul about six months ago to launch for a non-profit that protects women. She is well spoken and brave and put a safe life behind her to ensure Afghan women are afforded certain rights (i.e. to be educated, to not be raped, to not be forced in to marriage at age 9, etc.). Well Manizha happened to be in the car right ahead of the attacked police vehicle. She was driving alone. Her tires all blew, the rear window shattered, and blood (other people's) splattered her car. Apart from extreme shock, she is alright. And knowing her, even though just a bit, I bet she will continue to stay put and continue to do the job she set out to. I share this story with you to give you a little more information than the 10 second voiceover you might hear.

re-entry

It has been three weeks now since my return to normalcy – one of those weeks was spent warming up in the central pacific coast of Mexico .. and while a banana daiquiri was no replacement for red wine, it suited my needs nicely.
I now toil in Atlanta, a relatively benign place that has electricity, fine dining, all the red wine I could drink, and tornados …. Reconfirms my stellar ability to choose a location during the worst of its weather season.
I have yet to go to an americanized Afghan restaurant to show off my limited Dari. An ex pat once told me that the first thing he does when he arrives home, is eat at a sushi restaurant, the second is to go to an Afghan one .. he feels a sense of responsibility to speak to the transplanted afghans and tell them how life is like as many of them cannot communicate with their loved ones. This said, his dari is far superior to mine, and I fear I would only irritate people by going through my 20 minute “good morning .. how are you .. I trust Allah is taking care of your body .. thank you thank you” routine

Scar tracker

In my first week in Kabul, I had 5 new burns from poor bukhali lighting. As the weeks wore on, I became quite adept at igniting the little bastard. Positioning the wood in such a way to maximize flamage; lighting with a candle instead of a simple match (you can get your hand further in this way); and using the Afghan version of toilet paper as an accelerant (it is this stretchy paper which is probably not too good for your nether regions, but lights magically nonetheless.) This all said, the total count of bukhali burns is 12. I look at it as a free souvenir ...

Some information for foodies

A normal Afghan lunch will cost about $1.50 per person; an expensive one will cost about $6. If you have a fancy/expensive one, you will normally get: a soda, some soup (lentil puree, dollop of yogurt, and a generous amount of mutton fat), bread, and a mixed platter including grilled chicken and mutton, pilau, wilted salad, mantu (Afghan style dumplings with minced meat and yogurt on top), and chips (potato slices fried in mutton fat). Another typical food (not pictured) is boulanee which is a greasy crepe type dough filled with lentils or potatoes or a spinach-type vegetable. How the boulanee is cooked, depends on where in the country you are: in Kabul and along the eastern side, it is made on a griddle with a lot of grease, towards the interior and along the western side, it is baked more than greased. Whenever tea is served, you are normally offered something sweet to go with it, either a cake or some candy. This might help explain why there is so much tea drinking in Afghanistan (or, at least, why I kept accepting tea when it was offered).

Your daily bread

Bread (or nan) costs about 20 cents. You can buy it on nearly every street, and once made, it is hung by hooks inside the shops walls. The dough is stretched and slapped onto the interior wall of this clay oven/fire pit contraption which gives it its elongated shape When you buy it, the bread maker will take it off its hook, and put it on a clay buchali-type oven to warm it. This bread is fantastic when warmed. The bread shops are basically just store fronts (or perhaps even the front rooms of the people’s homes), and the choices are: long shape, round shape, and (only in certain places) with seeds. Each morning I will see men on bicycles bringing back stacks of breads to their families, or boys carrying them wrapped in papers to the local restaurants. The bread shop storefronts are local meeting and gossiping places, the way barber shops typically are/were in the US.

The truth about nuts

There is a lot of nut and dried fruit eating here. In fact, dried fruit producing is a viable way to earn a living (especially for women since it can be done at home). At the office, the staff likes to snack on bowls of dried chickpeas (or something like it) mixed with raisins, or other dried items like figs or dates. But here is what I have learned about nuts: in the wintertime, you should eat nuts because it keeps the body warm. In the summer, you should avoid nuts, because they will give you pimples. Now I have been eating a lot of nuts and still haven’t gotten any warmer; I hope that means I am not in store for a pimply summer!

I guess it can be a religious experience ...

Every day I would see men kneeling against the wall outside of my office window. The wall is to the west, so I had assumed that it had to do with prayer. The wall is actually a toilet wall and since men here squat when they use the loo, what I thought was them praying, is actually them peeing. There aren’t any signs to indicate that it’s a good spot to pee, I think that it is advertised by word of mouth.

Guess who's coming to tea

Her Excellency, Minister Ghandafar, requested my presence to give me some presents. She has been trilled with how the new Directorate is coming together and wanted to show her appreciation; it is common in Afghanistan to give gifts for the slightest of things. I received a carving of Afghanistan with the country’s flag intertwined with the American flag. The thing weighs a ton! I also got a felt, heart-shaped box with lapis (the country’s gemstone) jewelry. I thanked her for opening her house to me and I offered to host her for tea in my house should she ever make it to NYC. On the way out, her senior advisor told me that I needed to give him all my information as they are, in fact, planning a trip to the US soon. Uh oh.

Some lessons learned

If you don’t ask for something, the chances of you getting what you want are 0%. If you ask for it from the Director of the Department that handles said request, the chances of you getting it are 5%. If you want even the smallest thing done; it requires an official letter. Even if you don’t think you need an official letter, you do. Don’t sit too close to the window when you are in a car; the bumpy roads will knock you against that window and it will hurt. That flower you are admiring … it is fake, so don’t bother testing. Oh, and the most important lesson: don’t use the squat toilets if no one else is using them - there is a good reason for it.

Thrill Ride

I experienced a first in Kabul – I took an elevator ride! There is a new ex pat “rooftop” lounge in one of the hotels and by rooftop I mean the 7th floor. Once my fawning over the electricity stopped, so did the elevator! There I was, trapped in the dark, with a voice beckoning to me from the elevator intercom. The problem was that it was all in Dari and for all I knew I was being told to “get down get down the elevator is about to plummet!” I started to laugh (funny how fear will do that to you) and kept repeating “hello, how are you .. hello, how are you” in my best Dari. It was all of ten minutes (feeling more like hours) before the electricity was back on and the doors opened. I walked the rest of the way up. ((the photo was taken against the mirrored wall of the elevator .. I was in total darkness which will explain why it is not some of my best photographic work)).

Ashura

For all of the build up and the security warnings about staying away from certain Shi’a zones (I live in the middle of one), the day was quiet. The occasional low flying aircraft buzzing overhead, the louder than usual calls to prayer, the waving of the Shi’a flag were common sights and sounds, but otherwise the day was marked by bright sunshine and a group walk to Kabul Coffee House for lunch (4 blocks away .. the girls all shrouded). The din of the “spring offensive” does put a damper on the warming weather, but I’m excited by the prospect that we might actually have running water again soon! As adept as I am getting at scoop showers, I’m looking forward to not having to work as hard to get clean.

Not a banner year ...

To understand the challenges faced with the launch of the Media & Communications Directorate, is to understand the type of people who used to run the Ministry's “image". Last year for International Women’s Day, banners were written with a message designed to empower women. These banners were paid for by donors (what we call the government and NGOs who assist in funding) … anyhow the man in charge with Ministry PR changed the banners at the last minute without notifying anyone. On International Women’s Day, banners were hung with the message “A woman’s virginity is the jewel in he husband’s crown.” People were outraged .. soon after the Minister was ousted (though told that there was no relation to the events) …but, and here’s the kicker, the man responsible for the banner change is still in place and still doing the job he couldn’t do. This year, that same man suggested the Afghan proverb of “A woman’s silence means her consent” Even in America, if a friend of the president fails so obviously in their job, they get fired .. eventually.

Are you chicken?

We had a visitor to the office; a French woman who is making a documentary on Afghan women. She came at the conclusion of the staff’s English lesson, and I introduced her to the group as “so and so from France who is here making a documentary.” Harkening back to their first English lesson when they were all animals, I said to the staff that she would have come in time for their English lesson, but she didn’t want to be a chicken. (insert a roomful of giggles here). One of the staff members (who believes their English to be far superior than that of her colleagues) turned to the visitor and asked “are you from Chicken or from France?” I assume Chicken is next to Turkey.

Spring offensive

We keep hearing about the spring offensive that the Taliban is readying to launch. People want the snow to stop and the weather to warm, but with every day the degree notches up, the closer we get to the threatened offensive. I have never seen so many people conflicted about the weather’s changing pattern (save for Al Gore). The plus side to the warming weather is the streets get very muddy. The goopy kind of mud. The chances of someone being able to run in to a crowd with a bomb is practically nil. There is no running through Kabul mud (and there is no getting it off either!).

Doughnut aid

There is a small café on the outskirts of Kabul in the area called Karte-sei I didn’t see any Krispy Kreme doughnuts for sale, but the staff were big supporters (that or they received an “aid package” full of the paper hats.)

This is no chicken dance

The religious observance known as Ashura is nearly upon us. If you are Shi'a (and that’s roughly 10 % of the population, with Sunni making up the rest), this is a very serious time of year .. it is the time when the Prophet Mohammed’s grandson Hussain was killed. For Shi'as, they mark this 10 day period with prayer and self flagellation. On the 10th day, the observances spill out of the mosques and in to the streets. There has been violence on this day in years past when gawkers (or non-Shi'as) make fun or ogle them during the flagellation. Now that you are up to speed on Ashura, I can explain the dance. My intrepid interpreter is Shi'a. On a recent afternoon, he began singing ; a very sweet sounding tune in a very high key. I was impressed by his ability, and to spur him on (and show him I was a fan), I started faux-dancing. Since I was still in my chair, I moved a little to the left and little to the right, all while moving my hands and arms (the way you would if you had maracas). Everyone in the office stared at me. Their eyes were wide, their mouths were open .. all in that “wow! You’re something special!” kind of way … it turns out the song being sung was the main song of Ashura, and I was getting stared at by my staff because the little seated dance move I was doing with my arms looked like I was whipping myself (if you try this move the way I have explained .. move your arms and turn side to side, you’ll see what I mean .. trust me). So here is this very important day where the key is to not make fun of people whipping themselves, and what do I do? I dance. Kind of. Thankfully I found the error of my ways before Ashura ..since doing this same supportive dance could have lead to an international incident.

I don't know what is worse ...

... getting an email like the below, or having to figure out what all the acronyms are!
(fyi #1: Laghman Province borders Kabul)
(fyi #2: RCIED stands for Remote Controlled Improvised Explosive Device)

1. ANSO EAST - INCIDENT REPORT –RCIED Found–Laghman Province, Mehtarlam District, Mehtarlam City, Behind the Women Affairs Department,

Location: Laghman Province, Mehtarlam District, Mehtarlam City, Behind the Women Affairs Department

Incident type: RCIED Found, Date/Time: 24th January 2007 1015hrs, Report status: Confirmed

Information: Information received indicated that ANP discovered an RCIED packed in a bag and placed behind the women affairs department building in Mehtarlam city. Further information received indicated that the area was cordoned off by ANP while an ISAF EOD team defused the device. A controlled explosion was carried out on the device at 1315hrs with no injuries reported. No arrest has been made in connection to the incident thus far; however a police investigation is ongoing in the area.

Casualties: Nil, Arrest: Nil

Assessment: The ER has experienced an upsurge in IED activity and incidents of this nature can be expected in the future.

Advisory: ANSO east strongly advises NGOs to adopt a low profile while deploying staff to the above mentioned district.

Let me hear your body talk

This has nothing to do with that Oliva Newton John relic .. this is about how in Kabul, people aren’t afraid or embarrassed to let their bodies talk. At first I thought it was reserved for burping, but then I saw/heard it was no holds bar when it came to other sounds. For a country full of bean eaters, it can be quite a noisy place after lunch, and there is no hint of shame. It isn’t done with pride either .. it is more a fact of life. It is actually quite liberating, once you get over the oddness of it happening at meetings and you are the only one giggling.

The Hunt for Red .. Wine

I always thought it would have been cool to have lived through Prohibition.. I loved the idea of a whole underground world. A world full of secret revellers and real entrepreneurs (and yes, a few mobsters thrown in for good measure). I can now say, unequivocally, that prohibition sucks. The ex-pat community is up in arms over the lack of red wine and if you happen to stumble across a bottle, it is something you want t keep to yourself rather than share (and that’s not a fun party). The way liquor is procured here is either through an Embassy contact (and from what I hear, it is the Embassies who are to blame for the red wine shortage ..let’s just say foreign relations are made over hearty cabernets and not fume blancs or an “in” with someone who runs a restaurants. Yes, while most people pick up food for carry out, all over Kabul there are liquor bottles hidden in doggie bags! The shortage of the more desirable grape drink is a hot topic at any ex-pat gathering .. it tops even comments about the weather. “Did you hear so and so has a red wine connection?” “Really .. who is it?” “So and so won’t say.” “Bitch!” Yes friendships are made over a bottle of red and many a friendship has been broken as well. I imagine if I stayed a few more months, I would turn in to one of those people .. for me, I still enjoy the hunt of it.

My virtual refrigerator door

My staff issued their first press release today. The statement is a condemnation of the murders of two women (one, a policewoman who was mutilated by an alleged member of the Taliban, the other, a midwife, who was allegedly murdered by her husband), and I am very proud of them. The writing is stilted, they added this weird sentence about how "women are the most fragile community of Afghanistan who have no authority to protect themselves, so we see violence against them,"
and it took them over a day to get it together, but like a proud parent who puts their child’s scribbles on the refrigerator door, I want to frame their first statement. Who knows whether any press will actually pick it up, but at least they finally tried to be proactive.

Bukhali dangers

My little bukhali. We have a love/hate relationship. It burns me nearly every time I put my hand in to stoke the fire, yet it is the only thing that keeps me warm. These little dears are really just cleverly disguised death traps. The exhaust "system" is a series of pipes fitted together which eventually makes its way into a hole in the wall. The pipes are ill fitting and there are gaps between the connections .. sometimes you get lucky and the smoke flows freely out of the room .. and sometimes you have happen, what happened to me last night. The exhaust back up was so fierce that it actually knocked the pipe out from the wall … the pipe arms then started spinning around the room spewing ash … I didn't know whether to duck and run or try to grab hold of it and stick it back in the hole. I tried fixing the problem myself (unsuccessfully) and then ran to the guard house doing my best bukhali-pipe-spinning-around -the-room-on-fire impression. Sharif (who has saved me once before) came running behind me and like a monkey grabbed hold of the pipe and put it back in to place. The photos are of the bukhali's exhaust system, the aftermath, and my hero.