Brief Update on Events

This is quick summary of latest developments. I actually did not write it myself but as a blogger I take the liberty of "stealing" my friend's idea. Plus I could not write it better. So, enjoy Afghan politics in one paragraph.

Karzai confirmed “elected president” by the Independent Election Commission, which he had independently appointed himself. Abdullah stated that Karzai’s re-election on the basis of the fraudulent 1st round is not legitimate. Gordon Brown congratulated Karzai and urged a strong action on corruption within Afghan Government. Karzai retorted that much worse than the “afghan corruption, which is a corruption like in every other government”, is “the corruption brought to Afghanistan by foreigners”. Taleban issued a statement saying that it is funny to see Western Allies criticize Karzai for election-rigging one day, only to congratulate him for re-election on the basis of the same fraudulent 1st round a couple of weeks later. Ban Ki Moon remains committed to the people of Afghanistan, and ordered re-location of 600 hundred UN staff from field positions. Marghzar won this year’s round of 1st-snow-in-PIN-project-area.

If You Think You’re Too Small to Change Anything Try Sleeping with a Mosquito

This post is not going to be about the beauty of the Afghan mountains, deserts and green valleys. Not even about the war, terrorism, elections or the complexities of Afghan politics. I am not even going to write about women’s rights, religion, fashion or economy. Nothing like that. This post is serving purely as my personal therapy because I just spent what was probably the worst night of my life.

In Afghanistan, good, deep sleep does not come easily. Some of the reasons why are purely technical in nature. The bed is somehow only 1,80m long and has “beautiful” iron bars at the head and toes. Stretching then necessarily ends up with a loud bang as the skull tests the quality of the iron or with my feet stuck between the bars. Secondly its now too cold to sleep just wrapped in a single sheet but too hot to cover up with the standard issue heavy blanket which has beautiful colours and is all made (in China) of some incredibly unpleasant and heavy plastic. Secondly, and more importantly, is the actual state of mind. You don’t really want to sleep deeply – if you can avoid it. There are some useful habits that you try to follow. Placing the clothes in such a way that you can enter them within seconds, the phone, passport, escape money, glasses, flashlight right next to them. It’s a simple fact that the faster you can run away the greater your security. Although I do not know the details I am sure that the survivors of last week’s attack on a UN guesthouse in Kabul would confirm that. Sound sleep just compromises your ability to be fast.

On the other hand, sometimes you are just too tired and fall into a nice, refreshing deep sleep. It happens to me – “luckily”. Like last week. I went to bed before midnight and fell unconscious almost immediately. I had a dream about a sea, me on a boat, the sky blue, the boat rocking lightly. Then somehow I was on a train and it was rocking and shaking a lot more, but still pleasantly. Suddenly I opened my eyes, the windows were rattling, things falling from the shelf. I had no idea what was going on. My brain, slower than usual, was analyzing the situation at the speed of a crippled, old, arthritic turtle. Analysis goes like this:
“What the hell?”
“A rocket attack?”
“No there would be a lot louder bang plus some light.”
“An ambush?”
“No I cannot hear any shooting?”
“Grenades?”
“No again there would have to be more noise plus flashes of light.”
“So what? It’s still shaking.”
“An earthquake. Bingo. Thanks God it’s just an earthquake.”
“Wait. An EARTHQUAKE. You’ve seen their buildings. Get the hell out of here.”

Of course I was the last one to get out of the building. Actually arriving after the Afghans, used to this, went back to bed. Among some laughter I realized that although the earthquake lasted for almost a minute I was only awakened by the last, strongest tremor. Deep sleep might not be so healthy after all.

But last night was the worst. I was mercilessly attacked and the siege lasted until the morning. I am not an entomologist but I am sure that in Afghanistan they have a special, particularly vicious type of mosquitoes. Probably Al Qaida trained, financed by western addicts and renegade individuals and under Taliban control. And they are all suicide attackers. And they use psychological war and cause paranoia. I could not hide. The high pitched buzzing sound was just above my ears all night. I tried beating my face as the sound stopped assuming the villain has landed on me, covering under the plastic blanket until I could not breathe anymore. I even prepared an ambush lighting a piece of wall with my flashlight. These new LED flashlight are totally useless, they generate too little heat, so I placed my naked hand into the light as a bait. Not a single one of them went for it, they were happily buzzing above my ear. I lost terribly. They ate me alive.

I still have to find out how they got into the room. It’s well protected by nets on windows. The doors are closed at all times. Yes and I have to place an insect repellent next to my escape pack. But I know for sure that one of my favorite quotes is right. If you think you are too small to change anything try sleeping with a mosquito.

The Salang Tunnel – Am I Claustrophobic?

In high school I played in a musical. I believe it was called Sweet Charity. Anyway, the only scene I remember is that trapped in an elevator my character was asked “Are you claustrophobic?”. “No, no, absolutely not. I just don’t like small tight places which I can’t get out of”.

I honestly believe I am not claustrophobic. “I just don’t like to be stuck in a tunnel full of diesel fumes between overloaded 30 year-old trucks”. It’s not nice. Really…

The Salang tunnel is a piece of engineering. Not that it would be well designed. The road has huge potholes, water has nowhere to escape, ventilation is practically non-existent and the weak lights are only visible when the fumes disperse at the exit. On the other hand it is built at an altitude of 3400 meters and has almost 3 km. Thus it is the 2nd highest tunnel in the world – in the 4th poorest country of the world. It is also practically the only way linking Kabul with the North - unless you want to spend 3 days on the road. The setting among high peaks of the Hinduuksh is simply spectacular so you can really feel like experiencing hell in heaven – surreal.

Interestingly it was built with the help of the Soviets in 1964 who then used it to invade Kabul in 1979 and ten years later to flee the country. Apparently, it’s hell in winter when frequent avalanches make the access to it quite dangerous. A few times an avalanche trapped people inside the tunnel and a number of them died of asphyxiation and freezing. I would be lying if I claimed that I am looking forward to experiencing it in winter – even the September trip was quite something.

One of the reasons is that Afghan drivers are quite hot headed and don’t really have any rules. Amir, our Afghan-Czech engineer told me on the way from Salang: “If I won the election here, the first thing I would do is force every driver to retake driving exams.” Theoretically, driving licenses are used here and you are supposed to have one to drive. But in reality they are just a piece of paper. The trucks are crazily overloaded and very old, climbing the road at some 15 km per hour. The corollas on the other hand race among them like if seconds mattered and one of their 7-15 passengers had to get to a hospital. Then obviously there is the underlying pride of an Afghan driver – if overtaken it’s his moral duty to do everything in his power to catch the offender. If it wasn’t so dangerous it would be quite funny. The corollas are not exactly powerful cars and above 3000 meter the engines are not working at their best either. The worst, however, are the buses.

The large bus (imagine a 30 year old Mercedes bus complete with a German “Friedrich reisen” decals and Polish plates) is quite a new addition to the roads here. Still majority of public transportation is carried out by mini-vans with a great name “Falang kuch” (apparently a distorted version of “flying coach”). Large buses are popular because they are cheap and fast. Way too fast. We were overtaken several times at over 100 km/h by a fuming honking bus. They would start overtaking anywhere anytime counting on their size as a deterrent of oncoming traffic. They never have a minor accident - only fatal ones. Lot’s of them (on my last trip from Mazar to Kabul I saw 3 completely crashed busses on the 400 km).

I read somewhere wise words of an experienced traveler: “In Afghanistan I always pray for a bad road”. I shall follow that advice. “Fortunately”, there are plenty of really bad roads here.

Byl to ten slavný den, kdy k nám byl zaveden elektrický proud

Hamidullah je negramotný ale bystrý muž spřátelským úsměvem a rozhodným projevem. „Dlouho jsem bojoval s mudžáhidy, než jsem pochopil, že válka je nesmyslná. Mnoho mých kamarádů zemřelo a já se dnes stydím, že jsem nevzdělaný.“ říká nám ve svém novém hliněném domku na úpatí příkrého srázu. Nemůžu se zbavit přesvědčení, že mu ho první lavina smete, ale je tak viditelně hrdý na dílo postavené vlastníma rukama, že o tom pomlčím. Dnes Hamidullah chová ovce v zapadlém, krásném horském území. Jednou měsíčně se s nimi pěšky vydávává přes hory na třídenní cestu do Kábulu na trh a také je pokladníkem místní komunitní rozvojové rady.

Komunitní rozvojové rady vznikly v rámcí projektu zvaného Národní program solidarity. Vede jej afgánského Ministerstvo pro rozvoj a rekonstrukci, financuje Světová banka a vlastní implementaci provádí velké zahraniční neziskové organizace jako je Člověk v tísni. „Naši sociální pracovníci v každé vesnici uskuteční volby, z nichž vznikne rozvojová rada. Ta pak pod naším vedením vypracuje rozvojový plán a podá si žádost o grant na nějáký infrastrukturní projekt na ministerstvo. Naši inženýři jim pomohou připravit stavební plány a pod naším dozorem pak probíhá stavba.“ Vysvětluje mi Amirzada Ahmadzai, manažer projektu vlastnící doktorát z ČVUT. Zní to poměrně jednoduše.



Hamidullah má ale problém. S hrdostí nám ukazuje skoro dostavěnou malou vodní elektrárnu a stěžuje si na šéfa jejich rozvojové rady. „Vůbec mi nepomáhá. Má vlastní malou elektrárnu a, když dostavíme tuto společnou, přijde o své příjmy.“ To mě zarazilo, proč v této horské vesnici stavíme elektrárnu, když už tady jedna je? Amirzada se usmívá nad mou neznalosí inženýrského provedení elektráren. „Je to velký rozdíl. Pár vesnic má amatérské elektrárny, ale tlak vody je nestabilní, kanály hliněné, ničené záplavami a proud vystačí tak maximálně na pár žárovek.“ Pak mi pečlivě popisuje naše kamenné vodní dílo a dodává, že bude stabilně dodávat proud do celé vesnice. Hamidullův problém je hlavně v tom, že každá, i sebechudší vesnice, musí z vlastních prostředků uhradit minimálně deset procent stavby. Většinou svůj příspěvek řeší dodáním nekvalifikované pracovní síly, vyrobením sloupů elektrického vedení, nosením kamenů z okolních hor a prokopáváním kanalů - peníze nemají. Ujišťujeme tedy Hamidullu, že náš sociální pracovník se šéfem ještě promluví. Jeho tvář se rozjasní a za silného stisku ruky nás ujišťuje: „Tuhle elktrárnu dokončíme, i kdybych měl prodat více ovcí a zaplatit část ze svého“. Věřím mu, koneckonců už mu zbývají dodělat jenom dveře od domku s generátorem a rozvést dráty do vesnice.

Člověk v tísni v Afgánistánu v současné době dokončuje okolo sedmdesáti takových elektráren, desítku mostů, opravují se cesty, staví komunitní centra, pořádají se kurzy šití pro ženy. Vesnice se zkrátka může rozhodnout jak svůj grant, jehož velikost je odvozena od počtu rodin, využije. Elektrárny jsou oblíbené, protože umožní život po setmění. Ženy mohou šít, děti dělat úkoly muži opravovat své nástroje. Vesnice za každou úspornou žárovku vybere od obyvatel v přepočtu 6-8 korun měsíčně. To stačí na údržbu, plat správce a v jedné vesnici si dokonce pořídili dva počítače a učí děti počítačové gramotnosti. Existuje však i cyničtější pohled na věc. Rafi, kontraktor z vedlejší provincie, který jednu elektrárnu pro zapadlou vesničku staví nám pobaveně sdělil. „Jó elektřina to je velká věc. Oni si v zimě rozsvítí, všimnou si jak jsou špinaví a spoň se začnou mýt.“

Kabul – sun and dust

I slept on the way from Dubai. Partially because we spent the whole night in an Irish bar at the airport, savoring our last draft beers and watching “Vesnicko ma strediskova” and partially because the Kam Air flight was so empty that I could nicely spread over four seats. I awoke when the plane jerked and started diving in a wild spiral. This must be it – welcome to war, I thought as I clumsily reached the window to peer down at the place which was supposed to be my home for the next 18 months.

Barren, brown mountains everywhere, the colour of a dessert, sheer cliffs and narrow valleys, not a single tree, blue sky, not a cloud in sight, like a painting that looks too naïve to be considered art, black and white photograph which by some accident turned out blue and brown, and in the middle of this surreal scenery Kabul.

I read somewhere that Kabul died after it was liberated by the mujahedeen. The same people who fought for years to free their country from Soviet occupation all of the sudden could not resist fighting each other destroying street after street of this once beautiful city to gain strategic advantage only they understood. Well, that September morning Kabul looked very much alive to me. “Too much alive” would be more precise. Crazy traffic with speeding corollas fighting with 50 year-old trucks, donkeys, pedestrians, children running in the street, tricycles, tractors, old men pulling trolleys... Us 3 squeezed in our non-descript red corolla with a smiling driver. One hand on the horn, the other holding a cell phone he was showing me (the new guy) that with faith, luck and racing skills it only takes 15 minutes from the airport to our office-guest house.

In reality the traffic was exactly what you would expect. The impression accentuated by my sleepiness and the two defining characteristics of Kabul – dust and sun. The dust everywhere, combined with diesel fumes and smells of Kebab, sewage and rotting fruits. The sun blurred only by the dust making all the colors painfully bright, disguising real distances, bringing the surrounding mountains so close you feel like you could touch them.

The sensory overload of a first morning.