GO, GAYA, GONE

“Okay now tell me how you pronounce the alphabet ‘J’."
“That would be ‘G’ as in ‘GO’.”
“So effectively Jo becomes ‘Go’ and Jaya become ‘Gaya’. You are 'gone' Ma’m and so is Sir.”

Shreyash had been at it again. Pulling their legs.

“So what is your favourite colour?”
“Bink”
And what is the colour of eggplant?
“Burple?”
What vegetable did you put in that Batate?
“Botatoes”
“And this keema is from big I bresume...”
“ No No not bork”
“What other drink can you offer me beside Tamarhindi and Kahrup? Bebsi?”

“Big deal,” Shereen had got the drift by now. "You are pulling our leg because we can’t say “p” clearly. We can if we want to. Only it doesn’t come all that naturally. Now you try saying Ahmed, Khaleed and Ali...”

Shreyash was stumped. Even after making the most meaningful grunts through his throat he couldn’t get a single one right.

I personally find this mispronunciations or the inability to form certain words utterly charming. I have raised a few eyebrows Bengalifying every language I speak. I maintain that as my specialty these days.

“But we can’t help it, can we? We learnt all our words the way it is in Koran. There is no bink in Koran.”

Shereen, the girl with not one but a million funny bones left us cracking with laughter yet again.

PIQUANT PYRAMIDS AND A ROYAL RIDE

Finally to the Pyramids!
Need I explain my first thoughts? From a distance driving through Giza, they appeared like three mountain peaks in the smoggy panorama. Too steep to look like a real mountains but almost like a natural part of the landscape.
The one in the middle, the Pyramid of Khufu, the tallest one, looks snow capped with the little bit of casing material that is still left on its pinnacle.



It is impossible to describe the wonder and amazement as one approached these marvelous creations of a civilization as old as the mountains. This place, Giza, was a desert at one time. That too vast stretches of desert! Today it is a hotchpotch, clumsily expanded district with a swarming population. With the city creeping in and inching towards these magnificent relics, the place where the old meets the new is an amazing vantage point – A crossroad between memories and dreams. Here against huge billboards, snarling traffic, jostling crowd, unplastered houses, and modern flyovers, these majestic ruins reminded me of everything that has gone into bringing me this moment of truth.


The approach, the little stretch through the sand that is still there for tourists, I couldn’t help thinking, has been trod upon by so many, over so many centuries. The artisans and laborers who created the tombs had walked all the way, lugging those enormous stones on their back. Much later when Napoleon came to desecrate the Sphinx he must have come on a horseback now all one can see are four wheelers.

I wanted my own classic shot of the intriguing Pyramids, which are more than just tombs to me. Its symbolism will outlive it while some of its mysteries will remain buried in its sand forever.

“Ticket please”. A tall Egyptian in traditional Kandura (they call if Galabiya here), headgear ( Ogal) and a smart pair of glares stopped my reverie. I promptly took it out. He looked concerned.
“Where are you from?”
“India”
“With this ticket you can only see these three Pyramids”. He pointed out to them in a distance.
How many were there anyway? I thought there were only three that of Khufu, Khafre and Menkaure who ruled through 2589-2504 BCE.


“Come with me. I will show you something more.”
Was I to follow him? He wasn’t wearing a police uniform but looked terribly respectable.
“ Why? Where?” I responded curiously. He seemed to be taken aback
“Trust me. Come with me. I will show you something nice. Stand here. Put your hands up and I will take a picture of yours that make it seem like you are touching the top of the Pyramid.”
Hmmm! I thought.
“You don’t have to pay me. I work here”


And there hangs the tale. Another naive tourist was gradually ensnared into the web of the infamous touts of Giza. Very soon I was on a camel back “looking like an Egyptian queen,” all thanks to my very generous Egyptian friend in glares. He was paid to see all tourists who came to see the Pyramid went back happy. Now isn’t that a huge promotional package from the Egyptian Tourism Dept! I was beginning to understand the game but wasn’t sure how to end it.

“Ok thanks, that’s enough. I am very happy now. Must get going!”
“I can see you were meant to be a queen. Generous when happy.” He gave the clinching line.
Playing with my vanity. That was taking it too far. I had forgotten about the Pyramids all of a sudden. There were more serious things to deal with.
“Okay. How much do you want?”
“ What a hundred dollar? Did I hear you right? I can give you a hundred rupee. Is that okay? I am not feeling too happy or generous anymore.”

The haggle continued for a while. In the background the Sphinx sat laughing. It has seen so much over so many thousand years.This little interlude was just another anecdote that would remain buried with it, in time.

THE HONKING LANGUAGE

Gosh! I have so much to write. It has been impossible to pen my diary everyday – Been traveling too much. As a result there is this huge back log of stories that I have to share with you. There are hundreds of things that I am learning every day but first things first- My experience at the Giza Pyramids! But even before that a little about Muhammed.

Muhammad Khalid Mahmud is the charioteer in my sojourn. He seems to be constantly forgetting that I know no Arabic. He breaks into rapid fire Arabic trying to enthrall me with his animated conversation even when he fully knows I find it all Greek/Arabic. “Shoya Shoya” (gradually) he hopes I will start understanding him. The other Muhammed, my translator calls him a ‘Homar’ (a donkey) from ZAGZEG – A place which is famous for – Guess what? Non-stop talkers!

I can believe that. He is surprisingly comfortable with himself, keeping himself amused with his own natter even when no one is paying attention to him. He will roll down his window and start chatting with a driver on the road, a commuter or even a pedestrian when he is bored with himself,looking for some dialogue.

Apart from Arabic he speaks another interesting language. I am not sure if he has invented it or learnt it on the way. It is a Morse coded honking language for the road which several Egyptians drivers are using these days I am told.

As anywhere in India honking is a huge past time for Egyptian drivers. The more the gridlocks, the more frequent is the honking. The more congested a place, the louder it gets. The more impossible the mess, the more desperate it sounds. But that is logical. “Why are cars fitted with horns otherwise?” Mohammed asks. He takes this particular appendage rather seriously and puts it to maximum use therefore.

Driving through a highway where there is hardly any traffic is the most boring part of driving for people like Muhammad.(Fortunately Cairo is crowded and with snarling traffic all the time... so driving is generally fun). Muhammad chooses to keep his profession as vibrant as possible by honking his way through. He usually does it with beats of a peppy number that comes on FM. He also uses it to converse with his fellow commuters.

He maintains it is an innovative way to beat stress and so must be used ingeniously. Mohammed shows exactly how it is done . Baib ba baib ba means “I love u”. He is careful not to use it when there is a woman driver though. He prefers plain and simple men-talk, exchanging choicest expletives instead. "The way men usually greet each other," he explains.

I like Mohammed. Everything about him reminds me of my hometown. With utter disregard to rules, he drives as if the roads have been made just for him. God forbid someone comes is his way when he is in one of his perilous lane cutting mission. He lets them have it. “Can’t he see I came first? Everyone of course understands. Traffic rules are suffocating and so meant to be broken. Infact the more dangerous you can get, the more experienced a driver you are supposed to be.

A person coming from Dubai where traffic rules are severe may find manoeuvring through the reckless traffic of Egypt a disaster. But I learnt driving In Calcutta and so I feel perfectly at home here.

P.S. Mohammed would like to remind “What reckless...the traffic hardly moves in Egypt!” That’s a point. Please note it too.

A DATE WITH CAIRO

Cairo would have a lot to do with dates I knew only I hadn’t imagined running into them everywhere.

My destination was the City of 6th October. Yes, it is the name of a place (They have others too to commemorate important days in the national calender - 23rd July Rd, 26th July Rd).

6th Oct is the most important of them all. It is the National Day. Egypt defeated Israel and recaptured Sanai on this day. Hence an entire governate has been dedicated to it and now being gradually developed as the new capital of Egypt. It lies to the west of Cairo, in the outskirts, about an hour from the Airport – a sprawling swanky township with posh housing societies, two huge entertainment parks, some of the best hotels chains of the world and the Egyptian Median Production City.

Turning out of the Airport what struck me as the first distinguishing character of Cairo was its preoccupation with signages. I was happy with the Cairo Airport making an inimitable statement. The frequency with which they appeared thereafter was a little amusing. Not only big institutions had their names flashing in bold along their outer walls but even gated communities and villas had them etched out in oversized capital lettering all over the place. More than ostentatious there was something childish about the display. It is how Egyptians were as people I reckoned – large-hearted, generous and childlike.

I was told by the driver that I was on the Ring road that encircled Cairo and Giza. With the Airport at one end in the east we were to travel half way across the arc at the opposite end to reach our destination. The river Nile I learnt would come in the way meandering from south to north (officially dividing the districts of Cairo and Giza). Fastening the seat belt I sat upright ready with my camera to capture the spirit if this magnificent city.

I had been reasonably impressed with the new airport terminal and now the 8 lane dual carriageway before me took my breath away. Cairo was more modern than I thought it would be.

Camels taking a ride on a truck made a good picture for the tourists. I had my eyes set for the first signs of visible civilization though. And lo behold they appeared in the distance in a grey mass.

As I came closer I was taken aback by a rather untidy clusters of buildings with no balconies. Stacked one against the other like cardboard boxes they looked like a day-after–ghost-town. Bombed out and shaken. I simply wasn’t expecting to catch Cairo so starkly disheveled all of a sudden.

It wasn’t the houses, I figured out later, it was the colour that made them so dismal. I rarely find myself completely awestruck by the living conditions of any country. Be it opulence or poverty I have seen it all in India. I have been to Afg, one of the most impoverished countries in the world and still maintain I have seen more poverty in India. Egypt was no different. I quickly reckoned those houses belonged to lower middle class homes, a little away from the buzzing city - A kind of a Dharavi along the Mumbai Airport – a bit of an eyesore but a stark reminder of the anomalies of a developing nation.

The ghost town vanished as the road winded along the Mokattam Mountain. To the people of Cairo, it is the only mountain they know. They are actually low hills of abt 500mts - a limestone quarry, running all the way to Sanai, 5 hrs away from Cairo.

Here right ahead of the ranges, I tumbled upon yet another set of surprise - A sprawling gated community, magnificently opulent and shamelessly modern.

The bombed city beside a paradise could make interesting headlines. I suddenly felt the molting pangs of modern Cairo. It may be a long time before it sheds its ugly skin. Things were in progress. But like everywhere else the poor were probably waiting to be just wiped out.

I left the rich and famous and through a small quiet stretch approached what looked like the head of the bridge. “You will soon see the Nile flowing across,” I was told by the driver. I was approaching prime property, the least densely populated neighborhood in Greater Cairo. I was told expatriates and diplomats lived there in MAADI. The real estate cost of their property ran in millions and this was the wealthiest suburb of south Cairo.

The Ring road, slightly elevated now, did not allow a clear perspective of the township. What I could see was a muddle of sprouting high rises - drab and chaotic.


The Nile looked refreshingly quiet and peaceful in contrast. Its clear waters ran into streams along small islands with palm, mango and date orchards.This beautiful river sustains and nurtures Cairo even today and I knew I would come back to it for its story. My eyes were still on the living accomodation all around it.




“Are these really houses of rich people,” I found it hard to believe from their shabby exterior. “Why are they not painted brightly ?” I asked. Rami, our friend explained that an Egyptian would eagerly spend a hearty evening with his friends painting the town red but not his walls. “It is a waste of money for him.”

I recalled how our very own Jaisalmer, Jodhpur and Jaipur the desert cities were also not into painting their houses. There was a lot of colour in their clothes and food and life, their houses comparatively staid. Was there a connection somewhere? Anyway Jodhpur looked beautiful in blue and Jaipur in pink and Jaisalmer in yellow... Cairo could have done better than that sad grey shade. Someone really ought improve their taste in colours.

Did I say that too early? For what lay across the bridge was the town of Giza - with still more surprises in store for me - More multi-storeyed buildings, piled against each other with no breathing space - tons of bricks without mortar or cement to hold them together – or so it seemed. These set of people seemed to have simply forgotten to plaster their houses. There were narrow unpaved alleys running between them. What if there was an earthquake? These structures would literally come down like tons of bricks I thought.

I couldn’t relate to the fact how this cradle of civilization with the greatest engineering feat could allow such monstrous constructions. Ah... that was enough for the day I decided. I intended to get up early and head for the Pyramids the next morning. But that was not the high point of my journey. I wanted to explore the life in Cairo more than anything. I would need many dates...

LAZY LANDING : CAIRO AIRPORT

The garbled welcome message from the cockpit sounded more Arabic than English. The only words I could catch at the end of the rushed monotone message was the sing song THANYOU. Soon with cell phones squeaking, squealing and coming alive one knew it was time to disembark.

There was no big rush. The flight had arrived virtually empty. And why not? When lunch is doled out like free ads in cheap plastic packets to be taken home (because it is Ramadan and many don't eat in the aircraft) or a drink is thrust across in a plastic glass (by a grey haired furrowed face, making a desperate attempt to flash a James Bond smile), one wishes one had swam across the Red Sea instead. At the cost of sounding non-feminist, if grandmas as stewardesses (a la Indian Airlines) made you feel creepy, think again. Grandpas waiting with toothy grins along the aisle, hoping you had a wonderful journey, is far worse. But that is Egypt Air.

I have been on Cam Air to Afghanistan and was more than surprised to find at bevy of Afghan beauties in their crew back in 2007. Egypt is by far the most liberal of the Middle East countries. I couldn't imagine why then men with one leg into the grave where given the challenging task of looking after the passengers on board. (Had it been Bangladesh Biman I could have still reasoned it out and you know why!)


Once outside the new terminal of the Cairo Airport (modern, spacious, comfortable and swanky), what hit me immediately was the nip in the air and an easy familiarity - Even with the sun beating down the breeze was refreshingly cool, like a hill station. I thought Egypt would be hot and sultry and sweaty! Not this time of the year! With the summer winding down the weather is unbeatable.

Next was the sight, the sound, the smell. Life looked laid back, humdrum and humble. Porters, taxi drivers, cleaners - stalky men, with short cropped hair - all looked strangely familiar. Here too seedy hotel touts appeared from all corners, talking incessantly, grabbing at your arm, pushing you around, making their point in Arabic, then getting lost in the jostling crowd, just as mysteriously. The taxis pulling in were a medley of antiquated cars. Most local passengers were arriving with battered suitcases, duffel bags and assorted bundles. Tourists of course thronged the place and were walking around with translators and their copies of Lonely Planets. It smelled back home.



Patches of manicured lawns with shiny boulders, artifacts, flags and palm trees flanked the short drive from the airport to the ring road. A huge signage of Cairo Airport in white blocky alphabets stood atop the plateau at the end making a stunning Hollywood statement. There was a rush of excitement down the spine. This place the cradle of civilization has been a desert for eons with one of the most amazing wonders of the world. Modern Cairo would have many other stories to tell. I waited impatiently for it to unfold its mystery to me.

MY NEW COORDINATES... MY NEW HOME

This space got a little flaky off late. I was confused. It began with an army wife writing from outposts about all and sundry. But then things changed. We became ex-army and my nomadic lifestyle found roots in the outskirts of Mumbai. I had a lot to write but nothing pertaining to the army anymore. I used the blog in spurts to archive my published articles instead. Like this CII meet I attended two weeks ago. A sketchy news item on what happened in this annual summit held by the confederation of Indian Industries will go into this blog - Demystifying Indian Consumer Market. Anyone blogging for stories on the army will be thoroughly confused. It is a mixed platter. But that is in essence the army spouces's life. That has been the only undisputed constant anyway…Change. Only it has gone one step ahead and I now I am trying to be the change that I want to see. I hope this blog gets a facelift soon and prepares my readers for the new changes in store with many interesting nuggets from my life.

So where am I now? In Dubai. The internet is literally my only window to this new life as I sit and write from a small ( biggish) studio apartment in Dubai International City … My new home.

The International City is an interesting cluster of theme based, three story high buildings, with different façades and colour to suggest different countries, with the floor plan exactly the the same for all. There are about 387 such units in 10 main clusters. I stay in Russia. These are very cosy looking dull brown and cream houses with thatched black slate roofs and Russian filigree work decorating the outer ramparts.Yeah that's the building I stay. The aparmentt with a balcony to the right of the stairwell, on the first floor, is where I live. I am surrounded by England on one side and Spain one the far end (can’t really see from here). The other communities are: China, Emirates, France, Greece, Italy, Morocco and Persia. (I shall be able to write more on the architectural aspects when I study them in detail).

England may look quite cheerful in ochre, cream and rust with cute terracotta tiles and a slumbering parish church look with pointed arches but there is a murky truth to it. Every now and then it gets flooded with sewage and you find tankers all over the place collecting the smelly fluid. I have seen such problems in Rajasthan - in the Fort City of Jaisalmer for instance where they had not evolved a sewage system in the sandy deserts in those days. So when the popultion increased they could not handle it. But in this ultra modern high tech country where everything is bigger and better than any other part of the world a last ditch effort to clear the scum, stinks.

This I am told is a popular residential complex today with apparently more than 70,000 people staying here from 75 different countries.This project designed as an integrated multi purpose development to meet the increasing demand for affordable housing in Dubai has been pretty successfull in attracting local and international businesses, retailers, commercial establishments, traders, residents and tourists. With more and more detail outlets booming this place is becoming extremely attractive for home dwellers. I see a great change myself in the last one year that I have been visiting Dubai. It has become greener and looks far from the ghost town it used to be only a year ago. There are several more laundries, supermarkets, cafés, and interesting eateries offering different cuisine, all along the basement of these houses today.

I sit on top of a famous hookah joint “Bub Al Hara” and spend many pleasant evening watching expensive cars (no less than Rolls Royces) pulling in and ladies in black hijaab walking in mysteriously for their rendevouz. I am daring myself to visit it just once for the sake of an experience. This place comes in handy when I have to escape the smoke detector everytime I manage to burn my popcorn/rotis. I just rush out into the balcony. Leaving the fuming packet there I let all evidence of my culinery expertise go up in smoke...

For coordinate freaks this complex is situated 12 kms from the Dubai airport and is just 15 mins away from the Festival city and Mirdiff. Located about 20 KM from Dubai on the highway to Hatta and Oman, it is on the eastern side of the Dubai Creek. The Dubai Hatta Road meets the second arterial road, the Emirates Road of Dubai. There is a la Palika bazaar style huge market called the Dragon Mart right on the highway as a major landmark.

Come weekneds this mall which has chineese pdts is so full that it is hard to find a parking space in there. Who would think Dubai was facing recession...But then you go to Dubai Mall and see the diffference. Bigger is not necessarily better u learn for one. Infact there could be an interesting theory generated on what is likely to be the optimal size of a mall. A place that is so huge that it makes you feel like an ant on a mission across the plains of Siberia may be quite intimidating even as an adventure.

No wonder there hasn't been any major footfall in the Dubai Mall since its inception. It is not the recession people are flying from. Directionally challenged women are not particularly fond of mazes. And you expect them to read a map to find their way to their favourite coffee corner? Come on that's asking for too much...

AN UNFORGETTABLE TRIP " The Great Escape"

I was lucky to visit Afghanistan recently. I had the most unbelievable trip to Faizabad, Bharak and Jurm , for capacity building of local journalists. You are reading the page eight of my diary of that unforgettable trip.
***

"Late autumn 2001 Taliban had collapsed. By mid 2003 the central government of President Hamid Karzai took charge to bring democracy and peace in the war beleaguered Afghan world.But it is still too weak to assert itself over provincial warlords.” I read somewhere before coming here but I hadn't understood its full import until an incident as recent as yesterday shook me up to the reality of Afghanistan... a simple altercation turning into a full fledged riot , nearly ensured the pages of this diary remains unfinished, incomplete.

This was on the last day of our field visit. We got a tad late returning from Baharak.Instead of starting at three as planned for us we started at four in the afternoon. A max two hours journey to Faizabad - we were hoping to get in there by nightfall. But invariably bad roads and bad light stretched the journey a little longer than expected.
I must have dozed off because I didn’t realise we had reached Julia’s home to drop her. “Please stay with me at my home tonight”, she extended a cursory invitation. I smiled warmly and declined as usual, “Next time. We meet tomorrow for class at 9.30 then?” “I think you will need a little more rest to recover from the back breaking ride” She quipped. “Yes a mule ride might have been easier…” we laughed over our little joke still happy from the days beautiful memories, said “khodahafiz” and parted.

A little sluggish from the day’s tiredness I looked out sleepily and found the little town wearing a quiet, abandoned look. I have not had the opportunity to go out after 5 in the evening ever. I had no idea how Faizabad looked after dark. I discovered like any remote mountainous region, by 6.30 in the evening the whole city had plunged into darkness .With just a few timid gas lights here and there in one or two shops along its main road, the place looked rather ominous infact, more like a haunted ghost town. When suddenly at a road corner two dozen unexpected young men appeared from no where. All in white salwar kameez they looked more like apparitions to me, walking right ahead into the car path. Naturally we came to a screeching halt to save a crisis, more curious than ever over the unexpected halt. Not for a moment did I harbour any fear even then. I was still in my India mode ready to unwind the pane and ask “What’s the matter .Are u mad to be walking right into a speeding car?” I shudder to think now had I actually forgotten in my sleepy state where I was and asked that question, what a disaster I would have courted. In the next split second I was completely awake to the reality of the time and place in history. These were no dumb ghosts. Armed with sticks and shovels this was a mob about to splutter and ignite. They spoke angrily in Dari. They ordered the panes to be winded down .They asked what business we had to be taking that way. My interpreter Dr Hafizi, explained that he was a local travelling with a guest “a woman”. Those last words could have been ill fated in southern Afg. In the north however among the peace loving ismailis, tajiks and Uzbeks guests and women deserve consideration. I was apprehensive by now but was equally eager to see the drama unfold… who are these people? What possibly can happen in the nest few mins? My mind was busy processing large chunks of unrelated, inadequate information. I had no idea what they were arguing about but when I saw one of them break the antennae off the car and heard Hafizi mutter something to the driver which was probably “can we turn back? Do it as quickly as you can”, I knew we could be in serious trouble. They were still all around us and looked happy to have had the catch of the day when another car pulled in. The driver took the occasion to quickly pull back and make a swift turn. No one came after us; no one hurled a grenade or a bomb; No one followed us in land cruisers. Those could have easily happened. Last time people came on road due to an ethnic conflict four women were burnt alive in their car.

We learnt later the next day how a small altercation between the local commander and a boy from a different community led to a demonstration that nearly fuelled a full fledged riot. The commander had taken his offender and jailed him in his own prison. The commanders here have their own prisons and next to the mullah, have the authority to get away with almost anything. Infact with a large community following they have made them almost invincible. The community too with the blessing of the commander can get unwieldy and riotous. Hundreds of men came out immediately to avenge their commander’s respect. Afer 48 hours the Police was still trying to negotiate with the commander to release the boy and not set a false precedence. Such an incident can flare up again anytime during the next few days and have bullets flying unless local law and order system take a strong control over things. A curfew had to be ordered in a hope to restore normalcy after all.

We were easy pawns and were plain lucky to escape alive, as I see it now.

At the root of Afg’s problem is this crisis of insecurity, which allows no development to take place. Following nearly a quarter century of war the common man on the road may be looking forward to some order in their life but the presence of warlords and mullahs, ethnic conflict and extremist Islamic approach to life continue to haunt and pull the country backwards into the dark ages. There can be no easy military solution to the Afghan problem. The UN mandate of peacekeeping brought in the NATO headed International security assistance force, ISAF, but outside Kabul they have very little say. According to my journalist friends and students here, security which forms the “fulcrum” of all development, will not be easy to restore as long as it remains in the dubious domain of power hungry, uneducated, rigid extremists...and they dominate the country. Besides, vast tracts of rural Afghanistan will remain inaccessible and bereft of all developmental programmes for a long time.

Pashtun dominated east and south are an extremely conservative and volatile lot who were perhaps better off under the autocratic rule of the Taliban. Infact a certain level of security may have been achieved under the Taliban rule (94-2001) in this region. I also learnt that the cultivation of poppy which had gone down under the Taliban rule to 200 tonnes in 2001 has sprung up more than half of the country’s annual GDP today. Narco –mafia joins the list of ills in Afghanistan today. Almost daily attacks on Afghans and foreigners alike by either pro Talibans , Islamic extremists or renegade mujahideens and mafias have prompted even the most dedicated donors and NGO’s to either cut down or wrap up their mission in these areas.

The problem of Afghanistan is peculiar. Yes it is true its strategic location has always made it the bone of contention between power wolves. But its tragic flaw lies in the patchwork fiefdoms in the south and east, controlled by the warlords and drug traffickers and Pashtuns, who do not wish to see any other Afghan ethnic groups in their land. They can neither live nor let live. The tragedy of Afghanistan is therefore somewhat what should I say buy now genetic in nature. The tragic dilemma of these hardy and impatient people lies in the need of established separate identities…it is this one crisis that led Germany to massacre Jews …. Identity and some peace within themselves, their country will continue to broil in civil strife, fuelling global contentions in a vicious cycle.

I see a lot of developmental work going on in the North at the moment and despite some resistance, some glitches and some serious planning errors here and there they continue to promise change. "Good change" I mean. But what I fear is all the developmental work pursued by the north will be raised to the ground by an extremist attack from the south someday only this time the phoenix will not rise as easily from its ashes.

I understand now why it has been so easy to divide and rule this country. Ever since the first revolts against the communists (PDPA) in 1978, millions of Afghans have died. They were either killed in war or by its aftermath of disease, malnutrition and extremist attacks. 6 million flee their country as refugees. It was followed by bombing at Herat, massacre at Kerala (Kunar province, where I am told 1000 men and boys were brutally gunned down). The Soviet attack in 1979 brought the country together in a sort of national resistance. The resistance succumbed under the regular large scale offensives conducted by the Russian who deliberately destroyed houses, irrigations systems, fruits orchards, roads and communications systems. Referred to as the “migratory genocide” at least 1/3 of Afghan population fled their country during the decade long soviet occupation (79-89).

More than the ghost towns which the regime left behind, it spread deep rooted cynicism, scepticism and wrath enveloping the life and thinking of the new generation Afghan. And so came the Mujaheedins to free the country of the PDPA govt and soviet invasion. The global politics is another story but what was to cause greater damage to the country was the infighting within the Mujaheedins. In the absence of one good leader, the struggle for control disintegrated into a “mad dogs war” with little regard for its inhabitants. Cross lines essential field guide to Afghanistan compares the Soviet atrocities as “remarkably little damage" compared to the devastation wrought by the Mujaheedins. “The large scale destruction in the urban areas was the result of the bitter intercine strife during 92 to 94.” Brutal assaults left 50,000 civilians killed and several thousands to flee their country, leaving everything behind to be looted and destroyed. In this intercine fight and the survival of the fittest, the new champions were the Taliban, (the worlds largest ever army with the greatest disabled commanders). They were no different from the rest, made of the sod only hardier, much more radical and violent ... Everyone is aware of the rest of the story. Where will this metamorphosis lead the Afghan community I wonder! Will there be peace ever in these parts?

AN UNFORGETTABLE TRIP " Ride with Dr Anis Gul"

I was lucky to visit Afghanistan recently. I had the most unbelievable trip to Faizabad, Bharak and Jurm , for capacity building of local journalists. You are reading the page seven of my diary of that unforgettable trip.

***

RIDE WITH ANIS

The same evening I had an opportunity to go out with Dr Anis to see small enterprise she was running (with the help of AKF) for women empowerment. Yes she was the same lady I written about in my earliest article on Afghanistan two yaers ago. The dare devil who is a doctor by profession, been the director of the women health ministry and drives around in a Toyota. Another modern Afghan woman.


Sitting besides her proud bearing, the world outside the dusty window pane looked a little austere all right but not so deprived or poor I had imagined it would be. Yes I agree at my end nothing had really changed. I wasn’t on a donkey’s back like the average Afghan woman or walking in a Burkha. If the road was a little bumpy the excellent suspension of the Toyota made it just seem like an uncomfortable ride over a bad patch (which is so common in India).The view outside was still poignantly beautiful with dishevelled children playing around and men in their regular working clothes (no none of them were flashy at all) busily going about their life.And there were women in blue "chaudhris" or burkhas as they call it in these parts, moving like sorceresses.I couldn't see their faces but the ones i could see looked neither hungry or stricken with poverty.

I kept clicking them – snot running red cheeked kids, smiling school going girls with their heads dutifully covered. Rugged faces carrying loads, old faces sunning themselves, but in none of them could I see the cloud of foreboding that I was so desperately trying to capture.

Here a landmine may go off or you may hear a shot at distance but life is not panic stricken. You take refuge in the nearest shelter, talk in whispers and wait patiently for the next moment to carry on with your life. In these northern parts of Afghanistan life has been always relatively free of struggle and devastation. Thanks to the Hindukush towards its south its rough terrain made it inaccessible to even Taleban invasion. The Mujaheddens were all they had to deal with for the longest time, and the trailing burkhas are among the last remnants of its residual impact. The younger generation still cover their head as per Islamic culture anywhere else in the world but have done away with the burkha. The others who still wear it when they are in the open prefer to do it as a safety measure.. “who wants to stick out like a sore thumb?” they say.

I ventured to ask Anis “Where are the tea shops , don’t you have any in Faizabad?” Were do the locals have tea, or the visitors for the matter, since Chai was such an important part of their diet…. "We just stop by and ask anyone to give us tea and they do. It is part of our culture. You will get tea anywhere you want Anis claimed.

Observing my amazement she cashed on the moment to show off the least she could “ a slice of Afghani culture.” Her car came to a sudden halt in front of a small grocers shop and she requested for some for herself and a guest from India.

In the next moment the door of the house opened for us and we were welcomed by the lady of the house, her hands black from the soot of the bukhari she was cleaning for the evening.


We were taken around the portico into a modest living room where there was sitting arrangement on the ground all along the walls. We had to remove our walking shoes outside as is customary in these parts to keep away the enormous dust they tend to gather from the roads…and slip into home chappals before entering the house.

Here a tea was laid with great warmth with some home made biscuits called "kulchas", some nuts and toffees in wrappers. All members of the joint household including the grand old mother came to say salaam as we sipped on our tea and had small talks going.


The eldest girl of the family a 20 year old school teacher said “goodbye”, in English when we finally left the house.


***

AN UNFORGETTABLE TRIP " First day at workshop"

I was lucky to visit Afghanistan recently. I had the most unbelievable trip to Faizabad, Bharak and Jurm , for capacity building of local journalists. You are reading the page six of my diary of that unforgettable trip.
***

“Will I be able to recall every bit of the scent and the feeling of my unbelievable existence of here and now, of being part of this culture that was so remote to me until yesterday and perhaps will never be a part of my life again”, I kept asking myself every moment of the day. I was eager to devour as much of that experience I could but unfortunately security conditions had left me under strict embargo. Apart from the morning workshops I had absolutely no permission to go around the place without an escort...

These people, their impoverished, self-effacing life as stark as the mountains all around, the extent of their loss as expansive as the cradles of sand and stone that stretched into oblivion, the hardships they still have to circumvent in the years to come, as jagged as the path they tread everyday - I had to pinch myself to believe that my insignificant smug existence in a teeming city of 7 lakhs or more found such a rare opportunity to come alive to the deepest impoverishment and pain of this century in Afghanistan.

Yet every where I looked around I found an affable , if not smiling, face greeting me with the same curiosity and warmth of a shy village dweller watching a foreigner trying to blend in. I had taken great care to cover my head at all times except when I went to bed and my clothes were most carefully chosen to look like theirs - simple cotton suits - that is what I had instructed to wear, until of course I met Zulia and Farouqa and I gasped at my total ignorance of what a satellite culture can do to any society no matter how remote it was.

I guess every young generation no matter how inaccessible and far flung manages to upset the older generation by carving out a style statement of its own , but the satellite communication does much more. It creates a global cohort of clones who wear the same belts and watches and the same denim jackets to perfectly blend into the global style statement as easily anywhere. So here I was being greeted by 3 women in their blue burkha one minute and the very next minute , as soon as the gates had closed behind us ( and we were within the safety of the four walls of the BDF office ) they had swung into action like superwomen.

Off went their burkha and out came their natty denim/fur jackets from beneath, their white pearl studded polo necks, their fancy black leather coats, their dainty stockings and handbags, sunglasses , mobiles and digital cameras. Was I dreaming or did I reach the wrong destination I wondered for a second. They didn’t look like “poor Afghanis” from any angle. I looked extremely staid if not shabby beside them to say the least.

Even if one in a hundred it said a lot about the kind of exposure available to the Afghan community today in the post Taliban era. Zulia was the perfect epitome of a modern young girl, much more westernised than what I was in many ways. Incidentally her first question onmeetingme was if I had the Microsoft publisher in my laptop to help her design the magazine she was editing for BDF.

I felt so proud of her and so sad for the opportunities I never availed to look beyong my comfort zone, because I had taken it all for granted.

AN UNFORGETTABLE TRIP “Balzac and the little Chinese Seamstress”

I was lucky to visit Afghanisthan recently. I had the most unbelievable trip to Faizabad, Bharak and Jurm , on a project as a media consultant , for capacity building of local journalists. You are on the fifth page of my diary of that unforgettable trip.

***

It is kind of uncanny that the only book I picked up from the frugal library collection of the staff quarters of AKF had so much to remind me of mixture of strange excitement and thrill I felt from being in Faizabad, this remote capital of one of the most impoverished provinces of Afghanistan.

“Balzac and the little Chinese Seamstress” was an usually long name for this slender (less than 200 pages book) I intended to read during the quiet evenings. There was no permission to go out and I had no company after the workshops sessions got over, around four.

So when I decided to turn in early that evening with a cup of chai and this book I still had my head teeming with the days “rushes” of dusty tracks, prudent roadside shops, locals on mule back, men of varied expressions and age and faceless women floating like sorceresses in huddles of blue and white burkhas.

Unlike any other place the young children here did not come running at the sight of a tourist vehicle or posed to be photographed. They have had too many volunteer workers plying in and about to charm them anymore . The young girls invariably hid their face under their chador and made a quick exit at the sight of a camera. Not just in shyness but from the involuntary habit of remaining anonymous.

Anyway during that first evening in Faizabad, the book I had picked up to read came as a great surprise. It seemed to be an extension of those thoughts and impressions I was gradually creating in my mind about Faizabad…only the author Dai Si jie was a Chinese , writing about a time some 3 decades ago.

Towards the end of the 1968 the great Helmsman of China’s revolution Chairman Mao launched a campaign wherein universities were closed and all the “young intellectuals” were sent to the countryside to be “re-educated by the peasants”. This story was about the author and his friend Lou who were part of this grand human experiment and sent to one lost corner of a mountain. Banished to the mountain known as the Phoenix Of the sky.

There was no road to the mountain only a narrow path way threading steeply through the great walls of craggy rock. Hundreds of kms into its folds, near the banks of river Ya was the small town of Yong Jing was their temporary home.

If the remoteness of the place wasn’t a good enough reminder of the hamlet town I was visiting, the peculiar geographic conditions of Yong Jing that had led the local population to grow opium, certainly was. Incidentally even Yong Jing the opium growers were all armed men, flexing a degree of power over the locals ,like the warlords of Afg I guess, even if not half as dangerous.

If Yong Jing was along the new route to Tibet, Faizabad was not far from the silk route either.

Here too the villages were “scattered around the serpentine path along the depths of valleys” and many perched along the steps of the undulated hills. Only the valleys were not as green as you would like them to be. Yong jing, may as well been Faizabad along Kokcha, with crude uneducated villagers robbed of the gift of education and exposure. That’s exactly how I felt about Faizabad, when I had my first aeriel glimpse of it from the 8 seater Pactec flight that brought me here.

The description of the village and its remoteness from civilisation was one thing but the state of the young boys befitted my own journey to Afg in so many ways too– wasn’t mine a sort of re-education as well? Only in my case it was not an ordeal but a welcome exploration, and a wonderful adventure. The next few days however brought around several surprising revelations that forced me to modify some of these earliest “rushes” but the similarities between the book I was reading and my exp didn’t end yet.

Infact one of the biggest revelations found an interesting comparison. The story narrated how the villagers had shown an immense appetite and yearning for stories in the intellectually starved environment created by the communists. The two young boys had stumbled upon them from a world hitherto unknown. The boys in their turn secretly devoured the western classics they had discovered by chance. They transformed story telling to an art form akin to a movie for their eager audience. The villagers sat around them mesmerised and watched every little action of theirs, crying copiously and laughing in abundance, vicariously living a life totally denied to them.

However the real twist of the story lay in the underlying shifts taking pace in the psyche of the new generation. The little seamstress no more than an unrefined country girl at first gradually comes alive to the reality of her existence, through the words of Balzac.

The final denouement lay in her bold step to exert herself and fly out like a phoenix from the primitive and claustrophobic confines of the village which was the only home she knew for the longest time.

Where’s the comparison you would ask … Well to my amazement I discovered poverty or hunger, as you casually interpret it was not a major issue with the locals. They have lived meagrely for generations now. They are used to the hardships and scarcity that nature had doled out to them. What they are still trying to grapple with are the fetters the society continues to impose on them. Ravaged by outsiders as much as much as their own kinsmen they are hopeless souls in search of some light. Sometimes literally so! The desperate 2 lakh population depends on the local micro hydel project to supply them with a meagre 3000 watts power every evening. Naturally just about two percent are its beneficiary. The rest have bought cheap Chinese generators to bring a little light in their life.

More importantly these generators help them to connect to the happenings of the rest of the world. Happenings not as in serious issues as nuclear pacts. How could they be bothered? Apart from local issues surprisingly what interests them most are the movies and soaps from India. The new generation doesn't know a smattering of their history, (too painful to remember I guess) but in Tulsi , Kumkum,Prerena and Parvati Bhabhi they have found a vacarious existence. They are glued to the idiot box evening after evening, devouring the strange twists and turns of fate of their favourite actors. "Do they realy live like this in India ?" " No, not all of it is real", I would say. Tulsi who is their favourite have a lot of follwers but not all would like her to be such a forgiving diva. " She takes too much of nonsense and that is not good for her," explained one while theh other said "She must a little bold attimes and speak up," " I remembered to take those little notes to be passed on to the director if not to Tulsi herself.I also learnt that not just women , men were so taken up by these serials that they decided to wear "Anurag Kurta" this id.You will find little girls curling their locks and saying "nekka" imitating Komolika and young boys hooting signature tunes.

Amazing I thought. I had kept my daughter insulated from these serials not happy with the lifestyle they portrayed and here thousands of kms away ,in these dry deserts it was seeping into the minds of hundreds of beady eyed men and women,nurturing new habits and thinking.

Good or bad is another story.How long will be till one of them become the little seamstress and find the courage to throw away the burkha and claim her life I wondered.

***

AN UNFORGETTABLE TRIP "Plane to Kabul"

I was lucky to visit Afghanisthan recently. I had the most unbelievable trip to Faizabad, Bharak and Jurm , on a project as a media consultant , for capacity building of local journalists. You are on the third page of my diary of that unforgettable trip.

***

Aboard KAM 006 I made friends with my fellow passenger, a middle aged Tajik business man. He had migrated to Washington during the Taliban regime and returned only a couple of years ago to get hold of the family business of electrical works. For the sake of safety and a certain lifestyle that they were used abroad, his wife and two children stayed in Dubai while he travels every two weeks. Sometimes his family would also accompany him (more than three times a year) and they apparently all love to go to Herat where they have brothers and sisters and cousins galore all living under the same roof in a palatial house built by his father. “No place is like home" my friend fondly claimed and even extended a warm invitation to come and stay with them in Herat.” We have our own hotel too. You can be my guest. You don't have to pay" he added.

My Tajik friend has 11 brothers from three different mothers all happily settled in the same house but he confessedin his broken English and a naughty glint in his eye,(when asked if he hadplans to take one more wife), "I can handle only one."

Meanwhile smart Afghan girls, surprisingly without any head-gear, served us our drinks and meal. This is the first time after Taleban rule that girls have come out to seek employment and to be an air attendant must have needed a lot of courage and family support I imagined. “They are without a head cover. Isn’t that disallowed in your country?” Most of them belong to the rich households in Kabul I was told. The culture of Kabul like any metro was distinctly different from the rest of the country. The younger generation was as fashionable as anywhere else in the world and the ones who have travelled abroad cut out their distinct lifestyle even as avowed Moslems.

Looking out of the window I saw vast stretches of dunes in varied sizes with no habitation in site and beyond them snow capped mountain ranges .I imagined the first nomads crossing those perilous peaks, into the stark sandy desert country to find a home along some oasis or mountain streams at first. Gradually they would have make way for the traders and the travellers. How difficult it must have in those days. How difficult it still is for so many who live in the folds of those vast unforgiving stretches still trying to eke out a living.

Our two hours flight seemed too short when the Captain finally announced the end of the journey. He spoke in Dari to the local passengers and then in English . But his strong Afghan drawl made it sound all the same at first. When he fianlly extended a wish for "a happy stay Kabul" I experienced the firt stirrings of excitement of landing in a place of a farway dream. The land of Mustafa Ali's kabuliawalas, and more recently Khaleed Hoseini's kite runners.

At the international airport which looked no bigger than a govt hospital at first, few people spoke in English. The Airport security was also rather tight. They looked at my face and asked me if I were from Islamabad. When I said no I was from India, they seemed to relax a bit. One official even excalimed with a big broad smile, “India is our friend” which gave me some idea of what they thought of Pakistan.

In the recent years there has been so much misgiving between the two bordering Muslim countries that even a common man is disenchated with Pakistan. And this despite a large chunk of Afghan population having migrated to Pakistan and finding a safe home there if not much job opportunity. They still marry their children across its porous borders, just as it used be in India years before we fenced our borders.

It seemed like forever at the customs . Unsure fingers dabbled with the keys of the keyboard.Across the glass window it made me thoroughly impatient. They had to search for every alphabet before carefully logging in the details . It took hours. But I must say everything was being done with a certain efficient briskness that is lacking in the lackaidasical attitude of our officials in own domestic airports.

Once out of the airport I went looking for the parking space I had been assigned to wait for my pick up. There were three parking spaces with Parking lot C the biggest and meant for all and sundry. Here I waited expectantly for my name to show up on a board but no one came. Karzai had a visit to the airport I was told and so all traffic movement restricted for the next few hours. I was in a quandary. "What do I do? " The telephone lines were also down it seemed and since it was Friday no offices were open.

Here I met Usman a taxi driver. “For twenty dollars I will take you to AKG guest house.” He spoke in clear English. How do you speak so well in English? “Oh I was in Iran when the Taleban came and worked as an interpreter there in a tourism company.” Here he was with the Govt tourism dept, driving one of their vehicles. He earned 600 Afghani every month which was really a paltry sum to run a home.” Govt pays are low and so I run an electrical shop too with my father.” He offered me to take to a shade near a tea stall, and even got a chair for me to sit. Over a cup of chai he smiled an easy smile and said “ hopefully our days of trouble are over.Only the day I earn a little more I will know things are moving at last .”

When my vehicle pulled in (and Usman spotted the man)two hours later, I came alive to my first moments In Kabul. I handed Usman the bottle of fresh orange juice I was carrying from Dubai which he vehemently refused at first… “No no you are a guest in our country. You don’t have to pay of anything.” Touched by his words I gently said “This is for my brother in Afghanistan. Please accept this token gift from me.” And so he fianlly did.

Later that night at the Lebaneese eatery with Sujeet, the national advisor of AKF, who welcomed me to my new assignment, I let my hair down and enjoyed a lovely meal of pita bread, hummus, hot chai and a black forest cake (which was on the house). Nothing seemed so war ravaged around here, I thought to myself. Infact this was better than anything I got in Kharghar where I lived in the Mumbai outskirts .I was truly amazed at what money could do to the most impoverished and remote places.

Kabul of course was no ordinary place. It was the hub of all political activity and the destination of hundreds of donor agencies across the globe. It had an expanding market to cater to the caviar and champagne circuit of the who’s who of the World Bank, the UN, the NATO and all the other important people.

I had arrived .

AN UNFORGETTABLE TRIP - " Transiting through Dubai"

I was lucky to visit Afghanisthan recently. I had the most unbelievable trip to Faizabad, Bharak and Jurm,on a project as a media consultant, for capacity building of local journalists. You are on the second page from the diary of that unforgettable trip ***

And here I must pause. This page is not at all about Kabul but a transit station that made my trip to Afghanistan even more meaningful. I was flying to Afghanistan via Dubai.This is where my husband is employed at the moment. After leaving the Army he joined a lifestyle company, as an Operations Manager and I was visiting him for the first time ever since he left in August.

I am fairly well travelled to be in awe of any foreign country and wasn’t expecting anything unusual now. I had the fondest memories of the Virgin Islands and Vancouver Islands spanning the Atlantic and the Pacific – A trip I always thought would be the most memorable and a high point of my life, in its beauty, its fun and in the joy of exploring a new world for the first time. I couldn’t have been more mistaken. If I had anything coming it was the sheer shock of gross opulence smacking at my face.

I recalled a picture of Daud Ibrahim's daughter, circulated on the net once. She was bedecked in an obscene amount of gold finery, on her wedding day. Instead of looking beautiful in them, she looked just the opposite.She stoked an immediate urge of throwing up in me... You know the feeling when you gorge too much , far to much on sumptous rich food ? In exactly the same way, a kind of breathlessness and giddiness struck me as I started discovering what Dubai was all about.

It was as if all the treasures of the world were amassed, in this little space, in the desert of Arabia. It was horded in profusion with things sprawling and spilling, falling and being trudged over for lack of any more legroom and yet there was still more spilling in … Dubai has achieved this dubious distiction only in the last 50years incidentally.It is only after the discovery of oil in these parts that it got transformed into the mecca for the well heeled shopholics.Today the rich and famous vie to buy an upmarket villa here. From Brad Pitt to Benaizer Bhutto and Shah Rukh Khan, none would have thought as much though just two decaded ago , when it was a dry waste land as much as Afghanistan.

Today Dubai stnds as a shoppers paradise . Much as it made me happy for the locals who has run into this fortune and find themselves living in such affluence,my head still teeming with stories of the scarcity and impoverishment of Afghanistan couldn’t take the unkind contrast.

Its synthetic life , its sprawling malls, its 100%air-conditioned environment , its wide roads and streaming traffic, its wealth ,its affluence , its freedom for fun and joy filled my eyes with tears. So much and so little, within a span of a just a few thousand kms! I understood inequity in its global context for the first time.

AN UNFORGETTABLE TRIP " The offer to travel as a media consultant to Faizabad"

I have been extremely lucky to visit Afghanistan recently. Infact I had the most unbelievable trip to Faizabad, Bharak and Jurm , on a project(at the behest of Aga Khan Foundation) as a media consultant, for capacity building of local journalists of Faizabad.
You are on the first page of my diary of that unforgettable trip.

***

It did not require much of courage to step in and take the challenge of visiting this frightening corner of the world. Any lurking fear of being captured by a Taleb or a rocket launcher claiming my life had paled against the recent violent and shocking incidents of bomb blasts back home. It is better than dying in an inane Hyderabad blast, I had declared. Besides, pages from my Kabul diary would make an invaluable contribution to the travails of this army wife I thought.

According to Jo,my husband (the most adventurous man I have known)it was the next best thing to going to the Antartic. It was a lifetime opportunity (even if it was a place where even angels feared to tread)and not to be lost in doubt and anxiety. "Nothing will happen to you”, he assured. And so the contract was signed and the deal clinched. I was ready to fly.

Incidentally Faizabad the capital of Badakshan (The northern most province of Afghanistan) lay across the north of the Hindukush. Across inaccessible, inhospitable terrain it was under the control of the United Front even when Talebans managed to capture most of the other provinces of Afghanisthan. Life here was less disrupted even if it remained slow and frugal. Its ethnic mix of Tajik,Uzbek and Turkmen are also more affiliated to Central Asia and therefore more open minded to development and education.


It was a spate of activity to get prepared for the journey thereafter. From a hijab to cover my head to the long sleeved shirts to cover my wrists, and the woollens to protect me against the severe winters of a desolate cold country, everything had to be meticulously considered and taken care of.

The job was comparatively easy compared to garnering the initial courage of accepting it. I had to train a team of journalists, of a varied age group and from both the electronic and print media in the skill of developmental writings.

The stated objectives were as follows
o To enable media journalist to develop appropriate communication strategy for mainstreaming developmental stories in print and electronic media.
o To orient the journalists to various reporting tools and methods which enhance their analytical capacities, to produce high quality developmental stories.
o To build capacities of media fellow on sensitive and crisis reporting especially reporting on religious and conflicts etc issues.
o To improve skills and competencies of media to initiate debate on issues of wider concern.
o To improve skills of media in conducting effective interviews with stakeholders and other developmental actors and agencies.

While I knew I could deal very easily with the tools and methods of writing I had to still learn a lot about the place to transform all discussions into meaningful strategies to be used by local journalists to voice their issues.


I learnt that Badakshan was one of the six provinces of Afghanistan that was located to the north east corner, sharing a border with Pakistan, Tajikistan and China. Many of its 27 districts are so remote that they are still inaccessible by vehicle in the winters. Darwaz and Kahan for instance still have no roads connecting them to the provincial capital of Faizabad.The places one could reach too were through surly terrain and very painful to travel even in a land cruiser as I experienced later. Infact after a back breaking journey to Jurm I felt so sick that we had to abandon our trip to Iskashim further north. For the locals the preferred mode of transport was however the donkey.

Most of Badakshan has no electricity as in any other place in Afghanistan, including Kabul and relies on firewood which is getting scarcer by the day. With limited telephone and radio communication one would imagine its 1 million odd population to be absolutely clueless of the outside world, living in some forgotten ghetto of a antiquated Moslem life. I would learn to my utter astonishment later how cheap Chinese diesel generators , satellite connections, dish antennas and mobile phones have swamped these god forsaken places and kept even the most lost looking soul in the remotest corners surprisingly abreast of most modern changes all around and especially the soaps from India.


***