Cozy Crib

Staying Warm

New Day

Winter Cold

Security Alert

My home unlike most ground-level dwellings around my crib is on the 1^st floor. Today there are wonderful views of the Hindu Kush to the south. From the flat expanse of the desert they jut up suddenly and in mid-December are already covered by early season snow. It is mid-morning and I am perched somewhat precariously on the north-facing foot-wide ledge at the back of the house. Shoddy workmanship means that most of the panels were left unpainted and all of them have warped leaving the wall that catches the brunt of the wind, rain and snow is vulnerable. Hopefully the patching up I have done and paint job will keep out the worst of the winter weather to come. There is a 20 foot drop down to the backyard below and so I have rigged up a secure line over the roof to my climbing harness. I didn’t expect it to get much use but it has already come in very handy as I have overseen Afghan workers who wouldn’t bother with such safety considerations unless I insisted. I certainly don’t want to have to explain to their wives and children of avoidable accident, nor have any misfortune come my way either. I announce my presence on the ledge in Dari (the local Persian language commonly know as Farsi) so as to inform my neighbours that their private domain where woman go unveiled is now visible. The father of the household heads out the gate and greets me telling me that my ‘invasion’ of his domain is not a problem. Maybe he’s impressed by my DIY work and perhaps surprised that I haven’t paid a local to do it for US$15. My focus is firmly on staying safe and getting my work finished before my hands freeze and become permanently claw-like. The local boys look up from the marble playing and are intrigued by this foreign spectacle. What follows is a friendly initial exchange after I greet them followed by increasingly rude demands for my full attention. I continue with my work. Unsatisfied, the boys try to engage me with a short volley of stones which land around me. Enough! They get the message soon enough that they have gone too far and depart the scene perhaps wondering about consequences. Ah, boys will be boys eh? Shortly afterwards my neighbour’s son comes and stands beneath the wall. He smiles up at me and makes sure I know that he wasn’t one of the culprits. We have a nice though limited conversation and initiate what I hope will become good relations with the family next door. Then boom! A bomb explodes and reverberates towards my lofty perch overlooking the roofs of Mazar. Before I see any smoke the sirens wail and my mind rushes to the scene. The incident alert text arrives from our security officer within minutes. Its contents I already know. As details of the incident become clearer, I discover that four have died in the attack.

Dawn

The day breaks crisp and clear. Condensation covers the bedroom windows which have been sealed with plastic sheeting as a kind of cheap and seasonal double glazing for winter. The early morning sun glows orange through the frosted glass. Still, the insulation isn’t so effective as to prevent the cold from penetrating my house. My breath is visible as I get up to fill the kettle from my kitchen tap and light the gas hob. These comforts I do have in the crib I call home and which I finally moved into last week. Frequent power outages and insufficient water pressure to motivate the hot water to flow from my boiler are inconvenient. However, I am fortunate that my day does not start with a walk along the rutted, muddy and frost-hardened street to pump water from the well. For many of my neighbours this is a daily task.

Na na na na na...

Barfi

Another dust storm and then the weather turned very cold and the snow arrived overnight. Waking to fresh snowfall is always a joy. They have a custom here when the first snow falls called barfi - sounds pretty gross but it's really quite nice - where people give someone they know a piece of paper with a poem on it (a sharing of some sentiment) or a list of stuff they want (a favourite with kids). There are no returns! Let's just say I got well and truly "snowed" by a girl who gained far too many sugary snacks from me. The best I could do was refuse to grant items that were incorrectly spelled. A technicality but hey, my only defense as the newby here in this culture.

P.S. The crib will be my new home when the renovations are finished. Got to love a bit of DIY but hopefully this snow doesn't last too long or there will be more than barf to worry about this side of Christmas!

Khakbad

Khakbad (say 'hokbod'): a duststorm like the one that blew in a week ago and again today (the photo was taken mid-morning). The conditions are a decrease in temperature - it's about 10 degrees celcius compared with yesterday which was a balmy 25 - combined with poor visibility and a fine dust in the air which covers everything, inside and out. Needless to say, my warm clothes are out including a down jacket I was hoping to save until winter and it's only late October! Guess this doesn't bode well for the quality of insulation in my house either.

This Moment – A Writing Exercise

Right at this very moment I am sitting at a small, cute writing desk. The wind is blowing outside and you can hear its drafty song in the house and especially the window frames. It plays a pretty tune in the chimes that hang at the entrance but there is something melancholy in that sound. The leaves on the trees flutter as though nervous about the world beyond the garden which I overlook. Trucks and cars make their way through the pot-holed streets and the dust rises to fill the air. It is quietly filling this upstairs room and it smells dry and earthy. A thin layer of dust coats the keyboard even now after only two days in Mazar-e-Sharif where the desert sands covers the city like a prayer shawl. The sunlight is diffused by the haze and casts dancing shadows on the once white curtain. The coffee I am drinking is black. Just off that perfect temperature that is neither scalding nor easy to gulp, it sits to the right of my computer – an old Dell with a dead battery. Every time it starts the message that pops up reads: ‘Your battery needs to be replaced’. It’s been that ways for over a year now. Connected to an external power source it functions but it is not fast. Some would say it is obsolete. However, it can keep up with the steady plod of my fingers as I write and seems to remember my words well enough. ‘Need’ is a relative term. If the power cuts now I’ll only have about six minutes to finish my work and save this piece. What more can I say? I am getting to know the people in this house – a family of five – and am friends already with the other guest. Outside the compound is a land and culture I do not really know nor understand. This city is to be my home for the next two years. Home. A funny word I find. Will I ever feel like this is home? Will any place? I’m not sure I can remember what home used to feel like. Once it was a house shared with my family. Is it simply a place shared with others you love? Yes, but not quite that alone. Great love seems to be required for a man to settle. That might be home and I suppose that’s what I take home to be: a place where my heart is. Home is about belonging to place and people. My heart belongs no one nor to anywhere special. Except wherever I am. Lightly holding memories dear. Now I’m in Afghanistan.

In & Out of Season

Brown leaves swirl

At Caravan’s door

Like a spectral Dervish

Making its entrance

Then settling to observe

Comings and goings

As friends meet and travel on

Paths crossing, woven together

In a timeless thread

Of silk roads to desert lands

For a season or longer

The route ancient yet clear

Like the stark branches

Silhouetted against grey sky

Steeling themselves for winter

The thrill of adventure imminent

Risk and uncertainty foreshadowed

In the face of hardship

A soul laid bare, quiet

The stillness of knowing

Turns to joy unexpected

Faith and hope enduring

Before new life erupts

With the hidden promise

Of springtime in Exmouth Market

And love in its proper season

41 Ways to Love

How will they know grace

If they see only judgement?

How will they know freedom

If they see only law?

How will they know truth

If it’s not revealed

In word and deed

Around the home?

Love as you are loved

Room with a View

Longing for England

Dreaming of England

Since childhood I knew

I couldn’t simply pass through

Again and once more

Surely affection true

Coal smell and fox sighting

The Lake District, age six

At twelve, scuffling with Mackems

On a snowy boat ramp

Cementing my allegiance

To the team on the Tyne

Now the train slips through fields of green

In this country longed for

A cottage, a view

And hope endures

But not alone

Company in the arms of another

Far from the madding crowds

And rail tracks too

The landscape of Hardy’s time

Summer days declaring

“Life is good!”

Now as autumn leaves turn

Towards winter’s long shadow

I cast my own

Adventure in Afghanistan beckons

Calling to me: “Come, seek, find”

As I look eastwards

All that awaits I embrace

My prayer answered at thirty-seven

It was a fine season in Blighty

But for you my love

A fine season indeed