June 4th, 2008

Hello everyone,

My adventure today, if you’d like to call it that, was figuring out how to eat a Pakistani mango. They’re odd looking things (first one I saw in the market I thought was a squash) with a long sickle-shaped pit.

• First, you make a slice all the way around the outside; then you twist to pull the fruit away from the pit, but without squeezing. Otherwise the insides wind up squirting everywhere.
• Eat the pit-free half first by scooping out the pulp with a spoon.
• Eat the pitted half by scooping around the pit until it’s freed, then gnawing on the pit to get the rest of the good stuff.

Needless to say, I performed this operation after I’d taken off my good shirt. Messy but absolutely delicious. Florida mangoes are much more...attractive, but I think these taste better. I’ve decided not to think about how they get here, who brings them, how many flies have plonked their hineys on the outside, etc.

Going to the Bazaar

When we buy stuff out anywhere our driver stands by, arms folded, personally inspects everything, berates the shopping cart boys for trying to sell us bad fruit (they’re not; he’s just being the important guy), carries the booty to the car as if he’s toting the crown jewels on a pillow -- and generally entertains everyone. He says ."good morning" to me and "Call? "-- if anyone is running late and he thinks we need to get the show on the road.

He usually drives a little green station wagon. Yesterday, for the bookstore run, he drove a tiny square Toyota, painted bilious yellow with green and red Persian script on the doors. Tacky doesn’t even touch it, but we admired it dutifully and rode around fine, despite the fact that it seemed not to have a functioning first gear. After the third "grind and rev" over a speed bump, I was ready to stick my foot out, Fred Flintstone style, and give us a push.

There are a gazillion speed bumps here to calm (hahahahaha) traffic. Don’t have them in Kabul -- that’s what they use the giant potholes for. Yes, there are lots of Kabul jokes. Not surprising.

I found my first traffic light!

It’s at one of the roundabouts that attempts to control traffic flowing into and out of the bazaar. As far as I can tell, the light changes color, but no one pays any attention at all to it.

There is sometimes a traffic policeman at the same intersection. He blows his whistle and signals in a very authoritative way. No one pays any attention to him, either, but he looks very dignified.

Yesterday when we were going out to the bookstore, I saw two guys, both on motorbikes, going down the street at breakneck speed, having the motorcycle version of a fistfight. I had to admire their skill even as I wondered if one of them was going to wind up in the deep fat fryer of the snack cart on the sidewalk.

In front of the "big" mosque, there are alternating carts: religious necessities (prayer mats, pictures of holy men, etc.), snacks, and prepaid phone cards. Prayer is hungry business, I guess. Don’t know what to think about the phone cards.

The mosque is a center of life in a way that most people in the U.S. just don’t experience. There are always hundred of people (as in men) outside the mosque, talking, walking, sitting/contemplating. Women attend services, but they don’t seem to be present in this group.

The other inventory of the bazaar — aside from the food.

• A CD shop absolutely crammed with Persian and Indian and Iranian CDs and videos AND (I wonder if anyone has noticed it) a DVD of Brokeback Mountain. Guess that one slipped through.
• There are cloth stores — bolts and bolts of cloth to be made into things — and tailor shops. Nan bakeries. A guy with a trundle car stacked almost 6 feet high with Levis.
• Electronic shops (printer cartridges, phones, ear pieces, gadgets), little food stores of all sorts.
• And-my favorite-the motorcycle "speciality" shops. One carries only tires. Another down the way carries seats. Another, fuel tank covers. Yet another, transmissions. One place sells new and reconditioned whole bikes but it wasn’t nearly as interesting as the others.
• Next to the "new bike" shop, a square house, with an open balcony, on which is set a bed frame. The mattress gets moved out at night, to sleep in the cool air. I can see people sleeping on the roofs below if I get up in the night and look out my window.

At the bookstore, we picked up some Persian titles and ESL books that I’ll use for reference then donate to the library.

By the way, the library is open only when tea man #2 says it’s open. You can almost hear the news ripple through the building, "Library is open!" and students start swarming in. He opened up this morning, I checked out some books (handwritten ledger, in Persian; I may have signed my name saying I’d pay a million bucks for a late book...) but left my notepad there.

So I had to go find him and try to get him to understand my very limited Dari, the accent of which often draws a very puzzled stare. Got my notebook. In fact I figured out on the way that he was telling me that I’d forgotten my notebook because he walked in, went right to it and said, I assume, "Here." I’ll also assume that wasn’t followed by "dumbass." My Dari book has only nice words so I can’t look it up.

The AC worked a little while today. Power-outs...only about five, not bad, brief. Elevator works, though I had a bet with a certain engineering colleague that I’d climb today and not ride, for exercise. He held me to it...the five flights after school reminded me never to mention to him anything I want forgotten. Engineers. Geez.

Two requests today to "come back and teach for a long time." No, I didn’t say that I would. Students are very happy to hear a native speaker. Though a couple of times, the young women engineering students have tried to Dari-cize my English pronunciation. Then they catch themselves. It’s very funny.

Discuss these notes from Afghanistan. 

About the Author: Beth Richards is the Director of Rhetoric and Professional Writing at the University of Hartford. Responses and questions about her experiences and the program can be sent to her at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

Photo Credits: © 2008, Beth Richards; Darius Monsef, Old Kabul Cab, istockphoto