Portreat.com was a project where photographers took portrait pictures at, mostly, street festivals in, mostly, the Netherlands. The photographs were made available online afterwards. The images were free to download, and printed copies were available for sale.
A quick visit to Mons on the way back from Paris to Delft. Already in Paris, rain and clouds had convinced the sun to stay away for the day. An ingenious system of parasols and flexible gutters made sure we stayed dry even when staying out on the terrace on the grand place of Mons. I suppose compensation were the inflated prices of the moules-frites.
A long drive from Rennes, where we stayed at a hotel which had all its rooms dressed up as boat cabins, to Paris, where circling the city on the peripherique is something of a day job.
We had a stop in Chartres to visit 'the world famous cathedral'. The only thing I REALLY wanted to see here was the piece of cloth kept in the treasury. Supposedly, a piece of cloth from a cloak once worn by Maria. The treasury, however, has been closed for years.
In the evening, we had to, once again, fight our way through hordes of tourists. This time in Paris, where we enjoyed a decent Indian dish down Bacteria Alley (inside Le Quartier Latin). Tired, we struggled home.
Since our tour of Carnac would only start at 5pm, we had some time to visit the city which, according to some, is the spirit of Brittany. Quimper isn’t too bad, but I can’t say it was that special. Of course, the, what seemed like, millions of tourists didn’t help.
The tour of Carnac in the early evening was nice enough. However, what I was afraid of happened. The general message of the tour was that the collection of alignments in and around Carnac is very interesting and impressive, but no-one really knows who, why or how.
Trying to get away from the beaches, stuck in heavy traffic (or rather, mild traffic on one way streets), we stopped for dinner at a restaurant which turned out to be very popular with the locals. Why? God knows. They almost only served ‘Galettes’, local-style pancakes, at inflated prices.
At least the ‘bouchon’ had gone by the time we left the restaurant.
The nearby (near to Le Mont Saint Michel) town of St. Malo is nice for its old city, compact and surrounded by massive city walls. The walls being the only part of the old city NOT destroyed during the second world war.
Known, also, for its large difference between ebb and flood (up to 13 meters), the tourists appeared to visiting in their thousands. We quickly made our getaway to Carnac.
I wonder how many people have realized the similarities between the names of Carnac (France) and Karnak (Egypt). I’ve been fascinated more by the former every since I first heard of it, possibly in a ‘Suske & Wiske’ (Bob & Bobette) or Asterix comic.
Now, I find it very unlikely we didn’t visit the site on my previous visit to the area. We had no choice but to visit the place now. Carnac, however, just like the other places in the area, seems to have more tourists than monoliths nowadays.
Buying a combination ticket for a tour amongst the stones the next day (they’re now closed to the public during summer, except on guided tours) and a visit to the ‘site megalithique de Locmariaquer, we drove down to Locmariaquer to enjoy a fallen menhir and the Er Grah burial mound.
Some struggling later, we managed to find a bed in Auray, a bit north from Carnac. Ringing the doorbell at one guesthouse, the owner showed up with a rather mistrustful look on her face: ‘Are you Italian?’, ‘No Dutch…’, ‘Ah, okay, I don’t have a room, but a friend of mine has. I’ll show you…’
Caen, the next morning, wasn’t as impressive as I hoped it to be. For starters, everything was closed. Either because it was Monday or because it was August.
There are three main sites in Caen: An old fort, the women’s monastery and the men’s monastery. We visited all three, as far as it was possible, saw the grave of William the Conqueror, and rushed off to the nearby D-Day beaches.
The number of cars in the parking lots of the hotels we checked out the night before didn’t suggest these hotels were ‘complet’. The number of tourists on and around the D-Day beaches easily confirmed it. It was packed, with tourists. It was also the first time of many in the next couple of days I vowed to never go on holiday in France again during the summer months.
Besides the beaches we also visited an American and a German cemetery. The contrast between the two was striking. The American cemetery, very American, tried to impose and bestow America’s grandness, both on the fallen and on the visitors. The German cemetery was much more introspect, reflecting, humble and therefore much more impressive. The German cemetery also contained almost three times as many fallen as the American cemetery.
On the road towards the cemetery, a long stretch of trees makes something of a ‘peace forest’. All threes were funded by relatives or friends of fallen Germans, with every tree having a small plaque with information on the funder and the fallen. The whole thing was very, very touching. For the strong personal nature the sheer number of trees and the beautiful, touching, symbolism.
Betsy wanted to see Le Mont Saint Michel, our next stop. First finding a place to stay, we ended up with a farmer who had clearly given up the farming life and was now renting out rooms to unsuspecting tourists. The rate was reasonable enough and the breakfast, the next morning, quite fantastic.
And since there was still enough time, we headed out to the Mont the same evening and enjoyed the setting sun and a tour of the abbey. The tour, with ‘music’ and ‘plays of light and mirrors’ was reasonably interesting, if not nice for the very few tourists inside the abbey. Still, they could have left out the rather crappy ‘plays of light and mirrors’.
What was new, since my last visit, were the many campers on one of the parking lots close to the Mont. I secretly was hoping for a flooding, but no such luck. There’s a plan of removing the parking lots and the current dam and replacing it with something of a long walkway, from coast to Mont. I hope they’ll be able to realize that.
Returning from the Mont, restaurants were closing. ‘Every restaurant is closed’, we were told by one owner, so we proceeded to find a restaurant still serving decent moules-frites. No problem.
Yeah. After ‘struggling’ in Afghanistan for over two months, I deserve a holiday, don’t you think? So today, Betsy and I are driving to Bretagne and Normandy, in France. Just a couple of days to soak up some sunshine, get some cultures and enjoys some megalithic structures along the way.
These past couple of days, I have been busy. Not so much with work, which I actually was hoping for (the work is there, but the clients aren’t as, ehm, productive), but with getting the pictures from my tour in Afghanistan online.
Early on, my card reader broke down (or more accurately, Lev somehow trashed it, didn’t you Lev ;), so these past two months must have been very hard on my readers, all two of you.
Off to Normandy
We started driving late, the main reason being that I wanted to make sure I had done all the work I could, before leaving. It wouldn’t reflect all that well on the clients if I, after being back in Holland for under a week, I would immediately run off again to some other country.
After a quick stop, and an amazing brownie, in Brussels, we went on to France, after deciding we were going to try and make it to Caen, a village in Normandy. Years ago, I had just quit working for Procter & Gamble, but I was still living in Brussels, I had a temporary roommate, a student doing an internship at P&G, who told me I just HAD to visit Caen, on a weekend trip I did with my girlfriend to Le Mont Saint Michel. We never stopped in Caen, there are only so many days in a weekend, so I wanted to see that ‘famous’ city on this slightly longer trip.
Traffic wasn’t all that bad, also because we circumvented Paris, and we arrived in Caen at a reasonable time. Only to find all, and I mean ALL, hotels to be full. Asking one girl at a hotel reception, “Yes, all hotels along the Normany coast are booked”.
That didn’t sound good. I called the youth hostel and they turned out to have some beds still available. If only we would show up before 9pm, less then half an hour away. After some racing, screeching to a halt in front of the gendarmerie to ask for directions, we found the place, arriving only five minutes late.
On the flight from Istanbul to Amsterdam, to my left, a young Turkish couple was browsing through a book with Turkish baby names. The rest of the plane seemed to be filled with screeming, annoying, irritating babies and young kids.
When we finally were allowed to enter the Ariana plane in Kabul, we were already one hour late. By the time we left, an F-16 fighter having littered the runway, which needed to be cleaned up, we were over two hours late.
I finally picked up my luggage at Istanbul airport, a bit after three pm. My plane had left at 1:30pm where, supposedly, I was going to have about two hours between flights.
Going over to the Turkish airlines ticket offices, I asked which was the next available flight they could book me on. 23rd of August.
I bought a last minute ticket, the last seat, on an Onur Air flight and left.
Work
I’m happy my project in Afghanistan is over. I really consider the project finished, it was time to move on, although DACAAR would now strongly benefit from a guy like me working with them one or two days per week.
On the other hand, I really enjoyed myself in Kabul, the city starting to feel like home. It’s a nice place, people are friendly and although the social calendar is rather short, there’s always something to do.
Until next time.
We got up at 6 for an early start. Not so. Earlier in the week, I had asked if it was possible to get breakfast as early as 6. Useful when we wanted to leave for Band-e-Amir at 6:30. It was not possible, breakfast only being available from 7 onwards.
However, when we showed up in the kitchen at 6 and I simply asked for 'chai', we ended up getting breakfast, at six in the morning.
Last evening, we were asked at what time we wanted breakfast. Since we wanted to leave at 6:30, we figured that having breakfast, again, at 6 would be very convenient. We were told it was not going to be a problem.
Until this morning, of course, when at six no one, no one, was in or around the kitchen of the hotel. Some waiting later, I went out to investigate and found one of the cooks lounging near the gate. I told him we wanted breakfast and some 20 minutes later, we were enjoying stale bread, tea, happy cow, jam and cookies. We asked for fresh bread, but the cook said the 'boy' had gone of to the bazaar. On foot.
Then came the process of paying the bill.
For the first time we got to see the owner/manager. He asked how we wanted the bill and I said one bill for four people and one bill for two people (the Frenchie and his driver, having breakfast together with us). 20 minutes later, he showed up with two bills. One for six people and one for one person. It took nearly 30 minutes more to obtain a correct bill.
Finally, at nine, we drove out of the valley, on our way to Kabul.
We had agreed on hiring an expensive guide/translator for the day. Too expensive, but without a guide it's nearly impossible to enter the caves around the two non-buddhas and check out where all these monks used to live.
Our first visit was to the two main buddhas themselves. With the guide we were able to go inside the caves around the buddhas, including some of the hallways that go all the way up to the buddhas' heads. Some of the caves still had some paint on them, but my biggest surprise was that the caves used as shrines looked more orthodox Christian to me than buddhist. Same style as many of the Bulgarian churches I've seen.
Our next stop was the city of screams, shar-e-Gholghola, completely destroyed by everyone's favourite Mongol, Chinggis Khan. Local legend has it that, after Chinggis stopped by and tried taking control of the fort, it was not after the local king's daughter, being annoyed with her father, sent Chinggis a message attached to an arrow telling him how to take the city, that he finally managed to control the fortress.
The girl, thinking she would be hailed by Chinggis as a big help and the new favorite, was stoned to death. Everyone in the valley, in fact, was killed by Chinggis. Man, women, children and all animals. Now THAT guy was thorough.
Third was the buddha in Kakra. The 'small buddha', at only 6.5 meters high, but in about the same state as the two large buddhas. Although here, some remains from Daoud's effort to put some work in displaying the buddha properly still remained.
The whole thing showed how difficult it is to obtain some decent information on Bamyan. People told me the caves are mined. They aren't, anymore. Other people told me you needed a guide for the hill above the buddhas, because the hill is mined. It is, partially, and deminers established a signposted route long ago across the hill.
People told me the small buddha is the only buddha still intact. It isn't, in about the same state as the two large buddha's.
The reason for Chinggis' rather over-the-top reaction, killing everyone and everything in the valley, was because his favourite grandson was mortally wounded in the battle for Shar-e-Zohak, what then was a huge fortress at the entrance of the Bamyan valley. This city REALLY is what you have in mind when you think of mediaeval fortresses or king Arthur's favourite hideout. Truly the stuff of legends in a setting which is legendary.
We were lead up the mountain by the commander of the police post, at the entrance of the valley. When he stopped us on our arrival, two days before, I was surprised by the cleanliness of his Farsi, me understanding every word of what the man said. Turns out, as we talked on our way up, and later over tea at the command post, that the man spent 25 years in Mashhad, in Iran.
Later in the evening, we had dinner at the Bamyan Hotel, for the third time in a row. The food s quite good and you get loads of it. And it is affordable.
Since the first night, we've been sharing our table, if you can call it that, sitting at one long table which seats 32, with a Frenchie and his driver. The French guy speaks English and French, his driver speaks Dari. Our driver speaks a bit of English.
We had our guide/translator for the day, on the trip, and he spoke passable, but not great English.
Already, the day had worn me out quite a bit. More then for most, as I had to take on the job of translating the translator and sometimes translating for either of the drivers. Then, during dinner, the Frenchie's driver went totally mad, constantly talking, but with no-one to understand him. So I ended up constantly translating back and forth.
Ed, the guy I had spoken to on Monday, showed up at the hotel yesterday. He's working as a contractor for ADB, doing road surveys to decide where Afghanistan should start building tarred roads.
He was going to show up on Saturday but was now two days early because his planned route was inaccessible due to flooding.
The good news was that they now were taking the spectacular route to Band-e-Amir on Friday, today, and that we could tag along.
Band-e-Amir, one of a set of 'platformed' lakes, connected through naturally created dams is quite as spectacularly situated as they come. What's more, it also attracts quite a crowd on Fridays, most people's weekend. Surprising as well, considering most visitors have to travel at least three hours, by car, to visit the place.
Light blue lakes, icy cold, sparkling clean, in between towering mountains. Amazing and very similar, in parts, to Mongolia.
We went into the lake for a quick swim and VERY quickly, got out again. I tried swimming underwater to impress the local population (almost all Afghans can't swim), but it was too friggin' cold. Giovanni was brave enough to do two dives, but only survived some 10 seconds longer.
Driving towards Band-e-Amir, we constantly passed Kochis, nomads, walking down to the lake for the Friday pick nick. We drove for over three hours, from Bamyan to Band-e-Amir. In those three hours, we passed barren hill after barren hill, with only two tiny settlements along the way. Where did all these people come from and, what's more, at what time did they start to walk?
Driving back from the lakes, the hydrogeolist (Didier) and the GIS-specialist (Giovanni) went nuts over the wells we passed en route. They got out for every one of them to take the coordinates and get a sample from the water.
At one, they went off and I stayed in the car with the driver, watching some guys lounging by the side of the road. One guy came up on a motor cycle and started to chat with the people in the group. Shortly after, one of the guys quickly left to grab a young goat from a group of goats and sheep that were lounging in the area. He was holding it between his legs and almost immediately the young goat started to bleat continuously.
Some haggling later, handshakes and loads of talking, a wad of money changed hands, the goat changed owners and was tied onto the back of the motor, still bleating. The guy drove off.
Leaving early for Bamyan to, in case of trouble, still get in before dark, I was suffering from something of a hangover from the previous evening, high on Albert West.
Sadly enough, I forgot my bottle of whisky, specially bought for the trip. What's more, as it turned out, Giovanni also forgot his wine. And his beer.
It's less then 240km from Kabul to Bamyan. It took us nine hours, one of which was spent waiting to get a puncture fixed. We still had what is considered a short drive.
At first, I had hoped for a flight to Bamyan. PACTEC flies for only 50 bucks one way. A very welcome alternative to a nine hour drive. However, already three weeks ago, all flights were booked until the 31st of August.
The second 'airline' that flies to Bamyan, UNHAS, a UN organization, clocks in at 100 bucks per one way ticket. We decided to drive.
Getting a similar sweet deal as Lev and I got for our trip to Mazar, DACAAR was so friendly as to lend us one of their very nice 4×4 Nissans. The trip was nice, but I can't really say I'm looking forward to another eight hours drive back to Kabul. A flight sounds very inviting.
One major downside of flying both ways, though, is the lack of a vehicle in Bamyan. You can see the buddhas, or rather, you can't see the buddhas, on foot. The second major attraction, Band-e-Amir, the first of a couple of amazingly beautiful lakes, you have to do by car, another 3-5 hours away. So if you fly in, you have no choice but to rent a car for at least one day, probably more.
And then there's the rumoured option of renting a plane for the day from Kabul, at 400 dollars per day. A very reasonable alternative, assuming 4 or more people fit in. It will allow for a visit to the buddhas and a flyover of the lakes.
On Monday, I had spoken to Ed, calling from Bamyan, telling me that the only available hotel was fully booked. There are two hotels, 'Roof of Bamyan' and the 'Bamyan Hotel', but the first one isn't an option because 40 Japanese archaeologists have booked that one for the next couple of months, searching for the rumoured 300m long 'reclining buddha'.
The Bamyan Hotel, also considerably cheaper, at 15$ per head, instead of 40$ seemed to be going to cause a problem, not being available.
Arriving at around 4pm, we found no guests but two reclining locals in one of the 'gers' in the garden. We could hand pick the rooms we preferred.
Both hotels overlook the sandstone wall from which the buddhas were cut, some 1700 years ago and the view is spectacular during the whole day. Just lounging in the garden is already a decent way to spend your time, although Bamyan, at over 2500 meters high, does get cold in the evenings, even in August.
If you’re Dutch, you might have seen the short video made by the Dutch contingent (PRT) in Pul-e-Kumri. Supposedly, it’s something of a music video, using a song by the, at Dutch standards, infamous Albert West.
The video clip was something of a cult hit and, as a result, this Dutch contingent was able to get that very same Albert West perform at the Dutch embassy in Kabul. What’s more, he’ll go on a tour of the country.
SBS6, a Dutch commercial channel, is following the man like bees follow honey. You might just have caught a bit of it on TV, where you can hear me shouting in the background.
Most of my day was spent trying to get back to Kabul. I was going to get a ‘regular’ flight back from Herat, with Kam Air. Yes that’s the airline which had a crash just days before I arrived in February. Already on Thursday was my ticket arranged for, but only this morning was it clear at what time the plane would leave: 12pm.
I arrived at the airport too late, ten past 12, only to find out that I should have gotten my boarding card about a kilometer away from the airport itself.
Some frustration and about one hour later, I was sharing the back row in a 737 with a French tourist. A TOURIST!
On the flight we even got a snack and a soda. Surprisingly, even though the crew was from some former Soviet republic, the ladies didn’t even consider getting decent. One of the girls was wearing tight blue jeans and a white, rather tight, shirt, that would show a piece of flesh when she would reach for an upper compartments. She had a piercing through her nose, one through her lip and at least 10 through her two ears. Even so, she was terribly cute.
Visited several field offices today. I've been working at the DACAAR main office since February and not once have I actually seen what it is that DACAAR does.
Although even now, I still haven't seen much, although I've talked to the people who do the actual work.
We first visited three Field Project(?) Offices, after which we went to the Field Management Office, from where the FPOs are being managed. My guide being no less then the manager of the FMO in Pashtun Zarghun South.
At first I thought I was just joining in on a regular field trip, but not so. Our visits were specially arranged for me. It also meant I HAD to ask interesting questions.
Struggling at first, I did learn quite a bit, although the language barrier was a bit of a challenge at times. And the end result was, indeed, that I now have a slightly less misinformed idea on what it is DACAAR actually does.
Lunch was at the FMO. Interestingly, I was the only one eating with my hands, everyone else using a fork, in their left hand, to put the food on a spoon, in their right.
And, of course, I tried to help out with some IT issues at the FMO. One 'new' machine was unpacked to check if it worked. It did, and it was repacked again.
One guy from the DACAAR office in Herat was so kind as to show me around the nice sights in the city. Not only very nice but also very pleasant. Someone to talk to and tell you details about the town I wouldn't have gotten otherwise, and also taking away the need for long walks. Herat is quite a large city, with the DACAAR office and guest house on one end and two of the major sights on opposite ends of the city.
First there was the Blue Mosque. Arriving through its garden, I wasn't all that impressed, it looking like a smaller version of the mosque in Mazar.
Then I entered the thing, after noticing a crow making funny noises close to the entrance. Both his legs had a copper ring around them, with something of small bells inside which dangled when it walked.
'Amazing' doesn't come close to describing the mosque. 'Fantastic' isn't enough. Interestingly, as recent as 1930, the mosque was not very impressive, 'no colour; only whitewash, bad brick and broken bits of mosaic'. Practically all the fantastic tile work, true to the original Timurid designs were recreated since 1943. At some point, WFP (the World Food Programme) provided boys with food in return for learning how to make the tiles.
After the mosque, we drove over to the Musalla complex, where five nearly falling over minarets and one mausoleum in very bad shape are all that is left of an extensive complex including a mosque and a madrassa, a religious school, where now only five of the original thirty(!) minarets remain. As late as 1885, most of them were still standing. One British invasion, two earthquakes and Soviet firepower changed most of that.
Time for a short stop, we enjoyed tea and immensely strong sheesha, overlooking the town from the north, talking about history, politics and economics.
Then, it was time to visit Gazargah, the shrine of a sufi poet and mystic who lived in Herat in the 11th century. In true Muslim fashion, the poet is said to have magical powers, still, and women who cannot conceive wrap a stone in a cradle of linen and hang it from a sacred ilex tree next to the grave of the poet. Don't ask me what 'ilex' is.
In front of the complex, there's a penis-shaped dog looking at the entrance. When people asked the architect why he put the dog there, he said he was like a dog for the poet.
After stopped by at the mausoleum of Ishmael Khan's son, but before we drove past the old fort, downtown, closed to visitors, we had very decent, sweet, handmade ice cream at a local parlor, before heading back to DACAAR.
Then it was time for lunch. 'Lady fingers' (okra) mashed with tomatoes and potatoes. A bit bland, but very nice once some spices were added to the mix. Meals at the guesthouse are reasonable affordable at an average $0.50 each.
From the moment the engines were fired up, the Indiana Jones music started to float through my head. And it kept on playing until we arrived in Herat.
My flight was on an ICRC (Red Cross) plane. 14 seats, 7 on each side, of which only 8 were occupied. Two propellers and loads of movement once in the air.
The service, piloted by South Africans, who for some reason control half the trade here in Afghanistan, makes circular patterns, going from Kabul to Kabul, stopping in several places along the way.
Before Herat, we stopped in Kandahar. Very dusty, very hot and not all that safe. American military was waiting for us on the tarmac and they grew nervous when I took out my camera.
Earlier this week, some 50 ‘Taleban’ were killed here in the region, a former Taleban stronghold, and one of the pilots started talking about that: “Do you see that tree line over there?” some 100 meters in the distance, of course I saw it. “Earlier this week, Taleban forces started to shell the Canadian camp from it. One Canadian lost a leg.”
Terrible stuff, of course, but also 50 Afghanis lost their life. And we were parked right in between the Canadians and that tree line.
Herat is clean, quiet and green. The 120 days of fierce winds have started, (like an ancient curse from an ancient god over a long-ago disappeared people: “One third of the year you will have this terrible thing, one third of the year you suffer from that disaster and one third of the year you will suffer the 120-day wind!”) so you don’t really notice the heat when you’re outside.
At the same time the city is also a main thoroughfare, probably for traffic coming from Mashad in Iran and the next major city in Turkmenistan all going south. Most notably, many cars are transported and many car and car-parts stores line the main boulevard.
Already, driving through town on my way to lunch at Marcopolo (yes that’s how they spell it), I’ve seen the blue mosque in the distance. But what took my attention as well were the rikshas with, on their sides, not only the name and phone number of the driver, but also his email address.
At the Herat DACAAR office, I’ve seen the best Afghan babe so far. And I could even understand her reasonably well, her speaking clear Farsi, articulating her words with care.
And, of course, I was almost immediately asked to perform some IT helpdesk functions.
Also, people here look quite different from in Kabul. Faces are rounder and less worn, skins are lighter and people appear to act less frantic as well. Also the girls, as far as you get to see them (many not wearing the burka but the Iranian chador), are truly babes.
Prices are also significantly lower.
And here, too, the many horse drawn carts have their horses adorned with bells and red woolen balls, something you can see in more than half of Eurasia, from Hungary to Mongolia.
Julia and Cor gave a bit of a party tonight. Julia seemingly turned 37 today and is a good looking tiny girl from Bulgaria who gives occasional yoga lessons in town. Cor is her husband, between 55 and 60 and works, through ING for the national bank of Afghanistan.
At the party I spoke with a Dutch lady who will start working for the UN next month as something I remember her calling 'information analyst. She'll get paid 9000 USD per month. Unfortunately, she didn't appear all that bright, making this fact something of a bitter pill to swallow.
Talking to the two girls yesterday and the girl today, it should be clear these absurdly high salaries are more the rule than the exception. What's more, none of these people were exceptionally bright, smart or intelligent, no offense.
Why do I only make a fraction of these salaries? Or, more accurately, why are agencies willing to pay these absurd amounts to people who, even when they're qualified for the job, would not even get close to half what they receive here, in their home country, before it would also get taxed, leaving them with maybe a quarter, or less, of their salaries here.
Now take that one step further. An Afghan policeman would have to work 20 years to earn what the JICA woman earns in one month. Fucking absurd. And anyone wonders why locals in developing countries are not always that happy with expats coming in and helping them. For every JICA program manager, 240 policemen could be put to work. Fucking preposterous. More people, even, counting the cost of security measures involved to protect the JICA woman. Protect her from what? You tell me. Locals who are frustrated by her earning so much? Probably.
One hasher, working for the UN as a graphic designer earns 7000 USD per month. Another hasher, working for JICA as a program manager earns 12000 USD per month. I am not making this up.
Today we walked the wall. Back in Buddhist times, some ruler decided Kabul needed to be surrounded by a nice big wall. A bit like the Great Wall of China, only not as wide.
Currently, it is said only one stretch remains, even though I think I’ve seen parts of that old wall on other ridges from the one we walked today.
The climb is tough, very steep at first and about two hours long, if you don’t hang around too long to enjoy the spectacular scenery. And the view is fantastic. Higher than TV-hill, the views you get treated to are spectacular. And what’s more, the wall really is a small version of the Great Wall, where the original builders not only built look out posts at certain intervals, they made the wall such that you could easily walk it.
Not that much remains today, and some say that the rocky hill is still heavily mined, but the remains easily give you an idea of the status of this city in ancient times.
In the morning, we tried our luck at chick gazing at the Intercontinental. An amazing 10 dollars to get to the pool, a fifth of the monthly salary of a traffic cop, left us nearly broke.
The pool is nice though, high above the city, with cleaner and almost dust-free air. Surprisingly few chicks though, besides the one we brought ourselves. I’ll have to try my luck at the UNICA again, I suppose.
One of my colleagues, his son, 3 years old, died yesterday. A scorpion bite.
Yesterday evening, we had a fantastic dinner at the DDG, Danish Demining Group, house. Salads with loads of feta, stuffed peppers, grilled meats. Amazing. The house has a garden with room for a volleybal court (although I had to climb a wall to retrieve a lost ball). And it has a sauna.
There were surprising many babes there. Danish and Swedish, guests.
Dragging myself from one side of the pool to the other at the UN guest house in Kabul, two huge helicopters, the kind that can transport small trucks, flew low, right above the UNICA compound. I assume they were looking for babes. It was busy, I know I was.
Next Thursday I’m off to Herat. I hope to spend a day ‘in the field’, with a DACAAR project.
The weekend after I hope to spend with the not-buddhas in Bamyan.
The weekend after that, I hope to be in Istanbul, possibly Delft. I’ve got two projects waiting for me, I need some dough. Wanna donate?
The evenings are already getting fresh. When I arrived, for a couple of days, I still used a blanket. Now, I’m considering using a blanket again. What is this, a six week summer?
Three weeks late, I was able to introduce a groupware environment at DACAAR. People can finally share files, calendars and notes. A major achievement.