Barf

The Persian word for "snow" is "barf". I learned this last night in the presence of junior highers and we soon started joking around about "barf days" and "barf balls" and the like. I decided about a week ago that I wanted to see snow on the mountains that surround the city sometime before I leave here in a few weeks.

This morning I awoke and there it was! Barf-capped mountains to the east. I snapped a photo from the roof of the house and tried to enjoy the scene before the sun melted it away. My desire to see snow was so quickly fulfilled that I started to think I must decide on something else I want to see before leaving here...

But for now I've settled on contentment; contentment to take life as it comes and relish in the moment without creating unneccessary wishes I really can't effect anyhow! I don't know what tomorrow will bring, but I'm going to enjoy it for what it is. And perhaps something I perceive to be as disgusting as "barf" will turn-out to be something as beautiful as a fresh white "snow".

You Good Smasher

In preparation for a big NGO volleyball tourney today, my team had a little practice yesterday. We drove all the way across town in the slam-on-your-breaks, hurry-up-and-go traffic only to a arrive and discover there was construction on the court. My German teammate, Wilfred, made a call and soon we were ushered into a garden with a small dirt court inside.

I've never played ball in a garden before, and the flowers here are so pretty. They actually have two names for roses; they're that common. One word is for the ones that smell really a lot, and the other for the roses that are quite beautiful but not all that fragrant.

I broke the rules and uncovered my head for the rally despite being in the presence of men. Navid, a local guy we met, joined our game which worked-out perfectly since we only came with five people. He spoke German in addition to Dari, which while being convenient for others on my team, offered me no service at all. The only thing I understood from him was "sorry" and "you good smasher"!

I wish I was still a legit volleyball player so I could be a smasher instead of a hitter.

That's not a bathroom!

Visiting a medical clinic in a little village just outside the city last Monday, I encountered friendly people and unforgettable images.

The ground of the clinic was covered with a sea of blue from the burkas the women wore. Little lumps on mother's laps wriggled as they awaited their turn to receive vaccinations. Those little ones who came out from under the veil revealed eyes masked black by kohl.

Culturally speaking, these precious babes risk danger by appearing cute because they would catch the eye of the evil spirits and their lives might be taken. Babies die so frequently in this country that without knowledge of proper health education, this superstition could almost make sense.

My next stop was at the women's clinic where I received a tour of the gardens and medical facility and then hung out with the workers. A couple young boys tried to snap photos of me from outside the gate and I went over to do the same to them. I sipped some tea and learned some local lingo until I could wait no longer.

"Where is the bathroom?" I hadn't seen one and had low expectations, but when I was led outside the building and the man pointed up the hill, I knew I was in trouble. The wooden shack was not too different from the shanty the boy jumped through on Slumdog Millionaire. Propped on some stilts, it had a door and a hole that led to the ground. Squatty potty to say the least. I think others had missed the hole entirely and I hiked up my pants and walked nice to the spot that looked the least contaminated.

I have a picture. I'll refrain from posting it. You can thank me later.

Chicken Street

Our anticipated shopping experience came to pass just the other day at a bazaar we call chicken street. This term of endearment came from the chickens they used to sell in this area known for tourism.

One must mentally prepare for the inescapable confrontation with beggars and bartering with shop owners. Even still, my mind could not be ready for the encounters that would ensue.

Woman in blue burka. Child barely walking in hand. Both with outstretched arms. Kohl painted round child's eyes to cast away evil spirits.

7-year-old boys and girls. Pack of chewing gum in hand. Grab hold of your hand. Don't let go as your minutes turn to hours and they cling to their chance to earn some $.

Man in a shop. Unfolding tapestry after tapestry. He states a price. You counter offer. Patiently keep looking and don't back down. He rejects your price, only to accept it minutes later.

Load up in van. Children swarm you in the dirty street. Try sticking gum through window cracks. Van starts to move. Children run. Run until they catch you. Indeed they have earned the small $ you slip out the window.

Fat-Bottom Sheep

Morning calls to prayer dissipate as deeper sleep keeps me in a coma away from the noise. Dust overtakes everything. Leaves of trees are painted with such a thick coat of brown that they look to be in an imaginary land. Streets are flooded with vans, cars, motorcycles, bicycles, carts pulled by stronger people than me, and herds of fat-bottom sheep.

The other day we ventured south of the city to a rural area in a beautiful valley. A medical clinic lies at one end, but the view beyond that is simply fruit trees, a river, and precious children. The village leader invited us to lunch and thanked us for being there. I did my best to listen to his inspiring words while interacting with these little boys who somehow convinced me to give them my sunglasses. I figured the boys would forever wear that pair of cheap Charlotte Russe glasses, but to my surprise they returned them to me prior to departure. On the way out of the valley was a man shepherding his flock of fat-bottom sheep...with a rifle.

I learned to count to 10 in Dari yesterday thanks to a group of fun girls at an orphanage. They already knew numbers 1-10 in English so I contributed by teaching them Spanish. We also learned how to give a Hi-5 and say my first and last name. All the necessities, right? Driving home that night on the trashy corner of our street was a heard of...fat-bottom sheep.

First Breaths in Asia

Whew! Just pulled up my blog only to fumble around in a language I don't even recognize! For a moment there I thought my hopes of blogging to be unreachable.

This morning I awoke at 4 a.m. Not sure how jet lag causes you to awaken early when back home it was 6:30 p.m. About 30 minutes later the beautiful call to prayer graced my ears and my friend and I shuffled to the rooftop to better soak it in. There are mosques on either side of the guesthouse where I'm staying. With starry sky above and shadows of mountains in every direction, the nuisance of traffic noise fought to drown out the chants flowing from places unseen.

The weather is perfect, though I will say wearing a scarf over your head causes greater warmth than one might expect! That being said, I still wish it wouldn't slip off every other moment. I'll learn.

Other than the calls and the clothes, this land doesn't seem all that foreign. My suspicion is that the longer I'm here, the more I'll find that to be true.