Captain Cat's Diaries

Memories in C Major, part II

Kabul's getting hotter as each day goes by, I'm baking here beneath my headscarf. Security-wise, it's all gone eerily quiet. A week or so ago, there was a lot of tension in the air, it seemed everyone was waiting for an explosion at any moment. But anxiety has given way to what is probably a false sense of security; life is ostensibly 'normal' at the moment. Long may it last, Ensh'Allah.

I look out of the car window on my way to work in the mornings, watching everyone going about their daily business. Butchers in blood-stained aprons hang pink fleshy flanks of raw meat up on rusted hooks above foul smelling open drains along Butcher Street; vegetable stalls nearby brim with foaming cauliflowers, clusters of grubby carrots, oversized watermelons, bunches of fresh coriander and mint. Children chase each other in the warm morning sunshine. Young girls dressed in black with white headscarves walk hand in hand as they make their way to school. The street corner ice cream sellers are already hard at work, sleeves rolled up, making the most delicious cardamom flavoured ice cream. I stopped off on my way home from the office yesterday and bought some for Habib and me. Habib's put on a bit of weight recently, but then he is stuck in a car all day, ferrying myself and my co-workers around town. He comes out with the most wonderful phrases, I really must write them down.

Two nights ago, I spent the night up at Masood's village, and I think it may have been one of the most magical evenings I've ever had. We sped out of Kabul on Thursday afternoon, high up into the cool burnt orange hills a couple of hours out of the city, in two large dust covered 4x4s with our trusted Pashtun friends, kalashnikovs slung over their shoulders.

Later on, as our kebabs were cooking on the fire, I sat with Jamil, one of Masood's trusted "bodyguards", who sat on his haunches and rolled a lump of something that is illegal in most parts of the world, but is a way of life for a lot of people here, particularly out in the country. The process is very interesting. You need a cup of water (or in this case a cup of chai sabz, green tea, which is drunk by the bucketful here) and some glowing embers. It is an arduous and somewhat painful process, as Jamil showed me his blistered hand. You mix some of the dried raw stuff with a bit of tea, and knead the paste between your palms over and over again. When you have a doughy like substance, you flatten it into a small round pancake shape and rest it for a few moments on the embers, then flip it over so the other sides cooks as well, and pick it up again (even though it's scorching hot) and start the kneading process again. This is repeated many times. Jamil kneaded until beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, and handed it to me to work for a while.

I wish I could describe being up there in the village, how beautiful it is. By a large gazebo lined on the inside with toshaks, there's a stream which leads into a deep plunge pool, which Masood had built recently (I remember it was just a small stream 4 years ago when I first went to the village). There are mulberry trees and undulating fields of golden wheat on layered mountain slopes. You can hear the soft braying of donkeys carried on the afternoon breeze, and spy village children in rainbow clothes darting from rock to bush, peering out at us from a safe distance. Farther off, a farmer wearing the traditional pakool and shalwar kameez surfs a soon-to-be bean field, standing on a plough pulled by two strong, patient oxen.

We ate kebabs and sweet watermelon, and chatted for hours, watching as the sun gradually sank beneath crimson peaks, then later as a thin sliver of moon rose over giant mountain shadows. We lay out on traditional Afghan beds with a warm wind on our faces, beneath a dark blanket held together by a million stars. M and I stayed awake long after the others, chatting about everything and nothing and about what super powers we would have if we could choose them. That's never a difficult one for me, I yearn to fly and always have. I fell asleep with wings on that night.

...and talking of feathered things...

Oh God I feel terrible. I feel like Stalin giving the order for execution and then nipping off to the family dacha for the week-end, oblivious to the trail of destruction and trauma left behind.   

I'm sitting here feeling pretty loathsome; you see on top of the rooster problem (see previous post) which has now been dealt with, there was another issue, which had been getting steadily worse. A family of sparrows live(d) right outside our bedroom window. I say a 'family' of sparrows, it was more like a little community. They had built their nests within the walls/ceiling of our front porch-veranda area. Added to Dostum and his crowing were the sparrow family's feeding frenzy every morning at around 4.00. I don't know if you have ever heard a family of sparrows at work, but let me tell you they do not chirp sweetly to each other and flutter to and from their nests soundlessly. The scenario is not dissimilar to Alfred Hitchock's film The Birds; the noise these little chaps make is almost deafening, particularly in the early hours of an otherwise quiet morning. The incessant screeching, and flap flap flappity flap! Flutter, screech screech, SCREEEEEEECH, flutter! flutter! flutter! flutter! flutter! - it's a bit like the sound I am making now typing this, except 100 times louder. And then imagine about 20 birds doing this simultaneously.

The point is - birds have been the bane of our lives since we have moved in here. And aside from a few nights after Dostum's "removal" from the premises, when we slept relatively well, the sparrows have since made up for that, ensuring consistent broken sleep. I am so worn and haggered I look like I've just stepped off from the set of Dan O'Bannon's Return of the Living Dead.

Oh but tell me what is worse! Early morning abrupt awakenings, or what is happening now as I type?

The guard got up onto a ladder this morning and cleared out their nests. Thankfully the little ones were just big enough to fly, one in fact flew into our bedroom through an open window, which I have only just managed to release back into the garden (ensuring I had rubbed fresh grass and mud on my hands in order to not traumatise the little thing even more); after he had cleared the nests, he hammered some planks over the holes, to make sure the sparrows didn't go back.

I am traumatised myself. Each time I turn around to look outside, I see a frantic parent desperately trying to get back in - hopping from the porch lamp back to the planks - not understanding why they can't access their nests. I pray that all the young ones are out and that throughout the day they will somehow all be reunited and live happily ever after.

I wonder if Stalin was ever eaten by such guilt. I feel terrible and think I might go and remove those planks.

FYI (added later): I couldn't stand it and removed the planks. 
[To be continued... I imagine tomorrow's post title will be "No more mercy: Sparrows deported en masse by train to Kazakhstan after yet another sleepless night".]

An Eggcerpt from "Thoughts on Chickens", by C.C.

My opinion of chickens has taken a dramatic 180° 360°turn in the past couple of weeks. Since S and I moved into our new little place just opposite one of Afghanistan's most reviled warlords a few weeks ago, chickens have featured prominently in my every day life, because our new place had them. I went from adoring them to literally loathing them to adoring them again. I think I may be suffering from some sort of disorder. It's been a veritable roller coaster ride, quite exhausting.

It all started with our cockerel - or rooster, for the more American among you - General Dostum (I may or may not point out that this is also the name of a blood thirsty murderous criminal living a few yards away from us in a splendid example of obnoxious gaudy green "narcotecture" - you figure that one out, bearing in mind that anyone who is rich in this country and can afford a ghastly green palace right in the centre of Kabul, is most likely tied up in the opium industry).

Where was I...oh yes, chickens. Well General Dostum, within days of us moving in, developed this inordinately irritating habit of crowing at the most ridiculous hours of the morning. In fact sometimes he would start crowing at 1.00 am and not stop until about 6.00. I spent hours on the internet looking for ways to stop cockerels crowing, and to my dismay, short of giving the bird the proverbial chop, there's not a lot you can do.

After the sixth night of being deprived of precious sleep, I ran out into the garden in my pyjamas at 2.00 am in a teary mess, ready to wring that b*****d General Dostum's scrawny little neck. S came to my rescue and promised me we'd find a *final* solution for this creature. I was thinking a nice pot roast, or a BBQ. Two days later, The cockerel found a new home and I have never slept better in my life.

During those sleep deprived days, when I became emotional and on edge, I started having evil thoughts about the whole wretched species. I mean seriously, are they not the most grotesque and weird creatures? Very dinosaur-like if you think about it. If they had little arms instead of wings, they would be positively revolting (as would most things). I started to look at them differently and came to resent their idiotic bemused and baffled looks, their clucking, even their egg laying. I mean laying an egg, people. It's just not right. And eggs themselves are disgusting. And chickens do have a particular smell about them, which is also disgusting.

Having now caught up on sleep (it took a few days incidentally), I am beginning to rekindle my fondness for chickens. One of them, Rose (which happens to be my middle name in real non-cyber life), has had three chicks, and admittedly are rather sweet. They potter into our kitchen in the mornings and look up at us for scraps. Yup, adorable up until the point they decide it's okay to relieve themselves on the kitchen floor, but by and large, I have made my peace with our feathered friends and garden mascots. Apparently they can be quite affectionate. Any creature capable of giving love is ok in my book, even if they do look freakish.


A chicken, haplessly wandering into our kitchen

Checking in

John Lennon said "life is what happens to you whilst you're busy making other plans". I stepped away a while. Then there are things that happen that you wish you did write down; but you blink and move on and the memory turns into a hazy image that you can't quite grasp anymore.

Our project came to an end at the end of March and I took a break. After months of hard work, late nights and crazy deadlines, we finished the development strategy for Afghanistan, which is being presented in Paris in a couple of weeks to secure donor funding for all sorts of important projects over the next five years here. Essentially the strategy aims to reduce poverty; Afghanistan is one of the poorest countries in Asia, with some of the lowest development indicators in the world - 45% of the population struggle to meet their daily food requirements; can you imagine that? Added to this, food prices have soared these past few months, and have doubled in the past year. Pakistan and Iran are restricting their wheat exports to Afghanistan, on which the country is dependent. There is a serious struggle here, yet I can only barely imagine what it must be like to go hungry. If I feel peckish I go and buy something or make myself a snack. Almost half the population here goes hungry every day.

The causes of poverty are multi-dimensional. I'll try to briefly give you an idea of what this means. Poverty here in Afghanistan is the result of past decades of violent conflict and its recurring threat, there are few good roads or proper infrastructure, so access to markets in order to facilitate trade between people is limited; new government structures are being developed, which people don't necessarily trust or understand - and the people who are put in these new local positions of relative power often abuse that power and are corrupt; this further erodes people's trust in the Government here. There is continued massive displacement, social fragmentation and discrimination; there are regular shocks to people's livelihoods including droughts, floods, disease; limited arable land, environmental degradation, and a whole range of other factors. The current food shortage here means that the country could be on the verge of a humanitarian crisis.

And you know what my boss said yesterday when I told him that we should wait for the outcome of the civil society meeting in Paris before drafting talking points for a senior officials meeting next week? He said "it's irrelevant. This is political". I saw red and gritted my teeth. This is the development strategy for Afghanistan. I don't consider it an afterthought that we get the feedback from the people who have their sleeves rolled up and are putting in the years of work at the grassroots level with communities, building up a level of trust with the people that their own Government can only ever aspire to having. I think he caught my look of utter contempt and disdain for him. His reaction shouldn't really come as a surprise to me, he's been like this all along. Anyway, I am out in a couple of weeks, ready to start a new post here, based out in one of the provinces, which I am really looking forward to.

On a lighter note, I had a wonderful trip to India with my mother. Mum is my best friend and we have such a laugh together. The holiday was superb. We had 6.00 am yoga classes, walks on the beach, frightening tuk tuk rides along busy Indian roads at breakneck speed, we drifted for hours in a wooden canoe through the tranquil backwaters of Kerala, had the most delicious Indian food and watched the most amazing thunderstorm on our last evening - it was magical, awesome, totally amazing. The sky was on fire, it was like there was some huge angry battle of the gods going on right before our eyes, thunder rolling in from the mainland, flashes of lightening ripping the sky apart from every angle, churned up with all the fury and energy mother nature could muster and spat out from the dark stormy Arabian sea, then down from the heavens, it was wild, ferocious, frightening. 

And then I went home to England, and walked through my beautiful, peaceful bluebell woods.

Spring in Kabul

cherry blossom against a stormy Kabul sky

There's been enough intrigue, deception, suspense and drama to fill a whole library these past few weeks working with the Afghan Government. The last 24 hours have been intense to say the least, yet I desperately feel the need to somehow document everything that is going on, hold onto every thought, record every conversation and recount each episode of this adventure as it unravels, but I am on my knees and wouldn't know where to start in any case.

I have a bird's eye view of State building in all its ugly, messy, twisted and tortured glory... and from my very privileged position sitting in the office next to the Senior Economic Advisor to the president, I have witnessed ALL sorts. I'll probably have to remain fairly cryptic about the whole thing lest there be a knock on my door in the middle of the night; suffice to say that this has been one of the most fascinating jobs I have ever had. It's exhausting, exhilarating and frustrating, but I think I am going to miss it all once it's over.

So just to give you an update, in light of the fact that I have neglected my blog so shamefully these past few weeks, we have about a week to finish this paper and the politics surrounding this process are sky high - I've got the yanks on one side (sorry, Americans) who are bullying their way into making sure interests are represented (after all they are the biggest donors here), mysterious, secretive parallel structures being set up, squabbling government ministers on the other, and a twisted little sub-plot going on with two people unrelated to any of the above intent on sabotaging the whole thing from within (although no longer as of today, haha - fat spies: nul points; girls: 10 points); then there are all the donors and all manner of organisations and NGOs intent on getting their comments integrated in the document. As if that wasn't enough, there are four very nice but rather simple young men who as far as I can make out, make tea sometimes and clean our office; but I haven't quite worked out why they sometimes come and hover behind us and smile sheepishly. My two wonderful colleagues, Amy and Helen and I smile back politely and gently usher them out. Oh the dramas people! I feel utterly prepared for motherhood, whenever that should happen, it's brilliant.

And on that note, I'll be honest, I am SPENT. Off to bed now. x

One Day to Celebrate

You can close your eyes
And see a picture perfect life
Inside of your mind
Dreaming only of the days ahead
Wanted and wished for more than now
Or the days behind
You waste your time
The picture makes a promise
The flesh lets it be broken

(Tracy Chapman - lyrics from "Broken")

It was Women's Day yesterday. It's an international day which is celebrated in many countries around the world and funnily enough, it is celebrated here. Here is a country where women have very few rights or privileges, a country where girls as young as ten are forced to marry men old enough to be their grandfathers, where if she runs away she will be brought back against her will, maybe thrown in jail, maybe even killed to save the honour of her family. Here is a country where women in villages live in squalor in cramped compounds, and are forbidden to walk the streets alone or uncovered. Domestic violence is rife, women are second class citizens at best.

However, I was congratulated throughout the day yesterday, for being a woman. This was my day. And forgive my cynicism (I can't put my finger on what it was exactly), but somehow the whole day irritated me profoundly until at one point late in the afternoon when I returned to my desk having been absent for a few hours, where I had to simply laugh. A colleague had left a card on my laptop, a sweet gesture by all accounts, to congratulate me on this day. The card is a photograph of women at a conference or gathering ...and they are all covered from head to toe in sky blue burqas.

I would like to think that this was a joke, that my male colleague was being ironic and that he was mocking the absurdity of such an event here in a country such as this... but I don't think he was.

The flowers I received by some other colleagues are in a glass on my dining room table - they are lovely, but they're wilting and have no smell.

So in recognition of the women in Afghanistan and of how they see themselves and their own lives, here are some photos I took at an art exhibition a couple of weeks ago of some pretty incredible paintings done by Afghan women (the one above is also from this exhibition):

Book Meme

Here's a great meme that has been doing the rounds on various blogs these past few months, which I recently discovered thanks to the brilliantly clever and well-read Matt from A Guy's Moleskin Notebook. I'm not a huge meme fan, but this one seemed fun. I hereby tag everyone to join in.

Which book do you irrationally cringe away from reading, despite seeing only positive reviews? Anything by Paulo Coelho, although that may not be irrational.

If you could bring three characters to life for a social event (afternoon tea, a night of clubbing, perhaps a world cruise), who would they be and what would the event be? I would bring Woland to life from Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita; he oozes evil and charm and I think he would be fabulous to bring to a dinner party, if a little scary. I’d also bring Sebastian Flyte from Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited, because of his quirky eccentricity; he would make the evening fun. Lastly I would bring a character from The History Boys, a stunning play by Alan Bennett about a boy’s grammar school set in the early 1980s in the north of England, where a class of boys prepare to take their Oxbridge exams. I would bring along Mrs Lintott, their wry History teacher (in an otherwise all-male cast), played by Frances de la Tour. She would add some spice to the evening.

You are told you can’t die until you read the most boring novel on the planet. While this immortality is great for awhile, eventually you realize it’s past time to die. Which book would you expect to get you a nice grave? Definitely one of Boris Vian’s weird existential novels, probably L’Écume des Jours. I also found A Hundred Years of Solitude by Marquez a bit dull and should probably give that another go. I was sixteen when I read and I assume I missed the whole point.

Come on, we’ve all been there. Which book have you pretended, or at least hinted, that you’ve read, when in fact you’ve been nowhere near it? War and Peace, by Leo Tolstoy. Yes, I studied Russian Literature at university and no, I haven’t read it yet, although I once shamelessly let someone believe I had. I didn’t come out and say I had read it. I just didn’t say I hadn’t when the book was mentioned.

As an addition to the last question, has there been a book that you really thought you had read, only to realize when you read a review about it/go to ‘reread’ it that you haven’t? Which book? Can’t think of one (War and Peace perhaps? Maybe I did read it after all).

You’ve been appointed Book Advisor to a VIP (who’s not a big reader). What’s the first book you’d recommend and why? (if you feel like you’d have to know the person, go ahead of personalise the VIP) It depends who the VIP is. If it’s George Bush, maybe I would recommend The Hungry Caterpillar, because there are lots of pictures and I think it would be accessible to him (although I believe he has already read it). If it were someone a little more learned, I would have to go with Matt on this one, and say The Master and Margarita. Hands down. Why? Because it’s the greatest novel on the planet and will send shivers down your spine (just read the first three chapters, you’ll see). Bulgakov spent 12 years writing this satirical novel, and it was only published after his death – the only reason he was able to write it was because Stalin held him in some esteem, having enjoyed and commissioned some of his satirical plays in the 1920s. He was far more lenient with Bulgakov than with other Soviet writers and artists. Anyway, this book is about a great writer and his quest for truth; it's about the devil, who appears in Moscow with his mischievous, quirky no-good entourage (including Behemoth, an oversized talking black vodka-swilling cat); it’s about Pontius Pilate and Jesus, about greed, evil, love, truth, compassion and redemption. It’s utterly brilliant.

A good fairy comes and grants you one wish: you will have perfect reading comprehension in the foreign language of your choice. Which language do you go with? Russian. I can just about work my way through a Russian novel, although at a snail’s pace and will miss some of the more nuanced language and expressions. I would love to be able to speak this beautiful language perfectly in order to be able to read some of the world’s greatest authors in their own language. Cliched as it sounds, so much is lost in translation.

A mischievous fairy comes and says that you must choose one book that you will reread once a year for the rest of your life (you can read other books as well). Which book would you pick? Don Quijote by Cervantes.

I know that the book blogging community, and its various challenges, have pushed my reading borders. What’s one bookish thing you ‘discovered’ from book blogging (maybe a new genre, or author, or new appreciation for cover art-anything)? I haven’t been in the blogging world long enough really. Give me a few more months.

That good fairy is back for one final visit. Now, she’s granting you your dream library! Describe it. Is everything leatherbound? Is it full of first edition hardcovers? Pristine trade paperbacks? Perhaps a few favourite authors have inscribed their works? Go ahead-let your imagination run free. I love the libraries at Oxford uni (so much nicer and inspiring than the Social Sciences library at Bristol University, my Alma Mater, the outside of which is not dissimilar to a car park). It would have to be a gorgeous warm old oak-paneled room with a deep red carpet, with lots of natural light and some lovely nooks and crannies here and there. There would be comfy sofas and good reading lights. The shelves would all be accessible, not too high (otherwise what’s the point) (especially for the shorter among us). Books would be arranged in alphabetical order, by the author’s last name. Not bothered about first editions, but I'd make sure I had the best and most accurate translations for all the foreign language novels. There would also be a small table in a corner with a never-ending supply of fresh coffee and some large mugs. There would also be a couple of computers with super fast internet connection, and I would have access to all sorts of online research libraries.

Onwards and upwards

Well this is the first evening I've had to myself in a while and sadly it's going to be a short one because I am cream crackered (as my mother would say) (because it rhymes with "knackered", which in our part of the world means tired) and looking forward to getting into my rather unattractive flannel winter pyjamas and slipping into bed.

The good news is, the paper is almost finished... just a few more days. Then I'll have so much time I won't know what to do with myself. Actually yes I will. I'll catch up on all your lovely blogs for one, read, write and play my guitar, catch up with friends, maybe make some vegetable soup. I wouldn't say my options are endless but it'll be so good to have some time at last. AND turn my attentions to doing something about the audacious layer of winter insulation (shall we call it), that  crept up on me when I wasn't looking. Have you noticed how that happens? Fat can be so bold sometimes. No questions asked. You wake up and it's there and suddenly your trousers are too tight.

Despite the manic workload (and yes, I did manage to slip away for 48 hours to Dubai, it was fabulous, despite a freak sandstorm) things are ok. Kabul is asleep in winter's cold arms, but the days are getting discernibly longer and the crispness in the air is giving way to faint wisps of sweet smelling spring... or maybe I am dreaming that. But it has warmed up a little, as I noted earlier when I brought mud into our new house on the soles of my shoes. S got back from the States and we've moved into the guesthouse of the organisation he is now working for, in quite a nice area of Kabul. I am considered his 'spouse', which I have always been introduced as since we've been here (it would be culturally unacceptable for us to even be living together here unless we were husband and wife)... and without wanting to open up a can of worms, this is a label I am beginning to resent. I flinched internally earlier when I was asked to fill out a form needed for evacuation purposes (his NGO would evacuate me on the grounds that his is an accompanied post and I am living with him).

I'm starting to think seriously about what my role here is. I've been in Afghanistan for quite some time now, and have dipped in and out of various projects and research, trying to find my way and figure out what I want to do and where I feel I could be of most use. This latest project has been brilliant, being a small part of something which might make a difference in people's lives - a policy document which sets out detailed programmes and reforms which may or may not contribute to improving "security, governance and social and economic development". Thoughts on those later. But I feel as though I want to get my teeth into something more tangible, try to make a difference that might actually be felt and seen.

My current contract ends in a couple of months, so I have been looking around at various NGOs here, as I would love to get some programme management experience. Having said that, the other day, I was called up out of the blue and asked to come in for an interview for a post with the UN in one of the mission's outposts (the position would be in a small provincial sub-office - read "in the middle of nowhere" - possibly in the central highlands of Afghanistan, but it could be anywhere). I would be the only international staff and it would require taking on several roles at once. I would meet with all relevant local stakeholders, and report on a variety of issues ranging from political and governance affairs to human rights abuses, whilst managing an office and a small team of Afghan staff. I get excited when I think about this, it would undoubtedly be an incredible experience, fascinating, worthwhile and challenging, if a little lonely and possibly rather dangerous. It would certainly be a test of endurance.

A wonderful woman who I have grown to admire and am proud to call my friend, Frida, had a similar experience in the remote mountainous province of Ghor in Western Afghanistan last year. Frida is a fearless Human Rights officer with a big heart and did some incredible work out there; reading her posts has inspired me; if I were offered this position, thanks to some of her insights, I feel I could rise to this challenge.

I'm counting my chickens here, I might not even get the job - in which case I'd be happy to stay in Kabul, where I've got a solid group of friends and there is lots of interesting work too. Incidentally, thoughts of doing a PhD have been put on hold for the time being, at least for this year. I need more experience before tackling further studies (oh ok, so I didn't get round to writing my research proposal).

It's worth noting that the security situation here is pretty dire right now and things are set to get worse - this spring and summer are going to be particularly volatile apparently.

Moving swiftly on, my camera cord finally arrived, so here are some pictures I took in England at Christmas and the snowman day from a couple of weeks ago:

Christmas tree and oversized black dog

Little Miss Florence, former Afghan cat warrior / Swiss diplomat, preparing for a long and happy retirement on a cushion in her cottage kitchen and new home in England

In the absence of a carrot, we used half a green chilli for his nose.

Proud snowman architects, builders and tailors

Policy papers and snowmen

Just checking in very briefly to say hello. I'm in a bit of a work whirlwind at the moment, most of my life seems to be happening at the office these days, so I haven't had much time to sit and write properly.

Despite the long hours, it's such a worthwhile project and it's a privilege to be a part of something like this; plus I feel I am learning so much. We need to have finished the first draft of this vast policy document by next week, so it's all hands on deck. If anyone is interested, I can provide a link to the document once it's published on the Afghan Government website so you can get an idea of what it's all about. It is only being approved by the parliament in March and then by the World Bank at the end of March - so it may take a few months before it's available for the public to see.

In other news, I built a snowman on Friday! I still can't post any photos up as my camera cord hasn't arrived yet. It was the most therapeutic activity, following last Monday's horrific event. After long days at work with shorts outbursts of tears from nowhere, sleepless nights and haunting images, by the end of the week I was in desperate need of reconnecting with people. Everyone is still pretty shell-shocked by the whole thing, so getting together with a few friends on Friday and abandoning ourselves to the faint warmth of Kabul's cold winter sun on our faces, playing in the snow for a few hours felt incredible. I won't preach about how precious and fragile life is, but Monday was a wake-up call.

I have a wonderful new colleague, whose visit here is sadly short-lived, he has been flown in at the last minute to help us bring the document together. He is an incredibly inspiring and exceptionally good and clever person, who knows Afghanistan like the back of his hand, having spent 5 years here previously. He's one of these people who gets how the whole world works, and gets why people do what they do and why we are here in Afghanistan and what everyone's strategic interests are... if I could muster the energy right now, I would jot down all his thoughts and share some of the wisdom, but I'm too tired people! I'll spread the knowledge at a later date.

I'm going to do something a bit naughty next week. The deadline for our paper is this week-end, so by then everything should be done. I will hand in work on time like everyone else and then three days later I am going to smuggle myself out of the country to meet S in Dubai on his way back to Kabul! I'll be gone for all of three days, one of which is our measly one day off anyway, so I'm hoping no one will even notice I've gone...

x

Writer's Island Prompt: "Treasure"

"Sssshhh", James said. "look, it's dead". We hovered together in a corner of the playground, like two bees collecting pollen from the same flower. He held out his hand, glancing over his shoulder in case the teacher on duty should see us, and opened it. A baby bird, fallen from its nest, grey and yellow bulges of intestines visible through the paper thin soft bird skin of its oversized belly. I stared in horrified silence at its grotesque face, swollen dark eyes and a razor thin yellow down-turned beak, apparently struck with grief by its own death. We marvelled at its large head and thin drooping neck, its stumpy stubbly featherless wings, pulling them open and letting them drop against its motionless body, the same thought going through our heads. Its poor, poor mother. It brought tears to my eyes.

The bell rang, and we lept. Hearts racing, we argued fiercely about who should keep the bird. "I found it" growled James. "Yes, but I'm your best friend!" I hissed back, and snatched it from his hand, putting it in my pocket, careful to keep an opening in case it should need to breathe. Once back in the classroom, I hurried to the coat pegs and delicately placed it in the bottom of my satchel, where it wouldn't be disturbed by the hustle and bustle of that morning's activities.

"We've got a secret", James proudly told our friends, chalk smeared all over his face and apron. "It's treasure" I added smugly, poking a wooden spoon into a tub of gelatinous water-coloured glue.

All day, we firmly turned down our classmates' pleas to see it. The day crawled by, dead hours in the afternoon marked by a loud ticking clock and Mrs Tantum's clear reading voice. James seemed to have forgotten all about the bird, but I kept a firm look out and glared at anyone who brushed too close to our prize.

At 3 o'clock the bell rang, and we poured out on a loud wave of high-pitched chatter into the breezy air filled with birdsong. James ran over to me and we frog-marched another friend into a corner to the annoyance of waiting mothers, and showed him our secret treasure. He gasped and ran screaming.

Later that afternoon at home, I wrapped the bird in a hankerchief and prepared for its burial. I dug a small hole at the bottom of our garden with my red spade and placed the hankerchief inside, then gently laid the bird on top of it, stroking its cold tummy one last time, still amazed at its softness. Feeling bereft and ashamed, I hastily filled the hole with lumps of fresh cold earth, and placed a handful of daisies on the newly formed mound.

The next morning I ran out before breakfast, barefoot through cold dewy grass and dug it up again; it went back into my satchel.