Blog…what a distasteful term. Whatever happened to diary? I have no idea what the purpose of blogs are, and I must make the honest disclaimer that I am not doing this for anything other than an experimental desire to fish in the ether and see what bites. Most importantly, however, is that these truly are my thoughts, complete with emotional baggage and environmental influences. In view of this, despite my intention to share non-commercialised experiences with a hint of a desire to educate those less experienced, there will undoubtedly be phrases, viewpoints and terminology that will seem distasteful to a variety of readers. However obscene, rude or insulting snippets within the scribbles may seem, please know that there is a solid grain of anecdotal truth to it all for which I feel absolutely zero compunction to apologise for. I am one of the most well-rounded and open-minded individuals that average society has to offer, honed by years of cultural curiosity and integration, not to mention extensive travel and effort. In short, I think I have earned the right to have an opinion, so if you happen to be of a sensitive nature and are in any way offended or uncomfortable with the tappings that are to follow, I suggest you take your inalienable right to stop here and sod off back to whatever padded existence you have deluded yourself with..that’s right, click those heels and keep repeating “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home…..”

Thoughts written in 2004:

My cleaning lady almost torched my house yesterday so I thought it prudent to at least tap away some form of memoire before the discovery of my charred body at a later date.

So, what’s been happening? Well, Dick Cheney passed by my place a couple weeks ago. By passing I mean swept over my roof at low level in two Chinooks, four Apaches, and two jet fighters. We have also had one earthquake measuring 6.7 and two suicide bombers, one of whom was aiming for parliament but grabbed the opportunity to swerve into a Norwegian ISAF convoy on the way; he bounced off their armoured car and because of that probably detonated late, missing everyone except himself, obviously a strong contender for the Darwin Awards; the second bomber set off the device as he was fitting it to his car, doh!). Did I mention the numerous bar brawls between drunk ‘security advisors’, who plainly speaking are trained killers who have problems accessing their feminine side and find the act of quaffing booze to be one of the few social pleasures available outside of opium abuse and gun-running. In short, just a typical month in Kaboom, aka Kabul. Welcome to the Afghan Experience.

29 million people populate this ravaged country, of which about 4 million reside here in this dust bowl. The town was once a stunning, lush, green and exciting liberal place to be in, a true Mecca for education in this corner of Asia. But as you know, the fall of the monarchy, the Russians and successive tribal feuds and finally the Taliban reduced this place to a little more than a polluted wreck, where the roads are mere dust tracks and the battered cars belch noxious fumes which leave the air as clean as an Afghan sandal, making breathing a laborious affair with the effect of sounding like an obscene phone call. The reason the air is never clean is that the entire city is encircled by mountains, the majority of which are still heavily littered with land mines, man’s special gift to the joy of conflict. Even now there are still monthly reports of children being blown to pieces as they wander around the hills, often the only place still available to the destitute to make their home in the ever-growing shantytowns.

But despite the dangers that they hold, the mountains also provide some of the most spectacular and intense sceneries in the world. Sure, we’ve all seen National Geographic and award-winning art, but to stand here and see it oneself is an experience well worth any of the dangers of coming to this land. It is nature at it’s most raw, offering purely the basics of hard lines and intense colours between the grey and white mountains and the crisp blue sky. Lord Of The Rings – eat your heart out, even Frodo would have broken down and sobbed if he’d seen this.

Security is obviously a big issue here since Bush’s foreign policy made this his playground, but there are still a few bullies who like to spoil the fun for the rest of us. Although there is a real risk of still being hit by a bomber or being held hostage when some of the locals are short of some spending cash, there is just as strong a chance of being gunned down in a bar by an inebriated security advisor. It is commonplace to have signs on every UN-approved bar door prohibiting weapons, and even Christmas party invites have the added zest of adding after the RSVP, “No visible weapons please. Illegally armed guests will be disarmed.”

Now, I may be a relatively new addition in Kabul, but I think I can happily say that security is mildly ridiculous here. I’m not pointing at the military in general, they tend to have it all sorted (they’ve had enough practice) but the private security party can be seen from two extreme sides. First of all there are your buff western ‘hired guns’ who cruise around in a fat 4×4 with all the trimmings and, at the first sight of anything breathing in their direction, are happy to sodomise the offending object with impressive array of articles from their armoury.

On the opposing side, there are all the compounds and offices being protected by an elite force of starving locals who wear loose fitting military-copy uniforms and are paid to sit slumped in their plastic chairs and clutch their never-serviced Kalashnikov in sub-zero temperatures. Why is it that most security positions to protect and enforce the safety of important foreign nationals is given to exactly those people who are in most probable and closest contact with the criminal element that threatens these very places?

At present I have two unarmed guards looking after my house, one of which considers the night duty to be an excuse to catch up on the tv series’ he has missed during the day and get a good kip instead of waking up and letting me in when I return late. Luckily, I happen to have an ex-Mujahedin driver who chauffeurs us around in an unobtrusive Hiace minibus and can extract a handsome amount from any offender who bumps his car when amongst the throng of the complete mayhem of driving on the open road.There are rough guidelines that are adhered to, such as travelling roughly in the proper direction, but a two lane road is usually interpreted as allowing three cars travelling side by side in one direction, with the oncoming cars being left to gang up and organise some sort of offensive operation in order to regain access to the road. The mess and stupidity that is seen at the junctions is too difficult to describe without sobbing in despair and considering self-harm. Due to the obvious absence of insurance any accidents or scrapes are settled on the spot, with only ever two real outcomes being available in the form of money, or blood. As a westerner it is not advised to drive since the discussions will be short and sweet in such a situation, and I am fortunate that my ex-Mujahedin driver has a Masters in extracting cash from dozy fender-benders.

Apart from private parties, the majority of the 2000 strong expat community is limited to visiting the security-approved bars (there are about 4) or sneaking off to one of the ever growing number of asian restaurants where their speciality is the offering of financially procured female companionship, more commonly known as “Chinese Take-aways”. Another form of humanitarian entertainment is the use of chemically enhanced sensory aids in the form of various manufactured organic products, often referred to as ‘some of that Afghan Black shit’. Whilst poppy-based goods are freely available, it is usually the THC that people search for to be added to their cookies or smoked plain. If any of these options are not enough to alleviate the stress of working in an aggressive shit-hole, then (providing one has the freedom of movement) one can always indulge in retail therapy in one of the many bazaars, offering an odd collection of apparent desires from brake lights and carpets to uniforms, rifles, and other pain-inflicting paraphernalia, but not necessarily always for a good price. Haggling here is such a practised art that soon it may be considered as an Olympic discipline, although wailing and sobbing will not be tolerated as it is considered ‘bad form’.

A small insight into the life in Kabul. Thirty years ago this place was surprisingly idyllic, with tree-lined streets, forests all around, girls in miniskirts, and the city itself being an educational Mecca, attracting students from all countries in this region. Nowadays this place is a dusty and polluted wreck, with a tattered infrastructure that is no better than most African states. Electricity is sparingly supplied to different regions at various times, at present we get approximately 6 hours of power every two days. In part this is directly correlated to the amount of water that rushes through the hydro-electric dam, and due to the recent fall of snow and its subsequent melting in the sun, we are in fact getting a few hours more every day now. Speaking of water, this is a horror that one has to witness oneself. Much of the water in the city contains more toxins than the dark moist patches on tribal underwear, and boiling it won’t help you either way because it will still contain 14 times higher arsenic levels than EU regulations allow. The Kabul River runs through the centre of town, and at best it is used to wash cars on the river banks in order to smear the dirt more evenly over the body-work. Whilst the already polluted water runs into town, it picks up all the human waste and other unmentionables, only to be then used to bathe in and be drunk by the homeless kids who squat on the sides of the bank, trying to sift the chunky bits out of the murky green sludge and ignoring the rotting carcass of some quadruped as it floats past, bloated with an entire eco-system of insects and parasites.

Here in Kabul the majority of those who live here are simple people who have come from the outskirts and mountains to fill the places of all those educated classes that fled when they could over the past 30 years. On the whole they are courteous and polite, not really giving much of a toss about foreigners. If they were to have a problem, then the point would be made with no less than a mortal threat, usually leading to some form of death or maiming.

Walking around town is possible, but not encouraged alone as a westerner. Being male is vastly advantageous as it is not deemed entirely appropriate for women to walk alone, and western women are generally considered to be whores anyway and so are subject to more abuse in various forms.

Security is a big issue here for us expats, yet there is a huge dichotomy of precautions taken. On the one side there are all the western ‘hired guns’ who cruise around in massive 4x4s, looking butch and being generally gung-ho about getting from A to B without any apparent regard for what lies in their paths. This in itself is a recipe for carnage as the Afghans have no concept of personal space or order, literally pushing into every available space just to win an inch over the next person.

Thoughts written in 2001:
I suppose it was inevitable, but I have at last succumbed to a healthy (or rather unhealthy) dose of food poisoning. The last 24 hours have been fun crouched over the porcelain throne and I at last have managed to sleep through a full four hours without needing to commando crawl to the toilet. The upside of all this is that I have plenty of time on my hands to write a decent account of my stay here so far in Santiago.

My first sight of the city was after twenty hours of hemorrhoidal flying, crossing the brilliantly white shark’s teeth of the Andes, a truly monstrous stretch of mountain that quite honestly does not surprise me that it induces people to eat each other. At six and a half thousand metres above sea level, these peaks spit at any hope of a recovery for any wrecked traveller. Anyway, point is that after the plane crawled over this natural barrier, the captain announced that we had to circle a while over Santiago due to bad visibility. I looked down and dimly saw a city housing five million people through a thick and strangely brown fog. I remarked how heavy the fog seemed, and was then corrected by my giggling neighbour that this in fact was the smog that latched itself onto the eighth most polluted city in the world. Yup, ever since my arrival, I have had the joyous experience of picking the largest bogies of my life from my daily bleeding nostrils. Sodding filthy is what this place is, and there are days when visibility is reduced to just one kilometre over the skies of Santiago.

The reason for this phlegm-inducing wonder is mainly due to the armada of Micros that inhabit the city. A Micro is the term used for one of the eight thousand yellow public buses that belt around the city at a monstrous speed that makes even me grit my teeth in anxiety. In basic terms, every bus runs its own route determined by the hand-written sign that is plonked behind the windscreen. There are no (or very few) bus stops, so one has to acquire a super-bionic gift of telescopic sight to determine which bus is going in the correct direction and then one just stands at the side of the road and waves at the driver like a lunatic in the hope that he feels like picking up a Gringo. There is no bus plan or map as they run freely and according to their own desire, some owned privately and some by bus pimps that give desperate workers a bus and pay them according to the number of people they pick up and how often they manage to scoot across town. I’m sorry, did I say scoot? I meant to use the term `tear across town like a wild pig on heat’. These drivers are all banned from rally driving for excessive speed and road rage. I take my hat off and salute them, I would never be able to keep up with them, even after snorting a kilo of speed.
Santiago itself is in essence an impressive town. All of Chile is a contrast, and Santiago no exception. On the one hand you have roads and areas that show off great wealth and would make any Nouveau Riche splutter with jealousy at the pure statements of opulence that make Bel Air look like a ghetto. In contrast, you turn a corner and you think you are back in Peckham with filthy shanty-like buildings populated by the vagabond poor. The city has several odd phenomena. Most striking is its population of wild dogs that live on the streets, and the odd absence of poo along with them. The dogs are quite tame, and are found everywhere sprawled sleeping on the pavement during rush hour, oblivious to the people stepping over them. In the centre they hang around the restaurant areas like those wannabe-types who hang around flash cars on the Kings Road pretending they own them, although the dogs don’t use aftershave that stings the eyes as much.

Quite often, whilst I wait to cross a road, a dog will saunter over and sit next to me. We usually nod at each other in recognition and as though by mutual agreement, he crosses the road with me once the traffic lights change and we part our separate ways only to meet another day. To be honest, I often expect the dog to offer me a cigarette or nudge my arm when an attractive woman comes past whilst we wait. I reckon the reason that the dogs and I get on so well is because, apart from the fleas, we both look quite out of place in the city. Everyone is shorter and dark, although friendly. Whenever I am on the Metro (which incidentally puts London to shame for its cleanliness and punctuality) it is obvious that I am foreign, since everyone else is a head shorter than the average European. Although one can never truly blend in, this can be a benefit since very few people get leery with you unless they have a weapon of a sort. So far, I have had no problems whatsoever, and I may even go so far as to say I am ignored by some potential muggers. But let’s not feel too lucky, I still have another eight and a half months to go.

On a more personal level, the course is going fine, and to my amazement I have been put into the most advanced class. My colleagues are almost all American, which makes me feel like I am in Beverly Hills 90210 sometimes, listening to the usual inane comments of how the US is the central pivot of the world. I giggle each time one of them takes the wrong Micro into a really harsh neighbourhood and comes to the rapid conclusion that for the first time they are not in control of their lives, rather they are at the mercy of the knife wielding beggar who is happy to cut out their liver in exchange for a meal. It is at this point that they jolt to the realisation that no amount of Harvard or banking knowledge can help them, and they just end up wandering the streets, delirious with fear until they stumble across a taxi that charges them triple. Still, there is hope for some of them, and we have had fun skiing in the mountains and going to dancing lessons. It seems to me that most of these young Americans are simply sexually deprived, and think that their status depends on the amount they have drunk, as well as how many rejections they have notched up in the course of the night using the line `let’s go back to my place and look at my trophies’.
Speaking of my place, I have had a tremendous amount of luck with my apartment. It is by no means a Boudoir, but there is an aquarium, ADSL internet, cable TV, and three bathrooms to be shared between five of us. My room overlooks the Parque Forestal and the river. I am looking forward to the summer, as my bedroom leads directly onto a large balcony where I can bathe myself in smog and the occasional ray of sun.
There is plenty more to write about Santiago, but I feel too crap to give a proper rendition, and I get the feeling that I have written rather too much for the average reader to plod through, so I shall end it here.