Cracker by Damian Christie

After what seems like months away from home, I’ve arrived back from my Afghanistan/Pakistan trip, which had neatly conflated with my Christmas Break.

I’m broken (from diving), bruised (from learning to waterski), burnt (a minor fireworks incident at two minutes to midnight) and after a few days in Northland, red. Like a fire enginge. A sore fire engine.

I’ve been boating, fishing, diving, shellfish-gathering, barbequing, sunbathing, drinking, frying and all those things that make for the quintessential Kiwi Christmas.

Smugglers’ Cove, near Waipu

And I couldn’t be happier to live here. New Zealand that is, not Wellington, where it’s all grey and rainy on my first day back at work. Nope, New Zealand, I’m quite stoked with the accident of birth that sees me living here, and the continued presence of mind not to join the increasing number of friends making a go of it in London.

I was in London for a week just before Christmas –a state school education meant I thought it would be easy to ‘pop over’ from Pakistan, since I was ‘in the area anyway’– and I can tell you, I can’t see many compelling reasons to trade this life for that. A number of my pals have their own special reasons that justify being there (career opportunities being a big one), but I think the rest of them are kidding themselves. Why else would they be so keen for me to join them? “You should totally move here” they implore, in exactly the same tone I had previously thought reserved for smokers convincing ex-smokers to jump back off the wagon – trying to make the Tube sound appealing when it’s about as much fun as a tube in the throat.

Yeah it might be exponentially easier to get to Europe, but at what cost? Living in London the other 98% of the time? But each to their own, and I dare say anyone reading this in London would take the Borough Markets over the Bucket Fountain any day.

Matheson’s Bay, near Leigh

I had meant to write about the joys of the Auckland Airport Strip Search. But it seems so long ago now and I’ve told so many people over so many beers that I’ve exhausted any raconteurial juice the tale might once have had. But to summarise:

1. If Customs ask you if you’ve ever smoked pot or what-have-you, just lie. Being helpful will only cost you hours of unnecessary delay.

2. Just because you can buy something over-the-counter-to-help-you-sleep-through-your-food-poisoining-on-the-plane in Pakistan, doesn’t mean you should bring it back to New Zealand. You could find yourself charged with importing a Class C substance.

3. After 40 hours in airports and on planes, handing someone your socks and underwear is pleasant for neither party.

4. The person waiting for you at the arrival gate may not be that understanding when you are three hours late, and you will not be able to call them while you are being detained. Unless you pretend you are calling your lawyer (which works!)

5. Being strip-searched is not funny, but my meeting with the police once Customs had finished with me was:

Friendly Samoan Policeman: Okay, right, so you’ve been pretty upfront about why you’ve got these sleeping pills, so I’m going to…

[Phone rings]

Friendly Samoan Policeman: …Oh sorry, hang on a sec… Hello?.... Aw, hey Aunty…. Yeah, Aunty, I can’t really talk right now….

… Yeah, lunch on Sunday sounds good…

… Nah, yeah, I like corned beef….

… Okay Aunty, that sounds good… Aunty… Aunty… I gotta go… Okay, bye Aunty.

And with a big smile, he told me he was going to let me off with a warning. And a little note on my record in case I’m tempted to import pharmaceuticals again in the future.

Which leaves me a little worried. After (stupidly) telling Customs I once inhaled, and having a ‘little note’ on my police record, should I tell anyone picking me up from the airport from now on to arrive a few hours late? I’ve always spoken fondly of arriving back in New Zealand, as the Customs Officials stamp your passport and say “Welcome Home”. Will my experiences from here on in be less warm and more, dare I say, latexy? Can anyone shed some light as to what I should expect?

Finally, and freshly arrived in my Inbox, this touching and lengthy press release from music manager Glyn MacLean, announcing that after checking with his lawyers and her music publisher, it's okay for him to get it on with engaged to his young charge, Yulia. Highlights include:

I'm sure we'll write a book about it sometime, but it transpires that after stoically trying to avoid having any feelings for Yulia, it turns out we are each others soul mates, as it were. How does one prove that one has found ones... "soul mate"...? Well, I think it's when you find yourself naturally aligned, naturally sacrificing yourself for the other, when matters of the flesh become irrelevant and when you just know the other person because they are like a version of yourself.

It's also when you go through trials and tribulations and in the darkest moment of servitude to their humanity, you find yourself deeply loving them with the virtues listed in 1st Corinthians 13:4 - 8. I found myself being much more patient, kind, without envy, not boasting, not being rude or easily angered, unable to keep records of wrong, rejoicing in the truth, persevering and most of all, forgiveness.

Awwww.

The last stop on my trip to the 'stans is Lahore, capital of the Punjab region and with a population of ten million, the second largest city in Pakistan. It's right on the border with India (you may have seen the chest puffing ceremony of the changing of the guards) and was previously a part of the Mughal Empire.

Most importantly, it's known for having the best food in Pakistan.

Fruit Vendor, Old Markets

Most host is Geoff Walker, formerly of Fonterra, now in charge of the Pakistan Dairy Development Corporation (on which more another time). He picks me up from the airport – "Would you like to go to the Museum of Lahore, or go to the club for a beer?"

Twenty minutes later I was sampling the local brew at the Lahore International Association. Sitting under the trees in the early evening, watching bats flit about and perusing the evening's dinner menu, I couldn't help feel like the British might, a century earlier. The wine came out over dinner, and so did the debate, especially once Geoff admitted he was a big fan of a certain other New Zealand blog. Geoff was incredulous the various foreign correspondents in Lahore hadn’t sought the expats’ opinions on recent events. I suggested perhaps that was as likely as me seeking out the opinion of the Pakistani expat community for a story on New Zealand politics. We debated some more.

Wheel vendor(?), Old markets

The wine kept flowing and it was a great, albeit surreal night, eating steak and drinking red wine in the heart of Pakistan.

The next day after attending to some journalism, I had time for an afternoon of sightseeing with Mary, the charming wife of another PDDC employee (the PDDC seems to be almost entirely comprised of New Zealand and Australian dairy experts). With little time –and chaotically coagulated traffic throughout the city slowing our progress– we walked briskly around the Lahore Fort, Mary and I fending off eager guides like two young Christian Cullens. Undaunted, one continued delivering his tour speech until he realised he was unlikely to get anything for his efforts.

Lahore Fort

After the fort we hit the markets of Old Town. A labyrinth of stalls, we took a wrong turn and ended up walking past nothing but women’s shoes for something like an hour. (Actually, was that really a wrong turn, Mary?) The markets were crazily congested, the smell of two-stroke filling the cramped alleyways as motorbikes, rickshaws and even cars squeezed slowly through the throng of pedestrians. Exhausting? Let’s say I’d rather face St Luke’s Mall on Christmas Eve any day.

Stopping to sample some sugarcane juice (not my wisest move as it turned out, perhaps the abundant flies were a clue) we made a dash for the Wagah border, to see the changing of the guard ceremony. We’d thought we’d allowed plenty of time, but someone had moved the time of the ceremony and we arrived to see people hurrying back to their cars. Still, I’m sure it’s just as good watching it on YouTube. Sigh.

Poisonous Sugarcane Vendor - check out the flies

For dinner that night we went to the famous Cooco’s Den. Situated in Lahore’s Red Light District it’s probably the most famous restaurant in Lahore (even my hosts in Karachi recommended it) with a fascinating history. Beginning to suffer from my ill-advised sugarcane experiment, I can’t tell you much about the food, but the view from the rooftop tables was incredible, and I found it hard to draw my eyes off the beautiful Badshahi Mosque.

Badshahi Mosque seen from Cocoo's rooftop

Perhaps more than any other stop on my trip, Lahore struck me as a city of contrast. From those living in the verdant luxury of the Defence district, being driven in air conditioned comfort, to children hawking perishing fruit from a wagon drawn by a malnourished donkey, it’s impossible to ignore the gap between the haves and have-nots.

But if the PDDC succeeds as it seems to be, the life of the average Pakistani farmer (each owning a few woefully underproducing cows) will improve immeasurably from its current subsistence level. Such a change will be a remarkable thing to witness, and I envy my hosts for being part of that.

Rubbish Donkey

Special thanks to Geoff at PDDC for his hospitality; and Bill & Mary for seeing a sick young man safely onto his plane.

Damian's visit to Pakistan is made possible with a grant from the Asia NZ Foundation. Thanks, Asia NZ.

Check out the Gallery link for more images, including a cool bumper sticker.

Taking milk to market

Flying into Karachi, Pakistan, into an official State of Emergency, I didn't quite know what to expect. I was apprehensive to say the least. I had only applied for a tourist visa, so how was I going to explain the large microphone, the mini-disc recorder with a stack of blank discs, the two cameras, ten rolls of film – not to mention a folder of background information, suggesting my real intentions were far from just sightseeing?

I needn't have worried. A cursory glance at my passport, a couple of stamps and I was waved through. Far harder to avoid were the plethora of porters trying to coax my bags from me. Even once I'd dragged my pack to where the hotel driver was bringing the car around, a porter stayed at my side, perhaps expecting payment for his presence alone.

Even arriving in the middle of the night, downtown Karachi was luxury compared to anything I'd seen in Afghanistan. Forget roads paved with gold, the fact they were paved at all was appreciated. The hotel had power and the bathroom didn’t smell like an open sewer. The pillows were fluffy and had a mint on top. There might be a state of emergency going on outside, but I slept like a baby.

During the day I looked around the city. I hired a driver, Manuel, who was happy to take me exactly where he wanted to take me. I was shepherded from seemingly one tourist attraction to another, each designed to separate me from my money. "I don't want a camel ride on the beach," I insisted, moments before lurching across the sand on a dromedary's back. "I'd rather go to the local markets than this large tourist shop", I explained, emerging minutes later clutching bags of must-have souvenirs.

Everywhere we walked, beggars would follow, grabbing my elbow. Stopped at traffic lights adults and children alike, often nursing deformed limbs would tap on the car windows and hold out their hand.

Eventually Manuel had his turn too. "The car company pays me very poorly, so you can give me a tip. I am a Christian man and I have to buy many Christmas presents for my family." He turned up his nose at the US$20 I gave him for three hours driving. "This isn't very much money, and I have many Christmas presents to buy."

At least when you're being fleeced somewhere like Pakistan, it doesn't cost much.

The city is covered with political slogans, party symbols, colours and pictures of the likes of former prime ministers (and political hopefuls) Nawaz Sharif and Benazir Bhutto. At a large roundabout, a billboard still advertises Bhutto's October 18 rally, ended when a bomber attacked her convoy, killing an estimated 140 people.

The newspapers I read are entirely full of politics, and it's hard to see just what impact the state of emergency is having. Not a lot apparently, unless you are a politician or one of the ill-fated protesting lawyers. But there are certain signs. Geo TV has been forced off air for its reportage, though its journalists are allowed to protest the closure outside. Elections are planned for January 8, but under the state of emergency there will be no candidate debates, yet another measure allegedly designed to favour the party of President Pervez Musharraf.

The Pakistanis I speak to seem actually embarrassed by their leader, though rather like Lord Voldemort, they won't refer to him by name, at least not when the tape is running. They are strong believers in democracy, the rule of law and the constitution, and are keen to return Pakistan to a functioning democracy with a duly-elected leader. But they've also seen enough these past years to know that it's rarely that straight forward.

I meet with two local bloggers, who are happy to speak their minds both on and off line. (A full interview will be available in due course via public address radio). They are hospitable, generous and great conversationalists, as we continue talking from an upmarket coffee house surrounded by designer western clothing stores in one district, to more traditional (and delicious) food at streetside stalls. They tell me about the beggars I've seen, and say they are in fact a highly organised network, controlled 'mafia-style', and aren't real beggars. Those controlling them take them away from their families, and remove their limbs to make them more effective, they say, so I shouldn't be fooled into giving them money. Whatever the truth, it certainly doesn't seem like the one-armed man is having the last laugh.

After dinner my hosts depart for a wedding around 9pm, then pick me up again after midnight to take me to a friend's farewell, a young woman off to Dubai. We pull up outside a mansion, and the sounds of banging Pakistani/Indian dance music mixed with the worst of UK club hits must be audible blocks away. A bartender stands somewhat redundantly in front of a table stocked with non-alcoholic refreshments – Pepsi, 7-Up and Fanta, to be precise. The only white person in sight, sober as a judge and dancing to Kylie, I couldn't be more out of my element. And where exactly is this state of emergency?

Damian's visit to Pakistan is made possible with a grant from the Asia NZ Foundation. Thanks, Asia NZ.

So after two days in Ghor I flew back to Kabul, ready to drive to the Panjshir Valley. That morning a large blast had rocked the city, the suicide bomber detonating his car in the Wazir Akbar Khan District*, home to a number of embassies and international agencies. Two Afghans were killed. I spoke to a contractor at the airport, heading home to West Virginia, who felt the force of the blast over a kilometer away. "I've had enough of this place," he said, "I want to work somewhere I can bring my kids. Maybe France."

Of course it's nice to have that kind of choice. Most people here don't.

I don't want to overstate the danger in Afghanistan, but at the same time, bombs are occasionally going off, people are being shot at, people are dying. Drinking with some of the NGO workers in Kabul one night, it was clear that after a while 'in country' your concept of what is safe, changes. One young woman said she called her parents after today's bombing, knowing this one would probably make the news.

At the same time, people are getting on with their lives, and getting on with rebuilding this shattered country. Which is why I was headed to Panjshir, to look at a windfarm project being funded by the local US PRT (Provincial Reconstruction Team) and built by a New Zealand sustainable energy company.

Geographically, the Panjshir Valley couldn't be more different from Chaghcharan. While everywhere in Afghanistan seems dry and dusty, Panjshir is at the luscious end of the spectrum. Trees and green-ish fields, even at this time of year and a majestic (and presumably freezing cold) river bisecting the massive peaks of the valley.

The Panshir also holds a special place in Afghanistan's recent history. Because of its geographical advantages (and no doubt the ferocity of the Panjshir people – mostly ethnic Tajiks, who are still armed to the teeth by all accounts) the valley was never captured by the Russians despite numerous attempts – the Russians lost two-thirds of their total war casualties in that valley.

The 'Lion of Panjshir', Ahmad Shah Massoud led those forces, then brought the battle to Kabul as a commander for the Mujahideen. When the Taliban later took control, they too tried and failed to conquer the Panjshir Valley. Massoud was killed in 2001 by two Al-Qaeda suicide bombers. Seemingly every car in the Panjshir has a portrait of the Lionised Lion taped to its windshield. His portrait can be seen elsewhere in the country too, although his reputation outside of the Panjshir is mixed – as my driver noted, the Mujahideen also contributed much to the destruction of Kabul.

For the first time since I arrive in Afghanistan, I don't have the luxury of a hot shower. We're sleeping pretty rough, getting up in the morning, a splash of water and then up to the worksite, freezing cold and windblown, hundreds of metres over the already-elevated valley floor. Again, it's all relative, the labourers working on the site don't descend the hill at night – they sleep in tents, in what must be sub-zero conditions. Again the workers are happy to pose for photos – it seems impossible to get 'candid' shots; as soon as the camera's out the shovels go down and they stand at attention, staring defiantly down the lens. There are plenty of smiles here, but not for the camera, and I wonder why our default pose involves a stupid grin – at Dubai airport I even noticed a new Sony camera that takes photos automatically when the subject smiles. Not a big seller in Afghanistan, I'm thinking.

At night we drink vodka with the Afghan engineers. Being both alcoholic and Russian, the bottle is kept out of sight when not being poured from. We learn new games of cards and new phrases of Dari, both of which involve a lot of laughter.

After a few days in the beautiful Panjshir, I head back to Kabul. My driver picks up a six-pack of Heineken and some warm potato balani from a roadside stall in the middle of nowhere – beer is getting harder to find in Kabul these days, and drink happily as he weaves through the darkness. With the combination of checkpoints, potholes, speed bumps, no centre lanes, seatbelts or passing etiquette, a driver chugging a couple of beers seems like the most trivial thing in the world. Afghanistan certainly puts things in perspective.

I fly out the next day – my last night in Kabul consisted of a bar crawl around a few expat haunts, including a party in the concrete bunker of a house that doesn't officially exist, hosted by the Special Forces of a nation I won't divulge. All but one have beards, dyed black to act as a disguise, if a fleeting one. "How many of you live here?" I inquire innocently of one of the housemates. "I can't tell you that", he replies, offering me another beer.

The mountains I flew over a week ago are now covered in snow as I leave. Along with seemingly every other visitor here, I've been reading The Kite Runner while I've traveled. I finish the last pages as I look down at Afghanistan disappearing below and tears well in my eyes. Maybe it's the ending of a great book, but I suspect it has a lot more to do with leaving this incredible country.

*Those of you who have read The Kite Runner may recall the Wazir Akbar Khan District as the location of the house where Amir lives with his father.

Damian's travel is thanks to a grant from the Asia NZ Foundation. Not so much this bit, in Afghanistan, but the next bit I'm doing, in Pakistan. But I wouldn't be in Afghanistan if I wasn't going to Pakistan too, you know? So, thanks, Asia NZ.

Turning up at Kabul “International” Airport for my flight to Chaghcharan in the remote province of Ghor, it’s fair to say I wasn’t super-stoked to discover a 12-seater plane waiting to take me and only three other passengers on the journey. Light aircraft unnerve me at the best of times, but in Afghanistan? Only two of us were disembarking at Chaghcharan. So of course the other one would be a New Zealander too (no, we didn’t know each other, but this is how all those “New Zealand is a small place” rumours start).

The flight took an hour across a never-ending snowless mountain range, not a settlement in sight. Chaghcharan is so remote in fact that even people in Kabul had laughed at me for making this trip. Which is kind of like people in Dunedin mocking you for going to Southland. And yes, Ghor is pronounced much the same as its South Island counterpart, except without the retarded R.

Approaching Chagharan by road

As Chaghcharan came into site a wave of emotion came over me, a wave that took the form “what in God's name am I doing here?” Universally dust-coloured, the low buildings blend into the hills. I felt like I was landing on Tattooine (Luke Skywalker’s desert-like home planet, for non Star Wars folk) and expected to see Jawas come running at the plane trying to sell me droids (“they are hard-working, and will serve you well”). Except there were no droids for sale (I know, not even a simple R2 model) only donkeys, and none of them could translate Dari to English, so I kept my wallet in my pocket.

I’m staying at the UNAMA (Assistance Mission to Afghanistan), the ostensible purpose for my visit is to see the work of Marianne Elliott, a New Zealander who has been in Afghanistan for two years, and in Ghor province for six months, working in the field of human rights and overseeing/training her local counterparts.

Livestock Market, Chaghcharan

If Kabul was an eye-opener, then Chaghcharan feels like I’ve just had surgery to remove cataracts. Almost every building and every wall (and they love their walls, the Afghans, understandably after decades of constant conflict) is made from a mud and straw combination. ). I’m reminded of a famous literary attempt by a few pigs that involved straw and can’t help but wonder how these walls would withstand a VBIED (vehicle-borne improvised explosive device), or perhaps more likely here a DBIED (don’t laugh – donkey-borne).

On arrival I’m given a security briefing. Things aren’t as safe here as they were a few weeks ago. Last night was the latest in a series of attacks where hand-grenades have been lobbed into buildings at night. NGOs have been targeted, but last night’s attack was on the local Women’s Rights officer, whose outspoken views have obviously angered someone. I ask whether the suspect is Taliban, but nothing is clear here – the lines between Taliban, its sympathisers and Islamic conservatives is blurred at best.

Checking our vehicle for mines

Before I got here I’d thought the Taliban, like Al Qaeda, were hiding in the hills, waging guerilla attacks, but that’s far from the case. One estimate now has the Taliban in control of 54 percent of Afghanistan, including Ghor’s neighbouring provinces, but once again, ‘control’ in Afghanistan is a very loose concept. Here in Chaghcharan the Governor is controlled by a warlord, or ‘commander’, as the locals call them. Their influence is a lot more obvious. Certain roads can’t be driven on without permission (an ISAF team was recently ambushed and captured after failing to obtain permission); one local commander even has his own court, arresting, trying, jailing and executing people for breaching moral codes. Like most wealth in Afghanistan, their money comes from opium. Not that many poppies grow in Ghor, but the warlords control trafficking of the drug through the province.

Livestock farmers, not Taliban

But to me all of these will remain – Insha’Allah – just stories. I’m hoping not to get ambushed, hit by a flying grenade or an exploding donkey. The locals I have met are warm and friendly, many hands are shaken and pictures taken. The relative sparseness makes it more relaxing than Kabul and I can happily take a walk to wrecks of Russian war machines by the river, talk to locals at the livestock market or visit our driver’s village without constantly glancing over my shoulder.

Our driver's village, just out of Chaghcharan

For lunch we buy delicious fresh naan from town and eat it with jam. This afternoon Marianne will take me to the local human rights office, to discuss reports of widespread looting and raping in a nearby village. This country is beautiful, and so very fucked up.

Damian's travel is thanks to a grant from the Asia NZ Foundation. Not so much this bit, in Afghanistan, but the next bit I'm doing, in Pakistan. But I wouldn't be in Afghanistan if I wasn't going to Pakistan too, you know? So, thanks, Asia NZ.

This girl ran away and cried when I took her picture

This girl (our driver's daughter) didn't