December 21st, Karte 3, Kabul, Afghanistan

Lax, I've been with the blogging of late. I've been a bit overwhelmed with the day to day of Kabul to have the energy to write about it. Much less the wherewithal to actually make sense of my experiences in anyway sufficient to convey them. Truthfully, this place exhausts me. Every little thing is an ordeal, it must be planned for and then plan implemented. Also, everything is so foreign to me that it requires serious focus just to navigate the mundane, not to mention the more complicated. Life here requires far more mental and emotional energy than life back home. I suspect this is true of it's full time residents as well, but it is undoubtably true for me. Please don't mistake these comments for complaints. Far from it. I am having a blast and it's been every bit of the learning experience I hoped for. It's just exhausting. Also, I'm waking up at 0630 to 0700 every morning, and those of you who know me best know this is not my usual modus operandi. Yeah, that might have something to do with it too. 

I took a couple of days off last week. One for the national holiday Ashura (a Shia holiday observed by the predominantly Sunni Afghanistan) on Thursday, and one the following day on Friday, which is the Muslim holy day (the usual “weekend” here, is a half day on Thursday and a full day off on Friday, though the clinic is open both days). Last Wed. night I met Aman and his girlfriend Marina for a couple of drinks at a French restaurant named L'Atmosphere, or apparently formerly named, but no one seems to call it by it's new elusive title and therefore I have no idea what it is. Anyway, it's one of the few places in town that serve booze and it has a bar/lounge next to their restaurant. Due to their happy-juice slinging, the place is a frequent haunt for the sizable ex-pat community here. After a couple of beers, the three of us headed to an Italian NGO housing compound where there was music to be played by an assortment of said ex-pats. Let's see, we had an American cello player, a Mexican tabla player, a Aussie guitar player, a French guitar player, and an Afghan harmonium player. The music was purely jam style, and certainly reflected the multicultural nature of the musicians involved. After a bit I worked up the courage to sit in , having been graciously offered the use of the Aussie's guitar. Jamming isn't really my thing, but I gave it a go, and had a blast doing so: fitting in my American country/folk riffs and finger-picking where I could.

What a crazy scene it was. All manner of folks, from all manner of places, blowing off some of the intensely pressured steam created by living and working in such a place. To paraphrase one of the folks I've met here, a Canadian political scientist, “there are a lot of places with significant ex-pat communities, but the one here is so large you're not forced to hang out with the same people, you can actually choose who to spend time with based upon whether you actually like them”. The incredible volume of international aid that has come Afghanistan's way is responsible for this glutton of foreigners, and it seems you have two distinct factions of ex-patriated workers here- those trying to actually do some good, and those just here to slice off a piece of the dough pie for themselves. And apparently, there is a LOT of coin to be made here so you have gaggles of folks doing construction, security, etc... who's primary focus is their own pocketbook and not the actually betterment of Afghanistan. But, as said, of course you have a significant portion of folks here for the “right” reasons as well. Fortunately for me, Aman's friends fall amongst the latter group, and it is these souls whom I mostly am meeting.

So anyway, socializing and music-making fun was had Wednesday night. The next day, after brunch with Aman and Marina, I whiled away the day lounging about nursing a hangover caused by drinking fake Chinese made “Scotch” which tasted a bit like it was made from apples. I really didn't drink very much, but apparently large volumes of it aren't necessary to cause what seemed like an entire college marching band drum line to pound away in my skull.

Friday, Dr. Mojadidi took me sightseeing, starting with the ruins of King Amanullah's palace. I found it an appropriate start to our day, a fitting symbol of just how beautiful and terrible this place is. We then  went to an old mountain top tomb for Afghan royalty overlooking the city. The place was closed off and guarded by a police checkpoint, but apparently hanging with Dr. Mojadidi, Special Envoy and Advisor to the Ministry of Public Health, has it's perks. A swath of tangled barbed wire was pulled aside and in we went for a police guided tour. Next, one of Kabul's main bazaars was on the agenda (this town seems to have no shortage of markets). We wandered through what I can only describe as an explosion of humanity and it's wares. Livestock, clothes, food, barbers, jewelry, knives, books, and on, and on, and on lined the streets and sidewalks. The sensory overload was such that I'm amazed I wasn't assaulted by a Chinese “Scotch” style headache. I picked up a few nicknacks and Dr. Mojadidi graciously bought me a “Karzi robe”. You know the one- the brightly colored full body robe Afghanistan's First Dude is always wearing. Now I just need one of those hats he wears and I could be one of his body doubles! Or not. Dr. Mojadidi seemed to think it was a necessity for me to own one, and though I most definitely could make a strong case against such logic, I graciously accepted and am now the proud owner of a keepsake I will long treasure.

On that note, more specifically on the note of a much more profound gift- shortly after arriving I asked Dr. Mojadidi if he could recommend a good English translation of the Koran. Remembering this during our day at the market, he also bought me a Koran which he said was “the best English translation”. I've already begun reading it with the same mindset I take when picking up the Bible from time to time- basically, just to see what all the fuss is about. I in no way mean to diminish the magnitude of his gift. For a Muslim to buy me a copy of the Koran is a great honor, and one I greatly and humbly appreciate. As I told one of the doctors in the clinic when he asked what religion I belong to, “I respect all religion, that is my religion”. As another of the clinic's doctors once said to me, “Muslim, Christian, Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist... what matters the most is our good humanity to each another.” Bravo good doctor, bravo.

But I digress, my point there was to tell of Dr. Mojaidi's kind gifts, and of his kindness in general. The hospitality I mentioned in prior posts has shown nary a sign of diminishing. Aman swore to me I would gain a minimum of 5 kilos (11 pounds) while here, and it didn't take me long to see why he said so. But, I've been weighing myself daily at the clinic and somehow, despite being fed with a hospitable ferocity just shy of a faux gras goose engorgment, I've yet to gain a pound. Must be all the excitement keeping my metabolism on overdrive. Hmm, do I smell a fad diet enterprise in the works?

In addition to the swarms of fascinating (and some not so fascinating) foreigners I've met, staying with Dr. Mojadidi offers introductions to a wealth of interesting Afghans. In addition to the previously blogged about Professor and member of the Department of Business (who, it turns out, are frequent dinner guests), I've had dinner with the deputy Minister of Health and a poet/philosopher (and former Marxist) Afghan who had ex-patriated to Germany only to return home about 5 years ago. Today I went with Doc Mo to a conference on the genital tuberculosis plague (yeah, I know) primarily affecting Afghan women, and then to the opening ceremonies of a new private hospital. During these events, both media and political circuses by the way, I met the Minister of Health and the Chairman of Parliament. Yeah that's me, hobnobbing with the who's who of Afghanistan. I'm the tall, REALLY white one, with the “what the hell is happening” look in his eyes.

Even though I'm staying in a house quite posh by local standards, and galavanting around to hospital openings and the like, the reality of the third world is always at hand. The power goes off about 3 to 5 times a day, sometimes for hours at a time. Internet access is spotty, at best. The poverty is glaring throughout the city, on it's streets and in the clinic. And, just in case I forget where I am for a moment, there goes a one legged man herding sheep which are feeding on a pile of trash (I would have much less trepidation about my inability to adhere to a vegetarian diet if I was staying out in the country, where the livestock was eating grass).

Last Saturday I went to see an amazing concert at the French Cultural Institute. Two traditional Afghan acts played. One a Pashtun female singer, the other a Tajik male singer. Both were backed by sensational musicians playing a variety of traditional instruments. It was amazing. The evening culminated with the male singer sitting in with the female singer and her band. They didn't speak each other's language (one spoke Dari, the other Pashto), but they made due and it was a spectacular display of cross-cultural (and all the while Afghan) camaraderie, and one that made the Afghans in the audience go wild with excitement. Maybe there is hope for this place.

To report on the clinic. It's been great. I'm starting to settle into a grove of helping with patient care and with teaching my fellow nurses. One thing I'm being tremendously careful with is to not come across like an arrogant American. The clinic workers are well aware that the level of education in the West is superior to what they've had in their Country, but that doesn't mean they don't have their pride. In fact, the educational disparities can have the effect of making some feel threatened, which can lead to being very defensive and closed to what I may be able to contribute. Furthermore, due to their lack of technology they've implemented a much more hands on manner of medical diagnostics and care, which is something I can (and have) learn(ed) from. I think I touched on this in a previous blog, and it definitely seems to be the most effective approach- to recognize the cultural differences and seek ways we can learn from each other. By actively attempting to learn, the ability to teach is augmented and vice versa. Not a real new idea I guess (I do so love to reinvent the wheel), but it's been a process figuring out how to best do this, and thankfully it seems I'm making some progress.

I witnessed, and assisted with, my first circumcision a few days ago. Whoa Nelly. The doctor did a good job, at least from what I could tell it being my first one and all (well, other than one about 39 years ago, which I thankfully have no memory of). But I got to tell you- if ever I have a male child, I am NOT going to put him through that. I'm sorry, there just ain't any reason good enough to subject someone, no matter how young, to genital mutilation. Here, of course, it's a religious issue. And, I will begrudge no parent their choice on this matter, particularly when it's ingrained in their religious and social fabric, but for any boy of mine- NO WAY! Uh-uh, FORGET IT!

My main man Aman has left me for the warm embrace of Paris (or lukewarm embrace as it's reputation might suggest) for about 9 days. So, I'm left to socially fend for myself. But, as I referred to earlier, Aman was great about introducing me to his friends, so I have a few folks with which to network, and network I shall. I'm definitely going to need some social time with people not of the Islamic Republic world. As many beautiful aspects as this place does possess, it is in many ways as crazy as you'd imagine it to be, and one or two nights a week sheltered by more familiar Western sensibilities definitely shall do me some good.

And yes, as posts on other interweb avenues suggested, I've finally procured the use of a guitar. It's a beat up old Indian made knock off that I'm renting from one of my fellow nurses. She ain't pretty, but she'll do the job. Now, got to line me up a gig...

December 14th, Karte 3, Kabul, Afghanistan

I had a short day at the clinic yesterday as Dr. Mojadidi's driver had some personal business to attend to. I therefore skipped out when the good Doctor drove himself home, so as not to make him come back to pick me up. I took advantage of the remaining daylight to take a walk though the neighborhood. I was offered the company of the house guard Asraf. Not for security reasons, but to ensure I wouldn't get lost, and I gratefully accepted. So, the two of us headed out and shuffled down the dusty Kabul streets. We wandered down to a market fairly close to the house. The streets were saturated with color, sound, and smell- booths with music blaring; people everywhere in all manner of drab and brightly dyed garb; kabobs, nan, and meat cooking on and just off the street; chickens, sheep, goats, and donkeys weaving through the crowd of people and cars. And then there was me, wondering just where the hell I was, and I'm sure looking like a black runt in a litter of giant white puppies, despite my best efforts to “blend in”. Though, that said, Afghans are an incredible blend of ethic variety, with all manner of skin tone and bone structure. I even saw a small child yesterday who, with his fair skin and blond hair, could have passed for a son of mine. I don't think it my skin tone, or the red in my beard, that makes me stand out. Aman, who ethnically is as Afghan as they come (and speaks Farsi fluently), says he always is seen as a foreigner. He has ascribed this to his clothes, his glasses, and even the way he walks and holds himself. Point is, if he is taken for a foreigner, I ain't a chance of blending in.

I soon stopped in a small shop with Asraf to grab something to drink. The clerk apparently knew a bit of English and asked where I was from. “New York City”, I said and he replied with a courteous, if unimpressed nod of his head. My companion then said something to him in Farsi, of which the only thing I could make out was “Mojadidi”. The clerk's level of interest then obviously increased and he gave me another nod, this time notably laden with respect.

I suppose this is an appropriate time to give a bit of a history lesson. As the book “Afghanistan: A Short History of Its People and Politics” says in its introduction, “Further center's of influence (in Afghanistan) are a number of Sufi orders, which have for many centuries inspired a form of spiritualism centered around the veneration of murshids, or pirs, (spiritual teachers)... In Afghanistan two of the most prominent Sufi orders are the Qadiriyya and the Naqshbandiyya, the contemporary leaders of which, Sayyid Ahmad Gailani and Sebghatullah Mujadidi, have also been leaders of Afghan resistance groups.” (Mujadidi is just another romanized spelling of Mojadidi) In fact, Sebghatullah was the leader of one of the main mujaheddin groups who fought the Soviets, later the interim President of Afghanistan after the Soviets left, and currently the leader of the upper house of Afghanistan's parliament. Dr. Asad Mojadidi, my host, is his brother. Mojadidi means something to the effect of “one who brings something new”. The family is traced to a man who founded said Sufi order in Bukhara (in modern day Uzbekistan) in the 14^th century, and ever since has been a significant force of religious leadership in the region. So, in a sense, I'm staying with religious royalty. Though I would never say as such in those words to my host, as such a grandiose talk would surely make him uncomfortable, and perhaps I should apologize to any members of the family who reads this for such hyperbole. But, I'm just trying to paint a picture of my experience here, and this reality is DEFINITELY part of said experience.

Last night I had dinner with Dr. Mojadidi, and two friends of his- a retired oncology professor and a man roughly my age who works for the Afghan Department of Business Registration. The group made for excellent conversation, except for when they spoke only in Farsi, at which moments I was left

peacefully with my own thoughts. During dinner it came to my attention that Dr. Mojadidi will be heading to Jalalabad for a couple of days on Thursday. Right after he told me this he said, “I thought about taking you with me, but the road is often narrow, and sometimes the Taliban likes to fire rockets at the cars there.” After I immediately followed that by wishing him safe and speedy travels, he said, “I go because I have to. And I am old, and have lived my life. You are young and precious.” I of course was greatly appreciative of his concern for my safety, but I was possibly even more thrilled to have my nearly 40 year old self described as “young” much less “precious”.

Today at the clinic was chill. I helped the nurses with some of their patient assessments, and spent a great deal of time talking with the staff about both medicine and the differences and similarities between our cultures. I did some teaching regarding EKG interpretation with one of the nurses during a slow spell. The clinic is consistently busy in the AM and slows down significantly after noon. I'm beginning to think what teaching I do will be best applied on a one-on-one, or one-on-two basis during these slow periods.

To report on the further gastronomical adventures of Ward- today, during lunch at the clinic, I was faced with a bit of a pickle. Figuratively speaking that is, as vinegar renders things safe. The clinic has it's own lunch room/kitchen, and today I was served a delicious spiced cabbage dish with nan. Included with the serving was a side plate of tantalizingly and scrumptiously looking hot peppers. One of the bits of advice I've been given is, “don't eat any fresh fruit or vegetables with the skin still on”. Well, these peppers were too small to be effectively peeled, and they looked SO good! I chose to live on the edge, albeit cautiously. I cleaned two peppers with an alcohol hand sanitizer (99.9% of germs, let's hope!), and then rinsed 'em off, before chowing down. I wasn't wrong, they were indeed scrumptious. Here's hoping I don't pay for it later. As one of the doctors said to me after I ate them, “Tawakaltu ala Allah” meaning “Trust in God”. Well, it's in God's hands now.

[Addendum, Dec. 21^st: All's been quiet on the intestinal front. And, I'm now knocking on wood.]

December 12th, 9:30pm, Kabul, Afghanistan

Whooped, I is. Got about 5 hours of restless sleep last night and worked my first full day in the clinic today.  So, this one's gonna be brief...

Was a pretty uneventful day, all things considered. The clinic was busy early and slow later in the day, which I was told was par for the course. Mostly I just observed. At this point I'm trying to acclimate myself and figure out how they do things here. One thing this one day has shown me, they do it a lot different than I'm used to.  I hope beyond hope that these differences will create opportunities for me to learn and to teach. Really, right now I'm just trying to figure out how best I can help.

One item of note: One of the doctors today took a great interest in speaking with me. He was very interested in what my perceptions were of the clinic, and of the American medical system. He struck me as a very intelligent and compassionate man, and I enjoyed our talk tremendously. At one point he began telling me about where he was raised. A small town about 100km South of Kabul (the name escapes my tired mind). Apparently, it's currently an area of tremendous unrest. As he put it, "Every day guns. And helicopters fill the sky".  For some time there was one doctor in the town, but he had recently bailed due to the violence. This doctor's family then called him and asked that he take over the former doc's clinic. Just last week he started a schedule of going down for two days every week.  When I told him that many of my friends and family in America were concerned about me coming to Kabul, and that some had even told me they thought I was crazy, he responded by saying that his people in Kabul tell him he's crazy for going to back to his home town. He confessed he feels when he goes he has a 50/50 chance of coming back to Kabul alive. He talked of his obligation to help, and about his faith and his dedication to do the right thing by his conscience for his fellow man. This hit me like a RPG square in the heart. Humbling it was, simply humbling. I told the clinic secretary how brave I thought this doctor to be. The secretary said, "All Afghans are brave, we have to be". Humbling, simply humbling.

December 11th, AM, Kabul, Afghanistan

The sounds of prayer are echoing through the streets as I sit in my host's home in the Kabul morning. I arrived last night, after a two hour delay in the Delhi airport. During which we just sat there, no plane at the gate and no one around to inform us of what what going on (Welcome to Central Asia!). I finally touched down in Kabul at approximately 7pm local time, and the terminal, except for the security and immigration areas, was shut down. The best part was, there were no signs pointing to a pick up area, so I wandered into the airport parking lot enveloped by the Afghan night, with no cell phone and no way of knowing where the hell Aman was to meet me. Oh great, let's just wander around in the darkness in Kabul and HOPE I bump into the one of the very few people I know in a city of 4 million. I had met a British gentlemen at the Delhi airport who had generously offered his cell to call Aman and let him know the flight was delayed. Fortunately, I saw him in the parking lot, after no small amount of aimless wandering, and again he let me use his phone to call Aman. “Parking lot C”, he told me and after a bit more wandering I finally found his smiling face and warm embrace. Whew.

We went straight to his father's home where a delicious meal and a room full of their relatives and friends awaited. Those of you who know me best, know I have been a pseudo-vegetarian (pescitarian to be exact) for 20 years. I had long suspected that while in Afghanistan I would have to be a bit more liberal with my diet. One- due to availability, and two- because I certainly will not refuse the hospitality of one who opens their doors and offers to feed me, most definitely not here. Little did I know that on my first night I would have bits of lamb (which I tried to pick around) in a rice dish, and brains (which there was no picking around). Yes brains, calf brains to be exact. Might as well dive right in, yes? For those interested, it tasted a bit like a heavily spiced version of what I recall liver to be like, but not as bitter. I only had a small bit. Enough to be appreciative, but not so much to send me into a digestive coma.

Another current guest in Dr. Mojadidi's home, is his niece Sedika, whom I mentioned in a previous post. A fellow NYC resident, Sedika is here working on a documentary about young Afghans studying journalism. This morning over breakfast the topic of Afghan hospitality arose. Think of Southern American hospitality and multiply it by the largest number your imagination can grasp. I remember such generosity from spending time in Afghan homes as a child in Jacksonville, but so far here in Kabul it's been raised like a compulsive gambler going all-in blind. In fact, it's a bit overwhelming. In addition, they have a paid servant here who cooks and cleans for the residents and their guests. I just sit back and am waited on. This is of course something I'm in no way accustomed to, and I haven't the foggiest idea how to respond. It completely throws my equilibrium off. Or, maybe that's just the nearly 6,000 foot altitude. Anyway, point is- the hospitality is tremendous, and as I said a bit overwhelming, but I'm going with the flow, and am tremendously thankful. Tashakor, has come out of my lips with startling frequency, though I still am struggling with the proper pronunciation. As Sedika said to me, “Afghans take great pride in their hospitality. It's the way they connect with one another, and to refuse their hospitality is a great insult”. So accept it I will, and thankfully. Tashakor, Tashakor!!

The benefits of such hospitality have been many in the just 15, or so, hours I've been here. I awoke this morning to a breakfast of nan with cream cheese and jam, and four soft boiled eggs. Yum! Soft boiled eggs are something I haven't had in years, and whenever I do I'm reminded of my Grandmother making them for me as a child. A little slice of home right here in Kabul! Furthermore, the home I'm staying in is the lap of luxury on Kabul's scale. They even have central heat. Aman's girlfriend Marina told me last night it's the only home in Kabul she has seen with such an amenity. This I must admit to being happy about, as the insulation in this home, and all homes in Kabul from what I hear, is non-existent. This whole house is surrounded by windows, and what walls are present (for structural support only from what I can tell) are solid concrete or brick.

So here I sit, in my room,  typing away and awaiting Dr. Mojadidi's return from his duties as consultant to the Afghan Ministry of Health, upon which he is to give me an introduction to his clinic. I think my work there will begin in earnest tomorrow, which I am greatly looking forward to. I'm also looking forward to getting out and seeing a bit of the city. Last night when I came in it was obviously dark, so I only got a bit of a look. As Aman is want to say, “Kabul is Mars”. Well, I did always want to travel to other worlds. Guess I got my chance.

As-Salam Alaikum Ya'll.

December 8th, Paharganj, New Delhi, India

 I'm a little afraid, but MAN was that delicious!! Turns out they have amazing Indian food in India. Who knew? Included in the slew of advice (most of it welcome) I've gotten from folks prior to my current travels was “don't eat the street food”. Well, it turns out the lines between street food and restaurant food aren't always quite clear. Does a place with it's stove on the street, but it's kitchen line and just four dinning tables in a little alcove just off the street count as “street food”. Furthermore, I wandered the streets until I was blinded by hunger without seeing anything that resembled what my American eyes would see as a “proper” sit down restaurant. Should I take comfort in the fact that it was just chick peas and potatoes in a ridiculously delicious curry with the best damn nan I've ever had? Yes, I think I will.

I was hoping to have made it to Kabul today. But alas, due to a clerical error with my Afghan visa, and my failure to read the damn thing thoroughly, I'm in Delhi until Friday. Not a bad consolation prize however- getting to spend a couple of days exploring a piece of a Country I have long held a romantic fascination for. Not that my interest in this land made me blind to it's problems. Stories via movies, books, and friend's recantations have illuminated me to the crushing abject poverty that grips most of this land . Still, there ain't nothing like seeing it up close and personal. “Ghetto” most certainly has a whole new meaning for me as of today. That said, I am also overwhelmed by the beauty of this place- the colors, the smells, the music, the people, the animals. The energy of this place is awe inspiring. My romantic fascination was most certainly far from all for naught.

My most exciting part of my day, just ahead of dancing with the denizens of Delhi Indira Gandhi International Airport, was when I stopped in a liquor store after my culinary adventures to pick up a nightcap, or two. Not twenty seconds after I wandered in did a fight break out. Then suddenly, both of the store attendants leapt over the counter. I assumed they were going to play peacemaker and break up the brawl, but no, not even close. The two booze purveyors proceeded to join in the melee, both assisting one of the combatants in beating the piss out of the other. To the point where the recipient of their wrath lay helplessly on the floor receiving the fists and feet of the other three. After a brief moment of utter bewilderment it dawned on me that the whipping boy must have been caught stealing. Though I didn't get the full story, my suspicions were somewhat confirmed when one of the patrons, I assume sensing my confusion, said to me with raised eyebrows and a nodding head, “that man was a fraud”. This enlightenment came just after the villain was pushed down approximately 10 cement steps to the street, where he somehow managed to lift himself up and stumble away. A bit drunk already on all the excitement, I began an attempt to procure myself a couple of beers. This however proved to be a task beyond my means. If anything, the fervor of the environment only increased after the slug fest, as

swarms of thirsty Delhians pushed and shoved their way around, and through, me towards the counter. After about ten minutes of being unable to conquer my Southern American style manners, I gave up and made my way back to the hotel where a concierge (of sorts) hooked a brother up with two 650ml (that's just shy of 22 oz for my fellow Yanks) Kingfishers, and a large bottle of water. “Don't drink the water” is advice I plan on adhering to with a fundamentalists zeal. But wait, what about coffee?

My only regret at present is my current state of jet-lag. I'm flat out whooped. It's 7:30pm here and I've nothing left in me. I suppose I could wander around a bit more, but being a stranger in a strange third world land does not sound as appealing to me when both mind and body are sloppy from exhaustion. So, I'm in my room for the night- just me, my computer, two Kingfishers, and cricket on the tube.

Wait a minute! As I'm typing this a ruckus of drums and horns sounding like a Bollywood marching band has come careening into my hotel room from the street. And wait, what is this? Fireworks? Oh, I gotta go check this out. Is it a holiday here, or is this just your average Wednesday night in Paharganj? Later ya'll...

December 7th, Somewhere high above Europe and/or Asia.

How did I get here? Well, it all started on a cold April day in 1971. 6 inches of snow covered the Northern Maine soil. It was opening day of baseball season. The Tigers won. What? OK, that's starting at the VERY beginning of how I got here. Perhaps a more abridged version is in order. So let's try this:

How 'bout we start in 1999? There I was awash with the ever increasing realization that the folk music might not ever pay the bills. I was 28 years old and painfully aware that I didn't still want to be waiting tables and/or bartending when I was 40. So a search was mounted for a more suitable back up plan, just in case my quest for country music stardom somehow didn't work out (though that still remains to be seen!) My, ain't it funny where back up plans can take you?

After a few years of the afore mentioned search I stumbled upon nursing. Sort of a long story,  the details there of, but suffice to say: an ex old lady of mine suggested I become a phlebotomist (one licensed to draw blood) so she could write me into her grants to study epidemiology. This got the ol' wheels turning and sent me down a path leading to a nursing school in Upstate New York (TC3! holler ya'll!). Nursing made a whole lot of sense to me on a whole lot of levels, including but not limited to: it's a good middle class job in high demand, is intellectually stimulating (in spite of all it's stress), can be immensely emotionally rewarding (again, in spite of all it's stress), and it provides a service needed the world over.

I have always been of the sort who wants to see as much of this World as I can while I pitter away upon it. Truthfully, though I've certainly seen my share, I always thought that by this age (39, and counting) I'd have seen much more of it than I have. From the start, it wasn't lost on me that a nursing career could provide opportunities to travel abroad, and to places where large numbers of folks are in serious need of medical services, i.e. I could see some more of this pebble while just maybe actually doing a bit of good. 

Why Afghanistan? I'm guessing this question is tickling the corners of some of ya'll's mind, yes? Well, first of all, there aren't many places 'round these parts of the Universe in greater need of medical assistance. Second, I've long had a once-removed relationship with that land. Many a year ago, more or less around the time my little head popped out of my dear mother, two brothers from Afghanistan moved to Jacksonville, FL, the land of my formation. I had the fortune of being raised in the company of said brothers' children, and am proud to say I maintain at least some level of friendship with all seven of them today. Both patriarchs are physicians (As was one of their wives, who sadly is no longer with us. May peace be with her), and both have long been doing work providing care to their native countrymen. For many years they worked with Afghan refugees in other countries who had been displaced by the devastation of war. Since the current Afghan government has been in power, they have been back in their homeland continuing their work. One brother, Asad Mojadidi, has been running an urgent and primary care clinic in Kabul. This is where I will be volunteering for the next 6 weeks. The other brother, Quadrat Mojadidi, is an OB/Gyn. His daughter, Sedika Mojadidi, made a tremendous documentary film about returning to Afghanistan with her father, and the work he's been doing there, entitled “Motherland Afghanistan”. I HIGHLY recommend seeing it (you can do so via Netflix). It's a powerful and well told tale of a land's native sons and daughters returning, and of the desperate need for improved medical care in Afghanistan.

Another of the afore mentioned physicians' children is my dear friend Aman. He is living in Kabul, and has been for several years now doing a variety of development work (He is also an immensely talented artist working in a variety of mediums, and you should do yourself a favor by checking him out at wearyourrespirator.com). His will be the face meeting me at the Kabul airport. Not only will it be great to see my friend, but there also is likely no way to overstate how much of a help it will be on this journey to have someone close to me who knows the lay of the land.

In summary, adventurous lad + nurse + close childhood friends = me going to Afghanistan. And so, I find myself here, at approximately 35,000 feet zooming towards Delhi en route to Kabul. Hopefully I'm going to be able to help some folks while there. That is indeed my sincerest hope. If only one thing is for certain: this is going to be an adventure, and a learning and growing experience I will never forget. My world is about to simultaneously get both a whole lot smaller and a whole lot bigger. Here we go...