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Journey to Afghanistan - Chapter 2, page 5

Night and Day - by Ken Magee

I was glad to see the sky lightening over the Hindu Kush to the Southeast. It had been an interrupted night, my first one in Afghanistan. Dog fights in the street outside our men's sleeping room had jarred me away several times. Traffic began going by on broken pavement early in the morning, even before the official time for lifting of the night's curfew. Trucks slowed for an especially rough area in the street - then gunned their engines, briefly drowning out the nearly continuous rhythmic clip-clops of passing burros. There were other puzzling sounds new to my ears. In spite of an excellent fleece-lined down sleeping bag placed on two floor mats, long-john underwear and heavy socks, my feet had failed to warm through most of the night. I had also become aware that one or two of my companions were expert snorers. I determined to find my ear plugs and to lay a coat over my feet before another night started.

It was exciting to consider the day ahead, my first day of work in the refugee clinic at Kamer Bandi Balq, "On the Road to Balq." I understood from earlier orientations that it was a smaller camp of only a few thousand refugees with an excellent chief and little likelihood of danger for us.

My woolen Peruvian nightcap was much appreciated as in the dim light I noted locations on the small nearby shelf of the necessities for my dash to the equally frigid squat toilet bathroom. Included were a wash cloth, soap, a small quick-drying towel, shaving cream and safety razor, toothbrush and past with a bottle of safe water to use in washing my face, shaving and brushing my teeth. Grabbing these things and my glasses, pulling on my trousers and slipping into my shower slippers, the cold air and nature propelled me quickly toward the bathroom. And I hate squat toilets. I always have visions of falling in.

Others were beginning to rouse as I returned to the men's sleeping room. They would be close behind me. Having finished my morning ablutions, I added a shot of Rightguard under each arm, put on warmer clothes, and began fumbling at starting the stove. It was a simply made contrivance with a tank holding about a gallon of diesel. An adjustable valve dripped fuel into a line feeding the bottom of a circular burning chamber. This firebox was about ten inches across and sixteen inches high. A small stovepipe, leaking soot into our room, extended to the ceiling. Under this entire contrivance a large metal pan separated the stove from the floor and hopefully added some safety. (I learned soon that the two teams before us had fires outside of the stove on three different occasions. It had become policy never to leave one burning unless someone was in the room.) I started the diesel drip, opened the top of the stove and several matches later a fire flared up from the bowels of the firebox. The air gradually warmed for at least two feet in all directions.

The house in which we were billeted was owned by a General of the Northern Alliance, the same benefactor who had helped us get access to Afghanistan. Our rooms for sleeping and eating were on the top floor of this three story building. Even though it was little heated, had only erratic electricity from a small generator purchased by NW Medical Teams, and no phone lines, it did have intermittent running water and some blue paint on its exterior. It was far superior to most homes in Mazar-i-Sharif. There was a small open air balcony-like passageway on the south side of this floor that connected our seeping room to the kitchen and eating area.

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