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Journey to Afghanistan - Chapter 2, page 8

Night and Day - by Ken Magee

Leaving the breakfast room to pick up what was needed for the day, I made sure the "barn door" was well closed. As I passed along the open porch area, three white doves on a nearby rooftop cooed and strutted. After collecting some medical gear, then putting on my wool-lined boots, I descended a cement staircase to the courtyard area with its high walls. There it was a privilege to greet all of those who would help us so very much: the doctors, our guards, translators and drivers. They seemed a pleasant group of workers. Contrary to most Afghan men, these were mostly clean-shaven or had only a small mustache. I wondered what tragic memories might be hiding behind their warm greetings. The physicians all spoke some English and I knew I'd learn much from them. It became apparent that it was proper to call each doctor by his or her first name: Dr. Bill, Dr. Nadia, Dr. Abdullah, etc. Greetings were exchanged in Dari, the common local language, and English along with the ritual hand movements and shakes.

Our van proceeded out of large steel gates past Islamadin, a tall regal appearing Afghan gentleman who served as our most capable commander of the guards. Under a small billed cap he had a slight smile and returned my wave. Although the guards were not supposed to be armed I wondered about the bulge under his thick coat near his right arm. The gates closed behind as we entered the world of broken pavement and varied vehicles, animals and pedestrians. Traffic flowed in a seemingly totally chaotic fashion. About 500 meters to the west we entered a very busy intersection. A policeman stood in the middle of that intersection with his baton in one hand waving vigorously this way and that. It was not apparent to my inexperienced eye that anyone was paying attention to his waves or his whistles. Our driver found an opening, or someone he could bluff, and quickly dodged behind the traffic officer onto the strand of pavement going southward. The lines of traffic going in the same direction varied from two to four vehicles wide. There were no street or lane markings of any type. A parallel lane on the other side of the garbage strewn median seemed to be proceeding northward in an equally disorganized manner; every man, boy, horse or donkey for himself.

Lining this moving mass were carts with various wares, such as aged pots or pans, interspersed with areas of ground, displaying ancient car parts on a sheet of plastic. Only about two-hundred meters down this muddy boulevard we suddenly turned into a narrow congested lane between two small buildings and stopped. Two soldiers clad in turbans, military jackets, baggy Afghan trousers, and mud covered rubbers peered into our van's windows from both sides. Our driver talked rapidly to these serious, rifle bearing guards and we were waved on. Beneath cold and overcast skies we entered the driveway to the Civilian or Public Health Hospital of Mazar-i-Sharif.

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