broonpooper

Coming Home

2008-07-24T05:30:00.000-07:00

Well, this will be the last Broonpooper for some time. I'm leaving for Toronto in the wee hours--and not a moment too soon. It's been as inspiring as it has been infuriating, at once awesome and awful. The joys of new foods, new cultures, new beards... and the terror of senseless violence, the stress of constant fear and suspicion, not to mention the hardships of travel. But of course it's hardship entre guillemets... none of my occasional inconveniences or discomforts could compare to the challenges faced daily by 99% of the people whose lives briefly intersected mine. As always I'm so grateful, not only for the conveniences of home, but also for the idea of home... the very concept of Canada as a multiethnic, multiracial and religiously tolerant society where no-one will be whipped because she laughed in the street or shot because he shaved. Hopefully the TV and radio stories I'll be telling over the next several months won't just fill airtime, but will inspire others to work for change.

Here are some selected pictures from my last week in Pakistan.

Wrapped!

2008-07-23T05:16:00.000-07:00

I believe I'm officially wrapped. Finished shooting a bangle factory in Hyderabad (horrible conditions for the men who have to work in sweltering heat with no safety equipment) and some women who are getting some Canadian help to become franchisees rather than employees.

Funny how many people haven't heard of Canada. When I say I'm from Canada, they say "America?" But they've all heard of CIDA.

The best thing about Pakistan: fresh mango juice. Our mango juice bears as much resemblance to the fresh stuff as fresh squeezed orange juice does to Tang.

The worst thing about Pakistan: towels that smell of chicken Jalfrezi.

Ghotki

2008-07-22T03:32:00.000-07:00

Finally, a transportation strike that worked in my favour! Thanks to the strike, the streets of Karachi were deserted as we headed through the city and out of town towards Ghotki to shoot the seed story. It was supposed to take 6-7 hours but even with no traffic it took 8. Thankfully the roads in Pakistan are excellent so the trip wasn't as bone-jarring as my previous excursions. But with my bad back, 8 hours in a car is 8 hours in a car.

Ghotki is a town in northern Sindh. I don't know if it's as hot as Multhan, but it's close. One thing I do like is getting out of the cities... just like Ghana is a great place outside of Accra, Pakistan is wonderful outside of the big cities. The villagers are warm, curious, friendly and hospitable (perhaps because, as many of them said, I looked like I was

a representative of the Taliban). I finished my shoot in 3 hours and was expecting to stay the night in Ghotki as planned, then drive to Hyderabad the next day. However Wahid my facilitator insisted we drive all the way back to Hyderabad that night... another 5 hours! I protested and his reasons didn't make any sense, but I gave in as I was in their hands. Turns out he has a flat in Hyderabad and wanted to stay there but of course he didn't say so.

On the way back we got out at a truck stop near Hyderabad. We had some delicious daal (the only street food I dare eat) and naan--everyone sits on what looks a little like a trampoline and eats together with their hands. The only people who washed their hands were the people I wasn't eating with. An old man came up to me and offered me a massage. Who could say no? So the gnomelike old man massaged my sore neck and back with his gnarled yet surprisingly strong hands. It was great until he got out the oil, gave my head a thorough buffing, then stuck his fingers into my ears and "massaged" my Eustachian tubes. After he was done, he hopped off the seat and washed our car.

Karachi. Not so bad.

2008-07-21T11:04:00.000-07:00

It's always somewhat strange when you're sitting on a plane and someone pulls out a prayer rug and starts praying in the aisle next to you. But my stomach was feeling better and I had the exit row so nothing could disturb me. Except I left my hard drive on the plane with all of my footage on it. I still have the tapes but I was going to get a lot of work done on the plane how and now I have nothing. Plus my only entertainment--almost a year of downloaded shows and movies--was on it. Argh.

I had been warned about the heat and traffic of Karachi, but neither were as bad as predicted (though I still haven't been through rush hour). It's noisy and dirty but there are at least attempts to beautify, and the traffic, despite a lack of any rules, seems to solve itself through natural attrition and survival of the fittest.

Filmed the rest of the market vendors--for some reason nothing that was supposed to be set up was actually done, and we had to wander around trying to find people to film. It all worked out in the end, and I continued on to my seed story. We were supposed to leave for Ghotki by train, arriving at 1am, but again when I arrived at the office I was greeted and then asked what I was doing there. This by the man who had been "setting up" my story for weeks. Now we will drive there tomorrow morning, spend the night, then travel to Hyderabad and back to Karachi.

I called PIA, changed my ticket, went to the airport to confirm it, and it seems as though I'll be coming back 10 days early. Huzzah! It's been an awesome experience but I'm burned out and ready to come home.

Sick in Multan

2008-07-19T23:11:00.001-07:00

Due to travel and lack of internet I haven't been able to post... was in Islamabad for a day, then yesterday arrived in Multan in the dead centre of the country. About 4m people, hot as hell (48 degrees, though drier than Islamabad). Apparently there are nice mosques and things to see, but I'm sick as a dog.

I barely survived the flight, got off the airplane and immediately had to start shooting. I was shooting some women who had started their own clothing shops, and unfortunately the overhead fans made too much noise so I had to shut them all off. We broiled in the tight confines, and I nearly passed out. Staggered back to the hotel, sick and shivering. Had to turn on the head even though it's +40. Fell asleep in the hot bath, struggled to bed and passed out.

Islamabad

2008-07-18T05:11:00.000-07:00

Am here shooting the Mennonites Part II. Am staying at the Chancery, a very nice and surprisingly cheap ($50/night) guesthouse, the nicest place I've stayed so far. A far cry from Kabul. The Mennonites were kind enough to take me out to dinner... am not feeling well and the half-hour twisting, turning route up the mountain in the back of their truck didn't do my stomach any wonders. The view from the restaurant was spectacular, but we're just entering monsoon season and a storm blew in so we ate inside. The meal was delicious... the best part was the "fresh-squeezed" mango juice.

Best of Week 2

2008-07-16T23:04:00.000-07:00

Wrapped

2008-07-15T10:31:00.000-07:00

Finished up the odds and ends of my shoots, including my standups which I haven't had the courage to view as I don't want to see anything wrong and have to reshoot them. It was a challenge doing them in the market as Afghans will crowd close and stare at you or into the camera. It's endearing but visually questionable from a TV standpoint. And it's hard to nail your take knowing that at any minute some local Talib could be calling in a hostage-taking. They do love to nap Westerners lollygagging at bazaars.

Naheed's "mosquito bites" have taken a turn for the bubonic. I told you to see a doctor! OK I haven't given you my post address yet but I will.

I went to Mokhtar my driver/fixer/translator's house for tea. It's in one of the Hazara areas... it's huge and beautiful which was a bit of a surprise. We ate watermelon alone as his family was off preparing for a wedding. I wish I could afford to pay him more. It's already costing me twice as much as I budgeted for as I monopolized his services which I was supposed to be splitting with Naheed, but 5 stories in less than 2 weeks was always going to be ambitious. But I seem to have pulled it off. Maybe I should say that once I get the tapes back to Canada.

We talked about traveling and I told him how much you learn and how many of your habits change because of your experiences in other countries ie. I don't waste water anymore after 9 months of privation in Sierra Leone. He asked me an interesting question: how would I change after Afghanistan. I think of course I will appreciate all of the freedoms we enjoy in Canada, but I appreciated the Afghan lack of overt sexuality from 6-year-olds wearing lowriders and singing along to Akon's "I wanna @uck you" complete with hip thrusts. It's nice to have the freedom to express oneself, but there's something to be said for modesty, male and female.

I missed dinner and now face the unhappy prospect of trying to fall asleep hungry. All I had today was mellon. Lots of it, granted, but it does tend to evaporate in your stomach. I'm eyeing my notebooks hungrily.

Shooting Women

2008-07-14T10:08:00.000-07:00

I had a shoot in a rural village north of Kabul. The area is mostly Tajik, with a small population of Pashtuns who fled the Taliban in Kandahar. I was there to film some women farming and interview them about their experiences, but when they agreed to the shoot they thought I was a women. Boy were they surprised. Unfortunately the local chief said it wouldn't be fitting to talk to the women, so I had to go to another village, sneak in my camera, and interview two women in their house without anyone knowing. One wore her burqa, the other uncovered her face.

They told stories of how the Taliban came, killed their family members and set fire to their house and crops. Thanks to an NGO, they learned how to farm and sell their produce. It's small... perhaps $100 a year selling cucumbers, but the pride the women felt at having their own business was palpable. As happy as I felt for their new 'wealth' and status, it was a revelation seeing exactly how controlled every aspect of their lives was. Most of the women would rarely leave their home or compound, and many never left their village.

On my way out of the village I photographed two cute boys and hoped that by the time they grew into men, they wouldn't perpetrate the system that had so oppressed their mothers. But somehow I doubt it.

We had a very late lunch by the river in makeshift tents on poles. We sat on rugs and cushions and they brought us fresh fish and roasted kebab meat with naan. I gorged myself and tried not to feel the clichéd guilt for enjoying such opulent luxury ten minutes removed from the rural poverty I had just witnessed. I washed down my angst with the local Coke knock off Kabul Cola and had more naan.

Shi'a versus Sunni

2008-07-13T09:45:00.000-07:00

I decided to do a religion story about the rapprochement between the Shi'a and Sunni in Afghanistan. Historically the Shi'a minority was oppressed... or there was absolutely no problem and they worshipped together in peace, depending on whom you talk to. There's no disagreement however that during the Taliban times the Shi'a were persecuted by the Sunni Taliban. Now it seems as though they are playing nice again, though it's still very hard to find a Sunni who will marry a Shi'a and vice versa.

Later I went to visit a Shi'a shrine which had to be closed down during the Taliban invasion. Now Shi'a and Sunni visit together. The shrine's caretaker was a little suspicious and cold at first, but once I asked him about the symbolism of the shrine and how it was bringing both sects together, he warmed to the subject and to me. He invited us to sit and take peach drinks with him, which we did with somewhat absurd formality while the late afternoon Kabul winds whipped dust into our eyes and drinks.

It was refreshing to be as welcomed into the mosques as I was. In Canada you need to seek permission from the Imam, the mosque board, submitted a week in advance and signed in triplicate. Here, Sunni and Shi'a have invited me in during prayer time with no notice and allowed me to shoot from positions I'd never be allowed to do back home. I guess it's easier for those in an overwhelmingly Muslim country to feel secure. But I wish we could all be as welcoming to those of different faiths as the people were in the mosques I've visited. I think if everyone came just once to worship or at least observe the ceremony of another religion, sect or branch, the world would be a better place.

Etc.

Graveyard next to Shi'a shrine

Disaster in Bamian

2008-07-12T08:49:00.000-07:00

Well, I should have been writing this post from Bamian instead of my hotel room in Kabul. I was meant to be in Bamian province, the home of the Hazaras. It's an 11-hour drive through some hostile territory--there have been recent reports of banditry along the poor roads there. Mokhtar, his brother and I piled into his car--disguised as a taxi--and I dressed in local clothes to avoid unwanted attention in the Pashtun areas between Kabul and Hazarajat.

The roads weren't as bad as those in Sierra Leone but they were damn close. I had to lie down for a couple of hours so no-one would see me, and my back was destroyed by the bumps and the position. The scenery, however, was beautiful when I could eventually sit upright. The land changed from dry to green... the road followed a verdant valley with fast-flowing mountain streams and relatively lush farmland bordered by stark mountains.

We stopped along the route to take pictures and talk to the locals about their stories. Many had family members killed by the Taliban. Others had been forced at gunpoint to join.

About 8 or 9 hours later, we had to stop. A group of men had blockaded the road with large stones. We got out to investigate. It was a local disturbance--the Hazara were upset at placement of the government outpost in the area. It sounds like a small issue but apparently it was the proverbial straw... they felt the Hazara had been ignored by the government during the last couple of years and this was their way to express their frustration. Never mind that the only people that they were hurting were mostly their own--the government types almost never went to Hazarajat, and if they did, it was always by plane.

We spoke to their elders at length and made a point of elaborately noting their frustrations and promising to tell the world about their plight in the hopes that they might let us pass. In the end, they agreed that they would, but that it would still be impossible to get to Bamian because they had dug up the road further on and it would take hours to repair. The only alternative was a dangerous 6-hour drive on a broken mountain road which Mokhtar's father advised us not to take, so we had no choice but to turn around, 2 hours away from my destination.

Along the route I had got all the interviews, visuals and tape needed for my story, but I had hoped to see the sights in Bamian which were historic and beautiful, including the enormous and now empty hole in the cliff where the famous Buddhas had been carved into the rock before the Taliban blew them up.

It was the most frustrating 9-hour ride back to Kabul, second only to the drive through Bunubu (Danny you know what I'm talking about!) as worst drive ever. I tried to play some African music for Mokhtar and his brother using my mp3 player on their radio, but gave up after half an hour because they didn't like it, so we spent 9 hours listening to two tapes: one Afghan singer and one old Bollywood music soundtrack from the 70s. If it wasn't Hell it was close. But I do have to be thankful--I got decent tape, saw beautiful landscape and met interesting people which I wouldn't have done had I flown, and of course, most importantly, we arrived home safe.

But still... @#%!@#%!!!!!!!!!

Day off

2008-07-11T08:46:00.000-07:00

Not much to tell... joined the Muslim world in a holiday today. Well, not a holiday exactly for me... I spent most of the day going through each tape shot by shot and transcribing each interview. It's the worst part of the job. Every time I travel I promise myself that each night I will go over that night's footage so I'm not faced with 10 tapes. The same promise I used to make about the televised lectures at Carleton. But same result... day before exam with a pile of 15 hours to watch. Here at least I have an excuse--after a trying day in the sun, dust, and dangerous streets of Kabul (more due to the insane driving than the terrorists), the last thing you want to do when you come home is more work.

There is a half-decent gym in the hotel. One day I will try it out.

One day.

The best of week 1

2008-07-10T11:07:00.000-07:00

I can't believe it's only been a week! I feel as though I've been here at least a month. Could be the 12-hour days, or possibly the constant threat of death. No wonder the people here for the most part look about 15 years older than their age.

Here are some of my nicer shots from the first week. I've noticed that a) they're almost all faces -- that's because the landscape in Kabul really isn't that interesting and because of the smog and dust, doesn't really have any nice colours. And b) they're all men. The reason is obvious--while the men will stop you in the street to get their picture taken, the women tend to hide and don't want to be photographed. The Hazara women are more photo-friendly and I hope to get some nice shots from my upcoming trip to Bamian, home of the downtrodden Hazara.

Wrapping some stories finally

2008-07-09T11:50:00.000-07:00

Got some stories done... Afghan Film, Female Journalists and Bloggers are in the can. Only Hazara and possibly Aid Effectiveness left. Good feeling to get some things done at last.

We went to visit a Hazara family of carpet weavers. They were kind to let us into their compound... it reminded me of the walled courtyard-style homes in China. The whole family spends their days engaged in the repetitive task of weaving carpets... the little children included.

I interviewed an interesting professor who wrote a book about the plight of the Hazaras... he's of that ethnic group himself. Unfortunately I ran out of tape two minutes into the interview and had to pretend to film the rest. What a shame! I hope I have enough...

I had to wait for a ride and befriended a security guard (well he befriended me). He didn't speak a word of English so we "chatted" for an hour using hand signals. Like many Afghans I came across, he insisted I take his picture. His "come hither" look was an interesting choice.

Back to "normal"

2008-07-08T12:22:00.000-07:00

The rumours of a second bomber didn't materialize, though one of our sources called us and said he heard an explosion. False alarm. I don't blame him. Closing doors sound like bombs. Dogs bark gunfire.

I visited the actual bomb site which I hadn't seen the day before. Everyone was busy sweeping up glass. Amazingly the shops next door were open, even without doors or windows. I was actually able to make photocopies at the business centre next to the bombing. All the Afghans who walked by the site clucked their tongues in sadness.

Shooting-wise, I had my long-overdue first crap day. No shoot worked out, a surprise cameo by the director of the Golden Globe award-winning director of Osama showed up to the film festival I was covering for the Afghan film piece and refused an interview. The top Afghan actress refused an interview. The lynchpin of my female journalist piece told us to go to her house 40 minutes away, then turned off her phone and never showed.

Did a phoner with Canada AM. As usual I discussed what I was going to say for 10 minutes with the producer, and then the anchor (ah Marci) didn't ask me any of the questions. Murde! I think next time
I'm going to just launch into my spiel, say everything I want to say in one fell swoop no matter what the question is, and then if they ask any stupid questions afterwards I'll hang up. :)

Visited a metalworks yard. I love how Afghans (men at least) will jump out of windows to get their photographs taken. It's so refreshing, and they love it when you show them the shot. Long live digital.

The highlight of my day was lunch... finally had lunch! And it wasn't in the hotel--Mokhtar took me to Amin restaurant where we got a plate of yoghurt, some unrecognizable milk dish, a plate of crudités, a bowl of soup, a heaping plate of rice, and a huge hock of beef. For $6. I asked what happened to all the extra food and apparently it's swept off the plate, into a cauldron and doled out to the poor. Mokhtar was a dear... when he saw that I was concerned about the waste he went outside and fetched one of the car-washing street boys and gave him my leftovers.

The Bomb

2008-07-07T11:25:00.000-07:00

I headed out early to do a story about women reports in Afghanistan. Got to the newsroom for the regular morning story meeting where they discussed the news of the day and the plans for their coverage. All of a sudden there was a huge stir... a bomb had gone off, many dead we heard. So the female journalist Mahbooba, two of her colleagues, Mokhtar and I lept into a van and drove at top speed to the site. It was cordoned off by soldiers... ambulances and military trucks were screaming around us (I nearly got hit by an ambulance--the irony!) so we headed to the nearest hospital.

It was a crazy scene. People running around with blood all over them, people screaming... I started filming the scene, hoping the soldiers wouldn't stop me. They occasionally pushed us back but my biggest foe was a woman who, eyes blazing, went around hitting all of the reporters. Fists, kicks, she hit my camera, popping off a piece of it, and picked up a huge rock to throw at me. None of the soldiers or police would lift a finger to stop her assault on the press. I asked Shaharazzad to ask her what was going on and it seems she lost two children in the attack.

With Mahbooba's help, we got into the hospital. Gruesome scenes with bloody victims in shock, and the worst was to come. The nurses took us into a makeshift morgue and to my horror, peeled back the sheet covering the bodies, exposing the blown up victims. One was a student... they fished his bloody timetable out of his pocket. Some of the victims were just in pieces. It looked surreal, like a horror movie with special effects. Gray cadavers with holes in their faces and leaves for eyes. I'm not sure why the nurses felt they had to show us these horrors--perhaps in the hopes that we would show the world. I don't know who showed less reverence for the dead--them for uncovering the bodies, or me for shooting them.

I wasn't really affected by the human remains, having seen bodies before (none as gruesome as these except perhaps the remains of the Swissair victims in the waters of Nova Scotia). The most emotional moment for me was talking to one of the men whose father had been hurt or killed. He was beside himself with grief and rage--he shook with the anger of impotence--he was a fighter, his nation was a nation of fighters, yet these cowards refused to come out and fight like men, instead they preyed on the innocent. His anger was the anger of a country held hostage by fanatics... I held out my mic and cried with him as I recorded his rage.

We were able to weave our way closer to the scene but they stopped us about 40 meters away. Every so often they brought out cars that had been blown apart by the explosion. A Ministry of the Interior spokesperson told us that a suicide bomber had tried to follow a convoy into the Indian Embassy. When security guards stopped him, he blew the charge, killing almost 50 people--almost all civilians--and injuring almost 150. I shot what I could, did a standup, and called CBC radio to tell them about the story. It was still early morning in Canada. They said they'd be interested in a piece, so I headed back to the hotel to put my story together.

A couple of hours later the piece was on the radio. But instead of congratulating me, the @#$er producer at CBC complained that it had taken too long to get the piece on the air. Never mind that I was reporting for TV and radio in the middle of a crisis, that I had mixed a long sound-heavy piece by myself and had to send the piece to them over a slow-speed internet connection. The problem with many producers is that they've never been in the field themselves.

CTV called (tracked my email down from CJOH) and said they wanted a piece. I tried to send them the piece over the internet, but it said it would take 14 hours to upload! So CTV arranged a feed with a Turkish outfit operating near the embassies. I was a little afraid because everyone had been told to stay inside as there were reports of a second bomber roaming the streets disguised as a policeman. But I had 40 minutes to get over there and make the satellite window. I got there in the nick of time, and luckily the Turks were awesome... I've had more problems feeding from NBC in the States! The piece fed and CTV said they loved it (always happy to hear it from the assignment editors, but for some reason it means even more when the technical staff like the guys in the feed room give you a compliment). If you want to see it:

http://watch.ctv.ca/news/ctv-national-news/ctv-national-news-july-7/

I shared tea with the Turks, returned home and had a minute to think about what had happened.

I was sad, not just at the loss of life but that humans would feel compelled to inflict such misery on their fellow citizens, especially for no real purpose. I understand insurgents planting mines for soldiers, or strapping bombs to themselves and blowing up foreign invaders. But to drive a car filled with explosives into a crowded business district, knowing that most of the people killed would be your own people and not soldiers but ordinary Afghans making photocopies and applying for visas. When I got back to the hotel, a large group of white NGOers were having a party in the courtyard. They were laughing and singing songs. I went to bed with the sound of their laughter ringing in my ears.

Nothing New

2008-07-06T11:15:00.000-07:00

Did more interviews... got some good tape. My biggest fear is that my tapes get erased or seized! I wish I could digitize my footage in full resolution to have a digital back-up, but at 11 gigs per tape I don't have enough space.

The film festival I've decided to cover.

Pakistan is hotter, but I've never been thirstier. I just can't drink enough water. Maybe that's why I'm not really eating... our meals at the hotel are buffet-style and I've never gone back for seconds. Not because the food isn't good (well it's mediocre but that never stopped me in Cuba), but because I'm just not hungry. And I eat at 7 and don't ever get hungry late at night. Even in Sierra Leone I'd be starving by midnight. Very odd.

"Do not mess with the Afghan police"

2008-07-05T22:46:00.000-07:00

What a day. It started innocently enough: interviewed some interesting people learned more about the plight of the Hazara people for my story, and had a strange interview with the Human Rights Commission representative who denied that the Hazara suffered any discrimination whatsoever, despite what everyone said. With friends like that... I wonder what tribe he was from.

In the afternoon we went up the mountain to visit a small community for Naheed's story on everyday life in Afghanistan. The husband had four wives and they wouldn't let Mokhtar or me into the house because their husband wasn't home.

Naheed tried to interview the kids, who were absolutely adorable. One of the girls shyly sang an Indian song. India is the Nigeria of this region... all the movies and music

people listen to comes from India.

While Naheed waited for the husband to return (he never did), I struck out on my own. It was only 400 meters from the car at the bottom of the steep mountain path to the car, so I figured I'd make my way back and wait at the car. Big mistake. As I was shooting, an older man with a Palestinian scarf accosted me and demanded to know what I was doing and gestured at me to stop shooting. He didn't speak English and my Pashtu is rusty so I politely acknowledged him, smiled, shook his hand, and kept going down the hill. Then I saw him pull out a phone and call someone. I figured he was calling the local elder--common enough to have to explain the presence of a stranger with a camera to the community--happens all the time in Africa. So I calmly made my way down to the car and waited for Naheed and Mokhtar.

A couple of minutes later, a truck sped towards me and pulled up in a cloud of dust. Three men jumped out of the car, one of them holding a gun. Now I was nervous. Clearly this wasn't the village elder, but either bandits intent on robbing me or taking me hostage, or some form of village security or secret police. They weren't wearing uniforms. The man in charge walked up to me and demanded my cameras. I tried to stall and asked for an explanation but they didn't speak English and had a gun, so I relented, while with my other hand dialed Mokhtar and told him to get his ass over here as I was either being robbed or arrested. In the meantime, another man went into my bag and grabbed my still camera and put both cameras in the car. They didn't drive off, which was a good sign, and demanded to see my passport, which was another excellent sign. Unless they wanted to simply calculate my worth as a hostage based on my nationality. I tried to take a picture of them with my cellphone but had to disguise my actions as I didn't want them seizing that too!

Mokhtar and Naheed arrived, and demanded to know what was going on. The commander said they were the secret police and had orders to break my camera because I was a spy. My passport wasn't good enough and I had no official journalist ID, though that seemed like a pretext. He demanded to see the footage, which I happily showed them... villagers walking up the trail herding sheep or leading donkeys, but that didn't seem to mollify him.I asked him if I could at least go with them to the police station to explain, but they said they were going to a top-secret facility and we weren't to know where it was. Naheed spoke to the commander in Urdu and pleaded my case, but they drove off with my cameras, promising to return them in an hour, and peeled off at top speed. After telling me in Pashtu "Do not mess with the Afghan police!"

We didn't know what to do... Mokhtar called his police contacts trying to find out if they were legit, while we tried to follow their car. What ensued was a high-speed chase through downtown Kabul. At one point they screeched to a stop and demanded we pull over. I thought they were going to arrest us for following them, but they just wanted to know how to operate my camera. That was a bad sign.... I thought they wanted to learn how to use it for their own purposes, as I had already showed them everything on it. Then they peeled off again and we lost them in the traffic. To my utter astonishment, half an hour later they called to say they were waiting for me at the hotel with my camera.

The commander--a member of the Afghan secret police--was all smiles and said he was sorry but he was just following orders. Apparently Taliban had been spotted on the mountain and there were rumours that they were either going to launch an RPG attack on the city, or load a car with explosives and run it down the mountain into the city. But obviously I wasn't Taliban, so what reason could he have for taking my gear other than to either make off with it or prove how powerful he was. He handed me back my cameras, insisting I check them to make sure they were working. He followed us into the hotel, sat down, had a Coke, told me not to be mad, gave Mokhtar his number and told him to call if he needed anything.

All's well that ends well but damn. A reminder not to go anywhere by myself, and as soon as someone makes noises and pulls out a cell phone, get the hell out of there.

Fighting eggs and body armor

2008-07-04T12:02:00.000-07:00

Spent most of the night and early morning working on my stories. Because I don’t have a shower in my room I had to trek across the compound to wash… and at 4:30am there was no light, which was fun. I'm glad there aren't any scorpions in Afghanistan. Right? I had to wake up at 8 because breakfast ended at 8:30... or so I thought. Apparently on Friday (Muslim day off) it's 10:30. Merde! After 3 hours of sleep I was not happy.

Had breakfast with a trio of Americans who had an odd job—two of them owned their own private sector sociology research companies. They’ve been hired by the US Army to collect data on the locals. Judging by the results, either the research has been crap or the army hasn’t bothered to look at it. There are always interesting oddballs in these international NGO hotels... here's Naheed but behind her is a Japanese guy hesitantly singing and learning to play Simon and Garfunkel.

Our fixer Mokhtar took us to the market and bazaar. Thousands of people buying and selling. Lots of carrots and raw animals. The people were surprisingly friendly to me and didn’t mind being filmed—some even clamored for it. But for some reason Naheed was targeted for abuse, despite her looking almost like an Afghan and her wearing a head covering. One threw water at her and drenched her new camera, another grabbed her privates, and the women at the mosque we visited angrily denounced her presence there. I’m not sure why there was all this hostility—was it because she was a foreign infidel woman with loose morals? A woman with a fancy camera? A Pakistani (Afghans don’t really like them for historical reasons)?

At the mosque we met a Hazara man for my story. He was begging with his four young sons and wife. When we talked to him he started crying because he’d been beaten by his Pashtun employer. He’ll be in my story but it was a sad demonstration of tribal prejudice. But (always the cynical journalist) great tape.

At another market I saw an innovative form of street gambling called fighting eggs. Two guys square off with spoiled eggs--one man, one egg--and after carefully selecting just the right egg by tapping it against their teeth, the men then tap their egg against the other's. Whoever’s doesn’t break wins. The loser has to pay for the egg. Then you pick up another egg and start again. Mokhtar demonstrated it for me and lost by 4 eggs to 2.

In the evening I went to see Mum’s friend of a friend who lives in the swank International Monetary Fund digs. You have to pass through 3 or 4 concrete and machine gunned checkpoints to get there and it’s behind enormous barbed wired walls. She regaled us with tales of aid waste by CIDA, the UN and other groups. I’m hoping she’ll be part of my story about aid effectiveness. The highlight was seeing her IMF standard issue body armor hanging up in the corner. Sweeeet.

I got moved to a new room WITH a SHOWER. I’m very excited. It’s primitive but there’s electricity and water… already a step above Sweet Salone.

A new face

2008-07-03T13:29:00.000-07:00

After a breakfast cooked by the young servant (I was instructed not to engage her as it’s against custom), we left for the airport. We were driven by the inimitable Javid; part-driver, part-hustler. His English wasn’t great, but he did procure culcha (naan with sesame seeds) for me at R5 each and show me how they’re made. I washed it down with the yellowest drink known to man. I’m impressed by Sayeed’s driving… cars drift in and out of lanes, often two sharing one lane. One of Naheed’s relatives asked me to tell him if I figured out the Pakistani traffic rules. As of yet, I have no answer.

It’s even hotter than yesterday. Islamabad has replaced Accra as the worst place on Earth.

At the airport I was once again beset upon by the Pakistani DEA, first by means of a disinterested German shepherd then a bag search. After, Naheed told me that Sayeed said it’s because they’re on the lookout for drug-smuggling Nigerians, and since they don’t know what a Nigerian looks like… I’m the closest thing to their imaginings.

The flight to Kabul in a small plane was slightly harrowing. The ground below was brown and mountainous, and on our approach we came in at such an angle I was sure our wing catch the tarmac. But he righted the plane at the last minute.

We were picked up by a man who works for a friend of Naheed’s, and he took us to the mall to do a few errands like buy a SIM card. You have to pass through a metal detector and search before going into the mall. I was impressed at what they had to offer—they even had the iPhone which isn’t even sold in Canada! Then he took me to get my beard trimmed—I had the barber shape it in what I hope is a popular local style, though it will fool no-one I’m sure. The barber, who only spoke a few words of English, asked me: “African?” It was a much more enjoyable process than the Sierra Leonean barbing experience—he even massaged my head after he finished shaving me. It looks better than the wild facial fro I had hitherto sported.

Kabul looks and smells a bit like Mali; dusty and not entirely dirty. Police cars drive by in trucks with armed men mounted in back, one of them carrying what looks like an anti-aircraft gun.

Our hotel, the Park Palace, is much nicer than I expected. There are armed guards and sandbags at the entrance—an ominous sign. However the inside is nice enough. Some of the suites are, I imagine, more luxurious, for the NGO people who stay for months or years. However my room is the only one in the hotel with no AC and no bathroom.

We met our fixer, a young university-educated Hazara (the historically oppressed descendants of Genghis Khan) who seems very nice and capable. I was supposed to shoot a story but because of all the airplane delays it’ll have to wait. I’m worried I won’t get it all done in 2 weeks.

We supped at the hotel: chicken tandoori, rice and okra, which we ate outside in the courtyard while planning our stories. I’m thinking of driving to Bamian instead of flying—cheaper, more control and I’ll see more of the countryside. I’d love of course to walk like Rory Stewart (I’m reading his book). Perhaps one day I’ll have a similar adventure, though I don’t know how he did it with no gear. I’ve packed light (as light as you can carrying a full TV studio on your back) but I wouldn’t survive more than an hour.

Oh it's hot

2008-07-02T12:41:00.000-07:00

Arrived at Lahore exhausted… didn’t sleep a wink. Was immediately pounced on by three separate narcotics officers. The last one insisted we go to the special area. For some reason they asked if I was Naheed’s "mentor." Not exactly sure what that even means… maybe with the beard I looked like a guru. Eventually Naheed explained in Urdu that we were journalists, and they smiled politely and let us go.

I can’t believe how hot it is… it’s 40-something but with the humidity, probably the hottest place I’ve ever been. Shooting here will be a horror.

Flew to Islamabad, an hour away, and were picked up by

Naheed’s brother-in-law Sayeed, a very nice guy who spent 8 inexplicable years in Houston. He lives in a gated community for military personnel called Wahcant.

The roads are dusty, everything is crumbling and falling down, kind of like Dakar actually, perhaps half a step up. There don’t seem to be any lanes, and the little buses are overcrowded and covered in very elaborate and colourful plates and designs.

Sayeed's house is quite big, with huge doorways to let the air flow. We spend too long talking… I just want to eat and go to bed. Instead of a nice Pakistani meal, we ate a delivered chicken pizza in the one room with AC. I used a weird phone contraption to send a few emails with Naheed’s computer, which inched down the "superhighway."

It’s so hot it’s almost impossible to sleep, even with a huge industrial ceiling fan directly on top of me. I wet my head to try to keep cool, but instead of refreshing me it's like pouring water on sauna coals. This is going to be a challenge.

I wish I could sleep on planes

2008-07-01T11:41:00.000-07:00

As I left, I was greeted by a touching scene... hundreds of people from China, Vietnam and other Asian countries preparing for a huge parade. That's what Canada Day's all about. That and the booze.

I met Naheed at the airport, who was surrounded by husband, children, parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles and nieces who all came to see her off. At times like those I wish I had more than just my mother and sister, neither of whom are in the country. But her grandpa had to spend almost $50 on frozen yogurt for the whole family and Naheed had to carry an entire suitcase filled with gifts for the Pakistani relatives. I suppose there's always a down side.

I always look forward to flying, and then whenever I'm on the plane, remember that I can't stand it. The 18 hours to Lahore is the second-most grueling flight I've survived. Nothing will ever match the 19 hours I spent vomiting in the Quantas washroom on my way to Sydney. The best part of the flight was the delicious biryani. The worst was when I dropped my earphones into the pool of urine next to the toilet. My ears will never be clean again.

Last Night In Canada

2008-06-30T23:11:00.000-07:00

Another adventure begins. When Danny and Jenn (my roommates in Sierra Leone) were discussing the places in the world we wouldn't go, only two made my list: Iraq and Afghanistan. Well, in 24 hours (give or take, with the vagaries of time zones and airplane delays), I'll be in Kabul.

When I arrived in TO I was shocked when my "2-star" hotel turned out to be an awesome Marriott in the Entertainment District right next to the CBC... for $64 bucks. Well done Kev!

I spent the night walking the streets of downtown TO wondering if I should go see the DJ Tiësto show but decided to get a Keg cheescake and a pizza instead. Perfect way to spend my last night on Canadian soil. Well, not perfect. Fitting, perhaps.