LAUNDRY

I'd soak my clothes in soap and water for a few days. Then I'd agitate the clothes before pouring out the soapy water down my toilet (which was just a hole in the floor...no toilet bowl...or throne!). This is how I "flushed" my toilet. I would do the same thing when I washed my dishes. I'd toss the soapy water down my toilet, and voila! On its way it went to THE HOLE.

I never ironed my clothes. They were NEVER WRINKLE-FREE.

When I finally received my smelly clothes from Afghanistan via air mail, they hadn't received their weekly soaking. My mother machine-washed my clothes two or three times to get out the dirt and grime...and ODOR!

I started the SIT AND SOAK method after I had moved to the big house that Touryalai found for me in Shar-I-Naw (New Town). At my previous apartment on the university side of town, an old woman had washed and ironed my clothes. I should have continued this when I moved again to my larger house, but I was always pinching pennies...or I should say afghanis.

RECYCLING

I paid an extraordinary price for an ordinary bottle. About $2.00. The things we throw away here in the United States are very precious in Afghanistan. EVERYTHING is recycled in Afghanistan. And this includes human waste.

One mellow and sunny morning I was waiting to catch a bus to take me to the university. A man was shoveling human waste into bulging bags attached to his donkey. He went from house to house until his donkey bags were full.

Another sunny afternoon I was looking out my apartment window and watched as a man passed by below. He and his cart were being pulled by a donkey, and in the back of the cart was human waste, sloshing from side to side. A mighty horrendous and instantaneous odor overwhelmed my olfactory senses.

Apparently, as in other places in the world, human waste was "made" into fertilizer in Afghanistan. Why not?

But back to recycling. Kabul never had any litter. Every molecule of potential fuel disappeared off the ground. Matter was a very precious matter. Don't mess with Afghanistan!

BOILING WATER

Water needed to be boiled for at least 20 minutes to remove the amoebas, etc. If I was at home, water was boiling. Water was always boiling.

Drinking tea was also nonstop. Everywhere I went I would be asked, "Do you want tea?" I liked it. Not too strong, and with a little sugar. After a couple months I lost my craving for coffee.

My water was delivered by a 'soogow' (This is the English pronunciation I learned for the words WATER CARRIER or Saqao). He would deliver about 10 gallons each week. He carried the water on his back. The water was inside the stomach of a sheep or goat (I forget which). One time I came with him to my house. He walked hunchbacked, with the water over his back. It was about six blocks from the water source to my house. I paid him about 20 cents for each delivery, and I always gave him a tip.

ROOSTERS AND MUEZZINS

I didn't need an alarm clock to wake me up. Every morning the roosters and the muezzins did that. First the roosters. Then the blaring barrage of morning prayers that came from the mosques. But neither the roosters nor prayers bothered me. In fact, I looked forward to both. I looked forward to beginning every day in Afghanistan.

AFGHAN AND AFGHANI KABOUL AND COBBLE

I got used to pronouncing Kabul "cobble", and not the French Kaboul ("kabool"). Maybe it was because of the more masculine-sounding pronunciation. It sounded a bit too high-falutin to say "kabool".

The English, not the French, seems to have been the stronger influence in Afghanistan. There is the English habit of drinking tea (but in Afghanistan it seems non-stop...not just an episodic "tea-time"). Before sitting down anywhere you are offered tea. It became a familiar and enjoyable ritual.

Afghanis are not people. Afghani is the name for the currency in Afghanistan. It is correct to say, "The Afghan people"; it is horrendously incorrect to say "The Afghani people." And I cringe when I hear the ubiquitous pedants, news anchorpersons, and other TV talkers and personalities use Afghan and Afghani interchangeably. Kill the terrorists, but not the language. I didn't mind it when my mom said, APHA-A-GANA-STAN. Have you ever seen a one-eyed Afghani dog? [I have, but it was a one-eyed Afghan dog.] And what about that quilted blanket called an Afghan? It's an Afghan, not an Afghani!

HAIRCUT

I went to a barber once. It took two hours for the barber to finish. This was a very scary experience. Since the barber was holding a sharp razor (it was a true razor cut!) I didn't dare complain. As I sat, it felt as if every single hair was getting the attention of my Afghan barber. I never went to any barber again while in Kabul.

ARRIVAL

The 747 touched down at 4:15 AM, January 1, 1977. It was eerie. This was a landlocked country, and I felt like I had just been locked in. All volunteers would stay at various houses the first night. We didn't know where or with whom. I ended up with Jonathan and Michael. Both were a little younger than myself. Jon was handsome, had longish hair, smoked Marlboro reds, and played quitar. Michael wore glasses and was business-like. Both had a good sense of humor.

I had not eaten red meat or even chicken for about a year, but this first night in Kabul ended that. I ate chicken. Then I ate some spinach and I got an even bigger surprise. I chomped down on a hard object with my new gold bridge/crown that had cost me about a thousand dollars.

I spit out the large pebble. I yelled at the servant who was our cook this first night, and with the Farsi that I had learned in D.C., I asked, "What is this called in Farsi?" The trembling Afghan said "sang". "O.K. No more sang!", I said. He nodded heavily a few times that he understood. Strange, but I had never liked spinach until I lived in Afghanistan and ate their ghee-laden spinach. The Afghan ghee is made from the lamb's tail!

THE SOUP LINE

I ate soup every day that I taught. The "soup kitchen" was a few minutes away from the University of Kabul campus. The soup was in these huge, dome-shaped vessels. And the line was a mile long. I liked the soup, even if the flavor was the same every day. Then there was this thick and heavy bread made, I learned, from flour that was donated by Sweden. This bread was totally different from the Afghan nan.

AT THE UNIVERSITY OF KABUL

My classroom had no electricity and no heat. I had one textbook and a piece of chalk. There was no water.
My students were young men and women who were attending Kabul University to prepare themselves to become teachers and engineers.
The young men and women sat on different sides of the room.
There was absolute silence in the room. I had never experienced such polite and reserved students.

TOURYALAI

I met Touryalai one day while I was riding my Chinese bicycle, searching for a bakery to buy cookies. I had just moved into my apartment on the university side of town. As I was riding my bicycle, Touryalai was passing by on his, and he abruptly stopped and asked in very good English, "Can I help you?" With a hesitant and cautious tone I said, "Yes. I'm looking for a bakery." Without any hesitation he said, "I'll show you." I followed him, and moments later we arrived at the bakery. After I thanked him, he asked if I was an American. I told him that I was an American Peace Corps volunteer teaching English at the university. He was very happy about this and told me that he was very interested in learning more English. He said that he would be glad to help me anytime I needed help. He added in his (always charming and sincere) way that his mother had always told him to help all Americans.

During my entire tour, Touryalai certainly helped me. He showed me where to buy things. Anything I needed or anywhere I needed to go, Touryalai was always there to help me.

Touryalai was 20 years old. He worked as an architect at an Afghan Ministry. His pay was about $45.00 per month. I once visited where he worked, and I could tell that he loved his job and that he was good at it. Later on I met three of his other brothers. One was a musician. Another had studied mathematics and physics at graduate school in New York, and he wanted to return to resume studies. He enjoyed American beer and he was quite happy when I brought him as a guest to the American Staff House. The third brother was good at fixing appliances. I had met a very intelligent family. Plus, as I later found out, because I asked Touryalai about this, he said that his father was a millionaire by American standards. I do not know what happened to the prosperity of his family when Russia invaded, but most likely it was taken.

CRUELTY

Five boys were rolling something on the street with sticks. They were laughing and having fun, rolling this dark "thing", then tossing it up into the air. The dark "thing" was giving off smoke. Finally, the boys tired of their game and left. I went down to the street. I looked down and saw a kitten enveloped by black tar. It was not dead yet, but its movements slowed down, and then they stopped altogether. I walked away depressed. I told Touryalai about this incident, and he commented that cats were not liked very much here in Kabul.

DEPARTURE

On one cool and blustery morning, a former roommate helped me carry my bags to the Greyhound bus station just 10 minutes away from my beloved bohemian apartment on Boulder's historic and notorious Pearl Street.

I arrived at Stapleton International and caught a jet for Washington D. C. Tears of parting flowed from family members.

In Washington, D. C. volunteers were given a quick overview of Afghan culture and customs, and the "dos" and "don'ts". Don't show your feet to a person. Don't give the "thumbs up" sign. Don't eat with your right hand. Don't talk to the women. We also received a quick primer of key words to know in Farsi. Then we left for Kabul.

THE APPLICATION

I went to my apartment and pulled out an old application to the United States Peace Corps. I wasn't too lazy now to fill out the forms. I sent them. Then one day, I opened a letter. It was from Washington, D.C. The letter said to call on that same day, and so I ran to the closest pay phone and called. They told me I had to call back a few hours later or I would be rejected. I called and was told, "Mr. Squier, your college references are old." I quickly replied, "Yes, but they're my only references from college! How do I get new ones?" (Go back to college?) I was asked to call back one more time. I did.

"Mr. Squier, would you like to teach English in Afghanistan?"

Without a blink I exclaimed, "Yes!", and I ran to my apartment to find a map. I had often stared out of this apartment's big bay window, looking at the soft stomach of Chautauqua meadow, or at the tall red flatirons of the Boulder front range, and wondered, "What am I doing with my life?" The day I quit my construction job posed the same question, and now I was on my way to find out in a new and strange world.

THE BEGINNING

My journey to Afghanistan began in Boulder, Colorado under a blazing sun.
I was working as a laborer, carrying and delivering twelve-feet long concrete form pans to two carpenters.
We were constructing a "computer room" at the National Center for Atmospheric Research (NCAR).
Each day was a pleasant bike ride into the majestic rolling front range of Boulder. I sometimes saw a shy deer retreating just as the sun was rising.
One carpenter was amiable enough, but the other one sometimes cursed furiously. My own father was a carpenter and rarely swore, so I didn't appreciate this swearing.
More cursing erupted one morning when I was transporting one 12' form on the top of my hard hat. I tripped on a piece of projecting rebar, nearly falling down, but I caught myself just as the swearing cartwright yelled how I should carry the #@@## pans, and if I didn't do so then #&&### and @@**.
I decided I would quit that day.
At the end of the day, I laid my white hard hat down on the ground behind a white pick-up truck and said in a soft monotone behind my dark sunglasses, "This is my last day." I pedaled off to a new destiny.