About the title: Chai is a staple of daily life in Afghanistan. It is considered to be rather impolite to launch straight into politics, business dealings, or anything “heavy” prior to chai being served. Otherwise, most everything is discussed over chai, from local gossip, to personal business arrangements, to local grain prices, to war plans. Having worked here for the better part of a year, I can honestly say that most of my insights into the culture can be attributed to, or have been inspired by, the Zen of chai. Hence the title…

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“Good morning Mr. Ryan! How are you, Sir?”

“Doin’ good, Gul. How are you? Did you get in safely today?”

“Yes, I did. What is going on for today”?

“Well, it’s Thursday. So, you know nothing much is going to get done today anyway. But, I’ll call over if I need you.”

(Note: Gul is my interpreter, whom I will henceforth refer to as “G”, not only because it sounds cool, but also because typing out his full name over and over would lead to carpal tunnel syndrome.)

Ah, yes. Another Thursday. In a Muslim country, you can pretty much rest assured that most businesses and government offices will start closing up by noon. And on Friday, the holy day, definitely nothing will get done as pretty much everyone’s off. G invites me out for a cigarette, so I accept. We step outside into a blast furnace of 100+ degree desert heat and sit down under one of the gazebos. Being the only sources of moisture around, we are immediately swarmed by flies. You get used to that, though.

G is eligible for special immigration status under a program designed to expedite the visa process for interpreters who have worked for Coalition Forces in Iraq and Afghanistan. The program was started in 2004, after an outcry (mainly from US soldiers) that interpreters and their families often faced persecution and/or execution for working with the coalition. However, the number of applicants far exceeds the annual quota allowed into the US. Furthermore, the processing and approval time can be considerable, even if everything else goes smoothly. As G’s boss, I will write his recommendation and then send it up for final approval, but not before the packet first passes through the hands of various Afghan ministries for signatures. This is where one learns about the machinations of corrupt governments and how to navigate through them. I ask G about his packet…

“So, G…any word yet on your visa packet?”

“Well, you know, I sent it out to get signed by the government agencies…you know…the police, National Directorate of Security…but…well…”

G betrays a smirk and shrugs his shoulders in disgust.

“Why, what is it?”

“Well, I get call from one agency… it is called the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The person in there wants $300 before he signs my paperwork.”

Normally, I would have bristled at this. But, as several Afghans that I’ve worked with have pointed out, this is ingrained into the culture – everyone trying to milk what he can out of the system. If you want something done, you pay. I suppose I've grown more accustomed to this, but as someone who is trying to impart good governance practices, especially within the security sector, I often find this a particularly difficult pill to swallow. Euphemistically, this system of payouts is called bakhsheesh, but there are times I just call it bullshit.

“So, what are you going to do?”

“Well, what can I do? You know, it is as I said before, Sir…there is no trust in the government. It is like a business where everyone is just trying to make money. The government is separate from the people and doesn’t look out for them. You know, this is my country, and I want to come back and help, but I have to get my family to safety first. I don’t know. I guess I will end up paying him.”

“Gud wa-DEE,” I mutter.

“Yes,” he chuckles, “Gud wa-DEE.”

(Note: ‘Gud wa-DEE’ is loosely translated from Dari to English as “Shit-show.” I find the imagery it invokes quite fitting).

These conversations are not atypical here. It always amazes me that, in spite of the kidnappings, bombings, shootings, beatings, intimidation, beheadings, extortion, theft, and harassment with which so many Afghan workers are threatened daily, they always show up to work in the morning with smiles on their faces and are generous beyond their means. I try to imagine what it would be like to be able to view the world through those lenses. Perhaps that degree of cultural empathy is never fully achievable, unless one truly “goes native.” If I did, would I still want to travel? Would I need to? Can I even classify this as traveling?  Well, I suppose one could call it adventure travel, albeit with guns, bombs, rockets, and corrupt government officials. 

Perhaps I just need some more chai.

Links of interest regarding Iraqi and Afghani interpreters trying to get to the US:

www.CPonefoundation.org