by.”
“Good Lord! I don’t know if my nerves can take all this racket!”
Now he laughed. He maneuvered the jeep into a parking spot. “Come! Let’s walk.” He had made sure to dress in full military garb and was wearing his service weapon. There was a long-handled knife stuck in the other side of his trouser. He caught her open stare at his imposing form.
“Is there a problem, Kendall?”
“No, but you do look ready for battle. Is it necessary to have all those weapons on you? This looks like a peaceful place.”
He gave her an intense look. “That’s exactly why I’m wearing them. I am not required to wear the weapons, but I choose to always have them on. I want people to be afraid of me or, rather, to not question my authority. It gives me respect. Does that make sense?”
She shrugged.
“Also, you notice there are only a few groups of women out and about. My appearance with you—an obvious westerner—shows people that I am your escort. They will be curious about you but will mostly not approach you.”
“Do these people know you or at least recognize you?”
“Yes. I have worked hard for their loyalty and friendship. I help them when I can.”
Kendall was puzzled. Why did he need to help them? Was this part of his official duties, or did he simply choose to help them? And how did he help them?
All in good time, Kendall!
As they began to walk through the market, she observed two men look down at their feet, laugh, and quickly shake hands. She turned to Rashid. “What’s that all about?”
“We Afghans are very superstitious people. It looks like their feet touched accidentally. In our culture, you must immediately shake hands or you will get into a fight with that person.”
She shook her head in amazement. They stopped at a cart loaded with grapes. He bought a bunch. They also bought some succulent dumplings and barbecued kebabs. When Kendall saw the cart ladened with stacks of fresh, warm, garlic
naan
bread, she gave Rashid an imploring look.
“Oh, I love this bread!” He was pleased that she was becoming familiar with their food. He was very happy to buy the
naan.
They came to the meat market section and she looked at the rows of hanging carcasses. She inclined her head toward the meat. “I’m almost afraid to ask what these are.”
“These are mostly goat and lamb.”
“Aren’t they afraid of the meat going bad in this warm weather?”
“They are okay for one day. It actually helps the meat age and taste better. These will all be sold by the end of the day. People have parties and reasons to celebrate. You know, the standard of living is much better now than fifteen years ago during the war with the Taliban and, Al Qaeda, and the arrival of the Americans. People may not be able to build big houses or wear the latest in western clothes, but most can afford the local Afghan foods and are satisfied with that.”
There was a moment of awkward silence, and she wanted to ask,
So, what is the problem then?
but realized this was not the appropriate place or time for a philosophical discussion on the modern challenges in Afghanistan. She noticed there were a lot of street children picking up discarded soda cans and other items and hawking everything from chewing gum to small pots of coal, which she was later informed was to ward off evil spirits. These children looked very dirty. A handful surrounded them, begging for money. Obviously, not everyone could afford even a meager life. She sighed at the ragged clothes and mournful but hopeful eyes when their arms thrust out hoping for an
Afghani
or two. Rashid looked at her, shrugged his shoulders, dug into his pockets, and gave out as many
Afghanis
as he had to the most needy-looking street urchins.
They swung back to the other side of the street toward their vehicle and nearly got run over in the attempt. Rashid grabbed her arm in a protective vise-like grip and waved off the driver. He continued to hold her arm all the way to their
“Good Lord! I don’t know if my nerves can take all this racket!”
Now he laughed. He maneuvered the jeep into a parking spot. “Come! Let’s walk.” He had made sure to dress in full military garb and was wearing his service weapon. There was a long-handled knife stuck in the other side of his trouser. He caught her open stare at his imposing form.
“Is there a problem, Kendall?”
“No, but you do look ready for battle. Is it necessary to have all those weapons on you? This looks like a peaceful place.”
He gave her an intense look. “That’s exactly why I’m wearing them. I am not required to wear the weapons, but I choose to always have them on. I want people to be afraid of me or, rather, to not question my authority. It gives me respect. Does that make sense?”
She shrugged.
“Also, you notice there are only a few groups of women out and about. My appearance with you—an obvious westerner—shows people that I am your escort. They will be curious about you but will mostly not approach you.”
“Do these people know you or at least recognize you?”
“Yes. I have worked hard for their loyalty and friendship. I help them when I can.”
Kendall was puzzled. Why did he need to help them? Was this part of his official duties, or did he simply choose to help them? And how did he help them?
All in good time, Kendall!
As they began to walk through the market, she observed two men look down at their feet, laugh, and quickly shake hands. She turned to Rashid. “What’s that all about?”
“We Afghans are very superstitious people. It looks like their feet touched accidentally. In our culture, you must immediately shake hands or you will get into a fight with that person.”
She shook her head in amazement. They stopped at a cart loaded with grapes. He bought a bunch. They also bought some succulent dumplings and barbecued kebabs. When Kendall saw the cart ladened with stacks of fresh, warm, garlic
naan
bread, she gave Rashid an imploring look.
“Oh, I love this bread!” He was pleased that she was becoming familiar with their food. He was very happy to buy the
naan.
They came to the meat market section and she looked at the rows of hanging carcasses. She inclined her head toward the meat. “I’m almost afraid to ask what these are.”
“These are mostly goat and lamb.”
“Aren’t they afraid of the meat going bad in this warm weather?”
“They are okay for one day. It actually helps the meat age and taste better. These will all be sold by the end of the day. People have parties and reasons to celebrate. You know, the standard of living is much better now than fifteen years ago during the war with the Taliban and, Al Qaeda, and the arrival of the Americans. People may not be able to build big houses or wear the latest in western clothes, but most can afford the local Afghan foods and are satisfied with that.”
There was a moment of awkward silence, and she wanted to ask,
So, what is the problem then?
but realized this was not the appropriate place or time for a philosophical discussion on the modern challenges in Afghanistan. She noticed there were a lot of street children picking up discarded soda cans and other items and hawking everything from chewing gum to small pots of coal, which she was later informed was to ward off evil spirits. These children looked very dirty. A handful surrounded them, begging for money. Obviously, not everyone could afford even a meager life. She sighed at the ragged clothes and mournful but hopeful eyes when their arms thrust out hoping for an
Afghani
or two. Rashid looked at her, shrugged his shoulders, dug into his pockets, and gave out as many
Afghanis
as he had to the most needy-looking street urchins.
They swung back to the other side of the street toward their vehicle and nearly got run over in the attempt. Rashid grabbed her arm in a protective vise-like grip and waved off the driver. He continued to hold her arm all the way to their
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