One day in Baghaluk

Negotiating Baghaluk Pass would be a lot easier if we had donkeys.

Recently returned from a New Zealand Provincial Reconstruction Team rotation in Afghanistan, Major Syd Dewes recounts a day in a local village and a meeting with the Village Head and concerned locals.

Today I visited the village of Baghaluk, a very poor village of some 500 people which is nestled in a mountain valley that is isolated for six months of the year – deep snows shut the steep narrow rocky pass for four months and high rivers from the melting snows prevent vehicular access for another two.  I had been to Baghaluk twice before, but it was summer then and today was the first time I was able to reach the village since winter.

I was meeting the Head of Shura (village head man) on a routine visit to see how they had fared over the winter.  Upon arrival we recognised each other from our previous meetings and he immediately invited me to his home for choi (tea).   That was unusual because we usually conduct our meetings outside – such is our respect for the privacy of the local people, and so it is rare for us to enter their homes.

Down a steep dirt pathway, past some donkeys, through a compound gateway, around stacks of stored cut grass and past rows of ‘fuel cakes’ (dried animal dung); I eventually reached his mud home. I stooped under and through the low doorway into a small dark room (may be it was not dark and I just left the bright sunshine outside) with its smooth earth entrance no doubt made so by years of many a bare foot.  Three doorways led off this room and I was shown the nearest door which was opened and gestures made for me to proceed in.

As I bent to unlace and remove my boots, I was surprised by how well presented this rectangular room was - its smooth walls plastered with its mixture of mud and straw, interrupted only by two small windows set back into the thick walls, and framed with roughly hewn timber over which was stretched, I am sure at one time once was clear, but now, weather beaten plastic sheet. Two small cast iron metal pieces recycled from a horse bridle made for simple and effective window latches.

Walking into the room I detected an ever so slight movement in the floor. The accompanying faint odour (it was not in anyway offensive) confirmed for me we were in quarters above the animal stalls – a common design feature of these homes to harness and provide warmth to the occupants over the cold winter months.  A dozen or so men folk followed me in and we sat with backs to the walls, on simple but comfortable mats of thick woven Geep (an Afghan sheep with a prominent wobbly backside) wool, with mattresses rolled up from the night before, to lean upon.  The sun filtered through the plastic sheets and brought out the bright colours of the hand made carpets in the centre floor area.  There was no furniture at all. I tried to settle into the space that was reserved for me.  My combat vest with all its ammunition pouches and a rifle still slung across the body made for a most uncomfortable attempt at sitting and avoiding a tilt worse than the Tower of Pisa – I soon dispensed with caution and removed all to the relief of my aching muscles and the knowing nods of my hosts.

Overhead, the exposed ceiling consisted of a number of large dried and hardened tree trunks that ran the width of the room.  They supported a layer of bark upon which was packed a mixture of dried twigs and mountain brush covered with a foot of dried mud mortar, simple but very effective insulation from the heat of summer and freezing winter cold.

Surrounded by these local men folk I felt at ease in this room – a bit like being on a marae back on the East Coast - and was welcomed warmly by the head man, Mohammad Eshaq, a respectful man, with blue-green eyes and white beard on a sun tanned face.  Despite his even paced soft voice, it conveyed sincerity and a hint of quiet authority. He spoke in Dari, the local language, and thanked me for leaving my family so far away to come to Afghanistan, and for keeping a promise to return to the village - his welcome was accompanied by nods and a chorus of “Salam” (Dari for hello and welcome) from around the room. Then like a ball rolling down a hill gathering snow, the formalities gave way to a cicada like stream of  constant chatter, questions, and general free for all with two and three people talking at once and my interpreter had a job trying to cut through the cacophony to provide me an intelligible line of conversation. Mohammad remained quiet almost as if he recognized the need for the men to get matters off their chests.  Eventually he re-entered the mêlée and in doing so order was restored as he summarized for me what that was all about.

The situation was simple but dire – these people needed our assistance to develop a spring well so they could irrigate their crops this summer otherwise they would have to start leaving the land of their forefathers (and fathers before them) for a very uncertain future on the fringes of the local town (not a town like what we might think, but more like a much bigger village).  Mohammad explained whilst there is an earth dam in the village built some years ago by a foreign aid agency, because of its poor design, the water seeps through and away.  The only source of water is a natural spring one and a half kilometres up from the village, to which the villagers must make a twice daily trek to draw all water for household needs; cooking, drinking, and washing.   It is a well worn path and the donkeys do not need minders to steer them to and from.

Needless to say, all conversation focused on the much needed water and they were looking to the NZ Provincial Reconstruction Team (PRT) as their last and only hope – why that is so, is another story. I felt their pleas for help clutching at me much like a man caught in quicksand would as he slides deeper and further out of reach.  It is not a nice situation for either him or you – it calls for some quick thinking and much hope for a miracle. As I considered the factors surrounding this situation I tried desperately to refrain from thinking it could be more of the latter, so common and widespread are these ‘Baghaluk villages’ in this District.

Momentarily, I felt myself detach from my seated position, and flee to a vantage point in the ceiling rafters from where I was looking down on myself and this gathering - the hunched shoulders of heavily burdened men, some leant forward in the typical cross-legged seated position and others with knees drawn up to their chests much like men conserving body heat and energy.  In amongst this was me – perhaps a tad nervous (and I hoped not looking like a possum caught in the headlights of an on-coming car), trying desperately to win the trifecta of synchronising; commentary from my interpreter, constructing a reply, and accompanying that with body language, to match what the locals were talking about.  Inevitably I was 30 seconds or more out of synch and it made me feel awkward, especially so when I smiled at the moment the conversation had moved on to a more serious, ‘not the right time to smile’.  I tried to adopt a ‘cover all cases expression’, but felt awkward with that as well because it lacked sincerity when compassion was needed. “Gee wiz!”. I then made my first decision of the meeting – I chose the lesser of the two evils, feeling more comfortable with the awkwardness of the former. 

At the same time as all that was going on I was trying to develop and evaluate courses of action to provide immediate, meaningful, and sustainable assistance to these people. The resources at my immediate disposal amounted to a notebook and pen - I have to take notes for a report to be sent into my Headquarters where it would be prioritised along with many similar requests other reconstruction teams like mine were submitting.  But right then I did not give a hoot about theirs – perhaps unfair, but if the Headquarters staff could see this scene of desperate need, feel the desperation in this room, and comprehend the consequences, then they would make this a priority case, right?    

Mohammad explained they needed to start preparing the fields and commence planting within a month and for that they needed water drilling equipment to construct a water well so they could irrigate the crops.  The consequences of not having that water winning equipment delivered in the next month is guillotine like – melting snows will raise the level of the river at the foot of their mountain valley and prevent any vehicular access for further two months, effectively halting any hope of having a well in time to ensure a harvest. No drilling equipment, no water.  No water, no crops.  No crops …  they will have to start leaving the land and the village.

It’s a traumatic situation for the villagers.  As Mohammad cleared his throat a couple of times he drew his hands, like one in prayer, palms over his forehead and down his face in a manner that arrested and concealed the hint of tears welling up : this in stark contrast to the sound of laughter and chatter that drifted in from children at play in the adjoining compound, oblivious to the worries of their fathers.   Their innocence and distraction was timely as the sombre mood threatened to entomb the room in a feeling of despair.

All eyes turned to me.  Their expressions were a curious mixture of pleading, hope, and perhaps knowing but not wanting to accept that their much valued fields and precious valley can only sustain so many people.   I was careful not to say something that would give them false hope but also felt the need to give them some hope.  I chose to compromise and told them I would convey their situation to Governor Sorabi (she visited NZ recently) as a matter of urgency and without revealing so, I also resolved to do my utmost for these people. 

Their humility in the face of such dire consequences, their self-restraint, and their unitedness and support of each other, drew me into their plight and I felt obligated to ‘move mountains’ to help them.   In my heart I know if I do not do this it will continue to bother me long after I have returned to NZ.   Not perhaps the text book reaction required or expected, but, “Hey, this is me”, and I have to do this for them as much as satisfy my own need to make a difference.

As we drank choi I was conscious of the effort needed to bring the water to our ‘table’ and whilst I enjoy the socialising that is part and parcel of sharing choi, on that occasion, I did not drink much.  

 I knew that Now Roze (the Afghan New Year  celebrations) was only around the corner and so asked Mohammad what the village had in mind to mark the occasion.  He told me the Afghan people believe if they are happy, had a good meal on that day, and share in the festivities, it’s a good omen for the rest of the year to be a prosperous one.  However, the Baghaluk people are so desperate at this stage; they have no rice, and only exist on naan bread and a gruel they make from boiled geep meat. He said their present situation left them with little to feel happy about or look forward to, other than help from the NZPRT. 

Their plight left me with an uncanny feeling when it came time to leave. I did so with some reluctance.  After much shaking of hands, man-hugs, a last plea for our “cooperation and concentration”, Mohammad escorted me back to my security team and vehicles.   He held my hand whilst we walked and at no time did I feel self-conscious.  He did not speak.  Was it because all that needed to be said had been said, or was he leaving me the last few moments in their company to ‘concentrate on how I can cooperate’.    Upon reaching my vehicle Mohammad took my hand but before shaking he looked me in the eye – I don’t know what he hoped to see, but in the blue-eye of his, “I saw his son’s future. I don’t know what he saw in mine and hope he saw my resolve to give his son a future in this valley, home of his father and fathers before him.” 

We exchanged customary man-hugs, shook hands, and waved as I drove away.   I felt drained, and sat quiet whilst we bounced our way down the mountain pass.  As I mulled over the options to help Mohammad and his people I took some  comfort in the village name, Bag-ha-luk, and the thought may be, just may be, there is a ‘Bag-of-luck’ in store for them.  Or, was I just clutching at straws?  That was when I then made my second decision of the meeting, and said aloud, to no one in particular …”Righto, that’s it ... we have some serious work to do.!”