I read today that the U.S. plans to launch its next big offensive in Kandahar, the stronghold of the Taliban. For most Americans, the word evokes Kandahar images (if that conjures up images of all the shoulder) of the bearded men with Kalashnikov assault rifles on their shoulders, and burning schools preach hatred of the West, wives, even music and kite flying. For me, however, evokes a completely different picture Kandahar.
I joined Peace Corps in 1976 and was sent to Afghanistan as a teacher of English as a second language. I arrived on July 6 after a trip to Washington, DC, which had 24 hours and involved hours of waiting at airports Frankfurt and Tehran. After two months of training including the history, culture, and Dari Persian () classes I was assigned to Normal School in Kabul, where I teach men and women in the pretty co-ed classes.
After a hot and dry and fall absolutely beautiful, a cold, dark winter descends on Kabul. I started to feel a little depressed, so for me even moral one night in early December, I decided to accompany your friends for Happy Hour every week in the basement of the house where U.S. marines have endured.
Shortly after his arrival, I looked and saw an interesting man young people walking on stairs. He started talking about Jackie, a friend of the Peace Corps, then go to the bar. I asked who was Jackie. She said her name was Hans, the the Netherlands, and he and his father owned an Oriental rug in Rotterdam. Jackie, we present one thing led to another. Two weeks later, I asked Hans marry him and I said yes.
In February 1977, Hans told me I needed to do a business trip to Holland, and he asked me to come with him. Since I had a vacation coming then, I was able to do so. We left the large, two-story and garden Adobe (whose private life has been carried out by 12 feet high walls of mud), led by the crowded street, cars, donkeys, camels and all sorts of noises, car horns and addressed an Ariana plane that went to the bank to increase dramatically in the snowy mountains of the Hindu Kush.
Five hours later landed at Schiphol Airport. Hans's father to fetch in his black Mercedes and headed for the road, where he looked cold, flat and wet, green flash Patti Lupone sings Dutch campaign any "Do Cry for Me, Argentina "on the radio. At last he reached the house of the family of Hans, who was part of a street full of small neat brick duplex, two-story a piece of grass and a large window at the front. The culture shock came over me with full force.
After three weeks in Holland, we have heard Hans Afghan business needed a truck to haul things. Thus, DAF Hans bought a huge semi and we began our journey back to Kabul to carry out on earth. After a fascinating journey that lasted three weeks (I'll tell that story another time), we finally reached the border that Iran shares with Afghanistan. Unfortunately, customs officials said there was a problem with the import documents of the truck, which means that Hans had to spend more time on Iran to obtain the amended documents.
By this time, however, really need to get back to work, so I decided to continue alone in Kabul. I opened pass through border security and is mounted on a bus full of mostly Afghan men. The bus came and went to Kandahar, where the passengers had to spend the night in a hostel before going to Kabul the next day. A young man sitting in the seat next to me and talked sporadically in English for the next six hours.
When we reached the hotel in Kandahar, the young man was standing behind me in line when I arrived at the registration desk. In astonishment, I suddenly heard the landlord (Dari) we were together. I screamed "Durustnes" (This is not true!) With a look of disgust on the young, the owner gave me my room key. I immediately went to bed, grateful for the comfort of a bed of real leaves and after three weeks of sleeping in the cab of the truck.
I woke up Early the next morning, got dressed and opened the door. Right in front of me, sleeping on a hard wooden chair, was the innkeeper. He had slept all night protect me!
After a breakfast and tea, Nan, I boarded the bus for the last leg of the trip to Kabul 6:00. In fact, the same young man sat by my side again. When he arrived in Kabul, insisted on accompanying me to my house because I was a single woman traveling alone. He left me there, acting like a perfect gentleman and I've never seen.
Since then, however, Every time I hear the word "Kandahar" which comes to my mind the image of an innkeeper who spent a night on a hard wooden chair to protect foreigners against damage.
Copyright 2010 Clarice Dankers. All rights reserved. Clarice Dankers, MA, is an Inbound Marketing & PR Specialist who helps change agents tell their story and grow their business through the web. For more information, go to: StoryMentor.
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