Lipstick in Afghanistan

by Roberta Gately

  As he guided her into a small compound of short mud and plaster structures, one of which seemed to be an office, Pierre spoke quickly. “I am being sent to another office, out beyond Herat. The only reason I am still here is to make certain you are briefed. My bags are already packed. ADM, as I’m sure you know, does not have enough staff. We must all make sacrifices.

  “So…,” he added, hesitating and watching her face as he spoke, “you will be in charge here for the time being.”

  The knot in Elsa’s stomach grew larger.

  “But I’ve never done this sort of work before,” she protested. “I won’t know what to do here by myself.”

  “It will be fine,” Pierre said as he reached out and held her shoulder. “Not to worry. This is an easy post. The staff at the clinic will take good care of you.”

  Elsa took a deep breath. She didn’t even know what to say.

  “Come, sit. We have a lot to do. I must teach you about this post.”

  Elsa spent the rest of that day hunched over with Pierre, trying to ignore the buzzing flies and learning her responsibilities. The reports and order forms seemed endless, and she wondered how she’d ever get through it all on her own.

  “You see,” he said confidently when they had finished, “it is not so bad. Remember—protocols, procedures, and reports. While you are here to assist the staff in the clinic and the hospital as a nurse, you must also act as the administrative representative for our organization and manager of the clinic. Do not be afraid to ask for help.”

  Elsa chewed at her lower lip. Who can I possibly ask for help if I’m here alone? She didn’t say it aloud; she didn’t want to sound snippy.

  Pierre showed her their little library, a single bookshelf filled with books on the diseases and injuries she’d encounter. He pulled a small, green, soft-covered book from the shelf.

  “This is Aide du Monde’s handbook for field staff. Keep this with you,” he said. “This one reference book will tell you everything you need to know about the medical problems they suffer from here.”

  The book was small, not much thicker than a paperback novel. She flipped through the pages.

  “Malaria? Is there malaria here?”

  “No, no, not so much. Look through the pages. Do not worry.” He smiled.

  “One more thing.” He paused, his expression turning serious. “We do have rules. You may have heard that there are U.S. soldiers here in Bamiyan, yes?”

  Elsa smiled and shook her head. She hadn’t heard, but it was welcome news, a relief even.

  Pierre frowned.

  “We at ADM disagree with their involvement here. So, first rule”—he paused again—“is that you must not, how you say… fraternize. Do you understand? We must not be confused with the soldiers. We take this very seriously.”

  Elsa nodded, hoping he didn’t notice the disappointment she knew was etched on her face.

  “Well, you may not see them anyway. I myself have seen very few of them.” He turned and gathered his bags. “I am taking the satellite phone,” he said. “Another will be sent to you. For now, Johann at the UN office will be happy to allow you to use his sat phone.

  “The office in Paris will send help for you,” he assured her as he headed for the exit. “Do not worry. You will do fine here.” He opened the door and gestured to a clean-shaven young man. “Come, come. This is Hamid. He will be your interpreter, your assistant, your—how you say—your right hand.” Pierre smiled. “I am sorry for the rush, but it is getting late, and I have to go. Ismael will drive me, but we must leave now so that we can be in Yakawlang by dark.”

  Gathering herself up, Elsa stood straight and held out her hand. “Thank you, Pierre.”

  He took her hand and shook it. “Bon chance, mon amie,” he said. And with that, he left.

  Elsa swallowed her fear and smiled as she turned to Hamid. He had beautiful, coal-black eyes, but other than that, he had an average face with average features and was of average height. He looked like so many other young men Elsa had seen along the roads during the journey here except that he was perfectly shaved and coifed. It was obvious that he took great care with his hair, which was the deepest black she could have imagined and which he’d coaxed into a faultless back-sweep.

  He reminded her of Elvis Presley.

  “I am Hamid, as you heard.” He sounded nervous, and somehow his anxiety calmed Elsa.

  “Hamid,” she said. “Do you have a last name?”

  He nodded. “I am Hamid Naseer, eldest son of Afsar, of Kabul. I am known as Hamid. It is enough for us. You will see; most people call themselves by one name only.”

  She smiled and held out her hand before remembering what Qasim had said. She pulled it back.

  “Well, you know that I’m Elsa Murphy, but just call me Elsa. That’s enough for me as well. I’m to be the nurse here. I’ve never been in a foreign country so I’ll need lots of help.”

  “Myself, I’ve never been out of Kabul. Well, there was a trip to Kandahar with my father, but even Kandahar is a city. This…” He looked around as he spoke. “This place, Bamiyan, is something else entirely. It is dusty and primitive. I will need help myself.” He smiled, a broad grin that showed off his straight, white teeth. His was the first full set Elsa had seen since leaving Paris.

  “What did you do in Kabul?”

  “I was studying. I hoped to be an engineer but with all the interruptions in my education it will be many years before I will be an engineer. Inshallah—you know that means ‘God willing’?” Elsa nodded; she had learned that much from her Dari phrase book. Hamid continued. “Inshallah, I will return to my studies in Kabul next year. There is nothing in Kabul just now. No jobs, only beggars. This job will help my family and will let me save again for school.”

  Since Hamid had arrived in Bamiyan before Elsa, he’d already learned the lay of the land, and since darkness had not yet fallen, he showed her around her new home. Located on the outskirts of the village, the Aide du Monde compound was located in an area of falling-down or bombed-out shells of former homes. Surrounded by a high metal wall, the compound housed four small mud-and-plaster rooms and a separate washroom.

  “Your house,” he announced as they began their tour, “was a Taliban house.”

  “Taliban? Here?” Elsa could barely contain the fear that name evoked. “One Taliban soldier? Many? What does that mean?”

  “‘Taliban’ is used to describe one man or a band of men. They probably stole this house, and when they left, the original owner wanted no part of it. When Aide du Monde came to town looking for an office, he sold it.”

  “That gives me the creeps,” Elsa said.

  “It is safe now. Though their bullet holes remain”—he pointed to a series of holes in the wall—“the Taliban are gone. Come. See for yourself.” He ushered her from the office. “It is a fine house.”

  Just one more thing to worry about, she thought as she followed Hamid into her bathroom.

  The bathroom was about the size of a closet and contained a small, plastic water tank and a heating urn. To bathe, Hamid said, Elsa would have to heat water in the urn and pour it into another bucket to wash.

  “The water for the compound,” he continued, “is supplied from a nearby well and brought by a donkey. We have hired a man who will spend his day bringing water to you. You are very lucky. Here in Bamiyan, the women and their children collect their own water from the streams.”

  The windowless rooms were lit by kerosene lantern or candles. The toilet was a mud latrine located in another closet-sized room built onto the roof. Elsa would have to climb a set of mud stairs to get there.

  Hamid guided her to another tiny room. “Your room,” he said.

  She stood in the wood-framed doorway of her new living quarters and peered into the tiny space, though “tiny” seemed too generous a word. About eight feet by ten feet, the room looked like the inside of a cardboard box. The walls and the floor were made of dried mud, and everything was brown except for
her bed—a foam pad covered in a splash of red fabric smack in the center of the drabness.

  “Though the winter has all but passed, the nights and mornings are still cold,” Hamid said, pointing to a pile of blankets. “They will keep you warm until spring.”

  Elsa wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the chill that was already settling in the air.

  “Where is your room?” she asked.

  Hamid looked shocked.

  “Oh, Elsa, not here. I cannot live here with you. Islam forbids it.”

  “But we will work together, won’t we?” For some reason, this made a great deal of difference to her. “I’ll be allowed to be your friend, won’t I?”

  “We will work together, yes, but men and women cannot be friends.” Then he fell silent, and he seemed to think about it for a minute. “But you can be my sister. Allah will allow that. Yes, you will be my sister.” He smiled, looking pleased that he’d worked that out.

  “Where do you stay then? Are you near?”

  “I have rented a small room in the bazaar. It is not far. Tonight, a chowkidor—a doorman—is outside. He will not let anyone in. You will be safe. Rest up, and I will collect you tomorrow.”

  With that, he bid her good night.

  Elsa glanced around the room, acquainting herself with her new surroundings in the fading light. It made her bedroom in Dorchester seem palatial.

  Worn out from her long trip and overwhelmed by her new life, she was too exhausted to do anything more than throw herself onto her sleeping pad and pull up a blanket. In the pang of loneliness and worry that followed, she thought of her mother and wished she were still alive to see Elsa now, half a world away—in Afghanistan.

  6

  A loud wailing jolted Elsa awake, and she sat straight up on her sleeping pad. Though it was still dark, she knew it was morning, and the wailing was the traditional call to prayer. She’d heard it the day before, when she was working with Pierre, and he’d explained that she would hear it five times a day. She looked at her watch, but the room was still too dark and she couldn’t make out the time. So she pulled the blanket up to her chin to stave off the night’s lingering chill, lay back, and listened.

  The melody was haunting, beautiful almost, but she was still tired, and though she tried to shut out the sounds, it was no use. She was wide-awake.

  Jet-lagged and sleep-deprived, she sat up again and fumbled to find the tiny box of matches that Hamid had left. With the small box in hand, she struck a match and lit her kerosene lantern. The dim glow was a welcome change from the darkness.

  She looked at her watch—four thirty.

  Oh God, is every morning going to be like this?

  With the lantern to guide her, she threw on a robe and made her way to her tiny washroom, where there was a dusty but workable mirror, and in the soft glow of the lamp, she looked at herself. The mirror was nailed a bit high up on the mud wall, and since she was only five foot four, she had to stand on her toes to get a good look. Her usually bright eyes struggled to wakefulness as she swept her hair into a bun and secured it at her neck. She brushed her teeth without water since the man with the donkey had yet to arrive, and she ran a dry cloth over her face before swiping a bright red gloss over her lips. Red, she thought, would be a good color for her first day in Bamiyan. A vivid red always made her feel powerful, taller almost. Her lipstick supply—five tubes in all, a color for every mood—had been the first thing she’d packed for the trip. It was the one thing she knew she’d need, the one thing that would make her feel alive and whole. Smiling to herself, she remembered the first time that little tube of color had transformed not just her lips but her spirit as well. She might be without water and electricity over the next year, but she wouldn’t be without lipstick.

  Picking up the lantern, she went back to her room and pulled out the little green handbook Pierre had given her. By the soft glow, she looked it over again.

  Finally, when she saw a sliver of sunlight through her doorway, she pulled on her new clothes—the long-sleeved, knee-length dress and the balloon-like pants with a heavy sweater over it. She draped her scarf over her head and slipped her feet into the plastic sandals. Except for the lipstick, she thought she could pass for an Afghan woman.

  Hamid arrived with the sun.

  “Good morning,” he said, seeming oblivious to the chill. “You look well. I’ve brought warm naan. Shall I heat yesterday’s water for coffee?”

  “Oh, yes,” Elsa replied gratefully. “I have the matches you left, but I have no idea how to start a fire for cooking.”

  “Here, let me show you.”

  Hamid gathered a handful of kindling and some paper from a pile by the door. He knelt and struck a match and lit a small fire under the small heating grate. He placed the kettle to boil and set out cups and instant coffee.

  “You will light the fire for your bathwater this same way. Famidi? Understand?”

  Elsa nodded and broke off a piece of the warm bread.

  When they finished their modest breakfast, they headed to the hospital.

  The March air was crisp, just as Hamid had warned her it would be, and Elsa could see her own frosty breath when she exhaled. She pulled her sweater close around her and strode through the gate. She and Hamid walked to the back of the ADM compound and crossed a shallow stream before they stepped onto a well-worn path that snaked through once lush fields, now brown with rot and neglect.

  “What about the land mines? Is it safe to walk here?” Elsa asked, suddenly remembering the warnings she’d received in Paris.

  “The mines have been cleared in Bamiyan proper. We are safe here,” Hamid replied.

  Elsa took a deep breath. One less thing to worry about.

  They crossed a rickety wooden bridge and she inhaled the sharp smell of cooking fires. Tiny, colorless mud houses dotted the road. It seemed as bleak as any place could be, and only the brilliant blue sky offered the relief of color.

  They emerged from the fields into the village center, a single main street with a semblance of hustle and bustle, boasting weathered stalls and shops offering everything from soap to teakettles. There were even hitching posts where a few donkeys were tied up.

  “I live there,” Hamid said, pointing to a crumbling building with an outside stairway that led up to a second floor.

  “Nice,” Elsa said. “Is your room upstairs?”

  Hamid nodded in reply. “I have a view of the village’s main road. I see everything,” he said confidently.

  Elsa peered around, fascinated by the village center. Though the marketplace was splashed with bombed-out buildings and the debris of war, there were tiny lights—Christmas lights almost—draped around some of the stalls. The center was busy, and becoming busier by the minute, as people milled about. Those who were nearby stopped all chatter and watched Elsa. She stared right back and after a moment of curiosity, they went back to their business.

  Elsa continued to look.

  With their slanted eyes and broad noses, the people had an almost East Asian appearance. They were darker than she’d expected, but on closer scrutiny, she saw that their weathered skin was stained not just by the sun and the wind but with a coating of grime. She looked down at her own hands and saw that a layer of dirt had already worked itself under her nails. She wondered how long it would take for her own skin to take on the sooty stain.

  Deep black kohl lined the eyes of most everyone she saw—women, children, even men. The women wore large metal earrings that danced from their earlobes and thin, shiny bracelets that jingled like tiny bells when they moved. Their dresses and head-scarves were bright reds and yellows, not like the drab hues she’d chosen for herself in Peshawar.

  “Hazara,” Hamid said as if reading her thoughts. “The people of Bamiyan are Hazara—wild peasants to some, brilliant warriors to others. You can see for yourself how colorful the women are, and though they wear the veil, they don’t often wear the full cover of the burqa.”

  They were a beautif
ul sight, these Hazara, exotic and mysterious all at once.

  “The Hazara,” Hamid said, “are a fierce people. You can see for yourself how sturdy they look. It’s been said that even the women here fought back against the Taliban invaders.”

  “The women?” Elsa asked.

  “Ahh, that’s a story for another time,” Hamid said, pointing to something in the distance. “We are almost there.”

  She and Hamid continued on until they arrived at the hospital compound, and when they entered the gate, she got her first look at where she would work. The flat, one-story building had been whitewashed, setting it apart from the mud brown that dominated the village.

  Hamid had already been here, and he told her what he’d learned.

  “The hospital has eighteen beds and those are only for the very sick,” he said. “Most people who come here for care are attended to by their own families.”

  As they walked down the hallway, Elsa peeked into the rooms. People in the throes of typhoid or meningitis lay drenched in sweat on the old, metal cots. The stench of disease and unwashed bodies mingled in the air. The rooms were crowded with family members since at least one—and often more—stayed with patients to wash and feed them.

  The clinic was located next to the hospital, another squat, whitewashed mud building, and it had three large rooms. Two of them were examining rooms and one was a kind of makeshift emergency room. There was no X-ray equipment, no EKG machines, and no lab, but there were cabinets filled with intravenous fluids, sutures, and dressing kits—just enough to patch up an injured or ill patient.

  Elsa looked around and drew a slow breath. The grounds of the clinic were mobbed; crowds of villagers, all clamoring for attention, milled about. She swallowed the lump in her throat and felt whatever confidence she’d had begin to slip away.

  Hamid was nervous too. Elsa could hear it in his voice.

  “Come, come,” he said. “You should meet the staff. They are all Afghan but some, I think, speak a little English.” He ushered her into a small office and stepped up to two people who appeared to be physicians.