All in a day's work

Since its Norooz, and due to the serious nature of the news these days, the following is not a rant on the situation in Afghanistan.

To start off, here is an email exchange I had with a professor from Texas A&M doing agricultural consulting in Kabul. I have never met the man, but his invitation ended up at our offices by mistake, and after a little search, I found his email address and contacted him. He sent someone to fetch it and then, I sent him this:

Dear Michael,
I sent the invitation along earlier today. Since I figured I may have a little credit:
I'm curious as to whether I can eat the lamb meat here medium-rare, so long as I know the meat is fresh (get it butchered)? Or do these animals have diseases I have never heard of and therefore shouldn't be consumed without properly destroying all the flavor?
I realize this question may not be your primary expertise and is certainly below your pay grade, but I'm tired of gray meat and figured I'll never get this chance again.
thanks,
sia

This was what he wrote:

Dear Siavash,
You are correct, it is not my primary expertise but I have been eating medium rare kabobs in Afghanistan for about 4 years now and no problems. I agree that over-cooked meat is terrible! You will enjoy some of the best sheep meat here in Afghanistan!!! Happy New Year!!
Michael

I love Texans.

The Office and the meaning of life:
There was a kerfuffle at the office with one of the lawyers and one of the drivers getting into a serious enough argument that it caused me to waste a day of work on mediation between the two clans. My tendency in these situations is to berate both sides for their shortcomings. It’s a style that really suites my personality.

The drivers are—with the exception of Zanzir—barely literate. For most, Dari is a second-language they are uncomfortable with, yet they are the least likely to be chauvinistic about tribal differences. The lawyers may feel superior and outnumber them by a four to one ratio, but I would cast my lot with the drivers if the situation ever came to a head.

Anyway, while in the middle of telling the drivers that they ought to be much more polite to the lawyers they drive around, Najibullah, a hard-working guy with giant hands and a beautifully worn face, asked me in all seriousness and a work-weary voice: “Siavash, is it the case all over the world that less powerful people have to simply take some amount of abuse from those they work for, or is it just the situation in Afghanistan?” I was flabbergasted to find that this was not a rhetorical question. All of the drivers and guards stared at me with genuine curiosity. Thus, I spent half an hour describing the puzzles of socio-economic progress, diverted into globalism, refocused on the nature of justice, and when they still seemed confused (I have no idea why), I put it this way: “A week ago, my boss told me to ‘stop thinking ass-backwards’, and I just nodded my head in agreement.” A room full of raised, furry eyebrows told me that I got the message across.

After a day of shuttle diplomacy, I ended the afternoon by entering the drivers’ room, a place about 2.5 square meters that defies the usual comparison to a locker-room, because these men smell like earth and leather, rather than a jockstrap. They were all glum, since I was making their cohort apologize to the lawyers in the car.

His name is Bashir, a tall Tajik with a head so large and so precariously placed on his tiny neck that I have an irrational fear it’ll fall on me one day and crush the life out of me. Initially, he had refused to apologize, saying he had done nothing wrong and that he’d rather lose his job. Zanzir had warned me he would: “Afghans don’t apologize in the face of injustice.” After scoffing inside at the high-minded rhetoric, I tried to be ‘culturally sensitive’ (less of an a-hole). So, I asked Bashir to do it for me, and when he agreed, I could tell he was genuinely doing me a favor.

Anyway, the drivers’ hole is usually a jovial place where we smoke cigarettes and comment on the size of women’s shoulders, and I felt responsible for the oppressive mood. As a result, I challenged one of the guards to a wrestling match.

Amin Shah is about a foot taller than me, has the ugliest goatee I have ever seen, and a week ago, the 19-year-old proudly recounted how his body building coach had given him a compliment in front of the whole gym. Yay! Naturally, after about five minutes, the mood of the place had much improved, and all it cost me were two carpet burns: one giant one on my shoulder and a smaller one on my cheek. When Amin Shah found himself in an arm lock after literally wiping the floor with my face, he smiled broadly, lifted me into the air with his captured arm, and calmly noted that my style was fundamentally very sound.