It has been all quiet on the Afghan front. Sore tummy. Sick Rachel. Long hours. Sleepless nights (this related to the sick Rachel). Getting cold.
Typically at about this time of year in Afghanistan, when it starts getting cold and grey, I start wondering why on earth God called me here and not to Fiji. Or Italy. Surely the Italians need hope and redemption and latrines. Anyway, this year we are doing our bit for the environment and burning fossil fuels by the barrel-ful to stay warm. Its either that or burn wood. I suspect both are bad, but unending cold is worse.
I would write more, but for somewhat crippling gut pains. Sorry folks. Imagine an erudite and enlightening story about my flight back from Faizabad, where I asked a woman to stop using her phone mid-flight, and the ensuing conflict that emerged. There. Got it all imagined? That’s the story I will write when my tummy stops feeling like a washing machine with a brick in it.