Interrupting Bamyian reverie to bring you the following:
Dear Ms. Lia Gladstone,
On behalf of the management committee of the 8th International Women Playwrights
Conference, I have great pleasure in inviting you to join our official speakers’ program in the conference. The conference will take place at Mumbai, India, during 1-7 November 2009 at Mumbai University, Vidya Nagari Campus, Kalina, Santacruz, Mumbai-98
We would also like you to present your play “Children of the Far Far Away” in our play reading session.
Yours Sincerely,
Jyoti Mhapsekar
Convener
Women Playwrights Conference 2009
( also received grant from ICWP -International Center for Women Playwrights- to go).
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
Band a Mir
Before memories of Bamyian are interrupted by too many other momentous events I had better incscribe it in the book of Blog:
I felt like I had seen three of the seven wonders of the world in that many days: Red City, Band a Mir and of course, the Buddhas: the Big male, Salsall and the little mother, Shamama (Queen Mother)-according to the Hazaras- Bamyian is home to the Hazara, Afghanistan’s ethnic minority, reportedly descended from the Ghengis, long persecuted and slaughtered by the Taliban .
Z’s older brother, Rama, asked if I could be ready the following morning at 5 AM for the trip to Band a Mir, the magical lakes in the middle of the vast empty mountainous steppe, but the car had tire problems and the family didn’t pick me up til 8 but this was just as well since I still didn’t have a ride home (cant help but gloat that I came here on a one way ticket!) After many hoops I’d been instructed to call Mr. Bill and when I introduced myself, he said I’d already called him! “But you’re my last hope”, I pleaded .”OK let me think about it, call me in the morning.” He called precisely at 8 as I was walking out the door. “Are you sitting down?” he asked. Haha I got a seat ! (on a plane that will remain unamed to protect Mr. Bill). There are daily flights in and out of Bamyian, but eat your heart out trying to get on one. They have 25 seats often with only three of them filled.
In the car: Z, her mother, three brothers, two wives and 2 kids. The oldest brother is a farmer and his wife seems to be the main servant of the household. The day before when I first met her at the family home she greeted me with a huge smile, served us (Z, me and brother Rama) lunch. I had admired a young cousin’s pantaloons trimmed with hand made crochet; this beautiful sister in law went behind a curtain and brought back a pair of crochet trim she had just finished. The two kids belong to her and the oldest brother ; they don’t plan to have more. The other brother is kind of dashing in a sweet way, rides a motorcyle, manages an orphanage and is newly married also in an arranged marriage; he and his beautiful wife(Sima, means moon) are wrapped around each other like a package of tephlon. Z’s mother left for Iran with her husband when she was 25; the family stayed until 4 yrs ago. She wears an enveloping black chaderi as is the custom in |Iran. Z too wears dark clothes and an enveloping chador. It has become very easy to distinguish who spent the war years in Iran and who in Pakistan, by accent and clothing.
The ride is three hours of bone rattling but it is so worth it! Imagine riding across the moon on a road with huge craters for three hours and suddenly coming upon this vast basin of incredibly blue water . (check photos) There are six lakes that all feed into each other. The cascading waterfalls leave limestone deposits on the walls they fall over. This is Havasu. Apologies for the broken record that everywhere I go is the Grand Canyon, but the whole place IS with its spires and canyon walls. Even on the road there, are cliff dwellings currently inhabited.
The first lake we stop at is very touristy. C from Aga Khan (which promotes in-country tourism among other things) says that 10,000 Afghan tourists come to Bamyian every year. There’s a little bazaar selling snacks, soft drinks and primitive tents for overnight stays; a new women’s bathroom with a fountain-to-be inside. There’s a parking place for all the family vans; old buildings at the foot of the waterfalls that use to house flour mills powered by the water; an old mosque.
We settle in a place below the limestone walls away from the crowd, spread blankets and food. It is a combo of breakfast and lunch bec of the late start. First we have bakery and green tea-they have brought a stove to heat water- naan, cheese and onions and greens from their garden. That is cleared away and right after we have fried chicken and French fried potatoes (Bamyian is the potato capital of Afghanistan). We never get to the watermelon.
After lunch, Rama, the two kids and I set out to explore the lake and its waterfalls . We stand in them and he takes our photo. It is very hot and I am as usual as are all the other women covered from head to toe. I’m very disappointed not to be able to go swimming. The waterfall is the only way for me to get wet. In fact no one is swimming. Z points out a little metal hut by the lake that women can go in and pour water on themselves!
Before we leave we drive up to see the other lakes from a viewpoint. They are spectacular. On the way from Bamyian, C et al from Aga Khan had passed us. (They expressed sympathy for me bec the radio was blaring Iranian rock -for me it was the soundtrack of the experience) Z used to work for Aga Khan and she recognized their vehicle parked way below us at one of the lakes. She even spotted the three of them on a slab of limestone that was a speck to my eyes.
Before I get out of the car back in Bamyian, I say a silent prayer that when I thank them, they will know how much this has meant to me.
F: Why can’t all Afghans be like the people of Bamyian.
When I tell her about my student’s reaction to Homebody Kabul and his support of stoning adulterers, she reminds me that the US electrocutes people.
To be continued
I felt like I had seen three of the seven wonders of the world in that many days: Red City, Band a Mir and of course, the Buddhas: the Big male, Salsall and the little mother, Shamama (Queen Mother)-according to the Hazaras- Bamyian is home to the Hazara, Afghanistan’s ethnic minority, reportedly descended from the Ghengis, long persecuted and slaughtered by the Taliban .
Z’s older brother, Rama, asked if I could be ready the following morning at 5 AM for the trip to Band a Mir, the magical lakes in the middle of the vast empty mountainous steppe, but the car had tire problems and the family didn’t pick me up til 8 but this was just as well since I still didn’t have a ride home (cant help but gloat that I came here on a one way ticket!) After many hoops I’d been instructed to call Mr. Bill and when I introduced myself, he said I’d already called him! “But you’re my last hope”, I pleaded .”OK let me think about it, call me in the morning.” He called precisely at 8 as I was walking out the door. “Are you sitting down?” he asked. Haha I got a seat ! (on a plane that will remain unamed to protect Mr. Bill). There are daily flights in and out of Bamyian, but eat your heart out trying to get on one. They have 25 seats often with only three of them filled.
In the car: Z, her mother, three brothers, two wives and 2 kids. The oldest brother is a farmer and his wife seems to be the main servant of the household. The day before when I first met her at the family home she greeted me with a huge smile, served us (Z, me and brother Rama) lunch. I had admired a young cousin’s pantaloons trimmed with hand made crochet; this beautiful sister in law went behind a curtain and brought back a pair of crochet trim she had just finished. The two kids belong to her and the oldest brother ; they don’t plan to have more. The other brother is kind of dashing in a sweet way, rides a motorcyle, manages an orphanage and is newly married also in an arranged marriage; he and his beautiful wife(Sima, means moon) are wrapped around each other like a package of tephlon. Z’s mother left for Iran with her husband when she was 25; the family stayed until 4 yrs ago. She wears an enveloping black chaderi as is the custom in |Iran. Z too wears dark clothes and an enveloping chador. It has become very easy to distinguish who spent the war years in Iran and who in Pakistan, by accent and clothing.
The ride is three hours of bone rattling but it is so worth it! Imagine riding across the moon on a road with huge craters for three hours and suddenly coming upon this vast basin of incredibly blue water . (check photos) There are six lakes that all feed into each other. The cascading waterfalls leave limestone deposits on the walls they fall over. This is Havasu. Apologies for the broken record that everywhere I go is the Grand Canyon, but the whole place IS with its spires and canyon walls. Even on the road there, are cliff dwellings currently inhabited.
The first lake we stop at is very touristy. C from Aga Khan (which promotes in-country tourism among other things) says that 10,000 Afghan tourists come to Bamyian every year. There’s a little bazaar selling snacks, soft drinks and primitive tents for overnight stays; a new women’s bathroom with a fountain-to-be inside. There’s a parking place for all the family vans; old buildings at the foot of the waterfalls that use to house flour mills powered by the water; an old mosque.
We settle in a place below the limestone walls away from the crowd, spread blankets and food. It is a combo of breakfast and lunch bec of the late start. First we have bakery and green tea-they have brought a stove to heat water- naan, cheese and onions and greens from their garden. That is cleared away and right after we have fried chicken and French fried potatoes (Bamyian is the potato capital of Afghanistan). We never get to the watermelon.
After lunch, Rama, the two kids and I set out to explore the lake and its waterfalls . We stand in them and he takes our photo. It is very hot and I am as usual as are all the other women covered from head to toe. I’m very disappointed not to be able to go swimming. The waterfall is the only way for me to get wet. In fact no one is swimming. Z points out a little metal hut by the lake that women can go in and pour water on themselves!
Before we leave we drive up to see the other lakes from a viewpoint. They are spectacular. On the way from Bamyian, C et al from Aga Khan had passed us. (They expressed sympathy for me bec the radio was blaring Iranian rock -for me it was the soundtrack of the experience) Z used to work for Aga Khan and she recognized their vehicle parked way below us at one of the lakes. She even spotted the three of them on a slab of limestone that was a speck to my eyes.
Before I get out of the car back in Bamyian, I say a silent prayer that when I thank them, they will know how much this has meant to me.
F: Why can’t all Afghans be like the people of Bamyian.
When I tell her about my student’s reaction to Homebody Kabul and his support of stoning adulterers, she reminds me that the US electrocutes people.
To be continued
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