An Afghan Shura and a Night Ride Home

Happy Easter and good morning.

The weather in East Anglia is overcast and raw. The weatherman promised sunny skies but he lies. The best news so far today is an account from Kelley of her day yesterday attending a shura in a place called Jaji some distance from her post in Afghanistan. A shura is a council of chief men at which collective decisions are made for the community, generally speaking. Or, as in the way she describes here, the kind of forum where pleasantries are exchanged, pro forma.

Above is a picture of the event.

 Here's another.

The US group accompanied the deputy provincial governor, a stand-up guy and hard charger, on a tour of the area, the wife reports. Her boss, another commander and the civilian reps from the State Department and ag development team, among others, represented the US. The terrain was surprisingly like northern New Mexico, again, this time even more reminiscent of the Land of Enchantment than the territory around Gardez, she explains, right down to the aroma of pinon in the air. They could have been standing behind the Santa Fe Opera at Tesuque and taking in the view over the hills to the west.

At the shura, 11 local top men rose to give their prepared speeches, then in a ceremony afterward presented their important guests, including the Americans, with gifts, namely elaborate, ceremonial turbans of better quality than the usual daily wear for the men and what she described as a chador of like quality for the women. Here's a photo.

The entire assembly then retired to the dining area, where a banquet was served Afghan style. A plastic tablecloth was spread on the floor and the various dishes heaped onto it. Diners seated themselves on the floor around the plastic, served themselves and ate with their hands. No utensils were provided. "I wasn't really sure how to eat a thing of rice," she said, then watched as the Afghans simply grabbed a handful and balled it up loosely.

An Afghan man next to her grabbed two chunks of fatty meat and plonked them down in front of her with the admonition, "Eat! Eat!" Pretty appetizing.

Bad weather had descended and so their airlift away from the place was delayed until early in the morning. The Blackhawk that took them away cruised through darkness, not necessarily hugging the terrain but not flying high either. Sawtooth mountain peaks were silhouetted against the night sky and moonlight illuminated rivers below into luminescent ribbons.

The whole experience was "just about the coolest 24 hours I've ever had," she said by phone this morning. I expect photos soon.

Bug Hunt!

Welcome to another installment of "Bug Hunt! The Unyielding Quest to Photograph All the Neighborhood House Cats." Saturday's search yielded two animals, a nice take for an hour's work. A street another block from here I've dubbed Bug Alley because two or three of the animals live in the area. This one I found on the way through there on my way to the Saturday market. She was huddled in the corner of a small yard, the same yard where I found another animal an hour later.

I call this one Ditch Cat because he's sometimes hanging out in a small draining ditch that runs along the property lines. Turns out he's kind of old and crotchety, but he's a fine looking animal. He actually lives at this property, from what I can tell.

At the time I shot this photo, someone's 2-year-old son had wandered away from the parents up the street and was standing in the neighboring driveway. He was dressed in a yellow child's plastic fireman's helmet and a red cape. He was holding a plastic Star Wars light saber and with it was poking and prodding another cat, one I call Young Gray, whom I know from the neighborhood. I would have taken a photo of that, but what kind of creep photographs kids on the street?

More Locals

Add to the list already covered the yin and yang of central Ely watering holes, The Lamb and The Minster. The Lamb is actually a hotel and dining room with a small pub on the ground floor corner, with windows from which to watch the passersby. The Lamb is an ancient place and befitting its place not just in history but on the town's high street, its atmosphere is more polite and serene than its earthy neighbor across the street.

The Lamb is like the faculty lounge of local pubs. Tidy folks meet there to have quiet conversations over a pint or to dine. I've taken the Sunday paper in there and pored over it, for example.

The Minster, on the other hand, is probably one of the busiest and popular pubs in town. It's centrally located between the bank and the cathedral, so foot traffic is high, just as it is for The Lamb. Only The Minster is a much more relaxed, I hesitate to say seedy, but ordinary place. I once overheard a matron in The Lamb decry the sort of folks who habituate The Minster.

A TV is always on in The Minster, and big football matches (soccer to you Yanks) always draw a crowd. Same for rugby. The fare at The Minster is tolerable; I'll vouch for the fish and chips there, which are second only to the Petrou Bros. up the street on the market square. Sunday most pubs offer only a menu of roasts -- beef, pork or lamb -- along with steamed veg and potatoes. It's kind of a Sunday tradition and from what I can see it's not unusual to stop off after church for dinner at the pub.

The clouds have parted enough for a bike ride, so I'm outta here.