Spanish girl in Afghanistan

Mum bought a book for me. In Christmas and birthdays she is generally more concerned about my supply of panties, so this is news.

The book is a real story about a Spanish girl that gets trapped in Afghanistan with her Afghan husband, who she met in London. There is a word that explains very well what the book makes you feel: idiot, idiot, idiotic girl.

Actually, the book is supposed to be a beautiful love story. She is not willing to leave Afghanistan without her husband, and she even had to be rescued twice, because she came back to him after the first time. Idiot…

I’m sure this is exactly what my mum had in mind. Of course, sadly, now I know this is the way she feels about me: she feels I’m an idiot and this is her subtle way to tell it to me.

But she is not right, at least not completely. For starters, Martin and I are way more careful when we travel. This girl crossed the border of Afghanistan leaving all her money and documentation in the hands of a kid. Idiot… Plus, she gets pregnant twice while being there and we are not even thinking about it… well, more exactly we are waiting for the right moment in the year of the dragon when the moon is in Jupiter and we have loads of money so we can feed caviar every day to our child.

Mum probably thinks I'm more adventurous than I really am, and Czech Republic far more wild than it really is. God bless her imagination. But talking about imagination, wasn’t that was fairy tales were all about? Princes risking their lives once and once again for princesses trapped with some evil dragon or Taliban. When did we stop dreaming about it? When did the prince start thinking twice? “As far as I’m concerned if you silly enough to get stuck in Afghanistan, you can rescue yourself. Or call your mum”

An Infectious Disease

We look cute together. He is tall, skinny and blue eyed. The kind that grows a little rounded belly at thirty. I have a funny Spanish accent that sounds even funnier in Czech. It’s exotic to be an international couple. It’s cool and it’s definitely in right now, but like other international couples I know, we are a bit crippled.

It is nothing too serious. It’s like a chronic illness. In theory you can live forever, but let’s face it, your chances are lower than those of other healthy people. Only, unlike an illness, you can get rid of your partner and look for somebody more statistically suitable, some relationship with higher life expectancy, something that would be blessed by Hindu parents with high quality standards.

You could, if only it was so easy. Once the parasite gets inside you it’s rather hard to get rid of it. It’s not only about the shortage of blue eyed guys in Spain, but the kick you get from having by your side such a different point of view, and I do not mean somebody that supports Barca instead of Madrid, but somebody that queued for bananas during communism. I’m talking adventure; I’m talking the kind of inspiration that compels you to write a post comparing your relationship with an infectious disease.

It’s not easy at times. It’s tough when you need to use Google translator as a relationship aid. But it is also fun; it is a nasty road trip, with bumps and camels in the middle of the way. And my job is not that interesting. I often need that kind of kick.

Communication Problems

When Martin and I met in Holland, language wasn’t a problem. It was a toy to play with.

Martin would say “Dobry den - good morning” and I would repeat “Dobry den”. I would then say “me gustas” and Martin would obediently repeat it. Martin would continue “Jsem nadrezena”, and I would say “what the heck is that?” and he “go figure”.

So I asked the Internet, of course, more concretely the mailing list from the university exchange students, and I obtained several answers from people that didn’t know what nadrezena means but they were happy to translate anything I needed to Tamil, funny guesses from people that tend to read emails after a few drinks, and eventually the correct translation from some Slovak, and a Croatian, and a Polish… Yes, writing “I’m horny” in the internet is quite an ice breaker.

Now it’s more or less six years from that day, and I can’t help but wonder if this story is really meant to work. Wonder if it is really a good idea to go all the way there, and settle down, and buy a house, and bring kids to a world of poor English and two isolated mother tongues. And then I think, hey! That would be a good joke, wouldn’t it? Guess we both have a twisted sense of humor.