IRIS 2

Nilofar and I sit, "what was your rank in Argyll and Sutherland, Iris?"
"Master Corporal."
She smiles crookedly, "how many years?"
"Twenty, I'm a pensioner."
"So why not a higher rank?"
I blush, "technician, like electronic gizmos. Don't do well with people."
"You're gonna learn fast."
"You think I'll be ok, Nilofar?"
"Any advice, any time, just ask, I'm your friend."
CO comes over, "Lt Ryley, Nilofar will be assigned as your language instructor. So get used to seeing her all day, every day."
I nod.
"Now for a personal question, answer or not as you see fit. Ever been diagnosed with autism?"
I blush fiercely.
She smiles gently, "look at the bright side. By the time you get good at tutoring English, you'll make progress on that. Now you took a big risk, to help save Nilofar. Those Gardai patrols are pretty trigger-happy, would have happily shot both of you. So I'm recommending you for the Award of Merit. Anyway, hang out with us awhile, you might actually get to like us."

Nilofar and I do the routine, prior to patrol, look at map, check jeep, supplies.
The she walks me to BOQ. I enter, planning to go to bed.
There's a crowd in the common room. A Lt calls out, "forget it, walls are paper-thin here, never sleep. Join us. Gotta saying, when God made time, he made lots of it."
"Exactly what they say in Ireland."
"Any new person here, we wanna know her tastes in literature. So, what's the best book you've ever read in your whole life?"
"A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth."
Now the place is bedlam. Almost everyone has read it, and wants to talk. After about an hour, people are tired, ready to turn in. One says in mock serious tone, "new girl, hope you've read more than one book." Draws a laugh.

As I climb aboard with Nilofar next morning I casually ask, "so what happens if we see say 1,000 South Africans landing in an invasion? Expected to fight them with these popguns?"
"No, we only report back to the French. We're their eyes, not their soldiers."
The suspicion grows. Take the wonders of modern satellite surveillance, the French don't really need this patrol. Heavens, picture resolution is so good you can tell if eggs are fried or scrambled.
So this is possibly a charitable gesture, so they can believe they're partly earning the aid money. Still, think I'll tell a soul that, spoil their fun? And where would that leave me? Being a 5 day a week English instructor. Oy!
We stop often, her brewing tea on a single-burner kero stove, me scanning cliffs and ocean with binoculars.
"Iris," she grins, "here only 2 things aren't in shortage, tea and time to talk about life."
"Sounds exactly like County Clare."
"Ah ha, see you'll fit in ok after all."
It's a magnificent day, Irish style. Bit of a chill breeze, lotsa fresh ocean air. No surprise, it's almost as far south of the equator as Ireland is north.
Stupendous views, magnificent gray ocean, stunning cliffs, moonscape so ugly it's actually beautiful.
Feels good to be alive. To have a good friend, a good NCO along.
We sit up by moonlight, talk long into the night.
I'm dreading going back, facing the English instruction and I admit this to her.
"Got it all wrong, Iris. See I'm your Dari instructor, but also your friend. Your students, soon be your friends too."

We're back at the mess, when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
CO, "we have a weekly tradition. Draw an officer's name. Lucky winner does the poetry reading."
I nod.
"So there's 2 poems, one in Dari, one in English. Which one?"
"Me?"
"Lt Ryley, you seem to have a hearing problem. Yes you. I assume the English one."
"Well yes."
She hands it over.
I raise an eyebrow, "The Cremation of Sam McGee?"
"Perfect sort of poem for an Irishwoman. I'm sure you can give it more ring than the rest here."
"It's not Irish, it's Canadian, the poem."
"Lt that is one collosally stupid statement. There are fifth-generation Irish-Canadians who feel more Irish than Canadian."
I'm surprised they applaud, probably just being polite.

Lounging in the BOQ common room after, a Lt asks, "so how was patrol?"
I'm still halfway high from all the fresh air, face glowing from the wind. "When I get out there, realize I made a mistake, retiring early, should have stayed a few more years."
"So why did you retire early?"
"I'd just finished my 20 years when my father died. Inherited the house. Leave it vacant a few years, it'd fall to wrack and ruin."
"So how did retirement work out?"
"Lousy. Only one person left I knew from school. Rest dead or moved away. And he was the local bootlegger."
"Yeah I hear you. I've tried going home on vacation. No one left. So Iris, wanna know the real reason your sister officers simply accept you."
"I'm all ears."
"We're up to our eyeballs in paper. No one wants to waste time gallivanting in a jeep. That's why the CO stuck you with it and why the girls are so happy to see you here."
Drily I reply, "and once I learn written Dari, I too will discover the joy of paper?"
"Three things never in shortage here, Iris. Tea, time for conversation, and red tape."
"Takes me back. Some things are the same, everywhere in the world."

Next morning, my sidekick and I are in the CO's office, breaking the roster of members up into manageable groups of approximately equal English ability. Day after, I'm doing workbooks.
Then it's the weekend. So what do people do here? Nilofar and I join a group of about 30, packing picnic lunches and library books.

Now during all this dread of teaching, one vision had been central to it. I'm all alone, facing them. Don't know where I got the silly idea.
So what is Nilofar to me? NCO, driver, friend, translator, Dari instructor, cultural advisor.
So how would I explain things to lower-level students without her help?
She looks at me odd. "You actually believed that? Chill. I'm here with you, every minute. It'll be ok, you'll see."
It's slow-moving, with everything being translated, but I learn as I go, picking up Dari equivalents. By lunchtime, I'm actually enjoying it, just a bit.
Nilofar and I sit with a large raucous group at lunchtime.
Tap on my shoulder, CO waves me a bit away, "by now, I'm sure you've heard a dozen times how Afghan women consider themselves the roughest, toughest most no-nonsense women on the planet."
Drily, "it's come to my attention."
"There are certain advantages to that. When they say something nice, you know they aren't just being polite. Dozen comments you're doing a good job, no one trashing you. Keep up the good work."
"I'm sure most of the credit belongs to my very able assistant."
"I like that, loyalty to one's NCO. So I'll tell her too."
As Nilofar sits back down, she shrugs, "so what on earth were you worried about Iris? You heard the CO."

As Nilofar sees to the door of BOQ, Wahida rolls her eyes, "you must be tired of her. If my NCO followed me like that, I'd commit homicide in a week."
"Truth is I like her."
"So how's English going?"
"Very impressed, your members are hard-working students."
"Curious one you are. Twenty years in a well-paid army, where it's live it up. You come here, totally by accident. They haven't even paid you a rupee yet. Despite all that, despite patrolling in a 50-year-old jeep and watching 20-year-old movies, you actually like the place. Anyone else that happened to, be screaming to the Irish Embassy, the British High Commission, the UN and Santa Claus. Why not you?"
"Told you already. No friends left back in Ireland. Here, least I got."
She laughs, "tell me, suppose the reading group would mind if I joined them?"
"I'll ask Nilofar."

Nilofar looks at me strange, "she is one big doper. Can't imagine her reading. Still, wants to try, that's ok."
Drily, "maybe she ran out of dope money."
"Not her, Iris. She's rich."
"Rich?"
"Made big trouble for her family. Father sends her money, long as she stays in the organization, never goes home on leave."
I chuckle, "cool, remittance woman. Talk about equality."

Now that my intial angst is gone, I have more energy to observe. It's like I don't really exist as a person in my own right. Only relevant in that I'm a possession of Nilofar. Far-fetched? Don't think so. The looks say it's like I'm the prize Nilofar brought back from the war.

I take a seat in BOQ. Wahida grins, "so forgotten how fun it is to read. Book's got me hooked. Must be the difference between western and Indian fiction. See those westerners want everything distilled down. Indian author, conversational tone, more fun."
"I agree, always preferred Indian novels."
"Funny thing, been watching you like a hawk from Day One. Now I've had courses on peer counselling issues. You, match pretty much every sympton on the list for Asperger Syndrome, variant of autism."
I blush.
"So that's your secret. People with Asperger are almost always non-racial. Since you don't send out bad vibes, you don't get em back. 99% of white westerners would have riled everyone up by now. Pushy, arrogant. Yet you, laid back, low-key."

Pay parade. It's a jovial line. Wahida has clued me in, must argue or you get no respect.
Clerk draws a breath, "base pay, bottom increment, 1,000 rupees a month."
"Why bottom increment? Got 20 years experience."
She checks with the Finance Officer, who assures me only time here counts.