He drives me crazy

First, regarding my health--I'm doing fine but just struggling with this very icky breakout of cold sores on my lips! I assume because of my reduced immune response... Now, a (perhaps too long) story: As I believe I have mentioned earlier, my favorite staff member, our driver W, was replaced while Mary and I were back in the states. I’m not sure what the deal was, but I think it had something to do with driving a bit too fast and not speaking much English. Anyway, his replacement has proven to be quite a character…and not really in a good way. N speaks some English—apparently just enough to complain, make you feel uncomfortable, and ask you if you can find him a job. He doesn’t fit in with the rest of the staff at all and, though I can’t understand Dari, he seems to be making fun of them a lot. I know he tried to once or twice with me in English, but sorry dog—A is my boy, A is my boy, I’m not about to be making fun of them! And his incompetence already has a body count. The convoy overtake episode had an employment consequence, but not for N, for W the guard sitting in the passenger seat talking to (and supposedly distracting) him. I don't know how they will punish the sandwiches he eats while driving. This is actually a very interesting managerial study in HR, because I think this guy is toxic and will negatively affect the operation of the entire office. I just wonder if I should make a stink about it or let it go, because I have already been agitating about other security issues and don’t want to end up being “that guy.” I did mention a few things about it to R the other day (while feverish and waiting in the doctor’s office for over two hours—more on this later). And I think the result is N is now avoiding me. Which I hate to say for me is an improvement. I don’t think he’s worked as a driver before—he mentioned that he and his family have a clothing shop or something like that. Since the US Army convoy episode, we’ve had a few other incidents. Fore instance, we rubbed up against another car (at 1 mile an hour or something—harmless), which is something that never happened with W behind the wheel. But Thursday evening I reached a breaking point where I really decided I didn’t like this guy. Mary and I decided to go to an Indian restaurant called Delhi Darbar—we’d been there last time around and the food was excellent. I love Indian food. I think we even got the same stuff again—chicken tikka masala, muttar paneer or saag paneer (the spinach one), lamb rogan josh—but that’s not the real story. We left to go to the restaurant and N assured us that he had been there before and knew where it was. So we’re rolling along and the trip is taking a bit longer than it did before—this place was close. “Hey, are you sure you know where you’re going, N?” “Yes, of course, I have been there many times before,” he assured us as we crawled along at 5 miles an hour through an unlit and extremely uneven road that I knew I didn’t recognize from last time. “I think maybe it moved since you were there before,” I offered as we seemed to draw near a dead end. “No, it’s…I…” and N turns off the mini-van, gets out, and walks over to a tiny shop to ask for directions. “Wazir Akbar Khan, Street 2,” or something to that effect he said as he got back in the car, indicating someone had told him the address, and we started making our way back out of this deeply cratered street, rocking back and forth as Najib slowly negotiated the potholes. We eventually pass (again) Sufi restaurant, an Afghan place Mary and I have been to before. N stops the minivan again and goes in to ask for directions. Mary and I briefly consider just staying here to eat, but since he has the address, we decide to stick with it. “OK, it has moved…in the last ten days…the restaurant, it used to be here, but now it is on another street…in the last ten days they moved,” N explained as he got back in the minivan. We’d been to Delhi Darbar over a month ago. We roll on, confident in the knowledge that we have the address! Until…we come to a traffic circle and pull off to the right and N rolls his window down to ask the guys selling phone cards on the street about the restaurant. I’m about to lose my cool at this point, “Why don’t we call D for directions, I’m calling D,” I say. “Yeah, yeah, I call him right now,” as he pulls out his cell phone. But at the same time, he gets out of the minivan—engine running, at the side of a moderately busy traffic circle—and walks over to the shop on the corner to ask for more directions. I’m thinking, the guy doesn’t want to get busted by D, so he’s pretending to call him while asking directions at that shop. I turn to Mary to complain about this guy and she can only say something to the affect of, “I’m too furious to talk right now.” After a minute, he comes back and hands me his cell phone, it’s D. “What’s going on?” D asks. Who knows what N has told him about the crazy Americans who can’t decide where they want to go, but we resolve to call R for directions to the place. Again, we move on and I can tell we’re on the right track. We pass the place—in fact, we passed in right out of the blocks a while ago, but the lighting is very different now that winter is over. The signs around the Delhi Darbar’s are brighter, making its sign less noticeable. We’re on a one-way street, so we only need pull over to the right and park, then cross the street to go into the restaurant. No, we continue crawling along until finally, N makes a U turn and we head back up the street the wrong way, parking on the right side in front of the restaurant. But we’re there, and I can hardly wait to debrief with Mary and complain over a beer and great Indian food. Story over, right? “So, N, will you wait for us here, or should we give you a call when we’re ready?” “What?” “Are you going to wait for us here, or will we call you when we are done eating?” “Can I just come in with you?” “…*blink*…uhhhhh, yeah…I guess so…” This is uncharted driver territory. W either waited in the car or went back to the office when we went out. Afghans are routinely denied entrance to Western places that served alcohol, what would happen here? Well, we walked in social discomfort to the restaurant, went in, and the place was empty. So Mary and I sat down at a table. N sat down at a different table, sort of giving off this sad puppy-dog vibe. It worked like a charm—“N, why don’t you come sit over here with us.” What was going on? Was he going to eat with us? Are we always going to have to buy dinner for N if we want to go out for dinner? Initially, N declined offers of water, appetizer…eventually, though, he poured himself water and we ordered enough food for three. We tried to be polite and put everything in the center of the table for him to reach, but he kept declining offers of food. Periodically N would jump up and go outside, but once he got up and went into what appeared to be the kitchen area, then returned. Our main dishes arrived and we offered them to N, again he declined, but this time saying, “I have ordered steak and rice.” OK, I’m thinking, it would clearly be downright rude for me to call him on this and ask for money, but there’s some principle being violated here and I’m really feeling offended. Well, Mary and I carry on with our benign conversation (we wanted to complain about you!!!) when N’s order finally arrives. “What is this?” N asks, holding a dish of steamed white rice. “Steak with rice.” “No, this is not right, I don’t want this…I want kabuli!” “This is an Indian restaurant, we don’t serve kabuli here!” “All right, take it away,” N muttered with a wave of his hand and pushed the rice back at the waiter. This was the most socially uncomfortable meal I have ever had. As soon as he finished, N jumped up and went outside, safely out of reach of the battle for the bill, where he enjoyed some tea (according to the check, anyway)…And we were left with extra food since we’d ordered for three…what a mess. More to come: Thursday night at the Embassy compound Friday at US Army Camp Phoenix Saturday’s first exam for the students Dengue Fever!