the rising tide of stink
There is something horrendously foul and odiferous about the odour of the local populous. It’s not like the smell of diary products on sweaty Americans, seaweed on Japanese, curry on Indians, or corn mealies on someone from Swaziland.
No, this has nothing to do with over consumption of one particularly delightful food item.
Instead, it is the stench of rancid perspiration that has been left to rot in the Afghan sun; annihilating any weaker aroma that surrounds. Even the smell of roasted coffee cannot permeate this peculiarly Afghan reek; nor can the pungent fumes of blue cheese over ride – and think, dear reader, if blue cheese smells better than Afghan sweat, that’s saying something about… Afghan sweat.
I do not mean to point the finger in racial distinction; this isn’t about race. It’s about no-running-water, never-heard-of-soap, bathe-once-a-year habits that anyone in a god-forsaken backward country that hasn’t progressed since Our Lord Jesus walked the earth, is bound to have. Heck, give me a month in a mud hut in Kandahar and I too would have the caustic tang of stale urine seeping from my armpits.
Take now, my office: a small cubicle of around 3m x 3m. As the IT technician approaches, I can smell his imminent arrival, even though he has approximately 150m to go. An opaque yellow cloud enfolds him, announcing his journey; warning me to turn the aircon on max, open all the windows and keep the door as open as a prostitute’s legs.
Alas, despite my measures to lessen the whiff, I am now left sitting in a septic tank even though he has been gone three hours thus. His gag-inducing body odour had a fart-like quality that is alarmingly reminiscent of the days my brother pinned me down, sat on my face and let one rip. I digress… I now must cope with the sad truth that this inside-of-the-bowel smell has been absorbed into the walls and I am left to gasp and wheeze my way to the end of the day.
As for women, they smell too but have the beauty of the burqa to disguise; the blue sheet forms a wall to quash the rising tide of stink but even if you do smell, no one knows who you are so who cares?
And why the hey nonny nonny worry about being kidnapped or blown up when in fact the biggest threat to my life is the inhalation of male stench? I may have a bullet-proof burqa but it cannot protect me against this chiefest of evils.
No, this has nothing to do with over consumption of one particularly delightful food item.
Instead, it is the stench of rancid perspiration that has been left to rot in the Afghan sun; annihilating any weaker aroma that surrounds. Even the smell of roasted coffee cannot permeate this peculiarly Afghan reek; nor can the pungent fumes of blue cheese over ride – and think, dear reader, if blue cheese smells better than Afghan sweat, that’s saying something about… Afghan sweat.
I do not mean to point the finger in racial distinction; this isn’t about race. It’s about no-running-water, never-heard-of-soap, bathe-once-a-year habits that anyone in a god-forsaken backward country that hasn’t progressed since Our Lord Jesus walked the earth, is bound to have. Heck, give me a month in a mud hut in Kandahar and I too would have the caustic tang of stale urine seeping from my armpits.
Take now, my office: a small cubicle of around 3m x 3m. As the IT technician approaches, I can smell his imminent arrival, even though he has approximately 150m to go. An opaque yellow cloud enfolds him, announcing his journey; warning me to turn the aircon on max, open all the windows and keep the door as open as a prostitute’s legs.
Alas, despite my measures to lessen the whiff, I am now left sitting in a septic tank even though he has been gone three hours thus. His gag-inducing body odour had a fart-like quality that is alarmingly reminiscent of the days my brother pinned me down, sat on my face and let one rip. I digress… I now must cope with the sad truth that this inside-of-the-bowel smell has been absorbed into the walls and I am left to gasp and wheeze my way to the end of the day.
As for women, they smell too but have the beauty of the burqa to disguise; the blue sheet forms a wall to quash the rising tide of stink but even if you do smell, no one knows who you are so who cares?
And why the hey nonny nonny worry about being kidnapped or blown up when in fact the biggest threat to my life is the inhalation of male stench? I may have a bullet-proof burqa but it cannot protect me against this chiefest of evils.
posted by Emira Shafiqa at 4:33 pm
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