104. The Bukhari

I have such a love hate relationship with the Bukhari. It keeps trying to kill me.  For those of you who don't know what a bukhari here is my very formal description of it:

"Bukharis are locally made from tin and are used in a majority of Afghan and many expatriate homes. They consist of a wide cylindrical fire-chamber at the base in which wood is burned and a narrower cylinder on the top that helps in heating the room and acts as a chimney. Bukharis can also be fueled by sawdust, coal, diesel, or kerosene.  Every family chooses which option depending on their financial status.  They can also double as water heaters."

The winters in Kabul are frigid and the homes have no insulation.  So keeping warm is near impossible.  Every year around November, I dig out my bukhari's from storage or buy new ones and go through the ordeal of hiring someone to buy me a winter's worth of wood.  Setting these things up are a nightmare.  I usually try to remain away from the house, when it's happening.  

I usually have one set up in my living room, one in the bedroom and one in the bathroom.  Now, I have to be honest, this whole ritual is both comforting (knowing that I won't freeze to death) and nerve wracking because my fighting season with the Bukhari begins.  I often to go people's homes and see how clean and organized and well lit their bukhari's are and I find myself wondering why am I the only one who has to battle for survival with it.  My bukhari's have burned my clothes, my skin, have toppled over, have dismantled from the vent and fallen on my guests, and have exploded. 

When it's not trying to kill me or destroy my home, just getting it going is an uphill battle. Every evening when I come home from work.  My "khala" (housekeeper/superwoman) stacks the wood just right with equal parts wood and kindling inside the bukhari and fills a metal bowl with extra wood and starter fluid which she leaves next to it along with matches and some newspaper so all I have to do is pour in some starter fluid, light the paper and drop it through the top of the bukhari to start the whole mechanism.  And from the times I have seen her and others do it, that's really all there is to it.  But, not with me.  No sir.  That would just be too easy.  My normal winter evening routine consists of me lighting no fewer than 14 matches, burning half of the days newspapers, pouring half a bottle of lighter fluid into the bukhari, burning myself at least 5 times, dropping F bombs, yelling at the bukhari, having melt downs that included very unattractive sobbing sessions about the misery called my life and finally calling a friend/neighbor who comes over and lights it for me.  Cleaning this monster is a whole other ordeal that involved multiple people removing the long pipe from the wall vent that sends the smoke out through the chimney.  It's a very messy process that leaves permanent black sud marks on walls and on the carpet.  Then there are the times, when they actually explode causing my living room to look like the aftermath of a suicide attack. 

But I must say, that once it gets going, the warmth that it gives off feels like I am being hugged by everyone I love simultaneously.  The sound of the wood crackling is intoxicating.  The closeness and bond that it creates among those who sit around it eating bowls of jalghozas (pine nuts) and drinking tea is unbreakable.  You can never hate anyone who sites around a bukhari with you.  I place a pot of water to boil on the water in the bathroom and throw in camomile tea bags to create a serenity spa like ambiance.  Winters in Kabul are miserable.  But as long as it doesn't kill me, the bukhari is the most memorable and magical part of winter in Afghanistan.