Afghan Journal: Baksheesh

Baksheesh, noun, (in parts of Asia) a small sum of money given as alms, a tip, a bribe. ORIGIN based on Persian ba k sis, from ba k sidan, “give.”

     Want to hear something about the new Afghanistan? First, you have to know a little about the old Afghanistan, and the word is, “baksheesh.” And first, baksheesh must be considered in all of its meanings: “alms, a tip, a bribe.”

Alms: Afghanistan ranks among the poorest countries on earth. According to the CIA World Factbook, 53% of Afghans are below the poverty line, there is 40% unemployment, and in 2007, per capita GDP was $1,490, USD. But the Western traveler needs few of these factoids to intuitively sense the ugly truth they represent. On crowded streets in Kabul, beggars, many of which are women garbed head-to-toe in faded and filthy blue burkhas, crowd the “rich” Westerner, extending gnarled, sometimes scabbed hands, pleading for baksheesh. Old men in rags bearing semi-conscious children on their backs, or amputees from wars past, and men unable to rise from the street also ask for alms. Appearance alone suggests that there are few fraudsters among these indigent. The price of a salved conscience is cheap: 10 or 20 Afghanis earns words translated as “thank you” or “Allah bless you.” Gratitude can be had for between 20 and 40 cents, USD. This is one meaning of baksheesh.

Tips: Few Westerners are sufficiently fluent in Afghanistan’s official languages Dari and Pashto or wise enough in this nation’s cultural byways to survive very long without a local “guide,” referred to by Britons as a “fixer” and by Coalition military as “‘terps,” short for “interpreter.” These men–they are always men–not only translate but also drive, offer directions, and advise on a host of other matters: identifying landmarks, the character of neighborhoods, whom to tip and how much, proper social behavior for salutations, meals, or negotiating some purchase, and which office of which bank, airline, or government agency is likely to be the most effective at dispensing the requested service. Invariably, one comes to know these men–their personal stories and reduced circumstances, their family lives, aspirations and terrors. They are all young, usually 20-somethings; they all work to support extended families, often racked by early death from natural causes or by constant war. Even if one assumes some embellishment here, the cars they drive or borrow tell their own stories–always shabby, often assembled from pieces of other cars, almost always decorated with plastic flowers, beads, oriental carpets, colorful decals and other means of importing beauty to that which is not beautiful. Here one tips, and generously–$50, $100, $150 or more, anything to help relieve a burden that in truth will only be relieved when the Afghan economy grows, university education becomes widespread, and violence or its threat, diminishes. Afghans have been at war for 30 years, and it is in the faces and prospects of its young that one can understand that “lost generation” means something more here than a 1920s literary conceit. If baksheesh is understood as a tip, then the traveler is simply adding his mite to what the international community has been doing on a vastly larger scale, pouring money into this nation in exchange for its aspirations towards stability, a semblance of democratic government, and of self-interest to the donors, denying the Taliban the use of Afghan soil to host attacks against the West.

Bribes. Finally, there is the ordinary meaning of baksheesh: a bribe. Although a daily occurrence for many Afghans, the casual Western traveler rarely experiences this form of humiliation. It really amounts to paying officials to perform duties that they are already legally obligated to provide. It is corruption, petty tyranny, a self-inflicted economic inefficiency on a nation that needs every efficiency it can manage. Baksheesh is demoralizing, undercuts the rule of law, and is so widespread, that whenever area experts are questioned about Afghanistan’s most pressing problems, the word “corruption” inevitably takes its place along with poppy production, the Taliban, and a war-devastated economy. 

This Westerner encountered baksheesh at the Kabul International Airport, a place where travelers from any land can partake of the rotten dish served daily elsewhere in-country. The Afghan policeman inspecting my bags extracted a pouch of interesting but inexpensive native jewelry. Holding it aloft, he whispered, “You wish to take?” He bowed his head in my direction and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Afghanis, please.” Fifty crumpled Afghanis pressed into his eager palm earned a pass. It was only the first installment of the unofficial “exit tax.”

Next I found myself standing in a long line at the ticket counter. Clearly I bore the mark of an easy mark because in an instant, another Afghan cop sidled up to me and asked, “Seat?” When I nodded, he took my arm and rushed me to head of the line, doubtless to everyone else’s resentment. “Window or aisle?” he asked. When I stated my preference and the seat assigned, he walked me to the next checkpoint–but not before extracting 50 Afghanis.

I encountered my last toll booth on the road to the airplane at passport control. The official examining my papers found certain “irregularities.” He was brusque, unyielding, adamant; I danced, spun, argued, and flattered. It was all for naught. He commanded me to “wait over there,” pointing to a corner of the room that must have been reserved for dunces. Then he disappeared. As I waited, the first boarding call for my flight was announced. Then the second call. Finally came the last boarding call, and still the official had not returned.

At last he came back, but now his scowl had been replaced by a smile. “All is OK,” he said, and motioned me towards the stairs leading down to the tarmac. I thanked him and scurried down the steps, hoping to make the flight. But at the bottom of the steps a young police officer suddenly stepped between me and the door. His English was impeccable. “Sir,” he began almost apologetically. “I must ask that you help us for all this trouble you have caused,” he said. By now I knew what was coming next. I reached into my pocket for a wad of Afghanis. But he was far ahead of me. “No, sir,” he objected, “American dollars, please.” I gave him a C-note and was surprised to see him still shaking his head. “No, sir,” he repeated politely, “there were several people involved here. There were certain expenses.” I looked over his shoulder and saw that flight workers had begun to crowd around the wheeled ramp, ready to roll it from the plane.

Fortunately, General Grant who had saved the Union also managed to get me on the flight. As I ran to the plane, it was puny consolation to think that had he asked me for every cent I had, I would have cheerfully forked them over.

I was able to dine out on this story with family and friends for at least several days after my return. But the grim reality masked by this tale is that for Afghans, there is no “exit tax” back to the life and opportunities available in the West. There is only baksheesh, and the resentments that come with paying it. That this is not simply a gullible Westerner’s tale is evidenced by the fact that every ‘terp and Afghan I spoke to during my time in-country would inevitably discuss corruptions and its pains, of how crooked cops and bureaucrats would extort pennies from the penniless for the daily necessities of life.

No country can be summarized in a word. But for Afghanistan, much can be learned from one word in all its multiform meanings and baksheesh is such a word.