I want to start out by saying I know cold. I have lived in Siberia for two years and have seen my share of -53 degrees days. However, not even a stint in a Soviet gulag could prepare me for the cold I now have to endure in Kabul, without the warmth of a coal-burning electrical plant to fire my radiators in the depth of the Central Asian night.

A lot of people assume that Afghanistan is a warm place, that it is mostly desert and that it rarely dips below 80 degrees. For those people I have two words: Altitude, baby. Kabul sets in the Hindu Kush mountain range and the capital is about 4800 feet above sea level. Its location between hell and the devil’s anus means that summers are long, dry and hot and winters are snowy, cold, and also long.

Now, I know that everyone bitches and complains about cold weather. Even in Atlanta, I have known people to work themselves up over 50 degrees during the winter. However, these people have access to central heating and constant electricity. Here in Afghanistan, there is no electricity. Sure, during the summer there is central power almost 12 hours a day, but in the winter, you are lucky to get six hours every two days. Central heating is unheard of. That heat pump you’ve got out back or that sputtering radiator in the kitchen--Afghanistan has not seen technology like that since General Najibullah was around.

In order to keep warm, Afghans (and white folk like me) use bukhari. These are little stoves with chimneys that feed into the wall. Generally, these are diesel or wood burning and need to be refueled every few hours. They heat only one small area, so running to the bathroom at night results in a severe and immediate drop in body temperature.

Bukhari. My carbon footprint is bigger than yours!

But there is another, more sinister effect of the cold: frozen pipes. Here there is no central water system, no sewage system: wells are the name of the game. White folk (like me) generally have a well in the yard and an electric pump that forces water into a tank on top of the house. Most Afghans in the capital have this system too, but outside of Kabul most people carry water in buckets to their houses—all year. When you have a tank, the miracle of gravity brings this water to your sink, shower and toilet. Frozen pipes prevent this water from reaching your sink, shower and toilet, resulting in dirty (frozen) dishes, unwashed bodies and solid streams of urine to greet you in the morning.

This past weekend, my husband and I had the trifecta of cold-related problems: no electricity, frozen generator and frozen pipes. On Friday, we were surprised when our generator was frozen solid, so we spent the evening baking brownies by candlelight and drinking copious amounts of contraband alcohol. Saturday was even more surprising because when the generator finally started, we discovered our pipes were frozen. Forced to shower at my husband’s office on Sunday before work because we had NO water (Muslim workweek is Sunday-Thursday), I had no idea I was in for the greatest surprise of all: frozen pipes at work. Now, it is one thing to have to face your own frozen pee in the morning, but it is a whole ‘nother issue to have to stare down the excreta of your fellow employees. Plus, I had my period.

Why am I telling you this? Because I don’t want to forget how shitty (no pun intended) living in this country can be. I don’t want to think for a minute that things were OK here and not really that bad and that I could do it again. You might read articles about Afghanistan that are romantic and poetic about the country, but when it gets cold, all bets are off. The beauty is gone and all you are left with is exhaust from a diesel heater and yellow snow. I have no idea how people live here in mud brick buildings with one room and no toilet or running water. I have no idea how they sleep at night with one thin blanket and go to work wearing a patu and no coat. No idea. White folk (like me) just can’t.