A Kiwi in Kabul

KABUL IS a city haunted by its former glories. Scattered with skeletons of bombed buildings and shattered infrastructure, it would almost seem post-apocalyptic if it weren't teeming with life, energy and an unconquerable sense of Afghan pride. It's a bewildering place and potentially highly dangerous, and travellers will need their wits about them from the moment they leave their plane.

It's fair to say most people don't travel here unless they have a good reason. Afghanistan is not set up for tourism, which is a shame, because it's one of the most fascinating and unique destinations in the world.

The closest thing to tourism in Afghanistan's capital is found in the extensive UN and NGO (non-governmental organisations associated with the United Nations) community. But don't expect to see them wandering the streets, taking photos or bartering for rugs. Most expats face tight restrictions on their movements, tighter still after an "incident". It might be safer that way but it results in a pressure-cooker environment.

Much of expat life takes place within gated compounds and couldn't be further from the life of the Afghan drinking alcohol (forbidden to the locals) and ordering in parma ham pizzas (likewise); getting raucously drunk at nightly parties and hoping to beat (or enjoy) the odds of three men to every woman. Many have spouses back home it's known as being "Kabul single".

The only restriction on my movements is my sense of self-preservation but after a few hours within the high walls of my guest house compound, I need to get out. There's an ancient city with a rich history stretched around me and I'm sitting here drinking Heineken. I meet a Nepalese NGO worker also keen to go for a walk. Girish has been stuck in Kabul for three weeks and hasn't so much as wandered 100 metres down the road. He's been confined to the guest house after his work in the provinces as an engineer constructing micro-hydro electric plans was curtailed. Driving to a remote site, a company vehicle following just half-an-hour behind his was stopped by gunmen. Four of his workmates were shot, two were killed.

With stories like these, it's hard to escape the sense that even by walking down the road we are running the gauntlet. On one hand, I know the odds are we'll be fine, but it's hard not to be apprehensive. Despite this, it's a relaxing stroll. That is, until Girish suggests I walk further from the road. I assume it's because of the risk from the Afghan traffic a bewildering mess of old cars, antique bicycles and the constant blaring of horns. But no, Girish reminds me, it's so we're not such an easy target if someone decides to drive a VBIED (vehicle-borne improvised explosive device) into us. My relaxed attitude evaporates like the beads of sweat on my brow.

We walk down a main road, constantly dealing with approaches from young boys trying to sell us whatever they're offering sweets and pre-pay phone cards seem to be popular and beggars, many limbless from decades of

war and living in a country strewn with landmines. The children are persistent, following us down the road, imploring us to buy their wares, eventually reaching some kind of accord when I agree to come "tomorrow". It would be cute, if it wasn't for the fact this is their life they should be at primary school but they're selling chewing gum on the road.

There's another common request, one I'm happier to oblige "aks" means photo, said in the way some Kiwis mangle the word ask. The Afghan men and boys are quite willing and often "aks" to have their photo taken. I know enough not to even sneak a snap of the women who walk by, uniformly shrouded in pale blue burqas.

Every 50 metres someone is brandishing a Kalashnikov. Whether they're guarding a guest house like mine, a store, or are part of the ubiquitous local security forces, they're as alarming as they are reassuring the police frequently stop foreigners on foot and in cars, asking to see paperwork, hoping for bribes.

Earning just $US50 ($64) a month to cover rent four times that, it seems almost appropriate they seek the shortfall from the NGO workers responsible for the exponential rise in housing costs.

Kabul is situated on a mountain plain and can be stifling hot during the day, then freezing at night. As the sun begins to set, the temperature drops noticeably and I suggest to Girish we return to the guest house. I'm getting cold and the prospect of walking home in the dark isn't helping my nerves. At dusk the smog seems to intensify, bathing the streets and the city in an eerie light. The mountains surrounding Kabul act as a trap for dust and pollution, and with diesel generators providing most of the city's power, don't come here expecting clean mountain air.

The next morning I decide to take in the sights and go shopping, and I organise a driver. If the UN workers want to shop, a white Toyota Landcruiser turns up, takes them to a shop, waits outside and takes them home. I'm not afforded such luxury and I'm not sure I'd want it anyway. Armour-plating or not, nothing draws attention like a big white UN Landcruiser. Especially when every other vehicle in Kabul seems to be a Toyota Corolla: You think they're popular in New Zealand? Residents of Kabul are obsessed with the Corolla. The new models are unveiled to rapturous reception. My driver is continually pointing at different models, reciting their year and current value. Like boy racers, the owners paint the words "Toyota" and "Corolla" in large letters on the side.

To find my driver, I call a friend of a friend. He calls a local acquaintance, who calls his brother, who and I'm not making this up calls his cousin, who in turn calls me and tells me he'll pick me up in half an hour. Iman duly shows up in his Corolla and we set off.

With Iman as my guide, I feel as safe as I'm going to. He negotiates checkpoints, rescues me from a brief, unwarranted roadside detention ("he says you need permission to take photos on the street") and ensures I pay a fair price for the various scarves, blankets and hats I buy at the markets. Most importantly, Iman drives through the city streets whose rules I can't even begin to comprehend.

"This is the main street of Kabul," he laughs, as six lanes of traffic are variously held up by people pushing barrows and carts laden with consumables from one side of the road to the other. "Everybody here is crazy!"

The bird market is a narrow alleyway crammed on either side with stalls displaying all your birding needs. In Kabul this is not something to be underestimated. Keeping pigeons is a popular hobby, with people paying good money to build up a flock of birds. The birds are often seen flying in the early evening, one owner pitting his flock against another. Iman later takes me to his home so I can see his flock, a dozen or so birds he keeps in the garden shed.

Competing with the pigeons for airspace in the late afternoon sun are a myriad of home-made kites. Function over form, the highly manoeuvrable designs joust in mid-air, the winner cutting the loser's kite adrift using tar, a string covered in finely ground glass.

But pigeon poaching and kite cutting pale in comparison to the gruesome national sport of buzkashi, where players on horseback fight, whip and generally do whatever it takes to gain control of the "ball", the headless carcass of a goat or small calf.

For lunch we head to Kargha, a lake on the southern outskirts of the city. It's popular at the weekends but it's quiet when we get there, except for a group of youths drinking wine (illegal) and a young man spending time with his girlfriend (immoral). Lunch consists of naan bread, mutton chops and big pieces of sheep fat.

While we eat, a boy polishes our shoes. The sun is shining and the picturesque surroundings of the lake couldn't be further from Kabul. Later I learn that only an hour before we got there, six Italian soldiers were killed by a VBIED nearby.

The vast majority of houses I see in Kabul's old districts are camouflaged on the side of tan-coloured hills, some impossibly high, with the only access by foot or donkey.

Iman smiles as I click off dozens of photos of the houses on the hillside. For him they might be just the houses where the poorer Kabulis live, for me it's a glimpse into an unknowable life.

Later in the day, the palace of Afghanistan's former king is a sight to behold, equally impressive for the skeletal tribute to its former glory as it is powerful reminder of the almost total destruction wrought on this country over the past three decades the Soviets in the 70s and 80s, the Americans much more recently, and every Afghan hungry for power in between.

I wish I could visualise the cosmopolitan Kabul of the 70s but I can't. Almost every significant building is now rubble, almost every tree has been stripped from the city gardens to provide warmth during the long cold winter war years.

But if Kabul proves anything, it's that the human spirit can endure so much and still survive. Throughout the city, stalls spring up in and around shattered buildings. Among the rubble of past and recent history, bustling, thriving markets teem with energy.

Life in Kabul must have been incomprehensibly tough during these past years: invaded and bombed by foreign forces, ruled and terrorised by tyrants within.

Kabul's residents at times must have survived on pride alone and that pride is visible everywhere. At the end of the day we rest and drink chai at Iman's house. Talking to his younger brother, I ask what he intends to do when he finishes university.

His answer is immediate, and firm.

"I want to stay here, in Kabul. I want to help rebuild."

For travel advisories on destinations considered unsafe for New Zealanders, see www.safetravel.govt.nz

 

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