Afghanistan Demystified – All Things Beautiful

10 years of working on Afghanistan and almost 8 years of living in Kabul! ‘How was it?’ It’s a question I am often asked, sometimes with awe but more often with apprehension. It’s a question that brings myriad thoughts and emotions to my mind, as well as a glowing sense of pride and satisfaction. I cannot point to just one aspect that made this journey wonderful, so where do I begin?
     

Afghanistan was an enigma, a distant place somewhere beyond the mountains, and knowledge of it was restricted to what little I had read in school books and newspaper articles. I remember reading the Kabuliwala (an original Bengali short story by the Nobel Prize recipient Rabindranath Tagore), and watching on television the unfortunate bombing of the Buddha statue in Bamyan. When the opportunity of an assignment in Kabul came knocking, the desire to do something different sparked in me. It was a line of profession for which I had neither aspired nor trained for. I was content living and working in my hometown Chennai. But the chance to experience a new culture, to learn new skills, and visit home every 2 months was a lure. So, I found myself sitting in an interview where I was asked questions about the public sector. My answers were mostly in the negative (using the Indian ‘nod’ as many of my colleagues say), but I impressed upon my interviewers that I would learn. Passion is not something I lacked, and maybe it showed. Thus, I made the move from a seemingly normal city to a fragile state in July 2006. In all those years in Chennai when I used to frequent the restaurant ‘Kabul’, I had the remotest idea that one day I will go to live in the REAL Kabul!

I owe my beautiful, and almost poetic existence in Kabul to many - my colleagues, friends, housemates, clients, and to the drivers, facilities and security staff in the office. This is not a token acknowledgement, those who have lived in Kabul know too well it is that spectrum of support system absolutely needed to survive there. The settling in process took no time at all as I had help to carry out the tiniest of tasks, such as even changing a light bulb. I empathized with those who did these tasks as there was no expectation in return except for a genuine tashakor (`thank you` in Dari, the local language). Small change was purely voluntary if one could spare it. Talking of thank you, one of the distinct things about Afghanistan is its way of greeting. It goes on for a full two minutes, exaggerations aside, starting off with salam (greetings), chitor asti? (how are you?), and sehat khoob as? (is your health ok?), before continuing in a long but endearing flurry of niceties that end up completely losing you. In all those years, I never figured out entirely what they said. But I was polite, I smiled and returned the greetings. Another linguistic and cultural peculiarity that stood out was the liberal usage of the term ‘jaan’ (meaning `dear`). The first time a colleague addressed me as ‘Asha jaan’, I cringed. For an Indian, it has a different connotation, being a term of affection reserved only for a romantic partner. But I came to appreciate that Afghans use the term for everything that is cherished. It became part of my vocabulary too. 

I arrived in Kabul at a time when the security situation was, relatively speaking, not bad; I drove around in a soft skin vehicle, shopped at the local grocery store, went to the Butcher street for fresh vegetables, enjoyed Friday dosa brunch at Delhi Durbar, had a long list of go-to restaurants and frequently walked the length of Chikan Street shop-hopping for shawls, rugs and trinkets. Le Bistro sold beautiful paintings, but I found them atrociously expensive. The small shop across the restaurant had a few, painted by the owner.  They were not great, but good enough for a souvenir. I took a taxi once, just once. Interestingly almost every taxi in the city was a Toyota Camry; it influenced my decision not to go for it when I did buy a car after leaving Kabul. The Camry had lost its charm. The shar-e-naw market, a must visit, was deceptive in its appearance. It surprised me with the merchandise it offered especially the shoes that were worthy of a ramp walk! I replenished my stock of dry fruits from a regular store, and while the shopkeeper weighed and packed them, I wouldn’t stop popping the long green kishmish into my mouth. I also did the obvious – read and watched ‘The Kite Runner’; and became a proud owner of the book ‘Afghanistan over a Cup of Tea’ by Nancy Dupree, and hand woven kilims, carpets and donkey sacks! Carpet buying was an enlightening experience, I had not realized I could sound knowledgeable by discussing the knots in a carpet. 

I enjoyed short walks up the small hill close to my home in Wazir Akbar Khan neighborhood. I frequented the UN guest house, a favorite hangout for its pool and squash court, and more so for its Wednesday salsa nights. A one-off day trip to Qargha lake combined a tour of Babur gardens and a sneak peek of the Kabul golf course. I visited a gurudwara too in faraway Karte Parwan area. I wished to witness the legendary Buzkashi (the Afghan national sport, like polo – but using a goat or calf carcass instead of a ball!), but never got a chance.  I recommend with caution the Mandawi market – the largest wholesale market in town that combines cacophony and chaos effortlessly. Disorder is the order of the day in this place and  it takes talent to maneuver around. There is nothing that cannot be found here – spices, copper vessels, clothing, and the ubiquitous Afghan elderly gentleman in his characteristic turban and beard. On the innumerable trips I made across the city, I watched with curiosity the street side shops by the Kabul river and the flock of pigeons by Shah-du-Shamshira mosque, but failed miserably in my attempts to get a good picture from the moving car; it was a no-go zone on foot. Even in the days of flexible movement, attending weddings locally was not allowed. When a colleague got engaged, special permission was granted to attend the celebrations. I was thrilled to be part of the ceremony, sitting with the women folk on one side of the venue, while the men sat on the other side. Interestingly, each side had its own dances. Contrary to popular notion, I saw that Afghans loved their dance and music, if Attan – the national dance of Afghanistan accompanied by the drum - is one example to go by.

Many middle aged Kabulians remembered my city as Madras, the old name for Chennai. More than once I was asked if I had met the famous Amitabh Bachchan (popular Indian actor) or some random actor from the 80s, and I speculated if Bollywood was frozen in the 80s and 90s in their minds. No wonder Ariana cinema mostly showed movies from this time, many unheard of. That many Bollywood actors (particularly the Khans) could trace their ancestry to Afghanistan was a revelation to me. The dynamic younger generation was eager to demonstrate its English and Urdu skills, thanks to which I never picked up Dari (one of the two official languages and a variety of Persian) beyond the basics. I must speak of the country’s hospitality; no Afghanistan story is complete without it. Always overwhelmed by the quantity of food served, I wondered if my Afghan hosts expected me to eat all of it.  But amid all the kebabs and meat offerings, there was a generous vegetarian spread that I came to relish. The Kabuli pulav, eggplant dish and the bolani remain favorites. Seasonal fruits are something to die for; I have seen boxes and boxes of fruits checked in on flights out of Kabul. Somehow the honeydew melon never tastes the same anywhere else. The nation swears allegiance to green tea that is equaled only in its royal accompaniment of dry fruits. I was convinced that green tea is a magic potion, how else to explain for very few overweight people in a largely meat eating population! Too bad I never developed a taste for it. The food culture clarified why Afghans did not understand the concept of vegetarianism, and I convinced no one with my explanation.

In 2006, I remember Kabul was pockmarked with some badly bombed buildings, but despite its dilapidated condition the Darul Aman palace’s erstwhile grandeur was apparent. Outside of Kabul, the landscape is a magical creation of valleys, streams and rugged mountains that left me in awe. It will be a vain attempt to try to describe the breathtaking beauty. I got thrice lucky with Bamyan, traveling to where the imposing Buddha statue once stood and the brilliant blue waters of the tranquil Band-e-Amir lake glitter. A stunning aerial view from behind the ‘statue’ is totally worth the trek up the mountain. I also trekked up a cliff to see the ruins of Shahr-e-Zohak and its mud-brick towers. I had my first experience of flying in a 16-seater aircraft, landing on a narrow strip of land that was the runway. Staying at the basic ‘Roof of Bamiyan’ hotel on one trip, an early morning breakfast on the roof with the valley and the mountains in view, and the chill April winds caressing the skin was nothing less than a 5-star experience. Coming back from my last trip to Bamyan, I packed and went to the makeshift airport, sat there fidgeting for a few hours, only to be told to return as the flight from Kabul didn’t make its journey due to bad weather – this happened for 3 days in a row! Road travel was not an option, and I could have been stranded there for days. By the 3^rd day, I was on the verge of literally crawling up the walls of my hotel room, if it were not for the long evening walks in the valley that kept me sane.

I traveled to Mazar-e-Sharif twice. A road trip in 2007 took me through the Salang tunnel, and I stopped by in Tajqorghan to buy enormous pomegranates – they were a beautiful crimson red. While on a field visit, I excitedly walked the road/rail bridge that connects Uzbekistan across the Amu Darya river, and visited Mazar’s famous Blue Mosque. I also made short trips to the provinces of Parwan, Kapisa and Panjshir, but Herat and Badakshan remained elusive. It was a different group of colleagues on every trip and we always had a great time bonding. Driving through the rustic countryside always promised random sights of the kuchis (nomads), people on donkeys and occasionally, discarded machine tanks. Living and traveling in Afghanistan demystified the place for me.

Ten years is a long time to summarize in words; there are still many details that merit mention. The warm Afghan nan straight out of the tandoor from the street corner bread shops - they were priced dirt cheap! On a winter evening, they would quickly vanish in the car even before I got home. Congregating at the Indian restaurant Anar for cricket matches. Early morning city tour sitting in a bullet proof SUV, although a rarity. Boys playing cricket or football, or flying kites in the city. Getting used to the walkie-talkie radio and it’s call sign. Carrying my shawl everywhere, even in warm-warmer-hot Chennai, having got so used to it. The view of the distant snow peaks from a sunny Kabul and the colorful blooming roses. Gawking wide-eyed at the fruits growing in the office garden, all at hand’s reach but never having the heart to pluck any. Fairy tale winter experiences – witnessing the first spell of snow, sauntering around office in heavy snow taking pictures and breaking off icicles for no reason. Shopping at the Galleria, Istalif and Zardozi. My hopeless search for a Kabul city map. Being audience to several mesmerizing performances in office by the students of Afghanistan National Institute of Music – I felt like royalty. Extended brunches and lounging at the Serena with my besties. Office happy hours. Ladies’ lunches. Movie nights. Farewell parties. Yes, when you spend so many years in a place, you bid many goodbyes grudgingly. The list is infinite. I captured my experiences in a few random articles, and the 1,000s of photos I shot and still treasure.

I lived in a sprawling 4-level house with eight others, communal living if I may. We had a cook Zulmai (Zi for short), a maid and a gardener (our gentle Baba, the cook’s father), who together took care of us very well. The sizable lawn grew beautiful flowers, especially roses, and saw many badminton games. During the days of power shortage, I remember huddling around the bukhari (traditional wood or saw dust burning heater) with my housemates many winter evenings having animated conversations, accompanied by generous servings of hot pakoras and masala chai. Not to mention my struggle to converse in Dari – Baba, bukhari roshan! Baba, masheen chalaan! – meaning to light up the heater or start the generator. These were my famous winter lines. The mini projector was introduced in the home and we ran our very own N Talkies! Outside home, the social scene was a culture shock initially. In Chennai, my friends were from my school and college, and there was a sense of familiarity. In Kabul, I constantly met with strange faces from around the world. I found the

ultra-social personalities overbearing, although they were helping me adapt. Also, because I lived in Afghanistan, I did not think my conversations had to always revolve around aid and development. I came to dislike networking in all forms. So, I stayed a recluse the initial months. But over time, I shed my inhibitions and learned to be comfortable amongst unfamiliar crowds. Even better, I created my own little world with a close group of friends I made for life. We shared similar interests and together, we spent the weekends cooking, watching movies, making holiday plans and sharing photography tips, heading reluctantly back to our dwellings only at the stroke of 12 midnight – it was curfew time! We planned and organized grand Diwali parties, Iftar dinners and musical events at my place. We celebrated everything in equal fervor. We truly celebrated diversity, and life. Those were good days.