Afghan Escape
Trip Start
Nov 20, 2007
1
4
Trip End
Nov 27, 2007
Kabul,
Afghanistan
Thursday, November 22, 2007
On my arrival, after meeting Simon at the grey grids of portacabins which make up the UNAMA buildings in Kabul we went to the hotel for a quick freshen up. I was thrilled not to be staying in a swanky personality free 5 star hotel. The Heetal was (I hoped) an Afghan style lodgehouse with rooms arranged around a courtyard strewn with tables and chairs, for those brave enough to bathe in the winter sunshine - bright and piercing, but as warm as ice. The rooms were basically furnished with Afghan wooden furniture (what am I talking about, you can bet it was from China), and each had a small study area with a desk looking into the courtyard. It was the type of place a journalist would stay and kid themselves they were getting a taste of Afghan life by talking to a waiter or two (who are Nepalese or Hazari, or both). This was certainly no place for a diplomat and when I learnt that my former colleagues at the British Embassy were forbidden from taking the taxis we were using to get around this city, I felt two things. Firstly - afraid and somewhat vulnerable, that I was no longer protected by the motherland, da governmunt, and my employer for the past decade. And Secondly - free to explore, say what I want, and to take risks according to my own measure of common sense (and more so retrospectively, as no harm ACTUALLY did befall us). On balance it was a good feeling.
Later on my first evening we dined (hosted by our gracious JCMB contact) with a charming French man and his talkative British side kick visiting from Brussels NATO, along with a terrible well spoken NATO spokesperson (shouldn't that always be the case - I bet it's not?). The spokesman was showing signs of wear and tear after nearly a year in Kabul (although perhaps he was always sharp, direct and cynical who knows, but my Iraq experience has taught me that these characteristics become particularly pronounced the more time spent in a war zone and surrounded by disparate international organisations that sit clumsily together).
Landing in Kabul
Dinner was tasty Malay in highly polished 5 star style, but certainly not the atmospherics I was after. Simon knew everyone at the table (with the exception of the French man) and a heated debate about media and communications in every conflict zone from Bosnia to Baghdad ensued. Later the spokesman took us to the Gandamac bar where he said we might find some journalists (not that I am in any way a journo groupie BTW), but actually we found some drunk security contractors instead. The spokesman drunk whisky (accidentally with tonic in it), swore a LOT and shared snippets of his Baghdad days. We had friends in common and I was able to chip in from time to time with my brief-but-life-changing-time in Basra (you see I am not quite the conflict virgin).
The Gandamac was a place with far more style than the Serena where we dined. Guns hung on cinnamon walls and I could almost feel the marks left by the war tourists passing through ('tis said that some on-the-edge journalists plotted their own kidnaps in that place). It had lashings of antique Afghan charm, which I understand from supper with Rory Stewart the following evening, is rapidly being exported.
And here my journal entries end. I shouldn't really add to the scribbles for fear of loosing it's authenticity as a REAL TIME blog, but I should say something about the following evening. It was hard to beat the night at the Gandamac (too many gins, war stories and definite loss of headscarf), but the next night we had supper at the old Fort - home of Rory Stewart, who runs the Turquoise Foundation (along with a lovely American girl called Anna). An evening to be remembered (and not because I drunk less wine), but because I felt the romance of escapism. Dinner in a medieval Afghan fortress, seated on velvet floor cushions around a revolving table laden with delicious foodstuff (lush mashed potatoes thing going on there), and surrounded by SO many good looking people, is hard to beat. It does sound like the settings of a porn movie, I grant you - but trust me, it was class, even if I was a little unusually quiet (coming out of my Foreign Office shell you see).
(To be frank, I had no idea who Rory was till I Googled him (as you will too, I'm sure). I was given a copy of his book and then I heard him delivering Schubert on Desert Island Disks - I can't escape him.. He has his own entry on Wikipedia for godsake, AND he is only 34! Don't you hate that?)
