Kalashnikovs and Koffee

Kabul 1755 hours

After four hours of delirious and disorienting sleep, Pete woke me from my comatose state to meet up with Gerry, the expat Chief of Water and Sanitation with DACAAR. Once outside again, in the sun, it was noticeably warmer outside than in, which is often the case in concrete buildings without centralized heating – great in the summer, not so much in the winter.

The courtyard has hand pump parts stacked high, a little patch of brown soil, which must be the summer garden, their water well and a clear plastic tarp covered greenhouse. High hopes and excitement at having homegrown vegetables for our meals were quickly dashed and at once educating as to priority of the people tending to the greenhouse. For me it was also a cultural indication of appreciating beauty and fragility – it was full of flowering plants, not the opium producing ones but pots of geraniums and the like. As soon as the door was opened for us to peek in the waft of tropical humidity came over us, so much so that Pete’s glasses fogged up. A complete contrast to the cold arid air of winter, in an 1800m desert, that surrounded us.

Gerry picked us up in his car and took us to a local restaurant/coffee shop near his home. A tiny sign with small print identified it as such. A Kalashnikov totting guard opened the door and then closed it behind us. There was another gate before us and before we could move on we were asked to leave our guns. I want to admit jokingly that we had left ours back at the guesthouse so had nothing to hand over, but instead I remark that I have never been asked if I am packing a gun before. Once we had established being unarmed, they called out to another Kalashnikov totting guard on the other side of the gate who opened up the walled garden oasis. With the sun warm on our shoulders, we decide to sit outside to capture that warmth. Residual snow was still holding on in the shadows but a feeling of spring was in the air.

(Gerry is on the left and Pete is on the right)

On the menu was anything from salads to sandwiches to Mexican fajitas to pizzas. I was soon munching on a grilled chicken salad sprinkled with almonds, Pete was digging into huevos rancheros and Gerry the fajitas. Polishing off lunch we warmed up with lattes.

And I thought, really? This is what I had been internally fussing about? Gerry did point out that it is Friday which is the muslim Sunday so most people are home and shops are closed. But still, the energy in the air was anything but tense. Flocks of cooing pigeons flying overhead, chirping birds in the trees and a calm quiet surrounded us, well when the helicopters aren’t buzzing our heads, added up to a surreal atmosphere.

Haiti, I have decided, should be the first stop for everyone. After that every thing else is luxury. Running water, electricity, climate mediation (that being heat here), salad (in my first hours on the ground), lattes, wireless and quiet. Incredible.

After lunch, Gerry took us into the house that was the restaurant and inside were at least 14 young foreigners chatting in small groups, typing away on computers or quietly reading. Comfortably furnished and decorated I was struck that you could feel as though you are in many places in Asia besides Afghanistan.

Next stop was the supermarket, the sister market to the one bombed two weeks ago. There was a flurry of activity outside as they were beefing up the security of the perimeter and there were four guards outside that did a body scan for firearms of both Pete and Gerry. I was left to enter the market without the body search.

Once inside, I was amazed to see the stacked shelves of everything from tuna to peanut butter to canned vegetables, Kellogg’s cereal, an impressive fresh fruit and vegetable section, European cheeses, yogurt, a whole aisle of pet food, and wouldn’t you know it the glass jars of Starbucks Frappaccino. I actually had to take a picture. This market rivaled that of the one in Ndola, Zambia that we shop at for foreign food.

(Seriously? Seriously.)

After purchasing some nuts, dried figs, the small hard ones I used to get in China, milk for tea, some muesli for my breakfast (they do say that a meal in Afghanistan is not complete until you have bread so I figured I needed to arm myself with something I can eat), and Pete’s tea time bikkies (he Is a Scot) and chocolate. There were scores of young men working in the store that were quick to say hello and help when I was looking for something. I had already remarked to Pete how beautiful the people are, particularly the men, and my first sense is now being perpetually validated. Now, don’t worry I have no motivations for love here, but their high cheek bones, clear skin, dark to light brown hair and sometimes green or blue eyes are hard not to take note of. Everywhere I look I wish I could take pictures of them up close to share them with you.

As I finish off my first day here I can see the moon from my desk presenting itself like a link to home and here the call to prayer like a lullaby. It is now 10 degrees in my room and my hot water bottle is calling me. The dogs have just started up…now that is common to the developing world no matter where I have been, South Asia, Africa, Haiti and now here. Though, I have a feeling nothing will keep me awake now.