TV Hill

I’d been itching to hike up one of Kabul’s hills, and had heard from other ex-pats that the hike up to the TV towers was doable. This weekend, I finally got my chance. The hill was dotted with communities of mud-brick houses, inhabited by squatters, I later learned. Perhaps that explains why even with male escorts (and even when one of the escorts was an Afghan), there were times when things felt a bit dicey – some people’s interest seemed friendly, others not. It wasn’t a “good” part of town, but I didn’t figure this out until too late. That’s one of the greatest dangers tourists face when abroad – it’s difficult to determine what constitutes a bad part of town. In America I can tell in an instant – here, where poverty is rampant and everything is different, no.

Wary of mines, we stayed on the road, walking in the treads left by vehicles. The sky was a brilliant blue, but a grey haze from wood fires hung low over the city. Children waved to us, calling out the only English greeting they knew, “How are you?” This high-pitched phrase was heard so often, it began to sound like the call of little birds.

It had snowed the night before and snowball battles raged. Men and boys used slingshots, which cracked like whips when the snowballs were released. I heard one window shatter, and the offender cringed, guilt written across his face.

I tried not to look like a target. But how could I not stand out? I was pelted, and am not entirely sure if it was “friendly fire” or not.