Wedding Henna

Afghan Wedding

I’d been invited to a “divided” wedding, where the women sat in one room and the men in another, the band separated from the women by a curtain. My friends warned me it wouldn’t be terribly lively, but I hoped the segregation of the sexes might give the women a chance to let their hair down, so to speak.

However, the groom’s family, which hosted the party, was of a conservative bent. When my friend introduced me to the groom’s sisters, they gave me the fish eye, staring coldly when I issued a bright, “Salaam!” They had some reason for their reticence, as I was certainly the least respectable-looking woman in the room. The other ladies had done their hair in elaborate do’s, make-up pancaked on their faces, and wore gowns glittering with sequins and metallic thread. I felt quite ratty by comparison. My friend nervously hustled me off to the bride’s table in the corner, where the cowed ladies there made me promise not to take photos of any of the groom’s family, nor say or do anything that might embarrass them. I shrank back into my plastic-wrapped chair and tried to look respectful.

Then the bride and groom entered for photo ops. At Afghan weddings, the bride is supposed to appear miserable and in this she was wildly successful. I probably could have taken pictures at this point, but decided laying low was the wiser course. I admit it. I was terrified.

After the bride and groom departed to say their vows, the groom’s sisters tried to get the dancing going, but the mood in the room was off, and they were having a hard slog of it. Eventually they gave my table the nod to dance. A woman next to me took my hand, and we joined the Sisters Grim. I am a competent Central Asian social dancer (for those of you who scoffed at my belly dance lessons – HA!), and once the room got over the shock at seeing an American doing their “national dance,” I kept getting pulled back to the dance floor. The mood of the room didn’t improve, but the attitude toward me certainly changed, and when the music ended, the sisters dragged me to sit in a chair beside them. It was a kind gesture on their part, but uncomfortable since we couldn’t really communicate with each other. I scuttled back to my dark corner as soon as I gracefully could. But at least I had progressed from freakish foreigner to mildly entertaining foreigner.

Education Day?

On the spur of the moment, the Afghan government declared Tuesday a holiday -- Education Day, to be precise. Think about it, Education Day, and all the schools are closed... Am I the only person in Kabul who finds this ironic?

And in honor of the day, a Kuchi (Afghan nomad) joke I just heard:

A Kuchi takes his son to the local Mullah and asks him to teach his son to read. The Mullah strokes his beard and agrees. "Thanks," the father says. "Can you do it now? We're leaving for better pastureland this afternoon."

Hey, the Kuchi think it's funny.

A day at the pool

Norhoz

Cunningly disguised as a giant pillowcase, I hiked up one of Kabul’s hills to join the celebration of Muslim New Year. Bizarrely, atop this particular hill lies an empty cement swimming pool, built by the Russians. Children in their sparkly New Year’s clothes raced around inside, sliding on worn shoes down the slope to the deep end, and playing soccer in the flat section. On today, one of the most festive holidays of the Afghan calendar, the people of Kabul were out in force, enjoying the first spring-like day of the year. I’d never seen so many Afghan women in one place, and they smiled broadly at me in greeting, their burqas thrown back over their heads.

My pillowcase disguise fooled no one, and I was soon swarmed by children pleading for me to take their pictures, or to buy some chewing gum. I shot a few pics with my digital, and the kids were delighted to view the finished product on the LCD display. Two trailed shyly after my friends and I long after the others had given up hope of more photos. The eldest finally got the nerve up to try out some words in English. To my shock and surprise, he got beyond the ubiquitous “how are you?”, which every Afghan seems to know, and was able to respond when I replied.

However, today a child celebrating on a different hill stepped on a mine – just a bang and a puff of smoke on the horizon.

C'mon Lady, just buy some gum!

Mud, Sweat, and Tears

Did I say last month that the streets of Kabul were a muddy mess? Ha! HA! Last month, the streets were merely wet and dirty with snow. Yesterday I made the error of going for a walk after a rain. The endeavor consisted of hurling myself out of the way of cars racing through puddles, mincing through the shallowest bits, and slipping upon piles of mud. It was all surprisingly tiring, and out of sheer desperation to escape the onslaught of squelches and splatters, I acquiesced to my friend’s suggestion we step inside a carpet shop.

The reason I avoid carpet shops is I have a hard time saying “no” once the stacks of carpets are unfurled (and this occurs at lightening speed). All the work the eager salesman goes through hefting carpets about and then having to fold them up after I leave oppresses me with guilt. I was doomed from the start. I bought one.

It was a lovely carpet though, a hand sewn kilim, and even prettier when I got it out of the dimly lit shop (mud coated windows, naturally) and into the room at my guesthouse. I left for dinner feeling quite proud of my purchase.

And then, tummy full, I got back to my room, opened the door, and recoiled from the barnyard stench. My carpet reeks of sheep! I hadn’t noticed in the shop, or walking back to the guesthouse (the carpet was in a bag, after all), but it stunk the whole room up. Eyes watering, I stuffed the carpet back in its bag and shoved it into a cabinet I never open. After considerable airing, the room is now back to its vaguely sewer-like smell (attached bathroom, dubious plumbing, still the best room in Kabul). I’m now on a quest for incense to detox my room. I’m not so far from India – there must be some incense somewhere. I'm not picky. As long as it doesn't smell like sewer, farm animals, or car exhaust, I'll be happy.

Back in Kabul

There is snow atop the mountains that ring Kabul, but the city streets are clear. .. Of snow at least. And with winter ending, dust season has begun. Dust is everywhere, clogging my nose, gritting up my skin, burning my eyes. I’ve been told that scorpion season and rocket season are soon to follow, though I’m hoping that rocket season won’t make an appearance this year. Last year prime rocket hours were between 9 – 11 pm, so that’s when everyone stayed home and off the streets. This makes little sense to me, since a rocket is just as likely to find one at home as on the streets. (And unless things change dramatically here, neither really is very likely).

However, I may soon be under just such a curfew due to Steve’s murder. I say "may" because it's all rumor. Rumors also fly as to who committed the killing and to what the motive was, in spite of the Taliban's claim of responsibility. There's little confidence that the killers will be brought to justice, however.

Aid Worker Killed in Kabul

Steve MacQueen, a colleague of mine, was murdered last night in Kabul. The Taliban have claimed responsibility for the drive-by shooting, but it's unclear whether they really are or not. Whoever was responsible, the act was sickening and senseless.