Food St., Lahore

Food Street

Street names in Lahore can be comically practical. Take Food Street, a pedestrian road lined with sidewalk cafes selling kebobs, rice, and dahl. We went there for dinner, and I had the best sweet lassi of my life, served in a giant aluminum cup. Sweet lassis, like milkshakes, just taste better from aluminum containers. The atmosphere was relaxed, families strolling about, women flirting and gossiping, their long scarves billowing behind them in the faint breeze.

That's Just Not Cricket

Cricket is a Byzantine game. I now know that it is played on a pitch, and that the ball can be hit in any direction (i.e. 360 degrees), and that points are scored when the batsmen cross, and when the ball goes out of the park boundaries. But there’s a lot more to cricket than this, and despite J’s enthusiastic explanations, I just didn’t get it.

It was hot.

Pakistan is a top cricket country, and according to J., the players we watched were high quality. I took his word for it. J., an Aussie (“Australia: the top test cricket country in the world!”), was thrilled to pieces to be watching a game. I was just happy to be sitting on a lawn with a cool bottle of water in my hand.

Then a kid started pestering us. In Kabul I’m probably accosted by two-dozen beggars a day (Lahore was no different), and I’ve developed a hard shell when it comes to pleas, crocodile tears, and aggressive demands for cash. So we ignored the kid.

The boy turned surly, punishing our indifference by being as obnoxious as possible, loudly screeching in Urdu, and finally throwing pebbles at me. The Pakistani men watching the game began to shoot irritated glances our way. I didn’t like where this was going.

Much to my relief, an old man selling ice cream wandered over and engaged us in conversation. The kid didn’t dare hassle us with a Pakistani there, and I suspected the ice cream man was speaking to us for just that reason. I didn’t notice the gesture he made behind his back.

J. grabbed his backpack and leapt to his feet. “Okay, time to go,” he said, smiling and waving goodbyes to the ice cream man and the spectators, who called for us to enjoy Lahore and to have a nice day.

J. hustled me into the car park. “You couldn’t see it, but while the ice cream guy distracted you, his friends clunked the kid on the head. Then they ejected him from the grounds, which the little bastard deserved, but all it would take is for one person to object and ask who started it, and for the crowd to point at the two foreigners.”

What kind of karma do I get if people are beating up children on my behalf? The outlook is not good.

Mosque, Old Fort, Lahore

Ye Old Fort

I’m sure the Old Fort has a name, but don’t ask me what it is. If you go to Lahore, you’ll have no trouble finding it. It’s old. It’s a fort. The day was far too hot to stuff my brain with facts and figures I’d no doubt forget. Besides, it’s difficult to appreciate “gorgeous” and “majestic” when sweat is trickling into your eyes. Gasping, I staggered after J. across patchy bits of grass, up uneven stone steps, and through blessedly shady rooms, hoping the cultural enlightenment would end.

J. paused atop a brick wall, gazing with a wistful expression at cricket players on a field below.

I came to a wobbly halt behind him and watched a kid touting sodas beneath a shade tree, too stunned with heat to gesture I'd like to buy one. Idly I wondered about the symptoms of heat stroke.

Then a cunning plan sprang to mind. “Would you like to go and watch the cricket?” I asked J.

“No, that’s okay. You’d be bored.” But was that a hopeful note in his voice?

If there was any chance I could spend the remainder of the afternoon sprawled upon a lawn, I was taking it. “Not at ALL!!! You can explain the game to me.”

“You don’t want to look about the fort some more? Though it’s true, one fort looks much like any other.” He said the last bit quickly, as if afraid I’d change my mind.

“Cricket sounds fascinating!”

And we were off.

http://adventurersclub.blogspot.com

View Within the Old Fort, Lahore, Pakistan

Old City Gate, Lahore, Pakistan

In the Old City

In the morning, J. and I played tourist in Lahore’s gated old city, which is one giant, twisting bazaar. We followed our noses into the spice section, redolent with cardamom and chilies, and past copper shops and fabric stalls, the latter which littered the muddy streets with fallen glitter and sequins.

I was forced to squeeze against the sides of the narrow roads to avoid tuk-tuks, motorcycles, and horse-drawn carts. J., a security guy and chivalrous to a fault, took the danger position on the outside, but he had to suddenly leap behind me to avoid a rampaging motorbike.

“I was nearly run down by a motorbike,” he muttered, wiping his brow.

“Considering all you’ve gone through in Afghanistan and beyond,” I said after his third iteration, “that would have been ironic.”

He glared at me. “Ironic? It would have been tragic!”

Spice Market, Old City, Lahore

DYH

The vagaries of the Kabul Airport only heightened my glee at departing. The customs inspector who hit on me (er, can I have my passport back?), the ladies in security who treated my makeup as a free sample kit (er, can I have my perfume back?), and the male security guard who attempted to maul me (yech!) only lent a sense of urgency to exiting Afghanistan. As I sat in the dingy gate lounge, the Russian couple next to me fretted over whether the flight would be cancelled. Their panic was contagious, and I found myself pacing the grey linoleum floor. Thankfully, my plane did fly, and I arrived in Islamabad green but on time, where I was met by J., who whisked me into the sparkling clean domestic terminal for our flight to Lahore.

It was after eight o’clock when we settled into Lahore’s Pearl Continental, a sleek, multi-story western-style hotel with black-suited staff wearing buttons that read, “We Care!” Now you know when service personnel are forced to wear buttons with asinine slogans, you’re going to be in for it. Fortunately for me, J. was to catch the brunt of the aggravation over the following days.

It was late and we were tired, so we decided to eat at the hotel’s Thai restaurant. Five minutes after we'd ordered, the waiter crept back to our table to regretfully inform me the tofu curry I’d requested was unavailable. I glanced at J., and bit back a laugh at his rueful expression. Restaurants in Kabul are strictly DYH. One must preface each menu request with the phrase “Do You Have” because, chances are, the restaurant doesn’t. Pakistan, however, is a much more civilized place than Afghanistan, and the Pearl Continental, with its bellboys in monkey suits and “We Care!” buttons, was the last place I’d expected such a roadblock to Thai-food happiness.

“Would Madam like the chicken curry instead?” the waiter asked.

“Perhaps I should look at the menu.”

“But the chicken curry is very good.”

“No, thank you. I’m a vegetarian. May I see the menu?”

“Then you can have the vegetable curry!”

I ground my teeth. “May I see the menu please?”

Reluctantly, he handed it over, nattering on all the while about the vegetable curry.

“Thanks. I’ll have the noodles with vegetables,” I said, snapping the menu shut and handing it back.

“But the vegetarian curry is very good.”

Even though I quite like vegetable curry, I was now determined to have anything but. “No, thank you. I’d like the noodles.”

“The vegetable curry is just like the tofu curry.”

“Look,” J. broke in. A vein in his temple throbbed. “She ordered the noodles. Can she have the noodles? PLEASE?”

The noodles were awful.

Good Timing. Questionable Location.

You won’t hear from me for a few days because today I’m leaving for Pakistan. The ex-pat community in Kabul has just been warned of possible terrorist attacks from now through the 29th, so the vacation is good timing. Pakistan probably isn’t the best travel option for an American at present (thanks, Newsweek), but… it isn’t Afghanistan. And as much as I enjoy what I’m doing here, right now not being in Afghanistan seems a desirable thing. Most ex-pats only stay for six weeks at a time before taking a break or going insane. I’m overdue.

Angry mob, shmob. I plan on having an excellent time picture taking, ice cream eating, book shopping, and just plain being somewhere other than here.

Besides, my father and I have a competition going for how many countries we can visit, and I know Pakistan isn’t on his list.

The original litter

Afghan Wolf Cub

12 Kittens and a Wolf

I’m outnumbered. There are twelve kittens tumbling about the guesthouse, climbing up trouser legs, chewing on cables, and typing secret cat messages on computer keyboards. It all started with a harmless litter of five. They were cute. Manageable.

Then yesterday the guesthouse manager brought home two weak and emaciated ginger kittens he’d found in a parking lot. After some initial resistance, Mother Cat adopted them – even cuter. But today he discovered another litter of five on the guesthouse property. And tonight, just as one of the French contingent was complaining that we needed more variety in our menagerie, the Afghan guesthouse owner dropped off a wolf cub he’d found on his property in Panshir.

Enough! The kittens had better not start disappearing. Because if it’s down to the kittens or the wolf, I’m squarely on the side of the kittens. They, at least, will not grow up with the capacity to tear my throat out. It’s selfish of me, no doubt, but I don’t want to be a chew toy.

However, the wolf cub presents a real quandary. The Kabul zoo is a nightmare and out of the question. Releasing him to the wild? How? When? I do not see a happy ending to this story.

Anyone want an Afghan kitten?

Hooray for Bollywood!

Five hundred women and children were crammed into a hall built for 200. I had a child on each shoulder and a seat next to the speakers, which blasted Afghan music. On the positive side, I was also located next to the tiny strip of a dance floor. On the negative side, I was constantly being dragged up to perform before 500 writhing, sweating, cranky women and children.

Thankfully, one of the guesthouse maids, decked out in a sparkling orange and gold gown, made sure I was regularly fed and watered. Then in the middle of a shouted conversation, she leapt up, said, “That’s my song,” raced to the empty dance strip and launched into a routine straight out of a Bollywood film. The dance was so well choreographed that she’d clearly been practicing in front of a mirror (a shameful habit I’m also afflicted by). I watched in an oxygen-deprived fugue, mouth agape, running escape routes through my head in case of fire. Smashing a window, ripping a banner from the wall, and gliding down it like Errol Flynn to the street below was my best plan. Actually, it was my only plan.

Wedding makeup

Day of Beauty, Phase II

Afghan women dress to the nines for weddings. The “look” typically includes sequins, big hair, and makeup an inch think. I now had my sequins, but would still be an embarrassment to the bride unless drastic action was taken. So my next stop was a salon, where my hair was blown out, teased, and twisted into an elaborate bun with corkscrew curls tumbling down the sides.

“You look like Titanic!” the Afghan hairdresser exclaimed.

I hope she meant Kate Winslet and not the ship.

After the hair, I let myself get talked into Afghan wedding makeup. This involved four crates of paints, powders, and sponges, and an assistant who held me down during the eyebrow defoliation.

Traumatized but glamorous, I returned to the guesthouse and downed two glasses of Chablis.

I was ready for my close-up.

Bollywood!

Day of Beauty, Phase I

The windows of Kabul wedding shops are lined with blank-faced manikins wearing Bollywood confections in rainbow colors, glittering with sequins, and stiff multi-colored traditional gowns dripping with faux-silver jewelry. And those gowns are just for the guests. I was, frankly, dying to explore one of these shops with their all-male staff, and yesterday I got my chance.

I’d been invited to a wedding between two of the Afghans who worked at my guesthouse, and it was incumbent upon me not to let the bride down by looking like my usual, shlumpy self.

I was a bit worried I wouldn’t find anything, as I’m roughly twice the size in all directions of the average Afghan woman.

But I was in luck. Picture if you will black polyester bell-bottoms, with beaded and sequined front flares. Top them with a matching tunic, its sheer sleeves belling at the wrist. I figured I would have one opportunity in my whole life to wear a disco pantsuit outside of a Halloween party and look smartly dressed. This was it.

ABBA songs running through my head, I forked over the $30 without a quibble.

For the traditionally-minded wedding guest.

Crime Blotter

My hometown newspaper is available on the Internet, and once a week I find myself avidly perusing its crime blotter. No, I’m not a glutton for punishment. My reasons shall be made clear momentarily.

This week’s lead crime: “Man Kicks Dog.”

Followed by a story about four “subjects” who had dinner at a pancake house and left without paying.

Growing up, I thought my town was utterly boring. Now I know it is utterly boring, but there’s something comforting in that.

Granted, this is the same town that installed a traffic circle, and later had to place stop signs at every entrance because no one could figure out how to navigate around it. An American reading this will find the stop signs eminently reasonable. Tell any European and watch their reaction. Seriously. It’s great at parties in any European locale.

On a Knife's Edge

It's easy to focus on the negative.

Kidnappings, riots, things that go boom.

But every now and again I'm reminded of why I'm here. The good stuff. Like the widows who demonstrated, weeping, demanding the release of Clementina Cantoni, the kidnapped aid-worker. They held placards with slogans such as, "You made me a widow... Why won't you let others to [sic] clean my tears?"

Apparently there's a call for another demonstration in Kabul -- not anti-American, but anti-Taliban, and against the amnesty the government is planning to give to certain Taliban leaders.

Afghanistan seems balanced on a knife's edge, as the forces for progress battle the forces for a return to medievalism. Unfortunately, the average Afghan hasn't seen much progress of late, and that's not helping the reformers' cause. Kabul's roads are mud, the sewer system is "open," i.e. "out in the...", and health and education remain dismal. None of these things are easy fixes. But I have to say, I don't see anyone trying to repair the roads in Kabul. It's a small thing, but paved roads might go a long way towards cheering up the Kabulis. I also suspect it would keep the dust down.

A lot of money has poured into Afghanistan. Perhaps it's time for some big infrastructure "wins" so people feel they've got something to show for it?

$#@&!

And now an earthquake?! WHAT'S NEXT?

There were several earthquakes last night, though I was only fully awakened by one of them. At a quarter after five, I was jolted out of a vaguely unpleasant dream about English boarding schools and goose-stepping. The earthquake was strong, but short. Not big enough or long enough to do damage in a country that has building codes, but needless to say, Afghanistan doesn’t.

I feel like death this morning.

Have I Stayed Here Too Long?

Today I met an American woman who complained she’d arrived late in Kabul due to an air strike in Cairo. My first, thankfully unspoken, reaction was: Cairo’s been hit?! Thirty seconds later, I realized she meant the airline workers were on strike. Duh.

Ironically, tonight I experienced my first rocket attack, if one rocket can be said to be an attack. I was half-way to Dream Land, in that not-quite-awake, not-quite-asleep phase, when I was jerked awake by a loud boom. I lay in bed, wondering if I’d dreamed it, when I heard my fellow inmates talking outside and then sirens. A gray plume of smoke rose on the horizon, obscuring the lights from the nearby mountain. And when I turned up the radio I’ve spent so much time mocking, I heard a rocket had landed near the Ministry of the Interior and a hospital.

I’m awake now, wishing I wasn’t, but too wired to sleep

An Unexpected Day Off

Some people get snow days, some people get holidays, but I get civil disturbance days. Yesterday there were terrible riots in Jalalabad over news reports US Marines had desecrated a Koran at Guantanamo. Jalalabad is far from Kabul, but it certainly wasn’t the only part of Central Asia where the population was angry.

So this morning when I got word that the NGO community had been warned to stay home, I called the office and told them I was following suit. Demonstrations were planned for Kabul, and it wasn’t a good idea for me to be wandering about. I thought it unlikely protestors would get out of hand here as they did in Jalalabad, but sometimes discretion really is the better part of valor.

That settled, I ditched the work clothes, stretched out in the Internet room with the other ex-pats, and watched the kittens wrestle each other. It was a lovely day for a demonstration, a better day to be out in the garden. The protest was small and fizzled out quickly.

I stayed home.

New Construction, Old Tanks

It's Not Baroque. Please, fix it!

Wazir Akbar Khan is the Beverly Hills of Kabul (under construction), packed with monster homes and psychoses. Speculating on where these mansion-builders get their money could be hazardous to my health, so I won’t. However, the phrase “more money than taste” runs repeatedly through my mind as I bump down Wazir’s muddy dirt roads, past tall concrete columns, mirrored mosaic balconies, and the remains of rusted out tanks. Tastes are different and someone must think all that flash is pretty, but will they please get the scrap metal out of the road?

I take pictures of mansions that look like psychedelic wedding cakes as I sit in an SUV at a narrow crossroads. We wait for a Toyota Corolla to navigate a steep and muddy incline. Our turn is next. I wince as they smash their bumper in the dip, threaten to stall, and then with a splatter of mud lurch out of the hole and past us. The Afghan woman in the back seat of the Corolla laughs and gives me a thumbs-up, which I return. I’m in a good mood for the rest of the day.

A modest mansion in Wazir

Word of the Day: Gun Bunny

Gun bun·ny n. A half-witted, well-muscled, and armed ex-patriate security specialist. Typically found flexing their muscles in bars, attempting to one-up each other for Top Dog status.

Cafe explosion

It was a dark and stormy... afternoon. There was a loud rumble, but the maid didn't scream. I knew the sound wasn't thunder, but there is so much construction going on nearby that I shrugged the boom off. Twenty minutes later, I strolled out to meet some friends. Our car was gridlocked a block from the guesthouse. Then the cellphones began ringing.

There had been an explosion at a nearby Internet cafe. As emergency vehicles forced their way through the traffic, it became clear we weren't going anywhere. We backed down the dirt road to the guesthouse, where we holed up around the fire with a bottle of wine. The lights flickered, the storm raged outside, cellphones rang with varying rumors and reports of the explosion. First we heard it had been grenades, then we heard it had been a gas explosion. We sat around making tense and desultory conversation, like characters in an Agatha Christie novel.

Strange Stories

The guys in the office have been so sickeningly nice to me of late, that I was starting to worry. One had offered to do a really inconvenient favor for me. Another, who generally treats me like a plague carrier, put his hand on my shoulder, smiled sympathetically, and asked how my day was, leaving me stammering in surprise.

I couldn’t figure it out. There hadn’t been any screaming or cursing involved in my “implosion,” days earlier. Had the expression on my face been that scary? And if so, how could I replicate it?

Then, one of my colleagues spilled the beans. They’d seen me go into the board meeting before my silent temper tantrum and assumed that the board had given me a hard time. Since this board meeting has resulted in a week of late nights for the office staff, their sympathies lay squarely in my court. And by some weird proxy, the staff’s misconception turned me into the office pet.

Why isn’t it surprising that not a single man in the office imagined my ire might have been directed at him? Of course, a convoluted fantasy about board persecution makes much more sense.

I’m not sure if I should set the record straight or enjoy the favoritism while I can.

I’m leaning toward the latter.

It's not about women's rights. It's about human rights.

It's days like these I feel this place is hopeless. The bodies of three local women were discovered yesterday, raped and murdered, with notes pinned to their chests that they were killed for "whoredom" and for working with international NGOs. An Afghan youth group claimed responsibility.

The rape tells me this has as much or more to do with the victims having the audacity to work outside the home, rather than a statement against foreign NGOs.