soy sauce and mint jelly do not a mango chutney make

So my first night in Mazar I stayed at Hotel Barat, which I misheard as Hotel Borat, that should have been my first warning. Still the view of the shrine over the balcony was lovely so I took it, despite the rundown appearance, the abandoned feel and the lack of internet access. I regretted the last one after learning that the internet café Tahir swore was “just around the corner” was 15 minutes away and closed at 8 pm. Besides, I’d managed some dicey lamb kabob for lunch so all I wanted to do was sleep; I picked up an invalid's supper of sugar biscuits and coke from the gazebo across the street.

But i couldn’t get my room’s heater to work. So I walked down and told them and they sent up a guy with a can full of propane which he glug glug glugged right into the stove. That was one of those moments where you see something terribly dumb about to happen but the happy ignorance of the actor leaves you paralyzed until the gas is out of the jar. Of course the tiny room filled immediately with fumes that I could remove only partially with the ceiling fan. Finally I was climbing into bed for the third time when I got a call from a guy with whom I’d was scheduled a lunch meeting the following day; he informed me that I was on the shrine’s northwest corner, where a 1-ton bag of explosives had been discovered that afternoon. I woke a short time later the pilot light had gone out again and the place smelled strongly of gas, so I dragged my mattress and blanket out to the balcony and slept there. The pre-dawn air was quite pleasant. Then it started to rain.

The following morning I checked into a hostel recommended for its wifi. It turned out to be an American-style guest house exclusively for foreigners. “Please to put your Afghan nationals on a list, otherwise we can’t let them in,” explained the owner, a Pillsbury-shaped Indian-American named Sebastian with gap teeth as wide as his hips. “We have to be safe.” Everything is very safe here, including the food, all imported from Dubai, down to the napkins and toothpicks. In a land of naan, the only bread here is sliced and white. Still, I like Sebastian as a person but I wish he’d get a wife. The place needs a woman’s touch. Tonight for dinner I ordered the veggie curry and heard the microwave beeping. I should have gone for the lamb chops; at least I would have had the right condiments.