the persian art of cursing

The scene: A Kabul traffic jam. No lanes, no street lights, dust everywhere. Everybody's honking, nobody's moving. Landmine victims balance their thigh stumps on crutches in the center of the road, their hands outstretched for change; other beggars are the women with dust-streaked burkas holding babies with sore splotchy skin - the women wailing but their babies deathly silent - and the orphans, some as young as 4 or 5, darting in and out of the cars selling pieces of gum or trying to wash your windshield (with no water, just a scrap of rag). Some of these boys actually press their face up against your window and just sob.

Among all this suffering there's a certain salvation in the art of the exquisitely delivered curse, of which Afghans are - at least according to them - the world's masters. I'll let you be the judge, but here was today's exchange, between a bicyclist and a taxi driver; the taxi cut off the bicycle and in return, the bicyclist slapped the car as he rode off. The driver opened his door, leaned out and shouted: "Fuck your mother from the front and your sister from the back!"

To which the bicyclist, fast disappearing into the dust responded, "Fuck your grandfather's bones!"

sin city

I met the star of "Sin City" in a gym in Kabul. OK, not that Sin City. I'm talking about the soon-to-be-released Afghan version, starring Massoud Hashimi? Who you might know from his Bollywood infotainment show on Afghanistan's most left-leaning TV station, "Tolo?"

Yeah, him. I met him at the gym. (Apparently my baby yoga moves convinced everyone in the place that I was Italian. Don't understand that one.) The gym was lo-fi, of course, a chilly little free weight room on the second floor of a sort of blitzed out market; but a friendly enough joint with a little boombox playing europop and a beer/juice bar off in the corner. Massoud showed me the poster for his new film, which he also produced and wrote. It stars him, two girls and three nefarious looking dudes. The dudes kidnap his fiancee and the other girl commits suicide because he's got a fiancee (ok, he's a hottie and knows it). I point to the bad guys and ask if they kidnap for Taliban. "No no no," he says, "We don't want to make films about the old problems like Taliban. We need to talk about the the bad guys that are killing our country now."

It's true. In the West you always hear about Taliban, which makes sense because that's who the allies are fighting. But for most folks I meet here, the real enemy are the thugs, the rapists, the criminals that roam freely in a country that can barely police itself.

arrival in the land of mountains & dudes

sorry no photos today folks - my eyes are still focusing. first day in afghanistan & where do i begin? i only hope that you yes you aren't subscribing to this blog because i'd really like to be able to edit this post after the fact without you knowing it. no way I'm gonna get this right on the first try.

So, arrived in Kabul this afternoon from Delhi. Flew Indian Air, where security is strictly voluntary: they screen your luggage, then give it back to you before you check it, oh well. lovely in-flight meal though. spicy veggie rice & chickpea raita, & what's that darlin yoghurt dessert with the squishy rice noodles i love so? landing is a similarly DIY affair - dudes are out their seats while the plane is still taxiing. And they're almost all dudes on this flight. I grab my accordion from the overhead bin and join the leather-jacketed masses out onto the tarmac, where we're surrounded on all sides by the snowy granite faces of the Hindu Kush mountains. A silkscreen of President Karzai embossing the terminal seems positively trippy - he's tinted of purple and yellow like an icon by Andy Warhol. Under those glowing arms is a rather desperate-sounding quote, something to the effect of: "All the Afghan People are One Nation and We Desire to Live in Peace." We're herded into an unlit unheated concrete structure where men huddle around every available hard surface filling out their arrival forms. Sort of that apocalyptic bank lobby feel I recognize from certain eastern european countries but the people are much nicer, they make a space for me. When I finish scribing my form, in duplicate, a skinny guy in an olive green jacket - he's obviously freezing - grabs it and starts copying out the information onto a third card. Only he can't read English and some of the questions this card asks are different so there's confusion. We huddle together sorting it out and I wonder how many times he's done this procedure. I can't help feeling that we're sort of making up the rules as we go along, and the sense continues in the guard station - they scowl and glare at the passport of one passenger, but laughingly stamp mine without a glance. No customs form, no bag check, no questions about the bottle of duty-free single malt scotch I've smuggled into this muslim country.

Bottoms up, friends, and welcome to Afghanistan.