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.