Getting Engaged

My first month in Kabul, I was driving to my colleague’s house for a taste of homecooked Afghan food when we passed what can only be described as Las Vegas on a roundabout. In a city of mostly mud houses (apart from the occasional war lord mansion) this massive building, surrounded my flashing neon palm trees, fairy lights dripping and a huge bold sign reading “KABUL PARIS WEDDING HALL”, took my breath away. Since I saw it, it has been my dream to enter this flashing neon world and experience it for myself….and last week it happened! It was my colleague Safi’s brother’s engagement party and it was at the Kabul Paris Wedding Hall. All my male colleagues were invited along with me and Meghann (our new program manager). Meghann and I were of course going to be in the women’s side, so we would not actually see any of the other guys from the office (Safi as a family member is allowed to join both sides). I’d heard tales from friends of hours stuck alone with a room full of women they didn’t know, but I had Meghann and I was also excited to spend time with more Afghan women – a rare opportunity in this city! I was a little unsure what to wear, I had heard that the women dress up to the nines, so I put a little make up on and borrowed my housemates silk shalwa-style top, I felt pretty fancy (I’d even showered at the neighbour’s house for the occasion) but nothing would prepare me for the full make up and heels, taffeta and sequins all the way appearance of the Afghan ladies. Not a head scarf in sight, instead the young girls were dressed like something straight off the pages of just 17, all side pony tails, miniskirts and boots, the girls in their teens wore full stage make up, beautiful (and some horrendous) strappy dresses (sometimes with t-shirts underneath), sequin jackets, stilettos and huge smiles. Some of them were truly breath taking and sassy too, chatting and laughing, strong, beautiful women of Afghanistan. There was one particularly stunning group of ladies, who I soon realized were all related – 3 wives and about 20 daughters of the one of the richest men in Kabul. The wives all seemed to get on great, dancing and gossiping together, the newest wife was 16, which turned my stomach a little, but she seemed happy, who can tell. I’ve learnt to not judge in certain cases anymore, it’s not my place, it is more interesting to hear what people on the inside think of it. I was chatting to one of the daughters who said that she wanted to marry a poor man, when her father asked why and she said “because then he can only afford one wife”, “but you are beautiful, no man would need a second wife if he had you” the dad had replied…to which the daughter quickly (and brilliantly) retorted “my mother is beautiful and you still have 3 wives”. The evening was a complete eye opener to the closed, inside world of Afghan women. It was also an eye opener to the downsides of being in the ladies’ room. After 3 hours of dancing and being videod* the food finally arrived. I was so excited, at parties with my male colleagues before I have loved the steaming plates of Kabuli Pilau, fresh hot bread, kebob, kofta and mantou…but as the cold half eaten plates were put down on the table, I realized these were the men’s leftovers. I knew this happened in Afghanistan, that the women ate only after the men had been served, but surely not in Kabul, not at an engagement party. But sure enough, there were teeth marks and fork marks all over the cold food. None of the women seemed to notice, and tucked in eagerly, to the half full plates. I looked apologetically at Meghan, I’d persuaded her to stay an extra hour on the promise of a feast of a lifetime and as I picked up a piece of cold already bitten into bread, I realized again how lucky I was as a western woman to be able to experience both sides of the coin here. As sassy as these women were, they were still in the room that got the cold food and few of them would ever experience what I’d taken for granted, sitting in the boys room, watching them dance, being treated as an equal and eating hot food first!

*(there was a professional camera crew, and for most of the night, the bride stood on a stage being filmed with her fiancée, friends and family. Hats off to the girl, I only stood up there for about 2 mins and when I stepped down I found I was blinded by the spotlight, my jaw ached from smiling and I felt dizzy from standing!)

Kabul in Winter

When you live here for a while, the way of life in Afghanistan becomes a reality. I remember being at a dinner party my first couple of weeks here, when suddenly all the electricity went out and we were plunged into darkness. No one shrieke, no one made a fuss, in fact whoever was telling their story kept speaking and everyone else kept listening and I sat there wondering if I was the only one who had noticed the blackout. But now I understand, it is only when you leave here that you actually remember it is not normal to have one hour of electricity a day or to have no real roads or addresses or postal system. When I got back to my parents’ at Christmas and opened my bag, I was struck with this overwhelming smell of 16th Century peasant life, I and everything I owed smelt (as my dad kindly pointed out) like the Yorvic Viking centre. It is not surprising, heating over winter consists of bukaris – small wood or diesel burning stoves that provide heat just while they are lit and then seconds after the fire goes out, the room is freezing again and you have to start messing around with wood and splint and matches and diesel to get it all going again. December was harsh, it was cold, but January was a whole new ball game and I think half the problem was that I’d forgotten the standards of life you have to live by here. I’d got cosy with my parents in America, I’d got lazy with central heating and fridges and ovens that just turn on, I expected that turning a tap would result in water…and I wasn’t prepared in anyway for the coldest January in Kabul in 40 years. I have not experienced cold like it. You see your breath when you wake up, when you are cooking in the kitchen, when you are working. Pipes freeze so there is no running water (the pipes in our house froze for the whole month) ice actually formed around the flush in the bathroom. I had a recurring dream where I’d turn a tap and water came out. After the pipes freeze, they generally crack and so if you do manage to defrost them, then water comes gushing down, through the mud roofs and muddy, cold water pours down the walls in your house and you are left with a damp stench that you know will be around til spring (this happened to my boss, not me). For 4 weeks I washed from a bucket of water collected from the well in the garden and heated on a bukari, I got dressed to go to bed then got in my sleeping bag, under by duvet, I never wore less than 2 pairs of thermals and 103 layers. But I survived and somehow the harshness of it all adds yet another dimension to the camaraderie that you share with people around you. People take one look at you and know whether you are a have or a have not (got running water). The haves are usually generous and offers of showers at random people’s houses are not uncommon. A meeting I had at the British Embassy ended with a contract and the offer of a bath! Where else would that happen! I took them up on it of course, and turned up 3 nights later, my towel packed in my bag and spent 2 blissful hours in a bathroom that felt like home, being naked and happy for the first time in ages…I think for a moment there as I lay in this pristine bathroom, as much hot water as a girl could dream of, not a chill in the air…I actually forgot where I was, just for a little while, but these are the moments that get us through a winter in Kabul!