After a breakfast cooked by the young servant (I was instructed not to engage her as it’s against custom), we left for the airport. We were driven by the inimitable Javid; part-driver, part-hustler. His English wasn’t great, but he did procure culcha (naan with sesame seeds) for me at R5 each and show me how they’re made. I washed it down with the yellowest drink known to man. I’m impressed by Sayeed’s driving… cars drift in and out of lanes, often two sharing one lane. One of Naheed’s relatives asked me to tell him if I figured out the Pakistani traffic rules. As of yet, I have no answer.It’s even hotter than yesterday. Islamabad has replaced Accra as the worst place on Earth.
At the airport I was once again beset upon by the Pakistani DEA, first by means of a disinterested German shepherd then a bag search. After, Naheed told me that Sayeed said it’s because they’re on the lookout for drug-smuggling Nigerians, and since they don’t know what a Nigerian looks like… I’m the closest thing to their imaginings.
The flight to Kabul in a small plane was slightly harrowing. The ground below was brown and mountainous, and on our approach we came in at such an angle I was sure our wing catch the tarmac. But he righted the plane at the last minute.
We were picked up by a man who works for a friend of Naheed’s, and he took us to the mall to do a few errands like buy a SIM card. You have to pass through a metal detector and search before going into the mall. I was impressed at what they had to offer—they even had the iPhone which isn’t even sold in Canada! Then he took me to get my beard trimmed—I had the barber shape it in what I hope is a popular local style, though it will fool no-one I’m sure. The barber, who only spoke a few words of English, asked me: “African?” It was a much more enjoyable process than the Sierra Leonean barbing experience—he even massaged my head after he finished shaving me. It looks better than the wild facial fro I had hitherto sported.
Kabul looks and smells a bit like Mali; dusty and not entirely dirty. Police cars drive by in trucks with armed men mounted in back, one of them carrying what looks like an anti-aircraft gun.
Our hotel, the Park Palace, is much nicer than I expected. There are armed guards and sandbags at the entrance—an ominous sign. However the inside is nice enough. Some of the suites are, I imagine, more luxurious, for the NGO people who stay for months or years. However my room is the only one in the hotel with no AC and no bathroom.
We met our fixer, a young university-educated Hazara (the historically oppressed descendants of Genghis Khan) who seems very nice and capable. I was supposed to shoot a story but because of all the airplane delays it’ll have to wait. I’m worried I won’t get it all done in 2 weeks.
We supped at the hotel: chicken tandoori, rice and okra, which we ate outside in the courtyard while planning our stories. I’m thinking of driving to Bamian instead of flying—cheaper, more control and I’ll see more of the countryside. I’d love of course to walk like Rory Stewart (I’m reading his book). Perhaps one day I’ll have a similar adventure, though I don’t know how he did it with no gear. I’ve packed light (as light as you can carrying a full TV studio on your back) but I wouldn’t survive more than an hour.
