From Souk to Souk Page 9

  ***

  As we sipped mint tea in the coolness of the workshop, Joseph reflected on the irony that some of the city’s most beautiful quartiers had been spared during conflict only to be destroyed in peacetime. And I recounted how, when I had told people I was going to Beirut, their reaction had been one of wide-eyed surprise, such was the power of the images of the Lebanese civil war even twenty years after it had ended.

  Perhaps the images that stick in your mind are of burnt-out buildings and columns of smoke rising from rubble. True, there remain some scars of the war today: the iconic Holiday Inn still stands, an empty concrete shell pockmarked with bullet holes. Much of downtown Beirut has been rebuilt as a pastiche of former elegant shopping streets or as glistening towers reflecting the Mediterranean sun. The city’s cosmopolitan Souk al-Tawileh, with its boutiques and perfumeries, and the Souk Ayass that sold clothes and textiles were both destroyed in the war, but have risen from the ashes in the form of the newly built Beirut Souks. The scent of flavoured lattes has replaced the smell of oriental spices, in-store piped music the tradesmen’s cries. Yet, if you were to walk through the graceful arcades of this twenty-first-century reinterpretation of the old markets with its soft lighting and polished stone floors, smart boutiques and luxury brands, I am sure you, too, would get a sensation of the ephemeral – that it is but a matter of time before conflict breaks out again. Is this why Beirutis live for the moment, making money while they can? If you lived on a volcano, would not carpe diem be your motto?

  ***

  I arrive at the window where I first saw Joseph’s work displayed. There is no pottery, just funky lamps in orange and purple. With some trepidation, I continue to the workshop, but when I get there I find it is abandoned. I peer through the dirty window: there is nothing to suggest the place has ever been occupied and no sign to indicate that Joseph has moved on to bigger and better things. A shadow passes over me. I look up to see the arm of a crane swinging overhead with a load of prefabricated concrete blocks. I never bought anything from Joseph. I regret it.

  You want me to tell you about Beirut? I cannot: I told you, there are no words to describe it. You must come and see for yourself, soon.

  White on Blue

  The reality suddenly hits me and I wonder if I have not embarked on true folly. I do a double-take as I look out of the aeroplane window and feel my stomach tighten. Between the rolling, khaki-coloured hills with patches of snow still dotting their tops and my Turkish Airlines Airbus flies a drone, its strange, grey form like some giant winged tadpole gliding malevolently above the barren countryside, waiting to strike. I keep my nose pressed to the porthole as we fly ever lower, the outskirts of the city finally coming into view: row upon row of shipping containers, army stores and prefabs are gradually replaced by a jumble of tiny, flat-roofed houses clinging to the hillsides and then stretching across the plain that lies surrounded by the mountains of the Hindu Kush. As we land, feelings of regret churn with a sensation of excitement as I see lines of military airplanes and helicopters. Eventually, a civil craft comes into view, but there is no doubt about it: Kabul Airport is unlike any other I have been to.

  Everyone files out of the plane. I look around at the mostly male passengers and wonder what brings them here. I imagine the big, muscular guys with crew cuts are private security; the small, skinny ones employees of Western governments or the ubiquitous non-governmental organisations, the NGOs. Perhaps there is a journalist or two among them; I suspect I am the only tourist. The airport building is shabby and dusty, despite signs proclaiming its recent renovation. I wonder what state it was in before. I get the relevant stamps on the right bits of paper, wait nervously for my luggage, am surprised when it appears, and then queue to show my passport to indifferent officials. Everything goes surprisingly smoothly and sooner than expected I find myself outside, squinting in the cold March sunshine. A perfect blue sky, a crisp morning, a handful of birds flying an arc above: here was the innocence of nature against the backdrop of violence that has marred this city for years.

  All I have to do now is follow the little map I was sent by e-mail and make my way to the perimeter fence where James is waiting to meet me. For security reasons, only passengers are allowed into the airport buildings: everyone else has to stay outside. All the people from my flight are trooping off in the same direction, so I simply follow them across empty car parks and through open gateways, wheeling my duffel bag behind me. At the final gate, there is a baffling sign saying ‘Switch Your Jammer Off’’. A crowd of perhaps two dozen waits; among the tanned and wizened faces I see James, a head and a half taller than the Afghans. I am relieved he is there, but do my best to act nonchalant. He looks different from when I met him in London and managed to talk myself into coming on this trip. His Western-style anorak covers a typical Afghan tumbaan, a long cream-coloured shirt that reaches mid-thigh over matching baggy trousers, while a large, grey chequered scarf is wrapped around his shoulders. His dark, curly hair has taken on a suitably wild look and a thick beard now covers what were once clean-shaven features.

  ‘Welcome to Afghanistan!’ he beams and shakes my hand.

  A driver in a silver Hiace people carrier is waiting for us. His friendly grin immediately betrays the tough living conditions here and the patchy level of medical services. Once more, I realise how fortunate I am to live where I do. James introduces the thin-faced young man as Aasif. He slips out from behind the steering wheel and slides open the side door with a grubby hand that looks transplanted from someone twice his age. I avert my eyes from the yellowing fingernails and smile a hello. He, too, is wearing a two-piece tumbaan, but his is black and, I suspect, part of a very limited wardrobe, not a decorative add-on. He heaves my bag into the van and I climb in the back after it. The door slams shut, he and James get in the front, and off we go.

  For a while, we drive along a wide, tree-lined avenue, but are soon in the chaos of the city’s mud-spattered traffic, holding tight as we drop into potholes filled with melt water from the recent snowfall James tells me they have had. Seemingly keen to make conversation, he asks if my journey was OK and if I am tired. I hardly slept on the overnight flight from Istanbul, but I am wide awake and eager to see as much as possible: I have not come here to sleep. We swerve to avoid a battered lorry that suddenly pulls out, coughing thick black smoke from its exhaust as the engine growls. Our driver blasts away on the horn, curses in Dari, the dialect of Farsi spoken here, and then looks at us and laughs. The truck is crammed full with chickens, their white feathers sticking through its panelled sides. It spews out another filthy cloud of fumes as if answering back.

  ‘First stop is the guesthouse,’ explains James, as the traffic slows to a halt.

  Here and there, black, red and green tricolours hang from flagpoles of government buildings where once the white flag of the Taliban flew. At a large roundabout, three huge armoured personnel carriers roar past, horns blasting, the Afghan soldiers sitting on top of them anonymous behind black sunglasses. We trundle on, going by a newly renovated but uninspiring mosque on a corner, and then we are driving past ugly office buildings from the 1970s and 80s, or perhaps they are hospitals or hotels. It is impossible to tell: their dirty windows reveal nothing.

  I peer out of the side of the van at the concrete blast walls that surround all sensitive buildings, rolls of razor wire along their top. Afghan soldiers, dressed up in modern military attire, pace slowly back and forth. I ask James if things are getting any better, if he has noticed any improvements during the years he has been bringing tourists here with his adventure travel company. He hesitates before replying. I wonder if he is gathering his thoughts or merely contemplating which answer to give.

  ‘Yes,’ he says finally, turning to face me, his grey eyes looking straight into mine, ‘things are slowly picking up. But Afghan society is very different from what we are used to in the West,’ he adds, saying he thinks it will be a long time before democracy as we know it takes root in the culture. I
see Aasif looking at me in the rear view mirror and glance at James. ‘The driver doesn’t speak English,’ he tells me with a disarming smile.

  I ask what a ‘jammer’ is and tell him about the puzzling sign I saw at the airport. James grins and tells me it is a device for blocking the radio waves, usually from mobile phones, used to detonate IEDs. ‘Improvised Explosive Devices,’ he winks, seeing the blank look on my face.

  We inch forward along a one-way street lined with bare trees. I wonder if they are dead or if it is the winter that has reduced them to skeletons. We crawl past shop fronts with displays of shiny Western-style suits, halt in front of a sports store with tailors’ dummies dressed in the blue and yellow national baseball strip, and trundle by windows full of brightly coloured dresses, their tight satin bodices giving way to ruched folds of fabric that reach to the floor as large vivid triangles. We continue slowly along the congested road with its eclectic mix of fashion stores; such is the main shopping thoroughfare in the country’s capital. The fairytale gowns on show tell of a different life behind closed doors, in safety, but here on the street, there are few women and most of those I see are covered in traditional chadris, the azure, or occasionally black, burqas that cover them from head to foot, with just a small mesh for the wearer to peer through. I reflect on the striking contrast to the stylish modern clothes worn by the young woman who gave me my visa in the Afghan embassy back home, although even she half-heartedly draped a black scarf over the back of her head as I entered the cramped office she shared with a colleague. We speed up a bit. Now we are driving past something equating to a park: through the railings I can see compacted earth, plastic seating and more bare trees. Some men are milling about in small groups, others sit around. Perhaps in summer families come here.

  We turn into a narrow side road, coffee-coloured snow piled in heaps along its sides. The van plunges into puddles that must be ankle deep and bounces out the other side with a burst of revs. We stop at a corner and James announces we have arrived. Aasif leaps out and slides the van door open. Clambering out carefully, I try to avoid the worst of the mud. James pushes a button next to a battered metal doorway at the corner of a high wall, triggering electronic birdcall somewhere way beyond the other side. While we wait, Aasif unloads my bag and staggers towards us. After blowing into his hands to warm them, James rings the bell again and once more there is the distant chirping noise. A bolt slides, a key turns and the door swings open to reveal a young man in regulation baggy clothing. A warm, genuine smile extends across his tanned face as he and James exchange greetings in Dari. I nod and say hello to our host whom my compatriot introduces as Faisal. Little clouds of vapour float between us as our breath chills in the morning air. I am fascinated by his blue eyes, feeling as if I alone have found evidence to finally support the long-held belief that the people here still carry genes left behind by Alexander the Great’s soldiers. Faisal looks at me, apparently puzzled by my interest, his eyes sparkling as if on cue. He locks up behind us while James and I make our way along the concrete path that cuts diagonally across the humble garden. My guide explains he finds the low-key approach safest: we are better off here in a modest bed and breakfast frequented by Afghans than in a luxury hotel targeted by the Taliban. I look at the scraggy rose bushes that are dotted round the edge of the grass, intermingled with plastic flowers. A few foil windmills on sticks, the sort one would more expect to see at the seaside, stand here and there, colourful but motionless. The guesthouse is simple: I think it must once have been a private home. The path continues alongside it, leading to the main entrance in front of which stands a rusting, Soviet-era piece of machinery on wheels. It could be some sort of miniature tractor; it looks as if it has been there for years. We take off our shoes before entering the building, leaving them next to a pile of men’s dusty black slip-ons and trainers with flattened backstays. Faisal catches us up, grinning as he kicks his shoes off before he squeezes past and disappears inside.

  I hoist my bag up the step and over the threshold into the hallway, wondering if, just once, I should try travelling light. An ageing computer, deeper than it is wide, with a sticky-looking keyboard stands lifeless on a Formica table. I follow James to a ground-floor room, wheeling my luggage across the thin, red pile of the traditionally patterned carpet. He flicks a switch and a dim economy bulb begins to glow, gradually illuminating the room. Three single beds with headboards and footboards in dark wood are arranged in a U shape, each with a single pillow and several layers of rough blankets. Points of daylight fight their way through the purple lace curtains that cover the windows. I can choose any one of the beds, says James, handing me a large bottle of water, which he seems to have conjured up from nowhere. Once I have parked my duffel bag next to the low glass table that stands between the divans, there is hardly any floor space left. We sit down on the slightly concave beds facing each other and James picks up a flimsy blue plastic bag out of which he produces an off-white tumbaan and a choice of three scarves.

  ‘It’s not a question of going around in disguise,’ he reassures me, ‘just a matter of reducing visibility.’

  I point out that my polar anorak is bright orange, but he assures me it is not a problem. I pull the baggy outfit over my jeans and thick pullover, put my coat back on and then wrap a polyester scarf, the blue and gold chequered one, round my shoulders.

  Feeling like the Michelin man, I emerge with James on to the street. I half waddle, half pick my way along the broken pavement, trying to avoid twisting an ankle or losing a foot into the depths of sodden earth that lie between slabs of concrete. The street is lined with parked Japanese cars caked with dried mud. I tell James I think Kabul is the muddiest place I have ever visited. He laughs, saying it hardly ever rains in Afghanistan: nearly all the country’s water comes from melted snow. We walk past brightly lit stores, each little more than a single room. Mobile phones, groceries, CDs and T-shirts: each shop has found its niche. A little further on, we pass a row of florists where the few real specimens are greatly outnumbered by flamboyant displays of artificial blooms in colours that Mother Nature would be embarrassed to unleash. Apart from the fact that most of the people shopping, talking or otherwise going about their business are men, everything appears surprisingly normal. As we cross a busy road, I am grateful that the traffic is so bad that we are able to wend our way between the crawling vehicles without risking life and limb.

  ‘We’re going to Chicken Street,’ says James.

  I brace myself for a grisly food market-cum-abattoir, but instead find the place full of shops selling jewellery, antiques, carpets and traditional Afghan clothing. Half-derelict buildings from the latter years of the twentieth century stand next to two-storey constructions of indeterminable age, ugly panels of reflective glass alongside shop windows with pull-down metal blinds.

  ‘Chicken Street has been a big attraction for tourists to Kabul since the days when the country was on the Hippy Trail,’ James tells me, as we pause to look in a shop window. Mineral rocks, some sliced and polished to reveal concentric patterns, line the shelves alongside all manner of items made of lapis lazuli, the semi-precious stone prized since antiquity for its intense blue colour.

  ‘It comes from the north-eastern province of Badakhshan,’ says James, his hands in his anorak pockets. ‘The Sar-i Sang mines there have been worked for over six thousand years; they were the main source of lapis lazuli for the Ancient World. Even that found in the artefacts from Tutankhamun’s tomb and the royal treasures of Ur came from Afghanistan.’

  I look at the penholders, paper-weights and carved animals set out on the glass shelves and, perhaps unfairly, compare their unappealing designs to the wonders of Ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia. As for Badakhshan, I have never heard of it: the only place that makes the news back home is Helmand Province and for all the wrong reasons. The two men in the shop see us peering at the display and, smiling, beckon us to come inside. When they see our hesitation, they quickly appear at the door grinning and fire off
a volley of questions in excellent English, asking how we are, where we are from and what we would like to buy today. My heart almost stops as I hear James tell them we are British but, to my surprise, their reaction is friendly.

  ‘Welcome to Afghanistan!’ they chime, almost in unison. Like everyone I see here, their tanned faces look weathered, a result, I imagine, of the bitter-cold winters and hot, dry summers. They are keen on a sale and the older one with the thick moustache assures us he has beautiful gifts we could buy for our families, vowing solemnly to make us a special price. We smile our excuses, say we might come back later and continue on our way.

  A shop selling waistcoats, jackets and hats catches my attention. I am tempted by the piles of karakuls, the typical Kabul caps made from curly Astrakhan fur, and the heaps of traditional pakuls, a sort of woollen beret in earthy colours: either one would make an exotic addition to my hat collection. But, when we go in, I am dismayed to see the place is full of fur coats, aimed, no doubt, at well-paid expats working here. The hook-nosed owner, a man of indeterminable age with greasy hair, emerges from a recess, black eyes flashing. Are we looking for hats? Or perhaps a nice leather jacket? he grimaces, whisking a cheap-looking black three-quarter-length coat off one of the crowded rails and thrusting it at us. Put off by the snarling fox pelts dangling everywhere and the unpleasant, musty smell, I say I am just browsing and make for the open door.