Opinion - News Analysis

Cricket, kite-flying, and gun-toting guards dateline kabul

It is the day of the final of the ICC World Twenty20 cricket tournament in distant Johannesburg, and the streets of the Afghan capital wear a deserted look. The sun is sharp and cuts into the skin. It seems odd, even foolish, to be on the streets while members of the expatriate community zip past in monstrously sized vehicles from one “secure” destination to another.

In front of the sandbagged Ministry of Interior, a soldier steps forward. “Bhaijaan,” he bellows. “Pakistani or Indian?” Query satisfied, he dwells on the game: “Dhoni plays beautifully. But so do Imran Nazir and Shahid Afridi.” Weighty matters of cricket out of the way, the soldier wants to know whether I observe the day-long fast (roza) during the holy month of Ramzan. A negative shake of the head has him shouting to his comrade: “Get tea and naan for this brother from India.” The soldier and his colleagues, however, will be on duty all day without eating or drinking as most of Afghanistan observes roza with zeal. But there appears to be no compulsion for others to follow suit.

In AINA, a non-governmental media organisation, the Indians are offered tea while the Afghanis go on with their chores.

Back at the hotel, an accompanying colleague and I plonk ourselves in front of a television and watch in complete silence. From the rooms below, cheers break out every time Pakistan’s Misbah-ul-Haq belts the ball beyond the boundary. Game over, I let out a loud wolf whistle. Immediately, heads pop out over the balcony. Grinning Afghan faces peer up, giving thumbs-up signs.

This effusive friendliness is repeated on the streets, though there is a hint of tension in the atmosphere. The brand new pick-ups of the traffic police have mounting stands for light machine guns. Every building of consequence has guards with AK-47s lolling outside huge heavy gates. The high walls are topped by concertina wire. But the people have learnt to ignore these signs in a country still seeking peace.

All faces frown in concentration as the Afghans try to decipher the address on a visiting card. A freshly migrated Uzbek, with no knowledge of Hindi films yet, takes the card, dodges between vehicles to the opposite side of the street to fetch a friend who knows some Hindi to help me out.

A few hundred yards from the hotel, ignoring the dire warnings by the expatriate community not to step out except in a four-wheeler with a local by the elbow, I encounter Afghani children running after kites. The string is low but still high enough to reach for this band of four. With skills honed in the streets of Lucknow and Kolkata, I help fashion a “langar” to snare the kites. Within minutes, the children are two kites richer. Their indulgent fathers smile from the shade. Kites are a novelty in Kabul; they had been banned by the previous Taliban government. So are barber shops and posters, dominated by the slain ‘Lion of Panjsher Valley’ Ahmad Shah Masood and given a close run by Bollywood stars.

This scene of easy friendliness plays itself out again and again. In shops, bargaining is a must. After an extended spell in the shop, most of it spent in conversing with the owner, a small gift will invariably follow regardless of whether a purchase has been made or not.

At the airport as you move away from the conveyor belt, there is a gentle tap on the shoulder. A gaunt Afghani, deep lines creasing his bearded face, points to a corner where two young men are huddled over forms. “Kin I hav yr passport pliz,” says one of them, the American accent firmly in place leaving one in no doubt who the current rulers are.

But there is a small elite zone within the city. Here, it is the expatriates who seem to be setting the rules of engagement with the man in the street. The foreigners — aid agency staff, diplomats, and journalists — all live around the city centre which also has most of the embassies and government offices.

At night, the place appears to be a relaxed version of Baghdad’s Green Zone. Massive four wheelers with thick black antennae upfront, screech around corners. Pedestrians and push cart vendors have apparently been cleared out even though it is Ramzan and other parts of the city throb with people. Every roundabout has a police car. There were tanks till last year, the locals tell you.

In the evening, the restaurant on the top floor of the hotel is packed with foreigners. A lady sits alone at the next table, smoking. At another table, some westerners discuss a construction project, the only big thing for them in this country apart from talking about the number of bombing runs made by NATO fighter planes from the local Bagram airport. Food over, they get into SUVs and make for the “authentic” Afghan restaurant where drinks are placed in the open. There is no fear of objecting eyes because the boundary wall is invariably over 10 feet high. Armed guards stand outside, whispering into their walkie-talkies.

Outside this sanitised zone, life appears to flow normally. On the streets, cars follow in orderly lines. Some streets are now one-way to cater to the increasing influx of members of aid agencies and their cars. Suddenly a scuffle breaks out. Policemen armed with thick but short rubber truncheons come leaping over the rubble. A few dull blows are heard and order is restored. A minute later, a mini bus stops right in the middle of the road. Its owner jumps off and makes for the policeman who had made the mistake of hitting his vehicle in order to speed up traffic. After being at each other’s throats, they are persuaded to call off the scuffle. But for most part of the day, the traffic moves serenely. Prudence demands that you give way to cars turning in from side streets.

The police are always on the lookout for baksheesh. Just before the airport, a policeman offers to get our luggage checked and loaded for $20. On the roundabout at night, a policeman first threatens arrest because the passport is not at hand. The press card makes him relent. “Otherwise, he could have taken 10 dollars,” says the driver.

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