The Lost

Chatted over breakfast with a nice lady from Arizona, here for the rollout of an opinion poll about the upcoming presidential election; she works for the polling group, out of Gloucester. She's worked at a few shops in Kabul over several years, but said this is her last trip -- the city has lost its charm, she said. Too cold. And the open butcher shops turn her stomach.

The city has also lost much of its fresh air. It was a black-booger day, and we were worn out and hacking after only 90 minutes of walking the streets. Took tea and Pepsi in the new 'Istanbul Fast Food' cafe in Shar-e Naw, where the kind Afghan protection guard chased away child beggars so we could sit outside (see, Em, they don't all want to shoot you).

Then another stroll up Park Street, so Em could shoot food vendors, and down Butcher Street, where we picked up a two-boy tail, one trying to hawk gum packets, another complaining that he had no shoes. I tried to translate the proverb about meeting a man who had no feet, but my Dari isn't that flexible.

To dodge 'em, we pulled into the Taste of Aria Restaurant halfway along Butcher -- the complex that rose from the site of Lucia's and my 05-'06 rental house; our table was roughly, if my intuitive GPS was working, where Lucia's massive wood-and-bear-fur bed once stood. We gambled on three Cokes and "American burgers." Turns out Americans like cheese, lettuce, Chinese candied-rib sauce and fried eggs on their burgers - who knew. Damn tasty -- mazadar -- though we ditched the lettuce out of fear of what Steinbeck called 'the skitters' and we used to call 'Kabul belly.' The menu also offered such tempting delights as Peproni Pizza, Jembo Stick Chicken Burger, Vegetables Whip Cheese burgers (no, I have no idea, either) and Beaten Chicken, which we hope has something to do with a Google-translation of 'battered.'

We staggered back to the hotel by 1:50, to find an email from S saying he'd pick us up at 2 to go shoot a tandoor factory -- 2 being, of course, about 2:50, though there was a car accident between him and us. After circling 'round and 'round, as even S confessed he was confused, it turned out the neighborhood of tandoor factories has been razed or chased off for 'skyscrapers,' these being, in point of fact, abandoned foundations with grand aspirations.

Along the way we picked up a tail, an NDS officer (think KGB without the spiffy uniforms) on a motorcycle, who pulled in front of S's car and wanted to know why we were taking photos. S showed off his press badge, said some magic words, and Bob's yer uncle, they shook hands and he scooted off -- pulling over someone else down the road.

The original plan being tandone, we diverted to the hilltop tomb of Nadir Shah, the last-but-one king of Afghanistan, who was assassinated at a military school in front of his young son, the final king, Zahir (assassinated, S reminded us at least three times, by a Hazara, from the ethnic Shi'ite minority group in central Af. S is, of course, Pashtun). A call to an uncle in NDS got us unrestricted access to the tomb with two NDS guides. The tomb is closed to the public -- it's a fairly useful location, from which one could drop any number of nasty things on much of the city -- and most Afghans have never been inside; S said it was his first time, though his father is buried in the adjacent cemetery. We shot inside the tomb and out over the city, chased off a bunch of beggar children (and two gents who wanted to sell us horseback rides at 20 afghani per -- I can sit a horse damn well, and I knew from looking at these nags that I'd crush either one of 'em) and came back to nap.

And now to rise, to rinse off some of the pollution, and grab some dinner up in Qala-e Fatullah. Tomorrow last full day in K-town, so trinket shopping is on the agenda. Off to Pakistan Saturday.