Chicken Street

January 23, 2009 I woke up this morning to blue skies and sunshine. Kabul looked glorious out of my second floor window. Today is my day off and I welcomed the break from work which has kept me busy and has stretched me in good ways. First thing when I woke up, I had a Skype call with my brothers, my sister-in-law, and my Dad who live in Southern California. It was so good to see their faces on the screen and to catch up with them for the first time since I came to Kabul. I think my Dad was a little taken aback to see me full screen! It sure was good to see all of them.

My morning emails brought a card from Louisa from “The Office,” a television show we share a passion for. The card is a photo of Phyllis (aka Mrs. Bob Vance of Bob Vance Refrigeration) on her wedding day. That made me smile. I miss my children. The next email from Alex was brimming with good cheer about his senior thesis film and the Nietzch Factor, his Wesleyan Ultimate Frisbee team. A third email shared the great news that “Trouble the Water,” the extraordinary documentary film about Hurricane Katrina that Alex worked on as an intern two summers ago is nominated for an Academy Award for Best Documentary Film. Big shout-out to Tia Lessin and Carl Deal from Kabul!

After brunch – Fridays we have brunch at 10 AM in the Guest House – of sausage and the most amazing soufflé-like pancake, I went off to Chicken Street with my friend, Belquis.

I had heard about Chicken Street before I came to Kabul. Carpets, furniture, tapestries, hookas, Karzai hats, chapans (vibrant colored Karzai knee-length jackets), lapis lazuli. You name it, Chicken Street has it.

Today was a lark for several reasons, the most exciting of which is that my friend and I were out together in Kabul without a bodyguard. (Shhhhhh!) We were in a safe area and we were in and out of shops. And we had a phalanx of 7-and 8-year old boys tagging along behind and in front of us, beseeching us to buy chewing gum, offering to carry our packages, and finally determining that they were our bodyguards. At one point, my friend noticed that we were the only women on the street.

We made our way in and out of the most extraordinary shops, each one a warren of small rooms offering feasts for the eyes. Carpets stacked floor to ceiling. Tapestries, silks and wool. Kilim saddlebags for camels. Karzai hats made of lambs wool. Karzai jackets --- chapans – of elegant green and purple fabric. (To be worn, I have it on good authority, with arms in sleeves for informal occasions and draped over the shoulders for formal occasions.) Carved walnut chairs, divans, tables, bed frames. (My friend, Belquis, is trying out one of the beautiful carved chairs in the photograph above.) Lapis lazuli carvings, rings, bracelets, and necklaces. Handblown glass in the most exquisite pale aqua.

All this and the small boys were still escorting us, waiting patiently as we entered yet another store, hoping against hope that we would acknowledge their patience with some form of material reward! We relented and purchased chocolate bars. The boys accepted them with smiles and continued to tag along after us.
Every shop keeper in every shop we visited offered us tea and sweets and led us up stairs to upper levels where carpets and saddlebags and chairs and tables and wall hangings are kept. We are invited to select items and pay now or pay next time we come back. Afghans give new meaning to the word “hospitality” by their words and deeds.

The colors, textures, carvings, finishes, threads, and patterns dazzle the eye. After the second carpet shop, the carpets and tapestries became a blur of reds, blues, golds, and creams. Silk and wool. Blankets made of camel hair and beads of lapis lazuli. My heart was set on two tiny tables, one red and one blue, with intricate folk designs painted on them. A multicolored bedspread embroidered in cotton. A woven wall hanging, a painted box, blue glass beads. For this, I paid the sum of $90 US.

The sun was still high in the sky at 2:00 PM when we returned to the Guest House. I was still feeling the freedom of walking down Chicken Street with my friend, not a care in the world other than a growing pack of young boys eager to please, hoping for baksheesh.

Tonight, I went to the Gandamack for dinner with my new friend, Liz, a beautiful Australian woman who has been here for several months and will be leaving on Monday to return to her home in Spain. This is the third restaurant I have been to since I’ve been in Kabul, and the drill is the same with each one. The restaurants we are allowed to go to are the “double door” restaurants. One enters from an institutional grilled and locked door streetside and crosses a dirt courtyard into a set of double doors. The first door is metal and it is locked. Liz has been there before so she knows to knock. We are viewed through a peephole and we pass muster. We are allowed into a tiny holding stall while we are either viewed again – or in the case of other restaurants, searched for firearms – and then the second door opens and we cross another courtyard and enter what is one of the most beautiful restaurants I have ever seen. White linen tablecloths, sterling flatware, bone china. Candlelight and wine glasses! Boo-yah! The menu offers Boston Climb Chowder and Trout Squeegey Style. (Don’t ask; I didn’t!) Liz has grilled chicken breast and I have Spinach Lasagna. The dinner is delicious and the conversation is wonderful. What a great day!

Every day I wish my children were here with me. I make mental notes to tell them about something I saw, heard, ate, even imagined. How to telegraph the colors, sounds, sights, smells, and tastes? This is too much experience for one person.