Story number one....
So I'm in a van a few weeks back with Karima, heading to the Kabul airport. I've got a fist full of currency, some good old US dollars, some Afghani, some Dirhams. I'm having a hard time counting it, so I'm holding it up in the air, letting the sunlight spread some clarity on my currency.
Karima kindly points out that counting my money in full view of the world is a bad idea. Especially since we just received a security notice on our phones about a rash of bandits slashing tires and robbing car occupants.
But I remain unconcerned.
Until seconds later our van stops abruptly, and two men with machine guns open the back door and gesture for us to exit. Wait..what? Not "us"? Just me you want? Karima gets to stay in the van?
I remain unconcerned. I'm getting robbed? No big deal, it's a hundred bucks and they don't seem to be in the killing mood.
The men with machine guns grab my arm, bring me around front of the van and point me towards another man across the street. This man is brandishing a ten inch knife.
This is unsettling. I'm vaguely concerned. This pleasant early morning banditry has taken a turn for the worse.
As I move across the street, my knifey friend continues to show me his knife, and has escalated the umcomfortableness by jabbing it in my direction. Jab, jab, jab, poking the air. Poking my chest? Ah, he's grinning. He's turning the knife around to stab himself in his bullet proof vest.
"See?" I imagine he's thinking "Pointy knife doesn't hurt me, pointy knife only hurts you"
Grin. Jab. Grin. Jab.
As I cross the curb into his circle of terror, the only thing I can think to say, with a smile on my face is
"Well, thats not very nice"
My knife weilding bandit friend laughts. Put's his knife away. Pats me down for weapons. Let's me go.
Oh. It's just the first level of security clearance for the airport.
I remain unconcerned.
Story number two.
So Karima and I want to go out to dinner one night. Security for our company is tight, and we have a list of approved restaurants. We pick a nice sounding italian joint for our first dinner out just the two of us. Bella Italiano.
Once again we are in a van, at night, cruising down dusty backgrounds that all blend together. No idea where we are.
We finally take a right now some dark alley and pull up in front of at least 10 Afghan men with machine guns, loitering outside some poorly lit sign.
This must be the place?
The driver drops us off. The doors shut. The van is gone. We're alone.
This is not the place.
It's an italian restaurant, yes. But not the right one. Is it an approved restaurant? No idea.
We go inside anyway. Every table is taken. The angriest host i've ever had the misfortune of meeting greets us with snarls and hate in her eyes. She's russian. She looks like beets. She smells of beets. Her hatred knows no bounds.
A table? Out of the question. Any idea of when a table will open? Of course not. We may sit on a couch and wait for an undetermined amount of time? No thank you. We'll take our chances with the dark, and the machine guns outside.
The right question yields results. The restaurant we are looking for is a mere two blocks away. How do we get there? Well you have to walk down the dark alley. Yes, this alley here with all the barbed wire, and giant blockades and bushy bearded men peering at you through heavy lidded eyes from behind the walls of a fortress.
It's dark and scary. Halfway thru this barbed wire walkway, Karima and I discuss our upcoming deaths.
We agree it's likely to be gruesome.
The light at the end of the tunnel.
Oh, it's lovely Bella Italiano. The four cheese pizza is delicious. More garlic butter for my bread? Yes please.
Dinner was great.
What's the theme here? You know what I'm trying to say. It's on the tip of your tongue.
Kabul. It's just not as sinister as it appears to be or how I thought it would be. Life is good.
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