T he grandson of the King told my wife and me
at dinner that we were ‘the only two tourists in Kabul’! In fact, we nearly did not arrive because on the eve of our flight, the aid-worker Gayle Williams was shot dead by the Taleban in broad daylight. The incident made world headlines and the Afghan capital suddenly more dangerous. I was at a shoot and all my fellow guns thought I would be mad to go. But I also knew that I would go mad if I did not. For assurance, I telephoned the inimitable Rory Stewart on the ground. He was too polite to insist on our visit, but sounded calm — not exactly unexpected from someone who had walked across the entire breadth of Afghanistan and was a deputy governor of an Iraqi province. So my wife and I packed — she with a large scarf and I with my oldest clothes (that fitted).
There was no one in the arrivals hall at Kabul airport, because no one was allowed in the arrivals hall at Kabul. Everyone had to walk a gauntlet of 500 yards of barricades from the airport building. But Rory Stewart was not anyone. He had arranged, impressively, a diplomatic car right in front of the entrance of the airport, except there was no one around to be impressed. We drove off in the heat and dust. There was a lot of dust: on the roads, in the air, and all over the surrounding mountains of the Hindu Kush. You could feel that Kabul, in that magical location, was steeped in history. Indeed, the city was supposed to have been founded by Cain and Abel, and Genghis Khan had had a go at destroying it. But the recent troubles have clearly savaged the place, with a sorrowful testament of rubble and rubbish; destruction and destitution. So the luxury of the Aga Khan’s Serena Hotel, behind two huge thick solid dark iron gates, installed after the machine-gun attack in January, was a serendipity.
Dinner was at The Fort — where Rory lives, and the headquarters to his extraordinary brainchild The Turquoise Mountain Foundation (www.turquoisemountain.org). Half collapsed, the place was nonetheless as romantic as it must have been when built 120 years ago by Abdur Rahman Khan. We dined in the only surviving tower looking across the dim city under a desolate moon, against the silhouette of the ruins of the British embassy, originally ordered by Lord Curzon. Among the guests was the Commanding General of the British Troops. He was impressive and confirmed for me what a sterling job the British army was doing in Afghanistan, in very difficult and complicated conditions, both militarily and politically. Around the dinner table, however, no one seemed to know where things would end in Afghanistan.
In the Murad Khane district of the city, the oldest settlement on the north bank of the Kabul river (totally dry), the Turquoise Mountain Foundation started 18 months ago removing the mountains of rubbish and recycling the mud, with the addition of plenty of straw and traditional craftsmanship. New and decent paksa, good for insulation and resilient to earthquake, was being produced from pure waste for the rebuilding of new walls. The Foundation has been working hard to persuade local landlords to restore their old courtyard houses, rather than demolish them and build new and faceless buildings with concrete and cement and glass. A great deal has been done, and the Foundation will soon be able to move their architectural, carpentry, jewellery and calligraphy centres from The Fort to this newly renovated centre, which was already operating a kindergarten and a primary school and an embroidery centre for women, and most important of all, a medical clinic. The work of the Foundation is nothing short of wondrous, and very importantly, provides employment to hundreds of otherwise idle local workers.
This impressive project could not have been easy in the war-torn capital. Certainly, Rory needed to be oleaginous to the mayor of Kabul. We took tea with him. He spoke excellent English and turned out to be a graduate of Manchester University. He asked me if I liked old Red Ken. I told him that I preferred new Blue Boris! I also pleaded with him to support the Turquoise Mountain Project, whose model I said I could and would deploy in Peking — a prospect that intrigued him.
Our second dinner was at the home of a senior UN official who had lived in Kabul for six years — not easy. The Chinese ambassador came, as well as the Aga Khan’s emissary. I told my compatriot that China could do so much more to help. The Aga Khan, not necessarily the favourite of many Muslims, has done a great deal for Kabul. I told the emissary that we particularly liked the restored Queen’s Palace and Babur’s Gardens, where the Mughal ruler was buried. Jemima Montagu, also of the Turquoise Mountain Foundation, had just curated an exhibition of modern art from Afghanistan, Iran and Pakistan. It was the first time the residents of Kabul could see contemporary art by their compatriots, as well as Iranians and Pakistanis. It was wonderful to see ordinary Kabul citizens sauntering through the exhibition, some puzzled, some intrigued, but all of them seemingly enjoying themselves. It made me realise that all of us living in the West take these things for granted far too much.
We went shopping at Chicken Street. There was no one else there. But inside a carpet store, with an innocuous shopfront, we were led upstairs behind a purdah. We entered a sort of Aladdin’s Cave of rugs and carpets. I went berserk and bought 18 pieces. I was told DHL could arrange the freight. How tragic, therefore, to discover on my return to London that two of the DHL staff were killed outside their office on the day I gave them business. My carpets will now always remind me of the frailty and injustice of life. It was a sad and poignant end to my first visit to Kabul.
P.S. I believe I have traced the source of Tourette’s syndrome at Kabul ‘International’ Airport. The utter shambles and chaos and sheer confusion would have exercised even Mother Teresa who, like my wife, would have been gropingly searched at least three times. And if you were travelling with any ‘check-in’ luggage, you would develop corns on your hands and body odour from sweating before reaching the counter. The experience is daunting even for the hardiest adventurers. Try it if you want to work up a motive for murder.
Previous page
