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A new version of Chekov’s play The Three Sisters, re-imagined during the Troubles, might cause even the most avid of theatre-goers to balk. Re-workings of The Three Sisters are nothing new. But in taking up the challenge, the Northern Ireland novelist and playwright Lucy Caldwell sets the production in the 1990s – the time of the ceasefires and the lead up to the Good Friday peace agreement. What emerges is a compelling comment on a society still in stasis now.

The playwright and novelist Michael Frayn has written that, spiritually, the sisters live in ‘exile’. Lucy Caldwell re-imagines the sisters’ dead father as an English Catholic army officer. They socialise with British soldiers, yet have Irish names. In terms of identity, they are in no-man’s land. These nuances fuel their inner turmoil.

Yet the use of colloquial language provided some light relief. The audience laughs when Orla, the sister based on Olga, complains that the weather is freezing cold, or ‘baltic’ in Northern Ireland parlance, and then asks “I wonder what people in the Baltic say when they are cold?”

For many in Britain, the details of the Troubles may be as remote as the Russian revolution. However watching the play performed at The Lyric Theatre in Belfast, it was clear that many of the references to the future, away from the claustrophobia of the play’s present, resonated on a deeper level with the audience.

We have delivered workshops to Afghan women via skype again! Only this time it was from the Seamus Heaney Centre for Poetry, and I was with my esteemed colleague Professor Sinead Morrissey.

With the support of the School of English at Queen’s University, and the British Council offices in both Northern Ireland and Kabul, this was the third and possibly final stage of the Afghan Women Spread the Word project – teaching the participants creative writing skills. And who better to do that than an award-winning poet?

Sinead began by introducing the women to the haiku, the Japanese 17-syllable verse. But they were soon reading her their poetry and talking about landai, the traditional oral short poems, often recited by Pashto women.

The seminar even made it into the newspapers http://www.belfasttelegraph.co.uk/news/northern-ireland/helping-afghan-women-is-poetry-in-motion-31529952.html

But the most satisfying part of it was that it yet again a success. And Sinead was as captivated by the women’s enthusiasm as I always am.

I’m not sure where the project goes from here – but we have built so many links so far – between women from across Afghanistan – and between Afghanistan and Ireland, that I don’t think we can lose that.

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The Afghan women work on their interview questions

The Afghan women work on their interview questions

I have just delivered a two-day workshop on interviewing skills, for 20 or so Afghan women, from my home office in Belfast!  How was this possible? Through the miracles of modern science – and in particular, skype!

Let me explain.

It has been a long time since I have posted – too long. But my silence has partly been a reflection of my frustration at the delays in our project – Afghan Women Spread the Word.

The project is supported by Queen’s University in Belfast and the British Council in Kabul and Belfast, and its aim is ultimately to establish an archive of recordings and writings from women across Afghanistan. This will be hosted at the Afghanistan Center at Kabul University, (http://acku.edu.af/ ) and hopefully at the Institute for the Study of Conflict Transformation and Social Justice at Queen’s University. http://www.qub.ac.uk/research-centres/isctsj/ )

There are other projects working to give Afghan women the chance to write – and be heard. The Afghan Women’s Writing Project (http://awwproject.org/ )  is one of these, and has collected a wealth of written work from women.

But as a broadcaster, I wanted to hear women too, in their own languages.

The first step in our project was to bring women from across the country to Kabul, and train them to carry out audio interviews. This would establish connections between women from different ethnic groups, between Sunni and Shia, between rural and urban. These women were to be trained to use handheld recorders to collect oral histories from women in their area. These recordings would then be fed back to an Afghan colleague in Kabul who would select the best. (But they would all be retained for the archive).

Then a second workshop would bring the same women together again. Each will be allocated a recording from a different area of the country, from a woman with a very different experience – from a different ethnic, economic or religious group. This second workshop will concentrate on using the experiences and information in the recording as the catalyst to write a creative piece, a poem or story. Essentially, we are asking the women to put themselves in the shoes of the ‘other’ woman.

But as the security situation in Afghanistan has steadily worsened, so my chances of returning to Kabul have diminished.

All through last summer (2014) we waited for the deadlock over the Presidential elections to be resolved, continually moving the dates for our workshop, until we ran out of time, and it was October, and I had to begin teaching again in the School of English at Queen’s University. I was on holiday in Turkey, in a bar with a wireless connection, when I got the email telling me I wouldn’t be able to travel to Kabul. I sat crying into a cheap cocktail, wondering just when I would be able to return.

Then the plan was that I would go to Kabul just before Christmas – but I was ill and couldn’t join the security course I needed to complete before I was allowed to travel for the British Council. Then we tried again for dates after Christmas, but by that time things were so tense in Kabul, even with the security training, it was not going to be possible for me to visit.

So finally, in desperation, and after many telephone conferences with my resourceful Afghan colleagues at the British Council in Kabul, we hit on this solution. I would deliver the workshops via skype from Belfast.

I have to be honest – I was dismayed. I simply couldn’t see how I could effectively train women in the physical skills of recording, through translation, from thousands of miles away, and relying entirely on the vagaries of internet connections. (Not to mention the small fact that Afghanistan is four-and-a-half hours ahead of the UK at this time of year, and as the workshop would still have to be delivered in the morning, that meant a 5am start for me!)

But it has been an amazing experience!

Of course I have had the support of two fantastic Afghan women colleagues – one from the British Council and one from AEPO – the Afghan Education Production Organisation. (AEPO produces the long-running radio soap opera New Home, New Life, and you can read more about their work here: https://www.gov.uk/government/world-location-news/using-the-radio-to-bring-social-change-in-afghanistan ). Both of these women have ensured the workshop in Kabul has run smoothly, and that I understand what is going on.

And then there are the participants; women who’ve left their children and families, who’ve braved the scorn of in-laws and in some cases the rage of husbands, and who’ve overcome the weather and the difficulties of travelling in Afghanistan, to arrive in Kabul and take part.

As well as those challenges, for many of these women, interviewing each other and other women is far from being only an academic exercise. It has been estimated that up to 80 per cent of the population of Afghanistan is suffering from post traumatic stress disorder, and yet mental health services are almost non-existant. In such a climate, asking people about their lives, and recording them, can thrown up huge ethical challenges. One woman became increasingly distressed as she relayed what had happened to her, her husband throwing her and their three children out of the home, in order to marry the 14 year old cleaning girl. By the time she had finished her story, most of the group were in tears.

However, another woman inspired everyone with her life story. She and her mother had been left at the mercy of in-laws when her father died when she was four. Her mother had had to marry again to provide for her, and this meant she had many step-siblings. When she reached 13, her step-brother asked to marry her. He was 13 years older than her. In order to keep the peace and support her mother, she agreed. She had her first child at 14 and how has five children. But, she told us, she is very happy with her husband. He respects her and she is working for an international NGO. She is paid a fantastic wage for Afghanistan, she gets to travels outside of Afghanistan, and she now supports those in-laws.

For me, delivering the workshop from home has been a surreal experience. When I travel to Afghanistan, as soon as I arrive, and I meet up with my friends, I slot back into life there. But once I return here to Northern Ireland, it sometimes feels as if the whole trip has been a dream. I call it cultural lag – and it happens every time.

So imagine how strange it has been to leave the skype connected in my home office, as the workshop breaks for tea, and come downstairs to feed the dog, while above me I can hear the sound of 20 Afghan women happily chatting in Persian! It is as if I have been in Afghanistan-  and yet not – because of course as soon as we end the skype call, I am back  in Belfast.

In many ways however, what has been most gratifying is watching how my presence has become less and less important as the workshop has continued; how the women have developed links and friendships, and how my Afghan colleagues have gradually taken over the task of running the workshop.

What we are aiming to do is empower and train these women – and I believe that is happening.

There is still a long way to go to achieve our aims, but insh’allah , we will get there!

Today the Independent Electoral Commission announced the final figures for the presidential election. This is after they have taken into account all of the complaints made by the different candidates. As predicted, the front-runner, Abdullah Abdullah, has not reached 50 per cent plus one. So there will be a run off between him and his nearest rival, Ashraf Ghani, on June 14th.

If you want to know more about both candidates read this interview with Abdullah Abdullah by former BBC journalist Kate Clark, who now runs the Afghanistan Analysts Network – http://www.afghanistan-analysts.org/2014-elections-18-the-abdullah-interview . Or look at this profile of Ashraf Ghani from the BBC http://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-27142426 .

But talking to my friends here, may of whom know the candidates from their childhood or university days, gives a different perspective. One friend told me he had little time for any of the candidates, but went out to vote as a protest against Taliban intimidation and to show his support for democracy. Another former colleague said corruption was still an issue – but war lord candidates were no longer stuffing ballot boxes with false votes in their favour, but now bribing whole villages to support them – a much harder thing to prove.

So now it starts all over again, with the two candidates fighting face to face.

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So I’m back in Kabul – in 2014 – the year the wheels are supposed to come off Afghanistan.

So how is it?

Well, there is still no new President, there have been rocket attacks in the city, and legislation outlawing violence against women is even further away (http://www.theguardian.com/world/2014/feb/04/afghanistan-law-victims-violence-women ). But the sky is blue, the sun is up and the city is as lively as ever.

This time I am staying in a hotel, which is pretty much like the last Kabul hotel I stayed in – lovely garden but dodgy plumbing and electrics. But even here there are changes – the food is amazing; the staff speak English; I haven’t seen any mice or cockroaches and every room has, albeit slightly unreliable, wi-fi.

In  fact, it seems that after living a decade with westerners in their city, many of them British and America, Afghans have really embraced the English language. I have been taking taxis from the firm that is security approved, and their drivers all speak English. This means they can argue more effectively with you as to why your taxi fare is $15 – an outrageous amount of money here – but it also means you can explain where you want to go without having to ring someone else who can speak Dari and pass the phone over. (In fact, they’re better at knowing where they’re going than the taxi drivers in Belfast!)

But it’s not just firms that cater almost exclusively for westerners. As I have scoured the shops for scarfs, jewellry and nockle (the delicious Afghan snack of sugar covered almonds)  I have discussed the prices with Jamil, my faithful shopping partner, and the shop keeper has butted in, in English. However, I still need to learn Dari!

But one thing is definitely the same- the crazy driving!

 

 

 

So I’m back in the decompression zone of Dubai – the never never land of the adult. It seemed I had only just finally come to terms with the fact I was back in Afghanistan, after so many years of dreaming of being there, and then I was leaving again.

Yesterday I spent a morning crushing the results of my shopping trips into my case, and wondering how it is that even the stuff you bring always seems to grow in size while you’re away, phoning and texting people to say goodbye, and shaking hands and, in private, hugging my good friends and promising to be back before another seven years elapsed, insh’allah.

And then I was in a car driving through those vibrant streets, snapping photos of everything, because now I don’t know when I will be back again, on the way to airport.

Getting out of the country was possibly harder than getting in.

We had to stop the car to be searched and scan the luggage at the start of the road to the airport. As I hefted my case onto the waist-height scanner, the guard was so busy watching me he totally missed watching the screen as my bag went through the x-ray. He only looked back at the screen when I asked him “sais?”, “Okay?” , and of course by then it had gone through. Then I had to be searched by one of the women guards, whose idea of a body search does not exclude any areas!

Next, we were allowed to drive into the airport car park, where we went through the whole process again. Then I was on my own, wheeling my luggage through the midday heat for the 10 minute walk to the airport building, past another three guards.

Once inside, another scan and search and then another long wait to go back through immigration, to have my exit visa stamped. And then finally one more scan of the luggage and we were allowed to sit in the departures lounge.

Eventually we were on the plane and then everything settled into the pattern of retracing your steps. The flight seemed to take ages – I read an entire novel – and then we walking into the warm soup of the Dubai dusk and joining the endless lines at immigration. Dubai airport is like a people factory – but as there is free wi-fi  I spent the time in the queue checking my email, so the 30 minutes passed fairly quickly for me. But we did seem to be moving very slowly and eventually a cultured Scottish voice called down from behind me to the Arab guys on the desk, complaining about the wait.

There then ensued a argument – “Why have we been waiting so long?” “This is not your business!” “It IS my business, we have paid to come here to Dubai”.

Behind me, a tall guy with an American accent sighed and said, “I don’t think he has helped at all. I think now they are going to slow down deliberately.”

We got chatting and it transpired we were both passing through Dubai – but he was on a flight out to Iraq that night. He didn’t say to do what, but he said he didn’t know when he was coming back. And he was hoping to get into Dubai before he left. “Do you have friends here?” I asked. “Actually my wife is here,” he said. “Oh well you should go to the front of the queue!” I replied. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m having sex tonight!”

We laughed as he explained how he literally had two hours to get to see his wife, do the deed and get back to the airport. I really felt for him. Despite my sadness at leaving Afghanistan, at least I was on my way home to see Mutley. Last I saw he was chatting to the guy at the desk. I hope he made it.

I have been living a low key life here in Kabul; being driven in a normal saloon car; not walking on the street; not really going out at night. I’m not under any illusions that I am really living like an Afghan, but I’ve been spending more time with Afghans than with westerners.

But I have also been invited into the ‘western zone’ – I’ve visited two embassy compounds and one of the main military camps here.

There is no doubt it’s tough living in Kabul – even if you are a cosseted visitor like me, living in a luxourious clean house, being cooked for and driven around. The air quality is abysmal and it has definitely got worse since I was last here. The years of drought meant soil erosion has affected much of the country so the air is always full of dust. During the civil war and Taliban time, people were so desperate for fuel, many of the trees in Kabul were cut down. And now there has been a huge jump in the number of vehicles on the road – up to 650,000 according to some estimates, many of them old and badly maintained. I’d been here just three days when my nose started bleeding.

The commute home, Kabul style

The water is still not safe to drink – or clean your teeth in – and eating local food is a game of Russian roulette – partly because of the water, partly because animals are slaughtered on the side of the road and then their carcasses hung up in non-frigerated shops to be sold, at the mercy of the heat, the flies and the dust. And as there is no real sewerage system, the dust is not just mud…

It’s still hard to find reliable statistics on Afghanistan but some estimates put 70 pc of the country, some 25 million people, living in poverty. Many of them will be in the rural areas, but the average national income per capita is just $410 a year – that’s about 256 quid – a year!

 And yet, it is expensive to live in Kabul. Rents can be astronomical – £300 a month for a flat; medical care is hard to come by and expensive; while the new private universities which have sprung up everywhere cost up $6000 a year to study at.

The new smart living in Kabul

But, go behind the ever increasing walls of the western zone and it’s a very different story. The food is flown in, so no chance of the Kabul Kraps for these people; the military hospitals are on hand if something does happen; and the air conditioning and plush furniture mean these buildings are literally a home from home.

It’s different again for those living on the military camps of course. There a woefully small container can be home to two men, for a year at a time. But they still have uninterrupted electricity, unlimited wi-fi, a range of restaurants and shops, and medical facilities.

So what’s my point? Well if you have come from Europe or America, and are working here for months on end, it would be hard to expect you to live like an Afghan – not to mention dangerous. And a lot of the closeting of westerners is partly about security.

But the fact that Afghans do still have to live without many of the basics of life, is, I believe, part of the problem when it comes to security. In Kabul many Afghans are employed by the NGOs and western organisations – so even if they don’t live like those people, they are at least receiving some of the money they bring in.

But in places like Kandahar, that pay off simply doesn’t exist. There, people living in rural villages, with no electricity, only see the huge city that is Camp Bastion, with its clean water, electricity, safe food and medical facilities. The military has of course also spent millions on ‘hearts and minds’ projects in these areas, but not all have been successful.

But perhaps the strangest thing is what happens to your own perception of where you are, when you step foot inside these compounds. After passing through checkpoint after checkpoint, staffed by armed guards, whose English becomes better and better the further in you go, you start to feel as if you are indeed in a war zone.

And yet,  as I drive around the city in the back of my driver’s white Toyota saloon, waving to kids and nodding ‘salam’ to adults, I don’t feel in danger at all.

I’m not sure which feeling is the right one – but it adds to the fascination of being here.

I’ve come to realise that this project is a thought provoking one – if that is not a complete understatement. It is fascinating to hear the women’s stories, and so many of those that I have interviewed have told me how important they think it is that the voices of Afghan women are heard across the world. But many of the experiences the women document are inevitably tragic and difficult to listen to. And I’ve realised, that by disseminating this material, there is a danger that I just reinforce the stereotypes of Afghans. Many in the west already believe that this country is full of animals, who beat their women and abuse their children.

Of course, these things do happen –as they happen in the UK and Ireland as well. But that is not the whole story of Afghanistan. So let me try to tell you more about this fascinating country and its amazing people.

There is a saying here – if you come to my country as my guest, I will fight to the death to protect you; if you come as my enemy, I will kill you. And that effectively sums up the contrasts between my experience of being here, and the experience of the soldiers stationed in Helmand. In the last two centuries the Afghan people have already expelled two of the world’s super powers from their borders – the British Empire and the Soviet Union.

But of course this time it’s different. This time the ISAF troops were not invaders, but liberators. Well, that’s a distinction which may now have been lost, ten years after they arrived, in the same way it was lost in Northern Ireland.

But the other side of that coin is also true. I have always believed, all the times I have been here, that if anyone had attacked me, Afghans would have come to my aid.

The first time I was here, when the security situation was calmer and I had been here for some months, I decided to take a taxi home from Kabul city. I was confident I had enough words of Dari to explain where I was going, and I didn’t want to wait for our driver. I’d been in taxis before, but only with a western male colleague. But that made me all the more determined to do it on my own.

So I stood on the street and tried to flag a taxi down, but none would stop. Eventually a young Afghan man came up to me, and introduced himself in perfect English, explaining that he worked with the international community here, and asked could he help. I explained and he said he would get me a taxi and tell the driver where I was going. This he did and I thanked him, and we set off.

By this time I knew the route to our house, but the traffic was very bad that night and the driver took me s different way down street I didn’t know. It was by now dark, and I started to get very worried. But the driver kept turning to me and talking, and I could see by his expression there was no malice there. Eventually we got home and my Afghan colleagues explained that he had tried to find a better route to bring me home more quickly and avoid the jams. He was obviously worried that I had been frightened, and I began to understand why none of taxis had wanted to stop for me in the first place.

It was a very foolish thing for me to have done. But it also demonstrated to me the incredible care with which most Afghans treat the international community here. Yes, of course we come with money, and the power to offer jobs and change things, but it’s not just about that.

This visit I can see how the security situation has changed. I would never even consider trying to take a taxi alone. But the welcome I have received from my friends, most of whom I haven’t had much contact with for at least 7 years, has been humbling. They have helped with the things I need for the project, they have taken me to dinner and refused to let me pay, they have organised their week around my visit, and, the main Afghan trait, they have fed me to bursting. We used to joke, when the issue of kidnapping westerners first became an issue, that the worst that would happen to you if you were kidnapped by Afghans is that you would put on weight. Again, sadly, there are now more kidnappings happening. But the excess weight is a far more likely scenario!

The other thing you notice about Afghan society is the resourceful way people continue to live and make a living. Every business you pass on the streets, even if it is selling car parts, is beautifully laid out. The goods will all be stacked in an attractive pattern, the path in front of the shop will be brushed free from dust, or wet with hoses to keep the dust down – and when I say shop, generally I mean container. After decades of war and poverty, nothing is wasted here; so many businesses are housed in old shipping containers.

 

And this is a country, where, after decades of war and neglect, no family is free from tragedy. Conservative estimates suggest that 90 per cent of people are suffering from some sort of post traumatic stress, and yet with no mental health services available, life just has to go on.

So, my plea is, even if you listen to the harrowing stories the women have told me, don’t take that as the whole picture of Afghanistan. This country is one of the most vibrant and astonishing I have spent time in – and I have been to more than a dozen around the world.

 

The internet set up in our house is fantastic – but only when it works – hence the rather sporadic nature of these posts!

So finally I have come to meet the women writers here in Afghanistan – and I have been blown away by their stories

 

I left for the offices of the Afghan Women’s Writing Project http://awwproject.org/our-writers/ and sped through the packed streets of Kabul, our car, as usual, missing every other vehicle by inches. I watched the streets go by, and was so delighted to see very few women wearing the burka . Instead, there seemed to be groups of giggling school girls everywhere, smart in their black uniforms and white head scarves, carrying satchels and rucksacks.

Finding anywhere in Kabul is never easy. The streets generally don’t have names, and although they have numbers, it will depend on which direction you approach them from, whether you want the right street or the left. So addresses tend to be things like: House 5, Street 9, Kart-i-parwan, just across from the Good Rest Guesthouse. But even then you will generally still need a mobile phone conversation with whoever you are going to meet before you can find the place – or in my case, you will need to find someone to speak to the driver for you!

Although many of the streets have been tarmaced, the road we were going to was still a rocky, dusty track where the waste from each house empties into the street, like many of the smaller roads in the city. In winter, when the ever prevalent dust becomes mud, these roads are almost impassable on foot.

I gingerly stepped out of the car, avoiding a puddle of filth, but then a metal door in the side of one of the buildings opened and there stood my host, the AWWP’s representative in Kabul. She is a tall slim young woman, and she tells me the first amazing story of many I am to hear over the next few days.

When she left school at 18 she decided she wanted to a journalist. At that time she was living in Fayrab province, in the North-west of Afghanistan, and there was no further education available for women there. She perservered and joined an ISAF project to write (in English) for a magazine. But the Taliban came to hear about her work, and she and her family were threatened. Men visited her home and took the names of her mother and her uncle’s. But she refused to be stopped, and simply began wearing a burka to do her work.

Now her family live in Herat, in the west of Afghanistan, and she lives with her journalist husband and an adorable one-year-old son here in Kabul.

Next I interviewed a 22 year old woman who works at an NGO here and is studying at university. Her salary supports her family.

She tells me how writing literally changed her life.

She was engaged to a cousin at the age of 13, but longed to continue her education. She began writing anonymously for the AWWP website and received support from women all over the world. Eventually she felt strong enough to tell her family she didn’t want to get married. They told her she would have to support herself if she didn’t marry. Now, these few years later, she is a successful young career woman who has won a scholarship to a prestigious Canadian university.

But the story is not over, even for her. One of her pieces of writing talks about the constant pressure on women in Afghanistan not to work, the gossip and snide comments that follow them everywhere, and she calls on women to ignore it and stand up for themselves.

I am frankly humbled by all of this.

Someone said to me before I left that I was very brave to come here. But this is real bravery – standing up to the Taliban, challenging society. And there’s more, much more to come…

The new Kabul

I am back on Afghan soil!

I am so excited to be here – and yet, I still can’t quite believe it.

I sat on the plane from Dubai with my laptop on my knee, furiously typing in my impressions of the journey, and the next minute the stewardess was announcing that we were to make our descent into Kabul. And as I looked down and felt my heartbeat pick up I began to wish I had got chatting to someone at the airport – there were a handful of westerners on board  – because I so wanted to share my excitement with someone.

Instead, I pressed my nose to the window and stared at Kabul below me – in the same way I first saw the city in 2004 – the memories of which I used to write the start of my novel:

 

“Natasha leaned forward towards the scratched plastic and looked down. Far below her a brown landscape revolved; an earthenware bowl of hills; a shiny tape of river spooling away; and everywhere, tumbling down the hillsides, what looked like hundreds of tiny boxes.”

 

But now I was looking at a very different city. Before we reached the “tiny boxes”, the compounds, houses surrounded by walls, we flew over what seemed like acres of industrial development – huge warehouses; gas silos; scrap yards. Some of this was here in 2006, the last time I was here, but the development has grown and grown.

And then we were bumping down – onto a new runway, a second runway by the looks of it – and in true Afghan style everyone was un-buckling their seat belts and standing up as we taxied along, despite the frantic pleas of the stewardess.

And that’s where I began to really feel how long it is since I’ve been here.

We left the airplane via a fixed walkway into a new building, a part of the airport I didn’t recognise – passengers no longer climb down steps directly onto the tarmac and walk into the airport.

Then we queued at immigration, and had our fingerprints taken! (I’m guessing the Americans have helped with setting up that system) – definitely no being waved to the front of the queue because you are western (not that I agreed with that) but I’m still not sure that the officer even looked at that visa that took three days in London to get!

Then we collected our baggage from a moving carousel!

I know none of this is revolutionary, but when we lived here, we carried out training courses all over the country, so I spent a lot of time at Kabul airport – once for three days on the trot while we waited for weather to clear to fly to Jalalabad – so its inadequacies were etched on my mind.

Now it’s as functional as many other airports. (Although this comes at a price – someone was telling me today that when you go into the airport from Kabul you have to pay 50 Afghanis just to enter – shades of Belfast International Airport? However, 50 Afghanis is just 56 pence…)

But then things got a bit complicated. I had spent so long imagining meeting up with my friends, and so long worrying about being too conspicuous, that I was a little daunted to find no one to meet me. Then a ‘helpful’ young man who could speak English told me I had to walk to the correct car park – you can no longer come into the airport to pick people up, or park anywhere near it – not a bad precaution in a place where car bombs still explode – but it meant I needed to know which cark to go to. After much to-ing and fro-ing, in the mercifully not too bad heat, the guy phoned my friends for me and they came to collect me.

I had by now realised that this ‘helpfulness’ was the way he made his living and so I offered him five dollars, which is still a fairly large amount in Kabul. But he began wailing he needed 20 dollars. I didn’t have 10 and I had entered that head zone where foreign currency doesn’t seem like real money – plus he really had helped me – so I gave him 20. It was only when I calculated that that was £15 that I began to kick myself.

So the drive through Kabul was a heady mix of me exclaiming at the things that had changed as we hurtled through the bustle of the city, and trying to catch up on 7 years of life with my friends. But one of the questions for me was very familiar – No, I’m still not married!

The city is bigger and busier; many of the half destroyed buildings now gone; new high-rises in their place.

 

The shops are still doing a brisk trade.

There are definitely more cars and fewer carts on the road, and many of the streets that were tracks have now been tarmaced. But the traffic jams are particularly bad in front of the Traffic Department!

 

But perhaps the biggest surprise was the house we used to live in. Inside the compound, the garden is flourishing and the house interior has been beautifully redecorated; but outside is now bristling with security, fortified walls, security cameras, steel shutters, and an armed guard!

With all the excitement and the lack of sleep, when I was presented with a traditionally enormous Afghan meal of dal, chicken, bread,salad and a delicious soup, that was enough to finish me off.

I skyped Mutley and then fell into bed.

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