International Political Will

One of the drivers, ‘Durrani,’ told me he could take me to a place with the best prices on Afghan carpets. But his offer came with a condition: I was not to tell anyone where or from whom I got the rug. Apparently this region of Kabul is a ‘no-go’ area for foreigners.

Buying a rug in Afghanistan is not, apparently, an easy thing. Small, one-meter long rugs sell for as much as $500 or $600 USD at the ‘touristy’ markets (if you can call them that - the ‘tourists’ are basically international aid workers and the NATO forces patrolling the country that gather in a high-security compound once a week). My friend Durrani said he could get them for $250, so I was interested, though that was still more than I was willing to pay. A local woman working with the United Nations said $200 was a good price.

But more than anything, I was anxious to get out on the streets, away from the high-barbed wired walls and armed guards that sometimes have the opposite desired effect and make me feel like more of a target.

I had hired a stringer/interpreter, Hasib, and after a morning interview we hopped in one of the local yellow taxis to meet Durrani in the Old City section of Kabul.

Being in a local taxi is quite inconspicuous as opposed to driving in the big white Toyota Landcruisers with “UN” plastered on the sides. I was able to look out the window without being stared at in return.

We make our way through several crowded roundabouts manned by one traffic cop making a concerted, yet futile, attempt to direct the flow of cars, trucks, and the occasional donkey-drawn cart. We drive past the infamous Ghazi Stadium, where during the previous regime crowds gathered for the only form of entertainment condoned by the Taliban: public executions via gunfire, stoning, and worse. The stadium is once again home to various sporting events, and the nearby open grounds host the popular buzkashi matches, a traditional Afghan version of polo on horseback that substitutes a headless goat for a ball.

As we melt into the Old City, the number of United Nations and international vehicles dwindle. The roads are instead filled with local cars, many with two or three women in the infamous powder-blue burqas crammed into the back seat. By the time we arrive at the city center and the “subway,” there wasn’t a non-Afghan vehicle to be seen, much less a non-Afghan pedestrian. (I assume the ’subway’ is just a passageway that dives underneath the Kabul River - and I use the word “river” liberally.)

And then Hasib tells the driver to stop - we’re getting out. Durrani is standing on the side of the road waiting.

After a week of being escorted from high-security government buildings to Kalashnikov-guarded international compounds to my barbed-wire enclosed guest house, I couldn’t have imagined a more liberating experience.

We walk casually down the street, weaving through the inches of space between car bumpers as we crossed the six ‘lanes’ of traffic. Everyone seems to have something for sale, either from small shop fronts or out of hand-pulled carts with rickety wooden wheels.

Neon-purple winter jackets, yellow bananas, blue wool socks, snow-white bunches of cauliflower, spools of brightly colored rope, oranges, accordion displays of mobile phone cards, green apples, red onions, silver metallic buckets and shiny tin cans of who-knows-what. In a country where the brown dust and mud on television shaped my impressions before arriving, all I see is color. The mud-brick homes, the streets, and even the hazy sky may be brown, but among the daily bustle there are myriad shades of life.

The diversity doesn’t stop with the goods for sale, but extends to the people themselves. Western media manages to provide images of turban-topped, long-bearded and dark-skinned Afghans, but the reality is much different. There may be those stereotypical Afghans, but there were also hundreds on the street that resemble Chinese, Eastern European, Italian, Indian, German and even French. And the eyes - numerous variations of brown, deep greens and frosted blues - not to mention the occasional blond-haired Afghan. Through the people, I can read the history of the land all the way back to when Alexander the Great passed through the Hindu Kush. Afghanistan has become a meeting place for all people of Asia.

Finally we reach the carpet shop. It’s a small shop with, of course, nice red-patterned carpets on the floor, and rolled and folded rugs stacked around the perimeter. We remove our shoes and step inside, going around with introductions which entails a sincere shaking of hands (both hands together coupled with an A salaam alaikum followed by the kissing of both cheeks).

Our host, an Afghan of the Uzbeki ethnic group hailing from the Mazr i-Sharif region northwest of Kabul, motions for us to sit. We casually look at a few of the carpets surrounding us. I point to a stack of typical meter-long rug and ask how much.

Durrani asks the shop owner something in Dari. “These ones are $250. This is the best price for you.”

I act vaguely interested, and keep looking around. I really can only afford $100. I wonder how I’m going to get out of this politely. Maybe he has some doormats.

The shop owner, Yaqub, moves to the side for his son who brings in the vinyl mat that will serve as a table.

“We’ll have lunch, yes?” Durrani asks me.

“Of course.” Shit. There’s no way I’m getting out of here without buying a carpet now.

Another son brings in a huge plate piled high with rice and goat meat and sets it down on the vinyl cloth. A couple more men come in and the eight of us sit down on the floor to eat. They use their right hand to scoop the rice in their fingers, slurping it from their hands. No one else spills even a grain of rice - there’s a small trash heap gathering beneath my mouth. Eating with your hands - especially rice - is not easy.

Yaqub says something.

Durrani translates: “This is your first time eating with your hands?”

“Can you tell?”

All the men giggle. One of them steps out and brings back a spoon.

“You can use the spoon, it’s okay,” Durrani says.

“No, it’s all right. I’ll learn.”

After a few more spills they insist. “You should use the spoon.”

I give in. “Okay.”

We eat oranges and apples with hot sweet tea after the rice. After the meal, the crowd dissipates, one of the sons taking away the vinyl cloth and leaving only Yaqub and his cousin, Naim, with Durrani, Hasib, and myself.

The conversation picks up.

“I met Yaqub 17 years ago, in the war against the Soviets,” Durrani says. “You can ask him questions if you want.”

We talk about making carpets, Yaqub’s family, the Taliban, his hometown. I learn it takes three people 20 days to make one typical carpet. My tea glass is refilled several times. We’ve been eating, drinking and talking now for almost two hours. Finally we get back to business.

“So which carpet do you like?” Durrani asks.

After four cups of tea, I can’t even concentrate which one is better than another, much less how to avoid paying $240 for a carpet when I only have, at most, $150.

“Let me use the bathroom, then we’ll look at carpets.”

Yaqub leads me to the roof, where the “bathroom” is. (I can go into horrific detail about Afghan bathrooms - this was one of the nicer ones, despite missing a ceiling and water; being on the roof, I believe it uses gravity - you get the picture.)

From the rooftop, I have a great view of the Old City. Scattered across the landscape was the rubble of mud-brick homes, long destroyed by the feuding warlords following the Soviet withdrawal - warlords that are still fighting to retain power in the future Afghan state. On the opposite side of the building, sitting atop a hill overlooking the buzkashi grounds, is the blue-tiled dome of Mohammad Nadir Shah’s tomb, the 1920s king of Afghanistan.

Back down in the carpet shop, Yaqub and his cousin begin laying out several carpets from the $250 pile, one on top of another. Durrani translates, telling me each pattern comes from a different region of Afghanistan.

“Where is this one from?”

“Kandahar.”

“What about this one?” The rug had depictions of deer, eagles and trees.

“Herat. This one is more than 50 years old.”

“How come you still have it?”

“It has pictures of animals. This was against Afghan law during the Taliban, still people don’t want to buy it.”

I flip through the rugs, knowing I have put off the inevitable for too long. I’m stuck - this is Durrani’s friend - and he’s just given me lunch and treated me like family. I can’t leave and not buy something without completely losing the respect of everyone present.

I point to the 50-year-old rug with deer on it. “How much is this one?”

Durrani confers with his friend. “$100.”

Must be because it’s 50 years old and was, at one time, illegal. What do I care? It’s not illegal now. But I can’t make it obvious I’ve picked out the cheapest one right off the bat.

I point to the one from Kandahar. “How much is this one?”

“$100.”

I point to a couple of others. All $100. Two hours and a goat-meat lunch ago, the same carpets from this stack were $250.

I pick out a nice one from Kunduz, with deep reds, blues and earthy browns in a tribal design. “I’ll take this one.”

The deal is cemented with two more cups of tea, some hard rock candy from Mazr i-Sharif, and one more trip to the rooftop “bathroom.”

Tags: Kunduz, War of Misinformation, terrorists, Uzbek, Muslims

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