Afghan Gardens
Yesterday we went to the Immigration Office to get take care of Wazhma’s letter which would give her permission to be in Afghanistan. It was a small cramped office filled with a lot of sweaty men all trying to crowd to the front window. As my dad squeezed a shoulder in to get to the front I noticed how tight his pants were in comparison to all the other men that were wearing the traditional Paron-e Tomban (loose pants and long loose top). Wazhma and I were going to pass out from the smell of B.O. and she kept her eyes safely focused on the design of my top.
We got shifted from one line to another and my dad started to get impatient. I remembered John and I returning our cheap IKEA stools which were impossible to put together correctly despite their cute diagrams with the bubble man. IKEA had a number system. You took a number, then sat down and waited for your number to be called. I thought, wow, how that simple number machine would revolutionize the Immigration office and other such offices over here. I wondered how a number system would be received here. Would people use it? Like it? Or just keep crowding forward?
My dad finally made it to the front of the line and was given a piece of paper that would give us permission to go to another building in the same complex. However, they only allowed two people in--my dad and my sister. Mustafa (our driver/cousin. He is my half cousin’s half brother) and I had to wait behind. I thought, “That’s fine, I don’t want to wait in a crowded line anyway. The weather is nice out here.” But they wouldn’t let us wait outside for security reasons. So back into the sweaty man sandwich we went. The smell was killing me and I made my way toward the entrance way where I could see the light of day and get a breath of fresh air. After some time the security man took some pity on me and told me to stand on the other side of the door--man free.
Bored, I watched security search all the people coming in. They had an x-ray machine, but they didn’t use it. Maybe it was broken. Instead they searched the bags. Well sometimes they did, and sometimes they didn’t. That made me a bit nervous. We were standing in an official building (higher chance of being targeted) and the security was so so. I was anxious for Wazhma and my dad to return as my overactive imagination went wild with dreams of bombs and crazies. My imagination is not doing me any good on this trip.
To my surprise, they returned after a half hour. I thought the process might take all day given the way things work here. Even in the US you would wait months to get a letter like that with all the bureaucracy. It was good my dad went with her (he originally wasn’t going to come) because apparently only your husband or father can give you legitimacy. Hurrah! Wazhma is now officially Afghan ;).
After the Immigration office we did a little shopping near Chicken Street, but ended up staying in the first shop we entered which had colorful rugs and dresses hanging in the window. There were two young guys running the shop—probably teenagers. I wondered if they went to school and kicked myself later for not asking. We ended up buying all sorts of colorful shirts and I got two really incredible dresses. It was a fun experience, mainly because the boys were really cute and they were definitely lying. It was easy to tell they were lying because they were so young. We called them out on it a few times but didn’t bargain too much because we wanted to give them the money. At the end the older boy gave my sister and I an embroidered wallet as a gift. I think he felt guilty because he knew he had made a killing.
After shopping we headed back home and our driver talked about the suicide bombing that I mentioned before. It’s really not fair because the people here want security but it’s just a few coo coo’s that are ruining it for everyone else. I understand these suicide bombers are frustrated with the ways things are going here and they have every reason to be. But I don’t believe violence solves anything no matter what side you’re on.
Later that day my uncle took us on a tour and we went to Babur’s Gardnes which I had visited a year and a half ago. They had made much more progress in renovating the place. There were rose bushes, grass and the walls had been fixed with beautiful rock work. It was beautiful and peaceful here. The sun was bright and the atmosphere a hazy blue. Behind the gardens you could see all the houses climbing up the steep mountain. I was sad to see that the old tree that had been here since Babur’s time (13th or 14th century) that I had photographed last time had been cut down or “severely pruned.” But I guess releasing the old makes way for the new.
On our way to Chehel Setun (40 pillars) I saw many signs for boxing gyms featuring Arnold Swarzenegger and other buff men. I have a totally different association with Arnold now that he’s the governor of California. (By the way, did you know that a republican that had murdered someone is now running for office in Arizona? GROSS!). Anywho, my favorite painting depicted a black man with a pirate’s eye patch on. This was the first image of a black person I had seen here.
My uncle’s wife and Mustafa were commenting on how so many more people live in this area, but how it still didn’t have electricity. The park hadn’t been renovated, the garden was dry and the castle in shambles. Unlike Babur’s gardens, which had an entrance fee of 20 Afghanis, there were lots of men and children here hanging out and playing. I saw one old man in the corner doing some sort of exercises. Our SUV barely made it up the steep windy road that lead to the castle.
There were all sorts of little kids, dirty and covered in dust, playing among the rubble of the castle, which concerned me a little. It was nice to hear their laughter, but it seemed like they could easily get hurt. From this vantage point we could see across the gardens and across Kabul. Next to the castle was an old restaurant riddled with bullet holes. I could see a person through one of the bombed out walls.
As we drove away from Chehel Setun, I saw a group of men and boys swarming together like a hive of bees. In the center were two men fighting, and everyone came to watch—sad. In my day dreams I imagined myself the only woman walking through the crowd and breaking up the fight. Funny, huh?! Our driver stopped so I could take a picture, when the car behind us hit us. No one was hurt—just a love tap. Our driver got out and talked to the guy. He said he was watching the fight, he hit us, and then hit the brakes. There wasn’t any damage and we all went on our way. I like this system much better than our silly insurance system in the States.
After that we went home and Wazhma and I discussed the state of this place. The fact that the area around Babur’s gardens still didn’t have electricity put its renovation into question. Yes, it’s a beautiful place, and a piece of history, but I wonder if it’s a good idea to put all this money into the past rather than into the present: water, electricity, security… It would be nice if Babur’s gardens didn’t have an entrance fee so that all Afghans could go there and enjoy the peace and quiet. Seeing as how full the free and unrennovated Chehel Setun space was, Babur’s gardens would serve as an important refuge from the chaos of Kabul.
Wazhma and I are thinking of raising money and finding grants to make a school with solar panels here. My dad said the technology is very expensive, but we thought once implemented, it could be very useful as it would provide electricity not just for the school but the whole community. I think in the US there are laws prohibiting the sharing of electricity (dumb), but here that wouldn’t be a problem. I’m going to ask my friends Tom and Mark and other architect friends about the possibility of green architecture and renewable energy in Afghanistan. Who knows, maybe this could serve as a prototype for the US. (What a concept! The US learning from other models?!)
I’m off. Enough blogging for me!
Love you all,
Gazelle
We got shifted from one line to another and my dad started to get impatient. I remembered John and I returning our cheap IKEA stools which were impossible to put together correctly despite their cute diagrams with the bubble man. IKEA had a number system. You took a number, then sat down and waited for your number to be called. I thought, wow, how that simple number machine would revolutionize the Immigration office and other such offices over here. I wondered how a number system would be received here. Would people use it? Like it? Or just keep crowding forward?
My dad finally made it to the front of the line and was given a piece of paper that would give us permission to go to another building in the same complex. However, they only allowed two people in--my dad and my sister. Mustafa (our driver/cousin. He is my half cousin’s half brother) and I had to wait behind. I thought, “That’s fine, I don’t want to wait in a crowded line anyway. The weather is nice out here.” But they wouldn’t let us wait outside for security reasons. So back into the sweaty man sandwich we went. The smell was killing me and I made my way toward the entrance way where I could see the light of day and get a breath of fresh air. After some time the security man took some pity on me and told me to stand on the other side of the door--man free.
Bored, I watched security search all the people coming in. They had an x-ray machine, but they didn’t use it. Maybe it was broken. Instead they searched the bags. Well sometimes they did, and sometimes they didn’t. That made me a bit nervous. We were standing in an official building (higher chance of being targeted) and the security was so so. I was anxious for Wazhma and my dad to return as my overactive imagination went wild with dreams of bombs and crazies. My imagination is not doing me any good on this trip.
To my surprise, they returned after a half hour. I thought the process might take all day given the way things work here. Even in the US you would wait months to get a letter like that with all the bureaucracy. It was good my dad went with her (he originally wasn’t going to come) because apparently only your husband or father can give you legitimacy. Hurrah! Wazhma is now officially Afghan ;).
After the Immigration office we did a little shopping near Chicken Street, but ended up staying in the first shop we entered which had colorful rugs and dresses hanging in the window. There were two young guys running the shop—probably teenagers. I wondered if they went to school and kicked myself later for not asking. We ended up buying all sorts of colorful shirts and I got two really incredible dresses. It was a fun experience, mainly because the boys were really cute and they were definitely lying. It was easy to tell they were lying because they were so young. We called them out on it a few times but didn’t bargain too much because we wanted to give them the money. At the end the older boy gave my sister and I an embroidered wallet as a gift. I think he felt guilty because he knew he had made a killing.
After shopping we headed back home and our driver talked about the suicide bombing that I mentioned before. It’s really not fair because the people here want security but it’s just a few coo coo’s that are ruining it for everyone else. I understand these suicide bombers are frustrated with the ways things are going here and they have every reason to be. But I don’t believe violence solves anything no matter what side you’re on.
Later that day my uncle took us on a tour and we went to Babur’s Gardnes which I had visited a year and a half ago. They had made much more progress in renovating the place. There were rose bushes, grass and the walls had been fixed with beautiful rock work. It was beautiful and peaceful here. The sun was bright and the atmosphere a hazy blue. Behind the gardens you could see all the houses climbing up the steep mountain. I was sad to see that the old tree that had been here since Babur’s time (13th or 14th century) that I had photographed last time had been cut down or “severely pruned.” But I guess releasing the old makes way for the new.
On our way to Chehel Setun (40 pillars) I saw many signs for boxing gyms featuring Arnold Swarzenegger and other buff men. I have a totally different association with Arnold now that he’s the governor of California. (By the way, did you know that a republican that had murdered someone is now running for office in Arizona? GROSS!). Anywho, my favorite painting depicted a black man with a pirate’s eye patch on. This was the first image of a black person I had seen here.
My uncle’s wife and Mustafa were commenting on how so many more people live in this area, but how it still didn’t have electricity. The park hadn’t been renovated, the garden was dry and the castle in shambles. Unlike Babur’s gardens, which had an entrance fee of 20 Afghanis, there were lots of men and children here hanging out and playing. I saw one old man in the corner doing some sort of exercises. Our SUV barely made it up the steep windy road that lead to the castle.
There were all sorts of little kids, dirty and covered in dust, playing among the rubble of the castle, which concerned me a little. It was nice to hear their laughter, but it seemed like they could easily get hurt. From this vantage point we could see across the gardens and across Kabul. Next to the castle was an old restaurant riddled with bullet holes. I could see a person through one of the bombed out walls.
As we drove away from Chehel Setun, I saw a group of men and boys swarming together like a hive of bees. In the center were two men fighting, and everyone came to watch—sad. In my day dreams I imagined myself the only woman walking through the crowd and breaking up the fight. Funny, huh?! Our driver stopped so I could take a picture, when the car behind us hit us. No one was hurt—just a love tap. Our driver got out and talked to the guy. He said he was watching the fight, he hit us, and then hit the brakes. There wasn’t any damage and we all went on our way. I like this system much better than our silly insurance system in the States.
After that we went home and Wazhma and I discussed the state of this place. The fact that the area around Babur’s gardens still didn’t have electricity put its renovation into question. Yes, it’s a beautiful place, and a piece of history, but I wonder if it’s a good idea to put all this money into the past rather than into the present: water, electricity, security… It would be nice if Babur’s gardens didn’t have an entrance fee so that all Afghans could go there and enjoy the peace and quiet. Seeing as how full the free and unrennovated Chehel Setun space was, Babur’s gardens would serve as an important refuge from the chaos of Kabul.
Wazhma and I are thinking of raising money and finding grants to make a school with solar panels here. My dad said the technology is very expensive, but we thought once implemented, it could be very useful as it would provide electricity not just for the school but the whole community. I think in the US there are laws prohibiting the sharing of electricity (dumb), but here that wouldn’t be a problem. I’m going to ask my friends Tom and Mark and other architect friends about the possibility of green architecture and renewable energy in Afghanistan. Who knows, maybe this could serve as a prototype for the US. (What a concept! The US learning from other models?!)
I’m off. Enough blogging for me!
Love you all,
Gazelle
posted by Gazelle at 12:31 AM
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