Spring Break
An Afghan Afternoon
Alejandro Paiuk (MBA '07), Contributing Writer
Issue date: 3/10/08 Section: Viewpoints & Humor
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"Hey man, what are you doing?" It was Ahmed.*
"Oh, nothing really. Just surfing the web at my guest house. I wish we'd gone somewhere this weekend. I'm pretty bored."
"Do you want to go to Omar's sister's engagement party?"
Within half an hour I was in the front seat of Fazal's car, windows down, music blaring. I had never really liked gangsta rap before, but somehow in the post-apocalyptic streets of Kabul, with the knowledge that in Afghanistan-like Mexico, as I had heard my aunt in Oaxaca repeat countless times before-"Life is cheap: here they kill for free," I viscerally understood its appeal. I felt invincible.
Ahmed threw me a small drink carton from the back.
"What's this?" I asked even as I read the label, realizing that I had just been handed horribly cheap boxed wine.
"Drink it," he replied.
Before arriving in Afghanistan, I had vowed not to drink any alcohol as a sign of respect for the local culture. But by the time I found myself imbibing the finest imported Italian white in a speeding Corolla, I had discovered that there are rules and then there are rules, but in Afghanistan there is no need for such specious syllogisms because there simply are no rules.
As we pulled into Omar's microrayon, I marveled at the barren field across from the apartment complex where children were flying kites seemingly made from Saran wrap. Microrayons are decrepit housing projects constructed by the Soviets decades ago that are considered luxury apartments today; many Afghans will tell anyone who will listen that at least the Soviets left behind apartments after they retreated, but when the Americans pull out, there will be nothing to show for all their years of occupation.
We stepped out of the car. Fazal lived in the same building as Omar and said he needed to go up to his house for some reason, leaving Ahmed and me to sit under a tree until Omar showed up. But soon thereafter Ahmed answered a call from one of his friends and I found myself sitting around doing nothing, feeling somewhat nauseous and light-headed from the glycolic alcohol.
Off in the distance, I heard the unmistakable bell of an approaching ice cream street vendor. "Hey, do you want some ice cream?" I asked, "My treat."
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