Last week I had a whirlwind trip to Brussels, another former residence. There the scent of waffles in the metro stations covers up the smell of urine nicely. It is the the Land of Lap Dog Poo and Eurocrats and frustrated young Moroccan men. But it is lovely to visit, especially coming from a war zone, albeit one more at a simmer than a boil and which, when I left, was covered in beautiful white snow that made any sort of terrible incident seem unlikely, if only because the snow makes things slippery for everyone.
The flights were all delayed indefinitely, and I spent uncertain hours waiting in the small terminal, with mostly Afghans flying to many points west and east, and the usual smattering of pale-faced Westerners. The airlines, though most of them are quite low budget, passed out food and my neighbors were all kind enough to share when my airline was the last to hand out a meal. But thankfully the flights got off and we were all on our way to home, or to away. Neither in my case I suppose.
The Kabul airport is fascinating. Afghanistan itself is incredibly diverse. You can see it in the people's faces, in their eyes. Some look European, others more South Asian, still others look like Mongolians, and indeed there are some groups descended from the Turkic rulers and nomads that have passed through the region. There is even Greek blood from when Alexander the Great swept through and conquered some of this territory.
But what fascinates me more is the lives of those I find myself among in the airport. Some are clearly rich, expat families that escaped the worst of what's happened over the past 30 years, migrant workers, businessmen from all over the region and the world. Women in various states of cover.
Some of them are incredibly beautiful, and have very elegant clothes - high heels and leggings pared with a modest yet still flattering skirt, loose clothes that still show their curves, and so many of them have such beautiful eyes. Afghan headscarves are also generally loosely draped over one's head, thus they add a certain attractive femininity, however awkward when the scarf inevitably slips off one's head, rather that hiding the beauty of the wearer. Their function is more symbolic than practical, unlike the burqa. The burqa is impractical yes, in terms of mobility, but practical in terms of serving a much clearer purposed more effectively - completely covering the female form from any eyes that may look upon it. Some women always walk a few step behind their husband, others are on their own or traveling with other female family members, their children.
Then there's the handsome, grey old Pashtun men with olive skin in shalwar kameez and elegant turban, heading to Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Islamabad, wherever. I find them an odd sight in Turkey. Others are in various adaptation of Western dress - blue jeans, pointy, shiny shoes and blazer. No hat. gel in their hair.
And then you take off, noting the relative affluence of those on your particular flight, wondering perhaps what the Turkish civilians were doing in Kabul, elegant Turkish women included, even families. And below there are the geometric patterns of Afghan compounds, now clearly outlined in brown mud brick against the pure white snow. Then the sea of mountains forming the tail end of the Hindu Kush range. then nothing but brown all the way to the Caucasus, where the mountains rise up again.
The flights were all delayed indefinitely, and I spent uncertain hours waiting in the small terminal, with mostly Afghans flying to many points west and east, and the usual smattering of pale-faced Westerners. The airlines, though most of them are quite low budget, passed out food and my neighbors were all kind enough to share when my airline was the last to hand out a meal. But thankfully the flights got off and we were all on our way to home, or to away. Neither in my case I suppose.
The Kabul airport is fascinating. Afghanistan itself is incredibly diverse. You can see it in the people's faces, in their eyes. Some look European, others more South Asian, still others look like Mongolians, and indeed there are some groups descended from the Turkic rulers and nomads that have passed through the region. There is even Greek blood from when Alexander the Great swept through and conquered some of this territory.
But what fascinates me more is the lives of those I find myself among in the airport. Some are clearly rich, expat families that escaped the worst of what's happened over the past 30 years, migrant workers, businessmen from all over the region and the world. Women in various states of cover.
Some of them are incredibly beautiful, and have very elegant clothes - high heels and leggings pared with a modest yet still flattering skirt, loose clothes that still show their curves, and so many of them have such beautiful eyes. Afghan headscarves are also generally loosely draped over one's head, thus they add a certain attractive femininity, however awkward when the scarf inevitably slips off one's head, rather that hiding the beauty of the wearer. Their function is more symbolic than practical, unlike the burqa. The burqa is impractical yes, in terms of mobility, but practical in terms of serving a much clearer purposed more effectively - completely covering the female form from any eyes that may look upon it. Some women always walk a few step behind their husband, others are on their own or traveling with other female family members, their children.
Then there's the handsome, grey old Pashtun men with olive skin in shalwar kameez and elegant turban, heading to Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Islamabad, wherever. I find them an odd sight in Turkey. Others are in various adaptation of Western dress - blue jeans, pointy, shiny shoes and blazer. No hat. gel in their hair.
And then you take off, noting the relative affluence of those on your particular flight, wondering perhaps what the Turkish civilians were doing in Kabul, elegant Turkish women included, even families. And below there are the geometric patterns of Afghan compounds, now clearly outlined in brown mud brick against the pure white snow. Then the sea of mountains forming the tail end of the Hindu Kush range. then nothing but brown all the way to the Caucasus, where the mountains rise up again.
