NO REGRETS ~ An American Adventure in Afghanistan (15 page)

“Okay, mister. No stop. Unless police shoot,” he replied.

“Don’t worry about it. Most of them have no rounds. They sell them at the bazaar.”

The Ministry of Interior had conducted a survey throughout the city in early 2007. I’d read the report. It had stated that 90 percent of the police at checkpoints had no ammunition because they sold it for extra cash, and would be useless in a firefight if insurgents attempted to strike at the city. I wasn’t worried about the police shooting at me. I’d done my homework this time. I’d run into a guy on Camp Eggers. He and I had started talking about Kabul and drinking around the city. The guy knew every illicit spot in the city. I’d taken notes.

This time I directed the taxi to Silk Roads. It was right across the street from a Thai restaurant on Line 2 of Wazir Akbar Khan. Once I spotted the Thai restaurant, I knew exactly where I was. There was a park in the middle of Lines 2 and 4. The park was surrounded on three sides by safe houses. The middle house on each street was a Chinese brothel.

The cab driver followed my directions and stopped in front of the house that I knew to be Silk Roads. I jumped out and knocked on the door. Immediately, the door opened and I was waved inside. I gave the doorman ten bucks, “Pay the driver and keep the change.” Alan was right behind me as I walked into the house. We bounded four stairs and were immediately in the bar area. Like Paradise, it was lit in red neon lights. I walked up to the bartender and surveyed the scene.

To the right of the bar was a long room with plastic tables and cheap couches. Four brothers sat in there chatting up Chinese women. None of the women were particularly attractive. We drank for a while and then headed over to Crazy 8s on Line 8 to hang out with Rick. He had operated another place prior to Crazy 8s called Coco Locos, but it had been raided and shut down by the police. I don’t know the veracity of it, but he told us that he was now making monthly “protection” payments straight to the Minister of the Interior himself to keep this new bar operating.

Alan and I started going to Wazir Akbar Kahn two or three times a week. We usually went straight to Crazy 8s. After a few weeks, we became familiar faces and the doormen would wave us in as soon as they saw us approaching. Crazy 8s was close to several other bars, one of which was called the Mongolian. Alan and I frequented this place quite a bit because he had a thing for a gal who worked there. One night, we’d been sitting at the Mongolian for awhile when this dude walked in. He was strapped and no one seemed to mind. That was rare. The bars and some restaurants, more often than not, disarmed all customers and locked weapons inside of a safe. This guy just walked in, ordered a drink, adjusted his weapon, and sat down. I looked at him and then glanced over at Alan.

“What the fuck? Who is this guy?”

Alan looked at him. “Shit, I don’t know. He must know someone.”

I walked over and asked, “Dude, who are you?”

“I’m Mark.”

“Okay, Mark. But that doesn’t answer the question. Why are you allowed in here packin’?”

“I’m a security contractor. I know most of these people. Those guards outside are my employees.”

“Really? Well, that’s good to know. So, you know all of these places?”

“Yeah, I know most of them. I don’t do security for all of them, though. Some of them are connected higher up the food chain than others.”

“Like Silk Roads.”

“Yeah, but you don’t want to talk about that too loud. These walls have ears. Trust me.” Mark finished his drink and said, “How are you guys down here? You got a vehicle?”

“Nah, we took a taxi here.”

“What? Are you crazy?”

“Well, a little bit, I suppose. I don’t really give a fuck. If I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die. Ain’t a whole lot I can do about it.”

“True, but you don’t have to invite death into your house. Where are you guys going next?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Somewhere. We were hoping to find something new.”

“Okay. Come with me. I’ll drive you.” We walked out to Mark’s truck. It was a desert tan Afghan Army Ranger. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know how he had access to an ANA vehicle for his personal use. Mark unlocked the door and jumped in. Alan opened the front passenger side and started to get in but the seat was full of weapons. Mark started throwing AK-47s, RPG-7s, and grenades into the back seat, which was already full of weaponry. The guy had a freakin’ armory in his truck. Weapons were on the floor, in the back of the seat, piled anywhere there was space. All of them were ANA-issued weapons. Mark looked up at me as he finished transferring his artillery to the backseat and winked, “Dave, ya can’t be too prepared. Never know what’s goin’ happen on these streets.”

Mark took us to the Paradise and then to a hole-in-the-wall joint, the name of which escapes me. As we got out of his vehicle, a kid approached him. Mark gave him five dollars. “Dave, when you come down here give these kids a couple dollars. Give them your phone number. If the police are going to raid the area, they can give you fifteen or so minutes notice. That’s enough time to get outside and make yourself scarce.” I gave those kids money every time I went to Wazir Akbar Khan after that.

Several nights later, I was sitting in the Paradise while Alan was over at the Mongolian when my phone rang. “David, get out now. The police are coming.” I jumped up and ran. The mamasan looked at me. “The police are coming!” I yelled. I ran outside and jumped into an Afghan guard shack that was empty and waited. A few minutes later, a convoy of Afghan police vehicles sped past me. They were conducting a raid but not on Paradise. I said screw it and walked down to Crazy 8s. On the way there, I passed four Afghans sitting on their porch drinking beer and eating Afghan stew. Afghan stew is a tomato-based soup with potatoes, rice, and usually lamb. It’s damn good especially when they spice it up a bit. I was a bit hungry. The Afghans started talking to me through the fence. First they offered me a beer. Next thing ya know, I’m sitting on the floor on their dark porch eating stew and drinking beer. They didn’t speak English and my Dari was limited. Not much of a conversation happened but I ate some good food and drank some beer. That was that good Afghan hospitality.

The Kabul Beauty School

August 2007

I read
The Kabul Beauty School
while sitting around waiting for our departure for Herat. The book is about Deborah Rodriguez, a beautician and hair stylist, who traveled to Afghanistan as part of an NGO group. Like me, she came to Afghanistan to escape a dreary life back in the States. While there, she became the
de facto
hair dresser for expats in Kabul. Women from all over Kabul came to her to for hair styling, manicures, etc. Before long, her customers included local Afghan women. Eventually, she was introduced to Afghan women who had operated beauty salons in Kabul. Beauty salons had been prohibited by the Taliban as being against the teachings of the Prophet. To the Taliban mind, women who wanted to beautify themselves were a satanic temptation to the souls of men. In the post-Taliban era, Afghan women were throwing off the burqa and letting their hair out. They needed a place to prepare for their weddings and other events. Afghan women got dressed up like girls at prom night back in America. They wore colorful dresses, stylized their hair, and put on more make-up than a troop of circus clowns. Deborah and some other women started a beauty school for Afghan women to empower them and to get the “art of beauty” re-established in Afghanistan.

Since I had plenty of time on my hands, I decided that I wanted to see this beauty school. I figured that I could meet this Rodriquez woman and get her to autograph my book. I thought that would be cool. I called Hamdi, “Dude, do you know where the Kabul Beauty School is? I want to get my hair cut there.”

“Yes, David, I know where it is. I will take you there but do not tell anyone.”

We pulled up to a mud-brick walled compound with a green metal gate. Hamdi blew the horn and the gate slid open. There were two guards standing there carrying AK-47s. The good old AK-47 is required gear for anyone living in Afghanistan. Hamdi drove passed the gate and parked inside the compound.

“Hamdi, come in with me.”

“I don’t think it is allowed. I am an Afghan man.”

“Okay, whatever.”

I walked into the foyer. To my left was a reception desk with a beautiful, tiny Afghan girl standing behind it. She smiled at me and asked, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, is this the Kabul Beauty School?” and I showed her the book.

“Yes, you are here.”

Right there, I decided I wanted to experience the art of beauty myself. It would give me a chance to talk to this girl.

“Can I get my haircut, here?”

“Why not?”

“I thought you might only do women.”

“No, we cut men’s hair, too.”

“Okay, sign me up. Do I need to make an appointment or can I get my hair cut now?”

“We have an opening. Just wait here.” As I waited, I walked around a bit. This was a nice home. I wondered who lived there. The furniture looked expensive. All of it was much nicer than the furniture in my hotel room and the safe houses. Leather couches lined the walls. A big screen TV was in the great room off to the right of the entrance. Stairs off to the rear of the hall were carpeted.

The girl came back in and bid me follow her. As we walked, I asked, “What’s your name?”

“I am Ameera. And what is your name tall American?”

“How do you know I’m American? Most folks think I’m from Europe.”

“Oh, I know the accent. You are from the South are you not?”

“Sort of. I’m from Kentucky. It’s more Midwest.”

“Oh, Kentucky Fried Chicken.”

“Yep, that’s it. I’m Dave by the way.”

Ameera led me to a chair behind which was a large mirror. Three Afghan women stood there. This was going to be strange. Usually, Afghan women are prohibited from touching men. Even in the post-Taliban era, men could not enter women’s beauty salons.

Ameera introduced me to Jahanam. They sat me in a barber chair and Jahanam threw a black cape around my shoulders. She sprayed my hair with water and reached for her scissors. I didn’t talk to Jahanam because she didn’t speak much English. The haircut didn’t really matter much to me. If she jacked it up, I could easily cover up her mistakes since I wore a hat all the time in Afghanistan. I just wanted the experience of having been to the place I read about in the book. I was willing to take a bad haircut as collateral damage.

When Jahanam finished cutting me up, I stood up. I looked into the mirror and saw that a high and tight sat crooked on my head. Thank the gods for hats.

“
Tashakor
, Jahanam.” The name
Jahanam
means “my world.” I always thought that was an awesome name for a girl.

I walked back to Ameera to pay. My haircut cost me a grand total of five dollars. Ameera was wearing some sort of fruity perfume that smelled wonderful. I was intrigued. She seemed open for an Afghan girl.

“Ameera, where are you from?”

“My family is from Kabul but I grew up in London.”

“So that explains your accent. What are you doing back here? Are you with your family?”

“No, my mother wanted me to experience Afghanistan. She sent me back here to live with Sher Ahmed. He is my benefactor here.”

“Who is Sher Ahmed? He’s the husband of Deborah.”

“Oh, okay.”

Ameera and I talked for a while longer until I asked her if I could see her again. Her reply was “Why not?” We exchanged cell numbers and I jumped back in the Toyota van with Hamdi. As we drove off, I wondered, “What the hell am I getting myself into now?”

A few days later, I called Ameera to see if I could stop by and see her. We weren’t doing anything in the office, so I made excuses about going to Camp Eggers to mail a package. I didn’t have anything to mail but no one knew that but me. Hamdi drove me again. When we arrived, Sher Ahmed was there. Ameera introduced us and walked back inside. I sat there talking to Sher Ahmed.

“David, what do you want with Ameera?”

“Nothing. I’m just curious about the culture here. She was interesting and seemed open enough to talk to.” We spoke at length and I got the feeling that I was being interviewed for something. It was during this conversation that I learned that Sher Ahmed was the head of security for Dostum. I was impressed. Dostum was a huge figure in Afghanistan at this time. To meet his personal head of security struck me as awesome. I exchanged phone numbers with him as well.

After we finished talking, Ameera walked back out to us. Something unspoken passed between Ameera and Sher Ahmed. Ameera smiled and asked, “David, would you like to have tea at the City Center cafe?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Okay, I will call you tomorrow and we can arrange to meet.”

With that, Ameera turned around and went back into the house. I must have passed the test. I smiled and looked back over to Hamdi in the van. He waved me on. He’d been getting calls from our team lead. I shook Sher Ahmed’s hand.

“Sher, you must come to the hotel and have dinner or tea with us. I’d love to hear all of your stories.”

“Okay, David. I will give you a call in the next few days. We’ll meet up for tea.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it.”

The next day, I got a call from Ameera. “David, can we meet for tea?”

“Definitely. What time and where do you want to meet?”

“We can meet at your hotel at noon?” This was extraordinary. No Afghan female wants to be seen in public with a foreigner because of the dangers involved. A few days earlier, Alan and I were sitting in the City Center cafe drinking tea. A girl walked by us and looked at me. On a whim, I motioned for her to sit at our table. To my surprise, she joined us. She spoke a little English and I was learning a little Dari. We communicated but not well. She was from Iran and was working in Kabul with the United Nations. The whole time that we sat there, Afghan men stared at her and hurled insults in Dari. They called her a whore and a prostitute. I didn’t realize it was happening until a group of men left their table and made it obvious that they were talking to her. They stopped, mumbled something in Dari, and walked away looking surly. Alan asked her, “What did they say?”