It is Thursday evening in Kabul and tomorrow is Friday. The only day of the week most of us can have a lie-in. So Thursday evening is the main evening for ex-Pats to go out on the town. Of course, when the town is Kabul, the choices are somewhat limited. So, we wander round the corner to the bar in the next street, go through all the security gates, searches and metal detectors and find a seat at the bar. The bar is staffed by Afghans with strict rules that alcohol can only be sold to Horaji's. The staff are always pleasant and, there being so few bars, seem to know everyone in their clientèle. Waiters also hover dressed in white shirts, ties and black waistcoat and trousers. The atmosphere is relaxed and convivial, just as any bar may be in the West on a Friday evening.
It has been a cold and wet day. Most people are wearing jumpers, the men in combat trousers and jeans, the women in trousers, jeans and the odd ankle-length skirt, scarves draped carelessly around their shoulders, waiting to be put on as they leave the confines of the bar. The ages range from early twenties to your narrator (who invariably seems to be the oldest around). Most people my age are too senior in their organisations to hang around in bars, but a few of us old nobodies do exist. Nearly everyone smokes and the air in the room is thick. All around are conversations in many and varied languages and accents. Of course, English dominates (with British, South African, Australian and American accents) but, as I go to the bar for a round of drinks, I pick up others in French, German and, what I suspect is, Albanian. Most of the people here that look as big and scary as these guys are generally Albanians or Kosovars!! Any conversations between different nationalities use English as the common tongue. The people come from all over the globe, Europeans, Orientals, Africans, Americans, Asians and Antipodeans. they are all here and represented to varying degrees.
All the people are in small “work groups” of about 5 or 6. As new people come in there is much greeting and kissing of cheeks, except for us. We are a group of three men who, to all intents and purposes come from a completely different planet, but then we have a reputation of being dull, miserable and unfriendly and basically, have no friends!!
Although it is the busiest night of the week the bar is barely half full as many Embassies, Govt. Departments etc. nd NGOs, still do not allow their staff to frequent such places since the Serena attack.
We order our drinks and spend the evening chatting, the crowd begins to swell and for half an hour it is almost busy and then; the crowd begin to leave. Groups of 4 or 5 start to go, one after the other and a rumour begins to spread around the room. People are animated and excited something is up in town and we have to know what it is. I wander to the bar and overhear a conversation of a party tonight in a UN guest house.
A party on a Thursday night is the ultimate goal for the ex-Pat community and a party in a UN guest house means there will be music, free drinks and a late night. All we need to know is which guest house and where. I stand at the bar and piece the story together, I get the street name and find out there is a guest list and access is strictly by invitation. Now, at this point you may feel a little downhearted the phrases “guest list” and “strictly by invitation” may put you off, but this is just a ploy. The guest list at the gate is controlled by the guards who speak little English and definitely do not read and write English. We have been told by “those in the know”, look at the guest list like you are searching for your name, pick a name and sign next to it and walk in boldly. Heck, its worth a try, surely.
We call up our driver and he arrives at 11.30pm to take us to the street the party is in. OK, we don't have the exact address, but when we get to the street there will be a group of Land Cruisers around the gates to the party and we can walk up boldly.
Only two of us go and we sit in the back of the car chatting excitedly like a couple of schoolboys about the gatecrash an “adults” party and wondering whether we can pull it off!!
As predicted we get to the gate and are presented with a guest list. Now, I have been told I bear a passing resemblance to the BBC correspondent in Kabul – Alistair Leithhead, so when I see his name on the list and no signature, I can't resist it and sign next to it. “Tonight Matthew I am Alistair Leithhead”. There is some irony to this which I shall explain later.
We walk boldly in and head for the bar. The drink is flowing freely, the music is LOUD and disco. The house and gardens are HUGE, typically UN. A barbecue has been lit and people stand outside around it, with many more inside. People are laughing, dancing, drinking and having a great time.
Everywhere is the strong feeling of “release”. People who have been cooped up behind walls and guarded in compounds and guest houses for months and are only allowed out with Close Protection Guards have found a safe place to go. (It is generally felt the safest place to 'go out' is a party as these are not at fixed locations and so are unlikely to be attacked by the bearded ones, as by the time they know it is happening, we are gone).
As the evening progresses the music shifts from Abba and Michael Jackson to 'garage' and 'house' and the dancing becomes stranger (to these old eyes anyway, but I gamely give it my best shot).
We finally call our driver at 3.00am and leave at 3.30am as the party begins to wind down and the beer runs out. The downstairs of the house is pretty well trashed. Cans, bottles, spilt drinks, cigarette ends everywhere littering the floors and furniture and as for the state of the toilets. Well, maybe they have been visited by drunk schoolboys who had lost their sense of direction (if you get my drift).
Of course we come back to a house with no electricity and running water so the final events of the evening are conducted by torchlight and with shiny clean teeth I head back to my bed.
And that is our Thursday evening story, oh yes, I nearly forgot. I managed to keep up a conversation with a Swedish woman for 15 minutes who thought I was Alistair Leithhead and was telling me how much she had enjoyed lunch with me the previous Friday afternoon in the Kabul Coffee House. In the end I had to come clean and tell her I was not he. Fortunately, she found it funny and then, I think she went looking for the genuine article. But maybe he could not get in, after all I was already inside and this one must be an imposter!!!!
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