Guests is a vicious circle here: people like it (being guests, having guests), or at least don’t have anything else to do for entertainment, except tv; though they always complain about guests. It’s kind of fashionable to say that you are tired of guests. In fact, one can’t leave without them. One can’t leave without guests’ appreciation, opinion, approval. There is enormous amount of hardship involved in preparation for having guests, even for those whom you don’t like or more than just don’t like. Actually, one has to prepare for 200% for people one barely can stand.  It’s lots of shopping, cooking, preparing presents (soap, shampoo, napkins, headscarfs), good dress for children – all these just so people you don’t really care about will see how good you are.

There was a party for a one-year old boy a couple of months ago. About 40 people (grown-ups, mostly women) were invited to celebrate a happy birthday. I doubt the kid got any presents (including from his mom), yet quite a round sum was spent on killing a sheep, having 5kg cake and food for 40 ecstatically dancing later women.

I watched a serial about mormons, called “big love”, not long ago. There was a birthday of 5 years old kid of a shopaholic mother. The kid got dress and boots from all expensive brands, yet he was still very depressed and was asking his second mormon mother, whether his real mother had invited any kids of his age. So you know what I am talking about.

There are REAL guests as well. Real, meaning, person/people you like and want to have the as guests, but these people don’t seem to visit each other as often as unasked gatecrashes. Perhaps, because people you like tend to have a life.

Gate crashes just knock on your door/gate anytime they have nothing else to do or feel like visiting you. If poor children are at home they are supposed to let guests in, locate them in the best guest room, “salon”, so when you come from somewhere tired, wanting to have some privacy, guests are already at your service, waiting to be fed with tea.

One might call such behaviour spontaneity; i would call it no consideration of other people’s life.

For me, GUESTS is a curse. When i hear “guests”, “we are having guests today,” “you were invited to guests in the evening” i want to hide under the blanket, deeply insert earplugs in my ears and put on this black thing people get on the planes so they can fall asleep.

Who are these guests people, whose opinion i shall strive for? Why it’s so important/interesting/anything for both parties that we need to spend/kill 3/4/5 hours of our lives bearing each other. 

1. Once i was deceived by a promise of buying some dress and ended up being a gatecrasher. Grown-ups were not at home except a 35 years old mentally ill man with cut off fingers with a jar of Vaseline with a blond girl’s face on it. At least he was happy as he thought that Vaseline girl came to visit him.   
2. I am tired of dealing with people who can’t be alone and can’t leave me alone.   I understand they want entertainment but i can’t provide it any longer and i don’t really understand why I had to in the first place. My mouth is tired of smiling for hours in a row, when NOTHING is funny, or nothing from what i can actually understand. I am tired of pretending that I like undernourished, not washed (but with henna make up) children I am tired of the how am i, how is my health, how’s health of everyone i know, routine. I am tired of the amazed looks because i don’t i eat as much as they eat.

Why I am so upset? One would call it an interesting multicultural experience. I agree, it’s interesting and entertaining if one has a choice. I do to. I have a choice as long as it the same as others have. If i choose to have my own choice, I am to be ostracised, made feel guilty, ungrateful and so on.

  My life had turned into multicultural experience with an intrusive, quite intolerant culture which has no respect, or rather understanding of mine.

I hate guests.

It was my day today. A pure shuravi’s day. It was snowing crazily and early in the morning parents sent us sweet rice (shir berenj) from upstairs. People cook it when there is “good news” coming.

 14th of February was the 20^th anniversary of soviet troops withdrawal from Afghanistan. “Thanks for coming, thanks for leaving” – how my cousin/brother in law has put it. It’s an ironic coincidence that the farewell to soviets was also a valentine day.

So we (me and fat children) were making hearts for parents and each other. Sanjar got sweets and we celebrated. I just hope, parents understood the concept of the day of love and didn’t think that the soviet departure and valentine’s day are 2 names of the same good news. Perhaps, it should be.

It was a disaster. I decided to impress my new family (not that new, though) with my dubious Russian cooking (no apples in mayonnaise) and made pancakes (no caviar either). 1 for each person. It’s not that it was my original intention to leave them hungry, I suppose my brain hasn’t adapted to the idea of 9 people simultaneously eating 3 times a day.

I was trying to joke with my sister in law or whoever she is to me, that it’s hard for me to cook for 25 people. I like the literary method of exaggeration but some people don’t understand it. She was stubbornly reminding me that there are only 9 people. I know, there were 9, but anything more than 3 is 25 for me. My hands are not used yet to putting the amount of rice we would have been eating for 2 months in any other country in 1 pot, cooking it and eating instantly.

Anyway, I didn’t mean to spend 25 hours cooking 9 pancakes (luckily I made 3 salads as well) but that’s almost what’d happened. In my excuse I have to say I was under a severe psychological pressure: cooking for in laws + cooking something which certain people are quite unlikely to like, quite likely to dislike. Not because the food is likely to be uneatable, just because it’s different (even slightly) from what they are used to. Here I am coming to my point: luck of adventurism, unwillingness to experiment in afghan culture and I am talking not only about food.

Take for example salad – there is not much one can experiment with, given we have the same set of vegetables and herbs. So what my sis-in-l does – she chops and mix half of what we have together (cabbage, cucumber, tomato) – no salt, no leek, no garlic, no herbs, no dressing. Nothing.  If you put everything what I just mentioned and what was missing in a slightly different combination (separate cabbage from tomatoes, for example) – this will be suspicious.

I am not saying 3 vegetables mixed together are not good (I am eating and drinking everything I am given (even that tea with butter – which turned out to be yammy) and can eat anything including a dog) because I am interested, while some of the people I know here (not my lovely experamentalist parents in law) just physically oppose any experiment with their diet (and their thinking). I suppose it has something to do with their sense of rightfulness. Here people are absolutely sure about what’s right and what’s wrong, and the right things are usually what they do (pray, wear headsacrarfs, think that Hitler was the greatest person in the history of humanity and so on) and wrong stuff obviously comes from strangers. I am being unfair here, though. I know some people saying something along this line “I wish I could do the same you guys do, but I will never be allowed”. This exact regretful phrase was about inability to stick to the walls pictures and cut outs from everywhere. Do I now sound like a person who knows for sure what’s right what’s wrong? As I said, I am happy to try a dog.

So when my disastrous pancake performance was over, I went downstairs and feasted on MREs we have for occasions like that.

Ps. MRE (Meal, Ready-to-Eat) is a self-contained, individual field ration in lightweight packaging bought by the United States military for its service-members for use in combat or other field conditions where organized food facilities are not available.

Pps. I just cooked something for kiddies’ lunch and they said it was delicious. Such a relief. On the other hand, they are just kids, what do they know about right and wrong cooking. And living.

Ppps. More on right and wrong dressing is coming.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t use the camera in the “medical institution” we went to. I’ll try to reproduce some pix, as some of the stuff the doctor has in his disposal we have in our disposal in our kitchen.
So we stopped at a typical ruined afghan 2-story construction. For a moment we were hesitating, who should go with me and help me dealing with the doctor. Eventually, mum, dad and the youngest kid went with me. We entered the dark dusty-muddy-greasy building with women in blue burqas sitting on the floor, men with their face covered with checked scarves.
At the beginning I thought we were gonna have to wait in that “line” but while I was trying to come to terms with the thought of it, we were already in the room with a lamp. And a doctor. And 3 other guys sitting with metal plates with their saliva on their knees, where sanjar’s father confidently guided us.
So yes, as everything in Afghanistan, dentist’s cabinet was really minimalistic. It had a table with drawers in the middle, a gaz cooker on it, a big encyclopaedia of ear, neck and throat next to it and a cupboard behind the whole installation. The doctor was wearing a winter jacket and a hat (despite the flaming gaz cooker) he later put a torch on his head to see what’s going on in my mouth.
He asked me in English what’s my problem and where was I from. I am never sure where I am allowed to say that I am Russian (soviet as some people refer to me here) and where I better pretend to be Polish, French, Italian. So I asked Sanjar’s father where was I from and he told the doctor I was from Poland.
That was the point when I was wondering whether the dentist had any medical gloves. And before I dared to ask he put a bottle with something in a pot with boiling water on a cooker and extracted a small flat plastic bag with CIDA logo on it. That was the gloves! Then he started to fumble for something in one of the table drawers. Eventually a small something, wrapped in a green military material appeared. And guess, what: that were the instruments.
He caught my amazed look and said the instruments have been sterilised. Good to know, I said and thought they could have been, but probably during the second world war.
Anyway, he said “2 stitches are present” and started his job. I knew there were more, but I thought he can see better. Soon we were done and the doctor made sure sanjar’s father understood that instruments have been sterilised. As dad said later, the doctor told him I was beautiful and it’s weird that a Polish girl has an Indian name.
We drove home and I dared to touch with my tongue the place where the stitches were. At least one is left. I guess, I’ll use the mirror and take it out myself.

Today we were having a lunch with a friend and in order to get there sanjar has disguised me as an afghan woman: all hair covered, ridiculous sunglasses on (though, I doubt sunglasses help (sanjar says it’s to hide my blue eyes). That’s the conversation we had on our way.
Sanjar:
So, like I said, people are being targeted because, first, they are selected because they are easily available to notice. If you are not easily available to notice, than you are not a soft target. A soft target – is somebody driving in a car or walking on the street. Home is not a soft target, because they can’t easily break in.
Me: Than why do we have a gun next to our bed?
Sanjar: That’s the exact reason they can’t. If they hear the gunshot fired away, they are gonna go. And the police station is just around the corner. They are gonna be there in one minute. Especially our fucking gun, police will hear it in downtown. Walking and driving – is a soft target.
Me: Why driving?
Sanjar: Because you are on the street.
Me: Are they gonna jump on the car?
Sanjar: They can block you. There are two important things which are true only in your case to make you a hard target. One is, by sitting on the back sit having an afghan look you are not being noticed, which helps. It’s all statistics. One out of hundred will be involved in kidnapping. If you have a low profile you are not gonna get noticed by ten people.
Me: Than why does your mom introduce me to the whole neighbourhood?
Sanjar: Hang on, we are talking about looking afghan and it goes for my mum’s thing to. It’s afghanisation: if you look afghan you are not being noticed. People, who my mum knows, who are next door, they might not be kidnappers. Secondly, even if you get noticed you might not get targeted. You are a foreigner, but than you are a convert, than you an afghan woman. I know this French guy, Christian, he is married to an afghan women but he walks on the street. He has been here for 5 years, he is blond and tall, but he is dusty:) nothing happens to him, because he is just another afghan. Especially, if you are a woman, you should just say I am a convert and bla. So wear the headscarf outside in a way that you look afghan. It’s minor things which might attract attention, like wearing headscarf a foreign way. The only thing which gives you away is your eyecolour. You look afghan in all other aspects.
Me: Ok. Any other lessons?
Sanjar: Hmm… Any other lessons… I am just wondering about living here. If you are just another afghan you are not a target; and it’s a safe neighbourhood. The other thing is burglary. The general security situation is worse for the rich afghans, but that has never happened in this neighbourhood. There are many rich people and there is no reason for that. I am wondering if you are offered a good job with accommodation somewhere in town, does it worth moving? Will it improve security? And I am thinking, that not really.
Me: I feel safe with your parents. In our previous house I kind of understood the necessity of the gun next to our bed.
Sanjar: Well, my dad has a gun too. What I am saying, there is also a human factor in it. We feel protected if we are protected. If you are in a compound, you feel safer.
Me: No, I don’t. I actually feel that the imaginary compound with 30 foreigners inside is asking to be blown up. For me it’s easier to mingle among your friends.
Sanjar: Generally, people tend to feel safer in compounds. The thing about urban kidnappings it’s a hit and run thing, it’s very random. There is no enough recourses for surveillance. That’s my story.

It has almost been 5 days I am in Kabul, actually in our room. I got to see some Kabul on my way from the airport which seemed to get better. Today we a having a lunch with a friend so i’ll see some more. It feels strange, I would say, unexpectedly pleasantly strange, being “locked up” in this room. I haven’t had internet access for 5 days, spoke to 2 people from other part of the world (my mum and my brother in law) and I feel very calm and relaxed (you can call it hyperlazy, I suppose). I think this isolation does good for me – I finally can focus on “real life” and enjoyment. I can now consciously enjoy things for which I didn’t have time or couldn’t afford to dedicate much time as I thought it’s a luxury in real life.
I have to say I am still quite disorganised; life here requires a schedule, otherwise, things are slipping away. Too much time is spent (compared to places with running hot water and electric kittles) on getting regular things done: yourself washed, coffee made, quite place found, quite place warmed. Anyway, I am starting to FEEL MYSELF compared to a feeling of owing everyone everything right away. The feeling of “owing” something to people around me exists here as well as we are staying in a big house with 4 kids and another 3 grown-ups, where everyone has to have “duties” to keep things running, but so far things have been clear to me (probably, because I can’t do much the afghan way). I absolutely can’t cook for 10 people 3 times a day but I can wash dishes when we eat with the family and study with kids in the evenings and keep our floor and room neat and cozy. That’s all my duties.
My other duty, which I hope is gonna be over soon, is meeting (or going to) relatives/neighbours/so-called friends who want to see sanjar’s brand new wife (not that new, though), i.e. myself. Sanjar himself hates this procedures and ceremonies and successfully avoids them but I find it quite fun and “educational” in so important nowadays multicultural way, especially if this is not gonna happen everyday.
I think our room is the cosiest in the 4 story parents’ house able to accommodate at least 100 people, mainly because it’s not as minimalistic as everyone’s else. We’ve got lots of books and lots of movies; a buchori – a heater with a fireplace on which we put orange skin, so our place smells like a cake. We also have an armchair and pillows around buchori – a perfect place for reading, a table – a perfect place for working, a gas lamp and candles – perfect for everything, especially when the electricity goes off (which is every other day for several hours which is absolutely tolerable). The last detail of our interior is a gun next to our bed, which sanjar stubbornly prepares every night in case somebody brakes in at night, which i hope is never gonna happen.

In the last few days I am trying to figure out what to eat to stay healthy. It’s not that I am very demanding (I can eat and drink anything), but I came to Kabul with 6 stitches in my mouth and I prefer them off not worse. Another thing, I can’t eat much as most of my routes are limited to going upstairs-downstairs/across our floor and to the car. Actually, I just did some floor cleaning and it’s a good exercise. We can’t use the hover as electricity is not strong enough, so one has to go with a small brash on her knees to clean endless carpets.
All food I had at home was tasty and looked good (some suspicious) but a bit scary when I realised how it was cooked. To make things clear, I didn’t have any stomach aches yet; I think it’s because I am trying to convince myself that I shouldn’t have any.
In process of food preparation there is one thing which makes me a bit uncomfortable – i.e. washing of ingredients. When I saw my sister in law or whoever she is attempting to wash vegetables with the liquid for washing dishes I started to worry. I can accept that fruits and vegetables from the suspicious bazaar should be severely washed but I also think the liquid for washing dishes should be washed off as well (now, when I am in charge of washing evening dishes I am making sure it’s all gone).
The other way to wash everything coming from bazaar is to put it for several minutes in chloride, but in my opinion it has to be washed off as well. Being so careful with vegetables and fruits, people drink row water from the tap, which seems a bit inconsistent.
Amount of fried oil in everything worries me a bit as well; during my previous visit to Afghanistan I was told (and noticed) that Afghans really love oil. They don’t eat rice with oil, but oil with rice. The best part of palaw is considered the fried lump of rice scratched from the bottom of the pot. But what do I know, a Russian whose best happy new year salad includes apples in mayonnaise.
There is some recycling going on as well. Most is some kind of a yogurt served almost with every food in small plates. When the meal is over it gets mixed in one pot and served next time. It’s fine with me when recycling is happening within a family but a bit worrying when I might end up eating somebody’s (a person who doesn’t wash vegetables in liquid for washing dishes) most. Now i sound like a real wanker.
I was introduced to a new drink yesterday. We went to see one of sanjar’s endless aunts with million daughters (very very nice people by whom I was really impressed) who dined and wined us with chola tea. I, of course, thought, it was a soup with butter in the beginning. It turned out to be a black tea with spice, sugar and fried nuts. Was quite yummy. Sanjar said it meant to boost our mood. I guess, it did.
When guests were coming to see me, we had some unknown animal’s dick or testicles for lunch. My sister in law couldn’t explain properly what it exactly was and since there were two “things” of a weird shape I am still puzzled. I wonder, was it supposed to have any metaphoric meaning (eat a dick get pregnant), since everyone here wants me to have a baby immediately.
That’s all with the food, for the time being, since I can’t go shopping I asked sanjar to supply us with fruits and vegetables which I am washing myself. We also have some good coffee (thanks, sallygak), gin, vodka and bisques. What else one would want?