Visiting

I have made one home visit to an Afghan family, thanks to Ed and his cultural mission in Mazar. We called upon an elderly archaeologist one afternoon, after a 10 minute drive from the office. We had asked the driver to stop at a bakery on the way, as it is a shame to come as a guest to somebody’s house “dast-e kholi” (empty handed), but that didn’t work out. He stopped once outside a very ramshackle stall heaped with all manner of dust coated merchandise, including some ancient Soviet style biscuits in murky plastic bags, which we felt were not appropriate. Our driver was obviously in a hurry, as he then drove straight to our destination and tooted his horn, causing our host to poke his head out before we could explain that we wanted biscuits before our visit. He obviously doesn’t expect foreigns to observe the niceties of Afghan social ritual, but we felt a little chagrined as we followed our host’s welcoming arm gestures into his courtyard. He led us up a short flight of steps into a room on the first floor, bare except for carpets and cushions. I was removing my shoes when our host, a tall, tanned man in his sixties, asked me whether I was hot. When I replied that I was, he suggested I go down to visit his daughter in the basement, adding that Shahida spoke English. He pointed me down the stairs, so I climbed down, pushed a curtain aside, and found a middle aged woman sitting cross legged on the floor. She turned out to be the archaeologist’s wife, but Shahida appeared very soon, and they both made me feel very welcome.

We soon began a conversation about weddings: weddings, it seems are scandalously expensive in Mazar – up to thirty thousand dollars... The costs are so high because it is a shame not to invite several hundreds of people, and continue celebrating for over three days, for fear of the neighbours downturning their mouths and shaking their heads scornfully. This means that some men are quite old when they get married, after saving up for decades. The two ladies were greatly amused by my failure to guess their ages – having ascertained that the daughter was unmarried, I could not believe she could be a day older than me, if that – in fact, she is 36. Having digested that information, I was able to make a better guess at the mother’s age, although she really did look good for a 52 year old, who has had her share of sadness.

When I asked my hostess how many children she had, I accidentally stumbled on a tragic story, as it seems I so often do in these situations. She told me she had had five, but her eldest son had died in a car accident, two weeks before his wedding, a year and a half ago. The cheerful mood didn’t recover after that, as the mother shed silent slow tears for the remainder of my visit, whilst valiantly pressing melon on me, which I felt disinclined to eat… while the daughter went off to perform her absolutions and then their prayers at one end of the room.
I promised to visit them again, and as I left tried on my first burqa – and I don’t mind if it proves to be my last as they are insufferably hot. But don’t get me started on the subject of hijab today.