Expats like to call Kabul, the Kabubble. There is a small crowd of us. Most of the NGO workers had fled with the evacuation so it was mainly the journalists left only. I got invited to a party with some of the long timers.
There was Andrew Quilty and Matthew Aitkens. It had been many years and we kinda laughed about the whole situation. These guys had spent a good ten years here getting good at their Dari but with the Taliban in power, it kinda meant we had to learn Pashto.
At the party was an Afghan Canadian woman, Nadima. She was very loud and made herself known. She had her own youtube/tiktok channel promoting good things in Afghanistan as she ran an NGO called Dream,Voice, Act. She was hoping Quilty would be interested in taking portraits of herself. He didn’t seem so interested but I voiced interest. I needed more Afghan women in the photobook and photographing women here was difficult especially if you are a man.
Nadima was keen to make a calendar if she could of all the different places and clothes of the country. We set a day to go up to Paghman just out of Kabul to do some portraits.
I went to go collect my motorcycles. They had been sitting around for years at a cafe called the Venue. For years they had been sitting in the sun, snow and rain but the Royal Enfield kicked over. The Triumph sadly did not or more the keys were lost and not to be found anywhere.
Still I had a bike and I got it onto a Zarang, a three wheeled motorbike with a trailer back, and took it to Rahim’s, my mechanic I used for years. He was a sly old dog and never really to be trusted but he got the job done. I just needed to drain the fuel and oil and replace it as well a new battery would be good. Instead of Rahim working on my bike, he got his kids to work on them instead. I think the youngest kid was ten but I remember when he working on my bikes when he was six or so and barely could speak.
My Royal Enfield still had the sticker from Distinguished Gentlemen’s ride from 2013 or so when I wanted to participate but riding in Afghanistan was something they couldn’t endorse obviously with it being a country in turmoil. I still got up in a suit and rode up to Qargha Lake with some folks.
I picked up the bike from India in 2013 and rode it to Kabul paying bribes left right and centre to Pakistani check point guards who loath Indian bikes. Once in Afghanistan I was praised for the bike like I was the Indian movie actor Dharmendra they would tell me. I took it as a compliment and rode on through Jalalabad and onto Kabul.
The Taliban were getting more comfortable in their new position of power and they called press conferences. I made it to one with Holly riding in on a motorbike. Probably the first of all western journalist to do so since .
Alot of the old guard of journalists were there that had covered Afghanistan in the republic where there. Ben Farmer, a British journalist couldn’t believe it that Zabiullah Mujahid was on the podium giving a speech and answering questions. Zabiullah understood English, Dari, Arabic but chose most of the time to reply in Pashto, his first language which people are looking at Afghans with Pashto on what he just said.
I met some of the old Afghan photographers who stayed and did not get on the evacuation flights, we hugged and could see they were in disbelief to of the events that were unfolding. They muttered “Sardar”, our friend and his family who were killed by the Taliban at Serena Hotel in during Iftar dinner many years before. The Afghan press club were never going to forget but they kept on with jobs with dignity.
The ministry were guarded by Talibs in proper uniform too, in camoflaged kamizs and knee and arm guards which no real soldier would adorn but these were their uniforms.
As we past the US Embassy I saw even the Taliban were painting over the walls and putting their insignia on it. I climb up what was once Massoud circle, the images of Massoud removed and took the photo of them painting on it. The press were very keen to get a copy of the pic when I put it on twitter and instagram.
I contacted Nabih Bulos from the LA Times and wanted to hang out with the habibi since ages. I first met him when we were both looking to get into Yemen when the shit happened there. I made it though jumping on a trawler boat in Djibouti to Mocha where I was held by the Houthis.
Nabih’s photographer Marcus Yam however suffered from Kabul belly or the cold or laughed Covid. In a previous statement by Anais Haqqani, a Taliban spokesman, he declared that even Covid ran away from the Taliban. Nabih said he taken over 8 doses of vaccines. He wasn’t getting covid. We met up and went to a Shinwari place making some of the most delicious oily curries you could imagine.
We laughed, traded adventures and stories of motorbikes. I was glad to see him. He came on a Qatar evacuation flight and escaped the US soldiers from dragging him back on the plane.
In the morning I headed with Nadima up to Paghman, she had an antique Afghan kuchi dress that weighed a ton. We went up to Paghman Hill Palace gardens which was now open to the public. I used to have a hard time during the Republic days cause it was always closed off to dignitaries.
Families were having picnics but most people didn’t mind. However a young Talib foot soldier came by asking “Who are you?”
Nadima smiled and said “I am yours” suggesting she was Afghan and this was her place. Nadima was all for giving the Taliban a chance to run the country as it but an end to its corruption but they needed guidance in running the country.
After the park we headed up more into the hills where the ordinary Afghans would picnic by the riverside. Taliban were enjoying the swimming pools by the river and having picnics together. Young taliban were curious but none dared come up to the women.
I rode my motorbike and the Anfield seem to struggling on the broken tracks. I could feel it breaking in my ass with it very little suspension. Now that the Taliban had taken over, the roads seemed open to travel and I decided I wanted to travel if I could, all over Afghanistan by motorbike but I probably had to trade in the Enfield for another dirt bike. I used to own a Suzuki DRZ400 but I lent it to a friend and it carburettor had met its demise and there was no getting another one in Afghanistan.
We met some men selling potato sambosa and bolani carried on a large dish on their head and Nadima decided to give it a try. It was uncomfortable and you wondered how these men carried these on their heads for kilometres for a few Afghanis. We bought a lot for lunch though. The sambosa men sat with us and enjoyed our company. Nothing had changed for them. They still lived poor and humbled and as long as the Taliban and families came up to picnic, they had a livelihood.
The day was pleasant and we ended up on a farm that belonged to cousin of Nadima’s. There was more food to be consumed and we enjoyed the last of the dying sun. Kabul felt like it was the same but wasn’t the same.
