Afghan Smorgasbord

As expats, women in Kabul have the delightful advantage of being outnumbered 10 to one. Getting a date / snog / shag is as easy as falling off a log and that’s even when you look like a potato – which is what happens here in Kabul. You’re covered in mud, your hair goes to straw, you shave your legs twice a year (if that), you put on 5kg from all the greasy mutton and Kabuli Pilau and you dress like a bag lady… In short, you look like shit. But, for better or worse, the men here have permanent beer goggles and you end up appearing like Jemima Khan in the days when she was a good Muslim and married to Imran, before converting back to atheism and shacking up with Hugh Grant.

The beauty of Kabul is that even if you have face like the rear end of a rhino, you can still get some action… a few drinks, a free dinner, party invites and innocuous flirtation from a host of willing men. There is a veritable banquet of men to choose from; sweet, sour, hot, cold, over garlicked, undersalted – Kabul has it all. (Just be assured that whatever you choose, it will be fattening and extremely bad for you.)

And so we enter the subject of relationships in Kabul, or as I call them, locationships because nothing here is really about relating; it’s location-specific and the moment you hit the transit lounge in Dubai, you realize you have nothing whatsoever in common and in fact, actually don’t even like the person.

It’s a sad state of affairs (in more ways than one). Men who come to Kabul were bored, seeking adventure and wanting to plant their seed in more exotic soil, so to speak; exactly the type your mother told you to stay away from. And here they are, chasing the few expat women around Kabul, convinced they are in lust/love, only to realize in an epiphany approximately 5 minutes after catching their desired that, in fact, they are not in love. Never were. They were just on an adventure and like any adventure, the risk got too high, they got scared and called for a chopper to get them out. WHITE CITY EVACUATE!

I have one friend, who has been lusting after a certain blonde Cabernet Sauvignon. He hasn’t yet figured that the moment he gets her, he will dump her. It’s the chase, the danger, the intrigue of love and lust in Kabul. It’s Love in the Time of Cholera…
As for me, I thought for a while that I liked Lasagna, but he preferred Pad Thai. I, being Minted Lamb Chops, was no longer on the menu, so we split. Then I met Hot Dog, who turned out to be a real dog; Couscous, who openly stated he wanted nothing more than sex, Mushy Peas who was 26 going on 16; and Starbucks Caramel Mocha who was sweeter than sweet, but loster than lost. (“Loster?” I despair for the English language)

Then, there was mince pie – my future husband. My brazen attitude towards men coming around to bite me on the arse because I didn’t see that one coming. I guess you could say I got my just desserts because I was blindsided by alcohol, and overtaken by Baklava.

You know that moment when it feels like two large hairy hands are reaching into your chest and ripping out your heart while it’s still beating? Yeah. That one.

Guess I’ll head back to the buffet table, although must admit, I have lost my appetite.