A complete non event

For all the bleeting security warnings over the parliamentary election, it turned out to be a complete fizzer. Hardly anyone voted, and hence, there was hardly so much as a double happy to blow the day into a joyful White City. (Quite frankly I was hoping for a bit of gunfire and a few rocket hurls just so we’d get some good stories which is alarming because this means Afghanistan, as it now stands, is relatively boring). This momentous occasion of peaceful parliamentary polling could invoke a serious blog about democratisation but then again, if the world’s media thought it so boring as to pay it no attention, why should I? Instead I will turn my attention to events of a far more entertaining description.

It was bound to happen. A university-fuelled nostalgic whim passed through the cerebral of a Frenchman and before we all knew it, Kabul was donning the white sheets and running around with no underwear. Drunk. Oh so slothfully wastedly wickedly drunk.

First there was the immaculately tied toga on the tight touché of a lovely French fille, then the loose tea towel tied around the head of a bare-chested stoned South African, and a blue bed sheet wrapped like a mummy on a paunchy 40-year-old with no hair and a penchant for staring slovenly at any girl with a face better than a bulldog. My personal attire was a white Patou (yes Pilot – that is the right word) wrapped nothing whatsoever like a toga, but more like a hospital gown that kept gaping open and showing the world my lunch. I, however, was too tired to care. I had just been flying for what felt like 8798 hours and only had two hours sleep and three espressos to go on so one drink and I was soon on the floor, spouting complete drivel to the Yank who has, understandably been avoiding me ever since. However, I did still manage to notice the fancy footwork of a certain antipodean towards a delightfully pretty Chianti. Apparently it went quite well. Good for you!

Yes folks, the ultimate in banality, the epitome of the prosaic and the definitive expression of party pooping--the toga party--has hit Kabul. Is nothing sacred here? Do we have no limits? Are we development workers not superior in entertainment sophistication? It appears not. Instead we’re much like the hackneyed juvenile youths in our lands of birth and find little consolation in higher forms of diversion. But as the cliché says, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. So, murder mystery dinner party at marshmellow’s house next Thursday. Look for the update after that one.

No avoiding the rough

(Note: I did not write this article. I have stolen it. But I like it and for those who have never been to this post-conflict fecal paradise, it draws a lovely picture)

The greens are oily brown, the fairways have been swept for mines and the owner is a retired warlord. A rusting Russian tank looks down on the first tee. Only the rough lives up to its name. Welcome to Kabul Golf Club, wryly described on its scorecard as "the best and only golf course in Afghanistan".

"Take cover!" was once a more appropriate warning than "fore!" on these fairways, which have been dragged haplessly into Afghanistan's various wars. After the Soviet invasion of 1979 soldiers dug a deep trench by the sixth hole and sunk a tank into the seventh. Shells whistled overhead as rival mujahideen factions settled bloody scores years later. In the 1990s the black-turbaned Taliban tortured the club professional.

But like a fighter who refuses to go down, Kabul Golf Club is open for business again. Yesterday it made a quirky addition to the achievements of post-war Afghanistan - it hosted its first charity golf classic. St Andrews it was not. A violent dust storm delayed play. Then 14 teams hacked their way across the yellowed, weed-strewn fairways, dodging herds of sheep.

The players - mostly diplomats, aid workers and businessmen - were handed an advisory sheet of "special techniques" for completing the nine holes. "Attack the course!" counselled the first tip. "Play aggressively. Don't even ask for a stroke index because this is Afghanistan and they're all tough."

The defiant attitude permeated the play in aid of Ashiana, a local orphanage. "I have no security clearance so I'm not supposed to be here," declared one United Nations worker with a chipper smile. "Screw that!" The club pro, Muhammad Afzal Abdul, watched with satisfaction. A serious-faced man with sun-leathered features and chipped teeth, Abdul is one of the top Afghan players. Golf is his life and during the war years when other Afghans stuck to their guns he held on to his clubs.

Abdul learned the game in the early 1970s from an American diplomat who took an interest in him - then a 10-year-old boy, hanging around the course which, in those days, had fine green lawns and a bar that served expensive whisky. But when the Russians invaded in 1979 he was detained for six months. Interrogators accused him of spying for the western diplomats who had by then deserted the club. "They used an electric prod," he said with a grimace.

The club gates closed. Almost 20 years later the Taliban fanatics came for him again, raiding his house and digging his garden. "They said there was no place for golf in Afghanistan; that it was illegal under Islam. They took my balls, my clubs, my trophies, my photos. Then they flogged my feet with a cable."

He went into exile in Pakistan, but came home two years ago. He found the course in a sorry state: the trees felled, the grass withered and the greens littered with shrapnel. A de-mining group swept the area. Nothing was found, but he took no chances. First, he let pastoralists drive their sheep over the lawns, then he played the first games himself. His life's joy was restored. "In Pakistan, I felt like an old man. But when I got back, I was 14 years old again," he said.

The Kabul club's rebirth has been modest. Second-hand clubs and balls were donated by a UN officer, who also helped devise the local rules. Players may strike off a square of artificial turf for a clean shot when the ground gets too rough. Two caddies are recommended - one to carry your bag and a second to find the ball after it disappears into the scrub. And the sole water hazard is as dry as a bag of sand. "Look at it like this, you can retrieve your ball without getting wet," jests the scorecard.

A round costs $15 (£8.50), so most customers are expatriates. Diplomats are shadowed by armed caddies. A dozen Afghan businessmen have paid the $300 annual fee. But most of the bills are paid by Ezatullah Atef, a former warlord. As the local mujahideen commander, Atef controlled 1,500 holy warriors who held the hills around the course. When the fighting was over he paid to have it refurbished.

Atef, a rotund man who wears a blazer over his shalwar kameez, paid for the temporary greens and built a new restaurant on the site of the bombed-out clubhouse. When a small tournament was held recently he took the first shot as his bodyguards cheered. "I'm not so good; just a beginner," he said modestly.

Now, the gentrified warlord has plans to fix the club's irrigation and replant the grass. After that he plans to build an entire new town near the club, with a marina, luxury hotel, Mediterranean-style villas and ski complex.

But, for Abdul, the golf club is a vehicle to a humbler goal. Early yesterday he gave a dozen young people free lessons - something he does several times a week. "Why do I do it?" he said with a shrug. "This is my life."