Kabul, Afghanistan: Traffic, carpets, abayas and Chicken Street

Have you ever found yourself thinking I think I’ll go to Kabul for the weekend?

No? Me neither. Not really.

And yet, here I am.

Kabul seen from Bagh-e Babur

Three days to take in Kabul, drive across the mountains to Bamiyan, and see the fairy-tale lakes of Band-e Amir. It has turned out to be one of those journeys where every day seems to contain enough material for a small book – and where even buying clothes is a quirky experience.

Exploring Kabul

Surprisingly, landing at KBL is a straightforward affair. I sail through immigration and customs in a matter of minutes.

‘Go past the I ❤️ Afghanistan sign,’ said the WhatsApp message from Murtaza, our guide for the day. ‘Then pass the gate with billboards with Chinese letters on it. Follow the path that leads you to the waiting area. I’ll be there.’

Clear enough, you’d think. But you know me; I can get lost in my own backyard.

I eventually find the waiting area/car park, and there he is – in a cap and a light blue perahan tumban – the loose-fitting knee-length shirt and trousers, that almost all Afghan men wear.

Kabul traffic and smoke rituals

My first impression of Kabul is traffic. So much traffic!

And not just everyday, regular traffic, but an extraordinary, constantly moving organism. Battered Toyotas, turquoise taxis, minibuses, pedestrians, bicycles, motorbikes – they all have an approach to lanes, junctions and right-of-way that appears to be based largely on… optimism, I guess.

There’s a particular rhythm to it. Cars squeeze through gaps that don’t really exist; horns are used as a form of punctuation, and oddly, everyone seems to know what everyone else is about to do. I have only experienced traffic at this level once before. In Dhaka. Nightmare.

Several times the traffic comes to a standstill. I sit in the front seat watching the whole thing unfold, simultaneously fascinated and grateful not to be the one behind the wheel.

Every so often someone appears at the window carrying a small smoking brazier of burning incense. A thin plume of fragrant smoke rises into the hot air. They lean towards the open window and begin wafting it towards us, trying to bathe us in it.

The earthy, pungent smell makes me dizzy. Mixed with heat and exhaust fumes, it’s overpowering. For a few seconds, the frantic world outside seems to slow down. Horns blare, cars inch forwards; pedestrians squeeze between bumpers – and here we are, sitting in the middle of the chaos with a stranger solemnly smoking us to protect against the evil eye.

It is a surreal moment: a tiny, smokey ritual of protection taking place in the middle of a massive traffic jam.

Kabul itself feels like a city of contrasts. Modern-looking buildings sit alongside dusty streets and traditional shops; a few smartly dressed men walk alongside people in traditional clothing; and behind the traffic and noise is a city with a long, complicated history visible almost everywhere you look.

Burqas and abayas

One thing that surprises me is how few burqas I see. My mental picture is heavily shaped by Western news coverage: images of women completely covered from head to toe. The blue mesh of the burqa is practically a visual for Afghanistan itself.

But that isn’t what I see on the streets of Kabul. The reality in front of me is considerably more varied. In fact, I can count on one hand the number of burqas I see.

We hear that this varies considerably across the country. The burqa is more commonly worn in some of the conservative, rural communities. But here in Kabul, I see a few women dressed in black chador (where only the eyes are visible), but the vast majority wear abayas and hijabs, their faces fully showing.

It makes me think about how easily a country can become reduced to a handful of powerful images. The burqa is undeniably part of Afghanistan’s story, and the restrictions and experiences of Afghan women are far more complicated than what I can understand from a few days on the road. But a photograph, however truthful in itself, can still become misleading when it is repeated often enough to represent an entire society.

I am beginning to notice the gap between what Afghanistan looks like in the news and what it looks like through the car window right now. Neither is the whole story. I am only seeing a tiny slice of the country, at a particular moment, through my own foreign eyes. But that small glimpse is enough to make me question some of the assumptions I have arrived with.

Abaya shopping

So far, I’ve been wearing a long-sleeved sweater and wide trousers, much as I would at home, except I have added a headscarf draped loosely around my hair. To keep a low profile, Mel and I buy abayas.

This is somewhat different from simply going into a shop and choosing one. And more entertaining. Have to try it on, discuss a bit, work out what is practical, but also what looks good – or at least half-way decent. I eventually come out with a green one, feeling transformed, and a little more anonymous, despite the glitter and bling decor.

I’ll be honest: I’m not particularly fond of this garment. It may look elegant, but it is a logistical challenge.

I’m not very tall, and my abaya is a bit too long, which means stairs immediately become an extreme sport. I have to gather the fabric in my hands like I’m preparing to make an entrance at the Oscars, except that my main concern is not tripping over the hem and tumbling down the stairs.

Walking is no easier. Although the abaya is loose-fitting, the fabric seems determined to negotiate the length of my steps. You can’t really take great, Nordic strides in an abaya.

This is the only photo I have of myself wearing the abaya; shows how much I didn’t like it.

Abayas on, it is time to get back to navigating the Afghan capital. But first, the tyres need air.



Bagh-e Babur: an oasis in Kabul

We need air, too – and head for Babur Garden.

Feels like stepping into another world.

Named after Babur, founder of the Mughal empire, this historic garden has terraces climbing gently upwards. Trees provide shade, and the gardens offer a tranquility that is particularly welcome after the chaos of the streets. There is also a sense of order here that appeals to me.

It is easy to imagine people seeking refuge from the city here through the centuries.

We see school classes on outings, children running around, families gathering, and people wandering through the gardens. It is not a museum in the conventional sense, this – but more a living space.

Around the main square, a few shops sell local arts and crafts. I spot a small shop run by women – a mother and daughter team.

Young Aisha is the talented artist.

Chicken Street and the gem cutter

A famous stop on the overland Hippie Trail in the 1960s and 70s, Chicken Street is Kabul’s most legendary thoroughfare. Back then, Kabul was known as the Paris of Central Asia, with its vibrant culture and intellectual life. There isn’t much that reminds me of Paris today.

The street is named after a poultry shop that once operated on the lane. 

One thing remains the same, though. On Chicken Street, hand-woven Afghan carpets, traditional handicrafts, antique jewellery, vintage tribal artefacts, lapis lazuli, and much more, is for sale.

Chicken Street is quiet this late afternoon. Most shops close around 17.00, we hear. Evening is family time.

But we have time for a look inside one of the iconic carpet shops. They are dangerous places for anyone with even a passing weakness for textiles. You walk in telling yourself you’ll only look. Then somebody starts unrolling carpets. Consider yourselves warned.

In this shop, there is a staggering selection of, well, everything: rugs, fabrics, knives, fridge magnets, jewellery, heavy stones shaped like pistols, and other objects whose exact purpose I am not entirely sure of.

Don’t ask.

And then I see the carpet.

It is, frankly, ridiculous.

The pattern features Soviet Kalashnikovs, tanks and helicopters – an extraordinary combination of traditional carpet-making and very 20th century Afghan history.

There are probably people who would approach such a purchase with careful consideration. I, apparently, am not one of them. My only concern is: will it fit in my carry-on?

It will.

Naturally, I buy it.

The gem cutter of Kabul

Murtaza is not merely an excellent guide; his primary job is faceting gems. We step into Kabul’s jewellery quarter, his place of work.

Inside, each jeweller, gem cutter and goldsmith work in their own little rooms. There is no grand, gleaming jewellery showroom here. Instead, we peer into small workshops where craftsmen are bent over their work.

The air is filled with the steady buzz of small machines. It smells faintly of metal and stone. Each workshop is a little world on its own, with its own atmosphere: the whirr of a cutting wheel, the scrape of a tool, the quiet concentration of an artist working on something tiny and precious.



Murtaza sits down at his machine and gets to work, carefully shaping a stone. His hands move with extraordinary precision, making tiny adjustments that I can barely follow. The machine hums as the stone meets the wheel, sending a fine spray of dust into the air.

There is something satisfying about seeing a skilled craftsman work with such focus, knowing that every tiny movement of his hands is changing the stone in front of him. The repetitive movement, the concentration, the quiet competence of it all – it’s something meditative about it, hypnotising almost.

Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the stone begins to reveal itself. What at first looked like an unremarkable lump, starts to catch the light, developing colour, sparkle and shine.

Sunset on the hill

Later we drive up to Wazir Akbar Khan Hill, to see the sun set over Kabul.

The main features up here are the Mullah Omar Mosque and a huge Afghan flag.

The climb takes us away from the city noise. The air feels cooler up here, and a dry mountain breeze is blowing across the hillside. Below us, Kabul stretches out in a vast, hazy expanse, softened by the dust and early evening sunlight.

From up here, the scale of the city becomes apparent. Roads thread through the city like thin lines, cars become tiny moving specks, and buildings stretch in every direction until the Hindu Kush stop them. They are enormous, these mountains, brown and stark, rising around Kabul like a wall.

Seems we are the only females on the hill this evening

One thing that catches my eye is the many wedding halls – or wedding palaces – scattered across the city. We drove past some of them earlier. Large, elaborate buildings amongst the more ordinary houses and shops, with grand, lavishly decorated façades. From above, the wedding halls look like glamorous little islands of colour and extravagance against the rugged backdrop of Kabul.

Weddings here are not simply a ceremony for the immediate family; they are major social occasions, bringing together relatives, friends and the wider communities. The halls seem to be built with this in mind: large enough to accommodate crowds, elaborate enough to feel celebratory, and designed for an occasion that can involve thousands of people.

Thousands!

It’s not uncommon for a wedding to have 5,000 guests, we hear. Coming from Norway, where 100 – or even 50 – guests would be considered a big wedding, it’s hard to wrap my head around this. We also learn that the cost easily comes to US$20 per guest. Sounds modest, doesn’t it – until you multiply it with 5000!

It’s also a reminder that even in a city so often portrayed through war and politics, there is an ordinary social life going on, as well: people getting married, dressing up, gathering, eating, celebrating.

And then there is the flag.

It catches the wind and billows heavily above us, the fabric snapping and cracking in the breeze. But most noticeable of all: the colour!

Or rather, lack of colour.

Where I expect the red, green and black tricolour of Afghanistan, I am instead looking at the white Taliban flag, bearing the Shahada, the Islamic declaration of faith, in Arabic. Against the arid brown mountains and dark evening sky, the pale fabric is startlingly bright.

A flag is such a familiar, almost mundane part of a landscape that it is easy to forget what it represents. Here, it becomes a reminder of just how much has changed in Afghanistan. Standing underneath this enormous white cloth, with the wind whipping around me and Kabul spread out below, the change feels very tangible.

The flag towering above us, the mosque, the mountains and the sprawling city below… the whole scene has a surreal quality. As I stand there taking it in, I can’t help but think ‘I can’t quite believe I’m actually here.’

Then the spell is broken.

We get back into the car and head straight back into Kabul’s traffic, mercifully easier now after sunset.

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Stay tuned for Part II, a road trip through the Afghan mountains from Kabul to Bamiyan and Band-e Amir.

All photos by Melissa G. Mitruen, David Røgler, and myself.