A Kabul Picture Poem

This is Kabul.

And her childrenengulfing them slow

crawling up from below

this motherful city

hiding what's smotherful colorful

within silent grey mystery.

The unemployed beside the destroyed

not sure who is who
between buildings or boys
looking upwards to something

that destroyed joy down the road.

* * *

It aint easy being green

playing the scene

making up dreams

sometimes wishing we were back

in Mombassa...

links to others photos

My uncle is famous! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vcQZBSEyAMM:

OK all in French, but the photos are cool...
For more super Kaubl photos check out http://tomtommaou.blogspot.com/
For a french dudes view of this place check out http://jeanraphael.blogspot.com/
who seemed to find my analysis of francophone culture particularly funny (see entry 8 feb 07)
Both great guys.
For my honey's http://mothergaia.blogspot.com/ (in french no photos) and in english http://hotpotbelly.blogspot.com/

impressionist kabul

A kabul moment captured...

... the man in the corner is taking a piss.

Driving out towards Jalabad road, you pass tall buildings that look as if they belong in Novosibirsk - a remnant of some type of development that has since been not destroyed but damaged and then reworked into warmth. You might call them projects and imagine crack dealers peaking around the open dirty snow crusted yard between two towers where there was once a fountain or a pool of odd shape with a bridge empty now of water, but not of children with blue hands and red noses. But they are the nicest place in town the residents have private cars and sometimes water and electricity and carpets and warmth and food and lovely clothes and make up.
The buildings are grey reinforced concrete. The skeleton breaking out of the cracked cement at the top, fingers of rusted re-bar reaching for the sky freed by blasts of ... They were styled as Russian style goes with geometric shapes into the cement a bit subtle then, but now riddled with bullet holes pock marked, spaces in between but more holes than not. You can imagine the sound or wonder how long it took to cover the walls with bullets, even with an automatic Kalashnikov, or if there were people hiding and if it all happened at once or over the years.
But it’s a quiet day today sunny and the kids are climbing on the bridge over no water. And the men wander about maybe having hot tea by a shaggy sloppy stand in the parking lot. And the women are inside they have made this building home and warm. Carpet and cylindrical diesel heaters with their tell-tale smoking chimney, making dumplings and youghurt and spices with the smell of henna drying on the feet. Warm tea is always ready for those blue fingered children as they come in and out and in or a cousin or a bother in law or cousins brothers sisters cousin in law.

A man passes on a bicycle wrapped in a blanket and hatted tight against the cold, rolling heavy old and slow with some momentum a bit to tall for him. Difficult to ride, especially with one leg.

Sometimes there is some random person walking or on a bike with a handful of bright clear sparkling dancing helium filled balloons passing by never seen again themselves but the colorful bouquet is seen from day to day as if they fit into this grey city. I wonder who gets them in the end.