Kabul Diary: Gandamak & Return Journey

Image: Dinesh Narayanan

One of my friends in Kabul took me out to dinner. I see that he had traded his usual thick-skinned SUV (Toyota, of course) for a battered Corolla. The windscreen was broken. That normally happens in summers when it is very hot, I am told. We stop at a non-descript solid steel gate. All gates in Kabul are made of many inches-thick steel. Gate-making itself is quite a business.

A guard asks for identification. He looks at the passport closely and waves us in. Inside is a dimly lit courtyard with another iron door in the corner. Behind the door is a 3X3 vestibule with a small window and yet another steel door. The guards behind the window keep our papers and wave us in. The vestibule is rigged in such a way that only one door opens at a time.

Inside is the Gandamak Lodge, an old Victorian building with ample lawns around. Normally they serve in the garden but the evening chill has closed it down. We go to the bar. It’s a well-stocked, low-ceiling cellar. The roof is supported by huge polished logs.

The place is teeming with foreigners, mostly white. It is one of the two or three places in Kabul, perhaps entire Afghanistan, where liquor is served, legally.

The Gandamak has a history. Peter Juvenal, a British soldier and later BBC cameraman opened it first in a house which is said to have belonged to a wife of Osama bin Laden, according to a Time article. Juvenal, a military buff, named it after the battle of Gandamak in 1842 when a retreating force of the 44th East Essex Regiment of the British army was massacred by Afghan fighters. There was only one survivor. On the current Gandamak’s verandah that leads up to the stairs which take you to the restaurant, a couple of bearded Afghans are selling souvenirs. The corner is also like a museum; of muskets supposedly from the legendary battle. And a vintage Triumph.

The restaurant, which is spread over several halls, is almost full. We manage a table. The dinner is nothing extraordinary. We have burgers and lasagna. I guess the charm is having a forbidden drink in a foreboding place.

As we collect our momentarily surrendered identities and leave, my friend points to a board above the door. I had missed it when we came in. AFGHANS AND MUSLIMS NOT ALLOWED!!!

Khuda Hafiz
As we turn into the street leading up to the airport, guards stop us. I had to get down for a frisking and then walk through a metal tunnel and then get into the car again. Another couple of hundred metres later, we stop again. Another round of frisking. And then the luggage goes through the scanner. Back in the car. The vehicle is allowed only up to the parking. It’s a good 300-metre walk from there. More guards. Mohammad is accompanying me. He is allowed only up to this point. Bear hug. Wave. Hope to see you again. He waits until I completely disappear from view.

Frisked again. These guys are thorough. The closest I have come to such close anatomical enquiry is at Srinagar airport. I turn around to look one more time.

Just before check in there is another scanner. The luggage goes through. Yet another physical search. And I have not even reached the security check! The check-in takes nearly an hour and half. At the security check everything goes into the tray – shoes, phone, laptop, jacket, pakhol (I had been wearing the Massoud cap), even belt. The detector doesn’t beep and the guard waves me through. No frisking? Only if it beeps.

The flight takes off. First over brown mountains and then the tall sentinels. More snow has fallen since I flew over them last week. Winter… hopefully not of discontent.