The Bookseller of Kabul

I'm trying to pace myself with the taking of pictures ("snaps" as our British friends call them). I'm going to be here close to a month, so I'm trying to just take it all in right now. Astan is simply enchanting, and I don't think my lens has been capturing the awe I’m experiencing. Below is just a sample, more to come very soon:



If you were thinking Afghans only frowned, you’re sadly mistaken. I’ve seen many, many smiles here.



I live on this street, I think. Most of the streets have huge craters, so even drives on paved roads are like going “muddin.'”



Roof top view, from a Hazara village we visited. Mountains surround this whole city.



On our way to one village we got stuck in “mud.” Our driver thought he could make it down this alley, but he was just a little too ambitious. We were actually driving on ice. After several attempts we decided to let the men handle the problem, and the ladies went on to our appointment. Turns out, this wasn’t just a muddy alley, covered by ice. The open sewer system means that the streets are flowing with mud and, well, yeah. Poo.



Stockpiled wool for the carpet-weaving project we visited. All the wool is dyed in vegetable dye and hand-spun.



Michael bought some HOT shoes. He feels more culturally appropriate in these shoes, he says. I…don’t know…but, hmmm



A typical street scene—hanging meet, bicycle, more men than women, burqa, script I can’t read, etc.



Mary and Joseph, er, I mean, Brangelina, er…Michael and Jennifer. I’m sporting my new fur coat, which smells like it was alive not too long ago. We’re not supposed to smile in this country, but we’re both on the verge.



Even through all the smog and dirt, the snow is still quite bright. There is a mountain range behind me. In fact, everywhere I turn there is a mountain range somewhere behind me.



Our feastings. If you look closely, there are French fries cooked in with the chicken legs. Side note: I saw French soldiers at a restaurant today and I think they were eating French fries. Ha.



In case you didn’t get the point, I look at mountains all day long.

I read a book called The Bookseller of Kabul before I came here as a sort of cultural indoctrination, along with The Kite Runner (which I totally recommend that everyone read). In The Bookseller of Kabul, the author/journalists takes some creative liberties, but basically tells the true-life story of an Afghan family, weaving each family member’s story into a novel, but mainly focusing on the life of the bookseller, the father of the family. She spent “a springtime” with this family whose patriarch is a renowned bookseller in Kabul. The author writes that one of the bookshops is located in the lobby of the Inter Continental Hotel. We made lunch plans for the hotel restaurant today, and I thought I’d do my own little investigation into this bookshop. The novel is supposed to be based on true events, right? Sure enough, there is a bookshop in the hotel lobby. I nosed my way into the shop, a tiny nook, really, off to the side of the main lobby. There was a man inside building shelves, but there were hardly any books on the shelves, maybe 10 books. I asked if he was the carpenter or owner. The convo went a little something like this:

“Excuse me, sir, is this the bookshop?”

“Yes, this is bookshop.”

“Oh! Ok, are you the carpenter or the owner?”

“Ne, ne, this is my shop. I am Shah Mohammed. See sign? [points to poster hanging just to my right] ‘Shah M. Bookshop’.”

“Yes, oh. I see. Are you new? I mean to say, is this a new bookshop for the hotel?”

“No, this is a reopening. We are a very old shop. I have many shops in Kabul. You want to have look?”

“Well, sir, I must come back, my friends are leaving me. I will be here all month. Will you be open soon?”

“Yes, I open very soon.”

[bookseller leans in very close] “You know, miss, I am very famous. This shop very famous.”

“Ah, yes. I have heard of your shop. And I’ve heard of your postcards. You are famous to me, that’s for certain. I will come back to visit you when I have more time.”

“Yes, thank you. Ok, salaam.”

“Salam, tashakor Shahjan.”

Process of elimination and my keen detective skillz tell me…I just met The Bookseller of Kabul! And the ironic part of the story (one of them, at least) is that a chapter of the novel tells the story of a contracted carpenter whom the Bookseller hired to build him new shelves for his shop. The carpenter ended up stealing several thousand postcards from the shop, and there was a whole scene involving the police and bringing shame to the carpenters family, etc, etc. Well, I guess the Bookseller learned his lesson! He’s building his own shelves now!

I wonder if he’ll carry his book…