An Afternoon at the Bazaar

We had an entirely unusual and pleasant afternoon the other day. There's a little bazaar we drive through nearly everyday on our way to do business. The other day, for the first time on our rotation, we decided to stop.

 

It was cold and damp. We got our fair share of dirty looks. It was always a little nerve-wracking to see a car off in the distance speeding in our direction. But it was entirely satisfying to leave our 6 ton armored behemoths behind and get out and just walk for an hour. I spent most of the time talking to shopkeepers, asking about business, about inflation, about security. Foreigners with guns tend to make people nervous, so I did my best to break the ice with my muttered bits of broken Dari (Salaam! Cheetor astem? Hoob asti. Name ma Felipe ast. Name cheest?).  I doubt they understood what I was trying to say, but, more importantly, they got the sense that I was trying and, with the help of our interpreter, we managed to talk.

 

Of course, no afternoon in Afghanistan is complete without the kids. The kids in the picture were trying to sell us a little yellow bird. Our interpreter (in the brown camouflage) bought it for a buck to free it. He took hold, threw it up in the sky to set it free, whereas the bird weakly struggled out a few half-hearted flaps and fell into a puddle. Figures.