Is there something wrong with my outfit?

When we got to Afghanistan, I was prepared to get some stares.  I don't look like an Afghan, although there is an ethnic group here with red hair and paler skin.  But staring is acceptable and permissible in Afghan culture, and so men stare at anything of interest (i.e. women, western men, each other).  I've gotten fairly used to it and don't even mind it too much.  We just keep on walking.

Today I got more looks than I have the entire time I have lived here.  The interesting thing is where those stares came from.  We visited the ISAF (International Security Assistance Force) market outside one of the military bases where soldiers, diplomats and other westerners shop for typical Afghan items like rugs, scarves, lapis lazuli, hookahs, and bootlegged DVDs.  These are the people that think we're crazy for living in the city and not driving around in armored cars.  I have to admit, I was fairly shocked to see women walking around in shorts and t-shirts.  Apparently, not as shocked as they were to see Sari, Erica and I walking through the market wearing our chadors and fully covering Afghan clothes.  And it wasn't the men either, women would turn around for a second look as they passed by us.  I felt like it was the first day of school and I wore the wrong outfit or something.

Oh well, in the end, I feel like we get the last laugh.  As we worked our way through the stales bargaining prices down to half the original asking price (or less!), one dealer commented on our skills telling us we haggled like Afghans.  He said, "Americans must be so rich, they never ask for a second price.  They just point and pay.  You ask for prices like an Afghan."  I may not fit in at the ISAF market and may get more gawks from American women than I do from Afghan men, but I can talk down a price like an Afghan.  That's an accomplishment.  

Riding a bike in Kabul

Let me begin by saying that I cannot remember the last time I rode a bike.  I'm guessing that it's been at least five years, probably more.  But there is some saying about never forgetting how to ride a bike, right?  Well, with some other factors thrown in to my first Kabul bike riding experience, I had some moments where I was wishing for training wheels. 

My friend Erica asked me if I wanted to go on the walking tour of the neighborhood today. We live in a place called Karte Seh. It's right along the river and is an area that a lot of foreigners call home.  This morning when she showed up at my house she asked "Do you know how to ride a bike?" She had asked one of our doormen, Gulrahman, if I could borrow his bike for the day so we could get places quickly. 

Bikes in Kabul are all at least 10 years old, mostly manufactured in China, the same height, rarely have brakes, and are usually held together by wire and duct tape.  They, along with many other items found in the area, are left over from the Soviet period.  I must say they are sturdy.  I've seen men riding them without tires, without handle bars, with four people piled onto them...Some of them have lasted 20 years of ongoing war. And any contraption that can survive the streets of Kabul deserves some recognition. 

Which brings me to my next point, roads.  There is no such thing as a bike lane in Kabul.  In fact, there are no such things as lanes in Kabul (bike, driving, pedestrian).  But driving in Kabul deserves a post all of it's own, for now I'll stick to today's experience.  The roads are sometimes paved (and full of potholes).  Mostly they are just rocky unpaved roads.  So, if it's paved you avoid potholes, if it's not you avoid rocks.  Navigating takes all senses on high alert, dodging cars, pedestrians, goats, and gawkers.

Final point.  Being a woman and riding a bike is the icing on the cake of the Kabul bike riding adventure.  Afghan men think it is absurd to see a woman riding a bike.  In popular opinion, women are too stupid to drive a car or ride a bike.  Therefore, seeing a woman on a bike elicits two reactions.  Either the men catcall, whistle, or simply stare.  Or the more frustrating reaction; since women shouldn't know how to ride a bike, some men take it upon themselves to prove how badly women ride by causing distractions or obstacles.  They yell or honk their horns, open car doors to get in the way, swerve at the bike with their car or bike, try to hop on the back of it (every bike in Kabul has a place for a passenger to perch on the back) or force the bike off the road.  They laugh and scoff when their distractions cause the bike to tip or swerve.

All of this was compiled by the fact that my brakes barely worked, I couldn't stop to touch the ground because the bike was too high, my shalwar (long shirt) was getting caught in the wheels, I had to constantly make sure my chador (headscarf) had not flown off, I had my purse under my arm, and the chador also takes away my peripheral vision.  Needless to say, my first bike riding experience was quite an adventure.  We got from point A to point B and back without incident, but with lots of great stories.  I know that each time I go out life here will seem a little less awkward and a little more normal; that bike riding and stares will become part of my daily routine.  For now, I'm enjoying (or at least bearing with) the culture shock.  In some ways learning to live Kabul is a lot like learning how to ride a bike.  At first it's a little scary and seems like it is nearly impossible.  But with time, practice and experience (and a few bumps), it starts to feel natural.