Light-years away from the dust and poverty of Kabul, behind blast doors and after numerous security checks, there are a few bars, clubs, and restaurants, at least one of them even with its own swimming pool, where Kabul's international crowd, its UN and NGO types party. No Afghans are allowed here, apart from the staff and the guards, which smacks of the worst colonial attitudes, although technically the reason is that alcohol is illegal here and only the places that serve the internationals can sell them.
Its an odd mix at these parties: thick-necked policemen from Spain, boyish analysts from Canada, tough-looking mercenaries from Eastern Europe, and UN personnel from all over the world (there was even a former European Parliament press officer). Most of them are men, but there are a few women, too, shaking the hip at distinctly mediocre salsa music at the Wednesday night regular, getting wobbly on Heineken and what I
think was Johnny Walker. It's a heady mix of James Bond and Graham Greene, only sweatier and a lot less glamourous because it's real.
Then at 11 o'clock the curfew comes in and the boys stream out. Many of them don body armour, complete with the ceramic plates, and helmet, and get into big four-by-fours waiting for them outside the gates to take them back to their fortified compounds (some of the organisations are absolutely paranoid about security). Some, or even perhaps many, to their credit, do get out into Kabul and the country, but most of them, at least those based in the capital, do seem to be somewhat isolated and shut off from the country they have supposedly come to help. (Still, the swimming pool's nice. And there is a good French resto, too.)