Kites, spindle and string are all sold separately, unlike in the US. The kites are like consumables – they get caught in trees, wires, land on the neighbor’s roof or disappear into someone’s compound. So you buy a new one; they’re cheap. I bought five; two for M’s boys and three for Axel. One was already damaged by nightfall when our guards and Axel tried to fly his new kite.
The spindles and string are the expensive items, 2 dollars for the set. You get a spindle made from small sticks and 2 compact disks and then a separate roll of 100s of feet of string. The label around the string spool says that it is an Obama Special, made in America. It is the same kind of ‘made in’ label that you will find on ‘genuine’ German steel kitchenware. The Chinese are shameless about making their wares appear to come from someplace else. The only way you know is after you buy it and the ‘genuine’ stuff starts to fall apart. We’ll see about the string.
I brought two kites for M’s small boys because apparently they don’t know yet how to fly a kite. I didn’t think that was allowed in this country. But the kites were an afterthought – I had after all come for the bubbles.
We made up the bubble mixture, including what remained of the glycerin bottle (half had leaked out despite the, also genuine, seal). We told M’s boys and the even littler cousins that the bubble juice had to sit for a couple of hours, while we would be away visiting another family. It was a little cruel of us to tell these little tykes to be patient, but we did and put the bubble wand out of reach, just to be on the safe side.
We left to visit the house of my colleague, the father of the injured boys who are recovering well in the military hospital in Germany. It was a ‘grief’ visit like the ones scripted in the ethnography except that I couldn’t really act out my script in the local language. The women sat with me for awhile and then left when other visitors arrived. Platters with melon were served for me, as the only one not fasting. It is impossible to refuse Afghan melons; theya re the best in the world.
When we arrived back at the house of M’s parents the high expectations about giant bubbles were immediately dashed. It was too hot and too dry and the glycerin didn’t seem to add anything to the experience. In the end I was able to produce a few two-footers; but before they were fully developed they were immediately pierced by the youngest of the boys. He wasn’t interested in the beauty of the bubbles – he was bent on destroying each one shrieking loudly his victory cry.
I gave up and withdrew inside while outside a true soap fest took place as the kids whipped up the bubble juice into foamy mounds ignoring my warning that foam was not good. How could I be so wrong, foam is so much gooder than giant bubbles. The giant bubble thing is clearly an adult thing.
Inside I was served a lunch while everyone else around me was fasting. A delicious lunch even though eating by oneself in front of others who are not eating is more than a little uncomfortable. After lunch the photo albums were brought out and I saw wedding pictures from 2009 and from 1978 – from M’s brother and M’s mother.
The pictures from the 70s were amazing and much like the ones that are floating around the internet of the so called golden years of Kabul; a time when women were wearing fashion that matched what was worn in the US: sleeveless dresses and poodle skirts for the women and shirts with long pointy collars for the men; no scarves. The album provided a peek into an Afghanistan that no longer exists. It’s a different place now.
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