Afghanistan

THE POST-DISASTER world is a small one. You wind up on the distribution lists and then you go," said Dan, a Virginian. He had just recounted the past few places he'd called home-a list of war-torn sites from three or four continents, a lot of destinations for someone who only appeared to be in his late twenties. I have to admit, I didn't recognize some of them.

We were on the rooftop of the Mustafa Hotel in downtown Kabul, Afghanistan, a quarter to midnight under a clear sky, staring at the stars. Usually, dust clouds obscured the heavens, but tonight all was brilliant. Not even the glare from the touristy, carpet-shop-choked Chicken St., oddly lit up by Christmas lights in this Muslim country, could obscure the view.

Dan was joined by Mark, a German, a friend he knew from other world hotspots. The two were downing a bottle of whiskey, the most exciting thing to do that night in Kabul. I had only come up here because I'd heard from another guest that there was a crowd of people, all with good advice on what to see and do. I wanted to know if it was safe to walk around at night, but it mattered little. The gates to the hotel shut at midnight, locking guests in.

The hotel was a mix of tourists looking for adventure, U.N. workers who couldn't find space in their own guesthouses, and American and European businessmen so scrupulously dressed in suits and ties they looked like they were on their way to a Wall Street meeting. I had no idea how they made it through the day and its barrage of dust, heat and flies. I was wearing pseudo-military gear in Manhattan black, and I was having a hard time. But the hotel's population made for interesting eavesdropping. During my first breakfast, conversations buzzed about everything, from construction of water wells in small cities to the laying of fiber-optic cable in the center of Kabul. One guy was lauding Afghanistan as a great testing ground for all that his company could accomplish in Iraq.

One of his partners scolded, "How are you gonna build a grocery store with a war going on?"

"People still need to eat," the other talking suit reminded him.

Wais Faizi, who still retains his thick Jersey accent after 12 years of living in Afghanistan, comes from a family that had originally fled the country during the Russian invasion. He now runs the Mustafa, one of Kabul's most prosperous hotels, and he's expanding the already-labyrinthine structure. This success comes at a price, and he never goes anywhere without a gun-though mostly, it seems, for show at this point, Kabul feeling more secure to me now than the New York of my childhood. Still, the businessmen here told me that they would rather be where the owner is, armed to the teeth and the same color as the locals, than sitting targets at the more well-known Intercontinental.

In spite of what the businessmen said, Kabul seemed very safe to me. I'm just a freelance journalist, with no official backing, and all of my own financing. Vanni Cappelli, whose name alone seemed qualification to freelance for Oggi, a U.S.-based Italian paper, was the only other writer I met at the Mustafa during my visit. He was living here for a few months, filing reports for that and other papers. He derided the journalists from the big organizations and all the other Westerners who lived in a "bubble"-taking armed SUVs from one compound to another, never interacting with the locals. He walked everywhere, getting stares from foreigners and locals alike.

Going solo on the streets is rewarding for a Westerner. I'd been told by journalists who once covered the war that taking pictures could be dangerous, yet people, gathering in crowds, begged me to take theirs. Digital was the best. Like the old Polaroids, it was instant fun for young and old to see their own images. Policemen and soldiers offered to pose with me, to my delight. It seems everyone was welcoming of foreigners whenever they ventured to interact. Sure, you drew beggars too, but this is a war-torn country.

Nearly as aggressive as the beggars were the carpet vendors. There doesn't seem to be enough tourists to sustain the dozens of carpet shops along Chicken St., which only makes the come-on that much stronger. The softly bearded Haji pointed to a pile of rubble next door to his shop and explained that was where he used to do business. He invited me in to take a look at his new digs, where the paint was still drying on the sign outside. I was adamant that I would not buy anything, but then he showed me his magic carpet-a colorful, handmade rendition of planes flying into the Twin Towers. He had sold more than a thousand of them, with U.S. soldiers as some of his best clients. At just 20 bucks, even I bought one.

When I returned to the hotel with my spoils, I met Pip. Yes, that really was her name, and she was a London art dealer who had been coming to Kabul for nearly 30 years.

"There are nicer places" than the Mustafa, she told me, but none more convenient to the Chicken St. shops she frequents for her collections. Even as a woman, she'd never had a problem, and the vendors "respected" her for coming through all the various regimes. She was with a companion, Matt, a pure tourist who was using her expertise as they traveled the country to places even those who ventured to Kabul would not dare.

To tour Kabul is to tour utter destruction, from flattened apartment complexes to bullet-ridden shops to destroyed government buildings. Even the dead had no peace: The old Royal tombs had been used for target practice. They looked a little like a mosque without minarets, and even in ruins, they still stood majestically on a hill overlooking the city.

Here I met Ray Woods, a happy-go-lucky Kansas retiree who liked touring places before the masses. He could not stop smiling, he was so elated to be here, spending money to help the locals.

"You're looking at the first tourist in Afghanistan," he told me enthusiastically. I had to break his heart and tell him of all the tourists I'd been running into all over town. After that, his smile flattened and he riddled off the countries of some of the tourists he himself had met.

The next day, I ran into Ray again. He was in a huge van, clogging up Chicken St., a few local guides in the vehicle with him. He could afford an entourage. He stuck his head out the window and screamed my name, and I ran over to greet him. The same all-smiles I remembered from the tomb. We tried to make dinner plans, but it was his last full day in town. After a quick card exchange, he drove off. I'm sure I'll see him in the next post-disaster area though, once the regular tourists have moved into Kabul, guidebooks in hand. I'll be looking forward to it.