Yesterday I was in Kabul. It’s cold there this time of year. It’s cold there all the time. The cold varies between cold and bitter cold to really fucking bitter cold so for Kabulians it was warm, but it was still cold.

People were out and about in their wool sweaters and coats and the more cosmopolitan men wore those funny little hats that look like the old G.I. cloth hats that one folded on their belt, except these hats were fuzzy with wool on the outside and could never be folded on one’s belt. Kabul has always had a cosmopolitan feel to it. Stark, cold and dreary on the outside yet twinkling warm and glowing when you enter into any establishment. The people have a way of shrugging off whatever hard times and difficulties they are being forced to endure and they go on about their lives. Gunfire is heard but usually only at night and far away. Perhaps, from the mountains that loom over one edge of the city.

If you ask about the war they shrug and say there is always fighting and I guess that’s true for them. They’ve been fighting here since before Genghis Khan’s son Moucki conquered them. Life outside of Kabul is hard, mountain hard. The average male doesn’t live to see 50. Ground down by the poor conditions and hard life or cut down by fighting. Drugs and fighting seem to be the main business, except in the markets that sell an array of old electronics gear, weapons, food, cloth and clothing.

We went to a small restaurant last night. They are all small restaurants. At first we didn’t know where the door was. Was it on this side of the large picture window that looked down on us half a flight up over the sewing shop or on the other side? Wait, there’s an entryway to a staircase to both establishments: one up, one down.

On the landing half a flight up sitting on a narrow half table were the after dinner mints and the business cards and take out menus for the restaurant beyond lay the door to the restaurant, which opened directly into the dining room. A young man wearing black jean pants and a black shirt open to the middle of his rib cage led us to a table for two. In the back of the place a party of twelve to fifteen were seated at a table that spread across the back of the restaurant. These people were associated in some way with the owners of the restaurant. There were young girls and older plum women and chubby uncles mixed together in a familiar way. At one point someone dashed out of the restaurant and appeared moments later with a street musician. One, whom we had seen on the way in. He was short and looked to be Mexican. He wore what seemed to be to be the costume of a bull fighter and he carried a violin case from which he produced his instrument, a sadder example of a violin I don’t think I’ve ever seen. It was wore, well worn and springs of wire appeared beyond the pins that tied them off. If stood up straight it would have looked like a denuded tree in a burlap bag. The man who introduced himself as Marcel Pepe or perhaps Messier Pepe had a small black mustache a la Charlie Chaplin and he wiggled it as the master comedian would have. It was more a twitch than a wiggle. As Messier Pepe retrieved his violin from its case he wiggled his mustache three times and again when he picked up his bow. In fact, ever action seemed to be preceded by the twitch.

I have no idea what language he was speaking when he started his introduction, not Spanish, and I doubt it was what I had heard here in the restaurant. It was nasally and guttural with moments of pause at high notes in his little speech, which typically were accompanied with an index finger pointing into the air as if to make extra emphasis.

His speech done he place the violin under his chin withdrew it and placed it under his chin again. Three times he did this until he was satisfied. He took his bow and placed it on the strings and then, as if he had forgotten some important point, he removed the bow from the strings, grabbed the violin by the neck and removed it from under his chin. He made a brief comment and then replaced the violin withdrew it and replaced it three times as before. He placed the bow upon the strings and stared intently at the instrument. His arm tensed, his fingers twitched and once again he removed the instrument from under his chin and once again he made another brief comment and then he replaced the violin with the same three try effort as before. And this time he took bow to strings and moved the bow across the strings.

The most awful sounds came out. It was as if he had woken a bag of cats. The bow came back the other way and the cats reversed their yowl. Those who were not cringing from the initial sound were staring in disbelief and amazement. They couldn’t believe their ears or the situation that had unfolded in front of them. A few more scrapes back and forth, a few more stops for commentary by Messier Pepe and people were left to confront the reality of the bizarre situation.

They were now in the predicament of wanting to burst out laughing but didn’t think it polite and were trying to hold back the forces of their own humorous desires. The warbling lips, the down cast faces, the hand to eyes to hid the sight, the biting of lip, the looking away - anything, anything at all to stop from letting loose with a huge uncontrollable belly laugh.

The owner, or at least I think he was the owner, he was the man that originally brought in the musician, quickly went up to Messier Pepe and you didn’t need to understand the language to understand the conversation. Thank you, so much, that’s enough, But I’ve only started to play! That’s all right that’s enough, here is some money. Please. Oh no, I can’t accept that, I’ve only started to play. No, no, no. Really that’s enough. Let me play another song. No, no, no, here take more money. Okay, thank-you. Now let me play a final piece. - scratch - No, stop that’s enough, here, here, take some more money. Please. Go. Thank-you. I go now. But maybe one more. No, Please leave. I’m hungry. Fine, we’ll feed you wait outside. Thank you, are you sure you don’t want me to play some more? I’m sure, wait outside. Okay.

And so our little musical Charlie Chaplin packed up his violin and shuffled outside. No sooner had the door closed than the table in the back of the restaurant exploded in laughter. The feeling was shared by the rest of the patrons as well. Several minutes later the owner came back into the dining room. He shrugged and was bombarded by laughter and stinging barbs from the table at the back. The women laughed till they cried. The little children screamed in delight. Again, he shrugged and smiled.

We finished our meal and walked back to our hotel. On the way we heard the most beautiful violin music, wonderful weeping notes and soaring staccatos, unbelievable stuff. I had to see where it was coming from. We turned the corner and there was Messier Pepe, standing on a box playing the most wonderful violin music. I walked by him and we looked directly into each others eyes. He had seen me in the restaurant. He knew I had been there. He smiled, a devilish impish smile, and then he closed his eyes and his bow swooped across the strings as he bent forward and arched back in another burst of profound beautiful violin music.

I felt in my pockets for whatever coins I had and threw them in the open violin case. Pepe had just opened his eyes and he nodded ever so slightly and I returned the nod as he continued to play into the night.

As we continued to walk to our hotel I looked up at the night sky. The stars so bright they did in fact seem to be pinholes poked through a giant black globe with a bright light behind them. There was the occasional flash of mortar fire in the distant mountains. Kabul is a funny place; so full of contradiction.

Editor’s Note: The author has never been to Kabul or anywhere near Afghanistan. He has no idea if it is cold or hot there at this time of year nor does he know about the food or clothing (other than the silly hat Karmid Karzi wears.) Most of this report is based on supper at an Afghani restaurant in Washington, D.C. on the evening of March 26, 2010.