mumford in kabul


Around 11 pm someone I’ve never met sitting at the next table pulls out a joint and offers me a hit. I’m working on my third glass of white wine and the proposal has an organic logic. I’m a little tired, having been awakened at dawn by the forlorn calls from Masuda’s peacock, Groundhog, from directly under my window. His mate had simply flown off one day and Masuda vows not to replace her. I locate Naser and his buddies, and find myself newly loquacious. The band is striving good-naturedly over Blondie and the Violent Femmes. A woman sitting between Naser and me announces that she’s called Drana, “like drama”! She heads for the dance floor; one of Naser’s friends claps me on the shoulder. “I want to see her and whiteboy dance!” Somehow I’ve acquired a nickname, perhaps in relation to this Afghan-American crowd. I’m not that ambitious, however. The boisterous talk goes on. Another Saturday night in Kabul.

more from Steve Mumford at Artnet here.