Northward, to Istalif

Turning

The Emperor´s Garden

Cut into a west-facing mountainside, the cherished gardens of one of Central Asia and the sub-continent´s more amiable Emperors, was cut as if from the stone that dangles precipitously from the nearby cliffs. The Bagh-e-Babur are the 16th century pleasure gardens of Emperor Babur, who, prior to his sacking Delhi and even before the recording of his thoughts in the memoir Baburnama, must have been a boon to early visitors. Facing the wide-open expanse of an edge of Kabul and the Shomali Plain, the eight-tiered terraced gardens bespeak a mellifluous cradling of earth and sky that one need not even hesitate to realize before descending into the network of organized pathways.

That this garden, and its high clay walls, fell into dereliction over the years is not so much the fault of the succession of invasions, wars, mujahadeen but perhaps those who have built their houses along the upper periphery of the enclosure. Could it be that even when rockets were being hurtled across close hilltops and mortars were collected and lined up by the faithful like so many acorns on an autumn day, that the errant eyes of the neighbours were not attuned to the water channels being buried, the apricot and cherry trees falling under the weight neglect not fruit, that the whole of Babur´s, even the Afghans´ potential for paradise, was being exorcised right before their eyes? Perhaps this is the overly-idealized view of one who has never had to survive whilst their home is being inundated with rhetorical and stinger missiles simultaneously. Yet, I wonder what the denizens of these mountainside ´burbs think now that the Aga Khan Trust for Culture has managed, after lengthy archaeological surveys and significant building, to recast this paradise, this slice of an Emperor´s heaven, into a place of unmitigated beauty and solemnity.

Has the view changed? Does the new foreground of this gauzy panorama begin to repair the holes in the walls, the drafts of plastic-draped windows, the flow of sewerage between addresses?

The ring of the Hindu Kush idly watches scenes unfold, like so much of an inspirational poster. Unreal in their whiteness, their clarity, the backdrop to most activities in Kabul, the mountains desire acknowledgement but instead wait for the deletion of the superimposed cut-out image at their toes. Beyond the dust and machine guns and burkhas, at the Bagh-e-Babur, this image is straight from the Mughal book of days. Even on a winter’s late afternoon. I can only imagine the scent of apricot tree blossoms. I hear the water flowing down down down the corrugated marble panels that link terraces. The flow pushes into narrow linear channels where leaves and sticks collect, only to disappear at the lowest terrace. My footsteps into the soft earth of young parterres are inaudible today and that is the way they should remain.

Babur is said to be buried in the garden. At the uppermost level, above even the renovated 19th century pavilion, there is a small white marble open-ended throwback to the mosques of Delhi or Lahore. With its simple outward geometry, infinite reticulated interior arches frame and reframe landscape and faithful alike. In a walled precinct further up the path, behind a gate, lay what I believe to be Babur´s tomb in addition to his wife and children. But this is not Babur says Muhammed, the gatekeeper, but a Mullah who died in a plane crash with his family 15 years ago. I am unsure what to believe.

Translation in Kabul can be a fraught pursuit—except it seems among the dead. Translation here is difficult because Muhammed had part of his tongue removed by the Taliban and can no longer speak except in a series of pitched grunts and clicks and extreme eye movements. He led me around the enclosure with his hands and the whites of his eyes. The gated inner enclosure whose inset windows allow one to look inward and outward simultaneously. The trees laden with plastic bottles that guard the two children´s tombstones. A shrill laugh and a ballet of gestures take us back to where we began. It is said that Islamic graves are built above ground so that on Judgement Day, the faithful can sit up and be counted. Here, the pendant-like graves look like ladders.

Neither inside, nor outside, we pause silently at an arched window overlooking the valley. No longer does the mashrabiyya cast shadows. There is an uncertain pride in Muhammad´s face as he casts his gaze outward, to the minarets and smoke laden south Kabul. A man further down the hill practices his flute and the melodies carry on the cold wind. We watch a man release pigeons from his rooftop coop for their evening stroll. Circling and circling, seemingly in unison.

And, for a moment, I can see paradise.

The Absence of Presence

I have been derelict in my duties, I know, but these past days have been fraught with internet outages, snowfall, visits to mountainside villages, computers not functioning, sporadic internet and the inevitable capacity for work and stress that even the volunteer feels, here in this relatively quiet city. I regret that photographs will have to be posted at a later date because one of the above-mentioned computers is mine. A Rome-side delivery of a power supply will alleviate the problem and then I can attach and recover a bit of blog self-worth.

That all said, I include the above ekphrasisms, days, in the following case, weeks, belated.

A Visit to the Museum

Below the now-destroyed and gutted Darulaman Palace, the former quarters of the king, one reaches the modest entrance to the National Museum of Afghanistan. Built in 1919, the overscaled but institutional building was the administrative centre for the Palace. A Louis XV dresser holds a few advertisements for internet sites and antiquated travel brochures. It hearkens to the palace or the museum’s previous sense of elegance. Classified ads for houses to rent—namely for the few visitors that come on their day off from protecting important people. Postcards crowd the dusty windows of the ticket takers that bespeak the museum’s former glories. Blurry images of Gandharan reliefs and wooden Nuristani carvings are taped haphazardly on the windows here and behind you in the “gift shop” now storage office. 50 cents admission.

The quarried stone flooring is now being replaced on the steps leading to the ground and upper halls. At the centre of the foyer, an enormous bowl limned with kufic inscriptions and instances of rough edges from recent conservation balances on a narrow brick pedestal. Only two plexiglass cases are seen on either side with exactly four sculptures: all ancient and elegant instances of a quasi-Greek/Buddhist aesthetic. The downturn of an aquiline nose, the cascade of folds in dark grey schist and sandstone are characteristics which typically herald collections of ancient materials. Here however, they idol quietly in the corner lit by the reflection of light off the slick stone floors. Background images in both cases show the pile of fragments from which these objects were extracted—and only five months ago were reconstructed.

Up the grand but utilitarian staircase to a small curtained room where the other items on display are kept: wooden images created in Nuristan province, on the border of Pakistan, by a loose society of persons typically labelled as “nonbelievers” as they did not become Muslims until 109 years ago. Aztec in profile, the carvings of ancestor figures stand in riposte to what is more commonly known in Islamic design, that being the creation of images without the human or animal figure. The complexity of defined geometries contrasts with more organic motifs that outline the periphery of the forms. But here, these sizable creations along with their counterparts that are carved as house columns, astound not for their representations but that they survived.

I am told there are numerous treasures in the basement waiting to be unveiled. A large trove of objects is being returned from safekeeping by the Swiss in June-July and still-crated objects with Amsterdam stamps line the empty hallways. A portion of an 8th century mihrab is situated in a cold alcove, its thick reliefs now shadows. But as the only framed photos in the building attest—the rocketing of the Museum by the Taliban which left the roof and portions of the building in ruin—there is still more to be done to recast these empty spaces for display into viable tributes to Afghanistan’s cultural legacy.

Perhaps this sense of emptiness is reminder enough.

The View from the National Museum

Cauliflower Season

Mud.

Mud is that which draws things together in Kabul. A harbinger of warmer days, but nevertheless the snows that came two weeks ago have retreated and left their tracery. The few times I have been out in the city, in these sunnier than usual days, my shoes and the lower quarter of my trousers immediately show the effects of the streets. This bodily grafitti sticks to you and you do not worry about it because anyone with clean shoes either makes it a point to clean them everyday or does not mind wearing a bit of Kabul around with them.

It has been difficult to get a handle on the expanse of the city save for the moments when the sun appears over the mountains and clears away the dust and frosted pollution, albeit temporarily. Low lying mud and timber-frame houses and buildings are littered across the hills and valley, up to the steepest portions of the rocky terrain where building (and walking) gets difficult. At night, lights from these districts shine like earthbound constellations. The typical panorama of Kabul is interspersed with green and blue-glass highrises--wedding halls with names like "Paris" further emphasized by the heavy silk puffy curtains you can see lining the upper storeys. Given that a typical bride price is in the region of $10,000, you might as well head for the Paris or the Zindagi (love/heart) and re-emerge the next morning after an evening elsewhere.

Major streets are thick at the edges. Not only with mud but with the five-person cushion of sellers of cauliflower and oranges, sheet metal stoves and stacks of tools. Chickens and beans. Their carts line the byways forming an impenetrable line between the cars and the shops and open shipping containers that stand behind selling crystal chandeliers and carpets. In fact, the number of cars and buses (from Milano, from Japan) makes one's movement across the urban expanse an exercise in bravery, if not patience. Traffic, apparently, is one sign of progress.

I would like to walk in-between them, these purveyors of color and sweetness in the midst of a seeming grayness and black. Their eyes bespeak a certainty, a calm. Knowledge that spring is near.

Scenes from the Old City, Kabul

A link to ekphrasism

By popular demand, I add the following:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ekphrasis

Bombay: always under construction

Bombay Dreams

Dear Diary,

I like Bombay. And real coffee.

In a rare attempt to follow-through on this past month's progress in putting my legs behind my head, I unrolled the mat and carpet this morning and found myself bending creakily, wearily to the sound of taxi and rickshaw rumble. I soon worried about my neighbors however. Not your archetypal pounding on the headboard--no--but more like grunting at the pain of not having moved adequately in 24 hours. Did the airplane seat make me this way? Did the quick rundown by foot of the major sites in Colaba bring this on? Whatever the condition may be, it ain't pleasant, and reminds me how much a tropical scene--replete with palm trees and trash strewn beaches--may indeed make the difference between being able to stare at your knees close-up or just observing them, curiously, from afar.

But the most important moment of the day came at my favorite barbershop in town whose name I shant reveal here as I have held it close to me for a long time now. All I can say is: haircut, shave with hot cloth, face massage, head massage--and get this--pedicure--all for $3. Nirvana, indeed.

The traffic is still there and the yoga mat awaits me again tomorrow morning before heading off to Delhi--but not before a cappuccino around the corner.

Prem se

Special 'K': A Beginning

Now I know you may be wanting a personal explanation of what or whom an ekphrasist might be… But I will leave that task to you, consulting wikipedia for the word’s imbrication of Platonic, Socratic, Aristotlean as well as modern origins. I discovered this intriguing moniker courtesy of one ekphrasist to another. Originally, I had opted for something just as elusive: “The Somnambulist” but then I incorrectly spelled the word when making the site. Embarrassed and crestfallen, I withdrew my misspelled title and site name out of fear of reprisals. Then there was “The Caravanserai” but that sounded too much like a restaurant name in Pasadena despite its appealing historical connotations. So Ekphrasist it is. I like the ‘k’ version better than the ‘c’.

Rather than sending lengthy mass e-mails circa 2000, I have opted for this blog as a kind of universal e-mail to family and friends especially to report from the latest outpost for my movements amidst the latitudes: Kabul, Afghanistan. This, I believe, will not be a casual trip to say, Eritrea or Libya—or Iran, for that matter.

At the kind invitation of the Turquoise Mountain Foundation (see website listed), I am going to Kabul to work as a consultant architect for one month. Indeed, a change of scene. While both nervous and intrigued given the geography, reports of very slow internet connections (surprised?), made me think that it was far more convenient and productive to make one of these—a 21^st century chronicle. Not necessarily a travelogue. Even if I cannot include the flash and glitter of video (yet), I also hope to include a few images from afar. And as days pass, and new places are uncovered, the blog will be updated. So here goes…

Dear Diary,

I sit here in the swelter of Kovalam, Kerala, South India to post the first written entry on my blog. No cows are visible today. Only a few flies. On Saturday morning, I will leave the tropics, 7 degrees north of the Equator, first to Bombay and then on to Delhi on 29 January. I am looking forward to return northward, at least for a day to Phillips Antiques and the Prince of Wales Museum. And mutter paneer. Then in Delhi: Fabindia, Madras Cafe and Khan Market…There is a subway now.

From Delhi, on 1 February, I will board an Indian Airlines flight bound for the capital of what looks like a war zone, Kabul. In one hour, I will leave the comforts of a head bauble and lungi, a few phrases of Malayalam and Hindi, and take aim at Dari with my first key phrase, “Mande Rostam” (May you never be tired). I have no idea what to expect and so I am left feeling nervous for no real reason and excited about what lay ahead. Kabul, I read, is relatively stable, secure and quiet these days.

Hopefully, I will be able to maintain the 7 am peregrinations of stretching one’s legs over the shoulders and behind the head in supta kurmasana. I forgot to mention: I have been in India for nearly a month now taking an intensive Ashtanga workshop with Lino Miele, resurrecting what was lost—good posture?—three years ago when I moved to Rome.

A few words in Malayalam for the next time you are in Kerala:

Namaskaram (formal hello)
Sugamanuh (How are you?)
Sugam (response: good)
Parama Sugam (response: [I am] very good)
Pinay Kolam (See you later)
Nale (delicious)
Shobha ratri (Good night)
Nandi (Thank you)

The past week has been a time of festivals in Kovalam. First, the prominent Kali temple commenced with breathy whispers on the microphone calling “Kali…Kali…” in the early morning darkness. This was then succeeded by a blur of drums and trumpets and bells, day-in and day-out, in addition to periodic swings of Bollywood music and bhajans. Soon after, the Vishnu temple by the beach also began its tributes and today the smaller Kali temple up the hill began this morning with bells and chanting. Firecrackers explode hourly. There has been a kind of fateful syncopation to these days. Even at the Hotel Peacock, we participated in a smaller version of the Kali-ma puja replete with a makeshift temple in the front yard and a pujari whose elegant mudras (sacred hand movements) eclipsed the group of gentlemen feverishly playing the drums, trumpets and bells as an accompaniment.

Now though I believe it is time to swim in what may be the confluence of the Arabian Sea, the Indian Ocean and the Lakshadweep Sea—it is difficult to tell on the maps that are hastily attached to walls here. And then, pranayama.

I soon hope to report from the wilds of Bombay and Delhi—but not before completing the last of full practices tomorrow morning. And a fresh pineapple juice.

Prem se