Walking upstream by Paghman River

Rory Stewart wrote: when other nations of Asia have romantic legends about the places, then the stories of Afghans are always associated with fighting or death. It is true. Some day ago my husband pointed out to our driver Karim - who is telling us another bloodcurdling story about Paghman – that his stories are always about death. On other hand, it is understandable in this country where every family has lost relative(s) because of attacks of soviets, mudjahedin or talibs. Or in other violent way.
We go to walk to Paghman, the place what was known because of its gardens and villas. Our company is northern: our Estonian-Swedish friend Wiiu takes with her Norwegian friend Inger, who is working with children in Jalalabad.
King Amir Habibullah (1901-19) had a summer palace here. (There are some photos of Paghman in Photoalbum from 1925). Nancy Hutch-Dupree describes the charming village with terrace gardens, fountains, cafes and villas. She advises to park the car and to walk under famous cherry trees, known from Babur times in this region.
Unfortunately, glorious times finished thirty years ago. Because of the fighting there is almost nothing left: the villas are in ruins and the terraces covered by grass. Only a white triumph arch from the times of king Amanullah (1919-29) is recalling the lost glory of this place, standing like a weird rudiment in the middle of the village.
First time we had a picnic by Paghman River on a chilly morning in March one year ago. It was off-season and we were lucky to find some warm tea and kebab. Karim parks our car at the end of the road. Now we discover that there are lots of tiny restaurants and picnic places; one can see preparations are going on for expected visitors.
We pass the picnic place and follow the river. It is a fabulous walk by crystal clear foaming water, coming down from the high peaks of Hindu Kush. Air is bright; only some shady clouds cover the snowy peaks ahead. As early as we turn around next corner, the cultivated fields end. Only some narrow bridges – in fact the pair of tree trunks are set side by side - remind the nearby settlement. We bridge the river; it takes some effort to glimpse down turbulent steam.
Soon the riverbed is narrowing. We meet a lonely young kuchi (the nomad of Afghanistan), guarding a huge bundle of smelly cloth and one chicken. Later we meet the kuchi women in colorful cloth in picnic place, consistently begging for money.
Back in picnic place, we are surprised by mass of cars and people. The parking is close to chaos, so we are quite happy to get Karim’s car out of this. We conquer the family tent just by the river and order some tea and kebab. It is a lovely day: the children are playing along the river, the young Afghans play football and the grown-up men are smoking water pipe. Far away one can see the Afghan ladies sitting on the carpet, chatting.
In short, just that kind of a day I am ready to live for in Kabul.