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European cuisine. Stewart lives in Kabul, where he runs the Turquoise Mountain Foundation, which trains local craftsmen and is helping to renovate the decrepit Old Town by the Kabul River.
MOST foreign aid workers and diplomats live inside walled compounds guarded round the clock by private security teams, and the United Nations restricts its employees to hotels and restaurants in the capital that meet its stringent security regulations, including high blast walls and buildings set back several dozen yards from the road.
Yet with a few spectacular exceptions, the capital has remained violence free. Jonathan Bean regularly takes foreign tourists on walking tours of Kabul with a single, unarmed Afghan security guard.
Then they get here and get a big surprise — they see a bustling bazaar city, full of life. In a week of exploring the city, from the windswept, near-deserted ramparts to the teeming, labyrinthine passageways of the Mandayi Bazaar, I never once felt threatened.
To the contrary, I was welcomed everywhere by Afghans eager to show me that their country and city were groping their way toward recovery.
The electricity in the terminal had been cut, and, in the semi-darkness, laborers dumped piles of baggage on the floor beside the immobile conveyor belt, setting off a scramble among my fellow passengers.
An elderly Pashtun in a shalwar kamiz a traditional shirt often seen also in Pakistan and India and a gray turban elbowed me aside and lunged for an overstuffed cardboard box.
Two airport policemen stood by idly, watching the chaos. Bags in hand, I stumbled through the frantic crowd, hailed a battered taxi, and headed for the Gandamack Lodge, a renovated s villa owned by Peter Jouvenal, an old Afghan hand and former BBC cameraman.
Jouvenal moved it into its current building last year. A photojournalist friend directed me to the Cabul Coffee House, a cozy establishment, painted adobe-pink and filled with Central Asian handicrafts, located on a muddy alley in the lively Qal-I-Fatula district.
Opened last year by two American women and the Afghan husband of one of them, the Cabul Coffee House functions as a sort of cross between Starbucks and a Manhattan literary bar.
In addition to its lattes and double-shot cappuccinos, it offers readings and lectures one or two nights a week.
When I arrived, I found Mr. Lawton, who had been in the country for weeks researching a documentary about buzkashi. Then Mr.
Azoy stood before the crowd and delivered an hourlong talk, accompanied by slides, about his discovery of this rough, fast-paced sport in the mountains of northern Afghanistan during his diplomatic tour in the s.
There was an unspoken poignancy to his lecture and his slides, all of which had been taken during that era: the world he was describing in loving detail was soon to by obliterated by the Soviet invasion and the subsequent civil war.
The following day I hired a driver at the Gandamack and set out to see the National Museum of Afghanistan, in western Kabul.
Large sections of capital remained wrecked after decades of war and neglect; beggars swarmed over us at intersections, and the traffic in the downtown area, along the Kabul River, was horrendous.
In the heavy rain, the myriad unpaved streets had turned into quagmires. During dry periods, I would soon discover, an opaque layer of dust and car exhaust hangs over the city bowl.
As we drove west along the Darulaman Road, past the former Soviet Embassy — an area of heavy fighting in and between Massoud and rival warlord Gulbuddin Hekmatyar — I looked over empty tracts and the hulks of shelled, bullet-pocked buildings.
The devastation was ubiquitous. The National Museum itself bears testimony to the traumas of the last two decades.
Until it contained one of the finest collections of art and cultural artifacts in Asia: , pieces from two millenniums of Afghan history.
During the fight for Kabul, mujahedeen armies occupied and looted the museum; the structure was shelled in and fire destroyed the roof and the second floor.
Then, in , Taliban leaders ordered all art objects depicting the human form destroyed, and cadres set upon the remaining exhibits with axes and sledgehammers, ruining 2, more works.
But the museum, like much of Kabul, is struggling back to life. The two-story, gray concrete villa was rebuilt with Greek, American and Italian money in When I arrived, workmen were laying tiles in the lobby and putting the finishing touches on a travertine staircase, a project being financed by an aid group from The Netherlands.
Though most galleries were locked and display cases empty, I pushed through a half-open door and came upon a magnificent collection of 18th- and 19th-century wood-carved deities and monarchs from Nuristan, a mountainous province northeast of Jalalabad.
The Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam donated glass cases for the exhibition, and those cases will later be used to house the permanent collection. Massoudi told me.
The citadel of Bala Hissar — occupied over the centuries by the Mongols, the Moguls and the British — is now a military installation.
The surrounding grounds were mined during the Soviet occupation and have yet to be cleared. The domed hilltop mausoleum of Nadir Shah, father of the aged present-day monarch, Zahir Shah, remains closed while its vandalized marble facade is painstakingly restored.
I did gain entry to the Babur Gardens, a rehabilitated complex of rose gardens and poplars beloved of the Mogul emperor who won Kabul from a rival in the 16th century and made Kabul his capital.
Among its treasures is a small marble tomb, built by another Mogul emperor, Shah Jahan, who later built the Taj Mahal.
The real fascination of Kabul, I found, lies in the ordinary rhythms of life here, in the bustle of a reviving city.
Early one morning Jonathan and Shafik met me in the lobby of the Serena perhaps the only luxury hotel in the world that operates on a cash-only basis , to which I had moved after a few nights at the Gandamack, and led me on foot along the Kabul River to the Mandayi Market.