The hotel was a favorite with correspondents, as was the owner, a regular Mr. Fix-it. And, even better, I’d heard from Liz before I’d left Geneva: she was still in Kabul, waiting on a ride out to Camp Bastion, to report on how British troops were training the Afghan National Army, with a view to a complete handover by 2014. There were few who didn’t think ‘the sooner the better’, but it was hard to see how the country would ever be ready to rule itself. Perhaps democracy didn’t suit a land where decisions were traditionally made at a tribal level. But I was there to report, not have an opinion, or look for solutions – thank God.
Liz had sent me a message saying that she’d happily share her twin-bed room at the Mustafa Hotel, which was just fine with me. There was safety in numbers, especially for women traveling alone. She’d also ensured that the room was not on the ground floor (too unsafe, for obvious reasons), and no higher than the third floor, as the fire escapes in Kabul were notorious for their shoddy construction.
I checked in, and was then escorted to my room by a cheerful boy in dirty white robes whose only English seemed to consist of ‘Hello’, ‘yes’ and ‘jolly good’. I suspected Liz had taught him the latter phrase.
The room was eye-wateringly colorful, decorated in a discordant array of oranges, yellows and reds. But it was comfortable and reasonably clean. Better still, it had its own bathroom. A luxury I’d be doing without once I was at Leatherneck.
I heaved off my gear, grateful to drop the heavy bags, and read the note that Liz left me. She informed me that we’d been invited to a dinner party being held by the UN for local military, Press, and important Afghan government officials. It was taking place at the Intercontinental Hotel – and I had 40 minutes to get my ‘arse’ over there.
So much for having a rest.
The shower sputtered intermittently, but it was nearly hot, and washed away most of the yellow dust that seemed to coat every part of me.
Formal functions in some Muslim countries could be a cultural minefield. Since this dinner was including women, it wasn’t going to be truly orthodox, so I wasn’t too worried about what to wear. I had my tried and trusted black cocktail dress, and planned to match it with the black ballerina flats that Sebastian bought for me. My ring was on the necklace hidden beneath my dress, but I could feel it, and that was important.
The dress had long sleeves, a high neckline, and a knee-length skirt. It passed in more conservative circles, and Liz had thoughtfully informed me that there would be a number of Muslim guests tonight. And although they were likely to be of the more liberal persuasion as women would be present, I didn’t want to risk giving offence. I had my plain, black headscarf in my purse to cover all eventualities.
It was lucky I was dark haired and dark eyed, because once I’d donned my headscarf, I attracted little interest. If I’d been blonde haired and blue eyed, it would have been a very different story. As soon as my sweet Sergeant Benson escorted me to the Intercontinental, I went straight to the restroom, to take off my headscarf and brush out my hair.
My attention was caught by a stunning woman in a jade-green, designer gown, with plunging neckline and exposed back. She would have been perfect for a glitzy LA premiere, but here she was jaw-dropping – and not in a good way.
I suspected she was with the UN – certainly no journalist would be so ridiculously overexposed and underprepared, and I was surprised that no one had warned her to dress more appropriately. In the spirit of sisterhood, I decided to give her a heads-up.
“Excuse me, hi. My name is Lee Venzi, I’m with the Press. Forgive me, your dress is really beautiful, but it might give you some problems here tonight: for Muslims, green is Mohammed’s favorite color – they might find your choice, as a Western woman, disrespectful. And a more… conservative style usually goes down better.”
“Oh, I never bother with formalities like that,” she sneered, rolling her eyes up and down my simple, black dress with obvious contempt.
I was left speechless by her arrogant attitude. I seriously considered jamming her head under the faucet to see if her heavy mascara really was waterproof.