Making Soapies in Kabul

by Trudi-Ann Tierney

  Generally the smartest person in the room, Dick could contribute to almost any conversation, even when he was barking mad, but he seemed lacking in basic common sense. He was clearly a tough nut because running a bar in Kabul is not for a lightweight. Dealing with corrupt police, dodgy government officials, angry drunks who carry guns and crazy chicks who take on angry drunks who carry guns requires a solid pair of balls. But he was also incredibly sensitive, not afraid of a good cry, and naive to the point where you wanted to shake him. And it was this open-hearted ingenuousness that ultimately undid him.

  From the start, Dick had tried to nurture a good relationship with Gary. He didn’t want to see The Den go out of business and initially suggested that they keep in touch to ensure they weren’t planning events on the same night—that one bar’s karaoke gig didn’t clash with the other’s monthly poker tournament.

  Gary was amiable enough, but simply not buying it. ‘No offence, mate, but we’re in competition. No thanks.’

  Dick reluctantly let it go and continued to effortlessly pilfer Gary’s customers.

  One night, after around eighty-seven bourbons, Dick decided to pay a neighbourly visit to The Den. It was a sad affair and in distinct contrast to the rocking party that was going down at Rahimi’s. A couple of drunken birds sat at the bar; a smattering of security contractors stood out on the terrace. Dick started chatting with the female bar flies, who mentioned that they missed really good ice cream, so Dick told them they could get it at Rahimi’s. Having just shipped in an ice-cream machine, he could guarantee them the best cones in Kabul; and then he raced down the road to bring them back a sample.

  I can only assume that, when Gary heard about this encounter, he was less than impressed; he turned up at Rahimi’s a few days later with a couple of his thug mates, locked Dick in a room and beat the living shit out of him. It was a shocking retaliation that left Dick battered and bewildered. He showed me the X-rays revealing his four broken ribs and wept at the senselessness of it all.

  But while Dick was grieving over this ‘betrayal’, his friends were fired up and furious. And a few days later, two of them arranged for some local police to stage a raid on The Den. Everyone thought it a brilliant revenge, until we learnt that two of the Afghan staff and Shane, the mouthy American bar manager, who’d been privy to Gary’s plans to beat up Dick, had been arrested during the sting and thrown into jail. They stayed there for three days, while Gary made no attempt to secure their release.

  You would never want to wear the blame for sending someone to jail in Afghanistan. I’m told prisoners don’t eat unless someone brings them in food. They don’t wash; they don’t sleep, for fear they’ll be beaten at best, or raped or murdered. When the three finally returned to The Den, they found it deserted. The cash box was empty and Gary was gone. Shane was on a plane home the very next day and, when one of the Afghan boys, Khairy, turned up at our office a few weeks later, enquiring about work, he couldn’t speak about the ordeal without tearing up and trembling.

  For Dick’s part, he felt burdened with guilt. Already traumatised by the brutal attack, the knowledge that he was inadvertently responsible for the suffering of the two Afghan boys saw him spiral into depression.

  With The Den closed, we all assumed it was over—that the Great Bar War of Kabul had run its course. Still, it came as no surprise when Dick phoned me a few weeks later to say that there was a local TV crew out the front of his place. The reporter spoke English and, through the door, was demanding an interview with Dick. He had ‘discovered’ that Rahimi’s was, in fact, a Chinese brothel and wanted to talk to him about it. As I worked in media, Dick asked my opinion on how to handle it.

  I strongly advised him to stay inside; if he didn’t make a statement, they didn’t really have a story. He argued that he wanted to defend himself and firmly refute the scurrilous allegations.

  ‘Darling, you’re being so naive,’ I countered. ‘They can edit the piece however they like and still make you look guilty. And what are you going to do then? Huh? Take them to court for defaming you? Good luck with that.’

  He seemed to accept my reasoning . . . but called me back about a half-hour later to say that he had completely ignored it. He had gone outside to deliver a curt ‘No comment’ and couldn’t see how they could possibly use that against him.

  The story aired the next day. On high rotation. They had crafted his clever ‘No comment’ into a thirty-minute piece. The kids at work talked me through it.

  It began with the reporter speaking straight to camera, claiming to have uncovered a brothel in Kabul. He then went into a lengthy, impassioned rant about prostitution being against Islam and Allah, before vowing to track the owner down. They brought up a snapshot of the Rahimi’s website as proof of his claim. Dick’s catchphrase had been doctored to read: ‘We have the best drinks and the best Chinese girls in town.’ The location of the bar and his email address were displayed for all to see. The bulk of the story saw the reporter driving through the city streets looking for Rahimi’s, which was a bit strange, considering he actually had the address. It was shameless padding for an incredibly flimsy piece of ‘investigative journalism’.

  But it was Dick’s defiant cameo that truly stole the show. It was just as he’d described it to me: he ventured outside, delivered his lines, and then stepped back in and closed the door. A fleeting, five-second walk-on. But when they repeated the shot again, straight afterwards, the action was rather more protracted—it was shown this time in slow motion with a huge white circle around Dick’s head. The third go saw the picture enlarged, again with the slow mo, but now the white circle had been replaced with a blazing red arrow that moved up and down the screen as it pointed at Dick. The final version was also close and slow, but this time Dick shared a split screen with the shot of Rahimi’s crudely doctored website.

  I casually asked my colleagues whether anyone really watched the channel on which the story had run. They quickly assured me that everybody did—Merzad’s father had brought his attention to the brothel piece just that morning. Merzad asked me who this godless western man with his Chinese prostitutes was. I said I didn’t know.

  By the time I called Dick, he was already receiving emails. He forwarded me one to give me a taste of their tone:

  From: silsilall

  Date: 2010/11/11

  Subject: hello MR . . .

  MR PIMP, how are you . . . bring your wife so that we can fuck you and her also in double system that you haven’t seen in America also . . . .

  IF WE SEE YOU IN KABUL WE WILL FUCK YOU 1ST THEN ALL THE CHANIES LADIES . . . .AND THEN WE KILL YOU!!!

  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  BRING YOUR AMERICANS TO HERE AND WE CAN FUCK THEM IN BOTH SIDE . . . ..

  WAITING FOR YOUR CONFIRMATION MAIL BACK WHEN YOU CAN GIVE US YOUR FAMILY NUMBER?????

  Not surprisingly, Dick didn’t reply and, despite being quietly fascinated by the ‘double system’, he was truly freaked. I talked him down, advised him to stay inside and promised to check in again after work.

  By the end of the day, he had received over two hundred emails. A mixed bag—some were seemingly genuine enquiries about rates, but others were threats of violence and guarantees of death by people claiming to be the Taliban, and clearly these weren’t hateful cyber-trolls, simply having a go. I finally got him to agree that he might just be in danger.

  But his greatest concern wasn’t for himself. His Afghan staff were now being contacted by their families—some in Kabul, some in faraway provinces where the story had filtered through—demanding to know why their sons were working in a brothel. His bar manager, who had briefly appeared in the story when the camera crew first arrived, had been on the phone with his father all day. He was due to marry in the coming months—his fiancée, a cousin, was no longer keen and his family was threatening to disown him.

  Dick loved those boys like brothers and despaired at what he had done to them. He felt he had t
o fix things. He had spoken to the local police chief, who was on his payroll but who regretted he could do nothing to protect him. He did, however, suggest that Dick do a follow-up piece, with the police in attendance, to prove that there were no Chinese sex-workers on site. The chief had his own reputation to protect and needed to prove that his precinct was clean.

  Dick imagined that this would be the answer to everyone’s problems and argued that he really had no other choice. I pleaded with him to let it go—to cut his losses and move on. But he was beyond reason by this stage—he was calming his nerves with alcohol and hash, and had gone to a place that I couldn’t reach.

  The production crew and police turned up the following morning. Dick hadn’t slept all night. He was angry and wild-eyed—the epitome of the lunatic running the asylum. The tour of the premises they filmed simply didn’t make the cut and the story solely focused on an interview with Dick, where he ranted and raved and chomped compulsively on his cigar, accusing the reporter of having evil eyes and repeatedly telling him he was a shame to his mother.

  Just to compound the damage he had already inflicted on himself, at the very end of the piece two female Japanese NGO workers innocently wandered in, looking for lunch. The final shot had Dick, in slow motion, launching himself at them and yelling ‘NOOOOOOO . . .’, before chasing them out the door.

  It went to air that same afternoon, and there was no sense in trying to negotiate further with a crazy man. I ordered him to pack his stuff. For good. He needed to hide at my guest house until we could get him out of the country. A car would be picking him up in thirty minutes, and I wanted him ready to leave. He sobbed like a child, but I stood my ground—playing tough mum to his frightened boy.

  Fortunately the owner of our guest house, Glen, a stocky, ruddy Aussie bloke who ran a de-mining company, was out of town. I called his business partner, Mack, and casually conveyed the news that I had an American friend in need of short-term accommodation. He was on his way out and just required a room for a couple of days. Room 7 was free, wasn’t it? I would personally cover the cost.

  Mack thought that all sounded okay. Sure thing—my mate could stay. He’d let Glen know the next time he called.

  And so my mission to save Dick Willy went into full swing. Muffy and Lynchy were both home that day, felled by a stomach bug that was doing the rounds. I called them up, filled them in and tasked them with minding Dick until I got home. Muffy immediately called the emergency hotline at the US Embassy. She got an answering machine. She left a message saying that one of their citizens was in serious trouble and was being threatened by the Taliban, and requested that they call her back.

  By all accounts, the babysitting detail was a harrowing affair. Dick was as mad as a meat axe by then, constantly crying and pleading to be allowed to return to the bar to check on his staff. Lynchy distracted him by reciting lines from their favourite films.

  Dick became stuck on a quote from Apocalypse Now. As he repeated this monologue over and over, Muffy kept trying to contact the embassy. They never did get back to her.

  By the time I got home, Dick had settled considerably, thanks in part to a Valium or two, but he still wasn’t accepting that he had to go. Besides, he threw in as an innocuous aside, his passport was currently in the possession of the Ministry of Interior because his visa was being renewed.

  This ‘insignificant’ detail sent us all into a spin. We had very real fears at that point that it wasn’t just the Taliban who were out to get him, but perhaps the authorities as well. Over beers and endless cigarettes we grappled with the situation we now found ourselves in.

  We weren’t the only people staying at the guest house, and it also doubled as an office for Glen’s business. People came and went all afternoon and, in the evening, Glen’s Afghan fixer, Rameen, arrived to drive a New Zealand employee, Des, to a bar across town. It was a Thursday night, but our posse was staying in—we couldn’t leave Dick for fear he’d escape.

  After days without sleep, he finally collapsed; meantime Muffy, Lynchy and I drank ourselves sober. We were navigating territory beyond our imagination. We made soapies in Kabul, we were simple Aussie folk, but now we were harbouring an unhinged American fugitive, accused of being a pimp in the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan.

  Breakfast the next morning was a sombre affair, until Des turned up after a thirteen-hour binge. At first he was charming and jovial, insisting we share with him his stone-cold pizza and offering us up shots of his prized tequila. We all declined, quite politely I thought, too distracted by our dilemma to want to party with Des. It was then that he turned like a whirling dervish. He knew who the guy was in Room 7—Rameen had recognised him from the TV reports.

  ‘You’re placin’ the whole fucken house in danger. Who the fuck do youse think youse are?’ Des slurred. ‘That guy’s gotta go, no question about it. Mack is on his way over now to show him the door.’ He then staggered to his feet. ‘No, fuck that! I’m gonna throw him out meself, right now!’

  I confess to having been too shocked and exhausted to respond adequately to Des’s drunken declaration. But Muffy found her voice. She had never liked Des (primarily because he was always hitting on her) and I suspect she was happy to have an excuse to finally take him on.

  ‘No, I’m sorry but you’ll do no such thing! Yes, okay maybe we messed up—we admit that. But the guy was in real trouble. So why don’t you just sit back down, eat your rotten pizza and SHUT UP?’

  It was a sterling performance that saw a stunned Des immediately collapse back into his chair. Then we all sat in miserable silence, waiting for Mack.

  Mack arrived about ten minutes later with Rameen in tow, and was more disappointed than angry. Everyone in Kabul was looking for this bloke—why the hell did we bring him here? Then, turning to me: ‘Why the hell did you lie to me, love?’

  The jig was up and I was almost relieved. I apologised to Mack, and explained that we were just helping our mate and had had no idea what we were taking on. I boldly claimed that we’d do it all again if we had our time over and, appealing to the Australian mindset of ‘Never leave a digger behind’, questioned whether Mack wouldn’t do the same.

  Mack shook his head like a dad we’d let down, but when he spoke again he was decisive and definite. ‘Righto. Don’t you lot worry. Me and Rameen will sort this mess out. But I’m tellin’ you right now—if that bloke so much as steps a foot outside this door, he’s straight outta here. You got that? And you’re not to tell anyone that he’s stayin’ here with us.’

  I think I teared up a little at that stage—the release was divine. Our rock-steady Papa Mack and the unassuming, well-connected Rameen were going to save the day.

  Dick had his passport back the following day; the exit visa needed to get him out of the country had cost fifteen hundred bucks. We all praised Allah for the rampant corruption in Afghanistan and finally relaxed because we were almost there.

  We farewelled Dick before work—he was flying to Dubai in the afternoon. Rameen had ‘contacts’ at the airport and he would personally see him on to the plane.

  When we caught up with Rameen at the guest house that night, he could only laugh at the ‘covert escape’. Despite being advised to keep a low profile, Dick had wept and wailed all the way through the airport. And when they got to Immigration, the officer looked at the passport and then at Dick and asked Rameen in Dari whether this was the pimp from the Chinese brothel.

  A nudge and a wink and a lightly greased palm saw Dick safely on the plane. The flight was running two hours late, but Rameen didn’t leave until the plane had rumbled down the runway and lifted off into the evening sky.

  It was a Thursday afternoon. That meant my twenty-two-year-old translator, Hakim, was preparing to dispense ‘Word-of-the-Day’ cards to Muffy, Merzad and me.

  Word-of-the-Day was one of Muffy’s initiatives. She received the tiny deck of cards in a care package from her aunty and excitedly explained to Hakim and Merzad how it all worked. You took a card fr
om the deck each morning, read the word printed on it, and that was to be your guiding principle for the day. The first word Merzad picked was AUTHENTICITY, but the fact that he had no idea what that meant kind of put a downer on his enthusiasm for the game. Possessing a slightly superior command of the English language, Hakim thought it was inspired and happily added Word-of-the-Day Dispenser to his extensive job description.

  Each morning, after Muffy and I were settled at our desks, he would prance over holding the cup that contained the cards and offer it around. If we were hungover or he sensed we were gearing up for a particularly horrendous day, he would take out all the boring words like DETAIL, DISCIPLINE and EFFICIENCY and hide them, leaving us with a slim selection along the lines of FREEDOM, JOY and PLEASURE. On Thursday afternoons, he would allow us to pick a second card so that we had a word for Friday, our one day off, and he was always extra careful to ensure that we all came out Word-of-the-Day winners.

  Hakim already had three very important tasks to perform. His primary role was translator and he initially came on board to work on Eagle Four. During the writing phase of the show, we quickly realised that our original tiny office just wasn’t going to suffice for such a huge production so, bidding a sad farewell to our good buddy Raouf, we relocated across Main Street to a more spacious locale. Needing to work closely with Hakim on translating the scripts for client approval, he was eventually installed in our office for easy reference.

  Hakim’s initial contract had ended months ago, but by then I had fallen in love with this hard-working, good-natured boy and managed to convince the newly appointed general manager of our production company, a German man named Christof, that I couldn’t possibly exist without him. So by November 2010 he was working on all of our drama productions, and spent his days translating Dari scripts to English and back again. I acted as script editor and, at times, sole writer on projects, so Hakim was kept very busy in his dual-language world. I always had to do final checks on his English translations before they were delivered to our clients and sometimes I had moments of utter bewilderment.