Fat and happy

Without being the panacea of the poor, when wondering around lovely European cities that still not so long ago knew their last miners or dockers strikes, it is fairly obvious that contrary to all the spam I'm getting on a daily basis, weight problems do like to discriminate towards the socially unlucky. (No, no, wait, don't stop here. Just because I initiated Weight Watchers Afghanistan doesn't mean three more lines down the road I'll try and get you jumping and humping for the sake of good health...) I mean truly, how much more likely is a divorced mother of three, juggling between two part time jobs and social services, to feed on cheap food for lack of time for balanced cooking using only the finest organic ingredients? Across the Atlantic it may not be quite so obvious, but in Europe I feel the weight barrier is still clearly running along social lines, with the scale clearly tipping towards the social underdog.

But why is it, then, that in a place like Afghanistan the very opposite happens? Don't get me wrong, that is a rhetorical question. This said, for anyone who comes here, it is something fascinating to see. I mean cities and villages alike are filled with people who would get the whole of Miami crying of jealousy. Every now and then, I find myself sitting opposite a plump man however and realize he is only so because he is the head of the hospital, his service and so on. Not that there aren't some exception though. I'm thinking of a tall man, thin like a snake (for those who care, our national Ustad H) who on his own personal scale has achieved sufficient success to be able to put on a lovely round belly and yet continues to haunt certain parts of the country, looking like an scavenging ghost.

Anyhow, even on the fatty scale, remains a kind of hierarchy among men. I've noticed a few senior engineers, head of departments and hospitals with plump, roundish shapes but overall a healthy feeling about them. Then, next to the plump ones, you have the properly obscenely fat, those who look like, while some people are surviving 6 months per year quasi exclusively on rice and tea, they are gorging on one roasted cow per day. For some reason, I've taken up to picturing Dostum in that way. (For the Afghans around, no that's not Ustad Dostum, for I neither fear him nor have an urge to go a-commanders arse kissing. Speaking of which, cut the Ustad in front of Atta and for god sake, stop giving honoring titles to people living off the flesh of Afghanistan.) Any ride to Shiberghan involves at some stage driving past some astonishing three-storey building. With a gigantic outer fence, high as two houses, it is nevertheless so high that one can see the tip of it. And what is there to see? Some pinkish decorations looking like a swirl of ice-cream in a fancy-fair and a large window covering the whole of the facade. Behind it, one sees the tips of indoor palm trees. It's like finding Dubai Terminal 1 right in the middle of the desert. That house, which in truth I never visited, also includes, so I'm told, a large heated swimming pool. Given the tips of the trees, it takes no effort to imagine. And whose house would that be? Commander Dostum, the friend of the people. I haven't really investigated into the source of his fortune, although I was told that, at the time of the Soviet invasion, there was a governmental depot filled with food and other goods, expected to be used in case of emergency for Afghans, that was emptied of all its goods, which were thereafter sold onto the market. Now I'm aware that sharing unsubstantiated stories, mere hearsay really, is bad, but then a/ who cares and b/ who's gona stop me. Plus c/ I bet this ranks among the nicest stories one will ever tell about the man anyway....