"there are cracks in everything. . ."

On Friday Aziz (alternate name) took me on a whirlwind tour of Kabul. We saw Babur's garden, under restoration by the Aga Khan Trust for Culture. It was crawling with young Afghan men, but otherwise a beautiful, walled in green space-rare in Kabul. I got some semi-reasonable pictures there. We moved on through the city, between the hills that jut into it, past the ancient city wall and into the old bazaar. Aziz kept up a string of commentary. He had just finished translating a book of Dari short stories. The stories mostly focus on tales in the alleyways of old Kabul - modern stories about an old place. He showed me the ruin of a large complex where the British held court in their day in Kabul. "This is the real Kabul", Aziz kept saying as we drove through the crowded bazaars. "Musicians and other artists work in that building", Aziz said pointing to a dilapidated, multi-story white complex nearly falling out into the bazaar. He is working on a book about culture in Kabul. He had interviewed a musician - an arrogant chap who felt his musicianship trumped all in the city. We passed many old and renowned Mosques. "I want to do a book just on the old mosques". And he could, if he had the time. We criss-crossed the Kabul river on our way through the city. The river is a channel sunken in the Kabul dust. A mere trickle wanders through, seemingly disoriented by the size of the otherwise empty channel. It waters the grass that grows on the river's bed. Famous bridges cross a confused trickle of water. Discarded cranes from the 1950s sit atop ghastly grey blocks of concrete the Soviet's thought passed as apartment blocks. Communications towers dot the skyline at the beginning of the Jalalabad road. New road construction equipment sits in the dust on contractors' compounds afraid to venture out and construct lest they are blown to pieces by a wayward bomb or IED.

We race down newly paved streets between heavily fortified walls of embassies, Camp Agar (the US forces base), the NATO base, the UN and other agencies under seige by threats of violence. "The walls keep getting thicker and higher".

Dusk and dust combine warping the waning yellow sun, creating an eerie glow around the mountains, giving wireless phone towers and minarets fuzzy edges. The city is softened by the haze. It glows like a dusty gem. Police men stop cars to check for bombs? They wave us through.

We drive between a huge mosque and the stadium where heads fell, drenched in blood, under Taliban swords. Beside the stadium is a huge exhibition ground where a thousand children play in the cool of dusk.

Then we're in a crowded street next to a city park. Kebab shops line the avenue. Families by sweets and barbequed me. There's a stand selling tapes of soundtracks to the movies that play in the cinema just behind it. "This is what Afghans want" Aziz said as we drove on, waving his hand at the seen of normal life with good little things. Five years on, the Karzai government has been hobbled by security issues. Money pours into the country only to sit in vaults. And development is slow. People are again discontent.

Suddenly we're out on a broad highway. Hundreds of private wedding plazas are under construction here. Huge three-dimensional grids of concrete and steel waiting for walls and lights and the shimmer of unreal nights, long speeches and too much money and somewhere a (happy?) couple waiting to leave. The streets are too wide. We pass a yellow monstrosity - a Soviet bread factory: centralization - what's wrong with naan available on your street corner.

It gets dark. Cars stream into the city from a weekend desitination. We race up a small hill to the Intercontinental Hotel and watch the city from above. Then we're down again in the direction of the point where we started our wild ride. I'm feeling the allure of Kabul settle in around me.

"There's something different about Kabul", I say, implying a comparison to Pakistan (where I've spent a significant amount of time).

"Go on," Aziz says with a gleam in his eye.

"It's so subtle, there's something softer in this people."

We talk about the extreme courtisy of the Persian culture.

"They outdo us entirely in hospitality."

And yet the paradox persists unparalleled hospitality and brutality in the same people. Beauty and brokenness in one city. Dust and rocks and bombs and hot tea and warm naan and broad smiles, Babur's garden and bullet-riddled walls crumbling onto the street.

Night falls. We stop at the gate of Aziz's friend. I sit in the Land Cruiser, a cacoon in an empty street, wishing I could stay just a little longer.