At the few parties I went to last year in Kabul, I declined to dance. Neither the music nor the setting compelled me to move. I may have come to Afghanistan I thought to myself, but I still have my dignity.
You’ll end up on the dance floor with the rest of us sooner or later I was assured. And so it has come to pass.
In windowless underground bunkers and bare, concrete-floored rooms, to music from Abba to Avril Lavigne and worse; manically stumbling about for hours to songs that would normally have me swinging a large blunt object at the radio.
Writing this the day after and I’m cringing at the bleary-eyed memory. But I have to admit, it’s bloody good fun.
If for no other reasons then there’s not much else to do, it’s great stress release, and it provides much needed exercise. Plus you get to make a complete tit of yourself and everyone else is too busy doing the same to care.
There’s something to be said about the psychology of people living and working in such strange conditions, and the seeming propensity for terrible music among the humanitarian community, but I’m too tired and can’t be arsed.
And definitely no photos.