An Afghan Picnic

I went with Dr. Rahimullah and his family to the shrine at the town of Sari-Pul (Pul is the Dari word for bridge) early Friday morning. We had spent Thursday in Shebergan, about 130 kms. west of Mazar-i-Sharif doing two SIGN nail cases with the local orthopaedic surgeon. Sari-Pul is green with abundant trees and gardens, watered by the river. The shrine, commemorating a 9th c. CE martyred saint is uncommonly ugly--an example of the present state of religious architecture in the country--shoddy materials, shoddy workmanship, a careless assemblage thrown together without pride.

Shrines, it seems, are not always for worship and most people seem not particularly disturbed by the unprepossessing architecture and decoration. Shrines are simply an excuse; an excuse for a picnic. Picnic is the generic word for any Afghan outing. And all outings are picnics, since you would never leave home without food and a large thermos of tea. For the women who don't often leave home, a visit to a shrine is the best excuse to go out for the day. Already at 08:00 blankets lay on the open hillside between clumps of thorns and brilliant black-throated red poppies, the tea thermos propped against a stubby bush, and piles of naan bread distributed as trenchers.

Dr. Rahimullah's family had not come for a picnic. His wife wanted to sacrifice a chicken at the shrine. I never found out the exact reason for this sacrifice, whether it was in thanks, or contrition, or a request. Rahimullah was also in the dark on this, but being a dutiful husband, he bought a chicken, had it blessed by the mullah (who will resell it later in the day), and reestablished marital accord. He figured the bird had already been sold over a hundred times, so there was no sacrifice, only giving money to some vendor of birds who is in cahoots with the mullahs.

I, however, came in the spirit of an Afghan picnic--the excuse to be out, so see something different. We drove south from Shebergan along a plain that narrowed into a wide flat valley between hills, deepening and narrowing as we approached Sari-Pul. The day was full of brilliant sunshine and we left early enough to enjoy the coolness and the special rosy light of morning. Kingfishers and bee-eaters sparkled in the sunlight and the wheat looked particularly healthy and full with the abundant feel of a fat harvest.


In Shebergan over night I stayed at the local surgeon's home. He had asked what I liked to eat so his wife could make this for me. One cannot escape saddling a wife with such a task, there is no pizza carry-out, and the idea of not going to trouble for the guest seems un-Afghan. The women always act happy that they have just spent 4 hours hand making platters and platters of food that will be decimated in a mere 10 minutes of purposeful eating. To act otherwise would bring shame to the house and family. I always wonder what resentments lurk underneath the smiles. I would not be happy to be told with little notice to prepare a feast for some foreigner I did not know, just to please my husband. A pizza would certainly suit. Obviously my manners would not pass muster in Afghanistan.

I was welcomed to the courtyard of the surgeon's compound by three women squatting around an oilcloth on the ground making aushak. These vegetable filled tortellini were my response to the question what I wanted for dinner. I choose it because it is one of the few names I know and it is vegetable--not so heavy on the stomach. This was the first time I had ever seen aushak made. Though I was ushered into a long cool room away from everyone, I made my way back to the courtyard to sit around the floured oilcloth with the women. Naomi Duguid (a writer of glorious food and travel books) would have felt blessed to be in such company. They worked with the sort of speed and casual gestures one sees in people who long ago mastered the technique and so proceed seemingly to pay little attention. They continued working, chatting away, thinking it humorous that I was interested in their work.

What particularly intrigued me was the way they rolled out the dough. It was like a noodle or pasta dough--firm, but pliable. One of the women started with a dough ball the size one would use for a 9" crust, rolled it with a 3" fat, solid rolling pin, turning the flattened ball in quarter turns every few strokes and sprinkling the surface with flour. When it reached about 10" diameter, the woman changed to a 3' long 1½" diameter pin and began a vigorous rolling, but with the floured dough rolled up on the pin, not flat. I have never seen dough rolled this way and do not know the advantage, though assume that because one is rolling two or three layers of dough it all gets thinned faster. She worked for about five minutes until she had soft sheets of dough about 1-2 mm. thick. I can't wait to try this technique.