I find it unforgivable that the top ten posts on Google for ‘Best Place To Hang Out In Singapore’ are nothing but average drivel meant to shuttle average minded individuals to average locations dressed up to seem noteworthy. Although, now that I think about it, maybe that is in fact a worthy service, or else all those average and unappreciative types would end up here, at Atlas. A true temple in the heart of this metropolis, this oasis is a perfect watering hole day or night for those looking to orient themselves during their stay. 

Whilst I’m all about contemporary, this Art Deco statement smacks down any dissent and demands quiet applause. 

I know what you are going to say, “It looks ‘nice’, but I bet it is just an overpriced bar….” 

Silence, fool.

This is an altar to Bacchus himself, staffed by loyal and talented minions from Narnia. The moment you step into the room you are disconnected from the day to day reality by virtue of a wormhole in space, and from the second you are greeted to the slowing of time as you peruse the menu, you can’t help but feel that ‘life’ can wait, this is a pit stop from the daily hamster wheel. 

Just reading the menu is a tantalising collection of short stories, the descriptions of cocktails creating a surge of hormones as the mind races to fully comprehend the extent of the taste sensations that each title offers. 

Seriously, if that doesn’t sound like a dessert and a flirtatious love note at the same time, you must be dead inside. Actually, if none of this spiritually  tweaks any sensory organ of yours, then best if you stay away from this den of intrigue and leave the space free for true or budding connoisseurs. Spaces like these are rare, and need to be coveted without stripping them to a form of crass nudity and pasting their images across a multitude of advertising spaces. Treats such as Atlas are passed by word of mouth, filtering out the unworthy in the process. 

Hence, hear my words…. Come to Atlas, Parkview Tower, Near Bugis, Singapore. Average people are politely asked to refer to the Google top ten hits….. 

I am a firm believer that a person’s basic characteristics can be divined from their driving style alone, much like a country’s typical psychological development can be read through the styles of toilet paper that it consumes…….the more developed a country, the more luxurious the paper, albeit it with cultural hallmarks. German toilet paper is robust, in small stoic sheets, whereas American or British paper is generally thinner, but larger, with form taking the lead over the German function.

In any case, I digress. The point is, the way

Why is it that with all the ‘good’ that is being done, all the charities, good deeds and philanthropy, the world is not becoming a better place? Yes, we have never had it so good on this planet before, with the least amount of warfare, best medical, most spread of resources, almost unlimited connectivity and far-reaching extensive education. Then why do we all view the world as going to shit? Some people say that the ‘rich’ are screwing it all, but that’s crap. Many of the rich are extremely well educated, and along with that adopt good values and are kind and considerate of their environment and social groups. They help out, share, and make efforts. The number of billionaires who pump tons of money into philanthropy is also significant, and generally, the average person is the world is a ‘good’ person. So where is the magic negative swing? Is it all the badly educated people? The poor people? The desperate? Is it the faceless corporations, or just plain bad government? Has the media got us programmed to embracing misery because it fascinates us more than success? And has anyone ever proved that marketing is positive in any form? How can it be that with so much opportunity and evolved consciousness, we aren’t all amazed at how well we are doing? Why the gloom? And why are all the successful Indian social projects full of smiling droves of children? Why aren’t we seeing that in the suburbs of Birmingham with mobs of kids planting trees and ploughing fields of nutritious vegetables?

Why are we so fucking negative? Why does it seem to be such an achievement to be happy and experience success? Why can’t the surprise happen when we fail, instead of succeed?

My education, for all intents and purposes, was stellar, and I was given every opportunity to become a high-flying ‘city boy’. Yet, when I look back, I think I made more effort at avoiding that outcome than to embrace the corporate lifestyle and become ‘successful’. I did corporate, and literally mourned my death every day to work. But then, can anyone blame me when my first memories are of a deserted beach in the Canary Islands where I spent my first few formative years, exploring the coastline, finding pristine lizard skeletons and splashing in the inches deep water whenever the moon had waxed and brought the sea up over the beach to be slowly cooked to a pleasant 30 degrees allowing me to float in gigantic bath pools with no one in sight for 20km in either direction?

My fascination for the outdoors has always held me captive, although TV has fought a good fight to claim the same title. Thankfully the Gods have somehow always nudged me outside, or maybe it was my sugar overdose that forced me to burn off the nervous energy. Either way, I now have a collection of gear that more or less leaves me equipped for the apocalypse. The trick, however, much like sex, is knowing what to do with it.

The intention of this section of the blog is to share some healthy tips on how to enjoy the outdoors somewhat more, and maybe even help some timid types to regain some of those lost talents that sedentary city life strips from us. Seriously, if you don’t know how to make a fire without matches, that’s part of your evolutionary heritage you’ve just flushed away. Trust me, there is satisfaction in being able to achieve some of these survival traits.

 

I don’t think the locals like me. At the very least they think I’m odd. Or maybe alien. Picture this, a deserted Omani beach near the Yemeni border, Hollywood backdrop of massive sand dunes that stop short at the beach by the Indian Ocean at its rather feminine nature of sudden mood changes. That’s all cute and lovely, especially when you factor in the turtles shells from the last hatching that litters the sand, and the extraordinary aqualife that congregates around the reefs along the shoreline like a sales bonanza in a Dubai mall. I suspect that what really made the locals do a double-take was the white guy perched on a reclining camping chair with a laptop on his knees powered by a solar-charged battery listening to AC/DC. Maybe they are more Rachmaninov types. Regardless, the locals are lovely people and generally extremely hospitable. Normally they come along and ask if there is anything they can do to make your stay more hospitable, but my Jeep is so well kitted out with gear that I must resemble a cross between Mad Max and the Gumball Rally.

Let me make a judgment and say that I doubt you have ever had the pleasure of working like I do, although when I contemplate the subject of work I’m forced to giggle as I sit here on a deserted wild beach having just dived with some of the most diverse aquatic life on the planet and slurped on a coconut for some light refreshment between barbecued meals and the odd Oreo. I can guarantee there will never be anyone at a party to counter this experience with, “Well, there I was sitting in the office….” Shut up right there. You said, “Office’. You lose. Why? Because other than some insanely dirty sex act on a colleagues/boss’ desk or giving either one of them a violent kicking after an age of repressed hesitance, nothing will give you this same satisfaction. Sure, some of less enlightened or fatter types will wax lyrical about the feeling that power/money/title may give you, but you’ll never achieve this kind of nirvana until you wake up after your first heart attack or your second divorce, or get fired despite having been at the receiving end of one of those dirty sex acts.

Don’t get me wrong, money is phenomenal when you have it, but it doesn’t give you this experience. Experiences like this are honed, and practiced, or sheer wild chance. The reason this experience is extraordinary is because no one can be bothered to make the effort to achieve it any more. You have to ‘work’ for it. And when I say work, I mean go against what everyone else considers normal. It means kitting out an off-road car, packing for a variety of eventualities, driving 12 hours across inspirational areas named ‘The Empty Quarter’ and then setting up camp miles from any form of help whilst trying gauge whether you’ve plonked your only ride out of here safely out of the way of a possible torrent that may wash down a wadi without any prior warning. Having said that, I would undergo this trial for several lifetimes rather than spend my adult life commuting on a train or subway.

 

It has been 4 days, camped next to the sand dunes that flow majestically onto the beach being kept at bay by the exotic expanse of the Indian Ocean. This is where the turtles come to lay their eggs, and all the reef fish come to feed at high tide along with the serious predators such as Tiger sharks, dolphins and, depending on the time of year, the odd Orca. At night, when the sun plops into the ocean with a mute fizz, the sky is transformed into an often forgotten scene of pure universal expanse populated by its random creations, and piles of space junk that circle the Earth. It is mildly upsetting that a person needs to drive for a full half day just to witness the Earth devoid of light pollution these days, but when one does it truly releases a experience that cannot be replicated in any form. Couple that with the stress-busting flickers of an open wood fire on the sand and a full belly of beach-cooked bolognese, it makes for a reset of ones priorities.

But I digress, the true benefit of this is the ability to reset ones’ circadian rhythm, being active by free-diving for lobsters and beach-combing for firewood, and having the freedom to complete a train of thought without the interference of some email, text or phone call. It sounds so simple, but our lives have become fragmented to the degree that even goldfish have been found to have greater attention spans than us humans (3 seconds vs our 2.9 seconds). In essence, one ‘earns’ the right for nature’s wonders, and the pay-off is truly handsome. Immediately your metabolism kicks into a new gear, stripping you of those almost mandatory ‘love-handles’, not to mention the visceral fat that encases your internal organs. You start to sleep better, deeper and earlier. Your day becomes more enticing, without a groan of despair at the scheduled meetings or the incessant stupidity of regurgitating paperwork.

Ultimately, these kinds of experiences are as life-enhancing/prolonging as good nutrition as they feed the soul as much as leaching the rubbish out of your system. I dare anyone to not come back from a minimum week’s trip and feel transformed, both physically and spiritually.

 

 

Bariloche is a small but significant town in the heart of Patagonia, nestling on the southern shore of Lake Nahuel Huapi (pronounced NAH-WEL WAP-PEE) where resides the mythical Nahuelito, a Patagonian version of the Loch Ness. To the immediate east there are the dry and barren plains of Patagonia, and to the immediate west there are the enticing mountains of the Andes. The first day I arrived, it snowed for two days and then on the third the sun was so hot that one could sunbathe on the snow. In fact, it was so hot that I suspect that there must be a definite absence of Ozone, considering that my pate was burnt faster than if I had doused myself in petrol and tossed a match.
The people here are exceptionally friendly, and not necessarily because as a tourist one brings those attractive hard currencies, but rather because they are genuine here. Surprisingly enough, the town is twinned with St.Moritz, and the swiss influence is obvious. Not only are the houses and many of the names the same, but there is a chocolate shop on almost every corner. I truly believe this the reason that everyone is so sporty, because if not, then it would be a town entirely populated by fatties. As it happens, as with the rest of Argentina, the gene pool is truly blessed. If one is frail of heart or suffers from bad circulation, I do not recommend coming to Argentina, as the beauty is heart-stopping, for both sexes.

In contrast to Santiago, where dogs roam the streets in gangs, heckling the old and infirm, looking cool on the street corner and generally not giving a toss about that sub-species called ‘human’, the population of Bariloche actually owns the dogs. Every house and courtyard has a dog, be it for protection or for purely decorative use. This in turn becomes interesting at night, for if one happens to walk down a quiet street and one of those canines hears you, it will stay true to its employer and bark furiously, in turn waking the mutt next door, and within seconds a Mexican wave of awaking Poodles and Alsatians alike sweeps over the town and ripples out over the suburbs, only to have this canine version of Chinese Whispers end some 1600 miles away in Buenos Aires.

In my experience, other than Andorra, Bariloche is one of those few towns where one can strap on a backpack and simply walk with unfettered access into the supreme wilderness of roughly 7000 square kilometres of national park that surround this city of 200’000 people. The sheer vastness of the most pristine and sublime beauty is simply impossible to ignore. The food is sublime in its simplicity, where the locals smirk at the notion of trying anything other than their own regional meats and wines, and quite deservedly so. The average bbq leaves you dry-humping anything within reach once you have maniacally stuffed your face with the delights of fresh and unadulterated foods grown in the clean surroundings of Southern Argentina. Even if you hike up to one of the Refugios in the mountains that happens to be manned, they will serve you a simplistic dish of utter taste divinity that you’ll contemplate moving in right there and then.

If, however, you happen to be the more pampered type, try the Llao Llao hotel nestled on it’s own little patch of heaven at the far reach of town, roughly 20km from the centre….this luxury golf and spa resort mixes a history and service that leaves you dragging your heels in a depressed funk as you are courteously checked out by the staff on your last day.

 

See? Told you so.

But if that doesn’t give you a chubby, there is always the skiing in El Catedral, the resort nearby that will give you a taste of sweet sweet powder. As they say, you are not born until the day you ride powder, and achieving that in this remote enclave of paradise is hard to beat. You’ll find many of the ski instructors are well versed in Alpine skiing, given that there is an exchange program with St. Moritz allowing both countries to send their gifted ski Gods to each domaines.

However, if you have made the effort to make it all the way down to the southern tip of the planet, you’d be a fool for not trying one of the more obvious pursuits…..horseback riding.

On the whole, riding in Europe is a lovely affair, but generally restricted to spoilt nags being pampered by their owners to the point of challenging the podium at Crufts. The beauty of this part of the world is that, well, it is all as it should be. When you go riding here, there simply are no fences….just wide open spaces. Personally, I think this should be a fundamental right for every being, but the Establishment has other plans. In any case, there is seldom an experience more thrilling and inspiring than having the vast Patagonian Steps to roam around on whilst plonked comfortably on western style saddles carried by ‘real’ horses. By real, I mean hardy and unfussy beasts that are simply content to do what you wish. In essence, there is none of that miserable frustration of constantly egging your horse on to take a few steps and stay in line…..out here, they do what they are supposed to do….a kind of ‘point and shoot’ style. You wanna gallop, you gallop….there is no health and safety to restrict you for the sake of the bicycle lane, or the dozy dog walker getting in the way of that delicious straight bit of the forest path. Patagonian horses are not prissy about the weather, they don’t need constant preening and emotional counselling, and they enjoy as much of a challenge as the person sitting on them……In all my life, I have had very few experiences that have been of equal stature as that of chasing stag on horseback through a forest and bursting out on the Steps only to witness the stags bound effortlessly away whilst the sun starts to glide cosily behind the jagged silhouettes of the Andes. Even to this day, my heart yearns to return….

 

Thoughts written in 2001

For once I shall endeavour to leave alone sensitive political issues and
ignore classist arguments. This time I wish to make a statement. I have
fallen in love. Yes, it`s true, and this time it is a life-changing
experience, one that may make me move to live with her whilst I still have
time on this continent. Who is she you all ask? Well, let me describe her to
you and then you will all understand my attraction towards her. I recently
went on a trip and met her almost on my first day. Most strikingly, she is
exceptionally beautiful, with a huge presence that leaves an impression on
any man, or woman for that matter. She has a beauty internationally
recognised to be superior to most others in the world. Although Chile does
have beauty, Chile`s beauty in comparison is a mere light switch away. This lady
speaks with an accent that causes severe hormonal imbalance in favour of
testosterone even with the utterance of a single word. My new-found heart
flutter has class, style, and above all passion, possibly attributed to her
European roots mixed with the Latin fire. Many say that she is arrogant, but
I believe that to be a misunderstood character, for she is simply proud of
her heritage. Despite the fact that at the moment she is financially
challenged, her background boasts of wealth and once international
recognition. True, she certainly is not politically correct, and honesty is
not one of her finer traits either, but what do you expect from a Latina?
She always has a smile on her face and parties every night into the early
hours of the morning. As for her appetite, she certainly makes me seem like
a sparrow pecking on crumbs when compared to her desire to eat meat. This,
obviously, is endearing to any man, and makes going out to dinner a joy
every time by not having to face pathetic rabbit food salads and refusals for
dessert. Her physical health is impressive, and she is a wild sports
fanatic. Said short, she is exactly my type. I am sure from my description
of her you can all appreciate why I feel so comfortable with her. Her name
you ask? Her name is Argentina.

I am going to refrain from giving a complete indication as to my identity, mainly out of a healthy respect for my own privacy which I realise is a mildly moronic exercise given the baring of my personal thoughts to the ever unruly cyberspace. Let’s keep it to the basics….I’m a qualified European who has paid rent in 13 countries so far and speaks relatively fluently in 4 languages and one dialect after having studied in 3 universities and graduating from two of them. My curriculum vitae is eclectic to say the least, meaning that recruitment agencies are far too basic to know what to do with someone like me. Despite having started out in Corporate, I have fled at every available opportunity to taste the very essence of what my heart desires at the time. Inevitably this has forced me to become an entrepreneur with a penchant for the Great Outdoors, being most satisfied whilst staring into a log fire in some patch of wilderness and munching on lightly charred steak under a night sky awash with stars and space junk as the baby turtles scamper towards their heavily weighted destiny. Yes, I am healthy and athletic, find the concept of inhaling smoke into my lungs as idiotic, and get more excited about cake than I do alcohol. Yet my dark side has me addicted to TV, driving offensively, and speaking my mind with an assassin’s focus that, whilst well-meaning, has cost me many a door to close. On a spiritual level I would say that I have an utter disregard for any religion, yet will fight anyone’s corner to preserve their faith. My life’s experiences have taken me from the serene connection of higher intuition to the lows of complete self-despair and self-doubt. As I now hit my fourth decade, wisdom is starting to prevail and I like to think that I have more certainty with regards to the essence of being, be it personality or contribution to the world. I may be an avid fan of the Environment, yet am completely aware of the hypocrisy in that I am one the worst offenders each time I strap into yet another intercontinental flight or gun my 4 litre engine. However, to complete my monologue, just know that I am an extremely principled individual, with high standards that have alienated many a friend or colleague. Whatever my quirks and oddities, I’m a good person and focused on leaving a positive legacy behind.

Blog…what a distasteful term. Whatever happened to diary? I have no idea what the purpose of blogs are, and I must make the honest disclaimer that I am not doing this for anything other than an experimental desire to fish in the ether and see what bites. Most importantly, however, is that these truly are my thoughts, complete with emotional baggage and environmental influences. In view of this, despite my intention to share non-commercialised experiences with a hint of a desire to educate those less experienced, there will undoubtedly be phrases, viewpoints and terminology that will seem distasteful to a variety of readers. However obscene, rude or insulting snippets within the scribbles may seem, please know that there is a solid grain of anecdotal truth to it all for which I feel absolutely zero compunction to apologise for. I am one of the most well-rounded and open-minded individuals that average society has to offer, honed by years of cultural curiosity and integration, not to mention extensive travel and effort. In short, I think I have earned the right to have an opinion, so if you happen to be of a sensitive nature and are in any way offended or uncomfortable with the tappings that are to follow, I suggest you take your inalienable right to stop here and sod off back to whatever padded existence you have deluded yourself with..that’s right, click those heels and keep repeating “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home…..”

Thoughts written in 2004:

My cleaning lady almost torched my house yesterday so I thought it prudent to at least tap away some form of memoire before the discovery of my charred body at a later date.

So, what’s been happening? Well, Dick Cheney passed by my place a couple weeks ago. By passing I mean swept over my roof at low level in two Chinooks, four Apaches, and two jet fighters. We have also had one earthquake measuring 6.7 and two suicide bombers, one of whom was aiming for parliament but grabbed the opportunity to swerve into a Norwegian ISAF convoy on the way; he bounced off their armoured car and because of that probably detonated late, missing everyone except himself, obviously a strong contender for the Darwin Awards; the second bomber set off the device as he was fitting it to his car, doh!). Did I mention the numerous bar brawls between drunk ‘security advisors’, who plainly speaking are trained killers who have problems accessing their feminine side and find the act of quaffing booze to be one of the few social pleasures available outside of opium abuse and gun-running. In short, just a typical month in Kaboom, aka Kabul. Welcome to the Afghan Experience.

29 million people populate this ravaged country, of which about 4 million reside here in this dust bowl. The town was once a stunning, lush, green and exciting liberal place to be in, a true Mecca for education in this corner of Asia. But as you know, the fall of the monarchy, the Russians and successive tribal feuds and finally the Taliban reduced this place to a little more than a polluted wreck, where the roads are mere dust tracks and the battered cars belch noxious fumes which leave the air as clean as an Afghan sandal, making breathing a laborious affair with the effect of sounding like an obscene phone call. The reason the air is never clean is that the entire city is encircled by mountains, the majority of which are still heavily littered with land mines, man’s special gift to the joy of conflict. Even now there are still monthly reports of children being blown to pieces as they wander around the hills, often the only place still available to the destitute to make their home in the ever-growing shantytowns.

But despite the dangers that they hold, the mountains also provide some of the most spectacular and intense sceneries in the world. Sure, we’ve all seen National Geographic and award-winning art, but to stand here and see it oneself is an experience well worth any of the dangers of coming to this land. It is nature at it’s most raw, offering purely the basics of hard lines and intense colours between the grey and white mountains and the crisp blue sky. Lord Of The Rings – eat your heart out, even Frodo would have broken down and sobbed if he’d seen this.

Security is obviously a big issue here since Bush’s foreign policy made this his playground, but there are still a few bullies who like to spoil the fun for the rest of us. Although there is a real risk of still being hit by a bomber or being held hostage when some of the locals are short of some spending cash, there is just as strong a chance of being gunned down in a bar by an inebriated security advisor. It is commonplace to have signs on every UN-approved bar door prohibiting weapons, and even Christmas party invites have the added zest of adding after the RSVP, “No visible weapons please. Illegally armed guests will be disarmed.”

Now, I may be a relatively new addition in Kabul, but I think I can happily say that security is mildly ridiculous here. I’m not pointing at the military in general, they tend to have it all sorted (they’ve had enough practice) but the private security party can be seen from two extreme sides. First of all there are your buff western ‘hired guns’ who cruise around in a fat 4×4 with all the trimmings and, at the first sight of anything breathing in their direction, are happy to sodomise the offending object with impressive array of articles from their armoury.

On the opposing side, there are all the compounds and offices being protected by an elite force of starving locals who wear loose fitting military-copy uniforms and are paid to sit slumped in their plastic chairs and clutch their never-serviced Kalashnikov in sub-zero temperatures. Why is it that most security positions to protect and enforce the safety of important foreign nationals is given to exactly those people who are in most probable and closest contact with the criminal element that threatens these very places?

At present I have two unarmed guards looking after my house, one of which considers the night duty to be an excuse to catch up on the tv series’ he has missed during the day and get a good kip instead of waking up and letting me in when I return late. Luckily, I happen to have an ex-Mujahedin driver who chauffeurs us around in an unobtrusive Hiace minibus and can extract a handsome amount from any offender who bumps his car when amongst the throng of the complete mayhem of driving on the open road.There are rough guidelines that are adhered to, such as travelling roughly in the proper direction, but a two lane road is usually interpreted as allowing three cars travelling side by side in one direction, with the oncoming cars being left to gang up and organise some sort of offensive operation in order to regain access to the road. The mess and stupidity that is seen at the junctions is too difficult to describe without sobbing in despair and considering self-harm. Due to the obvious absence of insurance any accidents or scrapes are settled on the spot, with only ever two real outcomes being available in the form of money, or blood. As a westerner it is not advised to drive since the discussions will be short and sweet in such a situation, and I am fortunate that my ex-Mujahedin driver has a Masters in extracting cash from dozy fender-benders.

Apart from private parties, the majority of the 2000 strong expat community is limited to visiting the security-approved bars (there are about 4) or sneaking off to one of the ever growing number of asian restaurants where their speciality is the offering of financially procured female companionship, more commonly known as “Chinese Take-aways”. Another form of humanitarian entertainment is the use of chemically enhanced sensory aids in the form of various manufactured organic products, often referred to as ‘some of that Afghan Black shit’. Whilst poppy-based goods are freely available, it is usually the THC that people search for to be added to their cookies or smoked plain. If any of these options are not enough to alleviate the stress of working in an aggressive shit-hole, then (providing one has the freedom of movement) one can always indulge in retail therapy in one of the many bazaars, offering an odd collection of apparent desires from brake lights and carpets to uniforms, rifles, and other pain-inflicting paraphernalia, but not necessarily always for a good price. Haggling here is such a practised art that soon it may be considered as an Olympic discipline, although wailing and sobbing will not be tolerated as it is considered ‘bad form’.

A small insight into the life in Kabul. Thirty years ago this place was surprisingly idyllic, with tree-lined streets, forests all around, girls in miniskirts, and the city itself being an educational Mecca, attracting students from all countries in this region. Nowadays this place is a dusty and polluted wreck, with a tattered infrastructure that is no better than most African states. Electricity is sparingly supplied to different regions at various times, at present we get approximately 6 hours of power every two days. In part this is directly correlated to the amount of water that rushes through the hydro-electric dam, and due to the recent fall of snow and its subsequent melting in the sun, we are in fact getting a few hours more every day now. Speaking of water, this is a horror that one has to witness oneself. Much of the water in the city contains more toxins than the dark moist patches on tribal underwear, and boiling it won’t help you either way because it will still contain 14 times higher arsenic levels than EU regulations allow. The Kabul River runs through the centre of town, and at best it is used to wash cars on the river banks in order to smear the dirt more evenly over the body-work. Whilst the already polluted water runs into town, it picks up all the human waste and other unmentionables, only to be then used to bathe in and be drunk by the homeless kids who squat on the sides of the bank, trying to sift the chunky bits out of the murky green sludge and ignoring the rotting carcass of some quadruped as it floats past, bloated with an entire eco-system of insects and parasites.

Here in Kabul the majority of those who live here are simple people who have come from the outskirts and mountains to fill the places of all those educated classes that fled when they could over the past 30 years. On the whole they are courteous and polite, not really giving much of a toss about foreigners. If they were to have a problem, then the point would be made with no less than a mortal threat, usually leading to some form of death or maiming.

Walking around town is possible, but not encouraged alone as a westerner. Being male is vastly advantageous as it is not deemed entirely appropriate for women to walk alone, and western women are generally considered to be whores anyway and so are subject to more abuse in various forms.

Security is a big issue here for us expats, yet there is a huge dichotomy of precautions taken. On the one side there are all the western ‘hired guns’ who cruise around in massive 4x4s, looking butch and being generally gung-ho about getting from A to B without any apparent regard for what lies in their paths. This in itself is a recipe for carnage as the Afghans have no concept of personal space or order, literally pushing into every available space just to win an inch over the next person.