hellraisin

we were ready for a second day out.
manja was pining for gorgonzola club pasta, i was missing brandenburg's geese. and we were both monstrously hung over from a red cross fancy dress party.
that was the second stop after a do for a new bbc correspondent. manja got chatted up by a pakistani diplomat full of political intrigue while a vast array of journalists and officials fretted over a rumor that osama had been nabbed, fought over the kebabs sizzling in the drained swimming pool, and tried not to get dragged into the afghan men's dancing contest at the foot of the garden.
fresh air was needed. the terrifying hour's drive, complete with goodnatured cackles from momand every time we hurtled into a particularly deep rut, was not. but it was worth it to get to istalif, a village in the foothills of the hindu kush once famed for its pottery and carving that is slowly recovering from its time on the taliban front line.
the main road north from kabul, paved by the russians and hammered by tanks, jingle trucks and drivers like momand ever since, runs through the shomali plain, fertile farmland once filled with orchards reduced by fighting to a largely barren wasteland littered with the crumbling mud walls of abandoned family compounds.
afghanistan was once the world's biggest exporter of dried fruit, but the taliban took great pleasure in ripping out the old vines, just in case anyone got the idea of making wine with them.
there's also no sign of the cherry or apricot orchards, or the tree-lined roads listed in the 1977 guidebook that is still the best available.
a winding dirt sideroad took us through some surviving old vines to a hilltop overlooking the village. known as The Throne, it is lined with tall plane trees and ends in the crumbling terrace of a derelict hotel that still offers an awesome view _ over the sunbathed plain far below, or to the snowy 4,700 meter peaks of the paghman mountains behind.
a sleepy soldier sitting on the wall of what must once have been a terraced garden said the building had been blown up by the taliban and waved a hand across the valley to where he said the northern alliance had placed their artillery.
from the village below, all we could hear was the rushing river and a barking dog _ music compared to the howling generators of our upmarket quarter of capital.
in the muddy main street we got no further than the second pottery shop _ an old trade that the aid groups are trying to promote to bring back tourists.
we bought three glazed bowls and to the obvious disgust of our driver didn't bother bartering. and a bag of sweet, dusty raisins with the stalks still in.