As night falls, dust kicked up by speeding cars on the streets of Kabul resembles cold fog. Headlights beam shafts of light, occasionally catching stray dogs in their glare. It is best to cover your nose and mouth when the dust rises: A lack of asphalt on the roads means the cycle of dust rising and settling is continuous. The dust inhaled causes respiratory and eye infections and after a couple of days causes nosebleeds.
Our car pulls up outside a compound which looks like any other. A security guard stands aware outside a large metal gate, razor-wire bound round its brow, rifle in hand by some stacked sandbags that give the impression of a silent war.
Open gutters line Kabul's streets: a mix of sewage, rubbish, dust and dirt rotting together in the sun. Apparently, estimates put the level of faecal matter in the air's dust particles at anything up to 80 per cent. Sewage flows in the gutters; it rains; the gutters overflow on to the dirt roads; it dries out and turns to dust; the dust rises and so the cycle continues.
Step out of vehicles carefully, I am told, don't step into the gutters — you won't be able to wash the smell away for days.
"A'salaam Alaikum," the "shooter" greets us with a broken-toothed smile, opening a door that wasn't visible from the roadside. He was taken aback by polite replies in Arabic accents (my friend and I have spent some time in the Middle East).
We step through the enormous gate to be greeted by two more guards. One is armed and the other checks us with a hand-held metal detector, looking in our handbags carefully afterwards. He looks suspiciously at my satellite phone and Dictaphone for some time.
Approximately 100 metres back from the massive gate, we enter a thick steel door into a tiny metal cubicle. It is like something from a horror film.
A shutter slides open and the employee behind us asks for our ID. In exchange we are given a cloakroom ticket.
There are five expatriate restaurants in Kabul city; weapons are not allowed. At some, you check in your ID, your coat, your gun. Some expats can be seen on the dance floor with empty holsters.
A loud buzz and another steel door to the left unlocks. What lies behind the metal horror-film-cubicle can best be described as Narnia.
The dust and filthy gutters give way to manicured lawns and gravel paths, flanked with shrubs, bushes and trees draped with sparkling fairy lights.
Flickering hurricane lamps glow in the darkness, illuminating small patches of dinner tables, diners' faces and glimpses of conversation.
Outside, expatriate women wear headscarves and long sleeves. As soon as they are inside these metal gates the headscarves are removed and Western clothing appears as if by magic from underneath conservative layers.
Seen from the inside, this could be anywhere in Europe.
Gandamack Lodge is this Narnia, opened in 2001 by cameraman Peter Jouvenal. Shortly after the Soviet invasion in 1980, Jouvenal started filming in Afghanistan. He is said to be the only cameraman to have filmed Taliban leader Mullah Mohammad Omar and one of the few to film Osama Bin Laden.
The British-themed Lodge is adorned with memorabilia from the tiny island, thousands of miles away. Field Marshal Kitchener points his finger at diners from a First World War recruitment poster, while a growling British bulldog snarls in 2-D at passers-by. Upstairs, beautiful Afghan jewellery is on sale, along with a selection of books and old English muskets.
Life in Afghanistan for the majority of expatriates is claustrophobic. Many aren't allowed to walk along the streets outside or take any form of transport other than that provided by their respective companies. Their movements are tracked at all times and they are checked up on for security purposes. Being in a setting such as this is a breath of fresh air for many: for some a form of escapism.
"A long, long time ago … I can still remember … How that music used to make me smile … " the words of Don McLean's overused hit American Pie waft out across the garden. "So bye-bye, Miss American Pie; Drove my Chevy to the levee; But the levee was dry.
"And them good old boys were drinkin' whisky and rye; Singin', this'll be the day that I die; This'll be the day that I die," a rowdy group of American revellers screams out the lyrics, gaining in volume, fading in popularity among others surrounding them in the otherwise quiet surroundings.
Leroy is an all-American guy. Tattoos poke out from beneath his T-shirt, muscles visible through the thin material. His stocky build is indicative of physical exercise and his tanned face shows he doesn't have an office job. He has grown a full beard, it is trimmed — to try and blend in with Afghan men, I am told. His whole demeanour and physique screams private security, so he is asked where he works. He makes a joke, showing that he doesn't want to disclose what he does for a living.
Leroy has good reason not to say what he does every day: The expatriate community in Afghanistan is a dichotomy of humanitarian workers and military/security workers. Apparently the ratio of men to women is 7:1.
The military men often don't say who they are — who and what they are isn't popular among the humanitarian community. Some even pretend they work for NGOs to make themselves more conducive to the fairer, scarcer sex.
After skirting around the subject for a good 20 minutes, Leroy eventually admits that all our suspicions were correct. The beard, tanned skin, muscles, tattoos and his reluctance to tell us what his job was, meant he was a private security worker.
He left our company soon after this.
In many expatriate communities around the world, people of the same nationality congregate — enjoying the familiarity of the same culture, far away from their homes. In Kabul, the expatriate community is sharply divided in two.
I met de-miners, aid workers, NGO and humanitarian workers, people who care, help and aid others. They stay, work and socialise together.
Military and security workers stick together on the other side of the metaphorical fence: the other side of the conflict.
