ABSTRACT
For an outsider, a visit to an afganets club is rarely comfortable and never predictable. Some turn out to be sweaty gymnasia where nervy misfits build their muscles and mutter about the day they would be unleashed on the dregs, the hippies, the junkies, the Jews. Others are more reminiscent of poorhouse libraries, full of improving texts and quiet and earnest readers, keen to learn. Then there are the echoing meeting halls, today hosting a guitar-strumming session of mournful Afghan war ballads, tomorrow a kung-fu session for aspiring Bruce Lees from the local technical school.
