Following the orange stream

In the twisting streets of old town Kabul, a child squats by a gutter and a small fountain of urine arcs through the medieval air before joining the steaming bright orange stream. A man, his hair and beard white with the fine dust from the flour sack he carries on his back walks up a plank into the organised chaos of a noodle and fried chickpea factory. Heat from five spark spitting furnaces brings instant beads of sweat to his head where they clot with the dust. He walks, crouched under the weight of his load, past three giant tubs of chickpeas stewing in boiling water the colour of a setting sun lingering on low lying clouds. Hands stained by years of work scoop chickpeas into a big round pan then carry them to one of the furnaces. Oil bubbles in deep vats above the wood fuelled fire. The chickpeas sizzle as they slide off the pan and into the vats.
Sunlight filters into the room through gaps between corrugated iron sheets and spaces forged as warping wooden slats separate. As flour is sifted, small clouds of powder rise and catch sunbeams, making them tangible. Hakim makes fried noodles. He loads his syringe-like press with dough then flicks his hands at the oil. The hiss is not loud enough so he scoops some oil and throws it into the fire, it roars and flares, its tongues flicking the air outside the furnace mouth singing falling flour dust. He dips the end of the syringe into the oil and turns the handle, squeezing dough through a metal plate full of little holes. The oil froths as the thin threads of dough deep fry.
Its Ramadan, so the 30 men and boys working in the intense heat have not had a drink since 4 o'clock this morning. The boys are working their way up to working with fire and scalding oil, for now some pack the peas and noodles into plastic bags and others pack the bags into sacks.
Business is conducted as far away from the furnaces as possible. At the end of the row of sacks full of little bags of chickpeas sits the seller, his worn notebook on a small table. Around him sit men in neat, ironed loose fitting clothing and crisp black headscarves. They walk in and out briskly, the steps along their paths in and out are vacated just ahead of them in series so their entrance and departure is swift.