OLD FRIEND
I hear that Eli is back.
Eli was the KTR lead in Afghanistan when I arrived back in August, but left shortly thereafter, was replaced by Alex, who was let go in December and was replaced by Izzy (who, we joke, has survived so far).
Eli had mentioned before he left that he’d probably be back, and actually I expected him back sooner than this, but time gets away from you out here and I guess I hadn’t realized just how much time had passed. I had heard he’d taken a job with another contracting company, but the company he’s returned with is not the one I’d heard about.
It’s common for contractors to jump around from job to job, and for companies to steal employees from one another. An approved slot in theater is a very valuable commodity for a company, but only if it can fill that slot with someone qualified and thereby charge the military for it. Companies hate leaving approved slots open for long, for every day it’s unfilled is lost revenue.
Eli is only in Bagram passing through to Kandahar where he’ll be working full time. Izzy and I walk up to the APOD to look for him, and I find him in the back where you wait after you’ve been manifested on the flight and you’re just waiting to board. They call it “Gate 1”, though it is in fact the only gate.
I sit and chat with him, catch up on his family and his new job, and relate some of what’s happened since he left. I have trouble with the latter, as in many ways it seems like he just left, and my daily life changes so little from week to week or even month to month. We talk about some of the guys who he worked with before he left and how they’re doing, and we make plans to keep in touch and to make sure we get together whenever we’re on the same post.
It’s nice to see a familiar face, and Eli is in fact the person in country I’ve known the longest, having met him last March (2008) when I visited Afghanistan for the first time.
The person I’ve known the longest in this country, I’ve known less than a year.
KTR = Contractor
BDE = Brigade
***
NEW FRIEND (WHETHER HE LIKES IT OR NOT)
We got new blood.
It’s definitely something you get used to working overseas: the constant turnover. Whether KTR, military, or civilian, all of the people you work with and meet are only here temporarily. Many do 6-month tours, which means you’ve barely gotten to know them by the time they’re getting ready to leave.
The KTRs generally do 1-year tours, though many extend for another year; the money’s good and if they’re enjoying the work they’ll stick around. KTRs receive a tax break if they spend 330 days in theater, so they rarely do less than a year and if they do more, it’s usually a whole second year.
Mark arrived this week and is a plus-up for us, a new employee not replacing anyone. He seems exceedingly friendly, which I am glad for. In addition to his Army aviation experience, Mark has caddied at a pro golf course for years and has anecdotes about the famous people he’s worked with. He caddied for Jerry Rice and my childhood hero, Bo Jackson, so I’m immediately impressed and jealous.
The KTRs and I work very closely together, and I will see Mark every day, for several hours, with the exception of when I’m traveling. It pays for us to get along, and it appears that it will be easy with him.
His arrival also continues the growth of our footprint in theater, and it’s becoming a little more like my experience in Iraq, where we had a sizeable crew. I like it.
KTR = Contractor
***
EVEN NEWER FRIEND
Most of the new people in my life I meet at the chow hall.
As crowded as it is, I try to eat just before it closes, and I end up eating with the workers after they finish their shifts. I can’t always wait until that time, though, because of meetings and other responsibilities. When I eat at any other time, I end up sharing a table with strangers, and often we talk. Sometimes I even want to.
This week I sat down at the first empty chair I could find, which was across the table from an empty seat, but with a meal tray and drink pre-positioned. A few moments after I sat down, and just as I had produced my book, a woman in civilian clothes sits down across from me.
I politely greet her, but start reading. That lasts a few seconds, but soon we’re chatting away like old friends. My new friend’s name is Hali (like “Holly”), she’s an Afghan, and she’s fascinating. In her mid- forties (I’m guessing), Hali was born in Afghanistan to parents who had met while both were studying in England.
Her parents were both activists, and she spent her youth “vacationing” around Southwest Asia learning about the region; the history, politics, and culture. Often imprisoned or under threat, her parents instilled in her a strong sense of social responsibility. Though attending school in Europe, she returned to Afghanistan to fight on the front lines against the Russians during the Soviet-Afghan War.
Following the end of that conflict, she lived in Europe, Afghanistan, and the States teaching and becoming more involved in human rights and conflict resolution with various NGOs. When the war in Iraq flared up, she deployed with the Marines to work with locals.
Though she lived off-base with the locals in Iraq, she tells only one harrowing tale. Stranded on the side of a road with her driver (her car had been disabled by US soldiers, with bullets) she and her driver were apprehended by Al-Qaeda for several hours before they were able to escape and run away.
She told me that story and was clearly frustrated with the US Soldiers. Not for disabling her car - that happens a lot - but for leaving her there.
She came home to Afghanistan a year or so ago and lives “on the economy”, renting a house in the capital city of Kabul. She claims it’s safe, if you know where to go and where not to go, claiming even that much of it is like any metropolitan European city. I express my doubts.
We have a great lunch and then I offer to help her find her friend’s office so she can drop off some luggage prior to a trip to Kandahar. We fail in finding him, so I offer to store her bags in my room.
I call Izzy to pick us up and the two of them hit it off. By the time we’ve moved some of her bags into my room and dropped her off at the DVQ, she’s telling us both to call her “Aunt Hali”.
She was one of the more interesting meal-friends I’ve made, and probably one I’ll keep in touch with as well.
NGO = Non-Government Organization
DVQ = Distinguished Visitor’s Quarters (which is simply a wooden hut with tiny, plywood-demarcated rooms barely large enough to hold a bed)
***
BIRDS!
Eddie was on a C-130 taking off from an outlying FOB trying to return to Bagram that hit a flock of birds just as it was lifting off. It immediately came back to Earth, jostling everyone aboard, and the plane was then quickly evacuated as smoke billowed from the engines.
Nothing like that has ever happened to me, Mom.
FOB = Forward Operating Base
***
MILESTONE
Everyone has a countdown. I have 3.
The first is the time to my R&R, wherein I count down the days between my arrival and the time I get to have a beer, and see my family and friends (in that order). On that countdown, I passed the 2/3 mark this week.
The other two are less encouraging, counting down the time between my arrival and two possible pull-out dates in 2010. I try not to look at them too much.
R&R = Rest & Recuperation (or sometimes Rest & Relaxation)
***
THE RODEO COMES TO AFGHANISTAN
I first meet them walking home from the APOD with Izzy.
We suddenly find ourselves amongst a gaggle of civilians: a few guys with cowboy hats on, and a girl with a bright pink jacket, big sunglasses, and wearing enough makeup for all of them. Without looking too closely, I assume the girl is one of the Russian workers who come in for KBR; they’re always dressed up far too much for a military base in Afghanistan, and we always assume they’re on the prowl for an American husband.
Izzy and I are chatting away and I realize I’m swearing up a storm when the fashion queen shoots me a surprised look. It’s definitely a bad habit I pick up when I’m in theater, because most of the soldiers swear a lot and I slip right into it. I’m usually pretty good about controlling it in the right context, but I clearly failed here.
I realize these people are probably the Pro-Rodeo riders we’ve seen the flyers for. I ask them when the show is and one of the guys says “Well, it’s not really a show, but we’ll be at the MWR tomorrow night”.
I thank them for coming, they thank me for being here, and we part ways at the intersection.
Izzy and I plan to go to the Rodeo show the next night...
We head over to the MWR tent just after dinner. It’s far too warm, of course, but we stand around for a while as a few of the visitors walk around and shake hands. There are five of them, 2 women and 3 men: professional cowboys and cowgirls.
Before the meet & greet really gets going, one of the cowgirls sings the national anthem while we stand at attention – she tells us she wanted to sing it for herself, so that she could say she did that out here.
Eventually they all stand up front, pass a microphone around, tell a little about themselves, relate stories from the clips of their careers showing on a screen behind them, and answer a few questions.
They’re all very appreciative of the men and women in the armed forces, and I’m always moved by hearing that unconcealed respect for what our guys and gals in uniform are doing out here. One of the cowgirls, Ms. Liz Pinkston, only starts to speak briefly before having to stop – she’s choked up by being here.
One of the questions they answer is whether any of them has ever “mutton busted”, something I’ve never heard of. Apparently it’s what you do with really little kids, sort of to train them early for rodeo riding, but perhaps more just to amuse the adults – you put them on a sheep and tell them to hang on for dear life.
Ms. Jimmy Kay Davis refers to it as “organized child abuse” and says that when people on ranches get bored they “put a helmet and pads on a kid and strap ‘em to a farm animal”.
The cowboys and cowgirls also answer questions about injuries, and most have pretty brutal stories about being thrown and trampled, and several are walking around with screws littering their bodies.
They lament that they don’t have any cattle to get on out here, and I suggest we could wrangle them up a camel or two. The soldiers around me nod approvingly to my idea, but nobody bites. .
After the Q&A, we line up to walk through and shake hands, get signatures on a sheet they provide with pictures and bios, and chat them up. I’ve never been to a rodeo and doubt I could name a rider on demand, but based on their accomplishments it seems we got a good crew to come visit us. They are Mr. Tater Porter, Mr. Jessy Davis, Mr. Dan Mortensen, Ms. Jimmy Kay Davis, and Ms. Liz Pinkston.
They’re all really nice, and happy to be here. I take the opportunity to apologize for swearing a bit much when I saw Ms. Pinkston yesterday and it takes her a moment to remember the incident before she laughs it off.
Izzy and I walk back to the condo, agreeing that it’s good of these guys to come out. When we mention how appreciative they are, we admit we know it’s really for the guys and gals who are rolling out on mission, being shot at by the enemy and returning fire.
Izzy and I are proud of our jobs out here, we’re cogs in the machine, but these sorts of things aren’t really about us – and, ultimately, we’re here for those soldiers in harm’s way, too.
DFAC = Dining Facility
MWR = Morale, Welfare & Recreation
