ONE FOR THE ROAD

(WEEK OF 05-09 APRIL 2009)

RED MEANS STOP, GREEN MEANS GO, BLUE MEANS…?

This place is always under construction.

Buildings pop up overnight, and others take months to slowly come together, the local construction workers crawling around the site like ants for weeks on end. Plots of land are cleared, covered with gravel, and fenced in to become motor pools. Guard towers rise and concrete barriers move from one place to another.

There’s a stretch of road on the North side of post that desperately needs work, and they’re finally getting to it. The road floods when it rains and some areas have potholes you could lose yourself in. They’ve closed the road before, but each time they work on just one small portion, or even on areas off the road. Often, their work is undone by the next rain. Filling in potholes with

gravel is not the most effective.

This time it looks like they may be doing it right, as they actually have some heavy equipment out there, and it appears as if some long overdue heavy paving is in order.

They’re working on one half of the road at a time and they have a local handling traffic on the other half, letting one direction through at a time. I drive up to the work area with Izzy in the car and the local on the side of the road, clad in his reflective vest and hard hat, hold up a blue plastic marker.

Usually these guys have flags which they hold up to stop and wave to usher you through, or those round signs with green on one side and red on the other. Blue is a new one. What the heck does blue mean in the context of driving?

I stop at first and then inch toward him and into the lane, thinking he’ll stop me if blue means stop in his culture. He just looks at me blankly, not giving me any indication if I should sto

p or proceed.

I make it all the way through the construction without encountering anyone else head-on, and

see the line of cars going in the other direction stopped behind another guy holding up a blue marker.

***

A MOST EXPENSIVE DRINK

This was not fun.

Two days after the Health & Welfare check, Izzy calls me with bad news. One of our guys got caught with something illegal. I ask a flurry of questions.

“Are they sure it was him? Was it alcohol or drugs? Where was it found? Has he been

notified? What’s the next step?”

Izzy knows some of the details, but not all. We have an appointment to meet with the BTN CDR where hopefully we’ll get more information. I know LTC M fairly well, and at least I see him around a lot. We’ve always been on fairly good terms.

Izzy and I walk into his office and LTC M flips through some pages to find the information on our guy, Rick. He tells us they found whiskey mixed with cranberry juice in a mouthwash bottle on top of his locker. The searches were conducted with personnel from the BTN and BDE along with MPs and military working dogs.

There were multiple witnesses to each discovery, sounds like they did the search correctly. The only thing I could have asked for was for personnel to be present while their area was searched, which is how it was done in Iraq, but that does raise other complications.

LTC M throws the ball into our court, though the next course of action is fairly straight-forward. We ask him what the next step is if our guy denies and fights the finding, and he refers us to the BDE CSM who will have access to all of the MP reports from the searches. We tell him that we’ll dot our I’s and cross our t’s, but that if our guy is guilty we’ll get him on the first thing smoking

out of Afghanistan.

We head up the hill to talk to the BDE CSM, who is luckily in his office.

CSM C remembers finding our guy’s contraband. He tells us exactly where it was located, how they went about testing it, and who was present. He calls in a MSG from down the hall who verifies his account of the event. He asks us what we’re going to do and we tell him we’ll get Rick out of country as fast as we can - what else can we do? We ask him what recourse we had if our guys wants to fight it, and the answer is: none.

Then we get talk to Rick. Which sucks.

When we catch up with him, he’s pushing a wheelbarrow full of water bottles for the office. We call him over to us and he approaches smiling as he often is. We put an end to that.

He denies it, which is the worst case scenario for us. We tell him we’ve spoken to the BTN CDR and the BDE CSM and the evidence against him is pretty solid. He outlines the living situation with shared space and how easy it would be for someone else to put something in his area. He flat-out denies that it was his. We tell him to start packing. We would try a few more angles, but it

didn’t look good.

Izzy and I leave that meeting not feeling great. Izzy is much more confident that he’s guilty, but I feel similarly. Any scenario that absolved him seems too unlikely.

We call Izzy’s boss in Kuwait and my boss in Maryland. We explain the situation and they have us follow up once more with the BDE CSM to get copies of the MP reports - which won’tt be available for some time. We’re out of options.

The next night we take Rick to the APOD and sign him up for a flight out of country. It all happened so fast, but that’s the way things go out here. He is defiant to the end.

Izzy and I deal with some backlash from our other guys, Rick’s colleagues who think he got a raw deal. But slowly the pieces start to fall into place and I become much more comfortable with having shipped him out. The mouthwash bottles on his locker were always there, we’re told, and were definitely his. He has a history of drinking problems. He had recently made some new friends who were of questionable character. Izzy doesn’t feel he reacted the way someone innocent would react. He slept late sometimes, when he was working from his living area, and one colleague says he hadn’t seemed right lately - that he was up and down.

It’s hard to interpret changes in behavior out here, because we’re all under stress and you nev

er know what’s happening with someone’s home life that might be affecting them out here. Some days are worse than others, for all of us.

But this was adding up, and any reservations I had slowly ebbed away.

I liked Rick a lot. In addition to being a go-getter, he was friendly and funny, a good addition to the office. I always got along very well with him. Unfortunately, it ultimately fell on our shoulders, from the BDE’s and BTN’s perspectives, to solve the problem. And there is only one consequence of violating General Order Number One. The

company he works for considers that a fireable offense, and so he was removed from theater and let go immediately.

We hoped that his wife knew what he was doing - maybe even that she supplied him with the alcoh

ol. It would be better, we thought, if she were in on it and could share in the blame of what happened instead of Rick having to explain to her what he’d done. Of course, he could continue to deny the accusation, and maybe he’ll get a lot of mileage out of that.

Our command leadership here expressed some surprise t

hat we got out guy out so quickly, and thanked us for doing so. I didn’t see what option we had, but apparently other companies will delay and linger and keep people in country for days.

We thought it best to handle it as soon as possible.

BTN CDR = Battalion Commander

LTC = Lieutenant Colonel

BDE = Brigade

MP = Military Police

BDE CSM = Brigade Command Sergeant Major

MSG = Master Sergeant

***

CONTRABAND

In the course of our research about Rick, we learned about other instances of people being caught up in the Health & Welfare net.

At one point, one of the searchers who was asked to explain Rick’s situation to us said “Oh, was that the guy with the heroin?” It was not, but interesting that there was one. We heard about cocaine and hash, and several other instances of alcohol.

The BTN CDR hinted that there were some “”big names” among the guilty, but nobody else I know left because of this.

I always find it surprising when people get caught with such things in theater. It's made very clear that it's not allowed, that you will be removed from country and, in many cases, lose your job if it is found in your possession. The explanation, of course, is that these people have serious substance abuse problems.

I can honestly say I've never seen or been offered any alcohol or drugs in theater. I certainly hear about it a lot, but it's all hearsay and rarely connected to anyone I'm familiar with. I

prefer to stay away from it, of course.

***

MAY I HELP YOU STEAL THAT?

The B-Hut next door has been cleared out.

It’s on Izzy’s side of the condo and he’s gotten to know some of the guys that live in it, but seemingly overnight they were evacuated and all of their possessions moved out. Izzy ran into one of the guys who used to live there who told him they were moved out because of bugs. This was news guaranteed to make me feel as if things are crawling on me at night.

The residents were moved to another hut elsewhere in Dragon Village and left behind a shell. B-Huts are just big wooden shacks, and to make them more livable the people assigned t

o each hut scrounge plywood and build walls to separate each living area, giving themselves a modicum of privacy.

Izzy and I walked into the B-Hut and got a good look at the rooms, wooden platforms serving as beds, the whole room was only slightly larger than a mattress. They had built-in shelves and areas to prop up televisions. Everything constructed of the same cheap wood that everything else is around here. Wires were run haphazardly in the fine Afghan fashion we’ve grown accustomed to.

Probably owing to their relocation to smaller living areas, the departed left a lot behind. Free-standing bookshelves and tables, plastic chairs, and wood littered the rooms. Izzy and I went through it and took what we thought we could use in our rooms or in the office across post for our guys. It was all crap, but sometimes crap is better than the nothing you currently have.

The next night Izzy and I are out chatting on his porch when a couple of female airmen walk by looking at the scrap laid against the abandoned B-Hut. They tell us they just got to Bagram and maybe could use some things for their rooms. I suggest they look inside.

They’re reluctant at

first, but Izzy and I show them inside the B-Hut and point out that the rooms are empty, the people have left. They pounce on a couple of chairs and small tables, excited for the free stuff, and I help them carry their loot out of the building.

We chat for a few minutes outside the building. They’re grateful for the free things, and are only starting to realize how hard it is to get things here. Izzy and I are old pros at scrounging on post, and are not above retrieving items from dumpsters.

I offer to help them take the stuff back to their rooms, but they decline and instead balance it precariously and stumble off under the weight.

Welcome to Bagram, ladies.

***

I’LL MISS THE NEIGHBORHOOD

I’ll be moving soon.

I’ve been here just over 7 months and my name has slowly crawled up the OML (the wait list) for a room to be provided by my command. I have been living in “the condo” on the other side of post, but the goal has always been to move into a room with my unit, a room that would provide that luxury of all luxuries: indoor plumbing.

There will be many advantages to moving across post, in addition to the convenience of peeing at 0300 without having to put a jacket again. Most of the meetings I attend are on that side of the base, as are the offices of my CDR and his staff with whom I interact on a regular basis.

Most of my KTRs live and work on that side, and it will be good to see them more regularly. Though we’re just 5 miles apart right now, I don’t see them nearly enough. When I visit them on their side, I don’t have a place to work, so it’s a quick visit. They rarely come to see me, as I work out of my room and they feel like they’re in my personal space. Which of course they are.

So it will be good to move, but the transition will come with some costs.

For one, I have enjoyed being away from the offices of my CDR and his staff. I’ve enjoyed the autonomy, working on my own hours and doing my own thing. I will be changing my hours to work with my personnel and to come more in line with the rest of my unit when I’m working alongside them.

Most of all, though, I’m going to miss the neighborhood I live in now. Dragon Village is a hodge-podge of military, civilians, and contractors doing a wide variety of different jobs.

I’ve gotten to know the native Afghans who live next door, who invite me to share tea and cookies with them on a regular basis. The locals in the next row of huts always wave and I’ve had a few very interesting conversations with them. The Kiwi soldiers on the other side of the bunker can be annoying at times with their Sunday morning music, but I enjoy that they train in our gravel lot, a couple of their female soldiers are awfully cute, and they all have those cool accents.

The soldiers in Dragon Village generally keep to themselves, but many weekend nights they congregate in front of their B-Huts to grill and watch movies. They used to play video games projected on the side of the bunker, but I don’t see that anymore. Perhaps as summer draws on they’ll return to it.

I see the same people every day, walking to and from the shower, the chow hall, or the gym. I’m used to them, they’re used to me. We wave and exchange pleasantries, occasionally we stop and chat.

It’s not like this on the other side. Where I’ll be moving is much more homogeneous, with a shared mission and comprised almost entirely of US KTRs and DA Civilians (like me), There are some soldiers (not no airmen, sailors, or marines), and TCNs, but relatively fewer than I see on a regular basis right now.

Though I’m only moving 5 miles away, I’ll rarely have occasion to return. I’m going to miss this neighborhood for the variety of people I see on a daily basis, and the friendships I’ve made.

Also, the food is better on this side.

OML = Order of Merit List

CDR = Commander

KTR = Contractor

DA = Department of the Army

TCN = Third Country National

SPRING COMES TO AFGHANISTAN

(WEEK OF 29 MARCH – 04 APRIL 2009)

GENERAL ORDER NUMBER ONE

Wikipedia tells me that General Order No. 1 initially referred to the first order GEN MacAurthur gave to Japanese troops following their government’s surrender at the end of World War II. It has a very different meaning now.

General Order No. 1 for deployed US troops and civilians refers to a basic set of rules we all operate under - mostly it tells us what is verboten.

Alcohol is a big one. Though some countries allow their military personnel to drink in theater, US Forces are prohibited from possessing or consuming alcohol while on orders in Southwest Asia. This is partly due to cultural sensitivity, since most of the countries we operate in are Muslim and as per their religion they eschew alcohol (at least officially). There is also the more obvious concern for safety in an environment where you’re surrounded by countless guns and heavy machinery.

I know of countless incidents of people being caught drinking. Guilty civilians (KTRs or otherwise) are sent home immediately, barred from country. Military may receive an Article 15, be court-martialed, or otherwise reprimanded depending on who catches them and the desires of their commander.

I can honestly say that while I have heard a lot about drinking over here, and during my time in Iraq, I have never seen a drop of alcohol in theater. I am glad to steer clear of it.

Also blacklisted by General Order No. 1 are pornography and other “offensive material”. That’s probably harder to enforce given electronic media, but you still hear about people getting caught with DVDs and magazines.

GO1 goes on to restrict photographing detainees and casualties of war, entrance into mosques, gambling, destruction or theft of archaeological artifacts, proselytizing, and adopting local animals (wild or domesticated) - all of which I’ve seen at one time or another.

I remember being surprised at the restrictions outlined in GO1 when I first heard of them, but I’ve spent a tremendous amount of time in theater over the past 3 years, and am now used to those rules governing my life. Not everyone is so accepting of the rules, however, and there are always people willing to risk their jobs to undermine them.

GEN = General
KTR = Contractor
TCN = Third Country National

***

HEALTH AND WELFARE WILL NAIL YOU

They sneak up on you, by design, as they did for us this week.

“Health & Welfare” is a dirty term in theater, as it refers almost exclusively to searches for contraband. The argument is always made that these “inspections”
are intended for our safety, but most people see them as witch-hunts. That there are always illegal items found doesn’t seem to dissuade detractors, but it more than justifies them in my mind.

The inspections this week were conducted in the common living area where most of my KTRs live, across post from the condo I sleep in. I hear about it when I see some of the guys later in the day. They tell me how early in the morning they are ushered out of their bunks, or kept from returning to them if they were out eating breakfast.

Members of the BDE staff, along with MPs and MWDs, walked through the huts and individual rooms in groups, searching for, confiscating and noting locations of found contraband. Though there are no immediate reports, we have no doubt that plenty of drugs and alcohol were found. We hear too many stories and rumors about such use for them to have turned up nothing.

One incident we catch wind of is that of an unnamed KTR refusing to be held back from his room and taking a swing at one of the security guards. We can only assume that he had something in his room that he didn’t wish found, but taking a swing at a guard will get him a window seat on the first thing smoking just as quickly as being caught with alcohol.

The fallout from this search would come slowly over the next few days as the search leads to formal reports and those reports are handed down to supervisors, and employees are given one-way tickets home.

It would be a few days before we’d catch wind of losing one of our own, that Izzy and I would not enjoy dealing with.

KTR = Contractor
BDE = Brigade
MWD = Military Working Dog

***

APRIL’S FOOLS

Matt keeps us loose, is always ready with a dry joke and willing to laugh at mine. He keeps a plastic lizard on his desk, which I like. Reminds me of my brother.

A couple of months ago he left a note on one the other guys’ bunk, a memo mimicking those we see posted from Billeting it stated that his living area was unacceptably dirty and cluttered and that if it was not cleaned up immediately Rick would be removed to a tent and cot. Rick came into the office ranting and raving, saying how the mess was his neighbor’s, how unfair this was, etc etc.

Matt let him off the hook before he got too angry, and we had a good laugh about it. Rick vowed revenge, and got it.

Some weeks later, Rick snuck into Matt’s living area. Most people who enjoy a bottom bunk, as Matt does, hang blankets to encircle the sleeping area, for privacy and noise/light reduction. Rick took advantage of that by filling the entire enclosed volume with crumpled newspaper, from the mattress to the bottom of the upper bunk.

Matt returned to his bed late at night, as usual, and had to very slowly and quietly (so as to not disturb the 17 people he shares a B-Hut with) remove the newspaper so that he could get into bed. To his credit, he found this hilarious.

With April’s Fools looming, I asked Matt if he had anything in mind for the holiday and he said he did. He showed me another fake memo that he’d created – it was a “NOTICE OF INSPECTION” indicating that all personal computers were going to be searched for “inappropriate materials and images” in accordance with GO1.

It was written in all-caps and with jumbled grammar typical of such notices, and concluded with “THANK YOU IN ADVANCE FOR YOUR PATIENCE AND UNDERSTANDING; YES IT’S A JOKE, IN THIS MATTER, HAVE A GREAT DAY.” It was signed “Al Preel Fahools”.

I laughed when I read it, but had to think better of it when he told me he planned to post copies of it all over the housing area. Not knowing how people would react or who they might raise it to before reading it thoroughly, I engaged Matt in a discussion as to whether this was a good idea. I hated to do it, but feared the possible ramifications if someone complained.

Matt agreed it might not be a good idea, and the prank was shelved.

Three months later we received notices that all computers were going to be scanned for illegal software. It was not a joke.

GO1 = General Order No. 1

***

FAMILIAR GRIPES

I end up having lunch with a couple of guys attached to my BDE who are new in country. Sitting together out of necessity (crowded), my book stays snug in my uniform pocket as we chat about life in Bagram.

I forget sometimes what it’s like to be new here, to still be getting the lay of the land. They spend a lot of time asking me about housing, complaining about how bad it is, and telling me how they will force the BDE to do better by them. I do not tell them that they will fail.

The fact is, our BDE has grown far faster than it could build housing. With the expansion of military operations in this theater, personnel have poured into Bagram and it didn’t take long to max-out the limited number of available CHUs. To handle the overflow, the BDE put up tents with cots, which soon became tents with bunk beds. It is one of these tents, on a top bunk with the nylon roof flapping against my head, that I spent my first night in Bagram back in August.

It sucked.

The tents were eventually replaced with B-Huts, which are little more than wooden tents, and again they were filled with bunk beds to maximize the number of people they could squeeze in. Those B-Huts were later replaced with even larger B-Huts, and all the while we’re told that these are just temporary solutions.

Temporary means at least a year in theater, and considering that most people deploy for a year or less, it’s easier to just assume that what you see is as good as it’s ever going to get.

The way housing is handled now is that when you arrive into theater you are placed on an OML - a waiting list - for a CHU. Getting a CHU is what we all aspire to. In the meantime, you go into the B-Huts, and get a bunk among the smelly, disgusting throng. My guys that live in there hate it, and spend as much time in the office and return to their bed only when they’re absolutely exhausted.

I was lucky in that when I arrived there were only two of us here, and my unit owns two rooms on the other side of post. So, I let my name ride the OML while I live in the condo - it’s not as good as a CHU (no plumbing), but it provides privacy, and that is an enormous luxury in theater.

As our mission has grown, we will fill the condo based on seniority - time in country - which at least affords our guys a slightly better deal. When I am finally given a CHU (someday), I will move out of the condo and be replaced by Matt, who will live there until he gets a room.

My lunchmates find the whole B-Hut situation unsatisfactory. As they will only be deployed for 6 months, and it’s currently taking longer than that to work ones way through the OML (I’m at just over 7 months on the waiting list), they feel it’s unfair that they should spend their entire time in the B-Hut.

I let them complain, despite the fact that I disagree with them. Clearly they thought the situation would be better than it is, and had nobody deployed to help reel in their expectations. They’re not the first.

BDE = Brigade
CHU = Containerized Housing Unit
OML = Order of Merit List

***

KIWI

The New Zealand troops have port-a-johns that are ever-so-slightly cleaner than the cans nearer the condo. I’m willing to walk a few extra feet to avoid some of the horrific things I’ve seen inside those plastic boxes.

I exited one tonight at the same time as one of the Kiwis. I’ve been living next to them long enough to recognize all of them, but not closely enough to know any of their names. I think everyone in our little housing area has a crush on one of the female Kiwis - not only is she cute, but she’s got that awesome accent.

I notice my bathroom buddy is wearing a New York Giants sweatshirt and I ask him if he’s a fan as we walk back towards our respective hooches. He says it was a gift from an American friend, and goes on to extol the merits of rugby over American football.

He tells me that his family sends him DVDs of rugby games that he watches here, even though he knows the outcome already. THAT is fandom. I stay up late or wake early to watch games at all hours, and I am religious about checking the scores of my teams online, but I would have a hard time watching a pre-recorded game I know the result of.

I tell him I’ve been watching cricket on the BBC channel I get, and he laughs at me when I tell it’s terribly confusing. He says he’s a big cricket fan as well, but he doesn’t get DVDs of those matches because they last too long - they wouldn’t fit on one DVD and he wouldn’t have the time to watch them out here.

We part ways when he veers off into the Kiwi complex.

ME: Have a good night.
HIM: So long, mate.

***

SALUTING

Though I wear a uniform, I don’t salute.

Saluting is dependent upon recognition of differences in rank, and I don’t have a rank. I have an equivalency, sort of, but where I fall in the hierarchy is debatable. In practice, I’m like a MAJ and for the most part defer to LTCs and above, and would not take guff from a CPT or below. That all changes depending on the situation, but that’s the rule of thumb I operate under.

I do salute at the Fallen Comrade ceremonies, as the casket passes my position. I asked a SGM last year if I should, and he said it would be better for appearance’s sake if everyone in uniform saluted during that observance. I agree, and always feel good about it, to show that respect to someone who gave their life here.

I was walking to a meeting on Disney Drive when I fell in step behind an officer - I couldn’t see his rank, but I knew he was an officer because every enlisted soldier or airman that passed him saluted, there was a constant raising and lowering of arms. I catch up to him as we cross the street and see that he’s an Army CPT (O-3). We walk by a soldier leaning against a barrier who salutes him just as he turns to acknowledge me.

CPT: They should make this whole country a no-salute zone.

ME: I was just noting how often you were saluting on the walk up here.
CPT: Yeah. I salute everyone above and everyone below salutes me. It sucks.

Bagram is especially bad for this, as many units have their HQs here, so there are a lot of officers. Kandahar is the same way. Though these are the largest bases with a few more amenities than the smaller FOBs, most of us would prefer to live and work “away from the flagpole”.

I have been saluted in error a few times, though. From a distance, my “US” badge probably looks a little like the LTC rank insignia (black oak leaf). I never return the salute and the saluter quickly realizes why, and usually we share a laugh as we pass.

This mistake hasn’t happened since I grew my beard, since it’s more obvious that I’m not an officer – active military personnel are not allowed to have facial hair past a moustache unless by exception for “sensitive skin” or as an operational requirement (for those embedding or otherwise working in the population).

MAJ = Major
LTC = Lieutenant Colonel
CPT = Captain
SGM = Sergeant Major
FOB = Forward Operating Base

***

BIRTHDAYS

I always remember my friend Matt’s birthday - April 4th - as the anniversary of the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. The band U2 has a song, Pride, which states the date: “Early morning, April 4 / Shot rings out in the Memphis sky.” Were it not for that connection, and that song, I’d forget his birthday as readily as I forget everyone else’s.

I dropped him an email wishing him a happy day, which is about as much effort as we ever put forth.

Later, as I’m walking up to the DFAC for dinner, I pass a gentleman working outside his B-Hut, laying out a garden. I greet him, and find he’s eager to talk about his garden - he’s growing roses, desert tulips, and a patch of Kentucky bluegrass.

I learn Mr. Z is an Afghan, one of many who fled the country at the outset of fighting with the Russians. He emigrated to the US and has returned now in an advisory role to military leaders working with the Afghan government.

We stand on his porch talking about the country and what needs to happen for them to have peace, and to prosper. My thoughts in that regard have always tended to education and access to information - he doesn’t disagree - but I openly wonder about natural resources which will fuel the rebuilding and growth of infrastructure necessary to push the country into the 21st century.

Afghanistan does not have the fertile oil fields of Iraq, but Mr. Z reminded me the country is rich in minerals… and poppy. Certainly that industry would need to be redirected in order for a full-fledged (and less corrupt) economy to take root. He told me it was not so long ago that tourism brought millions of visitors (and their money) into the country.

We talk at length, me naively, him knowledgably. He had apparently just returned from a bike ride when I met him and he leaves his bike helmet on the entire time we’re talking.

I eventually beg out of the conversation and he takes that opportunity to invite me to a birthday party he’s holding for a friend of his that very night - and right there at the B-Hut. I consider it would be a good way to celebrate my friend’s birthday, even if he’s not around. I ask Mr. Z if I can bring a friend, and he affirms that I can. I help him string some festive (= Christmas) lights before I depart.

I run off to get Izzy.

By the time we return, the “party” is in full swing, which is to say there is music playing. The guest of honor hasn’t arrived yet, but there are a number of Afghans milling about eating and chatting. Mr. Z greets me warmly and begins to offer us food and others get out of their seats to offer them to us, which we decline.

We’re served plates of food out of large pots sitting in the hall of the B-Hut. The preparation and presentation leave just about everything to be desired, but it tastes good nonetheless.

The rice is similar to that which I had in Salerno many months ago - long grain, sweet, with raisins. I feel as if I could eat 15 pounds of that, it’s fantastic. On top of the rice, I receive a patty of something - I’m told it’s lamb kabob, but it tastes like a veggie burger. We also receive nuggets of goat meat of bone - knuckles, perhaps - which are inedible under the circumstances. Izzy and I stab at the meat and seem only ever to hit bone; it’s so dark out, we can’t see what we’re doing.



We chat with Mr. Z some, and spend much of the evening swapping stories with another DA Civilian, Miley, who works in contracting on base. She has been in Afghanistan for a couple of years, and shares some insight into pay issues - we all have pay issues - particularly regarding the federal service pay cap which, if you are deployed for most of a year, is almost impossible to avoid. Something to look forward to.

The birthday boy finally arrives, and is confused when Izzy and I wish him a happy birthday. We stay for a bit longer, but fewer and fewer of the conversations are in English and eventually we head back to our rooms, both grateful for the distraction and the experience.

Izzy tells me the next day that he spent most of the night running to the blue box (the port-a-john) from the food we ate.

DFAC = Dining Facility
DA = Department of the Army

***

SENATORS’ SONS

I am beginning to suspect that everyone in Afghanistan is - or was - either a farmer or a Senator.

I have had occasion to meet many locals, both who had fled the country during the war with Russia, and those who stayed and survived the conflict. Of those that fled, and have no returned to Afghanistan to assist in its rebuilding, the large majority tell me that their father was a Senator “in the old government”.

Of those working with the US who were locally recruited, whose families never left Afghanistan, their families are inevitably farmers.

The latter is perhaps not surprising, considering the limited opportunities available anyone to subsist in Afghanistan within the last 30 years. The preponderance of Senators, though, I find surprising. Perhaps “Senator” does not mean the same thing, or perhaps local tribes each had their own seats, making for a much larger number of them overall.

It does not pass my notice that the Senators’ sons are returning from the States well -educated, while most of the “local locals” are not. It is also noteworthy that those Afghans hired in the States receive significantly more money than those hired locally, even when they perform exactly the same job.

I live next door to Afghans of both recent origins who work as interpreters and translators. The “local local” I became friends with told me that he is paid $800 a month, and that on that income he can provide for his entire family. While I don’t know exactly how much those coming out of the States are paid, the number quoted to me was North or $200,000 a year, and I believe it.

***

SPRING SHOWERS

The warming of Afghanistan continues, with intermittent rain mixed in for good measure.

I love the changing weather and scenery. My seven months in Iraq were marked by a total of perhaps 3 clouds and two brief drizzlings. I saw the hot and dry summer when I arrived in August, and the decline into winter from which we are now emerging. They’re not exactly the seasons I’m used to from my childhood in Rhode Island, but I’m happy with the variety.

Though the mountains remain snow-covered, tthere is also a little more green around, weeds poking up amidst the gravel and sighted through the fence to the outside world. There are stretches of road with concrete barriers which completely obscure a view of the village, but other expanses with little more than a chain link fence and concertina wire.

Through these latter areas, we see what appear to be ruins – reinforced mud walls, uneven and crumbling. The walls are delineating family compounds, and I see them across the country from the air when I travel to other bases. The land is rutted and pocked with mounds, definitely not farmland. As soon as the green popped up, we started seeing locals with goats and sheep feeding on what little plant life had managed to survive this long.


We saw few locals out and about over the winter, but they’re often standing around watching us now. They wave or give us the thumbs-up. Sometimes the kids make a gesture as to ask for water, or give us the middle finger.


I drove by a truck parked just opposite a gaggle of local children recently. The driver, an Afghan soldier, was leaning out of his door yelling at the children and the children were yelling back.


Another time I saw an ANA soldier throwing rocks over the fence at the children. His aim was poor.

ANA = Afghan National Army

***

BLOOMING LOCALS

At the end of every month, I swing by the PX to pay my bill for internet and television provided by a local vendor operating on post through AAFES.

It costs $115/month, and I have to pay in person at a small office container. Neither service they provide is particularly reliable, but I need the internet access to work, and the television costs only an additional $10 a month. I like to leave the news or ESPN on while I’m working, though I watch little else these days.

From the PX, I headed over to the other side of post via the South route. I rarely go that way, it’s longer, but sometimes I need to look at different concrete barriers. I saw a soldier waiting at the bus stop and pick him up – he’s going to “Tower 5” which is mostly on my way.

As we drove South of the airstrip, we passed a long expanse of wire fence and intermittent concrete barriers – we can see the village beyond, rutted fields closest to the wire. I note that it’s getting green outside the wire, and then I see the red amongst the green. At first I think they’re little red flags, like we use on training lanes to identify threats, but they’re flowers, and lots of them. Mostly red but with some white mixed in. I believe these are the same desert tulips Mr Z is growing.

Spring truly is upon us.

I mention to my passenger what I’ve heard about the village just outside our fences, how poor they are, that they have running water maybe once a week. He nods, telling me he’s a helicopter pilot (on the Kiowa) and that they fly over the village.

HIM: Some of the houses out there are really nice, like mansions. But most don’t even look livable. There’s one out there with a courtyard and fountain in the middle. Really nice.
ME: It probably belongs to the guy selling us bootleg DVDs

He tells me about a hotel somewhere up in the mountains that he says looks like a 4-star hotel, with a huge swimming pool and everything.

HIM: I don’t know who would stay there, but it looks gorgeous.

I turn onto a paved road next to Tower 5 and drive back onto the airfield to drop him off at his office. I never catch his rank or name, but we shake hands as he gets out.

As I’m driving away, I kick myself for not asking him about the Kiowas that have been circling the town just over the wire from my living quarters for the last week.

AAFES = American Armed Forces Exchange Service
PX = Post Exchange