Kabul

Having never been to a war zone, I wasn’t quite sure of what to expect.  Upon taxiing to the terminal, we deplaned directly onto the tarmac, and immediately felt the oppressive Afghanistan heat as we made our way to the terminal.  The dingy concrete walls, covered with peeling paint, reminded me of bleak, communist 1950’s era buildings I had seen in movies.  Even though it was mid-afternoon, inside it was dark with dirty tile floors and dim, fluorescent lighting overhead.  Positioned at every turn, were armed soldiers; some vigilant, others, not. We queued up in lines reminiscent of the wait at Great Adventure (somewhat apropos, don’t you think?) Almost immediately, men with luggage carts were beside us asking in heavy Afghani accents, if we wanted help with our luggage.  Patti and I decided that we would do our part to help out the local economy and shared a cart.  Some in our group did the same, while others chose to keep their belongings in hand.  We were told that we would be met by an interpreter or language assistant (LA) from the company, but were provided no description of what he looked like.

By now, because of the delays created by getting our passports and visas checked, the group had separated. Our baggage handlers, however, seemed to know where they were going as they headed for one of the exits. I wasn’t absolutely positive that they weren’t just stealing our luggage; or worse, part of some kidnapping plot, but I hesitantly decided to follow the bags.  We trailed them back out into the hot sun and towards a parking lot.  By now I could see the rest of our group being met by someone checking names against a list.  The men who read from the lists were dressed in civilian clothing, armed, and wearing body armor.  They weren’t Afghans, but spoke with different accents which were difficult to understand none the less.  The drivers and other members of the security team came from many different countries.  Most of the drivers were from either Bulgaria or Romania, while another was South African.  Many members of the team, who usually ride as front passengers (or shooters), are from Nepal.  These “wingmen” are referred to as Ghurkas.  Because of my difficulty understanding the English spoken through the various accents, I immediately got an appreciation for the international flavor of the mission.  Had the rest of the class not been in the area, the language barrier would have given me enough of a concern that I might be getting into a convoy for a different contracting company, and end up who knows where?

 I was put at ease when a big husky fellow called my name from his list, “Kosteelo?” I responded, “Yes.” “You go in vehicle 225!” It sounded to me like a Russian accent, but I fully understood his gesture as he pointed to what looked like an armor-plated hearse.  A few of my classmates were already starting to load some of their gear into the vehicle.  Some of my other colleagues were loading their belongings into two F350 Ford pickup trucks.

We quickly crammed into the back of vehicle #225, or the “box”, as some referred to it, which was already partially filled with our luggage.  As the last of us got in, the big fella closed the door behind us, securing it with a type of latch which consisted of a metal bolt that dropped into a channel.  The “locking mechanism” was similar to the way a medieval castle’s door was secured with piece of wood that was dropped into a “catch” to keep the door shut.  Looking at it from my vantage point, I was unsure as to how it opened from the inside – not a very comforting thought.  As hot as it was outside, it was even hotter inside the vehicle.  As we started to roll out, our driver informed us in a heavy South African accent, “We ave no aya conditioning, so it moit be a bit uncomfortable.  We’ll troy to git you they-ah as soon as we can.”  With our legs entangled among luggage and each other’s legs, the convoy began to push out.  As the South African accelerated, the loud rattling of a diesel engine was accompanied by big puffs of smoke from the exhaust.   For as loud as the clatter was, and for as much smog as the vehicle was putting out, the “box” didn’t seem to move very quickly.  In fact, it moved so slowly, that it failed to make it over the first speed bump leading from the airport.  The South African backed up a bit, and after gaining some speed, was successful on his second attempt over the bump.  However, I couldn’t figure what was worse; not being able to clear the speed bump, or driving over it with no rear shocks.  A number of the taller guys hit their heads on the roof as we drove over subsequent bumps and potholes. 

During the trip, I tried to see as much as I could through the thick windows, but to no avail.  I was concentrating on the miserable ride.  Each time we slowed down, I was hopeful that we were approaching our destination, but it was just the driver trying to lessen the effects of the vehicle’s poor suspension system. After approximately ten minutes, everyone’s shirts were already drenched with sweat.  After a few more minutes we were all trying to adjust our legs in order to get the circulation going again, but due to the overcrowding, there was very little room in which to move.  Finally as I began to feel the beginning stages of motion sickness, the vehicle swung wide to the left, in order to make the right turn into the small opening between the Hescos that led to the metal entry gates leading to Camp Pinnacle.  Hescos are structures (cages of wire mesh and fabric) filled with sand and dirt that are used to help protect against oncoming vehicles, blasts, bullets, and anything else that can be used as a means of attack.  

As soon as we could, we tumbled out of the hot box to cooler air.  I can’t say fresh air, because upon getting out of the vehicle, I immediately became aware of the stench. At T1G we learned about the poor air quality in Kabul.  A web article reported that the Afghan Environmental Protection Agency estimated that annually, 3,000 people die from the effects of air pollution – That’s more than the UN’s report of 2,777 civilians killed as a result of the war in Afghanistan in 2010.  Much of the pollution is attributed to, among other things, open burning, lack of vehicle emissions controls, and a massive influx of people seeking the security of the capital city which existed a few years ago (however, not so much recently).  The terrible smell in the air was something I had never experienced before (and this, coming from one who grew up in the proximity of chemical plants and oil refineries!)  Regardless, the cooler air was refreshing as it hit our sweat-soaked shirts.  We had finally arrived!  After unloading the bags, we were directed into a classroom where we were greeted, briefed, and given something that I had taken for granted during the previous three weeks’ training – water!   

We were informed that Camp Pinnacle is actually a hotel run by a private company.  Here, we would be attending additional training, including firearms qualifications – again!  Within a week, we would ship out to our assignments. During the briefing we were cautioned to drink only the bottled water that was provided to us.  We were also advised that the problematic parasite that they think was responsible for sending a number of people to sick call, and one to the hospital, had been eradicated.  After receiving that gem of information, we went to the mess hall.  Needless to say, I didn’t eat much.

After dinner we settled into our rooms.  I was assigned to room with Eddie, a New Yorker from the Bronx, who transplanted to Virginia after a stint in the Marine Corps.  After unpacking some incidentals, it was into the rack for my first night’s stay in Afghanistan...