Bird's Eye View

Since we had a couple of days before we would return to the training compound, we scheduled a day of shooting at Camp Morehead’s firing range, which is located on the outskirts of Kabul.  Again, I was thankful for the opportunity to see other parts of the region which I hadn’t seen before.  In many ways, the city itself was somewhat similar to parts of some major American cities; however, with an East Asian flair.  As we made our way through the crowded streets, I was surprised to see an electronic billboard.  While it wasn’t to the scale of what would be found in Times Square, (or even on the NJ Turnpike); it was rather dramatic by Afghan standards.  The streets were mobbed with people and traffic, with cars travelling in random traffic patterns.  Traffic cops directed people to go in the opposite direction around traffic circles, and gave hand signals that I didn’t recognize (it’s doubtful that many of the drivers did either). 

Once out of the busier part of town, we had to periodically stop for herds of goats as they traveled to wherever the herder was directing them.  While we were now in the “suburbs” Gerry, the driver, mentioned that it wasn’t odd to see such herds in the city either. 

It was interesting to see the transition from the city, to the suburbs, to the more rural areas.  It wasn’t surprising that as we traveled further out, the people’s level of poverty increased.  While there were those who were less well off in the city, as we got further away from the hub, the poverty was more readily discernible.  As we moved into the rural areas, the people seemed to be living simple lives: small merchants, farmers, goat herders, mechanics – all trying to eke out a living. Occasionally, smiling boys flashed a thumbs up at our trucks as we noisily rambled by; and shared their excitement with their friends when we returned the gesture.  Infrequently, after we showed  a “thumbs up”, a little lad would return our gesture with a punching motion.  When I eventually asked an LA what that signal meant, he smiled, shook his head from side to side, and said, “No, it’s not very good.” He told me it was akin to flashing the middle finger.  I guess not all of the kids in this area like us either…

Arriving at Camp Morehead provided a reminder of some of the beauty that Afghanistan possesses.  We followed a road that cut through the greenery of farmland, and finally arrived at a small village that seemed to cozy up next to the camp.  A short distance from the base gates was a health clinic where locals were gathering.  Both the camp and village were encircled by high mountains whose peaks could be seen in the distance.

Similar to the first range at which we qualified, this one was situated so as to use the mountains as the backstop for the rounds we fired downrange.  However, since we were at a higher elevation, the view was more spectacular.  As the sun rose, its light illuminated peaks which had been hiding in the early pre-dawn hours.  This gave the impression of mountains slowly appearing as if orchestrated by an illusionist.

After having fired our rifles and handguns, Gerry, gazed at a radio towers perched atop one of the peaks within the camp and mused, “I wonder what it looks like from up there?”  Minutes later I found myself in the front passenger seat, rocking and bouncing about the cab, as he searched for a way up the mountain.  When we finally came across a road that appeared to wind its way up the mountain face, we hopped out of the truck, engaged the 4-wheel drive hubs, and up we went.    

"I wonder what it looks like from up there?" - Famous last words...

For much of the ride, we seemed to be going straight up, and always in danger of falling off the side of the narrow dirt road.  “Great!” I thought to myself, “Even if I did survive the tumble down the side of the mountain in the truck, unless we landed upright, I wouldn’t be able to get out because of the 300 lb. doors!”  When we finally made it to the top, I forgot about the perils of the trip.  It was a great view!     

We could see the camp and the village below.  Although the sweltering heat of the summer had made its mark, large patches of green could be seen.  The air was clean and fresh as we had left the smog of the city behind and had climbed about 1,000 feet higher from where we entered the camp. 

From the summit, the camp could be seen with the village nestled alongside it.

Our vantage points showed the more scenic areas through which we traveled. (I think the picture is hazy due to the glare from my head.)

 

At the top, we were met by the guards manning the tower.  Since we didn’t have a translator, we tried as best we could to identify ourselves, and give the reasons for our presence.  Luckily, they understood some English.  Trying to engage them in some conversation, I tried to express my appreciation of the beauty of the view.  In heavily accented Dari, one replied, “It’s good!” but then making a motion with his hand to indicate “over the mountain”, as he shook his head side-to-side, and added, “No good! Taliban!”

One of the guards descends his tower to approach us.

The tower guards. Beyond the mountains behind them: "No good!"

Also at the summit, was another man with (what I refer to as) a full Taliban beard.  He had no weapon, nor was he wearing a uniform.  He was middle-aged, with friendly eyes and a friendly smile showing a discolored tooth.  He was husky, with big forearms, but also carried a bit of a paunch.  He seemed eager to engage in conversation.  However, unlike the tower guards, understood no English.  The best Gerry and I could surmise was that perhaps he was a caretaker of some sort.  As we continued to take in the surroundings from this spectacular viewpoint, I lost sight of the bearded man.  Having, as best we could, vetted the tower guards; I still wasn’t 100% sure what the pot-bellied guy’s purpose was.  He soon reappeared from one of the smaller buildings at the base of the tower.  He walked toward us with his left hand closed, palm up.   By this point I was no longer in “alert mode”, but still wondered what he had in his hand.

As if on cue, from what seemed out of nowhere, a bird appeared and fluttered onto his right forearm.  His grin widened as Gerry and I looked on, obviously surprised at his relationship with his feathered friend.  As he opened his left hand the bird pecked at the treats he offered.

The bird MUST have been waiting for his arrival.

The "birdman" seemed truly happy to be entertaining us.

Once again, I felt a pang of guilt for thinking that perhaps this man with the smiling eyes, who seemed to take such joy at tending to his bird(s) would hold some ill will towards me.  I quickly dismissed the feeling as being necessary to self-preservation, and tried the best I could to compliment him for his ability and patience in caring for his pet.

While I could have spent hours at the peak, it was time to get back to base.  From our perch, high up on the mountain, we could see that the other team members had finished shooting for the day.  After executing many “back and forths” on the narrow path at the base of the tower, with me running to the back and front of the truck, to warn Gerry when the wheels were dangerously close to the edge; we said our goodbye’s to the pinnacle workers, and started back down the mountain.  Going down caused me more angst than going up.  It seemed like we were facing straight down.  Unlike going up, where I saw where we wanted to go; in this direction, my field of view was taken up by where we didn’t want to fall.  While it felt really good to get back on somewhat level terrain, once my heart rate returned to normal, I was wishing that I could go back up one more time!