At this time of year, please accept my heartfelt thanks for your support (especially for trudging through my blog) and good wishes.  Being here during the holidays certainly makes me long for the warmth of family and friends, so please know that you are in my thoughts. You have my most sincere hopes for a happy holiday and a healthy and safe new year!

Merry Christmas! 

Ben

PS – I know, I’m still MONTHS behind.

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Suspicions 

I started to get more accustomed to my role in the right front passenger seat, and looked forward to the convoys. If nothing else, at least it was a chance to get out of the camp.  The trips offered me the opportunity to see what was “outside the wire”.   The drivers had no objections to my taking pictures as long as I took only the minimal amount of time to click away, then immediately returned to scanning the roadway and beyond.  

Taking alternate routes gave me the opportunity to view some of the less traveled parts of Kabul.  In the more desolate spots, away from the commercial areas, I saw some of the severe conditions in which people lived.  What instantly struck me was the miserable poverty.  I saw local residents drawing water from a community well, suggesting that many of the homes had no running water.  Several people still transport goods and foodstuffs by donkey-drawn carts.  People cooked over open fires; and families scrounged through trash heaps, often in the same ones that goat herders allowed their flocks to feed.  Steep dirt roads led to mud and brick homes.  It reminded me of illustrations that I used to see in my religion books as a kid.  Except for the glass windows, they looked like buildings from biblical times.  

Architecture from earlier times is still in use today.

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In many areas, only ruins remain from years of war

 

As can be seen in the picture below, some people erected make-shift homes, pitching tents or lean-to’s among strewn litter.   The shelters are just beyond the trash.

 

As the convoys passed, most people continued to tend to whatever they were doing, seemingly unmoved by our presence.  There were, however, a few who, either through curiosity, boredom, or otherwise, were attentive to us.  Occasionally, as I peered through the tint of the double-paned window of bullet resistant glass, I caught brief glimpses of the faces along the road.  The speed at which we whizzed by allowed me only flashes of eye contact.  In those brief instances, I wondered of the thoughts behind their eyes.  I had so many questions: Were they glad that we were there; or were they tired of covering their faces with their scarves from the dust and diesel emissions that we spewed as we sped past them?  How much did they know of our true intention to help their country sustain itself; or did they think we were there to control them and sack whatever resources the country might possess? Did they view us as an occupying army, as were the Russians? How many knew of our goal to leave their country by 2014; and if so, were they happy or fearful at the prospect of our leaving? 

Sometimes I saw looks of contempt.  Again, my mind raced to make some sense of such a response.  Was it because they were disappointed with the security situation that seemed to be getting worse; or perhaps they preferred a more strict form of government like the Taliban had provided?  These were some of the questions to which I would try to seek answers. 

I think you will agree that I tend to be a friendly type of guy.  I try to keep an open mind, and would like to give people the benefit of the doubt. In a somewhat contradictory manner, I also tend to be the suspicious type; so I’ve noticed that, especially since being here, there seems to be an on-going battle developing within me as to how I would or should conduct myself.  Other than those at the camp, I haven’t had much contact with the locals.  Some with whom I have interacted (such as the “Taliban widows”) have been very reserved.  I attribute this to the prior status of women, as well as the language barrier.  Others have been quite friendly.  At this point, however, for the sake of self- preservation, I’ve chosen to let my suspicious nature take the lead. 

That being said, I can tell it will be somewhat of a struggle to maintain a healthy state of distrust.  Perhaps it’s similar to the complacency a cop must fight to avoid after the job becomes routine. It is difficult.  One of the most troubling things for me has been witnessing the kids growing up in such harsh conditions.  I remember seeing two young boys playing with what looked to be toy trucks in the sand.  They could have been kids on a playground or beach back home, lost in their make-believe world.  As we got closer, I realized that their “toy trucks” were nothing more than boxes in their small hands. In other areas, young boys walk through congested traffic, motioning with their hands for something to drink.  But perhaps the most heart-wrenching circumstance is that of a boy who is always found at a dusty, dirt road intersection, begging for whatever motorists will give him.  His family, a mother in a burka, and two other small children, sit in the shade of a wall, well off the side of the road.  Even though his legs are deformed and mangled, he remains in the hot sun, steadying himself on sticks that serve as crutches, waving and showing the broadest smile.  The cars and trucks that rumble by him as they try to maneuver past the large ruts and potholes send up clouds of dust and dirt that cake on his skin. As we drive by him, he gives us the “thumbs up”, as he sports his big smile.

Yeah, the kids can break your heart.  After having had driven in a number of convoys, I had become accustomed to (and took pleasure in) the number of kids that were giving us the “thumbs up”. On one such trip, while taking the same route on which we were towed a couple of weeks back, I saw a boy up ahead, with his arm extended, and thumb up. I returned the gesture.  As soon as I felt myself smile, he one-upped me by changing from the thumb-up, to extending me the middle finger.  Little brat – probably a member of a Taliban or al-Qaida youth group!  I guess it’s time for a healthy dose of suspicion…

 

A Change of Scenery

While we were still awaiting our assignments, we had to qualify yet again with our firearms.  The firing range was about a 30 minute ride from our camp, and a nice diversion from the classroom training and other administrative tasks. 

The range was much different from any I’ve fired on before.  Instead of the ranges back home, where an earthen berm, maybe 30 to 40 feet high was bulldozed into place, the backdrop here was natural (and much more dramatic).  We were higher in the mountains with the slopes acting as a protective barrier behind the targets.  It was a pretty spectacular background.

Nice!…Shooting under blue skies, at the foot of big mountains, and breathing a little fresh air – but still HOT!!!

As I mentioned in an earlier post, the “hotel” maintains a full-service salon where manicures, pedicures, massages, and haircuts could be had.  Having left my clippers at home, I decided to get cleaned up since I was looking a bit shabby. 

Before telling you about my first in-country haircut, and in the spirit of full disclosure, I should first admit to the prejudice I hold towards many former Soviet-bloc countries.  Growing up during the cold war, in the 1950’s and ‘60’s, I figure it’s natural for me to have a disdain for those whom I considered to be “commies”.  All that’s necessary for my bias to surface is the slightest hint of an accent that even remotely sounds like Russian.  That being said, the employees of the salon were women from countries to the north of Afghanistan – Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, and Uzbekistan; all of which of course, were once part of the former Soviet Union.    

Having heard that the hair dresser (an attractive woman, with red hair and blue eyes, perhaps in her late thirties) was from one of the previously mentioned countries, I took my seat in the chair with some apprehension.  She snapped the nylon cloak in the air before placing it over my shoulders, and fastening it around my neck.  Looking at my reflection in the mirror, she asked, “Vat do ju von me to do?” Assuming that she might not be able to understand what I was saying, I tried my best to gesture and explain that I wanted my hair cut somewhat short; but not too short.  At that, she immediately turned on the clippers, thrust my head away from her, and dug the clippers back and forth, violently into the right side of my head.  After scraping at my scalp four or five times, she forcefully turned the right side of my head towards the mirror and asked in her “Russian” accent, “How ees dat?”  With her hand still forcibly tilting my head toward one side, I strained to see the fruits of her labor - pale swaths of newly cut scalp.  Of course, I knew that if she changed the setting to allow for less hair to be cut, I would still have the tell-tale signs of a haircut gone awry.  I half-heartedly acquiesced and replied, “Yeah, that’s fine.”  The damage was done. Despite her good looks, my contempt was confirmed:  “Friggin commies…!”

After a few more days of sitting on hard plastic chairs doing computer work, I decided to spring for $20.00 for a 30 minute massage.  Again, I was feeling a bit uneasy since my last experience with the hair stylist left me with all but the most inconspicuous stubble on my head.  What kind of conspiracy might the ladies of the salon have contemplated in order to get back at the Americans and their capitalist ways?  

The masseuse was a larger woman with, as Patti described them, “Popeye forearms.” In comparison to the hairdresser, her features were more Asian.  In my twisted mind, however, that merely meant that while she looked “less Russian”, she probably had some connection to communist China – I couldn’t win!  I stretched out, face down on the table...and that was it!  I’m sorry to say that it was somewhat anti-climactic.  I don’t recall much, since soon after she started to ply my muscles, I fell into a deep sleep.  It was if I had been knocked out.  I woke up to the woman with the big forearms repeatedly saying to me, “OK. Ees over.  Ees over!”  She probably thought that I died on the table.  As I exited the salon, I told Patti that I thought the commies drugged me; but all in all, I left feeling pretty good after my massage (and after checking my wallet).

In Limbo…But Quite the Ride!

No, not the dance; the state of...  Training continued, time passed, and more people were notified of their assignments.  I was among the few who still didn’t know where we were going. Among the “unchosen” from our group were Patti, John (the specimen) Green, Greg Fetsch (a die-hard Oregon Ducks fan), and Bob Molina (a Latino from California who, like John, had completed previous missions) and myself. Since we were in standby mode, John, Greg, and Bob decided to take advantage of a PSD (Protective Security Detail) course that was being offered.  It would be long hours, but good training for which a coveted PSD certificate would be issued.

For a few more days I finished the required on-line training (which we took twice before – the administrative glitches continued), and got caught up on a number of things that I had not yet had the time to do.  The days seemed to go by quickly.  I also spent a good amount of my time on my laptop trying to determine my finances, since I had a sinking feeling that I was forgetting to pay a bill that I hadn’t arranged to automatically have deducted from my checking account.  It should be no surprise that I’m quite forgetful sometimes! 

With most of the others enrolled in the PSD course, I began assisting with the convoys, acting as the shooter in the right front passenger seat.  For my first detail, I was assigned to ride with Christian, one of the Romanian drivers.  Since arriving at the camp, it would be my first trip “outside the wire”, and would entail a late afternoon drive to one of the airports to pick up some in-transit people.  “In-transit” meant that some might have been flying (usually by chopper) from one outpost to another, for any number of reasons. Whatever the reason, someone was always coming and going.

As I climbed into the truck under the weight of my vest, and additional rifle and handgun magazines, I took my position, turning more towards the passenger window than facing front, with my rifle held below the window line.  We were the second truck in a four-truck convoy.  My job was to stay vigilant for anything suspicious or threatening.  Of course, we were always on the watch for someone with a weapon; but it could also be a vehicle driving erratically, or approaching at a high rate of speed.  Additionally, we acted as another set of eyes for the driver.  Because we travelled together, much effort is expended trying to maintain the integrity of the convoy.  That means not letting anyone between our vehicles, which in turn, requires tailgating; but at a safe speed (somewhat of an oxymoron).   What would normally be a moving violation back home was standard operating procedure here.  If you were driving a trail vehicle (2^nd, 3^rd, etc.), your job was to stay on the bumper of the vehicle ahead and concentrate on what the truck ahead was doing.  If you drove the lead vehicle, not only would you have to “lead”, but you’d also have to keep an eye on the following vehicles so as not to get too far ahead should the convoy be broken.  It may sound simple, but the real challenge is that it all has to be done in Kabul traffic. 

Now in my “past life” with the NJSP, I’ve driven quite a bit.  As strange as it may sound to some, I don’t mind driving in NYC.  But THIS is driving like I’ve never experienced before. It takes some getting used to.  In addition to the tailgating, there’s the constant “gas-to-brake” motion: accelerating to stay on the bumper, but braking because a car, truck, motorcycle, pedestrian, donkey cart, horse, etc., made its way in front of the lead vehicle, causing it to slow down or stop abruptly.  There’s also the occasional driving around the traffic circle in the opposite direction. This occurs not only because sometimes it’s the best option; but also because we occasionally are directed to do so by the police – needless to say, they have an interesting spin on traffic control here.

In training, it was impressed upon us that there were a good number of accidents in which members have been involved.  These run the gamut from fender benders to pedestrian fatalities.  It’s something that the company seems to be trying its best to prevent.  From what I’ve witnessed since being here, however, it seems that many accidents are indeed, unavoidable due to the senseless actions of others.   In fact, the latest account of an accident that involved one of our drivers was that of a little girl who had been hit after she ran into the roadway.  Some of the hazards that I’ve seen include children that are left unattended to walk or run into the street; disregard for, or the lack of lane markings; non-enforcement of driver licensing; and I’ve yet to see a traffic light.  It all adds up to be quite the thrill ride!

While en route to the airport, I got a better glimpse of the outskirts of Kabul.   Our camp was situated amidst yard after yard of connex boxes (shipping containers that travel by tractor-trailer, rail and ship).  Not only are these “boxes” used to transport goods, but they are also used for storage, offices, storefronts, and in some cases, homes.  Driving out of the neighborhood of connexes, we made our way to a busier part of Kabul.  We passed vacant lots and wedding halls mixed in among small shacks from which all sorts of merchandise was sold, and/or from which meat was hung.  Seeing the pieces of meat hanging in the open air, without refrigeration, among the dust and pollution dampened my interest in eating the local food.  In our path, people both on foot and on bicycles, darted in and out of traffic, and cars rapidly braked in order to avoid rear-ending slow moving donkey-drawn carts.  On one occasion, Christian hit the brakes and slid to a stop, just before hitting the lead truck.  Due to the extremely dusty conditions, the ever present silt on the road prevents a driver from stopping a vehicle quickly, under control. 

As we approached one of the turns toward the airport, I observed a car coming at us on the right, traveling in the opposite direction of traffic.  My first reaction was one of surprise that Christian didn’t seem to see it for himself.  As it continued to make its way toward us, I shouted, “Vehicle coming at us on the right!”  Christian calmly continued to drive, saying in his Romanian accent, “You’ll see dat a lot here. It’s shorter for dem to turn here and go against traffic, den to go all de way to de circle.” Apparently, he did see the car, but was accustomed to the bizarre traffic behaviors.  Eventually, the car passed us as it continued in the wrong direction, repeatedly stopping and going as it wound its way down the right shoulder.  After turning right at the intersection from which the wrong way driver came, Christian said softly, “Dis is were I hit de girl.”  He was referring to the accident that we had heard about back at camp.  “What happened to her? Did she survive?” I asked.  “Yes, but she broke two of her legs.”  He replied.  Not knowing what else to say, I blurted out, “Well, I supposed it could have been worse.”  “She just run out into de road.” He added.  “Yeah, I see how people just walk out without looking.” I said to indicate that I understood.      

Having arrived at the airport with an increased heart rate by a couple beats per minute (and I’m certain that my blood pressure was also elevated by a few points), we made our way to where we were to meet our passengers.  Shortly after parking and shutting off the vehicles, we were told by the Afghan National Army (ANA) sentries, who were assigned airport perimeter security, that we would have to move the trucks to a different area.  When Christian attempted to start the truck – no go, it wouldn’t even crank.  After many failed attempts to get it started, Christian telephoned the TOC (Tactical Operations Center) to advise them that we had broken down.  Following subsequent calls back and forth, we were advised that another truck would be coming to assist us.  During a conversation among the Romanian drivers in their own tongue, I thought I heard Marius (the giant who assigned me to the vehicle at the airport when we arrived in Kabul) mention something about a tow truck.  “OK”, I thought, “that sounds reasonable”. 

Me and Marius (AKA “Tank”), one of the Romanian drivers. A good-sized guy to have on “our” side. 

Once our passengers arrived, all but one piled into the three working trucks.  The one who remained with Christian, me, and our downed truck was Petkov, a retired lieutenant colonel from the Bulgarian Army, and also one of the drivers.  He volunteered to stay with us for additional security.  As afternoon began to give way to dusk, the camp truck arrived.  When it stopped, Tim, one of the security supervisors was visibly angry as he stepped from the vehicle.  He was complaining about the vehicle service center refusing to send a tow truck.  Tim would have to tow us back to camp with his pickup, using a tow strap.  “A tow strap???” I thought.  Although we had practiced such a scenario at T1G, I didn’t think I’d be doing it on my first ride out!  Plus, since there were regular intelligence reports of vehicle-borne improvised explosive devices (VBIED’s) on the roads of Kabul, we were concerned about two trucks moving so slowly through town, tethered together with a tow strap.  Talk about an inviting target!  

Petkov, the retired Bulgarian lieutenant colonel (much more “reasonable” in size).

In planning the return trip, Petkov’s opinion was given much credence.  He suggested traveling a route that would take longer, but was less traveled.  One of the reasons it had less traffic was due to the road’s condition.  Most of it was unpaved with many large potholes and ruts.  Upon choosing the route, we reviewed our actions in the event of an attack, hooked up the tow strap, and began the journey back to the camp.  As we began to pull away, darkness was rapidly approaching.   As we left the smoothness of the airport road, I felt an increased anxiety.  As alert as I was on the ride in, I tried my best to be even more vigilant while we were being towed back.  However, along with the thoughts of what a slow moving target we must be presenting, my best efforts at being watchful were being challenged.  As we lumbered along, I made eye contact with a few Afghans along the side of the road.  I wondered if some were plotting to do us harm, or if one of the many who were talking on their cell phones were alerting someone ahead that we were slowly making out way to their location.  One up-armored American pick-up truck with a giant whip antenna was easy enough to spot among a sea of Toyota Corollas; but one slowly towing another had to be an insurgent’s dream.  With every void and hole we hit, we were violently bounced up, down, and around the interior of the truck.  Christian was the most stable as he had the steering wheel to hold onto; but he had to fight to keep the truck on course without the assistance of power steering.  He also had to struggle to ensure he didn’t ram into the truck ahead whenever Tim slowed down, since he didn’t have power brakes either. 

Occasionally I caught Christian looking over at me.  He seemed to be taking in my feeble attempts to hold onto the “oh shit!” handle with my right hand, as I tried to control my rifle with my left hand, as it rattled and banged against the floor board.  However, it wasn’t until my ass came completely off the seat that I saw him smile.  That was all that was needed to break the tension.  As we continued to shake, rattle and roll down a dark, bumpy dirt road In Kabul the three of us couldn’t contain our laughter.  After a while, our laughing fit subsided.  As I periodically glanced back to see if anyone was approaching from the rear, I caught a glimpse of Petkov flying up towards the roof like a rag doll.  That was all that was needed to start me off again.  Even though I was turned toward the passenger side, just hearing me cracking up started Christian laughing again.  As we continued to bounce along, our laughter became more uncontrollable.  The thoughts of those who enjoy 4-wheeling entered my mind, “Some folks at home wait all week to get a ride like this!”

As we approached camp, Christian swung the truck wide to the left in order to make the sharp right turn into the gate.  Fighting the loss of power steering, he just barely missed hitting the Hesco wall; and almost standing on the brake pedal, the truck came within inches of hitting Tim’s truck.  By then, the laughter had stopped.  However, as we sat in silence, waiting for the gates to open, one snicker was all it took to start us up again.  When we finally made it through the gate, my stomach hurt from laughing, and tears were in my eyes.                 

 

Getting the Lay of the Land

Monday, August 8, 2011:  Getting the Lay of the Land

For the first few days I woke up around 5 am and went to the gym.  While I assimilated somewhat easily to the routine, I still found it difficult to get used to the air.  It wasn’t the 5,800 ft. elevation, it was the smell.  Even if my sinuses were completely clogged, I could tell how bad the air was if I wasn’t able to see the mountain tops in the smoggy distance. However, aside from the poor visibility caused by the dust and other crap (literally) in the air, the temperature was comfortable, in the low 90’s  – a far cry from the triple digit heat that we experienced in Arkansas and Dallas. 

On some mornings I was surprised at how peaceful it seemed.  Often, as I made my way to the gym, I would pass a guard on his appointed rounds.  As we approached each other, I would offer him the traditional greeting by placing my right hand over my chest and nodding my head forward.  Since his hands were busy holding his AK-47, he only returned the nod. 

I wasn’t the only one still battling jet lag. I entered the crowded cardio room to find only the stationary bike unoccupied.  After logging 6 miles, I continued to explore, and found the sauna, steam room (which wasn’t working) and the hot tub.  As I left the gym, more people were beginning to gather and engage in morning conversation. Discussions included the schedule for the day, where we might get assigned, and more “briefings” from those whom had been on prior missions.  Their war stories were always interrupted by questions from newcomers like me, as I tried to learn more of what our jobs would entail.  Early in our stay, however, the main topic of conversation was how well or poorly we slept.  The flight from Washington to Dubai and then, Kabul, took its toll. While most of us slept for a portion of the flight, our internal clocks were still way off, and would remain so for about a week after our arrival.

The smokers were lighting up their first cigarettes of the morning.  Among them were a few who, despite their best intentions, were procrastinating and putting off their workouts for yet another day.  As the conversations continued, Bernie (remember the photographer?) exited one of the dormitories and walked towards our group. His eyes were still puffy from sleeping, having just arrived the previous afternoon – a couple of days behind us.  He too, had been having trouble sleeping. He was one of the first guys that I met at the initial mustering at the Memphis airport.  During our stay at T1G, he was constantly snapping photos, and took the shot of me shooting the AK-47. He was a friendly chap who readily engaged in conversation.  Having recently retired from the military, he admitted to weighing a bit more than he liked.  Despite his sleepy appearance, he seemed to be happy to be here.  Either due to his being overweight, or wearing a t-shirt too small, the front of his belly protruded between the bottom of his t-shirt and the top of his pants. His friendly greeting to the group of “Good morning, gentlemen!” was met with, “Hey, I don’t know if anyone told you, but someone took the bottom of your shirt.”  Being the friendly guy he was, and having developed a thick-skin as a result of spending so many years in the army, he literally took the comment in stride, placed his hands on either side of his belly, and replied, “Yeah, I gotta work on this” and continued on to the gym.

I walked around to get familiar with the layout of the camp.  In the parking area were quite a few vehicles.  Most were the heavily armored pick-up trucks that were used to transport people to and from their destinations.  Most of the travel was done in convoys of at least two trucks, with much preparation beforehand.  Prior to departing, a convoy commander is designated. Individual vehicle commanders are chosen as well.  It’s their responsibility to obtain the identification of their passengers and record information on each as to their blood type, allergies, and ID number.  Just prior to departure, the convoy commander conducts a convoy briefing during which instruction is provided as to vehicle assignments, routes to be taken, alternate routes if needed, safe havens, action in the event of attack, and relevant intelligence updates.  Everyone travelling is expected to remain alert to possible threats, and in the event of anything suspicious, inform the driver.  In driver training, we were constantly advised that while everyone else is watching, the driver JUST drives. 

In the parking lot, among the pick-ups, I spotted vehicle #225 – the hotbox in which we rode from the airport.  Just looking at it, motionless, stirred memories of the uncomfortable ride.  It sat as if brooding, waiting for someone to get in so it could exact its torture. Ugh! I had hoped that I would never have to step into that vehicle again.

Front and back views of our “limo” from the airport

As I continued to make my way around the camp, I started to get a feel for how small it was.  In addition to the services I already mentioned, crammed onto the grounds were the laundry facilities, a small PX with exorbitant prices ($4 for a can of Pringles!), and a “haji” shop - a small store which carried a wide array of cheap goods like clothing, new and used computer accessories, badge holders, knives, knock-off DVD’s, etc. You name it – there’s a good chance they had it!  So for the size of the compound, it was pretty well equipped.  However, always in the background, beyond the buildings, was the sniper fencing, a reminder of where we were.  It indeed seemed true – as one of the other contractors had put it, “It’s like being in a minimum security prison.” However, WE get the guns… 

A couple members of the hotel staff.  The woman on the right was the masseuse.  (Sorry if the image quality is poor.  I had to crop it for security reasons since in showed a location).  

As we continued to train and wait for our assignments, many were becoming impatient.  Subsequently, we started to share amongst ourselves, some of our concerns and complaints.  The grumbles ran the gamut from the distrust of the Afghani guards with AK-47’s, to the poor public speaking abilities of some of our instructors, to the mess hall that served bland, overcooked food and smell that clung to our clothes for days.  For me, there was the ever-present battle between being able to eat all I wanted, and the apprehension that “the parasite” would rear its ugly head again.   

The Camp

The next few days allowed me a better look at our surroundings.  Yes, it was a “hotel”, but in quite different surroundings.  They attempted to provide the best hospitality and services they could, given the situation.  We were surrounded by mountains whose peaks poked above the sniper screening, which could be seen in the distance if the day was clear enough.  One could get an idea of how badly the air smelled without having to go outside.  If you couldn’t see the mountaintops – it stunk out there. 

The compound itself wasn’t very big.  From a center point near the rec center, one could look from one end of the camp to the other.  It was surrounded by tall green fabric mesh, otherwise known as sniper fencing, which rose above concrete walls. The fencing didn’t offer any ballistic protection, just concealment from anyone attempting to look in from the outside. Inside the fencing, razor wire was positioned at the top of concrete walls. As you can imagine Hescos, concrete walls, and sniper fencing are a familiar sight around Kabul and surrounding vicinities. 

  A view between buildings of the sniper screen, with a mountaintop in the background.

On the grounds were approximately 10 steel and aluminum buildings.  Most were sleeping quarters, with others used for administrative offices.  We were provided laundry and maid services - nice benefits!  Sandra, one of the mental health professionals that also attended T1G, struck up conversations with some of the women on the housekeeping staff.  She was told that many of the ladies that cleaned our rooms in their traditional Islamic garb (long coverings, with open-face head scarves) were widows whose husbands had been killed by the Taliban.  The mess hall and Rec Center were staffed by foreign nationals from countries such as India, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, and Kyrgyzstan.

Within the rec center were a pool, ping pong, and Foosball tables, a classroom, an eatery (which was soon to reopen after undergoing a thorough sterilization – remember the parasite I previously mentioned?) hard-wire internet connections, and an area where haircuts, manicures and pedicures, and massages could be purchased.   It was actually, a nice place to relax.  

Work was being done on the Tiki Bar, a small outdoor stand that would soon be charging $4.00 for a couple scoops of ice cream (Hotel prices, I guess).  

A view of the TikiBar, with again, mountains in the background.

 

There was also a “real” bar located within the Rec Center.  However, we were reminded, in no uncertain terms, that the bar was off limits.  If we imbibed alcohol while in country, it would be grounds for termination. 

During much of my stay, a work crew was busy pulling cable underground from one end of the camp to the other.  Their work ethic was apparent as they labored in the hot sun; some with footwear; others without.  I was doubly impressed considering they were working during Ramadan, and were not permitted any water throughout their entire workday. 

They relied on an old Jeep-like vehicle (which frequently required tinkering to keep running) to assist them in their efforts.  The Jeep struck me as something that would be great to drive on the sands of Island Beach State Park, back home in NJ.   

  A member of the work crew.  OSHA might have had an issue with his footwear (or lack of it). 

 

  Can you spot the supervisor?  (Hint – check for the guy that’s seated in the shade).  I guess we do have SOME things in common.

  My favorite “Jeep”

  

    

Also scattered about the camp were bunkers to which we would go in the event of rocket attacks.  Back home you’d be hard pressed to find one of these at your nearby Holiday Inn.  Pretty cozy, no?  

As the days passed, more and more of my colleagues received their assignments. Those of us who remained, were required to attend daily meetings for local assignments, as needed. 

  Bernie and myself outside of the Rec Center, awaiting word on our assignments. Bernie was one of the first people I met upon arriving at Memphis Airport.   Retired from the military, he’s also an excellent photographer.  I used many of his shots (the better ones). 

 

After a couple of days, I think I started to feel the effects of the food.  Pardon the description, but things were beginning to get “a little loose”, if you know what I mean. Many of us seemed to share the same symptoms.  After a few days, however, things began to “firm up”.  I wonder if the Imodium had anything to do with it?

 

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...