Fear of Flying...News From the Western Front

I left you in leather chain saw chaps dancing like a drunk monkey…well I woke up the next morning with my tongue feeling like I had dragged it across a green shag carpet with dried pizza on it.  Last night was great, great, great time until the waking up moment.  I blame my boss Josh for taking the festivities to the next level.  He put the chaps on first and he inspired me.  So that left me with that profound moment the next morning when the reality bitch bites back.  Hmmm, it seems we have all shared this adventure during the years.  All these years and nothing to show for it but this lamp, and this table, and this umbrella…

Anyway, back in Kabul, it was Friday morning (our day off) and I was sporting an increasingly uncomfortable morning wood.  The dream I was having when I regained consciousness left me in a smear pattern of unambiguous sex with unknown people…apparently some unadorned objects were involved, I can’t be certain.  As I crept out of my stupor I realized my predicament.  I must get to the bathroom...now.  Disgruntled, and lost in the deep fog of hangover-ization, I realized what must be done.

Bathroom Adventures in Afghanistan-Part 1

I rolled out of bed a little to quickly...I discovered that I was still drunk and unstable on my feet.  NO!  Lou?  Really?  Me?  Good god friends and neighbors, between the rotgut plastic bottle vodka and mango juice drinks lashed me blind with the inexplicable knowledge that I was in KABUL Getting HAMMERED, I was totally discombobulated.  It took me at least 10 minutes to get my flip flops on, in the wrong toes and everything, squeezing my knees together like a little kid, willing myself not to pee all over myself.  I knew I could do this.  I have years of experience, I-can-make-it-to-the-head.  As I staggered to the bathroom I realized I had forgot my robe.  Embarrassing if anybody sees me I guess.  I did not care…or maybe I should go back in my room and do my hair before I am seen in public…

One thing that can be truly disagreeable in a dorm like setting is sharing a communal bathroom.  Fortunately, the other expats on my floor of the guesthouse are very considerate.  I mean everyone pretty much cleans up after themselves so the only issue with a shared toilet is when you have a great need and someone is in the shower singing country and western tunes…Hank Williams I thnk, at 6 am.  Ahrrgg.  my morning wood has amplified into meteoric harness, and both bathrooms on my floor are “occupado”.  Going upstairs or downstairs butt naked was not an option so I shuffled back to my room, grabbed the recently emptied plastic vodka bottle I miraculously discovered on the big table.  I barely shut the door and I sighed in relief as I relieved myself…it is a guy thing…

I spent the rest of the late morning “at the beach” with Ruppert, and our adventure for the day was beckoning.  We were going to the Army base.  Huh? Yeppers, Camp Eggers right next to the infamous Qala House.  Yeah baby, we can go to the base and eat free food at the DFAC (cafeteria in Army speak) and we can go to one of the three nearby ATM’s that spew US dollars at us without an exchange fee, and-and-and---wait for it---we can get a haircut.  Yipee!  I didn’t realize until that moment that I was worried about finding someplace that would cut my already mangy head growth.  “Hot towel shave maybe?”  I asked expectantly, “It’s an Army base Lou.”  Said Big G.  Yeah, well, one can mentally flirt with decadence in a war zone, can’t you?

“No way!”  I said in disbelief.  “The Army Base?  We are going to the Army Base?”  “Yep” said Big G (Gary my next door cell mate)  This was the order of the day.  Well, this was the thing to do and it was something.  I remembered last weekend when I was near death from the flu.  Hell, I might as well live it up this weekend, right?  The really great news was that we would walk there.  No cramming in a car with our guard.  It was only 5 blocks away and the temperature was under 100.  All good signs.  A group of about 10 of us marched out of the guest house in single file…which you have to do because the 8’ force protection boundary wall (capped with concertina wire) did not allow for shoulder to shoulder walking when leaving the courtyard of the compound.  I looked up in a mirrored sunglasses squint and tried to focus on the razor wire within hand’s reach.  The sun glinted off the tines of the wire like some dazzling display of…display of…dazzling razor wire for christsakes.  Distracted and weaving, I promptly bounced off of the side of the building.  Everybody howled, I reeled, they laughed…luckily, I bounce well.

We filed out of the full metal jacket guard house and pick up our on demand AK47 Grenadier and take off walking and talking like we were in Central Park.  I mean really, this slow motion scene became more surreal with every step.  We stepped over a massive logging chain so we could walk on the “correct” side of the street.  Both sides of the street looked equally foreboding to me compared to Conestoga Road back home.  There was all matter of blowing trash and decomposing remains of some food byproduct floating in the ubiquitous storm drains.  Interestingly it really did not smell bad.  Nothing like India which stunk to high heaven.  


“Uh, why do we have to walk on this side of the street?” I asked quietly.  “Cause if something were to happen, we have these concrete blocks to hide behind and the wall of the NATO enclave to cower against.” Said Big G matter of factly.  “Oh, that’s nice.” I blurted.  “Has anything ever happened to one the expats from Ti here in Kabul?” I said sheepishly.  “No, but we don’t want to be the first.  This route is about as safe as it gets in Kabul.  The entrance to the Presidential Palace is around the corner and the two military bases are straight ahead.  We will be alright, nothing to worry about.”  Gary said dispassionately.  As long as we stay on the correct side of the street, I mused.  


You know me, I am not a paranoid kind of guy, but the quantity of “force protection measures” in place in this city is absolutely overwhelming.  One can easily imagine the gun battles and skirmishes that ensued here for years.  I rubbernecked my way down the road taking in the "sights"  Behind my mirrored sunglasses my eyes narrowed with thoughts of the grim reality of the violent past/present this city is enmeshed in.  These thoughts mingled with my current "life choice" situation as I casually walked down a sunny street in Kabul one Friday afternoon…with my AK47 endowed guard at my side.  Okay, where is the camera when you need one.  A little video of this scene would be perfect.

The dirty boys came out of nowhere.  The filthy boys with their hands out  saying “Gim me daller”.  “Hey Meester Teak-sass, watt u get?”  They surrounded us, they circled and swarmed jangling braided bracelets and chewing gum, like the trained panhandlers they were.  How the hell did these same kids get here from the Airport I thought?  I guess it is not that far away really…  I was obviously hung over but I could swear that the one on the left is the SAME kid, same dirty ragged ball cap, same bracelet, same dirt smear on his cheek.  Wait a minute.  I looked over at Dennis and he was sporting two of these same bracelets, as was Lucy I noticed.  Big G had 4 or 5 of them on his wrists.  Dennis’s enigmatic smile said it all.  “Hey, hey, hey you guys” he said, “I don’t have any money to buy any more bracelets, no money.”  He put his hands up to show empty palms and waved them away like they were gnats.  “No money.”  I did a nondescript hand gesture which caused them to rush back to Big G.  He smiled and shook their outstretched hands like they were old friends.  “I always buy a few from them, just trying to help them out.  They got nothing.” Said Gary quietly as he smiled down at the circle of excited boys.  It was a touching scene.

Just as in all countries with abject poverty and illiteracy, you have to find a way to look a little past the gut wrenching reality.  You cannot ignore it, but you would become paralyzed if you allowed your empathetic emotions to take control.  It would be too depressing if you didn’t find a way to look around the grinding poverty and seek out the glimpses of brightness.  You must look for those moments when a smile transgresses all disdainful thoughts.  These kids were beaming.   They were acting like kids, smiling, yelling and jumping around.  It all gives me great pause.  I imagine that a change in the circumstances and location of my birth, and I could be the one circling excitedly.  My mirrored sunglasses hide my circling eyes.

The walk into the Army camp became more surreal as we passed armed checkpoints every hundred yards.  Crossing over from one side of the street to the opposite side for no apparent reason, we continued through a maze of jersey barriers and meter cubed concrete blocks.  (Later I discovered that we needed to stay in full visual sight of all the checkpoint guards and avoid slinking around fences.  We didn’t want to get shot.  Good intel Dennis. Thanks for sharing) At the next checkpoint we flashed our ID badges and we turned into a 5' wide corridor of double stacked HESCO barriers that stretched for a couple hundred yards.  HESCO barriers are very economical 4’ tall cubes made up of chain link cages and fabric that are filled with dirt or sand or concrete.  They are designed to stop bullets, RPG’s and rockets.  The guy that invented these things apparently has the contract for all installments here and in Iraq and they are a specified requirement on all bases.  A war entrepreneur he is or is he a war profiteer?

The rocket attack thing brings to mind the cheesy Hollywood movies where the guys yell “incoming” and everyone dives into foxholes or behind tanks and shit.  My mind kind of wandered to this possibility as I walked down this “safe path” and contemplated the juxtaposition of my somewhat idyllic life in Colorado and my current situation.  


Where exactly do you store this kind of “information” and when I sleep, how will my brain process this scene?  Process it I shall, sleep with it I did…A few days later we had some "incoming" rockets that landed in and near one of our project sites up north.  A subtle 200 pound reminder that we are in a war zone walking down a "force protection corridor" going to have lunch...

Lunch was cafeteria in tents, big long tents with air conditioning, tents with lots of people in full bullet proof vests and automatic weapons type tents.  Tents with the exquisite addition of a complete salad bar to die for…er bad pun, sorry.  Well, hey they even had BBQ and ice cream.  WOO-WOO!

My boss Josh assigned me to the Western Zone.  We have 7 projects out there and he wanted me to manage them.  10 days after arriving in Afghanistan I am back at the Kabul International airport heading to Herat.  I was in the company of the director of the Project Management Division.  He is a Herati native named Seyar (pronounced see-air I really like saying his name, you know,  see air?) and he was going home for a week long vacation with friends and family.   I loved this guy from the moment I met him.  He is a bright engaging engineer who dresses well and always is always quick to smile.  A short young man with spiky product drenched hair.  Don’t ask, it’s just a guy “look” around here.  I think it goes with their Ali Baba shoe styles with ridiculously long toe boxes and all the Indian TV they watch.  Remember the spasm of woman’s shoes that could take out two or three people walking in front them as they strolled down the street?  My follow up visual on this thought train, falls on to that James Bond scene in “From Russia With Love” when the old bitty Rusky woman who was trying to kick 007 with her poison tipped stiletto tipped shoes???  Remember, that scene?  Well if she was wearing THESE long toed Ali Baba shoes, Bond would be dead and we would never have seen Goldfinger.  And we would never have seen the spray painted naked woman... Think about what an American tragedy that would have been.  No Casino Royale!

Let’s see, I got lost in my shoe fetish thing again, sorry, anyway I was looking forward to travelling with Mr. Seyar, funky shoes or not, because I thought I could learn something, anything, about the paperwork morass I was presented with.  His department is responsible for 70% of the paper thrown around here for project management of Army Corps of Engineer jobs.  More importantly was the idea that I could buttonhole him about his ancient home city and its culture.  I had done some of “the google” to learn a few things about Herat.  It became quickly apparent to me that this dapper young man was very forthcoming and informative.  I sensed camaraderie immediately after our Keystone Kops “which way did they go” morning.  We were both looking for each other trying to get to the airport in time.  


I was running a little late and I had inquired after Seyar with the security guard at the entrance to the compound.  No one had seen him that morning.  I really hadn’t finished packing for the three-night trip, so I scampered back up to my room quickly throwing what all into my bag, the whole time wondering what in the world I had forgotten to bring on my first “Out of Kabul” big adventure.  This thought tugged at me when the house guy came to my room excitedly to tell me I must go now, and that Mr. Seyar was waiting.  I glanced back into my room hoping to remember what I was forgetting.   Memory loss for the aging is not as funny as I think it is.  As I shut the door it hit me that this small room was my “home” here in Afghanistan and I was leaving my new home for another unknown home location.  Hmmm, things were getting curious-er and curious-er…

A little “history” on the Herat project landscape.  The country is divided into 3 Army Corp of Engineer Zones.  The Kabul Zone, the Southern Zone which includes Kandahar and Helmad Province, and the Western Zone.  I was put in charge of all the Western Zone Projects which have gracelessly turned into the Western Front because of the entrenchment inherent in the hierarchy in Herat.  This was the assignment where expats from Ti were sent to “die” (Not literally mind you).  This was the place that my friend Ruppert hoped I would not be banished to. This was the assignment with the abundant stories about managing the Herat projects. The stories were filled with frustration coupled with the inexorable beating down of whomever the company had sent out here over the last 3 years.  No one has “survived” this assignment.  No worries I say, I will put on my dancing shoes and listen for the music and learn to dance to their beat.  Hell I have been dancing as fast as I can for most of my life, what is life without the sound of a tabla in the back round?  On a positively freaky note, I quickly discovered that every single one of the 5 projects I was sent to manage were woefully behind schedule and plagued with material and management problems.  Piece of arsenic laced cake.  There is more, but if I told you the sordid details, I would have to kill you.

GOOD MORNING HERAT!!!

I screamed at the top of my inner lungs as I stepped off the plane it was a cool 90º at 10:00 am.  This one runway International airport has a baggage claim that is a chain link fenced area outside of the “terminal”.  Outside.  No canopy roof.  No cover.  Just chain link fencing.  The mountain of luggage is dragged by hand into the “baggage” area by a sandal wearing skinny guys.  I guess the tractor for the baggage train is not working or it costs too much for the gas to run it.  I was impressed that the frail looking guy could achieve enough traction to pull/push this massive baggage boat with the sandals he was wearing.  Very impressive in a comically disturbing way.  Getting into the Herat airport was easy.  Leaving Herat by plane is a whole 'nuther story...you won't believe it when I tell you...later.

Back to the Lonely Planet introduction:  Herat is the third largest city in Afghanistan.  Population about 350K and growing.  It is about 50km from the Iranian border on the western edge of the country.  It is said to be the ancient capital of Afghanistan and was settled by Arabs in the 7th century.  The road from Kabul to Herat goes through Kandahar and Helmud.  It takes 8-10 hours to drive from Herat to Kandahar and this stretch of road is said to be very dangerous.  Possibly the most dangerous road in the country.  Sounds like a road trip for true adventure seekers.  It is controlled by "security" firms that patrol the road.  Yes, this would be the same Kandahar that you hear about on the news all the time when shit blows up.  I have been told that Kandahar is where they grow poppies and you do not see a women on the streets.  Not one woman.  Not one young girl.  Not even one women completely submerged in their Burkas.  Apparently, women-are-not-allowed-to-be-seen in this town.  The epats that have been there say the men look at you with the same kind of leering eyes you would expect from lifers in prison.  Say no more.

The Herat stories are something else all together.  Tales had been flying around Kabul like lazy flies on a hot summer day.  The same kind of flies that bother you some but are harmless and can be easily batted away.  Well, since then, the "tales" have changed and some of the stories have turned into black flies that bite and welt and itch, but that is an entirely different rumination best left for a cooler day.  

There are no other expats out here that I have met, except for the troops on the Army bases, so I find myself ridiculously isolated.  I was told before I got here that security in Herat was a huge issue.  Much more dangerous than Kabul they said.  Part of the reasons for this concern is that Herat is very close to Iran and is heavily influenced by the Sunni mullahs.  Well that story turned out to be 180º unture.  The truth of the matter is that Herat city is very friendly with very few security problems in general.  There are no concrete blocks in the middle of all the roads except at significant road checkpoints leading into or out of the city.  Every time I pass through the city I enjoy the tree lined streets and the clean air.  Almost half the people wear western style clothes and the other half race around recklessly on small 125 cc Chinese made motorcycles, two, three, four at a time...I will have to get a photo of that scene one of these days.

The rules of the road are pretty much the same here as in Kabul.  There are no rules.  Interestingly, people display a driving artistry that is hard to describe but seems to avoid actual collisions.  I have not seen one wreck in the weeks I have been here.  It is total chaos mind you, but it is admirable chaos, the kind of chaos that astrophysicists would find utterly fascinating simply because the system works somehow.  No one can explain it, but everything flows without traffic lights.  There are intermittent traffic cops and very few traffic control signs, well maybe no signs at all.  


They do use their horns like crazy but they "play" their horns like a telegraph uses its dots and dashes, to communicate.  The number of vehicles is not very heavy but that is easily disrupted when the itinerant pedestrians blindly steps into the street without looking for traffic.  No look right, look left, no looking either way except straight ahead.  I mean it is just like I talked about in Kabul, the walkers honestly appear totally surprised when a car starts beeping its horn as they begin striding to their death.  It appears that they literally walked in from a 14th century time warp, and immediately confronted their first metal chariot.  They look that surprised to see a car impeding their direction of travel.

Here in Herat the traffic chaos has some rules.  Basic rules.  Bigger cars rule and slow trucks will move over to let you pass if you honk just right and flash your headlight just so.  The motorcycles and 3 wheeled motorcycle rickshaws give way at the last second, but they always give way.  If they didn't they would get totally creamed.  Their diminutive size does not stop them from testing to see if you will let them pass in front of you.  Fortunately most of the speeds around the city are under 40mph, but it does make for great visual entertainment.  Just like watching someone else play a video game.  Not a whole lot of fun but what are you going to do?

 

My arrival and introduction to the Herat office staff was totally surreal.  Two of the guys working here are cousins of the man who owns the company.  I understood immediately that working in the Herat office would be a very interesting adventure.  I was introduced to my secretary/AdMin guy named Jawed, who recently completed his engineering degree at Herat University.  He is a pleasant 22 year old introspective young Afghani who is opinionated and enjoyable to work with.  We have some hysterical conversations especially when I am trying to translate an American slang, like WTF.  


He also teaches conversational English to other Afghani's  The Arabic language cannot "make up" new words like we can.  So I listen to the Afghani's rapping along and interspersed in their dialogue are English words.  I guess they speak Dari-nglish.

A few weeks have passed since I “took over” the Herat office and things are moving along and I am learning a lesson in patience everyday.  I have found a culturally foreign group of men who enjoy a good laugh, which I try to provide them with a couple of times a day.  My interpersonal skills are being pushed to the maximum with massive cultural and business practices discrepancies coupled with the immense language barrier.  Oh well…I get to laugh, I get frustrated, I get some stuff done, I don’t get other stuff done…such is the way of it…

The first night as I settled in for the night after dinner, I realized what I had forgotten in Kabul.  The power supply for my MacBook.  The next afternoon I sat up on the roof of my "new" home and tried to see the beach...It had been 101º that day.  Welcome to Herat Afghanistan.  I love you guys and miss you all very much.  I could invite you out here to check it out for yourself, but I won't...not now, not today...we will see what tomorrow brings.  Hugs and Kisses to all.