Comings and Goings

I went to Afghanistan, zen neutral.  For those of you who don’t know what this means, let me 
explain.  I focused on my breathing in order to calm myself.  I did not want to land in a war zone with a preconceived notion of what my new life would be like.  Apparently, I held my breath for the months I was encased there.  Hypoxia does strange things to your mind.

In all honesty, the unrelenting challenge of my new life in a war zone had bitch slapped me into some semblance of giving a shit.  I could slowly feel the distant flicker of my inner drive resurfacing.  The “fire in my belly” that impelled me forward my whole life had been missing for months, years maybe, I don’t know.  I knew a visceral change was happening because I had been thinking about playing music, studying and writing with a glint of anticipation.  Hmmm.

I will not mince words.  Strive for “the corporate man” I did.  I have nothing to droop my head about.  The facts remain, I am out of a job and as of this moment I have no prospects.  The firing was perfunctory and quick.  I went into my boss’s office on a Friday morning to discuss the terms of my contract renewal.  (Friday is my official weekend day off) I was fully expecting to be negotiating the amount of my raise.  Josh, my boss, looked at me and said simply, “We are going to have to let you go.”  My first response was, “Here is my other leg to pull, Josh”  Ha ha, nice joke, I thought, cruel but locker room funny.  I suppose my reaction to this “tease” would be the brunt of several tasteless ribbings.  Like “You should of seen the look on his face.  Bah ha ha ha.”  But he was dead serious.  Barely blinking, staring straight at me, he was totally stone faced.  Shit head.  Here is a guy I have gone out to dinner with, drank cocktails and talked about life with for hours.  We danced in chaps during one of our guesthouse parties for Christ sake.  Hell, we sat down for several hours and discussed ways to help the company improve.  For some reason he would not give me any reason for my dismissal.  He would not even give me the professional courtesy of writing me a letter of recommendation.  Butt faced pig ass dick licking mother f****** son-of-a-bitch...COME ON Lou!  Tell us how you feel!

Josh the "Boss" In Chaps

Unbelievably, I had been thrown under the Herat bus.  I thought I had survived the never-ending onslaught of impossible situations by buckling down, working long hours and moving the multi-million dollar projects along as best as could be expected under the circumstances.  I thought I had found a way to help extricate the company out of the quagmire they had dug in Herat.  Hell, I even uncovered some potential embezzlement after I was told by Josh to “just take it over Lou”. (I still have that email by the way LOL)  In a nutshell, I truly thought I was doing the work that was expected of me.  Two of the Project Engineers for the Army Corp even told me things had improved substantially since I arrived.  Foolish mortal.  You thought?  Welcome to corporate America in Afghanistan.

The truth is as follows: being an expat working in Afghanistan has a very low quality of life.  This realization is magnified once you return to normal life in the USA.  Day to day you are surrounded by armed guards and you must put in a request to go anywhere off the compound.  I kept my blinders on while I was there because focusing on the true reality of the living situation would have driven me crazy. Getting out of the office meant you were traveling to a remote job site and the dangers increase exponentially whenever you drive down the road and/or get on an airplane to fly across the country.  There were three airplane incidents while I was there.  Three.

Dennis, Me and Lucy "Life Doesn't Suck"

Overall, I was treated with respect from my fellow workers.  I was given a decent level of comfort and care in my day to day living situation considering that this was Afghanistan after all.  I was never afforded any concrete direction, written or spoken about the expectation of work product.  There was no policy on how to best accomplish the goals of the company.  This multi-million dollar company is inhaling our tax dollars at a prodigious rate, (tens of millions of dollars a year) yet it does not have a working organizational schema or a consistent policy expectation in our dealings with our client, the Army Corps of Engineers.  The Corps sign off on our paychecks.  One would think a company would have some policies in place for sucking up to the money...welcome to Afghanistan...the larger stories about corruption and graft may be exaggerated...but probably not.

The potential reasons for my untimely and unexpected dismissal burn through my brain like so many hot coals dripping onto tissue paper.  Blasts of white light, white anger, white pain, all running into a cauldron of blinding disappointment.  It now occurs to me that my downfall could have been a direct result of my success.  I may have been a threat to my boss. Really?  Chicken shit mother f*****.  I don’t know why I would be a threat to him by being successful.  I will probably never know why.  Everyone I saw and talked to before I left was absolutely stunned and bummed by this turn of events.  Many of the guys gave me big hugs and were speechless.  They all perceived me as doing great work and could not fathom the reason’s why.  It is what it is...and here I am…

Enough of the drizzle eyes, I have a couple more stories I want to share with you all about my experiences.  I need to share some of the cool/incredible stuff.  Some of the day to day, life in Afghanistan stuff.  Onward.

Koochi Camp

Mujaheddin Hero-Masoud's Grave

The smell of the country still invades my nostrils.  As if it has become part of my flesh and I still have not eaten enough, drank enough or shat enough to rid myself, my body, my mind, of this odor.  It is as if this pungent aroma has intertwined itself with my mustache, my hair, my skin.  I have scrubbed myself furiously in vain attempts of whole body aromatherapy.  It is as if some parts of my brain had been neuron-ically singed by the funk.  Permanently etched neural paths have been seared.  It is like I have a smell brain tumor.  People with brain tumors have reported that they would become aware of a certain smell, sound or a visual “aura” right before having a seizure.  Maybe I am having a seizure.

Sometimes I think my smell “tumor” could have been caused by the weed spraying the gardener did during my three day battle with the flu in Herat.  (I got the flu from eating lunch at the army base, go figure)  The prodigious use of unregulated poisons like DDT and dioxins are rampant in 3rd world countries and Afghanistan is no exception.  I discovered these products were being used in the rose garden to control weeds and bugs.  It was wild, I mean for days I kept asking everyone if they knew what that “smell” was.  Nobody else could even smell it much less tell me where it was coming from.  This repeated “nay” response to my queries turned my thoughts to the possible brain tumor growing in my skull.  I don’t know why. 

Me and My "International" Friend Farook

After several days of inquiries, I took matters into my own hands.  In this case, it was more like my own nose.  I wandered around outside the offices in the 100+ degree heat to find where this horrific smell was coming from.  I finally found a spray canister of “bug spray” that the gardener had been saturating the entire area with like it was rose water.  He was blithely shuffling around in his sandals spreading dioxin everywhere.  Hell, these volatile chemicals were even seeping into my guesthouse through my split-pack A/C unit.  The lingering fumes made my eyes sting.  It took almost a week for the stink to dissipate.  I don’t think my tumor has shrunk yet though.  They did grow beautiful roses though.  Just sayin’.

Some of you have asked how the army people are holding up during this summers “surge”.  I was at Camp Stone outside of Herat for a meeting with the Army Corps people, and I noticed four guys cleaning their big guns.  Big, black gunmetal guns with huge long barrels.  They had parts spread out all over the tables near the camp post office.  I recognized the 50 cals (having seen them on every HumVee all over the country) but I had to ask them about the other huge barreled appliance they were dismantling.  They explained it was an experimental brute killing machine gun called an XM 25 or something like that.  It launches exploding mini-grenades.  I wondered if I could pick them up to “feel” how heavy they were.  The “exploding rounds” were incredibly heavy while the actual gun was surprisingly light.  Only 14lbs ready to shoot with a 4 round clip.  The five Rangers were forthcoming and animated about their massive guns and were still “amped” about the firefight they got into a few days prior.  The adrenaline was obviously still pumping as they shared the story about their recent ambush.  Apparently several insurgents were neutralized and a few buildings were leveled during the encounter. 

The XM 25, they explained, fires 25mm rounds at targets up to 700M away using laser sights.  That is like half a mile.  “The great thing about this piece of machinery,” they chimed excitedly, “is that the rounds pierce the wall of a compound, then explode like a grenade inside the house.”  Even the Sarge expressed his satisfaction at the results of the recent firefight, “It reminds us why we are here and that we are helping in this fight.  This is how we are going to win this war...one firefight at a time.”  With firm handshakes and smiles all around I thanked the guys for the info and jokingly asked them when I could fire a few rounds one of these days.  They looked at each other and grinned, “Maybe we could set something up.  See you next time if we are not out on mission.”  This illustrates one great reason to be an American in Afghanistan...the chance of discharging really BIG weapons.  Wow.

So there I am waiting for my flight back to the states.  I am sitting in middle of the gleaming glitzy-ness of the Dubai airport.  A multicultural, multinational hub of money dripping ostentatious-ness.  You can smell money here.  I pondered the nonchalant saunter of the chosen people sliding along the gleaming marble.  Most of the faces I looked at were festooned with the gaze of bored privilege.  Ironically, for the next hour or two, I am one of them, by definition.

I have already drunk too much espresso and combine that with my lack of sleep, I am wired for stereo.  Great, so now I am super nervous, my Mac battery is almost gone, and smoking is not allowed in the terminal.  Damn-it, I don’t even smoke.  Jesus.  I will need this computer for the upcoming soul wrenching writing I am sure will overtake me on the 16 hour flight to LA.  The desperate flight home.

All the kings horses

Bread for the Workers

And all the kings men
Can not put Afghanistan
Together again

A Dream Speaks Volumes:
My blue airplane dream captured the easy moments of conviviality when thoughts and ideas could be expressed easily.  No competition just collaboration.  That was the overriding sentiment originally expressed when I agreed to the job.  “We are all a team here.” my new boss Josh stated during our first conversation after his promotion.  “It is more of a title than anything else, Lou, don’t worry.”  (I wonder if my ears were burning when I heard that?)

In my dream I had wandered across the small creek surrounded by green grass to a small cottage on the edge of a meadow.  I parked a blue car with the steering wheel on the right side.  I watched a single engine plane turn and descend sharply to make a landing approach in the wheat filled meadow that spread out in front of me.  I watched it with interest and longing for the day that I would be able to fly again.  My days of ultralight adventures are already 25 years in the past.  Flying an ultralight is like driving a motorcycle with wings.  Wind in your hair and bugs in your teeth.  The blue and white plane descended sharply, leveling off smoothly and made a graceful connection with the meadow grass. 

The grass shimmered with morning dew and the tassels of seed moved in waves with the slight breeze blowing across it.  The plane bumped along and was coming directly to where I stood by the car.  I suppose I should have been alarmed as the spinning propeller got closer and closer.  I wondered calmly if the pilot was going to stop in time.  I did not think about jumping out of the way and I don’t know why this did not occur to me.  I knew I was safe somehow.  A third person observer would have yelled for me to move.

Hmmm...Lou in Field in the Kush

The plane did stop and the propeller did wind down about 10 feet away from me.  After a couple of minutes a spry young man in his early 30’s leaped from the cockpit and smiled as if he knew me from some other place.  I recognized him but I did not know who he was. (such is the way of dreams)  He was not a truly familiar face by any means but I knew him.  I mumbled something like “Nice day for flying huh.”  to which he replied smiling “Yes, excellent.  Glad you are here.”  I wanted to ask him why he landed at this particular place because there was no runway and no fuel for the plane.  Somehow I understood that none of this mattered.  I also knew I was in a dream.  I was aware of the unreality unfolding in my mind.  I did not concern myself any further with these thoughts.

After an expanse of time lost in the melancholy of the moment, I watched the pilot open a narrow door.  The door opened underneath and behind the propeller.  He bent down a little and walked through the door into the belly of the plane.  I stammered out “What the…” as he turned and smiled a beatific smile and said, “Don’t you want to see everything?  Come on in.”  I followed him into the belly of the plane and discovered a very neat and tidy 1950’s boat galley type of affair, complete with sink, cookstove and a small bathroom shower.  Beautifully matched powder blue and white vinyl covered seats that you know would fold out into a bed.  He sat down languidly on one of the bench seats and looked at me.  “Nice huh.  Keeps me cozy wherever I go.”  “Yeah, no kidding.  It is so roomy in here,” I said excitedly,  “You cannot imagine this kind of space from the outside of the plane.”  I explained.  “I mean not at all.”  The not so distant stranger smiled languidly, took a satisfying pull from his long neck beer and said, “It is a bit of an optical illusion isn’t it?”

People can get used to anything.
And now for something completely different.

I walked around evergreen lake yesterday.  It was a blustery October morning.  As I walked I became more aware of the growing black hole lodged in my breast.  I tromped pass other imperial walkers who greeted me sunnily with a “good morning” or “hello”.  The signal was one of solidarity between us, between us, the chosen lake walkers.  We who were able to ring this high mountain lake on this extraordinary day.  Even with my growing inner blackness the beauty of the moment was not lost on me. I reveled in the reflection of the sun shimmering off the wind capped water.  I watched kayakers and stealthy canoes slicing through the water.  Two or three intrepid boaters beached themselves in order to get their lines wet with the anticipation of their well hidden hooks snagging an unsuspecting trout.

Mo & Lisa With Me & Trice

Max, Nat, Trice Patty & Buzz and Me...home again

It has taken me this long to get my head around this experience, this adventure.  I am back in the USA and have no conscious intention of going back to Afghanistan, or any other “conflict zone.”  As I have said, going there was not my druthers, but it is what it is, it is what I did, and now I find myself searching back through the opaque looking glass of my experiences there.  Regret is not the word/feeling I would choose in retrospect.  Absolute astonishment is more to the core of the experience. 

There is more...there is always more