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.

The Days Melt Into Weeks...My Feet Touch Down

Hi there my peoples.  Ho there my friends.  Sorry I have not written sooner and thank all of you who emailed me saying WTF Lou, what is going on over there? In all honesty I have been totally absorbed and overwhelmed by all that is Afghanistan, by all that is this job, by it all.  This is precisely why I have not written in a while.  This cultural submersion is precisely why I could not write sooner.  Honestly, it has taken me this long to see this place, to feel and understand small parts of the Afghani culture.  To be swept up in the world of corporate intrigue, the bullshit that goes with it, and the working scene shenanigans that are necessary to survive.  To take my wildest observations and distill them into words that can be placed here would have been fruitless prior to this moment.  In general, I have had very little time for myself.  In particular, it is taking all my resources to understand this work flow.  I still don't grasp much of the nuance yet.  I have confidence in my ability to manage the jobsites and do the necessary paperwork.  This knowledge takes time and it tests my patience.  

The first week of work, was a whirlwind of massive information download and paper chasing which ended in my getting the flu.  My first weekend I spent feverish in bed, unable to read because I ached all over.  I had a bad fever.  Hell, even my eyeballs hurt.  My mind rewound on my decision to come here, Lou, your shit is too weak for this.  You are going down in the flames of a viral/bacteriological fury. Well, my illness passed and I recovered quickly and started wandering the streets of Kabul looking for power tools with my co-worker Allen.  Then just as suddenly I found myself flying to Herat city every week.  Herat is in the western edge of Afghanistan, right by the Iranian border, but more on that later.  This is where the jobs I am to "supervise" are.  I inherited five jobsites that I am supposed to manage.  Hmmm.  In the city I am even more isolated than in Kabul because there are no other expats out there.  None.  No expat "nightlife" at all.  I hold the weight of the heightened isolation at bay by working until 8 or 9 pm.  They serve me dinner at my desk.  

Herat is a nice town with trees and clean air, which cannot be said for Kabul.  An example of the vibe in Herat can be told by the events that unfolded on this one desperately beautiful Tuesday night.  I come down from my office after dark into the rose garden in the courtyard of the Herat office.  My rooming house is on the other side of the courtyard.  I stop on the porch and gaze up at the twinkling night sky and take in deep breaths of effervescent air.  As I descend the few steps to the garden path, I notice a group of men sitting on chairs in the grass.  They are my security guards and some other workers.  They all rise up to greet me.  It is a sign of respect to rise whenever someone approaches.  I smile at them in the moonlight and say Salaam Aleikum, the Afghani greeting of may god bless you.  They respond by inviting me, to join them for a cup of tea in their broken English.  I start to thank them for the invitation but...and I stop in my tracks.  The moonlight is shimmering off their shining eyes and grinning smiles.  Their gestures exude a welcoming feeling...I accept, and I am humbled by their openness and their kindness.  I share three cups of tea with them while they try to speak in broken English, while I laughingly try to learn a couple of Dari phrases.  Tasha Cor, thank you.  Time passes as we exchange a comedic charades dotted with stilted descriptions of our respective homelands.  The moon glistens off the watered roses.  I have arrived and Herat is extending its embrace to me.  It makes me smile.  It calms my beating heart.

Back in Kabul, I finally get my feet under me and I realize the ground here does not shake from bomb blasts.  It vibrates with life.  It pulses with activity.  There is a constant flurry of ongoing activities punctuated by the Inmans call to prayer and incredibly loud low flying helicopters and fast moving Army convoys.  Balancing these diametrically opposed scenes is the essence of living here.  So welcome my friends and family.  Welcome to life in Afghanistan.

I left you, if memory serves me, my dear readers, standing in a parking lot at Kabul International Airport, squinting into the glaring sun, waiting for my driver.  Walt the Texan, my "grab him and bag him" co-worker, grabbed his cellphone and called someone named Akbarfarzi or something and said in his best Texas drawl, "Wherz ma car?  Where is Majeed  Who is this?" His eyes twirled in their sockets, "Don't tell me you forgot about me, don't tell me that...again?  Really? All the while he is making faces that resemble a man going through a Joe Cocker moment. He slips on his cobalt blue sunglasses and turns to me. I'll tell you what there Lou, with these guys, you gotta keep on em and slickem, slackem slokem, all the time. I nod knowingly and then I tilt my head at an impossible angle and look sidelong at him.  "Excuse me, I'm gonna do what exactly?"  How does what ever the hell he said work?  More importantly, what does "slickeming, slackeming, slokeming" look like?  That was the third or fourth time I heard his pontification directed at no one in general and everyone in particular.  I made a really wise choice and stayed far behind my mirrored sunglasses.  Way back.  It was a good thing that my popping eyeballs were completely masked by my poly-carbonate lenses, lest somebody see my utter confounded look of utter amazement.  My brain lost traction for a while, as I tried to fathom what in the hell he was saying, and why was he repeating this phrase incessantly to people who obviously can not understand one word of English, much less Texican for Christ sakes.  Of course, on the outside of my blown out brainpan, I continued to stand there acting nonplussed.  Totally cool in my sweating cowboy boots.   I casually shifted my weight into an unconcerned slouch.  On the inside I was pondering the flying circus I had just joined. Hey, at least Kabul did not smell like New Dehli, India, I concluded mindlessly...hey, that is something...isn't it?  It is isn't it?

Dirty boys ambled around me with their grubby hands out, looking for, well, looking for a hand out obviously. "Gim me daller" they marble mouthed and move in ever closer. "Wutchu boys want now...get outa here." Walt proclaimed with a dismissive wave of his hand.  "Go wan, get outa here."  My two baggage cart guys who were still arguing in Dari over which one is "officially" pushing my baggage cart, twirl on the kids and  say something terse sounding.  The kids respond in a smarmy sounding fuck off and slink away immediately accosting the other white people pouring out of the foreboding Kabul International Airport Terminal building.  "Gim me daller" I hear in the fading distance.  Festooned in peeling blue plastic lettering the terminal building greets me with the "Welcome to Afghanistan" greeting.  Well, they must have a sense of humor I muse...now that's another story entirely which I will get to later.

We trudged past the first parking lot which was a few hundred yards from the international terminal building and decorated with huge concrete crash blocks.  This lot was crammed with huge black SUV's sporting monstrous antennas and cow catcher bumpers that would look perfect on a 1850's steam engine.  A might bit overstated on Ford Excursions and Expeditions, but the flat black cow catchers did add a counterpoint to the entire scene and blended well with the runway line of muscled guys in full fatigue gear sporting bullet proof vests and a vast array of black pistols strapped to every appendage.  All of them are total posers, arms crossed and brows furrowed.  They look exactly like mercenaries, which I stupidly realize they actually are.  I am not talking smack about these guys, quite the contrary, I am merely the observer reporting faithfully on the almost obscene absurdity of the moment.  Then it all dawns on me.  All at once.  This ain't a Hollywood set on TV.  This is real and unfolding in living color right before my dilated eyeballs.  Hmm, would you look at that.  Well I will be damned to hell I'm sure...

They slung black M-16's around their shoulders like so many backpackers heading for a picnic.  They lean in toward me expectantly, like that lineup of important looking limo drivers you see at airports, holding signs for Mr. Albatross and Mr. Perfidy.  Yeah, here I was staring at a selection of Halliburton guys who were looking for their new "meat".  I knew they were Halliburtonians because they had black "H"s tattooed to the furrows in their foreheads...I mean duh.  Me and Walt ambled right up to them while they slid their mirrored sunglasses off their greasy tanned noses. A couple of the larger ones started to extend their hands in greeting as we shuffled past them.  I smiled a stupid grin and waded right past them.  

"Har ee iz.  Where u bin Majeed?"  Walt broadcast.   "Dontcha love me anymore?" The Afghan smiled wide and extended his hand, then pressed his right hand to his heart in greeting.  I smiled back and kind of bowed and gave him the 'Namaste' Indian hand sign.  With that we strolled through two more parking lots for the elite commandos and Army brass, past the dirty green Connex guard gate and into to the 3rd parking lot.  I was officially out of the airport and standing in the ancient city of Kabul.  I was stumped...what is up with all the faded puke green paint?

Driving through Kabul is a secretly choreographed chaos machine coupled with the dizzying dynamo hum of bustling street bazaar commerce.  There is stuff to buy everywhere and tons of people in millions of Toyota Corollas driving around to get at it.  There are three traffic lights in town which means every intersection is a traffic circle where the rules of the road are based on whoever gets in front of you first.  Sometimes you notice the other madmen drivers react to our fully armed guard with his AK 47 in the front seat...this helps us work our way through the car entropy.  We go everywhere with our Afghani guards...even when we walk down the street to the Army base (more on that froggy scene later)

The fascinating thing about the traffic is the mix of conveyances and the frenzied ballet of cars, trucks, Humvees, man push carts, horse driven carts, bicycles and whacked out pedestrians, who never consider looking for traffic before stepping off the median.  It is really odd to watch, but it seems that the walkers are startled and surprised when they see a car barreling down on them.  Their look is kind of like, "Where did that thing come from and why is it in my way?"

What is totally amazing in this apparent vehicle free-for-all is the lack of monstrous dents in all the cars.  Everyone drives within inches of each other, using their horns like a language, while barely missing every other vehicle they come close to.  I kid you not, I could reach out the window and snatch somebody's cell phone right out of their hands, we drive that close.  (Everybody in Afghanistan has a cell phone.  Tremendous poverty does not stop cell phone sales.) There is the general rules-of-the-road concept of traffic moving in the same direction, mostly  For no apparent reason someone decides to drive the opposite way and barrels right toward you.  I mean they just bear down on you and by some unfathomable method, one person veers off at the last moment.  I am confident that those opposition drivers have some perfectly rational reasons for driving straight AT oncoming traffic, but you don't really have much time to ponder that.  I basically have to resign myself into the belief that my driver and the AK 47 armed guard sitting in the front passenger seat, know when the game of chicken ends, and evasive maneuvers start.  As the days of being chauffeured around Kabul add up, I have come to realize that there are no rules of the road around here just general guidelines enforced by the fact that you will go to jail if you get into a wreck.  Period.  This keeps all drivers on hyper alert mode which is just peachy by me.  Me, I would so LOVE to drive around here...It would be an absolute riot.  Mad Max meets Gonzo Lou in Massoud Circle...bring it!

Oh, there is one significant detail that prevents the driving frenzy from turning into a crash test dummy testing grounds.  Afghan law apparently states that if you maim someone in a traffic accident, you are responsible for them and their family until they get better.  If they cannot get back to work you must pay to support them for the rest of their lives.  If you kill someone, you must support the deceased family forever.  That is if and when you get out of jail.  The powers that be in my company, Ti, will not let us drive...ever!  Cause for immediate termination.  On a more positive note, I have only seen one semi serious wreck here in 4 weeks.  Everybody was fine, the totaled car was being pushed off the road.  Forget insurance, drive responsibly or you become the responsible party.  Sounds simple enough.

My living situation is larger than a dorm room and smaller than a decent hotel room.  Some of my co-workers have bigger rooms, the bastards.  Some have attached bathrooms and some have walk in closets with doors to outside balconies.  Right now I am on the third floor balcony, taking in some afternoon sun with my friend Ruppert.  I am on the 'beach' which I have taken to calling the third floor balcony.   This is as close to a beach as we are going to get for a while I think.  I imagine importing a couple of tons of sand, a couple of umbrella tables and plastic palm trees.  I imagine huge pineapple rum drinks and a pool.  I imagine I am in Paris sometimes too.  A man can dream.  

Well, I finished my first day of work.  It went well, I think.  I really don't know because I am still in a daze about the fact that I am here.  I attended the morning "board meeting" on the 5th floor at 7 am with VP Mr. Malik.  After the meeting he invited me into his private office (very nicely appointed by the way) and we spoke for about an hour.  I asked for some org charts and documentation that would help me understand the company structure and operations.  He gave me a chart and I soon found out that half the people listed are no longer with the company or in different positions.  I am not sure whether I should be concerned about this or not.  I discovered on my first day that the company has gone through, is still going through, what is a kind way to say this, oh yes, they call it a "restructuring".  All the departments indicated in my new freshly printed color laser organizational chart, have different names now, they have different Directors and they are in different physical locations in the building.  I realize that I am obviously part of this "re-structuring".  Well, this  particular corporate working scene is very interesting, I gotta tell ya...are they all like this?

Dennis the architect gave me the 1 hour tour and introductions to the 5 floors of people working for the company.  His floor is "Design" down on the first, with my friend Jeff Ruppert (who turned me onto this job, is currently on vacation in the states, priceless).  Construction (my department) is on the 2nd floor while Logistics & Procurement are on the 3rd floor.  The 4th floor is Quality Control, Estimator and Finance.  Well that is what the placard says, "Estimator", not Estimating Department or some corporate sounding title.  The 5th floor is Upper Management and Chief of Staff Ali, a very "trendy, bright young Afghan man".  The basement is reserved for the mole men from IT.  Dennis takes me on the roof and we gaze upon our domain.  "It is a little hazy out today." I observe.  "No, it is really kinda clear out today.  Look we can actually see the mountains." states Dennis in all seriousness.

I am set free from "Dennis the Orienteer" (I miss him already) and I wander onto the Construction floor and introduce myself.  Hmmm, there is no boss to "show me the ropes" (he is in the states right now)  I find no emissary, no hand pumping human resources glad-hander who is ever so excited to parade someone new around.  Not even a person hanging back on the horizon.  This is the moment when I realize that I am not going to go through any more of an orientation.  That was it.  I was just "orienteered" and now I am on my own.  Literally.  You want to hear about what it is like for me to work in an office.  Stop giggling.  An office where I am not the the grand pooba?  Well too bad.  I am not going to talk about it.  Not now.  I will save that tiny tidbit of vicarious experiential-ism and share that whole exiting monologue with you later, because right now, I absolutely have no clue what "the office" means.  So I find myself standing there, totally suited up with my "brand new computer briefcase" dangling uselessly from my hand, and I have nowhere in particular to go.  There is no office door with my name on it.  No coffee mug presentation.  I take a cautious step forward.  Welcome to "work" in Afghanistan Lou.

I say hello and smile at everybody I see.  They all stand up and mumble softly, and put their right hand on their heart.  I take this greeting in and mimic the hand movement.  After shaking five or six hundred Afghanis hands, I ask the first white guy I see where I might find my desk. (and my new life by the way)  He looks at me with that certain far away gaze that speaks volumes...I thank him quietly and wade into "Lou's Life in Office-the Prequel".  More later on that.

All the expats live in the guesthouse which is right next door to Ti's 5 story office building which happens to be the tallest building nearby.  Tallest by like 3 stories taller.   The ½ acre area is surrounded by 8' walls, complete with an armored control point entrance and between 8 and 10 Afghan army guys in full helmeted battle gear spread around the compound.  There are armed guards stationed at every entrance, and on every other floor of the office.  Makes the home scene nice and cozy, civil insurrection style.  One nice thing is that my room faces west which on clear mornings (a rarity) I gaze out at the snowcapped mountains of the Hindu Cush.  The auditory ambience of city life is punctuated by the 24/7 droning of the industrial generators next door where the UN International Election Committee personnel live.  The house is beautiful but the 'force protection' decorator has got to go.  Forget about the the rooftop gun tower and the concertina wire laced through the flapping green visual screening on the chain link fencing.  That decoration goes without saying, I mean really.  But what is with the air conditioning units bolted haphazardly on the exterior wall?  They are stuck up there like band posters at the Boulder mall.  From an aesthetic design perspective, I just don't know where to start.  If this visual insult wasn't enough, there are a bunch of workers retrofitting a gorgeous Pakistani designed house across the street.  I am afraid they hired the same "force protection" decorator as next door.  It is a travesty.

So, "How is it going?" you all are asking.  I will attempt to describe the indescribable.  I will bring you here vicariously if you like.  Five weeks into this lifestyle and I am getting my head around the overwhelming demands of my work.  It is constant, relentless and work travels uninvited to the lunch table and our nights out.  I have found some solace in the relationships I am making with both the Afghans and the expats.  I have also found some tremendous weirdness and constant friction running rampant throughout this whole scene.  Go figure.  People are who they are, including myself, wherever you live.  By accepting this, what is, I am allowing myself to fully experience this incredible adventure through my Cuban Eyes. 

Thoughts of all of you friends and my dear family remind me everyday what a phantasmagorical life existence I have enjoyed prior to this...so somehow in the middle of this cacophony, I am remembering how lucky I truly am.  In fact, last night I paraded about like a drunk monkey in a set of Afghan made chain-saw leather chaps...yes, somebody had the red "record" button on, thank god.  Somewhere, I believe the production of Robin William's "Gooooooooood Evening Afghanistan!!!" is starting.  People, I guess some things never change.  Fierce hugs and huge kisses to you all.  You are in my dreams and in my mind...

the path is the destination

I have been in Kabul for over a week but I need to rewind and catch up on the days before I left the states.  My feet have not landed yet and I am still wondering what happened.  Welcome to Afghanistan!

My friend Suzie Q gave me a Saint Christopher medal.  Miss Suz presented it to me with these words, “Louis - it makes me no never mind if you don’t wear this.  It’s not exactly 24kt Cuban gold (like YOU are).  Bit it’ll still do the trick!  You could even put it on your key chain or hang from the rear view mirror.  Amulets from friends are a good thing! And St. Chris’ is a good guy.” (she knows I am a recovering Catholic)

The extended Mattern family took the amulet and held it in their hands.  Some pressed it to their forehead like Mary did, some pressed it to their breasts like Karen, April, Claudia and Trice (the thought makes me reel, no breast pressing around here)   Others smiled, some murmured things.  As we posed for the necessary group pictures, Miss Suz slid the chain over my head...there is no clasp on this chain, it just wiggled past my well endowed proboscis.  So now it resides along with my fathers gold chain...two objects imbued with unfathomable spirits.  The love I feel upon this “leaving” is both heartrending and humbling. Thank you Suzie!

Many friends scheduled several dinners, teas, the hysterical bowling night, a day of skiing, an awesome “Church of the Bloody Mary” Sunday at John's before I left town.  I already miss all of you more than I can say...

The first leg of the trip was uneventful although waving goodbye to Trice Natalie and Miguel at DIA was touching and tough.  What is there to say about a 16 hour flight?  Anybody?  I prepped myself with 3 vodkas at 4 pm after I landed in LA, took some fashionable sleeping aids once I was settled on the Emirates flight to Dubai, and totally passed out until 2 am.  Woke up in a severe smear so I switched to coffee and coke for the rest of the flight and watched “Hurt Locker”, tough but no Avatar, “Up In the Air”, sad, and some other flik...the time passed and I walked the plane, talked to the flight attendants about inane things and went to the john too many times.  It was something to do I guess.

Fast forward...

I turn around and find myself standing on the balcony of some fancy hotel in Dubai.  I lay down on the square acre bed and try to act cool like this is just another day in the life...I am vainly trying to read “Caravans” the Michener book about Afghanistan Mary gave me, when the phone rings.  Wait a second...  Who would be calling me?  In Dubai?  “Hello?” I say timidly.  “Hey Lou, this is Walt, I am here from Ti to grab you and bag you into Kabul.  Meet me for breakfast at 7:30.”  His slithering Texas drawl clashed mightily with my surroundings.  I stammered something about looking forward to meeting him and walked out on my balcony to take in the sights and a few liters of fresh air.  Off in the distance I spy the tallest building in the world.  A Disneyland needle poking up into the smog filled sky.  So much for the fresh air thing.  I wonder where the "Palm Islands" are and if I will see them when I take off.

The Dubai airport is radiant in its shininess.  Half the people are in their whiter than white flowing outfits complete with turbans, the other half are speaking languages my ears have never been exposed to.  There are Tajiks and Kazastanians and some kind of mumbley-mouthed Chinese. 

The biggest issue was to get to the duty free store and score some sweet potato vodka.  Walt (my new friend from Ti) said good alcohol is rudely expensive in Kabul because it is basically illegal in Afghanistan.  Holy pumpkins Batman, and Dubai has no potato vodka!  The Duty Free store in Dubai International has no potato vodka?  What is up with that?  In a place where you can go skiing inside and check into a 7-star hotel (I believe that includes the frequent foot massages), go to a casino 24/7 and buy your own frickin island...I am stunned and perplexed at this revelation.

So here is my future.  Women in bags, men in skirts and no potato vodka.  I am mixed up with a Texan offering me tick tacks that have ping-ponged off the gleaming marble floor and sitting in the waiting room for "Expat Airways to Kabul", you want it, we got it.  Yeah baby, it just doesn't get any better than this.

The sitting room for the flight to Kabul is occupied by people with that faraway look.  That certain look you might see in the courthouse.  The look that says I am not sure where I have come from and I really don’t know where I am going, kind of look.  We all stare off into space with unfocused eyeballs trying to assess the other people waiting here.  Trying to fathom why all these other people are flying into Kabul.  I think I picked out a reporter and her photographer. 

Why am I flying into Kabul?  Some faces talk casually, as if the reality of flying into a known war zone doesn’t bother them.  But I think we all know better.  The two groups of military Blackwater guys stand with their arms crossed or hands in their pockets looking stern and preoccupied while discussing bullets and things.  One kaki encrusted “Arnold wanna be” with huge pecks, I mean wrong huge, had the look of unconcerned un-concern-ment down.  The two mercenary groups do not look at each other or acknowledge the others presence.  No "what up" or "dude", nothing.  We all get on the flying tube and watch the endless brown mountains rise up under us as we descend into Kabul.  We are the pirates chasing after the gold indicated on treasure maps we have yet to find.  Greg Mortensens we are probably not (FYI he wrote Three Cups of Tea a true story, a wonderful read). 

I finally look up the word “adventure” in the online dictionary and found that it actually includes “danger” right there with "excitement" in the definition.  To all of you who so correctly wished me well on my “adventure”...I bow in your general direction, cuz this is totally a fucking adventure.  By definition.

After landing gracefully in Kabul we were stopped on the tarmac, quite a ways from the terminal and immediately surrounded by many men with automatic weapons.  The ground crew slammed the external ladder up against the plane and we walked down and were directed immediately into a bus.  There were at least a dozen soldiers with automatic weapons staring at us with intense Afghani eyes.  One armed soldier sat in front of the bus with the driver.  The bus drove over to the terminal between huge concrete blocks and dropped us off by the “customs” area to have our passports/visa’s checked. 

Inside the “terminal” the scene became totally surreal.  The lighting was dim and bleak, the interior floor was a deep green tile which supported a series of dark wood and glass booths where the Afghan customs officials looked over your papers.  There were no “customary” questions about why we were in the country.  I guess it would be kind of a moot point when you think about it.  A cursory glance by the customs official to make sure I had a valid visa and I was now officially in Afghanistan.  But not so fast...The mayhem started in the baggage claim area.  A billion Afghan porters scrambling to get your bags for you or shilling you in Pashtu or Dari to take their taxi.  Walt directed me with uplifted eyebrows and slight head nods.  Too cool for school.

The weirdest thing was the “desk”.  I had been informed of the “desk” via email.  “Don’t miss checking in at the "desk" or you will have a hell of time leaving the country.”  The desk is the place that you must fill out a form with your Afghan address, present two photo ID’s to a non-descript man (no official looking uniform, no epaulets, no stinking badge, nothing) standing behind what looks like a small basement bar you would find in any suburban tri-level.  I was told to find this counter and make sure I submitted the paperwork, but I walked right past it due to the confusion of the porters demanding my baggage claim checks.  Walt gave me a slight nod and I spun back around and saw the "desk” occupied by a few people that had just stepped off my plane including “Arnold”.  I felt safer somehow.  The chaos would have been comical if not for the overriding scent of nervous sweat and feeling of foreboding that hung in the air like suffocating cloud.  Breathe Lou breathe.  No problem, you don’t do this right you may be detained and imprisoned...breathe Lou breathe...

I managed to get the form filled out and present it with my two photos to the ‘dude’ who promptly stapled one of my photos on the form I had just completed and immediately stapled my other photo to another form which he handed back to me and indicated by some sign language that I needed to fill this card out as well.  As I filled the blanks it became obvious that the information I was scribing down on this card was exactly the same as the form I had just filled out.  WTF, government redundancy is everywhere.  Curiouser and curiouser.  I completed this task in the middle of a growing srum of people pressing forward to achieve the same goal.  My co-worker Walt looked keenly perturbed at the whole mosh pit of seething bodies slinging backpacks around like battering rams.  The ‘dude’ stamped my card and handed it back to me and Walt looked at me sternly and told me not to lose it or I may not be able to leave the country...I thought about the strange pressure I was feeling on my chest and quickly decided that it was not a heart attack in the making...although I had plenty of reason to have one at that moment.  In hindsight, if I had indeed crumpled to the ground gripping my chest, I am convinced that I would have been stepped over and pushed aside as yet another cumbersome obstacle to be vaulted as quickly as possible.  Piece of cake.

The air became more fetid as my newly designated porters bickered about who was going to push the cart laden with my suitcases.  I don’t really know how or when the second porter became part of my entourage but now I had two dudes and an airport cart bashing its way through the throng of people who were funneled into a cordoned off aisle that led directly to their bag screener x-ray machine.  Ah, something familiar.  The flurry of pulling metal objects out from every pocket along with your belts proved to be too much for one lady who howled in protest at the customs agents that pulled her shoulder bag away from her to run it through the machine.  Something about her papers she shrieked belatedly…I had my passport and the all important “paper” in my pocket where it resides everyday.  Don't leave to go to the bathroom without it.

After retrieving my bags, the dueling porters continued to bicker at each other in some kind of Farsi dialect.  At this point I figured we had escaped the labyrinth of doom and disorientation since we were headed outside.  I was wrong.  After a hard left we had to walk down the side of the building toward a guard house even though the parking lot was directly ahead.  Observing us with dark piercing eyes was another set of Afghan army dudes (auto rifles slung over their shoulders) who looked like they were getting ready to pounce on someone in this luggage parade.

Their keen eyes studied our bags as intently as they studied our faces.  No flinching allowed and no room to flash a brilliant smile and greeting...forget about whipping out the camera and asking for cheesecake smiles.  Somehow we had not yet officially arrived in Kabul.  Once we cleared the guard house after driving the luggage right through it, I thought we were out...except not.  The next scene was right out of apocolyptica ‘the series’.  Lined up on either side of the “you must walk here” sidewalk, were chattering money changers with plexiglass boxes filled with bank notes and chewing gum sellers who sent their young boys out to hawk beaded wristbands and what not.  Squatting nearby were families waiting in the dirt for something to happen or something to fall...they too stared at us as if we were aliens.

The final push came when we had to maneuver through 3 parking lots that were crammed with honking taxis and gesticulating men trying to push me into their man’s ride.  My partner Walt reminded me that we had a car and a driver waiting for us.  He was nowhere in sight.

Welcome to Afghanistan