Outside the Wire (Meeting the Neighbors)

It is a treasured privilege of “field” personnel to have opportunities to see Afghanistan in the flesh, and is the key reason I sought out such a posting.

It was hard to sleep well the night before as I was still reeling from the onslaught of information, equipment, and advice that had been poured on me. I mentally rehearsed the various safety training that seemed so divorced from reality, but was now a reassuring body of knowledge.  I still checked my gear 5 times before turning in, and ended up overpacking, as I always do if I have too much time to prepare or get nervous.  I was both and probably carried enough water for the whole company of soldiers that escorted us out. According to my shoulders I carried enough for the whole village we visited.

Sleep came soon enough – and I woke up with lots of nervous energy that I wisely (if I do say so myself) didn’t burn off on a morning run.

The team, a sizeable group of Korean soldiers, a handful of US soldiers with skills in “civil affairs”, a handful of Korean civilians, and I, assembled in front of one of the nicest murals that grace FOB Ashena – Forward Operating Base – Hope. (The faithful reader will now protest - you said it was FOB Tiger!  to which I say, "tough luck", we use lots of names and acronyms ISO OpSec IOT keep you guessing)

The soldiers looked awesome, decked out in the full “battle rattle” (armor, “Kevlar” (helmet), weapon, lots of ammo, water and other extras)– but there is a price to pay for fashion, and that price is paid in pounds (kilos actually) and is steep.  We civilians lacked the glitz of our brethren, but I was both happy to carry around my pen and notebook rather than a few dozen pounds of weaponry and grateful for those willing to carry a weapon and the far heavier responsibilities that come with it.

The convoy commander reviewed the mission (in Korean), and our translator (assigned on the spot as a soldier with solid English) – gave a clear, albeit far more concise translation.  I must confess to some stereotyping as it made me think of the Black Belt Theater programs I watched as a young boy where the hero would get surrounded and the mouth of the evil blackbelt would run for twenty seconds while the voiceover gave a sinister “Now, you die!”  - anyhow, until my Korean language skills improve markedly I’ll go with the short version.  (which, did not have anything to do with dying)In fact, I think the truth is, that most of us could probably have somebody “translate” what we say and cut it by 1/2 or 3/4s .

Anyhow, the brief wrapped up soon enough, concluding with a short prayer, and we started out, stopping briefly to have the soldiers load their weapons and (if my Korean is any good) chamber a round.

Then we were off and running, well OK walking briskly, which still felt like a run with my body armor and portable village water supply.  We left the road, and stepped back in time (having already taken a sizable jump before).  We walked the edges of small fields, none more than two acres tended by hand or perhaps plowed by oxen, and laced with irrigation canals that looked timeless and framed by mud walls that may have stood there for two days or two millennia.

Staying largely in the shade, it was a wonderful hike dotted with vistas that would open up framing farmland under the backdrop of the stunning mountains of Afghanistan.  I was even more pleased when we began to see farmers, along with their children and their animals – both because they were as visually stunning as the landscape, and because it was an indication of safety.  They appeared to vary between nervous and friendly – although my assessment may simply be a reflection of my own feelings.

After a substantial hike we arrived at the outskirts of the village we were visiting, and the crowds began in earnest.  The translator was up ahead, so I told the shy, quiet kid in me who usually keeps me from talking much to strangers to stuff it, and broke out my very best down home manners.  I waved, greeted, and smiled until my mouth hurt, and unloading my horribly broken Dari on any Afghan that came within hailing distance.  Reactions were mixed, but most seemed to respond positively. Unfortunately, I didn’t usually understand the actual response but it always came with a smile and some welcoming gesture, so I am putting the encounters in the plus side of the ledger.

Road Into Town

We ended up taking a pause at the edge of town, next to an incredibly muddy and fast moving canal that I only hoped they didn't use for drinking.  As we have found in the other "third world" countries we have lived in, the locals defied the laws of physics and body chemistry and remain pressed and immaculately dressed (with spotless shoes) in environments that confound the efforts (when we make the effort) of us westerners not to look like pig pen by the time we have walked out our front gate.  Luckily, my body armor is already brown, and can absorb a limitless amount of sweat without wrinkling (odor is another issue).

Soon, the village elders came to meet us and led us through the town to a thin rock and cement ditch that bisected the town.  They proudly walked the length of the project expressing their thanks to the PRT who had funded the effort, and explaining how they had made some improvements of their own.  It was a nice moment, and sobering reminder that the completion what might pass as an oversized Eagle Scout project was the biggest infrastructure improvement of the year.  Like any worthwhile representative (elected or otherwise) the mayor invited us to make a tour of their next projects and stay for a lunch where we could discuss them.  At that point I was willing to build them a school or anything else with my bare hands if I could sit down in the shade, have a bite to eat and distribute the village water supply which had gotten heavier despite having been depleted.

Alas, that was not to be, so we shook hands, parted ways and tried to retrace our steps through the maze of pathways.  We didn't quite do so, but any crafty operator knows how to sell any late arrival or "irregular" route as a triumph of OpSec.  This is just a fancy way of saying that if you don't know where you are or when you're coming, neither does the enemy, so you should be OK.  Twisted, but oddly reassuring.

Turning Down a Free Lunch

We made it home without incident, with the scariest part of the trip being on a narrow path between high mud walls and squeezing past a number of donkeys and bulls.  Then we were back at the base, the soldiers were removing their magazines and unused rounds, and trudging back up the hill to our mural.  The mission closed with a quick huddle and team cheer, which didn't get translated, but didn't need translation.

Home Sweet Home - FOB Tiger

As I took a deep breath and started to survey my new home, the first thing that struck me was the orderliness and artistic flourishes of the FOB (base) and its denizens (hows that for a diplomatic word).  Everything was lined up in neat rows, and a series of murals depict scenes of lakes, playing children and the Statue of Liberty (which I thought a particularly gracious gesture of hospitality). In addition, rock gardens, a shrine, a vegetable and flower garden, and similar fixtures (up to prints of rural scenes posted in the bathrooms) have been sprinkled throughout the facility turning it into an island of color and structure on a dusty brown plain speckled with mismatched structures.

In keeping with the disciplined but welcoming and poetic (if I may stretch that word) physical setting, my hosts projected a similar sense of warm orderliness.  Although I was one of a handful of caucasians among hundreds of Koreans I did have the same sense of "otherness" that can be an exhausting aspect of living overseas (as well as a life-altering way to give yourself perspective on how immigrants/minorities live their lives).

That ended abruptly when I entered the DFAC (chow hall) and came close to asking Han Solo (my predecessor who picked me up at Mos Eisley -see earlier post) to provide written instructions on which seaweed goes in the soup, which goes on the rice and which you really just shouldn't tangle with. I muddled through the buffet style line going heavy on the rice and a dish of fried something with sesame seeds and a red sauce.  I carefully avoided sauces on my maiden culinary voyage not wishing to be "that guy" who pours tobasco sauce in his milk and then chokes it down pretending everything is A-OK.

I grabbed some bottled water from the refridgerator and sat down, still on the alert for cues on any meal  protocol. There didn't seem to be any, so I carefully picked up my metal chopstix and mentally thanked my parents for teaching me the two basic life skills of driving a stick shift and using chopstix. I was no match for my hosts of course, who seemed to entrap the smallest, sauciest kernel of rice without so much as looking at it, but I got the first nugget of what turned out to be chicken in my mouth on the first try. HEAVEN.

I have promised myself not to torment any of my colleagues on other PRTs who are facing genuine hardship far from the legendary Korean DFAC.  Suffice to say, while I can name only one in hundred dishes that are served here, my sole dietary challenge is limiting my portions.

After lunch, we tried to blend in a bit with our hosts by doing some walking, which the Koreans LOVE to do after meals.  It's a great habit, particularly since the scenery here is stunning, particularly when the wind isn't howling, the sun isn't baking you, or the dust isn't swirling (or all three). There are mountains behind the base and we look "forward" over the green fields (mostly green) of the Shomali plain, with various mountain ranges popping up from there. Pictures are in the works - for now, trust me, it's stunning.

Then we went up to one of the guard towers, made sure they saw us coming up (never surprise a guy with a gun that can stop a truck) tried to pass a few pleasantries with minimal success but abundant mutual goodwill and mimed a request to borrow their binoculars.  I took a look at a mountain range a solid two miles away, and almost felt sorry for any poor Talib teenager who tried to sneak up on them/us.

Then it was back to the office where Han laid on an excellent in-brief which was dominated by discussions of how to juggle the four different computer systems (and accompanying phone systems) which all have particular uses, advantages, audiences, and frustrations.  Each system also has a treasure trove of historical documents and emails, but accessing it requires a highly skilled treasure hunter, and I have not quite cracked the code on the last map... 

After dinner (I won't rub it in) I was ready to talk about something other than .pst files, and happy to join Han in his English language class.  A dozen or so students came in and sat quietly waiting.  Han introduced me and asked the students to introduce themselves and say a bit about themselves. The first presentation was fairly mundane but done quite skillfully. The second speaker struggled through name, family status etc. and suddenly came out with the self-description that I should have written down, but was close to his being "compelling and honest". The class roared, and suddenly the walls were down and the room of quiet serious students was revealed as a joker (several actually), a scholar, a family man and so on. The class continued and they went through a reading exercise based on a short story Han made up about life on the PRT, then wrapped up with gracious goodbyes and thanks to Han, and distribution of american goodies from the secret stash previously alluded to (and to my dedicated reader, the answer is NO I was not kidding about the Cocoa Puffs).

This is How We Roll (leaving Bagram)

After another night in the equivalent of a hotel room, I was ready to get to my final destination, even if it meant hauling ridiculously heavy gear down three flights of stairs.  We drove over to “ROK Aviation” (Korean helicopter parking lot).  They were extremely friendly and courteous, grabbing our bags, ushering us into their office and assuring us that we would fly on time (though once again no in-flight beverage or service).  Sure enough, they got us onto the tarmac and soon we were tossing the bags in and buckling ourselves in.  I was very glad to have had the practice in training with the harness, and not be “that guy” fumbling around and holding up the whole show.  “That guy” for the flight was a seasoned flyer who had the bad fortune of being twice the size of the average passenger and whose bulk was doubled by a baffling array of gear.

Soon we were rolling, yes rolling, waiting our turn for clearance, and then up we went towards the dust clouds, over the buzzing airport/city/base of Bagram and into the dusty plain.  Almost immediately though the brown yielded to green, a river appeared and I saw what looked to me like a rice field. Of course it may have just been that I was looking past the helicopter gunner at a scene that looked way too much like Platoon for comfort.  All the same, the plains are stunning, studded with canals, green fields and mud walled compounds.

OK, it's not THAT green

but I didn't want to be "that guy" with the camera

Very soon we were arriving at the base, an impressive affair that made me feel both secure and isolated from the country we flew over.

As luck had it, as soon as we landed, we dumped our bags, rechecked that our gear was squared away (not the time to have your cell phone be out of charge), and headed out on a KLE (see prior posting on KLEs if you’re not keeping up with the lingo).  This is not dissimilar to a Sunday drive after church, that is if you grew up in a very large family that drove around in heavily armored vehicles with automatic weapons in the back and a machine gun in the cab.

We were a pretty hard group to miss, and I kept thinking of all the places the Taliban could jump out from.  This line of thought occupied me until I noticed the first little boy giving us a thumbs up.  Now, if he’s anything like my boys, (and I’m convinced that all boys are basically the same until age 40, when some feel compelled to do something really “out there”) he was not endorsing the coalition presence and embracing the efforts of the international community to bring peace and development to Afghanistan, he was saying “cool truck”.  All the same, I reasoned that if enough Taliban dads and big brothers saw the little guys cheering on our cool trucks, they wouldn’t attack, at least at that moment in time…

We engaged the key leader (hint hint KLE) and a series of other contacts in wide-ranging and interesting conversations that I generally don’t plan on relating in this forum for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is that I’m sick and tired of writing about them in my daily work.  Suffice it to say that my first impressions of the Afghans are that they are a fascinating group, of tremendous diversity bravely facing challenges that would break spirits less intrepid than theirs.   While I have seen enough of the world to know that there is more to all my new friends than simple smiles and selfless desire to build the future of Afghanistan, I am certain that my frustration with this tour will include not having more time “outside the wire” to befriend and understand a fascinating people.

Anyhow, after a nice cup of tea (and yes I know I fell two cups short), we mounted up and rolled back to base.  This time I was slightly less paranoid, and had time to notice some of the telltale signs of poverty – like the number of school age kids in the street during school hours (though on balance I was still happy to see them), the somewhat vacant stare that marks an illiterate adult, and the fetching of water, which consumes an obscene percentage of the day of girls and women in the developing world. Notwithstanding, there were also plenty of signs of hope, including the high tension power wires overhead, and the wide smooth road we were driving on.

Soon we were back onto the base, the ladder dropped down, and I got my first good look at my new home.

Uncommon Country Team

Tonight I'm taking advantage of the footnote in the bottom right hand of the blog to go backwards in time to review a bit of undocumented experience that percolated back up to my consciousness.

The event in question is a fixture of life in the Foreign Service, a meeting known as "Country Team".  There is also the "expanded" country team, and the "core" country team. As you might guess, being part of the "core" team has connotations of status, or of bad luck depending on your point of view.

At any rate, the Country Team to an Embassy is a what a Department Head meeting is to a company.  The event is chaired by the Ambassador, or in their absence the Deputy Chief of Mission (the #2), the heads of any Departments other than the Department of State, (e.g. Dept of Agriculture, Defense Attache, NASA etc.), plus the heads of the Department of State "sections" - Political/Economic, Consular, Administrative, Public Affairs. 

If you are wondering why the Department of State gets extra seats, it's because the other Departments don't want them. Actually, it's because the Department of State, notably the Admin section provides the platform for all USG and diplomatic activity in country both by running the actual facility (Embassy) and (ideally) by working to maintain an overall strategic vision and coherence among all the parts of the USG. Plus, we State Department types get rated by the Ambassador and need a venue to demonstrate how we are making the world safe for democracy one sizzling briefing about export restrictions on frozen chicken thighs at a time. In addition to these high-stepping "regulars" at country team there are the extras. These range from visitors, to the proud extras coming to discuss a special project/issue, to the unlucky but often enthusiastic notetaker(s), to the nervous recent arrivals and the calmly jubilant pending departures.

Now back to the story.  As you might imagine, the Country Team meeting in Kabul can get rather crowded with just the regulars, who already occupy both a large table and the full "back bench" of chairs against the wall.  Two tours back, when I ran the consular section in Cameroon I held the exalted status of "core country team" member. Rankwise the "back bench" in Kabul would eat me for lunch, and, together with a dozen plus colleagues either arriving at post or departing in the next week I was relegated/blessed with a rare third status. Standing.

We were herded into the room, making quiet chit chat and taking note of the fact of things like the fact that there was both a one star AND a two star general at the table, while we waited for the Ambassador whose arrival signals the start of the meeting (so kids, NEVER be late for country team). Those with seats stood as Ambassador Eikenberry arrived, he invited us all to sit (OK not all of us), greeted a few members of the "core" team and then opened what may be the only country team meeting I am certain I will never forget.

In a recitation that took longer than I care to remember he read out the names and locations of where coalition soldiers had been killed during the last week.

Then, as I understand was his tradition, he began the meeting by noting:

"We continue to serve in their honor"

Editors Note: Wonder Where This is Heading?

I feel the need to insert a brief(ish) note to address the fact that I have not actually told you (dear reader) just where in Afghanistan I'm going, or what I'm doing - sooooo...

As you have likely heard, the military forces in Afghanistan are a coalition, which means there are soldiers from the usual places, UK, Canada, France, Germany etc. and also from some less traditional sources, like Turkey, the United Arab Emirates, New Zealand and South Korea.  In some cases they also send civilian/diplomatic folks like me, often together with development experts to form what we call a Provincial Reconstruction Team (PRT), which attempts to assist the provincial level officials of the Government of the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan (aka GIRoA) in their duties.  These non-US led PRTs typically have at least a small liaison group from the U.S. military and usually one or more civilians with a similar function in promoting good governance and development.

I had the good fortune to be selected to join a small group of Americans who live and work together with the South Korean led PRT about an hour north of Kabul which began working with the province of Parwan over the summer of 2010, and has a Forward Operating Base (FOB) in Charikar (the capital of Parwan).

My assignment was made almost a year ago but I wanted to check in with my hosts first to see if there were sensitivities among my new colleagues before blogging about life here.  There are, but they acquiesced when I promised not to reveal state secrets about methods of kimchi production, report how many more pullups the Korean soldiers do than their US counterparts, or provide the precise geocoordinates to the tightly guarded (and very substantial) stash of Cocoa Puffs on base.

And now back to your regularly scheduled programming:

Baffling BAF

After all the prep and the waiting the time had come to head out – first stop, BAF.

Despite being among the busiest airports in the world BAF, and larger cousin KAF are not as widely recognized known as say LAX or JFK, which is a shame because the passenger clearance is MUCH faster (there was none) and the gift shop (aka the PX) is WAY cheaper, to say nothing of the tremendous culinary offerings that go for a steal (as in free with a DOD badge). 

Bagram Air Base (like cousin Kandahar Air Field) – is a huge sprawl of tents, wooden “B-huts” and mismatched cement buildings plus, you guessed it, lots and lots of containers. I’ve recently come up with the depressing theory that the containers make a one way trip by sea to Pakistan, then by truck to Bagram or Kabul or wherever where they are unloaded. Normally, a shipper would then stuff something else in it, and reverse the trip, but there are (says the armchair and former economist) insufficient exports to backfill the huge influx of materials purchased by us foreigners, so they sell the box instead of paying to haul a big empty metal container a thousand miles through what a colleague rather quaintly calls “indian country”.  That or they did such a bang-up job marketing hooch heaven they have inadvertently warped the export market by making containers more valuable than the goods inside them. But I digress.

SecDef Touring BAF

(in winter and courtesy of Wikipedia)

To support the need to move people regularly from place to place the Embassy has a clever arrangement known as Embassy Air that works just like an airline (minus cabin crew) with x-ray check, baggage tags, and so forth except that body armor is not counted against your weight allowance (which they have) since most everybody carries it.  My flight went first to Jalalabad, and the short flight gave me an appreciation of just how dry and dusty a place Afghanistan is.  The airstrip seemed like an oasis of green in a sea of light brown hills.  Bagram by contrast, seemed more like an early version of the Mos Eisley spaceport might have been.  (for you non-Star Wars fanatics, that’s where Luke met Han and took off in the Millenium Falcon with stormtroopers on their heels).  A city laid on top of flat dusty plain kept alive by the constant traffic on the huge black runways.

Anyhow, after getting picked up by my predecessor Han, we headed out for some chow.  The DFAC (“Dee Fak”) or dining facility lacked the cavelike charm of the Mos Eisley cantina (and didn’t have blue aliens playing that catchy tune) – but was impressive in its own right. First – a nod to the public health folk who have indoctrinated the troops in good hand washing and sanitation and have installed sinks at the entry to ensure compliance. The variety and freshness of the food was impressive, and I indulged appropriately, topping off my meal at the ice cream bar. The environmentalist in me cringed at the cardboard trays, but I convinced myself that washing the number of dishes generated by the 30,000 odd people living on BAF would drop the water table and is a bad idea.

Next we did a tour of the base, stopping in to see my new bosses and a few dozen people who would be introduced something like this.  Bill, meet (Insert Rank) + (Insert Last Name) he/she is the S-(#1-9) for Task Force (insert cool sounding name like Gladiator, Bronco, etc.).  He/she sits with CJ(add 1 to 5 more letters or numbers) over in the (building name and number).  For the fully indoctrinated, this sounds more like “meet Dr. Watkins, he is the chief of emergency medicine down at County Hospital” .  Eventually he took pity on me and gave up trying to help me break the code so we headed to our guest quarters.  After a short rest we decided to drop by the MWR center (that would be Morale, Welfare and Recreation) to watch a pleasant but forgettable movie (whose name, main stars, and plot I have forgotten). Finally, we turned in early to get some sleep before an early flight out.



Hooch Heaven

 

After the hundredth time I got the “oh Paris, that must have been wonderful” line when chatting with my new colleagues (most of whom are angling to go TO Paris) I gave up explaining why, as lovely as Paris is, I cut that tour short by a year to take on this assignment, but plan to subject you, faithful reader, to my thoughts on why hooch living is so much nicer than residing in the city of lights.

 

First – according to the font of all knowledge (Wikipedia) a “hooch” is Vietnam War era military slang for a thatched hut, OR military slang for a temporary shelter made from a poncho or tarp.

The Hippie Era Hooch

Here, the term is usually applied to living quarters constructed from shipping containers which are laid out in an orderly grid pattern to make a hooch village. The container is often divided into two or more segments, doors are installed, and water and electricity (to power the AC/heater thank heavens) is run into them.  Prefab fixtures are dropped in along with one or more bunkbeds, and if you are fortunate enough, a desk, a chair, a bureau and maybe even some lockers are added and voila, home sweet home. They are a ritzier version of many 3^rd world roadside stores that operate out of shipping containers (no AC).

Often, these portable homes are stacked on one another and stairs are added (a hooch town).  These configurations can grow to include office hooches, or meeting/gym/cafeteria hooches where containers are combined to offer a communal space. As construction of more traditional apartments (if rocket resistant structures with sniper nests are deemed “normal”) struggles to keep up with staffing Embassy Kabul has become a hooch municipality – with several connected hooch villages and at least two hooch towns.  I was initially impressed with our hooch collection, but as I had the chance to visit some US military bases and the ISAF headquarters (International Security Assistance Force, a.k.a. the coalition) I soon realized that downtown Kabul is nothing short of a hooch megalopolis.  How a landlocked country a thousand miles or so from the sea, got so many containers is a mystery to me – but I’m finding out and buying stock in them the next time we decide to set up a portable city in some troubled country.

Anyhow, since the routine here seems to be work, work out, talk about work, repeat – the ups and downs of hooch living are often debated, and small differences in hooch design, maintenance or location acquire significance.  As for me, I’m in the hooch honeymoon period, particularly as I happen not to have a hooch-mate at the moment to offend with my failings in hooch etiquette.

Coming from Paris, where my family and I enjoyed a beautiful and spacious apartment in a very posh neighborhood with world-class wine, cheese and bread shops within a hundred meters I was very excited to embark on a kind of lodging cleansing ritual here, which I hope will allow me to again live contentedly within my actual means as a low-level bureaucrat in Washington DC.

I am in hooch heaven here, with a cozy little box that offers amenities far beyond what Paris had to offer. To wit:

Firstly, the temperature is perfect, because unlike Paris, which still runs its charming apartments on soviet-style heating and cooling technology (and by cooling I mean opening the windows), my small hooch is quickly brought to the perfect temperature with the flick of a switch and turn of a dial. 

Secondly, there is no dragging kids, bags, dogs, groceries or anything else up endless steps because the elevator is either to small to fit the average visiting U.S. relative, or is out of order, because the blacksmith who makes the parts for the elevator built 100 years ago is taking his 8 weeks of mandatory vacation. (Sorry my Parisian friends, but you know it’s true)

Thirdly, the sink, shower and TOILET are all where they are supposed to be, by which I mean within easy stumbling distance, not a quarter mile down the hall past the sleeping children.

Fourthly, my hooch has no sleeping (or not sleeping) children…  Just kidding guys, wanted to check if you’re reading.

Finally, and most importantly, my hooch combines fashion with function, and while I enjoyed the ornate (but non-functional) fireplaces we had in Paris, the fashionable AND functional brown barriers (the ones that could save my life) are my decoration of choice.

This link is to the best photo I’ve seen of the hooch village I am living in – and comes to you courtesy of Representative Martin Heinrich of New Mexico.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/martinheinrich/4689680582/

My camera capabilities are currently impaired, but I have a picture of my last hooch habitation on a French base in N’Djamena Chad where I was helping coordinate the departure of American citizens.  It almost passes for my current hooch (Kabul furniture is nicer, but lacks fancy drapes...) , suggesting that either hooch architecture is universal, or our good friends knew we’d be most comfortable in these accommodations.  (I should note in all seriousness that the French authorities were incredibly generous in their support both to the diplomats they housed and the many Americans they evacuated from the country during a rebel assault on the city).

New Age Hooch

(minus weapon and clutter - really Mom)

Wheels Down (arrival in Kabul)

Turns out Afghanistan is really far away.

The trip began with a thirteen hour flight from Washington to Dubai, where the hordes of transiting USG personnel pause long enough for a short night’s sleep beforetaking a short (2 and ½ hour) hop to Kabul.  I will spare you, dear reader, the details of leaving my friends and family whose reactions to my assignment range from pride to fear to befuddlement, (typically all of these), and my own well-stirrred emotional cauldron in parting from my sons and wife, and just say that it’s a good thing I’m not doing this for the money or I wouldn’t have gotten on that flight. But I digress

Flying to Dubai was uneventful, minus a minor freakout I had when I couldn’t slide my shoes back on because they had swollen up after I sat/slept for 10 hours.  Luckily, Dubai airport is not so much huge, as long, so after walking a half-marathon my feet felt normal again and promised myself on the next flight to follow my seatmate when he/she does their in-flight yoga routine.  Of course I then stood around at the immigration/customs area for a long while, but I’m atypically patient when it comes to that.  As a consular officer I have subjected countless applicants to my own failings as a bureaucrat, to say nothing of the times when somebody waits and waits while I have to attend to personal/professional emergencies, like sick children, ambassadorial requests, bathroom breaks, coffee/pastry breaks, office parties etc. (or they just plain get forgotten).  Anyhow, it helps me from getting annoyed to know that karma owes me some unpleasant trips through the passport control process, so if they take a few ounces rather than the full pound of flesh that is due, I’m a happy man.  My only disappointment was that my inspector took a LONG time with me, called his colleague over to review whatever record they have on me, but asked me no questions, and gave me no basis to speculate on what raised their suspicions.  At first I thought it was because I was wearing an African shirt, while my dozens of USG colleagues were more easily identifiable by their t-shirts (and corresponding biceps), izods (civilians), and cargo pants (our shared uniform).  However, while my instinct would be to chat up a shady applicant to see what kind of details I could flush out of them and take an inventory of their shoes, fingernails, watch, dress, and demeanor this inspector asked no questions, and did not appear to look at me at all (so I don’t think it was the shirt).

That said, my colleagues had no problem in identifying me as part of the herd, and on several occasions I was assisted by those who had been down the well-worn trail to Kabul (thanks folks), and helped me find the right bus/gate/check-in counter.  It felt a bit like a fraternity, in the positive sense of looking out for one another and being friendly, without being intrusive (or hazing each other).  Of course they may just be acting like Americans, and I’m still habituated to the less gregarious French culture and find myself smiling inside whenever a conversation with a stranger doesn’t involve them making one or more comments about my shortcomings as a parent, pet owner, or French speaker.

Anyhow, it turns out that Dubai is both far away and quite hot.  It had been built up so much that I was actually a bit disappointed when my clothes didn’t get singed as I walked out the door, but it was 10 pm, and I didn’t stay dry for long.  To be honest, I think that the air conditioning bill for the Dubai airport must exceed the annual budget of most African countries, because I was so chilled by the time I got out that I was glad for the heat.  Ditto the hotel, though a few minutes in the weak morning sun was enough to go from ice cube to crispy critter and send me on my way looking for the full length white suit (with turban) to beat the heat.  I didn’t find one, but had my choice of any luxury item known to man at the shopping mall/airport.  The whole departures lounge looked and smelled like the most chic sections of the Champs Elysees.  Accordingly, I left as quickly as possible having seen many tourists and colleagues in these situations whose money caves to the overwhelming peer pressure created by the volume of spending around them and leaps without warning out of their wallet.  I knew my father (aka the New Englander) will be proud of me for surviving this encounter unscathed.

The flight to Kabul was entirely more normal than I had anticipated, which is true of the whole experience so far.  I’m not sure if somewhere in my unconscious I had expected a firefight at the gate, or at least a takedown of a suicide bomber, but about the closest we got were some choice words exchanged between a first class passenger and one of us economy class cattle who was blocking the ramp.  Otherwise, it was the same drill, flying on an industry standard Airbus 320, with the same goofy presentation on how to fasten your seatbelt. I did pay closer attention than usual, particularly when it was repeated in Dari to see if I could understand more than the “please” and “thank you for your attention”.  I didn’t, but consoled myself with the knowledge that if I’m looking for the words for oxygen mask, language limitations are the least of my worries. There was the same silly map which you stare at until your eyes water as you try to disprove the fact that a watched pot doesn’t boil and its lesser known corollary, that a plane watched doesn’t move forward.  The biggest difference was the in-flight magazine which I found quite charming.  It highlighted the praiseworthy evolution and expansion of Safi airlines as it races to integrate into a global market and overcome unique challenges. The magazine is well-done, and had some interesting and helpful articles on Afghanistan, but retained a local charm (partly due to minor translation errors) that was quite endearing.  I resisted the temptation to pinch a copy to illustrate my point, but do recall my personal highlight from the magazine which was a very slick looking add with a gray Suburban that sprouted the back legs and tail of an alligator.  The company offered armored car services for tourist or NGOS/Government/Other internationals, complete with airport pickup.

It also turns out Afghanistan is hot and dusty.  On our approach I was appropriately impressed by the mountains, but took more note of the plains to the north (where I’ll be going) which were a light tan and looked desolate and DRY, particularly for growing season in one of the more heavily populated and arable areas of the country.  Kabul itself was unremarkable, other than sharing the general brown color with a few swaths of green.  Our landing was heavy but OK, greeted only by a tiny smattering of applause that came from the tiny smattering of locals.  I rather like the idea of cheering on the pilot and celebrating the fact that you survived a flight which I’ve seen in all the “third world” countries I’ve been to. Still, I’m part of the outlander herd, so I just smiled at the applause and held to my stereotype.

The airport held to its stereotype as warm and a bit chaotic with baggage handlers eager to help you the 50 feet from the two baggage carrousels to the entrance, and a bag check officer being far more vigilant about your checking ticket stubs than passport control or customs officials.  It felt like homes I’ve had before, a bit ragged and somewhat in your face, but very manageable with a far shorter wait and MUCH shorter walk to the exit than Dubai/Dulles etc. 

Soon enough me and a dozen or so of my colleagues had been collected by the Embassy expeditor and were herded out the door, and down the street into a waiting fleet of armored vehicles.  The trip to the Embassy went quickly enough through what to my eye was pretty light and orderly traffic, down wide boulevards lined with mostly small stores and sidewalk vendors, with occasional glitzy metal and glass structures, including a two story dress shop with wares that were definitely not targeting the Taliban consumer.  While there were donkeys and other animals on the side of the road, I was surprised that the cars were, generally both in their lane and more modern than in many countries with higher per capita income (which is to say the vast majority of countries).

Less surprising was the heavy, but non-intrusive presence of well-armed police at regular intervals. This was capped off with a lengthy security gauntlet at the Embassy, including an explosives check of our bags. I was grateful for their thoroughness as I patiently awaited karmic vengeance for the consular clients who have been subjected to exhaustive searches, sat in heat, cold, rain and snow for the privilege of paying a lot of money for a short interview in which ends quickly with a verdict of guilty on charges of being an intending immigrant.

After retrieving our explosive-free bags we settled into the familiar routine of in-processing at our new post.

But that is a story for another day.