Postscript - Movin On

             This is only a few months late – but – NEWSFLASH – I left Afghanistan.  NEWSFLASH #2, it didn’t spontaneously combust, nor did its problems spontaneously get resolved.  Since the vast majority of my colleagues (military and diplomatic) will be doing the same thing, and the same result is pretty likely, I am left with the unsettling question of “why” looming awkwardly in the background, but I don’t plan to subject my dear readers to THAT tired old song.

                What I AM going to do is say a big thank you for all my friends and colleagues who joined me on the journey, helped keep me safe, shared and provided entertainment, food, recreation and so forth.  Above all, I want to thank my Afghan friends and colleagues who touched and changed my life with their generous and indomitable spirit.

                Probably the greatest joy of living and working in foreign cultures is that it gives an opportunity to extend the magical part of adolescence (not acne or finding a prom date), where you subconsciously are picking and choosing how you approach life and what you believe about everything from how you plan to raise your children, to what you like to do in your free time, to what you believe about God.  It does this (if you allow yourself to be immersed in the culture) by putting your own beliefs in the minority position.

                For example, the unspoken but firm expectation that a middle-class family will have two vehicles and spend an obscene amount of time shuttling children from one activity to another is assaulted head-on in many places where such profligate use of the automobile is either an unimaginable luxury, or an expensive and impractical alternative to using public transport. However, while I love the practical wisdom of habits like keeping your fork in your left hand instead of switching back and forth, it is the more fundamental parts of how people live their lives that really leave a mark.

Flags at Bagram

                In our first posting in Latin America we learned that it is never too late (or too early) for another dance, or another drink. In Europe, we learned that eating is about more than caloric intake, and that walking to the store is a great way to shop (particularly if they sell pastries).  In Africa we learned that every day people who live in what I once thought of as grinding poverty and ill-health, meet the sunrise with joy in their heart and a smile on their lips and find a fulfillment I seldom see in the "states".

                Afghanistan has a similarly unbreakable spirit, and showed me that decades of struggle and death has not extinguished the humor, hope and warmth of the Afghan people, and that if graciousness, hospitality and generosity can thrive there, we have no excuse for not holding onto that spirit under circumstances that are considerably less challenging.

Friendly Reminder at the Kabul Airport

                I had planned to regale my readers with the details of the administrative nightmares of escaping the Embassy Kabul vortex, or my joy at running into an Afghan food vendor in New England whose family is from Parwan province, or the thrill of waking up, putting on running shoes, and going as far as my legs will carry me in any direction I want with only my dogs as my (optional) escort.

  

                Instead, I’ll say thanks for reading, thanks to all my hosts, and please keep Afghanistan and its people in your thoughts and prayers, I do, and always will. 

Final Destination - Burlington, VT

One Last Time into the Breach

I beleived that I have whined exhaustively on various prior occasions about how complicated it is to get a single person (me) from point A to point B because of the need for a fleet of armored vehicles, soldiers to drive and man them, requirements to seek and obtain approval, work out timelines, etc. etc. etc.  Suffice to say then that when the bosses in Kabul call up and want to move over a dozen people to multiple locations for a battery of meetings (including the press, which then raises "opsec" issues), life can get a bit complicated.

Logistics aside, I was glad to have a sizable operation and challenge to keep me busy up to the end and to make my last mission "outside the wire" a memorable one. After a year, I can now look at a "CONOP" (concept of operation) and not only actually understand it, but point out the flaws it might have. For example I caught one submission that planned a helo landing in a space that could probably accomodate the machine, but would result in a huge rotorwash (the high winds generated by the air the helicopter blades are pushing down to generate lift) which could have easily damaged nearby facilities, and at a minimum would redistribute a good bit of the nearby volleyball pit as it got hit with hurricane force winds.

Anyhow, we had developed a very solid CONOP, and the commander took the further precaution of adding extra assets just to have additional help available, just in case. A wise man.

My only beef with the plan was that it required me to meet up at 0500 even though we didn't actually leave the base until closer to the much more civilized hour of 0700.  I knew there were reasons for this, but even if my greensuiter pals were just trying to ruin my beauty sleep, complaining about an "SP" is on the list of cardinal sins for civilians in a war zone, so I stifled my groan and tried to give my snappiest "Roger That!".  For the record - I think that SP means Start Patrol though I'm not entirely sure. It means the time when you and your stuff best be at the appointed place or you instantly become "that guy". Like many military expressions, I'm pretty confident I'm not the only guy who couldn't give the exact translation but uses it anyhow, including as a verb, as in we are "SPing" in 5, meaning "rolling out".

My Wheels at the SP point

the most expensive and uncomfortable ride around, but they got the job done

I wasn't going to be "that guy" on my last mission, so I was there early (thank you for feeling my pain) - and kept my solid (if not flawless) track record intact. My escort service showed up with their customary punctuality and good spirits and we headed off, enjoying the novelty of using an "NTV" for my final trip. That would be a Non-Tactical Vehicle - in other words, not the ones you see here, but something you'd see a soccer mom/dad driving around. Now most of those SUVs aren't "up armored" but it's the same car, just some extra baggage. We needed them because of how many passengers we had, and I wasn't complaining as it meant both that it would be a comfortable ride, and that for a change I'd get to actually see much more of the country out of the regular sized windows than I typically do from the slit windows in the MRAPs.

The nice thing about our ungodly SP time was that we had time to case the scene at the Air Force DFAC on the far side of the base - and found out what we'd been missing all these months. The differences weren't huge, but the cuisine was definitely a step up, the seating was more generous, the ceiling higher, the decor newer. I was indoctrinated in Army prejudices against their flying brethren even as I ate food from their table (literally). On the other hand, they were very friendly and seemed happy to share their freshly imported pork products and encouraged us to try the "waffle bar".

Soon enough it was time to roll out (I mean SP), and we were sandwiched in between two MRAPs cruising down the highway having a laugh about which vehicle in the convoy you'd shoot at "if I were a Talib". It wasn't the rolling bank vault...

Anyhow, I was enjoying the scenery when I noticed we were starting to lose the MRAP in front of us, and the driver picked up the radio to report that we had a "little problem" - namely that for no apparent reason the engine cut off and wouldn't restart. Without missing a beat the team regrouped, moved people into other vehicles and started to "work the problem". We had stopped in a busy area, and soon the locals were out to check us out and offer assistance - proffering jumper cables and mechanical advice.

Meanwhile we were working on options if the car didn't start, since we were the first and lesser of two groups involved in the mission, and part of our job was to help secure the LZ for the helicopter bringing in the rest of the visitors. More trucks were dispatched as backup, but in the meantime the stalled NTV had been brought back to life by the other NTV we had.  We all hopped back into our original vehicles and were about to pull out when the report came in that the second NTV had also flatlined...  Now it was their turn to pop the hood and find new seats.

Luckily, the cavalry pulled up a few minutes later and then we had enough vehicles to press ahead while the first team "recovered" the newly non-functioning NTV.  We took off, and to the obvious delight of the drivers got the order to abandon the usally sedate pace and "push". We were pushing along very nicely which was good, since we got word that despite us having informed our colleagues of our delay, they had already taken off twenty minutes ahead of schedule...

Our push came to an end soon after as our NTV again decided it didn't like the SP time, or the heat, or the extra armor it was being asked to carry around, or something.  Anyhow, I don't think we had drifted to a full stop before the team was out and scrambling around to find the next fix. I never found out (or asked as I'm not positive that all pertinent rules and regulations were strictly observed) just who ended up where, but within five minutes I was in an MRAP and booking along again with a grin from ear to ear listening to the "chatter" as the team sped onward and offered their unflattering views on the NTVs.

View of a Farm Behind PRT

The mission itself went fine - though the press conference was far less entertaining than the ride to it, and I found myself having to politely but firmly hasten my (far more senior) visitors along in order to avoid a more serious problem if they missed their helicopter flight (yes it happens). They didn't and I enjoyed the short, windy and scenic ride to the PRT, where they enjoyed the customary Korean hospitality and sushi. After a few final crises - involving VIP guests showing up an hour later than promised - the mission was complete and declared a success, and my visitors were "wheels up" and fading into the distance, leaving me to pack my bags and close up shop.

The Welcome Sight of Responsibility Flying Away

El Niagara en Bicicleta

As the aforementioned surly-attitude-at-the-end-of-tour began to take solid hold of me I have had the good fortune to cross paths with my most special colleagues - who are also my hosts in their country. In taking my leave of them I found my patience and hope restored. As we sat and talked, I saw before me living proof that there is hope for Afghanistan in the form of these men and women. Further, a great sense of peace washed over me as I realized that if nothing else, my colleagues, now friends, had touched my life and I theirs.

See if you can pick out the outsider...

We spoke of the future, but even if their personal stories about extremists in their mosque or university, or how they disguise their affiliation with Americans suggested troubled times ahead, the WAY that they were shared gave hope. There was no shred of self-pity or egotism, and their courage and good humor in the face of adversity nothing short of remarkable. Staring clear-eyed into the future of their troubled country they nonetheless took pains to show their gratitude for my having tried to help their country, and their sincere wish that I might return as a visitor with my family. Having see this farewell sentiment shared many times before, I was nonetheless struck by the fact that my closest Afghan friends shared it both as a sign of affection and an affirmation of their own commitment and effort to improve their homeland so that it becomes suitable for western guests without armored vehicles and body armor. 

Typical Meeting at Governors Compound

(Pictures on wall are of Pres. Karzai and Massoud)

My professional contacts showed the same grace and generosity of spirit as I took my leave, and I had the great pleasure of attending a joint US-Afghan "Iftar" - or Ramadan dinner - with a majority of my best contacts and friends. Set outdoors on long tables, the meal was spectacular, even for those of us who had not gone without food or water since sunrise (I often skipped lunch, but hydrate to avoid the splitting headache that can come from trying to be culturally sensitive...).

For starters there was the always delicious and usually super-fresh "naan" (which can mean either bread or food in general - I mean bread). Then an assortment of lightly spiced creamy soups, kabobs, chicken, and a kind of afghan french fry that I was dismayed to discover only the cusp of my departure. Finally a friend shared a slice of what he jokingly called "afghan pizza" - a soft bread stuffed with spinach and feta cheese. No offense to the italians, but I'd take it over pizza any day.

The conversation around me was familiar, swirling from family to politics to security to corruption and back. As I listened and watched them laughingly catalog the woes and challenges of their country I knew both that the last decade of struggles is a beginning not an end to efforts to create a future for the next generation of Afghans, and that if this group of people could shoulder the burdens they carry and maintain the warmth of spirit and good humor that was on display, they might just succeed brilliantly.

My observant readers are still wondering about the odd title to this posting, unless they happen to be fans of Juan Luis Guerra who has a song carrying the same title. The song is about the Dominican Republic, and its people who have suffered under dictatorship, poverty and countless other challenges without losing the spring in their step and the twinkle in their eye as they press forward with their lives. The lyric (freely translated) dryly observes that it is "hard to go over Niagara Falls on a bicycle" - but over they go all the same, with a smile on their face and a dream of a better country for their children.  Suerte! (Luck)

Sometimes You Just Can't Help Yourself...

Despite my best intentions to remain detached from the latest and last iteration of colleagues who I will soon leave behind, I have fallen into the trap of getting to know and like them. Even more surprising and rewarding has been the outbreak of friendship.

Anybody who changes jobs or moves with any frequency can attest that "senioritis" doesn't happen only when you get ready to leave home and strike out on your own after high school. The dismissive, sometimes cavalier attitude at school, disregard for your parents and the breakup with your prom date who would hold you back in your new life are easily detected in the "end-of-tour" worker. Productivity tends to slip, together with concern about being productive, minor frictions with colleagues tend to become inflamed, and efforts to build up new relationships tend to be half-hearted, and many contacts and projects are simply jettisoned as the conclusion is drawn that insufficient time remains to make real progress.

I'm guilty of all of the above and more, but have been stymied in my senioritis by interesting work that keeps me at my desk, and by enjoyable colleagues I have been forced to enjoy rather than ignore.

Among the newest military crew I found the usual mixture of fun-loving, hard-charging, very professional, very patriotic and very likeable guys. The current crew is not obsessed with sugary cereal in the same way as a previous unit, but comes with their own signature quirks, including a tendency to end meetings/conversations by saying "Airborne" which might be translated into civilian talk as "long live the airborne rangers".

On a very early morning (0300) during a very pleasant "camping trip" I was given some perspective on why "Airborne" Rangers tend to be a tad aggressive (though they also tend to season into extraordinary officers). One of my new friends pointed out the obvious fact that when you parachute into enemy territory, your choices are pretty straightforward win or die. Surrender isn't part of their vocabulary, and dying seems to be shunned less because of the traditional reasons (i.e. wanting to keep living) than because it gets in the way of winning...

So as I was saying, how can you not love having these guys by your side and watching your back?

Airborne!

Afghans are Doin'It For Themselves

Today I had that familiar phenomenon of getting a song stuck in your head, but I didn't mind.  The song was the Annie Lennox (Eurythmics) and Aretha Franklin classic - "Sisters are Doing It For Themselves".

However, as I sat through a lengthy but inspirational speech which was NOT being translated (due to the tiny number of non-Afghans) - I tweaked the lyrics a bit to fit the mood of the day.

The occasion was the graduation of forty-some Afghan Local Police (ALP), who sat in the PRT gymnasium in their unadorned brown uniforms, while a gaggle of local elders looked on. They were a curious assortment of men ranging from beardless youngsters to longbeards who had clearly seen and felt the ravages of the conflicts that have swept Afghanistan for decades. U.S. and Korean facilitators sat in the back row while senior police officials hit both the familiar themes of duty, honor and public service that are at the core of nationhood, as well as other topics like religion that would never occur to an American commencement speaker. The new recruits were both praised for their work and that of their Afghan trainers and warned of severe punishment for infractions that have tarnished the reputation of other units (being out of uniform, being away from one's post, etc.).  

In short, having attended countless ceremonies of this kind, it was apparent that this was the first that was completely (OK let's say 95%) Afghan - down to the ritual of affixing the only uniform patch with a firm smack on the arm and holding up the certificate and pledging their life for Afghanistan.

Undaunted by the loss of two of their new colleagues just days before the recruits headed  back to villages threatened by insurgents and Doin'It For Themselves.

The Good Old Days

As my time in Afghanistan rapidly approaches an end it is perhaps (hopefully) normal to feel a bit of nostalgia for some of the "good old days" and the good old guys who I had more time to get to know than most of the people around me now.

Yesterday I visited a base (the OCCP) I spent a lot of time on before the U.S. withdrew, and saw some Afghan soldiers who were part of our volleyball tradition, and who had accompanied us on various missions. They seemed genuinely pleased to see me, and it was nice to know the feeling was mutual.

The meeting I had, also reminded me of departed colleagues who had a biting, yet incredibly refreshing sense of humor that I will belatedly share.  Referring to an unnamed individual one of them wrote, "it seems Mr. X has been replaced with an android with a new ethics chip" another replied "hmm, I've heard of these bots, but never seen one; I'd like seats to show, but must be seated in the bombproof section".

Sadly I remember the exchange because the new chip seems to be malfunctioning at the moment, but that's another story for another place.

I may have mentioned the difficulty of movement here, which is a constant grind. However I still had to grin at an old email about past travel which concluded with

In an effort to better serve our customers, please note that our fees have increased by $20 per passenger (and there will no longer be a complimentary snack).

Another popular subject of discussion/derision are the many, many reports and presentations that filter out to the field and are of, well, variable utility. One particularly noteworthy waste of time earned this response:

I'm telling all of my friends that if they only have time to read one powerpoint presentation this summer, this is it. A rollercoaster of a ride and destined to become an overnight classic. Two thumbs up.

Other memorable comments ran the gamut from soliciting contributions to a personal retirement fund to laying claim to a ridiculously flamboyant vase of plastic flowers that had somehow migrated into the camp command center to all manner of less savory, but still good natured ideas/accusations.

Miss you guys.

Hey, hey - Out Bood!

One of the great things about life abroad is the diversity of people you meet, and the chance to overcome linguistic, economic and social barriers to make friendships on the basis of shared interests.

The field of sports is often the best place for this, and the opening of a new gymnasium on the compound was met with great enthusiasm by its residents. Koreans are passionate about badmitton, and I have had the pleasure of being soundly beaten by several of my Korean colleagues over the lunch hour. Unfortunately, badmitton has not proven a good way to break down the very pronounced tribal affiliations on the base to allow Korean civilians to play with the military, American soldiers to play with Koreans or most of all for the Afghan and TCNs -"third country" nationals (from Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan etc.) to mingle.

Volleyball on the other hand, is a far better mixer - although Korean participation has been erratic, limited, and (unfortunately) been known to perpetuate rather than reduce the barriers due to the sometimes arrogant demeanor of more senior players who insist on playing by the rules that prevail in Korea (which don't allow kicking for example), rather than what is generally agreed by the other dozen or so people who had agreed on a different set of rules thankyouverymuch. More problematic is the built-in conflict with the Korean military who has neglected to put up "blackout" covers on the windows to the gym, and therefore insists on ending the game by 7:30 far earlier than the players would like (since many have jobs in the cafeteria that keep them busy until almost 7). The soldiers are merely followin orders of course, but the night often ends with a game ending halfway through, and players speculating about whether any evil-doers really need the light from a few windows to locate a base that is almost a square mile in size with corners marked by towers, is located on a hill overlooking the valley, and is clearly visible by moonlight...

Nonetheless, it is both a great stress relief and a nice social time where Afghans, americans, TCNs and the odd Korean play hard, but have fun. The forwards (closest to the net) tend to be tall, heavy and aggressive, spiking with full force at every opportunity, and blocking the other side fearlessly. By american rules about hitting the net fouls are committed several times per point as players go head-to-head at the net.  A "fouley" is only called if somebody gets hurt or almost pulls down the net. Any good spike (or spectacular but unintentional foul) is followed by a round of hand-slapping that goes across the net to the other team as well as within your own.

This is part of the fun, and some of the jokesters who play frequently declare "fouley bood" with no justification. "Fouley" is just "foul" with a Korean accent (the E sound) on the end - and "bood" means "was".  Translation - that was a foul...  Likewise, people either admit to, or accuse the other team of "touchey" - meaning, that a player touched a ball before it went out-of-bounds (and therefore the point goes to the other team). Whether a ball landed in-bounds or out-of-bounds is of course another common controversy which leads to admissions, or voiciferous accusations that a ball "Out Bood!".

Malaise

Happily, this is more in the realm of historical record, but hopefully still worth a read.

While I am both an optimist and a beleiver that people generally dislike whiners, it seems disingenuous not to post on the subject of "down" days.

Like anywhere else and anyone else there are times when things just don't go your way and it feels like the world is conspiring to ruin your day.

Here, it is not usually work challenges (in their various forms) but the lulls in work and the isolation that take a toll.  Having an abundance of free time and limited options on how to utilize it (becoming a SCHMONK) is a recipe for trouble even for non-teens, with the most common outcome being to despair about the challenges facing this country and stewing about where the whole enterprise is headed. If you can find a friend, it is usually possible to start a lively debate, pontificate on what you'd change if you held all the cards, and call it a night. If you have a more honest debate, you will concede that as outsiders we hold very few cards, and that the rural, uneducated masses, with whom we have scant contact or ability to engage, hold a decisive number.

Not finding somebody to lift your spirits with by arguing about HOW and WHEN things will take a turn for the worse then the solitary rumination is likely to produce the a common diplonerd affliction - malaise.

Recent headlines illustrate my point:

Take for instance the "Ethnographic Atlas of Non-Pashtun Ethnic Groups of Afghanistan," published in June by the government-appointed Academy of Sciences Afghanistan.

It notes that "The Hazaras are liars, dishonest, and unreliable people," and "[The] bodies of their women are hairless except on the head. The Hazaras are the sons of Mongol Khans living in the mountains of Afghanistan. These people [know] nothing except fighting." It goes on to describe the Hazaras as "rafizi" -- worse than infidels. Not exactly promoting ethnic harmony...

Or -
Citing Kandahar's provincial administration spokesman Jawed Faisal, local media reports said that the arrested children aged 8, 12 and 17 and all from Kandahar, have been taken into police custody for interrogation.

The NATO-led International Security Assistance Force (ISAF) also confirmed the arrest of junior insurgents. In a statement released on June 28, the alliance said that two children and one young adult were arrested while they were found carrying improvised explosive devices (IEDs).

"The Afghan National Police took children carrying improvised explosive devices into custody and the Afghan Local Police found multiple IEDs and a large amount of homemade explosives June 28 in Zharay District, Kandahar province," the statement added.  The Taliban has been known to tell the children they can kill the foreign troops without being hurt themselves...

As a taxpayer, one of my favorites: 
Pakistan's refusal to let NATO access its ports and roads into Afghanistan has cost the Pentagon more than $2.1 billion in extra transportation costs to move supplies and equipment in and out of the country.

Pakistan closed the ground route to NATO supplies after a U.S. airstrike mistakenly killed 24 of its soldiers last November. The only other access to land-locked Afghanistan is through the Northern Distribution Network, a series of roads through Russia and Central Asia. Closure of the Pakistani routes is costing the U.S. military about an extra $100 million per month

BUT - I'm feeling better today, since saying "sorry" allowed the supply routes to open...

No Primary Attachments

One of the most interesting parts of life in a confined space is the interpersonal dynamics which evolve.

Living in a "fishbowl" is not an uncommon experience in the Foreign Service; indeed, many of the expat communities we have been a part of over the years were effectively much smaller than my circle of acquaintances at the PRT, on Bagram and at the Embassy.

All the same, the mix of stress, nationalities, and weapons make for a pretty weird dynamic, and each location is itself unique.  FOB Shangri-la is almost eerily calm, relaxed, and peaceful with the luxuries of space, a great view and the Koreans insisting on maintaining a 5-day workweek, holding church services and otherwise making things about as "normal" as possible. 

BAF is hectic, brusque, and militarized and I get stir-crazy there despite the availability of Pizza Hut, a free movie theater, and the closest thing to mall you'll find in Afghanistan.

The Embassy takes the cake for oddity and population density - making it my least favorite spot, despite it having a pool (which I've not yet used) that is the source of endless ribbing by military colleagues. It is commonly and aptly described a third-world country club/construction site. It takes about 24 hours to test drive all of the dining facilities (the neighboring ISAF compound has easily the best chow), find the post office and otherwise experience life in the big city. Then you settle into the life of the thousand plus full-time residents, of working, or at least hanging out in the office for a long day, then sampling the nightlife. 

This is when those awkward dynamics can come into play and you see the effects of stress and monotony. Truth is, I don't have crazy tales to tell about shenanigans at the "Duck and Cover" as the Embassy bar is known. Of course that is probably due to my decision to "duck and cover" back to my own hooch before anybody progressed from merely goofy to embarrasing or offensive.

Mostly though, what is evident is the odd combination of comraderie and distance. I had a total stranger buy me a beer simply because I was a friend of his friend (by virtue of having been in the same training class 16 years ago and trading emails at least twice in the intervening years...).  Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining.  At the same time though there is a staleness to the predictable track of conversation which I am convinced stems from all of us wanting a measure of companionship but limiting almost all of our conversations to a superficial level due to the transience of our stay and the high improbability that circumstance and inclinations will combine to allow a genuine friendship to flourish. Consequently, a conversation typically starts with work, takes an obligatory meander into how the family is, and then often stalls out, or is replaced with an extended discussion of the local cat population, or a similarly marginal topic of conversation.

A friend (yes they do still exist) explained it simply as a result of the fact that few of us have any "Primary Attachments" so we drift around our fishbowl passing our time with pleasant chatter, time-consuming hobbies (like exercise), and work.

INSANITY!!!

This is a subject of considerable interest here of course, whether raised in the context of an individual, a project, or (among the more radical) the whole endeavor...

However, it is most fondly known on FOB Shangri-la as the stress-releiving workout routine - a.k.a. the beachbody aerobics workout. Of course, there are some twists, which make it a bit different from the daily trip to the gym.

Firstly, everybody but me is Korean, which you would think would give me a leg up, since the video is in english.  Not so much, since our very enthusiastic team leader gives instructions in Korean, and expects us all to be in synch. Consequently, I have disciplined myself to ignore the instructions I am hearing on the video, and listen to what the instructor says. Actually, I don't listen to the instructor because, well, what's the point, I understand maybe a dozen words of the language and ten of those are the numbers one to 10. So I watch and follow.

This works out fine most of the time, plus our team leader seems to enjoy the opportunity to shout at me (in a good-natured way) or come over and correct my form.  This usually happens when we are doing our extra stretching, which we do LOTs of. Indeed, the "Insanity" workout really ends up as an aerobic break between two yoga classes - since we do 20-30 minutes each of "warm up" and "cool down" before and after the video, which itself contains the (apparently very deficient) American dosage of warm up and cooldown (5 minutes).

As a result, while I can't copy the effortless split of our instructor I have become quite a bit more flexible than the average American, and gained an appreciation of just how much sweat can be generated by a good stretching routine.

Less satisfying is an increased appreciation of how much such stretching and bending can aid digestion.  When I'm on the rice and seafood diet on base my stomach keeps quiet, but after I return from a trip to the land of cheeseburgers, egg mcmuffin sandwiches and tacos, it gurgles like a percolating coffee pot and I make a point of finding a spot at the back of the room to avoid an international incident.

The class finishes with the instructor taking attendance (not sure what kind of credit people get for attending...) and giving a speech that is not usually translated for me, although it occasionally includes my last name and some nods or laughs. Nonetheless, it's a highlight of the day, since around here a little insanity goes a long way.

Welcome Home - or not

Today ended a travel odyssey that involved far more time waiting for transportation than I care to recount. Suffice to say that plans for a 4 day outing ended up in a 12 day voyage. Naturally I did not pack (nor do I possess) sufficient pairs of undergarments for this eventuality. Fortunately for me, one of the various luxuries that our Embassy in Kabul offers are washing machines, only problem being that on the large bottles of laundery detergent were available, and there was no room in my backpack for it, so my Tide joined my running shoes strapped onto the outside of my backpack.

Local Market (random photo)

At any rate, I was anxious to get home not only to clean up and replenish my iron levels (I get FAR more green veggies here), but because I had a VIP coming in. After all my cancelled and missed flights (which is to say ones which flew, but did not have me on the manifest...) I decided to travel the old-fashioned way - MRAP.  We had a smooth trip over, and I got out at the front gate, anxious to at least drop off my Tide backpack before my bosses boss showed up. Also, having been away from the office nearly two weeks I couldn't remember if I had left it littered with half-empty cartons of banana soy milk, and the remnants of the last care package...

A Unique Educational Environment...

but its' fun to see kids "at work"

Accordingly, I waved to the new guards at the gate who was busy talking on the phone and tried to let him know who I was. He didn't respond, but he also didn't stop me, so I kept moving, waving to guests and guards as I went. After I made it almost to the next checkpoint I saw him chasing after me, signalling to stop. Between him being totally out of breath and neither of us speaking a lick of the other one's language, we were at a bit of an impasse until another guard came down to translate. I had to wonder what kind of threat assessment they were doing on somebody who they had watched step off of a US convoy, speaking english and not carrying any weapons. Maybe it was the Tide bottle that had them on edge?

After repeatedly explaining who I was, and that I have lived on the base for nearly a year, the guard escorted me up to talk with his commander.  Meanwhile, the deputy director of the PRT - a Korean civilian was within sight, at the third checkpoint - which he was not allowed to cross since he wasn't in body armor. Eventually I made the acquaintance of the 8th or 9th gate commander I've known during the past year, and apologized for not calling ahead to let them know I was coming.

Eventually I was released, though I didn't have time to ditch my bags, change or shower before heading to meet my guest. As it turns out this may have been a blessing in disguise (more on that soon).  Luckily, the helo was late, so I was there in time (side note: it occurs to me that I the timely arrival - or lack thereof - of a helicopter has become no more noteworthy than whether there is heavy traffic on the beltway).

Anyhow, the visit went fine, and I nodded my way through a tour of facilities that I have done at least once a month for the last six months. Depressingly though, while the base will continue to be used when we pull back at the end of the year the vocational school will be closed, and the medical center may follow suit.

After a charmingly Korean meal where my guest charmed the pants off the Koreans (he has the unfair advantage of being married to a Korean) I packed him off and recovered my bags. Heading straight to my room to clean up I decided that cultural correctness or not, my beard had gotten waaay to itchy and had to go. My beard trimmer had taken just about 50% off when it reminded me that it hadn't been charged in two weeks, and it went on strike. Naturally, the charging plug was in my office. Not to worry, I could do things the old-fashioned way, but first I needed a shower. Happily shedding my sweaty dress shirt and slacks I hopped in the shower and turned on the water. Except, no water came... So I checked the sink, where I had planned to finish shaving... and got no water there either.

Local Mosque

Luckily I had some water in my room - unluckily all that water was in the refridgerator, which of course was working quite well thankyouverymuch.  I tried to imagine myself in a crisp alpine stream, and succeeded brilliantly, down to the hyperventilation and strategic decision that a quick scrubdown was fine for now, and the shampoo could wait another day.  Shaving was another exercise in expediency, and I settled for taking off the bushiest part of my beard, but leaving scraggly stumps on my chin until either a sharp razor or warm water was available.

All the same, I was glad to be back where I could sleep in my own bed with clean (and warm) clothes on after catching up on things in my own office, except for that during my absence my computer connections had gone down...

A Long Strange Trip

(note artistic license to backdate)

As I finish my final leave (aka vacation in the US) and begin a  slightly tortuous series of flights, I am again struck by the different worlds that I am now equally at ease in – and each of which remain just beyond the realm of true integration.

My route brings me through Atlanta airport – and as I’m mentally contrasting the mud construction that still typifies much of Afghanistan with the airport metro that people cram into with mounds of luggage whose contents would mystify the average villager, and whose value would likely horrify them.  Having plenty of time, and only a backpack to deal with I decide to walk the tunnel instead, wondering why I seem to be almost the only one to make this decision.  Are we really running late for our flight?  Do we take the car/train/bus out of simple habit?

Anyhow, as I stroll along I am treated to a very nicely done exhibit on the history of Atlanta, and was reminded that even if we are train-riding, Gucci-bag-toting, gotta-be-there-yesterday people who seem a world removed from the long-walking, pack-a-hat-and-a-prayer-rug, take-time-for-some-Chai world of Afghan culture, we’re not.The first exhibit that caught my eye was admittedly slightly dated, from our civil war, when our human-rights loving Union Army decided to teach the Confederacy a lesson by burning Atlanta to the ground. An event that still simmers even in a country which, in comparison to most of the world, seems hell-bent on forgetting our own history – let alone that of any other nation whose path we have crossed in the past two-plus centuries.

So as I was reflecting on our own nasty internecine war, I fast forwarded to the Atlanta Olympics, which I am afraid are memorable not for the athletic milestones, but for the unsolved bombing which took place…  Admittedly, the circumstances are different, but we are both unfair to others and dishonest with ourselves when we judge our “way of life” to be impervious to the narrow-minded barbarity that we mentally confine to “fundamentalists”, while turning a blind eye to our own citizens who feel compelled to burn what a sizable chunk of the world believes to be the literal word of god (the Koran).

Having come to the end of the tunnel (less than a 10 minute walk) I decided to ponder these and other cosmic mysteries in the American fashion, over a beer and chips (that’s nacho chips, not freedom fries if any of my commonwealth mates are reading).  So I settled down and made my order, and was blown away when the waiter asked me for identification. I suppose it might have been the fact that the beard I have been sporting in Afghanistan made it through US customs on the way home, but not much further than that, being in no way compliant with more stringent domestic regulations/preferences. Nonetheless, having been “legal” for some two decades I was amused, and a bit saddened that we have come to a point where our fear of litigation has motivated to spend time and energy in such a low-probability verification of what is both obvious and of such little importance. Perhaps I’ve “gone native” – although that would actually imply a zero-tolerance policy – but if some 20 year-old has the money to pump into the economy by buying a four dollar beer in the airport, then I say let it ride. If they are average, they have already been drinking illegally for several years in places and ways that are totally unregulated – so my personal belief is that they are unlikely to get hooked, or even be able to afford to get blasted, at the airport bar, and if they do, they’ll learn a good life lesson.

Anyhow – the remainder of the trip was less “eventful” or maybe my reservoir of deep thoughts just doesn’t run very deep – and I found myself back on the tarmac a Bagram suddenly facing a small crisis.

Not being subject to “General Order #1” – which forbids US military personnel from drinking alcohol while in Afghanistan, I had decided to violate General Order #1, and made a small purchase at the duty free store, in the interest of repaying a friend who shall remain unidentified – but who is likewise not subject to the General Order.  Now there is the small matter of Afghan law, but I would be flying into a military base, and then there is the question of diplomatic immunity which isn’t remotely clear. I wasn’t exactly comfortable in this grey area, but had certainly never been told I couldn’t do so, and certainly knew of others who had done so.

At any rate, it was a VERY unpleasant surprise when we landed and they made the announcement that any contraband should be deposited in a bag by the entrance…  This put me in a bind, because my contraband was in my checked bags – so I couldn’t turn myself in.

However, I took solace in the fact that my lodging was very close to where we disembarked, so I had simply grabbed my bag and walked off without boarding a bus to go to the “terminal” where most passengers got picked up.

Procedural change #2 was that everybody had to get on the bus, and reclaim their bags at that point.  My palms were getting very slick by now, and I started looking for my bag to see if they were going to call me into the military customs police.  Now my diplomatic immunity seemed like a huge liability. It was an honest, even defensible mistake, but I could just see my boss saying to me “it’s not that I’m mad, I’m just disappointed”.

Finally I see my bag come off the plane, and then see the bag handler call the   supervisor over, pointing at the bag, tapping the sides, and after some consultation putting it BACK IN THE PLANE.  Now I’m certain that my true worst fear has been realized, and that not only am I smuggling, I’m doing a bad job of it and didn’t pack it well, so the cargo bay now reeks of vodka and I’m to blame. (Plus I have no clean underwear).

I decide that I need to do some damage control, and as we’re loading up the bus I sheepishly confess that my contraband is in my checked bag.  This heartfelt confession is shrugged off, but I still don’t see my bag as we pull out.  Fifteen minutes later we are finished processing at the “terminal” and the baggage is waiting for us.  I don’t see my bag in the main pile, and am not surprised as I wait for the public humiliation I feel certain is imminent and will happen when they drag out a liquor soaked bag (with my initials embroidered on it thankyouverymuch) and make a loudspeaker announcement for me to go to the principals office.

To my astonishment though, my bag is in the pile, and with no visible stain marks. I gingerly lift it out, still waiting for the newly formed BAF customs enforcement team to move in. Finding a quiet corner, I verify the obvious, newly thankful that my gift is both intact, and that apparently,  it will not result in my ejection from the country. It took some restraint not to use it to immediately calm my nerves, but the recipient was properly appreciative, and the story of its journey made for extra enjoyment.

Just Another Day In...

Along the line of a recent post, I thought I'd share some lightly edited email traffic that encapsulates the "flavor" of my experience this year

------------

May 15, 2012

To BRMS (personnel):

There was an threat (to our facility) this morning.  All (personnel) are safe and lock-down procedures were followed.  The... Police completed a search of the BRMS and UID campuses, viewed the threat, evaluated the building security systems and determined that it was safe for (personnel) to remain.

---

May 23, 2012

This message is a follow up to the BRMS bomb threat received today.  All (personnel) are safe and evacuation procedures were followed.  The BRMS Crisis Response Team completed a search of the BRMS campus, viewed the bomb threat, and determined that it was safe for (personnel) to remain in school.

The Police are investigating the recent anonymous threats.  We appreciate your patience and support as the BRMS (authorities) collaborate to identify the individual(s) who is/are making these unlawful threats.

----------

The (authorities) have been able to determine the source of both email threats that were sent over the past week.  We have turned over all information gathered in our investigation to the Police.  We want to assure all BRMS community members that our building is safe for all.   Additionally we would like to thank the (community and law enforcement).  We are proud of the way our (personnel) handled these situations in a calm and professional way. 

------

Now - to return to the theme of my experience in Atlanta - that Afghanistan and the U.S. aren't as different as we tend to think - the emails reached me in Afghanistan, but have to do with bomb threats emailed to Browns River Middle School (BRMS) in the great state of Vermont...

Who knew?

The International Language of ...

It's been a downer of a week, so I thought I would finish a posting that's been in the works for a while, and that speaks to our common humanity.

After living overseas in six very different countries on four different continents and picking up four extra languages along the way I flatter myself in thinking I've picked up a bit of the international language.

As any properly jaded expatriate will tell you, the international language is not love (the whole idea reeks of Hollywood and the "coca-colaization" of the world), nor is it sign language or even Esperanto.

Where cultures touch and we find our shared humanity of course is the language of SPAM.

Allow me to offer a small sample of my inbox from the Americas, Europe, and Africa which is a testimony to the creativity, tenacity and guile that unites all peoples,

Latin America

Estimado Beneficiario,

Cargill, que fue fundada en 1865 por W.W. Cargill, fue concebido con el objetivo
de crecimiento humano, educación y desarrollo comunitario. Tenemos el agrado de
informarles que como parte de nuestra promoción el año fiscal 2012.

-----------------------------
Europe

 IDRIS & IDRIS CO,
bedrijven Advocaten, Vertegenwoordiger.
15C, Victoria Crecent Avenue Ikoyi
GRA Lagos.~~V

Sir,
We zijn geraadpleegd en onze service behouden door de voormalige Group
Managing Director van Nigeria National Petrolum Corporation (NNPC), de
heer Livius Ajonuma (OFR) om uw participatie / samenwerking proberen de
Bewaring en investering van een bepaalde hoeveelheid geld Forstall
momenteel gedeponeerd in een Finance House.(Dutch lawyers seeking investment partners for a Nigerian oil company, who knew?)

A Votre Aimable Attention, 

Nous avons le Plaisir de vous annoncez que votre adresse Email a été retenue par sélection informatique, et vous faites donc partie des heureux gagnants de l'année 2011 de la Compagnie HEINEKEN BEER. Ceci est une loterie portant sur les adresses Emails des internautes du monde entier. La valeur totale mis en jeu est de 180.000 000 Millions Euros et votre adresse a été tirée au sort par sélection informatique lors de notre tirage annuel

(The well-known French company Heineken Beer apparently has a high stakes lottery... 180 million euros)

--------

Africa

Dear compatriot,

I shall be coming to your country for an official meeting this week and
i will be bringing your united nation endowment funds of (US$5,000000.00) 5Million US Dollars along with me but this time i will not go through customs because as an ambassador to Benin, i am a us government agent and i have the veto power to go through customs.

Dear Friend: Please Respond

It's me Nanthana Chansithipongse, I want to donate what I have to the needy.You Could be surprised why I picked you. But someone has to do it. I have been diagonalized with Breast and Blood disease which has defiled all forms of medical treatment and I have been told by my doctor that my days are numbered on earth. I have been touched to donate from what I have made from this World to charity through you for the good work of humanity, rather than allow my relatives to use my hard earned funds inappropriately after my death.
----
War scams - origin?

Dear,

I am Dr. Cynthia Woodward from Newcastle , England . I am serving in United
States of America Military Hospital in Iraq . I am compelled to contact you
concerning a business deal which would be beneficial to us and will lead us
into partnership investment. I have some fund US dollars that i successfully
moved out of the country, It is an oil business money we did with Iraqi
citizens.

Greetings in the name of Allah,

am the  wife of the late Libyan president Gaddafi who was killed by rebels on Thursday 20th  Oct 2011, please my life is in big danger and I would like to use you as my contact to move a huge sum of money and start living a free life in your country.

LOVE is in the air...

Hello,

Am a young single girl never married seeking true love for a long term relationship with marriage potentials,i am happy to contact you because you cut my interest!

(my interest is cut also, but I don't see good potentials here...)

---------------

Accordingly, I was deeply touched and filled with hope when I received an email starting

 خاطرمان جمع شود
 

Peace be upon you...

Uncontrovertable proof that the internet cafes of Afghanistan are connecting with the broader world, and that progress - if that's the word - is  on the march...

SPC Aaron D. Fields - Guardian

Sadly, I find myself with the most solemn of Memorial Day tributes to express this year.

After nine months of relative calm and a handful of close calls for coalition forces Parwan had a battlefield casualty when a patrol was ambushed and a volley of RPGs one of which struck the driver, specialist Fields, killing him and injuring the other occupants of the sturdy, but not invulnerable MRAP.

By chance I was travelling outside of Parwan and hadn't yet heard the news when I joined a daily briefing shortly after my return. It was unremarkable until it came time for the Command Seargeant Major (CSM) to make any comments. CSMs, whose two main jobs seem to be to look after the enlisted soldiers and to knock them into line seemed to be focused on the second task that night. Soldiers aren't known for their flowery prose, and CSMs often show their creative side in how many four letter words can be contorted into some very colorful tirades. Some soldiers had disrespected some enlisted soldiers doing administrative grunt work in the command building, and he (rightly) went after the underlying attitude of superiority with a vengeance and comparing the risks taken by soldiers in the field and those working in the command center.

It seemed a tad harsh, and I was curious why my eyebrows were the only ones that raised.  Afterwards, a friend told me about the ambush, and it was instantly clear that the no-holds barred effort to get the men in line was fueled by what I have to imagine feels like a failure to look after soldiers when one is lost.

I was surprised, perhaps because to my surprise, the previous unit had finished their tour without losing anybody to the enemy and unconsciously I was thinking I would make through my year keeping the streak alive. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

Though the "ramp ceremony" during which the fallen are flown home to their families had occured in my absence, but I was appreciative of being asked to a memorial service a few days later.

Appropriately, the unit that ended up giving me a lift to the ceremony was the one that I knew best, and I was glad to have an opportunity to spend some time with them, hoping to show solidarity, particularly since the soldier came from another part of their larger unit.

Never have I been more conscious of the fact that for all the armor and concrete that is part of daily life here, it is a shield of flesh and bone that really keeps me out of harms way, and which gives Afghans and Afghanistan a chance to break the cycle of violence that has ruined so many lives. Neither have I felt so keenly how inadequate my efforts to foster self-reliance and good governance must seem to soldiers who have lost a brother/sister in arms, and sensed how hurtful it must be when my "wisdom" on governance often amounts to doing nothing and watching the afghans either ignore or struggle with a problem that we feel we could easily "fix". I wanted somehow to convey that their sacrifice has given Afghanistan a opportunity, but whether and how they seize it is something only Afghans can decide. I can only hope that my presence and the comraderie we shared conveyed some of both my gratitude and my conviction that for all the mistakes and uncertainty of the whole endeavor, we are together in a worthwhile enterprise of defending basic human rights and dignity, and attempting to empower the afghan people to be their custodian.

The service itself was a touching mix of ceremony, stoicism, and personal sentiment. Tremendous care was taken in setting up the outdoor stage which served as the chapel. Flanked by the massive MRAPs that specialist Fields loved to drive, the precisely centered main display was the fallen soldier battle cross. A pair of boots, an M-16, helmet and dog tags. A photo stood to the side, an american flag and unit flags stood behind.

Shortly after a helicopter came in, stirring up a huge amount of dust, and depositing a british general who would be the senior representative the ceremony began. The chaplain gave a brief tribute to the young man who loved his job, muscle cars and fishing. Next the battalion commander spoke, focusing on the "soldierly virtue" of SPC Fields and honoring his sacrifice. Then came two of his friends who shared memories of their friend in a clear strong voice, but whose faces and eyes told a different story. I managed to hold my eyes at the glassy stage, only because it somehow felt like the wrong thing for the soldiers here to honor the choice and sacrifice of SPC Fields.

Despite foreknowledge of the ritual, I again had a lump in my throat as the CSM for his company called roll, repeating the name of the fallen when he did not respond, once, and then again, using his full title - Specialist Aaron David Fields. Another soldier called out the details of when and where he was killed.  This was followed by a silence and a tradition whose timing was a surprise - the 21 gun salute. I nearly jumped out of my skin, and was thankful that I managed not to make a sound in my shock.

After a benediction the audience gave their final farewells, passing two by two in front of the battle cross, offering a slow salute, kneeling before it, sometime touching a boot, sometimes leaving a unit coin, then rising to salute again and move out. As my turn came I was doubly grateful to have both a Korean colleague to join me in showing our respect, and a U.S. Embassy coin to leave as I knelt in gratitude for the protection and sacrifice given by Specialist Aaron David Fields - member of Indiana National Guard Military Police Company - The Guardians.

Bountiful Bamyan

Vacant Buddha Niche

Bamyan (or Bamiyan, or Bamian depending on who you ask) is something of an urban legend among expats in Afghanistn, and has some pretty amazing legends that go along with it anyhow.

Both a province and the capitol city, Bamyan is a modestly sized town of perhaps 60,000 if you count the outlying caves. Indeed, caves are a huge part of what makes Bamyan so special, and the huge rock faces are littered with thousands of caves, many of which are occupied, and have been for centuries.

Sadly, the best known caves and their associated niches are those that once held massive male and female buddha statues that managed to offend Taliban sensibilities after standing as a testament to spirituality and ingenuity for over a thousand years. They were shot at with tanks and then dynamited. Now, the niches, the associated monastery (built into the caves of that cliff face) and a third "sleeping" buddha which is being excavated, are part of the burgeoning (yes you heard me right) tourist industry of the town.

Although the a sizable portion of the visitors are aid workers or others working in Afghanistan, there is a growing number of hard core tourists who are making it out to Bamyan, and telling their friends. An active (and well-funded) tourist bureau has gone so far as to hold a ski competition to advertise the charms of Bamyan, and the Bamyan ski club is making a name for itself despite challenges, like the lack of a ski-lift (a shortcoming that is soon to be remedied).

A Typical Bamyan Scene

(Trout Fishing may be the next fad)

Probably of equal importance to the popularity of Bamyan among expats is the "battlespace owner" of the province- New Zealand. The food and hospitality of the "Kiwis" is legendary, and serves to confirm all the positive stereotypes about the friendly, rugged, sporty folk who call the Middle Earth (Lord of the Rings was shot in NZ) their home. Less known, but equally delectable and charming is the cuisine and hospitality of Malaysians, who share the NZ PRT, and run a series of medical programs (which in fact was my excuse to visit them).

The Fearsome Kiwi Stands Guard

Part of the magic of course is that Bamyan is safe. Not entirely without threats of course, but far better than the average inner city in north america. This has to do with various things, from geography, to the competence of local security and the coalition - but is mostly because most of Bamyan is populated by ethnic Hazaras, who suffered more than the destruction of their cultural treasures under Taliban rule, and are quick to detect and report anyone who doesn't belong. Consequently, it is common to see expats strolling town without a phalanx of bristling guards and a convoy of tank-like vehicles. It's normality was incredibly refreshing, and we relished the opportunity to do simple things like buy bread and kabobs from a street vendor, or stop to haggle amiably over carpets, jewelry and assorted other kitsch.

Sadly, the Hazaras, who have a distinctly asian appearance, are thought to be descendants of Mongol invaders, one of many armies that swept down the silk road over the centuries. One of the sadder stories (yes, things can get much worse) has to do with Gholghola - the "City of Sighs" (or of screams) a large hill, covered in ruins left since the 13th centure. The city stood for months, resisting the onslaught of (ironically enough) the mongol hordes of Genghis Khan which have become closely tied to to Hazara identity. After a traitor revealed the secret water supply for the city the mongols prevailed, and in the aftermath Genghis allegedly gathered the entire population on the hill (men, women and children) and killed them all as a lesson to other potential troublemakers. Their sighs/scream still echo in the consciousness of the residents.

Gholghola

(in foreground)