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)

Farewell Friends

Well it's been awhile, partly due to leave, but also due to all the changes.  With the RIPTOA (turnover) there's a whole new cast of characters, and I've had to say goodbye to all the old ones.

As somebody who is pretty accustomed to living in communities where 1/3 to 1/2 depart every summer this isn't new territory, but it is still tiring, and intriguing to see the different approach that the military put on it.

Ceremonially, they are much more thorough than us civilians, officially marking the handoff from one unit to another with something called a (you guessed it) RIPTOA.  There are short speeches, music, and a bunch of people standing in formation - and then banner of the unit "on the ground" is furled by the commander and Command Seargeant Major (CSM) - next the banner of the incoming unit is trotted out and unfurled and its done. Similarly, there are farewell meetings to present certificates of appreciation and other gifts and honors, like the battalion coin and so forth.

RIPTOA - Goodbye TF Maverick, Howdy TF Defender

Socially, it felt a bit more awkward than the "hail and farewell" events that are a staple of Embassy life, where the departing families are sent off and the new ones welcomed. Mostly this is a logistical issue, because with the number and uncertainties of movement it can be a month or more to actually get somebody out of theater. As a result of that combined with my own erratic travel, I ended up saying farewell to some people a dozen times, and others got whisked out prior to the RIPTOA without a word.

Of course I made sure to say proper farewells to my closest team members, and enjoy a final chat with the Professor, CPT Esquire, and of course Papa Duck. We had a small ceremony (2 actually), the exchange of personal emails, and chatted over drinks (caffeinated). I got a few final tactical survival tips (hide behind the engine not the door of a car in a firefight) - thanked them for making me at least an honorary member of their "band of brothers" - and wished them safe travels.

Now I'm breaking in the new team, trying to come up with clever nicknames, and finding myself both thrilled and distressed that I have less than 90 days before I follow in their footsteps.  The new team seems great, though things are still shaking out in terms of who is where doing what, but I've gotten accustomed to the dizzying pace of change here, and am very encouraged by the fact that one of my new mates has already been christened with a nickname by the afghans, and I'm encouraged about the future of Afghanistan that the soldiers think highly enough of her spiking abilities on the volleyball court to name her in honor of a favorite weapon - "RPG".

BAF Bound

For better or worse, and mostly it's worse, I've spent entirely too much time on BAF, coming or going from various conferences, consultations, and ceremonies.

To be fair, BAF it is not without charms, like the 24 hour movie theater that has excellent popcorn, and even got in a shipment of Girl Scout cookies this week. I also don't object to the Pizza Hut (though it's a tad pricey) or to the (free) sausage egg mcmuffin, which is a far better way to start the day than rice and kimchi.

Mostly, it's the congestion and dust that bother me, so I set out in search of the scenic side of BAF (and some exercise, since I just can't bring myself to workout with people who count there pushups and pullups in triple digits...).

Here's what I found: 

BAF Panorama

This is my favorite picture because it has just about everything that defines BAF for me, dust, helicopters, T walls (the big concrete barriers), constant construction work, the soviet legacy (mines), and the stunning backdrop of the snowcapped mountains.

This is part of the infamous burn pits on Bagram

BAF Scenery

The Neighbors

Old School Bunkers (possibly from Soviet era)

reminded me a bit of Normandy

A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

Spring is a really beautiful season here, warm days, cool nights, snowcaps in the distance.

Accordingly - we decided to go for a stroll around the neighborhood.  Luckily, my work provided the excuse, which was a visit to a USAID funded teacher training center, which just happens to be on the property adjacent to our compound.

It was great to see money going to a solid project that is coming together literally on my doorstep, with no meaningful guidance or involvement from me - as our Afghan contractors are doing a great job, and are overseen by Afghan employees at the Embassy, who check in on it without the need for MRAPs and body armor and all that jazz.

Of course, it can be fun to take field trips, despite the excessive chaperoning by a dozen odd armed guards, but that's the next post.

Our Front Gate

(note the new trees added on Arbor Day)

View From the Neighbors

Our Street/Donkey Path

View From Above

 

 

Fighting!!! (no not that kind)

My faithful readers may recall my description of a Korean practice that I first found odd, but (in the way of cultural adaptation) I now find unique and endearing.

Some Practice Fighting in the Backyard

"Fighting" is a chant that apparently wormed its way into korean culture due to the popularity of boxing - aka fighting.  It crops up in different settings, the first of being a kind of pre-game and post-game huddle. It works like a football team, you form a circle, everybody puts their hand into the middle but instead of saying  "1, 2, 3  Go Team!!!" you chant "han, dool, set Fighting!" - though it sometimes sounds more like "Oy Tay!" to a western ear.  The other difference is that you might "huddle" before (and after) an aerobics class, a trip, or other group activity. It's a nice cultural bridge since most of us at least know to put your hand in the circle and shout as you raise it.
The other usage is during picture taking. After taking a more somber picture, the Koreans from the rotation" had been in the habit of taking a "Fighting" picture. Like with our "say cheese" ritual, the photographer counts to three and then the crowd shouts "Fighting".  The twist is that you hold out your clenched right fist for emphasis.

Parwan Youth Soccer Team

(who recently beat their hosts in a rematch)

While I don't want to take full credit, I beleive that my colleagues may have felt that the tradition was not in keeping with their rather serious demeanor, and it declined sharply. However, after I seized an opportunity to request a "Fighting!" picture with the Director, and successfully planted the idea during a few more photoshoots by brandishing a fist and/or shouting "Fighting!" the tradition has sprung back to life, embraced by the Police cadets, students and frequent guests, who have also been won over by the fact that if you do it in isolation, you feel like, and basically are, a goof.  However, if everybody buys into the idea, you get great smiles and an spontaneous injection of team spirit.

In fact, the Afghan security forces have their own charming and sobering tradition in the same line. As they are accepting a diploma or recognition they shake the hand of the commanding officer and turn their head to shout "Alive" - they then face the assembled crowd, raise the certificate above their head and belt out something patriotic. They have poetic license, but most settle on "My Life for Afghanistan". While I hope that few or none of these young men will have to lay down their lives, I can't help but be encouraged by thier willingness to do so.

Afghan Police Graduates - Ready to Fight

"Fighting!" season, here we come.

Birthday Celebration - Afghanistan Style

Holidays and Birthdays are not generally much fun to celebrate far from home and away from family.

With the obligatory (and sincere) caveat that I would have preferred to celebrate with loved ones, I happened across a pretty awesome way to celebrate.

My Birthday "Candle"

 

 A Classic Party Favor - ye olde Flash Bang

(this flavor of grenade doesn't have shrapnel, but the flash and bang will stun you, and give the good guys a chance to swoop in, particularly if you are indoors)

Another Favorite - Playdoh

(of course my grumpy guy here is not made with your average modeling clay)

The Obligatory Game of Hide and Go Seek

(turns out camoflague really works...)

Definitely a Birthday Party to Remember (but maybe not repeat)

I'd say more, but would just ruin it. So I'll just say a big thanks to my party organizers and guests for an unforgettable day!!!

Duck Season, Happy New Year

One of the nicest things about the gift of living in another culture is the chance to see how much we are alike, despite the very human tendency to fixate on the differences that set us apart.

Such was the discussion I had in the back of an MRAP (the rolling bank vault we use like the family station wagon) as I made my way to work one day.  Turns out that the soldier I was riding with was a duck hunter back home, and he explained to me how duck season work in Afghanistan.

It turns out to be strikingly similar, with some variation like the concept of needing governmental permission to shoot an animal which would definitely be lost in translation, or perhaps they would simply consider that to be covered under the Afghan statute which allows any adult to own (and carry in public) a single assault rifle to be used for self-defense. Lesser weapons are probably treated like bb guns in the U.S., and can be found at the Afghan equivalent of Walmart (though there isn't really any equivalent).

Open Season!!!
(just kidding)

Anyhow, the technique is the same.  You make a duck blind (hiding spot), try to lure the ducks with decoys or calls, and then blast away.  While I have to question the wisdom of firing any weapon in the neighborhood of a military installation (and a good portion of Afghanistan could be considered to meet that criteria), my new friend was clearly impressed. They had apparently gotten a good look at some of the decoys, which he noted were not what you'd get from a Cabella's catalog, but were pretty impressive for being made out of sticks and garbage bags. Indeed, we passed a flock of decoys on our trip which were plenty good enough to fool me (not a duck hunter). High-quality decoys or not, he was certain the Afghans went home with far more game than the average Cabella's customer.

Sometimes The Ducks Shoot Back... (note holes on drivers door)

(actually an Afghan April Fools Day joke, it's a sticker)

Along with duck season comes New Years (March 20) - which seems a far better time to make a fresh start than the dead of winter.  It is celebrated by going outside for picnics as a family enjoying fresh fruit and green things with the idea tha everything is reborn fresh and new. Unfortunately, I have not had the chance either to duck hunt or to go to a New Years picnic, but I have enjoyed the changing season.  Of course a dust/ice storm blew through during the holiday break, in the Afghan equivalent of the thunderstorm that seems to kick up right before you start the grill on the 4th of July.

 
Regardless, spring is marching forward, and the demoralizing events of the past weeks are slowly fading away, though the spectre of fighting season looms on the horizon, and the insurgents included us in their celebrations by rocketing BAF.

The Soviet Method of Duck Hunting

(a HIND helicopter - think Rambo III)

It will be an important and difficult year for Afghanistan when its citizens and leaders will need to make hard decisions and take on heavy burdens. Despite the frustrations and setbacks, this is a country that often eludes my comprehension by commands my respect, and I'm honored to play a small part in their struggle to find peace.

A Sense of Urgency... Or Not

As spring arrives, troops prepare for a rotation, and the withdrawal of coalition forces (CF) draws ever closer, I am sensing an odd mix of urgency and lethargy.

On the one hand there is the urge to rack up tangible accomplishments before hanging up ones boots, on the other is the contrary instinct to fade quietly into the sunset and not tempt fate. In the middle of this mess is the change of season, and the expectation that "fighting season" will soon get started. Taliban don't like fighting in the snow any more than we do and like taking their holiday in warmer climates just the same as us.

Ski Season is Just About Over...

 

Anyhow, I'm trying to just muddle along as best I can without fully embracing the (very American) fallacy that if we just work harder and longer Afghanistan will be reshaped in the next 2-4 weeks, nor the fatalism that often starts with the phrase "it is what it is" and ends with excusing oneself from trying at all.

In that vein, I had a chance for a nice stroll in downtown Charikar this week (going to a KLE not to stop at the corner grocery). I wish I had more of an opportunity to take pictures, as it was charming, colorful, and (at times) friendly.  The highlight was a series of three boys, who were probably 6, 4 and 3 years old, standing by the road (in that order) giving high-fives to the soldiers walking by. Older children enjoyed using the smattering of english they have picked up.

I Stuck by the Medic, Just in Case...

Others were more reserved, but didn't hesitate to return the greeting of a hand on the heart and a brief nod which has become instinctual enough that I catch myself doing it with non-Afghan colleagues. Mostly, our group seemed to get about as much attention as a flashy car driving down the street; enough to catch your attention and merit a comment to your neighbor, but not enough to interrupt business or a conversation with your friend. 

The Ironies of Afghanistan, A Soviet DSHK Machine Gun on a US Humvee

While our guard was certainly up, the guns generally were not, and the only real adrenaline rush came when CPT Esquire showed his soldiering skills by spotting an incoming motorbike with a gun-totting passenger and alerting our group to this event. Luckily, the weapon was not the typical AK-47 (which one is allowed to carry around for self-defense), but something that looked strikingly like a revolutionary war era flintlock rifle with a 3-4 foot barrel, and was probably being used for duck hunting.

On balance, it was nice to see the normalcy of a "city" street, and remember that mostly, people just want to have a job, earn enough to feed their family, have clean water, and go about their business.

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