Night Hike | Modern Love | Op-Ed Response

A Nocturnal Hike in Taliban-Infested Mountains

Reading for Mr Beller's Neighborhood, fall 2008

I hear explosions so loud that the plywood B-hut I’m in shakes. I’m scrambling to collect my gear: my flak jacket, my helmet, my camera, my notepad and pen, and a couple of granola bars to nibble on during the night. I curse myself for being disorganized and missing tonight’s pre-mission briefing as I throw my shit into a bag and run outside.

The only light illuminating this small American base is lunar and stellar. The almost full moon is so bright that you can discern the shadows of boulders, mud brick houses, and small trees on the mountains that surround this camp.

Something in the corner of my eye grabs my attention and I turn around. Across the fast-flowing Pech River which rumbles along one end of camp I see a mountainside engulfed in brilliant red flames.

I start cussing again.

Not only am I late, in danger of missing tonight’s mission up a mountain, but now I have to pull out my damn camera and take pictures. This is too amazing a sight to leave unrecorded.

While setting my camera for a nighttime exposure, I’m suddenly jolted. The 120mm canon – as wide as a cantaloupe – roars back to life in the mortar pit. It’s pumping 50-pound mortars to the other side of the Pech Valley, lighting up mountaintops.

Puffy white clouds appear above the mountains and release Fourth-of-July-bright tentacles of silvery flames. There is a delay in hearing the concussion blast since the mortars are exploding 4 kilometers away. Again, the crimson and tangerine fires that dance across the mountainsides are mesmerizing.

According to Lt. Col. Brett Jenkinson, the Commanding Officer of the Kunar Province in this volatile Eastern Regional Command area, me and a reporter colleague I’m traveling with are in the most dangerous part of Afghanistan, in one of the most hazardous places on earth for an American.

As we sat in the Lt. Colonel’s office a few days earlier at Camp Blessing near the border of Pakistan, I inspected a cutting-board sized curio on a windowsill. It was s a six-inch-thick pane of glass from a Humvee that took a hit from a rocket-propelled grenade. The explosion cracked the window and made a crater, but did not destroy it. I imagine the blast must’ve scared the shit out of the driver.

Most people assume that you’re scared when you’re in a war zone. In my case, I can say I’ve never been frightened. Concerned yes, but scared, no.

I think living in New York City for the past 15 years has done a lot in mitigating my fear. New York is the only city I know of where all people move fast, even when they use canes or are in wheelchairs. I’ve never seen a city where mothers push their baby carriages like aggressive lawnmowers into busy intersections to make traffic stop so they can cross. We live in a bold city, and you got to be brave to live here.

I will admit that when I left Kuwait this past August and our military plane crossed over Afghan airspace I was thinking, I’m actually in a frickin’ war zone! A place where people you don’t know are trying to kill you. It was my second time in Afghanistan, but still I found the thought amusing, that in the span of a day I’d gone from taxis and hot dog vendors to uparmored Humvees and thick-bearded insurgents.

The moment you enter Afghanistan you got to retool your thought-process and enter a combative mindset. Although cautious and ever vigilant, I look forward to conflict. There’s no other way as a war photojournalist. And I was going to be spending 10 weeks all over the country.

On the night of the scheduled hike up a Taliban-infested mountain in the Pech Valley my colleague Doug and I find ourselves at a Forward Operating Base, AKA a FOB, called Able Main. As with most bases in Afghanistan, the base started out with a generic name, like Cobra or Blackhorse, then took the names of a pair of soldiers on base who were killed.

When I arrived at Able-Main, my first thought was, Could they have located this camp in a worse location? Towering mountains, covered with boulders, gullies and trees, all great hiding places, surround the FOB. Attacking the base, located at the foothills of the valley, between a road and the Pech River, is like shooting fish in a barrel.

My second thought when we drove into camp was that it looked like something out of Planet of the Apes. All structures and supplies were low and covered in camouflage netting. ‘This place is hardcore,’ I said to myself. I later discovered that although primitive-looking, the base had functioning showers, a computer room, even a gym and mobile kitchen.

When Doug and I spoke with the commanders of Able Main they explained that this base was purposely placed in an exposed position. U.S. forces wanted to prove to the locals that we were there to offer them help and to hinder insurgent movements between nearby Pakistan and the Kunar Province.

While the success of the base is debatable, one thing is for sure: it is the sweetheart of Taliban attacks.

Soldiers told me about a night in early Fall they refer to as “Vietnam.” At 3AM on September 15 Able-Main was fired upon from four sides of the valley.

The five gunners who man the mortar pit told me how they had to dodge bullets whizzing past them to get to their 120mm gun. The mortar pit is the main target for insurgents. Take out the 120mm gun and you take away the principal firing power of the base, making it vulnerable. There is a portable 60mm back-up gun but that isn’t very effective in comparison. The soldiers, who at the time had only been on the base for six weeks, were able to successfully repel the four-pronged attack, but it was a warning that they would have to remain on their toes.

Able Main, in fact, is attacked by rockets, mortars, small arms fire, on average two times a week, three to four times a week during high season, which runs from late April, after the poppies have been harvested until early November, when snow makes high mountain corridors impassable. At that point most insurgents bury their ammo and weapons in underground caches and return to Pakistan to their families for the winter.

Able Main had been attacked a few hours before we arrived. The insurgents had fired from an uninhabited mountain the soldiers call “Redskins.” In retaliation, Able Main shot off three dozen mortars. Because of the rocky landscape and all the boulders and draws to hide behind and in, actually killing insurgents is very difficult. Even if you did kill one or more you’d never find the bodies because the insurgents always remove the corpses so that they may be given honorable funerals, well within the 24-hour time limit that Muslims require for burial.

Once the big mortars start raining down on them, the insurgents stop fighting and recede into the high mountains, deep valleys, and remote villages. By clandestine operations in the ultra-sensitive Tactical Operation Center (AKA TOC) soldiers are able to listen in on radio communications between insurgents.

On the night of our planned mountain hike up Redskins Mountain, the “chatter” between insurgents was intense. Soldiers know the insurgents are always watching them. No matter how remote a base is or how deserted the terrain seems, there is always someone monitoring the movements of troops. It can be anyone from a local goat-herder who’s paid $10 for information to professional scouts whose job it is to keep track of the comings and goings of soldiers.

The commanders of Able Main feared the insurgents may have known we were planning a nocturnal foot patrol. Walking into an ambush at night wouldn’t be pretty. Thus in order to rout out any insurgents and pre-empt a possible attack, the base shot off explosive mortars and “Willy P”, the nickname they give to White Phosphorous mortars.

Incendiary bombs are very lethal. They explode 150 feet above ground and burn at 3000 degrees Fahrenheit. They suck up all oxygen within a 200-foot radius and according to the Geneva Convention are considered too inhumane to be used as weapons. But, this is war, and these soldiers have had it with the Taliban so they blow off a lot of Willy P.

I scurry to the front gate in the darkness and, relieved, find the soldiers still mounting their weapons. I throw on my 25-pound flak jacket and my oversized English helmet that Doug lent me then follow the group to the gate.

The soldiers slowly and methodically exit the wide gate of cortina wire one at a time. They clench their weapons ready to shoot, look around then proceed to either the right or left side of the road, trying to keep near walls and structures in case they need to quickly find cover.

As a photojournalist I get a lot of free reign to do as I please. I can exit with the first soldier or with the 20th one. We have no set rules, but logic dictates that you not be a pain, not get in the way, nor be a liability. Therefore I prudently exit the gate with the fifth soldier, a sturdy 23-year-old from Iowa, then follow closely behind him.

The soldiers walk in silence. They stop in unison every 25 steps, survey the area, then continue. During the pauses I snap pictures in the darkness. I know they’ll be blurry but hope it’ll add drama to the photos.

I’m happy after we cross a bridge and take a dirt path through some trees to begin our ascent. On the road we’re targets. By these trees, rocks and empty buildings I feel like we have more of a chance if we’re attacked.

The idea tonight is to check on nocturnal insurgent activities. We have no idea who might be out here and what they might be carrying. I try to be quiet but even though I’m pretty fit, I’m no spring chicken. The helmet rolls all over my head. The flak jacket is backbreakingly heavy. I do my utmost not to slip off a rock, trip on a log or fall down a cliff. The thought of these soldiers allowing me to go on their mission then me doing something to fuck it up is so abominable that I traipse up the mountain like a mountain goat, albeit a winded, sweaty and aching mountain goat.

The soldiers are very spread out -- clustering together isn’t a good idea in case of an attack. Once we’re high up in the mountain where we can overlook the Pech and adjoining Waterpor Valleys, the soldiers quietly take their positions.

I clamber up a trail past my friend Doug and take a position under a thorn tree below the commander and another soldier.

And there we sit and watch.

The soldiers look vaguely extraterrestrial with the dim green lights glowing on their night-vision goggles. Across the valley, on a ridge, is a small village of mudbrick houses. Dogs are barking. Even though it’s a kilometer or two away, I’m sure the dogs are barking because they sense our presence. I worry that this could tip off the Taliban that we’re in the neighborhood.

I also hear the eerie yips of jackals and some odd crowing coming from the other side of the valley as I take pictures of the soldiers above me and the valley below me. I want to view the pictures but am scared that insurgents might see the light from my LCD screen and either shoot or head in our direction. Doug and I have no idea what, if anything, the soldiers are seeing, so we just sit and observe.

After three hours I pull up a rock for a pillow and remove the Afghan scarf from around my neck for a little blanket. It’s chilly but not cold. The beauty of Eastern Afghanistan is that, opposed to most of the country, this place has trees, vegetation and a sizable river, ergo there is humidity in the air, which holds in the day’s heat to some degree. So the temperature doesn’t sink like a lead weight.

I drift into a light sleep. I think about New York City and figure that by now, in mid-October, most of the leaves have turned and fallen off the trees and that it’s probably gray and rainy. If I were back home I’d be worrying about bills, how to make ends meet and what my next job should be.

But here I am, lying underneath the stars and the silhouette of a thorn tree, listening to crickets like an overaged boy scout. I rest peacefully pondering that at this moment the only concerns I have in my life are getting a few good shots and not being killed by insurgents. I do love New York -- no other city in the world comes close to it in terms of people and things to do -- but right now, I’m happy to be with a bunch of U.S. soldiers out in the open in the most dangerous part of Afghanistan.

____________________________________________________________

Modern Love: Loving The Soldiers | 30.VI.09, Unpublished

You know you’re in trouble when you enter an Afghan village and the children stay put and scowl instead of running excitedly behind the military vehicles, hoping to get candy, pens or stuffed animals from the soldiers. During my two embeds and accumulated five months in Afghanistan as a freelance photojournalist, I’ve learned children are a good thermometer for registering local sentiment towards soldiers. This Pashtun village of Al-asay was clearly not celebrating our arrival.

I was in an MRAP (Mine Resistant Ambush Protected) armored vehicle manned by Pennsylvania National Guardsmen. We’d just driven three jolting miles from their small base, Morales-Frazier, on top a dusty bluff, down to the mouth of the luxuriously verdant and notoriously hostile Afghanya Valley, 90 kilometers from Kabul. Things might get ugly, but these soldiers remained calm. They’d already completed a hundred missions.

I wasn’t worried. I trusted them. Although we’d known each other only days, they’d risk their lives to protect me. For that, not only do I give them my respect, but my love. This love has nothing to do with sex, and it’s not a pat-on-the-back love ya thing, but a serious, I-want-to-hug-you-until-I’ve-squeezed-all-the-air-out-of-your-lungs type love.

These soldiers, normal Joes who joined the Guard for financial or patriotic reasons, are among hundreds I met. Befriending people in a war zone happens mousetrap fast. These friendships, forged deep by dire situations, don’t always happen. Sometimes you meet duds or find yourself on a base with a strange vibe where things don’t click. But most soldiers I met were pretty remarkable.

Brave, caring and unselfish they daily put their lives on the line for our country when many Americans can’t explain why we’re in Afghanistan.

But I’m not pointing fingers.

Before arriving in Kabul in 2006 I knew little about Afghanistan. Poppies, Taliban and mountains were the extent of my knowledge. And when it came to the military, I wasn’t a fan.

A child during the hippy era, I picked up on the popular current that flickered across the country. Subliminal messages floated around me: pictures such as the girl sticking daisies in rifle barrels, movie characters like the one-armed ultra-military uncle Victor in Harold and Maude, song lyrics: “how many times must the cannon balls fly, before they’re forever banned?” As a seven-year-old the message was clear: the Vietnam war and the military are bad.

A decade later, in 1983, the year the nuclear holocaust film, “The Day After,” came out and the height of the Cold War, I graduated high school. Mankind’s fate seemed to be held by a few generals who couldn’t get enough missiles. A couple primitive bombs did a pretty thorough job in Japan, did we really need 30,000 high-tech nuclear devices?

In Frankfurt, where I was an exchange student, irate students verbally attacked me in school. I stammered that I had nothing to do with the arms race. I was interested in the latest New Wave albums and haircuts, not in Armageddon with the Soviets. I realized for the first time foreigners might not like me, thinking me a war-mongering American. My German experience further lowered my opinion of the military.

Then in 1996, the year the Taliban took over Afghanistan, I became a flight attendant for a charter that did military flights. My notion of dimwitted soldiers was bolstered when one soldier, drinking prohibited liquor during a flight, vomited somehow into a Coke bottle then handed it to me for disposal.

9/11 changed my views. I was patriotic but had issues with unilaterally invading Iraq.

Then in 2006, I got a call.

A friend from graduate school asked if I wanted to join him in Afghanistan. Doug, a reporter in Boston, knew I was trying to break into photojournalism. If I helped with some video camera work I could photograph and write my stuff on the side.

War, bullets, mortars? Sure, why not. There was nothing better going on in my life, unless you counted my tourist photographer job on board a Manhattan Circle Line yacht.

It seemed odd to be on a commercial flight bound for a war zone. During the taxi ride from the airport to Camp Eggers, in the heart of Kabul, it was hard to imagine this vibrant, exotic country, teeming with life, at war. That is until we reached the concrete barriers and multiple checkpoints of the U.S. base. Doug, a seasoned veteran who’d been to Iraq and Afghanistan 20 times, knew what to do. Everything seemed uptight. I expected the officer meeting us to be some stiff, dour disciplinarian with a crewcut.

Instead Geoff, our military media contact, was a handsome, articulate, college graduate who proved very helpful in getting us started.

In the next few months Doug and I flew all over Afghanistan. I kept on expecting to meet Rambo’s and Patton’s. Instead I met endearing, amazing soldiers. Eventually after quitting a base I’d feel odd pangs of sorrow, like when leaving beloved relatives or friends. Later I realized these pangs were love. I missed these soldiers and their stories: where they’re from, why they joined, who they left behind, what they thought of Afghanistan and its people, what they considered the main problems and possible solutions to be.

Back in New York I couldn’t wait to get back. Two years later I returned, again with Doug, this time for three months.

It was strange to be back at familiar Bagram Airbase with everybody I knew gone.

After three days I wasn’t feeling the vibe. Was my first time a fluke? Would this embed would be fraught with frosty personalities and tight-lipped automatons.

Then, after a three-hour convoy that wound through a vertiginous mountain pass, we arrived in Sorubi where we stayed a week with 10 marines. There was no running water, plumbing, or electricity in their Russian building and we slept on cots in a communal tent, but I savored every moment because these marines were fully welcoming, giving and extremely funny. (Everything you ever heard about marines and their penchant for telling lurid stories about sex and bodily functions is true.)

Major Dan and his men, who drove us to a monthly outdoor U.S. medical clinic in a primitive village of mudbrick buildings and pomegranate orchards, were a great beginning to this embed.

It was only the beginning of a continuous chain of outstanding soldiers: stout Major Katherine at Camp Phoenix who brought us pillows, Joe in Khowst who nightly invited us to watch movies on a big screen TV, Alex and Josh in Herat who took me to the high-tech Afghan military hospital, and fellow Nebraskan Sgt. Jacob at Camp Salerno near Pakistan who actually knew some of my relatives.

I loved them all, and this time I realized it.

When Doug and I arrived at Morales-Frazier, I figured my luck meeting great soldiers couldn’t continue.

Then I spotted the Mohawk.

These Pennsylvanian Guards billeted us in a large tent then invited us for dinner in their concrete building, divided into rooms with plywood. I accompanied brawny Ben and mohawked Andy to an off-base shop to get meat, potatoes and onions. They joked how the young shopkeeper was the biggest crook in Kapisa Province with his exorbitant prices.

After dinner the soldiers started disappearing. Soon I found myself alone with freckled, Mayberry-friendly Sully.

“Boy, you guys sure go to bed early around here,” I mentioned, looking around the empty commons area.

“They’re at the bar, but you didn’t hear that from me,” Sully said.

20 minutes later, stumbling through the darkness, I entered the “bar,” a tent with some tables and a beer cooler, on the French side of camp, and found the Pennsylvanians. They looked up sheepishly, some with worried expressions.

I quickly allied fears I might report them.

“You jerks! I can’t believe you ditched me!” I complained, then started smiling. They apologized, saying they’d been unsure. A consolation Heineken was offered.

I said their disappearing act reminded me of that “Sound of Music” scene when the von Trapp’s sing, “So long, Farewell,” for the Nazis then escape one by one off stage.” They laughed.

By the time we entered the unwelcoming village of Al-asay to consult with village elders about building a girl’s school, I had bonded with this group.

We ate all our meals together. They invited me to the shooting range and let me fire a rocket-propelled grenade launcher and .50 caliber Humvee-mounted machine gun. At night, after the French had barred Americans from their pub, we hung out in the bone-dry chilly night around a campfire composed of old pallets lit with magnesium incendiary grenades designed to burn through engine blocks at 4000° Fahrenheit.

We chatted for hours sitting in fold-and-carry camping chairs. They explained before arriving in Afghanistan they were told they’d be at a large base, but instead were sent to this isolated base manned by French legionnaires. They also related the harrowing tale of a four-hour gun battle they were engaged in days after their arrival. They became nervous when men were wounded and ammunition was running low.

We laughed when Ben mentioned the time a girl offered him a pair of socks if he’d drop his pants. And I cried when cherubic-looking, brown-eyed Anthony recounted that when he met his wife in Iraq, it was just sex, but after being severely injured in an explosion and sent to Germany in critical condition, he woke up in the hospital with the same woman holding his hand with tears in her eyes.

The upside of being a roving photojournalist is you meet a lot of incredible soldiers. The downside is often you’re not in a place long enough to get to know the soldiers well. At Morales-Frazier, due to difficulties with leaving base, I had time to understand these 15 soldiers.

It was Saturday and seemed unlikely we’d leave. The Pennsylvanians decided on a barbeque that evening. Anthony was going to score beer from the French. I couldn’t wait.

The sun was setting. I was in a fantastic mood, readying my camera. Then Doug rushed into the tent. “Ken pack your bags, we’re flying out in 30 minutes.”

Disorganization plays a big role in the military. You never know when a flight or convoy might materialize.

My heart sunk. I muttered while packing my bags. I ran to the compound to notify them of our departure. The mood immediately deflated.

“Aren’t photojournalists supposed to hang with soldiers to see what their lives are like?” Anthony asked, frowning. We were grasping at straws. We hugged. I left.

I was angry as a scorpion inside a boot and didn’t talk. I reveled in the darkness of the helicopter ride. My red eyes were unseen. I cry after leaving a base of newly made friends, unsure if we’ll ever meet again. I’ll often regret ever having considered soldiers as hicks. Most are indelibly mature, well-mannered and caring. They treated me with respect. Sure, having no sex is difficult, but eventually the simple camaraderie of the soldiers suffices for intimacy.

We arrived in Bagram before the media office closed. The lieutenant there said a flight to Asadabad was leaving at 5 AM, in six hours. Doug said we’d be on it. Visions of machine guns and Doug’s head entered my brain. Then the lieutenant mentioned the name of a photographer I’ve admired for years who was confirmed on the flight.

While walking to our B-hut, Doug, knowing I was excited about meeting this idolized photographer, turned to me, “Are you done being mad at me?” I chuckled.

We flew out the next morning and I met the famous photographer. A few days later we were in the dangerous Pech Valley and I found a whole new group of soldiers to befriend and love.

____________________________________________________________

Upod Response to Pat Saperstein's Op-ed Piece in LA Times

As a photojournalist who has met hundreds of soldiers during five total months of traveling all over Afghanistan, I’d like to comment on fellow Upoder Pat Saperstein’s July 15th op-ed piece about her son joining the marines.

I found her article insightful and thought-provoking. My first thought was that after making his difficult decision her son deserved full support from family and peers.

As a staunch democrat I can understand a “liberal, antiwar sphere,” but not hostility towards somebody enlisting. Ask a soldier in Afghanistan why the U.S. is there and most will say to improve the lives of Afghans and rid the country of terrorists. These soldiers don’t deserve hostility.

Hesitations about supporting people joining the military are understandable. Before entering the war theater, my view of the military was distorted. Culprits: I grew up as a child during the make-love-not-war anti-Vietnam era, I graduated high school at the height of the Evil Empire Cold War when the military seemed poised to launch an A-bomb at any moment, and I didn’t realize that the mass media is a terrible source to base assumptions about soldiers due to the media’s inherent taste for violence and negative reportage.

Unlike Pat who didn’t know a single soldier, I come from the Republican stronghold of hawkish Nebraska and knew several soldiers growing up. I never thought to ask them about their experiences or thoughts about their service. And often I saw them as not smart enough to get jobs in the “real” world, people who liked shooting and killing things, or who were simply misguided.

I changed my tune when I arrived in Afghanistan. I kept expecting to meet Rambos and Pattons, instead I met some of the most endearing, self-sacrificing, courageous and giving people I’d ever come across. Interviewing these soldiers, taking their pictures during their daily life on base or out on patrols, and observing them during battle, I became fascinated by them.

I learned there was no standard template for people joining the military and that often the decision came down to straightforward things like patriotism, adventure, seeking direction or the simple economics of needing money. Soldiers I met ranged in ages from 18 to nearly 60 and were from every type of background, from trailer parks to Ivy League schools. There were marines who were 18 and looked as innocent and sweet as Pokémon cartoon characters, and other soldiers who were shoe-ins for Buzz Lightyear and Captain America. I met a few soldiers who admitted not liking the military or Afghanistan. Others I encountered suffered from exhaustion because they couldn’t participate in enough programs to help Afghans.

So being “not-terribly-athletic” and “bookish” doesn’t make Pat’s son an unusual enlistee. The only “unconventional Marine” is one who’s cowardly.

As for risks her son may face: the intense camaraderie between soldiers once they enter into a unit cannot be overstated. Soldiers become brothers and will do whatever it takes to protect each other, noncombatives fighting alongside combative if need be. Her son will be in good company.

Lastly, when I read about the mother who feels it’s “her job as a parent to raise her daughter so that there would be no chance she would ever join the military,” I admit feeling indignation. That mother should repeat her words to Kate S., an Air Force nurse I met, who was doing check-ups and distributing medicine to women and children in an isolated dusty village 50 miles west of Kabul, or Katherine O. who organized a program whereby pictures that Afghan children had drawn and painted could be sold to soldiers on her base. This woman makes me recall the words my uncle Bill, a Korean War veteran, told me when as a young boy I asked why we needed a military. “Look at all this!” he exclaimed, his eyes wide as he swept his arm in a broad arc. “You think this is all free and just happens? You’ve got to fight for freedom and then fight to protect it.”

I applaud Pat Saperstein’s son and his brave decision.

____________________________________________________________

Response to Op-Ed L.A. Times Article

L.A. Times OPINION My son, the Marine At first, we resisted his decision to join the Corps. We still have doubts, but there's also some pride in his choice. By Pat Saperstein July 15, 2009

After we celebrated the Fourth of July with a family barbecue, my 18-year-old son, Sam, shipped out for Marine Corps boot camp in San Diego. The idea of having a son in the military still seems strange, but I'm starting to get used to it.

When Sam first announced his decision, it seemed mystifying that my not-terribly-athletic, bookish son would decide that what he wanted most of all was to be a Marine.

My friends were shocked and offered plenty of advice -- he should see a psychologist; he should consider the Navy; did I realize how underhanded the recruiters could be?

But Sam never had an easy time at school, and he wasn't interested in college, at least straight out of high school. He wanted to be a Marine, period. Since he was a toddler, he's been fiercely stubborn, a child who did exactly what he wanted without much interest in the approval of teachers or parents.

For years, he read up on World War II and the Vietnam War and devoured war novels and fighter plane encyclopedias, though he had little use for history classes at school. It didn't occur to me what his hobby might lead to. We didn't know a single person who served in any branch of the military, other than the grandfathers who fought in World War II.

In some circles, Sam's decision might have seemed practical, even heroic. But in our liberal, antiwar sphere, his desire to enlist was met with shock -- even hostility. I wasn't really surprised at our friends' reactions -- after all, Sam's dad and I were initially opposed. We talked to him over and over about the risks he would face, the unyielding obedience he would need to summon. We spent the last year trying to inject some reality into his somewhat idealized vision of the military, but true to form, his mind would not be changed.

As the parent of a high-schooler, I had to answer the same question at every social event or Trader Joe's encounter: "What is your son doing about college?" That was a hard question, because though I didn't agree with him, it was still his choice, one he felt strongly about.

Often the reaction was pity or even anger. A friend with anarchist leanings pleaded with me to get him counseling. One mother stated firmly that she felt her job as a parent was to raise her daughter so that there would be no chance she would ever join the military. A few people warned that even though he had selected a noncombat job category, the Marines might still require him to face combat. Was that supposed to make me feel better? Because it didn't.

Once I got over my initial reticence and started talking to other parents about his choice, I found out that Sam wasn't the only kid we knew who was interested in the military. One boy had nearly joined up but was derailed when he got a mononucleosis-like illness. A colleague's nephew -- a British citizen -- was accepted into the Marines. Another friend's son decided to become an Army medic even though he was nearly finished with college.

My son passed his high school equivalency exam last summer and signed his enlistment papers in the fall, with the understanding that he would be inducted after completing a year of community college. The decision seemed to agree with him. After years of never really getting with the program, years of endless struggles over toothbrushing and homework, he changed in the months after enlisting.

The bedroom that had been the typical teen vortex of dirty plates glued to gaming magazines was suddenly organized and vacuumed. For the first time ever, homework was getting done and chores accomplished, at least some of the time. Despite weekly karate classes, he had started the year with the typical gamer's pudge. Now he woke early on Saturdays for physical training with the recruiter. He watched his diet, joined the Y and got the highest score in his bodybuilding class.

It seemed like he was ready for basic training, but we were still worried about what would come after.

Sam selected aircraft information systems as his job (which, thankfully, involves an entire year of training in mellow Athens, Ga.), and he says if the Marines need him to go into combat, he'll do what is asked of him. Of course I'm worried about Afghanistan, tanks, injuries, psychological scars ... but worrying hardly seems productive.

So he'll be an unconventional Marine -- full of historical facts but short on street smarts, a noncombatant in a branch known for its combat prowess, a kid from a liberal family who's going to really miss Zankou chicken and the taco trucks when he gets to the Marine mess hall.

It wasn't until I started chatting online with a childhood friend just a week before Sam's ship date that I started to make peace with my son's decision to face war. My friend's 20-year-old son recently decided to emigrate to Israel, where he will be required to serve in the Israeli army. "College is a joke if you're not into it," my friend wrote. "Just an expensive waystation for bored kids."

"It's the first lesson in learning to release them," he typed. "To let them do what they feel passionate about."

And then: "Entering the military and serving your country is a lost art among us privileged Angelenos."

I closed the little message box on the computer feeling a little less guilty that I should have done more to stop Sam, and maybe even a little proud of my son for being willing to try something that is completely foreign to us privileged Angelenos.

Pat Saperstein is a senior editor at Variety and editor of the blog EatingLA.com.

Afghanistan - Fall 2008

[If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, I always say, NYC - Paris, 19 August 2008, Tuesday]

I’m waging the battle against exhaustion behind the security of a low curvy wall in a white cubicle at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris.

My plane departed New York on August 18, 2008, at 1 AM this morning. I landed at Paris at 1:30PM and will leave tonight at 11:30ish. I will land in Dubai around 8AM then at 2:30PM will continue on to Kuwait City, where I will finally get a little rest at a hotel before meeting my friend and colleague Doug Grindle, a reporter based in Boston, back at the airport the next morning in Kuwait City. We will meet some Army people who will bring us to a U.S. military installation. We will then be flown to Afghanistan to report on and take pictures of the situation there in all parts of the country for 8 to 9 weeks.

==Well, that’s me before heading to JFK.==

The area where I am now is for wifi users. It has 4 desks with 2 seats opposite each other divided by a low wall. Nothing is free when it comes to air travel, so at 6 Euros (about $9) for 30 minutes of internet I have decided the providers can kiss my patootie. But since it’s better for my posture to sit at a desk rather than work with the laptop on my legs, I’m sitting here, acting like I’m on the internet. People come and go in waves. When all 8 seats become occupied I act extra busy so no one suspects that I’m a cheap bastard and am not really using the wifi service.

Why am I so tired you ask yourselves. Well allow me to ‘splain. From the time I arrived in New York on July 24th, after two months away in Switzerland and Nebraska, I have been preparing for this trip to Afghanistan. It would’ve been a lot quicker had I had a trust fund to buy all the things I needed, but as we say in France, ‘Say la “V”.”

The night before I left New York I went to a party on the Upper West Side with my friend, the famous writer of sexual misfits and the underbelly of New York, Gerry Visco. I didn’t really know the hostess of the party so I didn’t plan to stay long. But it’s those quiet little gatherings that can sometimes turn into all-night gang-bangers. I ended up talking to a bevy of interesting and amusing people, including the hostess, Liz, who is an extraordinary cook. By the time my head touched my pillow it was 8AM.

At 11AM the phone rang. Emergency.

It was Doug. I had to do last-minute paperwork for Kuwait. After not sleeping the prior week then waking up after a too brief 3-hour coma, all hung over and hungry, I felt befuddled. I had a load of tasks to accomplish before heading to the airport at 10PM. So I sucked it up and proceeded to queasily perform my final chores in the sweltering heat.

I’m grateful to my friend Matt who helped me out with some of those tasks as my final minutes in Manhattan were ticking away.

The lines at the airport weren’t too bad and the fear that my bags would be too heavy with my flak jacket and helmet were unfounded. I flew Air France, a Delta co-share. No window seat was available, but since I boarded very late, I found out from the ticket girl that there was an aisle seat available with a free seat next to it. It turned out to be great.

If you didn’t know already, Air France excels at rudeness and discomfort. I’m convinced AF’s management took their cues from the prison scenes in the movie “Papillon” when they designed their flights.

The armrests, for instance, do lift up, but not all the way. So there’s an annoying bar pushing into your ribs if you try to lay down. And just to ensure that a passenger in coach doesn’t get too comfy, the armrest in the middle of the block of four seats between the aisles does not lift up. But hey, when you’re about ready to drop, like the value of the U.S. dollar compared to the Euro, then those two seats with the armrest jabbing you in the torso is like 600-thread sheets on top a featherbed.

As y’all may know, I was a flight attendant from 1996 through 1999, so I know a little about the biz.

I used to be the foreign language speaker, making announcements in German, Spanish, Italian and French over the P.A. system. I’m no U.N. translator when it comes to my speaking abilities, but I also ain’t chopped livah. I worked on a rinky-dink charter and then on some short hauls with American Airlines. So when I think of Air France, blocking out thoughts of guillotines and the wrack, I think of a higher standard of professionalism and performance. Well lemme tell you that when the flight attendant made her announcements after the French I couldn’t say what languages they were. I thought she was butchering German, between pauses and syllabic stumbles, but then I heard something that sounded, like ‘Tot ziens’ which is Dutch, but why would she speak Dutch on a flight originating in New York, landing in Paris, and continuing to Pakistan?

The flight attendant then proceeded to read Spanish. My friend Matt who lives in the northern climes of Manhattan in Inwood, at 196th Street, is surrounded by people from the Dominican Republic. They swallow and slur their words to the point it sounds like they’re just moving their lips and exercising their vocal chords instead of speaking, yet their Spanish sounds like King Carlos of Spain’s Castilian when compared to the way this flight attendant read her Hispanic announcements.

When it came to checking seatbelts before take-off and landing, the flight attendants couldn’t be bottled. They made it a point to slam your elbow or crush your foot if it strayed a few millimeters into the aisle and they were passing by. And just try asking for an extra glass of water. Well I made it to Paris, that’s all I care about.

==Nothing says, “I’ve been to Paris and you haven’t!” like a snow globe with the Eiffel Tower inside.==

==I actually love these tacky Eiffel Tower souvenirs, even if they do cost nearly $45 for a big one.==

So here I am, in this stupid cubicle, watching people dribble by on their way to their gates.

I must admit Charles DeGaulle is a nice airport. Very bright and modern, with an airy lightness about it. In front of me is some little boutique whose colors are pink, gold and mocha. At first I thought it was a parfumerie but now I see it’s chocolates, coffee, cookies, jam and a few bottles of champagne. For the longest time the store was dead. I observed the lady working there.

I wondered how she makes it through the day, just sitting on that stool in a little shop of high-end, overpriced chocolates, cookies, and coffee.

It reminded me of when I used to temp after I first moved to New York. At some places I would just take a few calls and type a few memos in a day. Eight hours pay for 10 minutes work was fine with me, but those other 470 minutes could get tedious. That’s when I started writing. It was the only way to keep my sanity in the days before the internet and cell phones. The girl in the chocolate shop I decided could knock out a killer novel if she put her mind to it.

I’ve never heard of her shop, Fauchon, but now people have started wandering in. All Asian, Japanese I would wager.

I feel more like I’m from Zimbabwe than America when it comes to these prices in Europe. I remember when the Euro made its appearance on the world’s monetary stage. It was worth something like 75¢. Now it’s the dollar that’s worth less than 75¢. If you want to buy something her you gotta roll in your wheelbarrow of U.S. dollars and dump them in a pile in front of the cashier.

It would definitely make a great sitcom, a show about people, bored out of their minds, who work in airport stores selling a few things a day to wealthy Asians as impoverished Americans walk past with hungry, forlorn eyes.

==The inside of Charles DeGaulle airport is so airy!==

==Only the elite may enjoy the lounge at the end of this chic terminal at Charles DeGualle airport in Paris. Bastards.==

==An outside detail of the Charles DeGaulle airport in Paris.==

==Like I said, it’s a great sit-com idea: the life and times of bored employees of high-end stores at the airport.==

While Paris lies so closely, but expensively, within my grasp, I sit here, in this woefully air-conditioned airport for my 10-hour layover, watching passengers migrate to their gates, the clouds float over the metal dome above, and yet another Japanese customer lay down money for some Fauchon chocolate and jam.

Oh well. Next time I come to Paris hopefully I’ll be well-rested, loaded and able to join the Japanese in their spending frenzy.

==Just so you know what I’m talkin’ bout.==

==On the way to Duh-bai.==

==I hope you can understand this. It’s in French.==

Right now I’m sitting in a food court at the Dubai airport. It’s 9:30 in the morning, 7:30 in Paris, 1:30 in New York and 12:30 in Nebraska.

The first thing I wanna say is money, money, money! This place is DRIPPING with it.

I landed a little over an hour ago. As the plane taxied to the gate my first impression of the airport is that it looked like a city-sized galactic worm … but it could also be a snake. From the high windows of this food court across from the vermiform building, it seems that the structure is at least a mile long, probably more like 2 km.

The air traffic control tower in the middle looks like one of the giant tentacled Martian illustrations from the original Jules Verne novel, War of the Worlds. The point is that to build such an airport you gotta have a lot of mullah, as in money.

==Giant worm or snake, you decide: the airport terminal of Dubai.==

==The alien-looking air traffic tower at Dubai’s airport.==

==The Kuwait Air Traffic Tower as portrayed by HG Wells.==

==Arab Emirates planes all lined up and ready to bring more rich people into Dubai.==

The city seems to have changed quite a bit since the last time I was here in 1999, when I was a flight attendant.

Before Dubai we had spent a lot of time in Saudi. We were based in Jeddah as we did Hajj flights (bringing pilgrims in from all parts of the world to Mecca). In Saudi anything related to fun was forbidden: of course drugs and porn, but also booze, cinema, stereos. Unofficially women shouldn’t smoke, men shouldn’t wear short sleeves or short pants. So basically the only thing you could do publicly was shop and eat. Screw that.

I wasn’t expecting much when we landed in Dubai.

The airport didn’t look like it does now. I remember that when the passengers deplaned me and a fellow flight attendant put a new spin on David Spade’s SNL bitchy flight attendant sketch when he would sneer dismissive “Buh-byes.” As the peopled piled out we would say, “Duh-bai.” “Duh-bai now.”

As we took the crew bus to the hotel I thought, what a boring place this is, just a bunch of skyscrapers in a lifeless desert. Big deal.

Our hotel was nice. But then World Airways, the charter I worked for, always put us up in great digs. It was only when I actually went outside that I knew I wasn’t in Kansas, or rather, Khobar, anymore. Before I walked out of the hotel I said to myself, God, I’d love a taco right now. I don’t know why I craved one at that moment, but I did. I walked out the hotel lobby into the street and what was the first thing I saw? A sign that announced Taco Bell.

In Saudi fast food was a shwarma or kebab. Dubai was all about Pizza Hut and Dennies.

Unlike Jeddah, this wasn’t a pedestrian city. If you didn’t have a Mercedes you were camel poop. I did however brave sunstroke and walked towards the Jumeirah hotel, the one that looks like a billowing sail, and thought I’d take a little dip in the Persian Gulf to cool off.

I threw down my bag on the sand, pulled off my shirt, kicked off my flip-flops and proceeded to jump knee-deep into the water. I just as quickly jumped back out. The water was about as refreshing as a pool of cow pee. It was steaming! The poor fish I thought, as I cussed gathering up my belongings for the crawl back to my hotel.

Before we left Dubai I remember looking out my 10th story hotel window as the sun set and seeing a weedpatch of cranes spread out in all directions until the buildings abruptly stopped at the edge of the desert.

This time when the Air France jet approached the city it seemed to sprawl endlessly in all directions. I didn’t even see the desert.

One building stood out. I had heard about it from my friend Jean who comes here for work. It brings to mind Frank Lloyd Wright’s mile-high vision of The Illinois skyscraper. It is the Burj Dubai. Its official height is being kept a secret but when the scheduled completion arrives in September 2009, it will probably reach over 800meters (2650+ feet) in height, with perhaps 180 floors. (Let’s hope no American terrorists hijack a jet in the Persian Gulf and, well, you know....)

==Here’s that big tower rising above the Dubai skyline.==

==Here it is again.==

==And yet another view of the Burj Dubai.==

==If the finished product doesn’t look like Frank Lloyd Wright’s work then I don’t know what does.==

==The Illinois, not to be confused with it’s slightly inferior 10-story building, The Nebraskan.==

Despite a miserable flight from Paris I must have gotten some sleep because I didn’t feel too zoned out when we deboarded.

The guy seated next to me was thankfully normal, but the dude behind me kept on poking his touch-tip video screen like a manual typewriter. This continual jabbing in my back continued on-and-off for the entire night. I was like, what the f is that sh*thead doing?! But from past experiences in trying to reason with retarded airline passengers I didn’t say anything. Meanwhile the guy in front of me was having seizures in his seat. I’d be about ready to bend down to get something out of my backpack and his seatback would suddenly release, snapping all the way back. I tried to snuggle into my pillow against the fuselage, but a whiff of butt in said pillow quickly erased that idea from my mind.

As opposed to the uncomfortably muggy Charles DeGaulle airport in Paris, this Dubai airport is as chilled as anything you’d find in Texas (the coldest I’ve ever been was a theater one summer in Dallas. When I came outside after the Batman movie, my arms were rigor-mortisly chilled.) In Paris it might have been 80°. When I stepped outside to cross the street to check my bags with Kuwait Airways, I nearly self-immolated. It had to be at least 110° out there. They have fans affixed to the overhangs that blow air-conditioned mist onto people. That’s what I call money.

And that’s pretty much the main thing you feel here: money!

The airport is all marble and brass and huge light fixtures. Donald Trump must love this place. There’s something to be said about an airport that offers you free wifi in their food court. This place makes you feel that you could get a job for a few years and be able to pay off all your debts then return to New York with enough money in your pocket to buy a nice apartment in Manhattan. So who knows, maybe after Afghanistan …. ☺

==What I love about the Middle East, and also Africa … and actually Asia and South & Central America as well, OK everywhere except the U.S. and the Polar regions... are the delicious fresh juices available. Here at the Dubai airport I have strawberry juice, and fresh hummus with salad and pita bread. Mickey D’s it ain’t.==

I leave in a few hours for Kuwait City. I’m very happy to be back in the Middle East. I love its exoticness. I just heard the melodious call to prayer somewhere in the airport as Pilipinos serve food, men in white turbans eat Hummus and good-looking female flight attendants in beige pantsuits drink sip Cokes. I mean how cool is it to see a woman dressed in a black abbaya with a big red button on the front that says in white letters: May I Help You? I can't wait to see more.

==Am I a retread or what. I still haven’t figured out what this second row of two pictures mean on this Kuwait Airways card means.==

______________________________________________

[What's 44°C in F? Kuwait City, 20 August 2008, Wednesday]

I'm sitting in an army base computer room near Kuwait City. I don't have much time on this computer so I'll be quick. The first thing you must know is it's hot. I mean HOT! Look, I've been to Namibia and I thought that was hot, but this heat in the Persian Gulf, first Dubai now Kuwait, is something that takes your breath away. It's what it must be like on the sunny side of Mars.

The flight yesterday from Dubai to Kuwait City was almost without incident only that I didn't realize they CLOSE the check-in 45 minutes before the scheduled time of departure. You have to check all your bags through an X-ray system before you can reach the ticket counter and since we aren't in the U.S. or Europe, you can't really expect people to move very fast. I find the Africans interesting. They're never stressed or in a rush. They slowly and carefully put their stuff on the belt, examing the pieces of luggage (often consisting of bags and boxes) before setting them on convey belt. Meanwhile, I'm behind them freaking out thinking that if I miss this flight I'm screwed.

S0 I do what a New Yorker does. I say I'm going to miss my flight to one of the workers there and he opens up a new X-ray machine. One thing I can say about the Middle East is that the manners and politeness here are impeccable.

Once my bag was checked I understood the 45-minute thingy. To get to the gates from the check in terminal you have to go a kilometer. There are 5 moving walkway lengths underground to get you there but they're packed and people don't understand the stand to the right to let people pass idea.

At the gate they kept on checked my passport twice, which made me a little nervous. The waiting lounge was a great slice of life. An elderly Arab man dressed in a white starched white robe was keeping other waiting passengers entertained by his two laughing granddaughters as he told them stories.

Once on the plane, the whole closing the gate thing appeared to be a ruse because passengers keep coming in spurts. There were more high-end shopping bags than luggage. I'm guessing since Dubai is only 80 minutes from Kuwait City that people daytrip or overnight it just to go shopping, and if you were rolling in doe like here then why not?

There were lots of families on the plane. I sat next to a very nice gentleman who wasn't able to sit by his wife on take-off. It's curious, but everybody here speaks English. You hardly hear any Arabic. Even Arabs converse in English between each other it seems.

Now being a former flight attendant, I was endlessly impressed that there was a full dinner service including a choice between lamb and fish. There was a tea & coffee service to follow. All this on a full flight of about 180 passengers with only 3 flight attendants. And these people here aren't afraid to ask for things. They demand service. And they get it.

Since everybody in the service area here is foreign -- it seems mainly from Bangladesh and the Philippines (I can never spell this word, so it might be Phillipines) -- I guess they know that they are a dime a dozen and if they get uppity they will be shown the door.

Once I landed in Kuwait, I had to get a visa. Only 30 countries are allowed to get visas upon arrival and all those countries are fairly wealthy ... although they recently added Poland and Slovenia in inkmarker on the list. There were 10 people waiting and only one guy processing visas. When you come to Kuwait remember to pull a number and take a form next to it to fill out. Don't be an idiot like I was and wait in line.

The visa ended up costing $12 U.S. so that wasn't as bad as I thought. My main concern that was in the 40 minutes it took for me to arrive to baggage claim I was very afraid that somebody might have walked off with my bag, effectively ending my life as I know it.

I did panic when I saw no signs listing my flight. But then, on a luggage cart, I saw my bag. That's another thing about rich countries. Low theft. Also I guess the possibility of having your hands cut off is a good deterrent.

====PHOTOS OF KUWAIT CITY====

==The reference to God is somewhat amusing on this Kuwaiti Dinar.==

==A deluxe light fixture at Kuwait City airport.==

I stayed at a hotel that I found in a Kuwait chat room. I asked what was a good yet cheap hotel and three people mentioned the Ibis hotel. I looked it up on line and was impressed how nice it was. It's brand new and at only 22KD (Kuwaiti Dinar) it sounded cheap. But when you take into consideration that the KD is one of the most, if not the most, expensive currencies in the world and is valued at almost $4 then that rate seems considerably higher. They offered free shuttle service and since I saw only one other place that was cheaper and seemed far out of town, the Ibis it was.

Turned out to be an awesome hotel. It's in a great location, by the water -- out my 6th floor hallway window i could see a marina and a Hard Rock Cafe -- and there are all kinds of stores, restaurants (mainly fastfood chains), and coffee shops (mainly Starbucks) along the road. Best of all the rooms all come with free wireless service. I'd high recommend the hotel if you come down Kuwaiti way.

I worked on getting my blog up, which took way longer than I expected, then I went outside to change some money and buy a shwarma. The sun set early here, around 7:00 so it was dark by the time I ventured out. I turned off the a/c in my room because I was freezing. It still was chilly enough for me to put on my hoodie. When I walked outside my glasses immediately fogged over.

I went to look at the prices at a super market, and when I calculated the prices in dollars, I was like damn! This place is expensive. I always think the grocery stores are one of the best ways to dive in and discover a culture. You look at the foods they eat and the customers and it's fun. Especially here where women are so exotic, ranging from completely veiled in black to jeans and blouses. I didn't see frumpy though, so I guess the Kuwaiti women leave their sweats and baggy T's at home.

I was told by the Moroccan guy who gathered me at the airport from the hotel that taking pictures in Kuwait is illegal. I stupidly took pictures of the visa / customs desk as the line glacially moved in order for people to pick up their bags. I thought I was sly, but after the guy checked my passport he asked for my camera. I had just gotten a small point-and-shoot and was afraid he was going to confiscate it, so I deleted the pix myself and he went through all the photos. I had taken pictures in a toilet stall at the airport of one of the spray handles they have by the toilets. It's funny because it looks like something you'd spray dishes with, but in this case you're spraying something else. Well he must've thought I was a little strange ... which i freely admit :) ... but it was embarassing nonetheless. He showed his colleague the picture and laughed a little, then let me go.

Not one to like rules, I brought my camera with me on my stroll but it was so frozen from the hotel that it was useless outside because it was oozing with moisture.

I didn't get a lot of sleep. I got to bed at 1:30 AM finishing up some work and got up at 5:30 AM. A taxi was called for me and although the front desk said it would cost 5 KD, the Filipino guy who helped me downstairs with my luggage said you could get a fare for considerably less. I ended up paying 4KD but found out you can pay 2KD or less. Oh well, next time.

It was in the 90s already. I met up with Doug without incident at 7:45ish as he came out into the arrivals hall - he took British Airways from Boston -- and the military media guy who met us at the airport drove us to the army base in Kuwait.

When I was a flight attendant I remember flying onto a base in Kuwait and seeing the city in the distance. I remember that soldiers were not allowed to get off the bases. Well, the soldiers almost 10 years later still can't get off the bases, but the base I was on closed and now there is a new one much farther out.

Earlier I mentioned the heat of Namibia. Well it is a desert as well, but it is so scenic. Kuwait on the other hand seems bleak. There is urban sprawl consisting wide roads, expensive sand-colored houses with huge SUVs and high-end sedans parked outside, and shopping malls. Powerlines and unique shaped water towers are everywhere. The energy is generated, I'm assuming, by oil.

The military guy who picked up us said that gas here is around 80 cents a gallon. He pointed out a sign that says: Desert. It's like, thanks for that sign, I would've never found it with the help. The base is your standard U.S. base. Mainly tents rather than B-huts (fabricated from plywood).

So this is the Kuwait leg briefing. Tomorrow we leave for Bagram, Afghanistan. We have space reserved on a daily military flight. I'm looking forward to it. But this heat is really going to be interesting, because it's unreal.

==A Kuwaiti boy on my Kuwait Airways flight behind the flight attendant as she picks up lunch trays. I used to hate that when people would hover behind me for the bathroom as I was picking up when I was a flight attendant. I was like, I ain't moving this cart until it's full so you can just wait 10 feet behind me until I'm done. (I was a really nice f/a btw).==

==Doug arriving to Kuwait City from Boston via London and being me by the PAO (Public Affairs Officer, who took us to the military base, Ali al Salem, or as I call it, Al Salami.==

==As we're being driven to the Kuwait military base, I mention to the PAO, Lt. Guffrey that I haven't seen any automobiles older than 2000 models. He says that's because I was in the inner city. He said you get to the outskirts and you see a lot of older models, especially this model with the indispensable ladder on the back.==

==Our digs at Ali al Salem.==

==Our little tent in the desert.==

==The hardiest plant award goes to this weed growing in the baking sand surrounded by nothing except heat.==

==Doug considering the purchase of a boombox at the Ali al Salem PX.==

______________________________________________

[The Sinead O'connor Look, 21 august 2008, Thursday, Kuwait to Bagram]

====ANATOMY OF A SELF-INFLICTED SCALPING====

I'm on a C-127 military transport right now. Doug and I were lucky to obtain hard-to-get space reserved seats on this ginormous gray plane,

We left the Ali Al Salem base near Kuwait City an hour and 15 minutes ago, at 5PM. We’ll arrive in Bagram at 9:30 local. That's a 3-hour flight since Afghanistan is 90 minutes ahead of Kuwait (only in time of course because in terms of economic development it's the Jetsons vs. the Flintstones).

The size of this McDonnell Douglas C17 Globemaster aircraft is astounding. Because the entire inside is open, ie no floor with passenger seats above the cargo, nor any covering over the fuselage other than instruments and insulation, the plane seems like one tubular football field. Especially when seen from the one bathroom (with no running water) at the front of the aircraft.

25 seats run along both sides of the plane. In the middle are 20 rows of 5 seats. The seats look like old World Airways seats – uncomfortable and cheap with fixed armrests. I’ve only flown in one previous plane with a 5-seat middle section configuration. I was going to Hawaii on American Airlines with a World Airways crew to meet our World plane there. I was stuck in the middle seat. The two people on either side of me were happy couples. In fact the entire section of 2 seats on either end of the quintuplet seats were couples; new, old, straight, gay, all were smiling and getting ready to celebrate togetherness with mai tais and luaus.

Meanwhile I, and all the other World flight attendants, were buried in the middle seats. To exacerbate matters, the American Airlines flight crew said all passengers had to remain seated because of inclement weather. I looked towards the windows noticing we were sailing serenely through crystalline turquoise skies. It was all a ruse. The AA flight attendants simply didn’t want to deal with middle-seaters like me walking around and gathering by the lavs and galleys to commiserate about their rotten seats.

Mais je divague.

These military flights are loud. You must wear earplugs. You can hear the aircraft slicing through the air, but you can’t see it. There are only 3 portholes on each side of the aircraft. None of them accessible from passenger seats. When I went to the bathroom I looked out the small one by the front door but only saw black. It was 7:30. Guess autumn is around the corner.

Behind the rows of passenger seats are 3 gigantic pallets. One of them is the luggage of the passengers. In the middle of the pallet is my humongo black bag. I feared the Northern Face bag I got a few days before I left but never tried out might be a problem because although it has straps that can make it into a backpack of sorts, it is not a backpack. It has no waist straps to help balance the weight. Happily I saw a contractor with my same bag at the military air terminal and I also discovered that as a 70-pound backpack it seems to work OK. It’s 70 pounds because my flak jacket and helmet are in the bag since this flight didn’t require them.

After our roll call at 2PM we had to “palletize” our bags. I’m afraid what I’ll find inside my bag when my luggage is depalletized and all the bags on top of it have been removed.

Besides my big big bag I have a regular-sized backpack which contains my laptop and external hard drive and a small carry-on bag that has my big camera and point-and-shoot in it. Doug on the other hand has a large video camera, a big backpack, a large gray bag, a biggish red backpack, and a sizable heavy olive-colored canvas carry-on, which contains all his expensive equipment (small movie camera, laptop, a nightvision camera). He keeps everything in good shape and manages to carry all those items by himself. He’s a thin blond dude and at 6 feet I’d reckon he can’t weigh much more than 160 pounds. I don’t know how he does it. I’ve tried to see, but by the time I’ve lugged my monster bag to where it needs to be, he’s already done.

At 8:25 the pilot makes the last announcement about buckling up for landing. Everything goes red in the cabin. I can barely see.

The plane descends rapidly. I suppose it’s in order to foil possible attempts to shoot it down. I watch the front of the plane dipping at the same angle of Lincoln Tunnel when you enter it.

A slight shudder comes over me. I realize for the first time: I’m back in a live war zone.

====ANATOMY OF A STOMACH-TURNING PRE-BOARDING MILITARY MEAL====

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

[Same day, Midnight, Bagram]

I am now sitting at a table in the Kohle DFAC (Dining Facility) at BAF (Bagram Air Field).

DFAC food is like school cafeteria food. There are a lot more choices than school but everything pretty much tastes the same like at school. I stay clear of fried food and figure if I eat meat that’s broiled, steamed and raw vegetables, rice and potatoes, and unprocessed fruit, I should be OK. With an endless supply of 100% juices, good milk and access to a gym, the increased sugar intake that inevitably happens when you’re surrounded by more desserts than Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, should do minimal harm.

I’m glad to be able to eat this late at night to think some things over. There was a little hiccup at the airport when we landed tonight. Doug and I had our passports confiscated. It had something to do about some office not receiving some clearance.

My mind tends to turn off when such glitches occur. The fog only lifts when everything is approved and once again hunky dory. Since Doug knows the media affairs guy who he called at the airport to pick us up, the guy dropped us off at our billet, instead of detaining us like the woman who took our passports wanted to do.

Doug and I received our own room. No roommates yay. Before the media guy left us, he assured us we’d have nothing to worry about re: our passports.

I love Bagram. It’s the biggest base in Afghanistan. There is so much action going on here. It’s like a little town complete with streets and sidewalks (well basically one long street with an equidistant long sidewalk).

You could say all these bases are a little haunted. Not just by the dead who were stationed at a particular base, or the fallen who were transported out from major bases like Bagram, but also by all those souls who were stationed here and have since, after their tours, gone back to their civilian lives.

Being back in Bagram I want to again see all the people I met here in 2006. Like Nick Clutinger, the friendly, folksy red-headed First Sgt who had been called up to active duty from the Indiana National Guard. He lent me sunglasses, drove me around to get stories, and introduced me to the Polish contingent, who were landmine sweepers, and the Egyptian contingent, who were working in a hospital here that helps locals. Nick, who had in 20 years of marriage, had never been away from his wife more than a couple days when he was sent to Afghanistan.

Part of me is concerned that this time won’t be near as fruitful nor interesting as last time, but I guess we make our own luck for the most part, so what I want to get out of this trip I will.

I’m happy to be in this very familiar DFAC now and have some bearings. I’m glad to see the Afghan workers again. I noticed some had funkily trimmed beards but upon closer inspection I discovered their actually wearing hairnets on them, or rather beardnets. I like seeing the all the Aussies, Poles, Romanians and Egyptians again as well. And this base is known for good-looking inhabitants and that’s always nice to gawk at … I mean look at.

It’s funny to see how much construction has gone on since I was last here – this base is like a mini-Manhattan. And the air traffic on the base seems much heavier than I remember. But this base is still bone dry and dusty (at least there are mountains to see on the horizon, rather than nothing like in Kuwait). The one thing that is still completely the same is the fowl, nauseating smell of the latrines.

Where Doug and I are staying has a trailer of 4 toilets. They are the German sort, which have as we used to call it when I was an exchange student in Deutschland, a “viewing platform”. For some reason this Bagram base loves to put shower curtains instead of doors on the stalls. I hate using a toilet with only a wrinkled shower curtain is between me and the inquiring public. Instead of reading a good magazine, you have to hold the edges against the sides of the curtain to keep them closed. I usually wait until the joint is clear before I use the facilities.

Before I head off to bed, I must say that today I feel pretty good. This is a result of a few days of DFAC food, some sleep, a session at the gym, and the absence of stress for the most part.

Kuwait was nice and all but it’s great to be in Afghanistan, especially since it’s a lot cooler here. Also because I doubt I’ll have to deal with A-holes like we did in our lodging in Kuwait.

Doug and I were billeted in a tent. It was big and air-conditioned and big enough for 4 bunkbeds. In 2006 we were billeted sometimes with other media peeps, at other times with soldiers from other bases, even with base soldiers, this time however we were with contractors. They seemed decent enough, although we didn’t much talk to each other. Since military bases are 24-hour affairs and people stroll in and out at all hours of the day or night, it’s an unspoken logic to be quiet, because inevitably there will always be someone trying to get the sleep. If you turn off the lights, which means pitch darkness, then it should be because most of the people in the billet are sleeping at the same time.

There were two jokers who didn’t care about etiquette. When Doug and I had arrived the previous day we were both sleep-deprived. Once we got to the tent we proceeded to take naps on our respective bunks. These two dudes strolled in laughing and carrying on then started to play music and then watch a video on their laptop without headphones. I was so tired that I put in earplugs and just wished them away in my mind, but I was thinking of the other guys in the tent trying to sleep.

This morning the jokers came in, whooping it up. When they finally went to bed they turned off the lights. They had woken everybody up. I heard other guys in the tent stirring, bumping around with their little beams of light, trying not to disturb the two who had turned off the lights. I said screw that. I began wondering what time it was so I got up and turned the fluorescent tubes back on. I fumbled for my watch and flashlight. It was 7AM.

For the rest of the day I made it a point to go back in to tent and each time to turn on the lights rather than dealing with my flashlight. I had breakfast then went to the tent. Behind a concrete barrier I shaved off all my hair with my beard clippers (makes more sense since it’s so hot here, but I did hate to see my Pretty Boy Floyd naturally curly long locks that I’ve grown for seven months go) then went back to the tent. Showered then back to the tent. Washed and dried clothes (free on bases) then back to the tent. Basically what goes around, turns the lights on.

I hated putting my wet clothes in the dryer when it was a baking 115° outside, but where you gonna hang your clothes and then there’s the dust and sand. Doug said that when he was in Iraq on one of his media tours, it got up to 140°. Doug is not one given to hyperbole, but 140 degrees? I thought the record was Death Valley at like 130°. He also stated that in Baghdad he was in a place that reached 125°. I don't know how people live in that kind of heat without a/c. In a way I can see why 3 major religions were born in this part of the world. When it's hot as hell you seek a higher being to send you some air conditioning and Haägën Dasz pints of rum raisin.

Btw, if you ever do come to Kuwait's Al Salami base make sure you have KD (Kuwaiti Dinar) when you return, at least 5 one Dinar bills to be exact (a little less than $19) because you will need them when you return You will have to get a visa when you re-enter Kuwait proper and the Kuwaiti officials, those same people who were liberated by the Americans from Iraqi tyranny, refuse to accept any other currency other than their own Dinar. (Here I spend 40 minutes getting my Kuwaiti visa and drop 12 whole bucks just to have the military annul it because it doesn’t like its peeps to have them.)

I’m excited about what tomorrow will be like on my first full day back to Afghanistan.

====ANATOMY OF A MILITARY FLIGHT====

______________________________________________

[Jogging with Landmines, 22 August 2008, Friday, Bagram]

It’s 4AM and I can’t sleep. I’m back in military mode. Too much stuff on my mind. At 3:30 AM there was a loudspeaker announcement made in the camp. It was like a hazy dream the first couple times I heard it. Then I pulled out an earplug and listened. It was a ceremony for a fallen soldier for all "available" personnel.

I don’t know how they determine available. If I’m in bed, I’m not available. And if this ceremony is anything like the ones I witnessed in 2006 when I was here, then the soldiers will line the long straight road the runs through this populated part of the base and stand at attention as the casket, draped with a U.S. flag, passes slowly by in the back of an SUV. I remember how much I hated the anonymity of these ceremonies . Who was this person? Where did they die? How? How old was he/she? Where was she/he from in the states? I sometimes felt that part of the reason they wanted everybody to line the road was so that it would look better on the video they made and then sent to the family of the dead soldier.

My fear the other night that I wouldn’t have as good of time or find as good of stories as I did in 2006 was dispelled yesterday morning. I went to the bathroom and when I came back Doug was talking to a guy staying in our billeting quarters, called the Hotel California. At first I thought the handsome bearded guy was Irish. When I asked where he was from and he said Munich and I found out he was German, I became Chatty Kathy and couldn’t stop asking questions. Who do you write for, when did you start, what camera do you use, where did you just come from, how long you been here, what stories did you do, did you see any combat, what agency do you work for, how do you do you stories (pitch or write first), did you go to journalism school, how did you get started…. You know, the standard Ken 3rd Degree. A friend of mine Matt Oakes used to call me Sputnik. He said I was like a manmade satellite that lands on a planet, my antennae go up, I gather all my information, my antennae go back down and fly back into space. Sputnik didn’t have that capability but it’s a nice visual… now if only I could find a graphic artist who could render that picture that I could use as my logo.

Anyhoo, I then went to the media office and as I was sitting there I discovered how incredibly helpful these media personnel are. I might mention that the media office is the next B-hut over from our Hotel California. Here at Bagram, B-huts, or as I used to call them, Bee Huts, are made out of plywood or metal; ours is one story, but some are now 3 stories high, which I find kind of funny, it’s like 3 long truckbeds stacked on top one another.

Carsten Stormer, the German, who btw lives in the Philippines with his girlfriend, came back from his story some days earlier than expected and the media people were like offering him stories he could do, like medical evacs. He said he wanted to do a flying mission, and they were like OK, we’ll set it up. I was like damn man, I’ll just stay here in Bagram and pitch my ideas and do them immediately. It would be a goldmine of stories.

A story I’ve had in mind since I was last here deals with fitness and how the common soldier stays fit in a war zone. I just mentioned the idea, but one of the media women in the office (both are young and attractive and both work during the day, at night there are two men, all are from Mississippi and extremely pleasant) said well tomorrow there’s an “Iron Eagle” physical fitness competition. I said I was game. When she said we’d meet at 5 AM, I though, poop, I could really use the sleep but then I thought, ah screw it. The military is 24 hours. You basically get your sleep when you can because if you think you’re gonna have a regular sleep schedule here you can forget it.

For the entire day Doug was back and forth with some commander about our schedule. It changes by the hour. Are we going to Kabul or Kandajar or Kunar? Or has everything changed.

While I was in the office an Ozzie major, David Bergman, came in. I was writing an email to a friend in New York, but my ears were pulled by what he said. The major works with the Mine Action Center and is in charge of demining, which last time I was here was done by the Poles. He said in a range he was working on there were men that were collecting scrap metal even though it was a minefield. They were so impoverished that they risked their lives for a few dollars a day of scrap metal in a mine field. The Ozzie talked to these guys and decided to put them to work helping building bridges, which he’s also in charge of. “I figure anybody willing to risk his life making money in a minefield is pretty highly motivated.” The major wants to teach the men slowly how to build bridges. It will give them skills they will be proud of and will help him direct the work of his men to more technical tasks that desperately need attention. It’s a brilliant idea to me. He’s keen for somebody to do a story on it. I offered to do it, but I found out later in the day that Doug and I will go to Kabul around 1PM today. Maybe I can do it when I get back, but if I do do it, it will be on the condition that I see the minefield and exactly what type of stuff they were doing.

I spent the day working on some writing. It was a nice day here. I decided at 5PM to hit the gym. The sun was already lowering on the horizon and it the tall Hindu Kush mountains in the distance were golden purple. Since the gym is kind of far I decided to put on my jogging clothes and run the 8-mile perimeter, which I did a couple times before last time I was here.

It was so weird to pass an area that the Poles were demining 2 years. It was an old Soviet garrison with some abandoned buildings and a disabled tank. That’s all gone now and covered with white sheet rock and cargo comexes. The Ozzie major said in the office today before I left, “And if you go running mate, and you happen to see wavy piles of dirt, avoid them.” So as I was running I was getting paranoid about stray landmines so I refused to get off the asphalt even when I saw tennis shoe prints in the dust next to pavement.

The traffic was heavy in some places and when I absolutely had to get off the road, I just stood in place and waited for the convoy to pass. Some of the large trucks were loaded twice as high with wares, a means of getting the most out of one truck delivery. If possible I think Afghanistan is visibly poorer than two years ago. The drivers looked more haggard and the trucks in worse shape. I loved the one truck that didn’t even have a windshield – nice on hot days like this.

I began to notice that the few joggers I saw were going against traffic, which is what I usually do, but I thought since you’re on a military base they do everything according to the rules. But after I saw all runners, walkers and bikers going against traffic I kind of figured the rule is going against traffic.

The air was very dusty due to the bone dry land, the talcum sized sand, and the churning wheels of the traffic. Also there’s one part where they burn garbage in a huge black 2-story incinerator and the smoke that blew across the road was burnt my eyes. (Like most, if not all, bases in Afghanistan, Bagram uses paper trays and cups and plastic utensils for all meals. There are 18,000 people at Bagram. Take that number times 3 meals per day and you get a lot of trash that’s got to be burnt. I suggested to a Captain that the military should perhaps think about reusable trays and utensils. She said there’s not enough water here for that and it would be too much work. So I guess polluted air is the pay-off. But when the summer Olympics come to Afghanistan, 10 to 1 Bagram will have stop burning trash for a month or two.

The mountains encircle all of Bagram. I wonder what it must be like to be on top of one of those ridges. If Bagram itself is at 5,700 feet or almost 2000m, then I wonder how high it is to the summit of the highest mountain in the range. The ground is flat around Bagram. Outside “the wire” are the ruins of mud-brick houses that are slowly eroding back into the earth. It would be interesting to know when the towns were built and when they were evacuated. Probably when this base was occupied by the Russians in the late 70s.

I used to be afraid that some sniper might try to shoot me from behind one of the ruined brick walls, but someone pointed out that there are guard towers every km or so. Still, where there’s a will, there’s a way. And in some places you don’t lose sight of towers you’re in between.

There are lots of live minefields that you pass. They are blocked off by barbed wire with intermittent red triangular mine signs attached. On these mine fields is a treasure trove of scrap metal: rusting trucks, military tanks, water and oil tanks, poles, automobile carcasses. If the metal collectors could get a hold of all this scrap they probably buy airline tickets to Hawaii or something.

There is one part of the jog that I remember from last time that is especially gratifying. Just before you come back to the straight 2 mile long road where all the soldiers live and work and all the shops, hospitals, and gyms are located, there is a little stream and meadow that runs into the base. Two years ago I remember how in the heat of the evening this little stream ran cool under a small metal bridge. Now there is an 8-foot-high wall of sandbags around most of periphery running along the meadow and an electrified fence. But I was able to see a little bit between a break and saw a group of men in a circle burning something, and some children playing in the distance. The area is so green and lush, with tall grass growing in the tree-lined stream and a flat grassy area on one side and a crude cornfield on the other. It makes you wish you could just hop over the barrier and join the locals. I wonder when the day will come when something like that will be possible.

It took me 70 minutes to jog 8 miles in hiking shoes. My feet felt like bricks but it was worth it. It was interesting to see how the ring road around the base had changed – some areas being close, some new, some gone. Next time I come here I’ll borrow a bike and take pictures of the wonders of Bagram Air Field.

Carsten and I had dinner together. We talked about living in Asia, German and American culture and photojournalism. I love how he said that Kabul is safe and that he travels around there, staying with friends, eating in restaurants, even drinking in a bar (maybe bars). This makes me really want to get off the base when I get to Kabul and check out the city as a civilian, away from the military. I guess in that case though I should’ve left my hair alone, because now I’m a total jarhead.

Well, we’ll cross that bridge -- one perhaps made by former scrap metal pickers from mine fields – when I cross it.

______________________________________________

[Lotta Semon, 23 August 2008, Saturday, Kabul]

It’s 11AM on August 25th and I’m sitting here at the MWR working on my laptop with a military landline cable. An “MWR” is basically a rec center, although to me the meaning of the acronym, Morale, Welfare and Recreation, smacks a little of Fascism, à la Nazi’s 1937 Volkswagen slogan “Freude Durch Arbeit” (Joy Through Work).

I’m at Camp Black Horse, a small base on the Kabul outskirts. Officially this base is part of the Combined Joint Task Force of the larger base Camp Phoenix. I don’t really understand military jargon so well because I’m inherently lazy and don’t want to know what all the acronyms mean.

Doug and I are working with Sec For (Security Force) which I thought was actually Sec 4, as in Sector 4. Who knew?

I worked until 1:30 this morning getting through 110 emails. It took me 5 hours. While in the MWR there were several soldiers using Skype or Skype-like programs to talk their spouses. One English guy basically was on the horn yapping with his old lady for four hours. FOUR hours! Who the hell wants to speak to their spouse for FOUR f’ing hours?

It’s like when I was a flight attendant and couples would become apoplectic if they couldn’t sit by each other for a 90-minute puddle jumper. It was annoying because these people probably never really talk to each other in their daily lives, but now, all of the sudden if they travel together they gotta be surgically connected.

I once dated somebody who insisted we talk to each other every day when we were apart. I tried to play the nice guy and heed the pleas of my partner, but it was often that riding-with-the-brake feeling. To me it was a needy aspect of my partner and I was just pandering to insecurity. I was used to the way I did things with another partner, a partner with whom I had a 7-year relationship with. We were each quite independent and when we called each other it was because we were especially happy, or had something important to say or ask, or just felt the compulsion to say, I love you. I prefer that kind of relationship. I easily suffocate in the call-me!-call-me! type arrangement.

Sooo, I’m sitting there for about 90 minutes listening to this damn English guy babbling on about his trip to Malta and Venice “for five days,” and another soldier asking “who drew the red cow?” and yet another telling his boy how to behave with his mother while he’s away, when I finally put on some i-tunes and insert earplugs. I should mention that not only do these people talk, they cam themselves. So for four hours not only am I talking to my annoying English spouse, but I’m also looking at his bald ugly mug. 2 words: No thanks.

So I’m a wee backlogged on the blog, so I’m going to put this entry under the August 23rd. As you may know, days are relative in the military. Friday, Monday, Sunday, Thursday. It’s all the same, all a jumble. So when I offered to shoot this Iron Eagle physical fitness event at Bagram at 5 AM on Saturday morning it was no biggie. I didn’t know exactly what would happen but once me and Jennifer Martin, a captain with the public affairs office which deals with media, I dove right in.

I had mentioned to her I wanted to do a story on fitness and she found an email that she had deleted in her garbage can and voila, a plan the next morning.

It’s sponsored by the 101st Airborne Division (whose symbol is an eagle) and open to all soldiers and civilians. In fact if I wanted to do it I could, and I don’t think it would be too hard for me to win an Iron Eagle certificate. All I’d have to do is 80 (60 for women) push-ups in two minutes, followed by 90 sit-ups in two minutes, then when everybody is ready run 4 miles in less than 28 minutes (32 for women), followed immediately by 10 pull-ups (5 for women) and 25 dips (15 for females). When I was in grade school I used to love the President’s Physical fitness campaigns where you’d win a certificate for running, long-jumping and I think climbing a pole… I’ve forgotten the exact details. The president in office in those days was Nixon, followed by Ford.

I loved taking pictures of this event and had to hold me myself back and keep from yelling to people to hurry up or do more. I didn’t want to be taking pictures then all the suddenly shout something and have everybody stop and silently look at me like Eliza Doolittle at the horseraces when she bullhorns, “Move your bloomin’ arse!”

At the same time, a 5k race was going on with about 600 participants. I loved all this physical activity surrounding me this early in the morning. The strip through the busy part of the base is actually closed from 5AM – 7AM to allow people to run and bike without worrying about the dust and pollution of vehicular traffic.

I was energized for the rest of the morning. Doug was still asleep when I finished breakfast. I went to the PX to look for boots, which I found ran as high as $180. I hadn’t put on the Timberlands I wore since I returned from Afghanistan two years ago until I returned to Afghanistan. In the interim my feet had expanded. By the time we reached Bagram my toes felt like they were all broken. Luckily I found a pair of military-like desert boots for half price, $38. Score! They’re half a size too big at 12 ½ but my feet love them.

I was running in those boots for the rest of the day. Doug and I had to be at Bagram’s airfield by 1:30PM to catch a flight to Kabul.

It’s a 4-hour ordeal to take this 20-minute flight. We had “space blocked” seats, which means we’re guaranteed seats. I don’t understand the military’s system of air travel. Military flights are always overly full and always hard to get on. Come on people, buy some 747’s and paint them olive.

While waiting in the packed terminal, a wiry guy with a sunburnt pale complexion got on the mic. “I’m going to be reading the names of the stand-bys, and if you hear your name called, yell out then come up to the desk with your ID.” He read 40 names, last name first, then first name, and nobody answered. A few of the names were odd, like King Jacob, Pei Yu, Fuchs Sonny .

A black lady in her late 40s stood by the monitor to help scroll the names of the people for him. The way the guy was pronouncing the names made her laugh, but she was doing a good job at suppressing her giggles. Her shoulders, however, were heaving up and down. The guy reading the names was sitting on a chair a little ways back from the monitor. He began to turn red as he also tried not to laugh while looking at the lady. At that point some people in the crowd began to titter watching them struggle through the names. Then I began to laugh out loud, then Doug did, then most of the people in the terminal.

Everybody was waiting for one name thrown in that would be an obvious joke, like Jack Mehoff. Had the guy reading the names done that on his own accord the whole terminal would’ve roared with laughter.

It reminded me of that SNL sketch were Steve Carell is reading the names at a Graduation Commencement ceremony at Pounder High School. There are names like Eileen Dover, Eaton Thomas Bush, Yowana Nailer. There’s a website called Hulu.com that my very tech savvy Matt K showed me that is a gazillion times better than Youtube if you’re looking for any movie or tv clips, so after a little research I found the clip: http://www.hulu.com/watch/20331/saturday-night-live-commencement-open

The guy made it through the names without further incident and we boarded the plane. I made sure to grab a handful of little boxes filled with pairs of neon orange and green earplugs. They are the most efficient ones I’ve ever come across and are miracle workers when you live in noise-ridden NYC.

There were only 44 seats available on our aircraft. 4 long rows of seats, two along the fuselage and then a long row in the middle. We had to wear flak jackets and helmets so we were all stuffed in. The civilian sitting next to me had of course doused himself with vile smelling cheap cologne so that I could only look towards the wall away from him the entire trip. Where’s a clothes pin when you need one.

Arriving at the Kabul international airport was surreal.

Here is a normally functioning, dilapidated 70s issue airport, in a war zone. While walking to the area where the soldiers gather their luggage, I saw through a window a woman running on a treadmill in a fitness center. As Doug and I waited I came across a few New Yorkers – one from duh Bronx, duh udder from Brooklyn. That’s when I realized that these were part of the 3000 New York National Guard troops that came over in April. Really cool people.

The Kabul airport is exciting.

All kinds of high-end SUVs zooming and looming around, some in triplicate, probably for diplomats. Condoleezza Rice had actually left from this airport a few hours earlier according to Doug. There were French, Australian, Portuguese, Romanian, Croatian and Polish troops milling about. The French flag was flying at half-mast for the 10 French soldiers that died and 21 who were injured a week ago in an ambush. According to the report they were climbing up a mountain and suddenly surprised. But Doug, who’s in the know, heard that they had finished their mission and were coming back on the same road they came up on. A big no-no in military operations. So the insurgents waited for them and it was fish in a barrel like scenario.

I noticed a couple of guys hanging out in the parking lot with big beards. One was tall and pretty striking and they both seemed to be looking at me. So, against my better judgment, I tried to be sly and take a picture of them when I thought they weren’t looking. Immediately the taller one with the dark beard threw up his arms and turned away walking to the side of the SUV. I engaged the New York soldiers in conversation and was taking their picture when the shorter red-bearded guy came up to me. “You know you’re not supposed to take pictures at the airport, mate. I’d suggest if you got any pictures of us you delete them,” he said in an Australian accent.

“Sure no problem,” I gulped, my heart pounding in fear & excitement. Fear that I’m going to get popped. Excitement that I’ve actually riled the feathers of a Special Forces guy and he’s talking to me. I showed him my LCD screen and deleted the picture. “You gotta watch out mate, there can be some real pricks here,” he said as he left.

My mind replied, “You mean like you.”

These special forces guys are in the military like everybody else, but they’re elite and do secretive operations that the U.S. public doesn’t know about and which the U.S. administration can claim they know nothing about if some special forces get caught doing something illegal. The guys grow big beards, the shaggier the better, not only to blend in but to be cool. They hang out with each other like a bunch of homos in a house on Fire Island and always eat and play together. Hey if that rocks your boat, go for it. One word: forgeddaboutit.

When our bus arrived it looked like something from the Schwarzenegger flick from mars: Total Recall. The bus was a big, tan rectangle with a line of little portholes running along the side. I had never seen an armored bus before. Doug and I got on the bus and headed to the back with our new New Yorker friends. When all 22 seats were full, we had a briefing given to us by a thin black man who’s skin was shiny with sweat. He wore a bandana à la Rambo.

“This is your security briefing,” Black Rambo began. “You’ll be taking Road Violet to Camp Phoenix which currently is hot. There have been lots of suicide bombers lately. Be on the look out for any suspicious vehicles or driving activity. We have intell that there’s a black SUV out there with red tags with enough amo to blow up a city block. You see him yell to the driver and we’ll take evasive action. All right. Have a safe trip.” At that he stepped off the bus and closed the door.

Hmmm.

It sounded like something we might say on one of my old World Airways flights: Ladies and Gentlemen, three of the five lavs is out of service, water will drip from the ceiling when we land due to condensation, none of our video machines work, we only have 10 blankets although there are 300 of you on board today, and we will only be serving drinks because our caterer went out of business and didn’t bring us food. All righty then. Have a nice trip.”

Our arrival to Phoenix was the polar opposite of Bagram. Instead of passports confiscated and possible detainment, it was like Mom came to get us.

Major Oliver met us there as soon as stepped off the Martian bus. She handed us fresh bedding and walked us to our awaiting accommodations. She asked if we wanted to eat. If we needed anything. If she could help carry any of our bags. I was like, who is this short, stocky red-headed woman with a gap between her front teeth and a boisterous laugh? I love her.

M. Oliver lives in Rochester but is originally from a farm in Michigan and works at Kodak in the chemicals division. She tries to keep all the people who live by the factory happy when residue falls from the sky or weird smells start to emanate from the facility. I’m sure she’s good because she’s about the most pleasant woman you’ll find, and certainly not a push-over.

She took us to the public affairs office to meet Colonel Fanning.

I was dreading this guy, expecting some no personality, blustering, strictly by the books bore. Instead we met a New Yorker you might see waiting on a subway platform wearing a Yankees hat debating which team will win this year’s pennant with a random guy. For me the most amazing qualities of anybody in a leadership position are the following: sense of humor, normalcy, authenticity, willingness to give as long as the other is willing to do the same. That leadership will set the tone for the whole pyramid below. And I’ve got to admit, there’s something about New Yorkers that’s just damn friendly. You don’t have to be born in NY, but it helps. There’s this NY attitude that just rubs itself all over you and you become a New Yorker and it’s full of forcefulness but also fairness, fun and smartness.

We all ate together then Doug went somewhere. Fanning, Oliver and I couldn’t find him, so when the luggage arrived, Fanning took one of Doug’s bags, Oliver the other and came along with me and my luggage to our B-hut. You do not see that type of character very often, and, not to get all kumbaya on y’all, but that’s what makes our U.S. forces really something and is the kind of thing I wish could be proclaimed over the news. The folks that come here, both enlisted and national reserves and guards, have for the most part, the desire to really make a positive difference in the beleaguered country. What they need is more support and an administration that can send out a clear message and direction.

OK, I’m down off the soap box.

Major Oliver showed me pictures she’s taken in Afghanistan and some of them are so excellent that I’m envious. I suggested she start printing some of these pictures up and selling them. She could send all the proceeds to the Afghan causes she cares about.

It was so nice to have our own B-hut.

Doug slept at one end and me at the other. He didn’t even know what to do with the linen, as he usually sleeps in his clothes. If he takes off his boots he’s really making a concession. I on the other hand have to have my sleep T-shirt, sweats, hoodie and earplugs. Kind of like Shirley in Laverne in Shirley who has to go through a whole checklist of things before she can fall asleep. That’s me, Shirley.

______________________________________________

[Pick & Grin, Boy, 24 August 2008, Sunday]

I kind of hated leaving Camp Phoenix today.

I mean you meet a decent group of people, Colonel Fanning, Major Oliver and their underlings in the office, John and Jennifer, you have your own B-hut, you even have bedding (!) and you have to uproot yourself and leave after only a day. In this case Doug and I were going just a few km down the road to Camp Black Horse where Doug wants to do some foot patrols and other action stories. Camp Phoenix is at the moment pretty quiet since there has been heightened action due to the 89th anniversary of Afghanistan’s freedom from Great Britain and the beginning of the holy month of Ramadan.

In the morning I did an interview with a self-described “Jewish boy from Brooklyn,” Lt Colonel Martin Scott who is a head nurse here at the clinic. I want to do a story on the programs they have here to help the locals. But as time has now sped up I barely had time to take down notes when it was time to leave with the 4 Humvee convoy that came to Phoenix to drop off some soldiers from the airport.

As Doug and I waited for the guys to get ready, I noticed the nametag of one soldier: McCool.

“Cool name,” I said to the guy. He laughed. But I was serious, really a great name. I’d love it. Ken McCool. But in my case I’d extenuate the Cool part to Cooool. “Hi, how you doin’, I’m Ken McCoooool, dig?”

We made it to Black Horse in about 10 minutes. I loved this base 2 years ago and met some great people there. This new crew, mostly out of NY is likewise coooool. Jarrod Jensen, a tall handsome guy with a narrow nose met us and led us around. He introduced us to the Public Affairs group, all very close knit. Kind of like the group you picture Oscar Madison hanging out with in the Odd Couple with Felix emptying out ashtrays while they all play poker and smoke cigars.

These Public Affairs guys eat together every day at 6PM then at 7:30 they play either volleyball, darts or dominoes. Doug and I joined the group for dinner. A very black-skinned man joined us. He had the same voice as Tracy Morgan on SNL. It was uncanny. He was crazy like Tracy too. The two could have their own show.

I’ve said most of the soldiers here are from NYC, but not all.

In the cafeteria you have your ultra macho big-bearded, big-muscled Special Forces guys. There are Portuguese and French and some former Eastern Blockers. There are also troops from other states.

One high-ranking, portly gentleman strolled past our table carrying his food tray. He was new to the base. He had a silver mustache and was about 55 years old. Very Jackie Gleason in Cannonball Run. Him and Tracy were sparring back and forth about where the portly gentleman was from.

First Portly said NYC then L.A. But it was evident he was from the south. Finally he fessed up and admitted Alabama. Since none of knew anything about Alabama other than it had slavery and cotton boweevils we all went mute with lost expressions on our faces. We should’ve just stayed mute but Tracy felt compelled to throw the dog a bone and mentioned that he had kin in Alabama.

The portly gentleman then began chiding Tracy with things I thought went out with the waterhoses and German shepherds during the race riots of ’64. When he said, “So you like pickin’ and grinnin’ right? Pickin’ and grinning’” I wasn’t sure what he was talking about but I pictured Al Jolson in black face on one knee singing Mammy. Tracy just grinned and bore it (no pickin’ though) and when the guy left, I just felt the whole table felt irked.

Doug and I strolled to the room to fetch our laptops. We’re in a long B-hut where all the guys have blankets over the openings cut in the plywood for their rooms. I figure even without the blanket over the doorless entry way, it still has a wee bit more privacy than a tent.

“But you got all that,” Doug said, pointing to some cheap red material that the former occupant had thumb tacked between the plywood ceiling/roof and the top of my plywood walls, making the room fully enclosed. I looked at it for the first time, then glanced at the other rooms, and sure enough, I had the only room with an Arabian tent theme. For some reason that struck me as the funniest thing I’d seen all year and I began to laugh uncontrollably until tears rolled down my eyes.

Doug smiled wanly. “I’m just tired,” I said. “Anyway it kind of goes with the décor of the room,” I continued, pointing to the one poster on the wall, an open refrigerator stuffed with beer, with the caption underneath: Who needs food?

______________________________________________

[And Have A VERY Pleasant Journey, 25 August 2008, Monday]

It’s 2300 or as you locals call it 10:10 PM and I’m sitting outside on a completely unused sun deck surrounding the MWR here at Camp Phoenix. It is so pleasant outside that I want to work out here on my laptop while the battery holds. There’s some lively Afghani music playing somewhere in the distance. It’s kind of like fun Indian music. There are violin, accordion and oboe riffs, with a man’s voice delving in periodically. Why the developing world loves the echo effect in singers, created in the late 1950s in America, is beyond me.

I remember hearing this same type of music in the distance last time I was here at camp Phoenix 2 years ago. At the time I thought it was like a wedding party. I’ll have to find out where it’s coming from. Could it be a disco? Can you imagine young Afghani women getting down in their burqas? I bet you could do some fun moves in them – the whirling bluebell, the pulsating jellyfish, the exploding blueberry.

It is quite pleasant tonight. Really long-sleeve button-down weather. Must be 74°.

I did complain about the oven heat in Kuwait being excessive. But in Kabul, where the temperature hits the low 90s sometimes, the people on these bases crank up the A/C. I pretty much hate aircon and would only resort to it if I were in an overheated, airless, relentlessly baking place … somewhere like Kuwait. So it’s nicer to sit outside and listen to crazy East Asian music and crickets under the surrounding B-huts, with the occasional soldier, usually in “PTs” – ie shorts and t-shirt – passing by.

I was in the MWR earlier today and my muscles ached when I left because I was so cold. My sleeping bag is supposed to be good down to 20°F. I wear a T, sweats and a hoodie. I put up my hood, stuff my auricular cavities with earplugs and pop my plastic non-nightgrinding-teeth retainer in my mouth and I’m good to go.

Last night I had a weird dream, the first I’ve remembered in a long time. I was living in some 5-story brick building and there bombings going on. One day afternoon I look out my front window and see the building across the street has been reduced to rubble. Shortly afterwards 3 busloads of kids pull up in front of the building. I run outside and pull them quickly off the bus, one- by one, and push them towards the building to make them go quicker inside. … That’s all I remember.

Doug had a dream about as exciting as mine. He was in a battleship chasing the Bismarck when he’s suddenly fired upon by a Japanese gunboat. “What the WWII Japanese have to do with the chase of the WWI Bismarck I have no idea,” Doug said, shrugging.

Since I was up till 1:30 AM last night I got up relatively late today. 8:20.

Heaven forbid should I miss free chow, which at some DFACs ends at 8:30. At Camp Black Horse, which is pretty much a bastion of comfort, the morning meal ends at 9AM I found out. Afterward I checked in the public affairs office to see if anything was going on. There wasn’t and they were busy. I checked my emails, which are fast and efficient at Black Horse.

Jennifer, the underling at the Public Affairs office at Phoenix sent me some info on herself and her fiancé – I want to send a story to the Rochester home paper about them to see if it will get published – and then added they (i.e. Major Oliver and Colonel Fanning) were talking about me and they really want me to come back to do some pix on the Women’s Equality in the military get-together tonight, which I expressed interest in. I went back to the office and asked if I could get on the daily mail pick-up convoy this afternoon that Doug was already scheduled to go on and they said yes.

So type type type at the MWR, eat quick quick at the DFAC, pack quick quick and by 1AM I was in the Humvee yard for the briefing. The usual fare: if one vehicle is disabled the one behind will push it to a safe place. If the last vehicle is hit, the one ahead of it will turn around and move it to safety. If the gunner deems it necessary to shoot, check with the leader in the Humvee first. If someone is injured take them to the nearest hospital. If attacked get away if possible. But the newbie info was that there have recently been suicide bombers wearing vests loaded with explosives who throw themselves on vehicle hoods and detonate themselves. Recently a few of these jokers have infiltrated a nearby village.

Come on guys, get a life. Can’t you just find your way to Eastern Europe and work your way into Western Europe by washing dishes and quickly move up the economic scale while being despised by most natives, like everyone else?

Once on the road I was a little concerned that there were no cars in front of us for a couple of km. Doesn’t that mean something? But then we saw the usual broken down trucks, dusty one-speed bikes and beat-up taxis and I knew everything was normal.

Jennifer from the public affairs office took me to get my B-hut. No bedding this time and the hut they gave me is really a pit. Moldy smell, bad mattresses and full up. Nothing like the digs Doug and I received when we first arrived. Oh well, as I said in the first installment of this blog: Say la “V”.

Doug is getting antsy. He’s got to get some footage for CNN and Fox News and so far he’s getting nothing. He wants some gore, some Taliban guts, bullets, machine gun fire, screaming jihadists, but so far has done a 5 km mail run back and forth from Black Horse to Phoenix.

I for myself am getting a lot of great stories, but I’m just wondering who will publish them. We’ll see.

Tonight the only female Afghan General was in attendance at the Women’s Equality thing I shot. Her son translated for her. The mic wasn’t well calibrated so she was shouting and he was unintelligible, but it didn’t matter. Everybody was brimming to have her there.

Yes it was feminist. Yes it was mainly attended by women. But it was very grass roots and reminded me of New York and Nebraska, how some people are very adamant about their cause and put it on, be it dancing, singing, reading or opening an art show, not so much to get hundreds of people to attend, but because it’s something they feel they must to do to validate themselves, their work and their beliefs.

I loved it.

The General was wonderful. A woman about 50 years old, very approachable, obviously strong yet still feminine. I asked her if she spoke some English. “A little,” she said. I admitted I was pathetic because I had no Dari or Pashto under my belt. I know Teshekur for thank-you, but sometimes want to say, chokrun, which is thank you in Arabic. And I have this compulsion to count to 3 in Turkish: beer, icki, ooch. “No prob,” she said.

The General, was taking my arm and motioning for me to take pictures of her with her son and by herself. I gladly obliged. Everybody wanted their picture with the general. Me included.

One of the women speakers was really animated and really good. She was a beautiful woman. Red hair, thin and tall. I couldn’t stop thinking of Amanda on Sex and the City. I told her as much after the speech and out of all the women surrounding her, none of them knew the show. Now that’s strange.

I don’t know. If things were different I might have a thing for red headed women. But as it is, already a week in Afghanistan, and hormones aching, I can’t stop gawking at anybody wearing Australian, British, New Zealander or German fatigues. They’re usually hot. Say la “V” my friend, say la “V”. I guess I’ll go to the DFAC, it’s open all night. If you can’t have sex then eat like a pig.

______________________________________________

[Water Polo, BiG Bullets, & Summiting the Teri Gar, 30 August 2008, Friday, Camp Black Horse near Kabul]

I’m sitting in the MWR (computer room), tired as all hell, next to this English soldier bloke who talks to his annoying wife EVERY night. I’ve only been on this camp like 4 days and already this guy who I don’t know from a bowling ball is driving me nutso. He’s been saying good-bye to his “darling” for half an hour. This is the longest swan song since the Titanic went down.

It’s been a crazy busy week.

On Wednesday I covered the Afghan National Water Polo team (sic). Yes, the Afghan National Water Polo team. Basically the only water polo team in the country, in one of the only pools in the country.

…Omg, he’s waving at the screen. Like 5 times he’s waved at the screen and said, “Good-bye darling, I’m going.” Go already! (Has he no shame? I can’t imagine talking to my darling like that in front of strangers)

Anyhoo, some American contractor heard from Camp Phoenix – the main base in Kabul – that Doug and I were around, and he inquired as to whether one of us could cover this story. I didn’t understand what it was all about until Tuesday evening when I was working on the computer, and this guy came in and asked if I was Ken.

Jeremy Piasecki, the American guy, turned out to be a totally regular dude just working in the Stan doing some type of administration work. He told me he was working in the base that encircles Camp Black Horse, an ANA (Afghan National Army) compound, and one day this past March discovered this huge pool filled with debris and snow. He inquired as to what the deal was with this pool and discovered it was used as a basin to water plants.

Jeremy thought about it and wondered if the folks who oversee the pool might considered cleaning it up and utilizing it for recreational use. They agreed when Jeremy came up with an idea, using the soldiers on the ANA base, of which there are over 2000 to choose from, begin Afghanistan’s first water polo team.

“None of them really knew how to swim,” Jeremy explained of his initial crew. “On the first day of practice when everybody jumped in I had to save one.” The pool is nine feet deep and since there is no heater or filter, the water non-clorinated is frigid when first filled by a hose, but by the time it’s warm it’s murky and dirty. Jeremy, a coach back home when he’s not doing managerial work, is an optimist and so are most of his team members.

“Some gave up,” Jeremy admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “What can you do? But the ones who stayed, even though they couldn’t really swim, were adamant to be on the polo team.” In just 10 weeks Jeremy had organized an authentic water polo team, which I got the chance to view on Wednesday, 28 August.

Half of them are “commandos,” the Afghan version of the SF (Special Forces, those big rugged bearded phantoms you see in the DFAC (dining hall) always sitting together who never talk to anybody except themselves and who live in the ANA compound like Jeremy. (In fact Jeremy lives with SF.) The SF are the ones who really go in and fight the Taliban, like the Taliban fight, in clandestine operations with their ANA counterparts, the commandos, who they are training.

So anyhoo, the Afghan national water polo team is comprised of half commandos and half regular ANA soldiers. The day I came was the culmination of Jeremy’s hard work. The director of the Afghan national Olympic committee was present, as well as a general, a reporter, a cameraman, and some high-ranking official. Each member received a certificate of excellent performance as they lined up in a row in their olive and black camouflage uniforms.

They were all so proud that for a few minutes the fact that people are having their legs blown off and others become “pink mist” only a few dozen miles away seemed to float away into one of the clouds of dust sweeping over the bone dry plains below.

Personally, I can’t think of a better photo shoot than men’s water polo. I was very, very content.

One thing about Afghanistan is that they have no men’s swimwear to speak of. (And I won’t even go into women’s swimwear.) Most of the guys wore ill-fitting black spandex biking shorts. They were reminiscent of the early 1900s when swimming began to take off as a popular past-time at beaches and, in an era of voluminous clothing, people has to find the right balance between practicality and morality. Fast-forward a century later and you find Afghanistan in the same predicament.

Jeremy purchased goggles and polo caps for them.

After the ceremony was over, they got into shorts and T-shirts and stretched in a circle. Then they changed into their swimsuits. Jeremy had them start with laps in 3 different groups. Then he had them do the backstroke. They don’t really know how to put their heads underwater and do the breathing part. None of them wore goggles.

I only learned how to swim last year and it was only this year, with the help of a Danish friend, Mads-Emil, that I learned how to be able to lap swim without stopping. So I could empathize with these young bucks as they pounded their arms and legs through the water.

It was around 85° so the water seemed refreshing on my feet. I was continually disrobing as I took pictures. First I took off my socks and tennis shoes, then I rolled up my pants, then I put on my swim trunks (Bermuda-style) then I took off my shirt.

During a break I jumped in the pool. DAMN! It was cold! Since I haven’t swam in a few months and since this pool is deep the entire length, and since this is Afghanistan and there is no safety net in case you get in trouble I was a little nervous. Also I haven’t had a chance to work out in weeks, so my body is stiff. But to be in a pretty clean swimming pool in dusty, dry, hot Afghanistan on a sunny day in August was like popping open an ice-cold Gatorade after a 10K run.

I swam a few laps then got out of the pool to warm up. When Jeremy had the team members group up for lap races I asked if I could compete. He said by all means.

He blew the whistle and I was off. I was so Michael Phelps it isn’t even funny. When I touched the wall I searched for the lit-up Olympic board to see if I won, but there was none to be found. “You came in second,” Jeremy said, as I exited the pool panting desperately. Out of 8 guys half my age I guess that ain’t too bad, but like I said they take a breath every stroke so that slows them down.

I really liked the guys on Jeremy’s team. I always gravitate towards certain guys and this was no different. When I left I felt sad that I may not see these guys again, or that if I come back to Afghanistan in a year or two they may be dead or maimed. But for one day, everything was normal and fun.

That evening Polaris, one of the photo agencies I work with, unexpectedly said they were interested in seeing some of my pictures of the only Afghan female general and the only water polo team in Afghanistan. I was up till 1 AM inputting tags and data on 12 resized images.

[Big Guns, Big Bullets]

The next morning I got up at 5 AM to go to the shooting range with a group from Black Horse. We went in three Humvees over sandy dusty terrain that is within the vast ANA compound.

Now I thought my relative Bobby Cemper had some loud guns. That ain’t nothing compared to the blast the turret of a Humvee makes when it shoots off a round of 20 50-caliber bullets. Damn. You’d go deaf if you weren’t wearing earplugs.

As soon as the Humvees rolled in position, some rag tag men and young boys came scrambling towards the firing range. The soldiers were yelling “peysh buru!” (go away). But, like untamed beagles, they just hovered nearby. They wanted to collect the brass casings, which they sell. These are melted down to make jewelry cases or new casings for amo.

Only when the ANA arrived did the group drift off to a nearby village. The ANA supposedly supervise the actions of the Americans and other nationalities on the firing range, but what they’re actually interested in is the brass. I felt bad when the soldiers handed them 4 canisters of spent shells. Those little ragtag kids could’ve really used the money generated from those brass casings.

In the evening there was the first weekly Karaoke night in the chow hall. I had to sort out pictures so I had no time to go, but I did catch the last song. I popped open a Heineken from one of the coolers and acted like it was alcoholic, then listened to a pretty good version of Donna Summers’ hit, “Last Dance.”

I got to bed at around 11:30 PM, but I had to be at the outdoor “Cigar Lounge” at 5AM to report for a climb to the tallest mountain in the area, the Aman Gar.

[Climbing up the Teri Gar]

In Pashto “gar” means mountain, but since I can’t remember the actual name of the mountain, I call it the Teri Gar. So, totally sleep deprived, helmet in hand (we have to wear them always in Humvees, but flak jackets were not required since the mountain lies within a protected area of the ANA safe haven.

An attractive blond girl who was in my Humvee named Chelsea was carrying a cup of hot coffee. I asked where she got it. “The DFAC,” she said. “It’s not very good but I’m desperate.”

“Well at least it’s caffeine,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s right. Since we’re unable to drink here, my caffeine intake has quadrupled,” she said, taking a big sip of her java. I watched this tiny girl unlocking the huge iron door of the Humvee.

“You know her?” I asked.

“Oh yeah. That’s Captain Morgan,” Chelsea said. “She’s small but she lives up to her name.” It took me a while to get it, but once I did, I laughed thinking of the pirate on the rum bottle being replaced by this little ball of fire.

There were a lot of people climbing, which happens every other Friday. (Friday is Afghanistan’s Sunday – the day when people don’t work and par-tay). 6 Humvees drove to the gar, which is near the shooting range I went to yesterday. When we arrived 5 other vehicles were already parked there.

A group of about 20 people were ahead of us. The military people I was with didn’t seem in too much of a hurry so I started walking up the trail photographing the people behind me, then I put my camera in my bag and began to haul ass. I passed a group of Frenchmen in front of me, then some Aussies, but by the time I reached this very hot chick with black hair tied up in a ponytail with an olive scarf I was gasping for dear life.

I haven’t slept more than 5 hours a night for the past week, haven’t worked out, am at nearly 3 km altitude and am not 32 anymore, plus the air is hell-u-dusty. I pulled off my T-shirt, stopped a few seconds to catch my breath somewhat then followed at the heels of the Romanian chick (I found out later her nationality).

When she got to this one part, called the Knife’s Edge, a narrow slanted jagged path on the top of the gar that is a straight fall on one side and a slanted fall at the other, I said to myself this is no fun. My legs were shaky – I had climbed the 500 meters in 22 minutes – and I had my camera bag hanging on my side. “I don’t need to prove anything to myself,” I said, as the Aussies I had passed, passed me. “You were running pretty fast up the mountain,” they said as they began to prance over the Knife’s edge.

My throat sore from panting for dear life, I downed a bottle of water from my bag, while sitting on a ledge opposite the Knife’s Edge. When I caught my breath five minutes later, while watching more people summit the gar, I joined a group nearby.

“So did you cross the Knife’s Edge?” one guy asked.

“Nah, it looks sketchy to me.”

“Well, you should,” he said, shaking his head, looking down. “It’s not really worth coming all the way up here if you’re not going to go all the way and cross thee Knife’s Edge. I climbed it on my belly in order to say I summated the gar.”

Shee-it.

I pulled my camera out of my bag and left it on a ledge near where the guy was sitting then proceeded to follow a very tall guy who was also in my Humvee. He was an officer with the marines and I trusted his climbing abilities as he began to cross over the Knife’s Edge. There were two hellish steps that one wrong move on the narrow rock would mean you’d go sailing many stories below, but once you crossed that there were flat points in the rock where you could place your feet.

When I joined the happy group of nations on the summit I was experiencing a major adrenalin rush. You always get those when you do something you were afraid to do but did anyway. I took a multitude of pictures of all the nationalities there – Poles, Danes, French, Romanians, Canadians and Aussies.

One guy told me his brother is a geologist and says that this mountain is actually an ancient magma dome of a giant volcano. I believe it because surrounding the gar is flat terrain until the Hindu Kush mountain range in the distance, which leads to Mount Everest and K2. The terrain actually reminds me a lot of Tucson, Arizona when I climbed one of the tallest mountains at Sabino Canyon. The rock on the gar is very dense and hard. It feels ancient and magma-y.

Going down I tried to follow one of the main trails but my inclination is to go straight down like I do in Switzerland or South Africa but here I’m afraid I might step on some long forgotten landmine so I overcome my innate sense of going down in a direct straight line.

I felt energized the whole day. I washed clothes. Hit the gym for an hour. Sorted all my pictures. But I hear people around camp sneezing and blowing their nose and either I’m a hypochondriac or I’ve caught something as well.

Doug and I are going tomorrow to Sorubi, by a big water basin, about 50 miles east of Kabul. It is where those French soldiers were ambushed by the Taliban and 9 of them were killed and 21 injured. I’ve never been there so it should be interesting. It is near a huge lake called Panjsher. So I’ll be offline for the next 3 days. Hope I get some good pictures and I hope I’m not too sore tomorrow after climbing the Teri Gar.

______________________________________________

[A Different Type of Invader, 31 August 2008, Sunday, 8:45 PM, Sorubi FOB]

I'm writing this installment in darkness on the unlit porch of a former Soviet office building. The building, constructed in the 1960s, had a café and a functioning bathroom and the office supported the biggest dam in Afghanistan. The 100-megawatt Naghlu Dam, built also by the Soviets, still supplies electricity to over 3,000,000 people and most of the power to Kabul, which is 50 miles to the east. The Kabul River that feeds it at this time of year is more a shallow stream threading through rocky terrain than a true river.

Six marines are milling about on the porch, the only place to hang on this pea-sized FOB (Forward Operating Base) called Sarobi. (I keep wanting to call this place “Naboo,” which is the planet where Jar Jar Binks and Senator Palpatine in Star Wars come from.) While two marines have already retired for the night, the others are discussing things that marines are noted for talking about: boogers, farts, crapping, drinking and women.

The Major here, Daniel Geisenhof, has the bulk of good stories. Geisenhof -- who I like to call Hasselhof, after the former acting star David Hasselhof, a name I can remember -- is about my age and looks like Buzz Lightyear. Built like a bull with a square jaw and prominent chin, he’s the poster child of the marines.

A typical Geisenhof story involved booze and babes. One yarn involved a friend who, at a classy joint called The Cork and Bottle in upstate New York, put a moth in his mouth, approached a woman, then opened his lips wide. The moth flew out and the woman, horrified but not really impressed, turned on her plastic stiletto and left. The men roared with laughter. His friend then repeated his comedy act. This time though he accidentally bit down on the moth. His mouth immediately filled with grotesqueness. Unable to get the gunk out of his mouth he began to heave as Geisenhof reddened with laughter. The night wasn’t over. After the copious drinking, Geisenhof had to drive 45 miles to his home in Waverly. To wake himself up he tucked a big wad of chewing tobacco inside his lower lip. It was a brand that he didn’t use. It turned out to be four times the regular strength. So his trip home involved tar-colored puke.

Another story involved a friend of his who picked up some woman and took her home. While they were eating Arbie’s take out, the woman asked the man if he liked movies. The guy said, Sure. The woman pulled out of her purse a little number called “Anal Invaders, vol. 9”. I’ll just say that the woman was the star of the ‘movie,’ that there were some scenes that when the man watched the video made him physically gag. Another friend ended up taking the woman to his place. A true story of love.

Another guy, also around our age, by the name of Messenger, laughed about the time an ANA soldier who had a large caliber cartridge in a backpack was talking when he dropped something. He bent over to pick it up and the cartridge , the size of a small grenade, slid out of the backpack, over his back, and landed on the concrete floor on its nose. “If that had hit a millimeter differently it would’ve detonated and nobody in that room would’ve made it out alive,” Messenger said, shaking his head with a bemused grin etched on his sunburnt face.

I’m having a great time, writing in my laptop, listening and occasionally interjecting.

Doug has gone to bed, or rather to cot. We’re sleeping in a 10-man, olive-colored tent put up next to the Russian building. Electricity is in only part of the former Soviet building, which doesn’t include our part. For lights to work in the tent you need to power up a generator. It’s loud and left on long enough for us to sort out our things for the night. Doug likes to hit the hay after the sun’s rays have disappeared from the sky that turns silvery gray with dust before sunset.

Last night, for the first time in over a week, I slept well. The cot was as comfortable as a military bed, and the fact that six other guys were sleeping around us on cots with pistols under their pillows, made it seem like a camping trip; Yogi Bear meets killer Ninjas.

Since I slept a good 9 hours last night, instead of the usual 5, I have some reserve energy tonight that allows me to push past sunset and hang out with these marines.

We are still within the bounds of Kabul Province. We’re only a few clicks (military lingo for kilometers) near the volatile Eastern provinces of Kapisa and Laghman. Just over the mountain ridge, 10 km away, lies the village of Sper Kunday in the Uzbin Valley, where on August 19, 10 French troops and an Afghan interpreter were killed in an ambush spearheaded by Taliban militants and forces loyal to local warlord Gulbuddin Hekmatyar. More than 20 soldiers out of a platoon of 100 were wounded and there ensued a pitched battle that lasted over six hours.

Doug wanted to come here to do a story on the ETT (Embedded Training Team) here that is helping the ANA (Afghan National Army) learn to fight the ACM (Anti-Coalition Militia, an umbrella term covering the Taliban, Al Qaeda, Hezbollah and HUM (Harakat Ul-Mujahideen) to name a few). Since the army forces are stretched so thin, the marines have been called in.

I’ve never hung out with marines, but I gotta say, if I were more brawny I’d say we were separated at birth. They like to talk about the same things I do, they’re the types that would blow their noses in their socks, they can be reckless (like taking Doug and I in a single vehicle out into the wilderness as night approaches) and they can sniff a faker a click away and abhor pomposity.

Doug and I arrived here in a convoy of six Hummers, two 5-ton trucks and several pick-up loads of ANA soldiers. One guy looked like an Afghan version of Rambo, with his thick black beard and a bandolier made of .50 caliber cartridges wrapped over his shoulders and around his waist. I loved him. He loved posing for me and wasn’t a dumb ass like some people around here. He didn’t speak English, but when I told him to look away he understood and cut a mean pose. When his cohort kept on looking at the camera Rambo told him to not look at the camera like a dumb ass.

Some ANA soldiers were holding loaded RPG launchers. Since the ANA forces can be a little iffy in their training, I tried to avoid anybody with a bazooka aimed haphazardly at me.

The road to Sorubi surprised me. It was in good, if not almost perfect, condition. A gazillion times better than the road between Newark, New Jersey and Penn Station in Manhattan, a potholed, jarring, road of hell under constant construction. I had heard that the “Ring Road,” the one that goes around Afghanistan mid-part, had been pockmarked by craters made by IEDs (Improvised Explosive Device) but this wasn’t the case on our journey.

Yet I couldn’t help but think of IEDs as we made our trip. I wondered if it would be possible the first vehicle or two might miss an IED and then the third or fourth vehicle nail it. And if we did hit an IED, would it be on my side (behind the front passenger seat). Or would the whole Humvee go up in flames. On one hand I heard that IEDs can’t be placed on paved roads, at least not easily. On the other hand I heard that insurgents will stack 3 anti-tank mines on top of each other and place them inside culverts, then when a vehicle goes over them they blow them via remote control. Charming.

We climbed through a high, narrow and winding mountain pass, which is one of the most scenic things I’ve ever seen. From Kabul, which has an elevation of 5900 feet (~1800m) we entered solid rocky mountains, pushing up until we began to descend to 3000 feet (~940m) into an area where the earth is all mounds, hills and mountains of crumbly gravel, rocks and boulders intermingled with dirt. I’d love to know how it was formed geologically.

I was so glad to arrive at this odd oasis in the middle of the desert.

I flew over it two years ago when Doug and I were in a Chinook on our way from Bagram to Jalalabad. I saw the usual mountains and parched land below me then over a mountain ridge appeared this blinding turquoise vast body of water. I wondered how the hell it got there, then I saw the dam, then I wondered how the dam got there. Now I was finding the answers.

I couldn’t wait to get out of our armored Hummer. They’re tortuously hot when you’re wearing a flack jacket, a steamy non-breathing helmet and have camera bags and a backpack on and between your knees when there is only a modicum of legroom to begin with. You’re lucky if the a/c works in a Hummer. It rarely blows in the back, so the only air you get is the hot, dusty blast from the open turret, where the gunner’s sweaty butt is only inches from your face. Oh the glamour of it all.

Before getting to FOB Sorubi, our convoy stopped at a base that is being constructed overlooking the man-made lake. Right now there are only the Hescos (4-foot square bags filled with dirt and rocks and held together with wire grills) along the periphery and some grating of the land has been done on the talcum-like soil. But this base is a historically important because it’s the first one constructed by Afghans (albeit with U.S. supervision) and not by Americans.

The thing is, lord only knows how long it will take because there is a lot of corruption here. I understand it. It’s a survival tactic, learned over centuries of living on nothing. Africa is the same way. This corruption is difficult for Americans to grasp, and maybe we can weed some of it out and teach the people the beauty of meritocracy and hard, honest work, but it’ll take a while. I see the hunger in the eyes of the young to achieve great things by their own resources, but first they have to pass through crooked old men who are used to living off the fat of others. It’s hard to stick to your guns when you have to pass through such a warped obstacle course.

After the FOB under construction Doug and I somehow got split up.

I ended up by the river below dam in an area populated by tall pine trees and sandy lots. You could imagine this was a campground or national park if it weren’t for guys out there who wear black turbans and like to lob mortars at you. This is a recently installed mini-FOB with only 6 to 8 U.S. soldiers at any one time, along with their terps and about 30 ANA soldiers. It has no name as of yet. A month ago they were attacked with RPGs (rocket-propelled grenades) from a ridge across the river. Luckily they had just installed hescos around their one big main tent and a few smaller ones behind it.

I spent 3 hours at mini-FOB handing out, taking pictures, talking to the terps, and eventually having a rock throwing match with two Afghanis to see who could throw their stone the farthest. They both made it across the river with distant clinking rock sounds, while my stones made miserable splashes in the middle of the river.

After much confusion, I was driven a shortways uphill to the ex-Soviet office FOB in a Humvee. Doug also didn’t know how we got split off. The official version was that the army and marines are never good at coordinating things because of their different modes of operation.

I’m just happy I’m here.

It’s warm tonight, around 76°F, with a slight breeze kicking up every once in a while. The only sounds to be heard are crickets, terps (young interpreters) joking around in the dusty parking lot, a few adopted puppies occasionally barking, faint odd screams somewhere far away in the blackness, and sometimes, when it’s very still, the wide and shallow ribbon of water that runs through the rocky riverbed below us.

I was just asking the guys on the porch if they’d ever seen a camel spider -- those large hideous, waxy white creatures with menacing brown fangs – when Major Geisenhof yelled “Bui, get in here there’s a spider I need you to kill.”

Bui is an ethnic Vietnamese guy who isn’t old enough to legally drink. He’s good-natured and whatever he’s told to do he does with a smile and a “Yes sir!”

Bui leaves the porch and enters the two always open doors inside the main floor of the building where Major Geisenhof and another marine have their cots near a decrepit refrigerator.

I begin to hear, “Oooo gross.” And, “Wow, that’s nasty.” I grab my point and shoot and my flashlight and go inside. In front of the fridge is a crushed baby camel spider. Its guts are huge and lying next to its crushed body. Its fangs stick up through the gore and are frightful.

Geisenhof shrugs his shoulders as Bui scrapes it up and deposits in a garbage bag on the door handle, then goes back to bed.

Back outside on the porch, 1st Lt David Copensky, a tall, handsome guy who’s 24, sits on a round cooler filled with ice and Gatorade and says that camel spiders are afraid of light. “They say they chase you but that’s not true. They’re just trying to stay in your shadow,” he says, turning off the lamp attached to a band on his head. I try hard to erase the thought of that creature running after me as I flee like a little girl if I ever encountered a live one.

OK, I will end this for tonight and continue tomorrow, as I must get up early for a patrol. I will explain all the pix below in the next missive. xxx

______________________________________________

[Checking out the Czech House, 3 September 2008, Tuesday, KAIA]

====PICTURES OF THE BEST NIGHT IN AFGHANISTAN ... EVAH!====

It's 10:45 AM and Doug and I are at KAIA (Kabul Afghanistan International Airport). We arrived here yesterday from Camp Phoenix at 4PM and stayed overnight. There is a NATO base here and, although small, lemme tell you it's fanTABulous!

First of all it's populated by soldiers from Norway, Iceland, Denmark, Germany, France, Portugal, Croatia, Serbia, Macedonia, Romania, Turkey, Bulgaria, Great Britain, Hungary, Sweden, Poland, Lithuania, Canada, Italy, Spain, India, the Netherlands, Mongolia and a few more. I forgot how good-looking Europeans are. I love the tall, bearded, naturally fit look. The women here are gorgeous and Doug is actually showing signs of life. :)

Yesterday Doug and I went out on a small mission to see some police stations around the Kabul area with some soldiers from New York. Compared to the ANA (Afghan National Army), the ANP (Afghan National Police) are in pretty sad shape. They inhabit office buildings and have sleeping facilities that smell like chicken coops, they sit and sleep on beat-up furniture and beds, and their food isn't something you probably wouldn't consider edible for humans.

The first base we went to was on top of one of the seven hills that make up Kabul. There is a graveyard along one side of it. I asked the terp (interpreter), Nasar, a 24-year old from the city, if people must pay for plots. He said no, that they are free. Some put up tombstones if they have money, others just lay a pile of rocks over the grave. The cemetery is a mish mash of white marble tombstones, rocks, flags (which are a tradition here, usually green), and dust, with metal fences around the most expensive graves. There are no trees, benches or bushes.

At another police station I noticed the 5 Olympic ring motif in the gate surrounding the station. I wondered if at one time an Olympic committee was here. Then one of the U.S. soldiers mentioned that this was the Olympic stadium where the Taliban used to hold executions. This is the place featured in "The Kite Runner." Nasar, the terp, related that one time he came to the stadium with friends to see a soccer match but instead was witness to the Taliban holding executions. He saw a woman, covered in a burka, being shot in the head by the Taliban. She was accused of killer her husband. "I couldn't eat for three days after that," Nasar said, wrinkling his lips in disgust.

I took some pictures of the stadium then hurried to one of the 3 Humvees which were all headed back to Camp Phoenix. The 3 terps were dropped off at the gate then the Humvees went to refuel.

Nasar said very few people know that he's a terp. Usually he takes a bus to the base. It takes about an hour and costs $1. Other times he takes a taxi, which costs $4. Either way, he always gets off 100 meters from the base and walks to the gate, for safety reasons.

Nasar is a Tajik. "We're democratic," he explained. "At weddings we don't separate the men and the women like the Pashtuns do." It turns out to be a good way for young people to meet potential partners. The Tajiks, according to Nasar, accept everyone. At one of their gatherings you'll see Uzbeks, Dari/Farsi-speaking people, Pashtuns and Hazaras. He says that Pashtuns are very insular and that even when you have one as a friend, they'll usually drop you after 6 months. Interesting perspective.

Most terps for the U.S. military are Tajiks. Their motivation, other than money which is around $700-800 a month here (a small fortune), is that after a year or 2 they can receive papers to emigrate to the U.S. Nasar wants to come to the U.S. He has a girlfriend and would love to bring her to either New York, California or Wisconsin (someone told him it's nice; I told him to reconsider). Nasar is also a singer, basically at weddings. I told him if he went to NYC he could make money singing in coffee shops and bars. That'd be great if it really happens.

In the span of a few hours Doug got two stories from the NY soldiers on film and I interviewed one NY medic who was in 9/11. His story gave me goosebumps and when his voice faltered, I had to bite my lip to keep from crying.

Doug wasn't happy when we got to KAIA. He wanted to get to Kandajar by tonight so he could start doing his story early the next day, but there were hiccups in the plan. The intended flight he wanted to take this evening was full, and even if we did get on the flight, it didn't arrive until late and the media people wouldn't be able to meet us until early afternoon, and finally since our ISAF (International Security Assistance Force) badges say "Escort Required," the NATO hag at the gate wasn't going to let us on the plane without an escort, which is retarded because we always travel on military flights alone.

Yet, the guy who came to help us, David Bororwicz, said there was a later plane that was leaving and that we probably could get on that flight, arriving in Kandajar at midnight. We'd have to sleep in the airport. Since Doug is on a tight timeline I didn't want to be too vociferous in what I wanted to do, but I craved to stay, since we had a room, good food and lots of Europeans everywhere.

When David mentioned that there was a Czech pub on base, my ears shot up. "You mean anybody can go there?" I asked, with basset hound eyes.

"Sure," he said, smiling innocently.

"Well Doug, I think we really should stay," I said, trying not to sound too desperate. "There's no point in not getting any sleep and being all tired tomorrow."

I stared at Doug while he decided what we should do. A nervous drop of sweat rolled down the side of my face.

"Yeah," he said slowly. "I guess you're right. It makes more sense to stay."

I refrained from doing high kicks of joy in the DFAC (cafeteria), which by the way was very Euro. Big white plates and metal silverware instead of paper trays and plastic packets of white knives, forks and spoons. They served dishes like steamed endive and dumplings. And, quite shockingly, there was only one dessert: a slightly sweet pudding. At the U.S. military chow halls half the food is sugar: cakes, cookies, ice cream, jello, all types of desserts - it's sick. My teeth are rotting out of my head because of my lack of self-control. I, however, intend to reign in my sugar intake this week.

I even got an hour in the gym last night. I was the proverbial kid in a candy store, longing for some just one piece of forbidden European bonbons.

I accompanied Doug to the computer room to see what it was like. He planned to do some work there. It's in the termianl known as "Airforce 1" which in the days of yore I heard was a place that dealt with cargo. We noticed groups of soldiers sitting at picnic tables outside the building underneath a tin roof. They were all drinking beers.

"I wonder if that's real beer or if they're non-alcoholic buzzkills like at the army bases," I said.

"Well they are in bottles," Doug said with large eyes.

We checked the computer room. It was empty. "Sure looks like fun," I said, looking around while listening to partying soldiers laughing outside.

Downstairs, at the bar, I asked how much the beers were. "Which one," the Indian barman asked. I eyed a row of Beck's in the cooler behind him and pointed to them. "1 Euro," he said. My mouth dropped.

We started walking back to our room. "Gee, at only 1 Euro a beer, we sure could have a good time," I said to Doug, whose resolve was wavering. "It'll probably be the only time for the next two months that we'll be able to have a drink. Sure would be nice to get just even one."

"OK, OK! I'll go out, but I gotta take a shower first." Doug had come to his senses and realized that there was no alternative for his night. I also took a shower and by 8:30 we were out the door. When we returned to Airforce 1, most of the groups of soldiers at the picnic tables from an hour earlier had disappeared. Poop.

I bought the first round.

We made a ceremony of our first beers in over 3 weeks. "I'm not an alcoholic mind you," I sighed, after my first long quaff of beer, "but dear God, I do need a beer more than once a month." Doug nodded in agreement. In his case it's more like needing a beer more than once a day.

I downed my Becks, and looked around. "This place sucks," I said. "It's dead here, let's go find that Czech pub."

Down a dark, dusty road -- the wind whips up the dust every night here -- we heard music. We saw some soldiers standing outside drinking beer. I read the sign above them: "The Czech House." We had arrived.

I bellied up to the bar. "Two Stella Artois please." I tried to contain my excitement and bemusement of the surreality of ordering Belgian beers in a Czech pub in the middle of a Asian war zone.

"We Czech bar," the dark-haired bartender said in broken English. "We have Czech beer. You try?"

"Sure, OK. Give me 2 Czech beers then." The woman pushed two tall green cans of beer towards me. They cost 3€, a little pricier than our Becks, but still well within my pathetic price range. We took a table by 3 Czech soldiers. Music from the early 80s was blasting from a speaker. They were songs from when I lived in Frankfurt as an exchange student and from when I lived in Padova, Italy during my Junior Year Abroad in college. This made the surreality postively Twilight Zonish.

I was totally getting into the music, bouncing my head, lifting my shoulders. Doug was totally getting embarrassed. I tried to think of the names of the SNL actors in that movie, A Night at the Roxy, where these Jersey nerds try to act cool in clubs, but once I drink I pretty much lose all recall.

Doug was eyeing a couple of blonde babes. One had an Iceland patch on her shoulder, the other a patch from the Czech Republic. I was content just to gaze at all the European soldiers, mainly Belgians, French and Czechs.

"There's supposedly a 2-drink maximum at the bars on this based," Doug said, somewhat forlornly.

"Well in our case it's going to be 2-drink minimum. Have no worries." We didn't have a chance to find out the truth because by the time I had downed my second beer I had ended up pissing off a Czech guy who had the misfortune of sitting across from me when Doug said something coy just as I gulped a mouthful of beer.

I went outside and asked a group of Belgian soldiers in my broken French if they knew where the French Pub was that we had also heard about. The directions sounded complicated. "They don't allow women in there," the Belgian guy said in English. Doug made the cut sign by his neck, which meant screw that. "But there is a Canadian bar nearby," the Belgian soldier continued, "and it's really good. My friends are headed there now."

Doug and I followed les Belges and entered in a real dive. A roof decorated with international ISAF flags, old shoddy Christmas decorations over the bar, and music from Deaf Leopard, told me I had come back home. I was in Nebraska in Afghanistan.

We ordered our beers, sat at a small table and soaked in the hard rock, which was music to my ears. A friend of mine in college by the name of Barb once told me that she needed hardcore rock once in a while to clear her musical pallate, kind of like ginger after sushi. I never forgot those words as I totally agreed with her. Tonight I wanted the hardest gang-banger rock a cheap dive could offer.

I heard some dude yelling in the background. I clinked Doug's Stella Artois and repeated the guy's words. "You know people are drunk you hear someone say, "Who's Your Daddy."

Again we didn't have time to test the two drink minimum because as soon as we ordered our second beers from a non-English speaking Indonesian, the stocky Canadian guy at the other end of the bar yelled last call and screwed in a dim white lightbulb hanging by a silver Christmas ornament. It was 9:50.

Poop. I was just getting started.

Doug and I had been reminiscing about the day he came to Manhattan in early summer for an interview dressed in a tie and starched purple shirt. Since he was going back to Boston on the bus, I suggested we meet at a dive named Rudy's on 44th and 9th before he left.

A plastic pig in a red coat stands in guard in front of Rudy's. Before they ripped out dark crimson and black carpeting, my friend Sarah Gorman, a lover of dives, would tell me she was unable to go to Rudy's because the reeking smell of stale beer, cigarette smoke and old vomit was so vile that it made her nauseous.

The great thing about Rudy's other than the cheap beers, cracked duct-taped red half-circle booths, and the collection of dirt from around the world behind the bar, are the free wienies. Well, more like "free" because the bartenders there won't just give you a free hotdog in a bun; you have to order a cheap beer first.

The sunny afternoon that I met Doug at Rudy's was the first time I'd seen him in a year. We were in high spirits after we ordered our beers then we heard some loud voices speaking in slurred words followed by some barstools scraping the plywood floor. A fight broke out between two bums. Hard-core, down-on-their luck, bearded, half-toothless, alcoholic bums. As Doug and I tried to sip our beers the bums began to push each each other and throw punches right next to us. Doug didn't flinch. We were both smiling. One bum got ejected and the other stole his adversary's smokes off the bar before running off through the back door.

"You know, the Taliban doesn't even know what they're missing," I said to Doug, slamming down my beer on the weathered table. "They've never been to a dive bar, they've never been to Rudy's, they've never had free wieners."

"Yeah, fuck those dooshbags," Doug said, looking at me for a second then back at the solitary chick in the bar.

"I say we invade Afghanistan with white trash: booze, loose women, menthol cigarettes and Leonard Skynard. It'll work, I guarantee you," I continued. Doug let out one of his contagiouis laughs.

Everybody was leaving the bar so we followed behind them. I had an excellent buzz going and was ready to shift into 4th gear and get really trashed. "I totally don't want to go to bed now," I groaned.

Doug looked down at his watch. "Well, it is 10:30 you know."

"God, this is almost worse than Nebraska's early last call."

Before going back to our room, where two soldiers were also located, we checked out the Czech House to make sure everything was closed. It was.

Oh well. I begrudgingly went to bed. A thought wiggled into my head and a smile crept over my face before I fell asleep. If you could drink in Afghanistan, this war would be so much better.

______________________________________________

[Those Pesky Talibs Down South, 5 September 2008, Friday, Kandajar]

Sometimes I’m hopeful that Afghanistan will sort itself out, other times I’m not so sure. Right now I’m in the south of Afghanistan in Kandajar. Until now it seemed to me that with more manpower the war here could be turned around like it was in Iraq. But after hanging out with soldiers here the prognosis seems actually pretty gloomy.

Doug and I are staying with a group of soldiers here who are going home in a few weeks. They have handed off their posts to soldiers beginning their tours and have left their FOBs in the interior to return to Kandajar, the main base in the south, to begin the protracted process of returning home. Nobody here sounds sad to go or speaks fondly of the locals, which I find disheartening.

I was at this base two years ago, and although Doug hates it, I liked it quite a bit.

There’s an immense gym housed inside a voluminous tent here that is full of big muscley soldiers and civilians, so that’s always nice to see. The food is of a high caliber here due to the large number of foreign troops. I love how this base contains so many nationalities. Not as many as the Nato crowd at KAIA (Kabul Airport) but a lot. Right now for instance I’m sitting at the social center of camp called The Boardwalk. There are Portuguese, Canadians, Romanians, Czechs, Poles, Danes, Sub-saharan Africans, French, Macedonians, Malaysians, Philiippinos, Germans, Swiss, Dutch, Australians and a few others hanging out.

The boardwalk is an honest-to-goodness boardwalk with a wooden A-frame roof covering it. It forms a square with each side stretching the length of a city block long. Each length has 3 sets of wooden steps that lead down to the gravel-covered center. Two years ago there was nothing but dirt in the middle courtyard and I thought it would make a great garden. Instead they’ve installed a hockey court (this base is headed by the Canadians) and some volleyball courts.

There is a Canadian Coffee and pastry shop called Tim Horton’s here on the corner. It is the anchor of the Boardwalk. There is rock music spilling out from some dusty speakers as people hang out at white plastic tables outside the shop and at six wooden round tables below in the graveled center part near the hockey rink (you can here the ball plinging against the plywood lower base wall that surrounds the periphery which is topped off by a chainlink fence.)

When I arrived here at the Boardwalk at 8:30 tonight the joint was jumping. There was a line of 30+ soldiers waiting for Tim Horton’s delicacies. Soldiers were outside Pizza Hut and the shops along the Boardwalk, but the military runs on farmer’s hours and now at 9:45 the music as stopped, the shops have closed, most of the lights have been turned off and the majority of people have left. I’m a little surprised because there is only ONE electrical circuit here with enough room for two plugs and when I got here no one was using it. Maybe I’m sneaky. Maybe I’m smart. Maybe I’m lucky. Whichever it is, I love hanging out here.

But I have to get up at 4:00 AM so that Doug and I can sign in for a flight that is going back to Bagram where we will then make a later connection for the town of Khost in volatile Eastern Afghan, only six km from the Paki border. I’m tired just thinking about it, but tonight my writing muse is on.

Hearing discouraging stories about the success of the military here in southern Afghanistan has taken a bite out of my enthusiasm to be back at Kandajar Air Field, the second biggest base in Afghanistan. It’s quite a contrast from the no bars held madness of a few nights earlier when Doug and I were at the Czech House, czeching out the brewskis ☺

The flight here from KAIA yesterday was great I must say. We were on a Dutch plane with only 44 mostly military personnel on a regular passenger-like flight. Very civil and comfortable. I grabbed the Times, The Afghan Times that is, before I left the airport. For the weather it said that Kandajar would have a 40°C high and a 15°C low (compared to Kabul’s 30°C high and 20°C low.) 40° is over 105° and 15° is in the 60’s in Farenheit.

When we arrived we had to wait an hour to be picked up. The heat was relentless. Once we were picked up we were brought to an immense tent filled with 4 long rows of beds and over a hundred soldiers, their bags, and their body heat. It was a scene right out of WWI or the National Guard during a natural disaster. My bed is in the corner by a garbage can and a dirty yellow mop bucket. It doesn’t help that the wind has been blowing off “Shit Pond” in our direction. I had hoped the “pond,” an open cesspool the size of a small lake near the housing on camp, had been moved but it’s still there and smelling worse than ever. It’s something I don’t understand. I was kicked out of the gym today because I wore a sleeveless shirt which is against military regulations, yet they have a reeking pile of liquid poop and pee within a turd’s throw of soldiers’ living quarters.

Doug tried to get us on a day-long convoy outside the wire today, but there wasn’t any room, so all I did was take pictures of the guys leaving in the morning. (The last time we were here we took pictures of soldiers arriving from a Taliban clearing mission out in the field, so I’m sensing a pattern here. A pattern which says it’s hard to get out of the wire here.) In 20 minutes I had done my job. When Doug finished taping we went to breakfast, which was awesome since they had real müsli, heated milk, European yoghurt, and a cappuccino machine.

For the rest of the morning and a large part of the afternoon I sorted out pictures, input notes and typed up some rough drafts of stories, in a large game room that had football blaring on TV, and ping-pong tables around me. I put the table next to a large a/c air duct to keep my computer from overheating. When I went outside, I was pleased to see the sun was blotted out by an upper atmospheric dust storm. I took a shower, hit the gym then had dinner.

Sitting next to some soldiers I heard the discouraging stories of this region. The soldiers told me that they were on small FOBs (Forward Operating Bases) west of Kandajar. Panjar is 40 km west of the city, FOB Tombstone is 80 km west and Maywon is another 40 km farther west. All the FOBs are located near the “Ring Road,” the circular highway that connects most of Afghanistan. They were saying that children throw stones at their vehicles, give them the finger and yell when they go past. I haven’t seen that type of activity and since I love the kids here it was sad to hear. It is not the fault of the children, I said in their defense. They are for the most part illiterate – which is exactly what the Taliban wants – and everything their little heads absorb are from their parents and elders.

The number of Americans on the FOBs is small, rarely exceeding 12. The Americans are supposed to train the Afghan Police on how to do an effective job. Traditionally the ANP (Afghan National Police) have a bad reputation in Afghanistan. Cops here historically steal, extort, take bribes and are corrupt. Most U.S. military time, money and energy has been expended on the ANA (Afghan National Army). The ANA thinks the ANP are low-lives. The two, which should be doing joint missions together, to oil the machine of cooperation and unite the two in the fight against insurgents, actually hate each other.

But in normal civil society the people go to the police when they’re in trouble, not the army, and now the U.S. military is concentrating its energies on also getting the ANP up to snuff. Unfortunately these southern Provinces are bungfull of Talibs. It only gets worse as you go farther west from Kandahar Province into Helmand and Nimruz.

I was saying how I met villagers in the middle of nowhere in Sorubi (40 miles East of Kabul) but that they were still pretty clean. The women wore colorful dresses underneath their burkas. The guys had combed hair and usually clean hands and clothes.

“Not here,” one of the soldiers at the dinner table erupted as his cohort nodded. “Here the people are filthy. In fact you can tell the Taliban by how clean they are.” The soldier went on to say that he apprehended a man who had clean hands. He asked the man what he did and the man said he was a grape picker. The soldier asked where his grape cutting knife was. The guy said he left it in the filed. Then the soldier asked where the man was from and the man said Zargat. The soldier asked who the governor in Zargat was and again the guy stumbled. But even though you clearly have an insurgent on your hands you cannot arrest him because you have nothing to hold him on.

The police here are hired from outside the area since there is so much nepotism and corruption otherwise. But the police who only make about $80 to $100 a month are scared shitless because it is so dangerous out there. They refuse to do patrols unless the military is with them. The Taliban likes to test the cops by shooting at them.

According to one soldier, who goes by nickname Mustache, since May the number of IEDs on the roads has increased 10 fold. The Taliban pays $20 to $100 for spotters, people to watch troop movements and report them. “When we leave the base, the insurgents already know we’ve left, there are eyes everywhere.”

“We go into a village,” Mustache continued, “and ask the village elders for intell (intelligence) and the elders ask us, ‘Are you going to stay?’ and I have to tell them no, that we are only in the village for a few hours then will return to our base. They say, ‘Sorry, we can’t help you, because after you leave the Taliban will come to our village and ask us what we told you and we will have no protection.’” I never knew that village elders had to kowtow to the Taliban and have tea with them just like they do with the ISAF forces.

I asked the soldiers why they don’t go after the Taliban. “That isn’t our mission,” one said. Personally, I don’t see the sense of trying to train a police force when it’s the wild wild west out here. Doesn’t it make more sense to secure and stabilize the area first then concentrate on getting the police force up and running? Bottom line in my book is the number of troops has got to be increased, like what was done in Iraq and the area must be cleared of insurgents and then patrolled to make sure they don’t come back.

Mustache said that the U.S. military is here to legitimize the police force so that people trust them enough to start reporting Taliban movements and incursions. He said that there is this program in place where an entire police force in a village is sent away for 8 weeks of training and while their gone a well-trained temporary force called ANCOP takes their place.

But he admits the U.S. trainers are starting from scratch. Among the other problems the police experience, the police sometimes don’t get paid, they often don’t get food, especially at checkpoints, many uniforms are in disrepair and one of the biggest problem of is lack of gasoline for their vehicles. The police have little idea what to do so the U.S. military has to explain everything, from tactics to the right type of footwear (boots).

“In the FOBs we listen to the Taliban every night,” Mustache says, incredulously. With their sensitive radar devices the U.S. military can hear the insurgents on their radios since all the cell phone towers in the area are turned off at 5 or 6 PM. This started half a year ago after the Taliban blew up three cell phone towers using cell phones to activate the exploding mechanisms. The terps translate the words of the insurgents. Sometimes it’s propaganda. They’ll brag about killing soldiers in their tanks – they call all U.S. military vehicles “tanks.” But other times what they say is the truth. “They’ll talk about planting watermelons, their code word for IEDs, and sure enough we’ll have an IED go off in the location they say,” Mustache explains. Apparently a lot of independent contractors who do security for convoys that bring items to the FOBs are killed or maimed by the IEDs. The Ring Road is now cratered from landmines placed in culverts.

So it’s understandable why Mustache and the other soldiers who did their tours in southern Afghanistan are so jonesin’ to get back home. Mustache told me he had also served in Iraq in 2004. I asked him which was better, expecting him to say Afghanistan. He paused and thought about it. “I can’t say one was worse than the other, because they’re both different,” Mustache finally explained. “But in Iraq people wanted to take charge of situation. In Afghanistan there isn’t that will.”

______________________________________________

[Deep Thoughts on 9-11 in Taliban Land]

Sorry to not have posted in a number of days. We were away from any internet hook-ups. But the internet came back up tonight. I will post the pictures below and tag them tomorrow if i can. The post below is long, but if you want to know what is going on in this crazy country feel free to peruse it.

"Beeeep, attention FOB, Shamrock, code red. Again, Shamrock, code red." This is broadcast via loudspeakers on poles all over this large FOB (Forward Operating Base) only a few miles away from the Pakistani border here in East Afghanistan. Doug and I have been shacked up at this camp Salerno near the city of Kwohst for three days now, and every day I've been hearing the shamrock announcement 3 to 4 times. I found out yesterday that shamrock means injured will soon be arriving by helicopter on base.

The incoming wounded can be civilians or soldiers. There are 5 levels: green (1 person injured), blue (2), red (3), black (4 or more), and Sally, which means a bloodbath.

I'm keen to start checking out the hospitals on these camps. It would be a great story to follow an injured person from the time the helicopter goes out on the med-evac (medical evacuation) flight , to where it picks up the victim, to coming back to base, to getting the victim in the hospital and then how the victim is treated in the hospital. But on this base there is some Polish dude who now lives in Toronto who came here some months back and decided to stay for a year, so he pretty much has the whole base to himself.

When you're embedded and you want to do a story on a base you have to go through the PAO, Public Affairs Office. Often it's more of a hindrance than a help because A) it takes time when usually you don't have much to spare B) there's a good chance they or their superiors won't approve your request C) they like to accompany you at times which is a real buzzkill because they seem to deem everything sensitive and therefore non-useable

I must say the PAO people on the various bases that Doug and I have encountered have been pretty helpful and friendly, a lot better than 2 years ago, but in general these PAOs are kind of symptomatic of what bedevils the military in general in its war against insurgents in Afghanistan.

Let's use my simple request to visit the hospital here at Salerno as an example.

I requested to do a short photo essay on a day in the life of a FOB hospital. There are 3 people working in the PAO office here on Camp Salerno. One graduated high school in 2003, and the others not many years earlier. The request goes to a major Seiber who is the leader of the whole camp. He denies my request because there is already an embedded journalist covering the hospital. Although the journalist, the Polish dude, is there every day and has been doing the story for weeks and will continue to do the story for weeks, and although I only want to spend a few hours, if that, taking a quick tour of the hospital, snapping some pictures and talking to a few people, the request is denied.

This can be very par for the course in the military. If I talked personally to the major about this, chances are that maybe the response would be different. Or if I went directly to the hospital they'd probably love the coverage. But since decisions in these matters are made quickly, subjectively and without all the facts, media peeps, such as myself, can be put in a really bad position.

This type of stuff happens every day, every hour, every minute in the military. Some military personnel, more than others, are Ÿber worried that sensitive information will get leaked out into the media. But I'd like to see how successful a terrorist would be if he/she wholly depended on the U.S. media for intell (intelligence) to wage their war. There are so many many many different branches, groups, sectors, teams, brigades, battalions, regiments, platoons, forces, what have you, each with their own modes of operation, information outlets, chains of command, structures, and leaders of varying personality types, that coordination, clear cut plans, decisive actions can all seem at times virtually impossible.

After having seen the way the military operates I now have an understanding how soldiers can die in "friendly fire.": lack of coordination and too many messages being disseminated by too many chiefs.

There was a mandatory emergency test drill last week at Camp Phoenix in Kabul while Doug and I were there. The siren went off around 3PM and then an announcement came over the camp loudspeakers that the drill was taking place. Everybody on camp had to proceed to bomb shelters. Most people didn't know whether or not they were supposed to bring their flak jackets, helmets and weapons. And most didn't know whether they were supposed to be in the bunker that was closest to where they were at the time the drill was announced, or whether they were supposed to go to the bunker that was near their housing and group command post.

That was just a simple drill. Imagine if you're suddenly attacked, not having a second's warning. It helps in understanding friendly fire.

Now take the confusion above and factor in the people who go on leave for 2 weeks which actually takes about a month from beginning to end to process. And then add the mess of constant transitioning of soldiers that occurs, as new troops are deployed and others are leaving, all at different times of the year, all the time. You have people that have just arrived that are clueless, you have others who have wisdom because they've been here a year, but who mainly don't care anymore because all they can think about is returning home, and you can't blame them, that's human nature. But what I'm addressing here is that you, I, we, cannot really expect this war in Afghanistan to be anything but glacially slow with the way things are currently set up.

As the Scarecrow might have said in the Wizard of Oz before he got a brain (actually a college diploma, which as anybody knows is pretty useless as far as knowledge is concerned): I'm not smart enough to know what the answer is, but it would seem to me if you want things to move quicker in Afghanistan, and you want more efficiency and a more effective result, then it might be a good idea to streamline things, and I mean really streamline things.

What is the biggest problem in Afghanistan? The insurgents.

How do you remove the biggest obstacle to Afghanistan beginning to stabilize itself as a country? Get rid of the insurgents.

How do you do that?

Here's an idea -- and I'm sure it's really naive -- but Afghanistan has 34 provinces (or wilayats) (think of a province as a small state, since the country of Afghanistan is roughly the size of Texas), and each province is divided into multiple districts, (or walaswalai) 398 in all (think of these districts as counties). Now what if the good guys, i.e. the U.S./ISAF (International Security Assistance Force) seriously got together and came up with a cohesive game plan that everybody followed and everybody understood. A game plan like taking each province, analyzing it, dissecting it, seeing where there have been hot spots of trouble and activity, finding out exactly where there have been accidental killings of civilians by U.S./ISAF forces, establishing where the insurgents have been, are, and will be likely to hide, regroup, attack and then use all that info to systematically eradicate the enemy?

My point is simple. We cannot expect to quickly extricate ourselves from this war if we depend mainly on big bases and large FOBs with multi-million dollar aircraft, outfitted Humvees and TOCs (Tactical Operating Centers) that have the latest gadgetry, and if all we do is go out on patrols, talk to "elders" in villages, and do some humanitarian projects, then return back to our castles and pull up the drawbridges, protected by our concertina wire moats. When we fight the enemy we can't rely principally on mega-powerful bombs and mortars shot from high tech helicopters and gargantuan flying fortresses.

At times the military can seem that it's thinking more WWII in tactical terms of fighting than of guerillas who train in other countries where they also have financial backing.

I kind of like the idea of the Special Forces and Commandos -- those big burly bearded "ghosts" -- who actually go out and hunt the Taliban on foot with their Afghan counterparts. The problem however with the SF is that they tend to be ridiculous in their comportment. They do not talk to anybody, they seem to look down their noses (and heavy beards) at regular enlisted soldiers (who have to shave, keep their hair cropped and wear their regulation clothes), and they have this I'm-so-special aura about them that makes you want to puke.

I don't know why these SF guys can't act normal and just make sure they don't talk about their operations, which I understand are very sensitive, but it would be nice to see a little bit of normalcy emanate from them instead of attitude.

A big problem with the Taliban is that they blend seamlessly into the general populace. Since soldiers rarely mingle with the locals, since they are prime targets, they can't distinguish between a good guy and a bad guy when they're looked at en masse. One U.S. soldier told me that he thought the ANP (Afghan National Police) is 30% Taliban and that the ANA (Afghan National Police) is just as high, percentage-wise, in some places. That means these guys can use their cell phones and relay information to their cohorts, such as where troops will be. So the insurgents can either run away or organize an attack.

The task of rooting out the Taliban and Al Qaeda is a formidable one. But IF a province started shoring up security, district by district, by

1) protecting the roads from IEDs (Improvising Explosive Devices) and starting to grate and pave the principle ones

2) making sure the police and army were fairly-paid and well-trained and thus wholly legitimate in the eyes of the public, which often sees both as weak, corrupt and ineffective (also getting rid of the old guard, perhaps by offering retirement packages, or as one soldier told me, fire everybody with a higher rank than lieutenant)

3) installing honest (or at least more honest than current) leaders in governmental offices and agencies, which are often the realms of nepotism, cronyism and corruption, and

4) having U.S./ISAF troops remain in a place that has been cleared of insurgents, and digging in, training their army and police of the province until they can handle the security themselves, then continually expanding the circle of security by creating more outposts, especially along mountain passes and on mountain tops where there can be constant surveillance and vigilance on suspect movements (in a country where most rural folk don't have electricity, anybody out past 10PM is probably up to no good)

THEN maybe the tide of effectively fighting the war here could be turned and actually "winning" and "leaving" might be more than hyperbole.

I'd love to know who those injured people were that came in today and yesterday on those Shamrock loud speaker announcements here at Salerno. I always wonder who they are, where they're from, how did they end up in Afghanistan, how they feel about the war, how did they got injured, and what their philosophy is on life and death and possibly being maimed. Do they think it was worth it? Did they understand what the stakes were?

It must be said that the U.S. media doesn't help the Afghan situation very much.

A photo editor in New York pleaded with me to send her images of "wounded civilians." I'm assuming she expected me to somehow get in a car, drive up to areas where fighting had occurred, or bombs or suicide vests had detonated, and simply start snapping pictures of civilian fatalities, body parts and writhing wounded people in agonizing pain. Yes, those pictures would definitely sell.

And, not to blame this woman, because obviously she has never been in a war zone, or actually seen wounded children, or looked into their eyes knowing they probably won't be around next time you pass their way, but the U.S. media thrives on gore. And maybe it's not their fault because the American public, many of whom have an affinity for bloody slasher movies, eat that stuff up.

Why would anyone care about U.S. soldiers taking medicine into villages where people have never seen a western face before. Or give a rat's ass about backpacks full of school supplies that are distributed by soldiers, who have been target practice for insurgents, to schools in remote villages we can't even pronounce. Why should I distract myself from the comic strips in the newspaper, or the football game on TV?

Because of these realities, I think a U.S. administration and the media should implement awareness campaigns and programs to educate the U.S. public. We ARE in Afghanistan as an occupying force. We ARE going to stay here. We DO lose on average one U.S. life every other day here.