Adam Does Afghanistan

In the afternoon, specifically during this time of year, the wind kicks up in the Kabul valley, and by the evening, there can be gusts of up to 65 kph. Some of you may be thinking, wait, 65 kph – isn’t that like 5 miles per hour? No. Those of you who were thinking that are not correct at all. 65 kph is closer to 42 miles per hour, and that’s some strong wind.

But in the morning, the winds are calm and it’s perfect weather most days. I’ve often felt bad for the helicopter pilots as they go over our camp in the afternoon. “You should have flown your helicopter in the morning!” I shout, moving my hands and arms in a huge, overstated gesture that would be seen from the sky as a sympathetic shrug.

I imagine the pilots saying through clenched teeth, “This wind really blows!” And that makes me laugh because of the hidden but funny double meaning.

This morning, about 40 helicopters flew over the camp, some flying so low that the building shook with the noise. I had turned to my coworkers and loudly asked, “What is it? Helicopter Day? Is there a national holiday in Afghanistan called Helicopter Day?”

My coworkers thought that was funny, but basically imagined that there was a large group of VIP’s visiting the local army and police camps that needed helicopter transport.

But I felt as if I correctly diagnosed the flights as helicopter flying just for the fun of it.
You could tell: the rotors were whipping around with an excited whistle and the waist mounted machine guns seemed to glisten as if filled with more than just bullets, but with a sense of overwhelming glee.

It was as if the helicopter pilots had gotten up on June 9th, looked out the window and then looked at each other with excitement in their eyes. The informal leader of the squadron, Abdul Rahim Mashashoodi, but known by his call sign Abdul Rahim Mashashoodi Pilot Leader, shouted out the words they were all thinking:

“Hey guys! We’ve got all these helicopters out there! Let’s just go and fly the crap out of
‘em!”

Of course, I’m paraphrasing.

Then in a fit of joy, they ran out of the door of the barracks, splitting off left and right with choreographed coordination even Martha Graham would have had to applaud. Leaping to the dilapidated yet shining cockpits, throwing eachother jaunty thumbs-up gestures, the fleet slowly rose from the ground. Over the radio you could clearly hear Abdul Rahim Mashashoodi Pilot Leader say, “There is a feeling I am feeling that I have an urgent – an urgent for high speeding!”

Sadly, several of the ill-maintained vehicles crashed into the mountain almost directly after takeoff, but since the average crash rate was at least 4 or 5 times that, the rest of the pilots felt that indeed, it was a good day. June 9th would forever be known as Helicopter Day.

This was the story I told my Afghan co-workers this morning even as helicopters thudded overhead. And surprisingly, they were very entertained. I asked them what we should do to commemorate Helicopter Day and we agreed that children should be given piggyback rides where the adult spins in a helicopter-like motion until the child and adult alike are physically ill.

Paper helicopters like this one are acceptable on Helicopter Day but for crap's sake, that's a lot of work for something that obviously won't fly. Do yourself a favor, make a paper airplane. Don't try to impress anybody with this nonsense.

But the key part of the celebration would be to write special messages on blank sheets of paper, then fold the papers into airplanes that you would throw to the gale force winds, hoping the messages reach their intended recipients. Airplanes thrown specifically to poke someone’s eye out would be the Taliban’s special way of spreading terror on this holiday.

So happy Helicopter Day everyone. Get out there, make a paper airplane, and show someone you care -

about helicopters.

The next time I go to the post office at home, I’m going to feel very bored. Yesterday, I went along on the mail run to Camp Eggers, one of the main army bases in Kabul. Alberto – the mail clerk, makes a mail run almost every day to pick up packages and letters for Camp Gibson, and when someone like me has a package they want to mail out, we have to go along on the mail run – Alberto isn’t allowed to mail packages for us.

I was sending a 30lb box home, filled with all the clothes I hadn’t yet worn – if I hadn’t worn it yet, I was determined to send it home. But there were articles of clothing in there that were just comical. I consider myself to dress reasonably well, if not plainly, when in the US, but over here the theme is khaki. And khaki shirts over khaki pants is not uncommon over here. Not exactly haute couture in the streets and military bases of Kabul.

In any case, what the hell was I thinking when I packed not one, not two, but FOUR thin v-neck sweaters? I’m not ashamed to admit it here because I already know I’m an idiot, but I mean really? Four? A few dress shirts that were appropriate but just not getting worn got thrown in the box as well. I even folded up my second duffel bag and put it in there – so I’m down to one rolling duffel, a messenger bag, and my mandolin.

So I’ve got this box and I’m ready to mail it so we took off from Gibson at about 1 p.m. and immediately, I saw that we were taking a new route – turning right on the main road where I had only experienced the left. And much like taking a closer look at the Republican party – the sights were incredible, shocking and slightly disturbing. I joke, it was just amazing to see some new sights.

First off, school had just been let out, so there were children everywhere. Dressed in their school uniforms, which was black pants and dark blue shirts for the boys and black dresses with white head coverings for the girls, they were walking, riding bikes and literally swarming over the road. It was actually pretty cool to see the kids of the city, but I doubted if they ever saw us, and it just about gave me 10 heart attacks. In Kabul, people apparently aren’t taught as children to, “Look both ways before you cross the street.” Instead the message must be something like, “Dash out in front of the 4-ton armored vehicle traveling at operational speeds – Allah will protect you,” or something like that because from young to old, people step out into traffic without looking. There were several hard braking actions as we swerved to miss the cast of the Afghan “Saved by the Bell” ambling out into the middle of the road.

Our drivers were solid South African guys, and while I couldn’t understand the local language they spoke to each other, there were several words that were same, including “fuck” and it’s many variations which they used with regular frequency and intensity to curse the school children, pedestrians, bicyclists, vendors, van drivers, cows, and police. I was very entertained.

We drove onto Eggers and quickly found a parking spot and hit the Post Office. I had stashed my DynCorp ID badge in one of my breast pockets along with my money and copies of my passport and letter of authorization, so I was ready to get ID’d by anyone, but in the post office, no one seemed to care who I was. The guys were polite, don’t get me wrong, so I started a conversation while they weighed out my box and charged me for the postage. I had noticed an Arkansas banner on the wall behind the calendar and asked who the Razorback was. The guy said that it was him and I told him that I’d lived in Texarkana. Well that was all he needed to launch into a diatribe about the recently drafted quarterback from Arkansas, who apparently grew up in the Texarkana area.

“I’ve just not heard a lot of good things about him. Have you?” He asked.

“I haven’t!” I answered, not knowing what in the hell this guy was talking about, but using my response as a truthful answer. While I’d not heard any good things, I had also not heard ANY things.

“Did you know him or his family, growing up there in Texarkana?”

“Nope,” I said, again answering very truthfully, but I didn’t want to stop him as I should have and just say look, I’d love to continue talking to you about this, but I just can’t. I felt that if I did this, he would take my package and throw it into the “Might Get Delivered – Might Not” pile. I really wanted to chat him up so that he’d put the box into the “Deliver Safely and On Time” pile.

Anyway, there was a lot of agreeing, nodding my head and talking about how Tom Brady is going to mold this kid into something a little less cocky and a little less likely to throw season-ending interceptions. Sorry Arkansas fans – too soon? But in the end, I think the guy was on board with the plan of getting my v-neck sweaters home in one piece, so I relaxed a little bit.

My instructions after finishing my mail business were to wait outside the post office for Alberto and then we’d go visit the BX. I stood outside, waiting for about 10 minutes. It was then that I discovered the Army’s intense focus on security. A uniformed sergeant stopped in front of me (I was just standing there) and looked me up and down and asked to see my security badge. Put on the spot, I fumbled a little bit with the button on my pocket, then sorted my badge from my meal card and showed it to him. He pointed out that I should be displaying the badge at all times. He asked if I knew what would happen if I didn’t display the badge at all times. He turned to face me fully and launched into a speech that must have been delivered to many foreign nationals, new recruits, and his emotionally abused wife, indicating that if I didn’t display the badge, then the terrorists were going to win  – that they had already won.

I was just about to point out to him that as far as security risks go, I may have been the least of the least. My lily-white complexion, gained and cultivated from many many hours of sitting in front of a computer screen, should have been a clear indicator that a PICTURE of a terrorist was more dangerous than I could ever be in person. But somehow I was able bite my tongue out of respect for the work he was doing here in downtown Kabul and just indicated that I understood him. Nonetheless, at the BX, I did purchase a simple display case for my ID that I dutifully draped around my neck. I went looking for the guy to try and win his approval for my quick and decisive action, but he had already been sent home for brutalizing several small animals.

There were soldiers from all over the world at the base. The most notable were the Germans, who were driving wicked armored Mercedes SUV’s and wearing enough tactical gear to roughly double their size. My driver pointed out that they seemed to always have the best and most highly advanced gear, but yet seemed to get shot an inordinate amount of times. I suggested that it might be because with 50 lbs of tac gear, they looked like large round camouflaged bubbles of death, waddling to their fancy cars. My driver mentioned that in South Africa there is a saying that goes, “The bigger they are, the harder they fall.” I mentioned that South Africa probably can’t take credit for that one, but that I agreed.

There were Canadians, quite a few Brits, some Italians, who were readily identifiable by their thick mustaches, and even a few French soldiers. I greeted the French guys and they immediately surrendered. (By the way, if you didn’t already know, I’m a racist, but only in regard to Europeans.)

In all seriousness, probably the coolest, most interesting thing I saw there on the base was a guy, a local national, standing on the side of one of the avenues. He was standing next to his boots, right next to a high traffic area and spot where some maintenance was going on with welding and grinders, but yet he had placed his prayer rug and was starting his religious observances right there. It was pretty powerful to see a person exhibit this sort of dedication, no matter what they believe.

The drive back to Gibson was uneventful and I considered it a successful trip. I had seen some things I had never seen before. I got pictures of most of that, which I’ll post later. I saw a cemetery, some guys pumping water from the Kabul water system of wells, and some construction screening cleverly crafted from queen flat sheets sets featuring SpongeBob Squarepants.

It has been a crazy week in Camp Gibson, and what drives me crazier is that I can’t really talk about what’s going on over here. You military guys know what it’s like to have to keep things from your families and friends, but I’m not used to it. It makes me want to stop communicating all together because I feel like there’s a big block of no-no that I can’t write my way around.

But there have been good things going on as well.

I think I’ve mentioned before that the locals usually go by several different names because of the multitude of Abduls, Mohammads and Rahims that are out there. Rhohani Esthamattulah was working in our office and he was let go this last week. You may remember that he was the one who told me the story of Adamhani the Teeth. I was sad to see him go, but not surprised. While he thought that viewing pornography on his company computer was okay, it turns out that it isn’t. It’s not okay.

But I started to suspect that the real reason Rhohani was fired, was not because of streaming explicit videos. We were scheduled to bring in another new employee the day after Rhohani was let go. As the new guy walked into the office and was introduced as Abdul Wached, he was greeted by Abdul in the Travel Department, then by Abdul Khaliq in the finance area. They all spoke in Dari and gave traditional greetings, but there seemed to be a familiarity – a bond that was easy to see between these three Abduls. And while they go by different names on a daily basis, I slowly came to realize that Rhohani’s downfall wasn’t his randy nature – it was his name. I’ve asked around and it turns out that the Abduls are the equivalent of the Sopranos or the Corliones or those guys that hang out at the Masonic Temple.

So I’m a little proud to say that I’ve changed my name, adding “Abdul Awesome-asad” to my middle name. I think this is going to help me to fit in over here, especially when my milky white complexion, fanny pack and camera around my neck might call too much attention.

Okay, so May is over. I enjoyed you May, I really did, but I can’t say that I’m sorry to see you go. June, same goes for you. No hard feelings to either of you, just take comfort in knowing that I’ll be giving July and August the same treatment. September and October I’m not even recognizing. I’m going to mark time with the shamsi calendar for most of the fall, so even November is going to get the short end of the stick. And December through March are pretty much going to sail by, so who cares what happens in those months?

This is not to say that I won’t be back around next year, hoping that the same months will go just a little bit slower, and that May in Boise will be much warmer. I must say that it has been easier to bear the lack of camping when I hear that it’s so wet and soggy in Idaho. I fully expect the clouds to lift for the last half of July, when I’m in town, but until then – I’m sorry but I wouldn’t mind if it rained the whole summer in the US. Is that wrong?

That’s right – I have a leave that will be starting in 38 days. I’ll be home for about two weeks and Layne and I will be, come hell or high water, in the mountains near Stanley, camping near Soldier Lakes. We’ll most likely leave on a Wednesday and come back on the following Sunday. So if you are reading this and ask yourself, “I wonder if I could go?” well you just asked a question with an obvious answer. Of course you can go. We have all kinds of extra camping and hiking stuff, so send me a note and I’ll send you one back. In this note I send back, I’ll tell you about the details of the hiking adventure. And if you are reading this and think to yourself, “I don’t think I could hike for days in the mountains! I’m from San Francisco!” then you just thought something that is completely untrue. You may be from San Francisco – that part is true – but you can definitely hike 4 miles and then spend a few days fishing and walking around! (This qualification also applies to any of you thinking you can’t go because you live and/or work in: Missoula, San Diego, Birnumwood, Georgia, British Columbia, or Eagle.)

After the hiking adventure – Layne will have to go to work, so I may be out for a day to go and climb Borah Peak. Anyone interested in going should send me a note. And if you don’t know what kind of treatment you will get if you send me a note, please read the previous paragraph; the gist is that I will send you a note in response.

So what can you accomplish in two months in a new job in southeast Asia? If I said a shit-ton, would it offend anyone? We’ll see. But in any case, I will have developed four significant scripts that save the equivalent of 30 hours of manual work each month, but the most important improvement is a database to replace hundreds of spreadsheets used to track Accounts Payable for the program. What’s that you just thought? Must have been something like, “You know who’s awesome at improving stuff? It’s that guy they call dBase.”

Two months down, ten to go. And that’s the last I’m going to say about it. Don’t wanna break the streak.