Long Overdue Closure

Well, the day has come. 8 months overdue, but the day has finally come. Those fearless few of you out there who read this with any regularity must have decided that either something terrible had happened (did not) or that I had moved back into the "Real World" (did). I have been meaning to write this for ages, but part of me has resisted, partially out of sheer laziness, partially because I did not want to let go of my Afghanistan experience. The highs and lows were so extreme, my one year on the roller coaster was such that at the end, I both really, really wanted, and really, really did not want, to get off. That's probably common for people put into high-stress environments -- combat, post-combat, whatever your adrenaline cup of tea may be. Once you have had a taste, mundanity is welcome -- for a while, but you miss your fix.

My wife and I were talking earlier today (she's still in Shanghai, for a little longer at least) about a surprise job offer I had received, possibly sending me towards Europe, to work on issues related to Afghanistan. (Not sure if I mentioned this before, but I'm slotted for a job in Korea. I've been pounding my head for six months now trying to learn Korean.) I'll be honest; I was pretty pysched; as challenging and important as Korean issues are, I know that the Afghan job, even being based in Europe, would help me with my adrenaline fix. My wife and I, over the course of a thoughtful, rational conversation (and a few tears -- we are both getting chances for work we love, but if we take those chances we can't be together, so we are both bailing on those chances so we can start our lives together for real), realized that for the long term, Korea would be better for us. With that realization behind me, I have completely, finally, belatedly put my Afghanistan chapter behind me, and have decided to write this last entry.

My last month in Afghanistan was a bit of a blur. On the work front, I had 2 main goals; 1) get a conference off the ground that brought in donors to Bamyan to show them why the place is as difficult as it is to build new infrastructure, and why despite that Bamyan is worth everyone's time and effort (which I still very much believe); and 2) get my successor (who has already finished her time in Bamyan) up to speed to continue State Department efforts in Central Afghanistan. I believe I managed to pull both of these off, but it was not particularly easy (the logistics of the conference were a major league headache, as I had to coordinate two different groups of donors based around the availability of planes, of which we had one). Fortunately, with the sun coming up at 4 a.m., sleep was not too much of an option either, so I had plenty of time to mull this stuff through!

I also have to say, my last month in some ways was a bit of a disappointment. In my year working in Central Afghanistan, undoubtedly the highlight of my experience was working with and getting to know the fantastic men and women of the NZ Military, Army, Navy, Air Force, the works. They are a great bunch of lads and lasses, to be blunt. I was proud to work alongside them. In my last month, however, as a new crew got themselves situated, it was pretty clear that I was being unceremoniously pushed aside by a Command element that thought they already knew everything (the gang under those in command were as fantastic as ever). Hmm. Well, ok, it's their base, their show.

My last day before choppering out, I got up ridiculous early, and finally climbed PT Hill wearing my body armor. I don't know about you, but adding an extra 35 pounds and then going for a climb up a good 750 feet, when you are already at 8800 feet, is not a walk in the park. Even in the shape I was in (I've lost a step or two since then, although now I'm training for a triathlon, so I hope I will be back by June), it was a tough slog. I thought in arid environments sweat is supposed to evaporate off you. Well, not all the time!

Next up, I went to say goodbye to Kiwi Shir. He'd been getting more and more surly, and less of a people dog in the last month, as he would get taunted by the Afghan police living behind his house, and as the crush of other people began to give him sensory overload. I suppose what came next was inevitable.

As we had a formal farewell assembly (not for me, for the visiting NZ Chief of Army), Kiwi Shir lunged at my pal Stacy, and bit the bejeezus out of her. He took a bigger chunk out of Shane Meighan, the Air Force guy who worked with us most closely. He seemed savage, hardly himself. I did not focus on it much at the time, as my thoughts were all twisted around, saying a proper goodbye, making sure I had all my stuff in my bags, making sure they got on the helo (with the Chief of Army in town, I got a chance to take a Blackhawk out, as opposed to one more soul-sucking road trip to and through Bagram), that sort of thing.

The helos landed, we chucked ourselves and our swag in, and dusted off, like that. Gorgeous way to see the area. If Bamyan ever does get the chance to turn itself into the tourist Mecca that it could become, these chopper flights would definitely be part of it -- like the Vegas tourists who chopper out to the Grand Canyon, that sort of thing. Anyway, I'm definitely soaking up as much as I can, when WHOOOOOOOOP! We go in for a hard dive, staying about 30 feet above the treeline, following the terrain. The Chief of Army's helo had a nice, sedate, dignified, LEVEL flight, but our helo, the follow chopper, the Kiwis on that flight told me later the pilot must have been up for tactical training, and was getting in his chops while he could. Wow. I thought roller coasters were impressive, but after experiencing that, I will be hard pressed to be bowled over by a roller coaster. I just don't think they can build a coaster that can drop 1500 feet!

After a couple of hours meandering shiftlessly around Bagram, I get word that I've managed to squeeze onto the afternoon chalk line back to Kabul. Quite a relief; I don't want to spend the night in Bagram if I can help it. On my flight were a bunch of reporters, I think. They reminded me of Chinese tourists, taking pictures with each other excitedly, pointing the camera at everything they could. These folks were excited seeing goats -- I'm not kidding. I managed not to show it, but my disdain for these warzone tourists, for this is in essence what they were, was pretty extreme. Just as good they did not try to make small talk -- I was not in a talking mood (my wife can vouch for that -- when I saw her later that week in Paris, I was a sour little prick for a good chunk of our time together, until I had a chance to let some of my emotions bleed out).

We get to the airstrip, and lo and behold, a vehicle is there waiting for me. The 5 minute insanity from the airport to the Embassy compound, and I'm back. For me, at this point, in my mind, my Afghanistan time is done. (It would be another 4 days before my scheduled flight out, but anyway) I park all my stuff in the Embassy's luxury hooches (i.e. with individual showers, aircon, and TVs), and then I get a call on my new temporary cell phone (my old cell, with all the numbers I had stored up in the last year, I gave to my successor). It's Stacy. She tells me that Kiwi Shir is dead; the Kiwis decided to put him down since he was becoming a threat to himself and others.

What a sickening punch in the stomach that was. You may remember how thrilled I was when they brought Kiwi Shir in to our main base, the 10 month old baby (at 135 pounds or so!) who had such a lust for life. He surely would not have survived the winter on his own up there, so we saved him, and tried to give him a better life. We came in, saved a dog from being destroyed by its own kind, and tried to give it a healthy and satisfying life. We gave him his shots, fed him (great food), lots of exercise, and lots of attention. Turns out our intentions were one thing, the reality another altogether. My best buddy, after everything, we had to kill him.

Seems like a pretty horrible alleghory for my time in Afghanistan, if it turns out to be as prophetic as it seemed (and still does). It is pretty clear that violence in Afghanistan continues to intensify. This was expected, by many thoughtful folks. Many of the bad guys had been left alone to sort of do their own thing, so when good guys in all uniforms, Afghan and Coalition alike, began kicked over their ant piles, the ants came pouring out, and started stinging. That said, it is still depressing to hear the news that the Taliban may be reconstituting themselves in tribal regions in Pakistan. (I have no information about this -- I'm going by the same news reports you guys see, except maybe a tad more BBC in my diet.) I have to wonder, was it all worth it? Are we putting in all this effort, time, attention, money, sacrifice (the proverbial blood and treasure we hear about), all for naught? I hope not. The jury is still out on Afghanistan, but you really wonder if all of this has made a difference. In the end, I'm pretty sure I was changed more by Afghanistan than it was by me. Maybe that's how it is supposed to be.

I guess these are the closing credits for this blog. I will pull together another blog about me, at

www.aarontarver.com

Not sure what will be on it yet. A webpage in many ways is a study in narcissism, and my ego is big enough as it is, but I figure it is easier just to create my own domain and let people who want to visit go ahead and do so, rather than peppering their email inboxes with more spam.

It was a heluva ride, so much so that for a long time, I could not really get off the Afghanistan bike. I hope those of you who've been reading along with me enjoyed what you saw, and I hope it gave you a small taste of what life (in this small part, at least) could be like in Afghanistan. Good luck, God speed. Khoda hafez and Melaykum salaam. Goodbye, and God be with you.

Holiday

I’m back in Kabul physically, but that’s the only way. My mind and heart are still a couple of thousand miles away, in Amazing Thailand (that’s their ad slogan -- Malaysia was first, with “Malaysia, Truly Asia.” Then came “Amazing Thailand.” Now there is “Incredible India” and even “Uniquely Singapore.” I am waiting for “Charming Cambodia” or “Bucolic Burma,” but we may not see those for a while.) I left on May 25 (almost did not make it -- my connecting flight on our local charter service told me they could not pick me up because it was too cloudy -- they told me this while I could see their plane from the runway, but that’s par for the course with Insh'allah Air, i.e. God Willing Air), flying Air India to New Delhi for the quick stopover before flying on to Bangkok.

Delhi Airport reminded me very much of my first taste of Beijing (a Beijing which has changed remarkably since that time I would add) -- tons of people scrabbling over one another trying to grab whatever small advantage they could find, and foreigners constitute one of those advantages, since we all obviously have money, right, right? My cab driver tried to convince me to allow another passenger to ride with me, never mind that I had used the airport’s booking service specifically to avoid subsequent haggling. I then had to wait a good half hour in the sweltering heat (and Delhi is HOT -- try 109-115, and humid) while he helped the drivers in front get their cabs out of the way (they tried to lash a broken trunk shut, never mind that a vehicle that size should not be carrying 250 lbs (no exaggeration) of luggage and a family of 7. By the time I got to my hotel, a good one, (not on my tab) the Taj, I was drenched in sweat, clothes all sticking to me, just nasty -- Louisiana in the summer after the rain, but about 30 degrees hotter. Unfortunately, I was only at that wonderful hotel for a few hours, and then straight back to the airport. Ordinarily, for six hours, I would just ride it out at the airport in the transit lounge, have a meal, buy unnecessary things in duty free, maybe get a shower at the day rooms. The Delhi airport does not have these options. The Delhi airport does not have power, consistently, so other amenities will drop way down the priorities list. Given the choice, I would brave the no A/C 90 minute cab ride (roundtrip) again, no question, to minimize my exposure to that airport. They say India is an emerging giant. I believe it, but wow, I hope they emerge some more and build a new airport at some stage.

The flight was a classic redeye -- depart at 1:30 am for Bangkok. As luck would have it, I get surrounded by teenage, or pre-teenage boys who don’t know the drill on redeye flights. For the ENTIRE flight, all I hear is the lilting voice in front of me, head bobbing incessantly, “Mother where is my Gameboy, mother I need my Gameboy, mother, where is the Gameboy.” OMG. After my flight to Shanghai on Emirates, I thought that Arab travelers had surpassed Indians as the most demanding/high maintenance travelers, but the Indians have taken the pole back, and with a flourish. On the flight back two days ago, somebody rang the bell for the attendants’ assistance every 60-90 seconds for the ENTIRE flight. As bad as my hearing is, you would think that this sort of thing would not bother me, but ugh, I’ve got a low tolerance myself for this stuff. I think I need to invest in some good quality noise-canceling headphones, for everyone’s sake, not least my own.

Anyway, Bangkok! 5 days of traffic jams (I skipped that, to a large extent, relying on the elevated train -- nice, easy, cheap), spicy food, spa treatment (ok, massages -- spa treatments are more expensive, and I already know a place where a 2 hour Thai massage is $12, and they don’t do “extra.”), shopping, movies (X-Men 3 was decent, the Da Vinci Code was dreck -- Tom Hanks should be mildly embarrassed. You have to stand up for an opening sequence honoring the king at movie theatres in Thailand -- Thais seem to take this very seriously) and relaxation. No jumping at the slightest noise, no body armor, no rioting over cartoons or traffic accidents. It was great.

I went to Chattachuk (no idea how to spell, Thai spellings are perhaps the most bizarre of any translated into our alphabet) Market, the Weekend Market. It is THE superbowl of fleamarkets, with everything from antiques to fake brand clothes to plants, pets, toys, real estate, cars, knives, swords, all kinds of stuff. Last time I was there in 2004 I stocked up on everyone’s Christmas present for that year, but not this time around (so don’t get your hopes up for cool stuff this year -- it’s mail order and the internet, just like everybody else). I just bought some jeans and a couple of shirts, and a Buddha statue, 19th Century Mandalay. Completely random, but a wonderful place to shop until you drop.

Five days of big city decompression go by, and it is time to meet the wife and travel on to Phuket. She’s the big, hi-powered executive, so she was coming direct from meetings in Paris. I get to the airport and waited an hour and a half for her to come out of the airport, only to realize that I was at the wrong terminal. **sigh** So I find her at the other terminal, and we are off to the beach!

Phuket has really bounced back. MaLan and I visited there in April 2005, a few months after the tsunami, and reconstruction was the order of the day. Now? The only way you know something happened is that all the buildings, hotels, shops along the beach are new -- everything. Tourists are back, from the young couples, to the Euro backpackers, to the older German men with their long haired rent-a-friends in low-rise jeans and shorts ("Hi my name Lon -- you like me?" is something guys can count on hearing). We did our stroll of the Patong beach strip, and had ourselves a seafood feast. Lobster, grilled jumbo prawns, squid, the works. The seafood is cheap (relatively) and excellent. I eat well in Bamyan, the Kiwis do a great feed, but it was not like this (not to mention I could have alcohol at dinner -- you miss that after a while).

Great meal, nice night at the Holiday Inn (it’s not like Holiday Inns I’ve stayed at in the States -- very upmarket), and then we are off to Koh Phi Phi, an island a good 2 hour ferry ride from Phuket. A couple of years ago we found a wonderful resort, beautiful white sandy beaches, nice big pool with a poolside bar, and did our first dive there. I was hooked, and have wanted to go back ever since. This time, it was open water dive certification time! Took a lot of work, actually. MaLan and I had to read the PADI dive manual, a good 300 page textbook, doing homework, even taking tests (they weren't that hard, so long as you actually read the book)! I get the impression after that most folks just watch the video and skip the bookwork, but I’ve been a nerd too long to walk away from those habits now.

At any rate, we got to do some spectacular dives. Our instructor worked in Egypt on the Red Sea, and at KowTow (spelling, again I don’t know) in Thailand, and said the best stuff she had seen in 3 years of diving was in and around Phi Phi Island. One of the reefs was a vertical cliff going straight down some 25m into the water. I was doing great, and wanted to go straight to the bottom, but my instructor held me up. Open water certification is good to get you to 18m, no further. I’ll have to get more certification for that. The coral and sea life were astounding. Tons of jack fish, clams, clown fish, anemone, all over the place, in clear blue water. We managed to see a trumpet fish, a moray eel, a leopard shark, a sea turtle, a cuttlefish, all kinds of stuff. It felt like we were living an old Jacques Cousteau video. I guess that’s why I did not mind us having a French woman as our instructor (Delilah) -- the French pretty much invented recreational diving, so give them their props, they know scuba.

Like I said I was hooked before, and now I’m really a fan. Scuba and exercise are now both mild addictions. Problem is I have no idea when will be the next chance to do any diving, more’s the pity. Kitting up is not going to be cheap -- first the prescription mask, good fins and a snorkel, a wet suit (even in the tropics, it starts getting chilly at 10m or below), and we will need to rent tanks, perhaps the regulator and the BCD (an inflatable life vest/buoyance device), and then you have to get out to the dive sites. Not a cheap hobby, but certainly a rewarding one. Swimming scuba is easier than swimming on the surface, once you get used to the apparatus. I recommend it for just about anybody.

MaLan had a harder time of it, at least at first. For one, she was pretty nervous, mostly because equalizing was a real challenge for her. By our fourth dive, though, she seemed to relax and really enjoy what was going on around us. She managed to take some pictures with one of those waterproof disposable cameras -- I hope they came out ok, we’ll see. She was a real sport, trying the diving out, at least initially, because she knew how much I wanted to dive. I think she’s as hooked as I am, now, although she’ll still have more of a challenge getting her ears equalized.

With a week, we managed to get certified and still take it slow and easy at the same time. There was plenty of beach time involved, lots of drinks in big coconuts with fruit involved, a glorious sunset at a viewing point in one of the resorts’ restaurants, lots more seafood (hey, Afghanistan is landlocked, gimme a break), chilis, fresh mango, papaya, dragonfruit, dragoneye (“lung an”), jackfruit, pineapple, and lime, lime, lime. Can you tell I missed tropical fruit? ;)

Not as much sitting and reading by the pool or on the sand, since I lost my glasses. Yeah, moron me completely forgot I had my glasses in my pocket when we went out kayaking/snorkeling in the reef. At some point I dove into the water, and completely forgot about the glasses, only remembering after we got back to the beach, a couple of clicks away. They were still in their case, so I bet they floated, but I just did not have the heart to go look for them, so I figured I could survive with prescription sunglasses for a week. It worked out ok, but I did feel pretty stupid having dinner in the evenings wearing sunglasses the whole time, humming that ancient Corey Hart tune from the 80s. Seems each trip we take, I manage to do something for MaLan’s amusement. This time, I because Sunglasses Man. I’ll have to think up some better theme music for that.

It was a really wonderful week. Nice to be reacquainted with a life where people are nice, friendly, not always trying out some angle in every conversation with you. I truly think the Thai people are the friendliest people, as a nation, I have ever met. They were in an even better mood than usual, celebrating the Diamond Anniversary of the Thai King Bumibol’s accession to the throne. I don’t know much about him, although I seem to remember some controversy when the Jodie Foster/Chow Yun Fat movie came out 5 or six years ago, that they would not show the movie in Thailand because the King was named second. I would do a tour in Thailand in a heartbeat, but it may be a while before I get that chance.

Nicer was the chance to get reacquainted with my wife. We both seem to do better together than apart, but we’re still careerists, so it will be a while yet before we are together permanently. By this time next year, for certain, but exactly when, that’s up to MaLan. I’ll be honest -- I did not really want to come back -- but with only another six weeks to go, I can make it through anything, I think. In the meantime, once I get back into this last grind, this last push, I will remember my time in the Land of a Thousand Smiles as an inspiration for whenever the going gets tough again.

Belated Bon Voyage

As you could tell with my last entry, I was a bit preoccupied at the end of April. Life was more about getting from one, er, moment (ok, movement) to the next than anything related to life Up the Hill. (That is the Kiwi’s own shorthand for Bamyan, especially when in Bagram meeting/speaking/cajoling other Coalition Forces). With my own preoccupation, I did not have a chance to give my homage to the outgoing Kiwis from Crib 7. It is wayyyy overdue, but here is that. It’s also longer than my similar tribute to Crib 6, not because I liked them any less, but because the bulk of my Afghanistan time was with this hoary bunch.

Where to begin? At the top, I guess (in the Disney “Alice and Wonderland,” and possible in the book as well, but I can’t quote it, the Mad Hatter tells Alice to “start at the beginning, and when you get to the end . . . stop.” The head honcho, Group Captain Steve Moore is, in many respects, the type of leader I would hope to be. Laid back, easygoing, always ready with a joke or smile, but fully cognizant of the swirl of issues, complications, dilemmas, frustrations, challenges, and pitfalls which command in a post-combat environment present. (Bamyan is Post-combat in my view, unlike provinces in the south and east, which are still stand-up fights, save that the bad guys don’t stand up.) We were eye to eye on Bamyan’s big picture (not to say that either of us had a monopoly on the correct prescription for Bamyan’s many ills) so we did not have to spend our time and energy on internal wrangling. His only vice? (at least that he could indulge on a military base, where alcohol is verboten) Rugby (as if you have to ask at this point). The Super 12 (Super 14 now) League, with teams from NZ, Australia and South Africa, took over Fridays and Saturdays for three months. There was even a betting pool (tipping, they call it, organized by the Camp Chaplain) for Super 12. Not sure whether Steve was in on the pool, but he certainly took the lead on everything else related to Super 12. We made a point to schedule around matches, so that the Commander was back on Planet Bamyan when it came time to meet with locals.

The rest of the Command staff certainly had its idiosyncratic elements -- Morgan Procter, the Second in Command, whipcord thin (cigarettes), a farmer, an army man, dedicated to “keeping his Air Force boss in line” (managed to keep us all hopping in the process). Brad, the operations cmdr., from whom every third sentence was “and we’ll crack on.” Good man for his position, not flustered, but his coffee cup was definitely a security blanket. Brad spent two days searching for that mug, two long days for the rest of us. I’m glad he lashed the cup to his belt after! Paula, the logistics cmdr., an elfin lieutenant (pronounced LEV-tin-unt) from the Navy, who managed to get me to summit PT Hill in boxers (you’ll have to get that story in person, I’m not commiting that to the internet, thanks much), and as wonderful a person as I’ve met anywhere. Don’t bug her about the pink toilet paper though -- ouch. (The previous logistics officer left a gap in TP purchasing, forcing Paula to go local for our supply. Let me tell you, rolled plywood, no matter its pretty pink color, does not a pleasant experience make. Never saw so many men walk like crabs in my life.)

Even though this Crib was smaller than Crib 6, it seemed to hold its own in the characters department. Ross, the chaplain, who organized the camp’s betting, poker nights, horse racing, and Julie, the fiery Medical Officer who whipped all of us (Kiwi Shir included) into shape. TK, the Command Sergeant Major, who will always be my pal for jumping in and helping me wash all the dishes one Friday (Friday night is the Development Group’s night, and there was nobody around but me). Abe, the unofficial head of the Command Post, whose sonorous voice was quick to find the humor we all needed to survive the winter. Obs (short for O’Brien), whose fascination/obsession with the Hoff (that’s Hasselhoff to the rest of us) bordered on clinical. The workshop boys, Bonzi and company, the only guys I have ever met who ape a very female trait and troop off to the bathroom as a pack. Bulldog, supply sergeant, Pete, the head mechanic, Mish, our communications officer, the Sparkies (that’s electricians), Lance and the cooks, who were the real reason I have to work out 2 hours a day just to stay where I am, Tinsley, who wanted more than anything to take all his cool toys and hang with the US forces along the border and go kill bad guys, Tee Tai (whose blood ran red bull and sugar -- never seen a man with so much energy in my life) and the whole QRF gang, Heath and Sean, our resident bodybuilders (lots of muscle power in this Crib -- turned me into something of a gym rat), Kiwi base was full of interesting folk. I have to make sure not to neglect the patrols, Aaron (we got along great, surprise, surprise, and I was most impressed when I watched him chug an entire bottle of pancake syrup), Mel, Jason Healee, in charge out in the field, and even SarMajor Brill from the support element operations in Bagram. All in all, a great team.

Last, but certainly not least, I need to reserve a little space for our engineering officer, Capt. Neville Mosley. Nev made himself right at home before the rest of Crib 7 even arrived, with a wonderfully scathing wit to boot. As the point man for NZ AID operations, and with me backing up USAID, I probably worked closer with Nev than anybody else on the camp. His nuanced understanding of how development operates is spot on (vast oversimplification -- if you give a man a fish, he has a meal, if you teach a man to fish, he can feed himself), hardly a typical military mindset. I will keep up with more than a few of my Crib 7 mates, but Nev most of all, I think.

Now I have to walk the line between being sincere and maudlin -- how to tell this gang what I think of them? Sure, a smartass or a linguistics guru would say I’ve already done that, but what can I say about all of them? Bottom line, we soldiered on, in a pretty tough environment (certainly one of the toughest I’ve ever been in), and managed not to be at each other’s throats. Crib 7 left Kiwi Base, and, more importantly, Bamyan, a better place than they found it, and they deserve their props for that. I want to thank them all for their support and friendship. Kia ora, Crib 7. Peace out.

Developing Country Diet Plan

Hello there fair readers! I’m back. Been out of commission for quite a while, which is why I have yet to give my homage to the Winter Kiwis, who departed April 29. You know you always remember your first, so Crib 6, my first group, remains my favorites, but Crib 7 definitely had its characters. More on that anon.

Yes, I have been out of commission. The day of the RIP/TOA (very intimidating acronym -- stands for Relief in Place/Transfer of Authority) between the Winter Kiwis and this latest group (that’s right, I’m now breaking in my THIRD group), April 29, was an interesting day for me. The transfer ceremony itself, with all due pomp and circumstance, was quite poignant, save for the glaring snafu when the new flag representing the new contingent, when it hit the apex of the flagpole, popped off its string and fell back down to the ground. Everybody’s jaws were clenched rock solid, so you did not see anyone react, but EVERYBODY reacted. Hopefully it is not an ill omen, but so far, well, it’s early still.

Part of my thing on departures has been to take Kiwi Shir down to the C-130 and see everybody off. No chance of that this time. The new Brigade Commander (the Kiwis’ boss in the Coalition) was on hand for the ceremony, and needed to be minded. The new Kiwis were too busy to make time to meet their new Commander (another ill omen), so they foisted the Colonel off on me and the Civil Affairs officer here, a great guy who ran his own PRT in Khost before arriving here. Needless to say I was miffed. I wanted to say goodbye properly, but that option was taken away.

Ok, this is a military operation (mostly), suck it up, salute and move on. We gave the Brigade Commander (actually a nice guy, in the real world he’s Dean of Academic Affairs at Purdue) the nickel tour of the area, the Buddha niches, Red City (still my favorite), and took him out to a returnee (that’s the word we now use for refugees who have been back in country for a while) village. That ate up an entire afternoon.

The weather had been less than forgiving. Fierce winds beat down on us, so much so that the armored Landcruisers we rode in were getting pushed all around the road. A real challenge for driving (fortunately I was just a passenger this time around). When we would stop at a given site, it was hard to stand in one place, as the wind pushed us all over. Gusts were definitely hurricane force (probably not Katrina or Rita force, but hurricane nonetheless).

So, after an afternoon of that, I’m beat. We get back, I manage to slurp down some dinner (have I mentioned how much food I eat here? There’s a reason I’m exercising 2 hours a day and not losing any weight) and then head to the office.

That’s when it hit. Urgh. You know the drill. Trying to act normal, but running for the WC/head/salle de bain/toilet/john every 5 to 10 minutes, hoping like hell this is the last one, knowing it isn’t. If only that were the worst of it. Later that night the vomiting started (and the other stuff had not finished either). I scared some of the Kiwis who were unfortunate enough to be in the ablutions when I was making sounds like California was falling off the San Andreas Fault. I won’t say much more about the many incidents that night. I could probably get plenty of eye-popping descriptions of the entire sordid affair, but do you really want to read about that? Frankly, I don’t even want to write about it -- makes me a little green just thinking about the entire day. I will simply note that after the events of that long, long night, I now cut my food into smaller pieces. Ewww.

After that, it seemed to be merely a battle with dehydration. That first Gatorade (or in this case, the Kiwis had something called “Squinchers,” a mix-it-yourself Gatorade-esque drink), is amazing. If you have not had anything in over a couple of days, the first re-introduction of any flavor to your system is always powerful. I could not believe how wonderfully sweet and yet tangy lime green isotonic liquid could be. Alas, that sensation did not last long. After 3 days of non-stop Squinchers, your brain begins to fantasize about other tastes. Eventually, the cravings began, cravings for something, anything other than lime green isotonic drink, can’t we find anything other than . . . oh, great, another lime green isotonic drink, it sure would be wonderful to have something different, . . . right you are, another lime green isotonic drink, dear god, please no, not another lime green isotonic drink, make it stop, make it stop, PLEASE, oh ok, another lime green isotonic drink, and it just goes on.

Timing was definitely my enemy. Every time I thought I had turned the corner, I would put a toe back into the waters, testing real food again (nothing fancy -- bread, crackers, rice), but the results were, er, discouraging, so it would be back to the self-imposed exile, halfway house of lime green Squinchers again.

I left for Kabul on Thursday, with a 30 minute flight in PRT Air (or, as we call it, “in shallah” air, “in shallah” means “God willing.”0, a plane about the size your 11 year old nephew might hang from the ceiling with all his other models of Mustangs from WWII, Hornets from the current fighting fleet, etc. The plane is SMALL. A line Bob Hope once used sticks in my head: “we had to go outside to change our minds.” So THIS is the plane which will tackle the fierce winds (the winds have not let up, btw) which signify the change in seasons from Spring (we had a good 4 or 5 days of spring, after the winter, which I have already complained about) to Summer. Buffeted, I think that is the right word. I managed to keep everything in place on the flight, notwithstanding us rising and falling 1000 feet at a pop (it is a real disadvantage when you can see into the pilot’s “cockpit” and can read the altimeter), zigging when zagging was called for, etc. In short, NOT a fun 30 minutes.

We arrived at the Embassy, I dropped my bags (what a relief -- a hooch, with an attached bathroom, ALL TO MYSELF! This is real luxury), and what little of my system had recharged decided it was time to CTRL-ALT-DEL and start the process over again. It was not as bad this time around as the first lovely experience, but I was still holed up in my little trailer of misery for the better part of a week, and unlike back at the Base, I had to pay for my own Gatorade (the real thing this time) myself. $3 a bottle!!! I understand what Americans feel when they fill up at the pump. When you need something, you are going to pay whatever it costs, but you don’t have to like it. I certainly did not.

In the end, 2 weeks after the whole ordeal started, I got back to something approaching normal, 4 kg lighter, and no wiser for the experience. Bottom line, I hope when I get to Seoul in a year and a half that the developing country diet plan is not part of my itinerary.

ANZAC Day

Beep, beep, beep, beep.

Ugh.

I can't believe it is 4 a.m. and I'm awake. What the #$@! %, er, I mean, what on earth is going on? Oh yeah, today is ANZAC Day. Time to get my sorry derriere out of bed.

What is ANZAC Day, you ask? (if you are not from Australian or New Zealand, that is) Well, it means lots of things to lots of people, but obviously, it means something more to the people of Australia and New Zealand. One of the Kiwi soldiers told me quite simply: "ANZAC Day is the day we became New Zealand, and left the UK fold."

The day commemorates (not, repeat, not celebrates) the landing of Australian and New Zealand forces in Gallipoli. By the time it was all over, some 2721 New Zealanders lost their lives, still to this day the largest military loss of life in the nation's history.

According to NZHistory.net.nz, the Gallipoli campaign was New Zealand's first major effort during the First World War. British First Lord of the Admiralty Winston Churchill proposed the idea of using British naval superiority to engage on an amphibious assault to threaten Istanbul/Constantinople, the capital of Germany's ally the Ottoman Empire. New Zealand and Australian forces, already in the area training in Egypt, were chosen for the assault, along with a French unit (and I think some others -- if you want more detail, check their website).

The original landing at Gallipoli was scheduled for 23 April, but bad weather delayed the event until April 25. For any number of reasons (still hotly debated in Australia and New Zealand), tides, faulty navigation, changed orders (late), even simple negligence in operating the boat pulling the troops, Australian troops landed 2 km north of their intended target, in a much tougher terrain than they would have faced otherwise. More to the point, the proposed landing site was lightly defended, but the actual landing location met an entire division of Turkish troops, who pushed the ANZAC forces back. Weeks of poorly planned, poorly executed frontal assaults on the ridge led to enormous casualties over non-strategic ground. Weeks of unimaginative frontal assaults and the inevitable reaction to counteroffensives blurred into months. Troops remained in the area until December 1915, when they were ultimately withdrawn. In all, 8000 Australians and 2721 New Zealand troops lost their lives for a piece of ground which never proved decisive in the events of World War I.

Not surprisingly, this day resonates strongly with my Kiwi co-horts here in Bamyan. One of the senior NCOs (sorry, Non-Commissioned Officers) and I were talking about it the other day. He mentioned that as a kid, ANZAC day was most important as a holiday. There were parades and such, always fun, but why were these old men part of the parade? "Now I know," he said. "Saddest thing is seeing the parades year after year, and seeing the numbers of those old soldiers dwindle, bit by bit." ANZAC Day is a point of pride, though, especially for the military. "This life is tough," Nui was telling me. "My son and daughter are six and seven, and I have been away for most of that. Still, I hope one of them sees the value of this life. ANZAC Day taught me that, maybe it will teach them as well." Another old salt, this one a Navy guy (all three of their service branches serve here) told me that he will never watch English Premier League soccer, no matter how popular it may get (it's the most popular televised sport on the planet), because of how the British "left us out there hanging." 91 years on, and the feelings run raw and deep.

So, we got up at 4 a.m., everyone struggling into the shower blocks to shave and clean up. Kiwis are generally a tidy lot, but there was an extra effort this morning (which is why I had to stand in line waiting 10 minutes for a sink). If you are up and moving early enough, then rum and coffee is part of your day, part of the tradition. For some reason there was no rum (not sure if that is because we are under U.S. military rules, or because we have invited Afghan guests). That was a disappointment -- I needed something to give me a jolt in the crisp dawn air, and I don't drink coffee. I like traditions that involve alcohol (at least to some point -- may be a while before I go back to Bourbon St. during Carnival). Even so, you make do.

At sunrise, 4:55 a.m., the soldiers paraded to the flag pole, where the colors (both Aussie and New Zealand) were unfurled together. A cannon salute went off (I wonder if the locals even noticed -- landmines go off at random every so often, so big booms are part of the landscape here), speeches were made, prayers were read, hymns were sung, salutes were held. We all were wearing poppies (ok, felt poppies -- the real deal is definitely available here in Afghanistan, but I guess getting hold of them would be a more problematic issue), and took them off to drape them near the wreaths laid in respect for NZ's brave men (and women) who have given their all in service to their nation. As is often the case with military events generally, it was a serious and somber event.

One of the things I like so much about working here is being with the Kiwis, who are in my opinion much more laid back than the U.S. military. Relations between officers and enlisted is relatively informal, and the entire atmosphere is relaxed (except when rugby is playing -- we've covered that before). The Kiwis are extremely professional, but they realize that small stuff is small stuff. Good lesson for us all, in this guy's view.

ANZAC Day, however, clearly is not small stuff. ANZAC Day is a bunch of things. It is our Memorial Day, Veteran's Day, and Independence Day all rolled into one. It is not just another opportunity to barbeque -- it is the type of respect and ritual our own veterans deserve, but only get amongst each other these days. It also talks about the horror that war brings, which, lame as it sounds, really is difficult to convey unless you have seen it up close, which is something nobody really wants. I am not a Kiwi, but April 25 has been etched indelibly into my memory by the looks on the faces of my friends here. I will make a better effort to approach Memorial Day and Veteran's Day in the States with the spirit those days deserve. To my Kiwi pals around the world, I can promise you I will not forget April 25.

God speed to all the Kiwis and Aussies out there defending their nation (and ours) with their sweat and sacrifice. God speed to all soldiers in harm's way for our benefit. Be safe, all.

Child Funeral

Since the weather has started to turn a bit more towards spring (even while it snowed on Easter Sunday), I have been something of the exercise freak. I work out in the gym for two hours a day, 5-6 days a week, and get up at 6 a.m. to either do abs or climb PT Hill, the nicest Stairmaster in Central Afghanistan. From the gate and back generally takes about an hour (best time I have ever done was 40 minutes, and that was practically a run), and in the 25 minutes it takes to get up hill we climb a good 1000 feet. It's a great workout.

One of the nice things about the hike at 6 is how quiet everything is. At that time of the day, the only activity you see are the giant ravens circling looking for trash and scraps to eat, and lots of smoke rising from houses throughout the valley, as the pungent aroma of burning donkey dung lets you know that women all over Bamyan are awake fixing food for their families. Other than that, nothing.

Two days ago, however, my hiking pal Sally and I were surprised to see a band of men out nearby the road. Two younger men were on their hands and knees scooping out earth, while some older gentlemen knelt by the side of that hole, bowing and prostrating themselves every so often. Next to the eldest man was something wrapped up in a colorful sheet/sari. I could only guess, based on the small size, that it was the body of a small child.

Usually when we see locals here, they are almost always cheerful, waving, giving us a smile, which is not the case for all of the country. In the South and East, the mostly Pashtun people are much more guarded in their reactions/emotions towards Coalition forces. On this day, as the two young men and the older men prepared the site to take the body, the looks we received were undisguised anger and hatred. It was quite a shock.

I am not certain what drove those looks. It may have been that a woman was witnessing this action, which appears not to be something for the women to do in Bamyan (women and children regularly will visit graves on Fridays to clean and sweep them, with no men present). It may have just been a general anger at foreigners generally. It could have been anger that these rich foreigners could not do more to save this child from his or her tough lot in life.

Children in Afghanistan do have it tough. Infant mortality, and under 5 mortality, is higher here than anywhere else in the world. Malnutrition is rampant, poverty is endemic, disease ever-present. I could see why a parent might shake his fist at the fates that decree children in Afghanistan are less likely to make it, and at the foreigners whose obvious different circumstances may seem so grossly unfair.

Whatever else I have managed to do here, hoping to make a difference in the lives of the people of Afghanistan, of Bamyan, it wasn't enough for this child. May he or she rest in peace, in a better place where life is not so hard for the kids.

Pre-Fab Purgatory

Hello Sports Fans! Hope all of you are recovering from a wonderful bout of March Madness. Kudos to Big Baby and company for exceeding all expectations in making it to the Final Four this year. Commiseration to Seimone Augustus, the best player in college basketball today (period), for reaching the plateau of the Final Four again, but not the summit. If that were not enough, we even have "a tradition unlike any other" this weekend, as Tiger, Vijay, Phil, Ernie and company all make a run for the green jacket in Augusta. This being an all-Kiwi zone, we won't see any of this, but will be browbeaten with Super 14 rugby all weekend long (the Crusaders won a tough match against Waratahs from Australia. I can tell how excited you are. :P

It is good to be back in Bamyan, even with a dearth of U.S. sports options. I spent a week in Bagram Airbase, about an hour's drive north of Kabul, for a series of meetings and conferences, and wow, I will be so happy if I never have to return. Ugh.

The drive up to Bagram is the first thing. Roads here are . . . glorified goat trails, let's face it (my cousin Willie and my uncle Pete likely would enjoy these roads, the rest of us -- we'll skip, thanks very much). The usual road paths meander along, parallel to, across from, through, and under rivers, making for wonderful driving conditions. At least the snow and ice are giving way to spring (reluctantly), so that the chains don't come out. Nothing quite as unnerving as a 5-ton Hum-V skidding across the road with a 400 ft. vertical drop directly to one side. Anyway, the drive, all 120 km of it, takes anywhere from 6-8 hours. There are not potholes in the road, there are roads in the potholes.

Lesson for the uninitiated: do not eat a large or heavy meal if planning a trip involving similar conditions. Given the departure time, I figured we would not have a chance to eat lunch, so I scarfed down a huge breakfast, as opposed to the usual cereal and yogurt routine. Turns out, they moved up lunch an hour so that we could eat, so I followed the mega-breakfast with a burger that would make the Hardee's Monster Burger proud, potato salad, and a zillion calorie banana smoothie.

All that food, even with my accelerated metabolism (altitude and exercise, mostly), was over the top. Then we hit the potholes. Ugh. Have you ever seen a person with red hair, red beard, and green skin? That was me? I looked like some perverse Christmas smurf, and felt worse.

So, upon arrival at Bagram, I can't say how happy I was to be at the destination (the final 30 minutes of the drive is paved, wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles). First impressions did little to dampen that enthusiasm. I went with the Kiwis down to Subway. THEY HAVE A SUBWAY!!! They also have Burger King, a serious looking pizza joint, Korean food (excellent), and a Popeye's (the Popeye's disappointed). I could not believe all of this existed in the middle of Afghanistan, but anywhere you have a large contingent of U.S. soldiers, U.S. amenities are never far behind.

Better still, the base has a hair salon that also does massages. After that six hour drive, a massage sounded like a good idea. A nice, young Kyrgz women beat me up like a meat tenderizer for an hour, all for $20, and I am happy to report that this is all she did. (Contrast that to Bangkok, where you have to find massage points that advertise "no sex" or else they will offer more than you expect.)

At this point, I think I could get used to this place. Wrong.

Well, come sunrise, I get a more complete sense of the camp, and in this case, more information is not better. Row upon row upon row of B-huts, all slapped together, next to two-story conexes that served as latrines and showers (thank goodness they were smart enough to put the showers upstairs, and the toilets down below). Spaced irregularly around the camp are tons of port-o-lets, such that the warring smell of human excrement and the massive chemicals used to break down/clean up such waste is ever-present. The air smells stale, on a good day.

The chow hall is also slapped together, as well as the food. (To be fair, the Kellogg, Brown and Root contractors are trying, I believe, but you can't personalize food for thousands, I don't think). Think every boring meal you ever had at the school cafeteria, just multiply the options for ennui. Nice touches like how many calories a particular dish may contain became suspicious, as the steamed broccoli and the braised pork ribs and everything else were 122 calories. I should have lost weight, right? Ha.

I did like the gym they had there, tons of elliptical machines, tread mills, and weights galore. This being for the U.S. military, where everything must, by definition, be bigger and better, the weights were out of my league. I thought after 3 months in the gym here I could at least hold my own, but they had dumbbells (these were not smart bells, believe me) that weight 150 POUNDS. Sorry, that's only 20 pounds less than me -- if I am one-arming that, I am the next Barry Bonds with the "cream" and "clear." Oh, sorry, don't want to get sued, ALLEGEDLY with the "cream" and "clear." The gym was put in under a semi-circular roof that could be retracted. It needed to be retracted more -- the sour smell of human sweat was ever-present.

Why was I there in all of this? Turns out a lot of PRT commanders will be rotating out fairly soon, so there was a conference with the outgoing PRT leadership to get lessons learned, best practices, that sort of thing. Great information to take in, but somehow I can't help but think it would make more sense to hold such a conference jointly with the new people coming in. Oh well, I am no expert. Neither are the gazillion lieutenant colonels running around. In other settings, I would say you would need to call in an exterminator, as you have an infestation. In this setting, I call it HQ. Go figure.

The Kiwis have their own small enclave in one nook of this giant base, and thank goodness for that. A little sliver of sanity helped me endure the eternal blah that is Bagram. I can only feel for those poor unfortunate souls who will spend their entire time in theatre based in Bagram. You see them, people whose gray insides are beginning to eke out beyond the new camos (U.S. military has some cool pixellated camos that supposedly work in all environments -- I would not know), people bereft of enthusiasm, of smiles, of hope. It really is a way-station to everywhere for the military, and a way-station to nowhere at the same time. Pray for these folks. I know I do, now that I have had a taste of life in pre-fab purgatory.

Home (Bitter) sweet Home

Hello faithful blog readers, all 8 or 9 of you out there. Anybody still with me after my months' long hiatus must be a true diehard. I thank you for still believing that life here could be of interest to you, if only for a few minutes. Part of the reason I have not put fingers to keyboard in so long is that things have NOT been that interesting of late. Life here during winter has been something of a routine, even a rut. There's only so many times I can talk about the chill that seeps past a half dozen layers of clothes and embeds itself in your bone marrow, a cold that rips the scab off of exposed and tired cliches. Old Man Winter himself said the hell with it after coming here and flew south to Florida, or Dubai, anywhere but here.

Dark, dank, and depressing winter has been part of my writing stoppage, but the real reason came, ironically enough, from my R&R trip home, back to Louisiana, in January and February. I had a chance to catch up with family and friends (especially MaLan -- nice to remember, "oh yeah, that's what married couples do!"), see a few movies, pig out on Cajun food. It was a great couple of weeks.

Even so, when I got back here, depression was the order of the day. Part of that is weather induced, definitely, but it was more than that. I was having a hard time coming to terms with what was left of Louisiana.

My first taste of this was Lake Charles, where I grew up and where my folks live, the major city affected by Hurricane Rita. The Continental Express jet flew in low, and for miles and miles all I could see were these funky blue roofs. As the plane got closer, I realized they were tarps, provided courtesy of FEMA. The tarps are everywhere (still, if I hear correctly from my mom).

As we drove around town, many of the trees had been snapped in half, like twigs, toothpicks, matchsticks, you pick your own frail piece of wood analogy here. The pine trees were the main victim, but some of the august old oak trees themselves gave in to the pressure. Ironically enough, the oldest oak in town, a giant ancient behemoth with the metal rings still embedded where it had been chained down in advance of Hurricane Audrey back in 1957, is still there. There seemed to be a convention of RV'ers around, as every third driveway or so has a square, squatty FEMA trailer or a nicer trailer filling up space. People are living in these makeshift accommodations until the can get a contractor to come work on their house. (Free advice to good contractors in other parts of the U.S. -- the supply of good contractors is low, demand is high, you have a great opportunity there for the next year or so.) My sister's home emerged relatively unscathed, but it was only last month, six months after the event, that somebody could re-roof my folks' house, and they are still waiting for the rest of the house repairs to this day.

I did not hear any wild stories about people riding out the full fury of the storm, because local, state, and federal officials got it right, and got people out of the storm's path (contrast this to Katrina, but more on that later). I am sure some people did, but I did not hear them, which means they did not rise to the level of international news interest -- a good thing. What I did hear was the aftermath.

My uncle, his son and daughter-in-law, the first to return, going back and cleaning out freezers that had gone without power for weeks. Latex gloves, surgical masks, whatever, provided little respite to shrimp that had been allowed practically to ferment. I would like to think that my exposure to durian in SE Asia (called the "king of fruit") and to stinky tofu in China (tofu left outside to ferment for almost a month) would serve as preparation for this kind of smell, but I am glad I won't have to test that theory.

Lake Charles is coming back. The casinos are back in operation, and somehow people continue to have money to gamble. (Lake Charles benefits from Houstonians who come down for the weekend and drop a load or two of dough.) Restaurants and movie theaters opened while I was there in February. That said, no one seems to be able to operate with anything close to normal business hours. McDonald's and Burger King, two stalwarts for high school kids needing some pocket money, are offering signing bonuses, benefits, and salaries up to $9 an hour, to FLIP BURGERS. That is more than twice what I was getting (no bene's either) working at LSU in college. I'm no longer hip what minimum wage is, but I know $9 is way above that. (I hear New Orleans is offering even more.) Why? Simple -- the workforce that normally would take such jobs has been coasting on FEMA emergency money, and, rather than put that money to work for them by investing, getting a down payment on a home or car, anything, these folks decided to give themselves a breather until the FEMA money is gone.

My wife and I did make a day trip down to New Orleans, to see what was left of my adopted city of New Orleans, which suffered the catastrophic losses from the storm that everyone else remembers, Hurricane Katrina. Katrina did horrific damage, but ironically enough, most of the damage the hurricane itself inflicted happened in Mississippi, which, like Lake Charles, is slowly bouncing back, partially with the help of gambling revenue. No, the worst damage in New Orleans, unfortunately, can be attributed to human frailty. Hmm, where to start -- the levees were not strong enough to withstand a Category 3 hurricane (as advertised), much less a Cat 5; federal, state, and local officials had gone through a hurricane simulation with "Hurricane Pam" which predicted 10,000 deaths, and still did nothing; no one bothered to help New Orlean's poor, folks who by and large did not have cars they could use to evacuate, to get the hell out of dodge; many people with capacity to leave ignored the advice of local officials, and also ignored the advice about stockpiling food, water, etc., expecting that this was someone else's problem; I could go on.

You saw the images. Bodies floating by in the mocassin-infested, broken-refinery polluted Mississippi River overflow. People stranded on the roof of their home. Thousands of people living in squalor or worse, whether at the Superdome, on highway overpasses, any high ground they could find. In my mind it looked more like Bangladesh and less like "the most powerful country in the world." What a joke.

My wife and I got a chance to see much of that. Where Lake Charles was knocked down, it seems to be picking itself back up again. I got no such vibe from New Orleans. Things remain in limbo, waiting on 1) when and how the Federal Government will rebuild the levees; 2) which homes still standing but uninhabitable will be condemned; 3) shop, businessowners, residents, to return. Lots of other things remain unclear as well. A plan put forward for rebuilding New Orleans met howls of controversy, and cries of "racism," as many of the buildings recommended for demolition are in those parts of New Orleans that were in the lowest parts of the city, where historically poor black neighborhoods built up over generations. Why? Economics as a main driver -- the poor in New Orleans built where they could afford, the least costly, least desirable land in the city.

As painful as it was to drive around and see what looked more like a war zone than where I live, which is a war zone (even while my corner of it is pretty peaceful, thank goodness), what really cut to the core was to listen to people, which exposed some raw and ugly images of my home. Racism is alive and well. There is a video making the rounds of the internet, a collage of images from Katrina done to the modified lyrics of the old "Battle of New Orleans" song. The song is offensive -- straight up. What's really sad, though, is that it evokes a grim chuckle from many (white) people in Louisiana now, including me, although it is more depressing than funny. Some of the lame comments by the New Orleans mayor, that God meant New Orleans to be a "chocolate city" (i.e. majority black, others need not apply) do not exactly help the situation, either. (Given that New Orleans has been a racial mixing pot for centuries, with Creole and others, such statements from a public leader are particularly unhelpful).

Some of the outre actions done by some of the Katrina refugees has added fuel to the racism fires, though. One story in particular got a lot of airplay of an unwed mother, living in a hotel in Beaumont Texas, who took her FEMA grant and went on a shopping spree, to the tune of many thousands of dollars. Not surprisingly, this does not go over very well with hardworking people (black or white), reinforcing stereotypes that have long been in existence about "welfare queens" and single moms.

The things I heard, the things I saw, they really shook me up. I've been trying to digest as much of it as I can ever since I got back. I can only say I've gleaned two things from this entire, shameful episode in my nation's, my state's history.

Many of the Katrina "refugees" act much the same as refugees here in Afghanistan -- focused on survival, focused on the immediate present, little trust or respect for the system in place. We might hope that folks in those types of situations could take any assistance given (and there are countless examples of it -- think of Shaquille O'Neal renting a bunch of tractor trailers, filling them up with relief supplies, and driving them down to Louisiana, as just one of many acts of charity and kindness) and use it to build a future. To do that you need to care about the future, you need to think and operate on a longer-term basis than day-to-day existence. People need ownership in their own lives, in their own future, before they will care about the future and act in a way that affects their future. The best vehicles for giving people such ownership, in my view, are almost all internal, i.e. family, faith, community. I seem to remember Sen. Clinton said that "it takes a village" to raise a child. I agree. Compare Vietnamese refugees, who one generation on, have integrated fairly well into society, with what we saw in Katrina's wake. When they arrived in the U.S. in the late 1970's, they had nothing but the clothes on their back. In many places, they faced severe discrimination and mistrust (as the Vietnamese shrimpers in Louisiana still do). Yet, even so, a generation on, Vietnamese people are fairly integrated into the fabric of American life. Why? This is a function more of their own internal foundations, through family and community, than anything the U.S. Government ever did.

It is preferable in my view to create that foundation at its most basic unit, the family, but if the family cannot create such a foundation, one can still be built. The best tool for that is education. Education can be a massive equalizing force, for people with the determination and dedication to acquire knowledge. Education certainly has helped me succeed beyond my own expectations, which were pretty sizable.

Too bad the state of education in the U.S. today is so uneven, so unequal, never mind the "no child left behind" act. How to equalize? Good question, since you cannot dictate that property values (and thus, property taxes, which serve as the base for most communities' education spending) be equal for all -- that just won't happen in a free economy. It should not come as a surprise to anyone, however, that education is one of the lowest priorities in Louisiana, typically up on the chopping block when the state legislature is forced to choose among different programs. Louisiana has been at the bottom of many human development indices, and I am convinced that is linked to the lack of emphasis on education. So, for people in Louisiana who do not have faith or family upon which they can build their own future, unfortunately, they don't really have education to fall back on either.

Even so, if people do not have that foundation, through faith, family, whatever, and, for whatever reason, cannot or will not embrace education as a tool to better themselves, we still cannot turn our back on them. For better or worse, these are our own citizens. Letting them twist in the wind may be fine in some folks' minds, but nothing happens in isolation. As folks as far away as Houston and Atlanta are learning, along with hosts of communities in between, and especially beleagered Baton Rouge, what happens in one neighborhood will not stay there (except perhaps in Vegas!). Somehow we need to help these folks build a foundation that embraces education, embraces empowerment, creates a future.

I don't have any magical formula for this -- if I did, I would be a private consultant making beacoup bucks, talking with Oprah and Dr. Phil, and people would be buying my overpriced advice book. I do know that we cannot empower people with FEMA grants or handouts. If you speak with any development professional, they will tell you that self-help trumps grants or handouts any time, because grants and humanitarian aid, needed in those situations where survival is at stake, can be perverted into creating dependencies when used after survival is no longer the issue. It is unfortunate that the political climate in the U.S. is such that we can say this safely about people in developing countries, but any statement along those lines about our own citizens will be shouted down and ignored.

The other thing I learned is much simpler, but much more disturbing. The thread keeping society together is much thinner than we in the U.S. might like it to be. It does not take much for that thread to unravel and for humanity's baser, more primitive instincts to kick in. We saw it in L.A. after Rodney King. We saw it, and still see it in Louisiana post-Katrina. I would like to think that we, all of us -- those of us in government, its citizens, the works -- will have learned something from the tragedy of Katrina, and will work to ensure it never happens again. That's what I would like to think, but I am afraid that is just wishful thinking. I am unfortunately confident that we will see those baser, more primal aspects of humanity emerge again, in some situation where government fails at its primary function, to preserve the stability and security of its populace.

Whew.

Thanks for listening to my downer blog entry. I needed to get this out of my system. Future blogs should focus on Afghanistan (that is what you are reading for, after all, right?). Now that we are approaching spring (even while it snowed again today), I hope that the next set of blogs should be more interesting, less introspective. We'll see.

Those of you in Louisiana, enjoy the azaleas blooming. No matter what else happens, the flowers will bloom in spring. Same goes for all of you in DC -- enjoy the cherry blossoms! Everybody in the Northern Hemisphere, enjoy spring!

A Death in Kandahar

Things have been relatively uneventful here in Bamyan the past few weeks. Even winter has not had the bite we have been led to expect. Sure, there have been days with temps below -20 (that's about 0 F), but surprisingly, the weather has been milder than predicted. The mountain passes are, well, passable, by and large (you've got to be a hoss with your 4WD though --my cousin Willy would be in heaven navigating the snow and ice on some of these narrow mountain passes), and to this point, even planes are largely on schedule. Snowfalls have been so light to this point that experts are worried there may not be enough water for crop production in 2006 (It's always something -- either we get too much, and there are massive floods, like last year, or it is a question of drought, as was the case the previous six years. Nothing is ever easy for people in Afghanistan.)

Unfortunately, I can't say the same thing about the situation in the southern part of the country, especially in Kandahar, the center of all things Pashtun and the symbolic center for anti-Western elements in the country (the Taliban began in Kandahar). Even with the Taliban having fled to the four winds (or, what is more likely, hiding out in sympathetic households along both sides of the Afghan - Paki border), there are still plenty of people who find reasons to resent the Western, foreign influence in their country.

I tend to view globalization as a net positive influence for everyone. It connects the world in ways unimagineable even 50 years ago. Globalization and market forces have given plenty of countries a leg up to better themselves and their countries (South Korea is an excellent example). Not everybody has benefited -- Sub-saharan Africa largely is way behind the curve, even after all this time, but in general, we are more connected, more interdependent, than every before, and most of us benefit from those connections.

This connectivity has downsides, however. The ease of moving goods, people, and ideas across borders is not limited just to good ideas and information. Bad ideas, bad people, dangerous goods (from AK-47s to missile technology to toxic waste) can also move rapidly from place to place. What we are seeing in southern Afghanistan, in Kandahar, is partially a result of the darker side of that connectivity, especially the new emphasis on suicide bombings.

If I understand correctly (notice that "if"), suicide bombings used to be anathema to the Afghans. They viewed it as an affront to their culture and to Islam, even those Afghans who sport the most conservative views about Islam (the Taliban did not invent burkhas, after all). Unfortunately, the local bad guys, whether Taliban, Al Qaeda sympathizers, followers of Gulbuddin Hekmatyar, or whoever, through global media and communications, have plenty of opportunity to see the impact (in terms of shock value, publicity, etc.) that insurgents and other bad guys in Iraq have had using suicide bombers, and are beginning to incorporate such tactics into their own efforts.

On Sunday, Senior Canadian Diplomat Glyn Berry, the Political Advisor at the Kandahar PRT, ended up on the receiving end of these new tactics, as a truck laden with explosives blew up close to his convoy. The resultant explosion killed Berry, and wounded three other Canadian soldiers.

Afghanistan is a tough country -- let's not beat around the bush. Death is an all too common occurrence here. At a certain stage, you develop defensive mechanisms to the steady stream of depressing news. I reacted, but not very much, when we visited a local village where 4 children had died in the last week from some undisclosed illness. Sounds heartless, I know, but it's the truth. Mr. Berry's death is a lot closer to home (we both have/had similar jobs and responsibilities here, although his is in a more dangerous part of the country), though, making me sit up and take notice.

I cannot say that I knew Glyn Berry. I wish I had, though. Based on what I've read in news articles, Berry sounds like the type of diplomat I hope I am, or at least will be at some point -- one dedicated to promoting the foreign policy of his country, to promoting peace. He worked in Pakistan, in New York at the UN, and of course, here in Afghanistan, because he believed that his work mattered.

Just for the record, let me make it clear -- his work does matter. All our efforts matter -- civilian, military, government, UN, non-governmental organization (NGOs), all of us. Our job is to make sure that the Afghan people see and experience the positives of globalization (which most people here truly want), rather than the negatives, such as this cowardly act, this suicide attack.

I have tried to come up with something eloquent and stirring, some words that might help assuage Mr. Berry's family, who now have to cope with a horrible loss, words that could give comfort to any of the families who have lost loved ones in Afghanistan, Iraq, wherever, as they try to find meaning in a senseless tragedy. The words did not come.

All I can say to Mr. Berry and his family, that I will strive in my time here, and after, to conduct myself and my work in a way that will forward his own work and his own goals in Afghanistan. That's the best way I can think of to honor his memory.

Via con dios, Glyn Berry.