Hurricanes

I know what you're thinking -- "Why is a blog about Afghanistan discussing hurricanes?" Given that the storms I've experienced here in the past month have left all of a dozen raindrops, it is a fair question.

I can't really write much about Afghanistan at the moment (and I do have some stuff to tell you yet -- been an interesting week here, after the elections). My mind (and heart) are someplace else, back home in Louisiana. I'll try to get back to what I am supposed to be writing about in the near future, promise.

My adoptive home, New Orleans, was shattered by Katrina a few weeks ago. (I call it my adoptive home because I lived there a few years after graduating from law school. Had the Foreign Service not come calling, I would be living there still, deeper in debt, probably overweight, but happy in other ways.) This was a surprise to no one in the area. A friend of mine from LSU worked for a software company which did a computer model of the damage that might come from a major hurricane hitting New Orleans. Casualty numbers they estimated in the tens of thousands, something on the order of Bangladesh. They did this study in 1995. 1995!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! People have had the information for 10 years, and did nada. I work for the U.S. Government, and I'M frustrated. Why is it our system only moves, and in halting steps at that, AFTER a disaster, rather than being proactive for a change?

Katrina's toll, economically, and more importantly, in human terms, is horrific. My own family, I thought, lives mostly in the Western part of Louisiana and in East Texas, Houston and its immediate vicinity. Now with Rita, even they are threatened. My folks and my grandmother are holed up with relatives in Baton Rouge, and my sister has gone north to stay with her in-laws.

In case I have not mentioned it before, I married a wonderful woman from China (the light of my life -- as cheesy as it sounds, it's true) in 2003. In marrying her, I have become much more aware of the Chinese way of thinking about things (not that I agree with them on everything -- far from it!). One has to do with the Chinese Zodiac. This is the Year of the Rooster. I am a Rooster, and will hit 36 later this year. According to my mother-in-law, when it is your year of the Zodiac, either things go really, really well for you, or they go really, really badly. I'll let you guess which way I believe this year is going now.

For all of you in Louisiana and Texas, be strong, be safe. I don't pray that much, but I have been this past month. In shallah (God's will), you will get through this one as well.

City of Screams, Unfortunately, Redux

Addendum to my previous post. Yesterday (that's Sept. 16 -- I know there is a time-lag in this blog, and there will be for a while still), an officer with the Afghan National Police (ANP) went off the path on Golgola, and hit a land mine. He lost one leg below the knee, one leg above the knee, and a few fingers as well. Guess it is a good thing I have already climbed Golgola -- not so sure I am ready to do it again. The City of Screams continues to live up to its billing.

The City of Screams

I showed up on the right day, apparently. Friday is the one day off we get each week, our weekend, as it were. Friday morning gets started, nice and easy, with some incredible omelettes and fresh berry pancakes fixed up the night before by some of the officers, as a treat for us and a way to relax for them. This is all right! After a bit of volleyball (they've set up the net outside my front door, it's not like I can get away from it -- besides, volleyball is one of the few sports where I can honestly say I don't suck), I get invited for a friendly trek up to Golgola. Now, understand, elevation here in Bamyan is already at 8500 feet. I have spent the better part of my life living below sea level (more on that later). Putting one foot in front of the other feels like an accomplishment as it is. Now I'm climbing? To quote Peckinpah: "Let's go." "Why not."


We jump in the trucks and head of to Golgola, the City of Screams. With a name like that, you expect a story, right? You won't be disappointed. Golgola constitutes the ruins of a fort built who knows when, but it was well built. Towering over most of the valley, no one could conquer it, at least that's what its Shansabani defenders thought. When Genghis Khan swept into the valley in 1221, the fort lived up to that reputation, at least at first. Not even Genghis Khan could take it. What was the fort's ultimate downfall? The scourge of society, teenagers. I'm kidding -- relax. It is true, however, that the Shansabani king's daughter, Leila Khatun, miffed that Dad did not like her latest beau (or only beau -- probably dating was not as free and easy as it can be today), betrayed the city and revealed to Kahn the location of an underground spring supplying water to the defenders. Without water, it was only a matter of time. Eventually, Genghis Khan took over the fortress. Leila's reward for her info? Genghis Khan executed her for deceiving her father. There is an object lesson there for somebody, but as I don't have teenagers to deal with myself yet, I'll just let the history stand on its own. (Thanks to Kabul Caravan, http://www.kabulcaravan.com/bamiyan.php for providing that bit of background.)

Is this where the fort gets the name the City of Screams? Not entirely, but it is related. Another story notes that Genghis Khan's favorite grandson caught an arrow during campaigns in the valley, but did not catch it with his hands. Oops. Genghis showed his displeasure by putting the entire valley to the sword, almost 150,000 people. From there, the name sticks, at least in my mind -- Shahr-e Golgola, 'City of Screams'.


I was worried that the climb was going to eat my lunch. Actually, it was pretty easy. Ten minutes up, and we're there! It's a great view -- you can see almost everything from there, the remnants of the Buddhas (you'll get that blog at some point in the future), Red City, some decently spectacular mountains, not bad at all. What surprised me, though, is all the GREEN I see. Verdant pastures are definitely in fashion. (Not sure why, but this combination of crumbling architecture and thousands of years old subsistence agriculture gets me thinking in biblical terms.) 2005 brought record floods to Bamyan, but they also broke a 6-year drought, so the harvests of wheat and potatoes seem to be pretty respectable.

The only cautious reminder that we are in Afghanistan. We have been told not to stray from the path, under any circumstances -- land mines are all over the fort. (As are areas around the Buddhas, Red City, and other potential tourist attractions. Whether it was the Soviets or Hezb-e-Wahdat, or the Taliban, whoever left these had a calculated evil streak). Other than that, however, a great way to wrap up a picturesque first day in Bamyan.

Home Sweet Home

All right! I'm finally here -- four months of posturing, pleading and administrative hassle have come down to this moment.

Wow, is it dusty.

CSM (that's Command Sergeant Major to the rest of us) grabs my bags -- ALL of them, even though if you include the body armor, the PRT equipment, and everything else I have it's probably a good hundred and thirty pounds or more. CSM is probably in his late 40s or early 50s, but he is tougher and in better shape than most of the 25 year olds here on the Compound.

I am shown my new home, my "hooch," which I will share with another guy who is currently on leave. It's . . . cozy. At first, I am a little miffed, since I was expecting my own hooch, but as I see the space available here at the camp, I am no longer complaining. The PRT is bursting at the seams, and more people seem to show up all the time. In retrospect, I am lucky to get this housing.

The camp holds 140-150 people when all the patrols are in. Showers and toilet facilities are all in one location. My hooch is a coup in that sense -- I am very close to the ablutions. Once winter sets in, that will be a real premium!

We have a basketball court, all concreted in, a mess hall, doctor's hut, motorpool, even a swimming pool (a bunch of bunkers strung together strategically). Not exactly the most sophisticated filtration system, but hey, we're in the middle of a desert plain - who's going to complain? We even have a camp chaplain, a Catholic priest who is REALLY laid back -- he swears more than me, my sister, and her husband combined. (got a picture of him wearing his slick, all-black Afghan man-jammies, but I won't upload it unless and until he gives me permission.)

Perhaps most important of all is the chow hall. Most food cooked for the masses is nothing to write home about. These guys, on the other hand, are REALLY good. I've been overseas for the better part of eight years, and the things that are hardest to get in Malaysia and China, i.e. great beef, is something we get almost every day. Even more amazing given the location, they have fresh vegetables and fruit, and anybody will tell you that with military chow, what you start to miss the most is produce. They don't go crazy on spice, which is a change for this Louisiana boy, but I have a few bottles of Tobasco Smoked Chipotle that will hold me over for a while, at least.

I'm all settled in. Time to find out what I've gotten myself into.

Meeting and Greeting

The U.S. Embassy in Kabul (in keeping with my theory about how an Embassy reflects the culture where it resides) is a fascinating, dynamic, chaotic, quick-moving place where things don't always happen as expected. I would attach some pictures, but I did not take any. If I took the wrong picture I could have my camera confiscated (for obvious reasons -- security is at a premium at Embassy Kabul).

The lay-out screams impermanence. (Well, that's not entirely fair. The new Embassy is a few months away from opening as we speak, and they have also built entirely new living quarters, which, from the outside at least, look great.) For now, everything it is a little bit like parts of home in Lake Charles -- trailer park motif. The offices, the living quarters, the cafeteria, the little shack selling booze, it's all trailers, all the time. I can't remember the name of the company in the Emirates that makes these things, but they are earning cash and then some with the USG.

My time in Kabul is a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it is a gradual change from the States, which is really needed. The jet lag is awful, as the dry conditions and the altitude combine to make this below sea level kid strung out for the better part of a week. It also gives me a chance to beef up on my Afghan history and background, which is woefully inadequate (I am beginning to believe that I could stay here forever, and that background would STILL be inadequate.)

On the other hand, I feel a bit like OJ's gloves -- people like me, future or present PRT (that's Provincial Reconstruction Team) officers, don't quite fit here at this already idiosyncratic Embassy. Our wardrobe is pretty limited, for starters (typical Embassies require a suit and tie for most work. Even in Kabul, ties are de rigeur (hope I got that spelling right) for most folks. PRT types, who have thrown most of their possessions into a few duffel bags, are, well, scruffier (you've seen the picture from the previous blog, you know what I mean). Sort of walking advertisements for REI or Lonely Planet.) Consequently, when we are ensconced in Embassy confines, we don't quite fit in. This is by choice, mostly, but it makes for a strange time.

Not fitting in becomes something of a theme. For starters, I cannot seem to get a log-on to save my life. For whatever reason, the powers-that-be still believe (in e-land) I exist in Malaysia, my previous post. My physical presence apparently makes no change in this assessment. Nuts. Likewise, trying to get an Embassy ID, the new "worldwide badge" issued by the State Department, notwithstanding, is another trial of Job. In hindsight, these flubs are probably good training for me to work on flexibility and patience.

I have arrived at the same time as another PRT officer, who is destined first for Farah, in the southwestern corner of the country, and then off to Uruzgan province later. We both get the same round of introductory meetings -- the Finance Office (otherwise no salary -- a bad thing), the Med office (we're supposed to drink 4L of water a day, plus meals. Oh, and btw, don't eat any local produce. They inject the watermelons with water to make them heavier and can sell them for more, but the water ain't exactly pristine.), and anyone and everyone who might have some interest in our lives, from the U.S. Military (in all its permutations, and there are quite a few, let me tell you), to USAID (that's the Agency for International Development, the assistance agency which works with the Department of State), to the Afghan Reconstruction Group (a one of a kind entity, formed at the behest of the previous Ambassador Khalizad -- private sector experts volunteer to come to Afghanistan and lend their insight to the Government of Afghanistan, or GOA), and probably a few others I am forgetting (no, I did not meet with THEM. Get over it.)

After a few days, the heavens open up, and computer access is granted. I still cannot get an Outlook address, because of a Malaysian Ghost in the Machine (so they keep telling me -- I have more confidence in the IT techs in KL, to be completely honest), but I CAN use the internet, and that is my new lease on life. Looks like everything is ready; now all I have to do is catch a plane.

Planes, Trains, . . . Ahh, You Get the Idea

We're done with our meetings, so it's time to go, right? Well, not exactly. The Embassy has hired a South African outfit to run regular flights out to the various PRTs, named, aptly enough, PRT Air. PRT Air is supposed to run to Bamyan twice a week. The day before we are supposed to leave, PRT Air announced, quite quaintly, that it was having "engine issues."

So I'm stuck. I know there are tons of military aircraft up at Bagram Air Base, a stone's throw from Kabul, but it's pretty clear that on the Military Great Chain of Being, little ol' me does not rank up there enough to warrant aircraft of SOME kind.

The UN rides to the rescue again. UNHAS also runs flights out to Bamyan, just a few days later. I manage to get a seat (which, given the size of the puddle jumper they use, is actually saying something). The travel office tells us to be ready to leave for 9:00 a.m. for an 11:00 flight. Because of my own travel paranoia, I pack the night before.

7 a.m. the day of the flight, after a casual breakfast, I walk out and notice a vehicle convoy ready to head to the airport. "What are you doing?" they ask me. "We were supposed to leave 20 minutes ago!" Well, so much for my plans to knock out some more logistics. I run to my trailer, grab my stuff (including some seriously heavy body armor), and lug all of it out to the cars, which take off immediately. I am now on the most frightening ride in a vehicle I have EVER experienced. The drivers are taught not to stop for anything, and they don't, not oncoming traffic, not donkeys, probably not even humans unlucky or unwise enough to get in the way. We bob and weave in a drunken convoy like mad boxers that are hoping to make it past the seventh round. Nauseous, you say? Hah.

We arrive breathless at the airport. $45 bucks later (my tickets are paid for, but apparently my luggage for a year isn't), we are ready to board. Too bad the plane isn't. Now we have 5 hours of waiting. While waiting, I commit my first cultural faux pas. I grab my toothbrush to clean up, and head for the room marked "W.C." That's universal, right? Perhaps not. Some babushka-wearing Afghan woman shrieks at me and waves a stubby finger 3 inches from my nose, spouting some foul-sounding syllables in Dari at me. Maybe it is a girls' bathroom? I don't know. Either way, the teeth will have to wait. Thank goodness for Listerine breath strips.

They finally give us the call. We roll up to what could generously be called a Cessna, and get ourselves in place. Airlines differentiate between twin aisle and triple aisle planes. This is a single aisle wonder. The co-pilot leans back to tell us the pre-flight safety info, and zoom! We're off.

We follow a valley, and get up to 18,000 feet as our cruising altitude. Apparently this is a great altitude for turbulence. Think about what happens to the inside of an egg if you shake it too much. Fortunately, when the plane is not playing hop-scotch, I realize that the scenery is stunning. My only experience with anything similar is the Colorado rockies, but these are older, harsher, more primal somehow. There are probably better adjectives, but suffice to say that its a heluva view.

I was pretty scrambled (remember the egg analogy? clever continuation, huh) 30 minutes later when we started our descent. We can make out the runway a few miles ahead, but since this is a fluid security environment, as they say, we have to do a flyover first. It's my first time to bank into a roll with g's like that in place. Ugh. Have I mentioned how glad I am by then that I took dramamine 2 hours ago? Woof. One more bank, and we're level . . . and the dust and rocks start to kick up as we land on the airstrip. I am now in Bamyan. Home sweet home for the next year.

On My Way . . .

It's three weeks ago, August 19. I am on the ground in Dubai. The flight from Frankfurt arrived late, around 10 p.m., but I'm hoping I may have a chance to see some of the city. After 15 minutes of walking, and a beautiful little girl giving out candy (U.S. brands, no less), we hit immigration. Usually, this is one of the few remaining perks of the diplomatic world -- short immigration lines.

Not in Dubai. 25 minutes later, the line has moved two entire people. After an interminable wait, I get through immigration (the officer was quite nice, to be completely fair) finally grab my bags and head to the hotel. I'm too tired, so I forget to change money, and have to pay the cab driver in US dollars. I think I've been hosed, but I'm too tired to care. At least the hotel is first rate -- the Al Rostan Hostana Hotel.

The next day , August 20, I head for Terminal 2 around 8:30. They told me to be ready for the UN Humanitarian Air Services (UNHAS) flight to leave at 10. Terminal 2 is a different world from Terminal 1. This feels like backwater world, and no one seems to have any idea where the UN 1) doles out tickets or 2) keeps its offices.

Turns out UNHAS does not even open its gate for the flight to Kabul until 10. I've spent the last 2 hours in a plastic seat designed for a 7 year old, because that's all that is available, as I play fish out of water with my enormous bags packed for a year's worth of living.

Finally, they open the gate, and I sit next to the most amazing waiting passenger, who is sound asleep, but snoring so loudly the entire 8-seat bench is vibrating. I've NEVER seen or heard anything like this. I hope someday I can be that un self-conscious about my surroundings, but knowing my own temperament, that type of calm would only come with sedatives.

Around 1:00 p.m, we finally board the plane, an old DC-9. The flight attendants are quite nice (one is from Southern Africa -- I think Lesotho, but not sure). They serve us funky sandwiches with various and sundry spreads, one with tuna, one with cream cheese, one with . . . something. The muted tones of Frankie Goes to Hollywood's "Relax" comes over the PA, along with a plethora of 80's favorites. OK, so the UN is stuck in the 80's. I am sure there is a political statement in there somewhere, but I leave it to more astute minds than mine to develop it.

We land at Kabul Int'l Airport, with various military aircraft and pill boxes surrounding the strip. We all get up to get out, but no one is moving. It appears half the Afghan National Army (ANA) is lined up waiting for this plane. Turns out the Afghan Minister of the Interior is also on the flight. In other words, we're stuck for a bit. Until his entourage leaves, we cannot move, so the other passengers and I sit in the shade just off the airfield, wait for our baggage to be recovered and our immigration details to finalize. No telling just what exactly happens. The second we arrive, an expediter from the U.S. Embassy comes up, asks for our passports, and for a dollar for each bag. I don't have any small bills, so I now owe a man I've never met $4.

After an hour, we can finally leave. We each jump into some armored Landcruisers, led by a security armored Suburban, and go screaming through Afghanistan. A few short minutes later, we are at the Embassy. I am now in Kabul, capital of Afghanistan.

Salaam Melaykem and Welcome!

Salaam! Hello, as they say in Dari.

Welcome to my Afghanistan blog. This is the first time I have put one of these together, so it will look a bit amateurish (thanks to the folks at blogger.com for making it so easy to get up and running). I hope you will find it interesting, and encourage your input, after I get my e-feet wet. Like any blog, this will be a living document, especially in as dynamic a place as Afghanistan.

First a bit of background on me. My name is Aaron. I am an officer with the U.S. Department of State, a diplomat. I am a Louisiana native, coming from a medium-sized town, Lake Charles, Louisiana, sort of the far western boundary of Acadiana, or Cajun land. I worked for a few years as an attorney in New Orleans, enjoying myself thoroughly, but when the opportunity arose to travel the world on someone else's nickel, I took it. I have been doing this now for almost eight years. Like everything else, this will get fleshed out with subsequent entries.

A quick blurb about where I am. I live and work in Bamyan (Bamiyan, Bamian, there are lots of spellings, but the pronunciation is BAM-EE-YAN), the capital of Bamyan Province, Afghanistan. It is also the unofficial capital of the Hazarajat region, that part of Afghanistan that is populated predominately by the Hazara minority. Bamyan is different from many other parts of the country, but as I am coming to realize, each province, each region has its own distinct flavor and essence, which comes as no surprise to long-time Afghanistan hands, but is news to many of us (like me) new to this region and this country.

The next few blurbs will be some background on my travails actually getting here, and from there we will focus on the meat and potatoes of blogging. Tasha kor, as they say here -- thanks for stopping by!