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.