Kabul to MeS

And, finally, I was able to leave Kabul.  I was only there a few days but I couldn’t wait to leave.

I noticed the kids hanging around – the same ones from before who had grown taller and older, and what appeared to be younger brothers, sisters, and cousins.  These were the kids someone called “mongrel children” once and it kind of stuck.  They run after you, “How are you, my friend?” with their hands out, initially to shake hands and then to get candy, cookies, or money.  The older ones usually have a string of bracelets or other trinkets to sell.  It’s cheap and it’s the same stuff, over and over, in the bazaars and on the streets, but the kids appeal to most people.  The only problem with slipping them a buck or two is that they won’t go away.  And, so, it’s been going on for years.

I had a bag of Mary Janes – you know, the peanut butter candy they sell at stores for Halloween.  I’d eaten a few and decided to mess with the kids.  Last time I was here, the guidance was to avoid them.  They’re in the Green Zone (somehow) but the deal was to leave them alone.  Again, mostly because it encourages them… and the other reason is that no matter what you give them, someone older, bigger and stronger is going to take it away from them.  One year, a guy wrote his wife and she organized something and sent him a box of winter coats for the kids.  He handed them out and a few days later, they were on the street, sans the coats.  They’d been beaten up and the coats were gone.  It’s the life they have.

I went out to the road and it was like that Seinfeld episode where George got busted in the book store, “SWARM!  SWARM! SWARM!”  They were everywhere.  The older ones I remembered.  The younger ones must have been babies but they can walk now and they’re smart enough to ask for candy.  I handed everyone a piece and they dived in.  It was like being at a dinner party where the guests stand around and suck taffy-like candy with the paper still on.  They were all eye-balling the rest of the bag.  “Got any bracelets?”  And you could see them quiver.  “FISH ON A LINE!  WE GOT ONE OVER HERE!  FISH ON!”  The older ones’ heads were on swivels, trying to find the guys with the bracelets, while the younger ones were dashing around, “Cha mayga?  Cha mayga?”  (“What’d he say?  What’d he say?”)  Still sucking on the Mary Janes.  Dirty faces, eyes darting around.  Then two of them bolted through a gate and came back with one bracelet each.  “C’mon, guys.  Where are all the bracelets?”  They were on fire to make a sale, shoving those two bracelets in my face.  They go for $1 usually and one of them was OK so I told her she could have the rest of the candy for the bracelet.  She wanted the dollar.  Then one of them slapped my pocket where I keep my change (everyone keeps their change in their front pocket and the Afghan Little Rascals know it), “Just give change, my friend.”  “No.  You can have the candy.”  So, then they turned on the bracelet bearer.  They weren’t going to see the dollar or the change and those Mary Janes were pretty tasty.  We struck the deal, and Reilly will get the bracelet.

Then it was back to the military airport.  I had some time and just hung around with everyone else.  There were several different flights leaving within a short time span.  A platoon-sized unit from South Carolina showed up.  Dirty, faded uniforms, tired-looking soldiers.  Not loud or happy; just matter of fact.  I found out they were headed home after nine months here.  Other soldiers hanging around heard the word Manas (where we stage occasionally) and they reacted with envy, “Nice place to be headed.”  The guys grouped together – black guys and white guys separately.  The black guys stood around smoking Tiparillos; the white guys, cigarettes.  They probably didn’t even notice.

I caught a ride on a German C-160, a smaller version of a C-130.  Green canvas seats and backs (no mesh – solid canvas).  The German crew chief spoke excellent English but with “that” accent – the one I grew up with.  Quick, uneventful flight and when the plane landed, it was gloomy, overcast and cold.  It had been sunny and warm in Kabul, but Mazar-e Sharif was different.

On the ground there were Germans everywhere.  Their base is Camp Marmal and the biggest thing I noticed was you couldn’t get a copy of Stars and Stripes but free Bild Zeitungs were everywhere.  I stowed my gear and went exploring.

My next flight wasn’t supposed to leave for hours so I headed for the German PX.  Inside I found… wait for it… wait for it…. Hanutas!!!  Woo Hoo.  And, Schwib Schwab.  For those who don’t know, Hanuta (and I got this from Judy – after eating these bad boys most of my life – when I could get them – I didn’t know this) is a German sweet by Ferrero consisting of hazelnuts and chocolate sandwiched between two wafers.  The name hanuta is an acronym for Haselnusstafel, German for "hazelnut bar".  Schwib Schwab is a cola and orange drink that Reilly became addicted to when she studied in Germany.  For a second, I contemplated the irony of finding both on a remote base in northern Afghanistan until I dispelled my own wonder.  It’s a German base – of course they’re going to have things like Hanutas, Schwib Schwab and schnitzel.

Schnitzel?  The recon was on in earnest.  I find the German DFAC – the Kuche – and headed in.  Over here, it’s called Supreme.  They have one at ISAF in KIA and it is superb.  It’s like being in Germany.  Porcelain plates (we use disposable cardboard trays – just chuck everything in a trash can), silverware, and German food.  No schnitzel tonight but they had bratkartoffel, nudeln, hanchen, (potatoes, noodles, and yardbird) and thick rich gravy.  I couldn’t eat like that every day.  No dessert which was good.  I would have forgotten where I was if they had produced an aisle of black forest cake …

I walked back to the terminal and once inside, I noticed yet another guy I’d worked with the last time I was here.  He had resigned from the Army before his retirement and was working as a contractor while trying to get back on active duty.  Whatever he did worked as he left for Heidelberg before I left Afghanistan.  He was promised a promotion to LTC once he came back on board.  Sure enough, he’d been promoted and had spent a year in Heidelberg before being assigned back to Afghanistan for a two year hitch.  I was surprised at that but his whole purpose now is to retire from the military so maybe being over here will keep him out of trouble.

Later that night, all flights were cancelled.  I could have gone to their transient tent city but I thought I’d just hunker down across three wicker chairs.  It was about 4 ½ feet across and after I collected a few seat pillows, I thought I had it nailed.  Yet another dumbass call.

The lights were on all night, as was the big screen TV tuned into the Polish version of MTV.  The same music videos blared all night long.  I’d slept in the safe house on their shitty Chinese/Afghan made (one or the other) mattresses that were supplied by the lowest bidder.  How else do you explain mattresses where you can feel the springs?  I moved from there to the wicker chair accommodations.  By the time I woke up, my back was killing me.

Friday is the Afghan weekend and I guess that’s why the toilets didn’t get cleaned.   They’re outside the terminal in temporary building module and you can imagine what they looked like.  Pigs rooting in muddy shit are cleaner than everyone who used that bathroom.  Paper towels and toilet paper all over the floor – used and unused but none in the towel dispenser, overflowing trash cans, wet floors, unflushed toilets.  C’mon, man.  Unflushed toilets?

But, I was up so I washed up in the sink and cleaned my teeth with a paper towel from a pile of clean ones I found on the floor.

That bathroom reminded me of Brim Frost 88 (or 89 – can’t remember) in Alaska.  We went out for a few weeks and the temperature dropped to -78 – the coldest it had been in a century.  You don’t want to go to the bathroom when it’s that cold.  The rules on the tundra were that you couldn’t dig a cat hole and do your business so the Army brought in port-a potties.  That would have been great if it hadn’t gotten so cold and no one came out to clean them.  It kept piling up until people were standing on the seats and letting fly.  Everything was frozen so if you squinted, you might have thought of a Hershey World sculpture in every port-a John.  The upside was there was zero smell.  I digress.  The toilet in Camp Marmel was a lightweight compared to that.  But still, a mess.

A couple of Afghan guys cleaned them up this morning, though, and all was good in the world again.  The graffiti is the same the world over, too.  Mostly, it was about GIs dying in a shithole so a small group of people can make a shitload of money (lots of commentary on that one).  And that was juxtaposed with comments about how beautiful the non-US women in uniform are.  Someone had to write “your mother” or it wouldn’t have been a real latrine wall.  I saw a few German women who looked like models wearing uniforms.  I didn’t contribute to the poll; I’m just sayin’.

Inside the terminal, about 50 Germans were leaving.  They do six month tours and then rotate.  There was a line of five or six officers and NCOs and two or three buddies of the departing guys.  Everyone went through the line and shook hands.  These guys, both the ones leaving and those staying, were loud happy men.  Those remaining, yelled in German at the others, “See you in six months.”  In minutes, it was a done deal.  Another group on a plane headed back to “The World”.

Reminds me of another story.  In 1976, I was able to do a prisoner escort from Germany.  Each guy had two prisoners and we picked them all up from the stockade in Mannheim.  These guys had all been sentenced and were going to either Ft Leavenworth or the DB (disciplinary barracks) at Ft Riley.  My guys were headed for the DB.  We boarded the plane in Frankfurt and headed for New Jersey (I think we landed in Philadelphia).  The guys had cuffs removed on the plane but were told to be quiet and not talk to anyone – and not to bother the stewardesses.    Naturally, that’s what they did.  They all had headaches and wanted aspirins.  The flight began its approach and it got quiet and when the wheels touched down, the prisoners exploded.  “We back in the worl’.  We back in the worl.’”  All of them yelling and cheering to be back in the world like they just came back from a combat tour in Vietnam instead of the stockade in Mannheim.  They calmed down when we cuffed them and marched them through the airport to the cells at Ft Dix where they spent the night.  Next day, back in the world, it was a lot more solemn as we got closer and closer.  We’d split up after we landed in Kansas City and the Leavenworth guys were headed that way.  When the bus pulled up to the wire and concertina fence compound, and the Drill Sgt came flying on the bus, they were in for a world of hurt.  But, for a minute there, the day before, they were happy they were back in the world.  One of my prisoners acted like he nearly killed a taxi driver and robbed him because it was in Germany – he never would have done that in the states….

Another digression.

I walked back over to the Supreme for a European breakfast – brotchen with some Leoner (kind of a German bologna but light years better than Oscar Mayer).

I was going to hang around the rest of the day waiting for either a rotary wing or a convoy but I ended up catching an unexpected ride.  So, now I’m at Camp Spann.

Scenes along the way:

And, my favorite, a few more water bottle labels:

I’ll let you know if anything funny or interesting happens.