I’m staying at Camp Spann, named after Michael Spann, a former CIA operative who was the first American killed in combat in Afghanistan in 2001.
The camp is in a remote area of northern Afghanistan. Lots of generators running 24 hours/day. Trailer-like buildings made of wood or plastic. Some tents. Both concrete and wooden floors, indicating a sense of permanence. Lots of gravel and dirt, stone walls and concertina wire. Bunkers every few feet.
HUMMVs and MRAPs constantly moving. GIs standing in groups, smoking and bullshitting. And hescoes. Everywhere. Hescoes were invented by the same guy who invented the Segway.
There’s one DFAC but a second one has just been finished. Long lines all the time. The DFAC is open after dinner until breakfast for sandwiches and soup. Unfortunately, there isn’t any bread due to the disruption of the convoys coming from Pakistan. The cooks put out tortilla wraps when they have them. Otherwise, it’s cheese and meat roll time. Different entrees for lunch and supper, and a hearty breakfast. Spann has two gyms. One is housed in a hangar and the other in a small Quonset hut. There’s a small post office with friendly GIs and a laundry facility where you drop your bagged dirty stuff and get it back clean in 48 hours. There’s also a wood shop that is busy building the camp.
I live in a b-hut that has been sectioned into six separate rooms. 9 X 11 for each guy. The dividers are plywood and blankets. My piece of plywood is 6’6” high and on one side, there’s a blanket separating me from my neighbor. If you’re shy about anything, this isn’t the place to be. You hear every cough, breath, fart, and word.
Skype, that savior for marriages, is popular but everyone hears what you have to say. The last tour we could use the phones to call home; this tour it’s been declared “theft from the company” if you do so. We’re issued phones and sim cards, and every month given minutes to use for business calls. No personal calls this tour on the company’s dime. It’s a lot more private to walk outside and make a call than to use Skype in such close environs, but then you can’t see who you’re calling if you don’t use Skype. It’s a trade-off.
My office is in the same kind of b-hut. Computers are limited - the Army has put so many restrictions on them (no external devices, limited access to sites) to keep viruses off that they're sometimes frustrating to use. The flip side, of course, is that computer viruses are an epidemic in the country and without the stranglehold, nothing would be usable. If you give a terp your personal thumbdrive for anything, it's 100% certain to come back severely tainted.
The bathrooms are kind of rough, but I’m not complaining about anything. I can take a hot shower when I want it and come in to go to the bathroom. Other that the way the water stinks like sewage (and it does), it's OK.
Interestingly, there is a sign on the toilet doors:
What that means is we have some people here from cultures that don't use toilet paper. They'll grab a water bottle and fill it up and go into the toilet. They're used to squatting so they climb on the toilets and do one repetition of "beat your boots" (hence the "keep your feet off the seat line"). Then after they do their business, that bottle of water and the left hand come into play. I'm not sure exactly how it works since I've never observed it - in the wild or on the National Geographic channel - but it's gotta be quite a sight. Culturally, for the folks who use their left hand that way, they don't use the left hand for much of anything else - no handshakes or taking food, for example. And then they leave empty water bottles on the floor.
We got new shower curtains yesterday and it was so shocking, I thought I was underwater and I quickly checked to ensure the regulator for my SCUBA gear was working fine…
Seriously, though, nothing to criticize. I can take a shower when I want and I have hot food three times/day. I also have a bed. There are troops downrange who don’t have any of that, and as we encounter problems and shortages, I have to remember the guys sleeping in the dirt, cleaning themselves with Chubbs and eating MREs, all for weeks at a time.
Still…. This morning, I was leaning against the sink, brushing my teeth (you can’t drink the water so you have to bring in bottled water) when some big hairy thing emerged from the shower. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement and that walnut-sized thing in your brain that houses something primal dating back to Neanderthal times, sent a jolt of adrenaline coursing through me and a voice screamed in my head, “Kill it! KILL IT! K-I-L-L IT!!!” I gripped the toothbrush and was about to jam the handle into wherever I thought the neck might be when I saw something protruding from the bear skin coat that looked like a shaved human head. My brain was still raging at me to act (“Don’t let it kill you. F*ck that thing UP!!!”) but another part of me thought that whatever that hairy moving mass was, it could maybe be part of the human species rather than a Yeti. Sure enough, it was just a guy, but one with enough hair to make a wooly mammoth jealous. Now, I’ve been taking open showers since 1967 when Coach Claus insisted all of us get cleaned up after 7th grade PE. I’ve seen a lot of different men and never gave any of it a thought. This, however, was something new and outside my experience. I have some hirsute friends who are going to think I’m exaggerating but I’ll tell you that this guy is a throwback. Shaved head and the rest of him is one big hair shirt. I’m glad I didn’t attack him now – as much for the embarrassment I would have faced for trying to stab a guy with a toothbrush, and of course, because it would have ruined the toothbrush. I probably would have lost it in the briar patch of his neck area and even if I would have ever recovered it, it would’ve been encased in hair. You know how when your vacuum cleaner doesn’t roll across the carpet as smoothly as it once did, and you flip it over and discover the roller is full of hair so you have to get some scissors and start cutting the hair off the roller? It would’ve been like that with the toothbrush but the brush would have been covered with fur the depth and consistency of shag carpet. So, whew.
Directly outside the wire of Spann is the 209th Afghan National Army (ANA) Corps area where I meet daily with my counterpart, an Afghan Brigadier General.
My last tour, my counterpart was also a BG. He was one very bad hombre. Missing his thumb on his right hand where a bomb blew up right in front of him. You go to shake his hand and you slide right along until you stop somewhere along his forearm. (The thumb is like a backstop for a handshake. Think about it next time you go for a friendly grip.) He was a Mujahedeen fighter with Massoud as a young man and worked his way up from there, taking dangerous jobs all the while and becoming very popular with the troops. Massoud , the Lion of Panjshir, was the military leader credited with sending the Soviets home when they were here 30+ years ago. My guy from last time is also from Panjshir and worked closely with Massoud.
Massoud would have been the President of Afghanistan but was assassinated by al-Qaeda. (I saw one of the cheap Pakistani videos of his life that showed graphic photos of the death scene following the bombing. When you start thinking too much about yourself, it would be wise to remember we're all just slabs of meat.) Massoud is a national hero, though, and his picture is everywhere – on walls, on cars, on billboards, in offices, and there are even monuments him - Massoud circle in Kabul, for example. Every government office with a picture of Karzai has a picture of Massoud next to it. It would be similar to not only putting the President’s picture in every government office but also having some larger-than-life guy share the wall. John Wayne, maybe. Or Audie Murphy. So, anyway, Massoud was an all-around bad ass and is highly revered.
I met my new General and found that not only is he from Panjshir (population today about 300,000 people who are primarily Tajiks – the importance of tribes can never be overemphasized – it’s as much a part of life as their physical beings), he also fought with Massoud and he and my old General are BEST FRIENDS. Both fought the Russians side by side. Guerilla fighters. My stock went up when he heard about my relationship with BG Khalil which will make things much easier. It takes a while to develop trust here but once you’re in, you’re really in. On the flip side, his stock went way up with me, as well.
The custom here is to serve chai to guests and he was really having a tough time because he wasn’t able to serve me any. It’s a social faux pas but I told him it was fine. Normally, the General would have a chai boy who is just a “gofer – driver – make the tea – do what I tell you” kind of guy. It’s a little different in this Corps as they’re constrained by space. No chai boy = no chai. And, it’s unconscionable to him that he hasn’t made it happen yet. It will be a daily event – chai every morning in his office. Man, I hope he shows up with those raisins like BG Khalil used to have. There was a lazy susan on the table and it had raisins and nuts and some candy – different things every day. But when the raisins came out, my heart raced. You have never had raisins like an Afghanistan raisin and from what I've been told (with obvious pride by the teller), the fruit from the Panjshir valley is the best in the country. 100% chance (as Ski says). I try to be polite and just pick at them while we talk, but I usually end up shoveling them in with both hands, both fists pumping raisins like jackhammers. When I have to talk, I smile with pieces of raisins covering my teeth and spit and spray residue everywhere. “MMMMmmmmmm, raisins.” It's very Homer Simpson.
My terp is 21, going on 40. His English is good and the other contractors told me that I hit the jackpot with him. He told me he's the man of his family. (Not "You the MAN! kind of man" but really the man of the family.) He has three sisters and three brothers, half older, half younger, but he’s the only one with a job. He lives at home and supports his family. His father is dead. Because he's the only one bringing any jack home, he’s the man. He’s also studying at school – a combination of poly sci and law that will split in separate tracks at some point and he’ll have to pick his path.
I met some of the staff. Previously, when I met the staff of the 201st Corps in Pol-e Charkhi, I was taken with how hard they looked. It was like being thrust into a room with hardened criminals who just eyeballed me with frown-y faces. This time I didn’t feel at all imperiled. They’re still a rough-tough bunch but I know the deal now.
Lots of stale cigarette smoke and dust motes flying in the sunlight. That residue, plus the shitbirds who insist on smoking in the port-a potties and thereby make it impossible to take a leak, will probably have me developing cancer from second hand smoke. I’m waiting for one of those port-a potties to explode, sending the container about 10 feet into the air with the smoker finally emerging covered in goop.
The office also had the Karzai picture on one wall and Massoud on the other.
Lots of stale cigarette smoke and dust motes flying in the sunlight. That residue, plus the shitbirds who insist on smoking in the port-a potties and thereby make it impossible to take a leak, will probably have me developing cancer from second hand smoke. I’m waiting for one of those port-a potties to explode, sending the container about 10 feet into the air with the smoker finally emerging covered in goop.
The office also had the Karzai picture on one wall and Massoud on the other.
Today, the General and I were trading stories, getting to know one another and he told me about a family problem he's having. His son is 21 (“20, 21, something like that”). The custom here is that women stay in the home until they’re married. The marriage is one where the parents promise the girl to another family so it’s arranged among family (cousins) or to someone in the same tribe. There’s no dating; no running around. It’s very tightly controlled and bound by honor. The General has two sons and five daughters. A girl from Panjshir told the son that she loved him and ran away from home to be with him. In this culture, it's one of the biggest taboos and insults to the honor of the family (read: men) that anyone could possibly entertain. The family of that girl now wants the General’s son and their daughter killed. The General says he’s been to thirty jurgas – a sit-down controlled by a village elder – an Afghan equivalent of mediation/arbitration. At the last jurga, the village elder told the General to pay the aggrieved family $30,000. The General was going to sell his house and property but the girl’s family refused. The only thing they will accept is for the girl and boy to be killed. So, both kids are in hiding in safe houses. The government hasn’t gotten involved yet. If they do, they’ll decree something that should allow these two kids to get married if they want and make an official statement to leave them alone. But, in this culture, a blow to the honor can fester for many lifetimes. At some point, someone in the future is going to kill the two of them unless the girl’s family will agree to a settlement. And, it’s not looking like it’s going to happen. So, the General is worried about losing his son to a targeted killing.
Like I’ve said for a long time, it’s a place Westerners will never fully understand.
As I walked back to Spann, I realized I was getting the hairy eyeball from quite a few of the Afghan soldiers. Not sure why. We never have any idea if those looks are looks of curiosity or hatred. Since the dudes have AKs strapped across their chests, though, I give them a “Salaam Aleikum” or a “Su bach ey” or a “Char tur est e” or whatever else I can think of. Most of the time, they don't say anything. Just keep looking. It's only a little unnerving.
I’ll close with two articles I found that, despite perspectives on two completely different aspects of things, I think sum things up. You’ll understand some of the dynamic better as these stories are very well written.
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/08/world/asia/08burn.html?_r=1&src=twt&twt=nytimesworld
I understand the anxiety. When our son was over here on a combat tour in the eastern part of the country, I was a nervous wreck. That did something to me. And I can relate to this monumental number of family members worrying about their kids in a combat zone. (No, Judy, it doesn't apply to you worrying about me - I'm relatively safe. Safer this time than last time, actually.)
Let's see what happens next.
I understand the anxiety. When our son was over here on a combat tour in the eastern part of the country, I was a nervous wreck. That did something to me. And I can relate to this monumental number of family members worrying about their kids in a combat zone. (No, Judy, it doesn't apply to you worrying about me - I'm relatively safe. Safer this time than last time, actually.)
Let's see what happens next.
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