Tough Questions

The anonymous author of Kandahar Diary asks some tough questions of himself and his mission while waiting for a long-anticipated leave flight home.

Significantly, I’ve begun thinking about why I’m there and whether the whole thing is worth it. Is there any point in my being there? Do we make a difference and is Afghanistan worth it all? Frankly, right now, I answer ‘no’ to all of the above. I just can’t see the point. The country is a basket case – always has been and always will be. It seems to me the government does not have popular support, and Karzai spends more time criticising the West and ’reaching out’ to the Taliban than he does prosecuting the war. Warlords run the country and pose as significant a risk to overall stability, and to the security of my convoys, compound and men, as the Taliban. Everyone knows what will happen to this place when the west pulls out – at best, continued fighting as warlords and their factions vie for power and, at worst, all-out civil war. I’m no expert but I simply cannot imagine a scenario that includes a peaceful, stable and prosperous Afghanistan.
It just seems to me, right now, that it’s all a gigantic waste of time, money and lives.

I confess to thinking the same thoughts all too often, especially late at night after a long day. My own answers vary, depending on the type of day I've had.

Even the best intentions get ground away by life in this place, and all you're left with is your mission and your men. One can find temporary refuge in trying to do what's best for your people and leaving the bigger questions for later contemplation.

Market Rates

A while back, one of the commenters asked about "market rates" for things here in Kabul, including alcohol. Frankly, I don't pay much attention to the cost of things that I buy, partly because a lot of my regular expenses (food, rent, etc.) are covered and partly because I can't be bothered to keep track of these things.

However, for those people preparing to deploy to A-stan or considering a position here, I can say that a surprising array of products are available nowadays in Kabul. Although the quality may be an issue, there's not much in the way of necessities that you can't find somewhere in the city. Prices are a bit higher than the States (approximately equivalent to London) for most things, with a few exceptions.

Proper, authentic booze is anywhere from $75 to $150 USD a bottle, depending on brand. The fake rotgut stuff distilled from Russian brake fluid is cheaper, but you wake up with your intestines in your socks and can't focus your eyes for 36 hours.

Cigarettes, even the premium brands, are dirt cheap, as low as $0.50 a pack for the crappy Afghan/Pakistani brands. Even for the imported high-end smokes like mine, you won't pay more than $2.50 a pack.*

*And by "imported" I mean "fell off a truck in Tajikistan and smuggled across the border in a donkey's rectum." Gives them extra flavor.

Clothes are easy to find around the city, but quality is an issue. My advice is to pack only what you need and plan on buying extra stuff at the Bush Bazaar or one of the small shops. Most of it won't last, but it's cheap enough not to matter.*

*Note that this applies to men's clothes. I have no idea what women would find, unless you like full-body concealment in a fetching shade of blue.

Boots and shoes are a bit harder. Lots around, but most of it won't last a month. If you have access to an ISAF PX, you can get good stuff at a high price, or look for the stolen stuff that finds it's way to street vendors.

If you're going to be in Kabul for any length of time (and not on an ISAF base), do yourself a favor and get a local fixxer to handle the shopping for you. A keyed-in local can help you avoid the scams, negotiate on your behalf and locate those hard to find items like booze.

Under no circumstances should a Westerner new to Kabul try to buy weapons other than a knife. There are plenty of guns for sale, but it's illegal to buy and sell unless you work for a licensed PSC. The Afghans just love to make an example of Westerners and there's a good chance that the friendly guy with five AKs in the trunk of his Corolla is an NDS agent. Even if he's not, he'll sell you the gun (which won't work anyway) and then call NDS and rat you out. If you absolutely have to have a weapon (and your outfit doesn't provide one), find a friend at a PSC or high-up in the Afghan government. Otherwise, you're liable to end up getting the long-term rate at Pul-i-Charki Prison.

Pack some quality Western medicines (sometimes hard to find here) like rehydration tablets and something for stomach ailments, enough personal supplies (i.e. toothpaste, etc.) to get through a week or two, some rugged and versatile clothes and a decent pair of boots or hiking shoes. Pretty much everything else you can find here, or find someone who can find it for you.

Stopover in Dubai

After a couple of weeks off, I'm finally enroute back to Kabul. Had to kick-back for a day in a nice hotel in Dubai, waiting for the Afghan consulate to figure out a way to screw up the new visa rules.*

*The consular staff had become quite adept at screwing up the old visa rules, so the new requirements from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs disrupted their archaic (and profitable) system. It'll be a few weeks before they figure out how to squeeze bribes out of the new system. Even the normally remarkably adept Afghan criminal bureacracy has an adjustment period.

Not that I'm complaining about another night in Dubai. There are worse places to spend a night, like.........Somalia? OK, there probably aren't too many worse places to spend an extra day. At least Somalia would be interesting and not nearly as expensive.

Prior to Dubai, I spent some time in Vegas, DC and London, as well as few days with the family in the Midwest. All in all, a very relaxing and beneficial trip, although between the poker tables in Vegas and the W Hotel in DC, I pissed through about two months pay. Hey, that's what money's for, right?

Back to A-stan this afternoon to begin to get dug out from those things which almost-certainly were neglected while I was away and try to put out the fires. Seems I've missed a couple of active weeks as the spring campaign season kicks into high gear.

A long list of posts coming in the next couple of weeks as I get caught up on all the things going on in-country and highlight a few things from the other Afghanistan-focused blogs and sites.

Culture Shock

Most contractors and, I presume, most soldiers who go on leave from A-stan hop a long flight to somewhere in the States, are met at the airport by the wife/girlfriend/parent/child and are safely and securely ensconced at home in a matter of hours.

My recent trip back to the States started out similarly, but rapidly descended into some sort of bizarre dystopian fantasy straight out of a Hunter S. Thompson novel.*

*Can fantasies even be dystopian? I would've said no, but recent evidence suggests that they can.

Thirty hours after leaving Kabul, I was back at home with family for a brief but refreshing catch-up. Twenty-four hours after that, I made the rather dubious decision to jump back on a plane and head to Vegas for a few days.

Those of you who know me will be familiar with my longstanding rule against going to Vegas without proper adult supervision. When asked (usually increduously) why I had never gone before,* I always responded that if I went to Vegas by myself, in six days I would either be leaving in the penthouse suite of the Bellagio surrounded by strippers and cocaine, or end up dead in the desert with no pants. The latter always seemed considerably more likely.

*Given my well-documented affection for vices of all shapes and sizes, few who know me well were able to understand why I hadn't ever been to Vegas before. It seemed to them to be the obvious place for me to end up. They're probably right.

Well, I took the plunge and made the trip in the company of two old friends, both of whom are respectable, responsible married adults.* As it turned out, that was precisely what was necessary to keep the "better angels of my nature" from being overcome by my baser instincts. Without proper supervision, that contest is usually decided quickly, and not in the angels favor.

*Though they left the wives at home.

Kabul to the poker room at Mandalay Bay in two days is a recipe for severe culture shock. Attractive women to bring me free drinks (as if that right there isn't enough), thousands of dollars changing hands across the table, high-end restaurants a short-walk away and what can only be described as modern-day go-go girls dancing on elevated platforms over the Pai Gow tables. Stark contrast to sly Afghans, whiny American construction workers and burly South Africans operators.

In the end, we managed to avoid any industrial-level debauchery, and I lost only a manageable sum at the poker tables. Having not played any serious cards for a couple of years, I was unprepared for the Vegas sharks that patrol the poker room looking for their next kill.*

*Rule of Thumb: If you are sitting at a poker table, and a new person joins the game, and this person is on a first-name basis with the pit boss...........leave.

I kept the losses to less than a grand, which I thought was pretty good given the overwhelming environment and my lack of recent playing time. The majority of those losses can be traced to two hands, both of which I badly misplayed.

*Rule of Thumb #2: The baby-faced Dutch kid at the end of the table with eight grand in front of him is NOT an exchange-student with generous parents. He's a professional and he's playing his way around the world. With your money.

Only on the flight back to the Midwest did I realize that Vegas and Kabul do have one significant thing in common. They are both populated by keyed-in locals who are extremely adept at finding ways to take money off of Americans. In Kabul, they do it with a business license and a "logistics company." In Vegas, they do it with booze, cards and dice. And breasts.

I prefer the Vegas way.

Down Time

OK, so apparently a few of you have noticed that I haven't posted anything in a while. By way of response to the email questions I received:

1. No, I'm not dead (yet).
2. No, I haven't been fired (yet).
3. Yes, my internet is working fine.

The reason I have been quiet of late is that I have been taking some much-needed time away from The Rockpile. As I mentioned previously, working for an Afghan company does not allow me the generous 3-months on, 1-month off rotation that many contractors have, so I have left Afghanistan only a few times in the last fourteen months.

Fortunately, my visa expired and the new rules put in place by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs dictate that I leave the country, re-apply for a new 30-day visa and then re-enter A-stan and obtain a proper six-month visa and a new work permit. Note that while I would normally complain endlessly about the GoA's byzantine bureaucratic rules and red tape, in this case I'm going to let it slide since it allowed me to spend a couple of weeks in the States.

So far, I think I've spent more money in the last two weeks than I have in the last year. Worth every penny, if only for the chance to reconnect with a civilized world. I mean, who knew there were places in the world where one could buy a cup of coffee and a newspaper without resorting to a Land Cruiser and a concealed sidearm. Most people refer to this mystical place as "Starbucks." To me, it's disturbingly close to an (admittedly) warped definition of perfection.

Road Trip

Almost midnight, and I just got the word that I'm making a run to Jalalabad tomorrow. The curtailment of sleep is a greater concern than any risk from the movement. The run to Jalalabad is pretty secure, with only occasional trouble along the way.

Admittedly, once we did run into a spot of difficulty on the way back, but generally speaking the trip is no big deal. Tangi, Surobi and the Darunta Dam area sometimes see some HiG activity, but not usually until late in the day.

Rule One: Avoid the ISAF convoys- favorite target of the bad guys, and prone to indiscriminate fire when they feel threatened.*

*A Mk 19 40mm AGL can ruin the day for everyone within 200 meters if the gunner has a brain cramp and decides that all Afghans are "hostile."

Rule Two: Avoid fuel trucks- second favorite target. I learned my lesson on this one six months ago.

Rule Three: Keep an eye on the driver, especially on the pass through the mountains. Afghan drivers' testosterone is probably the single greatest risk on this run.

Back tomorrow afternoon with any luck, but my go-bag is packed in case we need to spend the night out at the job-site. Extra ammo and a can of peaches, as always. And this time, I'm taking a bit more firepower than a pistol.

365 Days

After I got back to my place tonight, stoked up the fire and poured my customary cup of days' end coffee, I suddenly realized that today, 4 March, is the one year anniversary of my arrival in Kabul. Since it's Thursday, and therefore tomorrow's on off-day (sort of), I promptly poured out the coffee and went for something stronger.

(Yes, I realize I should write some sort of One Year Retrospective Post or something, but I honestly can't think of what to write. Maybe something later this evening, depending on how fast my typing skills degrade.)

Not that there is any great reason to celebrate, but I thought I should mark the occassion somehow. Not in the mood to try and hit the town tonight, so I guess follow the immortal (and underrated) advice of George Thorogood and the Destroyers and "Drink Alone." After George sets the mood, perhaps some more classic 70's rock (Journey, Styx, Foreigner, maybe a selection of Skynyrd if I'm feeling particularly red-neckish).

Let's see, what do we have in the cigarette-and-liquor storage cabinet?

1) Two cartons of smokes- nice to know I won't run out, but not exactly what I'm looking for.
2) A pint of.........Chivas Regal?!? Really? It was a gift from The Godfather when he was in town recently. What does he think, I'm a pimp? Maybe I should get myself a big hat with a feather and a purple crushed velvet suit.
3) Yet another bottle (full) of Whyte and MacKay's Blended Scotch- Mssrs. Whyte and McKay have obviously not quite perfected the blender's art yet (despite being in business for over a century); not one of Glasgow's finer products.
4) The true prize, a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label- blended Scotch in general is not to my taste, but at least this is high-end blended (and quite hard to get nowadays in Kabul). Save that for later, I think.

So, I guess we start with the Chivas (and maybe some Curtis Mayfield or Barry White tunes to match, just to continue the pimp theme), and then move on the W&M's. If the bad guys blow something up tomorrow morning, I'm sleeping through it this time. Unless it's my front door, in which case I hope I can find my weapon and my pants before they get to the third floor.

Update: The Chivas is gone. Next step is the W&M's.

Back Home

In my last post, on Christmas Eve, I mentioned that this site might go dark for a few days while I worked off the damage done by copious amounts of Jack Daniels consumed in a Dubai hotel room. Well, obviously it's been a little longer than "a few days."

While I did positively pickle myself that evening, the real reason for my lapse in blogging was that I spent two very pleasant weeks in London trying not to think about Afghanistan and this job. Not entirely successful in that, but still it was nice to get away. However, now I'm back in the Rockpile, so I guess it's time to go back to work.

About ten minutes ago, I received a nice welcome home from the bad guys, delivered as usual with a very loud boom. Loud enough to rattle the windows and send me out to the balcony to see what's going on.*

*Yes I know, when things blow up, the preferred response is NOT to go outside, but I'd rather know what's going on then sit here in ignorance. If the bad guys are up to no good, I want to know where they are and what they are doing.

Apparently, a rocket struck the Wazir Akbar Khan neighborhood of Kabul, which is the swanky* bit of town where the big foreign companies and NGOs have their fancy villas. Not my neighborhood, but when you're talking 122mm rockets a few streets over is still too close.

*"Swanky" of course being a relative term. They still don't have paved roads and the primary means of trash collection is by hungry goat, but the villas are nice.

And just now, the power went out, which means either A) the bad guys are being mischievious little bastards and messing with people, or B) someone in the Ministry of Energy forgot that they occasionally need to perform routine maintenance. Even with the explosion, my bet is still the latter.

So, I could go downstairs and start the generator, but I think I'll just sit here in the dark and tend the fire in my bokhari.*

*Dari for "wood burning stove," the heating as opposed to the cooking kind. Only source of heat I have during this winter. I've conclusively proven that almost anything will burn if you pour enough diesel fuel on it.

Now if I could just find where I put that bottle of Jack Daniels. I'm pretty sure there were a couple of shots left.

DBIEDs

Lest you think I was kidding when I wrote one of the interliner notes on this post, here is confirmation that DBIEDs do exist.*

*The NY Times story calls this a "horse drawn cart" but I suspect that is simply a manifestation of the journalists of the "Grey Lady" being unable to determine the difference between a horse and a donkey. Even in Kandahar, donkeys pull the carts.

The disturbing bit is that when I was down in Kandahar a couple of weeks ago, I considered staying at the Continental for the night. My ISAF contacts told me it was "perfectly safe." That's why I rely on the locals to tell me what's safe and what's not.

Down South, The Return

Although we finished our business on the base at Spin Boldak within a day of our arrival, one can't just hop in the car and zip back to the airport. Kandahar Province in general is pretty nasty, and the stretch of road between Spin Boldak and Kandahar City is particularly dodgy. Plus, we were dependent on our hosts/client to provide the transportation. When one is hoping for a favor, it's best not to put conditions on it.

In this case, the favor was not a small one. It's technically not their responsibility to get us back and forth to the airport, and before you protest that "It's simply the nice thing to do!", remember that the trip from the airport to the base required two armored trucks, four PSDs and enough automatic weapons to keep a Latin American dictator happy.

For the reverse, we were going to require essentially the same load-out. The complications were that, this time, we had to presume that the bad guys 1) had seen us arrive at the base or were otherwise tipped off, 2) knew that we were not part of the regular rotation and therefore would probably be leaving again shortly , and 3) because of our in-and-out schedule, would assume we were VIPs (we're not).

The preferred tactic in this area is VBIEDs*, or Vehicle-Borne Improvised Explosive Devices, better known as carbombs.** They just nuzzle up close in heavy traffic, shout a prayer to Allah and push the button.

*Sometimes the militaries love of acronyms kind of gets out of hand. IEDs, VBIEDs, SVBIEDs (Suicide Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Device) and, my personal favorite, the DBIED (Donkey-Borne Improvised Explosive Device.) Yes, they actually have those.
**IEDs and carbombs, the Irish' contribution to modern life.

The U.S. military's solution to this devilish problem is (not surprisingly) to throw money and technology at it. They've deployed all sorts of fancy jammers, scramblers and "black-boxes" to Iraq and Afghanistan, with mixed results. The bad guys have simply reverted to bags of ammonium nitrate fertilizer and two wires attached to a car battery.

We, of course, have no access to the fancy Pentagon magic, but the PSDs we were riding with used an approach more psychological than technological. Quite simply, we left at 4:00 o'clock in the morning. Even the Taliban has to sleep, and in the hours before dawn the roads are clear. The only other vehicles on the road are trucks running to and from the Pakistani border and the occasional mini-bus making an all-night run between Quetta and Kandahar. The disadvantages of driving at night are outweighed by the advantage of having a considerably reduced number of potential threats to monitor. Plus, these guys know the route so well they can drive like NASCAR champions and brake just before speed bumps they can't even see. Sounds crazy, but these guys are professionals and I was willing to trust their judgement. And they were right.

The downside of leaving before dawn was that we arrived at the airport with six hours to kill before our flight. Waiting at any airport for six hours is like six years in Purgatory, but the euphemistically-named Kandahar International Terminal is worse than most.*

*Not to be confused with Kandahar Airfield, or KAF, which is the military-side of the airfield. I'm sure over there they at least had hot coffee. And chairs.

However, I once again found myself the beneficiary of traditional Afghan hospitality. While the guard at the gate couldn't let us into the airport until it officially opened at 9:00, he was kind enough to let us share his fire and fetch us some chai while we waited. Then, once we were actually in the airport proper, it took only five minutes of conversation to secure a comfortable seat on the couch in office of the Deputy Commander of airport security, where we waited out our time, sipping tea, eating biscuits and hard-boiled eggs, making small talk with various Border Police officers, and watching Hindi music videos.

I don't know if he would have done this for anybody who came in that morning (I doubt it), but it's fair to say that he didn't have to be pushed or cajoled into it. As soon as he understood our situation, his first response (like a good Pashto) was to say, "Well come to my office and have breakfast and we'll pass the time together." He even summoned the local airline rep to his office to arrange our tickets in person.*

*The Pashto code of hospitality, or Pushtunwali, has been alternately praised and excoriated (and misrepresented) in the public press, but in this case it really worked in my favor.

When the flight arrived and was ready to board, he personally escorted us to the plane, bypassing all the security checks and lines, and made sure we got seats in business-class. All in all, a stellar performance completely at odds with my notions of airports, bureaucrats and police. The only wrinkle was a slight delay in the departure while we waited for a Predator unmanned drone to land and taxi off the runway. It does somewhat shake one's faith in the safety of air travel to see a plane with no pilot land in front of you. Makes me want to get up and check the cockpit, just to make sure there is someone flying my plane. Then again, in a country with a surplus of Russian pilots and black-market vodka, maybe I'd rather not know.