Chris, Chris and Chris

Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Breakfast – Cheerio’s and Not Milk

Yesterday I talked about ISAF base, but I just realized that I didn’t explain what ISAF is. ISAF stands for International Security Assistance Force. It’s the name of the NATO-led force in Afghanistan. It’s comprised of multiple countries’ military forces, and the ISAF base is next to our base here.

USAID is between the ISAF base and Camp Eggers, our base. Eggers was named after a soldier killed in action by and IED. While we’re on the subject of acronyms… here’s something a little morbid… there are three types of IEDs… in order of severity, they are: IED, BBIED and VBIED. I’d define each, but would rather move off of the morbid stuff. You can Google the acronyms if you want to know what they stand for.

I have an office mate from Diet Pepsi. She’s a VP who’s been working here on and off since we first started in 2003. She was born and raised in the Dominican Republic, and married an Irish-American. She’s an absolute riot. This morning, I lamented not being able to take any pictures, and she showed me to the roof of our building. I snapped quite a few photos.  Hover over an image to read the caption.  Click on an image to enlarge it.

I also went back to USAID again for another visit. When I came out, my new friend Bashni was playing in the dirt and was VERY happy to see me. “This my dirt. This dirt, my dirt.” How cute is that?!?!?!

• Nestle Honey Cheerio’s.  At first I was concerned that Nestle Honey would be a chololate/honey mix of some sort, but it’s really just the Afghani name for Honey Nut Cheerio’s. 
• There was some kind of white fluid poured over the cereal.  The text on the box of fluid was written in another language, but I think the translation was “not milk.”… nasty stuff. 
• Toast.

Lunch today … chicken broth, tomato/celery salad, tangerine
All of our security guys at the compound are local Afghanis.  They’re rather steely-eyed, and none speak English, but they smile and say a fairly phlegmy “hollow” when I say hi.  They were a little unnerving at first, because before coming over, I’d sort of trained myself to run away from Afghanis with guns.  Turns out, I had prejudiced myself.  Afghanis with guns are not all half bad.

My Guest House is across the street from my office and a short way down the block.  It’s about the same distance as a walk from my desk at New Coke Headquarters to my buddy Mike’s office.  I make that walk a lot at home.  (Mike’s always good for a 10AM brew.)

Differences between this walk and that walk:

• No Mike (nor brew)
• I have to go through eight doors here
• Door 3 has two guards with fully-automatic weapons (GWFAW), one of which opens the door for me (nice of him)
• Door 4 on the inside has two guards with pistols (GWP) one opens the door for meDoor 4 on the outside has at least two and sometimes four GWFAW’s
• Door 5 (first door into my house) on the outside has one GWFAW
• Door 5 on the inside has either two GWP’s or two GWFAW’s  (this morning it was one GWP with one GWFAW… through me off a bit.) either way, the Door 5 guys also open the door for me

Even though there’s a lot of royal treatment (door holding and stuff,) I kind of like the walk to Mike’s office better.  You just can’t beat the brew.

Unless they have double-secret-permission-whatever-that-is from the Afghani government, it’s not legal for a foreigner to touch a gun in this country.  If I pick up a gun, even if it’s to defend myself, I will be thrown in jail.  Given the choice of Afghani prison or the alternative, I’ll touch a gun.  No problem.  Afghani prison isn’t as nice as Leavenworth (no shuffle board,) but I’m sure my wife would find a way to spring me. 

I take a car to the USAID office once or twice a day.  The cars are tricked out Toyota Range Rovers with bullet-proof glass and armor platting.  They weigh about six billion pounds, and probably get about two gallons to the mile.  The industry term for these things is “hard shell.”  “The hard shell is on its way…. Take the hard shell, etc.”

Today, I took my last trip to USAID.  I really like it there for several reasons.  1) The people are awesome.  2) It reminds me of why America is here.  3) It’s in the US base compound, so it’s REALLY safe.  We’re sort of out in the open in our compound, but they’ve got HUGE walls behind HUGE walls.

USAID is what you taxpaying folks want it to be.  The people are sharp.  Almost all of them are in it for the right reasons, and their approach to rebuilding the country is right on. 

Wow.  A US army chopper is flying over very low… scratch that, two.  Scratch that… wow… a whole bunch.  My office has a shared balcony with two VP’s offices.  I was the only one who got up to watch.  I’m such a dork.

We have cell phones.  It’s a non-joking matter (even for me) to go anywhere without your cell phone (even the bathroom when you shower.)  The SMS system is our emergency response system.  If there’s a problem, we get a text message telling us what to do.  Every phone is GPS-able, so they can find everyone and get cars to them.

The phone came in very handy tonight, because my car didn’t show up to pick me up from USAID.  I sat on a bench at the gate for half-an-hour waiting.  Lots of boys beg at the gate.  They’re usually run off by the guards, but tonight, an adorable little begging kid came over and sat down next to me.  He looked to be about eight years old. 

After a couple of minutes, it became obvious that he was not a REAL beggar.  He was a kid who was bored.  He had nice clothes on.  They fit him.  He was clean, and he was horrible at begging.  I sound like I know my beggars, but in truth, I also know he wasn’t a real beggar because his dad came out of the ISAF gate and a hard shell drove up and whisked them off.

While he sat there, he said what all the other boys were saying.  “You give me dollar.”  I said, “you give ME dollar.”  He looked at me oddly and said, more articulately, “You give me doooollar.”  I said, “you give ME doooollar.”  Then he realized I was joking and he started to laugh a cute little-guy laugh. 

We sat there watching all the army guys coming and going in their hard shells and armored vehicles, and then he quietly said, “noma dernfa der.”  “What?”  “Nomaday erno fa der.”  “Nomaday?”  “Nomaderno.”  “Nomaderno… nomaderno… nomaderno… no mother no father?”  “No moder no fader.”  I laughed and without thinking, taught him to properly say, “no mother, no father.”  After about ten tries, he got it.  Wait!  What am I doing?!?!

He asked me my name.  “Nate.”  “Naaah tay?”  “Nate.”  “Naaah tay.”  “What’s your name?”  “My name Jimmy.”  This kid was no more Jimmy than I am Mahmud.  “Jimmy?!?!? [nod]  No, what’s your name?”  “My name Jimmy.”  Then I gave him my father-face.  “What’s your name?”  He smiled a big ol’ ornery smile and said, “Bashni.”  “Bashni?”  “Bashni.”  We both chuckled.

We sat for ten more minutes without speaking as guys from my country came back from patrol.  The sun was going down, and the bench was getting chilly, but watching all the guys was neat for both of us.  Bashni occasionally sang to himself, which only made him MORE adorable.  Then his dad came out of one of the gates, scooped him up in a big nuzzle kiss, and they were gone.  I suppose the US army is a fine baby-sitter if you have a meeting on the base.  It hadn’t occurred to me until he was gone that unlike the other begging boys, Bashni was sitting with me INSIDE the gate. 

It was neat.

            Home Time – Saturday, January 9 – 6:45 PM

I slept for about six hours last night.  I woke up at 4:30, and couldn’t go back to bed.  Jet lag, I guess.  Here are some other thoughts… in no particular order. 

Alcohol is illegal in Afghanistan.  That’s a Taliban law from back in the 80’s.  There’s plenty of alcohol here, though.  The bars pay off the cops.

I eat meals at the Guest House with my new best friends.  My housemates Chris, Chris and Chris are all Americans.  The Chris’s are convinced that someone put them all in the same Guest House so they wouldn’t have to learn any new names.  The chef made rice and beefy goulash somethin’ or other with a side of fries.  (“Chef” is a stretch.) 

The Chris’s are happy to have another person in the house, even if it’s just for a short while, and they take good care of me.  We’re an all male house, but that’s not a requirement.

Chris 1 and Chris 2 have been here together for quite a while.  Because they eat each meal together, and are usually each other’s only company from 5PM to 8AM, they’ve become a little husband and wife-ish.  Chris 1 eats, Chris 2 is the one who goes to the store when they’re out of honey.  Chris 1 is a tougher dude.  Chris 2 is more polite.  I like them both a lot.

Chris 1 is a large, construction-lookin’ dude in his 50’s from Diet Pepsi’s North Carolina office.  He’s a great Hobart, Oklahoma kind of dude.  Barrel-chested and as nice as nice can be.  He’s the project manager for the big road being built in the southeast.  It’s the most dangerous project we have… quite possibly the most dangerous piece of construction work in Afghanistan.  He project manages the roadwork from our compound here, but does occasionally need to head into the field.  He’s been through 3 IED attacks.  One blew up behind him.  One blew up in front of him, and one “was the worst aimed son-of-BLEEP I ever saw.  It took out the trigger man, instead of his target.”  Then he sincerely said, “it looked real pretty out my window.”  Chris 1 has been here three years.

Chris 2 is a New Coker from my own building back in [the city I live in.]  My New Coke pals can guess his alma-mater in one try.  I have to say that it’s nice to see the Big 12 represented in Afghanistan, even if the school has “rootin’ tootin’” in their fight song.  He’s a great guy… quiet, really good natured and a hilarious dry sense of humor.  If he and Scotte ever meet, I want to be there.  I’ll be in tears.  He seems genuinely pleased to have someone in the house who laughs at dry humor.  Chris 1 doesn’t quite understand Chris 2‘s little asides.  When I start laughing, Chris 2 seems truly relieved to finally have his humor understood.

Chris 3 is a young-ish engineer.  He’s a short-timer.  This is his second time here.  This rotation is only 3 months long, but he was here for almost all of 2008.  He’s similar to most of the late-twenty’s engineers at New Coke, although he works for Diet Pepsi.  Nice guy.  Works hard.  Never wrong.

Last night on CNN, the four of us watched as Wolf Blitzer ask John McCain if Karzi was “on the right track” in establishing a corrupt free government here.  Our reaction was like the scene in Animal House when the picture of Flounder’s face pops up on the slide projector screen.  No beer was thrown, but at once, we all started yelling at the TV.  My house-mates are bribed almost daily as they try to get food and equipment to their guys in the field.  Each province (similar to US states) bribes them, the warlords bribe them and very often people from the Afghan gvmt try to bribe them.

There’s a laundry basket in my room.  A little plastic jobby, just like one you’d have at home.  Each morning, you put your dirty clothes in there, and when you get back, they’re clean, ironed and folded.  (Kristin, who does more than her share of laundry, says that’s no different for me than how it is at home.)

According to my house-mates, any white clothes washed by our house-maid slowly turn gray.  We have a common kitchen, dinning room and living room.  We eat lunch and dinner in the dining room.  Breakfast is usually eaten while sitting around the TV in the living room… it’s really all very college dorm or frat-like.

The décor of our living room is 1975.  Big UGLY furniture which is incredibly comfortable. Why modern furniture isn’t as comfortable as 70’s stuff is beyond me.  The only thing not out of 1975 is the giant flat screen TV with DISH network reception.  Breakfast is eaten while watching the English version of Al Jazeerra.  It’s like CNN, but more middle-eastern focused.  This morning, I saw that my home town was going to have a high of 1 degree.  We made Al Jazeera!!!  (That’s 1c, not 1f.)

There’s also a book-swap/library-sort-of-deal and a whole bunch of DVD’s purchased for $2 at the local bazaar. 

They G and H in Guest House are capitalized, because Guest House is the name of the company who rented us all this space.

My room is REALLY small.  It’s about ten feet by eight feet.  The walls are made of concrete, which seems really safe until you notice the floor-to-ceiling glass window and door along one wall.  The bed is conveniently placed next to the window.  I guess that’s so that if there’s a bomb, my body will block the flying glass, making it easier for the house people to clean up.  The glass door doesn’t shut all the way, so I can hear the street noise all night. 

At 5:30 each morning, the masque loud-speakers amplify the sung/chanted morning prayer.  It’s actually quite beautiful to hear; although, I think it would sound much prettier at noon.  The speakers sound like they’re a few feet from my head.  Chris 2 said they have a new Mullah (dude who sings the prayers.)  He said, “yeah, he’s not bad.  The last guy was a little more intense.”

Every car door-slam terrifies me.  One guy from the next Guest House over slams the doors in his house all the time.  This also scares the junk out of me. He’s not trying to be mean, he’s just socially dumb.  (He’s an engineer of the worst kind… TWO Ph. D’s!!!)  As I mentioned on Saturday, there are two sets of steel doors blocking entrance into each building and house.  I’ve learned that steel doors don’t really close softly.

First, NO ONE tells people they work here.  I leave the compound once or twice a day for meetings, and have made friends with my usual driver.  He told me that his parents don’t even know he works here.  “You haven’t even told your parents?  What do they think you do?”  “Well, I have a doctorate of pharmacology, so they think I work in a Pharmacy.”  “You’re a Pharm D.?”  “Well… not exactly.  I have a Doctorate of Pharmacology, but by trade, I’m a driver, not a Pharmacist.  I make more money this way.”  He’s worked for Soda since 2002. 

They don’t tell other Afghanis for two reasons, because if they left Kabul, they’d be killed.  The electricity-less Kabul is downright cosmopolitan compared to most parts of this country.  At the risk of degrading my own country, it’s not always that different at home.  Great family-friends of ours are a mixed marriage couple.  They were quite concerned about moving to The South.  Now, they wouldn’t be killed today, but just 40 years ago, they might have been.  I don’t like thinking about the USA in that light, but sometimes, people get so hung up on their own culture… their own dogmas… that they lose touch with reality.  I’m kind of that way with Thin Mints and milk.  The Afghanis, especially in rural areas, think we’re invading, and forcing our evil culture on them.  My point is, we’ve been there.

“Don’t destroy our culture.”  That’s been the battle cry on at least one side in almost every single war in history.  We have thousands of local people working for Soda either directly or as contractors throughout the country… none of them feel safe enough to tell people about it.  This is part of the reason why I’ve not taken any pictures outside of the Guest House.  We’re not strictly forbidden, but it scares the people here.  I can’t blame them for that.  Heck, one photo might get someone killed.   

If it’s that dangerous for them, then why do they do it?  I’ve not yet heard anyone say, “Because I want to make my country stronger.”  Instead they all say the same thing.  It’s the same reason anyone ever takes a dangerous job.

Home Time – Saturday, January 10, 2010 – 9:55 AM  

Yesterday, I went to the USAID offices to meet with some of our clients.  I had five one-hour meetings there.  The USAID people are great.  There’s a lot of altruistic motivation over there.  They’re Peace Corps kinds of people who really want to help.  This will sound cheesy, but being there made me proud to be an American.  They’re going to get these roads built.  “Without roads, they just won’t be able to sustain themselves.”  They’re going to get the power up and running.  “One of our girls here told me that once we finished the [recent power improvements], her power went from being on once every three days for five hours, to being on eighteen hours a day.  Can you imagine what that will do for those people?!?!” 

Thank God for that short trip over there.  Those guys are awesome.  In addition, they had some VERY good things to say about New Coke which wasn’t the case a year ago.  That will make my job here MUCH easier.

To explain some more about the goings on here, let me first explain what we’re doing.  New Coke is involved in a joint-venture with a company I’ll call Diet Pepsi.  We set aside our cola wars to build roads, bridges and power plants for the Afghani people.  For ease sake, let’s call joint-venture of New Coke and Diet Pepsi by the name of Soda.  We’re in it 50/50.  Soda has employed 2500 security people to do allow us to get our work done in Afghanistan.  Seem like a lot?  Well, there’s a lot of need.  

We try to build a road, they shoot at us.  We try to build a bridge, they shoot at us, and then blow it up once it’s complete.  We build an amazing hydo-power plant, which is capable of producing enough power for half the population and they shoot at us while we try to maintain it. 

Here’s an example of the logistics.  It took six months just to plan an operation to get the materials and equipment to one site.  Without giving too much away, 4 US and British Battalions came along as an escort to our little caravan.  That’s close to 3500 men.  To quote our security guy, “it’s not like if you need a crane, you just call somebody.  First, there are no cranes.  Second, once you get one to Afghanistan, you have to secure it for the whole trip from the border to your location.  Third, there aren’t any roads to drive your crane to the site, so you have to build them first.  Oh, and fourth, no one here knows how to operate a crane.”

Most of the trouble in Afghanistan is in the South (Kandahar) and the East (Tora Bora.)  You may have heard of these places.  We’re trying to build roads for the Afghanis, but the places in most need of good roads are in the South and East.  This is where the 34,000 US military surge folks will be deployed.  The area to the southeast is where the CIA lost those eight people recently.  That camp was along one of the roads we’re building.

I’m glad I’m safe in our compound.  I’m not going anywhere unsafe, and the security here is amazing. 

According to our stats, the biggest security concern for me personally is kidnapping for cash.  It’s true… there’s a lot of religious extremism, but the real threat for contractors is criminal not fanatical.  I’m taking care of that by not going out.  The Americans here all say they have no problem going out for a walk in our little part of the city, but I’m not even going to take any chances.  I’m fine with our little compound, and I’ve got a TON of work to do.

Home Time: 5:10 AM

Kabul is very similar to other places I’ve been over the past few months.  It reminds me a lot of Mumbai, but Kabul is conveniently lacking in piles of trash as far as the eye can see.  For a third-world gig with dust storms and war, it’s a fairly clean city.  The people stare blankly at me, and their gaze follows me as we drive by.  I don’t think they mean anything by it.  The blonde hair really stands out.

Our guarded compound takes up three city blocks.  This is one of the sections of Kabul that is guarded by US Military folks.  I’m all for free-blogger speach, but I will not post our location on the internet.  I have common sense.  Oh, Geraldo, you common-senseless fool.  Still, to my mother and my wife, believe me when I say that our guarded compound is in a very safe area.  If there’s a problem in the city, US forces will surround our entire part of town, and we’ll hang out watching DiSH Network until it blows over.

Our three blocks contain New Coke offices and lodging for the fifty or sixty expats who reside here (and the short-time visitors like me.)  On each of the four streets surrounding us (two on the outside, two in the middle) there are gates, security check-points and armed guards.  The streets are basically dirt.  I think there was asphalt down there some time ago, but it’s long gone. 

The two inner-streets are patrolled by seven or eight armed guards.  BTW, when I say armed guards, I’m not talking about a 007 in a sport coat with a concealed little thing.  These guys are carrying sleek, fully-automatic rifles, and enough ammo to last at least a whole war.

Each entrance to a building is made up of two sets of large steel doors with a little security-check-point/mud-room kind of space in between.  You knock on the outer door and a little prohibition-era-speak-easy hole opens up to reveal a pair of eyes.  If the eyes like what they see, they open the door.

Once inside they check bags and ID’s, basic security stuffs, and then you’re allowed to go through the second set of doors into the building or courtyard.  The two sets of doors are never open at the same time.  This is one of a billion security things I’ve learned today.

The Guest Houses, as they are called, are really not houses at all… more like very small college dorms.  My room is on the third floor.  It consists of one bed (college dorm size,) a large window (overlooking walls and razor-wire,) and a small desk.  That’s it.  No pictures, no light switch.  There are two lamps.  One wall is a bookshelf, and the other is a closet/cupboard/place-to-put-stuff. 

The Guest Houses make up the outermost buildings.  All Guest Houses are inner-connected.  If there’s a security breach, everyone is supposed to run to the neighboring Guest House.  I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do if we run all the way to the last Guest House in the row, but I suppose I’ll find out if the need arises.  Maybe we’ll have some cocktails or something. 

The décor is circa 1975, and the city is REALLY loud.  I’m anxious to meet my Guest House neighbors.  Everyone was still working when I arrived here.  I guess that’s all for today.  Sorry to post so much.  It’s been a wild day.

AM Home Time: 12:10 AM (Kabul is ten-and-a-half hours ahead of Kansas City time.)

Sunny – around 60 degrees Lunch – chicken noodle soup prepared by my house chef – 2 waters – 2 cokes – 2 aspirin – no dessert

This is not a movie. This is not a movie. This is not a movie. Those guns are real.

I’m in Afghanistan. Where to begin? I’ve been here six hours, and feel like I’ve been here for a month. I was met at the airport by three employees from New Coke. It turns out that one other New Coker who was on my flight. We were introduced to each other by our greeting party. There was some hand-shaking and some small talk, and we started our walk towards the car. From the moment I stepped out of the airport terminal, everything seemed to slow down. I didn’t hear a word of the small-talk, because my mind was having trouble keeping up with the things it was seeing.

Nothing bad happened, it was just… I don’t know… surreal. This is what I recall from my first five minutes in Afghanistan. A semi-talkative New Coke guy who seemed to be in charge was leading us towards the car. He was Caucasian, mid-height, had graying hair and a big honest smile. He joked and smiled and seemed very nice, but I honestly didn’t comprehend a single word he said. All I could do was stare at the big guns… people on the street with guns, people in towers with guns, people leaning against a wall with guns. There was even a nifty hummer/gun combo! How can I tell which of these guys is the good guy? There were no uniforms, no badges, just automatic weapons and cold stares.

New Coker had an accent (South African I later learned,) and he was clad in the usual Westerner-in-a-third-world-country way… hiking boots, multi-pocketed khakis, and a brown/black North Face jacket. The only thing non-cool was the plaid shirt he was wearing under his jacket. Well, that and one other garment. Over his jacket was a tan vest.

At first, I assumed he was about to go fly fishing. Oh! He’s just meeting me here, and then heading out to catch some Afghani trout or something. Wait. That’s not a tan fishing vest. Instead, the vest contained eight full clips of ammo (or “mags”,) a couple of grenade-looking-things, a few zipped pockets which I assume were full of some kind of uber-danger, and a small Motorola walky-talky. The walky-talky really stood out, because it was the only thing in the vest that wouldn’t kill me. The plaid shirt also stood out, because… well… you know… who kills in plaid?

My mind wouldn’t let go of the clips though. They were HUGE. I saw no weapon, but assumed whatever they fit into must be the size of a tree trunk. This is the office greeter guy? Why does he have clips? Are all New Coke people supposed to carry all this ammo? Do I get a vest? I’m not sure that vest will fit me. Do they come in XXL? I didn’t pack any plaid.

We got to the normal-looking big ol’ Toyota SUV and climbed in the back seat. I got in last and started to close the door. In a klutzy move that rivals my all time best klutzy moves, when I reached over to close the door, I almost fell out of the back seat onto the ground. It was so heavy that it didn’t move when I pulled on it. I darn near dislocated my shoulder before finally getting the door closed. It was then that I noticed the ½ inch thick bullet-proof glass. All of our cars here are armor-plated, top to bottom. When I finally got the door closed, ammo-clad New Coker turned and spoke to us from the front passenger seat. “Hello. I’m Richard. First time in Afghanistan? [Yes.] Wonderful! Well, you’ve come at a great time. It’s been really quiet the past couple of days.”

Yes. Ammo-clad-Richard (or ammo-plaid-Richard) really said those words. “Okay, if anything happens, you are to stay in the vehicle. If someone’s shooting at us or something like that, [what’s “like” shooting at us] we’ll do our best to drive out of it. If we can’t, you stay in the vehicle, and we’ll…” – I can’t remember his exact words, but it was something like “we’ll figure it out.” What my brain heard was “we’ll get out, start a fire fight, and you’ll watch from the safety of this bullet-proof car as we all get slaughtered.” Frankly, that sounded fine to me.

“We’re going to stop up here, so I can pick up my weapon. They won’t let any weapons inside the gate [of the airport,] so we’ll stop here for just a moment.” Richard got out and paid a few bucks to get his gun back from a couple of kids in a pickup.