All Quiet on the Afghan Front

Friday is everyone’s day off, and most of the guys here, exhausted from the 10- to 14-hour-day work week, would shut themselves up in their rooms and sleep it off. I’m the only one that takes the day off on Saturdays, so on most Fridays it’s just me out on the camp and the few gurkha guards that rotate and stay on security duty all days of the week. Fridays are time sheet days, that’s when I spend most of the day going over the hours everyone logged flying planes and choppers, repairing them, or doing other support work that is necessary in getting our birds to fly.

As a brief diversion, I like to take my coffee mug and sit outside at the little gazebo where we have our barbeques and gatherings. On Friday afternoons such as this, at 1400, with no missions, no flights coming in or out, no one else is around. I have the entire sweep of the view to myself. The camp looks abandoned, everything seems at a standstill. The gates are closed, the hangar doors are shut, the helicopters are still. Even the dust seems to have stopped its incessant swirling. I sit still and enjoy the quiet. No one will be in sight for hours, if I am lucky.

After a week of being attentive and tending to people’s needs, I feel relief just sitting here, no one to talk to, no one to listen to. Kandahar is home to such contradictions–a frenetic pace all week, and then suddenly you have this pocket of absolute quiet. The sky above is a cloudless blue, so crisp and clear it makes me think of the hidden island beaches of my hometown. Looking out on the flight line, I can almost believe there is a sliver of blue out there on the horizon, a secret beach with waters warm as milk. Almost.

I think about everything and nothing in particular, letting my mind drift and relax for a few minutes. A lot of times, I hear people complain about the bleakness of this place, how there is not much to do or see, how nothing much happens. At times like this, in the stillness of the moment, I don’t mind the bleakness as much. In fact, it is a welcome respite from all the noise of the week that was. I miss the quiet that allows for a little bit of introspection, sometimes I think I crave it.

This is my second year here, and I admit there are times I curse the luck that has brought me to Afghanistan. But for most times, strangely enough, I am grateful–glad even–to be here.

A Promise of Flowers in the Desert

I’m not sure why guys here feel the need to urge me on with promises of gifts or favors or the moon at my feet. News flash: I work here, if you need something, it’s sort of my responsibility to help you out. Sadly, I think most men do it out of reflex–they are used to offering up something to get something in return.

It’s a very American trait, this insistence on a trade-off. I’m usually offered all manner of edibles (chocolate, candy, muffins, fruit, yoghurt), or drink (Red Bull, Monster, coffee, soda), small items or amusements (a scarf, a DVD movie, go to the boardwalk, and one time – an ipod). I’ve gotten used to graciously accepting the little tokens, sweetly refusing inappropriate ones, ignoring the downright weird.

This morning, I had to come in on my day off to hand out room keys and take care of some paper work for employees that were back from their break. The guys were all apologetic that they woke me up and were really nice about saying thank you. This guy though, was just a little bit different from the rest. All he needed was for me to forward an old email with documents that I sent for him before he went on break. I said I’ll search for that particular email and will send it to him as soon as I find it.

He said ‘thank you’ several times, then gathered his bags and headed for the door. Before he went out though, he turned back and stammered, “Thanks again, okay. I’ll ahh… umm… I’ll buy you flowers.”

I thought I was hearing things. Really, flowers? In this desert wasteland, where would you even get them? I smiled to mask my incredulous expression, and he blinked, turned around quickly, and was out the door.

Flowers. Yeah, right.

In Your Face

There are days when I do get to turn the tables on these guys, and then it’s pay back time!

We were outside the office, grouped in noisy clumps, trying our hand at socializing. One guy keeps interrupting me, teasing and making what he must think to be funny comments. Now, I can take more than my share of ribbing, and I do take a lot of abuse from these guys, but I also like to dish it out. I decide this is just too good an opportunity to pass up.

So I compose my face into a quiet, somewhat pained expression and interrupt him in the middle of a joke.

Using my formal, I-mean-business voice, I say “You know what, you shouldn’t say those things to me. I’m Asian, and you know we take loss of face very seriously.”

He is taken aback, and begins sputtering and stammering out a string of profuse apologies. I let him stew for a while, and then I was laughing so hard, I could hardly say, “I’m just messing with you, big guy.”

The look on his face was priceless–shock, disbelief, a momentary feeling of faintness, I think.

He blurts out,”Oh my god, you’re a mean, mean woman!”

I smile and get the last word in: “You’d do well to remember that.”

Wha-daaah! Day

I almost died today. Almost, but not quite. This job is an all day occupational hazard.

Our No. 2 boss, a stately old gentleman, came into the office at around 1500 hours as was his custom, to sign documents. We discussed the paperwork, he asked a few questions, signed all the papers with a flourish. Done with the day’s approvals, he stood up and walked out the door, to go back to his office, I thought.

Apparently not. What he actually did was walk down the hallway, double back quietly and then come back to stand by my door. He made sure I was busy at my desk. I must have been staring intently at the monitor, because I didn’t see him standing there.

All of a sudden, he dashes into the doorway, eyes wide, arms flailing, shouting what sounded like, “Wha-daaah!

I felt my heart stop for a full three seconds. He was red in the face from laughing so hard.

The blonde IT girl at the scanner table chastised him, “Hey, don’t scare the poor girl to death!”

“Sir, I had three mugs of coffee today, please don’t do that to me!” I manage to say as I will my heartbeat to return to normal.

“Just keeping you on your toes, young lady.” He grins at me and walks back, chuckling, to his office. For real this time, I made sure of that.

Trouble Me

In yet another one of those politically incorrect, sexual harassment-fraught episodes that make my little life here so interesting, one of our gung ho guys comes into my office asking for help. After some Q & A and a bit of explaining, it turns out he wants me to do a creative interpretation of the rules so that he could buck the system, so to speak.

Me:  No, Muscled Guy, you know I can’t do that. Against the rules. You’ll get me into trouble.

MG:  Oh no, I wouldn’t get you into trouble, no Ma’am. I won’t mess with your work [pause]. But…  let’s say I take you out on a date, then that’s when I’ll certainly get you into a whole lotta trouble [big grin].

Me:  [Roll eyes. Shake head.] You should be so lucky.

MG:  Oh, I wish [Shit-eating grin, all the way out the door].

All in a day’s work, my friends.  All in a day’s work.

Doing The Two-Step

Here, there are times when even the most ordinary of days offers up a surprise. Case in point: I had a minor dalliance at the PX store today. I was standing in line along the candy aisle, waiting my turn at the cash register. A trooper walks in front of me, wanting to cut across the line so he could go to the next aisle. I step to one side, he does the same, I step back, and he steps back too. We do this two-step routine a couple of times, until finally, I stand still and motion for him to pass through.

He looks at me, smiles, and then says, “What? Oh, I thought we were dancing.”

What I Am Is Brave

“I’m not funny. What I am is brave.”  ~ Lucille Ball

It feels as though I braved a lot of airports just to get back here. I barely made it through two airports in the Philippines (oh the horror!), slept on stiff chairs in Singapore, suffered disorientation in Chennai, then rushed madly out of Dubai into crazy Kabul, and finally, this last sunrise ride to Kandahar. After 6 plane rides in 5 days, I am back in my little dust bowl. That long break already seems like a vague memory.

In Kabul, I woke up early to catch this 6th flight, and I was glad to find out that there would only be two of us on board the B1900. I’m so over the rock star feeling of being one of the few on board our B1900, I was just happy because it meant I could get some sleep. The guy on the same flight as me, blond and blue eyed with one of those painful-looking Caucasian tans, chats amiably for a few minutes, and then turns away to read a book when the plane is at cruise speed. Good man, I think, as I slump my head to the side, adjust my headphones, and drift off to much-needed sleep.

It was a smooth ride for most of the hour, until the pilots decide to swoop the plane’s nose sharply down as we make the descent into Kandahar Air Field (KAF). I think they do it on purpose, have a little fun in a day’s work, why not? I wake up to the sight of jagged mountains glinting in the sunlight. I still find it all strangely beautiful, the sharp edges and the deeply carved valleys of this Afghan landscape. Eventually, the horizon levels out and morphs into row upon row of military planes, helicopters, trucks, hummers, and other war transport arranged precisely on the ramps. Soon enough, our little corner of the flight line comes into view–I see the Logistics warehouse, a few of our helos, the little fuel truck. My sleepy heart skips, a little thump of excitement to see home and all that it holds for me.

This is a happy return, in more ways than one. I would be coming back to a life that I have developed a liking for, despite the unusual circumstances. I would be coming back to something other than just my self.

Kandahar is a place I want to come back to, imagine that. A year ago I wouldn’t have dreamed of writing that line, and now I am amazed by the simple truth in it. We make our home in the strangest places, when we carry home in our hearts. And God help me, I do put my battered heart out there on the line–again and again. My heart has found a home here, in a place of grays and browns, amid the swirl of dust, desperation, and death.

Dark thoughts to begin another year, yes. But I am not being pessimistic, I just see things more clearly now. With one year under my belt, I think I understand life here better than I did when I first arrived. It has been a most interesting year, to say the least.

Marking the end of this year, I understand that bravery is defined as beyond being able to endure the sound of blasts day or night, when you’ve never heard that awful sound before in your life. It is keeping calm in the midst of unfolding turmoil, even as the men around you arm themselves and get that tight-eyed look to their faces, their minds clicking back to terrible memories of combat you know nothing about, but can sense from the gleam in their eyes. It is bravery to befriend solitude, to embrace the bleakness that permeates everywhere, to be able to live with the terrible stillness that descends at the end of certain days. It is also bravery to be able to withstand the endless loop of days that seem exactly like the ones before, the sameness that can slowly but surely drive you mad.

I know another kind of bravery now–the kind that goes beyond facing one’s mortality. This year found me in a place where shedding all sorts of baggage was necessary. It spurred me to leave behind the wounds of the past and turn to face a new possibility. It required a measure of bravery I always knew I had, but have not quite put to the test. It was scarier than IEDs, ground attacks, rocket blasts, even the threat of Taliban invasion. But I am nothing if not brave, I always tell myself, and so I plunged in head first.

Do I get rewarded for this act of bravery? I’m not sure. I don’t know if there is a prize for falling head first into something, but I think the little bursts of happiness I get is more than enough reward for bravery. Whatever the outcome, whether or not I win this battle (or the entire war), the feat alone of going into it the way I did–open-faced, heart in hand–is an exhilarating experience, a powerful rush not soon to be forgotten.

And so I am back.

Loving, Leaving

Lately, I have been re-visiting Vagabonding, the travel site that I have liked for years now. I chanced upon this entry that is about loving and leaving: the perils of falling in love while on the road, or while temporarily ensconced in some place. I can truly relate, and left a comment on the post, something I rarely do.

“For commitment-phobics, this could be a sweet deal, knowing that the relationship already comes with a built-in way out. For me though, while I am not strictly traveling 3-4 months a year, I am a temporary resident in another country and I go home every 3-4 months. It effectively puts relationships in limbo status — you can’t expect to form fully committed relationships where you are currently in country, and yet you can’t keep up a steady one at home because you’re away for most of the year. It does not mean you can’t have any relationships, though, it just means (well for me, at least) that you have to set more realistic expectations. That, and you better be prepared for a lot of goodbyes.”

I wonder if this will be true for me anytime soon.

Short Seat

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Another day, another zinger. This little tale may be potentially offensive, but also totally true-to-life.

Upon finding himself sitting unceremoniously on a computer chair set very low, my boss says, “Hey, who’s the midget?”

Me: (both eyebrows raised in surprise)  “Um…”

Valiant attempts to crank up the seat ensue, to no avail. Chair remains stuck at lowest level.

Boss: “God d***! OK, moving on… (suave segue to the day’s business).”

Me: (grin)

He didn’t even miss a beat. I swear, sometimes, I really love how un-PC (politically correct) my job is.

The Hurting

Sometimes, when I least expect it, when my mind is not willfully armed against the treacherous onslaught of memories, I suddenly see my boys. Out of nowhere, a series of pictures flashes in my mind’s eye:  my boys’ bright-eyed, smiling faces are always upturned, open and guileless, as only children’s faces can be.

It wrenches my heart and leaves me weak, gasping for breath. They all say it will get better. The pain and the longing? It will fade. The aching desire to reach out and hug them as tight as I can? It will pass, they say. The yearning to smell their warm necks, to hear their laughter? That too will subside.

Well, they all lie. It’s getting close to a year now, and it still hurts the same, every time.