The Comforts of Home

I always tell people that FOB Wright is the best kept secret in Afghanistan.  Compared to other Forward Operating Bases, or large airfields for that matter, Wright is plush.  We have good food, good berthing and we are small so everyone know everyone unlike some of the other bases that have thousands of people.  Plus, being tucked into the base of the mountains, the scenery is breathtaking.  We are so close to the hills and mountains that lately the sun goes behind the peaks around three in the afternoon.  

So, when the job requires traveling to other bases, the standard of living goes down considerably.  Last week I had to go to Kabul for a conference.  I flew in a Blackhawk helicopter from Jalalabad toKabul with the Commanding Officer of PRT Nangarhar.  It was a revealing trip as we flew over eastern Afghanistan.  For most of the trip from Jalalabad to Kabul it was like flying over the moon...no life, no vegetation, just brown and uninhabitated.  Once in Kabul we were led to a transit tent where we would be staying, quite a downgrade from my accomodations at Wright. The tent was cold and dank with about twelve bunkbeds.  As we arrived there was a British officer who was just leaving.  He recommended we use the restroom that was further away, because, the one that was right outside the tent was pretty nasty.  He blamed it on the Lithuanians who evidently have yet to grasp the concept of sitting on a toilet, and would rather stand on the toilet seat and squat down to do their business (this is the same issue we have with the Afghans unfortunately). When I say restroom, it is actually a couple of Conex boxes with toilets, sinks and showers installed.  Usually the showers don't work well or put out cold water only and you usually walk out feeling dirtier than when you went in.  I had a close call when I took a shower and my micro-fiber towel (which is similar to a shamwow but is thin enough to put in a backpack) fell off the hook and traveled downward towards the slimy, dirty standing water on the floor.  Using the soccer skills of bygone days, I stuck my foot out just before it hit the floor, saving me from a very uncomfortable situation.  One of my fellow PRT COs was not so lucky and he ended up having to towel himself off with the only dry corner of his soaked towel.  

The other problem that comes with leaving Kunar is getting back in a timely manner.  Because most travel is via helicopters and C130s the ability to get a flight is a combination of luck and timing.  The morning after the conference ended, we were scheduled to jump on a Blackhawk and fly back to Jalalabad.  From there I would have to find a ride back to Kunar.  When we jumped on the helo we settled in for what should have been a quick 30-40 minute flight to Jalalabad.  Instead we ended up flying to a FOB I had never heard of in the middle of nowhere.  After taking some more passengers, we headed out to....some other base where we picked up some French officers.  Off we went to some FOB on the top of a mountain where we dropped off some of our fellow passengers.  Finally we completed our tour of Afghanistan.  After two and a half hours of flying we landed safely in…Bagram.  Not where we wanted to go.  So we spent the night there and caught a flight back to Jalalabad the next day.  After a few hours there I hopped on a helo bound for FOB Wright.  A welcome sight it was, including my own room, the clean restroom, good food and the wonderful people that make up the team.  There’s no place like home.

Dollar Signs

I have met some great people during my time in Afghanistan.  Some are courageous and patriotic, doing all they can to bring peace to their country after thirty years of war and strife.  Some do not ask for a thing and understand that it is on them to find a way forward.  Others do not hold out much hope for peace after we leave.  When I ask what they think will happen after we leave, they talk of civil war and continued pain and suffering. 

I have moments where I start to feel a connection with some of them.  I have made friends since I have been here and I am genuinely happy to see them and converse in whatever way we can.  Often times though, the feeling of brotherhood fades away as the conversation inevitably leads to money.  Can the PRT do this for us, can they do that for us, build this, build that, pay for this, pay for that.  For so long, the pursestrings at the PRT were wide open and the PRT had projects all over Kunar.  Now, we have shifted to mentoring and guiding them to use their own resources within their own government.  Only they still have yet to make that transition.  They don't trust their government and they still believe that the only way anything will get done is with PRT money. 

I remember a month or so ago I was at the governor's compound with Sami, my trusted governance advisor.  He is a good man, just 22 years old, who has high aspirations to hold office some day.  But for now he is my right hand man, as we navigate through the process of getting the provincial government to use the processes that are there for them.  Sami and I were standing in a courtyard talking to a couple of other gentleman I had grown fond of.  Inside I was feeling good about the whole scene.  In all this madness of war I had come halfway across the world and now was having a normal conversation with some people who were working hard for peace.  But, as normal, the conversation was directed toward a clinic in their district that had the solar panels stolen from the roof.  So the clinic now had no power and the level of medical care had dropped.  Speaking to Sami in Pashto (my Pashto is not good enough to have an involved conversation) they told him to ask me to replace the solar panels.  He asked them if they had talked to the Public Health Director to see if he would replace them.  They told them to just be a good interpretor and just tell me what they were asking.  He argued that he was not an interpretor, he was my governance advisor.  They laughed at him and told him to translate.  When Sami relayed the conversation to me I said the same thing he did, ask the Public Health Director...use your system that is in place.  They argued that the director would not do anything and that he didn't care about them.  I told them I would talk to the director but they just shook their heads, looking at it as a dead end.  I made sure they knew that Sami was not my linguist and that he answered them in that way because he and I are on the same page.

Alright, one more example.  I know this is running long, but I am making up for lost time.  About two weeks ago we attended an opening ceremony for a new school (the one with the infamous poop minefields).  The governor was going to attend so we were waiting for his arrival along with hundreds of students that, until now had been taking their lessons under the trees in the courtyards.  During my last visit I had a great conversation with the headmaster of the school, sitting in his dark, dingy office in the old school that was being replaced.  We had talked about everything from education to cricket while drinking Mountain Dew (the national drink of Afghanistan).  I greeted the headmaster on the day of the ceremony and we shared our excitement for opening the doors to the school and providing the students a great place to learn.

As we continued to wait I saw a man I recognized to be the foreman on a road project we were funding nearby.  He said he was there because this was his village and he had brothers and his own children attending this school.  Again we had a nice conversation, although I started to feel uneasy because I was staring at what looked to be the barrel of a gun poking out from his shirt.  I asked him nicely what he had under his shirt and he confirmed that it was his gun.  He pulled out his permit but I told him I didn't need to see that, but it made me nervous since it was pointing right at my face.  He adjusted his holster and we continued our conversation.  A bit later (the governor was over an hour late), one of the elders took me outside the wall to show me where they wanted a culvert and small bridge built across a small stream that crossed right in front of the entrance to the school.  There was a very small and unstable log crossing the stream, maybe five or six feet above the trickle of water.  The elder explained that it was very unsafe for the kids and something had to be done.

What a great opportunity, I thought to myself, as I grabbed the construction foreman and showed him the issue.  Yes, he said, this would be a very simple job that would take no more than a week.  If you hire me to do the job, it would be very easy.  No, no, no, he was missing the point.  Perhaps if you got together with your fellow villagers you could all make this happen yourselves, without our help.  That would be a great victory for your village.  No, he said, it is a very difficult job, too difficult for us to do.  What?
Later, after the governor arrived and the ceremony was over, I bid farewell to the headmaster and looked forward to seeing him again.  Yes, he said, we have many more requests for you....(sigh).

So, I am getting a glimpse into the world of the rich and famous where you never know if they appreciate you for yourself or just for your money.  I'm pretty sure my bright, shiny personality isn't winning anyone over.  Dollar signs, unfortunately, are driving their affection for the tall American.  By the way, two days after the ceremony, the foreman with the gun poking out of his shirt was shot in the leg three times while driving home.