Hand Feeding wild monkeys.

Hand feeding wild monkeys.

Running with scissors.

Both kinda stupid, but one is more fun than the other.

I am working for IOM again, this time I am alone. Which is cool but no one has really told me what I am shooting just that I am heading here and then there. I mean I know what to shoot but I don’t know what I am shooting. I seem to find out right before I get there or right when I get there. Good thing I am this good huh?

I started out on Tuesday in Islamabad where I was driven up to Abbottabad via a photo stop in a little village called Tajwal. The ride up was great since the mountains still have some snow on them up in the higher elevations and the air pollution dwindles down to breathable and even clean smelling. Islamabad at night makes LA in the 80’s look like a sparkling green meadow in central Kentucky, it’s that nasty. The mountains in Pakistan resemble northern Arizona or New Mexico…sort of. They are filled with Pine trees, big boulders threatening to come loose from the rock walls and smash your vehicle down a few hundred feet into the ravines. There are random streams and small waterfalls fueled by rain, snow melt and a few springs that exist. As we snaked our way up and down various smaller mountains and paths I could see the larger snow covered mountains getting closer then farther then closer again. Pretty soon we were driving past the remnants of snowfalls that crushed flat roofed shacks from the weight. At this point my driver Qadir begins to tell me that this area is big for honeymooners and romantic get aways. Politely I nod and say “Oh yah? That’s cool. Its very beautiful up here.” He goes on about how you can drive up here with your new wife, find a very nice hotel, there are nice restaurants here, nice paths to walk and get your exercise. I keep nodding. Yes, exercise is good. You can exercise and (breaths in deeply) breathe nice air until you go home and EXERCISE more! I laughed, he laughed and then asked me how long I have been married.

Damn it.

After a few minutes of discussing my relationship history he seems satisfied that I am at least interested in women and he thinks I will one day be married and have several children. Good for him. In the meantime it started snowing. There was something surreal about driving past snowmen wearing Chitrali (tribal) woolen hats and scarves. I am in Pakistan and all but for some reason it seemed odd. 

Then Qadir asked if I like monkeys.

In between laughing and being nervous I asked why he would ask me that and he said because we are driving through monkey country. Hell yah! Foreign monkeys! None of that imported monkey stuff in zoos. We have live mountain monkeys! Sure enough a minute or two later we see a few scampering along the side of the road. As we pull over so I can shoot a few frames I see a young monkey with a bag of potato chips in its hands. Even in New York we don’t have actual monkeys wandering around with potato chips, this was a new thing for me. He stopped and buried his whole head in the bag and came up crunching away. We drove on leaving him and his high sodium lifestyle. 

Further up the road Qadir pulled off and bought a rather haggard looking ear of corn and gave it to me, apparently to feed the monkeys. This seems like a great idea, full of fun, excitement and possibly being bitten by a rabid monkey. I was in.

You might think you’re brave but when you have a small primate stand up on two legs and cautiously walk several feet and snatch food from your hand, it’s very very hard not to flinch. They are fast, they move in groups and they have large teeth. Much like a group of pre-pubescent girls. Both are viscous and prone to hysterics.

Eventually we ran out of things to feed them so we went to work.

It was fun talking to Qadir, he was the only driver to have cracked jokes with me and at me, he was also the only driver (other than Mr. Niaz) not to ask me about politics. Yes he wanted to talk about sex, how much money I make, why I don’t have kids yet and why I am not actively looking to get married. It was a lovely reprieve from politics and theories. Today after being picked up (by a different driver) for the trip from Abbottabad to Muzaffarabad I wasn’t 15 minutes into the drive when the guy asked who do I (personally) feel is responsible for all of the bombings in Pakistan?

This is a very loaded question. I have heard some great conspiracy theories concerning this topic. Some people have told me they know and can prove to me that it was any of the following: India, America, the Jews (not Israel mind you but the Jews) the Taliban, Musharraf, ISI (Pakistani CIA), Al-Qaeda, the Afghanis, the Iranians…its pretty awesome really. Sometimes I talk to people and try to debunk some of the dumber ones. Why would Israel (excuse me, the Jews) bomb a police station in the North West Frontier Province? Not to mention HOW?! Yes, India is dying to start a war with Pakistan and will do so by blowing up a wedding party in Balochistan, after all. Every one wants a nuclear capable neighbor to be pissed at them. The Americans? Yes we planted a bomb in a restaurant frequented by our own Embassy personnel why? Because we want to prove that there are terrorists in Pakistan.

Most of the time the asking of this question is followed by the person telling me how they were somewhere and met someone or they are related to someone who knows for a fact that the Indian Jews of American/Iranian decent confessed to having bombed the Peace Jirga in Dara Adam Khel. Because it couldn’t possibly have been the guys who took credit for it.

This was no exception. I just stared out the window wondering if this guy was going to continue to get worked up and drive us off a cliff or just drive too damn fast for the truck and road. Turns out it just the latter. We didn’t die, in case you thought this was written in real time.

 Sorry all I meant to post this a few days ago. 

I will post at least once more before heading home on Tuesday.

Its my third time in Pakistan, Beat that!

Kabul is behind me now.

This makes me sad. Kabul was cool to begin with but it kept getting more and more interesting.

This morning I ate breakfast with Virginia, we said goodbye over coffee and we even flouted local customs flagrantly and hugged in the dining room. I don’t think anyone saw it but hopefully her man will not seek me out and kill me after killing her simply due to his honor being damaged. Andrew….it was a quick hug. Two seconds tops. I promise.

I then headed down to Chicken Street. (No, there are no chickens there) to pick up my brand new custom leather passport holder that has stamped across the front KABUL, AFGHANISTAN and in a banner across the top its says the same thing only in Dari. Trust me its cool.

When we went to chicken street the days before looking for gifts ( no NGO or ex-pat employee of any company is allowed to go to chicken street for security reasons, I don’t really know why) we were pestered and followed by young English speaking children selling maps, candy, gum, matches, lighters, and anything else you can imagine that you don’t want or need. They offered to show us the best shops, they offered to carry our bags, they even offered to be our bodyguards (our favorite). The problem is they are VERY persistent; they follow you from store to store waiting outside. Their numbers grow every second as if they have some sort of sonar that picks up westerners. In fact if they were adults or even weighed more than 50 lbs each I would have started to get nervous at the mob growing outside the store. As it was it felt like a herd of small used car salesmen clucking at our heels. We started to lose our patience when they would grab our hand or tug at our sleeve. So I would stop and glare at them pointing away from us and off they would run. Coming back in a few moments of course but they gave us a few moments rest.

Well I was determined not be rude, upset or bothered in anyway today. One of the first kids that came up to me I just started to talk to him. His name is Anitullah. Anitullah offered to be my bodyguard immediately and told me he would let no one bother me. I said no but let him walk with me anyway. He followed me into a store and translated what a young child sitting nervously in the doorway said to me. “My dad is not here, please come back in 10 minutes” I said thank you and asked Anitullah where should I go?

Moments later he is helping me barter for a gift and when the shopkeeper waves his hands at Anitullah, I tell him not to talk that way to my friend. Anitullah and I are now working together. I give him 100 Afghanis (less than 2 bucks) and we were both happy. I had a bodyguard and so did he. Then he took me to another shop to look for another gift, shooing the panhandlers and other hawkers out of our way. Mind you he says he is 11 and doesn’t look like he is 9. He MIGHT be 4 feet tall speaks better English than most Afghanis I have met. Again he helps me barter and refuses to let me carry my new purchase myself. He is after all my bodyguard and every bit as professional as I could hope for.

We begin to make our way towards my guesthouse when two other kids join us while we walk. They offer to be my bodyguards and said that they can help me. I felt it proper to say that this position was already filled and to be honest I was broke. I seriously paid for the last items in US and Afghani combined, I had no money on me at all. They decided to work for free. Hey I tried and Anitullah didn’t feel threatened so I said sure.

So, now I rolled down Chicken Street with my security detail, one up front Anitullah on my right and the third kid on my left. An older shopkeeper shouted out that I must be very important to have three bodyguards! My crew was quite proud of themselves saying that only Hamid Karzai has more bodyguards than I do. I pointed out that his are bigger too. What security problem on Chicken Street? The UN always makes things more complicated than it has to be. I hired local, paid a fair wage, when I had money and was open about funding restrictions yet I had security in an “no go” area for UN personnel. Mind you the UN authorizes a very small list of places ok for UN personnel to visit outside the UN compounds and none of them are particularly fun.

My crew and talked and walked all the way to my guesthouse where I made them sit outside while I ran in and bought them all sodas. We squatted outside the guesthouse gates drinking out 7-ups and Pepsi’s in the sun while they told me what they want to be when they grow up. My bodyguards consisted of two future doctors and one future pilot. Satisfied I was safe, we separated.  I had my things, I made new friends hopefully they walk away thinking a little bit nicer things about Americans and it cost me 2 bucks and some soda. I can afford that. Just think if I were in charge for a few days what I could do.

During my extremely brief trip to Kabul I got to do some cool things, meet great people and would be willing to move there for a year or so first chance I get. I liked it that much.

Where else will I have the opportunity to bounce around in the back of a Land Cruiser with narcotics cops listening to Ricky Martin and random salsa music because it was all the music they found on the radio. I was the only one who thought it was awesome that we were nodding along to Sean Paul songs in Afghanistan while we looked for drug smugglers. Consequently from that shoot I also learned how to best smuggle large amounts of opiates into Kabul.  I wont tell and if I did you would still be fighting the Taliban for drivers. They don’t seem to be willing to part with the money they are earning so…think about it first. Oh yah there is the whole being sent to prison in Afghanistan too.  If you think our prisons suck.  I already gave you a hint in the last blog entry anyway.

Other things I learned:

-Afghan “burgers” are too good to be real. Imagine a sandwich that consists of beef salami, lamb chunks, French fries, hot sauce, hard boiled eggs and veggies…now wrap that up in pita bread and a chunk of newspaper and you have an Afghan burger. It tasted way to good to remotely healthy.

-Given the choice between imported beer and Budweiser (I guess in AFG its all imported) I will almost always choose Bud. I can’t for the life of me tell you why i do it but I do it.

- Afghans are very hospitable people but they seem to be a bit more closed off than the Pakistanis. However the Afghans are more western and cosmopolitan in their views, dress and habits (in my opinion) than the Pakistanis. Except with the whole women’s rights and exposed flesh thing.  For instance Bollywood movies are censored in the funniest way. Anytime a woman’s stomach, upper chest, back or shoulders are exposed in any way…the Afghan TV stations blur out the exposed area. So imagine a Bollywood dance scene with every woman’s stomach and shoulders blurred out while they dance. It’s enough to give you a seizure.
-Cows are not good at special perception or for that matter, understanding a rescue operation in progress.

- Young children make excellent bodyguards as long as you are willing to fight for yourself and reward hard work with soda. 

Last night Virg bought me a shirt that has an Afghani man riding a donkey screen printed on it with the words “Born to Ride” .

You guys are really missing out by staying at home. That shirt kills in the third world.

 

Rescuing cows from the sewers and mis-reporting US casualties.

I have been particularly bad about posting this past week or so. Some of it I can honestly say was due to lack of time. I have been trying to work as hard as I can, research stories, meet and socialize with new people. The time I have had to write I found myself staring at the screen waiting for the beginning to appear. Well to its credit I think it finally showed up.

I have a lot I want to cover but some of it no longer seems important. Like the cow story. I will summarize the cow story like this. Yes, trust me this is a summary

I began to ride along with and photograph the ANP (Afghan National Police) Security Police. They kept telling my translator that they were the Anti-Violence and Anti-Protest Dept. what the hell that means is beyond me. I think there was a hang up in the translation but every time I asked what their specific duties included I was given the same answer and confused look. What we really did was not stop violence or smack around protesters, we ended up mostly racing through downtown Kabul in new Ford Ranger trucks with heavy machine gun mounts in a 6 truck convoy and 6 or 7 officers per truck, from round-a-bout to round-a-bout where they would dismount and begin to randomly piss off the population. During one of our piss off missions, I began to photograph a group of small children who were busy fixing a gas powered generator/air compressor combination that they run on the side of the road. Not long after this their cow wandered towards traffic and fell into one of the open sewage/drainage ditches that sit on the side of every road in Kabul. These concrete ditches are in some places almost 5 feet deep; they are all nasty and smell worse than they look. This one was no exception. Immediately the three children began to cry and panic (honestly their father may well have beaten the living hell out of them for possibly losing the cow). My interpreter Matin and I went over to try and figure out what all the screaming was about. Seeing the cow we told the 40 or so police officers standing around pissing off motorists to do something and received no help. So I began to photograph them doing nothing while the kids screamed and panicked and Matin pleaded that they help us out.

Once the camera started clicking and they realized what I was shooting things started to happen. Eventually with some awesomely hare brained attempts I explained that the cow couldn’t weigh more than 600 pounds (a small and sickly cow honestly) and with 6-8 of us we should be able to safely (for all involved) lift the cow out.

They stared at me.

We got some ropes and such under the now terrified cow and sure enough we lift that cow out of the stink that came up past her knees. There was some backslapping and nods of good work. Personally I was a bit put off that Matin and I were the reason the cow seemed to be an issue and not a joke.  Minutes later we were back racing around the city making friends.

I have since spent many hours photographing and hanging out with the CNPA (Counter Narcotics Police of Afghanistan) as well hoping to catch some shots of them busting some evildoer with hundreds of kilos of opium or hashish. I liked the guys but couldn’t help but feel like the effects they were having were less than significant. They were trained but not particularly well equipped (they have one dog and handler who apparently has Friday off so no dogs are used on Fridays patrols). The general consensus is that the drug lords are connected to those in power and in some cases are those in power. So you can see how interdiction is simply a term not a plan. The guys I dealt with seemed genuine but acknowledged their lack of impact with frustration.

I went out at 2 am with the guys and planned on going back out with their second team at 8:30 am. I got home at 530 am and woke up at 8. While eating breakfast and getting ready to leave I was told about a bombing on the airport road here in Kabul.

This was a big deal since there hasn’t been a bombing in Kabul in some time. So I bolted out the door to head to the scene. Make of it what you will but the bombing was a few hundred yards away from where we had successfully retrieved Bessie the cow from the sewer two days earlier.

As I approached the scene I asked a female US soldier where I could be and she politely pointed out the crime scene tape and I began to shoot. That was the last bit of polite conversation I had with any US military personnel for the rest of the day.

After a camera was taken away from Paula Bronstein of Getty Images for taking a picture that she didn’t actually take of an American security convoy (which by the way she is legally allowed to do) I backed off. Americans, who were not wearing uniforms, did not have IDs or the slightest regard for professional media were running the bomb scene. They did have well-established beards though. I first thought they had to be from a private security company like DynCorp, Triple Canopy or Blackwater. I would not have thought that any professional soldier or Marine would act this way when not actively threatened by anyone. It seems as though I was wrong, well I have been wrong before and probably will be again.

Paula and I were arguing with a few of them about what is and is not allowed to be photographed, how to check the camera to see what photos she took and so on. A few minutes later the RSO (regional security officer) from the US Embassy walked over to find out what we were constantly yelling about. He listened to us, explained his position and promised to get answers for us. You know, he was professional. A minute or two later he returned to tell us that they were Military and he had no authority over them but he would continue to try and talk to them. Paula gets on the phone to the Embassy and I soon realize that they are Special Forces and not private contractors, which confused me even more. These guys are supposed to be the best and most professional of the military. They were acting like half drunk jocks and high school party.

Finally they came back over took photos of us, took her name and press pass numbers, I don’t have a press pass so I shut up and stood back. I was now simply a member of the audience. They threatened to arrest…excuse me “detain” us for security reason.  They also had no patience for people who interfered with the US military during a recovery operation. His words. He explained with expletives that we ignored warnings about no photos and that they reacted for the security of the troops, they have families back home who could face retribution if their identities were known. Paula to her credit laughed.  Who the hell would see a photo and be able to identify Spec. Jones of the 82^nd Airborne and make a call to kidnap his/her family member living back in Topeka.

I did however pick up the vibe that the words “recovery operation” meant US casualties. We all could see that two of the vehicles were an armored truck and SUV that were like the ones used in town by all of the ISAF/NATO troops and security firms. I began to push around Matin to talk to as many Afghan soldiers and cops providing security and cleaning up the mess to find out if any Americans were injured or killed. At this point the official numbers are 6 dead and 14 injured (not including the assbag who blew himself up) he came back with several reports that there were 2-3 US Special Forces guys killed, and he told me that he was told this by several people including a member of the Afghan version of the FBI.

This seemed to jive with the aggressiveness of the soldiers and fact that the two trucks were taken away on flatbed trucks while he civilian vehicles were left behind to be pushed or pulled off the road by the ANPI sent Matin around again to try and get more information about the unconfirmed US casualties. He came back again repeating the same numbers and stories. We drove back to my guesthouse to upload, caption and send the photos off. I called Virginia to ask how to describe the possibility of US casualties; she agreed that I could say “unconfirmed reports” but that I needed to find out ASAP. 
Unfortunately, I had set up a photo shoot with the Afghan Women’s Boxing team (at least they will be in 2012 in London, right now they are simply Afghan women who box). I set up this shoot with 8 boxers, the trainer and the gym everyone was eager to leave because of the security concerns after the bombing etc. my two hour time slot was cut to under an hour. I shot fast, and I shot some good stuff in that time frame too. I finished up and we were on the way back to the guesthouse again when I thought about how strange of a day I just had. I spoke to a few people who have been doing this longer than I have (this was my second bombing so I feel pretty new at this) and the general agreement was that if the US didn’t admit that there were US casualties they didn’t happen. I wanted to argue that BBC reported 2 US injuries and the CNN was only reporting the Afghans killed. I felt that if it was any member of SF that was killed they would not report it if they didn’t have to. Virg, stepped in and said that she has not experienced the US hiding their own dead before. Not that it cant or doesn’t happen but that NO one else is reporting US dead in bombing so I probably shouldn’t either. The problem was I already had. The good (so to speak) news was also bad news for me, I sent the photos to Getty since they were the only contact I have in NY and Paula shoots for them anyway so they had it covered. I didn’t think about sending the pics to the papers like NYtimes or Washington Post etc. I for the life of me couldn’t tell you why I didn’t think to do that too but I didn’t. So luckily the average person wont know that I effed up and was reporting something I couldn’t prove and that it seemed was not true to begin with.

It sounds as though the Afghan Police and the people that Matin spoke to were either lying, didn’t understand the facts or that there was a translation error. I was told by and AP reporter last night that her sources and article said that the men in the trucks crawled out of their vehicles, weapons drawn dragging their wounded from the wrecks and moved towards the trees and cover nearby to secure the area and wait for ISAF/NATO to show up.  Naturally I felt like an ass for not getting my information straight and hoped that Getty didn’t think of me as a sensationalist creating stories to get his photos out instead of established shooters. Although not highly likely it is a reasonable fear for me to have after figuring out I was wrong.

 I started the morning with guns being pointed at me, stepping over blood and car parts, watching a young man who had the terrible job of picking up the parts of human flesh that were missed during the original clean up, with a plastic shopping bag and put the pieces in a torn up US AID wheat bag. Then in under an hour I was shooting a human-interest type story on young Afghan women who were defying conventional understanding and becoming skilled boxers.  

I found it odd that I slept well that night.

The next day while on patrol again with CNPA, this time without the dog as I already explained, I had a run in with the Brits. Matin and I were talking while we were waiting for another car to be searched two Land Cruisers rolled past us on the road. (We are in a fenced in area just off the road near one of Kabul’s four road entrances) and I can see the driver and passengers heads turn looking at us standing there. I see a hand point over towards the entrance of our paddock area and I think, “shit here we go again”.

Matin gets nervous and asks me what do I think they want and what should he tell the CNPA officers who are watching with confusion as two unmarked, obviously foreign vehicles are pulling into their lot. I told him that they most likely wanted to talk to me and I would find out soon enough. Seconds later 5 men popped out of the trucks in unison, weapons in hand, body armor on, earpieces in, all five in civilian clothes. four of them took up security positions facing out away from the truck while the fifth strode up fast to me with rifle in hand. I said “good afternoon. My name is David.” He shook my hand, didn’t give me a name but just started to ask questions. He was British and very inquisitive. What was I doing here, who was I with, do I have CNPA permission etc. once that was over he asked how I got here and how I was getting back to Kabul itself? Was I driving myself? Did I have a driver etc? I told him I rode with CNPA but had a driver who I would be returning with and that CNPA insisted that we roll in the middle of our little convoy so they could be security for us. He smiled and told me that that was ok but that I should NOT go that way (pointing north) by myself. That would be dangerous and stupid. He was polite, professional and explained himself. He shook my hand said good by and they all came back to the vehicles and left in unison again. In every way it was the opposite of my experience with the Americans the day before.

Virg laughed and said that she has always loved to British soldiers for that very reason; they were always polite and professional.

Douglas will love reading that.

I have found out a few things since coming here that might not be apparent but are still true.

Afghan food is really really good.

I desperately want to buy some of these amazing carpets here but can’t think of one good reason to do so except to have one.

I kind of like wearing body armor. Sure it’s hot and is not comfortable but you do look cool in it. Conversely you realize how soft and vulnerable the parts of you that are not covered by the vest are.

Afghan children who beg on the street are the most persistent, heartbreaking and annoying creatures I have encountered yet. You want to pick them up, clean them and take them to school. You don’t want to buy the candy, map, car wash or whatever else they are hawking. Virg and I had a little guy who wasn’t much past waist high on me and probably 10 (malnourishment stunts growth tremendously) ask us to buy a map, when we said no, he offered to be her body guard and make sure no one hurt her. She said that’s why she has me. He smiled and said that he could be her second bodyguard.

He stuck with us for several minutes; he even waited outside of a store for a bit waiting on us to leave so he could keep working on us. I almost hired him to keep the other kids away from us. I probably should have. It would have been worth a buck or two.

This country is amazingly beautiful. This country is also amazingly destroyed and not getting much better. As a new friend said one night at dinner, “we as a whole have failed this country. We have failed fantastically.” We went on to talk about the tremendous amount of waste, corruption and placation that happens here at every level. The general feeling is that Afghanistan is so amazing but its going down hill and the people are very unhappy about that. 30 years of war left of over 60 percent of Kabul’s buildings destroyed or severely damaged. Its been six years since the fall of the Taliban and Kabul still doesn’t have electricity 24 hours a day, remotely decent roads least of all security. The whole of Afghanistan is plagued by unemployment and basic needs are still an issue for the average Afghani. In 6 years with billions of dollars of aid why the hell isn’t there at least 24 hours of electricity and clean drinking water in Kabul? It’s simple and fair question that is asked daily here.

And finally I am desperate to come back here and stay for a much longer period of time than 11 days. I am thinking more along the lines of 6 months 

From safety last to safety first in two hours or less.

yours truly photographed by Akbar, tomorrow I will photograph Akbar and his camera. I wonder if Akbar will pay me 90 Afghanis for taking his picture?

I will start off saying, I probably should have seen it coming but I didn’t.  My brass knuckles are illegal right? Right, no surprise there. I was however confused when security at Islamabad airport pulled me aside to search my bags looking for my “punch”.

Damn it. At the very least they were going to take them from me, at worst I would be arrested for them. The security officer was adamant that they were not the paperweight I pleaded they were. While he tunneled through my expertly packed bags, I continued to argue their function. When he came to my case filled with chargers, gadgets and leatherman, I grew worried that this guy was going have fun and confiscate anything I had with an edge or made of metal.

He became EXTREMELY interested in my battery powered cell phone charger asking what it did; where I got it and how did it work? Once convinced of its function, he set it aside and moved on to my single packets of tide detergent (I do love that fresh scent even in the third world). He stopped me from putting the charger back in the case and made me leave it off on the side while he continued rooting around. It took me a moment but I soon got the picture, we were bargaining but I didn’t realize it yet. He asked if I would be willing to give the charger to him as a “gift”?

I said no. I needed it.

He reminded me I could buy another in New York.  Where as he couldn’t.

I told him I would consider it if I could keep my paperweight. Otherwise no.

Deal.

He made me promise that it would stay in my checked luggage and that was that.

Now of course I need to figure out a way to mail it home from Kabul but I was currently concerned by how I seemed to have breached (how ever minor) security in exchange for a battery powered cell phone charger. Looks like I need another one now. I had two left one behind on a job and lost the other to bribery.

Safety last.

Me first.

The flight from ISB to Kabul was uneventful; I couldn’t see anything due to cloud cover until our decent into Kabul. What I could see was beautiful. I could make out terrain details for a fraction of a second then the clouds would envelop the world again. For a few minutes this taunting dance between white formlessness and low rolling mountains dotted with tiny villages carried on.

Finally we broke through the clouds and I was struck by the first comparison that came to mind. The beach. From our altitude, Afghanistan looked like a small stretch of beach immediately after the waves have pulled back from the shore. If you crouched down as the tide pulled away from your feet and you stared at the sand shifting and rolling around your toes. The colors of sand, shells, coral and other material swirl and mix as the water falls away. That’s what Afghanistan looked like to me at that moment. Browns, blacks, greys and hundreds of shades of them all mixed seem to make up the palette of Afghanistan from the sky.  It was stunning.

 

As we taxied into the airport, passed a Russian built Antonov airplane waiting to take off followed by an American Air Force C-17. I don’t know why I loved seeing that aircraft. I haven’t seen a C-17 in probably 10 years. I suddenly thought of Air shows on the bases we lived on and watching my dad walk off the flight line as a kid thinking my Dad was the coolest guy alive. watching your Dad walk away from a huge (then C-141) aircraft wearing his flight suit and carrying his helmet bag was pretty damn cool. I assure you few jobs seemed cooler to my brother or I than a pilot as a children, only Astronaut and Indiana Jones had anything on Dad. Indy had the Fedora and whip, Astronauts…c’mon man they're in space. Space is cool. Dad got to wear a flight suit and fly to places that sounded like outer space: Kadina AFB in Okinawa, Clark AFB on Luzon Island, Philippines and Incirlik, Turkey.

I came back to reality as we passed the ANA (Afghan National Army) air base with their old A-4 fighters and Russian built helicopters. I did think it ironic that the UN helicopters are all Russian built, crewed and piloted. Many had the Russian flag painted on them.

Considering the history between the two countries I figured it made sense but strange still.  Maybe that’s just me.

 

I made my way outside to find the driver that Virginia and my guesthouse had arranged to pick me up. Virg sent me a great email detailing how the guesthouse and driver had in fact typed out the sign and knocked on her door to get approval on both the sign and HOW he would hold the sign so that I would best see it. She said she wished she could have taken a picture. The truth is that these guys take our security as a personal issue. I was told a few stories about how a firefight broke out near the guesthouse years ago and quicker than quick these quiet, well mannered young men came flying out of the guest house armed to hell and gone shuffling the guests into a safe area and stood guard until the fight was over and things were secure. Most of if not all of these men are related and/or from the same village in the Panjshir valley area. My safety is a matter or their honor and family name. Needless to say, I feel safer here really than in Pakistan so far.

 

Well all this was fine and good but I didn’t see my guy, no sign, no driver, just me and bunch of very eager taxi drivers. One of them spoke perfect English and demanded that he help me, finally I acquiesced and took his phone to make a call or three. In the end I met up with the driver who was more relieved than I was that he had found me. And the helpful taxi driver asked for a few bucks for the phone call. FYI it seems as though you pay for everything in US dollars but your change is in Afghanis.

After a brief stop for a sim card, I was delivered to my guesthouse and checked in.

 

I was thrilled to see Virginia again but social etiquette here demands that the most affection we can show each other is a quick handshake. No hugs. That’s bad, very bad.

We hung out and talked, I met a few of the other “Guests” staying at Kabul Lodge and we all drank tea. I say “guests” because some of them have been here for 18 months. Sure they have had week or two of leave but mostly they live here.

 

Virg had made plans for us to have dinner with some of her old friends who were living and working here I Kabul so naturally I was invited. It was a strange but wonderful night. I met her co-worker Vanessa and her husband Zack and several other NGO workers who shared a beautiful little house off a very unassuming street maybe 5 minutes away from our guesthouse. It turns out that three or four of us have history in New York, Zack and I both went to Tufts University in Boston (a few years apart) he worked at one of my favorite bars in Cambridge and he knew the bars I worked at as well. Dinner was a very nice affair complete with excellent food, beer, European chocolate, good scotch and something else that I haven’t had since London, salad. A salad I could eat without fear of giardia, parasites or any number of other nasties. I finally was able to eat something green and uncooked. It was lovely. Absolutely lovely. 

 

I was asked by an Australian woman there what part of Oz I was from?  She didn’t think I was an Australian per se but she did seemed a bit taken back by my being an American. Zack and the other Americans seemed to know I was from the US but she said I lacked a distinctly “American accent”. I told her I could for her benefit speak with a more loose and southern accent if it helped her out? A few Ya’alls, softer “R’s” and a shift in my speech rhythms and there should be no more confusion as to where I was from. Again I was willing to help out the image of America to foreign eyes. Its what I do best really.

 

Later on I found out she has been working her for 5 almost 6 years! Most of the people at dinner had been in Afghanistan for years or at least worked here so many times that I was a second home.

I was struck toward the end of dinner with a strange feeling of home. It was as if I wasn’t really in Afghanistan but I was at a dinner party in Brooklyn with new friends. I leaned over to Virg and said something to that effect and we agreed that its good to do every now and again sometimes it just seems to make it more evident that you are far from home.

 

This morning at breakfast I came out to find Virg and another guest chatting over tea and coffee. As I sat down to a cup of Nescafe, Virginia delivered to me a jar of Peanut Butter and I must tell you, its manna from heaven! Peanut butter is one of those things that make life better. I need to be honest with myself and ration my peanut butter over the next 10 days. I am told I can buy Skippy here but I cant count on being able to find it in every country I travel to, this needs to be included in my travel kit. Live and learn.

 

Today we (a few of us from the guesthouse) are heading to a UN “party” held in a park celebrating Afghan Women’s Day. Bet you didn’t know that’s what Saturday was here did you. Me either but it is.  It should be a good place to shamelessly meet people and ply them for stories and make the friends I need to make while I am here.

 

 

I hope you all are doing well. If anyone knows anyone in Kabul or the surrounding area that wants a special hello sent or anything like that let me know and I will do my best to do so.

 

Take care,

D

Familiar sounds and seeing a city the right way

The photo is of Faisal Mosque in Islamabad.

 

Some sounds are visual. They just force an image into your mind that is probably born from experiences or understanding. You hear a dog bark you think of a dog, you don’t know what kind of dog it is but your mind shows you a mental image of a dog. Try to hear the bells of an ice cream truck and not “picture” the truck.

Last night one of those sounds came clearly to my ears and mental TV screen. The sound was that of a rifle bolt being pulled open to chamber a round and then being released to force the round up the feed ramp into the firing chamber. It’s a very distinct sound.  It’s a sound that normally is followed by a gun going off.

Naturally, this caused my heinie to wink a bit. The “door” to my guesthouse room was possibly 1” thick hollow core wood, at best this door was meant to be a closet door. Not exactly the kind of barrier that instills comfort or hope when one hears such things.

I quietly moved away from the door and stood near my closet, which incidentally had wooden doors mounted to concrete walls IE an actual barrier. I listened and heard a few more sounds that made my blood pressure rise, more bolts being drawn and slid forward, metallic clicking and fingers on wood and steel, but the confusing part was the voices. They were calm and joking…it sounded like two guys having a conversation while dinking around with their rifles. The whole thing seems so stupid that I open the door, and sure enough its two guys in the room across from mine sitting on their beds “cleaning” their AK-47’s with their door open. You know, its 10pm, time to strip your weapon, watch American Idol scare the shit out the foreign guy in room 29. I shook my head and shut the door. In the morning when I was leaving to shoot, I ran into them in the hall this time they had their police uniforms on. They smiled when I waved at them.

I still wanted to punch them for making me stain the chair in my room.

None of that really matters at this point as I am now in Lahore.Mr. Niaz dropped me at the train station in Rawalpindi at 710 am for my 730 (inshallah time) train. I made my way through the unattended metal detector with my bags, beeping as you may imagine.  Questioning why bother buying the damn things if no one uses them and sat down for a cup of chai complete with Pakistani Railway Sugar. I quickly found out that inshallah time is not used for the trains but real actual normal time is. After sprinting to my seat, the train slowly made its way out of the station thus began my 4+ hour train ride to Lahore.

Lahore is…as I put it in a note to a friend, east-er and hotter. I took the train this time because I generally like taking trains; you get to see an older part of the country. The roads are far newer than the rails so you are likely to only run through crowded city areas and stop at a truck stop or something along the way. Trains show you the cool parts of an area. Sadly this also means the poorer areas.  This was no exception.  The terrain seemed to ebb and flow in tidal like from scraggy plains with small villages complete with train chasing dogs and dirty faced kids waving at the train, emerald green rice fields populated with handfuls of squatting villagers harvesting or planting under soot filled skies hanging over multi-storied urban areas seemingly still under perpetual construction. The land was beautiful but layered with garbage and open stagnant water. Walled compounds and livestock tethered to the ground.  Children running with plastic bags on strings used as makeshift kites. Families living in tents and shelters made from corrugated aluminum, tarp,fabric, signage and anything else that can be found.  Its sad in a beautiful way. You roll by in a train made 50 years ago past villages that look thousands of years old.

Once I arrived in Lahore I remembered how beautiful it was but also how polluted it is. The air has a constant haze in it, a hanging cloud of diesel, charcoal, burning trash and dust. Still, some of the buildings and parks are stunning,

The hotel on the other hand, is in dire need of some construction or destruction. The AmerHotel seems to be teetering on the edge of decency and rattrap. The lobby area is nice the rooms are not. No matter I am waiting for a friend of my friend Douglas’ to meet me at the hotel. Jehanzeb is a young officer in the Pakistani Army who went to Sandhurst with Douglas. JZ has offered to take me around Lahore for a bit and that is the best way to see a city really with someone who knows it but lacks the conceit of a life long resident. In the mean time I am seriously looking forward to eating lunch and squaring away my return ticket via train ASAP. I am in Lahore for two nights and then back to Islamabad for two days doing nothing but prep for Afghanistan before heading off to Kabul.

JZ arrived with two other young officers on motorcycles eager to take me out and about. After several aborted attempts to meet another new friend/co-worker it was just JZ and I. while riding in circles looking for a café that doesn’t exist, I saw a sign that read “Gun smoke Diner” complete with the silhouette of Clint Eastwood from Unforgiven.  Naturally I was intrigued. In the end it was close, sounded interesting and JZ had never been there either so we went for it.

Holy crap! As soon as the door shut I was speechless. Pakistani men wearing red cowboy hats, American flag bandannas around their necks, vests and sheriff badges with their names on them! I nearly wet myself in horror and shock. This is why we are hated. I finally found the true cause.

I am constantly asked why does everyone in America think everyone in Pakistan is a terrorist? I felt like asking everyone there what the hell he or she thought this was supposed to represent? Bowls of peanuts sat on the table with shells strewn about the floor, cow skulls hung next to chili pepper light garlands, posters and photos from western movies hung on the walls and REALLY bad 80’s music was playing.  Part of me wanted to keep watching this train crash slowly the other part wanted to find some roti and chicken tikka double fast.

We stayed and I did my best to explain to a confused but interested Jehanzeb. He kept laughing saying that it was funny to him that I am the foreigner and he is the one out of place.Strangely, the Buffalo wings were not bad. They weren’t great but I have had worse in the US and paid for seconds so make of that what you will.

JZ and I rode around on his motorcycle with him pointing out historical buildings, important landmarks and cool things as we passed them. A motorcycle, in my case on the back of one, was THE best way to see Lahore. You are right up in it. The pollution is thick enough that you see, feel and wear it but you still get the best view from a bike.

We went to a public park where we played mini-golf and foosball. Think what you will it was a hell of a lot of fun. JZ had never played put-put before so naturally he stomped me by 10 strokes, I earned my pride back by shellacking him at foosball not once but twice and he had help. I played my side alone he played with one of the park employees taking up the defense line and goalie. It was ugly but I will take the win.

Afterwards we got some coffees and met two of his cousins and headed off to “Food Street” for dinner. Food Street is that, it’s a city street that gets shut down at night in a very old section of Lahore for the purpose of becoming one huge outdoor restaurant. The guys enjoyed making of list of foods and things I had to try since I have never had them before, first up was Pan. Pan is a leaf of some sort, rolled up with sweets, some sort of herbs, nuts and as far as I could taste, soap. You place the rolled up lump in your mouth and chew. That’s it; it’s kind of like a sweet or after dinner thing. I think it was beetal or chat if any of you know it by that name. It’s a nut that tastes like dirt but is a mild narcotic/digestive type of gadget. I have had it in Sri Lanka and in the Maldives. I had again for the same reason I had it a second time, I didn’t recognize it.

I began to chew and they all started smiling, not out of meanness or curiosity but in reaction to my face apparently. Because instantly JZ was at my side telling me I could spit it out no problem! I can say I tried it and didn’t like it. I guess I gave away my feelings too quickly because as I said to me it tasted like dirt covered soap. I waited to give it a real shot but when my mouth started to go numb and I could still taste the violet or whatever that flavor was I spit it out. Now it was dinnertime.

Lahore is known for its food. All of its food. So it was no shock to me that all three of my hosts were growing animated while deciding what we would eat. I was constantly asked if I would eat this or that. I balked at two things. Taka Tak-which is a chopped grilled mix of sheep’s brain, testicle and kidney. No thanks. I am cool with out that in my mouth. The other was Brain….anything.  Two of the guys wanted brain masala, JZ and I went to for roasted chicken with rice and spicy friend quail. The food was amazing!

While walking off the meal we walked by a street stall selling knives, swords and random crap like that. I made the mistake of seeing the brass knuckles and saying “ooh COOL!” because we stopped I played with them and JZ bought them for me. I tried to back out but he wanted to buy them for me. So now I have a pair of steel “brass” knuckles, illegal both in Pakistan and the US.

Suhweet!

We finished the night off with a desert call Two T. Two small shallow clay plates are filled with a gelled mix of milk, rice and sugar and stuck face to face. You buy the plates cum pot and split it open, scoop out the pudding like mix and bask in the simple glory of milky ricey goodness.

A short ride back to my hotel and my night was over. Time for bed. Jehanzeb and his cousins took amazing care of me and showed me some really cool parts of the city in a very short time. JZ also demanded that I give his number out to anyone I know who may come to Lahore or Pakistan for that matter, and he will help you out in anyway he can.

Tomorrow I am working with Ella, a young journalist who moved here from London to work for the daily English language newspaper here the day after I arrived in Pakistan. We are working on a story she pitched to the Guardian in the UK about a school program she came across funded by a private NGO she knows.

I am looking forward to working with a writer and submitting work to the Guardian. I am looking forward to shooting something that has a good chance of reaching printed matter at this point.

Ok kids, time for bed.

And by the way, I did try the brain masala…like the Pan; I have learned that I will be ok not eating that again.

 

Good night all.