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