Kandahar

Growing up in the shadow of the Crescent City, we made many trips to New Orleans. As a youngster I marveled at the age of buildings and infrastructure, long before I knew those words, in New Orleans. Many times I wondered where its allure as  city came from. Years later I discovered, or more accurately was able to describe, that its charm came from its decadence. Debauchery aside, the decay, the age, the smell of rotted wood, stale beer and more stale urine add to the charm of the city nearly as old as my hometown. Many times I wondered if there was an Old Home Depot or maybe a Lowe-er's that stocked half-rotted, mildewed wood and buckets of faded paint to feed the need for repairs to the decaying town. I still suspect there is some Hysterical Society or architectural group that keeps modern glass and non-iron fences from being used in the more charming parts of the town.

Arriving in Kandahar I found a different type of decay.

Most buildings the Corps has built or are repairing in Afghanistan, whether Afghan or Soviet design, appear to be cement masonry unit construction covered with plaster. To the uninitiated, a CMU is a cinder block and the plaster would appear almost as stucco. Really it's a form of concrete that covers the blocks so that it appears to be of the same mud construction that the smaller buildings and a majority of the fences are. When I discover a better reason than just architectural similarity I will let you know because I seriously doubt that is the reason, and yet buildings everywhere in this country are constructed the same. Then painted a similar shade of yellow.

The airport in Kandahar is old-school styled design. Large masonry arches over spaces with massive interior columns and huge exterior walls. All appear to be brick or CMU type covered in plastered, aggregate-free concrete. This old building has giant cracks and chunks taken in ragged portions from its magnificent interior facade. The building shows both its age, its character, its resiliency, and the face of decades of fighting. If these walls could talk they would talk of rockets, grenades, and bombs of all sorts. The story would seem endless and most definitely dry but its voice would share the war weariness of the country.

And yet it stands still. Defiant, deliberate, damaged but not destroyed.

I spent two days and one night in Kandahar and it was the first spot I had to really begin working. Not that I had projects to oversee, but the first person I met was one of my staff going on R&R. He picked me up and brought me to the Corps Compound in Kandahar. There I met some folks I had talked with telephonically, electronically, and not at all. The support staff for the District that handles the contracts, the construction, the logistics, the operations, and everything in between. I was paraded past a Who's Who of District personnel. Mnemonically I tagged them associating their role to the same role in my home District. My head had been spinning because of the trip, now it was spinning because of why I made the trip.

Kandahar began my real introduction to the work of rebuilding Afghanistan. While simultaneously showing me its stubborn streak. We should get along well, Afghanistan and I.

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Bagram

My first taste of Afghanistan was Bagram Air Force Base. Apparently it was an old Soviet base that fell into disrepair as they left it and was "fixed" by us later. The drive from the airstrip was as revealing as the looks from the air. Everything looked like it was an active construction site--except no one was walking around in reflective vests and hard hats. Piles of debris, rock, concrete T-walls, and concertina wire were everywhere. For those who don't know, a T-wall looks like a concrete median barrier except it goes up 12-15 feet. They are designed so that they can interlock with the next sections. I have never seen such a motley collection of vehicles. Some I recognize, some I've never heard of and I don't just mean makes, I mean models. The Tata is an Indian vehicle that I've been told is a low-maintenance vehicle. The Timex watch of cars--takes a licking and keeps on ticking. There are Mercedes Buses as well as good-old Bluebird buses. The Bluebird buses generally have some sort of sign over the emergency exit door that covers the note that says State Law makes it illegal to pass when the sign is out.

I rode in a Toyota Highace van. I saw Four-runners, Land Cruisers, and many other configurations that are unlike the Toyotas we see in the US. Most of the Americans drive Toyotas, the Afghans drive Fords. Not sure why, but that doesn't quite seem right to me. Hilux is the Toyota truck seen most often, never heard of it before Bagram. I also saw a Ford I've never seen before as well as a Ranger with four full-sized doors. Daiwoo vehicles are all over and many more that I just simply couldn't identify. All dusty, dirty, dingy, dinged, and clearly ridden hard.

There is a haze present most of the time. Some call it moon dust, a descriptive and accurate picture. Jamal is materials engineer and is well versed in how to use different materials to accomplish what we take for granted in the States because of the quality of materials available to us. When it comes to the gradation of rock everything is sieved. Each sieve is progressively smaller sized usually starting with 1/2 inch, 1/4 inch, and going down to what is called a 200 sieve. Anything passing the 200 sieve is known as fines because this is very small material. The number 200 means there are 200 wires per square inch so you can imagine this is dust-like material. Sieve analysis in Afghanistan can reveal 50 to 80% of the sampled material passes the 200 sieve. A high percentage would be ten, so clearly moon dust is an accurate moniker.

The winds easily stir the moon dust and whip it into an omnipresent cloud. It isn't so noticeable up close, but when you look across the flat land things in the distance sort of fade away. It can also cause respiratory problems but that's an issue I will blow off for now.

The general geography of Afghanistan is mountainous, but most of the inhabited areas are flat. Well, the inhabited areas that contain most of the military installations I've been to are flat. Some describe it as a bowl. Travelling back and forth to some other spots you can see some villages along the way that are very much not flat, but where I am it is flat. Flat, but not like Biloxi flat. There are mountains on the horizon, multi-layered mountains all the way around the horizon as far as I've cared to check. Mountains that fade in or out because of the amount of moon dust in the air.

Bagram has some trees, of all different sizes. Some are nice sized, some type of pine though I never saw any cones on the ground. Particularly odd to think that the ground, so rough and tumble, is policed regularly to eliminate pinecones yet that must be the case. The trees appear dusty just like everything else. Even the pine needles clustered up in the air above our heads just look like they need to be dusted.

The smaller, twig looking trees were apparently planted not long ago. Each has a bowl-like base dug out around the base so that it can hold water. Each night about 0100 hours someone waters them in an attempt to get the trees to go. The trees just have the appearance of being scrappy little trees fighting to hold on to whatever ground they can in an attempt to grow. A truly poetic metaphor for the country.

Along one side of the road, named Disney, there are almost no trees in their secondary growth phase except well off the right of way behind other T-walls that channelized traffic, vehicular and pedestrian. Between the road and the sidewalk is a substantial concrete ditch. It has straight walls and is anywhere from 3 to 5 feet deep where I saw it. There is a rail on the pedestrian side and concrete barriers spaced out on the vehicular side to keep people and cars out of it. The scrawny trees are between the ditch and the sidewalk where the utility poles are. Apparently, the contractor came through and cut down the trees that may have been planted by the Soviets and promised to plant five for every one they took down. They followed through with that promise, but they cut down large, well established trees and planted scrawny trees not much bigger than the kind you can buy at Lowe's or The Home Depot and they put them right below the utility lines.

Established growth, eliminated, reproduced five times over, set up for failure. I hope and pray that the trees are not entirely the poetic metaphor they first appear for this country.

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The Colonel Visits

This post is a bit out-of-order with the rest since my last post only just had me arriving in Dubai, but it had to be shared close to the event depicted. On Saturday, the District Commander visited our area of operations. He and a few others flew in to attend Camp Stone's Change of Command the next day. Colonel Quarles himself is only about three weeks away from surrendering command of the District as the District disappears.

From the time I first began to hear of the work of the office I heard good things. Consistently outperforming expectations, beating deadlines, and delivering good products for our customers. Part skill, part good management, part luck, my arrival in  one of the (relatively speaking) safest place to be in Afghanistan was more of the same. Perhaps more of the latter, but more of the same. I have inherited a great team, a great office, and people who are get the job done.

The more I heard about the office, the more I began to get fear that once I got on board I could be the apple that upsets the cart. It took getting here to finally end some of those fears. This is where Serendipity, my constant traveling companion and pilot, again began to rear her gorgeous head.

One of my biggest fears, even before hearing anything about the security, working conditions, or success of the Herat Area Office, was in working closely with an officer. Yes, those that know my thinking know that one of the reasons I wanted to come was the chance to again be a part of the camaraderie that is working with (and in) the military. While I served 6 years and probably wouldn't have been able to stay medically much longer, had I been able to I would have hit retirement eligibility 18 months ago. More than likely I would have been able to remedy my one failed attempt at Officer Candidate School acceptance which itself was a remedy to having turned down both the low-hanging fruit of newly announce Senatorial Candidate vice Representative Trent Lott's invitation to "call my secretary Monday morning, we're always looking for candidates for West Point" and my intensive effort but just as dismissed Army ROTC Scholarship, Said scholarship turned down with the reasoning of "I'll never be in the military." Also, since a peer that was the same rank as I when I got out is presently a Command Sergeant Major, so if I hadn't joined the Dark Side, I would have been pretty high in the pecking order of the Working Side of the Army. Not to mention of course that I would have slightly fewer years than those I am serving here with now, like 5 years less than the previously mentioned Colonel.

Having said all that, the idea of working with an officer is inherently frightening. Horror story after horror store abound in the Federal Civil Service world about a gung-ho Major looking out for himself wrecking the lengthy career of a civilian to advance his own career. However, my first conversation with fellow Alabaman Lieutenant Colonel Stogner washed aside all of those concerns with undue haste. His very first sentence eased my mind that he had his area of concern and I had mine. His job is to keep me fat and happy (my description, not his). His bubble of the mission is to provide a security bubble around my bubble of the mission allowing me to concentrate on the engineering and contract aspects and not worrying about being attacked. The issue of wearing flame-retardant uniforms beneath my individual body armor and a Kevlar helmet instead of a hard hat not withstanding.

After that, things got downright chummy as I discovered that I share many similar traits with the previous job holder meaning that the two of us will form an easy extension of the effective team in place before I arrived. Though one other thing set me back a bit, he told me that he works for me.

Now, I've had jobs where I had people older than me, people who outranked me, people who were ready to retire, and people who ended up retiring just because I made them work. So on the surface, his statement was not something that was unheard of in my career. Yet the concept of an O-5 being on my staff was a bit off-putting. My job level is considered equivalent of an O-4 or O-5 and with the experience I have both in leadership and engineering from before my employment with the Corps I lean towards the O-5 equivalency. Maybe it's just pride, but I can back it up with justification so just go with me here. It also helps that while I was hired at one level, Resident Engineer, I am replacing an Area Engineer getting that title until such time as the District stands down because there are two Resident Engineers on my staff.

That evening, my first in Herat, I walked around the compounds. Both the compound with the majority of our living quarters that also houses our day room, gymnasium building, volleyball court, observation tower and parking lot for our up-armored SUV security teams, and the main office compound where we have three "office" buildings, a secondary stand alone conference room, pavilion with terra-cotta tiles for a floor (where some work out with the weights, others enjoy the outdoor eating area, but I just show up for the weekly cigar smoking club), our security bunker, more vehicles available for transporting around the post, and the recently added (deadlined) MRAP Vehicles. Short story long, I felt a sense of being in charge of a great responsibility.

Back to Saturday, remember Saturday? This is a post about Saturday. We planned a barbecue for some soon to depart teammates. I say we, it was a done deal before I arrived. The Colonel's arrival was lagniappe. For two days I made jokes about how I needed his visit to not interfere with the barbecue. Just before his arrival he emailed (along with several others) a taunting trash talking note which quoted Sun Tzu about a planned Spades match. I took the opportunity to win the battle before I took the field (the point of his quote) and commented that the email appeared to concern my desire for his visit to not foul up our event.

My trash talk ended up getting me involved in the card game, which I of course further provoked but there was a matter of work before play still. There was a site visit planned for some buildings on the adjacent camp we have built for the Afghanistan Army with some issues. As we walked the buildings explaining to the Boss what was left to do and how to get it done he commented that we appeared to be in shape to accomplish the tasks before our sister area office in Helmand. Still in trash-talk mode I replied, "It's the Herat Standard, Sir." With a quick glance at me, the Colonel stopped, bent down to set what he had in his hands on the floor, assumed the front lean and rest position, and began not only knocking them out, but counting, "One, Sir! Two, Sir!"

I have now had an O-6 giving me corrective push ups. Put quite simply: I. Have. Arrived.

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Chasing the Sun

The 13 hour flight to Dubai was an adventure all its own. I paid extra for an Economy Plus seat which meant I got about six inches more leg room and could choose my seat. Left and right was the same squished airline seat room and I sat right next to a big fellow from Wisconsin. I had the window seat because I’ve always liked to see where I’m going. My normal travel mode is to view the ground and try to determine what I am flying over. Years ago this could only be estimated by reviewing the airline magazine page that showed all the connections the airline made which at best is a farce because those perfect arcs may or may not be the actual flight path taken. Generally speaking, in the United States they are. The United flight to Dubai was not. In fact, it went completely opposite of the path of the plane. However, many years ago Boeing added a cool feature on their planes that was a screen in the back of the seat on which many entertainment options are available.

One of the modes is Map which flips through several shots showing a broad view of the flight, then either a closer in, or a really close in shot. They also tell you things like elevation, speed, outside air temperature, time and distance flown, and time and distance to destination. In many ways this made my game a little less fun, but in keeping with the spirit of it I still guess before looking at the map.For many aspects of this trip I have consulted people who have made similar trips. Some to Afghanistan, some to Iraq, some to various other places around the world. My questions and topics varied depending on the person I was talking to. Almost all of them agreed that the window seat is not the seat to get for such a long flight. They all said aisle seat is the way to go. This has never seemed right to me, perhaps it is because I don’t choose to stretch my legs into the aisle for more room believing that would get in the way of the other passengers and/or flight attendants. So, despite all the suggestions otherwise I sat in the window seat. For a trip that started at 1845 and was flying over the Atlantic Ocean it still seemed a bad choice but it was still one I made. Knowing that everyone advised against it, knowing that I would be flying at night, and knowing that a good portion of the trip would likely be over water, I still selected the seat that I believed would make me happiest along the lengthy flight. My advisors may have been right. But they were not right for me. I knew that if for no other reason than having something to lean against (the window) would still be a good choice for me. Even the guy on the aisle, who travels more than he cares and had taken this very flight a month before told me I wouldn’t see anything. Maybe some clouds, maybe some water, but nothing. He was mostly right. But when he was wrong, it was most enjoyable.

The best way I could describe the flight was Chasing the Sun. The flight path was up the east coast and over Canada, then over Great Britain and Europe. Looking at a flat map this seems the long way but I long ago experimented with masking tape, a globe, and a map to confirm that thanks to the magic of three dimensions it is much shorter. The phenomenal part of the trip was that because of the time we left the sun was setting over Nova Scotia. As we proceeded across the north Atlantic, the sky did darken but there was always a faint glow on the horizon. It got very faint for a bit and there were stars galore out. Well, what I could see beyond the glare on the window and the lights on the tip of the 777. Then the extraordinary occurred because the horizon’s glow grew.

Sunset behind the port wing of a 777-200 over Nova Scotia
Sunset behind the port wing of a 777-200 over Nova Scotia

What had been a glorious, red at night, sailor’s delight sunset to the left of the window had become a faint glow mostly concealed by the wing in the center of the window. That in turn became a beautiful promising sunrise on the right of the window. We had spent the evening chasing the sun.

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Blog Transitioned

Over the course of the last year and a half my life has been in a transitory state. My job moved me, my family wasn't prepared to move, then we were except we weren't, then we moved anyway. My job required a lot of training at places other than the Jewel of Alabama to which I moved, then the spot I had hoped to be able to move at work didn't materialize  as planned/hoped. Ultimately, my wife and I had a choice to make that resulted in me not sleeping in the same bed as her every night. As my friend Jon Stolpe would say, I've been stretched.

 

My last few posts have been about getting to where I am now, there's more to come, but first a description of why I came to be in a place called Herat.

When I headed for Herat I knew that there were things I'd be doing without. I have grown accustomed to drinking creamer in my coffee while waking up and reading my daily Bible readings. I drink it raw other places, but at home I like it creamed. Carmel machiatto has been my choice of late, but before that it was french Vanilla. This was an item I imagined I would have to give up, I was wrong. I have had Coffeemate french Vanilla cream in my first cup of coffee from the dining hall most days now. So A Year Without Creamered Coffee was out.

 

Never having really been out of the country I was worried about Montezuma's Revenge, the Turkish Trots, the Afghani A. . . well, let's just say torn up stomach from unfamiliar foods. As a result, I tried eating a lot of yogurt with Acidophilus in it. Other than wondering why they abbreviate the Lactobacillus of L. Acidophilus all I know is that it seems to have worked. But it was the two weeks leading up to my arrival that I ate it. Since hitting the country I have stopped. This mostly due to the more runny state of yogurt here. So, A Year of Eating Yogurt was out.

 

There were several titles that are still appropriate. I haven't driven here yet, but A Year Without Driving didn't seem right. A Year of Backsliding seems appropriate, not because I can't go to church, but I don't anticipate going often because we do work 7 days a week. Clearly that shows another rejected title, A Year Without a Day Off.

 

For a guy that grew up in the Jewel of Mississippi--Biloxi-- with the world's largest man-made beach, it might seem appropriate to be A Year Without the Beach, or A Year Without Seeing or Cutting the Grass. A Year Without Television will not be accurate because while we don't get cable over here and all the sporting events happen at odd hours, there is Armed Forces Network. Strangely for a guy that doesn't watch commercials at home thanks to TiVO, I like the commercials on AFN more that the shows.

 

It sounds gross to say A Year Without Taking a Bath, until you recognize I didn't say without showering, there are no tubs in Camp Stone. A Year Without Carrying a Key sounds nice, and seems accurate, but after much deliberation I went with my first thought.

 

For those that know me, you know I've always loved to dress nicely. Not in the latest fads or styles, but suit and tie are comfortable to me. I have a picture at the age of 4 wearing a sport coat and one at 6 in a tie. Like everyone in the 70s I had a baby-blue 3 piece leisure suit. Don't deny it, if you're a male that lived through the decade, you had one. I'm not asking you to admit how long into the 80s you owned/wore it, just admit you owned one. For the record I outgrew mine quickly so it didn't make it much past the bicentennial.

 

Oftentimes I have found myself wearing a tie to work when no one else did. I've taken heat for it, but it rolls off me like water under a duck's butt. I'm comfortable in a tie. So much so that if you ever see me with a tie that's loosened around my neck you'd probably be better served to just leave me alone because it takes a lot to piss me off enough to walk around without the Windsor knot tightly around my neck.

 

While I have dress pants here (haven't worn them since I left Virginia) and one dress shirt, there are no ties. No cartoon characters, no bow ties, no Croatian Military Awards to be found. There are no ties to be found in the wall locker with my clothes. I have left behind the comfortable clothes and atmosphere that has become my world and stepped into another phase.

 

A Year Without Wearing a Tie has begun. God help us all let's see where it takes us.

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Testing posts

This is a test of the Byrdmouse Blogging System. Had this been an actual posting you would have seen a link to the newest content of my blog. I'm trying to figure out how to make Twitter AND Facebook post automatically when I have new blog posts. So this is only a test.

This was only a test.

Getting There's Half the Fun

Multiple people have told me to “just journal” not write, but I’m a writer, not a journal writer. This entry is my plane ride to Dulles International where I headed to western Virginia for some pre-deployment training. It was a rough trip.

 

On 2 June, the plane from Mobile left late, not very late, about 20 minutes. Enough to make me fear missing my plane in Atlanta. My gates are always at the end and never connect on the same gate. Today was no exception. I rushed from plane to plane.

Running on the people mover has to be one of my most used metaphors. That bit at the end when you have to catch yourself because your body is now moving much faster than your feet. Well, it isn’t just my favorite metaphor; it’s a way of life, especially travel life.

So I get to my next plane, and I’m Zone 1, normally I’m in the last zone to board, but now I’m first. So I get on the plane with time to spare and wait for it to fill up. Finally the doors closed but the pilot says, we’re delayed, plus there’s a long line of planes ahead of us. After thirty minutes he tells us it will be another thirty minutes. Is it better to break the time up into small chunks like that? Did he know it would be an hour all along? Things I may never know.

Anyway, we get to moving and he tells us we’re skipping a few places in the line, good news, finally. While we’re traveling along at a snail’s pace, I watched outside the window. I began to think about how odd it is that we are voluntarily in a hollow tube that has been sealed. It would be nice to open the window and smell the hot, humid rain falling in the Atlanta heat.

As we near the end of the runway someone a few rows in front of me begins to yell. The yell was muffled, subdued, quiet as he yelled, “Shelby, help! Somebody, help!” Without knowing what was wrong, your heart starts pumping, adrenaline is flowing, and you scan looking for something, anything that could be wrong. Being unable to see anything ahead of me I look back out the window. The plane is rolling forward, is someone about to get run over? Are we drifting aimlessly and about to roll off an embankment? About this time someone indicates there is a person undergoing seizures.

They move her into the aisle and a lady from the back of the plane walks up. Apparently she is some type of nurse or doctor but it makes me think, what if she doesn’t know anything about seizures? Followed closely by wondering what healthcare professionals think of when they aren’t working but someone needs medical attention. As an engineer I don’t have to worry about that too often.

So, we roll back to the gate and unload her. She walked off under her own power, which is a good sign, but now we have to file another flight plan, find a new gate to land at, etc. Finally we get that taken care of and get back into the long line of taxiing planes we were at the front of and the pilot tells us that due to weather in Dulles that no planes are being allowed to land so we’re back to being on hold. After about another half hour we’re moving again, but still behind a large number of planes.

Finally, 2 hours after we were supposed to have landed, we take off. When we arrived and the pilot announced it the plane clapped.

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Pork You

I have arrived at the next stage of my adventure, getting here was its own adventure and will be the subject of several posts as I transition to the new blog I mentioned in my last post. But first, a quick note to tell you where I am.

Those who know me would not be surprised to know that before I allowed the Corps to transition me to the Mississippi Coast Resident Office I verified that it wasn't named the Gulfport Resident Office. The fact that at the time it was in Orange Grove, a long ago annexed part of Gulfport, was less of a concern because even now that it's located at the Stennis Space Center (last stop on I-10 before the dimension shift also known as LA state line) the official location listed is Biloxi.

Along that same vein, before I seriously considered a move to Afghanistan, I verified that pork products would be available. This morning I had a sausage biscuit with a bacon chaser. And I don't mean that turkey bacon stuff, they have that, but that's a last resort.

The increased security, concertina wire atop the fence outside my office window, concrete T-walls around everything aside, it could be easy to forget I'm in an active combat zone. This morning at the DFAC (that's dining hall for the un-acronym minded) I saw a frail woman. She was super thin, slightly wrinkled, drawn face with wispy, thin, un-coiffured blond hair. She was wearing what passes as heels around here, slightly higher than my combat boots but much smaller area, not stiletto sized, but smaller. As she passed by my table I couldn't help but notice that on her hip was a 9 mm handgun in a military holster. Frail or not, this woman won't take crap of anyone and is ready for it.

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