I try to appreciate the ironies of life, to see them - recognize them, and either love them or hate them. Or so I tell myself.
Everything about living, working, and existing in this place called KAF is a Stephen King step away from being normal. There is a sense of replication here, a sense that this base is simply trying to emulate life from “back home”. This is obviously shaded, hmm - tinted by the many nationalities that are here. Therefore creating a true feeling that I am almost 100% positive exists nowhere else on earth. And if you dwelled on it for any length of time you would likely feel very isolated, or at least as if suffering from an odd sense of vertigo.
This –emulation – (like buying XBOSS games at the market) of course applies to how different countries, approach recreation, and how different countries HA! even how different companies from the same countries army do business on the battlefield. It affects absolutely everything; even down to the most mundane functions. Like getting your haircut.
For some a haircut is an important thing, an important ritual that can define how people perceive themselves and carry themselves. Most people I know have a dedicated person they go to; a person they seem to seek out when first moving somewhere. And will only avoid going to under the threat of severe bodily harm. They build up a trust, a bond, an unspoken agreement. My father has got his haircut in the same place for the last twenty-five years. I can guarantee their conversations have changed slightly, but their relationship hasn’t, I know my dads hairstyle hasn’t.
I have taken after my father in many ways, some frighteningly so. But I agree on finding a consistent and reliable barber or hairstylist to cut my hair, and heaven knows my hairstyle can change little. Even so there is a certain way I like to have my haircut, and if it fails to happen I feel odd and out of place, catching grimacing looks from myself in reflective surfaces. This lasts until I go get it fixed, or I forget about it. In the end, I’m not that vain.
So, under those conditions imagine walking into a small little American trailer the size of a camper, in the middle of Kandahar Airfield to have your haircut by two Russian women who have no grasp of the English language.
I know I will stereotyping horribly in the next couple lines, but not just in retrospect. It was clear these women were of some Russian decent in appearance, one looked remarkably like a woman I had seen in a Vodka commercial, though not dressed in a bikini, and she was not enjoying herself on a glacier with a Smirnoff Ice. Anyway it could have been as simple an observation as to notice the tattered Russian / English dictionary and phrase book on the counter.
While waiting I felt a curious dropping in my stomach as I looked at the faded and yellowed haircut selection pictures, ones that Judge Reinhold would have sported at least a decade ago. I said to myself, “Self,” I said, “this is going to go badly.” Then I got the gruff nod - great my turn. It would look weird to run away now.
So after a complicated series of hand gestures, saying “One” in three different languages, none of which was Russian mind you, and making exaggerated scissor motions did I get the message across to the woman from the Vodka commercial. Who then tossed the robe across me and regarded me with a look of sympathy reserved for the village idiot.
At one point during the haircut the woman started a very animated, and completely incomprehensibly soliloquy that had me curiously alarmed as she was looking directly at me in the mirror. I was beginning to formulate my plan of just saying “Da!” as that would be easier than getting the fact across that I did not have my secret decoder ring on. But much to my relief the woman cutting my Warrant’s hair responded with a low mumble. They both nodded. Hunh? Wonder what that was about.
Anyway about eight minutes later I walked out, fortunately not looking like a shaved poodle, and passed by the tall lanky nervous looking Aussie on his way in. As I left I seriously contemplated taking my own picture of that moment - to take back with me the next time. So I could point and say, “Do this again.”
The next time you go to get your hair cut, or styled by your regular barber or whomever, appreciate that moment. And tip them well.
As we drove back to work, my Warrant and I, in the Toyota Surf with right side drive he looked at me and said without a hint of jocularity, “You know…their fathers probably served here once.”
Hm, talk about perspective. Ha, talk about irony.
23.3.07
Care Packages
The life of a soldier, though surrounded by the comrades you hope you don’t have to die for can be a lonely, lonely existence. No matter who we are we have left someone behind – a mother, father, wife, husband, girlfriend, boyfriend, children. There is a feeling like time is on hold here, at least for me, and that when I go home it will still be the Monday I left, maybe a few hours later. But time is an evil trickster and often it can also seem that it is double timing it through the deployment. Young children mature and go to college and marry. I sometimes feel that I am going to go home and see my grandkids.
One way to stay connected is via email and phone, but they lack the decided capability to fill your day with an actual physical presence from home. So frankly to me the best thing in the world is the care package. I have read many letters so far that are signed: To any Canadian Soldier, and you would not believe the impact on morale they have. For some person 4 to 94 to take the time to write us a letter to say thank you even for something that they may not completely understand is all the thanks I need. That and a Timmies coupon…
But when those packages arrive from friends and family the day takes on a whole new colour. You feel like, “wow they remembered me”; it feels like Christmas. Each package is met with excitement and anticipation, both from the receiver, and the ton of guys hanging around to see “wutcha got?”
And you end up surrounded it is inevitable. The joy of a care package is to be shared with your buddies. We gather to see who got what candy, or to see who got the latest Maxim or Stuff magazine, you know the ones chock full of hard hitting journalistic debates on the transient natures of conservative civil libertarianism, haha who am I kidding, it may be sad but true but seeing Jessica Alba in a skirt the size of a paper napkin can be the second best little bit of morale that a loved one can send. In the end there is nothing better than passing around a scented envelope, full of love and promise, which screams “REMEMBER ME? THIS IS WHAT I SMELL LIKE, REMEMBER?” I am being a bit facetious but ladies, women, darlings, we do remember, and we miss you, but we will tease the life out of each other regardless. And for clarity sake the contents always remain personal, and cherished. I recognize, as well, that I am writing this from a decidedly male point of view. But go with what you know, I really only know one female soldier well enough to comment, and she sent herself sweaters.
I had been waiting knowing I was going to receive something and then came a day that I got two packages, much to my surprise…as I opened my ‘gifts’ with excitement to find a Calculus text book in one envelope chock full of Timmies coupons, and also a package full of tea, candy and Tuna Filets. One of my soldiers looked at me with dead earnestness and said, “Calculus and Tuna? I don’t think you’re friends like you so much.”
True, I’m not a Tuna fan, but the remainder of candies and goodies, and teas was enough to completely fill my day. And seeing both things sitting on the desk was enough to make me feel like I was not that far from home. Then I chuckled and offered out the tuna.
So the tuna made someone else happy, and when I get tired of trying to understand the complexities of complex military and humanitarian operations in a sun blasted, war torn post repression state I will turn to calculus. Those of you who know my skills in math will know that I will quickly turn back to Islamic radicalism and think it a much easier set of quadratic derivatives to solve.
One way to stay connected is via email and phone, but they lack the decided capability to fill your day with an actual physical presence from home. So frankly to me the best thing in the world is the care package. I have read many letters so far that are signed: To any Canadian Soldier, and you would not believe the impact on morale they have. For some person 4 to 94 to take the time to write us a letter to say thank you even for something that they may not completely understand is all the thanks I need. That and a Timmies coupon…
But when those packages arrive from friends and family the day takes on a whole new colour. You feel like, “wow they remembered me”; it feels like Christmas. Each package is met with excitement and anticipation, both from the receiver, and the ton of guys hanging around to see “wutcha got?”
And you end up surrounded it is inevitable. The joy of a care package is to be shared with your buddies. We gather to see who got what candy, or to see who got the latest Maxim or Stuff magazine, you know the ones chock full of hard hitting journalistic debates on the transient natures of conservative civil libertarianism, haha who am I kidding, it may be sad but true but seeing Jessica Alba in a skirt the size of a paper napkin can be the second best little bit of morale that a loved one can send. In the end there is nothing better than passing around a scented envelope, full of love and promise, which screams “REMEMBER ME? THIS IS WHAT I SMELL LIKE, REMEMBER?” I am being a bit facetious but ladies, women, darlings, we do remember, and we miss you, but we will tease the life out of each other regardless. And for clarity sake the contents always remain personal, and cherished. I recognize, as well, that I am writing this from a decidedly male point of view. But go with what you know, I really only know one female soldier well enough to comment, and she sent herself sweaters.
I had been waiting knowing I was going to receive something and then came a day that I got two packages, much to my surprise…as I opened my ‘gifts’ with excitement to find a Calculus text book in one envelope chock full of Timmies coupons, and also a package full of tea, candy and Tuna Filets. One of my soldiers looked at me with dead earnestness and said, “Calculus and Tuna? I don’t think you’re friends like you so much.”
True, I’m not a Tuna fan, but the remainder of candies and goodies, and teas was enough to completely fill my day. And seeing both things sitting on the desk was enough to make me feel like I was not that far from home. Then I chuckled and offered out the tuna.
So the tuna made someone else happy, and when I get tired of trying to understand the complexities of complex military and humanitarian operations in a sun blasted, war torn post repression state I will turn to calculus. Those of you who know my skills in math will know that I will quickly turn back to Islamic radicalism and think it a much easier set of quadratic derivatives to solve.
8.3.07
Fallen
A deployment to Afghanistan for myself has been one of many firsts. This past week saw one I had hoped to never experience. It was my first ramp ceremony. All available Canadians- soldiers, and civilian collected at the airfield. There was conversation and light banter, and an avoidance to discuss the reason we all gathered.
The sun had set a while ago but it was still warm, relatively so. There was a continuous breeze blowing, and if you believe in such things it could have easily been taken as prophetic. We gathered and formed with a bit more purpose than I’ve usually seen of large groups of soldiers gathering, there was little complaining, little noise.
Things progressed quickly and soon we found ourselves on the march to take our positions. We made the solemn, and quiet march through the hazy darkness. The only sound was the mild and continuous wind in my ears, and the muffled staccato of hundreds of combat boots on the tarmac. We marched from the weak light of the hanger through the darkness towards the looming brightly lit beacon that was the Hercules waiting.
As we Canadians formed, tightly packed, shoulder-to-shoulder-to-shoulder three deep in a long line, we formed a corridor that would act as the final Kandahar road for a fallen comrade. As we shuffled into position, quietly, reverently I heard something that surprised me; though it shouldn’t have. Row after row of soldiers from other countries, marines, Brits, Aussies, Dutch all formed row after row behind us.
I was positioned in the front rank about 30 feet from the yawning open end of the Herc. We waited for what seemed an eternity, lined at attention. The precision, formality, and ambiance reminded me of ancient Viking tributes, or final tributes to fighting Kings. It made me think in that moment, that it is only in death we soldiers, we average Canadian men and women are Kings and Queens, if only to our peers.
Then there was a whine from a microphone, as it itself caught the wind. The Padres spoke their lines, and they were no longer the trivial platitudes of Remembrance Day of yesteryear. The words reverberated, and stuck. They were quick, efficient, and articulate.
The emotion was thick and palpable. And then the command sang out. “Task Force Afghanistan to your Fallen Comrade salute.”
I have always been moved by the haunting skirl of the bagpipes, but hearing it here, under these circumstances was like an emotional punch in the gut. I think we all stood there steeling ourselves, but still the weight of it hits you like a tidal wave. It was a slow moving tsunami that started at the far end of the lines, and then progressed as the slow cadence brought another Nova Scotian son his last 500 meters across Kandahar Airfield.
The procession was slow, as if purposely driving the point home, building and building. I watched the Padres, then the coffin itself pass in front of me, so close that I could have reached out and touched it. Then world was then like a kaleidoscope, colour and light blurry and refracted. The wave passed me by then, and I hitched in a deep breath. A few minutes later there were the muffled footsteps inside the belly of the aircraft.
I watched the faces of those across from me. Many of which I knew were like me, and did not know Cpl Megeny. But he was Canadian, he was young, and he may only be the first of our rotation. So, there etched on many face were grim looks, made even more fierce in the weird shadows cast by the spotlights, and there were the telltale glistening sparkles of tears in eyes and cheeks.
You haven’t seen anything until you have seen soldiers cry. I hope I never see it again.
The sun had set a while ago but it was still warm, relatively so. There was a continuous breeze blowing, and if you believe in such things it could have easily been taken as prophetic. We gathered and formed with a bit more purpose than I’ve usually seen of large groups of soldiers gathering, there was little complaining, little noise.
Things progressed quickly and soon we found ourselves on the march to take our positions. We made the solemn, and quiet march through the hazy darkness. The only sound was the mild and continuous wind in my ears, and the muffled staccato of hundreds of combat boots on the tarmac. We marched from the weak light of the hanger through the darkness towards the looming brightly lit beacon that was the Hercules waiting.
As we Canadians formed, tightly packed, shoulder-to-shoulder-to-shoulder three deep in a long line, we formed a corridor that would act as the final Kandahar road for a fallen comrade. As we shuffled into position, quietly, reverently I heard something that surprised me; though it shouldn’t have. Row after row of soldiers from other countries, marines, Brits, Aussies, Dutch all formed row after row behind us.
I was positioned in the front rank about 30 feet from the yawning open end of the Herc. We waited for what seemed an eternity, lined at attention. The precision, formality, and ambiance reminded me of ancient Viking tributes, or final tributes to fighting Kings. It made me think in that moment, that it is only in death we soldiers, we average Canadian men and women are Kings and Queens, if only to our peers.
Then there was a whine from a microphone, as it itself caught the wind. The Padres spoke their lines, and they were no longer the trivial platitudes of Remembrance Day of yesteryear. The words reverberated, and stuck. They were quick, efficient, and articulate.
The emotion was thick and palpable. And then the command sang out. “Task Force Afghanistan to your Fallen Comrade salute.”
I have always been moved by the haunting skirl of the bagpipes, but hearing it here, under these circumstances was like an emotional punch in the gut. I think we all stood there steeling ourselves, but still the weight of it hits you like a tidal wave. It was a slow moving tsunami that started at the far end of the lines, and then progressed as the slow cadence brought another Nova Scotian son his last 500 meters across Kandahar Airfield.
The procession was slow, as if purposely driving the point home, building and building. I watched the Padres, then the coffin itself pass in front of me, so close that I could have reached out and touched it. Then world was then like a kaleidoscope, colour and light blurry and refracted. The wave passed me by then, and I hitched in a deep breath. A few minutes later there were the muffled footsteps inside the belly of the aircraft.
I watched the faces of those across from me. Many of which I knew were like me, and did not know Cpl Megeny. But he was Canadian, he was young, and he may only be the first of our rotation. So, there etched on many face were grim looks, made even more fierce in the weird shadows cast by the spotlights, and there were the telltale glistening sparkles of tears in eyes and cheeks.
You haven’t seen anything until you have seen soldiers cry. I hope I never see it again.
5.3.07
"Its hard to fathom" - a run report from KAF
It is hard to fathom, at 0430 with a gentle but steady rain falling, that this land could be a harsh daunting desert. But several days ago I had the opportunity to experience at least a glimpse at the possibility of such a thing.
I had seen the signs around, advertising the “KAF Jogging Route” (knowing full well that the use of the word jogging would send some of my RunningManiac friends into cardiac arrest, or at least begin again a spirited debate on semantics). Feeling particularly keen and able one day I armed myself with a 500ml bottle of weak Gatorade and started on an epic journey.
The ground here is often hard, concrete-like packed dirt, often littered with golf ball sized rocks that pester and annoy, and threaten to turn your ankle and leave you a hobbling victim at any time. This phenomenon is not exclusive to sneakers, as even in my combat boots I have felt the awkward and biting turn of an ankle. The ground in places is also a thick spongy mud, remnants of previous rains that evaporated before they were absorbed into the impervious soil. And after a few days when covered in dust can spring up on you like the terrible sinking pits reminiscent of the quicksand in the Princess Bride. After a few steps through this it collects on your boots or sneakers, weighing them down. Then you run across gravel and you end up with a weird gravel encrusted coral on your sneakers (or boots).
But for running, at least for the somewhat lazy runner like myself, the terrain is billiard table flat. Though running at about 3000ft above sea level, you run a smooth eerily flat course.
The running route almost immediately takes me parallel to the airstrip, and for any kid who has ever grown up and dreamt of Top Gun you feel a surge of adrenaline that takes you back. I stretch my legs out here, picking up the pace bit. Feeling the breeze. I pass people from other nations who smile and nod, like serious runners do. Ha-ha.
Then I round the far corner of the airfield, and come face-to-face with the mountains I have seen through cloudy hazes, dusty hazes and sunny hazes. Now seemingly close enough to touch the late afternoon sun shines like a spotlight on them. You cannot help but immediately get the sense of something great and terrible as you look towards the naked mountains. They are daunting rocky crags, reminiscent of a Tolkien yarn. They signify the rigid backbone of this nation. And they are beautiful. You cannot help but thinking “Hm, that is where they launch the rockets from.” And you cannot help but hate the mountains then.
From my vantage points around the airfield you see the true level of constant activity packed into this patch of dirt. This activity is an enormous plethora of air assets, some which threaten to shake my teeth loose from their very spot. As well, there is an enormous amount of construction activity, with workers of seemingly many nations, being supplied by continuous road convoys.
A word about the vehicles in these convoys. The term often used to define these vehicles is “Jingle Trucks” for they are often gaily painted and have some manner of chains adorning them so as they move they well, jingle. You get a feeling of a sense of pride from many of these drivers, who race along at 10 miles an hour and with big smiles. Many times either walking the base, or on this run (that I am trying to get around to describe) I was met with many smiles and waves. But these vehicles are rusted, old, and battered in many cases; however, they have been looked after to the point that they are at least serviceable.
But I digress.
This running route sometimes shows me the roads within the vicinity of the base, and these roads are a curious mix of some civilian vehicles as well as military vehicles coming and going. I run past the uncharted minefields that surround us. I watch convoys of military vehicles drive on doing their duty, or returning from. I know that this is a war zone, and with no levity I state that still with the amount of activity and varying levels of technology evident in this base I feel like I am in a weird dream that is a mixture of the computer games SIMCity and Civilization.
As I continue around nearing the end of my journey I realize then that the base is completely surrounded by this jagged mane of mountains, and with heat blazing off the small section of “blacktop” I feel as though I am running a route around the inside of and electric griddle. I get back to my room after about 11km, and about 75 minutes. I am covered in a pasty dust muck that coats my skin like some expensive ex-foliant. My shirt and shorts are drenched, yet dusty. My throat is a little raw from dust. But I feel good and exhilarated.
By the time I have finished and am back in my small room, I have a full understanding of the weird paradox this place truly is. In one (relatively speaking) small patch of mine riddled, sun blasted earth the most powerful nations on the planet have sent maybe not all their brightest, not all their best, maybe not even their bravest, but possibly the most dedicated, to a place that is as dangerous as any that exist currently on the globe. These soldiers do not share a religion; do not share a language with the proud innocent civilians of this country. But they share a fundamental humanity, a oneness, and to belittle that to the point of calling it political puppetry or a lost cause or ‘unwinnable’ is to do both sides a disservice. These dedicated, and brave few, (again relatively speaking) have gathered to offer something to this large dirt-poor country. That thing is hope.
I say these things with no arrogance, or expectation of praise for my job is safely within the wire, and I look up to my peers with awe, as well, from here. All I did was go for a run.
I had seen the signs around, advertising the “KAF Jogging Route” (knowing full well that the use of the word jogging would send some of my RunningManiac friends into cardiac arrest, or at least begin again a spirited debate on semantics). Feeling particularly keen and able one day I armed myself with a 500ml bottle of weak Gatorade and started on an epic journey.
The ground here is often hard, concrete-like packed dirt, often littered with golf ball sized rocks that pester and annoy, and threaten to turn your ankle and leave you a hobbling victim at any time. This phenomenon is not exclusive to sneakers, as even in my combat boots I have felt the awkward and biting turn of an ankle. The ground in places is also a thick spongy mud, remnants of previous rains that evaporated before they were absorbed into the impervious soil. And after a few days when covered in dust can spring up on you like the terrible sinking pits reminiscent of the quicksand in the Princess Bride. After a few steps through this it collects on your boots or sneakers, weighing them down. Then you run across gravel and you end up with a weird gravel encrusted coral on your sneakers (or boots).
But for running, at least for the somewhat lazy runner like myself, the terrain is billiard table flat. Though running at about 3000ft above sea level, you run a smooth eerily flat course.
The running route almost immediately takes me parallel to the airstrip, and for any kid who has ever grown up and dreamt of Top Gun you feel a surge of adrenaline that takes you back. I stretch my legs out here, picking up the pace bit. Feeling the breeze. I pass people from other nations who smile and nod, like serious runners do. Ha-ha.
Then I round the far corner of the airfield, and come face-to-face with the mountains I have seen through cloudy hazes, dusty hazes and sunny hazes. Now seemingly close enough to touch the late afternoon sun shines like a spotlight on them. You cannot help but immediately get the sense of something great and terrible as you look towards the naked mountains. They are daunting rocky crags, reminiscent of a Tolkien yarn. They signify the rigid backbone of this nation. And they are beautiful. You cannot help but thinking “Hm, that is where they launch the rockets from.” And you cannot help but hate the mountains then.
From my vantage points around the airfield you see the true level of constant activity packed into this patch of dirt. This activity is an enormous plethora of air assets, some which threaten to shake my teeth loose from their very spot. As well, there is an enormous amount of construction activity, with workers of seemingly many nations, being supplied by continuous road convoys.
A word about the vehicles in these convoys. The term often used to define these vehicles is “Jingle Trucks” for they are often gaily painted and have some manner of chains adorning them so as they move they well, jingle. You get a feeling of a sense of pride from many of these drivers, who race along at 10 miles an hour and with big smiles. Many times either walking the base, or on this run (that I am trying to get around to describe) I was met with many smiles and waves. But these vehicles are rusted, old, and battered in many cases; however, they have been looked after to the point that they are at least serviceable.
But I digress.
This running route sometimes shows me the roads within the vicinity of the base, and these roads are a curious mix of some civilian vehicles as well as military vehicles coming and going. I run past the uncharted minefields that surround us. I watch convoys of military vehicles drive on doing their duty, or returning from. I know that this is a war zone, and with no levity I state that still with the amount of activity and varying levels of technology evident in this base I feel like I am in a weird dream that is a mixture of the computer games SIMCity and Civilization.
As I continue around nearing the end of my journey I realize then that the base is completely surrounded by this jagged mane of mountains, and with heat blazing off the small section of “blacktop” I feel as though I am running a route around the inside of and electric griddle. I get back to my room after about 11km, and about 75 minutes. I am covered in a pasty dust muck that coats my skin like some expensive ex-foliant. My shirt and shorts are drenched, yet dusty. My throat is a little raw from dust. But I feel good and exhilarated.
By the time I have finished and am back in my small room, I have a full understanding of the weird paradox this place truly is. In one (relatively speaking) small patch of mine riddled, sun blasted earth the most powerful nations on the planet have sent maybe not all their brightest, not all their best, maybe not even their bravest, but possibly the most dedicated, to a place that is as dangerous as any that exist currently on the globe. These soldiers do not share a religion; do not share a language with the proud innocent civilians of this country. But they share a fundamental humanity, a oneness, and to belittle that to the point of calling it political puppetry or a lost cause or ‘unwinnable’ is to do both sides a disservice. These dedicated, and brave few, (again relatively speaking) have gathered to offer something to this large dirt-poor country. That thing is hope.
I say these things with no arrogance, or expectation of praise for my job is safely within the wire, and I look up to my peers with awe, as well, from here. All I did was go for a run.
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