Good day, MATV, dust, and sin

Among the days so far, this: good. Began with a 600 meter walk to work on a relatively clear morning; the lonely jagged brown rocky mountain jutted into the blue sky from the sandy horizon about three miles north. There have only been two days out of twenty-one where you could even make out the mountain. One can imagine this place as Scottsdale, Arizonish except for the huge vehicles straight out of Star Wars that drive by and lift thick dust. Constantly trucks drive by, construction relentless, huge fields of concrete for foundations spreading behind fences, Third Country Nationals (TCNs) from India, Bangladesh, and Phillipines working long hours, huge mobile crane-like contraptions that look like industrial praying mantises carrying ship size containers from this to that place, 

other great machines beep, beep, beep backing up. Here, the mass of men lead loud lives of desperation, except employed by the U. S. government and making a good wage. But what made the day good: headway on a project. Am charged with putting together a big wall chart (8’ x 16’) that shows what we, the Coalition (U.S., U. K., Denmark, Estonia, Georgia), have done in development and governance projects in Helmand over the past couple of years in order to project the next year. Came up with a catchy title for the board, “Strategic Delivery and Effects Design Matrix.” It’s all in the marketing. Anyway, the headway was arriving at an organizing principle that selects what goes on the wall. Otherwise, the wall becomes just another brick in itself for having overmuch; information spews no meaning. This task has consumed most of my waking and sleeping hours while here, so far. That plus hours spent in meetings with the Plans section as we look into not only the next six months but the next three years, and the Ramp Ceremonies. My hours have been 8 a.m. until 10 p.m. pretty much every day except Fridays, we come in at 1 p.m. and work until 10 p.m. and Sundays 10 a.m. until 10 p.m. Not much else to do but work. And do yoga. And eat. This good day ended at 9:30, so I was able to get to the showers and be in bed by 10:30.  

Day before I got to drive a Military All Terrain Vehicle (MATV) through a serpentine course and up and over steep sand hills. There should be a picture with this to give you an idea of what an MATV looks like. I must admit it was a kick in the butt. The opportunity came from running into a buddy with whom I went through flight training twenty four and a half years ago; hadn’t seen him since and of sudden he was across the table from me in a Planning meeting; he invited me to ride the MATV with him and another FA-18 guy. We remembered good and bad flight instructors, laughed hard at how we were at age twenty three (so damn sure we had it figured out), had a cup of coffee and talked about our kids, realizing that kids teach you you never have anything figured out; humility is endless. With age, am more convinced that time is not real. 

Dust is, though, its consistency much like talcum powder, moon dustish. To live here, one must get over the notion that dust is dirty for it floats and blows in the laminar layer next to earth and comes to cling to everything everywhere. If one cannot get over dust being dirty it would be too much to bear, like failures/sins for which we cannot forgive ourselves. They’ll always be there unless one just lets go; gotta find a Way. Doing my best, am clean with dust. Miss you all. Love you all. Tim

Ramp Ceremony

Heartening and solemn same time to be with hundreds of Marines at the Ramp Ceremony at 10 p.m. to honor the one young man killed in a firefight yesterday, Lance Corporal Jackson. The silence of the ceremony, punctuated only by the Gunnery Sergeant shouting direction, rings inside self. Dark on the tarmac, a light on the top of a pole showed what looked like a thick fog but it was dust rolling through the warm, dry, night air. We formed two files and walked in snaking lines, in step, then divided into three rows on either side and about 100 yards long, behind and leading to the ramp into the C-130 aircraft. A single bright light bathed the waiting cargo space inside, empty except for the American flag hanging vertically, clearly, still. We, in our rows, waited. A booming voice pierced the night, “Ahhhhhtennn huh!” All, even the civilians without military experience, snapped to standing, feet just so, head held steady, eyes forward. Then the same sharp voice offered, “Paaahrade rest.” Feet separated. Hands met at the small of the back; we all bowed our heads with, "Let us pray." The chaplain prayed. The words, “ultimate sacrifice,” rang true. Silence. Then, “Ahhtennhuh,” again; the voice called, “Preeee  zent...arms.” As if some mystical slow rhythm managed our right arms, each Marine brought a heavy open-palmed, straight-fingered hand up to salute; the civilians covered heart. Through the middle of our rows, seven Marines, along with the chaplain, walked at a measured pace with the flag draped coffin. As they walked by, each of us turned a 45 degree angle to allow our eyes to follow, in salute, hand on heart. Moments of facing the flag draped coffin under the illuminated flag in cargo space went by. Their work transferred to the plane, the seven walked back out, down the ramp and through the middle. Meanwhile, the generals and senior civilians entered the cargo space with the chaplain for final honor and respect before the body’s last flight home. Then the voice called, “Cennnter... face.” We all turned to center. “Orrr derr...arms.” Slowly again, our right hands returned to our sides. Pause. A final shout, “Diss..missed.” Three steps back, turn around and it was done. This man’s life meant something to each of us in our gathering as we walked away silent into the night, considering, somber and resolute. Nobody talked until we were well away in our vehicles on the long slow dusty crawl back to our side of the base.

Earthquakes, rockets, and an airplane ride

Ambassador Eikenberry began the Country Team meeting by saying out loud in the midst of abject silence six names of those Americans that had given their lives over the weekend. A quiet moment ensued where each of us ventured into our own thoughts. My mind acknowledged that this place, Afghanistan, and this struggle, timeless, is real. This moment, I am here in a room in the United States Embassy in Kabul with fellow U. S. citizens and warriors to throw our lives at this problem we face as a nation. The quiet moment finished; onto the next order of business: we, the new people, were briefly introduced to the Country Team, greeted and thanked by the Ambassador, then ushered out to continue our orientation to the workings of this American embassy, a compound with high walls, concertina wire, Ghurka guards at each door, checking for badges, opening doors and saying with a Himalayan accent, "Welcome, sir." 

The embassy grounds are laid out in white-man grids, rectangular, orderly. A large street runs between two sides, West and East. Though there is a tunnel that connects the two, we are now allowed to cross the street between the two gates; it's easier to cross the street which is wide but blocked off at both ends by a series of checkpoints so very few vehicles, usually armored SUVs moving slowly, appear. It's a small town atmosphere, you get to know the faces of most everyone within a couple of days; newly arrived people have a look of jet lag and, "Is this where I am supposed to be?"  Not like a small town: the piled sandbags that line the rows of office and hooch trailers, some hardened structures, and signs on the hooch door that told us what to do in case of a rocket attack. Hooches are crowded: usually 5 to a room but it could sleep 8 with the 4 bunk beds, room dimensions about 8 feet wide, 25 feet deep. Putting five older men, some of whom are lawyers, all who fart and snore at some point in the night, in a tight room with all their gear guarantees quick adaptation. One learns how little space one really needs. However, one must complain about the slave ship conditions. One also appreciates normal living in the U. S. There were six rooms like that in my hooch. We had two plastic shower stalls with those special curtains that suck into the shower when used so you have to peel the plastic off periodically as you lather. Much more fortunate than the women, who only had two commodes and sinks, we had a small urinal to accompany our two commodes and sinks. With twenty or so guys in the hooch, rush hour in the morning took on a new meaning. Good thing the commute was walking distance.

Decent food at the embassy, only one meal where a healthy alternative was not available (chose not to eat the mystery meat and exclusivized the salad bar). I often ate poolside, the weather being very similar to Denver. Swam to get over jet lag. Did yoga and even led a couple sessions of yoga in the Red Tent, which is no longer red but mostly russet tinged brown. Near the Red Tent the bar, aptly named Duck and Cover, offers a good choice of beers and beverages, to which we retired a few nights to build relationships, made good new friends like Chris Corpora who has a PhD in organized crime. Hmmmmmm...

Kabul sits in a bowl of stark, treeless, brown sharp mountains. Daytime sky above is royal blue which on descending concentric sides quickly turns to haze at the edges, blurred horizon, particulate breathing. Nights became chilly but clear under a gibbous moon, stars, and planets.

Night before the election last Friday, there was an earthquake for 40 seconds. Also something to write home about, a rocket landed not far from the embassy, a feeble attempt to scare. I slept through both. I wonder what the earthquake portends, if it does. The rocket just shows man's smallness when he uses force to try to run human spirit.

Ran into a friend who is an American businessman working in Kabul; he had an ominous opinion that there had been a recent attitude shift among the Afghan people that, if accurate, would eventually result in a rushed exit by the U.S. It was fascinating to explore that with him. But also fascinating, and surreal, that night was Natalie Cole, yes, her in person, singing for Embassy personnel at the screening of a movie on Afghanistan called, The Black Tulip. Yes, she sang, Unforgettable and that's what that night was...in the middle of a war zone, listening to her beautiful voice in a big tent pitched on the tennis court at the U.S. Embassy.

Am writing this on a small plane traveling from Kabul, southwest, about to arrive at Camp Leatherneck. Below, to the south oceans of sand extend to the horizon. To the north are brown mountains and a river, the Helmand, which provides water for vegetation. It's a mile-wide green ribbon on the ground reaching northward to the Kajaki Dam, which the U.S. built in the 1950s for Afghanistan. Along that green ribbon, poppy fields grow, a primary source of the world's opium and heroin. The ruin of many lives begins here and meets with our human nature to anesthetize the pain of this world. I wonder if the farmer who grows the stuff would care about the effect of heroin on other human beings. That green ribbon also houses the most entrenched of the violent Taliban, Sangin Valley.

Let me finish with how the Geologic and Mineral Resource Map of Afghanistan describes Camp Leatherneck and environs. "Conglomerate and sandstone-- Alluvium: shingly and detrital sediments, gravel, sand more abundant than silt and clay." No doubt, there will be dust. Should be okay for am but a strange mix of dust and water, hoping to keep the proportion of water enough to see each of you again and smile. Peace and thanks for your prayers, now more than ever; I am here, plane just touched down.

Love, Tim

Squid por Corps

In the quid pro quo of life, mine will shortly become squid por Corps. That means a Navy guy working in and through the Marine Corps. I leave from D.C. in 5 hours for Camp Leatherneck in Helmand Province. My job will be to work alongside the Marine Corps, 1st Marine Expeditionary Force. They are charged with the struggle against insurgents in Regional Command Southwest or in abbreviated terms, RC-SW. I intend to perform a series of roles with them, moving from the planning of an operation, to observing operations, then to assess what has and has not been achieved. It's my job to inject when possible the civilian perspective and processes necessary to bring about an environment where violence is not pursued to express political viewpoint.

I begin in Kabul for about a week, then travel to RC-SW. Will provide you with more when on the ground in Helmand. In the meantime, please click the link below to get a preview of what life is like in the Camp Leatherneck Resort and Spa.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9-ro9zLSb2s

My mailing address will be:

Roorda 4120

1 MEF FWD C-9

UNIT 42511

FPO-AP 96427-2511

Rumi writes, I think, talking to God:

Friend, you destroy

And you restore

Do what must be done

To this love that has no fear

And no sense of being safe.

Shall eat and pray without the movie; Love, can't go a moment without it. Am grateful for yours. Peace to you all,

Tim