Lost in Translation

Driving in Kabul is a unique experience.  Although most of the roads contain lane lines, these are apparently suggestions.  As one drives down the road, there is a constant competition for space with other vehicles, cyclists, pedestrians, and occasionally a horse-drawn cart.  Now, with the exception of the horse-drawn cart, this may seem quite normal for anyone driving in a large city, say Atlanta, but you have to realize that these vehicles, cyclists, and pedestrians can be anywhere on the road.  I’ve seen cyclists and pedestrians weave in an out of traffic from the median to the sidewalk with no thought or care of getting hit.  It is quite normal.  In fact, just today, I saw a guy weave in and out of the four lanes of traffic like a Connect Four game piece as if the street was actually a sidewalk.

As a result of this, I was only mildly surprised with my driver’s traffic circle maneuver.  As anyone who has used these know, when approaching a traffic circle you maintain a reasonable degree of speed, merge into the traffic as it moves counter-clockwise around the circle and move to the inside or stay outside depending upon which street you need.  Well, my driver would have none of that!  Upon approaching the traffic circle, my guy simply treats it as an intersection and turns left.  That’s right, rather than drive around the circle with the flow of traffic, my guy bucks the trend, turns left, and weaves through the vehicles, cyclists, and pedestrians (no horses this time), to get where we need to go.  All of this not five feet from a traffic cop who didn’t seem to care.

Safely through the traffic circle, I’m on my way to the Ministry of Justice for a working group on Afghanistan’s new Criminal Procedure Code (CPC).  The Taqnin (a sort of clearing house for all proposed Afghan laws that assesses a proposal’s constitutionality and compliance with Sharia law) has graciously allowed the international community the opportunity to critique and offer changes to the Code.  I am there to represent the US embassy. 

Since I traveled alone and left early, I arrived before any of the other international attendees.  My driver was allowed to drive into the compound, but I went alone into the inner gate as the gate guard pointed to the building on the left.  I walked into the building and quickly saw that it was merely passageway into a small courtyard.  I asked the gentleman I saw where the CPC meeting was being held.  He apparently understood little of what I said, but directed me to a door and set of stairs.  As I walked into the door, I began to get a bit irritated at being alone with no real idea of exactly where I was going.  Was this a test or some sort of newbie initiation?  I finally ran into a guy that said the meeting was on the third floor.  So I headed up there, the only non-Afghan in sight.

At the top of the stairs I arbitrarily took a right and saw an elderly gentleman sitting on a small chairs halfway down the hall.  The hall is a bit narrow with white walls and various carpets (runners I think they’re called) placed haphazardly.  “Salaam Alikum (Peace be with you),” I say.  “Walikum Salaam (and peace be with you),” he answers.   I ask where the meeting is and he points to the room at the end of the hall.  “Tashakur (thank you),” I say and walk down the hall into the room.  It is empty.  The room is also painted white, but has tourism-style pictures of Afghanistan on the wall.  Tables are arranged into a square in the middle of the room, with black chairs around it and the surrounding walls.  Above the centermost table at the back of the room (where the host might sit) was a picture of President Hamid Karzai on the wall.  The carpet was brown with a darker brown pattern on it.  It was the type of carpet you might see on a deck in a trailer park.  It had no padding and had been cut into strips to lay it.  Apparently, this had been done with some attention to detail because the pattern matched at the joints (it wasn’t seemed, so it buckled in some areas).  The room, I think, represented the spirit of the Afghan people.  Despite the fact that their country is undeveloped (not my word, but that of the Afghan President’s legal advisor) they still make the attempt to convey the importance of meeting being held there as best they can. 

Alone, I sat down along the wall and waited.  At about five minutes before nine, I became concerned that I was in the wrong place since I hadn’t seen anyone.  I called the number of an American embed at the Ministry of Justice, but I got a recording of a lady saying, in Dari, that the phone had been disconnected.  I only know what the Dari meant because I left the phone on while trying to think about what the heck I was going to do and an English translation followed.  The American embed, by the way, is in the US right now.  So I decided to leave the room and, on doing so, saw that the nice, elderly gentleman had been joined by two much younger men.  I went up to the one wearing the orange shirt (being a Tennessee fan, I took this as a good sign).  He escorted me into an office and made some calls for me.  The meeting is upstairs he told me and then escorted me there.

Once in the meeting room, I met folks from the international community: Italian embassy, UN, ISAF, etc.  However, the room was very small and they decided that we needed a bigger room.  Demonstrating my vast knowledge of the Ministry of Justice building I said that there was a large room downstairs and described it after being asked to do so.  They agreed to try that room.  On the way downstairs, the bearded, elderly gentleman was still sitting in his same chair.  He laughed as I walked by as if to say he’d been right all along.  I laughed too and said I should have just waited like he told me.  The guy in the orange shirt interpreted for me and the elderly gentleman nodded and laughed more.

The meeting itself was interesting for me, but likely uninteresting to most non-lawyers.  We discussed the minutiae of criminal procedure and whether the proposed procedures comport with international law.  We discussed issues such as a statute of limitations for war crimes and crimes against humanity (a no-no under international law), a statute of limitations for the execution of punishments (an interesting, but fairly simplistic concept that fails to consider unintended consequences), witness testimony, and the like.  The entire meeting used an interpreter in sequence rather than a real-time interpretation through earpieces so it was slow going, as we had to wait for every speaker’s statement to be translated.  Intuitively, you realize that translations are not always exact and I cannot resist referencing a sophomoric, yet humorous moment.  I’m pretty sure the translator meant to say, “alter the penal code,” but it came out “vibrate the penal code.”  Yes it was sophomoric, but after five hours of legal minutiae it gave me a chuckle.

Dreaming in Toyota

On my fifth full day here, I left our little gated community for the second time.  I’m a bit apprehensive.  Not because I’m going to the Presidential Palace, but because I’m doing so without my weapon or body armor.  I mean the guy at Bagram said I’m in a war zone, right?  To compound matters, the entire embassy is on lockdown due to some intelligence saying an attack might happen today.  We had to get special permission for the trip and this permission was only granted because the meeting was with the Afghan National Security Council.

Yep, you read that correctly – a lowly Major attending another country’s National Security Council meeting.  I couldn’t even get in the same zip code as the US equivalent of this meeting.  Anyway, I met the State Department guy and jumped into an armored Landcruiser (what a nice touch).  He’s briefing me on what to expect and who the players are so I’m not paying attention to where we’re going, but intuitively recognize it’s a short drive. 

We arrive at the gate and armed guards are everywhere.  Rather than traditional camouflage uniforms, however, they’re wearing a black and gray, funky pattern that doesn’t blend into anything I’ve seen in this country so far – or anywhere else for that matter.  Although I think Arnold Swartzennegger  (Ahhh-nold) wore something like this is the Predator movie.  Anyway, the guy comes out and, apparently, I’m on the list and good to go, but my State Department escort isn’t.  He’s talking about how I may have to go in by myself and I’m thinking: “Dude, I’m still exhaling stateside oxygen and you want me to go in alone?  I don’t even know which building it’s in.”

Well, luckily everything got figured out and we both got in.  The Presidential Palace is a number of buildings, some of which were built in the late 1800s, jumbled together around a relatively nice looking courtyard.  There were a few trees and some grass, but it had nothing on the US Embassy.  I wondered why it was called a Palace, as I didn’t see anything palatial, just old buildings.  Of course, I didn’t get to see where Karzai lives, so maybe that was it.

After going through the initial security cordon, we encounter the inspection area.  I’m told that these guys have been trained by our very our diplomatic security corps (the guys that guard Secretary Hillary Clinton and all her folks) and are really good at what they do.  Well, they were very professional and extremely thorough.  As I emptied every single thing from my pockets and received a pat-down that would make TSA envious, I was impressed with the level of security.  I did have to leave my cell phone and blackberry, but was allowed to take everything else in.  Once through the pat-down area, we walked through the courtyard to the National Security Building where I met a number of folks whose names I cannot remember.   There were representatives from President Karzai’s office, the Afghan National Army, the National Police, Supreme Court, US embassy, UK embassy, NATO, etc.  You get the picture (I’m staying away from names just in case someone might have an issue with such disclosure).

As we sit down and the meeting comes to order, I notice that the Afghans all have their cell phones.  WTF?  I have to leave mine outside?  Oh well, it’s their meeting and their rules.  Plus, it’s nice to shake off the tether every once in a while.  I’m at this meeting because we’re expecting a progress report on judicial sector issues from the provinces.  Having read up on the issues from previous meetings (see what a good JAG I am) I fully understood the issues and was eagerly awaiting new information to take back to my boss.  I was disappointed.  Although only allotted 35 minutes in the meeting, participants spent roughly an hour rehashing the same old issues and complaining about the current state of affairs. 

Implementation of the rule of law throughout the country is impeded by three issues: security, low salary, and insufficient legislation to delineate lines of authority and assurance of prosecutorial independence.  Well, thanks for the news flash, cowboy.  I may have so little time in-country that I still have issues finding the chow hall, but I do know about these three issues.  About halfway through this rehash, two guys bring in trays of cups with what I assume is tea.  WooHoo!  I’m suddenly parched as I gained an addiction to hot tea while in England and loved the tea time with the Iraqis while I was in Kirkuk.

After tea was handed out to the main participants, I was handed a small cup and saucer.  The cup was thinly cast, fine china with an elegant floral pattern.  Beside the cup was a small block of something with Dari writing, so I had no idea what it was.  Inside the cup was not what appeared to be tea.  It was a translucent, highlighter yellow liquid.  I looked around and saw that some folks had already unwrapped their little stick things and were sipping their highlighter tea.  As there was no spoon, and I hadn’t seen anyone do anything with the stick I unwrapped it and took a bite.  It was really good, sort of like pure sugar cane taffy with less consistency.  The “tea” tastes bland, not bad just bland so I thought that maybe the other folks had put the stick in their “tea.”  I put the other half in the cup while the guy next to me gave me a puzzled look.  “I’m a newbie,” I thought, “Give me a break.”  I had no idea whether I was doing this correctly or not, but I certainly didn’t want to offend our Afghan hosts, so I wanted to make sure I consumed whatever they brought.  Well, I think the guy next to me was on to something because the stick thing never fully dissolved.  It did add some sweetness to my drink, so I think I came out ahead.

After the judicial portion of the meeting was over, I put down my notebook and relaxed a bit to take in the scene.  Around a long, highly polished, oak table sat the movers and shakers in Afghan politics and national security.  The only way it could get bigger was if the President and Ministers themselves met.  Beautiful paintings of rural Afghanistan adorned the walls.  Fine china held “tea” symbolizing the inherent aristocratic nature of the meeting (maybe they got that from the Brits back in the “Great Game” days).  And there it was -- sitting in the center of the table, just beyond the reach of the representative from the office of the Afghan President -- an advertisement for a Toyota Siena.  Now this struck me as odd not because it was a Japanese car instead of an American car (you know, the main country footing the bill for the Afghan experiment in democracy), but its mere presence at a meeting of this magnitude.  I did not see the other side, but presume it to have been a calendar -- the kind you see on the desk of an automobile salesman.  “Well,” I thought, “there are quite a few Toyota Hilux (i.e. Tacoma) trucks used by the Afghan government, perhaps the calendars come free with a purchase.”

Anyway, after an extremely squared away Afghan Army General finished his briefing, the meeting adjourned and I walked outside with the State Department representative as he telephoned the embassy to come pick us up.  He told me we would walk down the road toward the checkpoint for pickup.  As we closed in on the checkpoint I asked if the traffic circle (roundabout for my British friends) beyond the checkpoint was in the security zone.  He said it was not.  Looking down at the absence of my body armor and weapon, I said that I’d rather not stand on the street.  “Why,” he asked.  “Well, you’re in civilian attire so you can blend in, but my uniform makes me a pretty distinctive target.”  He agreed to wait inside the wire and said nothing else until the car came.  Once in the car, the driver drove to the other side of the roundabout and entered a checkpoint into the green zone.  “Damn,” I thought, “why didn’t this guy tell me I was actually in a pretty safe area?”  Yeah, I felt like a wuss after that.  I bet he went back to his office and laughed it up with his buddies about that.   Fair enough.  :-) 

The Gated Community

One of the pleasant things about Bagram was the view of the mountains.  Bagram lies in a bowl of snow-capped, green mountains just as beautiful as the Rocky Mountains of Colorado.  This beautiful mountain scenery was contrasted by the base itself, which seemed quite like a pockmarked, eyesore strewn with dirt streets and military equipment.  Of course, Bagram is a huge military base in a war zone (or so the guy at the PAX terminal said), so one can expect a preference for function over form.  Little did I know at the time, however, that my C-130 would serve the same function as Alice’s looking glass and deposit me into a world very much in opposite of Bagram.

On disembarking the plane at Kabul, the first thing noticed is that everything is brown (except, of course, me in my tiger-stripped green and gray uniform).  The mountains are brown, the airport terminal is brown, the vehicles are covered in a thin coat of brown dust.  As we loaded my gear into an armored Toyota Landcruiser, I began to see that dirt and dust is a recurrent theme.  This thought is reinforced by our drive through the airport compound.  Brown dirt sticks to everything much like humidity hangs in the air on a hot August night in Georgia.  Rolling through numerous heavily guarded checkpoints, the scene remains the same; dust covered, armed men in brown uniforms.  The flat landscape leading up to the brown mountains also retains a brown, parched look.

On entering Kabul, the brown is broken up by the gray of the buildings.  The dirt, however, continues to be ubiquitous as there is not a blade of grass to be found.  Even the few trees seen lack any leaves.  In the absence of grass is trash.  Kabul is very much a city trying to find its way into modernity.  It is a battle that is being won (particularly through a youth that is becoming more connected to the outside world through social media), but it is a hard fight.  This fight is aptly demonstrated by the billboard advertisement for BlackBerry beneath which was a goat eating from a trash pile.  It appeared as if I had left the dichotomy of Bagram, with its beautiful mountains contrasted by the base itself, for a singular world wherein there was no pleasant contradiction to the dirtiness thus far witnessed.

The contradiction, however, lay with my new home for the next year; the US embassy at Kabul.  Now, before describing this oasis, you must realize that the embassy is not a military base; it is run by the Department of State.  I emphasize this lest the reader think our military is spending its budget in this fashion.  The first thing I noticed on moving past the enormous amount of security into the actual compound was the green grass.  This must be the only place in Afghanistan with green grass, I thought.  Indeed, Bagram has instituted three-minute, combat showers while the embassy gardener has enough water to keep the grass green.  Everything else, aside from a bit of construction, is somewhat glamorous comparatively speaking.  Department of State employees enjoy single bedroom apartments, a coffee shop, tennis court, and pool.  Yes, you read correctly, a four-lane, 25-meter swimming pool a mere few hundred yards from the epidemic poverty that is Kabul.  Of course, a few folks were employed to keep the pool clean and operational so that counts for something. 

All of this, and more, is housed within a very high wall with numerous, heavily guarded checkpoints that extend quite far from the compound.  Indeed, the extent of the security measures cannot even be discussed given their classified nature and the existence of a very real threat.  This is why the US Embassy in Kabul, or the Kabul Kondos, is referred to as the world’s most exclusive gated community.  Compared to how most US forces in Afghanistan live, the conditions here are, as one friend described them, “posh.”  Of course, I will not spend all of my time at the embassy, so I should be able to get a good idea of life “outside the wire.”

Falling Down the Hole

 I am not quite sure where my own rabbit hole began.  It might have been a crisp, December morning as I waited at the dentist’s office for my son to get his check up.  I sat pondering the day’s upcoming events, eagerly anticipating my son’s baseball practice.  As I stared upon the lightly snow-capped Rocky Mountains thinking about the odd Colorado weather that allowed for baseball practice in December, my phone rang.

On the other end was an offer I had never considered.  “Would I like to volunteer to go to Afghanistan to work rule of law issues for a year?”  Apparently, a nebulous “someone” felt I was the right guy for the job – did I want it?  Now, being married for nearly 16 years at the time and of at least reasonable intelligence, I knew better than to go with my gut reaction and instead asked for time to consult with the only person whose opinion really matters in this sort of thing – my wife.  Well accustomed to military life and the demands it sometimes imposes, she quickly agreed and then went shopping or what she calls retail-therapy (but that is another story).

I say this could constitute my entry down the rabbit hole because the chain of events set off by my acquiescence to the assignment boggles the mind.  Were it not for the supreme effort of an outstanding paralegal acting as my deployment manager, I might still be at my home base.  Upon receiving three deployment checklists and being informed that I would deal with two different bases, I wondered why the process hadn’t become more streamlined in the nearly TEN years we’d been going to Afghanistan.  However, I’ll spare you of the tedious pain that is the pre-deployment process.

A second possible choice for my own rabbit hole could be the process of getting to Kabul.  It begins with the completion of mandatory training at Ft. Dix, NJ (decent training by the way).  Rather than simply board a series of planes to fly straight to Afghanistan, I was made to languish in Baltimore, MD for six days.  Now, Baltimore is fine city and I highly recommend the Pratt Street Ale House, but I sat in the Charm City for six days without my family knowing that the deployment clock would not start ticking until I got downrange.  Plus, it’s a bit weird going to pubs alone.

The flight out was quite normal, the odd part not beginning until I got to Manas AB, Krygyzstan.   Apparently, there is no one to tell you the process for checking in if you volunteer to unload the baggage for the plane.  After unloading the baggage from the plane to the trucks and then from the trucks to the staging area, one is quite tired especially after nearly 25 hours of travel time.  Indeed, I just wanted to know where to stash my gear, where I could get a shower and something to eat, and when I would get a flight out.  What I got was a briefing on regulations regarding the wear of PT gear at Manas (really? I’m gonna be here that long?), the chapel hours, a sexual harassment briefing, and a bunch of Manas specific acronyms with no explanation.

Now, those of you that know me well understand that I don’t really do well with unnecessary, bureaucratic nonsense.  However, this was just the tip of the iceberg.  Bagram took mind-numbing nonsense to a new level.  Once there, we stood on the tarmac in our 32 pound flak vests for a good bit of time.  Not a big deal, but you’d think they would have expected us.  I’m not a loggie, so who knows?  Anyway, we were told that the first thing we had to do was break down the pallets and move our gear about a block and a half down the road.  However, the space provided could not really fit three pallets worth of gear so we ended up with a giant pile.

We were then herded into a tent and told to sit on the left if we were proceeding to another base (I was) and on the right if we were staying at Bagram.  Despite this bifurcation process, all identification cards and deployment folders were collected together, in the same pile.  WTF?  Even after word came out that personnel with follow on flights were to report to the PAX terminal across the street in approximately one hour, the process continued by simply taking the top file rather than using the right-left system to separate out those leaving Bagram.  After some vocal complaining (no, not from me), we finally got what we needed and got in line for a flight.

On receiving my flight I was told to stage my gear right outside in the empty space provided.  “You mean the space just outside and not a block and a half down the road?” I thought.  Yep, as luck would have it, I got to move my gear a total of three blocks for nothing.  Now this might not sound like much, but I had three bags each weighing between 50-60 pounds, a lighter bag, weapons case, and body armor.  At that point though, I was just happy to get a flight out.  I think this is what they count on.

Next we’re told to palletize our gear around back.  This is great, except for the fact that the guy tells us we cannot palletize our weapons.  “I’m a bit confused about this, Sir.” I say.  “We palletized these on the way here, what gives?”  He looks at me condescendingly and says “Son, don’t you know you’re in a war zone?  You need that weapon.”  Yes, Sir,” I said, “I fully recognize the fact that I’m in a war zone, but do you realize that none of us have ammunition for these weapons?  Are we supposed to throw them at the Taliban if we’re attacked?  Or do we stick them out the window of the plane as a show of force against surface-to-air attacks?”  Jackwagon, I thought.

Of course, we did what he said.  Sometimes you just have to color.  I finally got to Kabul, or down the rabbit hole, and entered a world I had only heard about:  Combined, joint, inter-agency.  This is going to be fun  . . .