A Battlefield Tourist

An Afghan Experience Part 1

Feb 23 at 12:12am by David Tate

February 18, 2009 – Musa Qala, Helmand Province, Afghanistan

One of the things I like the most about traveling, the way I do, is when I get immersed in something exotic.  In my case, since I deal with conflict, it can be hard to immerse in the culture you’re visiting.  This time around I’ve been able to do quite a bit of interaction with the locals, in very personal detail.  Those stories to follow.

How appropriate that on the day I’m about to pull out of Afghanistan, I find myself in the same 10X30 mud hut that I have often visited over the past few days.  This time, though, the subject of conversation is my apple computer, which has allowed me to start this story as soldiers from the Afghan National Army hang around me, talking away and laughing at the American guy sitting here, waiting for green tea and writing to you.

Immersion Travel

Musa Qala is just “ok”, in the sense of me getting work done.  Pretty much, once you’ve done a few patrols, it is all the same.  With that said, I have a “day off”, if you will, and have decided to head over to a small outpost on the west side of the base that houses a squad of Afghan National Army soldiers.  I’d visited the post a few times before, but this time the visit would turn into an all day affair.

For several hours I played volleyball with the guys (which by now included the interpreters).  At first I tried to play in my sandles, but that wasn’t working so I went bare foot and got quit grubby.  I didn’t do too bad, considering I hadn’t played for years, however I was certainly the butt of some joking because my bumps never quit seemed to go in the right direction.  Of course being 20 years older than the average player, I thought I did well.

The court we play on is actually the courtyard of the soldiers little compound with the game area taking up most of the space.  The ground is hard packed with a lot of small rocks that I constantly have to clear away to keep the pain to a minimum.

After, we all sat around a table adjacent to the court, trying to communicate and teach each other a few words of English/Farsi (Pashtu is very difficult, so I tend to try to learn Farsi).  We drank tea and smoked as the day slipped away. Often times I found myself in a trance thinking about all sorts of things, especially my family.

As the sun was going down, the call to prayer sounded off in the distance; then another from a different direction. Several of the soldiers answered the call and disappeared to pray.  I remember listening to the chant (which can be very eerie, yet beautiful), being drawn into my own little world when a high flying jet made it’s way overhead.

I think it was a French Mirage, not sure, but the sound of the jets mixed with the sound of the call for prayer was very poignant at the time.  Quite an irony, I thought.  I was looked up as the jet flew by, seemingly in slow motion, with a blanket of grey clouds as a back drop.

About that time I had an inspiration to pray myself.  This is a weird thing for me, but I have been searching for my own answers for the last year or so.  All of a sudden, the desire to talk to God was very strong.

I leaned over to Mustafa, the last soldier remaining, and tried to tell him I wanted to go to the top of the compound that overlooks the Helmand River wadi. I’m pretty sure he didn’t know what I wanted and continued to press for me to stay while the other guys prayed.  I stayed for a few more minutes but the pull was too strong and I left his company making my way up the stairs to the roof (with Mustafa following).

As the sun was setting I sat myself on a row of sandbags lining the edge of the roof with my legs dangling over the side. From here you get a great view of the base and the river bed; which at this time is shrouded in a haze from the massive fire pit next to the base.  In the wadi itself, children play soccer and congregate in the afternoon sun.  You can hear their laughter a mile away.

When I pray, I do so to God or my creator.  I generally tend to be thankful for life and ask for the health of my family and colleagues.  As I said, it is a little strange for me, but I do find comfort in simply expressing my thanks for the things I have, particularly when I’m in a place where so many have so little.

Dinner Time

Later that evening, I joined the soldiers for dinner.  They live in two small rooms, roughly 10X30, that are kept very clean considering the rooms are mad of mud.  In the middle is a small wood burning stove that has an exhaust leading out to the roof.  There’s just one plastic-covered window that allows very little light. 

Around the sides of the room are the soldiers’ sleeping bags with their meager belongings either hanging from the wall or stuffed into cubby holes.  The walls themselves are lined with giant posters of Pakistan’s Swat Valley.  Up to just a few years ago, Swat was known as the Switzerland of Asia.  

The posters show a lush, green golf course with a beautiful hotel in the background.  It’s quit ironic that in recent days the Pakistani government has ceded control of the valley to the Taliban.  Hundreds of people have been murdered and all of the schools burnt to the ground.  It’s an area outside of the Northwest Frontier Provinces (or Tribal Agency) and is indicative of just how bad Pakistan is spiraling out of control.

As we all sit in a circle with legs crossed a large chunk of flat bread is flopped down in front of me, which in Afghanistan, also doubles as your silverware. Breaking off pieces of the bread, we all start digging into the large bowls of communal food in front of us which consists of a very standard rice, potato, grease and lamb meat combination.  The entire time we work to communicate with one another; pointing out colors and comparing the items in the room.

After dinner, green tea is served with chocolate and raisins.  The Afghans decide they want to watch a “Bollywood” movie; which is India’s version of, you guessed it, Hollywood.  I don’t really understand Urdu (the language) from dogs barking, so I just sit there with a smile on my face just being “one of the guys” and trying to take in as much of the moment as I can.

It really is hard to explain the feeling you get when you immerse with the Afghans like this, but it is something that is tough to duplicate.  These guys are just like anyone else; normal, young and believing in what they are doing.  

I’ve had many Afghan “experiences”, but this one will stand out for many reasons, all listed above.  For me, it’s nights like this that make leaving my family and spending thousands of dollars to do so, worth every cent and minute.  These are experiences that very few people ever get to know; experiences that make me, as a person, so much more complete.