coRtALoS
-=[ Retired BF Admin ]=-
- Joined
- Sep 17, 2002
- Messages
- 4,278
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- Location
- Massachusetts
- Website
- www.BattleForums.com
(Anyone have any recommendations for where I can post this to get more attention? I feel we don't learn enough from first-hand experience about foreign countries in the United States. I'd like to help change that starting with this.)
When I first arrived in Kabul, the mood in the airport and of those I was traveling with (Ron, Raymond and Billy) was one of hurried anxiety. From the moment we touched down, we hurried to get off of the plane, down the stairs that were brought up to the side of the plane, on to the bus that shuttled us maybe 50 feet from the plane to the tarmac entrance of the airport, to hurrying through customs, to checking and rechecking whether every single piece of luggage that came out on the conveyor belt was or wasn't ours.
The airport, by the way, was more like a very simple building. From the runway, you walk through a set of double doors, and stand in one of four lines leading to men in glass booths who check your passport, and give you a stamp. Once past that checkpoint, you're in the only baggage claim area of the airport. Men immediately swarm you from either side willing to carry your bags for you for a small fee.
We hired two men, one of whom let me push our own bags once we got out of the airport terminal, but that's jumping ahead.
Finally we get all of our bags, but we're stopped by a man standing at the exit of the baggage claim room. He manually checks your baggage claim tickets we were issued in Dubai as their only way of verifying you have your own bags, and not someone else's. This is where having the locals we hired came in handy. They yelled a few things at the guard in Farsi, and we were allowed to pass to the next checkpoint.
This next checkpoint was a simple x-ray machine that looked like it came straight out of whenever x-ray machines were invented, wear and tear and all. This was the part of the airport where any random guard could see what you have in your bags, and just tell you "you can't have this bag" until you bribed him. Corruption and procedure go hand in hand here, as I've come to find out.
Past the x-ray machine room, we then walked into the main lobby of the airport and outside. Literally we maybe took a total of 30 steps to go from one side of the airport to the other.
Going outside and down the stairs, the road in front of the airport was completely deserted. I'm assuming the road was shut down to prevent any sort of attacks (or possibly any more?). We walked across the street, and through another security checkpoint, this time the guards are armed with AK-47s, at the only doorway through a cement and barbed wire fence. Within this gate was a large parking lot, originally intended for people to drop off and pick up travelers. This, however, was also blocked off, and the only vehicles inside this area were 3 U.S. military hummers. Ray pointed out to me, as have many other expats since I've arrived here, that the most dangerous place to be in Afghanistan, is near a military convoy as those are the primary target of any attack. He also suggested I not even think about approaching them, as the .30 machine guns mounted on top would have something to say about that.
We walked through that parking lot, staying well away from the hummers, and came upon a dirt path leading to another building. Along the path I saw possibly some of the worst huts and shelters constructed out of whatever the locals might have found. A piece of sheet metal, rotting wood, boxes, crates, parts of a tent to patch up holes, and trash creating a littered carpet over the mud that was everywhere. The entire area spanned a small field that was maybe used as a small garden during more prosperous times. The huts came all the way up to the edge of the path, however all of the doors were turned away from the path, and I think I remember barbed wire along the perimeter of those hovels.
Another 30 feet along the path we began to see what a majority of Kabul is populated with. Everything from money exchanges (and I mean there are TONS of money exchangers who maybe take a $1.00 USD profit off of $200.00 worth of currency exchange), beggars, and more people offering to take all of the bags already loaded on carts, and being pushed by our porters.
Nudging through the crowds, we see our company driver. A local named Kareem. This guy deserves to have his own Transporter movie. Ray turns to me as we meet him and says "Kareem is the BEST driver we have. If you ever get into a car, and this guy's driving, you can rest assured everything will be alright."
Ray is absolutely correct in this regard. The moment the ignition is turned, Kareem goes from probably one of the chillest Afghanis you'd love to hang out with on any given night, to a stone cold professional driver. His entire demeanor changes to a look of pure concentration. He'll reply to you while driving, but only casually. He makes it well known by his silent determination to dodge and weave through traffic that he earns every cent he's paid.
The Roads
My first ride through Kabul city was probably one of the most frightening of my life. The U.S. painted traffic lanes into the two highways we built here, but no one follows them. If there's one thing Afghanis excel at, it's jamming as many cars as possible into the smallest area of road you can find, and Kareem is the Pied Piper of this traffic dance they play. From going into oncoming "traffic lanes" to cutting every single type of car off (with the exception of military convoys of course), Kareem is a master of the road. Just imagine a frog-seeking SUV, and you’ve got what Kareem would be if he were in Frogger.
Many side streets were never really intended for 2-lanes of traffic, and often cars will have to almost brush up against a building just to let another car pass. Such etiquette is usually rare from behind the wheel however, as the streets of Kabul are as jam packed with cars, as Times Square is with people on New Years’ Eve.
Most of the main roads in Kabul are paved, however in dire need of repair. Various chunks of roads have been blown up by artillery or cracked away with time, often replaced by beggars on nearly every block, and anywhere the frequent traffic jams occur.
Living Conditions
The drive from the airport to the guesthouse brought us through a majority of the city, and although we mostly kept to the outer edges of it where the streets were less crowded, we instead saw what most of the locals living on the outskirts of the city call home. From hovels built upon the mountainsides surrounding the capital, to partially rebuilt ruins, almost every nook you can occupy is more than likely someone’s home.
The stark contrast between multiple families living in a single house to our gated and barbed wired villas further made me feel like an outsider. It’s because of this sharp contrast between well-off and poor that I’ve attempted to make the lives of those locals around me easier. Whether it’s just common decency, kindness and numerous “thank you”s to the house staff, or just waving and saying “Hello”, in Farsi, to anyone I see on the street.
This became a personal mission of mine when I moved into my first guest house. I was staying with some Indians, and while Billy and I would often ask each other to pass something from across the table, the Indians would frequently call in the cook and housekeeper to make them bring food to them they couldn’t reach, and pour it into their bowls. On a few occasions, they’d even call them in to pour them more soup, even if the pot was literally right next to them. Our complaints at how these guys were treating some of the nicest house staff I’ve met fell on deaf ears, until a couple of weeks after I moved out of there, when the cook at our old guest house quit, after he got into an argument with the Indians.
The Caste System at it’s finest.
With the exception of pork, almost anything you would want in terms of food is available here, however there’s usually only a few select places expats trust their food from, which as a result have boomed in business. On the rare occasions we do get pork, it seems it’s never enough as it’s quickly consumed. I also made the mistake of trying a tuna fish sandwich. Two words: NEVER AGAIN. Mr. Colon didn’t appreciate that sandwich, and made sure to let me know for the remainder of that week.
The Drive to Work
Driving to work in a war-torn city gives you certain expectations about the condition of the roads you'll be traveling on and what sort of destruction you'll find, however that by no means prepared me to see children as young as 3 and 4 walking down the side of the street, holding the hand of their brother or sister, and carrying a handful of belongings with them through city streets.
I'll never know if these kids have parents taking care of them, and are simply allowed to walk freely through the streets, or if they've been abandoned, but that ignorance is probably the only thing that doesn't completely break my heart.
Public transportation was once something cutting edge in Kabul. As early as the 70s the city had a public electric bus system. Now most of the fields behind the bus stations serve as graveyards for the rusting bus frames, which are sometimes stacked twice as high as the one-story building they've been "hidden" behind.
(Incomplete)
~ Sean Daniels - 2009
When I first arrived in Kabul, the mood in the airport and of those I was traveling with (Ron, Raymond and Billy) was one of hurried anxiety. From the moment we touched down, we hurried to get off of the plane, down the stairs that were brought up to the side of the plane, on to the bus that shuttled us maybe 50 feet from the plane to the tarmac entrance of the airport, to hurrying through customs, to checking and rechecking whether every single piece of luggage that came out on the conveyor belt was or wasn't ours.
The airport, by the way, was more like a very simple building. From the runway, you walk through a set of double doors, and stand in one of four lines leading to men in glass booths who check your passport, and give you a stamp. Once past that checkpoint, you're in the only baggage claim area of the airport. Men immediately swarm you from either side willing to carry your bags for you for a small fee.
We hired two men, one of whom let me push our own bags once we got out of the airport terminal, but that's jumping ahead.
Finally we get all of our bags, but we're stopped by a man standing at the exit of the baggage claim room. He manually checks your baggage claim tickets we were issued in Dubai as their only way of verifying you have your own bags, and not someone else's. This is where having the locals we hired came in handy. They yelled a few things at the guard in Farsi, and we were allowed to pass to the next checkpoint.
This next checkpoint was a simple x-ray machine that looked like it came straight out of whenever x-ray machines were invented, wear and tear and all. This was the part of the airport where any random guard could see what you have in your bags, and just tell you "you can't have this bag" until you bribed him. Corruption and procedure go hand in hand here, as I've come to find out.
Past the x-ray machine room, we then walked into the main lobby of the airport and outside. Literally we maybe took a total of 30 steps to go from one side of the airport to the other.
Going outside and down the stairs, the road in front of the airport was completely deserted. I'm assuming the road was shut down to prevent any sort of attacks (or possibly any more?). We walked across the street, and through another security checkpoint, this time the guards are armed with AK-47s, at the only doorway through a cement and barbed wire fence. Within this gate was a large parking lot, originally intended for people to drop off and pick up travelers. This, however, was also blocked off, and the only vehicles inside this area were 3 U.S. military hummers. Ray pointed out to me, as have many other expats since I've arrived here, that the most dangerous place to be in Afghanistan, is near a military convoy as those are the primary target of any attack. He also suggested I not even think about approaching them, as the .30 machine guns mounted on top would have something to say about that.
We walked through that parking lot, staying well away from the hummers, and came upon a dirt path leading to another building. Along the path I saw possibly some of the worst huts and shelters constructed out of whatever the locals might have found. A piece of sheet metal, rotting wood, boxes, crates, parts of a tent to patch up holes, and trash creating a littered carpet over the mud that was everywhere. The entire area spanned a small field that was maybe used as a small garden during more prosperous times. The huts came all the way up to the edge of the path, however all of the doors were turned away from the path, and I think I remember barbed wire along the perimeter of those hovels.
Another 30 feet along the path we began to see what a majority of Kabul is populated with. Everything from money exchanges (and I mean there are TONS of money exchangers who maybe take a $1.00 USD profit off of $200.00 worth of currency exchange), beggars, and more people offering to take all of the bags already loaded on carts, and being pushed by our porters.
Nudging through the crowds, we see our company driver. A local named Kareem. This guy deserves to have his own Transporter movie. Ray turns to me as we meet him and says "Kareem is the BEST driver we have. If you ever get into a car, and this guy's driving, you can rest assured everything will be alright."
Ray is absolutely correct in this regard. The moment the ignition is turned, Kareem goes from probably one of the chillest Afghanis you'd love to hang out with on any given night, to a stone cold professional driver. His entire demeanor changes to a look of pure concentration. He'll reply to you while driving, but only casually. He makes it well known by his silent determination to dodge and weave through traffic that he earns every cent he's paid.
The Roads
My first ride through Kabul city was probably one of the most frightening of my life. The U.S. painted traffic lanes into the two highways we built here, but no one follows them. If there's one thing Afghanis excel at, it's jamming as many cars as possible into the smallest area of road you can find, and Kareem is the Pied Piper of this traffic dance they play. From going into oncoming "traffic lanes" to cutting every single type of car off (with the exception of military convoys of course), Kareem is a master of the road. Just imagine a frog-seeking SUV, and you’ve got what Kareem would be if he were in Frogger.
Many side streets were never really intended for 2-lanes of traffic, and often cars will have to almost brush up against a building just to let another car pass. Such etiquette is usually rare from behind the wheel however, as the streets of Kabul are as jam packed with cars, as Times Square is with people on New Years’ Eve.
Most of the main roads in Kabul are paved, however in dire need of repair. Various chunks of roads have been blown up by artillery or cracked away with time, often replaced by beggars on nearly every block, and anywhere the frequent traffic jams occur.
Living Conditions
The drive from the airport to the guesthouse brought us through a majority of the city, and although we mostly kept to the outer edges of it where the streets were less crowded, we instead saw what most of the locals living on the outskirts of the city call home. From hovels built upon the mountainsides surrounding the capital, to partially rebuilt ruins, almost every nook you can occupy is more than likely someone’s home.
The stark contrast between multiple families living in a single house to our gated and barbed wired villas further made me feel like an outsider. It’s because of this sharp contrast between well-off and poor that I’ve attempted to make the lives of those locals around me easier. Whether it’s just common decency, kindness and numerous “thank you”s to the house staff, or just waving and saying “Hello”, in Farsi, to anyone I see on the street.
This became a personal mission of mine when I moved into my first guest house. I was staying with some Indians, and while Billy and I would often ask each other to pass something from across the table, the Indians would frequently call in the cook and housekeeper to make them bring food to them they couldn’t reach, and pour it into their bowls. On a few occasions, they’d even call them in to pour them more soup, even if the pot was literally right next to them. Our complaints at how these guys were treating some of the nicest house staff I’ve met fell on deaf ears, until a couple of weeks after I moved out of there, when the cook at our old guest house quit, after he got into an argument with the Indians.
The Caste System at it’s finest.
With the exception of pork, almost anything you would want in terms of food is available here, however there’s usually only a few select places expats trust their food from, which as a result have boomed in business. On the rare occasions we do get pork, it seems it’s never enough as it’s quickly consumed. I also made the mistake of trying a tuna fish sandwich. Two words: NEVER AGAIN. Mr. Colon didn’t appreciate that sandwich, and made sure to let me know for the remainder of that week.
The Drive to Work
Driving to work in a war-torn city gives you certain expectations about the condition of the roads you'll be traveling on and what sort of destruction you'll find, however that by no means prepared me to see children as young as 3 and 4 walking down the side of the street, holding the hand of their brother or sister, and carrying a handful of belongings with them through city streets.
I'll never know if these kids have parents taking care of them, and are simply allowed to walk freely through the streets, or if they've been abandoned, but that ignorance is probably the only thing that doesn't completely break my heart.
Public transportation was once something cutting edge in Kabul. As early as the 70s the city had a public electric bus system. Now most of the fields behind the bus stations serve as graveyards for the rusting bus frames, which are sometimes stacked twice as high as the one-story building they've been "hidden" behind.
(Incomplete)
~ Sean Daniels - 2009
